The Count, evidently agitated, only said, in a low voice, "We are not parting yet—we shall meet again—I hope—do you ever go to London?"

"Never."

"At all events, we must meet again," said the Count.

The ladies had all collected at the open windows, to see the departure of the Percys; but Miss Georgiana Falconer could learn nothing from the manner in which the Count handed Caroline into the carriage. It did not appear even that he spoke to her.

On his return, the Miss Falconers, and the Lady Arlingtons, were of course talking of those who had just left the house. There was at first but one voice in praise of Caroline's beauty and talents, elegance, and simplicity of manner. Mrs. Falconer set the example; Lady Frances Arlington and Miss Georgiana Falconer extolled her in the highest terms—one to provoke, the other not to appear provoked.

"La!" said Lady Frances, "how we may mistake even the people we know best—Georgiana, can you conceive it? I never should have guessed, if you had not told me, that Miss Caroline Percy was such a favourite of yours. Do you know now, so little penetration have I, I should have thought that you rather disliked her?"

"You are quite right, my dear Lady Frances," cried Mrs. Falconer; "I give you credit for your penetration: entre nous, Miss Caroline Percy is no favourite of Georgiana."

Georgiana actually opened her eyes with astonishment, and thought her mother did not know what she was saying, and that she certainly did not perceive that Count Altenberg was in the room.

"Count Altenberg, is this the book you are looking for?" said the young lady, pronouncing Count Altenberg's name very distinctly, to put her mother on her guard.

Mrs. Falconer continued precisely in the same tone. "Georgiana does justice, I am sure, to Miss Percy's merit and charms; but the truth is, she does not like her, and Georgiana has too much frankness to conceal it; and now come here, and I will tell you the reason." In a half whisper, but perfectly intelligible to every one in the room, Mrs. Falconer went on—"Georgiana's favourite brother, Buckhurst—did you never hear it? In days of yore, there was an attachment—Buckhurst, you know, is very ardent in his attachments—desperately in love he was—and no wonder. But at that time he was nobody—he was unprovided for, and the young lady had a good fortune then—her father would have him go to the bar—against the commissioner's wishes. You know a young man will do any thing if he is in love, and is encouraged—I don't know how the thing went on, or off, but Buckhurst found himself disappointed at last, and was so miserable about it! ready to break his heart! you would have pitied him! Georgiana was so sorry for him, that she never could forgive the young lady—though I really don't imagine, after all, she was to blame. But sisters will feel for their brothers."

Georgiana, charmed to find this amiable mode of accounting for her dislike to Caroline, instantly pursued her mother's hint, and frankly declared that she never could conceal either her likings or dislikings—that Miss Caroline Percy might have all the merit upon earth, and she did not doubt but she had; yet she never could forgive her for jilting Buckhurst—no, never! never! It might be unjust, but she owned that it was a prepossession she could not conquer.

"Why, indeed, my dear young lady, I hardly know how to blame you," cried Lady Trant; "for certainly a jilt is not a very amiable character."

"Oh! my dear Lady Trant, don't use such a word—Georgiana!—Why will you be so warm, so very unguarded, where that darling brother is concerned? You really—Oh! my dear Lady Trant, this must not go farther—and positively the word jilt must never be used again; for I'm confident it is quite inapplicable."

"I'd not swear for that," cried Lady Trant; "for, now I recollect, at Lady Angelica Headingham's, what was it we heard, my dear Lady Kew, about her coquetting with that Mr. Barclay, who is now going to be married to Lady Mary Pembroke, you know?"

"Oh! yes, I did hear something, I recollect—but, at the time, I never minded, because I did not know, then, who that Miss Caroline Percy was— true, true, I recollect it now. And all, you know, we heard about her and Sir James Harcourt—was there not something there? By all accounts, it is plain she is not the simple country beauty she looks—practised!— practised! you see."

Miss Georgiana Falconer's only fear was, that Count Altenberg might not hear Lady Kew, who had lowered her voice to the note of mystery. Mrs. Falconer, who had accomplished her own judicious purpose, of accounting for Georgiana's dislike of Miss Caroline Percy, was now afraid that her dear friends would overdo the business; she made many efforts to stop them, but once upon the scent of scandal, it was no easy matter to change the pursuit.

"You seem to have found something that has caught your attention delightfully, Count Altenberg," said Mrs. Falconer; "how I envy any one who is completely in a book—what is it?"

"Johnson's preface to Shakspeare."

Miss Georgiana Falconer was vexed, for she recollected that Miss Caroline Percy had just been speaking of it with admiration.

Mrs. Falconer wondered how it could have happened that she had never read it.

Lady Kew persevered in her story. "Sir James Harcourt, I know, who is the most polite creature in the whole world, and who never speaks an ill word of any body, I assure you, said of Miss Caroline Percy in my hearing—what I shall not repeat. Only this much I must tell you, Mrs. Falconer—Mrs. Falconer!—She won't listen because the young lady is a relation of her own—and we are very rude; but truth is truth, notwithstanding, you know. Well, well, she may talk of Miss Percy's beauty and abilities—very clever she is, I don't dispute; but this I may say, that Mrs. Falconer must never praise her to me for simplicity of character."

"Why, no," said Miss Georgiana; "one is apt to suppose that a person who has lived all her life in the country must, of course, have great simplicity. But there is a simplicity of character, and a simplicity of manner, and they don't always go together. Caroline Percy's manner is fascinating, because, you know, it is what one does not meet with every day in town—that was what struck my poor brother—that and her great talents, which can make her whatever she pleases to be: but I am greatly afraid she is not quite the ingenuous person she looks."

Count Altenberg changed colour, and was putting down his book suddenly, when Mrs. Falconer caught it, and stopping him, asked how far he had read.

Whilst he was turning over the leaves, Lady Trant went on, in her turn—"With all her practice, or her simplicity, whichever it may be—far be it from me to decide which—I fancy she has met with her match, and has been disappointed in her turn."

"Really!" cried Georgiana, eagerly: "How! What! When!—Are you certain?"

"Last summer—Oh! I have it from those who know the gentleman well. Only an affair of the heart that did not end happily: but I am told she was very much in love. The family would not hear of it—the mother, especially, was averse: so the young gentleman ended by marrying—exceedingly well—and the young lady by wearing the willow, you know, a decent time."

"Oh! why did you never tell me this before?" said Miss Georgiana.

"I protest I never thought of it, till Lady Kew brought it to my recollection, by talking of Lady Angelica Headingham, and Sir James Harcourt, and all that."

"But who was the gentleman?"

"That's a secret," replied Lady Trant.

"A secret!—A secret!—What is it? What is it?" cried Lady Frances Arlington, pressing into the midst of the party; for she was the most curious person imaginable.

Then heads joined, and Lady Trant whispered, and Lady Frances exclaimed aloud, "Hungerford?—Colonel Hungerford!"

"Fie! fie! Lady Frances," cried Georgiana—and "Fie! fie! you are a pretty person to keep a secret," cried Lady Trant: "I vow I'll never trust your ladyship with a secret again—when you publish it in this way."

"I vow you will," said Lady Frances. "Why, you all know, in your hearts, you wish to publish it—else why tell it—especially to me? But all this time I am not thinking in the least about the matter, nor was I when I said Hungerford—I was and am thinking of my own affairs. What did I do with the letter I received this morning? I had it here—no, I hadn't it—yes, I had—Anne!—Anne!—Lady Anne! the duchess's letter: I gave it to you; what did you do with it?"

"La! it is somewhere, I suppose," said Lady Anne, raising her head, and giving a vague look round the room.

Lady Frances made every one search their work-boxes, writing-boxes, and reticules; then went from table to table, opening and shutting all the drawers.

"Frances!—If you would not fly about so! What can it signify?" expostulated Lady Anne. But in vain; her sister went on, moving every thing and every body in the room, displacing all the cushions of all the chairs in her progress, and, at last, approached Lady Anne's sofa, with intent to invade her repose.

"Ah! Frances!" cried Lady Anne, in a deprecating tone, with a gesture of supplication and anguish in her eyes, "do let me rest!"

"Never, till I have the letter."

With the energy of anger and despair Lady Anne made an effort to reach the bell-cord—but it missed—the cord swung—Petcalf ran to catch it, and stumbled over a stool—English Clay stood still and laughed—French Clay exclaimed, "Ah! mon Dieu! Cupidon!"

Count Altenberg saved Cupid from falling, and rang the bell.

"Sir," said Lady Anne to the footman, "I had a letter—some time this morning, in my hand."

"Yes, my lady."

"I want it."

"Yes, my lady."

"Pray, sir, tell somebody to tell Pritchard, to tell Flora, to go up stairs to my dressing-room, sir, to look every where for't; and let it be brought to my sister, Lady Frances, if you please, sir."

"No, no, sir, don't do any thing about the matter, if you please—I will go myself," said Lady Frances.

Away the lady ran up stairs, and down again, with the letter in her hand.

"Yes! exactly as I thought," cried she; "my aunt does say, that Mrs. Hungerford is to be down to-day—I thought so."

"Very likely," said Lady Anne; "I never thought about it."

"But, Anne, you must think about it, for my aunt desires we should go and see her directly."

"I can't go," said Lady Anne—"I've a cold—your going will do."

"Mrs. Falconer, my dear Mrs. Falconer, will you go with me to-morrow to Hungerford Castle?" cried Lady Frances, eagerly.

"Impossible! my dear Lady Frances, unfortunately quite impossible. The Hungerfords and we have no connexion—there was an old family quarrel—"

"Oh! never mind family quarrels and connexions—you can go, and I am sure it will be taken very well—and you know you only go with me. Oh! positively you must—now there's my good dear Mrs. Falconer—yes, and order the carriage this minute for to-morrow early," said Lady Frances, in a coaxing yet impatient tone.

Mrs. Falconer adhered to its being absolutely impossible.

"Then, Anne, you must go."

No—Anne was impenetrable.

"Then I'll go by myself," cried Lady Frances, pettishly—"I'll take Pritchard with me, in our own carriage, and I'll speak about it directly—for go I must and will."

"Now, Frances, what new fancy is this for Mrs. Hungerford? I am sure you used not to care about her," said Lady Anne.

"And I dare say I should not care about her now," replied Lady Frances, "but that I am dying to see an old pair of shoes she has."

"An old pair of shoes!" repeated Lady Anne, with a look of unutterable disdain.

"An old pair of shoes!" cried Mrs. Falconer, laughing.

"Yes, a pair of blue damask shoes as old as Edward the Fourth's time—with chains from the toe to the knee, you know—or do you know, Count Altenberg? Miss Percy was describing them—she saw Colonel Hungerford put them on—Oh! he must put them on for me—I'll make him put them on, chains and all, to-morrow."

"Colonel Hungerford is on his way to India by this time," said Georgiana Falconer, drily.

"May I ask," said Count Altenberg, taking advantage of the first pause in the conversation—"may I ask if I understood rightly, that Mrs. Hungerford, mother of Colonel Hungerford, lives in this neighbourhood, and is coming into the country to-morrow?"

"Yes—just so," said Lady Frances.

What concern can it be of his? thought Miss Georgiana Falconer, fixing her eyes upon the Count with alarmed curiosity.

"I knew Colonel Hungerford abroad," continued the Count, "and have a great regard for him."

Lady Kew, Lady Trant, and Miss Georgiana Falconer, exchanged looks.

"I am sorry that he is gone to India," said Mrs. Falconer, in a sentimental tone; "it would have been so pleasant to you to have renewed an acquaintance with him in England."

Count Altenberg regretted the absence of his friend, the colonel; but, turning to Lady Frances, he congratulated himself upon having an opportunity of presenting his letters of introduction, and paying his respects to Mrs. Hungerford, of whom he had heard much from foreigners who had visited England, and who had been charmed with her, and with her daughter, Mrs. Mortimer—his letters of introduction had been addressed to her town residence, but she was not in London when he was there.

"No, she was at Pembroke," said Lady Kew.

I'm sure I wish she were there still, thought Miss Georgiana.

"But, after all, Lady Frances, is the duchess sure that Mrs. Hungerford is actually come to the country?—May be, she is still in town."

"I shall have the honour of letting your ladyship know; for, if Lord Oldborough will permit, I shall certainly go, very soon, to pay my respects at Hungerford Castle," said Count Altenberg.

The prescient jealousy of Miss Georgiana Falconer boded ill of this visit to Hungerford Castle. A few days afterwards a note was received from Count Altenberg, returning many thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Falconer for the civilities he had received from them, paying all proper compliments to Zara, announcing his intention of accepting an invitation to stay some time at Mrs. Hungerford's, and taking a polite leave of the Falconer family.

Here was a death-blow to all Georgiana's hopes! But we shall not stay to describe her disappointment, or the art of her mother in concealing it; nor shall we accompany Mrs. Falconer to town, to see how her designs upon the Clays or Petcalf prospered. We must follow Count Altenberg to Hungerford Castle.



CHAPTER XXIX.

"Who would prize the tainted posies, Which on ev'ry breast are worn? Who could pluck the spotless roses From their never touched thorn?"

The feeling expressed in these lines will be acknowledged by every man of sense and delicacy. "No such man ever prized a heart much hackneyed in the ways of love." It was with exquisite pain that Count Altenberg had heard all that had been said of Caroline—he did not give credit to half the insinuations—he despised those who made them: he knew that some of the ladies spoke from envy, others from the mere love of scandal; but still, altogether, an impression unfavourable to Caroline, or rather unfavourable to his passion for Caroline, was left on his mind. The idea that she had been suspected, the certainty that she had been talked of, that she had even been named as one who had coquetted with many admirers—the notion that she had been in love—passionately in love—all this took from the freshness, the virgin modesty, the dignity, the charm, with which she had appeared to his imagination, and without which she could not have touched his heart—a heart not to be easily won.

In his own country, at the court where he resided, in the different parts of the continent which he had visited, Germany, Poland, Switzerland, France, he had seen women celebrated for beauty and for wit, many of the most polished manners, many of the highest accomplishments, some of exquisite sensibility, a few with genuine simplicity of character, but in all there had been something which had prevented his wishing to make any one of them the companion of his life. In some there was a want of good temper—in others of good sense; there was some false taste for admiration or for notoriety—some love of pleasure, or some love of sway, inconsistent with his idea of the perfection of the female character, incompatible with his plans of life, and with his notions of love and happiness.

In England, where education, institutions, opinion, manners, the habits of society, and of domestic life, happily combine to give the just proportion of all that is attractive, useful, ornamental, and amiable to the female character—in England, Count Altenberg had hopes of finding a woman who, to the noble simplicity of character that was once the charm of Switzerland, joined the polish, the elegance, that was once the pride of France; a woman possessing an enlarged, cultivated, embellished understanding, capable of comprehending all his views as a politician and a statesman; yet without any wish for power, or love of political intrigue. Graced with knowledge and taste for literature and science, capable of being extended to the highest point of excellence, yet free from all pedantry, or pretension—with wit, conversational talents, and love of good society, without that desire of exhibition, that devouring diseased appetite for admiration, which preys upon the mind insatiably, to its torture—to its destruction; without that undefineable, untranslateable French love of succes de societe, which substitutes a precarious; factitious, intoxicated existence in public, for the safe self-approbation, the sober, the permanent happiness of domestic life. In England Count Altenberg hoped to find a woman raised by "divine philosophy" [Footnote: Milton.] far above all illiberal prejudice, but preserving a just and becoming sense of religion; unobtrusive, mild, and yet firm. Every thing that he had seen of Caroline had confirmed his first hope, and exalted his future expectation; but, by what he had just heard, his imagination was checked in full career, suddenly, and painfully. His heavenly dream was disturbed by earthly voices—voices of malignant spirits—mysterious—indistinct—yet alarming. He had not conceived it possible that the breath of blame could approach such a character as Caroline's—he was struck with surprise, and shocked, on hearing her name profaned by common scandal, and spoken of as the victim of a disappointed passion, the scorn of one of the most distinguished families in England. Such were the first painful thoughts and feelings of Count Altenberg. At the time he heard the whispers which gave rise to them, he had been actually penning a letter to his father, declaring his attachment—he now resolved not to write. But he determined to satisfy himself as to the truth or falsehood of these reports. He was not a man to give ear lightly to calumny—he detested its baseness; he would not suffer himself for a moment to brood over suspicion, nor yet would he allow himself for present ease and pleasure to gloss over, without examination, that which might afterwards recur to his mind, and might create future unjust or unhappy jealousy. Either the object of his hopes was worthy of him, or not—if not worthy, better tear her from his heart for ever. This determined him to go immediately to Mrs. Hungerford's. Count Altenberg trusted to his own address and penetration for discovering all he wished to know, without betraying any peculiar interest in the subject.

The first sight of Mrs. Hungerford, the gracious dignity of her appearance and manners, the first five minutes' conversation he had with her, decided him in the opinion, that common report had done her justice; and raised in his mind extreme anxiety to know her opinion of Caroline. But, though he began the history of Zara, and of the play at Falconer-court, for the express purpose of introducing the Percys, in speaking of the company who had been present, yet, conscious of some unusual emotion when he was going to pronounce that name, and fancying some meaning in Mrs. Hungerford's great attention as he spoke, he mentioned almost every other guest, even the most insignificant, without speaking of Caroline, or of any of her family. He went back to his friend Colonel Hungerford. Mrs. Hungerford opened a letter-case, and took from it the last letter she had received from her son since he left England, containing some interesting particulars.—Towards the conclusion of the letter, the writing changed to a small feminine hand, and all India vanished from the view of Count Altenberg, for, as he turned the page, he saw the name of Caroline Percy: "I suppose I ought to stop here," said he, offering the letter to Mrs. Hungerford. "No," she replied, the whole letter was at his service—they were only a few lines from her daughter Lady Elizabeth.

These few lines mentioned Caroline Percy among the dear and intimate friends whom she regretted most in Europe, and to whom she sent a message expressive of the warmest affection and esteem. A glow of joy instantly diffused itself over his whole frame. As far as related to Colonel Hungerford, he was sure that all he had heard was false. There was little probability that his wife should, if those circumstances were true, he Caroline's most intimate friend. Before these thoughts had well arranged themselves in his head, a pleasing, sprightly young lady came into the room, who he at first thought was Mrs. Hungerford's daughter; but she was too young to answer exactly the description of Mrs. Mortimer.

"Lady Mary Pembroke, my niece," said Mrs. Hungerford.

Her ladyship was followed by Mr. Barclay—Count Altenberg seemed in a fair way to have all his doubts satisfied; but, in the hurry of his mind, he had almost forgotten to ask for Mrs. Mortimer.

"You will not see her to-day," said Mrs. Hungerford; "she is gone to see some friends, who live at distance too great for a morning visit. But I hope," continued Mrs. Hungerford, turning to Lady Mary, "that my daughter will make me amends for losing a day of her company, by bringing me our dear Caroline to-morrow."

"Is there a chance of Caroline's coming to us?" cried Lady Mary with affectionate eagerness.

"Is there any hope of our seeing Miss Caroline Percy?" said Mr. Barclay, with an air of respectful regard, very different from what must have been the feelings of a man who had trifled with a woman, or who had thought that she had trifled with him.

Count Altenberg rejoiced that he had come without a moment's delay to Hungerford Castle.

"You are really a good creature, my dear," continued Mrs. Hungerford to Lady Mary, "for being so anxious to have Caroline here—many a niece might be jealous of my affection, for certainly I love her as well as if she were my own child. To-morrow, sir," said she, turning to Count Altenberg, "I hope I shall have the pleasure to introduce you to this young friend of ours: I shall feel proud to show her to a foreigner, whom I wish to prepossess in favour of my countrywomen."

The Count said that he had already had the honour of being presented to Miss Caroline Percy—that he had seen her frequently at Falconer-court, and at her own home—and that he was not surprised at the interest which she excited at Hungerford Castle. Count Altenberg showed the interest she had excited in his own mind, whilst he pronounced, in the most sober manner in his power, those few words.

Mrs. Hungerford perceived it, nor had it escaped her observation, that he had forborne to mention the name of Percy when enumerating the persons he had met at Falconer-court. She was both too well bred in general, and too discreet on Caroline's account, to take any notice of this circumstance. She passed immediately and easily to a different subject of conversation.

The next day Mrs. Mortimer returned with Caroline. The Count saw the affection with which she was embraced by Mrs. Hungerford. The family had crowded to the door of the antechamber to receive her, so that Caroline, encompassed with friends, could not immediately see the Count, and he enjoyed these moments so exquisitely, that the idea which had previously engrossed all his soul, anxiety to see how she would look on meeting him thus unexpectedly, was absolutely forgotten. When the crowd opened, and Mrs. Hungerford led her forward, a smile of frank surprise and pleasure appeared on her countenance upon seeing Count Altenberg; but her colour had been previously so much raised, and so much pleasure had sparkled in her eyes, that there was no judging what share of emotion was to be attributed to this surprise. He was, and he had reason to be, satisfied with perceiving, that in the midst of the first pleasure of meeting intimate friends, and when she did not expect to meet any but friends, she was not chilled by the sight of one who was, to her, as yet but a new acquaintance.

After introducing Count Altenberg to Mrs. Mortimer, Mrs. Hungerford said, "Till I had my daughter and all my friends in full force about me, I prudently did not make any attempt, Count Altenberg, upon your liberty; but now that you see my resources, I trust you will surrender yourself, without difficulty, my prisoner, as long as we can possibly detain you in this castle."

Never was man less disposed to refuse an invitation than Count Altenberg at this moment. He wrote to Mrs. Falconer immediately that farewell note which had shocked Miss Georgiana so much.

As Lord Oldborough was preparing to return to town, and likely to be engrossed by ministerial business, his lordship, with less reluctance, relinquished his company; and the Count, with infinite satisfaction, found himself established at once upon a footing of intimacy at Hungerford Castle. The letter he had intended to write to his father was now written and sent; but it was expressed in yet stronger terms than he had originally designed—he concluded by conjuring his father, as he valued the happiness of his son, not to take a step in any of the treaties of marriage that had been planned for him, and besought him to write as soon as it was possible, to relieve his mind from suspense, and to set him at liberty to declare his attachment, if, upon further acquaintance with the English lady who had touched his heart, he should feel any hope of making such an impression on her affections as could induce her to make for him the great sacrifice of country, family, and friends. In the mean time, the hours and days passed on most happily at Hungerford Castle. Every succeeding day discovered to him some new excellence in the object of his affection. Mrs. Hungerford, with judicious, delicate kindness, forbore all attempts to display even those qualities and talents in Caroline which she most valued, certain that she might safely leave them to the discernment of her lover. That Count Altenberg loved, Mrs. Hungerford had too much penetration to doubt; and it rejoiced her heart, and satisfied all her hopes, to see a prospect of her young friend being united to such a man. Mrs. Mortimer felt as much joy and as much delicacy upon the subject as her mother showed.

In that near examination in domestic life, so dangerous to many women of the highest pretensions, Caroline shone superior. His love, approved by the whole strength of his reason, and exalted by the natural enthusiasm of his temper, was now at the highest. His impatience was extreme for the arrival of that answer to his letter, which he hoped would set him at liberty to declare his passion.

The letter at last arrived; very different were its contents from what he had hoped. A previous letter from his father to him, sent in a packet with government despatches by Mr. Cunningham Falconer, had not reached him. That letter, of which his father now sent him a copy, contained an account of the steps which had been taken, relative to a treaty of marriage between his son and the Countess Christina, a lady of high birth, beauty, and talents, who had lately appeared for the first time at that court. Count Altenberg's father described the countess as one who, he was sure, must charm his son; and as the alliance was eagerly desired by the lady's friends, and in every respect honourable for his whole family, the old Count was impatient to have the affair concluded. Receiving no answer to this letter, and pressed by circumstances, he had gone forward in his son's name with the treaty, and had pledged him so far, that there was now, he declared, no possibility of retracting with honour. He lamented that his son should, in the mean time, have taken a fancy to an English lady; but, as Count Albert's letter gave the assurance to his family that he would not take any decisive step till he should receive an answer, nothing could have been done in England that would commit his honour—absence would soon efface a transient impression—the advantages of the alliance proposed in his own country would appear stronger the more they should be examined—the charms of the Countess Christina, with her superior understanding, would have an irresistible effect; "and," concluded the old count, "I beseech you, my dear Albert, as your friend—I will say more—I command you as your father, return to your own country as soon as you can obtain passports after receiving this letter."

Count Altenberg would have left Hungerford Castle immediately, but he had still a lingering hope that his last letter to his father would produce a change in his mind, and for an answer to this he determined to wait; but a sudden change appeared in his manner: he was grave and absent; instead of seeking Caroline's company and conversation as usual, he studiously avoided her; and when he did speak to her, his behaviour was so cold and reserved—so unlike his natural or his former manner, that the difference struck not only Caroline herself, but Rosamond and Mrs. Percy, who were, at this time, at Hungerford Castle. It happened that, on the very day, and nearly at the very hour, when Count Altenberg received this letter from his father, of which no one knew any thing but himself, there arrived at Hungerford Castle another of Mrs. Hungerford's nieces, a young lady of uncommon beauty, and of the most attractive and elegant manners, Lady Florence Pembroke. She was just returned from Italy with an uncle, who had resided there for some time. Count Altenberg, from the moment he was introduced to Lady Florence, devoted to her his whole attention—he sat beside her—whenever he conversed, his conversation was addressed to her; and the evident absence of mind he occasionally betrayed, and all the change in his manner, seemed to have been caused by her ladyship's appearance. Some sage philosophers know little more of cause and effect than that the one precedes the other; no wonder then that Rosamond, not famous for the accuracy of her reasoning, should, in this instance, be misled by appearances. To support her character for prudence, she determined not to seem to observe what passed, and not to mention her suspicions to her sister; who, as she remarked, was sensible of the count's altered manner; and who, as she rightly conjectured, did not perceive it with indifference. The accomplishments, good sense, and exalted sentiments of Count Altenberg, and the marked attentions he had paid her, had made an unusual impression on the mind of Caroline. He had never declared his love, but involuntarily it had betrayed itself on several occasions. Insensibly Caroline was thus led to feel for him more than she dared to avow even to herself, when the sudden change in his manner awakened her from this delightful forgetfulness of every object that was unconnected with her new feelings, and suddenly arrested her steps as she seemed entering the paradise of love and hope.

At night, when they were retiring to rest, and Caroline and Rosamond were in their mother's room, Rosamond, unable longer to keep her prudent silence, gave vent to her indignation against Count Altenberg in general reflections upon the fickleness of man. Even men of the best understanding were, she said, but children of a larger growth—pleased with change—preferring always the newest to the fairest, or the best. Caroline did not accede to these accusations.

Rosamond, astonished and provoked, exclaimed, "Is it possible that you are so blind as not to see that Count Altenberg—" Rosamond stopped short, for she saw Caroline's colour change. She stood beside her mother motionless, and with her eyes fixed on the ground. Rosamond moved a chair towards her.

"Sit down, my dear love," said her mother, tenderly taking Caroline's hand—"sit down and compose yourself."

"My dear mother, you required one, and but one promise from me—I gave it you, firmly intending to keep it; and yet I fear that you will think I have broken it. I promised to tell you whenever I felt the first symptom of preference for any person. I did not know my own mind till this day. Indeed I thought I felt nothing but what every body else expressed, esteem and admiration."

"In common minds," replied Mrs. Percy, "esteem and admiration may be very safely distant from love; but in such a mind as yours, Caroline, the step from perfect esteem to love is dangerously near—scarcely perceptible."

"Why dangerously?" cried Rosamond: "why should not perfect love follow perfect esteem? that is the very thing I desire for Caroline. I am sure he is attached to her, and he is all we could wish for her, and—"

"Stop!" cried Caroline. "Oh! my dear sister! as you wish me to be good and happy, name him to me no more—for it cannot be."

"Why?" exclaimed Rosamond, with a look of dismay: "Why cannot it be? It can, it must—it shall be."

Caroline sighed, and turning from her sister, as if she dreaded to listen to her, she repeated, "No;—I will not flatter myself—I see that it cannot be—I have observed the change in his manner. The pain it gave me first awakened me to the state of my own affections. I have given you some proof of sincerity by speaking thus immediately of the impression made on my mind. You will acknowledge the effort was difficult.—Mother, will you answer me one question—which I am afraid to ask—did you, or do you think that any body else perceived my sentiments by my manner?" Caroline paused, and her mother and sister set her heart at ease on that point.

"After all," said Rosamond, addressing herself to her mother, "I may be mistaken in what I hinted about Count Altenberg. I own I thought the change in his manner arose from Lady Florence Pembroke—I am sorry I said any thing of it—I dare say when he sees more of her—she is very pretty, very pleasing, very elegant, and amiable, no doubt; but surely, in comparison with Caroline—but I am not certain that there is any rivalship in the case."

"I am certain that there shall be none," said Caroline. "How extraordinary it is that the best, the noblest, the most delightful feelings of the heart, may lead to the meanest, the most odious! I have, within a few hours, felt enough to be aware of this. I will leave nothing to chance. A woman should never expose herself to any hazard. I will preserve my peace of mind, my own esteem. I will preserve my dear and excellent friends; and that I may preserve some of them, I am sensible that I must now quit them."

Mrs. Percy was going to speak, but Rosamond interposed.

"Oh! what have I done!" exclaimed she: "imprudent creature that I was, why did I speak? why did I open your eyes, Caroline? I had resolved not to say a single word of the change I perceived in the Count."

"And did you think I should not perceive it?" said Caroline. "Oh, you little know how quickly—the first look—the first tone of his voice—But of that I will think no more. Only let me assure you, that you, my dear Rosamond, did no harm—it was not what any body said that alarmed me: before you pointed it out, I had felt that change in his manner, for which I cannot account."

"You cannot account?—Can you doubt that Lady Florence is the cause?" said Rosamond.

"Yes, I have great doubts," said Caroline.

"So have I," said Mrs. Percy.

"I cannot believe," said Caroline, "that a man of his sense and character would be so suddenly captivated: I do not mean to detract from Lady Florence's merits, but before they could make the impression you suspect on Count Altenberg, there must have been time for them to be known and appreciated. Shall I go on, and tell you all that has passed in my mind? Yes, my mother and sister should see me as I am—perhaps under the delusion of vanity—or self-love—or—But if I am wrong, you will set me right—you will help me to set myself right: it has never been declared in words, therefore perhaps I am vain and presumptuous to believe or to imagine—yet I do feel persuaded that I am preferred—that I am—"

"Loved! Oh, yes!" said Rosamond, "a thousand times I have thought so, I have felt certain, that Count Altenberg loved you; but now I am convinced, alas! of my mistake—convinced at least that his love is of that light, changeable sort, which is not worth having—not worth your having."

"That last," cried Caroline, "I can never believe." She stopped, and blushed deeply. "What does my mother say?" added she, in a timid voice.

"My mother, I am sure, thought once that he loved Caroline—did not you, mother?" said Rosamond.

"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Percy, "I have thought so, and I am not yet convinced that we were mistaken; but I entirely agree with Caroline that this is a subject upon which we ought not to let our thoughts dwell."

"Oh! so I have thought, so I have said on former occasions, how often, how sincerely!" said Caroline. "But this is the first time I ever felt it difficult to practise what I know to be wise and right. Mother, I beg it as a favour that you will take me away from this place—this place, where but yesterday I thought myself so happy!"

"But why, Caroline—why, mother, should she do this?" expostulated Rosamond. "If she thinks, if you think that he loves her, if you do not believe that he has changed, if you do not believe that he is struck with a new face, why should Caroline go? For Heaven's sake do not take her away till you are sure that it is necessary."

"I will be guided by her opinion," said Mrs. Percy; "I can depend entirely on her own prudence."

"Indeed, I think it will be most prudent that I should not indulge myself in staying longer," said Caroline. "From what I have seen of Count Altenberg, we have reason to think that he acts in general from wise and good motives. We should therefore believe that in the present instance his motives are good and adequate—I cannot suspect that he acts from caprice: what the nature of the obstacle may be, I can only guess; but I am inclined to think that some opposing duty—"

"His duty," said Rosamond, "I suppose he must have known before to-day. What new duty can he have discovered? No, no; men are not so very apt in love matters to think of opposing duties as women do: much more likely that he has heard something to your disadvantage, Caroline, from the Falconers. I can tell you that Lady Frances Arlington gave me a hint that strange things had been said, and great pains taken to misrepresent you to the count."

"If injurious representations have been made of me to him," replied Caroline, "he will in time discover the falsehood of such report; or, if he believe them without examination, he is not what I imagine him to be. No; I am convinced he has too noble a mind, too just an understanding, to be misled by calumny."

Mrs. Percy declared she was decidedly of this opinion. "The obstacle, whatever it may be, my dear mother," continued Caroline, with the earnest tone and expression of countenance of a person of strong mind, at once feeling and thinking deeply, "the difficulty, whatever it is, must be either such as time will obviate or increase; the obstacle must be either conquerable or unconquerable: if he love me, as I thought he did, if he have the energy of character I think he possesses, he will conquer it, if it can be conquered; if it be unconquerable, what misery, what madness, to suffer my affections to be irrevocably engaged! or what base vanity to wish, if it were in my power, to inspire him with an unhappy passion! Then, in every point of view, mother, surely it is best that I should leave this—dangerous place," said Caroline, smiling. "Yet you are both so happy here, I am sorry to be the cause."

"My love," said her mother, "to us all things are trifles, compared with what it is right and becoming that you should do. I entirely approve and applaud your prudence and resolution: what you desire shall be done as soon as possible. We will go home to-morrow morning."

"But, my dear ma'am! so suddenly! consider," cried Rosamond, "how very strange this will appear to Mrs. Hungerford, and to every body!"

"My dear Rosamond, these are some of the small difficulties, the false delicacies, which so often prevent people from doing what is right, or what is essentially necessary for the security of the peace and happiness of their whole lives," said Mrs. Percy.

"That is true," replied Rosamond; "and I do not object to doing the thing, but I only wish we had some good, decent excuse for running away: you don't expect that Mrs. Hungerford will part with you without remonstrance, without struggle, without even inquiring, why you must run away? I am sure I hope she will not ask me, for I am not prepared with an answer, and my face would never do, and would give way at the first glance of her penetrating eye—what will you say to Mrs. Hungerford?"

"The truth," replied Caroline. "Mrs. Hungerford has ever treated me with so much kindness, has shown me so much affection and esteem, feels such a warm interest in all that concerns me, and is herself of so noble a character, that she commands my entire confidence—and she shall have it without reserve. Since my mother agrees with me in thinking that Lady Florence has not been in any degree the cause of the change of manner we have observed, there can be no impropriety on that account in our speaking of the subject to Mrs. Hungerford. It may be painful, humiliating—but what is meant by confidence, by openness towards our friends?—We are all of us ready enough to confess our virtues," said she, smiling; "but our weaknesses, what humbles our pride to acknowledge, we are apt to find some delicate reason for keeping secret. Mother, if you do not disapprove of it, I wish you to tell Mrs. Hungerford the whole truth."

Mrs. Percy entirely approved of Caroline's placing confidence in this excellent friend. She observed, that this was very different from the girlish gossiping sort of confidences, which are made often from one young lady to another, merely from the want of something to say, or the pleasure of prattling about love, or the hope of being encouraged by some weak young friend, to indulge some foolish passion.

The next morning, before Mrs. Hungerford had left her apartment, Mrs. Percy went to her, and explained the reasons which induced Caroline to refuse herself the pleasure of prolonging her visit at Hungerford Castle.

Mrs. Hungerford was touched by the confidence which Caroline placed in her. "Believe me," said she, "it is not misplaced—I feel all its value. And must I lose her? I never parted with her without regret, and that regret increases the more I see of her. I almost forget that she is not my own, till I am called upon to relinquish her: but much as I value her, much as I enjoy her society, I cannot he so selfish as to wish to detain her when her peace of mind is at stake. How few, how very few are there, of all the various young women I know, who would have the good sense and resolution, I will say it, the integrity of mind, to act as she does! There is usually some sentimental casuistry, some cowardly fear, or lingering hope, that prevents young people in these circumstances from doing the plain right thing—any thing but the plain right thing they are ready to do—and there is always some delicate reason for not telling the truth, especially to their friends; but our daughters, Mrs. Percy, are above these things." With respect to Count Altenberg, Mrs. Hungerford said, that, from many observations she had made, she felt no doubt of his being strongly attached to Caroline. "Their characters, their understandings, are suited to each other; they have the same high views, the same magnanimity. With one exception—you must allow a mother's partiality to make an exception in favour of her own son—with one exception Count Altenberg is the man of all others to whom I could wish to see Caroline united. I never till yesterday doubted that it would be; but I was as much struck with the change in his manner as you have been. I agree with Caroline, that some obstacle, probably of duty, has arisen, and I hope—but no, I will imitate her example, and as you tell me she forbids herself to hope, so will I—if possible. At all events she raises herself, high as she was in my esteem, still higher by her present conduct. Tell her so, my dear Mrs. Percy—you, her mother, may give this praise, without hurting her delicacy; and tell her that, old as I am, I have not forgotten so completely the feelings of my youth, as not to be aware that suspense in some situations is the worst of evils. She may be assured that my attention shall be as much awake as even her mother's could be—and when any thing that I think important or decisive occurs, she shall hear from me immediately, or see me, unless I should lose the use of my limbs, or my faculties."

A messenger came to summon Mrs. Hungerford to breakfast—soon afterwards a ride was proposed by Mrs. Mortimer. Count Altenberg was to be one of this party, and he looked for a moment surprised and disappointed, when he found that Caroline was not going with them; but he forebore to ask why she did not ride, and endeavoured to occupy himself solely in helping Mrs. Mortimer to mount her horse—Rosamond was glad to perceive that he did not well know what he was doing.

Before they returned from their ride, the Percys were on their way to the Hills. Till this moment the sight of home, even after a short absence, had, on returning to it, always been delightful to Caroline; but now, for the first time in her life, every object seemed to have lost its brightness. In the stillness of retirement, which she used to love, she felt something sad and lifeless. The favourite glade, which formerly she thought the very spot so beautifully described by Dryden, as the scene of his "Flower and the Leaf," even this she found had lost its charm. New to love, Caroline was not till now aware, that it throws a radiance upon every object, which, when passed away, seems to leave all nature changed.

To banish recollections which she knew that she ought not to indulge, she employed herself unremittingly. But her mind did not turn with its wonted energy to her occupations, nor was it acted upon by those small motives of ordinary life, by which it had formerly been excited. When reading, her thoughts would wander even from her favourite authors: every subject they discussed would remind her of some conversation that had passed at Hungerford Castle; some coincidence or difference of opinion would lead her to digress; some observation more just or more striking; some better expression, or some expression which pleased her better than the author's, would occur, and the book was laid down. These digressions of fancy were yet more frequent when she was endeavouring to fix her attention to drawing, needle-work, or to any other sedentary employment. Exercise she found useful. She spent more time than usual in planting and in gardening—a simple remedy; but practical philosophy frequently finds those simple remedies the best which Providence has put within the reach of all.

One morning, soon after her return home, when she was alone and busy in her garden, she heard voices at a distance; as they approached nearer, she thought she distinguished Mrs. Hungerford's. She listened, and looked towards the path whence the voices had come. All was silent—but a minute afterwards, she saw Mrs. Hungerford coming through the narrow path in the thicket: Caroline at first sprang forward to meet her, then stopped short, her heart beating violently—she thought that, perhaps, Mrs. Hungerford was accompanied by Count Altenberg; but she was alone. Ashamed of the hope which had glanced across her mind, and of the sudden stop which had betrayed her thoughts, Caroline now went forward, blushing.

Mrs. Hungerford embraced her with tenderness, and then assuming a cheerful tone, "Your mother and sister wanted to persuade me," said she, "that I should never find my way to you—but I insisted upon it that I could. Had I not the instinct of a true friend to guide me?—So now let me sit down and rest myself on this pretty seat—a very comfortable throne!—and that is saying much for a throne. So these are your territories?" continued she, looking round, and talking with an air of playfulness, to give Caroline time to recover herself.

"Why did you never invite me to your garden?—Perhaps, you think me a mere fire-side, arm-chair old woman, dead to all the beauties of nature; but I can assure you that I have, all my life, from principle, cultivated this taste, which I think peculiarly suited to women, salutary not only to their health, but to their happiness and their virtues—their domestic virtues, increasing the interest they take in their homes, heightening those feelings of associated pleasure which extend from persons to places, and which are at once a proof of the strength of early attachments and a security for their continuance to the latest period of life. Our friend, Count Altenberg, was observing to me the other day that we Englishwomen, among our other advantages, from our modes of life, from our spending so many months of the year in the country, have more opportunity of forming and indulging these tastes than is usual among foreign ladies in the same rank of life. Fortunately for us, we are not like Mr. Clay's French countess, or duchess, who declared that she hated innocent pleasures."

After mentioning French Clay, Mrs. Hungerford passed to a comparison between him and Count Altenberg. She had met Mr. Clay in town, and disliked him. He is an Englishman only by birth, and a Frenchman only by affectation; Count Altenberg, on the contrary, a foreigner by birth, has all the tastes and principles that make him worthy to be an Englishman. I am convinced that, if he had liberty of choice, he would prefer residing in England to living in any country in the world. Indeed, he expressed that sentiment at parting from us yesterday."

"He is gone then," said Caroline.

"He is, my love."

Caroline wished to ask where? and whether he was gone for ever? Yet she continued silent—and became extremely pale.

Mrs. Hungerford, without appearing to take any notice of her emotion, continued, and answered all the questions which she wished to ask.

"He is gone back to Germany to his own court—recalled, as he told me, by some imperious duty."

Caroline revived.

"So far you see, my dear, we were right, as those usually are who judge from general principles. It was not, indeed, to be credited," continued Mrs. Hungerford, "that a man of his character and understanding should act merely from caprice. What the nature of the duty may be, whether relating to his duty as a public or a private man, he did not explain—the latter, I fear: I apprehend some engagement, that will prevent his return to England. In this case he has done most honourably, at whatever risk or pain to himself, to avoid any attempt to engage your affections, my dear; and you have, in these trying circumstances, acted as becomes your sex and yourself."

"I hope so," said Caroline, timidly: "my mother and Rosamond endeavoured to re-assure me on one point—you have seen more since, and must therefore be better able to judge—Count Altenberg has none of that presumption of manner which puts a woman upon her guard against his inferences. But, in secret, do you think he ever suspected—"

"I cannot, my love, tell what passes in the secret recesses of man's heart—much more difficult to penetrate than woman's," replied Mrs. Hungerford, smiling. "But let this satisfy you—by no word, hint, or look, could I ever guess that he had formed such a hope. Of your whole family he spoke in terms of the highest regard. Of you he dared not trust himself to say much; but the little he did venture to say was expressive of the highest respect and esteem: more he did not, and ought not, I am convinced, to have allowed himself."

"I am satisfied—quite satisfied," said Caroline, relieving her heart by a deep sigh; "and I thank you, my kind Mrs. Hungerford. You have put this subject at rest for ever in my mind. If Count Altenberg can love me with honour, he will; if he cannot, Heaven forbid I should wish it!"

From this time forward Caroline never spoke more upon the subject, never mentioned the name of Count Altenberg. She exerted all the strong command she possessed over herself to conquer the languor and indolence to which she had found herself disposed.

It is a difficult task to restore what may be called the tone of the mind, to recover the power of being acted upon by common and every day motives, after sensibility has been unusually excited. Where the affections have been deeply and long engaged, this is a task which the most severe philosophy cannot accomplish without the aid of time—and of that superior power which it would be irreverent here to name.

By using no concealment with her friends, by permitting no self-delusion, by having the courage to confess the first symptom of partiality of which she was conscious, Caroline put it out of her own power to nourish a preference into a passion which must ultimately have made herself and her friends unhappy. Besides the advantages which she derived from her literary tastes, and her habits of varying her occupations, she at this time found great resources in her warm and affectionate attachment to her own family.

She had never yet arrived at that state of egoisme, which marks the height of passion, when all interests and affections sink and vanish before one exclusive and tyrant sentiment.



CHAPTER XXX.

When Count Altenberg went to London to obtain his passports, he went to pay his parting respects to Lord Oldborough, whose talents and uncommon character had made an indelible impression on his mind.

When he asked whether his lordship had any commands that he could execute at his own court, he was surprised by receiving at once a commission of a difficult and delicate nature. Lord Oldborough, whose penetration had seen into Count Altenberg's character, and who knew how and when to trust, though he was supposed to be the most reserved of men, confided to the Count his dissatisfaction with the proceedings of Cunningham Falconer; his suspicions that the envoy was playing double, and endeavouring to ingratiate himself abroad and at home with a party inimical to his lordship's interests.

"Diplomatists are all, more or less, insincere," said Lord Oldborough. "But to have chosen an envoy who joins ingratitude to duplicity would reflect no credit upon the minister by whom he was appointed. Were I speaking to a common person, I should not admit the possibility of my having committed such an error. But Count Altenberg will judge by the whole and not by a part. He knows that every man in power is sometimes the slave of circumstances. This Cunningham Falconer—all these Falconers were forced upon me—how, it is of little consequence to you to hear. It is sufficient for me to assure you, Count, that it was not my judgment that erred. Now the necessity has ceased. By other means my purpose has been accomplished. The Falconers are useless to me. But I will not abandon those whom I have undertaken to protect, till I have proof of their perfidy."

Lord Oldborough then explained the points on which he desired to inform himself before he should decide with regard to Cunningham. Count Altenberg undertook to procure for his lordship the means of ascertaining the fidelity of his envoy; and Lord Oldborough then turned the conversation on general politics. He soon perceived that the Count was not as much interested in these subjects as formerly. At parting, Lord Oldborough smiled, and said, "You have been, since I saw you last, Count Altenberg, too much in the company of a philosopher, who prefers the happiness of a country gentleman's life to the glory of a statesman's career. But height will soon recall high thoughts. Ambition is not dead, only dormant within you. It will, I hope and trust, make you in time the minister and pride of your country. In this hope I bid you farewell."

Commissioner Falconer having been told, by one of the people in the antechamber, that Count Altenberg had arrived, and was now with the minister, waited anxiously to see him, caught him in his way out, and eagerly pressed an invitation from Mrs. Falconer to dine or spend the evening with them—but the Count had now his passports, and pleaded the absolute necessity for his immediately setting out on his return to his own country. The commissioner, from a word or two that he hazarded upon the subject, had the vexation to perceive that his hopes of engaging Count Altenberg to assist the views of his son Cunningham were vain, and he regretted that he had wasted so much civility upon a foreigner who would make him no return.

Miss Georgiana Falconer's mortification at the Count's leaving England was much alleviated by finding that he had not been detained by the charms of Miss Caroline Percy, and she was almost consoled for losing the prize herself, by seeing that it had not been won by her rival. Mrs. Falconer, too, though she had long abandoned all hopes of the Count as a son-in-law, yet rejoiced to be spared the humiliation of writing to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Percy upon the marriage and splendid establishment of their daughter.

"After all, how ill they have managed!" said Mrs. Falconer; "the game was in their own hands. Certainly Mrs. Percy must be the worst mother in the world, and the daughter, with all her sense, a perfect simpleton, or they might have made up the match when they had the Count to themselves at Hungerford Castle."

"I told you long ago, but you would never believe, Mrs. Falconer," cried the commissioner, "that Count Altenberg's ruling passion was ambition, and that he was not the least likely to fall in love, as you ladies call it. The old Prince of —— is going fast, and Count Altenberg's father has sent for him, that he may be on the spot to secure his favour with the hereditary prince—I am sure I hope Count Altenberg will not be minister; for from the few words he said to me just now when I met him, he will not enter into my views with regard to Cunningham."

"No, those political visions of yours, commissioner, seldom end in any thing but disappointment," said Mrs. Falconer. "I always said it would be so."

Then followed a scene of recrimination, such as was the usual consequence of the failure of any of the plans of this intriguing pair.

"And, Mrs. Falconer," concluded the commissioner, "I augur as ill of your present scheme for Georgiana as I did of the last. You will find that all your dinners and concerts will be just as much thrown away upon the two Clays as your balls and plays were upon Count Altenberg. And this is the way, ma'am, you go on plunging me deeper and deeper in debt," said the commissioner, walking about the room much disturbed, "If any thing was to go wrong with Lord Oldborough, what would become of us!"

"My dear, that is a very unseasonable apprehension; for Lord Oldborough, as I hear on all sides, is firmer in power now than he ever was—of that, you know, you were but yesterday giving me assurance and proof. His favour, you know, is so high, that all who were leagued against him in that combination he detected, were, in consequence of his lordship's letter, instantly dismissed from office: his colleagues are now of his choosing—the cabinet, I understand, completely his own friends. What more security can you desire?"

"You don't understand me, Mrs. Falconer: I am not thinking of the security of Lord Oldborough's power—of that, after all I have seen, I can have no doubt; but I am not so sure of—"

"The continuance of my own favour," he was going to say, but it was painful to him to utter the words, and he had a superstitious dread, common to courtiers, of speaking of their decline of favour, Besides, he knew that reproaches for want of address in managing Lord Oldborough's humour would immediately follow from Mrs. Falconer, if he gave any hint of this kind; and on his address the commissioner piqued himself, not without reason. Abruptly changing his tone, and taking that air of authority which every now and then he thought fit to assume, he said, "Mrs. Falconer, there's one thing I won't allow—I won't allow Georgiana and you to make a fool of young Petcalf."

"By no means, my love; but if he makes a fool of himself, you know?"

"Mrs. Falconer, you recollect the transaction about the draught."

"For Zara's dress?"

"Yes, ma'am. The condition you made then in my name with Georgiana I hold her to, and I expect that she be prepared to be Mrs. Petcalf within the year."

"I told her so, my dear, and she acquiesces—she submits—she is ready to obey—if nothing better offers."

"If—Ay, there it is!—All the time I know you are looking to the Clays; and if they fail, somebody else will start up, whom you will think a better match than Petcalf, and all these people are to be feted, and so you will go on, wasting my money and your own time. Petcalf will run restive at last, you will lose him, and I shall have Georgiana left upon my hands after all."

"No danger, my dear. My principle is the most satisfactory and secure imaginable. To have a number of tickets in the wheel—then, if one comes up a blank, still you have a chance of a prize in the next. Only have patience, Mr. Falconer."

"Patience! my dear: how can a man have patience, when he has seen the same thing going on for years? And I have said the same thing to you over and over a hundred times, Mrs. Falconer."

"A hundred times at least, I grant, and that, perhaps, is enough to try my patience you'll allow, and yet, you see how reasonable I am. I have only to repeat what is incontrovertible, that when a girl has been brought up, and has lived in a certain line, you must push her in that line, for she will not do in any other. You must be sensible that no mere country gentleman would ever think of Georgiana—we must push her in the line for which she is fit—the fashionable line."

"Push! Bless my soul, ma'am! you have been pushing one or other of those girls ever since they were in their teens, but your pushing signifies nothing. The men, don't you see, back as fast as the women advance?"

"Coarse!—Too coarse an observation for you, commissioner!" said Mrs. Falconer, with admirable temper; "but when men are angry they will say more than they think."

"Ma'am, I don't say half as much as I think—ever."

"Indeed!—That is a candid confession, for which I owe you credit, at all events."

"It's a foolish game—it's a foolish game—it's a losing game," continued the commissioner; "and you will play it till we are ruined."

"Not a losing game if it be played with temper and spirit. Many throw up the game like cowards, when, if they had but had courage to double the bet, they would have made their fortune."

"Pshaw! Pshaw!" said the commissioner: "Can you double your girls' beauty? can you double their fortune?"

"Fashion stands in the place both of beauty and fortune, Mr. Falconer; and fashion, my girls, I hope you will allow, enjoy."

"Enjoy! What signifies that? Fashion, you told me, was to win Count Altenberg—has it won him? Are we one bit the better for the expense we were at in all those entertainments?"

"All that, or most of it—at least the popularity-ball—must be set down to Lord Oldborough's account; and that is your affair, commissioner."

"And the play, and the play-house, and the dresses! Was Zara's dress my affair? Did I not tell you, you were wasting your time upon that man?"

"No waste, nothing has been wasted, my dear commissioner; believe me, even in point of economy we could not have laid out money better; for at a trifling expense we have obtained for Georgiana the credit of having refused Count Altenberg. Lady Kew and Lady Trant have spread the report. You know it is not my business to speak—and now the Count is gone, who can contradict it with any propriety?—The thing is universally believed. Every body is talking of it, and the consequence is, Georgiana is more in fashion now than ever she was. There's a proposal I had for her this morning," said Mrs. Falconer, throwing a letter carelessly before the commissioner.

"A proposal! That is something worth attending to," said the commissioner, putting on his spectacles.

"No, nothing worth our attention," said Mrs. Falconer, "only eighteen hundred a year, which, you know, Georgiana could not possibly live upon."

"Better than nothing, surely," said the commissioner; "let me see."

"Not better than Petcalf, not within a thousand a year so good, putting Asia Minor out of the question. So, you know, I could not hesitate an instant."

"But I hope your answer was very civil. People are not aware what dangerous enemies they make on these occasions," said Mr. Falconer: "I hope your answer was very polite."

"Oh! the pink of courtesy," said Mrs. Falconer. "I lamented that my daughter's fortune was so small as to put it out of her power, &c., and I added a great deal about merit, and the honour done our family, and so on. But I wonder the man had the assurance to propose for Georgiana, when he had nothing better to say for himself."

"Petcalf, to be sure, if the general dies, is a thousand a year better. I believe you are right there," said Mr. Falconer; and with an air of calculating consideration, he took up a pen.

"But what are you about, commissioner? going to write on that letter, as if it were waste paper!" said Mrs. Falconer, starting up, and taking it hastily from him: "I must have it for Lady Trant, Lady Kew, and some more of our intimate friends, that they may be able to say they have seen the proposal; for mothers and daughters too, in these days, are so apt to boast, that it is quite necessary to have some written document to produce, and there's no going beyond that."

"Certainly—quite necessary. And what written document," said the commissioner, smiling, "have you to produce in the case of Count Altenberg?"

"Oh! that is another affair," said Mrs. Falconer, smiling in her turn. "One must not in all cases have recourse to the same expedients. Besides, if we produce our proofs on one occasion, we shall depend upon having our word taken on trust another time; and it would be too much to make a practice of showing gentlemen's letters: it is not what I should always do—certainly not with regard to a man of Count Altenberg's rank and pretensions, who merits to be treated with somewhat more consideration, surely, than a man who hazards such a proposal as this. I merely produced it to show you that Georgiana is in no absolute distress for admirers. And now, my dear, I must trouble you—those public singers are terribly expensive; yet at a concert we must have them, and one cannot have them without coming up to their price—I must trouble you to sign this draft, for our concert last week."

"Now, Mrs. Falconer, I have signed it," cried the commissioner, "and it is the last, for a similar purpose, I ever will sign—upon my honour."

"I have invited every body to a concert here next week," said Mrs. Falconer: "What can I do?"

"Do as others do," said the commissioner; "let these musical professors give a concert at your house: then, instead of paying them, you share their profits, and you have the best company at your house into the bargain."

"Such things are done, I know," said Mrs. Falconer, "and by people of rank; but Lady Jane Granville would not do it, when she was more distressed for money than we are, and I know many say it is what they would not do."

"It must be done by you, Mrs. Falconer, or you must give up having concerts altogether," said the commissioner, leaving the room.

To give up concerts was quite impossible, especially as French Clay was, or pretended to be, passionately fond of music, and it was at her musical parties that he never failed to attend assiduously. The next concert was given by a celebrated performer at Mrs. Falconer's house, and she and the singers shared the profit. To such meanness can the slaves of fashion condescend!

At this concert it happened that there was a new and remarkably handsome, graceful, female Italian singer, who was much admired by all the gentlemen present, and particularly by French Clay, who had set up, with little ear, and less taste, for a great judge of music. He was ambitious of appearing as the patron of this young performer. He went about every where talking of her in raptures, and making interest for her with all the great people of his acquaintance. Her own voice and her own charms needed not the protection of Mr. Clay; from the night she was first produced at Mrs. Falconer's, she became at once the height of the fashion. Every body was eager to have her at their parties, especially as she had never yet been upon the stage. Admirers crowded round her, and among them were many of rank and fortune: an old earl and a young baronet were of the number. The ardour of competition so much increased the zeal of French Clay, that what was at first only affectation, became real enthusiasm. He was resolved to win the lady from all his rivals. He had frequent opportunities of seeing her at Mrs. Falconer's, where he appeared always in glory as her patron.

Seraphina, the fair Italian, considering Mrs. Falconer as her first patroness, made it a point of gratitude to hold her concerts frequently at her house. Mrs. Falconer was proud of the distinction. Fresh eclat was thrown upon her and upon her daughters.

French Clay was always near Miss Georgiana Falconer, or near Seraphina; and he applauded each by turns with all the raptures of an amateur. Mrs. Falconer saw that rivalship with the old earl and the young baronet had worked Mr. Clay into a passion for Seraphina; but she thought she knew how a passion for a singer must end, and as this did not interfere with her matrimonial designs, it gave her little uneasiness. Bets ran high in the fashionable world upon the three candidates. Mrs. Falconer had no doubt that the old earl would carry off the prize, as he was extremely rich, and was ready to make any settlement and any establishment. Her prophecy would, probably, have been accomplished, but that French Clay, strongly urged by the immediate danger of losing the lady, and flattered by Seraphina's mother, who, in another style of life, was equal to Mrs. Falconer in address and knowledge of the world, was drawn in to offer what alone could balance the charms of the baronet's youth and of the earl's wealth—a week after the offer was made, Seraphina became Mrs. French Clay. Upon this marriage Commissioner Falconer hastened immediately to reproach his wife.

"There! Mrs. Falconer, I told you it would never do—There is another son-in-law who has escaped you!"

Never did Mrs. Falconer's genius appear so great as in circumstances which would have confounded one of inferior resource. It is true, she had been thrown into surprise and consternation by the first news of this marriage; but by an able stroke she had turned defeat into victory. With a calm air of triumph she replied to her husband, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Falconer,—French Clay was only my ostensible object: I should have been very sorry to have had him for my son-in-law; for, though it is a secret, I know that he is overwhelmed with debt. The son-in-law I really wished for has not escaped me, sir—the elder brother, English Clay—Clay, of Clay-hall, I apprehend, you will allow, is rather a better match for your daughter; and his proposal for Georgiana, his relation, Lady Trant, was last night authorized to make to me in form. And now, commissioner, there is an end of your fears that your daughter should be left, at last, upon your hands; and now, I flatter myself, you will acknowledge that I always knew what I was about—mistress of Clay-hall, and of seven thousand a year—I think that is doing pretty well for a girl who has nothing."

The commissioner was so much delighted, that he willingly permitted his lady to enjoy her triumph over him.

"Now only consider, commissioner," she pursued, "if I had huddled up that match with Petcalf!—Petcalf, I'll answer for it, in case of necessity, that is, in case of any difficulty on the part of Sir Robert Percy, I can turn over to Bell. Poor Petcalf!" added she, with a smile: "I really have a regard for that ever-lasting partner, and wish to leave him a chance of being partner for life to one of my daughters. I am sure he has reason to be excessively obliged to me for thinking of him at this moment—I must go to Georgiana and talk about wedding-clothes, laces, jewels, equipages—Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, piques himself upon having every thing the best of its kind, and in the highest style—Happy—happy girl!"

"Happy—happy father, who has got her off his hands!" cried the commissioner.

"'Twas my doing—'twas all my doing!" said Mrs. Falconer.

"It was, my dear; and how was it brought about?" said Mr. Falconer: "stay one minute from the wedding-clothes, and tell me."

Mrs. Falconer returned, and in the pride of successful intrigue explained all—that is, all she chose her husband to know.

Lady Trant was Mr. Clay's near relation, and Mrs. Falconer's intimate friend—how she had engaged her ladyship so zealously in her cause was the point which Mrs. Falconer did not choose to explain, and into which the commissioner never thought of inquiring. There are moments in which the most selfish may be betrayed into a belief that others act from generous motives; and the very principles which they hold infallible applied to all other cases, they think admit in their own of an exception: so Commissioner Falconer, notwithstanding his knowledge of the world, and his knowledge of himself, took it for granted, that, in this instance, Lady Trant acted from the impulse of disinterested friendship. This point happily admitted without question, all the rest Mrs. Falconer could satisfactorily explain. Lady Trant being a friend she could trust entirely, Mrs. Falconer had opened her mind to her ladyship, and, by her suggestion, Lady Trant had seized the happy moment when English Clay was enraged against his brother for his strange marriage, and had deplored that Clay-hall, and the fine estate belonging to it, should go to the children of an Italian singer: English Clay took fresh fire at this idea, and swore that, much as he hated the notion of a wife and children, he had a great mind to marry on purpose to punish his brother, and to cut him off, as he deserved, for ever from Clay-hall. Lady Trant commended his spirit, and urged him to put his resolution into execution—English Clay, however, balked a little at this: women now-a-days, he said, were so cursed expensive, that scarce any fortune could suffice for a wife, and horses, and all in style; and as to taking a wife, who would not be of a piece with the rest of his establishment, that was what he was not the man to do. Lady Trant answered, that of course he would wish to have a fashionable wife; that was the only thing that was wanting to make Clay-hall complete.

"But then an establishment that was quite correct, and in the first style for a bachelor, would be quite incorrect for a married man, and every thing to do over again."

"True; but then to grow into an old bachelor, and to hear every body saying, or to know that every body is saying, behind your back, 'He will never marry, you know; and all his estate will go to his brother, or the children of Seraphina, the singer.'"

There are some men who might feel tired of having the same idea repeated, and the self-same words reiterated; but English Clay was not of the number: on the contrary, repetition was necessary, in the first place, to give his mind time to take in an idea; and afterwards, reiteration was agreeable, as it impressed him with a sense of conviction without the trouble of thought. After Lady Trant had reiterated a sufficient time, he assented, and declared what her ladyship observed was d——d true; but after a silence of several minutes, he added, "There's such a cursed deal of danger of being taken in by a woman, especially by one of those fashionable girls, who are all in the catch-match line." Lady Trant, who had been well tutored and prepared with replies by Mrs. Falconer, answered that as Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, had a fortune that entitled him to ask any woman, so he was, for the same reason, at full liberty to please himself; and though family connexion and fashion would of course be indispensable to him, yet money could be no object to a man of his fortune—he was not like many needy young men, obliged to sell themselves for a wife's fortune, to pay old debts: no, Lady Trant said, she was sure her relation and friend, Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, would never bargain for a wife, and, of course, where there was no bargaining there could be no fear of being taken in.

English Clay had never considered the matter in this view before; but now it was pointed out, he confessed it struck him as very fair—very fair: and his pride, of which he had a comfortable portion, being now touched, he asserted both his disinterestedness and his right to judge and choose in this business entirely for himself. Who had a right to blame him? his fortune was his own, and he would marry a girl without sixpence, if she struck his fancy. Lady Trant supported him in his humour, and he began to name some of the young ladies of his acquaintance: one would look well in a curricle; another would do the honours of his house handsomely; another danced charmingly, and would be a credit to him in a ball-room; another would make a sweet-tempered nurse when he should have the gout: but Lady Trant found some objection to every one he mentioned, till, at last, when he had named all he could think of in remainder to his heart, Lady Trant proposed Miss Georgiana.

But she was intended for his brother.

"Oh! no." Lady Trant had very particular reasons for being positive that neither Mrs. nor Miss Falconer had ever such an idea, however they might have let it go abroad, perhaps, to conceal their real wishes—Miss Georgiana Falconer had refused so many gentlemen—Count Altenberg, report said, among others; and it was plain to Lady Trant that the young lady could not be easily pleased—that her affections were not to be engaged very readily: yet she had a notion, she owned, that if—But she was not at liberty to say more. She was only convinced that no girl was more admired than Miss Georgiana Falconer, and no woman would do greater credit to the taste of a man of fashion: she had all the requisites Mr. Clay had named: she would look well in a curricle; she would do the honours of his house charmingly; she sung and danced divinely: and Lady Trant summed up all by reiterating, that Miss Georgiana Falconer never would have married his brother.

This persuasive flattery, combining with English Clay's anger against his brother, had such effect, that he protested, if it was not for the trouble of the thing, he did not care if he married next week. But the making the proposal, and all that, was an awkward, troublesome business, to which he could not bring himself. Lady Trant kindly offered to take all trouble of this sort off his hands—undertook to speak to Mrs. Falconer, if she had his authority for so doing, and engaged that he should be married without any kind of awkwardness or difficulty. In consequence of this assurance, Lady Trant was empowered by Mr. Clay to make the proposal, which was received with so much joy and triumph by Mrs. Falconer and by her Georgiana.

But their joy and triumph were not of long duration. In this family, where none of the members of it acted in concert, or well knew what the others were doing,—where each had some separate interest, vanity, or vice, to be pursued or indulged, it often happened that one individual counteracted the other, and none were willing to abandon their selfish purpose, whether of interest or pleasure. On the present occasion, by a curious concatenation of circumstances, it happened that Buckhurst Falconer, who had formerly been the spoiled darling of his mother, was the person whose interest immediately crossed hers; and if he pursued his object, it must be at the risk of breaking off his sister Georgiana's marriage with English Clay. It is necessary to go back a few steps to trace the progress of Buckhurst Falconer's history. It is a painful task to recapitulate and follow the gradual deterioration of a disposition such as his; to mark the ruin and degradation of a character which, notwithstanding its faults, had a degree of generosity and openness, with a sense of honour and quick feeling, which early in life promised well; and which, but for parental weakness and mistaken system, might have been matured into every thing good and great. After his mother had, by introducing him early to fashionable company, and to a life of idleness and dissipation, disgusted him with the profession of the law, in which, with talents such as his, he might, with application and perseverance, have risen to wealth and eminence—after his father had, by duplicity and tyranny, forced him into that sacred profession for which the young man felt himself unfit, and which his conscience long refused to consider merely as the means of worldly provision—the next step was to send him with a profligate patron, as chaplain to a regiment, notorious for gambling. The first sacrifice of principle made, his sense of honour, duty, and virtue, once abandoned, his natural sensibility only hastened his perversion. He had a high idea of the clerical character; but his past habits and his present duties were in direct opposition. Indeed, in the situation in which he was placed, and with the society into which he was thrown, it would have required more than a common share of civil courage, and all the steadiness of a veteran in virtue, to have withstood the temptations by which he was surrounded. Even if he had possessed sufficient resolution to change his former habits, and to become a good clergyman, his companions and his patron, instead of respecting, would have shunned him as a censor. Unwilling to give up the pleasures of conviviality, and incapable of sustaining the martyrdom of ridicule, Buckhurst Falconer soon abjured all the principles to which he could not adhere—he soon gloried in the open defiance of every thing that he had once held right. Upon all occasions, afraid of being supposed to be subject to any restraint as a clergyman, or to be influenced by any of the prejudices of his profession, he strove continually to show his liberality and spirit by daring, both in words and actions, beyond what others dared. He might have been checked and stopped in his career of extravagance by the actual want of money and of credit, had he not unluckily obtained, at this early period, a living, as a reward for saving Bishop Clay from being choked: this preferment, obtained in circumstances so ludicrous, afforded him matter of much temporary amusement and triumph; and confirmed him in the idea his father had long laboured to inculcate, that merit was unnecessary to rising in the world or in the church. But however he might endeavour to blind himself to the truth, and however general opinion was shut out from him for a time by those profligate persons with whom he lived, yet he could not help now and then seeing and feeling that he had lost respectability; and in the midst of noisy merriment he was often to himself an object of secret and sad contempt. Soon after he was separated for a time from Colonel Hauton and his companions, by going to take possession of his living, he made an effort to regain his self-complacency—he endeavoured to distinguish himself as an eloquent preacher.—Ashamed of avowing to his associates better motives, by which he was partly actuated, he protested that he preached only for fame and a deanery. His talents were such as soon accomplished half his wish, and ensured him celebrity—he obtained opportunities of preaching in a fashionable chapel in London—he was prodigiously followed—his theatrical manner, perhaps, increased the effect of his eloquence upon a certain class of his auditors; but the more sober and nice-judging part of his congregation objected to this dramatic art and declamatory style, as tending to draw the attention from the doctrine to the preacher, and to obtain admiration from man more than to do honour to God. This, however, might have passed, as a matter of speculative opinion or difference of taste; provided the preacher is believed to be in earnest, the style of his preaching is of little comparative consequence. But the moment he is suspected of being insincere, the moment it is found that he does not practise what he preaches, his power over the rational mind ceases; and to moral feeling such a clergyman becomes an object, not only of contempt, but of disgust and abhorrence. Murmurs were soon heard against the private conduct of the celebrated preacher—perhaps envy for his talents and success mingled her voice with the honest expressions of virtuous indignation. The murmurs grew louder and louder; and Buckhurst Falconer, to avoid having inquiries made and irregularities brought to light, was obliged to yield to a rival preacher of far inferior talents, but of more correct conduct.

Commissioner Falconer was glad that his son was disappointed in this manner, as he thought it would make him more attentive than he had been of late to Colonel Hauton; and the living of Chipping-Friars was better worth looking after than the fleeting fame of a popular preacher. Buckhurst, however, still held fame in higher estimation than it had ever been held by his father, who never valued it but as subordinate to interest. But the love of fame, however superior to mercenary habits, affords no security for the stability of conduct; on the contrary, without good sense and resolution, it infallibly accelerates the degeneracy of character. Buckhurst's hopes of obtaining literary celebrity being lost, he sunk another step, and now contented himself with the kind of notoriety which can be gained by a man of talents, who condescends to be the wit of private circles and of public dinners. Still he met with many competitors in this line. In the metropolis, the mendicants for fame, like the professional beggars, portion out the town among them, and whoever ventures to ply beyond his allotted walk is immediately jostled and abused; and the false pretensions of the wit, and all the tricks to obtain admiration, are as sure to be exposed by some rivals of the trade, as the false legs, arms, and various impostures of the beggar are denounced by the brother-beggar, on whose monopoly he has infringed. Our wit was soon compelled to confine himself to his own set, and gradually he degenerated from being the wit to being the good story-teller of the company. A man who lives by pleasing must become whatever the society in which he lives desire. Colonel Hauton and his associates had but little taste for pure wit—low humour and facetious stories were more suited to their capacities—slang and buffoonery were their delight. Buckhurst had early become a proficient in all these: the respect due to the clerical character had not restrained him from the exercise of arts for his own amusement, which now he found indispensably requisite for the entertainment of others, and to preserve favour with his patron. Contrary to all calculation, and, as the commissioner said, to all reasonable expectation, the old paralytic incumbent had continued to exist, and so many years had passed since the promise had been made to Buckhurst of this living, the transaction in consequence of which it was promised was now so completely forgotten, that the commissioner feared that Colonel Hauton, no longer under the influence of shame, might consider the promise as merely gratuitous, not binding: therefore the cautious father was solicitous that his son should incessantly stick close to the colonel, who, as it was observed, never recollected his absent friends. Buckhurst, though he knew him to be selfish and silly, yet had no suspicion of his breaking his promise, because he piqued himself on being a man of honour; and little as he cared, in general, for any one but himself, Colonel Hauton had often declared that he could not live without Buckhurst Falconer. He was always driving with the colonel, riding, betting with him, or relieving him from the sense of his own inability by making a jest of some person. Buckhurst's talents for mimickry were an infallible resource. In particular, he could mimick the two Clays to perfection, could take off the affected tone, foreign airs, and quick talkative vanity of French Clay; and represent the slow, surly reserve, supercilious silence, and solemn self-importance of English Clay. He used to imitate not only their manners, gesture, and voice, but could hold conversations in their characters, fall naturally into their train of thinking, and their modes of expression. Once a week, at least, the two Clays were introduced for the amusement of their friend Colonel Hauton, who, at the hundredth representation, was as well pleased as at the first, and never failed to "witness his wonder with an idiot laugh," quite unconscious that, the moment afterwards, when he had left the room, this laugh was mimicked for the entertainment of the remainder of the band of friends. It happened one night that Buckhurst Falconer, immediately after Colonel Hauton had quitted the party, began to set the table in a roar, by mimicking his laugh, snuffling voice, and silly observations; when, to his utter confusion, his patron, who he thought had left the room, returned from behind a screen, and resumed his place opposite to Buckhurst. Not Banquo's ghost could have struck more terror into the heart of the guilty. Buckhurst grew pale as death, and sudden silence ensued. Recovering his presence of mind, he thought that it was possible the colonel might be such a fool as not to have recognized himself; so by a wink to one of the company, and a kick under the table to another, he endeavoured to make them join in his attempt to pass off the whole as mimickry of a Colonel Hallerton. His companions supported him as he continued the farce, and the laughter recommenced. Colonel Hauton filled his glass, and said nothing; by degrees, however, he joined or pretended to join in the laugh, and left the company without Buckhurst's being able exactly to determine whether he had duped him or not. After the colonel was fairly gone,—for this time Buckhurst took care not only to look behind the screen, but even to shut the doors of the antechamber, and to wait till he heard the parting wheels,—they held a conference upon the question—duped or not duped? All agreed in flattering Buckhurst that he had completely succeeded in giving the colonel the change, and he was particularly complimented on his address by a Mr. Sloak, chaplain to a nobleman, who was one of the company. There was something of a hypocritical tone in Sloak's voice—something of a doubtful cast in his eyes, which, for a moment, raised in Buckhurst's mind a suspicion of him. But, the next day, Colonel Hauton appeared as usual. Buckhurst rode, drove, and jested with him as before; and the whole transaction was, on his part, forgotten. A month afterwards the rector of Chipping-Friars actually died—Commissioner Falconer despatched an express to Buckhurst, who stood beside his bed, with the news, the instant he opened his eyes in the morning. Buckhurst sent the messenger on to Colonel Hauton's at the barracks, and before Buckhurst was dressed, the colonel's groom brought him an invitation to meet a large party at dinner: "the colonel would be unavoidably engaged, by regimental business, all morning."