Wakening a little to the use of his understanding, Captain Walsingham disconcerted Mrs. Beaumont, by suddenly saying, "Then there was not any truth in the report, which I have heard with horror, that you were going to marry Miss Beaumont to Sir John Hunter?"

"Then there was not any truth in the report I heard with horror, that you were going to marry yourself to a Spanish nun?" said Mrs. Beaumont, who had learned from a veteran in public warfare, that the best way to parry an attack is not to defend, but to make an assault.

"My dear Captain Walsingham," added she, with an arch smile, "I really thought you were a man of too much sense, and above all, too much courage, to be terror-struck by every idle report. You should leave such horrors to us weak women—to the visionary mind. Now, I could not blame poor Amelia, if she were to ask, 'Then was there no truth in the report of the Spanish incognita?'—No, no," pursued Mrs. Beaumont, playfully, refusing to hear Captain Walsingham; "not to me, not to me, must your defence be made. Appear before your judge, appear before Amelia; I can only recommend you to mercy."

What a charming woman this Mrs. Beaumont would be, if one could feel quite sure of her sincerity, thought Captain Walsingham, as he followed the lady, who, with apparently playful, but really polite grace, thus eluded all further inquiry into her secret manoeuvres.

"Here, my dearest Amelia," cried she, "is a culprit, whom I am bringing to your august tribunal for mercy."

"For justice," said Captain Walsingham.

"Justice! Oh, the pride of the man's heart, and the folly! Who ever talks of justice to a woman? My dear captain, talk of mercy, or cruelty, if you will; we ladies delight in being called cruel, you know, and sometimes are even pleased to be merciful—but to be just, is the last thing we think of: so now for your trial; public or private, Captain Walsingham?"

"Public! as I am innocent."

"Oyes, oyes! all manner of men," cried Mr. Beaumont.

"The Spanish cause coming on!" cried Mr. Palmer: "let me hear it; and let me have a good seat that I may hear—a seat near the judge."

"Oh, you shall be judge, Mr. Palmer," said Amelia; "and here is the best seat for our good judge."

"And you will remember," said Mr. Beaumont, "that it is the duty of a good judge to lean towards the prisoner."

"To lean! No, to sit bolt upright, as I will if I can," said old Mr. Palmer, entering into the pleasantry of the young people as readily as if he had been the youngest man in the company. As he looked round, his good countenance beamed with benevolent pleasure.

"Now, sir captain, be pleased to inform the court what you have done, or mean to do, with a certain Spanish nun, whom, as it is confidently asserted in a letter from one of your own men, you carried off from her nunnery, and did bring, or cause to be brought, with you to England."

"My lord judge, will you do me the favour, or the justice, to order that the letter alluded to may be read in court?"

This was ordered, and done accordingly.

"My lord judge," said Captain Walsingham, "I have nothing to object to the truth of the main points of this story; and considering that it was told by a very young man, and a traveller, it contains but a reasonable share of 'travellers' wonders.' Considering the opportunity and temptation for embellishments afforded by such a romantic tale, less has been added to it by the narrator than the usual progress of strange reports might have prepared me to expect. It is most true, as it has been stated, that I did, by her own desire, carry away from a nunnery, at ——, this lady, who was neither a nun nor a Spanish lady, nor, as I am compelled by my regard to truth to add, young, nor yet handsome. My lord judge, far be it from me to impeach the veracity of the letter-writer. It is admitted by the highest and the lowest authorities, that beauty is a matter of taste, and that for taste there is no standard; it is also notorious, that to a sailor every woman is fair and young, who is not as old as Hecuba, or as ugly as Caifacaratadaddera. I can therefore speak only to my own opinion and judgment. And really, my lord, it grieves me much to spoil the romance, to destroy the effect of a tale, which might in future serve for the foundation of some novel, over which belles and beaux, yet unborn, might weep and wonder: it grieves me much, I say, to be compelled by the severity of this cross-examination to declare the simple truth, that there was no love in the case; that, to the very best of my belief and judgment, the lady was not in love with any body, much less with me."

"As you have admitted, sir," said the judge, "as you have voluntarily stated, that to a sailor every woman is fair and young, who is not as old as Hecuba, or as ugly as that other woman with the unspeakable name, you will be pleased to inform the court how it happened, or how it was possible, that in the course of a long voyage, you could avoid falling in love with the damsel whom you had thus rescued and carried off. Experience shows us, sir, that at land, and, I presume, at sea, proximity is one of the most common causes of love. Now, I understand, she was the only woman you saw for some months; and she had, I think you allow, possession of your cabin, to and from which you had of course constant egress and regress. Sir, human nature is human nature; here is temptation, and opportunity, and circumstantial evidence enough, in our days, to hang a man. What have you to offer in your defence, young man?"

"The plain fact, my lord, is, that instead of three months, I was but three days in the dangerous state of proximity with the Spanish lady. But had it been three months, or three years, there is my defence, my lord," said Captain Walsingham, bowing to Amelia. "At the first blush, you allow it, I see, to be powerful; but how powerful, you cannot feel as I do, without having looked, as I have done, into the mind."

"I have looked into the mind as well as you, sir. You have a great deal of assurance, to tell me I cannot feel and judge as well as you can. But, nevertheless, I shall do you justice. I think your defence is sufficient. I believe we must acquit him. But, pray—the plain matter of fact, which I wanted to hear, I have not yet got at. What have you done with this lady? and where is she?"

"She was carried safely to her friends—to her friend, for she has but one friend, that I could find out, an old aunt, who lives in an obscure lodging, in a narrow street, in London."

"And, upon honour, this is all you know about her?" said Mrs. Beaumont.

"All—except that she is in hopes of recovering some property, of which she says she has been unjustly defrauded by some of her relations. After I had paid my respects at the Admiralty, I made it my business to see the lady, and to offer my services; but into her lawsuits, I thank God, it was not my business to inquire, I recommended to her a good honest lawyer, and came here as fast as horses could carry me."

"But was not there some giving of diamonds, and exchanging of rings, one day, upon deck?" said Mrs. Beaumont.

"None," said Captain Walsingham; "that was a mere fable of poor Birch's imagination. I recollect the lady showed me a Spanish motto upon her ring; that is all I can remember about rings.—She had no diamonds, and very few clothes. Now," cried Captain Walsingham, growing a little impatient of the length of his trial, for he had not yet been able to speak for more than an instant to Amelia, "now, I hope, my trial is ended; else its length will be, as in some other cases, the worst of punishments."

"Acquitted! acquitted! honourably acquitted!" said Mr. Palmer.

"Acquitted, acquitted, honourably acquitted by general acclamation," cried Mr. Beaumont.

"Acquitted by a smile from Amelia, worth all our acclamations," said Mrs. Beaumont.

"Captain Walsingham," said Miss Hunter, "did the lady come to England and go to London in a Spanish dress and long waist?"

She spoke, but Captain Walsingham did not hear her important question. She turned to repeat it, but the captain was gone, and Amelia with him.

"Bless me! how quick! how odd!" said Miss Hunter, with a pouting look, which seemed to add—nobody carries me off!

Mr. Beaumont looked duller than was becoming.

Mrs. Beaumont applied herself to adjust the pretty curls of Miss Hunter's hair; and Mr. Palmer, in one of his absent fits, hummed aloud, as he walked up and down the room,

"'And it's, Oh! what will become of me? Oh! what shall I do? Nobody coming to marry me, Nobody coming to woo.'"



CHAPTER XV.

"True love's the gift which God has giv'n To man alone, beneath the heav'n; It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body and in soul can bind."

Happy love, though the most delightful in reality, is the most uninteresting in description; and lovers are proverbially bad company, except for one another: therefore we shall not intrude on Captain Walsingham and Amelia, nor shall we give a journal of the days of courtship; those days which, by Rousseau, and many people, have been pronounced to be the happiest; by others, the only happy days of existence; and which, by some privileged or prudent few, have been found to be but the prelude to the increasing pleasures of domestic union.

Now that Mr. Beaumont saw his sister and his friend thus gratified in their mutual esteem and affection,—now that he saw all obstacles to their union removed, he became uncontroulably impatient to declare his own attachment to Miss Walsingham.

"My dear mother, I can bear it no longer. Believe me, you are mistaken in the whole romance you have imagined to yourself about Miss Hunter. She is no more in love with me than I am with her. Since you fixed my attention upon her, I have studied the young lady. She is not capable of love: I don't mean that she is not capable of wishing to be married, but that is quite a different affair, which need not give me any peculiar disturbance. My dear mother, find another husband for her, and my life for it, her heart will not break; especially if you give her bales of wedding finery enough to think and talk about for a calendar year.

"You abominably malicious monster of cruelty, I will not smile, nor will I allow you to indulge your humour in this manner at the expense of your poor victim."

"Victim! never saw a girl look less like a victim, except, indeed, as to her ornaments. I believe it is the etiquette for victims to appear dressed out with garlands, and ribands, and flowers."

"Positively, Edward, I won't allow you to go on in this style;—do you know you seriously hurt and offend me? do you consider that Miss Hunter's mother was my most intimate friend, and this match I have anxiously wished, in consequence of an agreement made between us at your birth and Albina's?"

"Oh, ma'am, those agreements never turned out well, from the time of the Arabian tales to the present moment. And you must pardon me if, after having tried all that reason and patience would do, in vain, I now come to impatience, and a little innocent ridicule. Except by laughing, I have no other way left of convincing you that I never can or will marry this young lady."

"But so pretty a creature! Surely you have thought her pretty."

"Extremely pretty. And I acknowledge that there have been moments when the influence of her—beauty, I can't call it—prettiness, joined to the power of my mother's irresistible address, have almost lapped me in elysium—a fool's paradise. But, thank Heaven and Miss Walsingham! I unlapped myself; and though the sweet airs took my fancy, they never imprisoned my soul."

"Vastly poetical! quite in the blue-stocking style."

"Blue-stocking! Dear mother, that expression is not elegant enough for you. That commonplace taunt is unworthy of my mother," said Mr. Beaumont, warmly, for he was thrown off his guard by the reflection implied on Miss Walsingham. "Ignorant silly women may be allowed to sneer at information and talents in their own sex, and, if they have read them, may talk of 'Les Precieuses Ridicules,' and 'Les Femmes Savantes,' and may borrow from Moliere all the wit they want, to support the cause of folly. But from women who are themselves distinguished for talents, such apostasy—but I am speaking to my mother—I forbear."

"Great forbearance to your mother you have shown, in truth," cried Mrs. Beaumont, reddening with genuine anger: "Marry as you please! I have done. Fool that I have been, to devote my life to plans for the happiness and aggrandizement of my children! It is now time I should think of myself. You shall not see me the defeated, deserted, duped, despised mother—the old dowager permitted in the house of which she was once the mistress! No, no, Mr. Beaumont," cried she, rising indignantly, "this shall never, never be."

Touched and astonished by a burst of passion, such as he scarcely had ever before seen from his mother, Mr. Beaumont stopped her as she rose; and taking her hand in the most affectionate manner, "Forgive me, my dear mother, the hasty words I said just now. I was very much in the wrong. I beg your pardon. Forgive your son."

Mrs. Beaumont struggled to withdraw the hand which her son forcibly detained.

"Be always," continued he, "be always mistress of this house, of me, and mine. The chosen wife of my heart will never torment you, or degrade herself, with paltry struggles for power. Your days shall be happy and honoured: believe me, I speak from my heart."

Mrs. Beaumont looked as if her anger had subsided; yet, as if struggling with unusual feelings, she sat silent. Mr. Beaumont continued, "Your son—who is no sentimentalist, no speech-maker—your son, who has hitherto perhaps been too rough, too harsh—now implores you, by these sincere caresses, by all that is tender and true in nature, to believe in the filial affection of your children. Give us, simply give us your confidence; and our confidence, free and unconstrained, shall be given in return. Then we shall be happy indeed."

Touched, vanquished, Mrs. Beaumont leaned her head on her son, and said, "Then we shall be happy indeed!" The exclamation was sincere: at this moment she thought as she spoke. All her schemes were forgotten: the reversionary title, the Wigram estate—all, all forgotten: miraculous eloquence and power of truth!

"What happiness!" said Mrs. Beaumont: "I ask no other. You are right, my dear son; marry Miss Walsingham, and we have enough, and more than enough, for happiness. You are right; and henceforward we shall have but one mind amongst us."

With true gratitude and joy her son embraced her; and this was the most delightful, perhaps the only really delightful, moment she had felt for years. She was sincere, and at ease. But this touch of nature, strong as it was, operated only for a moment: habit resumed her influence; art regained her pupil and her slave! Captain Lightbody and Miss Hunter came into the room; and with them came low thoughts of plots, and notes, and baronets, and equipages, and a reversionary title, and the Wigram estate. What different ideas of happiness! Her son, in the mean time, had started up, mounted his horse, and had galloped off to realize some of his ideas of felicity, by the immediate offer of his hand to the lady who possessed his whole heart. Cool as policy, just recovered from the danger of imprudent sensibility, could make her, Mrs. Beaumont was now all herself again.

"Have you found much amusement shooting this morning, Lightbody?" said she, carelessly.

"No, ma'am; done nothing—just nothing at all—for I met Sir John in the grounds, and could not leave him. Poor Sir John, ma'am; I tell him we must get him a crook; he is quite turned despairing shepherd. Never saw a man so changed. Upon my soul, he is—seriously now, Mrs. Beaumont, you need not laugh—I always told Sir John that his time of falling in love would come; and come it has, at last, with a vengeance."

"Oh, nonsense! nonsense, Lightbody! This to me! and of Sir John Hunter!"

Though Mrs. Beaumont called it, and thought it nonsense, yet it flattered her; and though she appeared half offended by flattery so gross, as to seem almost an insult upon her understanding, yet her vanity was secretly gratified, even by feeling that she had dependents who were thus obliged to flatter; and though she despised Captain Lightbody for the meanness, yet he made his court to her successfully, by persisting in all the audacity of adulation. She knew Sir John Hunter too well to believe that he was liable to fall in love with any thing but a fair estate or a fine fortune; yet she was gratified by feeling that she possessed so great a share of those charms which age cannot wither; of that substantial power, to which men do not merely feign in poetical sport to submit, or to which they are slaves only for a honey-moon, but to which they do homage to the latest hour of life, with unabating, with increasing devotion. Besides this sense of pleasure arising from calculation, it may be presumed that, like all other female politicians, our heroine had something of the woman lurking at her heart; something of that feminine vanity, which inclines to believe in the potency of personal charms, even when they are in the wane. Captain Lightbody's asseverations, and the notes Sir John Hunter wrote to his sister, were at last listened to by Mrs. Beaumont with patience, and even with smiles; and, after it had been sufficiently reiterated, that really it was using Sir John Hunter ill not to give him some more decisive answer, when he was so unhappy, so impatient, she at length exclaimed, "Well, Lightbody, tell your friend Sir John, then, since it must be so, I will consult my friends, and see what can be done for him."

"When may I say? for I dare not see Sir John again—positively I dare not meet him—without having some hope to give, something decisive. He says the next time he comes here he must be allowed to make it known to the family that he is Mrs. Beaumont's admirer. So, when may I say?"

"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beaumont," cried Miss Hunter, "say to-morrow."

"To-morrow! impossible!"

"But when?" said Miss Hunter: "only look at my brother's note to me again; you see he is afraid of being cast off at last as he was before about Amelia, if Mr. Palmer should object; and he says this disappointment would be such a very different affair."

"Indeed," said Captain Lightbody, "I, who am in Sir John's confidence, can vouch for that; for I have reason to believe, that—that the connexion was the charm, and that the daughter would not have been thought of. Stop, I was charged not to say this. But when Mrs. Beaumont, to return to my point—"

"Oh! name an early day," cried Miss Hunter, in a fondling tone; "name an early day for my brother's coming; and then, you know, it will be so nice to have the wedding days fixed for both marriages. And, dearest Mrs. Beaumont, remember I am to be your bride's-maid; and we'll have a magnificent wedding, and I shall be bride's-maid!"

"The dear innocent little creature, how mad she is with spirits! Well, you shall be my bride's-maid, if the thing takes place."

"If.—If to the winds!—Captain Lightbody, tell my brother—No, I'll write myself, and tell him he may come."

"How she distresses me! But she is so affectionate, one does not know how to be angry with her. But, my dear, as to naming the day when he may publicly declare himself, I cannot; for, you know, I have to break the affair to Mr. Palmer, and to my son and daughter, and I must take my own time, and find a happy moment for this; so name a day I cannot; but in general—and it's always safest to use general terms—you may say, soon."

This was Mrs. Beaumont's ultimatum. The note was written accordingly, and committed to the care of the confidential captain.

This business of mysterious note-writing, and secret negotiations[5], was peculiarly suited to our heroine's genius and taste. Considering the negotiation to be now in effect brought within view of a happy termination, her ambassador, furnished with her ultimatum, having now actually set out on his ostensible mission of duck-shooting, our fair negotiatrix prepared to show the usual degree of gratitude towards those who had been the principal instruments of her success. The proper time, she thought, was now arrived, when, having no further occasion for Miss Hunter's services, she might finally undeceive her young friend as to any hopes she might retain of a union with Mr. Beaumont; and she felt that it was now indispensably necessary to disclose the truth, that her son had declared his attachment to Miss Walsingham.

Mrs. Beaumont opened the delicate case with a sigh, which claimed the notice of her young confidante.

"What a deep sigh!" said Miss Hunter, who was perfect, to use a musical term, in her lessons, pour observer les soupirs: "What a sigh! I hope it was for my poor brother?"

"Ah, no, my love! for one nearer my heart—for you."

"For me!—dear me!"

"You see before you a mother, all of whose fondest wishes and plans are doomed to be frustrated by her children. Amelia would have her way: I was forced to yield. My son follows her example, insists upon marrying without fortune, or extraordinary beauty, or any of the advantages which I had fondly pointed out in the daughter-in-law of my heart. You turn away from me, my darling! How shall I go on? how shall I tell you all the terrible truth?"

"Oh, ma'am, pray go on; pray tell me all."

"Miss Walsingham; that's all, in one word. These Walsinghams have forced themselves into my family,—fairly outwitted me. I cannot tell you how much, how deeply I am mortified!"

"Thank Heaven! I am not mortified," cried Miss Hunter, throwing back her head with pettish disdain.

Mrs. Beaumont, who had prepared herself for a fainting fit, or at least for a flood of tears, rejoiced to see this turn in the young lady's temper.

"That's right, my own love. Hew I admire your spirit! This pride becomes you, and is what I expected from your understanding. Set a just value upon yourself, and show it."

"I should set but little value on myself, indeed, if I did not think myself equal to Miss Walsingham; but Mr. Beaumont knows best."

"Not best, I fear," said Mrs. Beaumont; "but, from a child he was ever the most self-willed, uncontrollable being; there was no moving, no persuading him. There was no power, no appeal, my love, I did not try."

"Dear ma'am, I am excessively sorry you did."

"Why, my dear, I could not refrain from doing all I could, not only for my son's sake, but for yours, when I saw your affections, as I feared, so deeply engaged. But your present magnanimity gives me hopes that the shock will not be irrecoverable."

"Irrecoverable! No, really, ma'am. If Mr. Beaumont expects to see me wear the willow for him all my life, his vanity will be mistaken."

"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Beaumont, "you would not be so weak as to wear the willow for any man. A young lady of your fortune should never wear the weeping but the golden willow. Turn your pretty little face again towards me, and smile once more upon me."

Miss Hunter had sat with her face turned from Mrs. Beaumont during the whole of this dialogue—"as if by hiding her face, she could conceal the emotions of her mind from me," thought her penetrating observer.

"Spare me, spare me, dearest Mrs. Beaumont," cried Miss Hunter, hiding her face on the arm of the sofa, and seeming now disposed to pass from the heights of anger to the depths of despair.

Mrs. Beaumont, less hard-hearted than some politicians, who care not who dies or lives, provided they attain their own objects, now listened at least with seeming commiseration to her young friend, who, with intermitting sighs, and in a voice which her position or her sobs rendered scarcely audible, talked of dying, and of never marrying any other man upon the earth.

Not much alarmed, however, by the dying words of young ladies, Mrs. Beaumont confined her attention to the absurdity of the resolution against marriage in general, and at this instant formed a plan of marrying Miss Hunter to one of her nephews instead of her son. She had one unmarried nephew, a young man of good figure and agreeable manners, but with only a younger brother's portion. To him she thought Miss Hunter's large fortune would be highly convenient; and she had reason to believe that his taste in the choice of a wife would be easily governed by her advice, or by his interest. Thus she could, at least, prevent her young friend's affections and fortune from going out of the family. In consequence of this glimpse of a new scheme, our indefatigable politician applied herself to prepare the way for it with her wonted skill. She soothed the lovelorn and pettish damsel with every expression that could gratify pride and rouse high thoughts of revenge. She suggested that instead of making rash vows of celibacy, which would only show forlorn constancy, Miss Hunter should abide by her first spirited declaration, never to wear the willow for any man; and that the best way to assert her own dignity would be to marry as soon as possible. After having given this consolatory advice, Mrs. Beaumont left the young lady's grief to wear itself out. "I know, my love," added she, "a friend of mine who would die for the happiness which my obstinate son does not, it seems, know how to value."

"Who, ma'am?" said Miss Hunter, raising her head: "I'm sure I can't guess whom you can possibly mean—who, ma'am?"

"Ah! my dear, excuse me," said Mrs. Beaumont, "that is a secret I cannot tell you yet. When you are 'fit to hear yourself convinced,' may be, I may obtain leave to tell you your admirer's name. I can assure you, he's a very fashionable and a very agreeable man; a great favourite with our sex, a particular friend of mine, and an officer."

"Lord bless me!" exclaimed Miss Hunter, starting quite up, "an officer! I can't imagine whom you mean! Dear Mrs. Beaumont, whom can you mean?"

Mrs. Beaumont walked towards the door.

"Only tell me one thing, dearest Mrs. Beaumont—did I ever see him?"

Mrs. Beaumont, wisely declining to answer any more questions at present, quitted the room, and left Miss Hunter dying—with curiosity.

The new delight of this fresh project, with the prospect of bringing to a happy termination her negotiation with Sir John Hunter, sustained Mrs. Beaumont's spirits in the midst of the disappointments she experienced respecting the marriages of her son and daughter; and enabled her, with less effort of dissimulation, to take apparently a share in the general joy which now pervaded her family. Her son expressed his felicity with unbounded rapture, when he found his proposal to Miss Walsingham graciously received by the object of his affections, and by all her family: his gratitude to his mother for no longer opposing his wishes gave a tenderness to his manner which would have touched any heart but that of a politician. Amelia, also, even in the midst of her love for Captain Walsingham, was anxiously intent upon showing dutiful attention to her mother, and upon making her some amends for the pain she had caused her of late. Whenever the brother and sister were together, in all their views of future happiness their mother was one of their principal objects; and these dispositions both Miss Walsingham and Captain Walsingham were earnest to confirm. No young people could have higher ideas than they had of the duty of children towards parents, and of the delight of family confidence and union. In former times, when Mr. Beaumont had been somewhat to blame in the roughness of his sincerity towards his mother, and when he had been disposed to break from her artful restraints, Captain Walsingham, by his conversation, and by his letters, had always used his power and influence to keep him within bounds; and whenever he could do so with truth, to raise Mrs. Beaumont in his opinion. She now appeared in a more advantageous light to her family, and they were more disposed to believe in her sincerity than they had ever been since the credulous days of childhood. The days of love and childhood are perhaps, in good minds, almost equally credulous, or, at least, confiding. Even Mr. Walsingham was won over by the pleasure he felt in the prospect of his daughter's happiness; and good Mr. Palmer was ten times more attentive than ever to Madam Beaumont. In his attention, however, there was something more ceremonious than formerly; it was evident, for he was too honest to conceal his feelings, that his opinion of her was changed, and that his attention was paid to her rather as the widow of his old friend than on her own account. Amelia, who particularly remarked this change, and who feared that it must be severely painful to her mother, tried by every honest art of kindness to reinstate her in his regard. Amelia, however, succeeded only in raising herself in his esteem.

"Do not disturb yourself, my dear young lady," said he to her, one day, "about your mother and me. Things are on their right footing between us, and can never be on any other. She, you see, is quite satisfied."

Mrs. Beaumont, indeed, had not Amelia's quick sensibility with regard to the real affections of her friends, though she was awake to every external mark of attention. She was content, as Mr. Palmer before others always treated her with marked deference, and gave her no reason to apprehend any alteration in his testamentary dispositions. When settlements were talked of for the intended marriages, Mr. Palmer seemed to consider Mrs. Beaumont first in all their consultations, appealed for her opinion, and had ever a most cautious eye upon her interests. This she observed with satisfaction, and she was gratified by the demonstrations of increased regard from her son and daughter, because she thought it would facilitate her projects. She wished that her marriage with Sir John Hunter should appear well to the world; and for this reason she desired that it should seem to be liked by all her family—seem, for as to their real opinions she was indifferent.

Things were in this situation, when Mrs. Beaumont caused herself to be surprised[6] one morning by Mr. Palmer, with a letter in her hand, deep in reverie.

"Oh! my dear Mr. Palmer, is it you?" cried she, starting very naturally; "I was really so lost in thought—"

Mr. Palmer hoped that he did not disturb her.—"Disturb me! no, my good friend, you are the very person I wished to consult." Her eye glanced again and again upon the letter she held in her hand, but Mr. Palmer seemed provokingly destitute of curiosity; he however took a chair, and his snuff-box, and with a polite but cold manner said he was much honoured by her consulting him, but that of course his judgment could be of little service to a lady of Mrs. Beaumont's understanding.

"Understanding! Ah!" said she, "there are cases where understanding is of no use to women, but quite the contrary."

Mr. Palmer did not contradict the assertion, nor did he assent to it, but waited, with a pinch of snuff arrested in its way, to have the cases specified.

"In love affairs, for instance, we poor women," said Mrs. Beaumont, looking down prettily; but Mr. Palmer afforded no assistance to her bashful hesitation; she was under the necessity of finishing her sentence, or of beginning another, upon a different construction. The latter was most convenient, and she took a new and franker tone:—"Here's a letter from poor Sir John Hunter."

Mr. Palmer still sat bending forward to listen with the most composed deference, but pressed not in the slightest degree upon her confidence by any question or look down towards the letter, or up towards the lady's face, but straightforward looked he, till, quite provoked by his dulness, Mrs. Beaumont took the matter up again, and, in a new tone, said, "To be candid with you, my dear friend, this is a subject on which I feel some awkwardness and reluctance in speaking to you—for of all men breathing, I should in any important action of my life wish for your approbation; and yet, on the present occasion, I fear, and so does Sir John, that you will utterly disapprove of the match,"

She paused again, to be asked—What match? But compelled by her auditor's invincible silence to make out her own case, she proceeded: "You must know, my good sir, that Sir John Hunter is, it seems, unconquerably bent upon a connexion with this family; for being refused by the daughter, he has proposed for the mother!"

"Yes," said Mr. Palmer, bowing.

"I thought you would have been more surprised," said Mrs. Beaumont: "I am glad the first sound of the thing does not, as I was afraid it would, startle or revolt you."

"Startle me, it could not, madam," said Mr. Palmer, "for I have been prepared for it some time past."

"Is it possible? And who could have mentioned it to you—Captain Lightbody?"

"Captain Lightbody!" cried Mr. Palmer, with a sudden flash of indignation: "believe me, madam, I never thought of speaking to Captain Lightbody of your affairs, I am not in the habit of listening to such people."

"But still, he might have spoken."

"No, madam, no; he would not have dared to bring me secret information."

"Honourable! quite honourable! But then, my dear sir, how came you to know the thing?"

"I saw it. You know, madam, those who stand by always see more than the players."

"And do you think my son and daughter, and Captain Walsingham, know it too?"

"I fancy not; for they have not been standers by: they have been deeply engaged themselves."

"That's well—for I wished to have your opinion and advice in the first place, before I hinted it even to them, or any one else living. As I feared the match would not meet your approbation, I told Sir John so, and I gave him only a provisional consent."

"Like the provisional consent of that young Irish lady," said Mr. Palmer, laughing, "who went through the marriage service with her lover, adding at the end of each response, 'provided my father gives his consent.'[7] But, madam, though I am old enough certainly to be your father, yet even if I had the honour to be so in reality, as you are arrived at years of discretion, you know you cannot need my consent."

"But seriously, my excellent friend," cried she, "I never could be happy in marrying against your approbation. And let me, in my own vindication, explain to you the whole of the affair."

Here Mr. Palmer, dreading one of her long explanations, which he knew he should never comprehend, besought her not to invest him with the unbecoming character of her judge. He represented that no vindication was necessary, and that none could be of any use. She however persisted in going through a sentimental defence of her conduct. She assured Mr. Palmer, that she had determined never to marry again; that her inviolable respect for her dear Colonel Beaumont's memory had induced her to persist in this resolution for many years. That motives of delicacy and generosity were what first prevailed with her to listen to Sir John's suit; and that now she consoled and supported herself by the proud reflection, that she was acting as her dear Colonel Beaumont himself, could he know the circumstances and read her heart, would wish and enjoin her to act.

Here a smile seemed to play upon Mr. Palmer's countenance; but the smile had vanished in an instant, and was followed by a sudden gush of tears, which were as suddenly wiped away; not, however, before they reminded Mrs. Beaumont to spread her handkerchief before her face.

"Perhaps," resumed she, after a decent pause, "perhaps I am doing wrong with the best intentions. Some people think that widows should never, on any account, marry again, and perhaps Mr. Palmer is of this opinion?"

"No, by no means," said Mr. Palmer; "nor was Colonel Beaumont. Often and often he said in his letters to me, that he wished his wife to marry again after he was gone, and to be as happy after his death as she had been during his life. I only hope that your choice may fulfil—may justify—" Mr. Palmer stopped again, something in Shakspeare, about preying on garbage, ran in his head; and, when Mrs. Beaumont went on to some fresh topics of vindication, and earnestly pressed for his advice, he broke up the conference by exclaiming, "'Fore Jupiter, madam, we had better say nothing more about the matter; for, after all, what can the wit of man or woman make of it, but that you choose to marry Sir John Hunter, and that nobody in the world has a right to object to it? There is certainly no occasion to use any management with me; and your eloquence is only wasting itself, for I am not so presumptuous, or so unreasonable, as to set myself up for the judge of your actions. You do me honour by consulting me; but as you already know my opinion of the gentleman, I must decline saying any thing further on the subject."

Mrs. Beaumont was left in a painful state of doubt as to the main point, whether Mr. Palmer would or would not alter his will. However, as she was determined that the match should be accomplished, she took advantage of the declaration Mr. Palmer made, that he had no right to object to her following her own inclinations; and she told Sir John Hunter that Mr. Palmer was perfectly satisfied; and that he had indeed relieved her mind from some foolish scruples, by having assured her that it was Colonel Beaumont's particular wish, often expressed in his confidential letters, that his widow should marry again. So far, so good. Then the affair was to be broken to her son and daughter. She begged Mr. Palmer would undertake, for her sake, this delicate task; but he declined it with a frank simplicity.

"Surely, madam," said he, "you can speak without difficulty to your own son and daughter; and I have through life observed, that employing one person to speak to another is almost always hurtful. I should not presume, however, to regulate your conduct, madam, by my observations; I should only give this as a reason for declining the office with which you proposed to honour me."

The lady, compelled to speak for herself to her son and daughter, opened the affair to them with as much delicacy and address as she had used with Mr. Palmer. Their surprise was great; for they had not the most remote idea of her intentions. The result of a tedious conversation of three hours' length was perfectly satisfactory to her, though it would have been to the highest degree painful and mortifying to a woman of more feeling, or one less intent upon an establishment, a reversionary title, and the Wigram estate. How low she sunk in the opinion of her children and her friends was comparatively matter of small consequence to Mrs. Beaumont, provided she could keep fair appearances with the world. Whilst her son and daughter were so much ashamed of her intended marriage, that they would not communicate their sentiments even to each other,—they, with becoming duty, agreed that Mrs. Beaumont was very good in speaking to them on the subject; as she had an uncontroulable right to marry as she thought proper.

Mrs. Beaumont now wrote letters innumerable to her extensive circle of connexions and acquaintance, announcing her approaching nuptials, and inviting them to her wedding. It was settled by Mrs. Beaumont, that the three marriages should take place on the same day. This point she laboured with her usual address, and at last brought the parties concerned to give up their wishes for a private wedding, to gratify her love for show and parade. Nothing now remained but to draw the settlements. Mrs. Beaumont, who piqued herself upon her skill in business, and who thought the sum of wisdom was to excel in cunning, looked over her lawyer's drafts, and suggested many nice emendations, which obtained for her from an attorney the praise of being a vastly clever woman. Sir John was not, on his side, deficient in attention to his own interests. Never was there a pair better matched in this respect; never were two people going to be married more afraid that each should take the other in. Sir John, however, pressed forward the business with an eagerness that surprised every body. Mrs. Beaumont again and again examined the settlements, to try to account prudentially for her lover's impatience; but she saw that all was right there on her part, and her self-love at last acquiesced in the belief that Sir John's was now the ardour of a real lover. To the lady's entire satisfaction, the liveries, the equipages, the diamonds, the wedding-clothes were all bought, and the wedding-day approached. Mrs. Beaumont's rich and fashionable connexions and acquaintance all promised to grace her nuptials. Nothing was talked of but the preparations for Mrs. Beaumont and Sir John Hunter's marriage; and so full of business and bustle, and mysteries, and sentimentalities, and vanities was she, that she almost forgot that any body was to be married but herself. The marriages of her son and daughter seemed so completely to merge in the importance and splendour of her own, that she merely recollected them as things that were to be done on the same day, as subordinate parts that were to be acted by inferior performers, whilst she should engross the public interest and applause. In the mean time Miss Hunter was engaged, to Mrs. Beaumont's satisfaction and her own, in superintending the wedding-dresses, and in preparing the most elegant dress imaginable for herself, as bride's-maid. Now and then she interrupted these occupations with sighs and fits of pretty sentimental dejection; but Mrs. Beaumont was well convinced that a new lover would soon make her forget her disappointment. The nephew was written to, and invited to spend some time with his aunt, immediately after her marriage; for she determined that Miss Hunter should be her niece, since she could not be her daughter. This secondary intrigue went on delightfully in our heroine's imagination, without interfering with the main business of her own marriage. The day, the long-expected day, that was to crown all her hopes, at length arrived.



CHAPTER XVI.

"On peut etre plus fin qu'un autre, mais pas plus fin que tous les autres."—ROCHEFOUCAULT.

The following paragraph[8] extracted from the newspapers of the day, will, doubtless, be acceptable to a large class of readers.

"FASHIONABLE HYMENEALS.

"Yesterday, Sir John Hunter, of Hunter Hall, Devonshire, Bart., led to the hymeneal altar the accomplished Mrs. Beaumont, relict of the late Colonel Beaumont, of Beaumont Park. On the same day her son and daughter were also married—Mr. Beaumont to Miss Walsingham, daughter of E. Walsingham, Esq., of Walsingham House;—and Miss Beaumont to Captain Walsingham of the navy, a near relation of Edward Walsingham, Esq., of Walsingham House.

"These nuptials in the Beaumont family were graced by an overflowing concourse of beauty, nobility, and fashion, comprehending all the relations, connexions, intimate friends, and particular acquaintances of the interesting and popular Mrs. Beaumont. The cavalcade reached from the principal front of the house to the south gate of the park, a distance of three-quarters of a mile. Mrs. Beaumont and her daughter, two lovely brides, in a superb landau, were attired in the most elegant, becoming, fashionable, and costly manner, their dress consisting of the finest lace, over white satin. Mrs. Beaumont's was point lace, and she was also distinguished by a long veil of the most exquisite texture, which added a tempered grace to beauty in its meridian. In the same landau appeared the charming brides'-maids, all in white, of course. Among these, Miss Hunter attracted particular attention, by the felicity of her costume. Her drapery, which was of delicate lace, being happily adapted to show to the greatest advantage the captivating contour of her elegant figure, and ornamented with white silk fringe and tassels, marked every airy motion of her sylph-like form.

"The third bride on this auspicious day was Miss Walsingham, who, with her father and bride's-maids, followed in Mr. Walsingham's carriage. Miss Walsingham, we are informed, was dressed with simple elegance, in the finest produce of the Indian loom; but, as she was in a covered carriage, we could not obtain a full view of her attire. Next to the brides' equipages, followed the bridegrooms'. And chief of these Sir John Hunter sported a splendid barouche. He was dressed in the height of the ton, and his horses deserved particular admiration. After Sir John's barouche came the equipage belonging to Mr. Beaumont, highly finished but plain: in this were the two bridegrooms, Mr. Beaumont and Captain Walsingham, accompanied by Mr. Palmer (the great West-Indian Palmer), who, we understand, is the intimate friend and relative of the Beaumont family. Then followed, as our correspondent counted, above a hundred carriages of distinction, with a prodigious cavalcade of gentry. The whole was closed by a long line of attendants and domestics. The moment the park gates were opened, groups of young girls of the Beaumont tenantry, habited in white, with knots of ribands, and emblematical devices suited to the occasion, and with baskets of flowers in their hands, began to strew vegetable incense before the brides, especially before Mrs. Beaumont's landau.

'And whilst the priests accuse the bride's delay, Roses and myrtles still obstruct her way.'

"The crowd, which assembled as they proceeded along the road to the church, and in the churchyard, was such that, however gratefully it evinced the popularity of the amiable parties, it became at last evidently distressing to the principal object of their homage—Mrs. Beaumont, who could not have stood the gaze of public admiration but for the friendly and becoming, yet tantalizing refuge of her veil. Constables were obliged to interfere to clear the path to the church door, and the amiable almost fainting lady was from the arms of her anxious and alarmed bride's-maids lifted out of her landau, and supported into the church and up the aisle with all the marked gallantry of true tenderness, by her happy bridegroom, Sir John Hunter.

"After the ceremony was over, Sir John and Lady Hunter, and the two other new-married couples, returned to Beaumont Park with the cortege of their friends, where the company partook of an elegant collation. The artless graces and fascinating affability of Lady Hunter won all hearts; and the wit, festive spirits, and politeness of Sir John, attracted universal admiration—not to say envy, of all present. Immediately after the collation, the happy couple set off for their seat at Hunter Hall.

"Mr. Beaumont, and the new Mrs. Beaumont, remained at Beaumont Park. Captain and Mrs. Walsingham repaired to Mr. Walsingham's.

"It is a singular circumstance, communicated to us by the indisputable authority of one of the bride's-maids, that Miss Walsingham, as it was discovered after the ceremony, was actually married with her gown the wrong side outwards. Whether this be an omen announcing good fortune to all the parties concerned, we cannot take upon us to determine; but this much we may safely assert, that never distinguished female in the annals of fashion was married under more favourable auspices than the amiable Lady Hunter. And it is universally acknowledged, that no lady is better suited to be, as in the natural course of things she will soon be, Countess of Puckeridge, and at the head of the great Wigram estate."

* * * * *

So ends our newspaper writer.

Probably this paragraph was sent to the press before the fashionable hymeneals had actually taken place. This may in some measure account for the extraordinary omissions in the narrative. After the three marriages had been solemnized, just when the ceremony was over, and Lady Hunter was preparing to receive the congratulations of the brilliant congregation, she observed that the clergyman, instead of shutting his book, kept it open before him, and looked round as if expecting another bride. Mrs. Beaumont, we should say Lady Hunter, curtsied to him, smiled, and made a sign that the ceremony was finished; but at this instant, to her astonishment, she saw her bride's-maid, Miss Hunter, quit her place, and beheld Captain Lightbody seize her hand, and lead her up towards the altar. Lady Hunter broke through the crowd that was congratulating her, and reaching Miss Hunter, drew her hack forcibly, and whispered, "Are you mad, Miss Hunter? Is this a place, a time for frolic? What are you about?"

"Going to be married, ma'am! following your ladyship's good example," answered her bride's-maid, flippantly,—at the same time springing forward from the detaining grasp, regardless even of the rent she made in her lace dress, she hurried, or was hurried on by Captain Lightbody.

"Captain Lightbody!" cried Lady Hunter; but, answering only with a triumphant bow, he passed on with his bride.

"Heavens! will nobody stop him?" cried Lady Hunter, over-taking them again as they reached the steps. She addressed herself to the clergyman. "Sir, she is a ward in chancery, and under my protection: they have no licence; their banns have not been published: you cannot, dare not, surely, marry them?"

"Pardon me, Lady Hunter," said Captain Lightbody; "I have shown Mr. Twigg my licence."

"I have seen it—I thought it was with your ladyship's knowledge," replied Mr. Twigg. "I—I cannot object—it would be at my own peril. If there is any lawful impediment, your ladyship will make it at the proper response."

A friend of Captain Lightbody's appeared in readiness to give the young lady away.

"The ceremony must go on, madam," said the clergyman.

"At your peril, sir!" said Lady Hunter. "This young lady, is a ward of chancery, and not of age!"

"I am of age—of age last month," cried the bride.

"Not till next year."

"Of age last month. I have the parish register," said Captain Lightbody. "Go on, sir, if you please."

"Good Heavens! Miss Hunter, can you bear," said Lady Hunter, "to be the object of this indecent altercation? Retire with me, and only let me speak to you, I conjure you!"

No—the young lady stood her ground, resolute to be a bride.

"If there is any lawful impediment, your ladyship will please to make it at the proper response," said the chaplain. "I am under a necessity of proceeding."

The ceremony went on.

Lady Hunter, in high indignation, retired immediately to the vestry-room with her bridegroom. "At least," cried she, throwing herself upon a seat, "it shall never be said that I countenanced, by my presence, such a scandalous marriage! Oh! Sir John Hunter, why did you not interfere to save your own sister?"

"Save her! Egad, she did not choose to be saved. Who can save a woman that does not choose it? What could I do? Is not she your ladyship's pupil?—he! he! he! But I'll fight the rascal directly, if that will give you any satisfaction."

"And he shall have a lawsuit too for her fortune!" said Lady Hunter; "for she is not of age. I have a memorandum in an old pocket book. Oh! who would have thought such a girl could have duped me so!"

Lady Hunter's exclamations were interrupted by the entrance of her son and daughter, who came to offer what consolation they could. The brilliant congregation poured in a few minutes afterwards, with their mingled congratulations and condolence, eager, above all things, to satisfy their curiosity.

Captain Lightbody, with invincible assurance, came up just as Lady Hunter was getting into her carriage, and besought permission to present his bride to her. But Lady Hunter, turning her back upon him without reply, said to her son, "If Captain Lightbody is going to Beaumont Park, I am not going there."

Mrs. Lightbody, who was now emancipated from all control, and from all sense of propriety, called out from her own carriage, in which she was seated, "That, thank Heaven! she had a house of her own to go to, and that nothing was farther from her thoughts than to interrupt the festivities of Lady Hunter's more mature nuptials."

Delighted with having made this tart answer, Mrs. Lightbody ordered her husband to order her coachman to drive off as fast as possible. The captain, by her particular desire, had taken a house for her at Brighton, the gayest place she could think of. We leave this amiable bride rejoicing in the glory of having duped a lady of Mrs. Beaumont's penetration; and her bridegroom rejoicing still more in the parish register, by the help of which he hoped to obtain full enjoyment of what he knew to be his bride's most valuable possession—her portion, and to defy Lady Hunter's threatened lawsuit.

In the mean time, Lady Hunter, in her point lace and beautiful veil, seated beside her baronet, in his new barouche, endeavoured to forget this interruption of her triumph. She considered, that though Miss Hunter's fortune was lost to her family, yet the title of countess, and the Wigram estate, were secure: this was solid consolation; and recovering her features from their unprecedented discomposure, she forced smiles and looks suitable to the occasion, as she bowed to congratulating passengers.

Arrived at Beaumont Park, she prepared, without appetite, to partake of the elegant collation, and to do the honours with her accustomed grace: she took care to seat Mr. Palmer beside her, that she might show the world on what good terms they were together. She was pleased to see, that though two younger brides sat near her, she engaged by far the largest share of public admiration. They were so fully content and engrossed by their own feelings, that they did not perceive that they were what is called thrown into the shade. All the pride, pomp, and circumstance of these glorious hymeneals appeared to them but as a dream, or as a scene that was acting before them, in which they were not called to take a part. Towards the end of the collation, one of the guests, my Lord Rider, a nobleman who always gave himself the air of being in a prodigious hurry, declared that he was under the necessity of going off, for he expected a person to meet him at his house in town, on some particular business, at an appointed day. His lordship's travelling companion, who was unwilling to quit so prematurely the present scene of festivity, observed that the man of business had engaged to write to his lordship, and that he should at least wait till the post should come in. Lady Hunter politely sent to inquire if any letters had arrived for his lordship; and, in consequence of his impatience, all the letters for the family were brought: Lady Hunter distributed them. There was one for Captain Walsingham, with a Spanish motto on the seal: Lady Hunter, as she gave it to him, whispered to Amelia, "Don't be jealous, my dear, but that, I can tell you, is a letter from his Spanish incognita." Amelia smiled with a look of the most perfect confidence and love. Captain Walsingham immediately opened the letter, and, looking at the signature, said, "It is not from my Spanish incognita,—it is from her aunt; I will read it by and by."

"A fine evasion, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Hunter: "look how coolly he puts it into his pocket! Ah! my credulous Amelia, do you allow him to begin in this manner?" pursued she, in a tone of raillery, yet as if she really suspected something wrong in the letter; "and have you no curiosity, Mrs. Walsingham?"

Amelia declared that she had none; that she was not one of those who think that jealousy is the best proof of love.

"Right, right," said Mr. Palmer; "confidence is the best proof of love; and yours, I'll venture to say, is, and ever will be, well placed."

Captain Walsingham, with a grateful smile, took his letter again out of his pocket, and immediately began to read it in a low voice to Amelia, Lady Hunter, and Mr. Palmer.

* * * * *

"DEAR SIR,

"Though almost a stranger to you, I should think myself wanting in gratitude if I did not, after all the services you have done my family, write to thank you in my niece's name and in my own: and much I regret that my words will so ill convey to you the sentiments of our hearts. I am an old woman, not well accustomed to use my pen in the way of letter-writing; but can say truly, that whilst I have life I shall be grateful to you. You have restored me to happiness by restoring to me my long-lost niece. It will, I am sure, give you satisfaction to hear, that my niece—"

* * * * *

Captain Walsingham stopped short, with a look which confirmed Lady Hunter in all her suspicions,—which made Mr. Palmer take out his snuff-box,—which startled even Mr. Beaumont; but which did not raise in the mind of Amelia the slightest feeling of doubt or suspicion. She smiled, and looked round at her alarmed friends with a manner which seemed to say, "Can you suppose it possible that there can be any thing wrong?"

"Pray go on, Captain Walsingham," said Lady Hunter, "unless—unless you have particular, very particular reasons."

"I have particular, very particular reasons," said Captain Walsingham; "and since," turning to Amelia, "this confiding lady does not insist upon my going on—"

"Oh!" said Lady Hunter, gaily, snatching the letter, "I am not such a credulous, or, as you call it, confiding lady."

"I beg of your ladyship not to read it," said Captain Walsingham, in an earnest tone.

"You beg of me not to read it, and with that alarmed look—Oh! positively, I must, and will read it."

"Not at present, then, I entreat you!"

"This very instant," cried Lady Hunter, affecting all the imperious vivacity of a young bride, under favour of which she determined to satisfy her malicious curiosity.

"Pray, Lady Hunter, do not read it," repeated Captain Walsingham, laying his hand over the letter. "It is for your own sake," added he, in a low and earnest voice, "it is for your own sake, not mine, that I beg of you to forbear."

Lady Hunter, imagining this to be only a subterfuge, drew the letter from beneath Captain Walsingham's hand, exclaiming, "For my sake! Oh, Captain, that is a charming ruse de guerre, but do not hope that it shall succeed!"

"Oh! mother, believe him, believe him," cried Amelia: "I am sure he tells you the truth, and he speaks for your sake, not for his own."

Amelia interceded in vain.

Mr. Palmer patted Amelia's shoulder fondly, saying, "You are a dear good creature."

"A dear credulous creature!" exclaimed Lady Hunter. She had now undisturbed possession of the letter.

Captain Walsingham stood by with a face of great concern; in which Amelia and Mr. Beaumont, without knowing the cause, seemed to sympathize.

The contest had early attracted the attention of all within hearing or view of her ladyship, and by this time had been pointed out and accounted for in whispers, even to the most remote parts of the room; so that the eyes of almost every individual in the assembly were now fixed upon Lady Hunter. She had scarcely glanced her eye upon the letter, when she turned pale as death, and exclaimed, "He knew it! he knew it!" Then, recollecting herself, she made a struggle to conceal her dismay—the forced smile quivered on her lip,—she fell back in a swoon, and was carried out of the room by her son and daughter. Sir John Hunter was at another table, eating eel-pie, and was the last person present who was made to understand what had happened.

"It is the damned heat of the room, I suppose," said he, "that made her faint;" and swallowing the last morsel on his plate, and settling his collar, he came up to Captain Walsingham. "What's this I hear?—that Lady Hunter has fainted? I hope they have carried her into the air. But where's the letter they say affected her so?"

"In my pocket," said Captain Walsingham, coolly.

"Any thing new in it?" said Sir John, with a sulky, fashionable indifference.

"Nothing new to you, probably, Sir John," said Captain Walsingham, walking away from him in disgust.

"I suppose it was the heat overcame Lady Hunter," continued Sir John, speaking to those who stood near him. "Is any body gone to see how she is now? I wonder if they'll let me in to see her."

With assumed carelessness, but with real embarrassment, the bridegroom went to inquire for his bride.

Good Mr. Palmer went soon afterwards, and knocked softly at the lady's door. "Is poor Lady Hunter any better?"

"Oh! yes; quite well again now," cried Lady Hunter, raising herself from the bed, on which she had been laid; but Mr. Palmer thought, as he saw her through the half-opened door, she still looked a deplorable spectacle, in all her wedding finery. "Quite well again, now: it was nothing in the world but the heat. Amelia, my love, go back to the company, and say so, lest my friends should be uneasy. Thank you, kind Mr. Palmer, for coming to see me: excuse my not being able to let you in now, for I must change my dress. Sir John sends me word his barouche will be at the door in ten minutes, and I have to hurry on my travelling dress. Excuse me."

Mr. Palmer retired, seeing clearly that she wished to avoid any explanation of the real cause of her fainting. In the gallery, leading from her room, he met Captain Walsingham, who was coming to inquire for Lady Hunter.

"Poor woman! do you know the cause of her fainting?" said Captain Walsingham.

"No; and I believe she does not wish me to know it: therefore don't tell it me," said Mr. Palmer.

"It is a secret that must be in the public papers in a few days," said Captain Walsingham. "This lady that I brought over from Lisbon—"

"Well, what can she have to say to Mrs. Beaumont?"

"Nothing to Mrs. Beaumont, but a great deal to Lady Hunter. You may remember that I mentioned to you that some of her relations had contrived to have her kept in that convent abroad, and had spread a report of her death, that the heir-at-law might defraud her of her property, and get and keep possession of a large estate, which fell to him in case of her death. Of further particulars, or even of the name of this estate, I knew nothing till this morning, when that letter from the aunt—here it is—tells me, that the estate to which her niece was entitled is the great Wigram estate, and that old Wigram was the rascally heir-at-law. The lawyer I recommended to the lady was both an honest and a clever fellow; and he represented so forcibly to old Wigram the consequences of his having his fraud brought to light in a court of equity, that he made him soon agree to a private reference. The affair has been compromised, and settled thus:—The possession of the estate is given up, just as it stands, to the rightful owner; and she forbears to call the old sinner to an account for past arrears. She will let him make it out to the world and to his own conscience, if he can, that he bona-fide believed her to be dead."

"So," said Mr. Palmer, "so end Madam Beaumont's hopes of being at the head of the Wigram estate, and so end her hopes of being a countess!—And actually married to this ruined spendthrift!—Now we see the reason he pressed on the match so, and urged her to marry him before the affair should become public. She is duped, and for life!—poor Madam Beaumont!"

At this moment Lady Hunter came out of her room, after having changed her dress, and repaired her smiles.

"Ready for my journey now," said she, passing by Mr. Palmer quickly. "I must show myself to the world of friends below, and bid them adieu. One word, Captain Walsingham: there's no occasion, you know," whispered she, "to say any thing below of that letter; I really don't believe it."

Too proud to let her mortification be known, Lady Hunter constrained her feelings with all her might. She appeared once more with a pleased countenance in the festive assembly. She received their compliments and congratulations, and invited them, with all the earnestness of friendship, to favour Sir John and her, as soon as possible, with their company at Hunter Hall. The company were now fast departing; carriages came to the door in rapid succession. Lady Hunter went through with admirable grace and variety the sentimental ceremony of taking leave; and when her splendid barouche was at the door, and when she was to bid adieu to her own family, still she acted her part inimitably. In all the becoming mixed smiles and tears of a bride, she was seen embracing by turns her beloved daughter and son, and daughter-in-law and son-in-law, over and over again, in the hall, on the steps; to the last moment contriving to be torn delightfully from the bosom of her family by her impatient bridegroom. Seated beside him in his barouche, she kissed her hand to Mr. Palmer,—smiled: all her family, who stood on the steps, bowed; and Sir John drove away with his prize.

"He's a swindler!" cried Mr. Palmer, "and she is—"

"Amelia's mother," interrupted Captain Walsingham.

"Right," said Mr. Palmer; "but Amelia had a father too,—my excellent friend, Colonel Beaumont,—whom she and her brother resemble in all that is open-hearted and honourable. Well, well! I make no reflections; I hate moral reflections. Every body can think and feel for themselves, I presume. I only say,—Thank Heaven, we've done with manoeuvring!"



ALMERIA.

John Hodgkinson was an eminent and wealthy Yorkshire grazier, who had no children of his own, but who had brought up in his family Almeria Turnbull, the daughter of his wife by a former husband, a Mr. Turnbull. Mr. Turnbull had also been a grazier, but had not been successful in the management of his affairs, therefore he could not leave his daughter any fortune; and at the death of her mother, she became entirely dependent on her father-in-law. Old Hodgkinson was a whimsical man, who, except in eating and drinking, had no inclination to spend any part of the fortune he had made; but, enjoying the consequence which money confers, endeavoured to increase this importance by keeping all his acquaintance in uncertainty, as to what he called his "testamentary dispositions." Sometimes he hinted that his step-daughter should be a match for the proudest riband in England; sometimes he declared, that he did not know of what use money could be to a woman, except to make her a prey to a fortune-hunter, and that his girl should not be left in a way to be duped.

As to his daughter's education, that was an affair in which he did not interfere: all that he wished was, that the girl should be kept humble, and have no fine notions put into her head, nor any communication with fine people. He kept company only with men of his own sort; and as he had no taste for any kind of literature, Almeria's time would have hung rather heavy upon her hands, had she been totally confined to his society: but, fortunately for her, there lived in the neighbourhood an elderly gentleman and his daughter, whom her father allowed her to visit. Mr. Elmour was a country gentleman of a moderate fortune, a respectable family, and of a most amiable character: between his daughter Ellen and Miss Turnbull there had subsisted an intimacy from their earliest childhood. The professions of this friendship had hitherto been much the warmest on the part of Almeria; the proofs were, perhaps, the strongest on the side of Ellen. Miss Elmour, as the daughter of a gentleman, whose family had been long settled in the country, was rather more considered than Miss Turnbull, who was the daughter of a grazier, whose money had but lately raised him to the level of gentility. At Mr. Elmour's house Almeria had an opportunity of being in much better company than she could ever have seen at her father's; better company in every respect, but chiefly in the popular, or more properly in the aristocratic sense of the term: her visits had consequently been long and frequent; she appeared to have a peculiar taste for refinement in manners and conversation, and often deplored the want she felt of these at home. She expressed a strong desire to acquire information, and to improve herself in every elegant accomplishment; and Ellen, who was of a character far superior to the little meanness of female competition and jealousy, shared with her friend all the advantages of her situation. Old Hodgkinson never had any books in his house, but such as Almeria borrowed from Mr. Elmour's library. Ellen constantly sent Miss Turnbull all the new publications which her father got from town—she copied for her friend the new music with which she was supplied, showed her every new drawing or print, gave her the advantage of the lessons she received from an excellent drawing master, and let her into those little mysteries of art which masters sometimes sell so dear.

This was done with perfect readiness and simplicity: Ellen never seemed conscious that she was bestowing a favour; but appeared to consider what she did as matters of course, or as the necessary consequences of friendship. She treated her friend at all times, and in all companies, with that uniform attention and equality of manner, which most people profess, and which so few have strength of mind to practise. Almeria expressed, and probably at this time felt, unbounded gratitude and affection for Ellen; indeed her expressions were sometimes so vehement, that Miss Elmour rallied her for being romantic. Almeria one day declared, that she should wish to pass all the days of her life at Elmour Grove, without seeing any other human creatures but her friend and her friend's father.

"Your imagination deceives you, my dear Almeria," said Ellen, smiling.

"It is my heart, not my imagination, that speaks," said Almeria, laying her hand upon her heart, or upon the place where she fancied her heart ought to be.

"Your understanding will, perhaps, speak a different language by and by, and your heart will not be the worse for it, my good young lady," said old Mr. Elmour.

Almeria persisted even to tears; and it was not till young Mr. Elmour came home, and till she had spent a few weeks in his company, that she began to admit that three was the number sacred to friendship. Frederick Elmour was a man of honour, talents, spirit, and of a decided character: he was extremely fond of his sister, and was prepossessed in favour of every thing and person that she loved. Her intimate friend was consequently interesting to him; and it must be supposed, that Miss Elmour's praises of Almeria were managed more judiciously than eulogiums usually are, by the effect which they produced. Frederick became attached to Miss Turnbull, though he perceived that, in firmness and dignity of character, she was not equal to his sister. This inferiority did not injure her in his opinion, because it was always acknowledged with so much candour and humility by Almeria, who seemed to look up to her friend as to a being of a superior order. This freedom from envy, and this generous enthusiasm, first touched young Mr. Elmour's heart. Next to possessing his sister's virtues and talents, loving them was, in his opinion, the greatest merit. He thought that a person capable of appreciating and admiring Ellen's character, must be desirous of imitating her; and the similarity of their tastes, opinions, and principles, seemed to him the most secure pledge for his future happiness. Miss Turnbull's fortune, whatever it might be, was an object of no great importance to him: his father, though not opulent, was in easy circumstances, and was "willing," he said, "to deprive himself of some luxuries for the sake of his son, whom he would not controul in the choice of a wife—a choice on which he knew, from his own experience, that the happiness of life so much depends."

The benevolent old gentleman had peculiar merit in this conduct; because if he had a weakness in the world, it was a prejudice in favour of what is called good family and birth: it had long been the secret wish of his heart that his only son might marry into a family as ancient as his own. Frederick was fully sensible of the sacrifice that his father made of his pride: but that which he was willing to make of what he called his luxuries, his son's affection and sense of justice forbade him to accept. He could not rob his father of any of the comforts of his declining years, whilst in the full vigour of youth it was in his power, by his own exertions, to obtain an independent maintenance. He had been bred to the bar; no expense had been spared by his father in his education, no efforts had been omitted by himself. He was now ready to enter on the duties of his profession with ardour, but without presumption.

Our heroine must be pardoned by the most prudent, and admired by the most romantic, for being desperately in love with a youth of such a character and such expectations. Whilst the young lady's passion was growing every hour more lively, her old father was growing every hour more lethargic. He had a superstitious dread of making a will, as if it were a preparation for death, which would hasten the fatal moment. Hodgkinson's friends tried to conquer this prejudice: but it was in vain to reason with a man who had never reasoned during the whole of his life about any thing except bullocks. Old Hodgkinson died—that was a matter of no great consequence to any body—but he died without a will, and that was a matter of some importance to his daughter. After searching in every probable and improbable place, there was, at length, found in his own handwriting a memorandum, the beginning of which was in the first leaf of his cookery-book, and the end in the last leaf of his prayer-book. There was some difficulty in deciphering the memorandum, for it was cross-barred with miscellaneous observations in inks of various colours—red, blue, and green. As it is dangerous to garble law papers, we shall lay the document before the public just as it appeared.

Copy from first leaf of the Cookery-look.

I John Hodgkinson of Vetch-field, East Riding of Yorkshire, Grazier and so forth, not choosing to style myself Gentleman, though entitled so to do, do hereby certify, that when I can find an honest attorney, it is my intention to make my will and to leave—

[Here the testator's memorandum was interrupted by a receipt in a diminutive female hand, seemingly written some years before.]

Mrs. Turnbull's recipe, infallible for all aches, bruises, and strains.

Take a handful of these herbs following—Wormwood, Sage, Broom-flowers, Clown's-All-heal, Chickweed, Cumphry, Birch, Groundsell, Agremony, Southernwood, Ribwort, Mary Gould leaves, Bramble, Rosemary, Rue, Eldertops, Camomile, Aly Campaigne-root, half a handful of Red Earthworms, two ounces of Cummins-seeds, Deasy-roots, Columbine, Sweet Marjoram, Dandylion, Devil's bit, six pound of May butter, two pound of Sheep suet, half a pound of Deer suet, a quart of salet oil beat well in y' boiling till the oil be green—Then strain—It will be better if you add a dozen of Swallows, and pound all their Feathers, Gizzards, and Heads before boiling—It will cure all aches—[9]

[Beneath this valuable recipe, Mr. Hodgkinson's testamentary dispositions continued as follows.]

All I am worth in the world real or personal—

To Collar a Pig.

Take a young fat pig, and when he is well scalded, cut off his head, then slit him down the back, take out his bones, lay him in a dish of milk and water, and shift him twice a day—for the rest, turn to page 103.

To my step-daughter Almeria, who is now at Elmour Grove in her eighteenth year—

[Written across the above in red ink.]

Mem'm—I prophecy this third day of August, that the man from Hull will be here to-morrow with fresh mullets.

And as girls go, I believe a good girl, considering the times—but if she disoblige me by marriage, or otherwise, I hereby revoke the same.

[Written diagonally in red ink.]

Mem'm—Weight of the Big Bullock, 90 score, besides offal.

[The value was so pale it could not be deciphered.]

And I further intend to except out of my above bequest to my daughter Almeria, the sum of ...

A fine method to make Punch of Valentia dram. v. page 7.

Ten thousand pounds, now in Sir Thomas Stock's my banker's hands as a token of remembrance to John Hodgkinson of Hull, on account of his being my namesake, and, I believe, relation—

* * * * *

[Continuation in the last leaf of the prayer-book.]

It is my further intention (whenever I find said honest attorney fit for my will) to leave sundry mourning rings with my hair value (blank)— one in particular to Charles Elmour, sen. esquire, and also—

[Upside down, in red ink.]

Mem'm—Yorkshire Puddings—Knox says good in my case.

Hodgkinson late Hannah A Turnbull (my wife) her prayer book, born Dec'r 5th, 1700, died Jan'y 4th, 1760; leaving only behind her, in this world, Almeria Turnbull (my step daughter).

Also another mourning ring to Frederick, the son of Charles Elmour, Esq. and ditto to Ellen his daughter, if I have hair enough under my wig.

[Diagonal in red ink.]

Mem'm—To know from Dr. Knox by return of post what is good against sleep—in my case—

This is the short of my will—the attorney (when found) will make it long enough.—And I hereby declare, that I will write no other will with my own hand, for man, woman, or child—And that I will and do hereby disinherit any person or persons—male or female—good—bad—or indifferent—who shall take upon them to advise or speak to me about making or writing my will—which is no business of theirs—This my last resolution and memorandum, dated, this 5th of August—reap to-morrow, (glass rising)—1766, and signed with my own hand, same time.

John Hodgkinson, grazier & so forth.

* * * * *

Now it happened, that Mr. Hodgkinson's namesake and relation disdained the ten thousand pounds legacy, and claimed the whole property as heir-at-law. Almeria, who was utterly unacquainted with business, applied to Mr. Elmour in this difficulty, and he had the goodness to undertake the management of her affairs. Frederick engaged to carry on her law-suit, and to plead her cause against this rapacious Mr. Hodgkinson of Hull.—Whilst the suit was pending, Miss Turnbull had an opportunity of seeing something of the ways of the world; for the manners of her Yorkshire acquaintance, of all but Ellen and the Elmours, varied towards her, according to the opinion formed of the probable event of the trial on which her fortune depended. She felt these variations most keenly. In particular, she was provoked by the conduct of Lady Stock, who was at this time the fashionable lady of York: Sir Thomas, her husband, was a great banker; and whenever she condescended to visit her friends in the country, she shone upon them in all the splendour and pride of wealth. Miss Turnbull, immediately after her father's death, went, accompanied by old Mr. Elmour, to Sir Thomas Stock, to settle accounts with him: she was received by his lady as a great heiress, with infinite civility; her visit punctually returned, and an invitation to dinner sent to her and the Elmours with all due expedition. As she seemed to wish to accept of it, her friends agreed to accompany her, though in general they disliked fine dinners; and though they seldom left their retirement to mix in the gaieties of York. Miss Turnbull was received in rather a different manner from what she expected upon this occasion; for between the sending and the accepting of the invitation, Lady Stock had heard that her title to the fortune was disputed, and that many were of an opinion that, instead of having two hundred thousand pounds, she would not have a shilling. Almeria was scarcely noticed, on her entrance, by the lady of the house; she found herself in a formidable circle, where every body seemed to consider her as being out of her place. At dinner she was suffered to go to a side-table. From the moment she entered the house till she left it, Lady Stock never deigned to speak to her, nor for one instant to recollect that such a person existed. Not even Madame Roland, when she was sent to the second table at the fermier general's, expressed more indignation than Almeria did, at the insolence of this banker's lady. She could think and speak of nothing else, all the time she was going home in the evening to Elmour Grove. Ellen, who had more philosophy than our heroine, did not sympathize in the violence of her indignation: on the contrary, she was surprised that Almeria could feel so much hurt by the slights of a woman, for whom she had neither esteem nor affection, and with whom she was indeed scarcely acquainted.

"But does not her conduct excite your indignation?" said Miss Turnbull.

"No: it rather deserves my contempt. If a friend—if you, for instance, had treated me in such a manner, it would have provoked my anger, I dare say."

"I! Oh, how impossible!" cried Almeria. "Such insufferable pride! Such downright rudeness!—She was tolerably civil to you, but me she never noticed: and this sudden change, it seems, Frederick, arises from her doubts of my fortune.—Is not such meanness really astonishing?"

"It would be astonishing, perhaps," replied Frederick, "if we did not see similar instances every day.—Lady Stock, you know, is nothing but a mere woman of the world."

"I hate mere women of the world," cried Almeria.

Ellen observed, that it was not worth while to hate, it was sufficient to avoid them.—Almeria grew warmer in her abhorrence; and Ellen at last expressed, half in jest, half in earnest, some fear, that if Miss Turnbull felt with such exquisite sensibility the neglect of persons of fashion, she might in a different situation be ambitious, or vain of their favour. Almeria was offended, and was very near quarrelling with her friend for harbouring such a mean opinion of her character.

"Do you imagine that I could ever make a friend of such a person as Lady Stock?"

"A friend! far from it. I am very sure that you could not."

"Then how could I be ambitious of her favour? I am desirous only of the favour, esteem, and affection of my friends."

"But people who live in what is called the world, you know, my dear Almeria, desire to have acquaintance as well as friends," said Ellen; "and they value those by their fashion or rank, and by the honour which may be received from their notice in public places."

"Yes, my dear," interrupted Almeria; "though I have never been in London, as you have, I understand all that perfectly well, I assure you; but I only say, that I am certain I should never judge, and that I should never act, in such a manner."

Ellen smiled, and said, "It is difficult to be certain of what we should do in situations in which we have never been placed."—Almeria burst into tears, and her friend could scarcely pacify her by the kindest expressions.

"Observe, my dear Almeria, that I said we, not you: I do not pretend that, till I have been tried, I could be certain of my own strength of mind in new situations: I believe it is from weakness, that people are often so desirous of the notice of persons for whom they have no esteem. If I were forced to live among a certain set of company, I suppose I should, in time, do just as they do; for I confess, that I do not think I could bear every day to be utterly neglected in society, even such as we have been in to-day."

Almeria wondered to hear her friend speak with so little confidence of her own spirit and independence; and vehemently declared that she was certain no change of external circumstances could make any alteration in her sentiments and feelings. Ellen forbore to press the subject farther, although the proofs which Almeria had this day given of her stoicism were not absolutely conclusive.

About a month after this conversation had passed, the suit against Miss Turnbull, to set aside Mr. Hodgkinson's will, was tried at York. The court was crowded at an early hour; for much entertainment was expected, from the oddity of old Hodgkinson's testamentary dispositions: besides, the large amount of the property at stake could not fail to make the cause interesting. Several ladies appeared in the galleries; among the rest, Lady Stock—Miss Elmour was there also, to accompany Almeria—Frederick was one of her counsel; and when it came to his turn to speak, he pleaded her cause with so much eloquence and ability, as to obtain universal approbation. After a trial, which lasted many hours, a verdict was given in Miss Turnbull's favour. An immediate change appeared in the manners of all her acquaintance—they crowded round her with smiles and congratulations; and persons with whom she was scarcely acquainted, or who had, till now, hardly deigned to acknowledge her acquaintance, accosted her with an air of intimacy. Lady Stock, in particular, recovered, upon this occasion, both her sight and speech: she took Almeria's hand most graciously, and went on chattering with the greatest volubility, as they stood at the door of the court-house. Her ladyship's handsome equipage had drawn up, and she offered to carry Miss Turnbull home: Almeria excused herself, but felt ashamed, when she saw the look of contempt which her ladyship bestowed on Mr. Elmour's old coach, which was far behind a number of others, and which could but ill bear a comparison with a new London carriage. Angry with herself for this weakness, our heroine endeavoured to conceal it even from her own mind; and feelings of gratitude to her friends revived in her heart the moment she was out of the sight of her fine acquaintance. She treated Ellen with even more than usual fondness; and her acknowledgments of obligation to her counsel and his father were expressed in the strongest terms. In a few days, there came a pressing invitation from Lady Stock; Mr. Elmour had accounts of Miss Turnbull's to settle with Sir Thomas, and, notwithstanding the air of indifference with which she read the cards, Almeria was not sorry to accept of the invitation, as she knew that she should be received in a very different manner from that in which she had been treated on her former visit. She laughed, and said, "that she should be entertained by observing the change which a few thousand pounds more or less could produce in Lady Stock's behaviour." Yet, such is the inconsistency or the weakness of human wishes, that the very attentions which our heroine knew were paid merely to her fortune, and not to her merit, flattered her vanity; and she observed, with a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, that there was a marked difference in Lady Stock's manner towards her and the Elmours. When the evening was over, and when she "had leisure to be good," Almeria called herself severely to account for this secret satisfaction, of which she had been conscious from the preference given her over her friends—she accused herself of ingratitude, and endeavoured to recover her own self-complacency by redoubled professions of esteem and affection for those to whom she had so much reason to be attached. But fresh invitations came from Lady Stock, and the course of her thoughts again changed. Ellen declined accompanying her; and Miss Turnbull regretted this exceedingly, because it would be so distressing and awkward for her to go alone."

"Then why do you go at all, my dear?" said Ellen; "you speak as if there were some moral necessity for your visit."

"Moral necessity! oh, no," said Almeria, laughing; "but I really think there is a polite necessity, if you will allow me the expression. Would it not be rude for all of us to refuse, when Lady Stock has made this music party, as she says, entirely on my account—on our account, I mean? for you see she mentions your fondness for music; and if she had not written so remarkably civilly to you, I assure you I would neither go myself, nor think of pressing you to go."

This oratory had no effect upon Ellen: our heroine went alone to the music meeting. The old coach returned to Elmour Grove at night, empty—the servant brought "Lady Stock's compliments, and she would send her carriage home with Miss Turnbull early the next morning." After waiting above an hour and a half beyond their usual time, the family were sitting down to dinner the next day, when Miss Turnbull, in Lady Stock's fine carriage, drove up the avenue—Frederick handed her out of the carriage with more ceremony and less affection than he had ever shown before. Old Mr. Elmour's manner was also more distant, and Ellen's colder. Almeria attempted to apologize, but could not get through her speech:—she then tried to laugh at her own awkwardness; but her laugh not being seconded, she sat down to dinner in silence, colouring prodigiously, and totally abashed. Good old Mr. Elmour was the first to relent, and to endeavour, by resuming his usual kind familiarity, to relieve her painful confusion. Ellen's coolness was also dissipated when Miss Turnbull took her aside after dinner, and with tears in her eyes declared, "she was sorry she had not had sufficient strength of mind to resist Lady Stock's importunities to stay all night;—that as to the carriage, it was sent back without her knowledge; and that this morning, though she had three or four times expressed her fears that she should keep her friends at Elmour Grove waiting for dinner, yet Lady Stock would not understand her hints;" and she declared, "she got away the very instant her ladyship's carriage came to the door." By Ellen's kind interposition, Frederick, whose pride had been most ready to take the alarm at the least appearance of slight to his father and sister, was pacified—he laid aside his ceremony to Miss Turnbull; called her "Almeria," as he used to do—and all was well again. With difficulty and blushes, Almeria came out with an after-confession, that she had been so silly as to make half a promise to Lady Stock, of going to her ball, and of spending a few days with her at York, before she left the country.

"But this promise was only conditional," said she: "if you or your father would take it the least ill or unkindly of me, I assure you I will not go—I would rather offend all the Lady Stocks in the world than you, my dearest Ellen, or your father, to whom I am so much obliged."

"Do not talk of obligations," interrupted Ellen; "amongst friends there can be no obligations. I will answer for it that my father will not be offended at your going to this ball; and I assure you I shall not take it unkindly. If you would not think me very proud, I should tell you that I wish for our sakes, as well as your own, that you should see as much of this Lady Stock, and as many Lady Stocks, as possible; for I am convinced that, upon intimate acquaintance, we must rise in your opinion."

Almeria protested that she had never for an instant thought of comparing Ellen with Lady Stock. "A friend, a bosom friend, with an acquaintance—an acquaintance of yesterday!—I never thought of making such a comparison."

"That is the very thing of which I complain," said Ellen, smiling: "I beg you will make the comparison, my dear Almeria; and the more opportunities you have of forming your judgment, the better."

Notwithstanding that there was something rather humiliating to Miss Turnbull in the dignified composure with which Ellen now, for the first time in her life, implied her own superiority, Almeria secretly rejoiced that it was at her friend's own request that the visits to her fine acquaintance were repeated. At Lady Stock's ball Miss Turnbull was much distinguished, as it is called—Sir Thomas's eldest son was her partner; and though he was not remarkably agreeable, yet his attentions were flattering to her vanity, because the rival belles of York vied for his homage. The delight of being taken notice of in public was new to Almeria, and it quite intoxicated her brain. Six hours' sleep afterwards were not sufficient to sober her completely; as her friends at Elmour Grove perceived the next morning—she neither talked, looked, nor moved like herself, though she was perfectly unconscious that in this delirium of vanity and affectation she was an object of pity and disgust to the man she loved.

Ellen had sufficient good-nature and candour to make allowance for foibles in others from which her own character was totally free; she was clear-sighted to the merits, but not blind to the faults, of her friends; and she resolved to wait patiently till Almeria should return to herself. Miss Turnbull, in compliance with her friend's advice, took as many opportunities as possible of being with Lady Stock. Her ladyship's company was by no means agreeable to Almeria's natural taste; for her ladyship had neither sense nor knowledge, and her conversation consisted merely of common-place phrases, or the second-hand affectation of fashionable nonsense: yet, though Miss Turnbull felt no actual pleasure in her company, she was vain of being of her parties, and even condescended to repeat some of her sayings, in which there was neither sense nor wit. From having lived much in the London world, her ladyship was acquainted with a prodigious number of names of persona of consequence and quality; and by these our heroine's ears were charmed. Her ladyship's dress was also an object of admiration and imitation, and the York ladies begged patterns of every thing she wore. Almeria consequently thought that no other clothes could be worn with propriety; and she was utterly ashamed of her past self for having lived so long in ignorance, and for having had so bad a taste, as ever to have thought Ellen Elmour a model for imitation.

"Miss Elmour," her ladyship said, "was a very sensible young woman, no doubt; but she could hardly be considered as a model of fashion."

A new standard for estimating merit was raised in Almeria's mind; and her friend, for an instant, sunk before the vast advantage of having the most fashionable mantua-maker and milliner in town. Ashamed of this dereliction of principle, she a few minutes afterwards warmly pronounced a panegyric on Ellen, to which Lady Stock only replied with a vacant, supercilious countenance, "May be so—no doubt—of course—the Elmours are a very respectable family, I'm told—and really more genteel than the country families one sees: but is not it odd, they don't mix more? One seldom meets them in town any where, or at any of the watering-places in summer."