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Title: Moderation, a Tale
Author: Hofland, Barbara (1770-1844)
Illustrator: Anonymous
Date of first publication: 1825
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Arthur Hall, Virtue and Co.
   [January 1856 or earlier; this date is assigned on the
   basis of the dated catalogue, listing Moderation, which
   was bound in as part of the same publisher's edition
   of Mrs. Hofland's Patience]
Date first posted: 5 November 2010
Date last updated: 5 November 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #650

This ebook was produced by:
David Edwards, Ross Cooling
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/University of California Libraries




  [Illustration: THE HOFLAND LIBRARY]




  MODERATION.

  [Illustration: _There was a garden behind the hotel in which a fine
  Fountain threw up ten thousand sparkling drops._
    _Page 159._]




  [Illustration: MODERATION,

  A Tale

  By

  MRS. HOFLAND,

  _Author of_

  _Africa Described, Decision, Self-denial, Integrity, Reflection,
  Patience, Clergyman's Widow, &c. &c._

  'Let your moderation be known unto all men'
    ST PAUL.

  A NEW EDITION.

  London.

  ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE & Co.

  25, PATERNOSTER ROW.]




  MODERATION.

  CHAPTER I.


When the Rector of Ravenhill arose from his breakfast table one spring
morning in 18-- and retired to his study, notwithstanding his three
daughters were present, perfect silence reigned in the room until they
were sensible that his library door was closed, and his steps directed
to a certain bay window, which possessed the double advantage of
seclusion from domestic sounds, and of a widely extended prospect over a
beautiful country.

This silence did not proceed from awe, for to confess the truth, that
was a quality the Rector was rather deemed deficient in his power of
inspiring, being a man more generally loved than feared, both in the
house and the parish;--but surprise, which is somewhat related to that
emotion, he had undoubtedly awakened, as his eldest daughter, Harriet,
indignantly announced by the observation which followed upon his
removal.

"I cannot imagine how my father can think of such a thing as laying down
the carriage--it strikes me as preposterous to the greatest degree--how
can any body live in the country without a carriage? especially a person
who has three daughters situated as we are."

Miss Carysford did not explain what she meant by the word _situated_,
and it appeared that her sister Emma did not read it as meaning "young
women seeking for establishments," for she observed in a soothing
manner:

"It is because we _are_ so situated, that my father deems it advisable
to lessen his expenses, and secure us a continuance of our solid
comforts. I thought his reasons very sufficient ones: every body knows
that as Charles is of age, more than half his income is transferred to
him from his taking possession of our dear mother's jointure; and we are
ourselves well aware that from the style she always supported, it was
impossible for him to save any thing hitherto to speak of; it is
therefore a good time to begin, when the occasion is so evident as to
proclaim its propriety."

"I don't think it right at all," said the eldest sister. "The action is
right, but the intention grounded upon it is wrong," observed Sophia,
the youngest.

"That I must deny," returned Harriet, "the action is decidedly
ill-judged, because my father ought to maintain the respectability of
his family, and his own rank in life; but the _intention_ is, like every
thing he does, kind and disinterested, considerate and affectionate."

"Poor man! his worldly cares are indeed abundant for his children, but
how much better would it be if he directed them to those beyond the
grave; had he proposed to lay down the carriage, and appropriate the
income thereby saved to the London Missionary Society, then indeed he
would have acted worthy of the name he bears as a minister of Christ;
but to do it, that he may add 'house to house, and field to field,' that
he may 'increase the mammon of unrighteousness,' in my opinion is quite
dreadful."

"Ridiculous! you are Missionary mad--if the coach is to be given up, I
would advise that the pannels should make you a cell, and the linings a
strait waistcoat--that would be a family benefit."

"Better it were I should be so situated, than enter with you, Miss
Carysford, into that place 'where the worm dieth not, and the fire is
not quenched,'--that place, where there shall be 'instead of a girdle, a
rent; instead of well set hair, baldness; and burning instead of
beauty.'"

With these words, slowly and emphatically pronounced, with the air of a
maledictory prophecy, Sophia, taking up a number of pamphlets which she
had been reading, left the room. As Miss Carysford was an acknowledged
beauty, and gave to her person all the cares and the advantages which
belong to ladies holding that rank in creation, every syllable had its
immediate reference, and excited such violent anger as to give her fine
but infuriated countenance the character of a 'burning beauty,' even
now. She protested (with a good deal of truth undoubtedly) that "Sophia
was the most provoking creature that ever existed, a disgrace to the
family, a pest in the village, a canker that was eating out the very
heart of her father, and a person in short who ought to be turned out
of the house, as unworthy its countenance and protection."

Having so spoken during a rapid promenade round the breakfast parlour,
Harriet threw herself on a sofa, wiped the few tears which scalded her
cheeks, and looked earnestly towards Emma as if for answer or
observation; but since neither occurred, she added, "can you say a word
in her behalf? a _single_ word?"

"She is very sincere, very conscientious, if we do not approve her zeal,
nor partake her feelings, we must do justice to her principles, my dear
Harriet."

"Umph! her _sincerity_ consists in abusing every body under the precious
pretext of caring for their souls, her _zeal_, in passing sentence of
condemnation on every human being out of the pale of those vulgar
wretches with whom she has associated herself--her _principles_
instigate her, most blasphemously (as I call it) to quote the scriptures
on the most trifling and irrelevant occasions; to mix the most sacred
and profane things irreverently--to drain the pence from starving
cottagers, in furtherance of some chimerical scheme one day, and the
next to strip herself for some worthless object of charity, as to be
left in a poverty disgraceful to us all. Does she not class my father
himself with the ignorant, the bigoted? is he not 'a proud priest,' 'an
idle watchman,' 'a blind guide', and give him a thousand other such
appellations?--and is this to be borne from a girl of nineteen? No! my
father ought not to suffer it, we are all wrong to submit to her
insults, her cold-hearted, unfeeling, intolerant."--Perhaps it was the
want of another epithet which checked this effusion of wrath; it was at
least evident to Emma, that her sister did not cease to think because
she ceased to complain and resent; for she was still agitated--but, as
her passions were generally short-lived, advancing rapidly to maturity,
and being subject to sudden death, Emma waited for that important moment
before she ventured to say a word for the party arraigned, when she
observed:

"If my father, as the head of his house, and the pastor of a flock, can
put up with the peculiarities of poor Sophia, in consideration of her
pure good meaning, and her many good qualities, to say nothing of those
ties which bind us all to each other indissolubly, surely we are bound
to endure them, sister? to use her own language, she is frequently 'a
cross to us,' but we can have no doubt that it is our duty to bear it."

"It is very well for _you_, who are a kind of half methodist, half
philosopher, to reason in that way, but I have not been accustomed to
vulgar associations, or inured to low notions. I can neither forget
whose daughter I am, nor what society I have mixed with, though you may
do it, having undoubtedly something wherewith to comfort you to which
your elder sister cannot pretend."

"That difference is very trifling, Harriet."

"It is however sufficient were it _properly_ applied, to prevent us from
the mortification my father contemplates, and which will vex Charles
excessively, and be a cruel reflection on _him_, in my opinion, not that
I expect any sacrifice from you--calm, moderate, calculating, people of
your description seldom do wrong it is true, but we must not expect such
still waters to rise above their own level, to overflow generously."

Emma did not reply, but she arose a few minutes afterwards, and
announced an intention of calling on a friend in the village, who was
unwell and in trouble, enquiring if Harriet would accompany her.

"No, I cannot go, but I am glad you are going, for you will do them all
good, poor things."

And when Emma had closed the door, and departed on her errand of
kindness, Harriet wondered how it had been possible to use one word of
reproach, one tone of ill humour, towards a sister so gentle, yet so
active, and whose heart she well knew to be as ardent in affection, as
generous in action, as that of any human being, notwithstanding the
assertion she had so lately made.

Whilst Emma proceeds to Thorpedale, we will give such a review of the
history of the Carysford family, as may in some measure account for the
difference of character observable in the female branches, desiring our
readers to recollect, that notwithstanding the disputed points it was
our misfortune to depict in the first instance, the persons in question
were in high esteem among their neighbours and connections. They were
all so handsome, that the hacknied epithet of "the graces," was applied
with more propriety than usual to them among their visitants, and their
humbler acquaintance usually designated them "as good as they were
handsome." A pious and tender father, an elegant, highborn, and
accomplished mother, had superintended their education, and it is
certain, that their minds were cultivated, and their manners suasive in
general; but in all houses there are rehearsals behind the scenes, in
which the _general_ give way to the _individual_ traits of character,
and the honest chronicler of human nature must give shadows as well as
lights, in order to produce the portrait which truth will own, or that
which it will be useful for us to contemplate.




  CHAP. II.


The Rev. Charles Carysford was the son of a merchant who was a rare
example of wisdom and moderation, for he retired into the country as
soon as he had acquired such a fortune as to ensure the comforts of
competency, at a period of life when he was still capable of enjoyment,
instead of seeking wealth to the very verge of existence, losing at once
the pleasures of this world, and the provision for the next.

One motive for this early retirement arose from the extremely delicate
health of his eldest child, a very sweet girl; and some fear that her
brother on leaving his school in the country might partake the same
evil. Happily Charles grew up in every respect according to their
wishes, he was tall, graceful, and although of delicate complexion, yet
remarkable for his manly beauty and personal activity. Untinctured by
the vices, and unfettered by the artificial forms, of life in cities, he
united with singular, yet not inelegant, simplicity of manners, a
passionate attachment to literature, and with this direction of mind,
aided by humanity and great sweetness of temper, his father was led to
think him peculiarly qualified to make an exemplary and happy country
clergyman.

To this purpose his studies were directed, and advancing time proved the
choice to have been wise. Emma, the daughter, did not partake her
brother's bodily strength, but she shared his mental energies and his
fine taste. Their parents did not live long after the time when they had
purchased the advowson of the Rectory of Ravenhill for their son,
whither they had removed with him; and the brother and sister lived
after their death in such strict amity, that for several years it was
believed that the handsome Rector (as he was universally stiled) would
never marry.

Such was not however the opinion of Lady Lyster, who with her husband
Sir Marmaduke, resided (as their fathers had done some centuries before
them) at Ravenhill Park, a place their hospitality kept pretty generally
full of company, amongst which Mr. and Miss Carysford were introduced as
dear and respectable friends. Like many old families who reside
constantly in the country, the Lysters had a good deal of that
pardonable attachment to ancestry from which few persons are exempt who
have any pretensions to it; but with this they inherited, and adopted
also, that deep veneration for the sacred profession, persons of more
modernized manners dispense with. Let the Rector of Ravenhill have been
what he might as to person and manners, so long as he performed his
duties as a minister and a man conscientiously, he would have been
received as a friend, and held as a gentleman; it was therefore natural
that they should hold the present incumbent in more than ordinary
regard, and conceive themselves happy in presenting him to their more
fashionable guests, as a gem not often found in rural society.

To this disposition for exhibiting her Rector it must be added, that
lady Lyster (a good-natured, kind-hearted creature, childless, but full
of maternal feelings) was a little given to match-making. Happy as a
wife herself, she conceived (perhaps very erroneously) that to be happy,
every body must be married; for two or three years she made numerous
efforts for disposing of Miss Carysford in this way, notwithstanding
the apparent hopelessness of persuading a woman whose mind was as
powerful as her person was weak, to commit what would be in her case an
evident act of folly. After that time, she gave her thoughts and wishes
to a generous solicitude on the subject for her brother.

Sir Marmaduke did not impede the schemes of his lady, but he could not
do much to forward them, because there were few points of similarity in
their taste, and neither were sufficiently men of the world to adopt
traits of character foreign to their respective habits; so that, with
much esteem and ever warm affection for each other, neither was quite
devoid of contempt for the other's judgment in certain points. They
seldom disagreed on any subject, but unluckily they had no subjects in
common. The Rector lived on literature--a new book, or even a new
edition, gifts from the world of letters, and more especially that of
poetry, were to him the milk and honey of life. A huge package of
quartos was never too much for him to carry home from the nearest market
town, albeit distant more than five miles, if it had so happened he had
walked thither; and his servant was always welcome to his favourite
steed to fetch thence even the most trifling periodical. 'Tis true, to
his taste for reading he added that of drawing, in which art his sister
excelled; nor was he ignorant of music and botany, the latter of which
added pleasure to those walks and rides over an extensive parish to
which his duties called him; and the whole of those accomplishments and
predilections, in the opinion of the Baronet, rendered him a very
unsocial companion.

"Would you believe it? that fine looking fellow Carysford never rode out
of a snail's pace in his life,--can't hunt at all, Sir, and has no more
eye for a shot than a mole. In fact, he can't draw a trigger, he has'nt
the heart to do it, I really believe; yet the man is no milksop, he has
ventured both through fire and water to aid the parishioners. Then he
can't carve even a turkey; never knows what vintage he is drinking,
plays whist so abominably we are obliged to have a quadrille table on
purpose for him; and, 'tis a fact, that the greatest fool in the village
can cheat him out of five shillings in ten--not that they do, no! not a
hair of his head shall be hurt, while I have a rood, or a guinea."

Now as Lady Lyster believed that, notwithstanding these deficiencies,
Mr. Carysford would make an excellent and a happy husband, the more
charges were brought against him, the more industriously did she repel
them; and it so happened, that she was listened to with more than
ordinary complacency by two sisters who arrived on the first of
September, and probably found themselves a little incommoded by the
boisterous manners of certain country 'squires, or disgusted by the
frivolity of dandy sportsmen imported from the county town.

These ladies, Alathea and Harriet Tintagell, were Honourables, being
daughters to the late, and aunts to the present, Lord Alfreton, an
infant. They were highly accomplished women, the eldest was esteemed
very handsome, and very witty; the youngest very pretty, and very
amiable; but her figure was diminutive, and appeared at a first glance
more so than it really was, from being contrasted with so fine a form as
that of her sister. They shared alike the personal property of the late
lord, amounting to something more than twenty thousand pounds, but the
elder sister's fortune had been nearly doubled by the bequest of her
godmother, a lady of high rank.

Whether the satirical vein of this lady had frightened all the men in
that distinguished circle where she shone a star (literally) of
magnitude and brilliance; or whether she was sincere in her assertion,
"that she would lead a single life," we know not; but it is certain that
she had now entered her twenty-seventh summer in that state, and what
was more extraordinary, still gave daily proof,

  "----that she could hear
  A sister's praises with unwounded ear,"

for she never appeared more happy than when the fair and elegant Harriet
attracted the admiration so justly her due. They were indeed attached to
each other beyond the ties of blood; they had lost their parents early
in life, their brother had married unworthily and died prematurely,
leaving his only child to the sole care of a mother with whom they could
hold no intercourse; each was therefore all to the other. Each had her
full share of family pride, but it was controlled by the higher pride of
intellect in Alathea, and by gentle and truly delicate perception of
propriety in Harriet, but this being well known to Lady Lyster, and
greatly approved by her as a principle, it certainly never entered her
mind to provide the Rector with a wife, in a quarter where the case
forbade all hope of success.

This might be the reason perhaps, that the poor man fell insensibly into
that state of anxiety, showed those occasional gleams of delight, and
thence sunk into that despondency which betrayed the feelings never
awakened before, in a heart so warm in its attachments, so full of the
milk of human kindness, through every gradation of philanthropy, as to
lead common observers to form a very different expectation. The moment
Mr. Carysford perceived his own state, he resolutely avoided visiting at
the Park, and the ladies determined to return to town before the time
originally intended.

It was evident, that Harriet loved at least as fondly as she was loved;
that family pride, and maiden coyness, alike yielded before that deep
and ardent passion, which she had unconsciously imbibed, in those
solitudes where every circumstance had favoured the encroachment of a
sentiment, aided by voluntary admiration and perfect esteem for the
character of the beloved. Sir Marmaduke was at this period perpetually
employed in the sports of the field, Lady Lyster engaged with
hospitalities in her house, charities in her village, and some family
solicitudes of great importance, including the marriage of her only
brother.--"Where could the sisters spend their mornings so pleasantly as
with the sensible invalid at the rectory? how could they be so safely
escorted to all the beauties of the neighbourhood, as by her excellent
brother?"

The Baronet said, "it was a foolish affair, and bad for the parish," and
wished the women in the red sea; Lady Lyster cried, and declared truly,
"that she had had no hand in it,"--to the utter astonishment of all who
had ever known her; Miss Tintagell, after shutting herself up
twenty-four hours in her apartment, and emerging thence pale and
haggard, as if from suffering acutely, declared it as her decided
opinion "that Harriet would act wisely and well, in accepting Mr.
Carysford; she loved him, she was independent, and had her sister's
sanction for her conduct."

The rest will be readily supplied by the imagination of our young
readers; but one particular attendant on this union must be revealed,
for it will not be conceived. This was the constant gratitude expressed
and acted upon by the husband towards his wife and sister-in-law, during
the whole course of his married life. As a most amiable and unique trait
of character, it well deserves to be recorded, but the consequences were
not altogether such as we can retrace with pleasure. Mrs. Carysford
became the mother of a numerous family, (four of which survived her,)
and though tenderly attached to them all, she could not prevail upon
herself to abandon, for their sakes, that stile of living to which her
birth and fortune entitled her, in order to secure the provision
necessary for children so born and educated as hers. Her own fortune was
settled on herself, and in case of her demise on her eldest son, on whom
the father also intended to bestow the living he held, so that there was
but too much reason to fear, that these lovely young women, after
enjoying all the elegant comforts which appertain to an extensive
establishment and easy income, would be either compelled to marry for
convenience, or condemned to the privations and obscurity attendant on
narrow means, during that portion of existence when the goods of fortune
are most valuable, because most consolatory.




  CHAP. III.


Although Miss Tintagell gave thus generously consent to the marriage of
her sister, yet it was five years before she came to visit the Rectory
for any length of time, notwithstanding the undiminished attachment she
still showed to her sister. During that period she had certainly refused
several excellent offers, and her gaiety of dress, the attractions of
her person, and the brilliance of her conversation were undiminished.
From this period, she attached herself much to the eldest girl, became
sponsor to the boy, and took as much interest in the family, as a person
could do who dreaded the approach of a rude touch upon an unspotted
muslin, and delighted in that "keen encounter of wits," forbidden by
nursery details. After some time her visits became much more frequent,
and Harriet generally, but not constantly, returned with her to town,
where she enjoyed those advantages of education it was not possible to
obtain in the country. Here however their excellent father left little
to regret on this account. On the marriage of her brother, Miss
Carysford removed to a cottage within a little distance, which she
fitted up with great taste and comfort, and where she generally had one
of her brother's children with her. This child after a time became Emma
exclusively, for Harriet was almost stationary in London at that period
when she was sufficiently grown to be a companion to Miss Tintagell.
Charles was too much engaged with his studies to leave his father, and
the younger branches too troublesome for one whose protracted existence
was still that of a valetudinarian, willing but unable to endure
exertion of any kind.

Perhaps few marriages have been equally happy with that of Mr.
Carysford, for all that was excellent in his character at the time when
it took place, improved with his more extended duties, and matured by
time into the ripeness of solid virtue. "He was indulgent to a fault,"
Lady Lyster acknowledged; but she maintained also "that he was without a
fault," and this all the poor in the district re-echoed, maintaining,
"his Worship was all goodness, and Madam very little behind him." His
sister alone knew where his failings lay, and where his troubles were
felt; for to her both were laid open as they had been from infancy, with
all the candour and contrition, with which a heart (so pure and humble a
christian heart) laments error or bewails suffering.

No circumstance could have induced Mr. Carysford to live _beyond_ his
income, because that he would have deemed a failure of actual integrity;
nor could the extraordinary expenses of any year ever induce him to
encroach on that sum which, from the day he took possession of the
living, he appropriated to charities connected with it--but the
continual solicitude he felt to do more, and the incapability of
effecting his wishes, frequently harassed his spirits, and deeply
affected those of his excellent sister. It was from _her_ conversations,
_her_ lessons, and _her_ example, that Emma imbibed all that was most
solid and estimable in her character--that she substituted the meekness
of religious obedience for the mere external gentleness of manners;
tempered the fire of youth and the acuteness of sensibility with sober
reflection and calm resolution; subduing a vivid imagination and the
generous enthusiasm of a noble spirit, and a refined taste, a devout,
pious, and charitable heart, to the dictates of moderation.

When Emma was in her eighteenth year, the long fragile tenement in which
that pure soul was enshrined, which even on the couch of sickness and
under the pressure of pain had for years been a blessing to many, gave
indications of dissolution that could not be mistaken. Mrs. Carysford
therefore summoned her eldest daughter home, that she might partake the
cares of the family; at the same time placing her third daughter at
school from an equally kind motive, that of leaving herself at liberty
to attend to the invalid and her husband, and enabling Sophia to pursue
the finishing studies necessary for completing her education.

But the last sigh had escaped the patient sufferer before Harriet's
return, who therefore, finding herself of no use and little importance,
sincerely regretted her recall, though she had too much affection and
proper feeling to betray the ennui under which she laboured at the
Rectory, in consequence of leaving town in the season of gaiety, and
visiting the country in the season of affliction. This affliction was
indeed not poignant, a long expected event had occurred, a christian
fitted for the change was removed; and selfish sorrow was controlled by
the full belief that the evils of life were exchanged "for an exceeding
weight of glory," but there was a religious pensiveness, a tender
melancholy, an anxiety of affection towards one another in the members
of the family, which, whilst it drew the chords which bound them to each
other more strongly where it was felt, acted painfully where it was not
experienced.

At this time they had a little girl, Alathea, who was younger by seven
years than the child who had preceded her, and she was doated upon by
the parents with that peculiar fondness generally accorded to the last
prattler, the last plaything of a large family, who never fails to
combine all that has charmed the mother's eye, and won the father's
heart before, with innumerable graces and witcheries of its own. This
child, in the course of a month or two after the death of its aunt, was
seized with the measles, which left behind a train of disorders that
proved fatal the ensuing autumn. On this distressing event taking
place, Miss Tintagell flew to console her sister, and with equal
surprise and grief perceived that which had alike escaped herself and
her family, that the afflicted mother was far gone in decline, probably
brought on by her indefatigable attention to the little sufferer.

From the hour that this discovery was made, the heart of the husband
seemed rent in twain; he was a man of calm but exalted piety, of firm
faith and of unfeigned submission to the God and Father whom he
worshipped, not less in word than deed, but his very nature was so much
that of domestic love, and his habits so entirely those of connubial
friendship, that this third rapidly succeeding trial seemed to ask for
more fortitude than he could find. He murmured not, but he bent beneath
the stroke, and that manly beauty hitherto so remarkable, and which his
active, temperate, and happy life had hitherto preserved, faded as
rapidly as that of the beloved countenance which in every languid smile
betrayed decay and death.

Thus in fifteen months, three losses were experienced in this lately
flourishing family, of the most touching and harrowing description. The
loss of her mother occasioned Sophia to be sent for home, and all idea
of her return relinquished, as Mr. Carysford naturally desired to see
his children around him; and as she was much the most like her mother,
(being of an exquisitely fair complexion, with blue eyes and luxuriant
flaxen tresses,) it was hoped that she would afford painful yet solacing
interest to her widowed father.

Sophia was the only daughter, as we have already seen, who had been sent
from home for education, even for a short period--she was in her
sixteenth year when she went to school, had somewhat outgrown her
strength, and was a girl of such vivid feelings, that her parents rather
sent her out of the way of suffering, than considered the circumstance
of improvement, her acquirements being already satisfactory. Mr.
Carysford had heard the lady at the head of that establishment they
thought most convenient for the purpose extolled for her piety, and Mrs.
Carysford had assured herself as to the merits of the attendant masters,
and with this they unfortunately were satisfied.--The first vacation
which brought home this daughter, found them attending the sick bed of
Alathea, and too much engaged to remark any thing in Sophia, besides
her good looks and her continual conversation on death, from which they
concluded that her health might suffer from witnessing the scenes of
sickness and sorrow now pressing on the family; and therefore to save
her as much as possible, she was not called to share them further.

But it now became evident, that a new, and, in her aunt's opinion an
_alarming_ bias had been given to the mind of this young creature during
her absence, which was naturally aided by the awful events in her
family. Going far beyond the religious precepts inculcated by her
father, and acted upon in her family, outstripping every precept
divulged by her departed aunt, and treasured in the memory of her deeply
reflective sister; Sophia stepped forward as the apostle who should
convert her family, reform the neighbourhood, or failing that, become a
victim to their cruelty, a proof of their unrighteousness, and a martyr
to their persecution.

So naturally does every human being, more especially those of habitually
well-directed views, look to God in the hour of affliction, and search
for the promises of the gospel, that the words of Sophia, though
remarkable, were not considered by her family as arising from any other
cause than that which strongly affected their own feelings; and she was
the less liable to remark, because Miss Tintagell and Harriet were much
together in the dressing-room of the former; Charles was sent to
Cambridge; and Emma, as one habituated to the tender offices of a nurse,
applied herself to amusing her father: when therefore it was announced
to the family by Sir Marmaduke, "that Miss Sophy had been converted or
perverted at school, had attached herself to what was termed the
'dissenting interest,' in the village, who had of late brought in some
newfangled kind of preaching at the tailor's, and that she was doing her
best to raise subscriptions for a chapel, being herself a kind of public
prayer and teacher," nothing could exceed the alarm and sorrow, the
anger and contempt, expressed by the different branches of the family.

They all knew Sophia was much out of the house, they had witnessed her
zealous remonstrances, remarked her charity, which was carried to
excess; but a conduct so contrary to all they conceived decorous or
dutiful, had not entered their minds. Mr. Carysford gently reasoned with
her, but to little purpose; but all that was blameable was soon greatly
increased by the unwise conduct of her aunt and her eldest sister, whose
violence of invective and scornful treatment, by conveying the idea that
they despised religion itself, led her to conclude, "that she must be
right, because they were wrong," and she deemed herself a persecuted
saint, a glorious martyr. She threw herself and her cause into the arms
of the enthusiastic and discontented; and by rousing their passions in
her behalf, rendered that a serious schism in the congregation, which
had been merely the idle vagary of a few wandering lovers of any change.

Never did minister love his people more entirely than the Rector of
Ravenhill, and whilst his general liberality rendered him kind to all
parties, and conciliating in all cedeable points, he yet suffered
severely from the belief that any for whom he laboured in spirit, and
loved in sincerity, would forsake him. He bore the trouble meekly and
manfully, but he suffered not the less severely. Emma was his sole
support, and in her self-government, young as she was, and acutely as
she deplored the circumstance, he found the sympathy he required, and at
times, even the counsel, which was always that of dignified endurance of
injury from others, and mild expostulation, but not restraint, towards
his daughter. Sophia became in the mean time a positive idol with her
party, and was exalted in the Meeting in proportion as she was
persecuted at home; whilst Emma, without the solace of such pity or
admiration, became really a kind of victim to both parties, and received
the arrows of each with uncomplaining patience, and even reviving
cheerfulness, when she considered herself the shield that received them
for her father's safety. He was in all things her paramount object; but
she was also tenderly attached to both her sisters, and held her brother
as especially dear, as only brothers generally are. As Sophia had no
direct friend in the house, Emma constantly apologized for her, in
consequence of which, Miss Tintagell maintained, "either, that she must
be such a fool as to believe the girl _right_, or defend her from a
spirit of pure contradiction," whilst Sophia and her village friends
observed, with not less acrimony, "that, as a person not devoid of
religious light, her conduct in not entirely espousing the cause of her
heavenly-minded sister, and imitating her conduct, bespoke a base and
cowardly spirit, and the epithets of 'worldly minded,' 'self seeking,'
&c. were applied to her continually." Even her friends at the Park
called Emma a Trimmer; but as the heads of the house differed themselves
on the point at issue, they occasionally listened to her reasons for
looking fairly on both sides of the question; and, in this reasoning,
both were so far interested as never to push the other to extremities, a
good effect of no small moment in the present excited state of feeling
which had unhappily arisen in this community.

Considering the altered state of his household, Mr. Carysford enjoyed
more peace than could have been expected; for he was so entirely
beloved, that neither servant nor visitor would mention any occurrence
likely to grieve him, and even those of his people who most strenuously
insisted on their right to worship God their own way, observed also,
that "considering he was a merely moral man, and a _church parson_,
there was not much harm in him," and that now and then "he preached the
gospel," but then, "he _read_ his sermon, he read _printed_ prayers, and
of course it all sounded as a dead letter."

The "new lights" were after all but a sickly band; and if Sophia, in all
the radiance of her youth and beauty, the grace of her refined manners,
and the redundancy of language easily attained amongst inferiors, had
not strengthened their numbers and confirmed their hopes, the young
preachers sent from a distant academy would hardly have condescended to
mount the tailor's great chair, and preach in his workroom. The grocer,
the exciseman, the shopkeeper, all men qualified to harangue in the
churchyard, not only held their usual council there, and obtained their
usual auditors; but the farmers, the blacksmith, the retired London
tradesman, and the sunday-school teachers, were all warmed with zeal
against the encroaches; and solicitous to show his Worship every
possible mark of their good will, well aware that the Baronet would wink
at a breach of the peace on such an occasion, various plans had been
laid for putting the preacher of the day in the stocks, or attempting a
gentle ducking to his more open followers: but these malpractices were
so well known to be as contrary to the spirit as to the instructions of
their pastor, that, for his sake, those they deemed his enemies were
suffered to escape, and even to endeavour increasing their numbers and
assuming a character of defiance.

The love manifested, whether wisely or zealously, by his people, gave
Mr. Carysford the comfort his long harassed spirit required, but it
likewise subjected him to feeling too much. In every house, however poor
the inhabitants, where he was recognized with affection, and where the
memory of her so long and so fondly loved was held in honour, his heart
had its resting-place as to its affections, but the acuteness of his
feelings forbade repose. In lamenting over his loss, in protesting their
love, in railing against all who wished for change, in recalling the
days of sorrow and the seasons of want, in which he had soothed their
affliction and relieved their necessity, these simple souls necessarily
awoke the chords of that sensibility which was already touched too
freely, and in the very prime of life, he withered like the sensitive
plant beneath the approach of tenderness itself.

It had been constantly the practice of Mr. Carysford to catechise the
children of his village, and to this good old custom it might chiefly be
attributed that the encroachers upon his pastoral duties had been later
in their advances to his parish than those in his neighbourhood, and
that when arrived, their success was dubious. The young men and maidens
(notwithstanding the love of change is natural to youth) were
universally his friends, and from that period when they first deemed him
insulted by the actual establishment of preaching during church hours,
they were wont respectfully to edge nearer and nearer to him, till they
became a kind of bodyguard as he went from his own house to the church.
The manner in which the silent sympathy and respect thus evinced,
affected their minister, cannot be described, but will be conceived by
those who have hearts and imaginations, and are accustomed to combine
the purest emotions they originate, with those higher and sweeter
sources of feeling, which spring from devotion. Every broad honest face,
that looked on him with reverent sympathy, was associated with the
remembrance of _his_ own children, _their_ own fathers; his pastoral
duties, or his paternal cares. He knew that in days past he had for them
"sighed and wept, watched and prayed," and the belief that according to
their more bounded perceptions, they now returned his love, delighted,
but yet affected him, beyond the power of his enfeebled frame to
sustain.

Emma sought to restrain this effect, and by recurring to common
subjects, dull common places, or cheering trifles, to wean him from that
consolation, which, whilst it sweetened, yet wasted the cup of life. She
endeavoured to give him peculiar interest in the progress made by
Charles, at college; awaken him to the politics of the day, and more
especially its poetry; she sought to engage him in writing for Sophia's
benefit, even with little hopes that in her present inflated state of
mind, she would condescend to read his documents, and by every means
affection could suggest, or vigilance exact, prevented his mind from
preying on itself, or yielding up its energies to amiable but useless
paroxysms of excited feeling.

This was but a task the more necessary, because Harriet, when not
engaged with her aunt in company, found it obligatory in her to devote
herself almost exclusively to her comfort in private. Miss Tintagell was
a woman of great talents, of noble and generous nature, but of violent
passions, and when grief or anger was uppermost, their operation was of
so terrible a nature as to be alike injurious to herself, and harassing
to those around her. She was offended with Sophia beyond measure, and
much hurt with what she considered the mistaken lenity of her father, in
_reasoning_ when he should have _commanded_, and in permitting when she
thought he should have denied; yet she could not bring herself to utter
one reproach to a being so evidently suffering. Accustomed to shine in
every circle where she appeared, if she accepted an invitation, the
cares given alike to her person and her manners, rendered her for a few
hours the commanding or the fascinating woman of fashion, who could
charm the elegant, and astonish the country circle around her; but when
the spur of habit and the action of vanity ceased to operate, she would
sit down and bewail the loss of her sister as the one jewel that had
shone on her path, with all the eloquence of grief, and even the
simplicity of childlike fondness.

Some months had passed in this manner, when it was proposed to Miss
Tintagell, "that she should join a worthy couple to whom she was much
attached in a visit to Paris," to which she consented with an avidity
distressing to her eldest niece, who had begun to hope either that they
should return to town together, or go to some watering place. The
invitation could not be extended to her without an entire derangement in
the mode of conveyance; in consequence of which, the elder lady did not
choose to see the discontent evinced by the younger, and therefore poor
Harriet, with all the disposition in the world to exhibit her fine
person in those circles from which she had been taken by distressing
events, was condemned to accept the society which Ravenhill and its
environs presented; and console herself by becoming the mistress of the
Rectory, though she was only partially the directress of its
inhabitants.




  CHAP. IV.


Circumstances occurred soon after the departure of Miss Tintagell, which
were of benefit to Mr. Carysford, by drawing him perforce to the common
cares of life; they arose from the executorship of his sister's will,
and the possession given to his son of the fortune of his mother, as
already mentioned.

Miss Carysford had received five thousand pounds from her father, and a
thousand more as the bequest of a relation. During the time she resided
with her brother, their income was spent as a joint stock; and when they
parted, his sole care had been to deter her from injustice to herself,
in which care his lady cordially united. The invalid found her income
equal to her wants; but as much medical aid was required by her health,
and much charity craved by her heart, and as living was expensive even
in the country, she had nothing to spare. When however three or four
years were passed, and each brought a new claimant on the beloved
brother's purse--when the boy was born who was to take so large a
portion of the family property, or perhaps the whole of it; and when the
mother of this family had experienced such attacks as to create alarm
for her life, Miss Carysford began to consider seriously the future
situation of her nieces.

"It is probable," said she, "that I shall die whilst these children are
young, therefore that which _I_ can give them will be of more importance
than the ampler provision of their richer aunt; whose situation and
habits I well know preclude her from saving any thing at present. Let me
consider how I can do my share toward providing for the future."

The plan was laid and acted upon, although several of the intended
legatees were otherways provided for; but in consequence, Miss Carysford
had the satisfaction of leaving each of her nieces fifteen hundred
pounds, (there being four at the time of her death,) an extra thousand
to Emma as her god-daughter, and provision to the old servant and her
daughter, who had been her faithful attendants ever since she left the
Rectory, not forgetting a bequest to her nephew, as an aid to his
college expenses, on which he had just entered at the time when her
weary pilgrimage closed.

The share of Alathea being divided amongst the three sisters, they each
had an income of one hundred per annum, the principal being paid to each
on her becoming of age; and Harriet therefore now received her portion,
Emma was joined in the trust, and appointed residuary legatee, an honour
which gained her no good will from Harriet, who without caring for money
was envious of importance; and who finding even the additional income of
which she had taken possession insufficient for her wants, would have
been glad to know that Emma had it in her power to assist her.

Trusting that the reader is now acquainted with the family of the
Rector, that they can even pourtray his tall, slender, and slightly
bending form, as he listens to that aged woman, who brings him new-laid
eggs, under the full persuasion that no others in the parish can be
found so good for him, and whose very heart would be broken if she were
paid for them, we will return to our narrative. It will be remembered
that Sophia was set out on one of her errands of charity and
instruction, and her father's steps, though differently directed, had
probably the same end in view. Harriet was too much busied with
counteracting schemes, to the announced desire of her father respecting
the carriage, to enter either upon a drive or a walk, and Emma has set
out to call on the family of the Wilmington's.

Many persons might pass Emma, dressed as she still was in slight
mourning, without remarking any thing beyond that of a ladylike young
woman somewhat above the common height, or should they see her face
beneath the large bonnet, say more than that "she appeared pretty and
modest." She could neither boast the air of fashion which distinguished
Harriet, who was called the beauty of the family _par excellence_, nor
had she that dazzling fairness and aerial slightness of form, which gave
Sophia, in the eyes of many, still higher pretensions; but her features
were beautifully regular, and more especially her mouth possessed a
character of sweetness and placidity, which displayed the charm of a
smile without its character. Her pretensions to beauty were forgotten in
the expression of goodness, written in every lineament of her
countenance, and although it was also full of intellectual expression,
the sense of its intelligence was lost in that of its benignity.

No wonder, then, that both Mr. and Mrs. Wilmington met her as she
entered the garden which led to their abode with warm greetings, which
dispelled for a time the furrows which past sorrows and present
solicitude had planted on their own faces--mistaking, because hoping
that there was some further cause for the pleasure they evinced, she
cast her eye around the room, and perceiving that no person was present,
enquired "if they had received any letter, or were by any circumstance
relieved from the trouble they revealed to her the preceding Monday."

"Oh! no, my dear," replied Mr. Wilmington with a deep sigh, "we are only
that much nearer to the evil which we daily apprehend--money is at this
period so exceedingly scarce we cannot obtain it, so the little estate
which is our dear Frank's _all_ at present, must go to pay that debt
which he contracted to aid his distressed parents--in these terrible
times, with a forced sale, it will probably not fetch a thousand pounds
beyond the twelve hundred for which it is mortgaged, though worth twice
as much."

"I would not mind that," added the wife, "for his commission is equal to
his support, but I well know my brother will never forgive the
transaction; and when he comes from India, although he has permitted us
to consider Frank his heir, he will abandon him altogether--could we
conceal it--and to no human being save you have we spoken of it."

"'Tis that unhappy necessity of secrecy," interrupted the husband,
"which constitutes much of the misfortune,--but we _cannot_ mention it;
if Maria, who is returned to us a widow with a babe, were to know it,
she would either leave us, or remaining, would break her heart; and
Letitia, who is so delicate, poor thing, would be overwhelmed with it;
and Harry, who is struggling so hard to get forward at college, (though
he little dreams how much difficulty we have to support him there, poor
fellow,) if he knew of it, would never be able to pursue his studies, so
that the affair must take its course--the lawyer must foreclose."

"I don't know what that is," said Emma, "but as I shall be able to lend
you twelve hundred pounds in three months and a fortnight, I find, and I
have some property even now in my hands, surely it might be
contrived,--if I were to give my word to the lawyer, would he not wait
awhile?"

"Unquestionably!" said Mr. Wilmington, with eagerness, "but have you
spoken to your father, my dear?"

"How could I when you so charged me not to do it? besides, he has so
much to think of, and would suffer so much from sympathy, at a time when
he is dreadfully unnerved, that I had rather not trouble him; but if I
can write, or speak, so as to satisfy Mr. Parkinson, and afterwards
produce the money, (which I find will be the case,) all will, I trust,
come round."

Mrs. Wilmington burst into tears of joyful gratitude, and flung herself
into Emma's arms.

"But my dear Emma, I cannot accept this kind offer without desiring that
you should make _one_ confidant in your family; Miss Carysford is three
years older than you, she was always attached to Maria, and will feel
for us all, so much as to preserve silence on the subject; at the same
time she will assist you in the affair as one of business, your brother
is at a distance, and is too young a man to know much about the
matter--however, consult which you please," said the husband.

"I have considered the matter thoroughly, and determined how to act; but
I will certainly fulfil your wishes, and pray put me in the way _now_
for relieving your spirits, surely I can write immediately."

But Mr. Wilmington was a man of delicacy and honour, and though
conscious that the loan so advantageous to him, or rather his son, could
not be injurious to the lender, he refused accepting from her any
written promise, until the communication spoken of was made to her
sister, and Emma departed with the satisfaction of having communicated
hope and comfort to those she loved, but in great fear (without
precisely knowing why) of opposition from Harriet, whom she yet knew to
be of a generous nature, and warmly attached to the family in question.

Mr. Wilmington was (or rather had been) a country gentleman of handsome
property and ancient family, whose estate lying in Staffordshire, where
that country is most commercial, had been tempted to embark a sum of
money in an extensive manufactory, as the means of providing better for
his younger children, a speculation which he had seen successfully
adopted by other persons similarly situated. This was the more excusable
in him perhaps, from the sudden increase of wealth in the district he
inhabited, from his warm and tender attachment to a most amiable wife,
and a numerous family, whom he naturally desired to see in possession of
those comforts, and holding that rank in society long filled by his
progenitors, and now encroached upon by a new and purse-proud race.

The consequence will be easily forestalled by those who have seen the
distress, to which the want of a mere trifle subjected him in his
present state. The house he had joined failed, and his estate was
forfeited for debts of which he was ignorant, and the jointure of his
wife was all that remained at a period when the wants of his family were
most felt. His eldest daughter was also newly married to one of the sons
of the principal partner, who being totally ignorant of the real state
of his father's affairs, and astounded by the universal ruin, lost
reason and life in the shock, leaving his widow and orphan to increase
the burden of that ruined home to which she returned.

Mrs. Wilmington had brought her husband a small fortune, to which he had
considerably added in her settlement, but it yet produced a very
inadequate maintenance for a large family, and he therefore wisely
sought to improve it by applying the knowledge of agriculture he had
attained as an amusement, to purposes of gain. For this end he took a
farm in the neighbourhood of Ravenhill, which he was enabled to stock
from the circumstance of his eldest son becoming the possessor of a
little estate, bequeathed during his infancy by his maternal uncle, the
proceeds of which had during his minority accumulated to a sum, which at
the same time purchased him a commission, with the addition of the loan
in question.

Mrs. Wilmington had another brother who had been many years resident in
the East Indies, accumulated a large fortune there, and considering her
as well married, constantly treated her with kindness and consideration,
until the period of her misfortunes; after which his letters or rather
lectures were longer, but his presents smaller, and he appeared to
forget all his little nephews and nieces, save the one who held the
house where he was born, and to which he attached therefore a sense of
consequence, and probably of affection. She had therefore every reason
to believe that the loss of it would be ruin to the hopes of the family
in that quarter, and far removed from all their former friends, intimate
only with the Rector in their present abode, since they could not
consistently cultivate an acquaintance at the Park, the distress of
their situation became extreme. Either they must irreparably injure the
amiable son who had befriended them, or by a hasty and injurious sale of
their own property, throw themselves and all their family without a
home, and in so doing equally offend the Eastern despot whose return
they now looked for, and who had so regularly insisted upon it as his
principle, "not to help those who did not help themselves," that they
were certain if he found them in poverty, he would abandon them wholly.

On this their sad story, the fears and hopes it presented, and the
distress she had herself witnessed, Emma dilated on her return, adding
her intention of applying the first money she was mistress of to their
relief, and indirectly enquiring if Harriet could not enable her to do
it now.

"You will lose it every shilling," was the abrupt answer given to the
announced intention.

"Why do you think so, my dear?--they are very honourable people--people
of unblemished integrity."

"But they are very unlucky people--very foolish people, or they would
not have been ruined at first; besides, we all know misfortunes follow
each other, and it would be very foolish in you to attempt checking
them, especially at the very time when, from my father's account of
things, charity should begin at home."

"I am perfectly willing to appropriate all the fortune I shall enjoy to
my dear father's use. Suppose, dear Harriet, you and I should offer to
keep the carriage: it will enable him to lay by the sum on which he has
fixed, and prevent us from exciting comments or experiencing
inconvenience. Of course Sophia in due time will contribute her share."


"No, she will give all she has, or ever will have, to chapel building; I
know she stands engaged by promises.--That a girl of her description
should do so might be expected, but that you should throw away your
property in such a manner, is absolutely astonishing."

"I have thrown away nothing; I have merely promised to lend money at
legal interest--at the worst I can only lose a trifle, to which the
family at the Grange are heartily welcome; if I could afford it, I would
_give_, not lend, them the whole, but that is out of the question."

"Well, well, do as you please--I have warned you; the money will do them
no good, and I consider it as gone for ever if you place it there. I
think too, there is a gross indelicacy in your stepping forward to
assist a young officer, for what else can you call the matter? It is
suing for attention from Frank Wilmington; had you done any thing for
the widow, it had been one thing, but the young man is another."

"I never saw young Wilmington but once," replied Emma, blushing.

"So much the worse, since it is evident he made a great impression. I
believe girls in the country are very subject to these things, much
given to _falling_ in love."

The ruddy hues of anger at this moment displaced the more gentle
confusion that suffused the cheek of Emma, but she did not answer.
Retiring to her own chamber, she endeavoured to reconsider the whole
affair. The great esteem in which she knew her parents had long held the
Wilmingtons, the remembrance of all the kindness she had experienced
from them during the long sicknesses which had afflicted their house,
and the consciousness that probably, even at this moment, her father was
chatting with them, losing the sense of his own cares, and kept (from
the purest motives) in happy ignorance of theirs, determined her to
persist in her intentions, and preserve them from the pain of knowing
her sister's sentiments. She felt that this was one of those important
hours in life, when the power of doing a great good, or what she deemed
paying a debt of gratitude, was presented, which, as a friend and a
christian, ought to be embraced; and, since she felt within herself the
power to endure the loss uncomplainingly, should it prove one, and even
in silence obviate its appearance to every person, save Harriet, the
matter was decided, and her offers renewed by letter in the most
unequivocal manner.

When this was done, Emma enquired of her own heart, "if it were
possible, that upon so slight an acquaintance, she had really felt that
predilection for Lieutenant Wilmington which Harriet asserted." She
remarked him as a tall, graceful young man, three years before, of
lively manners, but it was certain that if she liked him, it was through
the letters she had heard read from him by his mother, and the fond
descriptions given of his amiable qualities by his father and sisters.
"No," said she, at length, "I am not the foolish, romantic creature
Harriet thinks me; nor have I any interest in the welfare of the family
but that of the esteem and affection they so justly merit from us all."

Yet notwithstanding this silent assertion, when, through her
solicitation and eventual assistance, the family were restored evidently
to that happiness which had been from some unknown cause disturbed--when
the fond mother poured her feelings and those of her relieved son into
her ear, vaticinating future prosperity and felicity as the gift of
their young friend; the ear of Emma lingered, and her colour rose at the
mention of a name associated in her mind with those virtues most dear to
her heart. In the power of meditation on any prevalent idea given by the
retirement of the country, especially when a pensive disposition and
contemplative turn has been given to a young imaginative person, such a
predilection will often give colour to their future life. Emma's
disposition from nature laid her peculiarly open to the pleasures and
pains connected with high-raised expectations, sanguine hopes, and that
beau-ideal of existence which, while it strews the opening path of life
with roses, so often prepares thorns for its advancing years. She had
the credulity which is inseparable from guilelessness, and that trust in
others which is natural to integrity; and with these qualities as a
ground-work for favourable opinion, it cannot therefore be surprising if
the busy fancy stole forth from its long depression to diversify life by
decorating with every virtue and every acquirement, one necessarily so
often present to memory.

It was perhaps happy for Emma, though by no means agreeable, that
Harriet, by her inuendos from time to time, alarmed her with expressions
calculated to excite watchfulness over her own inclinations, and that
the observations of Sophia on the doctrine of original sin, drew back
her mind to that necessity for moderating our wishes and opinions, as
well as our passions, which had so often formed the lessons of her early
life. She determined on guarding herself from thinking too much, seeing
that one subject was generally uppermost in her thoughts, and to give
more of her time to the pursuits of her sisters, or correspondence with
her brother.

The leisure of late afforded to Emma during the summer months now
passing, had arisen from the improvement visible in her father's health
and spirits, which appeared to those around him the natural effect of
time, and the attainment of resignation by an increased exercise of
faith, as evinced by renewed zeal and activity in his ministerial
duties. That such causes produced a most beneficial effect upon him
cannot be in the least doubted, but the season of the year had also a
great share in the apparent change, it being not too hot for him to be
almost constantly out of doors, either meditating on the beauties of
nature and the goodness of God, in those bounteous gifts so conspicuous
in all around him, or else talking with his parishioners in the
hay-fields and gardens, visiting the ailing, and aiding his curate by
instructing the young. Whilst thus employed he appeared almost well, and
almost happy; but even now the return from his long ramble never failed
to be painful, and thence it was delayed. He would not unfrequently
yield to the intreaties of the Baronet to dine with _them,_ or sit down,
still more frequently, to the frugal but inviting board of Mrs.
Wilmington, that he might escape the hour when he was wont to be met in
the walnut-tree walk, by the wife who never ceased to gaze on him with
delight, and the lovely infant whose arms were wont to twine around his
knees. That here he was still constantly met, still fondly welcomed, his
heart was thankful to heaven, but the possession of the blessing left,
reminded him of the blessing taken; reminded him too that the daughter,
whose face could almost have cheated him into forgetfulness of her
mother's loss, was estranged from him, and held him as an "unbelieving
parent."

It had been the pleasure of Harriet during this time, to exhibit her
fine figure on horseback daily, which she had done with great effect
upon a beautiful mare, the gift of her brother, who, with all the
generosity to be expected, repelled the idea of any change taking place
in his father's expenses, in consequence of what he called "a nominal
acquisition," though it was also evident, that his expenses personally
were commensurate with his fortune. During the vacation he had been
sometimes at home, at others paid flying visits to the nearest
sea-bathing towns, but in August he became suddenly rooted to the
Rectory, and declared "that he would not leave it till the last day of
the vacation."

This sage resolution, albeit ascribed to the necessity of studying the
mathematics, had its origin in the arrival of Lady Lyster's orphan
niece, the only child of that brother whose marriage and departure for
India we formerly noticed. She had been educated in England, and seen as
a child by the Carysford family, but having returned to India, (where
she did not find either parent alive to receive her,) she now came to
the Park as her future home, from that distant bourne, under all the
interesting circumstances belonging to her as an orphan, a traveller,
and an heiress, the admired Eulali Mortimer.

Charles thought her the most lovely creature he had ever beheld, though
it is certain she did not possess as much beauty as any one of his own
sisters; but he was right in considering her charming. Eulali was the
daughter of a Spanish lady, and inherited from her the liquid lustre
which gives the dark eyes of the olive beauty that mingled charm of
softness and sprightliness, peculiarly captivating; her figure, though
petite, was elegant, her motion graceful yet lively, for she had resided
too little in the land of her birth to suffer from the climate, or
imbibe the habits of indolence ascribed to its influence. Warm,
enthusiastic, generous, and inconsiderate, she was the most delightful
of all creatures in her uncle's house, which beneath her influence
re-awoke to that gaiety, impaired of course by the hand of time, and the
sober influence of that mild autumn into which the Baronet and his Lady
had entered, and the whole neighbourhood soon re-echoed her praise, and
pressed forward to partake her society.

All our readers acquainted with country society are well aware of the
importance of such a stranger, when launched on a surface capable of
expanding the circle of its pleasures. In a very short time, the calls
and invitations to the Park from families hitherto apparently shut out
by distance, or by less agreeable causes, were innumerable, and these
engagements generally began or ended with the Rectory also, for as it
was the business of Harriet's life to mingle in all parties which she
thought worthy her presence, and offer unbounded hospitality to all who
chose to partake it, and as Charles lived more at the Park than at home,
the two families were seldom disunited in the plans laid for their
amusement. It did not follow in the opinion of the neighbouring gentry,
that a matrimonial union between them would arise from the intercourse
they witnessed; for it was well known that the children at the Rectory
had always been held very dear at the Park, and that their society could
not fail to be especially pleasant to the fair stranger; of course the
field was open to other aspirants besides our young collegian.

In this time of general bustle and gaiety, the Wilmington family
obtained considerable attention, to the great satisfaction of the
Rector, who had often lamented that elegant young women, born to such
different prospects, and for a certain period devoted to elegant
accomplishments, should be doomed to an obscurity which forbade the hope
of their emerging beyond it. Miss Mortimer was well acquainted with Mr.
Thurlestone, the brother of Mrs Wilmington, in India, he having
something to do in the settlement of her father's affairs, and she
brought letters from him to the family, which announced, as before, an
intention of returning soon, and a strong desire to see his nephew. In
consequence, invitations were given this family to the Park, which were
wisely and sparingly accepted, as were those to the Rectory also, now it
became the resort of large parties--but these, together with the fair
Eulali's reports of their uncle's wealth, raised them into speedy
consideration in the neighbourhood.

Hitherto Miss Carysford had reigned the sole queen of beauty and fashion
in her native land, at those periods when circumstances had allowed her
to adorn a private party, or a public assembly; but although confessed
to be handsomer than ever, and arrayed in that style of peculiar
elegance her present correspondence with her aunt in Paris enabled her
to adopt, such is the love for novelty, or the respect for wealth, that
the stranger every where met with more attention. Not brooking neglect,
or aiming at triumph, Harriet left no medium untried to carry the palm
in one shape or other; her dress rivalled the splendour of Eulali's
eastern habiliments, and her table vied with that of the Baronet in the
rarity, if not the multitude, of its dishes; and the knowledge acquired
in London of those elegances peculiar to the accomplished gourmand, and
that display of ornament adopted by the fashionable, was exhibited by
her with much more liberality than good sense.

Mr. Carysford by tacit consent and frequent absence, left every thing to
the management of his children; proud of his son, and pleased with the
company that son had brought to his house, conscious that a long blight
had been cast over the young people, and fully persuaded that as his son
had (what he deemed) a noble income, he doubted not but it would supply
all those expenses which he considered as adopted for his sake
_temporarily_, and therefore all things went on smoothly, so far as
regarded him. Emma could not be thus tranquil, yet she would neither
agitate him by her fears, nor awaken the anger of Harriet by her
remonstrances, but every day by every mode of vigilance she could adopt,
and by gentle persuasion to both brother and sister, she stemmed the
current of extravagance into which ambition and thoughtlessness had
plunged them.

In this effort she was assisted by the steady conduct of the
Wilmingtons, who made no change in the quiet tenor or active industry of
their lives, until the somewhat unexpected arrival of their eldest son
in consequence of his promotion. Emma felt her bosom palpitate when his
arrival was announced by Charles, and on his proposing to her to walk
over with him and call on the family by way of welcome to the stranger,
and invitation to all, she declined it for the express purpose of
schooling her heart, and examining its movements more closely.

"I will ride with you," said Harriet, "for I want to see our pretty
widow. I feel assured she has made a conquest of Major Cleveland, and I
mean to rally her upon it. I think your College friend Johnson too was
much struck with Letitia."

"Not half so much," returned Charles, "as Le Clair was with Emma, he has
indeed left us quite in despair on her account,--how could you, Emma, by
the way, be so cruelly cold to a man of his pretensions? he is the heir
to a Baronetcy, and the possessor of a thousand good qualities."

"I have no pretensions to half so many good things," said Emma with a
gentle smile.

"Her time is not yet come for imbibing the influenza so prevalent in our
circle. Falling in love is a disorder remarkably infectious among us at
present, ever since you set the example, Charles, and in my opinion Emma
shows great prudence in keeping out of temptation. Whether she will
continue to do it will be seen."

This was the last insinuation of this nature Emma was teazed with; on
the contrary, Harriet appeared kind and considerate, in the arrangements
she had made on her return; and when Captain Wilmington visited at the
Rectory, he was received by Emma, without the confusion she had dreaded
in herself. She found the power of self-government in this respect as
well as others, and earnestly endeavoured to preserve it.

Yet in every succeeding interview, she saw something in her eyes more
agreeable in Captain Wilmington than any other gentleman in the party;
something that, combined with the constant disinterestedness he had
evinced towards his family, and the kindness of his manners, would have
justified her to herself, if her partiality had been warranted by any
indications of love on his part. Knowing his situation, she could not
help feeling anxiety for him, lest in the circle he now joined, his
expenses should be increased beyond his powers, or that his hopes from
his uncle should be more sanguine, than so singular and illiberal a
character as that person bore, would justify; and often did she for his
sake wish that Charles was again in Cambridge, that Eulali and Harriet
would cease to be rival queens, and that in more sober scenes, she might
be enabled to read calmly the principles and the attainments of one, in
whom she certainly was deeply interested, as a friend at least.

The consciousness she had of having befriended him, rendered it
impossible for a person, so delicate as Emma, to say one of the many
things which often rose to her mind, when parties of pleasure were
formed or purchases proposed, which she considered likely to implicate
him in expense on the one hand, or mortify him on the other; and her
dread of having her solicitude misconstrued by Harriet, prevented her
from making observation or remonstrance to her on such subjects. Yet
there were moments when she was nearly doing so, for it was certain that
Frank Wilmington always approached her with the same brotherly ease, and
perfect reliance on her judgment, the same sense of her kindness, and
lively gratitude for it, which so evidently affected his sisters; and
Harriet was herself so pleasant with him, so affable and unassuming in
her conversation, that although she would not listen to remonstrance on
her own plans, perhaps she would consider the expenses of others.

Once, and only once, had Captain Wilmington in her presence referred to
his uncle's partiality for the place of his birth, and hinted the
irreparable breach that parting with it would have made between them.
Emma coloured deeply, and would have said, "she was glad there had been
no necessity for doing so," but Harriet relieved her by adroitly
changing the subject to that of Sophia's peculiarities, which had lately
added to singular manners the adoption of a dress so nearly resembling
the Quakers, that Captain Wilmington believed she had united herself to
that body.

"No, no," cried Harriet, "Sophia has not half the respectability
attached in my opinion to the 'yea and nay' body of friends. She is a
kind of nondescript, for she proclaims herself a sound church-woman, but
herds only with the dissenters, and affects airs of patience when I call
her a Methodist, though she is so recognized every where of course.
Charles calls her 'Evangelical,' and he says, that at Cambridge, young
ladies of her persuasion are notorious for fastening like leeches on
their prey, and drawing it into matrimony; so pray have a due care of
Saint Sophy, for in despite of her quaint cap and handkerchief, she is
certainly the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood."

The Captain was too gallant not to set aside the last assertion in
favour of the speaker, whilst he lamented in much stronger terms than
the case called for, in Emma's opinion, the _superstition_ and
_enthusiasm_ of Sophia, which he said, "would be the ruin of her, poor
thing."

"So far as Sophia's affections have been weaned from her family, in
consequence of believing even her father to be deficient in his duties,
and wrong in his views--so far as she has divided a house, and assisted
to divide a parish against itself, her conduct has been reprehensible,
and much to be lamented; but she is very sincere and very affectionate.
The bias given to her mind is too strong, and acts at present not less
upon her vanity than her conscience, but in time she will see her errors
and abandon them, without, I trust, losing her sense of the importance
of religion as a motive of action, the great guide and comfort of
existence."

To this softening speech from Emma there was little reply made; but
there was a look indicative of carelessness in him, and a flippancy in
handling the most serious of all subjects, which was very painful to
her. She often felt as if she were allied in mind to no one around her,
much as she loved them all, except her father, and perhaps it was that
sensation, more than any other, which had given her a kind of imaginary
tie to Captain Wilmington. She thought now, that even this was, or ought
to be, dissolved; she thought also that considering how very high
Harriet had always held herself, how much she had lately increased her
expenses and her connections, that it was extraordinary that she gave so
much time and attention to a person in this gentleman's situation, and
that, in speaking of Sophia, certain looks between them proved that they
were perfectly alike in their opinions.




  CHAP. V.


Although Emma's character was distinct from that of all the young people
by whom she was surrounded, yet her gentle manners, her kindness, and
the discovery, which, from time to time, each made of the soundness of
her understanding, induced them all to seek in her a consoling friend,
or an able adviser--they loved her for being the first, and (generally
speaking) quarrelled with her for being the last. Charles had made her
the confidante of his passion for Eulali, but he had not taken her
advice against premature declaration, although the modesty of his nature
and the timidity inseparable from a passion that exalts its object so
highly, had delayed it; when however he was about to leave her, all
scruples vanished, and she was informed of that which herself and every
other person had known for the last three months, quite as well as the
speaker.

Eulali, in the course of all that time, though she had ran about the
country in all directions, figured as a blazing comet at race balls, a
passing meteor in sea-coast promenades, and a fixed star at the county
town assemblies, had not seen one man, strictly speaking, so handsome as
Charles Carysford, who inherited a fine person as a birth-right; he was
evidently good tempered, what she called "very generous, and very
genteel;" rode well, shot well, and what was more, talked well, and
listened well; for his mind was cultivated and his manners suasive--but
then he had one great drawback--"he was not a soldier."

With this unhappy deficiency before her eyes, Eulali, though she looked
tenderly, durst not trust her tongue with expressing her sentiments,
which were indeed somewhat inexplicable to herself. She retired hastily,
yet not angrily, from the gaze of the idolizing youth, who could only
conclude from her manners that she was well inclined towards him, but
really feared to encourage him, lest she should meet the displeasure of
her friends. As this denoument took place in the gardens of the Park,
after a short reverie he determined not to re-enter a house which of
course he deemed the abode of his cruel enemies, but by a little circuit
regain his horse from the stable, return, and lay the case before Emma.

"'Tis true, she will not be so angry as I am sure Harriet would be, for
she always maintains that our family on one side at least is superior to
Sir Marmaduke's--if my grandfather Carysford _was_ a merchant, so was
Eulali's grandfather, old Don something, I remember."

Charles's meditations were most happily broken upon at this moment
(though not so in his opinion) by meeting Sophia, who was going to
instruct a little band of children, whom she termed, "her own lambs," to
distinguish them from the more extensive flock patronized by Lady Lyster
and her sisters, over whom Emma cast a kind and scrutinizing eye. Though
Charles laughed at Sophia sometimes, and scolded her at others, he yet
loved her very much at the bottom, and, by way of saying something, he
enquired "if she had left her sisters at home?"

"I have;--Harriet has got a new importation from Vanity Fair, in the
modern Babel."

"Then she has got letters from my aunt. I wish, with all my heart, the
_Honourable_ Alathea Tintagell was here."

Charles articulated every syllable in reference to his own feelings,
which at this moment sought for all possible aids in conquering the
difficulties before him, but as Sophia understood him literally, and was
sorry to hear him lay stress on a vain earthly distinction, she replied
solemnly,

"Yes, she has heard from our aunt, who has been induced to renew, or I
ought to say commence, an acquaintance with her nephew, who is now at
Nice for his health--doubtless he has been brought to the brink of the
grave by dissolute courses, and ought to be a warning to us all."

Charles nodded his thanks, pricked his steed, and was at home in a few
minutes; but his motions had not been so rapid as those of Eulali who
was at this time closetted with Emma, to whom she had flown on leaving
Charles, and as the ride was more than double the length of the walk,
between the Rectory and the Park, her priority of confidence was easily
accounted for.

"Nothing can be more distressing than my situation," said Eulali, after
relating Charles's declaration, "I have long foreseen this, yet it
overwhelms me like unexpected trouble."

"From all I have observed, my dear Miss Mortimer, I cannot believe you
dislike my brother."

"Oh! no, no, no, who could dislike so handsome, so amiable, so
excellent"--Eulali wept, or sobbed at least.

"Then you apprehend opposition from the Baronet, and"--"Opposition!"
cried the fair mourner, suddenly relinquishing her handkerchief,
springing on her feet, and rising to the utmost height her bounded
measurement allowed. "Who shall dare to oppose me? No, thank heaven, I
am free, nor shall any sordid motive ever influence me to yield my right
of choice to another--never, never."

"Certainly the reasons our friends may offer, should be considered in a
matter of so much importance; we ought to weigh every point, to"--

"I desire to do so--I come to you, to assist my reasoning faculties, to
examine my pre-possessions--but I fear it will be all in vain; the ideas
nourished so long will not give way, and then poor Charles will be lost,
ruined, undone for ever, and I shall be the cause of all."

"Dear Eulali, what can you mean?"

"Emma, ever since I can remember any thing, fame and glory have been the
great objects of my desire. I believe reading Joan d'Arc inspired the
notion--when other girls talked of shepherds or beaux, I talked of
soldiers and heroes. I am myself courageous, and therefore courage in
others is the quality most valued by me, and I well remember preferring
the boatswain in the ship which first brought me over, to every person
on board, because he had been frequently in battle--since then I have
witnessed danger, and the glorious enthusiasm with which some spirits
meet it, and I feel that such a spirit alone, can I honour and obey."--

"Then you confess the possibility of _loving_, I may conclude that by
implication."

"You may--but then every body says, one ought to esteem those whom they
love; and how could I, in my sense of the word, esteem a man who was
neither sailor nor soldier, a man who could not even fight a duel? I
know no situation so much on earth to be envied, as the widowhood of one
whose husband perished in the field of battle--ah! what emotions, Emma,
must fill her heart, as she gazes on the monument which his country has
erected to his honour, when she reflects that a being so great, so
glorious, was once devoted to _her_. Now were I to marry dear Charles,
this happy, this envied lot could never be mine--the idea of marrying a
clergyman is insupportable to me."

"What a misfortune it is that you were not born a few years sooner; but
as peace appears now established on a firm basis, either you must resign
this object of desire, or determine to lead a single life, for you have
little chance of being the widow of a military hero for many years, in
this country at least."

"Do you then think that Charles does not love me well enough to resign
his intention of going into the church?"

"Indeed I fear that he does, but such a determination would exceedingly
grieve my father, who has educated him from childhood with this view,
and also, I apprehend, be deemed one of great imprudence by all your
friends on both sides, since it would render him much less eligible to
the honour of your hand."

"Oh! I care not for money matters, I don't indeed."

"Yet you love to spend it--you have in fact never known the want of it,
and therefore cannot judge; and for your consolation I can assure you
that Charles has given proof of great personal courage in Cambridge
several times, that my father was once so nearly falling a victim to his
courage by facing a mob, my mother had every chance for a very long
widowhood, so that, even as a clergyman's wife, there is no saying but
you may enjoy that satisfaction."

"_Satisfaction_ it could not be, but in such a case it would surely be
the purest consolation--you must think so yourself, Emma."

"To reflect upon the _virtues_ of one's husband, however exerted, must
be a great consolation, but I am not so aspiring as you. I could be not
only content, but most thankful, to believe the partner I had lost had
been a blessing to his fellow-creatures any way, but more especially
that he had held the high honour of being 'an ambassador from Christ to
them'--besides, I do really think, that no men living have so much need
of courage in its highest sense as the clergy, especially whilst they
are young."

"I can't see that at all--to be sure they have a good many examinations
and nonsense to go through, and at the first they look foolish and feel
awkward on reading in public, but that soon goes off."

"They have to encounter pretty universal prejudice, and to meet it with
weapons so little in use, that the wounds they may receive, or the
ability with which they parry, are alike misunderstood. They have not
only to engage with enemies, but friends, to religion, with seducers who
would rejoice to lead them into error, and inquisitors who would pounce
on them in the commission of it. From habit and social taste they mingle
in the world, yet are decidedly called to hold themselves distinct from
it; every eye is on them to mark what is done amiss, prudence in their
case is called covetousness, liberality is branded as profusion; if
grave, they are scorned as hypocrites; if gay, pointed at as unworthy
members of a sacred profession. Oh! they have much to contend with!"

"Poor Charles! I pity him sincerely; but I hope, I believe, he will
acquit himself like a man, Emma, a good man."

"I have no doubt of it--he has to be sure been rather gay this summer,
but you know he has been under particular circumstances--now we are
speaking confidentially on a matter of so much moment, I ought to tell
you that his uncle, Lord Alfreton, is very ill; should Charles become
his heir, perhaps he would not enter the church."

"Oh! that would be base, unworthy--I should think that very wrong
indeed. No, let him meet the evils, of which you speak, _boldly_; let
him stand erect amidst the shafts of calumny and the frowns of vice, a
spectacle on which angels may smile and men gaze with reverence and
admiration. Emma, you have given me a view of the case I never had
before; nothing can be more sublime and interesting."

"Then you will not leave him to endure the hardships of life 'unpitied
and alone;' but I will not plead a cause of so much importance, I am
naturally too partial to be a fair judge, and although I firmly believe
that my dear mother was the happiest of married women, for so she has
often assured me, yet I can see clearly that every year increases the
difficulties of which I have spoken: as a friend, I would advise you to
examine them thoroughly before you consent to favour his hopes."

Eulali promised she would consider, but she blushed deeply, and the
tears were in her beautiful eyes as she spoke, for she knew in her heart
that she had decided. The idea of _contending_ with difficulty, however
presented to her mind, accorded with the ardour and enthusiasm of her
spirit, whilst that of Charles, in a state of suffering, awoke all the
tenderness she had long cherished towards him. Emma accompanied her
towards the walnut-trees on her way homewards, when perceiving Charles
was sate under one of them, looking anxiously towards the house, she
beckoned him, and recommended him to be Miss Mortimer's escort, but not
till she had again entreated Eulali not to mention her wish that he
should relinquish his profession, which she candidly owned lay (as she
believed) in Eulali's power of guidance.

"I have no longer such a wish," said the heiress, as she accepted the
arm of her lover and departed.

On the day following Charles departed also, for he had already
encroached much on October, and for the following week there was a
wonderful stillness in the house, which was rendered more striking by
the severity of the weather, which confined Mr. Carysford altogether to
home, as he laboured under a severe cold caught by leaving his bed at an
unusual hour in the morning, to baptize a sick child at some distance.

In point of fact, he had been for a long time in a delicate state of
health, and the very relief he had experienced during the summer months,
in the open air, only proved that some disorganization of the system
called for extraordinary assistance. On the present occasion confinement
and abstinence were recommended as positively necessary, and therefore
submitted to, but the former was very unpalatable, and the latter it was
difficult to act upon, for he was at all times so temperate, that an
increase of self-denial nearly amounted to starvation.

Harriet, being now in possession of Charles's secret, and not a little
elated with the prospect of her brother's succession to Lord Alfreton's
estate, a circumstance on which she dilated beyond her right of doing,
in order (as she said) "to make all smooth with Lady Lyster," spent
little time at home; but Emma never left it when her father's comforts
could be aided by her attention, or his pleasures increased by her
society. At this period, it being 1816, the general state of the country
called for the attention of every person who could assist the poor, on
whom in many districts the winter opened with an accumulation of
hardships. Mr. Carysford knew personally the state of every humble
family, not only in his own, but the neighbouring parishes, he foresaw
clearly how far they would be affected; to whom assistance would be most
valuable, and where distress would be most severely felt; and he
determined during his confinement to consider how best he might
contribute to its relief. Proverbially open to imposition, and naturally
averse to business, nothing less than a positive sense of duty would
have led him to impose this task upon himself; for it consisted in his
opinion in collecting and paying all his own bills, and then giving
away all he could spare, a simple and excellent plan for a poor
arithmetician.

But alas! in this pursuit, he found that Alps on Alps arose, and not
even the anxious ingenuity of Emma, who naturally dreaded the result of
all investigation on a point which had excited her anxiety long ago,
could suffice to prevent him from experiencing alarm, astonishment, and
that solicitude to know the extent of the evil, which was natural to him
as a man of scrupulous integrity, general though not trifling
regularity, and great ignorance of the subject as to its
individualities. From finding his expenses (as a matter of course)
exceedingly increased the year he married, he had habituated himself to
consider that a wife was inevitably and properly a very expensive
article in every establishment--on the year when he lost her for whom he
thought no price too high, he concluded that all was right in affairs
conducted by her sister, who was necessarily expensive, but _now_ when
there were only the children, those dear beings for whose sakes he was
anxious to save and to spare, and that Charles had generously insisted
on all things going on as they used to do, "surely his long treasured
wishes would be fulfilled--he should begin to make a deposit in the
funds for his daughter."

Seeing from the progress of these silent evidences of the lavish
expenditure of his household, and the encroachments of Harriet, far
beyond her own income, for gay apparel, that there would be a positive
necessity for Charles to come forward with a considerable sum of money,
he wrote to him to state his difficulties. In reply, his son inclosed
the enormous bills presented to himself on his return, and with deep
sorrow stated the necessity he was under of selling out stock, in order
to liquidate these bills; and at the same time saying that these monies
must be replaced, previous to his marriage, as Sir Marmaduke Lyster had
given him to understand "that he should expect the fortune of his late
mother to be produced at that time in an unencumbered state," to which
observation he had replied by an offer to settle it on Eulali.

If any thing had been wanting to overwhelm and harass the already
oppressed spirits of Mr. Carysford, this letter would have supplied it.
The affection and penitence it breathed, rendered him unable to feel
anger against the beloved writer, the inclosures it produced were alike
appalling and surprising, and the information it gave puzzled and
alarmed him. He observed, over and over again, that "his poor boy must
be helped, the money in the funds must not be touched, but in what
manner it could be done, was utterly beyond his powers of calculation."

When all this trouble was revealed to Harriet, nothing could exceed the
alarm and astonishment visible in her looks, but eager to forget her own
share in the mischief, she adverted to Charles's bills as the greater
evil, insisting, "that some serious mistake had been made, and that
explanation would set all to rights, how could a man spend treble the
sum his second year he had done the first?"

"You forget that Charles had my aunt's legacy to assist his first year's
expenses,--besides his situation became entirely altered after my dear
mother's death, and every person around acted upon the conclusion that
he had a fortune to spend, which was probably much exaggerated by
report," said Emma.

"But Charles ought to have known," said Harriet, "that he had nothing
wherewith to help us, because he was spending it himself."

"That he did not know, because he did not _think_, is very evident,--my
aunt used to say that _thinking_ was the province of the woman in every
family, so _we_ must begin to think for him."

"I have been much to blame--very much."--"Indeed you have not, dear
papa," cried Emma, eagerly, "when in April you proposed laying down the
carriage, you thought wisely and kindly for us all; we overruled it, and
in doing this, laid the foundation of all these expenses, for had that
taken place, it would not have been possible for us to have kept the
company and engaged in the pleasures to which our income was
inadequate--we should have been people on a less and more consistent
scale, as we ought to have been."

Although Emma kindly used the term _we_, yet Harriet so well knew that
she had personally constantly stemmed the tide, that she could not fail
to feel herself reproached, and therefore eagerly cried out,

"But then would Charles have been able to secure the hand of Miss
Mortimer? would he have held the place in society which becomes the son
of a Tintagell?"

"Certainly, not the less because he lived within his means, since it is
evident that Sir Marmaduke apprehended he had gone beyond them, and Lady
Lyster has repeatedly advised me against a system which was never
adopted by my mother, even in her gayest days. You must be well aware
that Charles is loved at the Park for his own sake, and that, when that
worthy family consented to his marriage with Eulali, they were fully
aware of the inequality of their fortunes--aware also, that with all her
good qualities their niece ought to have a prudent husband, one who will
guard his wife's property."

"You are right, Emma--as much has been said to me; but yet I know that
Charles's prospects have an influence in the affair."

"Of course--but Harriet, you and I must, in the first place, supply the
money required--it is a great happiness that we can do it. I propose
_giving_ that sum which was my dear aunt's extra legacy, and then we
will alike lend that which--

"I cannot, will not allow that," cried Mr. Carysford.

"And I--that is, I fear," said Harriet in great confusion, "we will talk
of it by and by."

"That will be much better, for I cannot bear to see my father harassed
by it whilst he has this terrible cold upon him--we have happily time
enough for every thing. Come, my dear Sir, let us change these papers
for the chess-board; you must try again to give me one of your clever
check-mates."




  CHAP. VI.


When Emma had succeeded in somewhat allaying the nervous agitation, and
soothing the solicitude of her father, by diverting his mind in a slight
degree from this distressing subject; when she had seen him in bed, and
administered the gruel which contained his anodyne, she repaired to
Harriet, who was walking with perturbed steps in the usual sitting-room
below.

"I thought you would never come, Emma; I have been almost distracted
lest you should make some further offer to my father. I could not make
you understand me by signs."

"I did not understand you farther, than that you did not choose to
advance him any money, certainly."

"I _cannot_, situated as I am with--otherwise I should be most happy to
do it, but you see he has so little himself, and there is interest to
pay, so that altogether we shall have nothing else to live upon."

"What can you mean, Harriet? who are you speaking of?"

"Frank Wilmington--we are engaged--I have wished to inform you for some
time, but I have had no opportunity."

Emma sat down in the nearest chair--she made no reply, and for a few
moments a ghastly paleness overspread her countenance, but Harriet did
not look towards her, she continued to traverse the room with hurried
steps, and her information was given less like the confession of a
lover, than a criminal.

"I believe Frank--Captain Wilmington was struck with me from the day we
first met--at least he tells me so--in fact, he mistook me for you, that
is, for the Miss Carysford who lent his father the money, which gave him
perhaps a prepossession in favour of all the family, you know."

Emma immediately recollected the time when he had mentioned it to her,
with the air, as she now conceived, of a person but slightly connected
with it; and she felt as if she were literally choused out of a certain
prospect of happiness, which would at this moment have been
inconceivably dear--she felt that each had entertained a prepossession
in favour of the other, that ought to have had certain results, and she
forgot, in the biting vexation of the moment, that opinions less
favourable to Captain Wilmington had lately arisen in her mind, and that
either from anxiety or other topics, or that self-conquest on which she
had resolved, and for which she had sincerely prayed, he had been very
little in her thoughts. She now could only remember, how frequently and
how kindly her mind had been occupied by him, and how possible it was
that similar feelings had possessed his mind for her--that both had been
injured and betrayed--though how far, and under what circumstances, did
not appear as yet.

"You do not speak, Emma--you think of course, that a person who has
often ridiculed _love_ in others, should not have so entangled
themselves--I am aware of all that you say, but surely some
consideration should be given to a man so amiable; a man whose unmerited
misfortunes have rendered him so interesting, so--"

Emma burst into tears.

"I fear you think that I have been too hasty?"

"I think nothing about _you_, nothing at all, Harriet, but I must leave
you, I must consider my own means of relieving my father from the
embarrassments he is unequal to contending with."

"But you will not call in that money, Emma; you will not distress poor
Frank again so soon."

"If I understood you right, Captain Wilmington believes himself your
debtor, not mine; if you choose to become so, I shall be very glad, as
the money will be most acceptable to me, you are well aware."

"Oh! he understands all now--it was only in the beginning of our
acquaintance that he deceived himself; you could not suppose _me_
capable of deceiving him: 'tis true, he believes me instrumental in
persuading you to relieve the distress under which his parents then
laboured--you know it was mentioned to me."

"It _was_, and you told me that I should lose the money."

"I remember I talked very like a fool--I had never seen Wilmington then,
you know."

"But I had," said Emma internally, and she hurried out of the room, too
much agitated to remember that Harriet's question was still unanswered;
nor did reflection on this point cause her to return, for although she
was glad that a sister whom she tenderly loved, and whom she desired to
esteem, had not in this transaction stooped to _direct_ falsehood, yet
she was still aware that false impressions had been given, and she was
by no means certain that much had not been imputed to her sister's
interference, which affected the mind of Captain Wilmington with
gratitude and love, as its consequences.

But when Emma was alone, when she reflected on the whole transaction,
she saw the affair in a different point of view. "If," said she, "a
woman of Harriet's description, showy, expensive, witty, but haughty,
conscious of her beauty, and constantly exacting homage, can command the
affections of Frank Wilmington, it is certain that he would not have
chosen me from any motive save that prepossession, which was probably
fostered by his mother: it is very possible that this predilection might
have led to something between us, which the beauty and accomplishments
of Harriet might have induced him finally to repent of, and I should
have had the mortification either of experiencing rejection in the first
instance, or neglect in the second. In the present state of things my
delicacy is spared--Harriet has not even dared to pity me--all is well."

Our feelings will not on all occasions in life keep pace with our
reason, nor will they listen to the consolation it offers; but it is
always the part of wisdom to moderate their suggestions by those
arguments reason may offer, or that obedience to circumstances which
religion exacts. In all those evils which arise from misfortunes in the
course of Providence, every well instructed christian knows where he
alone must look for support under his affliction; and such had hitherto
been the habitual source of comfort to Emma, but she was now surrounded
by difficulties, and pressed by sorrows, immediately inflicted by her
fellow-creatures, and those closely connected with her. She was harassed
by angry emotions towards her sister, a sense of disgrace arising from
her father's debts, and of confusion and distress on the subject of
their liquidation--her fears were excited for the health and the honour
of her father and her brother, both of whom were at this moment more
dear to her than they had ever been, and none of these sources of grief
and perplexity were, as she thought, of such a nature as that she could
ease her overburdened heart by making them the subject of prayer. She
could not "rush into the presence of God as the horse rusheth into the
battle," in confusion and indignation, with unsubdued pride and worldly
cares struggling at her heart.

But meditation and reflection, the remembrance of keener sorrows which
had been healed, of many blessings which yet remained, of many faults of
heart and conduct (for who has not such) that were yet unpunished, in
due time subdued these warring sensations, and enabled her to say, "to
whom should I go but unto Thee," with this affliction also.

It may seem strange to many, that Emma could not in her present troubles
open her heart to Sophia, as one equally interested in the affairs of
the family, and a sister so near her own age, as to be likely to enter
into her feelings on other points. Alas! this was impossible; with poor
Sophy whatever was not according to her own views positively right, she
concluded to be positively wrong; and therefore every person in her
family was under distinct but absolute interdict from her good opinion,
and when her natural affections stirred her up to kindness and
consideration towards them, she took her heart to task for its weakness,
as loving those who were "aliens to the faith," or "lovers of pleasure
more than lovers of God." Blending truth with falsehood, adopting the
most cruel and contracted of all creeds, mistaking quiet obstinacy for
scriptural meekness, and continually opposing all that was really good
in her own disposition, from a belief that nothing could be good which
was naturally suggested, and that only some far-fetched idea or
suddenly-inspired impulse ought to be acted upon; it might be truly said
that her hand was "against every one," and that she moved "every one's
hand to be against her," at least within her own family.

With this unhappy and mistaken view of things, taken by a young and
beautiful woman, well educated, and accustomed to superior society,
there could not fail to be great inconsistency of conduct; and the many
ludicrous situations in which she placed herself by exciting discussion
or provoking laughter from Charles and Harriet, gentle remonstrance from
her father, or kind persuasion from Emma, only confirmed her in equal
opposition to them all. Yet she could not deny herself the pleasure of
rejoicing in the good prospects of her only brother at some times, and
at others feeling grateful for the gifts which Harriet, with more
profusion than prudence, accorded to the objects of her charity. There
were moments when she would allow that her father "was almost a
christian," and that Emma was not "utterly a castaway;" but as she held
it a positive duty to look on the dark side of all things and persons,
beyond these concessions she dared not venture.

It will therefore be evident, Sophia was not a person to yield
consolation, and being still under age she could not give pecuniary
assistance, and she was herself in her own way as expensive as Harriet.
"Wresting the scriptures to her own destruction" by insisting that the
"mammon of unrighteousness" ought not to remain in her hands, she not
only kept herself without money, but became the regular pest of the
neighbourhood as a self-licensed, authorized beggar, for alms of every
description, being alike a canvasser into the will and power of all her
father's parishioners, from the broom-maker's penny a-week, for
blackamoor preachers, to the Baronet's contribution for the widows of
Waterloo. In point of fact, the whole family of the Carysfords were
naturally generous, and it was necessary for them to moderate this
propensity; but Sophia, not giving her nature credit for this amiable
disposition, classed it as the "grace of charity," and gave herself up
to an unlimited indulgence of it in cases where good sense and duty were
alike violated, and of course the precepts of christianity perverted.

On the day following the discussion of which we have spoken, Mr.
Carysford was so extremely unwell as to be advised to keep his chamber,
and Emma insisted on sending for a physician. This gentleman arrived at
the very time when Charles, who had been wretched ever since he had sent
those letters which were so likely to create distress at home, came in
from Cambridge; and Harriet believed that this unexpected circumstance,
by agitating her father, made him appear much worse in the eyes of the
medical gentleman than he really was. Whether this were the case or not
is immaterial, it being sufficient to say, that Doctor Sneyd earnestly
recommended them to procure advice from the celebrated Doctor Baillie,
as pulmonary complaints of an alarming tendency were exhibited.

"I will go with my father to London immediately," said Charles.

"I would advise you to do so--but you must hold yourself in readiness
for a much longer journey--I think the Doctor will hardly fail to send
you to Nice, or Lisbon."

The countenance of Charles fell, and he sighed deeply.

"My dear Sir, the disorder must be taken in time, I know you all
consider the life of your father invaluable."

"But, Doctor Sneyd," said Emma, blushing, yet with deep solicitude
pictured on her alarmed countenance, "have you not allowed that I am an
excellent nurse?"

"You are, my dear, the very best for so young a woman I have ever met
with."

"Then _I_ will go--if Charles be taken from his studies my father will
be more grieved by that circumstance, than assisted by his society."

"True--I suspect that his mind even now has a good deal to do with the
feverish symptoms that trouble him. But perhaps Miss Carysford--"

Harriet with a look of great alarm said "she fervently hoped that at
this time the voyage would not be found necessary."

"My sister, dear Sir," said Emma, "has not been accustomed to a sick
chamber as I have, she would betray her feelings too much."

"She would ruin us, I perceive--you must go, Miss Emma, and may, I
trust, go with the hope of success; but lose no time, sharp frosts may
set in suddenly, our climate can never be trusted at this season."

The doctor departed, and the young people crowding together for some
time, looked at each other with that sorrow and dismay, which clearly
proved that every source of uneasiness except the last, was for the
moment forgotten. The bell of the invalid roused them from this painful
silence.

"Dear Charles, pray command your feelings," said Emma, "my father will
do very well if he is kept calm."

"But how can I, Emma?--have I not brought on all this sorrow and--"

"No, dear Charles, you have only--"

Emma's reply was cut short by the entrance of Mr. Carysford, who reading
the sensations of his son, from learning that he was still with his
sisters, yearned over him with all a father's feelings, and came down
impatiently to clasp him to his heart.

The scene that followed was indeed far too moving for the welfare of the
invalid, but it was happily interrupted, as Emma then thought, by the
entrance of Mr. Evans, the long esteemed curate of her father. He came
(such is the mixture of good and evil taking place in all societies) to
announce the circumstance of his appointment to a distant living.

If ever human being could be said to live in the good or evil of others,
Mr. Carysford was that man; he could indeed "rejoice with those that
rejoiced, and weep with those who wept," and the solid joy he felt in
seeing his worthy friend, who was married and had a family so provided
for, carried him for the present from himself and his cares; a pleasure
which necessarily increased upon him, when he learnt that his own
recommendation had been the cause of the gift.

Emma sincerely rejoiced also, yet she could not fail to see that the
difficulties of her present situation were accumulated by the
circumstance, since Mr. Evans's place must be supplied immediately. The
sense of how much she had undertaken to do, and how much she had lately
felt, and must still feel, for a few moments overcame her--she cast her
eyes upon Harriet, and saw that she was still weeping, regardless of the
presence or the information of Mr. Evans--she looked at Charles, he was
pale, but his looks were those of thoughtful self-command.

"Poor Harriet! she is ever thus, there is no medium in her joy or
sorrow, I can expect no help from her--but Charles's painful lesson may
have affected him happily, he must assist me."

Having engaged Mr. Evans to spend the day with them, Emma drew Charles
into the study, and entered at once into the discussion of those
affairs, which there was now so much more occasion to despatch than
before. By displaying their own household expenses, she somewhat
meliorated the acute self-reproach under which he laboured, and thereby
rendered him equal to the task he dreaded, by informing him of the
situation of Harriet with young Wilmington, as a portion of their
general business, she was saved from revealing it with those symptoms
of confusion and distress, which might have betrayed that interest she
had once taken in the gentleman.

"It will be a very poor match for Harriet, for some years;" said
Charles, "with her habits, I cannot see how they can live at all."

"They must be determined to be moderate, they must accept of each other
in lieu of the luxuries of life; they must contend with their own
desires: hold _warfare_ with their own wishes, as Eulali would say."

"Eulali--dear, generous, noble Eulali how is she?"

"She was quite well on Sunday--I give you great credit for not asking
sooner, for of course you knew she was in health--now Charles, let us
consider what can be done? Harriet can do nothing. I have two thousand
pounds; and am willing to apply it in the way it is wanted."

"But I cannot possibly allow you to do so."

"Why not, dear Charles, you will have the means of repaying me some
time; next, in point of error, to the folly of getting ourselves into
difficulties, is the weakness of resigning ourselves to indolence and
sorrow, in consequence of them."

"But it cannot be right to extricate one's self by injuring another, and
that other a sister like you, Emma; how often have you cautioned me, how
often--"

"If you are now convinced that I was then right, be convinced that I am
so now--accept the aid I offer you, and return it in such portions as
will have the advantage of binding you down to those restrictions which
will give habits of economy, enable you to fulfil Sir Marmaduke's
requisition, and enter on future life with the freedom of a gentleman,
and the sober independence becoming a clergyman."

"But, dear Emma, _you_ may marry."

"It will be a long time first, Charles--think of our dear father's
situation, and you will see to what and to whom I am married."

Charles with a deep sigh allowed that many painful engagements were at
present pressing, he examined her papers and her plans, acceded to her
wishes, promised that if she were obliged to leave the country, he would
observe all her directions, and accepted the charge of those papers she
held for her loan to Captain Wilmington, and her directions respecting
them. The perfect confidence reposed in him by Emma, at a period when
he feared that a person so calm and prudent would be incapable of
pitying his distress, or of even conceiving the nature of his
embarrassments, endowed him with self-confidence and self-respect, and
showed him the folly of pursuing those trifling pleasures and that
ephemeral notoriety he had so dearly purchased. It was evident that not
only did her affection seek to sustain him in his trouble, but that her
judgment gave him credit for a manliness of mind, an uprightness of
intention, and a religious firmness in the discharge of his future
duties, and he trusted, though he did not say so, that he should not
deceive her.

When the brother and sister had arranged these tremendous concerns,
Charles set out to the Park to announce the painful communications of
Doctor Sneyd, who it appeared had been there before him, and so alarmed
the worthy family for their old and much loved friend, that they were
proceeding in a body to call upon him, and request him instantly to set
out without making an useless journey to the metropolis; and as Charles
was aware that they could not find him more equal to talking on the
subject at any period than the present, he entered the carriage with
them and returned immediately to the Rectory, occupying the same seat
with Eulali, whose eyes gave proof how much she sympathized in his
sorrow for his father, to whom she was much attached.

When the Baronet and his Lady had taken their seats in the study,
Eulali stole away with Emma, whose fears were more excited than they
had hitherto been from what she now heard, but she compelled herself to
seize the period when the young beauty's better feelings were so
strongly excited, to paint the conduct of Charles in the most amiable
point of view, and show Eulali how much his future happiness and honour
depended upon herself; how necessary, though difficult, it might be for
her to strengthen him in every virtuous resolution, and thus, early in
life, exhibit the heroism of affection.

"But how am I to do it, dear Emma?"

"By inducing him to pursue his studies unceasingly, and refusing to
marry him till he has taken his degree--by renouncing, my dear girl, so
far as you can, the 'pomps and vanities of this wicked world,' and
preparing yourself to be a country clergyman's wife. I prescribe you no
light tasks, Eulali, but I am much mistaken if your mind is not equal
to them--at least it is my consolation to think so."

It rarely happened that Emma Carysford said so much as her surrounding
friends, but in the present hurry on her spirits, and in the dread she
felt of leaving any thing undone within her power, she entered into a
kind of new character as mistress of the house which it would have been
happy if she had adopted sooner; whilst giving the direction she
considered necessary for a journey to London on the morrow, the Baronet
and his Lady in the anxiety of their hearts were urging Mr. Carysford to
embrace the prescribed voyage immediately.

The warmth of feeling shown in this interview, the recollections it
naturally embraced of all the years that were gone by, and more
especially of that beloved wife and friend who, in being transplanted
from one family to the other, bound each more firmly to the other,
together with the new, and still stronger tie now contemplated, rendered
it of great importance to Mr. Carysford, who with one proviso acceded to
the wishes of his friends. Charles interfered, to say that he pledged
himself (and could safely do so) for the exact settlement of all his
affairs, and the Baronet immediately added, "and I pledge myself to be
_his_ friend, _his_ father, if he needs one."

"I must see my people--I must preach to them before I go--Mr. Evans and
I must once more do duty together, and then I will set out as soon as
Emmy is ready, and leave all things to your kind management."

This proposal appeared so perfectly reasonable, so agreeable to their
own wishes and feelings--it was evidently so necessary that a few days
must elapse for the settlement of such material concerns as the removal
of a whole family, and so natural that he who had been the minister of a
populous and extensive parish for more than thirty years, and was under
the necessity of subjecting them to a kind of twofold change, that it
was perfectly approved by all, save Emma. She saw that her father's mind
was even now in a state of excitement for which he would afterwards
suffer, and knew that although he was a man who might be said to live
upon his affections, and find in the love and good-will of those around
him the solace of his sorrows, yet that the too great exercise of his
sensibility at this period was sure to be extremely injurious. She also
knew, that as he had a higher motive for his care of the congregation
than their love offered him, so he could not be devoid of consolatory
remembrances, even if he were for the present deprived of that too
affecting meeting he now requested.

As poor Emma had only a single voice, it was soon overruled, and it was
her next care to issue requests on every side to those whom she knew to
be more particularly attached to him, from benefits received, or griefs
participated, entreating them to forbear bidding him personally
farewell. Some few had the good sense to see the necessity of this; but
the generality concluded, that if his worship had strength enough to
preach, he had certainly strength enough to shake hands with an old
parishioner; and several observed "that they were sure he would do well,
for though he was rather thin, his eyes looked bright and clear, and now
and then he had a colour like a rose--he would live to be a fine old
man, there could be no doubt of it."




  CHAP. VII.


The intervening days somewhat restored Harriet to that power of thinking
which grief and anxiety had deprived her of; and in the society of him
she loved, she found that consolation every young woman so situated has
a right to expect. Emma had the satisfaction to see Charles earnestly
engage, with the aid of Mr. Evans, in searching for some gentleman of
superior character and suitable attainments to supply the double chasm
in their church, and wished, if possible, that a married person could be
found who would come into the house. As this was hardly to be hoped for,
it was agreed that for the present Harriet should take up her abode at
the Park, and Sophia at the house of Mr. Wilmington, two of whose
daughters were on the point of marriage, which therefore enabled them to
offer her this accommodation.

It was however purely from love to Emma that Mrs. Wilmington consented
so to burden herself, for she had absolutely a dread of receiving a
person so likely to be either too repulsive, or too persuasive, to
young persons of her own age. During the short visit which Emma was able
to make to these worthy people, no reference was made till the last
moment to Harriet's situation with Captain Wilmington, and then the
mother shook her head and wept bitterly.

Emma was herself much affected--she had long loved Mrs. Wilmington
dearly, and she hoped that her tears were shed in consequence of parting
with her, at least she felt at this moment certain, that her love for
the mother had been a very principal cause of that degree of attraction
there had been for her in the son, and her ideas on this point received
a happy confirmation to herself from the ease with which she bade him
farewell, though he went away with Harriet on his arm.

The following day was Sunday--Mr. Carysford admitted, on rising, that he
had had a bad night, that he found it necessary to keep quiet during the
morning, but had no doubt he should be equal to the afternoon duty; the
day was fine, the congregation numerous, and the looks of anxiety
directed towards his pew bespoke the solicitude and disappointment of
the people, and rendered Emma only the more desirous of saving the
invalid from that which she felt unequal to encountering herself.

When the afternoon service commenced, the morning congregation returned
with such increased numbers, that it was evident curiosity and anxiety
had drawn the whole population of the neighbourhood, and that every
seceder was present, either from those returning emotions of reverence
and affection likely to be re-awakened from their long slumber in this
day of trial, or from that spirit of malevolent investigation by which
prejudice seeks to strengthen its dominion, and confirm its power to
cavil.

Mr. Carysford possessed an extraordinary facility of vision, which
neither time nor sorrow had as yet impaired, and as his eye glanced over
the crowded aisles and pews, he recognized these strangers mingled with
friends, and his heart expanded to receive them as children returning to
their allegiance--as those who, in the pride of their hearts or the
weakness of their judgments, had been withdrawn for a short time, but
might now return for ever; and he was almost ready to resign all
thoughts of a journey, which might be productive of again scattering
these sheep. A few moments' reflection told him that they were not
_his_, but yet he could not consider them as the old clerk did, "spies
in the land," "enemies in the camp," for with how many even of these had
he not been associated, in all the most tender and awful hours of
existence, and from which of them had he merited desertion?

He cast his eyes on Sophia, his youngest, perhaps his best beloved
child, the image of the mother whose presence in that seat had so often
filled his heart with gratitude to heaven. It was very grateful to him
to behold her there; but she was bathed in tears, and though he trusted
they were salutary, yet he could not behold them unmoved, and he left
his pew for the pulpit under great internal agitation.

Mr. Carysford had prepared a short, plain, but deeply impressive
discourse, and he was enabled to deliver it with more composure than his
people could hear it. When, towards the close, he adverted to that
schism which, although in its infancy, had been to him "a rending of the
heart-strings;" an universal motion, an increased half-murmuring
breathing of many sighs was heard, and faint sounds of suppressed anger
broke from warm hearts unawares: but when, advancing in his discourse,
he spoke of the abundant consolation administered to him in the hour of
distress by the love of his people, not only did his voice falter, but
it was overpowered for a short time by the audible sobs, the universal
movement that pervaded all hearts. Most of all the young men near the
pulpit, who held themselves as his especial band, and the numerous
mothers in the congregation, whose children he had baptized, instructed,
perhaps buried, (for these had with scarcely an exception remained
unshaken,) exhibited the grief and love which penetrated their hearts:
but every where it was felt. Lady Lyster, agitated almost to fainting,
was obliged to withdraw, and Eulali sobbed aloud.

The concluding words of exhortation were perhaps heard by few, but they
will probably never be forgotten; for under the strong personal
affection excited at the moment, that which was uttered "in much
weakness," became a powerful and impressive lesson, better remembered
than many more excellent, which had preceded it.

When Mr. Carysford descended the pulpit stairs, he was evidently
completely overcome, and the crowd that pressed around him threw Emma
into despair, but she went with Charles to his assistance, and as the
Baronet also followed, room was made for them. At this moment the good
pastor might indeed have adopted the words of the apostle, and said,
"why will ye thus weep and break my heart," for every eye was strained
to look upon him, every half-suffocated voice prayed God to bless him,
and many wondered why they had sought with so much avidity for more
moving teachers, finding all around them so deeply and strangely
affected.

Happy was Emma when this affecting and awful farewell was over, and when
she had once more seen the beloved invalid on his own sofa, she
flattered herself that the feverish excitement of these interesting
circumstances would sink into that calm repose and devout resignation,
so necessary for his comfort, at a period calling for new exertion on
the morrow. Alas! before he could recover the late trial, a new one
still more affecting, broke upon him, from the entrance of Sophia, who
in agonizing sorrow knelt by his couch, addressed him as "a dying
father, and besought him to have compassion upon a child, who had
offended him, wounded and injured him irreparably, yet had done all for
conscience' sake."

It will be readily conceived how fully and kindly she was forgiven, how
fondly she was folded to a heart, which had constantly considered her
"with sorrow more than anger," and with what extreme solicitude, as a
father and a minister, he endeavoured to prove (as he had often done
before) wherein her judgment had erred. Forgetful of himself till
compelled by positive weakness to cease speaking, he had continued
during half the night to combat the opinions or soothe the sorrows of
Sophia, during which Emma had vainly endeavoured to allay the acuteness
of those feelings in both parties, which, however naturally excited or
amiably exercised, could not be endured with impunity by one party, nor
recollected in future by the other, without self-reproach alike bitter
and unavailing.

Emma, anxious to save all unnecessary expense, was accompanied only by a
man servant, who had lived many years in the family, understood his
master's habits, and made up, in his steadiness and affection, for
deficiency in activity and knowledge. Most unfortunately a severe frost
took place during their journey, and added its bad effects to those
produced by previous irritation of the system; and Mr. Carysford,
persuaded that he should be better at sea, decided on proceeding for
Lisbon in preference to Nice.

Emma had never yet been upon the water, and her suffering from
sea-sickness was very great; but when she was capable of taking comfort
in any thing, she had the very sensible one of seeing her father recover
not only composure of spirits, but increase of appetite. To her he
constantly paid the kindest attention as well as his poor servant, who
was also a great sufferer, and he would frequently joke them on their
situation, chat pleasantly with the captain of the packet, and prove
that interest in the navigation of the vessel, which bespoke to Emma's
great satisfaction a mind at ease, and, as she trusted, a constitution
recovering the shock it had laboured under.

The voyage was long and tedious, and without being positively dangerous,
yet exhibited such specimens of the mighty ocean in its wrath, as to
keep so new a voyager as Emma in frequent apprehension, and she was
truly rejoiced when they entered the Tagus, and saw much to admire even
in the dreary season of their arrival. The weather was mild, there was a
promise of early spring, and winter with its train of threatened evils
was at least left far to the northward. A noble city was before them, on
the history of which her father dilated with pleasure, recalling from
the extensive and highly cultivated stores of his elegant mind, every
circumstance and anecdote, which could amuse or interest her, and she
looked forward now with more sanguine hopes than she had yet
entertained, to a short and pleasant residence, a speedy and happy
return.




  CHAP. VIII.


Under the guidance of their captain, who was a plain good-humoured man,
they established themselves in an Hotel which had within a few years
been inhabited by numbers of English officers, and was therefore
considered the most likely to accommodate English travellers.

Whilst we continue moving, every one, whether amazed or annoyed,
remembers that he is a traveller, that his journey is intended to
conduct him to a certain end, and will continue only for a given time;
but when he is arrived at the place of destination, his mind demands a
home in his resting place--this sensation operates of course the most
decidedly, in those persons who have rarely left their own, and
therefore our present party felt the difference very painfully. Mr.
Carysford was in this respect better than his daughter, for he was
exceedingly interested in every thing passing in a catholic country, as
such; his knowledge of that splendid hierarchy which has for so many
centuries enslaved the minds and ruled over the subjects of so many
countries, which has bound kings and lawgivers to its footstool, and
rendered genius, science, and talent subservient to its power, gave an
attraction or roused a curiosity in his mind respecting every object he
beheld; and the first grey friar he saw wading through the filthy
streets appeared to him in the light of a dramatic performer about to
introduce other personages, and enact some singular spectacle for his
amusement.

The mild weather, and the apparent amendment of Mr. Carysford, rendered
Emma able consistently to go with her father from church to church,
examine the architecture of one, the paintings of another; listen with
profound delight to those magnificent orchestras where religion,
invoking the aid of the senses, takes the soul captive by that music
which seems indeed worthy of the Creator whose name it exalts, yet is
here blended with puerilities unworthy the creatures who perform them.
Mr. Carysford, as a man of most liberal mind, as an antiquary, and a
philanthropist in the most extensive sense of the word, held himself
willing to worship with the _old_ church, though by no means a lukewarm
son of the _new_. He believed that in her imposing ceremonies and
magnificent institutions, he could accept the aids so offered to the
imagination, without adverting to the abuses with which they are
mingled. He soon found however that neither that extensive charity with
which nature and cultivation had embued his mind, nor that fine poetic
enthusiasm so likely to be awakened in a heart or such vivid conception
and exquisite sensibility, would permit this partial and agreeable
blindness to hide the errors he deplored. He was compelled to witness
idolatry which was alike reprehensible and despicable, to learn the
existence of ignorance and bigotry equally incredible and deplorable.

When not traversing "the long-drawn aisle," the different monasteries
were objects of curiosity, and as several possessed noble though
neglected libraries, which were open to him as an Englishman, (in
consequence of the late obligations of Portugal to Great Britain,) they
offered considerable attraction. These treasures proved very unfortunate
acquisitions, for being frequently placed in cold uninhabited rooms,
when some curious manuscript or scarce book was seized upon, Mr.
Carysford forgot his own ailments, and his anxious daughter's cautions,
in the avidity and solicitude with which he eagerly perused or slowly
decyphered it. In a short time Emma perceived that, notwithstanding the
mildness of the air and the advantages of that strict regimen which he
observed, that every bad symptom had returned with increased fever, and
she was compelled to interdict those visits which produced such effects.

At this period they received letters from home, which although they
afforded some things consolatory, and many things of a nature to occupy
the mind, presented others as subjects of reflection ill calculated for
an invalid deprived of the only sense of amusement which could win him
from regret of his home and his country, and lull that sense of languor
and disease which now made itself continually felt. It appeared that
Charles had hitherto strictly adopted Emma's advice, that he was acting
with prudence and wisdom, but he was also suffering, and in his
mortifications and labours the fond father and the anxious sister fully
partook. Harriet on the other hand appeared to have recovered her
spirits, which she imputed to the favourable accounts received from
them; but she admitted that her marriage would probably have taken place
before that letter was received, in consequence of the necessity Captain
Wilmington was under to join his regiment, which was still in Ireland;
and she filled up her paper with accounts of winter fashions, and the
marriage of Mr. Wilmington's eldest daughter, which appeared rather to
excite envy than joyfulness in her mind. Sophia's letter was addressed
to her father, and was full of affectionate expressions, not unmixed
with exhortations against popery, which awoke a smile; but one part of
the letter was highly satisfactory: she assured him, "that Mr. Bennison,
his most excellent new Curate, gave the greatest satisfaction in his
situation; that he was a _serious_ young man, and one whom she could
hear with satisfaction; moreover, that he was of good family, tall, well
made, and with very fine eyes, and was thought by many to have in him
"the savour of life," for he was attended not only by the "sons of
Belial," but the "chosen people."

"May God bless and prosper this gentleman's labours in my vineyard,"
said the affectionate minister as he handed the letter to Emma, "but I
must own, it would have been quite as satisfactory if my little
theological daughter had found his doctrines less to _her_ liking."

"My dear Sir, you may be easy on that point, Sophia seems to have found
his person and eyes to her liking, and therefore reconciles herself to
his doctrine; Charles says that she is amazingly improved, but that she
actually fretted herself ill, after you were gone, which indeed I
expected--all will be well in time, and when this cough is gone, and the
fever subsided--"

"I shall then be able to return--I had hoped to give away my first-born
at the altar myself, I am surprised and somewhat displeased with
Harriet's precipitate marriage--I do not object to the man, but to the
measure; Frank Wilmington has been a good son, and will be a good
husband. Harriet will one day have a handsome fortune from my sister
Tintagell, and so probably will he from his uncle, both these persons
should have been informed of this affair--I am by no means satisfied."

"Charles acts wisely, nobly,--but his trouble with money matters must be
very great, it will ruin him for reading, it will be impossible for him
to take his degree; it is very, _very_ hard upon him."

"My dear Sir, be easy on that head: Charles has the means of paying all
his own creditors and yours also, and although he has nothing to spare,
yet he will have money by the time he needs it, he is stepping from a
young man of no thought, to a man of much thought, a hard reader, a
steady preparer for those duties as a clergyman and a husband, which are
the objects of his hope; in a very short time he will be easier than
ever he has been."

"Poor fellow, I wonder where he got the money; but any body would help
Charles--you blush, Emma, I see how it is, you have lent him that sum
which your aunt's residuary legacy left at liberty, and to that I could
not object, though I would on no account have permitted you to disturb
that which was funded. But that I apprehend was insufficient, reach me
the pen and ink, my dear."

"Not for the world, dear father; of all other evils you well know none
are so great to you as those abominations yclept figures; make as many
cabalistic lines as you please on the paper, calling them Greek, Hebrew,
or Syriac, but no sixes and sevens, or my good nursing will soon be
reduced to a cypher."

Poor Mr. Carysford so well knew his own insufficiency on this subject;
he was generally so willing to aid a jest, either on his arithmetic, or
his carving, that when his pecuniary concerns were not immediately
connected with his sense of justice, his affectionate care of his
children, or his anxiety to perform some work of charity, he was seldom
pertinacious in pursuing an object so disagreeable. In early life his
sister had relieved him from cares of this nature, in married life his
wife took the expenditure and regulation of money matters upon herself,
and although from time to time he spoke with great anxiety on the
subject of _saving_, and sometimes in such strong terms that a stranger
might have thought ruin was at the door; yet when she had convinced him
by very plain reasons and evident documents, that all was safe, that his
income was not exceeded, and put in his hands some cash for the widow he
sought to relieve, or the book he wished to purchase, his cares for the
future regularly subsided. He then remembered "that his family was large
and expensive, that his excellent wife was brought up to higher
expectations and indulgences than she required, that it would be the
right time to save money when their children's expenses were lessened,
and, in short, that they were excellent managers as well as very happy
people."

The disposition of the father was well known to both his daughters,
indeed it might be said to be known to every person, almost every child,
in his parish, for if he had tried he would not have had the faculty of
concealing his joys, sorrows, perplexities, or reliefs. There was a
sunshine of countenance in his general aspect, an overflowing of
connubial love in his common mode of speech, when he answered the most
homely enquirer about Madam, which told his general felicity, and by the
same rule, if sickness visited his little ones, if the beloved mother
was in a state of suffering, or himself in one of apprehension on her
account, there was a shade on his brow, a character of despondency on
his expressive features, that could not be mistaken, "he walked softly
as one that mourneth for his mother," and there were times also, when a
threadbare coat, an anxious attention to some petty saving, and a
magnanimous resolution not to look at a print or a catalogue, took
place. These the Baronet called "the Rector's silver threepenny days,"
and observed truly, "that they were points soon played with him."

To Harriet, whose residence with her aunt had nurtured pride and the
love of show, this disposition presented temptation to encroach upon her
father; to Emma, whose mind had been better informed, it offered a sense
of increased duty, a species of guardianship, which, without impairing
reverence, actually increased her love for her father. Such was the
nature of this affection, that if her mind had not been from principle,
as well as habit and good humour, gentle and moderate, she must have
spent her life in perpetual bickerings with her sisters, for she
regarded Harriet's impositions on her father's yielding temper as almost
cruel and wicked; and the opposition of Sophia to so liberal and
conciliating a spirit as ridiculous and rebellious.

But moderating her resentments, her desires, her sorrows, and her
affections, Emma from day to day sought to render her father happy, and
every branch of her family amiable and respectable, to become resigned
to the past and prepared for the future; without affecting either
extraordinary knowledge, wisdom, or piety, she yet endeavoured
constantly to cultivate her mind, regulate her conduct by good sense,
and find, in the exercise of christian duties, consolation and delight.
In consequence, Harriet and Sophia were, each in their own circle, much
more talked of and thought of than Emma, but she was more approved of
than either, and therefore had a quiet influence for good in the hearts
of all who knew her. This influence had perhaps been less felt by her
father previous to his voyage than might have been expected; for though
he loved Emma as a dear and most unoffending child, he was not conscious
how much her constant but unobtrusive cares had soothed his corrosive
grief, diverted his melancholy, and led him to the due contemplation of
his duty to God and man. He now found that the relief which he had
imputed to _all_ his children by a sweeping conclusion, belonged to
Emma, for she supplied all to him; and he therefore willingly agreed to
her suggestion and admitted of her management, gladly listened to her
excuses for one child, her comforts in another, and in doing so, gave
himself the best chance for recovery, and his daughter the greatest
satisfaction his state admitted.

But the "still small shaft" of death was sped--the quiet, insinuating
disease, which baffles skill whilst it nurses hope, was calmly feeding
on the springs of life, and at the very time when Emma trusted that
every breeze "brought healing on its wings," slowly but surely was
confirmed consumption securing its unresisting victim.




  CHAP. IX.


After witnessing the processions and various ceremonies exhibited during
Passion and Easter weeks, as the vegetation was luxuriant, and the
weather warm, Emma thought that excursions into the country could not
fail to be useful; and as Mr. Carysford had little love for crowded
cities at any time, he gladly proposed to remove to Cintra.

To this beautiful and romantic spot they accordingly set out, and were
gratified to the highest degree by the various views presented, in the
course of their journey, of Lisbon, the Tagus, the Cork convent, the
shipping, the beauty and variety of objects entirely new to them in the
vegetable world, particularly the arbutus and the different aloes.
Cintra, so lately the scene of British triumph, with its fantastic
rocks, high towering pines, simple cottages, and universal novelty of
character, had also many charms for them; but a very short time served
to prove that it would be impossible for the invalid to remain there.
The total want of cleanliness, the utter impossibility of obtaining any
food, or vessels in which to prepare food, which were not saturated with
garlic, to which our patient had an unconquerable aversion, proved that
no beauties of nature can compensate to a sick man for the want of those
home comforts which are to him the necessaries of life. Emma was
indefatigable, as a nurse, a friend, a menial, but no diligence could
guard him from the ills which produced sleepless nights and days of
loathing, even in a place that might have been made an earthly paradise,
and served strongly to remind them of that beloved home for which each
sighed in secret.

When they returned to Lisbon, Emma determined to seek for lodgings
within a short distance of the city; and she probably might soon have
succeeded, but for the perpetual alarm excited in the mind of James,
their servant, who conceived that every native in the _vicinity_ of
Lisbon was an assassin, and the inhabitants only so far better as the
residence of a few English soldiers still remaining compelled them to
be. Never did poor James return from an enforced excursion without
encountering some real or imaginary evil, and his stories and comments
greatly added to the difficulties which at this period harassed the
mind of his young mistress, for whom, it is certain, the honest man
would have shed his blood, though he could not restrain his tongue. She
every day dreaded that her father would suddenly resolve to return, as
the increasing heat annoyed him excessively, and until she received
remittances from England, it was not possible for her to do so without
forming acquaintance in the city amongst their countrymen, which neither
party were well qualified to do, especially for such a purpose.

'Tis true, letters had reached them from Eulali giving an account of
the marriage of Harriet, and her departure for Buxton, (which she took
in her route to Liverpool,) from whence she intended to write to her
father; but this letter threw no light on the want of that supply from
Charles, which, important as the marriage of her sister might be, was a
circumstance more immediately pressing, for think what we may, the
troubles of sentiment are less grievous than those of poverty, and in
some situations want of cash is actual poverty. Besides, Emma had looked
at her sister's marriage so determinately, and contemplated it so long,
that she had become familiarized with it, and ceased to regard it as an
affliction. She now simply wished her sister happy, acquitted her of all
intentional unkindness, though she could not of _blameable
thoughtlessness_, towards her, and this she feared was again in some way
operating to her disadvantage, at the present time.

One day as she sat anxiously gazing on her father, who lay on the sofa
in the half slumbering state by which an invalid escapes from that
enquiring eye he cannot satisfactorily answer, tracing with sinking
heart the wasting power of disease on those beloved features, she was
startled by sounds from below, which approached every moment nearer, and
were likely to disturb the sleeper. She stepped hastily to the door of
the apartment, and beheld, with surprise and terror, poor James covered
with dust and blood, supported between two strangers, and followed by
two English sailors, who loudly vociferated against those who had
perpetrated the injury he had received.

"What is the matter? oh! heavens, is it James?" cried Emma,
tremblingly.

"Ah Miss, I always said as how the papishes would do for me--and so for
certain they would if this here gentleman had'nt helped me; not but I'm
as good as dead now, I'm a murdered man--I am, I am."

"Pshaw, pshaw, my good fellow," said the person on whom he rested, "you
are worth many a dead man yet; don't alarm the lady, nor disgrace your
country."

By this time, to the great distress of Emma, Mr. Carysford had risen
from the sofa, and with his usual affection and sympathy approached his
servant, who was more overpowered by his master's condolences than by
his previous injuries. One of the persons assisting James was the
surgeon of an English vessel in the Tagus, and having taken the poor man
to his own room, he examined his wounds, which were a stab in the back
and a violent bruise on the leg, neither of which were dangerous, though
both were likely to prove of long continuance in the confinement they
might inflict. After the lapse of an hour, which was one of great
anxiety to Emma, not only an account of James, but her father, Mr.
Carysford returned to the room he had quitted to attend the examination
of his servant's injuries, leaning upon the gentleman who had been his
defender, and whom he announced to Emma "as her countryman, and one to
whom they owed the highest obligations for his courage and humanity."

"My name is Charles Melville--Lieutenant Melville of the Marines, in war
time, was my designation."

Emma's looks and movement showed that the stranger had her heartfelt
thanks, but her first words were those of enquiry as to James's state.

"He is in very good hands, and will do very well; but will I fear be
confined some weeks."

"Who could have used him so barbarously? he is one of the best tempered
men, the most attached servant--"

Emma could not finish her eulogium, for the tears that would perforce
rise at this moment prevented her; but as the stranger perceived that
she struggled to hide her emotion, he kindly relieved her by taking up
the conversation.

"Unluckily, Ma'am, a man may have a thousand good qualities with a bad
taste; and some bad and even diabolical ones with a good one. It is a
well known fact, that during those horrible scenes in the French
revolution, (when human blood was shed with a ferocious avidity the
heart sickens to remember,) some victims, who to avoid the musquetry
sheltered themselves behind the statues in the gardens of the
Tuilleries, were in some instances consigned to the bayonet instead of
the bullet, lest the sculpture should be injured--James, it appears, had
a very different propensity; he was much more attached to men than
statues."

"Surely he has not been doing mischief," said his master.

"Not exactly, but he aided and abetted those who did; and they happening
to be sailors, who are persons the inhabitants do not care to meddle
with, they wreaked their vengeance on poor James, and would have done
it--"

"More effectually but for you, my dear Sir--in fact, they intended to
murder him; I fear indeed he has some personal enemies in the place,"
said Mr. Carysford.

"Only one, I take it--himself. 'Tis true, he told me that he had never
struck off even a single finger of a virgin, for his master's sake, who
had he knew a sort of natural liking to those kind of dumb creatures;
but he admitted playing a few tricks upon the monks, which were any
thing but courteous."

The last fervent wish of Emma's heart, when this distressing accident
interrupted the current of her thoughts, had been that she were on her
way to England; but although the circumstance rendered such an event
more than ever desirable, the evening closed, and the stranger departed
without its recurrence. Her father was evidently so pleased and amused
by his new acquaintance, that (since his fears for James had subsided)
he had not passed the same length of time for many days with so much
apparent ease, and those evening hours, which she had so often found
melancholy from their loneliness, and painful from the useless sympathy
they awakened, were gone she knew not how.

The stranger had indeed not only entitled himself to be considered their
friend, by the prompt assistance and the continued kindness he had
extended to James, in procuring him the best surgical aid and witnessing
its application, but he claimed a species of old acquaintance with them
from having once been at the house of Miss Tintagell, where he saw Miss
Carysford, and thought her the most beautiful creature he had then ever
seen, but he added, in mentioning the circumstance, "she will have
forgotten me. Young ladies in the full bloom of eighteen, consider young
men of that age as mere boys, and I recollect that we were mentioned as
being exactly of the same age--since then I have been in various
climates, and seen some service."

Emma saw the truth of this assertion, in the deep brown which gave a
veteran air to the lower part of his face, but in the whiteness and
smoothness of his forehead, it was evident that he could not be more
than twenty-five--the circumstance reminded her however of a fact, which
accounted for a good deal of that which appeared hasty in Harriet's
decision and marriage, for if she were an admired belle seven years ago,
with her love of admiration it was natural that she should seek to
attract in a new character. She mentioned her sister as married, which
Mr. Melville considered as a thing of course: he informed them, with
marks of great sensibility in his manner of unfolding the
circumstances, that he was now at Lisbon, as joint attendant, with an
uncle who had been to him a parent, upon a dear and very amiable cousin,
who was an only child, and in whose welfare that of the parent was
naturally involved.

There was in this gentleman a singular and happy intermixture of that
frankness which distinguishes sea-faring men, that elegance we expect in
an officer, and the fine taste which belongs to the scholar and the man
of research. In consequence of this characteristic, he found himself
most happy in the society of Mr. Carysford, whose refined taste and
abundant information, promised to supply the many wants of an ardent
mind, prevented by duties and circumstances from supplying its own
demands for knowledge. But with this desire of profiting from the
fountain before him, there was blended such an intimate knowledge of the
weakness of the speaker, such a tender and almost feminine care of the
invalid, as to touch the heart of Emma with the most lively gratitude.
It soon indeed became evident to them both, that Mr. Melville had
trained himself to be the companion of a sick man's hours, that he
spoke more at some times than was customary or agreeable to him, in
order to obviate the pain of silence, or the necessity of breaking it to
the sufferer, and that at others he could, without ennui or awkwardness,
observe for a long period the most perfect stillness. The milder and the
stronger elements were indeed so combined in him as to "give the world
assurance of a man," formed by nature and education in the happiest
temperament.

It may be supposed that he came again, and again, under the present
circumstances of the family; more especially as he for some time sought
to bring those offenders to justice, whose mal-treatment of James so
well merited cognizance.

In this pursuit he did not proceed, for finding that either no
punishment would be exacted, or one which included death by torture, the
bare idea of which was alike abhorrent to the sufferer, and his
champion, all prosecution was dropped.

In the course of the discussions which arose out of this subject, Mr.
Melville discovered not only the kind intentions which spring from an
amiable, considerate disposition, but the principles which arise from a
firm conviction in the truths of christianity, a sincere love for its
laws, as divulged in the religion of his country, and that unshrinking
profession of it, which was the result of a manly spirit and a well
informed mind. Yet whilst reasoning or enquiring from his revered friend
on subjects where he was necessarily still a pupil, nothing could exceed
the teachableness of mind he evinced, or the pleasure with which he
hailed the knowledge which cleared a dubious point, and braced the
sinews of feeble conviction; and often would he leave them with that
grateful sparkling of the eye, that cordial yet lingering grasp of the
hand, which at once denoted how hard it was to quit them, yet how
sensible he was, that he departed mentally enriched and refreshed.

The wound in James's back, which had been the principal cause of alarm,
healed sooner than could have been expected, but that in his leg
threatened incurable lameness, and the poor man suffered much in his
general health, from the grief of knowing himself a burden to that
beloved master and idolized mistress, who now so much needed his
services. Every time that master visited his couch, the ravages of
disease were more perceptible, and often would the eyes of James fill
with tears as Emma approached to enquire "how he had rested," from his
knowledge of the excessive fatigue she was enduring, and which no person
but himself could partake with her. The great heats, which now became
general, prevented Mr. Melville from giving them much time, as they
understood him that his cousin was rendered worse by them, and that his
uncle Sir Grindley Melville, from anxiety and the languor consequent on
the climate, was also very unwell. This great source of amusement and
consolation failing them, again Emma's powers were taxed to the utmost,
at a time when the daily uneasiness she experienced on pecuniary matters
was greatly augmented from increased delay, added to which her expenses
were doubled by the illness of James.

Yet there was a certain consolation in the belief, that if only for a
few minutes, yet the evening would not pass without seeing their friend;
and that although his intelligent countenance might tell them on his
entrance how much he was suffering from sorrow and apprehension, yet in
their society he too would taste of that solace he bestowed, and in the
intercourse of friendship find the reward of kindness. Mr. Carysford was
now evidently growing every day so weak that to all save Emma he
appeared on the very verge of existence; but she still felt as all
others do, who watch the progress of that insidious and flattering
disease--she could not believe that a being in which the fire of
intellect still burned so brightly, in whom devotion was so ardent,
affection to every human connection so active, could be on the brink of
dissolution; she saw all his weakness, she was aware of all his
symptoms, nor was it the first time in which she had tended the bed of
slow disease and eventual death, but the young heart refuses to admit
the reality of that which it dreads. A thousand visionary hopes, and
miraculous interpositions, float in the fancy to cheat us from that
contemplation of sorrow which would unfit us for the duty to which we
devote ourselves under such circumstances, and doubtless it is a
merciful disposition in our nature, that woman, a creature equally
tender and imaginative, yet constantly called to witness the most
painful scenes, and encounter the severest trials, should find "her
strength made perfect in her weakness," and her power of cheering and
sustaining man, arise from her blindness to the future, her power of
nursing hope in despite of probability, and assuming smiles when her
heart is wrung by sorrows.

Yet there were times when Emma could not deceive herself, when she felt
that she must be soon an orphan, was conscious also that she should be
left in a strange land, without friends or money; but this was of less
consideration than another point continually pressing on her mind;
"should her father die without making due provision on that point, his
valuable living would be lost to Charles, and in all probability be the
means of entirely overturning his prospects of future life." She was the
more anxious on this point, because as they had received no letters from
her eldest sister since her marriage, which argued most blameable
neglect, her mind was led to consider her future happiness as
immediately linked with a brother, always especially dear, but of late
more so than ever, on account of his penitence, affection, and good
conduct. With all her father's excellent qualities he was not a man of
business, though a man of the most strict integrity and upright
intention. Every day, every hour, so far as his weak state admitted, it
might be said that he was preparing for his great change, yet so unequal
did he evidently feel to parting with his children, that very seldom
could he trust himself to advert to it. "Could she, his child, dare to
infringe on the sacred silence it was his wish to preserve? could she by
any act or word tear away the veil in which the pious aspirations or the
profound sensibility of his nature was now enshrouded?"

Again the packet arrived, but it contained only a letter from Sophia, in
which was an enclosure of fifty pounds; considered as a remittance, such
a trifle was rather a mockery than a relief: but it appeared in a very
different point of view, as Emma proceeded with the letter, for it
proved to be simply a present, made by one sister to another, in
consideration of her increased expenses, thereby denoting that, for the
first time, Sophia had given due consideration to worldly affairs and to
family affection. On proceeding, she learnt with great surprise that
her brother had received such pressing letters from Miss Tintagell, to
join her at Nice, and proceed with her and Lord Alfreton to Italy, that
he had set out for that purpose; which he was the more inclined to do
both because Sir Marmaduke Lyster advised it, and that it would be in
his power to join them at Lisbon, as he trusted, before winter, for "to
tell you the truth," she added, "he never has ceased to lament the
circumstance which prevented his accompanying you."

A postscript mentioned the having just received a letter from Emma, in
which she complained of Charles. "You will of course," added Sophia,
"have received the letters of credit that my sister Wilmington had for
you, before this time, and what I have told you accounts for the rest."

This letter was put into Emma's hands by Mr. Melville, who, knowing her
extreme anxiety to hear from England, had procured the letters from the
pacquet; perceiving the air of deep disappointment and alarm with which
she regarded the inclosed check, he instantly conceived that want of
money was amongst the evils pressing upon her mind, and began anxiously
to cast about in his own the possibility of relieving it.

"I hope all your friends are well, Miss Carysford, my old acquaintance
amongst the rest?"

"She is so, I hope; but I have no letters from her, and have a right to
complain of negligence either from her or her husband."

A slight blush rose on Emma's cheek as she pronounced the last words,
which Melville placed to the account of anger, and so fully was he
persuaded that Captain Wilmington had done exceedingly wrong, before he
could have awakened such an indication of offence from a mind so gentle
and regulated as hers, that his own warm though excellent temper became
indignant, and he exclaimed,

"Neglect you! if he neglects _you_, he has not merited the honour of
marrying your sister--it is well for both him and me that the sea is
between us."

"Perhaps I am wrong, but--I have suffered so much of late in various
ways, that perhaps I do not judge fairly--you shall fight no battles for
me, Mr. Melville."

"Your father calls me Charles, and he says it is pleasant to him when
you do so."

"Well then, _Charles_," said Emma, offering her hand, as if to soothe
the momentary petulance of a heart she had known long enough to
understand and honour, almost to _love_.

Melville seized on that fair hand with the same fond avidity with which
he often gazed on her countenance, and listened to her words; he even
half raised it to his lips, but as suddenly relinquished it, and Emma
felt at that moment as if all the kindly emotions of her nature were
relinquished also; it was with the utmost difficulty that she concealed
the sense of desolation and renunciation which seemed suddenly to seize
upon her.

Both were for a short time silent, but Melville, as by a violent effort,
compelled himself to speak, and the tones of his voice, the deep
interest it was evident he still took in her, the touching respect and
even tender affection of his looks, restored her mind to the calm,
though pensive tone he had disturbed--he spoke with great perturbation,
and with his eyes bent towards the door by which it was probable Mr.
Carysford would soon enter.

"If, then, I _am_ Charles--if I am honoured with being as much a brother
to you as a son to your revered father, (who may indeed claim me for one
in the _highest_, in the scriptural, sense of the word,) surely there is
not any thing in my power to do for you, Emma, that you will deny
me--can I not supply the neglect to which you allude? are you sure that
I cannot be of use to you in some way of business?"

"You are very kind, but I have so many things--"

As Emma spoke, the tears long gathering fell from her eyes freely--could
she have looked up, she would have seen that those eyes so fondly bent
upon her were also full of tears.

"I know all you are feeling and fearing from that one great cause which
I can sympathize in; but have you any lesser anxiety? your father's
affairs are all settled?"

"I know not, I fear that his living--Oh! I know not what I would
say--surely I shall take him back."

"My dear Miss Carysford, why did you not speak to me sooner? I could
have told you, for I knew two months since, that every thing necessary
for your brother's safety was settled through the medium of a Mr. Evans,
but beyond this I know nothing. This is not a time for unnecessary
delicacies."

"Oh, thank you, thank you! that is all I wanted to know, all I desired
on such points; I ought not to have doubted my father; I ought not to
sink in this way."

"But this is not _all_; you must want money, for you have never sent me
to the banker's; and I will not wrong your confidence in me so far as to
believe you would employ another--there is a coincidence in our
situation and our feelings, that should compel you to make a friend of
me, a brother."

Emma wiped her eyes, and ventured to gaze for a moment on that open,
honest countenance, which although at this time fraught with anxiety
amounting to impatience, and with agitation not devoid of reproach, yet
to her mind's eye exhibited all things most kind, and delicate, and
honourable, and she hastily answered,

"You are right--I have no money left. I am quite certain it is not
Charles's fault. I fear that my letters are lost, or that my sister has
forgotten me, and--"

"And--so often as we have been together, you could not give me a line or
a word; oh! fie, fie, I have not merited this, Miss Carysford, for I
trust that though I have much of the frankness of a seaman about me, I
am not therefore deficient in _respect_, in--"

"To me you have been all goodness, but I dreaded betraying this to my
father, who, poor man, knows not how soon money goes; he is already hurt
at the silence of Harriet--but I hear him coming."

"'Tis all well," said Melville, his countenance brightening as he spoke,
"but we have only just escaped a most dreadful misfortune, for I am come
to announce--"

At this moment Mr. Carysford entered from the chamber adjoining, where
his private devotions had held him during the only time when by day and
night his daughter was not near him. He now stooped over the staff on
which he leaned, like a very aged man, his hair had changed from the
besprinkled grey to glossy white, and his contracted chest and hollow
cheeks bespoke that shrinking of the muscles, that withering of the
flesh, in which the beauty and the strength of man show like a fading
flower. But a stream of glory seemed to irradiate his eyes as he gazed
delightedly on the young pair before him, whose earnest conversation and
confused countenances (a confusion naturally arising from the subject)
undoubtedly conveyed to him a very different idea, for before he essayed
to offer the gladdened welcome which always sprung to his lips on sight
of Melville, he silently, but with uplifted hands, invoked a benediction
on them both, from that God with whom he had probably been already
interceding on their behalf.

After the usual enquiries had taken place, and the state of the
barometer had been discussed, Mr. Melville proceeded to say that a
removal long talked of was now determined upon on his uncle's part, and
since the dear invalid no longer objected, he believed they should set
sail for Madeira in a few days.

"Most sincerely do I hope the voyage may prove advantageous. I once
thought I should have liked to go thither myself, but that is out of the
question now--I am unequal to all exertion. Your cousin is young, and
though weak may be restored, but I--"

Mr. Carysford cast his eyes on Emma, and ceased to speak--his young
auditor, in evident perturbation, answered--

"Alas! Sir, ours is a much less hopeful case than yours; there are some
complaints in which youth puts the seal on disease--I confess I have no
hopes, no expectations--"

Mr. Melville rose from his seat overpowered by affecting recollections,
and more acutely awakened fears for the life of one to whom it was
evident he was bound by ties more strong than those of blood--that his
friendship was of the most ardent kind, that it began in the dawn of
life, had been strengthened by similarity of character, and reciprocity
of affection, they could have no doubt, since the few observations he
ever allowed himself to make uniformly proved it. Perhaps the excess of
his attachment and his sympathy was also the more evident to his present
auditors, from his generally saying very little on this subject. They
had each remarked that whilst he spoke much of his uncle, and deeply
sympathized with _his_ griefs, yet he seldom actually named his
cousin--this might be equally accounted for by the delicate attention
due to Mr. Carysford, as an invalid unequal to hearing his own
complaints descanted upon, and the incapacity the relater felt to touch
upon the situation of one held in such especial love and esteem.

Yet whatever might be the friendship felt for his cousin, the paternal
veneration in which his uncle was held, it was evident the bond which
drew Mr. Melville's affections to our father and daughter, was likewise
insuperably strong--his shortest visit still beheld him remain beyond
his first intention, and the pleasure which danced in his eyes even when
sympathetic drops lingered on the lids, at those times when he could sit
a few hours with them, bespoke a divided interest, a heart wedded to the
new friends not less than the old ones. That he never lost sight of them
for an hour, was evinced in the books, the music, or the news by which
he sought to beguile their tedious hours, the fruit and the
confectionary he so constantly brought, the extraordinary pains he took
for the recovery of their servant, and the search he made for others who
might supply his services. In all this, Mr. Carysford read very
naturally not only pity and general benevolence of character operating
with regard to himself, but the excitement given by a more warm and
tender sentiment for his daughter--a sentiment every way likely to be
awakened for one so young, so lovely, and singularly attractive by her
situation and the many virtues she displayed in it.

It would be folly to deny, that Emma herself (modest and unassuming as
she always was, and even distrustful of her own powers of attraction as
she had lately become) had an intuitive sense that the preference and
admiration she could not withhold from one so valuable and amiable, was
returned. For some time she had a kind of confidence in his friendship,
a sense of repose on his guardianship, which did not go beyond
ameliorating her solitude, and imparting the sensations natural to a
sister, or, as she considered them, of an Englishwoman in a foreign
land. When the entire love and esteem of her father for his young
countryman quickened her perception of his good qualities, and the many
conversations which developed his principles, his disposition, and his
information--then Emma found herself in Desdemona's situation, she
wished "that heaven had made her such a man." It was also evident at
some times that her father so wished, and in the extreme guilelessness
of his nature his thoughts were generally so apparent, that Emma at some
moments feared they might be read by Mr. Melville, at others she was led
to conclude that certain conversations had already passed between them,
which were only kept secret from her on account of the distressing
situation in which they were all placed--a situation in which it was
evident there must be no "marrying, nor giving in marriage."

That Mr. Melville was sometimes under a pressure of painful solicitude,
distinct from his grief for his cousin's illness, and his sympathy for
his uncle, she could not doubt from the vague answers she would
sometimes receive from him; but she was also sensible that from the
relief to sad thoughts he evidently gained in their society, it could
not be of a _very_ distressing nature. Sometimes she fancied he might
be, like herself, under pecuniary embarrassment; but this idea had
ground but a short time. The projected voyage to Madeira began next to
be talked of, and from her own feelings she judged that it was a very
painful subject of thought; and such was the flutter of spirits it
awakened, that for some days she avoided as much as possible remaining
in the room during the time of those visits now doubly dear and
important.

It was not difficult to effect this even by the visitant's desire--he
knew that her couch was now in the same apartment with her father's, who
complained how much he disturbed her, and would say, "now our dear
Charles is come, try to get a little sleep, Emma," a request constantly
seconded by him who had already perhaps scanned her with an alarmed or
pitying eye. Ah! how often has she retired speedily, to hide the
swellings of a heart ready to break!--how often has she thrown herself
on the couch, not to sleep, but to weep!

When circumstances forbade Mr. Melville to remain more than a single
hour, and the attentions of Emma were also more demanded, still would
the considerate father seek to render her a partaker in those benefits
bestowed by his presence. "My poor Emma languishes for want of air," he
would say, "take her, dear Charles, if but for ten minutes, into the
lemon tree-avenue."

There were many times when Emma declined this, from a dread that her
father's words should be misinterpreted; a fear that explanation might
take place, which was yet not always perhaps unmingled with a hope that
the certain something, which every day increased, would so far reveal
itself as to become a thing intelligible, however distant. These walks,
though taken under those circumstances most likely to bring such an
event to pass, always left Emma more in the dark than ever. There was a
garden behind the hotel, in which a fine fountain threw up ten thousand
sparkling drops, which cooled all the atmosphere around it; an
atmosphere impregnated by the odours of a thousand fragrant plants, and
the road to which was bordered by lemon trees now full of fruit. The
evening breeze, an hour after sunset, played sweetly in this lovely
spot, which was secluded from all observation, though so near the house
as to admit of a summons to Emma from the balcony of her father's
chamber--it was evident that tender things might be heard and answered,
tears might flow and blushes arise, unseen and unreproved; and hearts
burthened by many sources of uneasiness might here give and receive the
consolation of confidence and mutual support.

But rarely, from the moment on which Emma had thrown her veil around
her, did that voice, which was music to her ear and solace to her soul,
continue its power to soothe her, much less seek from her that
satisfaction it was surely possible she might give! No! that kind voice
which had been so long employed in reading, or speaking to the invalid,
was suddenly mute, that store of information, that ready communication
of circumstance or sentiment, was checked; yet it was evident that the
fountain was not dry, nor the will to be kind exhausted--evident also,
that consolation was required, that he who had exerted himself for
others was earnestly desiring pity, yet could not ask for it.

True, there were moments when the sweets of external nature seemed
suddenly to infuse themselves into the very spirits of two young persons
so calculated to feel, in their utmost extent, whatever could affect
their sensibility, and pour into their hearts that comfort for which
both looked on high. Moments in which silence was not restraint, and
sighs breathed more of gratitude for the temporary blessing experienced,
than grief for the constant affliction under which they laboured. They
tasted at once of happiness in that deep, but silent certainty of
loving, which creates a quiet repose in the heart predisposed by sorrow
to feel its own necessity for such support, more sweet and pure than
those under circumstances of felicity, perhaps, have ever tasted.
Sometimes Melville would stop a moment and look earnestly at Emma, and
she would half throw back her veil, cast her eyes timidly down, and seem
willing to listen, and able to listen calmly; but he spoke not, or only
adverted to the poetical beauty of all around them, the glorious arch of
heaven above them, and thence to the distant tinklings of the convent
bell, the vesper hymn floating on the perfumed breeze; and then bade her
suddenly good night.




  CHAP. X.


After the conversation we have related, it may be concluded that Emma
was speedily relieved from that perpetually harassing circumstance which
had so long distressed her; and, with his usual delicacy, Mr. Melville
made his uncle the medium of her convenience, in consequence of which,
several letters passed between her and that gentleman; but as his
residence was two miles distant, and his health much affected by his
uneasiness, she had not any personal interview.

At this time, Mr. Carysford frequently lamented that they had not any
other acquaintance who might, in a slight degree, repair the loss they
must so soon encounter, in the removal of the only English family they
knew, even by name; but Emma always entreated him with so much
earnestness not to lament it on her account, that he began to trust she
was not less capable of that firmness and fortitude her situation called
for, than that unbounded activity of kindness and consideration she had
so long evinced.

It had been for some time the custom of Emma to read those Prayers for
the Sick, with her father in the evenings, which he had formerly so
often read with other sufferers, and to which he could always listen
with a spirit of devotion, not the less fervent because those beautiful
forms of prayer were familiar to him, and of late James was enabled also
to creep into his beloved master's chamber on these occasions. Melville
was not only privileged to share their devotions, but if present he
frequently took the office of reader with the same holy vigilance that
he shared that of nurse, and seldom perhaps have "two or three been
gathered together," so distinct in age, character, and situation, whose
prayers ascended with more fervor, or whose faith was more pure and
stedfast--all felt that the sacred compact which bound them together was
on the point of dissolution in one sense, but that it was eternal in
another, and they embraced the power of once more worshipping together,
less as a duty than a privilege--a blessing to be seized with sacred
ardour, for who durst say it might be enjoyed again.

If such _had been_ the sentiments affecting the party, how much stronger
did they become at this period, when he who was the _one_ strong, the
_one_ powerful to act, to think, to sustain the rest--the one,
apparently sent, and certainly received, as a gift from God himself, was
called to fulfil more immediate obligations, and resumed when he was
most effectually become a "ministering angel" to their various
necessities. He was taken as it were when he was most needed, and when
perhaps a very little time longer might suffice for his cares--all this
James in his sorrow said, or wept very audibly; and scarcely could Emma
prevail on herself to remonstrate with the poor fellow, on the
expression of praise or sorrow which had an echo in her own heart, and
which he had certainly a stronger right to express than his master or
herself in one sense. He had however lived too long with that beloved
master, not to repress though he could not conquer the sorrow this
announced removal occasioned, and ashamed of betraying grief for his own
expected loss in Melville, he endeavoured to account for it by a better
cause than that of selfishness.

"Whenever the Captain goes, it will be all over with my poor master,
that's _all_ I think about--it is'nt that the sight on him does my heart
good, coming so free and kind-hearted to an old servant, nor it is'nt
his driving off the rapskallions that murdered me, like a brave soldier
as I shall always call him--no, no, what I fret about is altogether for
his worship."

Happily this trial, his last, and in the present state of his attenuated
frame and weakened mind, one of no little import, was met by the dying
christian, with that meek acquiescence, that unruffled harmony of
patience and temper, which well became the disciple of a crucified Lord.
Subduing every disposition to complain of untoward circumstances, to
express a single wish to retain him, though a sigh would arise when he
had observed the wind was favourable for their voyage, it was never
followed by one half-murmured complaint. With a heart naturally so
warmly attached and now closely tied to few objects only, with
sensibility so acute, and rendered now more exquisitely so from the
powers of the mind becoming enfeebled, no conduct could more fully
evince the grateful humility, the complete self-control, and the entire
annihilation of selfish feelings. Ah! how much more of the "spirit of
Christ" might be read in the hastily wiped tear, in the cheering tone of
Mr. Carysford, than in the boastings of many who would stigmatize him as
a stranger to its divine influence.

One morning, when after many farewells which had yet not proved the
last, and had therefore tended to convey the idea that "after all
perhaps the Melvilles would not go," Emma in reply to his enquiries
said, "the wind was favourable so far as there was any, but the weather
was dreadfully sultry."

"Then they will go this morning, I hope--the poor young man will be
better at sea--"

"He will," said Emma, but she could say no more, the "hope" would not be
uttered; it stuck, like the "amen" of the murderous Macbeth, in her
throat, but with far different sensations in its company.

"Well, well," said the good father, after a long pause, "_his will be
done_. I may say, Emma, with the Psalmist, 'very pleasant hast thou been
unto me,' my son Charles Melville--in truth, 'goodness and mercy' were
singularly manifested in lending us such a comforter: if God resume his
gifts, we must remember it is our duty

  'To praise him for all that is past,
  And trust him for all that's to come.'"

"I wish," said Emma, with difficulty, "poor James may be able to do so;
he really idolizes the Captain, (as he will call him,) and has borrowed
a pair of crutches, I find, and set out an hour ago to take one more
look of his deliverer--he is the most affectionate, the most attached
creature--there never was such a man, I am very certain."

Perhaps we have no right to look too closely into the recesses of that
sweet maiden's heart, as she thus used James in lawful service, nor to
inquire too curiously whether her last exclamation of praise, and the
gushing tears which accompanied it, were applicable to the man of whom
she _spoke_, or the man of whom she _thought_--it is enough to say,
that, although by no means pleased with the conduct of the wind that
morning, and willing also to hide tears which were mingled with blushes,
she turned towards the window from whence she had already seen distant
streamers often consulted of late; at the same moment, a well known tap
was heard at the door, and, in another moment, Melville once more
entered.

Mr. Carysford was laid upon a sofa near the balcony, with his back to
the door, and did not hear the low tremulous tap, now more faint than
ever, for it resembled the feelings of the visitant. He caught the
tear-covered visage of Emma, when he ventured to step forward, and
exclaimed,

"In tears, my dear Miss Carysford?"

"We thought you were gone."

This might be an exclamation already on the lips of Emma, occasioned by
seeing him--it might be an answer, and the quick blush, the quicker
drops that fell glistening down her cheeks, proved that, whether it were
or not, his supposed absence had occasioned the present emotion. For a
moment a look of joy, of gratitude, too great for utterance, rose on his
animated countenance; he took her hand, and seemed about to thank her
for this indication of an interest so _dear_, so _inestimable_, as he
evidently felt it: but it appeared that it was only to lead her towards
the couch, that she might announce him, as she was wont to do,--his
conduct was inexplicable, she thought it almost cruel, but she
recovered herself instantly by a strong effort.

"My dear Sir, your friend is come once more to see you."

"Ah! Charles again! my son! at least my son's best substitute, I had not
hoped for this pleasure."

As Mr. Carysford spoke, tears of delight swam in his too brilliant eyes;
he raised himself eagerly, but, notwithstanding the excitement he
experienced, fell back upon his pillow, and it was evident to Mr.
Melville, not only that his exhaustion was extreme, but that the thin,
trembling hands with which he sought to press those of his beloved
visitant, were more feverish than he had ever known them. He turned his
eyes to communicate the apprehensions he felt to Emma, but her looks
were averted, nor could he desire they should be otherways, and he
therefore began to speak in that hasty manner which was meant at once to
hide his emotions, and, if possible, subdue them.

"We have, you see, the wind in our favour, all our packages are on
board; but the day is so dreadfully sultry, some hours must pass
before--before my cousin can be removed; when the sun declines, we
shall venture. I have got all things in readiness, and as James has, I
find, played the truant so far as to come down to us, and Sir Grindley
Melville is delighted with him, he desired leave to keep him till we had
set sail."

"By all means; Emma, my love, you can spare him, indeed the poor man can
do nothing for us you know?"

"Nothing," said Emma.

"My dear Sir, in making this request, I merely acquitted myself of a
promise; you are very unwell to-day, James _ought_ to be with you, I had
much rather he were: are you certain I can be of no further use to you?"

"Oh no, you have sent me stores for a magazine of invalids; you can do
nothing for me save sitting down beside Emmy and allowing me to look at
you a _little_ longer."

The thick and altered voice of the invalid thrilled the heart of
Melville, but it was evident that Emma did not perceive it--evident that
she felt to a certain degree surprised and offended, yet not resentful,
that the remembrance that this was their last meeting, quenched the fire
of anger though it could not allay its pain. To say how severe the
pangs of his heart were for having raised such discordant feelings in
that kind and gentle bosom is impossible, and if Emma had cast her eyes
upon him, his ingenuous countenance would (in despite of even the
efforts of his manly mind) have shown her how terrible a struggle was
passing there. As it was, the daughter sat near him and saw him not, the
father never ceased to gaze upon him, thereby increasing his distress,
yet somewhat changing its object.

The entrance of a servant with the patient's broth, broke up the
mournful and silent company. Melville once more pressed the hand which
would never more return that pressure, and the drops which fell on it so
far softened Emma's heart, that hers too was yielded once more to the
farewell kiss.--

All was still silent--Melville was now gone--the hoofs of his mule's
last pattering had ceased, and Emma enquired "why she had been deceived
in the first place, or angry in the second,--why she had been so
agitated at all,"--she was ashamed, angry with herself, but her tears
again flowed.

"Emma, I cannot take this broth to day--remove it." Emma obeyed, and on
casting her eyes over that emaciated form, wondered how she could for a
moment think on any other subject, she hastily wiped her eyes, and
blamed herself "for being childish and nervous."

"You are neither, dear Emma, for you have that quiet fortitude, and
general equality of temper, which becomes you as a woman, and is
honourable to you as a christian--but it is natural that you should
lament a loss of so much importance to us both--would that your brother
were here, my love; I should be glad to see Charles, very, _very_ glad,
and my sister Tintagell too--poor Alathea! I love Alathea, she is a
noble minded creature."

"And Harriet and Sophia, father? you wish for them too, dear Sir?"

"I do--yet were they here I should soon send all away but you,
Emma--they would talk too much or too little; do too much or too little;
but you my child, are always right, you understand me, Emma. I can be
weak or strong with you, as the feeling of the moment prompts--never man
was so supported, so blest as I have been in you and Charles."

Emma enquired not "which Charles?" thought not which Charles, for the
altered voice now struck her as it had struck Melville, and her heart
sunk within her, and she sat in silence, waiting for she knew not what
of new trial.

After a considerable period, she perceived that her father had fallen
asleep, and even when she drew near and wiped his forehead he did not
awake, it was a more composing and general rest, than he had lately
experienced, and the more desirable on account of the extraordinary heat
of the day, which was such as to excite some alarming observations from
the servants of the house, as if it were the forerunner of earthquake.

As she sat watching the sleeper, she recollected them, in such a way as
if this were the first moment in which she had had time to think on
earthquakes; to remember that she was on the spot where that most
tremendous and appalling of all heaven's ministers of wrath had been
exhibited in its most destructive form, and that she might shortly
become its victim.

"I must conquer this fear before it has time to fasten on my mind,"
said Emma, "I must pray against it, read against it, I must caution the
servants not to speak in my father's presence."

She left the room on tiptoe for that purpose, and as she was universally
beloved as the best of daughters, and the most amiable of heretics,
easily obtained a promise "that the sick gentleman should not be
disturbed by any painful surmises," which promise included equal caution
as to James, who was well known to have no secrets with his master. On
returning, she had still the satisfaction to find her father continued
to sleep, and she even took her soup and omelette without disturbing
him. It was evident that he had less fever than he had had for some
months, nor could she recollect the day when he had coughed so little,
and slept so sweetly. "Was it possible that some internal change had
taken place on which hope might build? had the thickness of his voice,
the increased weakness of the morning, been occasioned by some breaking
of an inward ulcer, some of those changes of which she had heard and
read?"

Full of solicitude, eager to ascertain a fact which the buoyancy of
youthful expectation made half a certainty, even in despite of the sad
spectacle presented to her eyes, she knelt down by the sofa, and with
clasped hands and streaming eyes endeavoured to form a prayer for his
restoration--but hope, and self-deception, struggled in vain against the
sad conviction before her; and not words, but deep sighs burst from her
lips, and whilst she tried to utter, "not my will but thine be done,"
sleep fled, and her father's eyes were upon her.

"My Harriet! my beloved wife!" said Mr. Carysford, in a pleasant clear
voice.

Was this the wandering of delirium? or the lingering dream of the long
and salutary sleep he had enjoyed? and which could not fail to have been
restorative from the effect it had had upon his voice--the heart of Emma
throbbed violently with newly awakened hope; how willingly could she
again watch for months, and even years, over the couch of sickness, if
at last her father would recover--"and who could say he should not?
circumstances as extraordinary had happened."

"Dear Sir, you have had a long comfortable sleep, and are better for it
I trust--it is Emma, father, that speaks to you, your daughter."

"Yes! Emma, my good little girl--I thought she had received me in
Heaven, when my two sons, the dark and the fair Charles, bore me
thither--I fancy it was all a dream, I have been very fast asleep."

As Mr. Carysford spoke, he passed his hand over his forehead and became
very pale, and Emma saw his mind was slightly wandering, but she thought
that was not surprising, for he had been many hours without food or
medicine. The latter as a restorative, she instantly gave him, and in a
short time she had the satisfaction to see him take the former with more
zest than he had done some time; he said, "he was certainly better, but
sensible of great cold, and when Emma had laid a shawl over his feet, he
begged her to draw a seat close to him, and chafe his hands between
hers."

Emma sat down on a low seat, surprised how such a sensation could
possibly affect any person that day, but she fondly held those dear
wasted hands to her cheeks and her lips, and thought she should soon
warm them.

"Where is James? call him, my love."

"He is not yet returned from the Melvilles."

"I remember now, they were to depart at sunset; I should like to be
moved nearer to that side, and look at the setting sun myself, it is a
glorious sight."

Emma wheeled the sofa into the proper place.

"My love, you had better call old Barba, or Diego, I am very, very
chill. God support thee, my child: he will sustain thee as thou hast
sustained me."

Emma dropped almost unconsciously upon her knees; she still held her
father's hands, and was held by them; therefore she could not move
without inflicting disturbance at a moment so awful, so alarming--she
could not reply save by caresses, and her heart ascended in earnest
prayer for him to heaven.

"Tell my children--tell Charles, for them I have no new commandment--you
all know how I have loved you--say to our dear neighbours, to my
_beloved_ people, 'stand fast in the faith,'----'be not carried
away'----Poor James!--my child! Emma! my _poor_ girl!"

"Father, dear father, think not of me: your God will have mercy on me,
as on you."

As she spoke these words, she rose, and with a convulsive motion threw
her arms round her father, and drew him towards her: she saw his
features, his mouth indicated his wonted smile, and the words, "Glory be
to his name," seemed partly to meet her ear; but the last vestige of
life had left the body she grasped, and in another moment, the seal of
death was on the face also.

"All, _all_ is over!"

As these words issued from Emma's lips, she sank down by the couch with
her head on the breast of the corpse, but she did not faint, though a
sense of severe disappointment and awe, of surprise and grief, not
unmingled with gratitude to heaven, altogether overcame her with
feelings, which, in their excess, produced apparent stupor. The entrance
of Barba, at the accustomed hour with coffee, spread the news of Mr.
Carysford's death (and her consequent distress) through the house, and
one of the servants lost not a moment in setting out to seek James.

The voice of kindness, however, and by whomsoever uttered, in such a
moment as this, is valuable, whether its dictates are obeyed or not.
Emma did not refuse the advice of old Barba; she retired to her own
room, she sought "to commune with her own heart and be still," but the
perturbation would not cease, the effects of her past shock, and even
the almost supernatural effort she had made to meet it at the moment,
would not subside; and it will be naturally supposed that her sense of
bereavement was increased by the utter loneliness of her situation; the
want of even one human being who could understand her lamentations.

Hour after hour passed, and Emma continued with slowly falling foot to
traverse her chamber; the day was long closed, and she heard nothing of
James, whom she now desired yet dreaded to see. Conscious that she ought
to exert herself, and feeling that strange impatience to return to her
father, which many of us have felt also, and can be fully understood by
all who have waited long at the sick couch of a beloved relative, she
rang the bell to enquire. Barba answered it, said "the messenger had
seen James, and that he raved like a distracted man, abusing himself by
all sorts of names for leaving his master, but yet he had not returned
with him."

As the old woman spoke, she held her lamp as if to light Emma to her
father's bed-room; she followed her to the door, then took the lamp and
entered alone.

The corpse was laid on the bed he had so long occupied, the eyes were
closed, the jaws were bound, yet so mild, so sleeplike, it was scarcely
possible to think the last great change had passed over it. Emma kissed
the forehead, and her tears fell on the marble face--she wiped them
away, and was led by that action to remark the total want of that nicety
of arrangement in all things around, by which in her own country even
poverty beautifies death by the cares of affection.

Habitually neat to delicacy, and active in all the offices of love, she
could not forbear to supply these deficiencies, and on recollecting that
it was probable they had been neglected under the idea that as the
corpse of an heretical priest, the precious dust before her was unworthy
"due observances," her oppressed spirit rose to the affecting task, and
she determined not to quit her father's corpse till she had laid it in
the _last_ receptacle, paid it the _last_ honours.

It is the happy condition of our nature, that all personal exertion
lessens mental grief, and subdues the turmoil of passion--Emma was faint
and weak, lowly and sorrowful, yet she found a power of arranging this
bed of death like that of her mother (as far as she was able) to a
certain degree recall her scattered spirits, and lead her to see how
much the hand of mercy had attempered this awful consummation to both
him who departed and her who was left.

It was now midnight, all without was silent as that breathless form
before her--no longer the short cough, the whispered request broke on
her ear; the kind words, the thankful smile no longer soothed whilst
they wrung her heart; her "occupation" was indeed gone, and all around
her was cold, cheerless, isolated, and friendless: the one countenance
she could have gazed at with pleasure, the one voice she could have
listened to with comfort, was taken from her as effectually, "perhaps as
eternally as her father--but we shall meet in heaven, why did I say
eternally?" thought Emma.

At this moment she became aware that steps were near the door,
whisperings were heard, and deep sighs; soon afterwards, a loud burst of
irrepressible sorrow announced the return of poor James, and at the same
time it was plain that his steps turned from the door as if he were
unable to meet her.

Emma instantly conceived, and pitied the sorrow, and the self-reproach,
this honest affectionate servant could not fail to endure from the
peculiar circumstances in which he stood. She rose from her own little
couch, and opening the door, cast her eyes down the gallery, which was
only lighted by the ray from that lamp within her chamber--a man was
standing very near.

"James," said Emma in a mournful but kind tone, "James, are you come?"

"It is not James," replied a voice which thrilled to her heart though it
answered in a low inarticulate manner.

Emma started back into the chamber half terrified, but she was followed
by Melville, who eagerly told her "that James, on hearing of his
master's death, and having the vessel still before his eyes into which
they had removed but half an hour before, had procured a boat, followed
them, and caused him to return--he thought," added he, "poor fellow,
that I should be a ----"

Most probably Melville meant to say, "a comfort," but his eyes at this
moment turned upon the bed, where lay the pale remains of him whom he
had so long loved as a friend, and revered as a saint, to whom he had
(as an orphan from infancy) wished to believe that he could indulge the
feelings which belonged to the tenderness due to a mother, and the
honour claimed by a father--the lips were now sealed for ever in the
coldness of death, which, that very morning, had so warmly blessed him;
never more would the instruction which had assisted, the information
which had delighted him, proceed from them again.

Melville gazed and wept, and for some moments the evident agony of his
heart shook his manly frame with convulsive agitation; but the sigh of
Emma caught his ear, the sigh of her who had suffered so long, whose
loss, and, consequently, whose affliction, was so much greater than his
own could possibly be.

"Pardon me," he stammered out at length, "I would not--God knows I would
not add to your troubles--but he was so kind to me! so dear to me!
so--"

"You were indeed much beloved by him, he spoke of you almost the last
thing--called you his son."

"And you were alone they say, Emma with him at that moment? Charles had
deserted you; he did not merit to be so remembered."

"You could not help it; your duties called you from us: you have done
all you could, Melville."

"Ah! Emma, dear, _dear_ Emma, how truly do you say I have done all I
_could_. Alas! that _all_ was of a nature I cannot now explain. But I
can do no more. I cannot see you thus, a sufferer in a strange country,
alone, pale, sick, perhaps dying also----I cannot see this without
devoting myself to you wholly, without offering you the most ardent
affection, admiration, that heart can feel, that----and yet, what can I
do? _other_ sufferers claim me, I am loved so tenderly--leaned upon so
helplessly--I am to the dying what you have been to the dead; think for
me, Emma, speak for me, what must I do?"

This was declaration; it was _acknowledged_ love; and though offered in
a season when happy love would have been profanation to the sacred
claims of sorrow, it could not be refused on that account, for it was
offered with the tone and gesture of a heart torn with anguish and
alarm--offered--ah, no! that could not be called an offer which was
instantly retracted; which was rather thrown before her in the confusion
of weakness, as that which ought to be refused, than presented, in the
confidence of honour and affection, claiming acceptance and reciprocal
attachment.

Yet under any possible circumstances it is certain the assurance of
being _beloved_ by one so dear, so justly and entirely esteemed, was
sweetly consolatory to the heart of Emma--hers was a gentle, modest,
self-subdued, yet generous and lofty spirit; she sought to control, and
she did control and moderate, every violent desire and wayward
inclination; but yet she was a young, tender-hearted woman, bowed down
by the most natural grief, and touched with the most lively admiration,
the most ardent friendship. It was dear and grateful to her heart to see
the veil stripped, though but for a moment, which revealed to her how
deeply seated, how vividly displayed, was that passion which till now
was never permitted to own its existence. The sense of comfort, of
peace, which was thus given to her mind, enabled her, notwithstanding
the profound sympathy which the complicated sorrows of Melville
inspired, to soothe the agonies of his mind, and confirm him in the path
of duty, and, judging of his feelings by her own, she did this most
effectually by assuring him, "that, though weak with sorrow and fatigue,
yet she was not otherwise ill--that her awful, but most endeared task
being over, she should return to her country with the mournful
satisfaction of knowing that she had done her best to smooth the pillow
of suffering, and that she had enjoyed in _him_ a friend, a brother, a
something more than either--"

"You will not say _lover_, Emma--'tis well, for I _cannot_ ask you; but
surely at this awful moment, heart speaks to heart, and the blessed
spirit which has so lately forsaken that venerated clay registers the
communion--you will not deny me the consolation of believing this?"

"No, dear Charles, I will not."

"Ten thousand blessings be on you for those words, they will give me the
power to do my duty, my _duty_! can it be right to leave
_you_?--impossible."

"Unquestionably it is, have you not told us that your uncle was your
parent? is not your cousin, brother, sister, sole relative and friend to
you? you _must_ go, you must fulfil all your own sense of love and
obligation."

"Then it must be this moment, if I listen to you, if I look at you
again, Emma, I am lost--I have a thousand things to say, to _confess_;
but this is not the time, there never has been a time."

The heavy steps and crutch of poor James was heard in the gallery.

"My time is gone, but the boat shall wait, we shall but lose one tide,
and I must provide you a _friend_--that at least _is_ in my power."

For a moment Melville caught her in his arms, each threw their eyes on
the corpse, for they could not look on each other, thick suffocating
sobs rose from either breast, and tears streamed from their eyes--'twas
but till James tapped at the door, and then Emma found herself dismissed
with a heavy groan from the arms which had enfolded her, she was seated
on a chair, the door was closed, the feet departed with
rapidly-descending steps, and all was again silent and deserted; it was
again the chamber of death.

The people of the house, considering that the stranger might have
certain rites to perform agreeable to her own religion, or believing her
perhaps too devoid of any to be an object of interest, suffered her to
remain undisturbed; and as James had again departed, being advised,
almost commanded, "not yet to intrude upon her," she remained alone the
rest of the night--sometimes in tears, sometimes in prayer, endeavouring
to subdue her emotions, and tranquillize the strange confusion of her
thoughts, which on reflection seemed to forbid her to repose on the love
of one whose words were mysterious, though his countenance was open and
his nature frank.

At length, nature exhausted by long suffering sunk unexpectedly into
that uneasy slumber, which a frame unequal to further endurance found
even on that seat which was close by the bed of her father.




  CHAP. XI.


Day was risen, and the world was abroad, before poor Emma's head was so
far raised from the wall against which she leaned, as to be sensible of
her situation. When she did look up, James stood before her, and old
Barba was near him, but as she cast her eyes towards the bed and
recollected all that had occurred, she became fearful that she had not
fulfilled her watch, and eagerly rose to see that the treasure was safe.

Her own cambric handkerchief was on the face, for James had thrown it
there; as she removed it she trembled violently, for the first time an
undefined, but secret fear pervaded her heart.

The altered hue told her that her fears, her sensations had cause; and
the earnest entreaty of James that she would leave the chamber was
faintly parried, until it appeared evident that the poor man conceived
himself to be under her displeasure; she could not remove this weight
upon his mind without acceding to his wish, and she was too generous to
continue it; she also felt that she had duties to perform, that she was
called to think and act, and that therefore she must take refreshment,
and see her fellow-creatures on business of the most urgent nature.

But when Emma held herself prepared for this, she was informed, "that
all was kindly arranged, that the funeral which could not be delayed
beyond evening, was already in preparation, that the banker of Mr.
Melville had taken charge of every thing, and would engage two English
gentlemen to attend their countryman's funeral, either as mourners or
supporters to her if she wished to attend."

"I will see him laid in the dust," said Emma, "it is the last duty I can
show my father."

"Yet you can surely trust me, Miss Emma? it will be too much for you--it
will indeed."

Emma shook her head in unbelief. "I shall be sustained through it, I
trust--I have borne much more."

In the hour of evening, about the same period when his pure spirit
departed to his God, the necessary attendants arrived, and they
proceeded to the English burying-ground. It is well known as a spot
singularly adapted for the purpose, being shaded by dark cypress trees,
which cast their long mournful shadows over the graves of many young,
beautiful, and wealthy from our native shores; and such was its
affecting influence on the mind of Emma, that she never visited it but
once, when she had accompanied Melville thither, whilst her father sat
by the sick bed of James. The funeral was performed by a young clergyman
apparently in delicate health himself; and that sublime and affecting
service which she had so often heard read by the deceased, under such
circumstances, was almost overwhelming. She clung to the arm of her
unknown and unseen countryman, for her veil was closely wrapt around
her, and for a short time feared that she should faint.

This stranger was evidently a man of much sympathy, his own sighs
responded to hers, and his aspirations were fervent--she was persuaded
he was the father of a family; probably had himself laid a blooming
daughter or a promising son in that cemetery; but of him, or for him,
Emma could not think at such a time, further than to be grateful for his
tender attention and paternal care.

The last look was taken, the crumbling mould fell hard and dry on the
coffin, and scarcely could the shaking limbs of Emma support her through
the avenue which led to the carriage. Another gentleman now took her
hand, placed his arm round her, and supported her, and when she entered
the coach, followed her into it; but the person on whom she had hitherto
leaned stepped into another carriage, and drove away in a manner which
betokened great haste. Surely the vessel which she knew had been hired
by Sir Geoffrey was still in the river detained for this purpose--the
farewell pressure of that friendly hand, told her that it was, it could
be no other than Melville, who had shared her awful situation.

The gentleman now in the carriage after some pause addressed her with
much courtesy, and pressed upon her an invitation to the Banker's house,
from whom she had received so many marks of valuable attention; and
being persuaded that her privacy would be for the present sacred, and
that it was a most respectable home, she thankfully accepted the offer,
sensible of the goodness of Providence in so tempering her sorrow, and
securing assistance in the very hour when she seemed bereft of all. She
was sensible of great personal weakness, and remembering how much she
had suffered during her first voyage, thought that if even it had been
possible for her to embark immediately, she ought not to
venture--besides, "there was in her own country, at this time, no one
person so attractive as even the grave of her father appeared in her
eyes. She had no home: no brother to receive and supply to her a
father's protection; no aunt to give her a mother's countenance. Her
eldest sister's marriage had taken her in a twofold sense from her
family, as her silence implied, and Sophia--"

Emma stayed the sad current of her meditations as her younger sister
passed in review before her. She recollected the unfeigned sorrow that
sister had manifested towards her father, the kindness and modesty of
her late letters, as contrasted with her former spiritual pride and
assumption--her extreme youth and the influence which had wrought upon
her that partial alienation from her family which was respectable even
in its error, in so far as it was sincere, and awakened by the most
awful subject of anxiety which can affect the mind. She felt that Sophia
had a claim upon her tenderness, her counsel, her forbearance for the
future, her forgetfulness of the past; she hoped that the time might yet
come when they should "take sweet counsel together, and walk in the
house of God," and in the world also, "as friends" and sisters. As it
was but too probable that the death of her father might cause Sophia to
revert more decidedly than ever to her former associates in the
enthusiasm that affecting event would stimulate, Emma determined only
with the more affectionate moderation to guide her by degrees into a
safer and wiser path--to use the increased light she had herself gained
in this eventful period from her father's conversations; for the purpose
of strengthening the understanding and tranquillizing the conscience of
that beloved child, whom she well knew "lay heavy at his heart," almost
till its last pulsation.

The family of Don Chicolo di Albareda, omitted no act of true
politeness, and sympathy towards their guest whom they considered the
relation of the Melvilles. Emma had been there only three days, when
from the arrival of various mails she became all at once as much
incommoded with an abundance of letters, as she had of late felt herself
neglected by their absence. That of Harriet claimed her first attention,
because she hoped to find in it reason for long silence, and also
inclosures which would be far more welcome than further trespass on her
friends.

Considering Harriet as so newly married, Emma was struck by the
multitude of her complaints, but she soon found that her trouble in
going to Ireland, her hatred of that place on her arrival, her
difficulty in effecting a return, and finally, her dislike and dread of
her great Indian uncle, who arrived by the spring ships, were all
intended as apologies for silence, which she knew to be _inexcusable_,
and for conduct she felt to be so _unjust_, that every possible
palliative had need to be pressed into her service. The letter contained
the sum of one out of two hundred pounds, which Charles had commissioned
her to send four months before, and which from his own letter it
appeared he expected would accompany a third, which was then due from
her husband to Emma for interest.

"I know," said Harriet, "you are so very prudent, my dear Emma, and
things (I have understood) are so very cheap at Lisbon, that I hope the
_little_ delay, or the circumstance of my _borrowing_ a hundred pounds,
will not signify; you must be aware how dreadfully I have been troubled
for want of money for our double journies, and the necessity I was under
of appearing like a bride, when we joined Wilmington's regiment in
Dublin, where the women are, generally speaking, very handsome, and
dress elegantly, and where I was expected to be fashionable.

"Apropos, pray where have you left those papers. I mean the title-deeds
of those few miserable acres which old Fountain dignified with the title
of "a paternal estate," and which he talks of beautifying, building
upon, and what not. Frank says that his mother believes he will purchase
the estate, and should he find out the circumstance of the mortgage, he
will be enrag with all the heat of Calcutta, so pray tell me where I
can get the papers. It strikes me that you left them with Charles, and
that he gave them with other matters of the same description to Sophia,
but the little demure minx will not confess, nor allow me to look into
the strong box--never surely was there such a piece of pertinacity; in
other respects she is better, for during her illness the new curate
attended her, and I apprehend reconverted her; I have a great notion
there is something more than meets the eye between them. I hope you will
be at home soon, and set all of us to rights; my father ought to
interfere as Sophia is under age."

"What would have become of me at this moment," said Emma to herself, "if
we had not met with Melville? ah! how cruelly selfish does extravagance
make us, whilst Harriet could literally rob both Charles and me, at a
time when the comforts, the very life of a sick father were affected by
the circumstance, in order to deck her own person, to cut a figure among
people for whom she could have no regard--fie on it. Sophia, dear
Sophia, there is little comparison between your faults and those of your
elder sister. Harriet will ruin her husband."

In a long letter from Mrs. Wilmington, all her fears on this head were
confirmed. She learnt also that Mr. Fountain was angry with his nephew
for marrying a woman with so small a fortune as Miss Carysford, he
having set his heart it appeared on uniting him to Miss Mortimer, whose
early predilection for the army he was well acquainted with, and whose
residence in the same village with his friends would have given him a
decided advantage: "_not_," added the writer, "but my brother is
reasonable, and was glad to find your sister was Miss Tintagell's
favourite; but since then we have learnt that her rich aunt is as little
pleased with the match as my brother, so you see, my dear Miss Emma, we
are all in the wrong, and sincerely do I wish that you and our dear
revered friend were here, for you only have influence over my son and
daughter."

In the evident anxiety of this excellent mother, she had reserved to a
postscript the extraordinary information, that the inhabitants of the
Park were all gone to the continent; but the letters of Charles (two of
which though written at different periods were now delivered together)
gave her the further information as to their route and present
situation, likely to interest her. She found that Lord Alfreton's loss
of health arose from a wound received in a duel, which had entailed not
less weakness of body, than remorse of mind, which his aunt kindly
sought to ameliorate by introducing to him a relation whose education
fitted him to offer that consolation which could alone be considered
adequate to the end: "Alas!" said Charles, "I am very young, Emma, and
very unequal to the task. What would I give that my dear father had come
to Italy, instead of going to Lisbon, that I might receive from his lips
the instructions I desire to convey, that I might exemplify in his
character the excellence of those doctrines I wish to inculcate--every
day I desire to set out to you, but this I cannot now do, for my aunt is
so fully persuaded that you will leave Lisbon in consequence of the
heats of June, that she is arranging her own departure in the hope of
finding you at home. God grant she may."

Those only who have been similarly situated can conceive what those
harrowing sensations were, which such sentences as referred to her
father as _living_, awoke in the breast of his daughter. All spoke of
him with that moving tenderness which extended its thrilling influence
to her own heart, and the remembrance that she was called upon to
extinguish _their_ hopes, to awaken _their_ sorrows, to live again
through scenes she trembled to recall, or, by using the hand of another,
add anxiety on her own account, to grief for the loss of her father, for
some time appalled her with new distress. It led her notwithstanding to
remember with gratitude from how much affliction of a similar nature she
had been spared--that source of sweetly treasured satisfaction, which
arose from the love of Melville, soothed and to a certain degree
invigorated her spirits for the terrible task which still remained to
her, of announcing the death of one who must be lamented, as he had been
beloved.

We cannot pursue the detail of those feelings with which this sad duty
was fulfilled, but we may assert that they were struggled with, that
Emma did not indulge that sensibility which, while it injured her
health, would have delayed her return, and thrown her a painful burden
upon the time and attention of commiserating strangers. Nor was it till
she had recovered her strength, and by faith and hope attained
resignation and equanimity, that she fulfilled the fond but melancholy
desire she had long felt of visiting her father's grave, and the room in
which he died--none of our younger readers will suppose that she
omitted to retread the walk which lead to the fountain, that she sought
to inhale the soft perfume from the lemon trees, but all should know
that although she entered it, yet she wisely and resolutely abandoned
her design, sensible that she had already endured an excitement to which
she was unequal.

This was the last day of her stay in Lisbon, and at an early hour she
was summoned to the vessel, which conveyed her to the packet. She left
friends in all who had witnessed her ceaseless vigilance of affection,
her tender submission in affliction, the uprightness and punctuality
with which she discharged her obligations of business, and the active
goodness and charitable attention she evinced towards all her
fellow-creatures. Parting is rarely unaccompanied by sorrow, and the
kindness of those around her, the memory of that precious dust she left
with them, rendered her last adieus necessarily affecting; but Emma was
surprised to see this emotion partaken by James also, who continued to
wave his hat with a sorrowful oft reiterated farewell, so long as the
servants of Don Chicolo and Diego, from the hotel, were visible on the
quay.

When they were safely on board, Emma fearful of sickness remained some
time on deck, and the beauty and magnificence of all around her allayed
the sad remembrances which necessarily crowded on her mind, and diffused
over it that solace which a widely extended view of nature, in that
still hour of morning when creation itself seems reposing, is calculated
to produce. So long as she could, she continued to gaze on that spot
most endeared to her as the grave of her father; but she soon lost sight
of it, and by degrees the magnificent looking city, with its tall white
buildings, which had lately risen proudly from the river side as a vast
crescent, adorned by churches, convents, and palaces, bordered by a
noble river, on the broad bosom of which were seen vessels of every
nation, now grew less and less, as the stream widened, and the shore
receded, and at length its white walls ceased to sparkle in the
sun-beams--the day advanced, but the city was lost.

"Poor old Lisbon, I shall see thee no more," said James, with a deep
sigh.

The words were uttered in soliloquy, but the sigh that followed them was
so profound, (meant probably to be the parting groan of regret,) that
Emma could not forbear to notice it.

"I am surprised _you_ are so sorry, James, to leave Lisbon."

"Why I'm not right sorry, Miss Emma, but only it makes one feel
sorrowful somehow to see the last of an old enemy, and remember all that
I remember. Lisbon has made me a cripple, it has drawn more blood than I
had to spare, and it has taken that which I loved better than my own
flesh and blood--but _he_ said we must all forget and forgive; so I say,
God bless Lisbon after all; there are many good folks in it, and many
more out of it."

The thoughts of those "out of it," to whom James unquestionably alluded,
rushed with all their claims to kind and grateful remembrance on Emma's
mind--she was now borne on the wave where, "within a little month," he
also had sailed with a heart swelling with her sorrows, an eye that swam
in tears as it gazed through the space hers now tried to penetrate. In a
short time, alas! she should be separated from him still farther than
now, and when she should again hear from him or behold him, she knew
not. As these thoughts passed her mind, several times she was on the
point of speaking to James on the subject of the embarkation of the
Melville family, in which he had assisted, purely for the pleasure (we
may suppose) of hearing that dear name mentioned which was music to her
ear, and which was dwelt upon by her honest old servant with all that
zealous praise, awakened equally by personal gratitude and warm
admiration--but with this desire was blended that trembling reserve
peculiar to timid passion, and in another moment Emma almost felt afraid
that James should mention the subject, lest even he should read what was
passing in her heart.

"I hope you are not beginning to be ill, Ma'am?"

"I am not, thank you, James."

"God forbid! I'm sure you have not strength to bear it, though they say
it does one good--I hope that poor young lady, the Captain's cousin,
escaped it when they--"

"Young _lady_!" exclaimed Emma, in a voice which, though low and
impeded, resembled a shriek.

"Yes, the sick young lady, I mean, as be gone to the Madeiras--poor
creature, she seemed to me more like a bundle of clothes than a woman,
as the Captain carried her; and the poor old gentleman was helping, tho
she was as light as a feather, I take it--I just saw her face peep out
of the military cloak she was wrapped in, and a very pretty face it was,
with fine black eyes like her cousin's, only she's not dark like him,
but very white indeed--I beg pardon for talking, Ma'am, you _are_ ill."

Emma tacitly confessed she was, by instantly retreating to the only
place of retirement circumstances allowed; on her bed she could weep
unseen, she could combat best the astonishment, grief, and indignation
which, in the moment of this overwhelming surprise, made her desire not
merely to hide her scalding tears, but to fly for ever from a world
which was hateful to her.

"Am I again deceived? again disappointed? why do I say _again_? never
before did I know what it was so to prefer, to admire, to _love_ any
human being. Why was I so cruelly, so perfidiously betrayed? _I_ who
would not so injure any human being--by Melville too, the most open,
frank, artless of all creatures, whom my poor father so often used to
charge with being less worldly-wise than himself."

By degrees recollections arose which told Emma that it was possible
James might be mistaken; he had, it appeared, seen an invalid wasted it
might be to more than feminine delicacy--"but, no! all that was
mysterious in the conduct of Melville was thus, and could only be thus
accounted for: he had in every conversation dwelt much on the sorrows of
his uncle, but spoken little of the peculiar ailment of the invalid; he
had mentioned no name save that of his relationship, or the terms, "an
only child," "the dear patient," "our beloved sufferer," &c." His every
word in their last meeting was now fully explained, as indicating a tic
to his fellow travellers beyond what appeared; and she could not doubt
that if Melville's cousin was a woman, to that woman he was bound in
claims beyond those of friendship or consanguinity.

But had he therefore deceived _her_? was he, on whose integrity she
could have relied so implicitly, a vain, a fickle, a designing man?
every reflection on his character, his manners, and his conduct, alike
answered determinately "_No_!" Had he then read the tender secret of her
heart, and was he led from pity to profess that attachment which might
soothe the severity of her present troubles? The deep agitation of his
own awakened feelings, the profound delicacy and respect with which he
had uniformly treated her, forbade her to entertain a fear so wounding
to virgin delicacy: how often had he been on the point of declaring that
love which was read in his looks, his manners, and, above all, in his
solicitude, and which was unquestionably suspected, or rather,
_confided_ in by her father himself? How severe his struggles had been
to conquer this passion, might be inferred from his altered looks, which
she had imputed to the sleepless nights she supposed he passed with his
cousin--"well might he suffer, when he considered that he was deceiving
an artless, affectionate stranger on the one hand, perhaps a long
affianced bride on the other, whose present deplorable situation
rendered her only the more irresistible in her claims upon his
tenderness and honour."

A generous, disinterested mind has, in a trial like this, (which is
doubtless one of the severest to which our nature is subject,) great
advantage over a narrow and selfish spirit. Whatever might be the
sufferings of Mr. Melville, however pitiable his situation might be, and
blameless his original intention, still he had been guilty of a species
of deception. Emma could neither, by any possible view of the case,
acquit him of this fact, nor cease to feel that he had rendered her a
sufferer from it; but as with this knowledge was united an assurance
that he was severely afflicted for this fault, and had in other respects
great merit, she desired if possible to pardon it, and dismiss it from
her memory. Thousands of women would have bemoaned their hard fate, as
victims of deception; and yet, with all their anger at the aggressor,
their self-pity, and the remembrance of their wrongs, have either
cherished his memory in their hearts, though it was as a viper's sting
to their peace, or, from a species of revenge and scorn, by no means
incompatible with existing love, resolved to marry the first man who
should afterwards address them. Such are the common operations of pride
upon the hearts of those who are unaccustomed to self-examination, and
unconscious of the influence of christian humility, which can alone
rebuke the winds and waves of this or any other passion, and say,
"peace, be still." The heart constantly exercised in kindly feelings,
less troubled with its own wishes and desires than in considering the
wants or comforts of beloved relatives, esteemed friends, and the wide
circle of those who claim the charities of life, in going out of itself
to inhabit the breast of another, will find so much there, in which to
sympathize, as to lose half its own load upon the threshold.

Deep was the pity which moved the heart of Emma for Melville, and it
will be readily supposed, that the fault of loving her too well was one
which she could readily forgive, for we affect not to paint her as a
perfect character. She was one of "like passions with others," but she
had even at this period of life manifested a power of successfully,
because firmly and meekly, repelling the ascendancy of vanity, ambition,
anger, and inordinate grief--could she now apply the same principles to
that which appears the most amiable, and is therefore the most
insidious of all mental disorders? could she arrest that passion which,
resting in the most secret recesses of the heart, is nurtured by
imagination and memory, and in her case was held sacred by gratitude,
which self-deception loves to embalm under the name of friendship, and
which every human being in early life feels privileged to indulge in, as
the common though latent weakness of their age, and entwined with their
very being?

That Emma did not for some time see her duty in this respect, and
therefore did not call up her reason or religion to oppose it, is
certain; but she did in the _first_ place earnestly endeavour to obtain
that equanimity of mind without which she knew it was impossible for her
judgment to act. When she found that by placing herself in this
situation she was only led to pity and love Melville the more, she
resolved to contemplate the situation of Miss Melville, her weak state,
her affection, perhaps nurtured from childhood, the quickness of
perception her own love might have given her, the bitter pangs which
might arise from a sense of coldness, or neglect, of suspicion that he
in whom she had so long "garnered up her heart," could suffer his eye
to wander because her form was fading. She felt ready to expostulate
with him on the weakness, the cruelty, the unmanly indecision of such a
dereliction from love and honour, which was the more unworthy of him
because his judgment was sound, his principles good, his sentiments
noble, his disposition excellent.

"Ah! what must be the power of that passion which could so far warp a
nature so ingenuous, a spirit so lofty? which could teach even the most
trivial shadow disguise can frame to one abhorrent of baseness, and
seduce a heart so full of kindness to every human being into an act of
cruelty to one beloved so fondly? I never, _never_ can cease to lament
him, to thank him, to--yes, to love, but not _so_ to love him as I have
done."

Day after day passed, the wind fell, the vessel slumbered on the waters
which lay beneath her like a mirror of molten gold; complaints were
heard on all sides, and Emma reflected with surprise on the many days in
which her mind, occupied with one subject, had wandered in a labyrinth
of distracting thoughts, without making any progress towards that
freedom and tranquillity it was her duty to obtain.

During this period, every book on board had been exchanged amongst the
passengers, to beguile the wearisome time, and divert the uneasiness
experienced by several whose prognostications diffused general
apprehension. One gentleman had offered a poem to Emma, of which he
spoke very highly, but as the book was a quarto, and the sickly frame of
mind into which she had unhappily fallen by supplying eternal food for
conjecture and recollection, chilled alike the power of exertion and the
excitement of curiosity, she had hitherto never looked beyond the
title-page, where "Armageddon," and a Greek motto, seemed to offer
subjects beyond her present powers of attention.

But she now determined to _task_ those powers, to _compel_ that
attention; she lifted up her heart as well as she was able to Him who
"seeth the secrets of all hearts," and then began seriously to enter on
that (which would in days past have been seized with avidity) beautiful
poem, as an exercise for her faculties, necessary, but not palatable.
For some time she pursued the soaring flights of our living Milton with
weak, abstracted gaze; but she soon became sufficiently aware of the
poetic beauties to know that the fault was wholly in herself if she were
neither charmed by the delightful flow of its mellifluous lines, nor
wrapped in the sublime conceptions of the mighty theme. She saw that of
all other books, which under any possible circumstances might have been
laid before her at this time, not one could have been equally calculated
for her benefit, since no enervating or love-indulging sentiment could
be found there from the very nature of the subject; yet were the powers
of imagination excited and gratified, the most commanding and
magnificent objects, the most beautiful pictures presented, and all
combined with the great, endearing, and consolatory truths of
christianity.

By degrees the wandering, bewildered mind of Emma regained the power of
attention, a sense and relish for passages of extraordinary interest,
and solicitude in the pursuit; the book, though frequently laid down,
was as frequently recurred to, and that which was at first as fatiguing
and difficult as the study of mathematics might have been, became a
constant and dear resource, in which she found at once the action her
faculties required, and the serenity she sought. Whilst she was thus
beneficially employed in moderating the all-engrossing and "inordinate
affection" which had from so many causes become the master spring of her
spirit, a favourable breeze sprung up, and in another week they arrived
in the Channel.

But, alas! Emma was not able to welcome the shores of her native
land--whether it were the extraordinary fatigues she had encountered in
attending upon her father during the intolerable heats, the bad
provisions to which the unexpected length of their voyage had subjected
the passengers, the severe mental struggle she had undergone, or all
these causes combined, we know not; but for the last three days she had
experienced extreme languor, the restlessness of fever, and much acute
pain in her head and her side. The excellence of her constitution had
hitherto been remarkable, although her frame was delicate; and her
exquisite sensibility subjected her to those partial inequalities of
health, inseparable from a reflective and strongly attached mind. In
consequence of having never suffered in any comparative degree before,
she was led to believe, at an early stage of the disease, that she was
in considerable danger, and of course felt much solicitude to be on
shore, and to secure that female attendance so necessary to her comfort
in every respect.

They landed at Falmouth, and in her desire to save Sophia from alarm,
rather than from any hope that she should be able to travel to her
native village, Emma proceeded about sixty miles, when she became too
ill to give any further directions, much less proceed, and the landlady
of the Inn took charge of her, and engaged such help as the small town
afforded, whilst poor James, almost broken hearted, proceeded to that
place where he had now neither master, nor mistress, nor home, where
every object awoke new sorrows from old and dear memorials of departed
happiness, to procure assistance.

At those periods when acute pain did not give a kind of new and
artificial vigour to her faculties, Emma lay in a state of apparent
stupor, which was expected by those around her to be the prelude to
delirium, but was in fact the consequence of that exhaustion occasioned
by past suffering. Her mind never lost the power of recollection, and
her situation in all its bearings was constantly present. She felt that
her situation was forlorn and desolate, as contrasted with those whose
bed of death is soothed by tender relations, and surrounded by those
aids and comforts home only can bestow--her eyes earnestly looked out
for familiar faces, her ears desired to drink the sweet sounds of
friendly voices, and there was one that would have been most dear on
which her heart desired to dwell. But this dear, this dangerous subject,
she dismissed with an earnest prayer for blessings on his head, as one
on which she ought not to think. "It is too agitating for me now, it
will destroy the little chance I may have for life, and that would be
wrong, and it will unfit me for that resignation with which I desire to
depart, if such be the will of my heavenly Father."

When the recollection of her late loss arose to her mind with all the
circumstances attending it, she sincerely thanked God that she had been
enabled to supply to him those tender attentions and that support which
her own wants taught her to feel the value of. She felt it a trial to be
cut off "in the morning of her days," and subjected to those frequently
recurring pains which visited her with a severity beyond what she had
ever witnessed, but she considered that as she had been spared to a good
end, so she might be removed in much mercy; that her present sufferings
might work out for her "a more exceeding weight of glory," for though
she could not pretend to boast of the faith, or the hope, of which
Sophia used to speak in her visits to the dying, yet she did feel
assured that God would not forsake her "in the valley of the shadow of
death," through which she was passing.

"How thankful ought I to be," said she, "that I am in my own country,
with those who speak my language and understand my wants--that I have
fulfilled my task and closed my beloved father's eyes, that I have
arranged all my affairs with my brother, and been the means of assisting
him--that I did not warp the virtue, nor bring self-reproach on the
conscience, of that beloved being, whose sorrows might have been
increased a thousand fold--oh! I have much to be remembered with
gratitude, let me then drink the cup now prepared, though bitter, with
humility and patience--it is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him
good."

The nurse who attended Emma, pronounced sentence of death very
positively, "because the patient was such a sweet, quiet young creature,
she was too good for this world;" her medical attendant thought it
possible, that she might get through, "from the firm, calm equanimity of
her mind, and her patient endurance of pain." After many baffled
attempts he at length succeeded in obtaining sleep, and producing from
sudorifics a relief to the tortures she had so long experienced. Sophia
and Mrs. Wilmington arrived when she was in this state of repose, and
great care was kindly taken to save her on awaking from the bad effects
even pleasure might have occasioned to one so weak.

"My sister!" said Emma, and tears of delight sprung to her eyes, but she
obeyed the injunction of her adviser, she checked her emotion, and
whilst she silently thanked God for the gift, she restrained the
pleasure with which she received it.

So weak and shadowy, so extremely pale, and painfully interesting, was
poor Emma in the eyes of Mrs. Wilmington, that it was with the utmost
difficulty that she could apply the benefit of her skill (as the
experienced mother of a large family) to her assistance, without
betraying the most affecting agitation; and so warmly rekindled were the
affections of Sophia, who had not received the news of her father's
death more than a month, that, going from one extreme to another, she
lavished upon her all the treasured tenderness and gratitude which
circumstances had induced her to nourish; and but for her own continued
moderation in gently eluding that exercise of sensibility, urged by
their mistaken love, it is certain she must have been now killed with
kindness.




  CHAP. XII.


When at length Emma regained the power of venturing into the air, her
recovery was rapid, and she experienced renovated health with every
breeze which fanned her shrunken form. She therefore proposed setting
out by easy journies for her native village, as the most likely place to
perfect her recovery, and where Mrs. Wilmington earnestly pressed her to
go.

It was also evident that Sophia was solicitous to return thither for the
sake of introducing her to the young clergyman, who, she blushingly
confessed, "was a person for whom she had a great esteem," and who,
together with her present sense of her dear father's excellence as a
christian minister, had greatly changed her sentiments. "Nor do I stand
alone in this change, I assure you, Emma," added Sophia, "for from the
very Sunday when my father preached his last sermon, every body has gone
to church; so when the winter set in we ceased to have a preacher come
over at all, and Mr. Bennison has the satisfaction of knowing there is
but one flock and one shepherd, in the whole parish--every body now is
ready to say there never was such a pastor as Mr. Carysford, and when
Mr. Evans came over to preach his funeral sermon, the very people who
had left him--but why do I talk of them? _I_ left him--_I_, a mere
child, his own child, the pet lamb. _I_ 'had lift up my voice against
him'--_I_ had been wise in my own conceit, and barbed the shaft which
wounded--oh! I cannot, _cannot_ bear it--"

Sophia wept aloud in very agony, and it was some time before Mrs.
Wilmington could so far calm her, as to make her listen to the
assurance, that she was injuring Emma exceedingly by this effusion of
sorrow, since it could not fail to remind her of circumstances too
moving for her weak state, and would render her incapable of pursuing
her journey.

"Then I will not indulge even godly sorrow," said Sophia, "for it is to
Emma alone I owe every thing; her moderation in bearing with my
reproaches, in defending my sincerity, in discriminating between my
errors and my intentions, have shown me on reflection what true religion
is, have saved me perhaps from flying from one extreme to another far
worse; what would have become of me if, under the agitation in which
parting with my father had left me, I had given myself up to the
guidance of Harriet?"

To the great surprise of the party, Sophia was interrupted by the
announcement of Harriet herself, who, together with her husband and Miss
Tintagell, made their appearance in time to put a stop to their journey.
In noticing their arrival, we have named the mover of the journey, and
by far the most important personage in it last, as the others travelled
in her carriage and came at her request.

We do not however mean to say that Mrs. Francis Wilmington did not
greatly desire to see her sister, for she certainly did, from motives of
affection and interest also; but it is only justice to say that the
latter was forgotten when she beheld her attenuated form and pallid
face, and saw the poor place where she had been lying sick, and where
her conscience told her she might have been as devoid of money as of
friends. Harriet, as we may have said before, was a woman of quick
feelings, but they were neither governed by principle, nor lasting in
effect, and her education under the paternal roof had been forgotten in
the gay world with which she had afterwards mixed. At this moment, her
heart was touched with lively remembrance of her father, sorrow for her
sister's evident sufferings, and shame for the share it was too probable
she had had in them. In consequence of this sensation, she began to weep
and to accuse herself in such a manner as to bring all her pecuniary
transactions before her aunt; to the evident distress and confusion of
her husband, and the utter dismay of her mother-in-law, who, knowing the
predicament in which her son at this moment stood with his uncle,
dreaded any breach with Miss Tintagell, whose influence in his favour
might have been very great if she would condescend to use it.

In the midst of Harriet's self-upbraidings, the remembrance of her
present wants struck more strongly than ever upon her mind, in
consequence of the vivid picture she had drawn of those temptations
which induced her to gratify her own wishes at the expense of her
sister's necessities, and she suddenly stopped short in her declamation
to exclaim,

"But where are those tormenting papers, Emma? surely Charles has not got
them on the Continent?"

"All the papers my brother gave me to keep for Emma are in my
writing-desk," said Sophia, leaving the room to fetch them, in answer to
a look from that sister.

The anger this confession elicited, lighted up the cheek and dried the
tears of Harriet.

"I thought, I hoped Sophia had been improved, but cant and hypocrisy
debase the very soul--I always suspected she had these papers--I always
said so, did'nt I, my dear? and yet she never would confess, although
she knew I was in the greatest distress for them."

At this moment, Sophia returned with a parcel directed by her brother to
his sister Emma, or, in case she did not return, to his aunt.

"There, _there_," cried Harriet, in a fury, "you'll see they will be
found in that very parcel."

"I know nothing of the contents," said Sophia.

"No, Miss, but you know that you could have given the parcel to me, and
I could have looked for the papers I wanted, I should have taken out
none but what I wanted."

Emma at this moment fixed her eyes on Harriet, and those eyes, calm as
their expression was, said so plainly, "_that is not certain_," that the
blush of anger subsided as quickly as it had risen, and that of shame
replaced it. At this moment Miss Tintagell arose, her tall, majestic
form apparently dilating by the style in which she proceeded to the
table, and the difficulty with which she had hitherto suppressed her
indignation at the past and present conduct of her once darling niece.

"Have I your permission, Miss Carysford, to open this?"

"Certainly, my dear aunt, I am unequal to business."

"So I perceive, child--well, here are the papers: the marriage
settlement of Charles Carysford and Harriet; (Miss Tintagell trembled,
and her tears for a moment obstructed her vision;) then here is a bond;
and poor Miss Carysford's will; (excellent, good Miss Carysford;) and
here are Charles's accounts, poor fellow; and now--aye--this is the
title-deed--Captain Wilmington, these are the papers in question--there
they lie."

"Why don't you take them, Captain Wilmington?" cried his lady, "I'm sure
you have teazed me very sufficiently on the subject."

"I cannot take them, they are your sister's security for the money she
lent to my father, for me; I always told you so."

"The money which saved us all from destruction," said Mrs. Wilmington,
sobbing.--Miss Tintagell resumed:

"Captain Wilmington, I thank you for relieving me from part of the
horror and disgust with which the conduct of your wife has inspired me.
I hope you will in time teach her better principles, and make her
sensible that if she has neither the affections of a daughter or sister,
her family may yet hope for a portion of _common honesty_ in the
daughter of such parents as hers were. For you, Sir, I have all possible
consideration, and--hold, what is this paper appended to the deeds? it
is your writing, Emma:"--

    "In case of my death, I desire that these deeds may be restored
    immediately to Captain Wilmington, on condition of his payment
    of one half of that which he is indebted to my sister Sophia.
    The rest of my property I leave in my brother's hands, to be
    divided equally between my sisters after a period of five years,
    during which time he shall not be asked for it. This is my will
    in the event of death; if I live to return, it is my intention
    equally to devote this sum to my sisters, when I become
    repossessed of that which I have lent to Charles, till then, it
    is evident that I cannot spare it, as the interest will be my
    only income.

      Emma Carysford."

"Wise as generous! well, then, I _now_ say, Sir, Emma presents you with
one half of your debt, and _I_ give you the other--and to you, Sophia,
the same Emma will give the same sum, when Mr. Bennison can afford to
take you, child. It will furnish a house, and keep your own little dower
in safety."

"Dear Emma, how shall I thank you? but is it right to take your money?"

"I thought it right to take your fifty pounds, dear Sophia, and found
such comfort in it--it was indeed the happy cause of my procuring
essential aid at a time when my distress was very, very great."

These words escaped Emma in her consolations to Sophia, and were
evidently not meant for Harriet's ear, but they met those of Mrs.
Wilmington, who could not forbear to lament bitterly that any person in
her family could have so rewarded Emma's goodness to them. Miss
Tintagell caught eagerly those words which spoke of Sophia's kindness,
and, on learning what she had done, for the first time she kissed her,
folded her in her arms, and called her "the picture of her mother;" she
then observed, in a kind and consolatory manner,

"You have been a self-willed, and in some respects a mistaken child; but
you never had either cant or hypocrisy--your conduct has excited
mortification and anger to your friends, and bitter grief, I fear, at
times, in one who undoubtedly prayed for you and forgave you; and
therefore it would ill become me not to endeavour to do the same--you
are a very decisive proof that the faults of those who have, in the
common acceptation of the phrase, "too much religion," are of a much
less injurious nature than those produced by having too _little_. It
was impossible that one who was so sincere, and thought so much, should
not think right sometimes; but the selfishness of extravagance, the
forgetfulness of all affection, and even of the claims of honesty, the
total want of consideration, notwithstanding the known misfortunes of
Mr. Wilmington's family, the late distress and present troubles of her
only brother, the dying state of her father, and the afflicting
situation of her sister, evinced in Mrs. Francis--"

"Spare my wife, spare her, I beseech you, Miss Tintagell, she is
afflicted, overwhelmed with sorrow; it is certain we were both to
blame--I had known much more of difficulty than she had, and it was my
duty to have restrained her expenses."

"Very true, and I sincerely hope you will henceforward adopt this system
of restraint--I know from experience it will not be a light duty; for
the present I shall only add, that as in days past I should have
punished the child who stole sugar-plums, by forbidding her my presence
for some days, so do I punish the woman who has forfeited my esteem by
refusing to hold any communication with her for some years. That this
circumstance may not be injurious to you beyond what is intended, and
because Harriet was perhaps somewhat injured by an early indulgence in
pleasures beyond her sisters, I beg your acceptance of two hundred per
annum, which shall be regularly paid by quarterly instalments during my
life."

As Miss Tintagell spoke, she handed the Captain a fifty pound bill, and
in a few moments, the mortified wife, and consoled husband, took their
leave, and poor Mrs. Wilmington recollecting that Miss Tintagell's
carriage would only contain three, and also believing that her presence
would be useful, accompanied them.

At the moment when the Captain interfered to soften the anger of Miss
Tintagell, and _only_ at that moment, did Emma cease to feel surprised
that he had ever been an object of admiration to her: when she reflected
upon many points in his conduct, she could not help considering him
blameable, and his total want of consideration, to say nothing of
gratitude, proved to her that a man may be good tempered and amiable,
without that solidity of character necessary to our happiness in those
with whom we are closely connected. It was impossible for her not to
reflect with tender thankfulness on that unceasing watchfulness of
friendship in Melville, towards her father's comfort, and of course her
own, which had not only belonged to his character as a lover, but a man,
since James also had abundantly partaken of it--for this poor fellow,
she now became a petitioner to her aunt.

"I will buy him an annuity, and he shall live in his own country, where
he can talk to those who will understand him, about the master he has
lost."

"You are very kind, my dear madam, I meant that we should all join to do
that very thing--but then I am most anxious at present to pay that money
to Mr. Melville's banker, with which he assisted me so opportunely."

"Oh! that was the family which helped you--I shall see to that
immediately, there is money now in your attorney's hands, I know--did
you know Miss Melville at Lisbon?"

"No, I never left my father an hour after the period when we became
known to them."

"For which," said Miss Tintagell, solemnly folding her hands on her
bosom, "I will never leave you, Emma, or cease to love you, to help you,
to be both father and mother to you, so far as I am able."

"You say," she added after a long pause, "that you do not know Marianne
Melville, 'tis a pity, for you would have loved each other exceedingly.
She is a girl of great talents, a noble, generous, fine-spirited
creature--but you are exhausted child, we have overdone you with
talking."

"Oh no! pray go on, I wished to know something of Miss Melville."

"She is a poor, delicate, deformed creature, but with a pretty and
singularly intelligent face, in some respects she resembles your good
aunt Carysford; life has been little less than a struggle, ever since
she was ten years old, when her person (till then very fine) took this
unfortunate turn. They fancy her in a consumption, but I don't think she
has any complaint save what belongs to general delicacy of
constitution--did you see Charles Melville, her cousin?"

"I saw only him," said Emma, her pallid face tinged with so deep a
bloom as to speak volumes to the eyes of her aunt, who instantly changed
the conversation.

The two sisters accompanied Miss Carysford to her house in London, where
the best medical advice was obtained for Emma, and where such ceaseless
kindness and attention was paid to her, and she was surrounded by so
many elegancies, and treated with so many sources of rational amusement,
that she found it necessary to guard herself from falling into that
supine neglect of duty, which excessive indulgence in external
circumstances is so apt to inspire, and she was more than ever subject
to "remembering that some things were, which were most dear to her." She
sought anxiously to preserve in Sophia a deep sense of religious
obligation, and a determination to study the duties she one day hoped to
perform, as the wife of a country clergyman. Both these young people
found that a state of mental ease and personal luxury is difficult to
combat with, when it follows a season of affliction and anxiety, but as
they had been accustomed to "walk in the ordinances" of the church from
their earliest recollection, so they strictly persevered in it, and
found in the composing and refreshing exercises of devotion, an
antidote to the confusing, dissipating sensations, which they
considered inevitable to a London residence.

In the beginning of winter, Emma had the satisfaction of receiving her
brother, and of witnessing the great improvement which time and
consideration and sorrow had effected in him; there was a manliness of
character, a sobriety of demeanor happily grafted on the frankness and
buoyancy of spirits, which had formerly distinguished him, and he
appeared (notwithstanding his youth) likely to slide gracefully into the
dignity of married life, and the duties attached to it.

This temper of mind was the more desirable, as he was now the possessor
of Lord Alfreton's estates, who had a few weeks before died in his arms
at Naples. The personal property of that nobleman (which a long minority
had rendered very great, and which a long illness had probably prevented
from being dissipated) was bequeathed to his aunt. The meeting of Emma
and Charles was naturally very affecting to both, but as she now for the
first time entered on a particular account of their beloved father's
last hours, it was observed by them all, that Miss Tintagell was
agitated to a greater degree than any person, and the subject was
dropped in pity to her who felt it so acutely, and whom they well knew
to be a person whose attachments were few, but singularly strong.

"You are certain, Emma, that your father so mentioned me in his last
moments?" said Miss Tintagell, when they were alone together some time
afterwards.

"Oh! yes, every syllable is impressed on my heart, my very ear I may
say, too minutely for mistake."

"Well, it is dear to my heart to be so remembered, even now--Emma, I
will tell you the history of that heart.--I am naturally of a proud and
independent spirit, such a spirit as rarely suits the situation, or can
be rendered compatible with the happiness of woman. Having no one to
guide me, I should have been worse than I was, if I had not been
rendered by circumstances the natural guardian of your mother, on whom
all the warmth and fondness of my heart expended itself. I set out with
a profession that I would live single, and though fond of general
admiration and laying myself out for general homage, was never guilty
of coquetry--nor did I in fact ever see a man that shook my resolution
by inspiring even the most trivial liking, till I knew your father.

"I will not say what my sense of his person, his virtues, his manners
was. I only tell you that happily I soon discovered which way his
affections veered--discovered too that your mother fondly loved him. It
was believed that my family pride would oppose their wishes--that pride
had got other work to do, and together with that tender and unbounded
love I had for my sister, it enabled me to act as I did--yes, I made two
people as happy as marriage ever made any two on earth, I really
believe."

"They were indeed singularly happy," said Emma.

"Well, my dear, it so happened that after this I had two offers, either
of which would have given me rank which at that time it is certain I
envied, and wealth which is always valuable to those who love to spend
and to give, which it is certain I do, and my own fortune, though more
than twice as large as your mother's, was very unequal to my wants, and
the circle in which I moved. But in the mean time I had nursed my former
objections to marriage, became more of a wit and less of a beauty, and
whilst I affected to ridicule all love, nourished in my heart the silly
belief that a woman can love but once, and in consequence I refused them
both."

"And do you now regret that you did?"

"I do not, for I firmly believe that women of my description are better
single. I had established in my heart a certain model to which no man
would have been a parallel; I should have been haughty, self-willed, and
unconciliating, capable of great sacrifices, but not of the petty
obediences which are the sweetest emollients to the unbending nature of
lordly man. Besides, the smallness of my fortune, compared to that of
the noblemen to whom I allude, would have been galling to me. I should
have been taken from my sister and her family, who have found me useful,
and have been to _me_ invaluable; and as I can now unblamed love, and
weep as I will, I by no means regret that I am single."

"I am fully convinced you are much more happy; at least, I would hope
so, my dear, _dear_ aunt," said Emma, embracing her with a daughter's
fondness.

"Yes, I am, but that is owing to my peculiarities, or my faults
rather--you, Emma, are of a precisely different character."

"I have been very differently situated; as one of a large family, with
neither the honours of the eldest, nor the privileges of the youngest, I
was happily saved from improper indulgences, and taught to consider, to
submit--I was habituated to make my taste bend to my circumstances, and
led both by precept and example to hold _consideration_ as a religious
duty, which therefore carried its own reward with it. I should be very
inexcusable indeed were I not disciplined to moderation."

"Being so, you _must_ marry, Emma,--don't shake your head with that
sceptical air; you do not suppose that I would thus have torn open old
wounds, and exposed past weaknesses, and lingering though hidden sorrows
but for some end--I know _your_ secret without confession, you have
loved Charles Melville, and most probably he has loved you; but he is
bound by gratitude to his uncle, and pity for his cousin, in another
direction. I have heard that the voyage to Madeira has done wonders for
her, and that in May they will return: if this is true, perhaps they
will marry."

"Probably," said Emma, with a blanched and somewhat quivering lip, but
her eye did not elude the gaze of her aunt.

"Now as you have struggled with your feelings, and are _almost_ a
conqueror, can you not be wholly so?--can you not listen to the suit of
a virtuous, amiable man, who is moreover a nobleman, one whose parents
love you, and will receive you with honour and affection. I mean--you
know who I mean, you must have been sensible of his admiration?"

"It is Lord Hatchlands--I am very sorry for it, for I like him
exceedingly; I know no one whom I esteem so highly amongst our
acquaintance."

"The very best principle on which to found affection, Emma, such an
affection as, producing all the dearest ties of life and its most
extensive usefulness, you are calculated to inspire and enjoy. Besides,
all your family are married or marrying, of course all are to a certain
degree resigning you. At three and twenty you do not feel this, but at
three and thirty you will be sensible of it--depend upon it such an
offer as this, or I ought to say, such a predilection as this, ought to
be received as the promise of no light blessing--it may be admitted
slowly, canvassed closely, considered long: all this I allow you; but do
not dare to reject it, if you value your own happiness, the general
advantage of your family, and my regard."

"That I think as highly of these motives as most people, I surely need
not say at this time, but I am sure you will concede, that on such a
point as this I ought to consider myself in the first place."

"Unquestionably, child--I know that I may rely upon your judgment if you
will only _think_ calmly over this matter."




  CHAP. XIII.


Emma observed the injunction; she _did think_--and she so endeavoured
constantly to consider Melville as the property of another, as the
friend to whom her eternal gratitude was due, but with whom she must
never more hold communion, that at length she began to allow, "it was
possible she might be tolerably happy with another man," on the same
principle that she trusted he would be happy with one whom he had so
long held dear as a friend, and admired as a companion.

But the man who could be his successor it was certain she had never
seen; many good and agreeable men, to whom she could not in reason
reject, undoubtedly existed; but she had not met with them, though her
aunt might, and she therefore ventured so far to satisfy Miss
Tintagell's anxiety on the subject, as to say, "that after another year
was past she would thankfully attend to her recommendation, but till
then she claimed as necessary to her happiness an exemption from all
allusion to the subject."

"Would you give that year to thinking on the past, Emma?"

"Certainly not--I will give it, dear aunt, to preparing for the future,
and as you know all that I require, and those qualities, without which I
will not, and dare not, enter on vows which I will with equal conscience
keep; I think I may promise that your next recommendation will be met
more cordially than the last; I cannot say more at present."

"Nor can I promise you another nobleman, though you are much handsomer
than you were, child."

"Pray don't seek one, for I greatly prefer a private gentleman, or a
professional one. I have no ambition, and rank would increase my duties,
and not repay my sacrifices.

"Perhaps you would prefer a poor one? you would play love in a cottage,
Miss Carysford."

I think few persons would manage better in a cottage _with love_, than
I could do, but since my days of love and romance are over, I answer,
"that I would wish to marry a man in easy circumstances, but by no means
one so wealthy as to throw my means of helping our establishment at a
distance. I would rather be held as an equal through life, than be
treated as an idol now and an inferior by and by. All my demands would
be humble, my desires moderate, but such as they are must be constantly
attended to. I am content to share all the vicissitudes of life, but I
do not think I could bear those changes in kindness too common in the
matrimonial barometer."

"Yes you could, from glowing love down to
_indifference_--_neglect_--_coldness_--to the last _freezing point_."

Though Miss Tintagell said this with a gay air, she inwardly resolved to
be very careful how she exposed her gentle niece to such evils; and she
gave up her mind for the present to preparations for the weddings of
Charles and Sophia. Eulali had changed from a charming, romantic little
girl, to an elegant, sensible young woman, willing to laugh at her
former taste for the heroic, but capable of exerting her former energies
on all proper occasions. Before his marriage, Charles presented Mr.
Bennison with the living at Ravenhill, and generously settled a property
equivalent to it on each of his other sisters, considering this as a
marriage portion to Sophia. That which he gave to Mrs. Francis
Wilmington was secured to _her_, with the approbation of Mr. Fountain,
who had behaved very handsomely to his nephew, but earnestly desired to
keep the young couple at a distance from London, as a scene of
temptation they were not equal to engage with, a request none of the
family thought unreasonable.

Sir Marmaduke and Lady Lyster were delighted with the marriage, and
readily united with Miss Tintagell in making splendid preparations,
regretting that modern custom rendered the day itself one of privacy
rather than show, and often recalling the memory of flower-strewing and
processions.

Brides so rich and gay as the fair Eulali have no lack of friends on
these occasions; and though Emma was not only the best beloved, but the
one to whom she often said that she owed her present happiness, yet she
spared her to Sophia, who was married at the same time with her brother,
and immediately departed for that beloved home where she was born, and
to which she had long desired to return.

The other bridal party soon afterwards set out for the Park, which had
now been long forsaken, but where only the owner declared it was
possible for him to feel perfectly happy as an Englishman. Here,
however, Miss Tintagell appeared to be restless and often melancholy,
and in a short time she returned home, but gave Emma leave to remain,
saying, "My dear girl, you must feel much, as well as me; but you will
not therefore mar the happiness of those around you; I will try to take
a lesson from your philosophy, and then come back and fetch you."

"My philosophy is all found in one _book_, dear aunt; and that is not
only the best, but the most amusing."

"I will read it diligently, child--if it is valuable at your age, well
may it be at mine."

Sophia was a little hurt that her aunt did not come to the Rectory; but
when she saw how much the sight of that dear home, the garden, the
library, affected Emma, she thought it was better that she had not thus
awakened sorrow which she knew would injure her health, which of late
was far from good. The first day at church, the first meeting with the
clerk and sexton, and the many, _many_ dear old faces which crowded
around her, were indeed trials to Emma beyond what she had even
anticipated. The congregation were of course excited to curiosity by
"the grand bride and her train of fine London folks, the good old
Baronet and his lady come safe from forrin parts, his Reverence's own
bride, pretty Miss Sophia that was, and the young 'Squire, the properest
man of them all." But the eyes that had gazed on novelty with
astonishment, and finery with admiration, as the parties mingled in the
churchyard, and courteously received many a bobbing curtsey and many a
loudly uttered good wish, turned, with a softened salutation and a
moistened lid, to Emma--many a whispered "God bless her sweet face she
has had sorrow enough since we saw her," was followed by eulogiums "on
him that was dead and gone, whose like would never come again, no
disparagement to any body."

How many tender words found their way perforce to her ear, consolatory
in fact, yet touching every nerve of sensibility--where could her eye
glance, but some object recalled her father? Here were the couple he
last married--there crept the old pensioner for whom he had so long
provided--there ran the children he catechized.

And were not all the lessons which she had so incessantly taught her
heart on another subject void also? the memory of Melville necessarily
revived with that of her father, and the stillness of the country, the
season, which was September, that month of cloudless skies and golden
sunsets, when every grove breathes poetic morality, and every flower
inspires tender thoughts and parting memorials, were all against her.
"What can I do?" said Emma, "curiosity will be busy about the _present_,
and memory is continually reviving the _past_. I have no chance of
curing this but by mental labour, I will begin to learn Latin
immediately."

Mr. Bennison gladly undertook to teach his gentle sister, and for a
short time they went on extremely well; but, alas! James, who resided
with his relations within a few miles, delighted to see his young
mistresses, and tell wonders in that kitchen where all the prime of his
days were passed, proved a sad enemy to the classics by his frequent
visits to the Rectory; and Emma began seriously to desire that summons
from her aunt, which she had formerly dreaded would arrive too soon.

"There is a sweetness in all around me in the country, a melancholy
seduction, to which I must not submit--how little do they know me who
talk of my equanimity, my moderation!--but I will not despair."

When Emma uttered these words, she was seated under the shade of those
walnut-trees where she was wont to meet her father as he returned from
his village walks, and having her back to the house, knew not that any
one was near her, when James approached to say, with a very important
air, "Madam Tintagell had arrived at the Rectory."

Emma rose and turned towards the house from whence her aunt and sister
were issuing, attended by Mr. Bennison and another gentleman.

"Who is this strange gentleman, James, do you know?"

"Yes, ma'am, I know him, for a good gentleman, he is no small favourite,
I take it, of her honour's, but I say nothing."

"Can my aunt think of this gentleman as a suitor?" thought Emma, "he is
certainly a fine old man."

"Don't be flustrated, ma'am," said James, in a tone which induced Emma
to look at him, and read in his broad brown face, a look of such joy,
she believed only one possible circumstance could have induced it; but
before she had time to comment, or to say, "be calm," to her throbbing
heart, she felt the pressure of her aunt's hand, who announced the
stranger as Sir Geoffrey Melville, at the same time placing her niece's
hand in his.

The old gentleman was in deep mourning, and as he received that hand and
pressed it, the tears were in his eyes.

"We are not strangers, my dear young lady, we have been long fellow
sufferers."

"Not strangers certainly, for you, Sir, were my friend when I greatly
needed one."

"Our obligations are mutual--your virtues, the instruction derived from
conversation with you and your excellent father, as given to us, have
shortened many a wearisome hour, and given light and hope to the most
awful period--but I shall leave it to Charles to tell the sad story of
our wanderings; yet there is one message I promised to deliver myself."

As the Baronet had continued to walk slowly up the avenue, Miss
Tintagell and Mr. Bennison returned to the house, and when he perceived
that they were gone, he took from his pocket a little casket of jewels,
which he placed in Emma's hand, saying, "my daughter--my Marianne sent
you this, 'tis the gift--the legacy of an angel."

The old man wept, and Emma, as she respectfully pressed the gift to her
lips, wept also.

"Nature will claim this tribute at times, but I trust I am now resigned,
and may here-after be contented--it is now many months since I lost her,
since she exchanged a life of pain and hopeless weakness for an
immortality full of hope. Charles has wandered with me from place to
place, borne with my querulous lamentations, and soothed me into
serenity--he tells me that he has done wrong by you, that he has perhaps
offended you by not openly divulging his situation with us. My dear
young lady, suffer me to plead for him, for I only was to blame--I was a
weak old man--"

There was another step heard--another voice.

"Miss Carysford--Emma--do you not remember that morning when your
father blessed us together?"

"Yes, Melville, I remember all."

"That blessing I had not the courage to forego, it confirmed what till
then I only surmised, that you were both strangers to Marianne's name,
and the reports in circulation respecting our union. Reports which arose
from no profession on my part since I held that dear and excellent
creature as a _sister_, from my earliest remembrance. 'Tis true that
about that period my uncle had expressed a desire to see us united in
case of (that very improbable event) her recovery; and from the feelings
of her own tender heart, the dying girl so read what was passing in mine
respecting you, that all her feelings were developed; and my sympathy,
my gratitude were so claimed, that I became tacitly devoted to her, even
when my heart was given to you with the fond hope that it was an
accepted gift--yet it was but a hope--I had no _right_ to presume. I had
deprived myself of the power to entreat your kindness--I could not
expose the weakness of that dear girl, and the awful circumstances under
which we both stood as guardians to beings so fragile, forbade the power
and almost the necessity for explanation--I can trace, day by day, our
sad history to you, and prove that my error, for such I hold it--ah!
that casket in _your_ hand, Emma."

"_I_ have given it to Miss Carysford, and in it will be found a little
note written by a weak hand, but one that will prove powerful in
pleading your cause, Charles--you have, I fear, been the cause of
wounding that tender heart, for whose welfare you could have suffered
martyrdom, but yet--

"I will not deny that I _did_ suffer," said Emma, "but since then I have
endeavoured--I have struggled and--"

"Oh! say not, dear Emma, you have _conquered_!"

"I have not tried to eradicate my _gratitude_ for all your boundless
kindness, my _respect_ for your sound principles, your many virtues--nor
could I erase those sad memorials of your fond preference which awoke my
own, but still--"

"_But still_ you loved me--oh! suffer me thus to interpret that soft
hesitation, that tearful smile--in this sweet walk, so many years the
sacred scene of that connubial love to which he so often referred--in
this place which to you must feel a spot sacred to your father's
memory, let me receive the blessing he would have bestowed."

"Then will you not give me also a father? your uncle is leaving us."

But in another moment she was folded in the arms of one who accepted her
as the boon of heaven, which thus restored a daughter, and gave him the
power of bestowing a father's blessing--from his hands Melville received
her as the gift his heart had so many years yearned to bestow. The
rapturous delight, the fond gratitude, the sense of full consolation for
all his past sufferings, evinced by Melville at this happy moment,
inspired the heart of Emma with the most pure and tender pleasure she
had ever tasted; but it was so combined with affecting recollections of
the past, with devout aspirations for the future, and a sense of the
errors and the sorrows to which human nature is subject, even under its
most favourable aspect and circumstances, as to gently attemper her joy,
and to preserve her MODERATION.


  FINIS.


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  original hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in
    the original
  Page 14, "hear to do it" changed to "heart to do it"
  Page 19, "consequences were no" changed to "consequences were not"
  Page 53, "father and sisters" changed to "father and sisters."
  Page 58, "uncle s house" changed to "uncle's house"
  Page 72, "f Eulali who" changed to "of Eulali who"
  Page 87, "cried Mr Carysford" changed to "cried Mr. Carysford"
  Page 87, 'clever check-mates.' changed to 'clever check-mates."'
  Page 99, 'this sorrow and--' changed to 'this sorrow and--"'
  Page 105, "difficult, i might be" changed to "difficult, it might be"
  Page 121, "consequence o the late" changed to "consequence of the late"
  Page 170, "Sir Grindly Melville" changed to "Sir Grindley Melville"
  Page 175, 'extraordinary had happened"' changed to 'extraordinary had
    happened."'
  Page 205, "thof she was" changed to "tho she was"
  Page 206, '&c. His every' changed to '&c." His every'
  Page 224, "returned with parcel" changed to "returned with a parcel"
  Page 238, "don' shake your head" changed to "don't shake your head"
  Page 242, '"I think few persons' changed to 'I think few persons'
  Page 250, "wandere with me" changed to "wandered with me"



[End of _Moderation, a Tale_ by Mrs. Hofland]
