Buckhurst's friends and acquaintance now flocked to congratulate him, and, by dinner-time, he had, in imagination, disposed of the second year's tithes, and looked out for a curate to do the duty of Chipping-Friars. The company assembled at dinner, and the colonel seemed in uncommonly good spirits, Buckhurst jovial and triumphant—nothing was said of the living, but every thing was taken for granted. In the middle of dinner the colonel cried, "Come, gentlemen, fill your glasses, and drink with me to the health of the new rector of Chipping-Friars." The glasses were filled instantly, all but Buckhurst Falconer's, who, of course, thought he should not drink his own health.

"Mr. Sloak, I have the pleasure to drink your health; Mr. Sloak, rector of Chipping-Friars," cried the patron, raising his voice. "Buckhurst," added he, with a malicious smile, "you do not fill your glass."

Buckhurst sat aghast. "Colonel, is this a jest?"

"A jest?—by G——! no," said the colonel; "I have had enough of jests and jesters."

"What can this mean?"

"It means," said the colonel, coolly, "that, idiot as you take me, or make me to be, I'm not fool enough to patronize a mimick to mimick myself; and, moreover, I have the good of the church too much at heart, to make a rector of one who has no rectitude—I can have my pun, too."

The laugh was instantly turned against Buckhurst. Starting from table, he looked alternately at Colonel Hauton and at Mr. Sloak, and could scarcely find words to express his rage. "Hypocrisy! Treachery! Ingratitude! Cowardice! If my cloth did not protect you, you would not dare—Oh! that I were not a clergyman!" cried Buckhurst.

"It's a good time to wish it, faith!" said the colonel; "but you should have thought better before you put on the cloth."

Cursing himself, his patron, and his father, Buckhurst struck his forehead, and rushed out of the room: an insulting laugh followed from Colonel Hauton, in which Mr. Sloak and all the company joined—Buckhurst heard it with feelings of powerless desperation. He walked as fast as possible—he almost ran through the barrack-yard and through the streets of the town, to get as far as he could from this scene—from these people. He found himself in the open fields, and leaning against a tree—his heart almost bursting—for still he had a heart: "Oh! Mr. Percy!" he exclaimed aloud, "once I had a friend—a good, generous friend—and I left him for such a wretch as this! Oh! if I had followed his advice! He knew me—knew my better self! And if he could see me at this moment, he would pity me. Oh! Caroline! you would pity—no, you would despise me, as I despise myself—I a clergyman!—Oh! father! father! what have you to answer for!"

To this sudden pang of conscience and feeling succeeded the idea of the reproaches which his father would pour upon him—the recollection of his debts, and the impossibility of paying them—his destitute, hopeless condition—anger against the new rector of Chipping-Friars, and against his cold, malicious patron, returned with increased force upon his mind. The remainder of that day, and the whole of the night, were passed in these fluctuations of passion. Whenever he closed his eyes and began to doze, he heard the voice of Colonel Hauton drinking the health of Mr. Sloak; and twice he started from his sleep, after having collared both the rector and his patron. The day brought him no relief: the moment his creditors heard the facts, he knew he should be in immediate danger of arrest. He hurried to town to his father—his father must know his situation sooner or later, and something must be done.

We spare the reader a shocking scene of filial and parental reproaches.

They were both, at last, compelled to return to the question, What is to be done I The father declared his utter inability to pay his son's debts, and told him, that now there remained but one way of extricating himself from his difficulties—to turn to a better patron.

"Oh! sir, I have done with patrons," cried Buckhurst.

"What, then, will you do, sir? Live in a jail the remainder of your life?"

Buckhurst gave a deep sigh, and, after a pause, said, "Well, sir, go on—Who is to be my new patron?"

"Your old friend, Bishop Clay."

"I have no claim upon him. He has done much for me already."

"Therefore he will do more."

"Not pay my debts—and that is the pressing difficulty. He cannot extricate me, unless he could give me a good living immediately, and he has none better than the one I have already, except Dr. Leicester's—his deanery, you know, is in the gift of the crown. Besides, the good dean is likely to live as long as I shall."

"Stay; you do not yet, quick sir, see my scheme—a scheme which would pay your debts and put you at ease at once—Miss Tammy Clay, the bishop's sister."

"An old, ugly, cross, avaricious devil!" cried Buckhurst.

"Rich! passing rich! and well inclined toward you, Buckhurst, as you know."

Buckhurst said that she was his abhorrence—that the idea of a man's selling himself in marriage was so repugnant to his feelings, that he would rather die in a jail.

His father let him exhaust himself in declamation, certain that he would be brought to think of it at last, by the necessity to which he was reduced. The result was what the commissioner saw it must be. Creditors pressed—a jail in immediate view—no resource but Miss Tammy Clay. He went down to the country to the bishop's, to get out of the way of his creditors, and—to consider about it. He found no difficulty likely to arise on the part of the lady. The bishop, old, and almost doting, governed by his sister Tammy, who was an admirable housekeeper, and kept his table exquisitely, was brought, though very reluctantly, to consent to their marriage.

Not so acquiescent, however, were Miss Tammy's two nephews, French and English Clay. They had looked upon her wealth as their indefeasible right and property. The possibility of her marrying had for years been, as they thought, out of the question; and of all the young men of their acquaintance, Buckhurst Falconer was the very last whom they would have suspected to have any design upon aunt Tammy—she had long and often been the subject of his ridicule. French Clay, though he had just made an imprudent match with a singer, was the more loud and violent against the aunt; and English Clay, though he was not in want of her money, was roused by the idea of being duped by the Falconers. This was just at the time he had commissioned Lady Trant to propose for Miss Georgiana. Aunt Tammy had promised to give him six thousand pounds whenever he should marry: he did not value her money a single sixpence, but he would not be tricked out of his rights by any man or woman breathing. Aunt Tammy, resenting certain words that had escaped him derogatory to her youth and beauty, and being naturally unwilling to give—any thing but herself—refused to part with the six thousand pounds. In these hard times, and when she was going to marry an expensive husband, she laughing said, that all she had would be little enough for her own establishment. Buckhurst would willingly have given up the sum in question, but English Clay would not receive it as a consequence of his intercession. His pride offended Buckhurst: they came to high words, and high silence. English Clay went to his relation, Lady Trant, and first reproaching her with having been too precipitate in executing his first commission, gave her a second, in which he begged she would make no delay: he requested her ladyship would inform Mrs. Falconer that a double alliance with her family was more than he had looked for—and in one word, that either her son Buckhurst's marriage with his aunt Tammy, or his own marriage with Miss Georgiana, must be given up. He would not have his aunt at her age make herself ridiculous, and he would not connect himself with a family who could uphold a young man in duping an old woman: Lady Trant might shape his message as she pleased, but this was to be its substance.

In consequence of Lady Trant's intimation, which of course was made with all possible delicacy, Georgiana and Mrs. Falconer wrote to Buckhurst in the strongest terms, urging him to give up his intended marriage. There were, as they forcibly represented, so many other old women with large fortunes who could in the course of a short time be found, who would be quite as good matches for him, that it would argue a total insensibility to the interests and entreaties of his beloved mother and sister, if he persisted in his present preposterous design. Buckhurst answered,

"MY DEAR MOTHER AND GEORGY,

"I was married yesterday, and am as sorry for it to-day as you can be.

"Yours truly,

"B.F.

"P.S.—There are other young men, with as good fortunes as English Clay, in the world."

The letter and the postscript disappointed and enraged Mrs. Falconer and Georgiana beyond description.

English Clay left his D.I.O. at Mrs. Falconer's door, and banged down to Clay-hall.

Georgiana, violent in the expression of her disappointment, would have exposed herself to Lady Trant, and to half her acquaintance; but Mrs. Falconer, in the midst of her mortification, retained command of temper sufficient to take thought for the future. She warned Lady Trant to be silent, and took precautions to prevent the affair from being known; providently determining, that, as soon as her daughter should recover from the disappointment of losing Clay-hall, she would marry her to Petcalf, and settle her at once at the lodge in Asia Minor.

"Till Georgiana is married," said she to herself, "the commissioner will never let me have peace: if English Clay's breaking off the match gets wind, we are undone; for who will think of a rejected girl, beautiful or fashionable though she be? So the best thing that can be done is to marry her immediately to Petcalf. I will have it so—and the wedding-clothes will not have been bought in vain."

The bringing down the young lady's imagination, however, from Clay-hall to a lodge was a task of much difficulty; and Mrs. Falconer often in the bitterness of her heart exclaimed, that she had the most ungrateful children in the world. It seems that it is a tacit compact between mothers and daughters of a certain class, that if the young ladies are dressed, amused, advertised, and exhibited at every fashionable public place and private party, their hearts, or hands at least, are to be absolutely at the disposal of their parents.

It was just when Mrs. Falconer was exasperated by Georgiana's ingratitude, that her son Buckhurst was obliged to come to London after his marriage, to settle with his creditors. His bride insisted upon accompanying him, and chose this unpropitious time for being introduced to his family. And such a bride! Mrs. Buckhurst Falconer! Such an introduction! Such a reception! His mother cold and civil, merely from policy to prevent their family-quarrels from becoming public; his sisters—

But enough. Here let us turn from the painful scene, and leave this house divided against itself.



CHAPTER XXXI.

LETTER FROM ALFRED TO HIS FATHER.

"MY DEAR FATHER,

"I send you two pamphlets on the causes of the late changes in the ministry, one by a friend, the other by an enemy, of Lord Oldborough. Temple, I should have thought the author of the first, but that I know he has not time to write, and that there does not appear any of that behind the scene knowledge which his situation affords. All the pamphleteers and newspaper politicians write as if they knew the whole—some confident that the ministry split on one question—some on another; long declamations and abuse follow as usual on each side, but WISE people, and of course myself among that number, suspect 'that all that we know is, that we know nothing.' That there was some private intrigue in the cabinet, which has not yet transpired, I opine from Temple's reserve whenever I have mentioned the subject. This morning, when I asked him to frank these pamphlets, he laughed, and said that I was sending coals to Newcastle: what this meant he refused to explain, or rather he attempted to explain it away, by observing, that people of good understanding often could judge better at a distance of what was passing in the political world, than those who were close to the scene of action, and subject to hear the contradictory reports of the day; therefore, he conceived that I might be sending materials for thinking, to one who could judge better than I can. I tormented Temple for a quarter of an hour with a cross-examination so able, that it was really a pity to waste it out of the courts; but I could get nothing more from him. Is it possible, my dear father, that you are at the bottom of all this?

"Lord Oldborough certainly told me the other day, and in a very significant manner, and, as I now recollect, fixing his inquiring eye upon me as he said the words, that he not only felt esteem and regard for Mr. Percy, but gratitude—gratitude for tried friendship. I took it at the time as a general expression of kindness; now I recollect the look, and the pause after the word gratitude, I put this with Temple's coals to Newcastle. But, if it be a secret, I must not inquire, and if it be not, you will tell it to me. So I shall go on to my own affairs.

"The other day I was surprised by a visit at my chambers from an East-India director. Lord Oldborough, I find, recommended it to him to employ me in a very important cause, long pending, for a vast sum of money: the whole, with all its accumulated and accumulating interest, depending on a point of law. Heaven send me special sense, or special nonsense, sufficient to avoid a nonsuit, of which there have been already no less than three in this cause.

"What do you think of Lord Oldborough's kindness? This is only one of many instances in which I have traced his desire to serve me. It is not common with politicians, thus to recollect those who have no means of serving them, and who have never reminded them even of their existence by paying court in any way actively or passively.

"The Falconers are all discontented with his lordship at this moment, because he has disposed of a sinecure place on which the commissioner had long had his eye. His lordship has given it to an old disabled sea-captain, whom he knew only by reputation.

"The accounts you have heard of Buckhurst's marriage are, alas! too true; and what you have been told of the lady's age and ugliness is not exaggerated. As to her temper and her avarice, I am afraid that what you have heard of them is also true; for a brother lawyer of mine, who was employed to draw the settlements, says she has taken care to keep every penny she could in her own power; and that, in the whole course of his practice, he never saw so hard a battle between love and parsimony. Poor Buckhurst! who could have foreseen that this would be his fate! I met him in the street yesterday with his bride, and he looked as if he would rather be hanged than receive my congratulations: I passed without seeming to have seen them.

"I have just received Mr. Barclay's letter, and am going to work upon his settlements. So Caroline's wishes for Lady Mary Pembroke will be accomplished. I asked Temple whether Lord Oldborough had heard any thing of Count Altenberg since his return to his own country. Yes—one private letter to Lord Oldborough, from which nothing had transpired but one line of general thanks for civilities received in England. Temple, who seems to have formed the same notion and the same wishes that we had, told me yesterday, without my questioning him, that Lord Oldborough had written with his own hand an answer to the Count, which none of the secretaries have seen. Temple, in sealing up the packet, ventured to ask whether there was any chance of seeing Count Altenberg again in England. 'None that he knew,' Lord Oldborough answered. Temple, who of all men is least like Commissioner Falconer in circumlocutory address, at once blurted out, 'Is Count Altenberg going to be married?' Lord Oldborough turned and looked upon him with surprise—whether surprise at his curiosity, or at the improbability of the Count's making his lordship the confidant of his love-affairs, Temple declares he was in too much confusion to be able to decide. Lord Oldborough made no reply, but took up an answer to a memorial, which he had ordered Temple to draw, pointed out some unlucky mistakes in it, and finished by saying to him, 'Mr. Temple, your thoughts are not in your business. Sir, I do believe you are in love;' which sentence Temple declares his lordship pronounced with a look and accent that would have suited, Sir, I do believe you have the plague.' And if so, do me the justice to let me employ Mr. Shaw to do your business, till you are married.'

"Temple says that Lord Oldborough is proud of showing himself a foe to love, which he considers as the bane of ambition, and as one of the weaknesses of human nature, to which a great man ought to be superior.

"Whether the secretary be right or wrong in this opinion of his lordship, I have not seen enough to be able to determine; and I suspect that Temple is not at present a perfectly calm observer. Ever since his visit to the country he seems not to be entirely master of himself: his heart is still hovering round about some absent object—what object, I do not know; for though he does not deny my charge, he will not tell me the name of his fair one. I suspect Lady Frances Arlington of having stolen his heart. I am very sorry for it—for I am clear she is only coquetting with him. Temple says that he is too poor to marry. He is so amiable, that I am sure he will make any woman he marries happy, if it be not her own fault, and if they have but enough to live upon. It grieves me to hear his unavailing daily regrets for having quitted the bar. Had he continued in his original profession, he might, and in all probability would have been, at this moment (as his competitor, a man much his inferior in talent, actually is), in the receipt of four thousand good pounds per annum, independent of all men; and might have married any woman in any rank. Besides, even with such a patron as Lord Oldborough, Temple feels dependence grievous to his spirit. He is of a very good family, and was not early used to a subservient situation. His health too will be hurt by his close confinement to the business of office—and he has no time for indulging his literary taste—no play for his genius: that was his original grievance at the bar, but his present occupations are less congenial to his taste than law ever was. His brother-secretary, Mr. Shaw, is a mere matter-of-fact man, who is particularly unsuited to him—an objector to every thing new, a curtailer and contemner of all eloquence: poor Temple is uneasy and discontented; he would give up his situation to-morrow but that he cannot quit Lord Oldborough. He says that he has a hundred times resolved to resign—that he has had his letter written, and the words on his lips; but he never could, when it came to the point, present the letter, or pronounce the farewell to Lord Oldborough. Wonderful the ascendancy this man has over the mind!—Extraordinary his power of attaching, with manners so little conciliatory! Adieu, my dear father; I have indulged myself too long in writing to you. I have to read over the late Mr. Panton's will, and to give our friend Mr. Gresham an opinion upon it—notwithstanding Rosamond's cruelty to him, he is as much our friend, and her friend, as ever. Panton's will is on ten skins of parchment: and then I have a plea in rejoinder to draw for Lady Jane Granville; and, worse than all, to read and answer four of her ladyship's notes now on my table. By-the-bye, I would rather carry on a suit for any four men, than for one such woman of business as poor Lady Jane. She is never at rest one moment; never can believe that either lawyer or solicitor knows what he is about—always thinks her letters and notes can do more than bills in chancery, or than the lord chancellor himself. She frets incessantly. I must request Erasmus to medicine her to repose; she has absolutely a law fever. Erasmus is at Richmond—sent for by some grandee: he is in high practice. He told me he began last week to write to Rosamond, from the bedside of some sleeping patient, a full and true answer to all her questions about Miss Panton; but the sleeper awakened, and the doctor had never time to finish his story.

"Adieu a second time. Love to all.

"Dear father, yours affectionately,

"ALFRED PERCY.

"Just as I began the second skin of Panton's will, a note was brought to me from—whom do you think? Lord Oldborough, requesting to see me at four o'clock. What can his lordship want with me?—I must send this frank before I can satisfy my own curiosity on this point—or yours, Rosamond."

After finishing the perusal of Mr. Panton's long-winded will, writing an opinion upon it for Mr. Gresham, and penning a quieting note for poor Lady Jane Granville, Alfred, eager to be punctual to the appointed hour, went to the minister. He need not have looked at his watch so often, or have walked so fast, for when he arrived it wanted five minutes of the time appointed, and his lordship had not returned from a visit to the Duke of Greenwich. He was told, however, that orders had been given for his admittance; and he was shown into an apartment where he had leisure, during a full quarter of an hour, to admire his own punctuality. At last he heard a noise of loud huzzas in the street, and looking out of the window, he saw a crowd at the farthest end of the street; and as it moved nearer, perceived that the populace had taken the horses from Lord Oldborough's carriage, and were drawing him to his own door with loud acclamations. His lordship bowed to the multitude as he got out of his carriage rather proudly and coldly, yet still the crowd threw up their hats and huzzaed. He apologized to Alfred, as he entered the room, for having been later than his appointment. Commissioner Falconer and Mr. Temple were with him, and the commissioner immediately began to tell how they had been delayed by the zeal of the people. Lord Oldborough took a paper from his pocket, and walked to the window to read it, without seeming to hear one word that the commissioner was saying, and without paying any attention to the acclamations of the multitude below, which were again repeated on their seeing him at the window. When his lordship had finished looking over the paper, he called upon Alfred to witness it, and then presenting it to Mr. Falconer, he said, in his haughtiest manner, "An equivalent, sir, for that sinecure place which you asked for, and which it was out of my power to obtain for you. That was given as the just reward of merit, and of public services. My private debts—" [Alfred Percy observed that his lordship did not use the word obligation]. "My private debts to your family, Mr. Falconer, could not be paid from the public fund with which I am entrusted, but you will not, I hope, find me the less desirous that they should be properly acknowledged. The annuity," continued he, putting his finger on the amount, which the commissioner longed to see, but at which he had not dared yet to look, "the annuity is to the full amount of that place which, I think you assured me, would satisfy your and Mrs. Falconer's expectations".

"Oh! my lord, more than satisfy: but from your lordship's private fortune—from your lordship's own emoluments of office, I cannot possibly think—Mrs. Falconer would, I am sure, be excessively distressed—"

"Do me the favour, sir, to let no more be said upon this subject," interrupted Lord Oldborough. "As you return home, will you speak to those poor people whom I still hear in the street, and advise them now to return peaceably to their homes. My man Rodney, I am afraid, has thought it for my honour to be too liberal to these good people—but you will speak to them, commissioner."

The commissioner, who never completely felt Lord Oldborough's character, imagined that at this moment his lordship secretly enjoyed the clamour of popular applause, and that this cold indifference was affected; Mr. Falconer therefore protested, with a smile, that he would do his best to calm the enthusiasm of the people, but that it was a hard, if not impossible task, to stem the tide of Lord Oldborough's popularity. "Enjoy it, my lord!" concluded Mr. Falconer; "Enjoy it!—No minister in my memory ever was so popular!"

As soon as the commissioner, after saying these words, had left the room, Lord Oldborough, in a tone of sovereign contempt, repeated the word, "Popularity! There goes a man, now, who thinks me fit to be a fool to fame!"

"Popularity," said Mr. Temple, "is a bad master, but a good servant. A great man will," as Burke says, "disdain to veer like the weathercock on the temple of fashion with every breath of wind. But may he not, my lord—say, for you know—may he not wisely take advantage of the gale, and direct this great power, so as to work the state-machinery to good purpose?"

"A dangerous power," replied Lord Oldborough, turning from his secretary to Alfred, as if he were impatient to speak of business. Temple, who had more of the habits of a man of letters than of a man of business or of a courtier, was apt unseasonably to pursue a discussion, and to pique himself upon showing sincerity by declaring a difference of opinion from his patron. Utterly repugnant as this was to the minister's habits and temper, yet in admiration of the boldness of the man, and in consideration for his true attachment, Lord Oldborough bore it with magnanimous patience—when he had time—and when he had not, would cut it short at once.

"In a mixed government, popularity, philosophically speaking, if I may differ from your lordship—" Temple began.

"Permit me, sir, first," interrupted Lord Oldborough, "to settle my business with Mr. Alfred Percy, who, being a professional man, and in high practice, probably sets a just value upon his time."

Mr. Temple, who was a man of quick feelings, felt a word or glance of reproof from Lord Oldborough with keen sensibility. Alfred could not fix his own attention upon what his lordship was now beginning to say. Lord Oldborough saw reflected in Alfred's countenance the disturbance in his friend's: and immediately returning, and putting a key into Mr. Temple's hand—"You will do me a service, sir," said he, "by looking over my father's papers marked private in red letters. They may be necessary in this business—they are papers which I could trust only to one who has my interests at heart."

Mr. Temple's face brightened instantly, and bowing much lower than usual, he received the key with great respect, and hurried away to search for the papers.

"For a similar reason, Mr. Alfred Percy," said Lord Oldborough, "they shall, if you please, be put into your hands." His lordship moved a chair towards Alfred, and seated himself. "My law-agent has not satisfied me of late. A suit, into which I have been plunged by those who had the direction of my business, has not been carried on with ability or vigour. I had not leisure to look into any affairs that merely concerned myself. Circumstances have just wakened me to the subject, and to the perception that my private fortune has suffered, and will suffer yet more materially, unless I am fortunate enough to find united in the same person a lawyer and a friend. I have looked round and see many older barristers than Mr. Alfred Percy, but none so likely to be interested in my affairs as the son of my earliest friend, and few more capable of conducting them with diligence and ability. May I hope, sir, for hereditary kindness from you, as well as for professional services?"

No one knew better than Lord Oldborough how to seem receiving whilst he conferred a favour; and if ever he appeared harsh, it was only where he knew that the people to whom he spoke had not feelings worthy of his consideration. His lordship was as much pleased by the manner in which this trust was accepted, as our young lawyer could be by the manner in which it was offered.

"My papers then shall be sent to you directly," said Lord Oldborough. "Look over them, and if you are of opinion that my case is a bad one, I will stop where I am. If, on the contrary, you find that justice and law are on my side, proceed, persist. I shall trust the whole to you, sir, without a farther question."

Lord Oldborough next spoke of a steward of his at Clermont-park, who, as he had reason to suspect, was leagued with a certain Attorney Sharpe in fraudulent designs: his lordship hoped that Mr. Alfred Percy, during his vacations, when spent in that neighbourhood, might, consistently with his professional duties, find time to see into these affairs; and, in his lordship's absence, might supply the want of the master's eye.

Alfred assured his lordship that no effort or care should be wanting on his part to justify the high confidence with which he was honoured.

"Since you are going to take charge of my business, sir," pursued Lord Oldborough, "it is fit you should know my views relative to my affairs. In my present situation, with the favour I enjoy, and the opportunities I command, it would be easy to make my fortune whatever I pleased. Avarice is not my passion. It is my pride not to increase the burdens of my country. Mine is a generous country, ever ready to reward her public servants, living or dying. But, whilst I live, never will I speculate upon her generosity, and, when I die, never shall my heirs appeal to her compassion. My power at its zenith, and my character being known, I can afford to lay aside much of that adventitious splendour which adds nothing to true dignity. Economy and dignity are compatible—essential to each other. To preserve independence, and, consequently, integrity, economy is necessary in all stations. Therefore, sir, I determine—for I am not stringing sentences together that are to end in nothing—I determine, at this moment, to begin to make retrenchments in my expenditure. The establishment at Clermont-park, whither I have no thoughts of returning, may be reduced. I commit that, sir, to your discretion."

Mr. Temple returned with the papers, on which Lord Oldborough put his seal, and said his solicitor should deliver them, with all others that were necessary, the next morning to Mr. Percy. Alfred, careful never to intrude a moment on the time of the minister, rose, and, without repeating his thanks, made his bow.

"I consider this lawsuit as a fortunate circumstance," said Lord Oldborough, "since it affords me means at last of engaging Mr. Alfred Percy in my service, in a mode which cannot," added his lordship, smiling, "interfere with his family horror of ministerial patronage."

Alfred said something respectfully expressive of his sense of the professional advantage he must derive from being employed by Lord Oldborough—a species of patronage, by which he felt himself most highly honoured, and for which he was sure his whole family would feel properly grateful.

"Sir," said Lord Oldborough, following him to the door, "if I had ever doubted it, you would convince me that perfect propriety of manner is consistent with independence of mind. As to the rest, we all know the difference between a client and a patron."

The management of Lord Oldborough's business necessarily led to an increase of intercourse between his lordship and Alfred, which was peculiarly agreeable to our young barrister, not only as it gave him opportunities of seeing more of the character of this minister, but as it put it into his power to be of service occasionally to his friend Mr. Temple. Chained to a desk, his genius confined to the forms of office, and with a master too high, and an associate too low, to afford him any of the pleasures of society, he had languished for want of a companion. Alfred encouraged him by example to submit to the drudgery of business, showed him that a man of letters may become a man of business, and that the habits of both may be rendered compatible. Temple now performed the duties of his office with all that regularity which is supposed to be peculiar to dulness. About this time he had been brought into parliament by Lord Oldborough, and in the intervals of business, in that leisure which order afforded him, he employed and concentrated his powers on a political question of considerable importance; and when he was completely master of the subject, he rose in the House of Commons, and made a speech, which from all parties obtained deserved applause. The speech was published. A few days afterwards, Mr. Temple happened to enter Lord Oldborough's cabinet earlier than usual: he found his lordship reading; and reading with so much attention, that he did not observe him—he heard his lordship's quick and decided pencil mark page after page. At length, rising and turning to throw the book on the table, Lord Oldborough saw his secretary copying a letter.

"An excellent speech—to the purpose, sir," said Lord Oldborough. "It had its effect on the house, I understand; and I thank your friend, Mr. Alfred Percy, for putting it into my hands when I had leisure to peruse it with attention."

Lord Oldborough thought for some moments, then looked over some official papers which he had ordered Mr. Temple to draw up.

"Very well, sir—very well. A man of genius, I see, can become a man of business."

His lordship signed the papers, and, when that was finished, turned again to Mr. Temple.

"Sir, some time ago a place was vacant, which, I know, you had reason to expect. It was given to Mr. Shaw, because it was better suited to him than to you. The manner in which you took your disappointment showed a confidence in my justice. Have you any objection, Mr. Temple, to the diplomatic line?"

"I fear—or I should say, I hope—my lord, that I have not the habits of dissimulation, which, as I have always understood, are necessary to success in the diplomatic line."

"You have understood wrongly, sir," replied Lord Oldborough. "I, who have seen something of courts, and know something of diplomacy, am of opinion that a man of sense, who knows what he is about, who says the thing that is, who will tell at once what he can do, and what he cannot, would succeed better as a negotiator in the present state of Europe, than could any diplomatist with all the simulation and dissimulation of Chesterfield, or with the tact of Mazarin."

"Indeed, my lord!" said Mr. Temple, looking up with an air of surprise that almost expressed, Then why did you choose Cunningham Falconer for an envoy?

"Pray," said Lord Oldborough, taking a long inspiration with a pinch of snuff, "pray with that despatch this morning from Mr. Cunningham Falconer were there any private letters?"

"One for Commissioner Falconer, my lord."

"None from Count Altenberg to me?"

"None, my lord."

The minister took a walk up and down the room, and then returning to Mr. Temple, said, "His majesty thinks proper, sir, to appoint you envoy in the place of Mr. Cunningham Falconer, who is recalled."

"I thank you, my lord—his majesty does me great honour," cried Mr. Temple, with sudden gratitude: then, his countenance and tone instantly changing from joy to sorrow, he added, "His majesty does me great honour, my lord, but—"

"But not great pleasure, it seems, sir," said Lord Oldborough. "I thought, Mr. Temple, you had trusted to me the advancement of your fortune."

"My fortune! My lord, I am struck with surprise and gratitude by your lordship's goodness in taking thought for the advancement of my fortune. But I have other feelings."

"And may I ask what is the nature of your other feelings, sir?"

"My lord—excuse me—I cannot tell them to you."

"One word more, sir. Do you hesitate, from any motives of delicacy with respect to the present envoy?"

"No, my lord, you look too high for my motive; and the higher I am sensible that I stand in your lordship's opinion, the greater is my fear of falling. I beg you will excuse me: the offer that your lordship has had the goodness to make would be the height of my ambition; but when opposing motives draw the will in contrary directions—"

"Sir, if you are going into the bottomless pit of metaphysics, excuse me," said Lord Oldborough—"there I must leave you. I protest, sir, you are past my comprehension."

"And past my own," cried Mr. Temple, "for," with effort he uttered the words, "unfortunately I have formed an—I have become attached to—"

"In short, sir, you are in love, I think," said Lord Oldborough, coolly. "I think I told you so, sir, more than a month ago."

"I have said it! and said it to Lord Oldborough!" exclaimed Mr. Temple, looking as one uncertain whether he were dreaming or awake.

"It is undoubtedly uncommon to select a minister of state for the confidant of a love affair," said Lord Oldborough, with an air of some repressed humour.

"I knew I should expose myself to your lordship's derision," exclaimed Mr. Temple.

He was too much engrossed by his own feelings, as he pronounced these words, to observe in his lordship's countenance an extraordinary emotion. It was visible but for one instant.

With a look more placid, and a tone somewhat below his usual voice, Lord Oldborough said, "You have misjudged me much, Mr. Temple, if you have conceived that your feelings, that such feelings would be matter of derision to me. But since you have touched upon this subject, let me give you one hint—Ambition wears better than Love."

Lord Oldborough sat down to write, and added, "For one fortnight I can spare you, Mr. Temple—Mr. Shaw will undertake your part of the business of office. At the end of the ensuing fortnight, I trust you will let me have your answer."

Full of gratitude, Mr. Temple could express it only by a bow—and retired. The antechamber was now filling fast for the levee. One person after another stopped him; all had some pressing business, or some business which they thought of consequence, either to the nation or themselves.

"Mr. Temple, I must trouble you to look over these heads of a bill."

"Mr. Temple!—My memorial—just give me your advice."

"Sir—I wrote a letter, three weeks ago, to Lord Oldborough, on the herring-fishery, to which I have not had the honour of an answer."

"Mr. Temple—the address from Nottingham—Where's the reply?"

"Mr. Temple, may I know whether his lordship means to see us gentlemen from the city about the loan?"

"Sir—Pray, sir!—My new invention for rifling cannon—Ordnance department!—Sir, I did apply—War-office, too, sir!—It's very hard I can't get an answer—bandied about!—Sir, I can't think myself well used—Government shall hear more."

"One word, Mr. Temple, if you please, about tithes. I've an idea—"

"Temple, don't forget the Littleford turnpike bill."

"Mr. Temple, who is to second the motion on Indian affairs?"

"Temple, my good friend, did you speak to Lord Oldborough about my little affair for Tom?"

"Mr. Temple, a word in your ear—the member for the borough, you know, is dead; letters must be written directly to the corporation."

"Temple, my dear friend, before you go, give me a frank."

At last Mr. Temple got away from memorialists, petitioners, grievances, men of business, idle men, newsmen, and dear friends, then hastened to Alfred to unburden his mind—and to rest his exhausted spirits.



CHAPTER XXXII.

The moment that Mr. Temple reached his friend's chambers, he threw himself into a chair.

"What repose—what leisure—what retirement is here!" cried he. "A man can think and feel a moment for himself."

"Not well, I fear, in the midst of the crackling of these parchments," said Alfred, folding up the deeds at which he had been at work. "However, I have now done my business for this day, and I am your man for what you please—if you are not engaged by some of your great people, we cannot do better than dine together."

"With all my heart," said Mr. Temple.

"And where shall we dine?" said Alfred.

"Any where you please. But I have a great deal to say to you, Alfred—don't think of dining yet."

"At the old work!" cried Alfred.

"'You think of convincing, while I think of dining.'"

But, as he spoke, Alfred observed his friend's agitated countenance, and immediately becoming serious, he drew a chair beside Mr. Temple, and said, "I believe, Temple, you have something to say that you are anxious about. You know that if there is any thing I can do, head, hand, and heart are at your service."

"Of that I am quite sure, else I should not come here to open my heart to you," replied Mr. Temple. Then he related all that had just passed between Lord Oldborough and himself, and ended by asking Alfred, whether he thought there was any chance of success for his love?

"You have not told me who the lady is," said Alfred.

"Have not I?—but, surely, you can guess."

"I have guessed—but I wish to be mistaken—Lady Frances Arlington?"

"Quite mistaken. Guess again—and nearer home."

"Nearer home!—One of my sisters!—Not Caroline, I hope?"

"No."

"Then it must be as I once hoped. But why did you never mention it to me before?"

Mr. Temple declared that he had thought there was so little chance of his ever being in circumstances in which he could marry, especially a woman who had not some fortune of her own, that he had scarcely ventured to avow, even to himself, his attachment.

"I thought my love would wear itself out," added he. "Indeed I did not know how serious a business it was, till this sudden proposal was made to me of leaving England: then I felt that I should drag, at every step, a lengthening chain. In plain prose, I cannot leave England without knowing my fate. But don't let me make a fool of myself, Alfred. No man of sense will do more than hazard a refusal: that every man ought to do, or he sacrifices the dignity of the woman he loves to his own false pride. I know that in these days gentlemen-suitors are usually expert in sounding the relations of the lady they wish to address. To inquire whether the lady is engaged or not is, I think, prudent and honourable: but beyond this, I consider it to be treacherous and base to endeavour, by any indirect means, to engage relations to say what a lover should learn only from the lady herself. Therefore, my dear friend, all I ask is whether you have reason to believe that your sister Rosamond's heart is pre-engaged; or if you think that there is such a certainty of my being rejected, as ought, in common prudence, to prevent my hazarding the mortification of a refusal?"

Alfred assured his friend, that, to the best of his belief, Rosamond's heart was disengaged. "And," continued he, "as a witness is or ought to be prepared to tell his cause of belief, I will give you mine. Some time since I was commissioned by a gentleman, who wished to address her, to make the previous inquiry, and the answer was, quite disengaged. Now as she did not accept of this gentleman, there is reason to conclude that he did not engage her affections—"

"Was he rich or poor, may I ask?" interrupted Mr. Temple.

"That is a leading question," said Alfred.

"I do not want you to tell me who the gentleman was—I know that would not be a fair question, and I trust I should be as far from asking, as you from answering it. But there are so many rich as well as so many poor men in the world, that in answering to the inquiry rich or poor, what city or court man do you name? I want only to draw a general inference as to your sister's taste for wealth."

"Her taste is assuredly not exclusively for wealth; for her last admirer was a gentleman of very large fortune."

"I am happy, at least, in that respect, in not resembling him," said Mr. Temple. "Now for my other question—what chance for myself?"

"Of that, my good friend, you must judge for yourself. By your own rule all you have a right to hear is, that I, Rosamond's brother, have no reason for believing that she has such a repugnance to you as would make a refusal certain. And that you may not too much admire my discretion, I must add, that if I had a mind to tell you more, I could not. All I know is, that Rosamond, as well as the rest of my family, in their letters spoke of you with general approbation, but I do not believe the idea of considering you as her lover ever entered into her head or theirs."

"But now the sooner it enters the better," cried Mr. Temple. "Will you—can you—Have not you business to do for Lord Oldborough at Clermont-park?"

"Yes—and I am glad of it, as it gives me an opportunity of indulging myself in going with you, my dear Temple. I am ready to set out at any moment."

"God bless you! The sooner the better, then. This night in the mail, if you please. I'll run and take our places," said he, snatching up his hat.

"Better send," cried Alfred stopping him: "my man can run and take places in a coach as well as you. Do you stay with me. We will go to the coffee-house, dine, and be ready to set off."

Mr. Temple acceded.

"In the mean time," said Alfred, "you have relations and connexions of your own who should be consulted."

Mr. Temple said he was sure that all his relations and connexions would highly approve of an alliance with the Percy family. "But, in fact," added he, "that is all they will care about the matter. My relations, though high and mighty people, have never been of any service to me: they are too grand, and too happy, to mind whether a younger son of a younger son sinks or swims; whether I live in single wretchedness or double blessedness. Not one relation has nature given, who cares for me half as much as the friend I have made for myself."

Sincerely as Alfred was interested for his success, yet he did not let this friendship interfere with the justice due to his sister, of leaving her sole arbitress of a question which most concerned her happiness.

During the last stage of their journey, they were lucky enough to have the coach to themselves, and Mr. Temple made himself amends for the restraint under which he had laboured during the preceding part of the journey, whilst he had been oppressed by the presence of men, whose talk was of the lower concerns of life. After he had descanted for some time on the perfections of his mistress, he ended with expressing his surprise that his friend, who had often of late rallied him upon his being in love, had not guessed sooner who was the object of his passion.

Alfred said that the idea of Rosamond had occurred to him, because his friend's absence of mind might be dated from the time of his last visit to Clermont-park; "but," said Alfred, "as Lady Frances Arlington was there, and as I had formerly fancied that her ladyship's wish to captivate or dazzle you, had not been quite without effect, I was still in doubt, and thought even your praises of Rosamond's disposition and temper, compared with her ladyship's, might only be ruse de guerre, or ruse d'amour."

"There was no ruse in the case," said Mr. Temple; "I confess that when I first emerged from my obscurity into all the light and life of the world of fashion, my eyes were dazzled, and before I recovered the use of them sufficiently to compare the splendid objects by which I found myself surrounded, I was wonderfully struck with the appearance of Lady Frances Arlington, and did not measure, as I ought, the immense difference between Lord Oldborough's secretary, and the niece of the Duke of Greenwich. Lady Frances, from mere gaiete de coeur likes to break hearts; and she continually wishes to add one, however insignificant, to the number of her conquests. I, a simple man of literature, unskilled in the wicked ways of the fair, was charmed by her ladyship's innocent naivete and frank gaiety, and all that was

'Strangely wild, or madly gay, I call'd it only pretty Fanny's way.'

"Fortunately, just as I was in imminent danger of exchanging true sighs for false smiles, I became acquainted with your sister Rosamond. In the country, and under circumstances more favourable for the development of character than any which might occur for months or years in a town-life, where all the men and women are merely actors, I had leisure to see and mark the difference and the resemblance between Lady Frances Arlington's character, and that of your sister. They resembled each other in natural quickness of intellect and of feeling; in wit, sprightliness, and enthusiasm, they were also to a certain degree alike. I was amused by Lady Frances Arlington's lively nonsense, till I heard your sister's lively sense. Her ladyship hazards saying every thing that occurs to her, and often makes happy hits; but your sister's style of wit is far superior, and far more agreeable, because it has the grace, elegance, and, above all, the infinite variety which literary allusion supplies. I found myself pleased, not only with what she said, but with the trains of ideas, that, by a single word, she often suggested. Conversing with her, my mind was kept always active, without ever being over-exerted or fatigued. I can look back, and trace the whole progress of my attachment. I began in this way, by finding her conversation most delightful—but soon discovered that she was not only more entertaining and more cultivated, but far more amiable than my idol, Lady Frances, because she had never been an idol, and did not expect to be adored. Then she was more interesting, because more capable of being interested. Lady Frances requires much sympathy, but gives little; and for that enthusiasm of temper which had, at first, charmed me in her ladyship, I began to lose my taste, when I observed that it was always excited by trifles, and by trifles that concerned herself more than any one else. I used to think her—what every body calls her, a perfectly natural character; and so, perhaps, she is: but not the better for that—since she is what, I am afraid, we all are naturally—selfish. Her ladyship, if I may use the expression, is enthusiastically selfish. Your sister—enthusiastically generous. Lady Frances's manners are caressing, yet I doubt whether she feels affection for any one living, except just at the moment when they are ministering to her fancies. It was Miss Percy's warm affection for her sister Caroline which first touched my heart. I saw each in her own family. The contrast was striking—in short, by the joint effect of contrast and resemblance, my love for one lady decreased as fast as it increased for the other; and I had just wit and judgment enough to escape from snares that could not have held me long, to chains that have power to hold me for ever."

To this history of the birth and progress of his love, Mr. Temple added many expressions of his hopes, fears, and regrets, that he had not five thousand a year, instead of five hundred, to offer his mistress; he at length became absolutely silent. They were within view of the Hills, and too many feelings crowded upon his mind to be expressed in words.

And now we might reasonably contrive to fill

"Twelve vast French romances neatly gilt,"

with the history of the following eventful fortnight, including the first surprise at the arrival of the travellers—the declaration of Mr. Temple's love—the astonishment of Rosamond on discovering that she was the object of this passion—of a passion so generous and ardent—the consequent and rapid discovery of a hundred perfections in the gentleman which had before escaped her penetration—the strong peculiar temptation to marry him, because he had not enough to live upon—the reaction of generosity on the other side of the question, which forbade to ruin her lover's fortune—the fluctuations of sentiment and imagination, the delicacies of generosity, gratitude, love, and finally the decision of common sense.

It was fortunate for Rosamond, not only that she had prudent friends, but that they had not made her in the least afraid of their superior wisdom, so that she had, from the time she was a child, told them every idea, as it rose in her vivid imagination, and every feeling of her susceptible heart; imprudent as she might appear in her confidential conversation, this never passed from words to actions. And now, when she was called upon in an important event of life to decide for herself, she acted with consummate discretion.

Mr. Temple's character and manners peculiarly pleased her, and his being a man of birth and family certainly operated much in his favour. Her parents now, as in Mr. Gresham's case, did not suffer their own tastes or prepossessions to interfere with her happiness.

Caroline, grateful for the sympathy which Rosamond had always shown her, took the warmest interest in this affair. Caroline was the most excellent, indulgent, yet safe confidante; and as a hearer, she was absolutely indefatigable. Rosamond never found her too busy, too lazy, or too sleepy to listen to her: late at night, early in the morning, or in the most hurried moment, of the day, it was all the same—Caroline seemed to have nothing to do but to hear, think, and feel for Rosamond.

The fortnight allowed by Lord Oldborough having now nearly elapsed, it was absolutely necessary Rosamond should come to some decision. Mr. Temple's understanding, temper, disposition, and manners, she allowed to be excellent—his conversation was particularly agreeable. In short, after searching in vain for an objection, she was obliged to confess that she liked him. Indeed, before she had allowed this in words her mother and sister had made the discovery, and had seen the struggle in her mind between love and prudence. Mr. Temple's fortune was not sufficient for them to live upon, and she knew that a wife in his present circumstances must be a burden to him; therefore, notwithstanding all that his passion and all that her own partiality could urge, she decidedly refused his proposal of an immediate union, nor would she enter into any engagement, or suffer him to bind himself by any promise for the future; but he obtained permission to correspond with her during his absence from England, and with the hope that she was not quite indifferent to him, he took leave of her—returned to town—waited upon Lord Oldborough—accepted of the embassy, and prepared for his departure to the continent.

Now that there was an approaching possibility and probability of hearing of Count Altenberg, Caroline felt it extremely difficult to adhere to her resolution of never thinking of him, especially as her mind, which had been actively occupied and deeply interested in her sister's concerns, was now left to return upon itself in all the leisure of retirement. Fortunately for her, about this time she was again called upon for that sympathy which she was ever ready to give to her friends. She received the following letter from Mrs. Hungerford.

LETTER FROM MRS. HUNGERFORD TO MISS CAROLINE PERCY.

"Come, my beloved Caroline, my dear young friend, friend of my family, and of all who are most near and dear to me—come, and enjoy with me and them that happiness, which your judicious kindness long since foresaw, and your prudence promoted.

"My niece, Lady Mary Pembroke, is at last persuaded that she has it in her power to make Mr. Barclay permanently happy. He has been obliged to take a considerable length of time to convince her of the steadiness of his attachment. Indeed, her objection—that he had been charmed by such a coquette as the lady by whom we first saw him captivated, appeared to me strong; and I thought my niece right for adhering to it, more especially as I believed that at the time her affections pleaded against her reason in his favour, and that, if she had been convinced long ago, it would not have been against her will.

"Mr. Barclay has behaved like a man of sense and honour. Without disguise he told her of his former attachment to you. She instantly made an answer, which raised her high in my estimation. She replied, that Mr. Barclay's being detached from Lady Angelica Headingham by your superior merit was to her the strongest argument in his favour. She must, she said, have felt insecure in the possession of a heart, which had been transferred directly from Lady Angelica to herself, because she was conscious that her own disposition was so different from her ladyship's; but in succeeding to the affection which he had felt for a woman of your character, she should feel perfect security, or at least reasonable hope, that by similar, though certainly inferior qualities, she might ensure his happiness and her own. They are to be married next week. Lady Mary particularly wishes that you should be one of her bride-maids—come then, my love, and bring all my Percys. I shall not perfectly enjoy my own and my niece's happiness till you share it with me. My daughter Mortimer insists upon signing this as well as myself.

"MARY-ELIZABETH HUNGERFORD.

"KATE MORTIMER."

Caroline and all Mrs. Hungerford's Percys obeyed her summons with alacrity. Lady Mary Pembroke's marriage with Mr. Barclay was solemnized under the happiest auspices, and in the midst of approving and sympathizing friends. As soon as the ceremony was over, and she had embraced and congratulated her niece, Mrs. Hungerford turned to Mrs. Percy, and in a low voice said, "If it were not too much for one so happy as I am, so rich in blessings, to ask one blessing more, I should ask to be permitted to live to see the day when our dear Caroline—" Mrs. Hungerford pressed Mrs. Percy's hand, but could say no more; the tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked up to heaven. Some minutes afterwards, following Caroline with her eyes, "Look at her, Mrs. Percy!" said Mrs. Hungerford. "Did ever selfish coquette, in the height of triumph over lover or rival, enjoy such pleasure as you see sparkling at this moment in that dear girl's countenance?"

The bride and bridegroom set off immediately for Mr. Barclay's seat in Berkshire. Lady Florence accompanied her sister; and Mrs. Hungerford, after parting from both her nieces, entreated that Caroline might be left with her. "It is a selfish request, I know, my dear; but at my age I cannot afford to be generous of the society of those I love. Allow me to plead my age, and my—Well, I will not say more since I see it gives you pain, and since I see you will grant the prayer of my petition, rather than hear my claims to your compassion."

Caroline liked particularly to stay with Mrs. Hungerford at this time, when there was not any company at the castle, no one but Mrs. Hungerford and her daughter, so that she had the full and quiet enjoyment of their society. At this time of her life, and in the state of her mind at this period, no society could have been more agreeable, soothing, and useful to Caroline, than that of such a friend. One, who had not forgotten the passions of youth; who could give at once sympathy and counsel; who was willing to allow to love its full and exquisite power to exalt the happiness of human life, yet appeared herself, in advanced and serene old age, a constant example of the falsehood of the notion, that the enthusiasm of passion is essential to felicity. An elegant and just distinction has been made by a philosophical writer between delicacy of passion and delicacy of taste. One leading to that ill-governed susceptibility, which transports the soul to ecstasy, or reduces it to despair, on every adverse or prosperous change of fortune; the other enlarging our sphere of happiness, by directing and increasing our sensibility to objects of which we may command the enjoyment, instead of wasting it upon those over which we have no control. Mrs. Hungerford was a striking example of the advantage of cultivating delicacy of taste.

At an advanced age, she showed exquisite perception of pleasure in every work of genius; in conversation, no stroke of wit or humour escaped her quick intelligence, no shade of sentiment or politeness was lost upon her; and on hearing of any trait of generosity or greatness of soul, her whole countenance beamed with delight; yet with all this quickness of feeling she was quite free from fastidiousness, and from that irritability about trifles, into which those who indulge the delicacy of passion in youth are apt to degenerate in age. Caroline felt, every day, increasing affection as well as admiration for Mrs. Hungerford, and found time pass delightfully in her company. Besides that general and well-chosen acquaintance with literature which supplied her with perpetual resources, she had that knowledge of life and of the world which mixes so well, in conversation, with the knowledge of books. She had known, intimately, most of the celebrated people of the last century, and had store of curious and interesting anecdotes, which she produced with so much taste and judgment, and told so well, as never to fatigue attention. Caroline found that her mind was never passive or dormant in Mrs. Hungerford's company; she was always excited to follow some train of thought, to discuss some interesting question, or to reflect upon some new idea. There was, besides, in the whole tenor of her conversation and remarks such an indulgence for human nature, with all its faults and follies, as left the most pleasing and encouraging impression on the mind, and inspired hope and confidence. Her anecdotes and her philosophy all tended to prove that there is more virtue than vice, more happiness than misery, in life; and, above all, that there is a greater probability that the world should improve than that it should degenerate. Caroline felt pleased continually to find her own favourite opinions and hopes supported and confirmed by the experience and judgment of such a woman; and there was something gratifying to her, in being thus distinguished and preferred by one who had read so much and thought so deeply.

As Mrs. Hungerford had heard nothing more of Count Altenberg, she wisely forbore to touch upon the subject, or even to mention his name to Caroline; and she saw, with satisfaction, the care with which her young friend turned her mind from every dangerous recollection. Sometimes, however, the remembrance of the Count was unavoidably recalled; once, in particular, in turning over the life of Sir Philip Sidney, there was a passage copied in his hand, on a slip of paper, which had accidentally been left in the book.

"Algernon Sidney, in a letter to his son, says, that in the whole of his life he never knew one man, of what condition soever, arrive at any degree of reputation in the world, who made choice of, or delighted in the company or conversation of those, who in their qualities were inferior, or in their parts not much superior to himself."

"What have you there, my love? Something that pleases and interests you particularly, I see," said Mrs. Hungerford, not knowing what it was that Caroline was reading: "show it me, my dear—I am sure I shall like it."

Caroline, deeply blushing, gave her the paper. She recollected the hand-writing, and folding up the paper, put it in her pocket-book.

"It is an observation," said she, "that I wish I could write in letters of gold for the advantage of all the young men in the world in whom I take any interest."

The energetic warmth with which Mrs. Hungerford spoke relieved Caroline, as it seemed to justify the delight she had involuntarily expressed—the sentiments for the individual seemed now enveloped in general approbation and benevolence. She never loved Mrs. Hungerford better than at this instant.

Mrs. Hungerford observed that none of the common sentimental passages, either in poetry or novels, ever seemed to affect Caroline; and to the romantic descriptions of love she was so indifferent that it might have appeared to a common observer as if she was, and ever would be, a stranger to the passion. By the help of the active and plastic powers of the imagination, any and every hero of a novel could be made, at pleasure, to appear the exact resemblance of each lady's different lover. Some, indeed, professed a peculiar and absolute exclusive attachment, founded on unintelligible or indescribable merits or graces; but these ladies, of all others, she had found were most liable to change, and on farther acquaintance with the world to discover, on generalizing their notions, similar or superior attractions in new models of perfection. In Caroline, Mrs. Hungerford saw none of these capricious fancies, and that it was not her imagination, but her reason which gave Count Altenberg the exalted place he held in her esteem. It was therefore with pleasure, that this kind lady perceived, that her young friend's residence with her soothed her mind and restored it to its former tone.

But Caroline was soon obliged to leave Hungerford Castle, A letter from Erasmus informed her that poor Lady Jane Granville was ill of a nervous fever, that she had no companion, no one to attend her but a maid-servant, and that she was much in want of some judicious friend who could raise her spirits and tranquillize her mind, which was in a state of continual agitation about her lawsuit. Caroline, remembering Lady Jane's former kindness, thought this a fit opportunity to show her gratitude; and, happy as she was with her friends at Hungerford Castle, she hesitated not a moment to sacrifice her own pleasure.—Her father and mother approved of her determination, and her brother Alfred carried her to London.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

In these days, people travel with so much safety, ease, and celerity, that heroines have little chance of adventures on the road; and a journey is now so common a thing, that, as Rosamond observed, the most brilliant imagination has no hope of having wonders to relate. To Rosamond's mortification, Caroline and her brother reached London without any event having occurred better worth recording than the loss of an umbrella. They drove into town when it was nearly dark, just before the lamps were lighted; Caroline, therefore, had little satisfaction from the first view of the metropolis. She found Lady Jane Granville in a small lodging in Clarges-street—the room dark—a smell of smoke—the tea-equipage prepared—Lady Jane lying on a shabby-looking sofa—drops and a smelling-bottle on a little table beside her. She raised herself as Caroline entered, looked half pleased, half ashamed to see her; and, stretching out her hand, said, in a complaining voice, "Ah! my dear Caroline, are you really come? This is too good! Sadly changed, you find—and every thing about me—Sit down, my dear—Keppel, do let us have tea as soon as you can," said Lady Jane.

"As soon as ever Eustace comes in, my lady," answered Keppel, peevishly.

"In the mean time, for Heaven's sake, allow us a little more light—I cannot live without light. Come nearer to me, my dear Caroline, and tell me how did you leave all our friends at the Hills?"

Whilst Caroline was answering her ladyship, more candles were brought, and Lady Jane moved them on the table till she threw the light full on Caroline's face.

"Handsomer than ever! And altogether so formed. One would not think, Alfred, she had been buried all this time in the country. Ah! perverse child; why would not you come when I could have been of some use to you—when, at least, I could, have received you as I ought? This is not a fit place, you see; nor am I now in circumstances, or in a style of life—Heigho!"

"Dr. Percy is not come yet," resumed she. "This is his usual hour—and I wrote a note to tell him that he would meet his sister Caroline to-night."

In all her ladyship said, in every look and motion, there was the same nervous hurry and uneasiness. Dr. Percy arrived, and for a moment Lady Jane forgot herself in sympathy with the pleasure the brother and sister showed at meeting. Soon, however, she would have relapsed into melancholy comparisons, but, that Dr. Percy checked the course of her thoughts; and with the happy art, by which a physician of conversational powers can amuse a nervous patient, he, without the aid of poppy or mandragora, medicined her to rest, though not to sleep.

When Erasmus was alone with his sister, he observed that no permanent amendment could be expected in Lady Jane's health till her mind should be at ease about her lawsuit. While this was undecided, her imagination vacillated between the horror of neglected poverty, and the hopes of recovering her former splendour and consideration. The lawsuit was not to be decided for some weeks, and Caroline saw that all that could be done in the mean time was as much as possible to soothe and amuse her patient: however tiresome and difficult the task, she went through it with the utmost cheerfulness and sweetness of temper. Day after day she passed alone with Lady Jane, hearing her complaints, bodily and mental, and listening to the eternally repeated history of her lawsuit. But Caroline's patience was ensured by a sense of gratitude, which, in her, was not a sentimental phrase, but a motive for long endurance, still more difficult than active exertion.

One half hour in the day, however, she was sure of being happy—the half hour when her brother Erasmus paid his visit. Of Alfred she saw little, for he was so much engaged with business, that a few minutes now and then were all he could possibly spare from his professional duties. Mr. Temple called. She was surprised to see him, for she thought he had been on his way to the continent; but he told her that difficulties had occurred, chiefly through the manoeuvres of Cunningham Falconer, and that he did not know when there would be an end of these—that Lord Oldborough was glad of the delay at present, because he wanted Mr. Temple's assistance, as the other secretary had been taken ill, and his lordship had not yet fixed upon a confidential person to supply his place. Of course, in these circumstances, Mr. Temple was so much occupied, that Caroline saw very little of him; and she experienced what thousands have observed, that, however people may wish to meet in great towns, it is frequently impracticable, from small difficulties as to time, distance, and connexions. Of Mr. Gresham, Caroline had hoped that she should see a great deal—her brother Erasmus had long since introduced him to Lady Jane Granville; and, notwithstanding his being a merchant, her ladyship liked him. He was as much disposed as ever to be friendly to the whole Percy family; and the moment he heard of Caroline's being in town, he hastened to see her, and showed all his former affectionate regard in his countenance and manner. But his time and his thoughts were now engrossed by an affair very near his heart, which he was impatient to bring to a termination. As soon as this should be accomplished, he was to set out for Amsterdam, where the concerns of his late partner, old Mr. Panton, as his correspondents wrote, imperiously demanded his presence.

This affair, which was so near Mr. Gresham's heart, related to his dear Constance. Alfred had alluded to it in one of his letters, and Erasmus had begun to write the particulars to Rosamond; but he had not at the time leisure to finish the letter, and afterwards burnt it, being uncertain how the romance, as Alfred called it, might end. He therefore thought it prudent to say nothing about it. The whole story was now told to Caroline, and, briefly, was this.

After old Panton's rage against Dr. Percy, in consequence of the suspicion that his daughter was in love with him; after the strange wig-scene, and the high words that followed, had driven Erasmus from the house, Constance went to her father, and, intent upon doing justice to Erasmus, at whatever hazard to herself, protested that he had not been the cause of her refusal of Lord Roadster. To convince her father of this, she confessed that her heart was not entirely disengaged—no threats, no persuasion, could, however, draw from her the name of the person whom she preferred: she knew that to name him would be only to ruin his fortune—that her father never would consent to her marrying him; nor had the object of her preference ever given her reason to think that he felt any thing more for her than regard and respect. Old Panton, the last man in the world to understand any delicacies, thought her whole confession "nonsense:" the agitation and hesitation with which it was made, and her eagerness to clear Dr. Percy's credit, and to reinstate him in her father's favour, conspired to convince the old man that his "own first original opinion was right." Of this, indeed, he seldom needed any additional circumstances to complete the conviction on any occasion. During the remainder of his life he continued obstinate in his error: "If she likes any body else, why can't the girl name him? Nonsense—that cursed Dr. Percy is the man, and he never shall be the man." In this belief old Panton died, and what is of much more consequence, in this belief he made his will. On purpose to exclude Dr. Percy, and in the hope of accomplishing his favourite purpose of ennobling his descendants, he, in due legal form, inserted a clause in his will, stating, "that he bequeathed his whole fortune (save his wife's dower) to his beloved daughter, upon condition, that within the twelve calendar months next ensuing, after his decease, she, the said Constance, should marry a man not below the rank of the son of a baron. But in case she, the said Constance, should not marry within the said twelve calendar months, or should marry any man below the rank of a baron, then and after the expiration of said twelve calendar months, the said fortune to go to his beloved wife, except an annuity of two hundred pounds a year, to be paid thereout to his daughter Constance." Mr. Gresham was appointed sole executor to his will. As soon as it was decently possible, after old Panton's decease, Lord Roadster renewed his suit to Constance, and was civilly but very steadily refused. Many other suitors, coming within the description of persons favoured by the will, presented themselves, but without success. Some making their application to Constance herself, some endeavouring to win her favour through the intercession of her guardian, Mr. Gresham—all in vain. Month after month had passed away, and Mr. Gresham began to be much in dread, and Mrs. Panton, the step-mother, somewhat in hopes, that the twelve calendar months would elapse without the young lady's having fulfilled the terms prescribed by the will. Mr. Gresham, one morning, took his fair ward apart, and began to talk to her seriously upon the subject. He told her that he thought it impossible she should act from mere perverseness or caprice, especially as, from her childhood upwards, he had never seen in her any symptoms of an obstinate or capricious disposition; therefore he was well convinced that she had some good reason for refusing so many offers seemingly unexceptionable: he was grieved to find that he had not sufficiently won or deserved her confidence, to be trusted with the secret of her heart. Constance, who revered and loved him with the most grateful tenderness, knelt before him; and clasping his hand in hers, while tears Tolled over her blushing cheeks, endeavoured to speak, but could not for some moments. At last, she assured him that delicacy, and the uncertainty in which she was whether she was beloved, were the only causes which had hitherto prevented her from speaking on this subject, even to him, who now stood in the place of her father, and who had ever treated her with more than a father's kindness.

Mr. Gresham named Erasmus Percy.

"No."

"Mr. Henry!"

"How was it possible that Mr. Gresham had never thought of him?"

Mr. Gresham had thought of him—had suspected that Mr. Henry's love for Constance had been the cause of his quitting England—had admired the young man's honourable silence and resolution—had recalled him from Amsterdam, and he was now in London.

But young Henry, who knew nothing of Mr. Gresham's favourable disposition towards him, who had only commercial correspondence with him, and knew little of his character, considered him merely as the executor of Mr. Panton, and, with this idea, obeyed his summons home to settle accounts. When they met, he was much surprised by Mr. Gresham's speaking, not of accounts, but of Constance. When Mr. Gresham told him the terms of Mr. Panton's will, far from appearing disappointed or dejected, Mr. Henry's face flushed with hope and joy. He instantly confessed to her guardian that he loved Constance passionately; and that now, when it could not be supposed he had mercenary views; now, when no duty, no honour forbad him, he would try his fate. He spoke with a spirit given by strong passion long repressed, and with a decision of character which his modesty and reserve of manner had, till now, prevented from appearing.

"Did he consider," Mr. Gresham asked, "what he expected Miss Panton to sacrifice for him?"

"Yes, fortune, not duty—duty he could never have asked her to sacrifice; he could not have esteemed her if she had sacrificed duty. As to the rest," added he, proudly, "Miss Panton is now to decide between love and fortune."

"This from the modest Mr. Henry! from whom, till this moment, I never heard a syllable that savoured of presumption!" said Mr. Gresham.

Mr. Henry was silent—and stood with an air of proud determination. Regardless of the surprise and attention with which Mr. Gresham considered him during this silence, he thought for a few moments, and asked, "Sir, when may I see Miss Panton?"

"And would you," said Mr. Gresham, "if it were in your power, sir, reduce the woman you love from opulence to poverty—to distress?"

"I have four hundred a year, Miss Panton has two—six hundred a year is not poverty, sir. Distress—the woman I marry shall never know whilst I have life and health. No, sir, this is not romance. Of my perseverance in whatever I undertake, even when least congenial to my habits, you have had proofs. Mr. Gresham, if Miss Panton approves of me, and if love can make her happy, I fear not to assert to you, her guardian, that I will make her happy. If she love me not, or," added he, his whole countenance changing from the expression of ardent love to that of cold disdain, "or, if love be not in her mind superior to fortune, then I have little to regret. Wealth and honours wait her command. But," resumed he, "the trial I will make—the hazard I will run. If I am mistaken—if I am presumptuous—the humiliation be mine—the agony all my own: my heart will bear it—or—break!"

"Heroics!" said Mr. Gresham. "Now let me ask—"

"Let me ask, sir—pardon me," interrupted Mr. Henry—"Let me beg to see Miss Panton."

"Stay, listen to me, young man—"

"Young gentleman, sir, if you please."

"Young gentleman, sir, if you please," repeated Mr. Gresham, mildly; "I can make allowance for all this—you were bred a soldier, jealous of honour—but listen to me: there is one thing I must tell you before you see Miss Panton—though I apprehend it may somewhat mortify you, as it will interfere with your boast of disinterestedness and your vow of poverty—Miss Panton I have from her cradle been in the habit of considering partly as my own—my own child—and, as such, I have left her in my will ten thousand pounds. As she will want this money before my death, if she marries you, I must convert my legacy into a marriage-portion, and you shall not, sir, have love without fortune, whatever your heroics may think of it. Now go to your mistress, and keep my secret."

Young Henry was evidently more touched by this generosity than by this bounty; and with a gentleness and humility the most feeling he said, "How shall I thank you, sir, for bearing with me as you did?"

"Oh!" said Mr. Gresham, "old as I am, I know what it is to be in love, and can conceive too what it is to fear that a guardian might be cross, and that the executor and the partner of Mr. Panton might act like Mr. Panton himself. Say no more—I understand it all, you see—Go to your Constance."

Even in the haughtiness and spirit this young man had shown, Mr. Gresham saw the sincerity, strength, and disinterestedness of his affection; and in Mr. Gresham's estimation these were no trifling merits. We pass over—shall we be forgiven?—the love scenes between Mr. Henry and Constance. In these cases it is well when there is some sober friend to look to the common sense of the thing, and in the midst of the exaltation to do the necessary business of life. Mr. Gresham laid Mr. Panton's will before counsel learned in the law, took opinions from two different counsel; from Alfred Percy, whose friendship was likely to quicken his attention, and from another barrister of long standing, who, being totally unconnected with the parties might probably give a perfectly unbiassed and dispassionate advice. Both agreed that there was no avoiding the clause in the will; that Miss Panton, if she married a man below the rank of a baron's son, must give up her fortune to her step-mother at the end of twelve calendar months from the time of her father's decease; but both barristers gave it as their opinion, that the income during those twelve months belonged to Constance: this was a considerable sum, which, by Mr. Gresham's advice, was to be vested with the rest of Mr. Henry's capital in the firm of the house of Panton and Co. In consequence of Mr. Gresham's earnest recommendation, and of his own excellent conduct and ability, Mr. Henry was from this time joined in the firm, and as one of the partners had a secure income proportioned to his part of the capital, besides a share in the very advantageous speculations in which the house was engaged. Mr. Gresham undertook to supply Mr. Henry's place at Amsterdam, whither he was under the necessity of going. His house he would leave to Constance during his absence. She had best begin by taking possession of it, and establish herself there, he observed, that she might not have the inconvenience and mortification of being turned out of her own at the end of the year. "And if," said he, "I should be able, when I return, to make Mr. Henry's residence with me agreeable to him, I shall hope he will not, while I live, take my Constance quite away from me—I look to her as my chief happiness in life."

If Rosamond had heard the sigh which closed this speech, and if she had seen the simplicity and delicacy of Mr. Gresham's generosity on this occasion, she would have reproached herself for refusing him, and would almost have reasoned herself into the belief that she had done very wrong not to marry him; but this belief would only, could only, have lasted till she should see Mr. Temple again: so that, upon the whole, it was best for poor Mr. Gresham that she knew nothing of the matter.

All things being arranged thus in the kindest and most convenient manner by this excellent man, and the day being fixed for the marriage of Constance and Mr. Henry, Caroline was asked to be bride's-maid, and the honour of Lady Jane Granville's company was requested. It is inconceivable how much importance Lady Jane attached to the idea of her accepting or refusing this request, and the quantity she talked about it was wonderful! Notwithstanding the habitual theme of her being of no consequence now to any one, of her being utterly forgotten and out of the world, yet she had still a secret, very secret belief, that all she did would be known and commented upon; and she worked herself up to think, also, that the honour to be conferred, or the offence that would be taken in consequence of her decision, would be immortal. Every five minutes for two hours after the first reading of Mr. Gresham's note, she took it up, laid it down, and argued the matter pro and con to Caroline.

A long and loud knocking at the door came to Caroline's relief: it was repeated with imperious impatience. "Who is it, my dear? look out of the window, but don't let yourself be seen."

Caroline did not know any of the fashionable equipages, which to Lady Jane appeared a great defect in her education: upon this occasion, however, she thought she recollected the livery to be Mrs. Falconer's.

"Oh! no, my dear, quite impossible—the Falconers have not been near me this age. I will tell you whose livery it is—there is a resemblance, but it is astonishing to me a girl of your sense cannot learn the difference—it is old Lady Brangle's livery."

"It might very possibly be so," Caroline allowed.

The servant however brought in cards and a note from Mrs. Falconer—the note was to announce to Lady Jane Granville the approaching marriage of Miss Falconer with Sir Robert Percy—the day was named, and the honour of Lady Jane Granville's company was requested at the wedding. Lady Jane knew that this communication was made, not in the least in the kindness, but in the pride of Mrs. Falconer's heart; and precisely in the same spirit in which it was written Lady Jane thought it incumbent upon her to receive and answer it. Her ladyship was really warm and honest in her friendships, and very grateful to her branch of the Percy family, for the kindness they had shown her in adversity.

"I think it extremely ill-judged and ill-bred of Mrs. Falconer to invite me to this wedding. Does she think I have no feeling? My own near relations and best friends deprived of their birth-right by this Sir Robert Percy—does she conceive it possible that I could go to such a wedding?—No; nor did she wish or expect it; she only wrote from vanity, and I shall answer her with pride, which, at least, is somewhat superior to that mean passion; and I shall go, I am now determined, to Mr. Gresham's—I do nothing by halves."

Her ladyship immediately wrote answers to both the invitations. Nothing for months had done her so much good as the exertion, interest, and imaginary self-importance these two notes created. At Mr. Gresham's on the day of the wedding her ladyship appeared with great dignity, and was satisfied that she had conferred honour and serious obligation. Could she have seen into the minds of all the company, she would have been astonished to find how little she occupied their thoughts. It would be difficult to determine whether it is more for the happiness or misery of man and womankind that politeness should cherish, or truth destroy, these little delusions of self-love.

Presently there appeared in the newspapers a splendid account of the marriage at St. George's church, Hanover-square, of Sir Robert Percy, of Percy-hall, with Arabella, the eldest daughter of J. Falconer, Esquire: present at the ceremony was a long list of fashionable friends, who, as Lady Jane Granville observed, "would not have cared if the bride had been hanged the next minute." The happy pair, after partaking of an elegant collation, set out in a barouche and four for Percy-hall, the seat of Sir Robert Percy.

"So!" cried Lady Jane, throwing down the paper, "Mrs. Falconer has accomplished that match at last, and has got one of her daughters well off her hands—the ugly one too. Upon my word, she is amazingly clever. But, after all, the man has a horrid temper, and a very bad character. Now it is over, my dear Caroline, I must tell you, that long ago, before I was so well aware of what sort of a man he was, I had formed the plan of marrying him to you, and so uniting the two branches, and bringing the estate into your family; but we have often reason to rejoice that our best-concerted schemes don't succeed. I give Mrs. Falconer joy. For worlds I would not have such a man married to any relation or friend of mine—Oh! if I recover my fortune, Caroline, I have hopes for you!"

Her ladyship was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Gresham, who came to take leave, as he was just setting out for Holland. He was a man who said less and did more for his friends, as Caroline observed, than almost any person she knew. On seeing his gallery of paintings, she had noticed some beautiful miniatures; he now brought all those which she had admired, and begged to leave them with her during his absence, that she might at her leisure copy any of them she liked. He knew she painted in miniature, for he had long ago, when at the Hills, seen her copy of M. de Tourville's picture of Euphrosyne.

"If," said Mr. Gresham, observing that Caroline scrupled to take charge of so many precious pictures, "if you are too proud to receive from me the slightest kindness without a return, I am willing to put myself under an obligation to you. While I am away, at your leisure, make me a copy of that Euphrosyne—I shall love it for your sake, and as reminding me of the time when I first saw it—the happiest time perhaps of my life," added he, in a low voice.

"Oh, Rosamond!" thought Caroline, "if you had heard that!—and if you knew how generously kind he has been to your brothers!"

At parting from Alfred and Erasmus, he said to them, "My good young friends, why don't either of you marry? To be sure, you are young enough; but think of it in time, and don't put off, put off, till you grow into old bachelors. I know young men generally in these days say, they find it too expensive to marry—some truth in that, but more selfishness: here's young Mr. Henry has set you a good example. Your practice in your professions, I suppose, puts you as much at ease in the world by this time as he is. Malthus, you know, whom I saw you studying the other day, objects only to people marrying before they can maintain a family. Alfred, when I was at the Hills, I heard of a certain Miss Leicester. If you shall think of marrying before I come back again, you'll want a house, and I've lent mine already—but money, you know, can place one in any part of the town you might like better—I have a sum lying idle at my bankers, which I have just had transferred to the account of Alfred and Erasmus Percy—whichever of you marry before I come back, must do me the favour to purchase a good house—I must have it at the polite end of the town, or I shall be worse than an old bachelor—let me find it well furnished and aired—nothing airs a house so well as a warm friend: then, you know, if I should not fancy your purchase, I leave it on your hands, and you pay me the purchase-money year by year, at your leisure—if you can trust that I will not throw you into jail for it."

The warmth of Alfred's thanks in particular showed Mr. Gresham that he had not been mistaken about Miss Leicester.

"I wish I had thought, or rather I wish I had spoken of this sooner," added Mr. Gresham: "perhaps I might have had the pleasure of seeing you married before my leaving England; but—no—it is best as it is—I might have hurried things—and in these matters every body likes to go their own pace, and their own way. So fare ye well—God bless you both, and give you good wives—I can ask nothing better for you from Heaven."

No man could he more disposed than Alfred felt himself at this instant to agree with Mr. Gresham, and to marry immediately—visions of beauty and happiness floated before his imagination; but a solicitor knocking at the door of his chambers recalled him to the sense of the sad necessity of finishing some law-papers instead of going into the country to see his fair mistress. His professional duty absolutely required his remaining in town the whole of this term—Lady Jane Granville's business, in particular, depended upon him—he gave his mind to it. She little knew how difficult it was to him at this time to fix his attention, or how much temper it required in these circumstances to bear with her impatience. The week before her cause was expected to come to trial, her ladyship's law-fever was at its height—Alfred avoided her presence, and did her business.

The day arrived—her cause came on—Alfred's exertions proved successful—and hot from the courts he brought the first joyful news—a decree in her favour!

Lady Jane started up, clasped her hands, embraced Alfred, embraced Caroline, returned thanks to Heaven—again and again, in broken sentences, tried to express her gratitude. A flood of tears came to her relief. "Oh! Alfred, what pleasure your generous heart must feel!"

From this day—from this hour, Lady Jane's health rapidly recovered; and, as Erasmus observed, her lawyer had at last proved her best physician.

When Caroline saw Lady Jane restored to her strength, and in excellent spirits, preparing to take possession of a handsome house in Spring-Gardens, she thought she might be spared to return to her own family. But Lady Jane would not part with her; she insisted upon keeping her the remainder of the winter, promising to carry her back to the Hills in a few weeks. It was plain that refusing this request would renew the ire of Lady Jane, and render irreconcilable the quarrel between her ladyship and the Percy family. Caroline felt extremely unwilling to offend one whom she had obliged, and one who really showed such anxiety for her happiness.

"I know, my dear Lady Jane," said she, smiling, "that if I stay with you, you will form a hundred kind schemes for my establishment; but forgive me when I tell you, that it is upon the strength of my belief in the probability that they will none of them be accomplished, that I consent to accept your ladyship's invitation."

"Perverse! provoking and incomprehensible!—But since you consent to stay, my dear, I will not quarrel with your motives: I will let them rest as philosophically unintelligible as you please. Be satisfied, I will never more accuse you of perversity in refusing me formerly; nor will I convict you of inconsistency for obliging me now. The being convicted of inconsistency I know is what you people, who pique yourselves upon being rational, are so afraid of. Now we every-day people, who make no pretensions to be reasonable, have no character for consistency to support—you cannot conceive what delightful liberty we enjoy. In lieu of whole tomes of casuistry, the simple phrase, 'I've changed my mind,' does our business. Do let me hear if you could prevail upon yourself to say so."

"I've changed my mind," said Caroline, playfully.

"That's candid—now I love as well as admire you."

"To be entirely candid, then," said Caroline, "I must, my dear Lady Jane, if you will give me leave, tell you more."

"As much as you please," said Lady Jane, "for I am naturally curious, particularly when young ladies blush."

Caroline thought, that however Lady Jane and she might differ on some points, her ladyship's anxiety to promote her happiness, in the way she thought most advantageous, deserved not only her gratitude but her confidence. Besides, it would be the most effectual way, she hoped, of preventing Lady Jane from forming any schemes for her establishment, to confess at once that she really believed it was not likely she should meet with any person, whose character and merits were equal to those of Count Altenberg, and any one inferior to him she was determined never to marry. She added a few words, as delicately as she could, upon the dread she felt of being presented in society as a young lady wishing for an establishment.

Lady Jane heard all she said upon this subject with much attention; but when she had finished, her ladyship said to herself, "Nonsense!—Every young lady thinks one lover perfect till she has seen another. Before Caroline has passed a month in fashionable society, provided she has a fashionable admirer, we shall hear no more of this Count Altenberg."

"Well, my dear," said she, holding out her hand to Caroline, "I will give you my word I will, to the best of my ability, comply with all your conditions. You shall not be advertised as a young lady in search of a husband—but just as if you were a married woman, you will give me leave to introduce my acquaintance to you; and if they should find out, or if in time you should find out, that you are not married, you know, I shall not be to blame."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

Behold Lady Jane Granville reinstated in her fortune, occupying a fine house in a fashionable situation, with suitable equipage and establishment! carriages rolling to her door; tickets crowding her servants' hands; an influx, an affluence of friends, and congratulations such as quite astonished Caroline.