[]CELESTINA.

CHAPTER I.

THE reflections of Celeſtina when ſhe was alone were full of bitterneſs and an⯑guiſh. It was in vain that ſhe wearied her⯑ſelf with conjectures on the cauſe of her misfortune: ſhe could find no probability in any that preſented themſelves. It could not be caprice, nor that cruel delight which men have ſometimes taken in wan⯑tonly inflicting pain, and torturing by diſ⯑appointment the hearts they have taught to love them, for of ſuch conduct ſhe knew Willoughby to be incapable; it could not be a diſpute with Vavaſour or [2] any other young man, for ſuch, however alarming, muſt ſoon have been decided; nor could it be any pecuniary difficulty that had thus divided them, ſince Wil⯑loughby, in talking over their future proſpects, had related to her the ſituation of his fortune with the utmoſt clearneſs and preciſion; it could hardly be a prior matrimonial engagement, for from his infancy he had loved her, he had re⯑peatedly told her that he never had the leaſt partiality for any other woman, and he was truth and candour itſelf; it could not be any impediment raiſed by the Caſtlenorths, for however great might be their diſpleaſure and diſappointment, they had no power over Willoughby's actions, and he did not love them well enough to make it probable that their perſuaſions or remonſtrances could induce him to give up the favourite project of his life, and abandon her whom he ſo paſſionately loved to diſgrace and miſery.

[3] Whatever was the cauſe, however, of the ſudden reſolution he had taken, miſery was certain: ſhe obſerved that in the dia⯑logue which Cathcart repeated as having paſſed between him and Willoughby, no mention was made of a probability of his return—no hope thrown out, that their union was rather ſuſpended than put an end to. All was dark and comfortleſs; and in the myſtery which ſurrounded the whole affair, there was ſomething of ter⯑ror and apprehenſion which ſeemed more inſupportable than the certainty of any evil except Willoughby's death.

Cathcart, however, had given her a motive to ſupport her courage, in telling her that nothing but the knowledge of her bearing his loſs without injury to her health or her affection for him, could ſoothe or diminiſh the anguiſh with which Willoughby was himſelf oppreſſed. "Let me endeavour then," ſaid ſhe, "to give him this ſatisfaction, as the laſt proof I ſhall perhaps ever be able to give him of [4] my tender, my unalterable love. Con⯑demned as I am to everlaſting regret, daſhed from the ſummit of happineſs to long and hopeleſs ſorrow for the reſt of my life, let my reſolution in ſuffering with calmneſs ſhew that I ſhould have de⯑ſerved the happineſs which heaven once ſeemed to have ſettled as my lot. Heaven only knows wherefore I am condemned to loſe and lament it."

The ſolemn promiſe which Willoughby had owned his mother had aſked and re⯑ceived of him in her laſt moments now occurred to her. "Perhaps it is for the intended breach of that promiſe," cried ſhe, "that we are puniſhed: yet from whence? the ear that heard it, the anxi⯑ous maternal heart that obtained it, are duſt! My benefactreſs comes not from the grave to claim it: it was known only to her, to her ſon, and to me. Who is there who could enforce it now, and to whom would Willoughby liſten, after obviating [5] all the objections I urged againſt it's viola⯑tion?"

This fatal promiſe, however, had al⯑ways hung heavy on the heart of Celeſtina, even in her happieſt moments, and ſhe ſeemed now to be paying the price of hav⯑ing ever conſented to break it. Still, ſtill the inexplicable myſtery remained; and the hand from which the blow came that had divided her and Willoughby was equally hid in obſcurity.

When a misfortune, however heavy, is certain, the mind ſinks reſiſtleſs beneath it; and feeling all remedy ineffectual, it ceaſes all attempt to apply any: but this was not the caſe with Celeſtina: while the cauſe of her being torn from Willoughby was unknown, there appeared a poſſibility that it might be removed; and though he had held out no ſuch hope in his converſa⯑tion with Cathcart, her reaſon now ſeized this idea as her only reſource. He had beſought her to bear their ſeparation with patience; he had hopes then ſurely that it [6] would end: he had entreated her not to forget her affection for him; ſurely he had expectations then that he might again claim it. Her ſanguine temper encou⯑raged theſe faint rays of comfort, which a few moments before ſeemed to be extin⯑guiſhed for ever. The firſt ſhock was paſſed; the tears ſhe had ſhed had relieved her overburthened heart, and ſhe prepared with ſome degree of ſerenity to go down to Mr. Thorold, Cathcart, and Jeſſy, and to conſult with them on what ſhe ought to do.

When ſhe again entered the room, the little group which were aſſembled in it, their melancholy and anxious looks, and the different expectations with which their meeting had been appointed, combined to affect her, and to ſhake the little reſo⯑lution ſhe had with ſo much difficulty ac⯑quired: ſhe ſat down, however, and Mr. Thorold, with a degree of fatherly tender⯑neſs, approached her and took her hand.

"My dear young friend," ſaid the ex⯑cellent man, "this dignified compoſure is [7] worthy of your excellent underſtanding. Do you think me deſerving the honour of being your adviſer, if, in the preſent ſtate of circumſtances, you feel that you want one?"

"I do indeed ſeverely feel," replied Celeſtina faultering, "the neceſſity of a friend who is able to adviſe me; and where, dear Sir, can I find one ſo equal to it, if you will but undertake the trouble."

"Well then," replied Mr. Thorold, "we will not go over the occurrences that have happened, nor attempt to account for them: ſome unforeſeen events have divided you and my friend Willoughby, and I am very ſure, that whatever they are, they muſt, if irretrievable, embitter the reſt of his life: he wiſhes you, as I under⯑ſtand from Mr. Cathcart, to remain here at leaſt till you have letters from him. Do you intend to do ſo?"

"I hardly know," anſwered Celeſtina faintly, "what I ought to do."

[8] "It ſeems to me," ſaid Mr. Thorold, "that whatever reaſon has had ſo much influence on him as to compel him to quit you, ſhould render your abode in his houſe improper."

"I will return then, Sir, ſince that is your opinion, to the lodging I left at Thorpe Heath."

"That will be very melancholy and unpleaſant to you I fear."

"It certainly will: but what have I to do now but to learn to ſuffer? Local cir⯑cumſtances will have little power to add to the ſorrow I muſt endure, while uncer⯑tain of what is become of Mr. Willoughby: doubting whether I may not have been the cauſe that ſome evil has befallen him, and ſure of nothing—but that I muſt be wretched if I never ſee him again."

"I would very fain comfort without de⯑ceiving you if I could. I hope you will ſee him again: yet nothing ſurely but ſome very extraordinary event could have taken him from you; but you hear that he was [9] well—that he promiſed to write to you: it is poſſible that letter may explain what all our conjectures can do little in clear⯑ing up: let us leave them, therefore; and do you, my dear Miſs de Mornay, reſolve to fulfil his parting injunctions as far as prudence will permit. I cannot ſay I ap⯑prove of your ſtaying here, or of your go⯑ing back to indulge your uneaſineſs in the mournful ſecluſion of your cottage; let me propoſe therefore a middle way, by which you will receive this expected letter with⯑out quitting the neighbourhood, and be ready to obey any wiſh of our dear Wil⯑loughby, without receiving it at Thorpe Heath, where you would have nobody to aſſiſt you in it's execution. Will you go home with me?"

Celeſtina, who already felt the value of ſuch a friend as ſhe ſeemed to have ac⯑quired in Mr. Thorold, and who foreſaw that ſhe muſt loſe Jeſſy, who could not ſtay long from her grandfather, would wil⯑lingly have embraced this offer. She knew [10] that Willoughby had the warmeſt friend⯑ſhip for Mr. Thorold, and that he would probably approve of ſuch a propoſal; but ſhe was unacquainted with his wife, and dreaded to intrude herſelf into a family where ſhe might find only the maſter of it diſpoſed to receive her: ſhe objected there⯑fore to the trouble ſhe ſhould give, and to the impropriety of introducing herſelf, thus unaſked, to the acquaintance of his lady; but Mr. Thorold obviated all her objections, aſſured her ſhe ſhould have an apartment to herſelf, and that his wife would conſider her as his daughter, his daughter as her ſiſter; and Celeſtina, who could not think without pain of going alone to Thorpe Heath, which ſhe had left with proſpects ſo very different, and from whence her books and cloaths had been removed, conſented to go with Mr. Thorold, and to remain with him at leaſt till ſhe heard from Willoughby.

It was then ſettled that at leaſt part of the original errand which had brought Mr. [11] Thorold to Alveſtone ſhould be completed, and that Cathcart and Jeſſy ſhould be mar⯑ried, ſince her father was already waiting to give her away, and ſince Cathcart was to remain at Alveſtone by the particular directions of Willoughby on their parting. Celeſtina could not be preſent at the cere⯑mony, but while it was performing pre⯑pared herſelf with as much reſolution as ſhe could for her little journey. When they returned from the altar, ſhe kiſſed in ſilence the weeping Jeſſy, who clung round her unable to bid her adieu: ſhe recom⯑mended to Cathcart the cloſeſt adherence to every injunction laid on him by Wil⯑loughby, and beſought him to come him⯑ſelf over to her with the expected letter as ſoon as it arrived; and then with faulter⯑ing ſteps went to the chaiſe which was in waiting for her by Mr. Thorold's orders. He placed himſelf by her; and ſhe was thus removed, probably as ſhe thought for ever, from the houſe, of which, only a few [12] hours before, ſhe conſidered herſelf as the fortunate miſtreſs.

As ſhe paſſed along the avenue, the bench under one of the great elms, where ſhe had ſo often ſat with Willoughby in their childhood, and where only a few days before he had been recalling thoſe delightful times to her recollection, ſtruck her moſt: it looked like a monument to the memory of loſt happineſs! As the great gate of the park ſhut after the car⯑riage, ſhe felt exiled for ever from the only ſpot in the world that contained any odject intereſting to her; and though little diſpoſed to think of poetry, almoſt invo⯑luntarily repeated—

Mr. Thorold, to whom ſorrow was ſa⯑cred, attempted not to call off her thoughts from their preſent mournful employment; but glad to ſee that her ſorrow broke not [13] out in thoſe violent and convulſive expreſ⯑ſions which many women would have given way to, he contented himſelf with adminiſtering to her in ſilence all the offices of friendſhip; and when they ar⯑rived at his houſe, which was about five miles from Alveſtone, he got out and went in firſt to prepare his family for the recep⯑tion of their unexpected viſitor. After a few moments he returned, and aſſured her that both Mrs. Thorold and his daughter would be happy to ſee her, and think themſelves honoured by her abode with them; "but," added he, "perhaps you had rather go to your own chamber than be introduced immediately to ſtrangers." Celeſtina had already repented of having accepted Mr. Thorold's offer, however friendly it was, and felt that in her pre⯑ſent ſtate of mind the moſt forlorn ſolitude would have been better for her than the reſtraint ſhe muſt unavoidably ſubmit to, and the enquiries that, if not by words, the looks of all who ſaw her would make [14] into the cauſe of the ſtrange revolution that had happened in her circumſtances: but it was now too late to retreat, and ſhe deter⯑mined to go through at once a ceremony, the delay of which would not render it leſs diſtreſſing.

She anſwered, therefore, with more ſtea⯑dineſs of voice than could be expected, that ſhe could not too ſoon avail herſelf of Mrs. Thorold's kindneſs, and was imme⯑diately introduced to her and her only un⯑married daughter.

Mrs. Thorold was what the world agrees to call a very good ſort of woman, but one of thoſe who are beſt deſcribed by nega⯑tives; ſhe had no poſitive failings, but a ſort of feminine pride, which made her very anxious that none of her neighbours, at leaſt none of the rank of private gentle⯑women, ſhould have handſomer cloaths, or better furniture, or a nicer houſe; and while ſhe carefully guarded her own dig⯑nity, ſhe indulged ſomewhat too much curioſity in enquiring into the minuteſt par⯑ticular [15] by which the conſequence of others could be diminiſhed or encreaſed.

Mr. Thorold, whoſe ſtrong underſtand⯑ing taught him to ſee and bear her foibles, had taken the utmoſt pains to check in his daughters a propenſity to imitate them. The three elder had been married ſome years, and were ſettled in the neighbour⯑hood of London. Arabella, the youngeſt, was now about two and twenty, rather pretty in her perſon, and pleaſing in her manners: with much of her father's ſenſe, ſhe had a little of the vanity of her mother; but it had taken another turn: though ſhe dreſſed faſhionably, and her ſiſters always took care, by ſending her the neweſt modes from London, to enable her to give the ton in that remote country, ſhe piqued her⯑ſelf leſs on that advantage than on being reckoned extremely accompliſhed. In conſequence of this rage, ſhe played on ſeveral kinds of inſtruments mechanically, for ſhe had no ear, and ſung in a feigned voice, for nature had denied her a natural [16] one. In languages ſhe was more ſucceſs⯑ful: under the inſtructions of her father ſhe had early been taught Latin, and that knowledge facilitated her acquiring the French and Italian, which ſhe wrote and underſtood better than ſhe ſpoke them: ſhe took likeneſſes in crayons; painted landſkapes in oil; and the apartments were furniſhed with her worſted works and embroidery.

Celeſtina had hardly gone through the firſt ceremonies of her reception than ſhe found a relief from the inquiſitive looks of the mother and daughter, in admiring theſe performances. "You do my trifling productions a great deal of honour," ſaid Miſs Thorold, "and your praiſe cannot fail of being very gratifying to me, as I underſtand you are yourſelf ſo extremely accompliſhed."

"Indeed," anſwered Celeſtina, "you have been miſinformed. I can boaſt of no ſuch advantage: but I am extremely fond of muſic and of drawing, and uſed to [17] pleaſe a very partial friend by attempting them: ſince her death, my time has paſſed in a very unſettled way, and I have now no motive to tempt me to recover what in that deſultory life I have loſt of the little I knew."

Miſs Thorold, who had heard Celeſtina repreſented as excelling, was not ſorry to find ſhe poſſeſſed no ſuch very great ad⯑vantages over her; and Celeſtina, to whom any thing was preferable to converſation, preſſing her to ſit down to the harpſichord, ſhe complied with that air of confidence which the certainty of excelling gives; and till dinner ſhe continued to play ſonatas and leſſons, all of which Celeſtina failed not to applaud, though ſhe had ſo little idea of what ſhe heard, that ſhe could not have aſſigned one to it's proper compoſer: her thoughts were fled after Willoughby; and from the ſtrange reverſe ſhe had experienced, nothing had power to detach them. Dinner, tea, and ſupper, at length were over; the preſence of Mr. Thorold [18] prevented his wife from aſking queſtions which were every moment riſing to her lips; and Celeſtina was permitted to retire to her own room at an early hour. The extreme fatigue ſhe had ſuffered the night before, and the ſolicitude of ſpirit ſhe had endured for ſo many hours, had ſo ex⯑hauſted nature that ſhe ſunk into ſlumber; but it was diſturbed and broken by hideous dreams. In the morning, however, ſhe found herſelf better: her mind had not yet recovered from it's conſternation, but ſhe could now think of all that had happened with more ſteadineſs. In the letter ſhe expected from Willoughby, ſhe had ſome⯑thing to look forward to, which might al⯑leviate but could not encreaſe her anxiety, as whatever cleared up the myſtery would, ſhe thought, be a relief to her, and cer⯑tainty, however painful, ſhe was ſure ſhe could endure better than wild conjectures and terrifying ſuſpenſe.

CHAPTER II.

ALL the following day paſſed without any tidings of Cathcart, in ſearch of whom the anxious eyes of Celeſtina were continually turned towards the window. Mr. Thorold went out to his farm and among his pariſhioners in his uſual way, and had charged his wife to let Celeſtina be miſtreſs of her time, and not to impor⯑tune her with queſtions or even with con⯑verſation: to Arabella alſo he had given the ſame injunctions: but the native po⯑liteneſs of Celeſtina had made both the ladies believe ſhe was pleaſed by their converſation and intereſted in their con⯑cerns, and to avoid the appearance of rudeneſs or ſingularity, Celeſtina now forced herſelf into ſome degree of atten⯑tion [20] to their endeavours to entertain her, liſtened to the details Mrs. Thorold gave of the affairs of the neighbourhood, and gave her daughter her opinion of the moſt elegant mixture of colours in a work⯑bag ſhe was compoſing for one of her ſiſters, heard with patient politeleſs a long poem, written by young Thorold, who was now at Oxford, and aſſented to the juſtice of Arabella's complaints that there was very little rational ſociety in the coun⯑try, that every body now forſook their diſtant ſeats to paſs their ſummers at ſome watering place, and that unleſs one could enter into the amuſements of an in⯑ferior circle, there was to be found in the country no amuſement at all.

So paſſed the long long day, and ano⯑ther and another in the ſame manner, relieved by nothing but the ſilent though tender ſympathy with which Mr. Thorold himſelf ſeemed to enter into the feelings of his fair, unhappy gueſt. He looked at her with eyes that told her all the concern [21] her ſituation gave him; and appeared hurt that both his wife and daughter, though they behaved to her with all the attention and kindneſs poſſible, ſeemed not to un⯑derſtand, that on a mind like hers, in its preſent ſituation, the common occurrences of life could not be obtruded but to pain and fatigue. He however ſpoke not to them, of what, he feared, they had not delicacy of feeling enough to comprehend; but knowing of the expected letter from Willoughby, he became towards the noon of the fourth day almoſt as anxious for its arrival, and almoſt as uneaſy at its long delay, as Celeſtina herſelf.

Her ſolicitude was by that time become inſupportable. She could no longer con⯑ceal it under the appearance of attending to her hoſts; but took the opportunity of Mrs. Thorold's being engaged in domeſtic buſineſs, and Arabella at her muſic, to ſteal into the garden; where ſhe hid herſelf in a ſort of alcove cut in an hedge of holly and other evergreens that bounded the [22] garden towards the road, and there gave way to the tormenting apprehenſions that corroded her heart. It was now Tueſday: Willoughby had been gone ſince the pre⯑ceding Wedneſday evening; and had he gone to London immediately, and written from thence as he promiſed, the letter muſt long ſince have reached Cathcart by the return of the poſt: but ſhe knew that unleſs he was greatly changed it was not to the poſt he would entruſt the convey⯑ance of a letter on which her exiſtence perhaps depended; the delay therefore ag⯑gravated all the terrors ſhe felt; but ano⯑ther day paſt, and ſhe was ſtill obliged to endure them. To diſguiſe her diſtreſs however was impracticable; and without hoping to impoſe upon her friends by ſo common an artifice, ſhe was at length com⯑pelled to ſay, that ſhe had an head ach which was very ſevere unleſs when ſhe was in the open air; and that ſhe was rendered by it quite incapable of converſation.

[23] Having thus obtained the liberty of wan⯑dering alone in the garden, ſhe paſſed there the whole morning of Wedneſday: ſometimes reflecting with the bittereſt re⯑gret on the different proſpects which were before her on the Wedneſday of the pre⯑ceding week, and ſometimes bewildering herſelf in conjectures, on the cauſe of their having thus vaniſhed from her.

Spring had within that period made a rapid progreſs; but Celeſtina no longer heeded the beauties that ſurrounded her: hers was now that ſtate of mind when—

Even flowers, of which ſhe was paſſionately fond, had loſt the influence they once had over her fancy. She ſaw them not; or ſeeing them, only recollected that Wil⯑loughby [34] had ſhewn her at Alveſtone a bed of ſuch hyacinths, whoſe bloom and fra⯑grance he had fondly anticipated, knowing how much ſhe delighted in them: ſhe remembered with a ſigh each particular leaf and bloſſom that compoſed the laſt noſegay he gathered for her, on the morn⯑ing of that day, when they were divided, never, as ſhe now feared—to meet again!

Such were her ſad recollections, as, hardly knowing what ſhe did, ſhe traverſed the graſs walk which was divided by a hedge of evergreens from the road. Her mourn⯑ful reverie was interrupted by the ſound of horſes feet. She flew to the gate: it was Cathcart! who on perceiving her threw himſelf from his horſe and gave her the long expected letter, which ſhe received with ſuch marks of extreme agitation, that Cathcart, afraid ſhe would fall, left his horſe to find it's way to the ſtable, and came to ſupport her.

She leaned on his arm, attempting to [25] ſpeak, and after a moment's pauſe ſaid—"Cathcart, you have had a letter alſo?"

"I have."

"Before I have courage to open my own, tell me—is Willoughby well? and are there hopes of our ſeeing him again?"

"He is well," anſwered Cathcart; but of ſeeing him again he gives me no hopes: to you, perhaps, he may be, and I hope is more explicit."

Celeſtina ſtaid not to reply; but hurry⯑ing as well as ſhe was able to her own room, tore open her letter, which was in theſe words:

Celeſtina read over this letter the firſt time in ſuch perturbation, that except a general notion that notwithſtanding Wil⯑loughby had involuntarily left her they ſhould meet no more, ſhe had very little idea of it's contents.

Her's were ſenſations of anguiſh which no appeal to friendſhip, no participation of her ſentiments with another, could mitigate or appeaſe. Cathcart knew no more of the motives of Willoughby's conduct than ſhe did herſelf; Mr. Thorold was equally ig⯑norant; [32] and to neither of them could ſhe look for conſolation. She tried to recover her compoſure; ſhe a ſecond time read the letter: it grew more and more inexplica⯑ble; and after having anxiouſly waited for it ſo many days, it's arrival ſeemed now only either to embarraſs her with new conjectures, or to torment her with appre⯑henſions of his marrying Miſs Fitz-Hay⯑man, for to that the cloſe of the firſt ſen⯑tence evidently alluded. Nothing but the natural ſtrength of her underſtanding could have ſupported her under the firſt tumultu⯑ous ſenſations of redoubled conſternation and wild conjecture, which now aſſailed her. The longer ſhe ſtudied the letter, the more impoſſible ſhe found any explana⯑tion of Willoughby's conduct: ſtill the aſſurances of his unſhaken attachment ſweetened the bitterneſs of her deſtiny; he was living; he ſtill loved her; her ſituation, therefore, however uneaſy, was not deſpe⯑rate; and, as the firſt aſtoniſhment at the incomprehenſible contents of a letter, which [33] was expected to clear up every doubt, ſubſided, ſhe ſaw leſs cauſe of deſpondence, and again ſhe examined every ſeparate pa⯑ragraph, trying to extract from all that would bear it, ſomething to cheriſh that hope, without which her exiſtence would have been inſupportable.

Every requeſt of Willoughby had with her the force of a command; but that he made in regard to her continuing at Al⯑veſtone was ſo worded, as if he hardly himſelf thought ſhe ought to comply with it. The impropriety of it appeared evi⯑dent; but in every other inſtance ſhe de⯑termined to be governed by his wiſhes, and as far as was now in her power to con⯑tribute to his ſatisfaction by affording him all the conſolation that depended upon her. Of the pleaſure of living for a beloved object, though perhaps perſonally diſunited for ever, of believing that where⯑ever he was, her eaſe and happineſs were ever in his thoughts, ſhe was fully ſenſible; and ſhe now found in it a conſolation ſo [34] ſoothing to her mind, that ſhe was ſoon enabled to return to Cathcart, who waited for her in the parlour, with more compo⯑ſure than on her leaving him it was likely ſhe would ſoon obtain. She found herſelf unequal to entering on a diſcuſſion of the letter, which ſhe gave Cathcart to read; and on his returning it in ſilence, but with a look ſufficiently expreſſive of his aſto⯑niſhment, ſhe told him, that nothing re⯑mained but for them to fulfil as nearly as poſſible all the injunctions of Willoughby. "He deſires me not to write to him," ſaid ſhe. "Even in that I ſhall, with what⯑ever reluctance, obey him at preſent, and ſo I certainly ſhall in what relates to fol⯑lowing the advice of Mr. Thorold. A little time will be neceſſary before I can fix on any plan of life: but as my dear Willoughby expects to hear of me from you, tell him that I bear our ſeparation, cruel as it is, with fortitude and calmneſs, convinced as I am that our connection is not broken by any cauſe that ought to [35] make me bluſh that it had ever been in⯑tended." She ſtopped a moment to re⯑cover her voice, which faultered and almoſt failed, and then added—"No, Cathcart, whatever has divided us, I have the firmeſt reliance on Willoughby's honour."

"And on his love," ſaid Cathcart, "you may, dear Madam, with equal firmneſs rely: and though theſe perfect convictions render this ſtrange ſeparation more wonderful, they will I truſt ſuſtain your courage through it—I ſay through it, becauſe I am almoſt certain it will be of no long duration."

"Ah! Cathcart!" cried Celeſtina mournfully, "I would I could think ſo! But it is indeed very fruitleſs and very pain⯑ful to enter again on theſe bewildering conjectures, in which, as there is no end, there is little uſe: and I have need of all my ſpirits to enable me to ſupport an evil, for which I cannot account; I will not therefore waſte them in gueſſing or lament⯑ing but employ them to obey him to whom [36] my heart muſt, in every change of circum⯑ſtance, and though I were certain never more to ſee him, be fondly and faithfully devoted. Tell him ſo, my good friend: tell him how well I bear this ſevere blow, more ſevere as coming from an unknown hand; and aſſure him that if he will allow me to write to him, I will not diſtreſs him by uſeleſs complaints, or aggravate his ſorrow by repreſenting my own."

Again ſhe ſtopped, while Cathcart ex⯑preſſed his admiration of her juſt and noble reſolutions; and after a moment, finding the exertion too much for her, ſhe added haſtily—"tell him thus much, Cathcart, in the letter you will of courſe write to him this afternoon; and tell him that your next letter ſhall inform him, if it is ſtill uneaſy to him to receive a letter from me, of the arrangements I will make under the guidance of Mr. Thorold for my future life: but ſay, that they will be ſuch as will render his generous intentions as to pecuniary matters needleſs. I would fain [37] explain my thoughts in that reſpect; but in truth I am not able juſt now. Some hours of reflection will be neceſſary to me. Farewel, therefore, dear Cathcart, for this morning; I ſhall of courſe ſee you again in a few days."

Cathcart aſſured her he would be with her again the following Friday; or the in⯑tervening day, if he received any new in⯑telligence from Willoughby. She then charged him with many kind wiſhes and remembrances to Jeſſy, who was now, he told her, ſo confined by her grandfather that ſhe could not get to her, and then took his leave to return to Alveſtone, and execute the wiſhes of Willoughby by giv⯑ing him a minute detail of all that had paſſed with Celeſtina.

CHAPTER III.

MR. Thorold, who was informed that Celeſtina had received letters from Wil⯑loughby, felt a true friendly impatience to know their contents: but feeling alſo how much his lovely gueſt muſt in any event be agitated, he not only forbore to intrude upon her with any enquiries himſelf, but in order that ſhe might not ſuffer even from the looks of his family, which he knew could not fail to expreſs ſolicitude ariſing from leſs generous motives, he ſent her up a note to her own apartment, in which he begged ſhe would not come down to dinner, to put herſelf, through form, into any ſituation that might be in any degree painful. This exemption was particularly gratifying to her, as the [39] younger Thorold was this day expected at dinner, and was to remain at home for ſome weeks; and his elder brother, a Captain in the army, who had been ſome time in Ireland, was to meet him in the evening. Celeſtina was unfit for com⯑pany, and above all, the company of ſtran⯑gers; and again ſhe regretted that in the firſt unſettled tumult of her ſpirits ſhe had agreed to Mr. Thorold's propoſal, inſtead of going back to the lodgings ſhe had formerly inhabited: ſhe was now, how⯑ever, compelled to remain where ſhe was, till ſhe could determine, with the advice of Mr. Thorold, whither to go. She thought it probable that he might wiſh her to remain with him; but to this, ex⯑cept his friendly regard for her, and the advantage of being near Cathcart and Jeſſy, ſhe had no inducement; and where⯑ever ſhe was, ſhe determined it ſhould not be as a mere viſitor for any length of time, but that ſhe would pay for her board. Again the quiet and liberty of her cottage [40] on the heath recurred to her; but when ſhe enjoyed that quiet, her heart had not undergone thoſe viciſſitudes of happineſs and miſery, which had now, ſhe greatly feared, excluded tranquillity from her boſom for ever; what had then afforded her a ſpecies of melancholy pleaſure, the diſtant view of a ſpot in Alveſtone Park, would now ſerve only to render her more unhappy, and to encourage that tendency to repine, which her reaſon told her ſhe ſhould, both on Willoughby's account and her own, rather reſolve to conquer than endeavour to indulge: ſhe believed, how⯑ever, that if once ſome reſolution was formed as to her future reſidence, ſhe ſhould be eaſier herſelf, and be better able to ſatisfy Willoughby. To this ſub⯑ject, therefore, ſhe turned her thoughts, and examined with a heavy heart ſeveral different plans that offered themſelves to her mind.

Nothing could be more comfortleſs than her reflections: ſhe was not only an or⯑phan, [41] and a ſtranger in England, but knew not whether there was in the world any being whoſe protection ſhe had the remoteſt right to claim. Lady Molyneux had never written to her ſince their ſepara⯑tion, and even if Willoughby ſhould ap⯑prove of her again ſeeking the protection of his ſiſter, which ſhe had great reaſon to doubt, ſhe knew not whether Matilda and her huſband would receive her; and from that want of heart ſhe had too often diſcovered in them both, ſhe could not think of making the experiment. She had no intimacy with any other perſon; for though many of the families ſhe had been accuſ⯑tomed to viſit while Mrs. Willoughby lived, had daughters, who had cultivated an acquaintance with her, ſhe had already ſeen enough of the general conduct of the world to know that ſhe ſhould now be no longer an acceptable gueſt, and that an individual to whom court is made aſſidu⯑ouſly, while ſhining as an equal among faſhionable circles, is ſoon forgotten; or [42] if remembered, deſpiſed, when thoſe ad⯑ventitious advantages ſurround her no lon⯑ger. She had heard from Vavaſour, for Willoughby himſelf had always carefully avoided the ſubject, that the ſudden deſer⯑tion of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, to whom Wil⯑loughby was ſuppoſed to be ſo firmly en⯑gaged, and his reſolution of marrying his mother's adopted daughter, had been very much talked of in the extenſive circle who were connected or acquainted with the fa⯑mily: ſhe could not doubt but that their ſudden ſeparation on the very eve of their marriage was as generally known; and had ſhe found any temptation to return to the ſociety ſhe had quitted, this painful cer⯑tainty, the prying curioſity that would be excited, and the malicious conjecture that would be made, would effectually have counteracted it.

Towards evening ſhe found ſufficient courage to entreat Mr. Thorold's attention for half an hour. He came to her imme⯑diately, [43] and ſhe put into his hands the letter ſhe had received from Willoughby.

He read it with great attention, and as it ſhould ſeem with great concern, and then, in the expreſſive manner that was uſual with him, gave it back to her with⯑out ſpeaking.

Benevolence and pity were now viſible in his features, which were maſculine, ſtrong, and frequently ſtern; but Celeſtina was hardly enough accuſtomed to him to underſtand his ſilence completely. "You ſee, dear Sir," ſaid ſhe timidly—"you ſee that Willoughby refers me to you, and I would very fain avail myſelf of the bene⯑fit of your advice."

"It is always at your ſervice," replied Mr. Thorold; "but on what occaſion do you now aſk it?"

"I wiſh to know," replied ſhe with ſtill greater heſitation, "what you think it adviſable for me to do? where you think I ought to ſettle myſelf?"

[44] "I am ſorry," anſwered he, "you think it ſo ſoon neceſſary to turn your thoughts that way. I hoped that you would ſtay here at leaſt for ſome weeks; and really I can give you no other advice than to do ſo. The myſtery which I can⯑not develope, may by that time be re⯑moved, and we ſhall have time not only to hear more of Willoughby, but if no⯑thing occurs on his part to re-eſtabliſh you at Alveſtone, to caſt about for a proper and permanent ſituation for you: think no more, therefore, my dear ward, for ſuch I conſider you, of leaving us at preſent, and rather exert your admirable under⯑ſtanding in quieting your ſpirits, and in acquiring fortitude to bear adverſity and evil, if they ſhould be finally your por⯑tion; or equality of temper to enjoy, what it is more difficult to enjoy well—happineſs and proſperity"

Celeſtina would now liave ſpoken of the inconvenience to which ſo long a viſit might put his family, and the little claim [45] ſhe had to ſuch unuſual kindneſs from him and Mrs. Thorold; but he ſuffered her not to continue theſe apologies, ſeemed little pleaſed that ſhe attempted to make them; and then re-aſſuming his good hu⯑mour, he left her, bidding her try to re⯑cover her looks, and to diſmiſs as much as ſhe could from her mind the diſtreſſing events of the laſt ten days.

Celeſtina now found that ſhe could not immediately remove without offending the friend to whom Willoughby had recom⯑mended her, and prepared, ſince ſhe could not be indulged with ſolitude, to mix with his family, and be as little as poſſible a weight on thoſe, who, whatever might be their good humour, could not be ex⯑pected to enter into her ſorrows; the next morning therefore at breakfaſt ſhe joined Mrs. Thorold, her daughter, and her two ſons, to both of whom ſhe was immediately introduced, and from whoſe ſcrutinizing looks ſhe ſought refuge in talking with forced cheerfulneſs to Arabella.

[46] Captain Thorold was the eldeſt of the family, and Montague the youngeſt. The former of theſe young men had been adopted by his uncle, who, after a life paſſed in the army, had died a general officer at a very advanced age, and had left his nephew his whole fortune, which was near fifteen hundred a year, after the death of his wife, who ſurviving him only a twelvemonth, Captain Thorold had now been ſome time in poſſeſſion of his eſtate, and of a conſiderable ſum of money.

But accuſtomed from his infancy to the unſettled life of a ſoldier, he ſtill continued it from habit and choice; and though his father and his family were very ſolicitous to have him marry and ſettle near them, he ſeemed to have no inclination to reſign his freedom for the pleaſures of domeſtic ſociety. Novelty and amuſement were his purſuits, and his fortune gave him the power to indulge himſelf. He had what is generally called a very handſome per⯑ſon; but without his military air, his figure [47] would have been rather eſteemed clumſy than graceful. He had lived much among the circles who give the ton, dreſſed well, and had that ſort of underſtanding which recommended him to general ſociety, and particularly to that of the ladies, with whom he was an almoſt univerſal favourite, and who had agreed to call him the hand⯑ſome Thorold, even before he became poſſeſſed of a fortune, which in the opinion of moſt of the belles at country quarters, and ſtill more in the opinion of their mo⯑thers, more than redoubled his attractions. Thus ſpoiled from his firſt entrance into life, he had learned to conſider himſelf as irreſiſtible, and ſuppoſed every woman he ſaw his own, if he choſe to take the trou⯑ble of ſecuring her.

His air and manner were tinctured with the conſequence he derived from this per⯑ſuaſion; and from having indulged him⯑ſelf in the cruel vanity of extenſive con⯑queſt, he was incapable of any laſting or ſerious attachment. At the firſt public [48] meeting at any town he happened to be quartered at, he elected ſome goddeſs of the day; with her he danced, he walked, he rode, he coquetted; and by ſtudied looks, and tender ſpeeches, ſoon perſuaded the inexperienced girl that ſhe had ſecured in her chains the handſome Thorold. The deluſion of the young woman herſelf, and the envy of the cotemporary belles, ſometimes laſted till the removal of the corps to another ſtation: when he took a cold farewel, and left her to ſuffer all the pain of diſappointed love and mortified vanity: but he not unfrequently indulged himſelf in witneſſing the diſtreſs this wan⯑ton folly inflicted; and after ſome days of attention ſo marked and unequivocal as to give the lady reaſon to ſuppoſe an abſolute declaration of his paſſion was certainly to be expected, he ſuddenly broke off the acquaintance, pretended to forget their intimacy, bowed to her when they met with the air of a ſtranger, and beginning the ſame career with ſome other pretty girl [49] of the place, he affected to treat with diſ⯑dain and wonder the reports he had him⯑ſelf raiſed of his permanent attachment to the firſt lady, and laughed with her rival at the melancholy moping looks, or glances of angry diſappointment, of the deſerted beauty, declaring himſelf amazed at her having the vanity to ſuppoſe him ſerious, becauſe he had ſhewn her a few trifling at⯑tentions which meant nothing.

This conduct of his ſon had given Mr. Thorold great uneaſineſs a few years be⯑fore, but lately, as he had been in Ire⯑land, and in very diſtant quarters, his fa⯑ther had heard no more of it, and flattered himſelf that now, at near thirty, this un⯑ſettled temper and unjuſtifiable levity would end in his marrying and quitting the army. But though a very fond father to all his children, Mr. Thorold loved the Captain leſs than the others; partly perhaps becauſe he was ſo early removed from him, and rendered independent of his care, and partly becauſe his temper and diſpoſition [50] reſembled not his own; while Mrs. Tho⯑rold doated on her eldeſt ſon, whoſe figure and fortune gratified her vanity, and whom ſhe thought no young woman could poſſi⯑bly deſerve, unleſs ſhe poſſeſſed at once fortune, beauty, and faſhion.

Montague Thorold, who was but juſt turned of one and twenty, and was deſigned by his father for the church, was as modeſt and unaſſuming as his brother was arrogant and pretending. He was a very good ſcholar, with a paſſion for poetry, and was juſt of the age to be in love with every handſome woman he ſaw; and without having the courage to ſpeak to any of them in proſe, he celebrated his divinities in verſe, and ſighed forth his tender ſenti⯑ments in ſonnets and elegies, which en⯑riched the magazines, and now and then the public prints, under the fictitious names of Alphonſo or Lyſimachus.

Such were the two young men who were now added to the tea table of Mrs. Tho⯑rold, where all the family were aſſembled [51] except Mr. Thorold himſelf, who always breakfaſted early and then went out to his farm or among his pariſhioners.

Mrs. Thorold had told her ſons that a young lady was viſiting at the houſe, whoſe hiſtory ſhe had given them in ſhort hand, deſcribing her as a dependant on the late Mrs. Willoughby, whom her ſon had very ſimply intended to marry at Alveſtone; but the evening before the appointed wed⯑ding day had broken off the match, from prudential motives as ſhe ſuppoſed, and by the advice of ſome of his friends who had come down from London.

This was the idea Mrs. Thorold had her⯑ſelf conceived of the affair, and ſhe had no means of being undeceived; for Mr. Tho⯑rold, who knew that with her a command was better than an argument, and whoſe authority was pretty firmly eſtabliſhed, had ordered her poſitively to aſk no queſtions of his gueſt, and had peremptorily refuſed to anſwer thoſe ſhe put to himſelf. She obeyed, but not without many murmurs; [52] but knowing that Mr. Thorold would be much diſobliged by her refuſal to entertain Celeſtina with kindneſs, had put a reſtraint upon herſelf, and ſhewed her hitherto much civility, though not without many com⯑plaints to Arabella, when they were alone, of her father's abſurdity in forcing people into the family, and refuſing even to ſa⯑tisfy her who and what they were, or what claim they had to the kindneſs he exacted for them.

From his mother's ſketch of their viſitor the evening before, Captain Thorold had very little curioſity to ſee her; and Mon⯑tague, whoſe heart was in one of it's moſt violent paroxiſms of love for the fair daughter of an attorney at Henly, with whom he became acquainted about a fort⯑night before, was occupied in compoſing an elegy on abſence, and thought he could with indifference have beheld at that pe⯑riod Helen herſelf: he had enquired of his mother and ſiſter if their gueſt was handſome: Mrs. Thorold anſwered—"No, [53] not at all handſome in my opinion;" and Arabella ſaid—"Yes, ſurely, Mama, ſhe is rather pretty-iſh."

On her entering the room, however, both the gentlemen were inſtantly of an opinion very different from that of their mother and their ſiſter: yet Celeſtina had not now that dazzling complexion, or that animated coun⯑tenance, which were once ſo dangerous to behold; ſhe was pale and languid; her eyes had all their ſoftneſs, but their luſtre was diminiſhed; and the enchanting ſweet⯑neſs which uſed to play about her mouth was now ſupplied by a melancholy ſmile, the effect of a faint effort to conceal the anguiſh of the heart.

Such as ſhe now appeared, however, the Captain thought her very lovely; and Montague almoſt inſtantly forgot the nymph for whom he had been dying in ſong all the morning, and ſaw in the in⯑tereſting languor of Celeſtina—in her faded cheek, and downcaſt eyes, a ſentimental effect, which none of the fair creatures [54] whom he had celebrated had ever ſo emi⯑nently poſſeſſed: but if ſuch were his ſentiments before ſhe ſpoke, his admira⯑tion aroſe to extravagance, when, after breakfaſt, his ſiſter engaged her in a walk in which the two gentlemen attended them, and when he found that her mind correſponded with the elegance of her form; that ſhe was very well read, had a taſte for poetry, and underſtood Italian, of which he was enthuſiaſtically fond. Cap⯑tain Thorold, on whom theſe advantages made leſs impreſſion, was not quite pleaſed during this walk with the unuſual talkative⯑neſs of his brother, who generally ſuffered him to take the lead in converſation. He now attempted to put by him two or three times, and to relate anecdotes of people in high life: of what General Wallace ſaid to him at Dublin Caſtle upon his intro⯑duction to the Ducheſs of—, and of a bon mot of Lady Mary Marſden's at ſup⯑per one evening; but Celeſtina, who cared nothing about the General, the Ducheſs, [55] or Lady Mary, let the converſation drop without expreſſing any pleaſure in it, and again lent her attention to Montague, who deſired her to correct his accent while he repeated— ‘O primavera, gioventu dell' anno—’

Celeſtina modeſtly aſſured him ſhe was incapable of correcting him; but he be⯑ſought her ſo earneſtly to recite the lines to him, that ſhe inconſiderately attempted it, and in the moſt enchanting accents be⯑gan—

The cruel remembrance that now preſſed upon her heart made her voice tremble, and gave it additional tenderneſs. She tried to recover it; and going into a lower tone, went on with—

She could go no farther: the tears were in her eyes; but ſhe tried to ſmile, and to ſtifle the deep ſigh that was riſing as ſhe ſaid—"I cannot go on, for really I re⯑member no more."

The young man, faſcinated by her manner and her voice, now recollected—with reluctance recollected, that theſe ſe⯑ducing tones were drawn forth by the reality of thoſe ſufferings the poet deſcribed. He looked at her in ſilence; and as he marked the ſad and penſive expreſſion that remained on her countenance, that aſto⯑niſhment, which he had hardly time to feel before, aroſe: he thought it impoſſible that Mr. Willoughby, having the power to marry ſuch a woman, and having once formed the reſolution to do ſo, ſhould by any perſuaſions be diverted from his pur⯑poſe; and he found that in the ſingle hour [57] he had been with her, he admired her enough to ſacrifice every thing to her, were it poſſible that her regard could be transferred to him. The improbability that it ever could, ſtruck him forcibly, and rendered him as ſilent as Celeſtina herſelf; while the Captain, who had now an opportunity of engroſſing her attention, rallied her on being ſo much affected. "I have no notion now," ſaid he, "of giving way to thoſe ſort of things. I love gay and cheerful poetry. One is tired of weeping at the fictitious miſery of fictitious perſons. I remember being ſome time ago at a converſation in Dublin, where we talked of the faſhionable indifference which every body has now for tragedy; and my friend Hargrave, who has written, you know, ſeveral things himſelf, was con⯑demning it as the certain marks of the vitiated taſte and imbecility of the age: I took up the argument on the other ſide; and Lady Mary Marſden thought as I did. Indeed every body preſent allowed [58] that it was quite abſurd to go to a play, which is intended to amuſe and entertain, only to be made uneaſy. She agreed with me that people have concern enough in real life, and need not go ſeek it in way of diverſion."

"And did her Ladyſhip," enquired Montague Thorold, "give no other rea⯑ſons?"

"I think thoſe are very good reaſons," replied the Captain.

"They might be ſo," anſwered his brother, "for a woman of faſhion; but I am perſuaded literary people and people of taſte think quite otherwiſe; and the an⯑cients, whoſe ſuperior intellectual advan⯑tages are not to be diſputed—"

"Oh prithee Montague," interrupted the Captain, "don't run us down with college cant. I am talking of the world we live in; and the opinions of people who lived two thouſand years ago are no more in queſtion now than their dreſſes." He then went on to retail other opinions [59] of Lady Mary Marſden, who was, as it ſeemed, the oracle of the hour in the ſociety he had juſt left. Celeſtina heard him with apparent attention, but in truth without knowing what he ſaid; his brother, rendered impatient by being interrupted in his converſation with her, walked away; and Arabella, who loved to hear deſcrip⯑tions of fine people, and to attend to fa⯑ſhionable converſation, kept up the dia⯑logue till the end of their walk; when Celeſtina went to her own room, Arabella to her dreſſing table, and the Captain, finding his mother at work in the parlour, thought he had a right to aſk her a few queſtions about Celeſtina, in return for the perpetual tone of interrogation ſhe had kept up towards him ever ſince his arrival.

To Mrs. Thorold, the next gratification to that of aſking queſtions was the pleaſure of anſwering them: ſhe told her ſon, there⯑fore, not only all ſhe knew, but invented anſwers on ſome points which ſhe only gueſſed at; and he underſtood, from her [60] information, that Celeſtina had been very partial to Willoughby; and ſo ſtrong was this partiality deſcribed, that he began to doubt whether the propoſed marriage had not been a mere fineſſe to throw her off her guard, and get her wholly into his power; and whether his abrupt departure had not been in conſequence of the ſucceſs of this diſingenuous but not unprecedented method of proceeding.

Captain Thorold had ſeen Willoughby frequently in his laſt viſit at home, and knew that he had every advantage which a fine perſon and engaging manners could give him; he was well acquainted with the ſociety among which he lived, and had heard ſome of them, but particularly Vava⯑ſour, deſcribed as being very gay and un⯑principled; he had therefore little difficulty in ſuppoſing that Willoughby reſembled thoſe with whom he aſſociated, and that Celeſtina had been the victim of thoſe arts which he ſuppoſed no man ever ſcrupled to practice where the object was ſo well [61] worth the trouble; eſpecially one ſo unpro⯑tected as ſhe was, where no rigid father was in the way to obſtruct their deſigns, or Chamont-like brother to avenge the wrong they might commit. Willoughby now, however, ſeemed quite out of the queſtion; and he doubted not, but that after a ſhort interval given to ſentimental regret on the loſs of a firſt lover, ſhe would liſten to other vows, and encourage the paſſion, which he thought it might be very amuſing to entertain her with, without meaning however to offer himſelf to fill ſuch engagements as Willoughby had broken. While he meditated on this pro⯑ject, he could not help ſmiling at the culli⯑bility of his father, who had thus, he thought, taken into his protection, and made the companion of his wife and daugh⯑ter, the deſerted miſtreſs of Willoughby.

CHAPTER IV.

THE following morning Cathcart was early at the houſe of Mr. Thorold; and Celeſtina, who roſe now earlier than uſual, (to enjoy, if it could be called enjoyment, a few hours, before ſhe was compelled to hide her ſorrows under the appearance of attention to the family ſhe was with) met him as he came from the ſtable; and in⯑ſtead of going into the houſe, ſhe deſired he would walk with her towards the village. "You have news for me," ſaid ſhe; "but if I may gueſs by your countenance none that will relieve the weight I feel on my heart."

"I am afraid not," replied he: "yet indeed I have nothing to ſay that ſhould encreaſe it. Mr. Willoughby is well; he [63] writes to me with more cheerfulneſs than I expected, and aſſures me that he has a long letter for you, which he ſhall ſend from Dover, where he ſhall finiſh it."

"From Dover! He is then ſet out on this expedition. Ah! Cathcart! and ought not ſuch intelligence to add to my con⯑cern?"

"Not at all," replied Cathcart. "You knew before that it was his intention; and he tells me that on the event of this jour⯑ney depends his ever ſeeing Alveſtone again. There is certainly a chance of it's terminating favourably: at all events, if this abſence is to end your ſuſpenſe, you ſhould not only ſubmit to it, but endea⯑vour, my dear Miſs De Mornay, to keep up both your health and ſpirits."

"Alas! Cathcart," anſwered Celeſtina, "there is nothing ſo eaſy to the happy as to give ſuch advice, nothing ſo difficult to the wretched as to take it." She then enquired into the other particulars con⯑tained in Willoughby's letter; and after [64] informing herſelf of the day when he expected to be at Dover, and how long it might pro⯑bably be before ſhe ſhould receive the letter he promiſed her, ſhe turned the converſation on Jeſſy, whom ſhe expreſſed an eager wiſh to ſee: and ſoon after Montague Thorold, who impatiently watched her wherever ſhe went, came to tell her that his mother waited breakfaſt for her.

Cathcart, however, declined the invita⯑tion to breakfaſt with them, and wiſhing Celeſtina a good morning, and promiſing to be with her again in a day or two, he went in ſearch of Mr. Thorold, with whom he ſaid he had ſome buſineſs.

Many ſucceeding days paſſed without any intereſting event. The Captain took every occaſion to impreſs on Celeſtina an idea of his conſequence, and the faſhion⯑able ſtyle he lived in, to which ſhe gave very little attention; while his brother, whenever he left him an opportunity, talked to her of books, or read to her paſſages in favourite authors of which he [65] heard her expreſs approbation: ſhe was prevailed upon to ſing duets with Arabella; and he was enchanted with her voice and manner; ſhe ſat down to draw the flowers he gathered for her, while he hung over her in raptures, or held her pallet, or read a bo⯑tanical deſcription of the plants ſhe was paint⯑ing. Captain Thorold rode out occaſionally to viſit ſuch of the neighbouring families as he conſidered worth his attention; Arabella was often of his party, and Mrs. Thorold engaged in domeſtic concerns; and then if Celeſtina could not eſcape to her own room before Montague, who was always upon the watch for her, could interrupt her, he entreated her ſo earneſtly to walk with him, was ſo obligingly ſolicitous to pleaſe her, and ſeemed ſo mortified when ſhe attempted to excuſe herſelf, that ſhe could ſeldom reſolve to refuſe him her converſation, even when ſhe was moſt willing to be alone; and in the ſimilarity of their taſtes and ſtudies, and in the bro⯑therly though ſilent ſympathy he appeared [66] to feel for her ſorrows, there was ſome⯑thing ſoothing to her ſick heart, which rejected every idea of love but for Wil⯑loughby: conſcious of which, and ſuppo⯑ſing that no man could conſider her other⯑wiſe than as deſtined to be his wife, or to die unmarried, ſhe dreamed not that ſhe was granting to young Thorold indulgence fatal to his repoſe.

He was himſelf ſoon aware of the dan⯑ger, but he courted it; and though he underſtood that the heart of Celeſtina was engaged, he fancied, that without any pretenſions to her love, he ſhould be hap⯑pier in being admitted to her friendſhip, than the unrivalled affections of any other woman could make him. He was too artleſs, and too proud of his judgment, to attempt to conceal this attachment from his father, who, had Celeſtina been diſen⯑gaged, would have preferred her, with her ſmall fortune and uncertain birth, to the richeſt heireſs in the county: but know⯑ing how ſhe was circumſtanced, he ſaw [67] his younger ſon's encreaſing partiality with ſome concern, and took an opportunity, when they were alone, to tell him the real circumſtances of Celeſtina in regard to Willoughby. "I can conſider her," ſaid he, "no otherwiſe than his affianced wife. They are parted by ſome cauſe of which I am ignorant, but which will probably be removed: in the mean time her youth and beauty render her ſituation very danger⯑ous; as from her being a foreigner, an or⯑phan, and probably the natural daughter of ſome perſon of high faſhion in France, who has taken care to deſtroy all evidence of her real family, ſhe is without relations and without protection. Willoughby's fa⯑ther was my old friend. When I was an indigent curate he gave me a living, which, though I have now, from being poſſeſſed of greater preferment, reſigned, I conſider as my firſt ſtep towards affluence. I am therefore, bound to the family by grati⯑tude, and to young Willoughby I am bound by perſonal friendſhip and eſteem. [68] Except ſomething too much bordering on raſhneſs in his temper, I hardly know any man ſo faultleſs and ſo worthy of regard. He adores Miſs De Mornay, and I am convinced the happineſs of his life depends on their union. Finding him torn from her for the preſent, at the very moment this union was to take place, I entered at once into all the uneaſineſs that muſt have aſſailed him, and I voluntarily offered my protection to her, which he has ſince ac⯑knowledged in a letter to me to be the greateſt kindneſs he could receive. I have promiſed him to continue it as long as ſhe has occaſion for it or will accept it. Do not, therefore, Montague, by any of your excentricities, make this uneaſy either to her or to me. Don't fancy yourſelf in love with a young woman who is in fact married. Any other kind of attention or regard you ſhew her will oblige me; but let us have no making love, unleſs you would drive her away and greatly diſoblige me."

[69] The young man readily promiſed what at the moment he was ſincere in, that he would not make love to Celeſtina; but he did not promiſe not to feel the paſſion, againſt which it was too late already to guard him. Mr. Thorold however ſup⯑poſed, that after this explanation there was nothing to fear from the extreme ſuſcepti⯑bility of his younger ſon; and for the eldeſt, he was too certain that he had not a heart on which the charms and virtues of Celeſ⯑tina, or of any other beautiful and intereſt⯑ing woman, could make any permanent impreſſion. He was eaſy therefore in a ſituation which would have made many narrow minded and ſelfiſh parents very much otherwiſe; and did not think the preſence of his two ſons at home, a ſufficient reaſon for withdrawing his generous kind⯑neſs from Celeſtina, to whom he was in⯑deed affectionately attached for her own ſake, to whom he loved to conſider himſelf as a guardian and protector.

[70] Mrs. Thorold, always buſied about the intrigues and ſchemes of the reſt of the world, ſaw not very minutely into thoſe of her own family. As to her eldeſt ſon, ſhe contemplated him as a ſuperior being, who had a right to marry the greateſt heireſs of the kingdom. She heard him ſpeak ſo often of Lady Marys and Lady Carolines, that ſhe concluded he might have any of them whenever he pleaſed; and had ſet her imagination ſo high as to his merits and his fortune, that ſhe never ſuppoſed he could think of bringing her any other than a titled daughter in law. Celeſtina, whom ſhe looked upon as a creature whoſe title to reſpect was very queſtionable, a de⯑pendant from her birth, and now little better than a dependant on herſelf, was not a perſon likely to make any impreſſion on Captain Thorold; and the prejudice operated on her perſon and her manners. Mrs. Thorold could not ſee that ſhe was handſome, or feel that ſhe was intereſting; and when the attention of young Thorold [71] was very ſtrongly marked towards her, his mother only ridiculed him, telling him that he was never eaſy but when playing the Philander, and that he cared not with whom.

Nothing, therefore, interrupted the progreſs of that ſerious paſſion, which Montague Thorold determined to indulge, and of which Celeſtina was perfectly un⯑conſcious. The more unreſerved ſlattery and free addreſs of the Captain ſhe knew how to repreſs; and received all his ad⯑vances with ſo much coldneſs, that his pride was piqued; and unuſed to the ſlighteſt repulſe, he determined not to brook it from one, who had, in his private opinion, very little right to aſſume dignity or affect diſdain.

The manner he took up towards her in conſequence of theſe opinions, was ſo very diſagreeable to her, that it forced her more than ever into the ſociety of his brother; before whom, though the Captain held him very cheap as a boy and a pedant, he [72] could not well addreſs to her ſuch ſpeeches as he had ventured to utter ſeveral times when he ſeized an opportunity of ſpeaking to her alone, or unheard by the reſt of the family. Whenever, therefore, ſhe was compelled to be below, ſhe contrived to have Montague Thorold ſit next to her, to accept his arm as they walked, and to ad⯑dreſs her diſcourſe to him: and flattered by this evident preference, he let no occaſion paſs of proving how happy it made him.

So paſſed heavily for Celeſtina, the days that intervened between that when ſhe laſt ſaw Cathcart, and that on which ſhe ex⯑pected Willoughby's letter from Dover. The day arrived at length; and Celeſtina, who happened to be ſitting with Arabella and her brothers when the letters were brought, could hardly ſupport herſelf while the Captain took them from the ſer⯑vant, and reading the direction of each, threw them acroſs the table, now one to his ſiſter, now one to his brother, and bade Montague carry a third to his father. [73] There was none for Celeſtina, though Cathcart had told her it would be directed to her at the houſe of Mr. Thorold. Of this bitter diſappointment, however, ſhe ſpoke not, but tried to conceal the change it occaſioned in her countenance, and haſtened, as ſoon as ſhe could, to weep alone, over the ſad idea that Willoughby's diminiſhed, perhaps annihilated love, had allowed him to torture her with ſuſpenſe which he might ſo eaſily have avoided by punctuality.

Another almoſt ſleepleſs night was the conſequence of this delay: but though without reſt in the night, Celeſtina roſe as ſoon as day appeared. At no other time but early in the morning ſhe had now any chance of being alone either in the garden or the neighbouring fields, and the air ſeemed neceſſary to her overburthened ſpirits. In the fields, ſhe ſeemed to breathe more freely, and her heart, which often felt as if it would burſt, was relieved while [74] ſhe was allowed to weep unmarked and un⯑interrupted.

A narrow road, ſhaded by thick rows of branching elms, led towards the village, which was that way almoſt a mile from the houſe of Mr. Thorold, who did not inhabit the parſonage but an houſe he had built on a farm of his own. Celeſtina, to avoid being ſeen from the windows of the houſe, which commanded the garden and the meadows near it, took her way down this lane. Her thoughts ran over the ſtrange events of the preceding years, in which ſhe had experienced ſo much an⯑guiſh, anguiſh embittered by the tranſient promiſe of ſupreme happineſs. As ſhe reviewed her whole life, it ſeemed to have been productive only of regret. "Why," cried ſhe, "was I ever born? Alas! my exiſtence was the occaſion of miſery to thoſe who gave it me! Why did deareſt Mrs. Willoughby take me from a confine⯑ment where I was dead to the world, and where perhaps neglect and hardſhip might [75] long ſince have releaſed me? What will now become of me? If Willoughby for⯑gets me, how ſhall I find courage to drag about a wretched being? uſeful to no⯑body, for whom nobody is intereſted, and which ſeems marked by heaven for cala⯑mity!"

Theſe melancholy reflections led her on, till a turn out of the road brought her to the ſtyle of the church yard. She leant penſively over it, and read the ruſtic in⯑ſcriptions on the tomb ſtones. One was that of a young woman of nineteen: it was her own age; and Celeſtina felt an emo⯑tion of envy towards the village girl, whoſe early death the rural poet lamented in the inſcription. "Merciful heaven!" cried ſhe, "is early death ever really to be la⯑mented? and ſhould I not be happier to die now than to live; as perhaps I ſhall to be forgotten?" Inſenſibly this idea took poſſeſſion of her fancy; and with her pen⯑cil ſhe wrote the following lines in her pocket book, not without ſome recollection [76] of Edwards's thirty ſeventh and forty fourth ſonnets:

Celeſtina, who had a natural turn to poetry, had very rarely indulged it; but ſince ſhe had paſſed ſo many hours with Willoughby, his paſſionate fondneſs for it, and his deſire that ſhe ſhould not neglect the talent ſhe had received from nature, had turned her thoughts to it's cultiva⯑tion; and now almoſt the firſt uſe ſhe [77] made of it was to lament that ſhe lived, ſince none of her acquirements were to pleaſe him, for whom alone ſhe wiſhed to poſſeſs either life or talents.

She had finiſhed her ſonnet, and read it over aloud: ſhe changed a word or two, again read it, and was putting it into her pocket book, when ſhe was ſtartled by the ſight of Montague Thorold, who appeared behind her, though ſhe had not heard him approach. "Do not," he cried, "be offended, deareſt Miſs De Mornay, if I thus break in upon your ſolitude; and do not," continued he, taking her hand, in which ſhe ſtill held the pocket book—"do not puniſh me by putting away what I have ſo earneſt a deſire to hear."

Celeſtina, half angry, replied—"I have nothing, Sir, worth your hearing."

"I have offended you," ſaid he, in the moſt reſpectful tone—"I ſee you are offended. If you knew my heart, you would know how much better I could bear [78] any misfortune than your contempt and anger."

Celeſtina, whoſe ſlight diſpleaſure was already at an end, anſwered with a ſmile, that he certainly deſerved neither: "but come," continued ſhe, "you were ſent I dare ſay to call me to breakfaſt and we are loitering here."

"I was not ſent," anſwered he. "I be⯑lieve it is yet earlier than you imagine it to be. You are not then offended at my in⯑terrupting you?"

"Oh no! think of it no more," ſaid Celeſtina, wiſhing to change the diſcourſe. "Is it not a delicious morning?"

He anſwered not her queſtion; but fix⯑ing his eyes on her's, ſaid—"See how ſoon a ſecond treſpaſs is attempted when the firſt is ſo graciouſly forgiven. May I aſk, as the moſt ineſtimable favour, to hear once more the lines you were reciting?"

"Once more!" repeated Celeſtina. "Have you heard them once already then?"

[77] "I will ſay I have not, if my acknow⯑ledging that I have will diſpleaſe you."

"I do not think," ſaid Celeſtina care⯑leſsly, "that will mend your caſe much: but however the lines were not worth your hearing, and—"

"Every thing you even repeat from another," cried he, eagerly interrupting her, "is worth hearing: how much more worth hearing, when that faſcinating voice is employed in expreſſing the ſentiments of that elegant and lovely mind. Oh! Ce⯑leſtina!—But forgive me, Madam; it is preſumption indeed in me to addreſs you ſo freely; yet Celeſtina is the only name in the world that ſeems to me fit for you. The common terms of formal civility are unworthy of you. Let me then call you Celeſtina, not in familiarity, but in vene⯑ration, in adoration; and entreat you, im⯑plore you to oblige me."

Diſconcerted at his vehemence of man⯑ner and extravagance of expreſſion, Celeſ⯑tina now thought it better to put an end to [80] ſuch very warm applications, by ſhewing him the little value in her eyes of the fa⯑vour he ſolicited. She gave him the paper, therefore, ſaying coldly—"You are anxi⯑ous for a very trifling matter; and as you have already heard the lines, it is hardly worth the time you muſt give, haſtily written as they are, and with interlineations and eraſures, to make them out."

"Give me then time to do it," cried he, as he kiſſed the paper and put it in his boſom.

Celeſtina, more diſconcerted by his manner than before, ſaid yet more gravely, "I beg I may have them again imme⯑diately."

"You ſhall indeed," replied Thorold; "but I muſt firſt read them."

"Read them then now," replied ſhe.

"It is impoſſible," cried he, "for here is Arabella and my brother coming to meet us; and it is the firſt time that being with you, I felt their interruption as a favour."

[81] During this dialogue Celeſtina had walked rather quickly towards the houſe, ſo that they were by this time within ſight of the garden gate, from whence Captain and Miſs Thorold advanced ſlowly towards them. Montague, as if conſcious of the impropriety of what had paſſed, now af⯑fected to be talking of indifferent matters; and Celeſtina, ruffled by his wild enthuſiaſm, and eagerly anticipating the letter which ſhe hoped that day would bring her from Willoughby, felt herſelf made uneaſy by the ſteady and enquiring eyes of the Cap⯑tain, who had acquired a very rude habit of ſtaring people out of countenance. She was compelled however to endure it, not only while breakfaſt laſted, but afterwards when Arabella engaged her aſſiſtance in painting a trimming which was to compoſe the ornament of a gala dreſs for the balls at Tunbridge, whither ſhe was going in June with the eldeſt of her married ſiſters, who was in an ill ſtate of health.

CHAPTER V.

ARABELLA Thorold, deſirous of availing herſelf of the ſuperior taſte and ſkill that Celeſtina poſſeſſed in ſuch orna⯑mental matter as ſhe was now buſy about, the merit of which ſhe knew ſhe might, where ſhe was going, take entirely to her⯑ſelf, now invited her gueſt to the work table at which ſhe was employed; Monta⯑gue took up a book to read to them aloud, while his brother ſauntered idly about the room, now praiſing Celeſtina's performance, now correcting that of his ſiſter; then hum⯑ming a tune, looking at his watch, or throwing about the colours or the pencils, he ſeemed determined to interrupt his bro⯑ther's reading, and particularly when by Mon⯑tague's voice and geſture he ſaw that he hoped [83] particularly to intereſt and attract the atten⯑tion of his auditors. This ſcene, of which the painful anxiety of Celeſtina for her let⯑ter made her unuſually impatient, was at length put an end to by the entrance of the ſervant from the poſt, and Celeſtina re⯑ceiving, in trembling agitation, a letter with the Dover poſt mark. She flew with it to her own room, and read as follows:

This letter was if poſſible more unſatis⯑factory than the laſt. No reaſon was yet given for his having left her, no certainty held out of his return; but all, if not hope⯑leſs, was ſo comfortleſs, ſo obſcure, that her reſolution to inveſtigate the cauſe of all that had happened, again failed. She feared even to attempt putting aſide the fearful veil that was drawn between them. He was now in another country, from whence his return ſeemed uncertain; and ſhe ſeemed the moſt deſolate and forlorn being that exiſted on that which he had left. Her heart ſunk within her in re⯑membering [86] that ſhe might never ſee him more; that he hardly ſeemed to wiſh ſhe ſhould. Again ſhe read his letter over. He was ſleepleſs, reſtleſs, unhappy; and for his ſufferings ſhe wept more than for her own.

The plan he mentioned of her reſiding with the Cathcarts, was the only one to which, ſince their ſeparation, ſhe had looked forward with any degree of ſatis⯑faction. But that there was yet little pro⯑bability of executing: for old Winnington was in even better health than he had been for ſome years; and though the tender aſſi⯑duity of Jeſſy had won much even on his inſenſible heart, he ſuffered her to have no authority; and often being ſeized with fits of jealouſy and ſuſpicion that ſhe went to meet and aſſiſt her father, he would inſiſt upon her not quitting him a moment; ſo that ſhe had ſometimes for many days to⯑gether no opportunity of ſeeing her huſ⯑band, and had never once, ſince her ſepa⯑ration from Celeſtina, been able to reach [87] her preſent abode. Celeſtina had not been an hour alone, before Montague Thorold tapped at her door. She dried her eyes, and pulling her hat over them, opened it to him.

"Will you not walk," ſaid he, apolo⯑gizing however for his intruſion. "I am⯑afraid I diſturb you: but the morning is ſo beautiful; and we are all going to ſee a pond fiſhed, with two friends of my bro⯑ther's from Exeter, who are juſt come in."

"I cannot indeed," anſwered Celeſtina. "Pray excuſe me."

"I would not preſs you for the world," ſaid he, "to do any thing that is diſagree⯑ble to you. But the air will be ſurely uſe⯑ful to you. You—have been weeping, Miſs De Mornay! and—"

"If I have," replied ſhe, interrupting him, "you may be aſſured, Sir, that I have reaſon enough for my tears, and would wiſh to enjoy them alone."

"Precious tears!" cried he with a deep [88] ſigh. "The letter was from the fortunate Willoughby!"

"Fortunate do you call him?" But Celeſtina, as if offended that any tongue but her's ſhould name him, ſtopped, and turning from the door, went into her own room.

At this moment Arabella ran up ſtairs to fetch her cloak and gloves, and ſeeing her brother Montague at the door of Celeſtina's room, cried, as ſhe paſſed him—"Hey day! are you in waiting as Page or Gen⯑tleman Uſher?"

"As neither," anſwered he in ſome confuſion. "I was merely aſking if Miſs De Mornay would walk with us."

"Oh! I dare ſay not," replied his ſiſter, ſmiling maliciouſly as ſhe looked over her ſhoulder at him—"I dare ſay not. Mon⯑tague, what are you in now? Are you Romeo—"Oh! that I were a glove upon "that hand, that I might touch that cheek!" or are you Caſtalio?—"Sweets planted by "the hand of heaven grow here." You al⯑ways [89] make love I know by book. What! ſhall I call Edmund to take the part of Polydore? I think you will make it out among you."

Celeſtina, who had heard this ſpeech, though it was not meant that ſhe ſhould, was equally amazed and hurt at it. It had however a very different effect from what the ſpeaker intended; who having no wiſh that Celeſtina ſhould join them, becauſe ſhe deſired to monopolize the converſation of the two ſtrangers, thought, by rallying her brother, to break off his entreaty. Montague, mild as he was, was piqued extremely, and would reſentingly have anſwered, if his ſiſter had not immediately diſappeared, and if Celeſtina had not at the ſame moment opened her door and ſaid—"You compel me, Mr. Montague, to walk whether I will or no."

"Pray forgive me," ſaid he, interrupt⯑ing her. "I would purchaſe no pleaſure at your expence."

[90] Arabella now returning down ſtairs, was ſurpriſed to ſee her preparing to go. "I thought you declined walking Ma'am," ſaid ſhe formally. Celeſtina made an effort to conquer the reſentment ſhe juſtly felt, and replied coldly that the morning was ſo pleaſant ſhe thought it would be a pity to loſe it.

Her apprehenſions indeed were, that had ſhe remained at home, Montague, who had perſecuted her the whole day, would have remained alſo; and the hint his ſiſter had given of the rivalry of the brothers had at once ſhocked and amazed her. Af⯑ter a moment, however, ſhe began to fancy that her ſpeech had more malice than mean⯑ing in it: but the uneaſineſs of her ſitua⯑tion, and the neceſſity of ſoon removing from it, recurred to her more forcibly than ever. She endeavoured, as ſhe went down ſtairs, to regain her compoſure, apprehen⯑ſive that the ſtrangers, if not the family, might remark her emotion. But ſhe ſoon found that there was little to be appre⯑hended [91] from either the one or the other: Captain Thorold was walking arm in arm before the houſe with Captain Muſgrave, the elder of the two gentlemen, and Miſs Thorold wholly monopolized the attention of Mr. Bettenſon, a very young man, heir to a conſiderable fortune, who had a few months before, on his leaving Eton, pur⯑chaſed a Cornetcy of horſe, very much againſt the inclinations of his father, whoſe only ſon he was. He could indeed give no other reaſon for his preference to a mi⯑litary life, but that he ſuppoſed it to be a very idle life, and that he ſhould look un⯑commonly well in the uniform of the corps.

This however did not ſucceed to his wiſhes, though he was very far from being aware how entirely they had failed. He had a very round back, very narrow ſhoul⯑ders, a long forlorn face, to which the feathered helmet gave neither grace nor ſpirit; and the defects of his mean and ill formed figure were rendered more apparent by that dreſs, which is an advantage to a [92] well made and graceful man. He had twice danced with Belle Thorold at the provin⯑cial aſſemblies towards the end of winter, and now, after having been in town for a few weeks, prevailed on Captain Muſgrave to introduce him to a family, where he ſuppoſed he might find a monſtrous good lounge for the reſt of the time he was to be quartered in the neighbourhood. Celeſtina no ſooner ſaw Miſs Thorold's behaviour to this young man than ſhe accounted at once for the diſſatisfaction ſhe had ſhewn at her joining the party; for ſhe endeavoured by more than her uſual vivacity to monopolize all his attention; ſhe watched with uneaſy curioſity every glance of his eye towards Celeſtina; and ſeeing that he hardly no⯑ticed her being among them, and was not ſtruck with that beauty which the Captain and Montague had ſo admired, ſhe pre⯑ſently reaſſumed her uſual confidence in her own attractions, and thought only of ſecuring the advantage ſhe had gained.

[93] Celeſtina, not having the remoteſt wiſh to interfere with her conqueſts, and being diſpleaſed and offended at the curious looks and whiſpers of the two other military men, who continued to ſaunter on before, was again under the neceſſity of liſtening to Monta⯑gue, who never failed ſeizing every op⯑portunity obliquely to hint to her the en⯑creaſing admiration with which ſhe had in⯑ſpired him, though he at the ſame time gave her to underſtand that he knew he had nothing to expect but her pity and her friendſhip.

This was however repeated till it be⯑came very uneaſy to her; and the more ſo, becauſe ſo reſpectful was his addreſs that ſhe ſeldom knew how to ſhew reſentment, and ſo ſincere appeared his repentance, when ſhe expreſſed any, that ſhe could not long retain it.

As they now followed the reſt of the party, Celeſtina took occaſion to aſk Montague for the paper ſhe had been teized out of in the morning. "I know [94] not," ſaid ſhe, on his evaſive anſwer, "whether my folly in giving it, or your abſurdity in keeping it, be the greater. Pray reſtore it, and let us think no more of ſuch trifling—"

"I will give you," anſwered he, "a copy of it, which I have already began to write; but for the original—" He ſtopped, and ſuddenly ſeizing her hand, preſſed it to his breaſt; where, under his waiſtcoat, the paper was enfolded. "There," ſaid he—"there is your paper. I have put it next my heart, and never ſhall it be diſplaced unleſs you will give me ſome yet dearer memorial to remain there."

Celeſtina withdrew her hand in confu⯑ſion; and feeling more than ever the neceſ⯑ſity of putting an end to ſuch ſort of con⯑duct, ſhe ſaid, with evident diſpleaſure and concern—"You behave, Mr. Mon⯑tague, not only improperly in this fooliſh matter, but cruelly and inſultingly towards me, who have, you know, at this time no proper home to receive me; but ſince you thus perſecute me with converſation, from [95] which, though I cannot eſcape, I can only hear with concern and reſentment, I muſt as ſoon as poſſible find another temporary abode, and acknowledging all your father's kindneſs, quit his houſe."

The young man, who, amidſt his wild enthuſiaſm, wanted neither ſenſe nor gene⯑roſity, was now ſhocked at her ſuppoſing he meant to inſult her; and terrified at the idea of her being driven to inconvenience by leaving his father's houſe—"I am al⯑ways offending," ſaid he, in a voice ex⯑preſſive of the concern he felt, "and I am afraid often wrong; but pardon me once more, Miſs De Mornay, pardon and pity me, and I will not again treſpaſs on your patience with diſcourſe which perhaps you ought not to hear; though ſurely the happy Willoughby himſelf would not be alarmed at the hopeleſs admiration of a man—who knows, that he can never pretend to any other than diſtant and humble adoration:

[96] He was going on, when Captain Tho⯑rold, who had imperceptibly ſlackened his pace, caught theſe words, which were ſpoken in a theatrical tone, and ſtopping with his friend, Celeſtina and Montague were immediately cloſe to them. "So, Montague," ſaid he, "at the old game. Miſs De Mornay, I barr all quotations. 'Tis not fair for Montague to avail himſelf at once of his own talents and thoſe of all the poets and ſonnetteers he is acquainted with."

"He will avail himſelf of neither, Sir," anſwered Celeſtina, "and I aſſure you I wiſh our converſation to become more ge⯑neral."

"There, Montague," cried the Cap⯑tain, "you ſee you have tired Miſs De Mornay in your tete a tete; let us ſee if Muſgrave and I cannot more ſucceſsfully entertain her.

Celeſtina, who did not promiſe herſelf much advantage from the change, ſince Captain Thorold's addreſs to her was often [97] as warm as his brother's, but never ſo reſpectful, now haſtened forward to join Miſs Thorold; but ſhe received no no⯑tice either from her or her little military beau: they were by this time however near the end of their walk, and were met by the family of Mr. Cranfield, to whom the pond belonged which they were to ſee fiſhed. The children, ſeveral fine boys, now at home for their Eaſter holy⯑days, were aſſembled round it eager and delighted. Montague, who was a great favourite in the neighbourhood, was en⯑gaged in talking with their mother and with them; while their father, having civilly noticed the whole party, entered into converſation with the gentlemen; and Miſs Thorold and Mr. Bettenſon ſtill continuing to entertain each other, regard⯑leſs of every body elſe, Celeſtina, who was fatigued by her walk, and ſtill more by the uneaſineſs of her reflections, ſat down under one of the trees which over⯑ſhadowed the pond; and her thoughts, [98] which had long been diſtracted by inter⯑ruptions, were immediately with Wil⯑loughby. So intirely indeed was ſhe for ſome moments abſorbed in reflection, that though ſhe ſaw objects moving be⯑fore her, and heard the ſhouts of the boys, the mixed voices of the party who ſurrounded the water, and the ſer⯑vants who were drawing the nets, ſhe totally forgot where ſhe was, and was inſenſible even of that want of common politeneſs which the whole party evinced in ſo entirely neglecting her. Montague, however, could not long be guilty of it; but diſengaging himſelf from Mrs. Cran⯑field, who was one of thoſe inceſſant talkers from whom it is difficult to eſcape, he came towards her; and fearful of re⯑newing the diſpleaſure ſhe had ſo forcibly expreſſed a quarter of an hour before, he only named his fears that ſhe might receive injury by fitting on the graſs; to which, as ſhe gave a cold and re⯑luctant anſwer, he added a deep ſigh, [99] and then leaning againſt the tree under which ſhe ſat, he fell into a reverie as deep as her own. From this mournful ſilence ſhe was rouſed by the ſudden appearance of an horſeman, who rode very faſt near her, and who, on lifting up her eyes, ſhe immediately diſcovered to be Vavaſour.

A thouſand painful ſenſations aroſe on the ſight of him; though the firſt idea that occurred was, that he came from Willoughby. He paſſed her, however, without ſeeing her, and reaching the party who were beyond her, he gave his horſe to his ſervant and joined them.

By the manner in which Vavaſour ad⯑dreſſed Mr. Cranfield, and the manner in which he was received by him, Celeſtina immediately underſtood that he was an expected gueſt. "He comes not to me," ſaid ſhe. "Willoughby ſends no friend to me! He is far, far off! and perhaps his moſt intimate acquaintance may now ſhun as aſſiduouſly as he once ſought me." [100] Then the fears ſhe had. once entertained that ſome difference of opinion had occa⯑ſioned a quarrel between him and Wil⯑loughby recurred to her; and remember⯑ing how different her ſituation had been when he abruptly left Alveſtone, and how very cruel was the change, ſhe grew diſ⯑treſſed at the thoughts of meeting Vava⯑ſour, and meeting him before ſo many ſtrangers: ſhe again repented having walked out, and her ſoul ſickened at the many uncomfortable occurrences to which ſhe was continually expoſed.

In a few moments, Vavaſour, who ſeemed to have loſt none of his viva⯑city, had been introduced to the Captain and Miſs Thorold, but he hardly made his bow to them before he ſaid to the latter—"Miſs De Mornay is with you ſtill, Madam; is ſhe not?"

"With us?" replied Arabella. "Oh! yes—Miſs De Mornay is with us."

"She is well I hope?" enquired Vava⯑ſour eagerly.

[101] "You may ſatisfy yourſelf by perſonal enquiry,". ſaid Mrs. Cranfield, "for there is the young lady. She and Mr. Montague really form a very pictureſque appear⯑ance."

Vavaſour, now turning his eyes on the oppoſite ſide, ſaw Celeſtina, and inſtantly advanced towards her with an eagerneſs of manner which he took no pains to check. She aroſe on his approach; and hardly knowing how to receive him, ſo various and painful were her ſenſations, ſhe held out her hand to him, then with⯑drew it; and when he ſpoke to her with all that good humour with which he uſed to approach her in her happier days, it brought thoſe days back to her mind ſo forcibly, that ſhe could not conquer her emotion, and burſt into tears. Vavaſour was immediately checked; and ſaid, with evident concern—"My dear Miſs De Mornay, the pleaſure I felt in again ſeeing you conquered for a moment the recollec⯑tion [102] of what has happened ſince we parted laſt."

"It is a ſubject," ſaid Celeſtina, trying to recover herſelf, "on which I cannot now talk: yet—" and ſhe moved a few ſteps forward to eſcape the earneſt looks of Montague Thorold, which were fixed on her face—"yet I cannot help aſking if you have ſeen your friend ſince—"

Vavaſour, walking on with her to avoid the obſervation of the company, ſaid—"Seen him? to be ſure I have: I was con⯑tinually with him in London all the while he remained there."

Celeſtina now proceeded in ſilence, ſtruck with the idea that Willoughby had cer⯑tainly acquainted his friend during that time with the reaſon of their abrupt ſepa⯑ration. She had not, however, courage to aſk him; but having wiped away the tears which a moment before filled her eyes, ſhe turned them upon him with a look ſo ex⯑preſſive of what paſſed in her heart, that Vavaſour, who could not miſunderſtand [103] her, anſwered, as if ſhe had ſpoken to him—"I do not certainly know the cauſe of George's very ſudden and extraordinary change of meaſures; but I have reaſon to believe the Caſtlenorths, though how I cannot tell, were the occaſion of it. Though I was with him every day, I had very little converſation with him, for he always affected to be, or really was hurried if I ſaw him in the courſe of the day; or, if towards night, complaining of fatigue, and taking laudanum, without which he ſaid he could not ſleep. When he informed me of his having left you at Alveſtone without ac⯑counting for his abſence, he ſaw my aſto⯑niſhment, and put an end at once to my enquiries by ſaying—"Vavaſour, you know my unbounded confidence in you, and that any thing that related merely to my⯑ſelf would be known to you as the firſt friend of my heart; but do not aſk me any queſtions now: I cannot anſwer them truly, and therefore I will not be liable to them: even your friendſhip [104] and zeal can here do me no good." This," continued Vavaſour, "precluded all enquiry; nor could I obtain any farther ſatisfaction, when a few days afterwards, the very day indeed before he left Lon⯑don, he deſired I would meet him at the chambers of Edwards, our mutual attorney, where, in ſpite of my reſiſtance, he paid me the money which you know I lent him, with the intereſt, with as much regularity as if I had fixed that time for payment; and when I very warmly remonſtrated on the un⯑friendly appearance this had, beſought him to oblige me by keeping the money, and expreſſed ſomething like reſentment at his conduct, he ſaid, with a ſort of af⯑fected calmneſs, and almoſt ſternly—"Va⯑vaſour, I am going abroad. I may die, and I will not leave any thing between us to be ſettled by Lady Molyneux, who would be my heir at law; and do not you," added he, "my good friend, get a habit of throwing your four or five thouſands about you, but learn to value [105] money a little more—" And friends a little leſs, ſaid I, interrupting him in my quick way; for that, Willoughby, is the next leſſon I expect to hear from you. This money, however, Edwards ſhall keep till you are quite ſure you do not want it. "I am already ſure of it," ſaid he, "and do beg, my dear Vavaſour, that you will immediately pay it into the hands of the perſon from whom you borrowed it for my uſe, as the only way in which it can now contribute to my ſatisfaction." Wil⯑loughby then left me with the attorney, of whom I enquired if he could gueſs where he got the money; Edwards aſ⯑ſured me he could not, as he knew no⯑thing more of the affair than that he was that day to pay it at his chambers to me."

This circumſtance ſeemed, in the mind of Celeſtina, to confirm the notion Vava⯑ſour had ſtarted, that the Caſtlenorths were ſomehow or other the cauſe of Willough⯑by's having left her; yet, as they could have no power over him from affection or [106] friendſhip, their influence, if indeed they poſſeſſed any, muſt ariſe from their riches; and what was ſuch a ſuppoſition but to ſuppoſe him a ſudden convert to merce⯑nary politics, from being generous and diſintereſted even to exceſs, if ſuch noble qualities could ever lean towards error. The mind of Celeſtina no ſooner harboured ſuch an idea than her heart rejected it; but all ſhe heard from Vavaſour tended only to augment her perplexity and her ſorrow, which, as he perfectly under⯑ſtood, ſhe ſaw that he would if he could have removed.

Almoſt afraid of aſking any queſtion, where it was eaſy to ſee he could not an⯑ſwer without wounding her, ſhe acquired, after a few moments, reſolution to ſay—"Where, Sir, did you at laſt part from him? What did he then ſay to you?"

"I took leave of him at the hotel where he lodged, and where I had been with him for about an hour before the chaiſe came to the door. He was ſometimes very [107] grave, and even dejected for a few mo⯑ments, then tried by hurry and buſtle to drive away his dejection. I aſked him why he went to the South of France, where he had been before, rather than to Spain and Sicily, which he had often expreſſed an inclination to ſee: he anſwered, that he had buſineſs in France; "but it is more than probable," continued he, "that I may ſee Spain and Sicily, or Turkey for aught I know, before I return to England."

"And did he," enquired Celeſtina mournfully—"did he ſay nothing of me? did he not even mention me?"

"Very often," replied Vavaſour, "for indeed I forced him into the converſation."

"Did there need force then?" ſaid Ce⯑leſtina in a plaintive tone, and ready to melt into tears.

"Yes," anſwered Vavaſour; "for though I believe he thought of nothing ſo much, he ſeemed frequently unwilling to truſt his voice with your name; and ſometimes, after we had been ſpeaking [108] of you, he ſunk into a gloomy reverie, and reluctantly ſpoke at all. One great object of his ſolicitude was your future reſidence. He ſeemed however very eaſy while you were under Mr. Thorold's protection. Tell me, are you yourſelf happy in his fa⯑mily?"

"Happy!" ſaid Celeſtina; "can I be happy any where?"

"Perhaps not juſt now: but you know what I mean when I uſe the common term happy. Are you ſatisfied with your reſi⯑dence? Do you mean to continue there?"

"I hardly know," ſighed Celeſtina, "what I mean. So heavy, ſo unexpected was the blow that fell upon me, that my ſtunned ſenſes have not yet recovered it; and for happineſs—I am afraid it never can be mine."

"Well, my ſweet friend, though I hope and believe otherwiſe, we will not talk now either of our hopes or fears: but are the family you are with pleaſant peo⯑ple? of whom do they conſiſt?"

[109] "Of Mr. Thorold, to whoſe worth you have heard Willoughby do juſtice, of his wife, his daughter, and, at preſent, of two ſons."

"Yes, I ſee the Captain is among you."

"You know him then?"

"A little. Some friends of mine are acquainted with him. He is a man of great gallantry I have heard, and affects the very firſt world; does he not?"

"Really I hardly know. Yes, I believe he may be that ſort of man."

"Celebrated, I think, for having ſent more young women broken hearted to Briſtol than either Charles Cavendiſh or Ned Hervey. That is the ſort of praiſe that attracts your hearts, while we rattle⯑headed fellows, who are very honeſt though not very refined, who ſay no more than we mean, and addreſs you—not as god⯑deſſes, only to laugh at you for believing us, but as mere mortal women, are called rakes and libertines and I know not what; as if twenty ſuch careleſs, I had almoſt ſaid [110] harmleſs, lads as we are, do half as much miſchief as one of thoſe plauſible, ſenti⯑mental, ſighing ſycophants, who mean no⯑thing but the gratification of their own paltry vanity."

"Bleſs me, Mr. Vavaſour," cried Ce⯑leſtina, won a moment from her own an⯑guiſh by this odd remark, "you ſeem as much diſcompoſed as if the redoubtable Captain had ſent ſome favourite of your own to Briſtol."

"No, upon my ſoul—my favourities—I ſpeak pretty plainly you know: my ac⯑quaintance have in every inſtance but one lain among people, not eaſily ſent to Briſ⯑tol. Come now don't affect prudery. I tell you though, Celeſtina, that had ſuch a fellow ſent a ſiſter of mine to recover health, ruined by the diſappointment of expectations he had raiſed, I believe I ſhould try if I could not ſtop his career."

"It is fortunate then, perhaps, for the Captain, that you have no ſiſter."

[111] "I may, however, have friends," added he, earneſtly fixing his eyes on the face of Celeſtina—"I may have friends, for whom I may be as much intereſted as I could be for the neareſt relation; and them I would put upon their guard."

"I would very fain miſunderſtand you," ſaid Celeſtina, "becauſe I think you ought to know that, ſituated as I am, I need no ſuch precaution: or you muſt have a mean opinion of me indeed, if, knowing Mr. Willoughby, you can ſuppoſe that ſhe who has once been attached to him, can throw away a thought upon Captain Tho⯑rold?"

"Aye that's true—all very true and very fine; but look ye, my dear Celeſtina, I've no way of judging of others but from myſelf, and (though to be ſure I don't ſpeak from experience in theſe ho⯑nourable ſentimental ſort of treaties) I am confoundedly afraid that had I been engaged to Helen, and found that by ſome curſed counter ſtroke of fortune her [112] divinityſhip was not to be had, that after a little raving and ſwearing and ſcamper⯑ing about the world to get her out of my head, I ſhould have fallen in love with—"

"With Andromache," ſaid Celeſtina, helping him to a compariſon, and ſmiling.

"Oh no!" anſwered he, "ſhe was too wiſe and too melancholy for me: your weeping and tragical beauties would make me cry, but never could make me love. Faith I think Briſeis or Chryſeis would have been more to my taſte."

"Or Creſſida perhaps?"

"Oh! ſhe would have ſuited me ex⯑actly."

"Well Sir!" ſaid Celeſtina, re-aſſuming her gravity, "you undoubtedly follow the golden rule in judging of others; but give me leave to aſſure you that in the preſent inſtance it would miſlead you, and that you are the only man in the world from whom I could liſten to ſuch a ſuppo⯑ſition without reſentment. You, however, do not, I know, mean to hurt me."

[113] "No that I don't by heaven," cried he, kiſſing her hand, "and ſo do now tell me how and when I can ſee you again."

"I cannot tell; ſince it probably de⯑pends on your ſtay in this country."

"That depends then upon you."

"Upon me!"

"Yes, upon you: for I came down with no other intention in the world than to enquire after and ſee you; and for that purpoſe only have conſented to undergo the company of Cranfield and his wife: very good ſort of people indeed, but confounded bores; who have invited me down theſe two years, and whoſe invi⯑tation nothing but their being within four miles of Thorold's would have made me accept."

Celeſtina was at a loſs what anſwer to make to this, becauſe ſhe did not know whether he meant to impute his ſolicitude to the care he took of Willoughby's inte⯑reſt, or ſimply to his friendſhip for her, for of any warmer intereſt than friendſhip ſhe had not the remoteſt idea. She had, [114] however, no time to anſwer, for Monta⯑gue Thorold, who had followed them with his eyes ever ſince they parted from the reſt of the company, now came haſtily on towards them to ſay his ſiſter was re⯑turning home.

Celeſtina rejoined them immediately; and after Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield and their gueſt had been invited and con⯑ſented to dine with the Thorold family the next day, they ſeparated, Vavaſour be⯑traying a violent inclination to attend Celeſtina home, and ſeeming to repreſs it with great difficulty from the habit he was in of doing whatever pleaſed himſelf with⯑out conſidering whether what he did was, according to the eſtabliſhed forms of the world, rude or polite. He felt, however, that to quit his hoſpitable friends on the moment of his arrival would be carrying his careleſneſs a little too far; and there⯑fore after lingering as long as he could, he reluctantly left her to Montague Thorold, who had walked ſilently by her for ſome moments, and wiſhed her a good day.

CHAPTER VI.

CELESTINA, in whoſe mind a thouſand painful thoughts had been re⯑vived by this interview, was too much loſt in them to attend to Montague Tho⯑rold, who ſtill in ſilent dejection walked by her, while his brother was engaged with Arabella and his military friends. Montague had narrowly watched her the whole time ſhe had been converſing with Vavaſour; and, though hopeleſs himſelf, could not ſee her receive another with ſuch an appearance of intereſt as he had remarked towards Vavaſour, without mor⯑tification. "Mr Vavaſour," ſaid he at laſt, "for that I think is the gentleman's name—Mr. Vavaſour is an old acquaintance of yours?"

[116] "A very particular friend of Mr. Wil⯑loughby's," replied ſhe; "and of courſe a friend of mine."

"A ſingle man I ſuppoſe?"

"I believe ſo," ſaid Celeſtina; "at leaſt I never heard he was married; and you ſee he has not a very ſober, married look."

"No really, very much otherwiſe. But he does not ſeem to have communicated any portion of his gaiety to you."

"I am not indeed greatly diſpoſed to be gay," ſaid Celeſtina; "and ſince I am not merry, would it not be as well to be wiſe. Do Mr. Montague, give me that ſilly paper: its detenſion is uſeleſs to you and diſagreeable to me."

"Pardon me then if for once I am guilty of what offends you. I cannot part with it. But it is my firſt and ſhall be my laſt offence."

"I hope ſo," ſaid Celeſtina very gravely. "The thing is in itſelf of no [117] conſequence, and I wonder you ſhould be ſo childiſhly anxious to keep it."

"Your hands have touched it; your letters are upon it; you compoſed the lines."

"Well, Sir," cried ſhe impatiently, and willing to put an end to a ſpeech to which ſhe feared the Captain might liſten; "ſince you will not give it me or deſtroy it, the only favour I have to aſk is, that you will never ſpeak of it again, either to me or any other perſon."

"A needleſs precaution!" exclaimed he, "a very needleſs precaution is the latter; and, alas! in the former I cannot treſpaſs long, for in a few days, a very few days, I return to Oxford, and I ſhall then be no more liable to excite your diſ⯑pleaſure: you will ceaſe to recollect that ſuch a being exiſts."

"No indeed," ſaid Celeſtina; whoever is dear to Mr. Thorold, to your father, to whom I am ſo much obliged, muſt have [118] a claim to my recollection and my good wiſhes."

"Oh! how cold does that ſound from thoſe lips," ſaid he, "and how little thoſe expreſſive eyes are calculated to talk of mere good wiſhes. They are ſo en⯑chanting when they ſay more, when they look as they did juſt now on Mr. Vavaſour. How I envied him the ſimple "God bleſs "you!" and—"Adieu, Mr. Vavaſour," and the look that accompanied them."

"Ridiculous!" cried Celeſtina. "Really, Mr. Montague, the ſtyle to which you have accuſtomed yourſelf deſtroys all converſation. If however that adieu was ſo enviable, I will bid you farewel with quite as much ſincerity. God bleſs you, and adieu, Mr. Montague. They were now very near home, and Celeſtina, haſtening forward, croſſed the garden by a nearer way and reached her own room.

She there began once more to meditate on her ſituation. Every day that ſhe had paſſed at Mr. Thorold's houſe had en⯑creaſed [119] her deſire to leave it, and ſhe now more than ever regretted that ſhe knew not whither to go. Her concern was en⯑creaſed by a note brought to her from the neighbouring village, from whence ſhe had early that morning ſent to her former abode at Thorpe Heath to enquire whether, if ſhe had occaſion for them, ſhe could again have her former lodgings: the an⯑ſwer imported that the old man and his wife had died within a few days of each other, the week before, and that the houſe now belonged to one of the ſons, who had a large family of his own, and intended to remove into it himſelf, as being more convenient than his former habitation.

This forlorn hope being entirely over, her reflections on her ſituation became more painful, ſince ſhe now knew not one place in the world where ſhe could with propriety go. She had once or twice conſulted Cathcart on the ſubject; who not being aware of the circumſtances which rendered her preſent abode uneaſy [120] to her, and knowing how much Wil⯑loughby deſired her to continue there, rather diſcouraged than promoted any ſcheme for her removal; flattering him⯑ſelf, that the time was not far diſtant when her preſence would give, in the opinion of Jeſſy and his own, a charm to the houſe they hoped to call their own.

Celeſtina was well aware of his reaſons for wiſhing her to remain where ſhe was, and did not love to explain her's for de⯑ſiring to remove, leaſt ſhe ſhould appear at once faſtidious and vain. She could not relate to Cathcart, what after all might be fancy, that Mrs. Thorold did not love her though ſhe was civil to her; that Miſs Thorold beheld her ſometimes with diſlike and never with friendſhip; and that of the two brothers, the elder often affected to entertain her with conver⯑ſation, ſuch as, though ſhe could not directly complain of it, ſhe could not hear without being offended and mortified; while the younger never ceaſed purſuing [121] her with declarations of romantic attach⯑ment, leſs diſguſting, but equally if not more improper for her to liſten to.

In Mr. Thorold ſhe had always a ſteady friend and a diſintereſted adviſer; but to him ſhe could not ſtate the reaſons that made his houſe uncomfortable and his kindneſs uſeleſs, nor complain that his wife and daughter ſlighted, or his ſons made love to her; and though he poſ⯑ſeſſed a very uncommon ſhare of diſcern⯑ment, he ſeemed determined not to per⯑ceive either himſelf. On no plan of re⯑moval, however, could ſhe at preſent de⯑termine, and had fixed on nothing but to find an opportunity to hint her diſcontent to Vavaſour, when ſhe was called down to dinner.

The two military ſtrangers were gone; but Celeſtina found they were engaged to dine there the next day with the Cranfield family and Mr. Vavaſour; and Mrs. Tho⯑rold, who piqued herſelf above all other things on giving as good entertainments [122] as ſome of her neighbours who kept men cooks, was ſo impatient to prepare for the dinner of the next day, that ſhe would hardly give herſelf time to eat that of the preſent, but hurried away to her ſtore room the inſtant the cloth was removed. Arabella had yet a more important concern to attend to; Mr. Bettenſon had been ſo laviſh of his compliments, which were in⯑deed the only ſort of converſation be was at all perfect in, that ſhe had no doubt of having made, if not an abſolute conqueſt, at leaſt ſuch an impreſſion on his heart as another interview would make inde⯑lible; and though his extravagant praiſes, and the heavy language of two rolling black eyes, (which in luſtre and ſhape Montague compared to two pickled wal⯑nuts,) had not ſo far blinded the judg⯑ment of Arabella but that ſhe ſaw he was extremely weak, ſhe conſidered his great fortune, and that if he could not lead, he would probably ſubmit to be driven, for which ſhe thought ſhe had all poſſible ta⯑lents [123] and was ſure ſhe had all poſſible inclination. He had not a title indeed, but was the third or fourth couſin of a man that had; of courſe he was a man of fa⯑mily himſelf; and had he not been ſo, had his birth been mean and his perſon leſs tolerable, his fortune would not have ſuf⯑fered her a moment to conſider either as of any conſequence. But though ſhe enter⯑tained a very great inclination, and a very well grounded hope to ſecure Bettenſon, ſhe had not the leaſt objection to make an experiment at the ſame time on Vavaſour, who had a ſtill better fortune with a very handſome figure; and who ſhe had heard deſcribed, as one of thoſe agreeable rakes, who are blamed and loved by all their acquaintance. She had heard too that he declared himſelf not to be a marrying man; the greater therefore would be her glory, ſhould ſhe happen to charm him into other ſentiments; and when ſhe looked in the glaſs ſhe thought nothing more probable. As to Celeſtina, beſides [124] her engagements with Willoughby, ſhe conſidered her as quite out of the queſtion. Neither Captain Muſgrave or Bettenſon had taken any notice of her, and the latter had declared he thought her far from handſome. Arabella therefore ſaw nothing to impede her ſucceſs; and even fancied, that as ſhe intended to be infinitely lively and entertaining, the melancholy air and penſive face of Celeſtina would produce a contraſt extremely to her advantage. While her mother therefore was buſy with her jelly and cuſtards, Arabella was preparing her artillery againſt the hearts of her ex⯑pected gueſts; and Celeſtina, who dared not venture out leaſt ſhe ſhould meet Montague Thorold, who had placed him⯑ſelf where ſhe could not eſcape him, re⯑mained the whole evening alone in her own room, where ſhe formed a ſketch of the letter ſhe intended to write to Wil⯑loughby.

This employment, by fixing her thoughts entirely on the object which broke in upon [125] every other that at any time of neceſſity engaged them, quieted and ſoothed her ſpirits; ſhe forgot every thing but her wiſh to convince him of her unfailing attachment, and to pour out before him a heart that was entirely his own. She determined, how⯑ever, not to finiſh her letter till after ſhe had talked to Vavaſour; and then recol⯑lected that ſhe could not tell Willoughby the reſult of that conference, without aſ⯑ſigning her reaſons for deſiring to quit a protection, where he had himſelf directed her to remain. This was an irkſome taſk to her; for if he ſhould happen to think her objections frivolous, he would be diſ⯑pleaſed that for thoſe ſhe removed, and if he thought them juſt, the idea of rivalry would add to the uneaſineſs which ſhe knew her unſettled ſituation would oc⯑caſion to him. Thus undetermined, ſhe could reſt on nothing but the hope that Vavaſour might, from his diſlike to one or other of the Thorolds, (for he was too frequently extremely faſtidious and diſliked [126] with all his heart) agree with her in the neceſſity there was for her change of abode, without enquiring into all the reaſons that made her deſire it.

By the buſtle ſhe heard below in the houſekeeper's room, which was under part of her's, and by the frequent running up and down of Arabella's maid, and the univerſal hurry of the houſehold, except Mr. Thorold, who on theſe occaſions re⯑tired to his ſtudy for the evening, Celeſtina found ſhe ſhould rather accommodate than offend if ſhe declined ſupping below. She ſent down a note therefore, ſaying ſhe was much fatigued with her morning's walk, and begged to be excuſed for the evening, and received a verbal anſwer that Mrs. Thorold deſired ſhe would do as was moſt agreeable to her. Montague, however, who deſpairing of her coming out to walk, had at laſt ſauntered away alone, no ſooner found on his return that he was not to ſee her at ſupper, than he went up himſelf, [127] and tapping ſoftly at the door, enquired if ſhe was not well?

"Oh! perfectly well," ſaid ſhe, "but tired by my walk of this morning, and not diſpoſed to eat any ſupper."

"Surely," cried he, "if you are tired you will need ſomething. You did not drink tea, and yet will have no ſupper: let me get ſomething for you?"

Celeſtina declined this however as po⯑litely as ſhe could; but Montague was not to be repulſed ſo eaſily. He went down therefore, and returning in a few minutes, beſought her to open the door and take ſome of the wine and water he had brought her. Diſtreſſed by civility, which it ſeemed ſo rude to refuſe and ſo painful to accept, ſhe heſitated a moment, and then opened the door, when taking one of the glaſſes ſhe thanked him and would have wiſhed him good night; but he looked earneſtly in her face—"Ah!" ſaid he, "tears! you have been weeping again! always in tears! You have been writing too—writing to the fortunate Willoughby?"

[128] "Pray dont teaze me ſo," cried Celeſ⯑tina: "if I have cauſe for tears, you ſhould remember that the greateſt kindneſs you can do me is permitting me to indulge them; and it ſignifies not who I write to."

"It ſignifies no more indeed," ſaid Montague, with a deep drawn ſigh, "than as it excites my envy and my regret."

"Well, well, good night to you," in⯑terrupted Celeſtina. "Pray dont let me keep you from ſupper."

"Oh!" ſaid he, putting his foot within the door ſo as to prevent her ſhutting it, "I have had my ſupper. One look ſuf⯑fices me:

Ah! you remember thoſe delicious lines of that moſt elegant of our Engliſh poeteſſes:

Shall I go on? for the whole of that beautiful ſong is exactly deſcriptive of my feelings:

But you are angry?"

"I am at leaſt tired," ſaid Celeſtina, "and muſt beg you would no longer de⯑tain me."

Give me your hand then in token that we part in peace.

"There, Sir," ſaid Celeſtina coldly, [130] "there is my hand, and now good night."

"Oh that I dared ſeal my forgiveneſs upon it," cried he, eagerly preſſing it. "But I dare not."

Celeſtina withdrew her hand, and again repeating a cold good night, he at length permitted her to ſhut the door.

Theſe frequent declarations, which ſhe could not affect to miſunderſtand, greatly diſturbed her; and ſo well aware was ſhe of the impropriety of ſuffering them, that ſhe was determined no conſideration ſhould induce her to remain another week, if Mr. Montague was not really returning within that time to Oxford. She had heard him repeatedly laughed at by his father, his brother, and his ſiſter, for his parox⯑yſms of love: if his preſent attention to her was only a return of the fit, ſhe felt herſelf degraded by being made the object of it; and if it was more ſerious, ſhe thought herſelf to blame to ſuffer his aſſiduities, on [131] account of his father, though ſhe knew not very well how to put an end to them. Much leſs appearance of paſſion would have made many young women believe him ready to take the lover's leap, or to apply laudanum or gunpowder as a re⯑medy; but Celeſtina, though not uncon⯑ſcious of her perſonal advantages, had none of that overweening vanity which make ſo many of inferior attractions fancy them⯑ſelves irreſiſtible, nor any of that unfeeling coquetry, which would be gratified by the deſpair of a man capable of real attach⯑ment: ſhe wiſhed to put an end to Mon⯑tague's perſecuting admiration both for his ſake and her own; and after ſome reflec⯑tions, concluded, that it would be better to take an opportunity of ſpeaking to him the next day, and declaring to him that his extravagant behaviour would compel her to quit the houſe and loſe the ac⯑quaintance of his family; for ſhe thought, notwithſtanding all his romantic flights, he had ſo much good ſenſe, that he would ſee [132] the impropriety, and indeed the cruelty of his conduct, if it were once fairly repre⯑ſented to him. She now almoſt repented that ſhe had not liſtened with more pa⯑tience to the boaſting egotiſm of the Cap⯑tain, and had taken ſhelter from his equi⯑vocal compliments in the more agreeable becauſe more literary converſation of Mon⯑tague; and again ſhe reflected, with bitter⯑neſs of heart, that whether Montague went or ſtayed, his brother's character, and in⯑deed his manners towards her, made her remaining where ſhe was extremely im⯑proper; yet that no eligible ſituation of⯑fered: and for the firſt time, ſince ſhe had left Lady Molyneux, ſhe formed a half wiſh to be again with her, though ſhe knew ſhe had there little kindneſs and no real friendſhip to expect.

CHAPTER VII.

THE preparations for a ſplendid din⯑ner ſucceeded admirably, and Mrs. Tho⯑rold was in high good humour when her gueſts arrived. Arabella was ſtill better pleaſed; for Bettenſon, immediately on his entrance, had proteſted that ſhe never looked ſo well in her life, and Muſgrave whiſpered to her, that "if ſhe minded her hits ſhe would be ſure of the pretty boy," for ſo he, the Cornet, was termed by his Captain. Intelligence ſo conveyed would have diſguſted and offended a young wo⯑man of delicacy, but Belle Thorold was too eager for conqueſt, and too reſolutely bent on ſecuring a man of fortune, to feel or to reſent the freedom of this addreſs from Muſgrave, to whoſe praiſes of her [134] ſhe knew much of the attention of Betten⯑ſon was owing. Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield and Vavaſour ſoon after arrived; and Ce⯑leſtina ſaw with ſurpriſe the pains Miſs Thorold took at once to attract the notice of Vavaſour, and encreaſe the admiration of Bettenſon. She had never before ſeen her in the company of young unmarried men of fortune, and now obſerved with concern how totally ſhe defeated her own purpoſe. She threw herſelf into number⯑leſs attitudes which ſhe fancied becoming; applied her hand inceſſantly to rectify a curl, or adjuſt her necklace, by which ſhe thought to diſplay it's beauty as well as that of her hair, and her throat, which ſhe had been taught to fancy eminently hand⯑ſome. She whiſpered about nothing, laughed at ſome joke which nobody un⯑derſtood but herſelf and Muſgrave, then affected to be angry at ſomething he ſaid to her, then talked to him by ſigns acroſs the table, and by way of being charming was rude and childiſh. But this ſort of [135] behaviour ſhe had ſeen practiſed by ſome very faſhionable young women; it was perfectly adapted to the level of Bettenſon's capacity; and ſhe had not judgment enough to ſee that it muſt offend any man who had either good ſenſe or good breeding.

Vavaſour, who in the preſence of Celeſ⯑tina would have ſeen perfect beauty or ex⯑traordinary merit with indifference, took no other notice of Arabella than juſt ſerved him to remark to Celeſtina that ſhe was one of the moſt conceited and pert girls he had ever ſeen. This ſerved, as they walked after tea in the garden, to intro⯑duce the diſcourſe ſhe wiſhed to hold with him: but it was extremely difficult to eſcape a moment from the vigilant aſſiduity of Montague Thorold. "Pray," ſaid ſhe to Vavaſour, "pray be more guarded: her brother will hear you."

"And that brother," ſaid he, ſome⯑what abruptly, "you ſeem very much afraid of offending, though he ſeems to [136] me to be a puppy; how can you let him prate to you as he does?"

"Indeed," replied Celeſtina, "you would not diſlike him if you knew him; and it is amazing to me that you, who are really ſo good humoured, ſhould take ſuch diſlikes to people before you can poſſibly know them."

"And when I do know them I often diſlike them more. Why now, in this family, who is there but the father that has any underſtanding, and he has too much of the prieſt about him. But here comes your highflying Oxonian. Surely it's hard not to have a moment with you, though I want to talk to you about Willoughby."

"I will ſpeak to Mr. Montague," ſaid ſhe, "and tell him ſo." She then ſtepped back a few paces, and meeting Montague Thorold, who was approaching to join them, ſhe told him that Mr. Vavaſour had ſomething to communicate to her on be⯑half of their mutual friend Willoughby, and that ſhe ſhould eſteem herſelf obliged [137] to him if he would prevent their being in⯑terrupted for a few moments.

Montague, with a melancholy and ſub⯑miſſive look, laid his hand on his heart and ſaid—"One word from you is enough to him who lives but to obey you." He then went back to the reſt of the party, caſting a wiſtful look after Celeſtina, who, turning into another walk with Vavaſour, ſaid eagerly—"Well, and now what have you to ſay to me from Willoughby? have you heard from him?"

"No," replied Vavaſour; "I could not well do that ſince yeſterday, nor do I indeed expect it for ſome time to come: but do you know, Miſs De Mornay, that I conſider myſelf as Willoughby's repreſenta⯑tive, as a ſort of guardian to you, and am going in that character to talk to you very ſeriouſly."

"Well," cried Celeſtina, conſcious that her own conduct was irreproachable, "my ſage guardian and reverend monitor, [138] begin then with your remonſtrance or ex⯑hortation, whichever it is to be."

"You muſt give me leave to be ſerious on this occaſion," anſwered he.

"Moſt willingly," replied Celeſtina, interrupting him; "and the more ſo be⯑cauſe I never remember in all our former converſations to have had one ſerious diſ⯑courſe with you, and I long to ſee how you acquit yourſelf."

"I don't like the people you are with," ſaid he, "and wiſh you were any where elſe."

"I wiſh I were any where elſe myſelf; yet I like the family, and believe them to be very good ſort of people."

"Come, come, Celeſtina, you cannot be ignorant of what I mean: Captain Tho⯑rold, as I told you yeſterday, is that dan⯑gerous and hateful character, a male co⯑quet."

"He never coquets with me I aſſure you," ſaid ſhe, "for I never give him an opportunity."

[139] "No, becauſe at preſent his brother has the advantage of him. If you do not co⯑quet with the military man, at leaſt you liſten to the ſcholar, and it may be he is the moſt dangerous of the two. It is the general idea of the country that he is in love with you; that—

"The general idea of the country!" cried Celeſtina; "how can the country poſſibly know any thing about him or about me?"

"My dear friend," interrupted Vava⯑ſour, "you cannot be ignorant that in theſe places the people could not exiſt if their curioſity did not keep their idleneſs from total ſtagnation. They will talk, and let them about one another, but I won't have them talk of you, who are of ano⯑ther order of beings: in ſhort, I am jealous of you for my friend, and don't like to hear that Lord Caſtlenorth has paid off all Willoughby's incumbrances, and that he has procured him the reverſion of his titles, to engage him to break off his connection [140] with you, which it is ſaid he formed before he came of age, and therefore thought him⯑ſelf obliged to fulfil."

Celeſtina cried with great emotion—"Dear Sir! but how falſe and fooliſh is all this."

"It is ſo," reſumed Vavaſour; "and what follows is equally or more ſo, yet it is I find generally believed."

"And what is it?"

"Why that Willoughby, having ſcru⯑ples about ſuddenly leaving you, and leav⯑ing you in comparative indigence, Lord Caſtlenorth has given you five thouſand pounds; which, with what was before left you by Mrs. Willoughby, and the promiſe of a very conſiderable living in the gift of the Caſtlenorths to a clergyman if you marry one, have rendered you a deſirable object in Mr. Thorold's eyes as a wife for his youngeſt ſon, whom finally you have accepted of, and are to be married to very ſoon; as Miſs Fitz-Hayman has inſiſted upon this before ſhe gives her hand to her [141] couſin, which is alſo to happen very ſoon in Italy."

"Miſs Fitz-Hayman!" ſaid Celeſtina; turning pale; "and pray, my good Va⯑vaſour, where have you learned this le⯑gend?"

"In London," replied he, "I collected enough to make-me uneaſy about your ſi⯑tuation. I picked up more ſince I came down to Cranfields, for his wife is a goſ⯑ſip of the firſt pretenſions; and as to the Fitz-Hayman part of the ſtory, their going abroad ſo ſoon after Willoughby has, I take it for granted, confirmed it in the opinion of every body."

"Are they gone abroad then?" ſaid Celeſtina.

"So ſay the newſpapers; and I fancy rightly." He then took one from his pocket and read this paragraph:

Celeſtina was ſilent a moment; for not all her faith on the unchangeable affections of her lover could guard her from a mo⯑mentary ſhock: recovering herſelf how⯑ever, ſhe ſaid—"They may be, and I ſuppoſe are gone; but—certainly—cer⯑tainly Mr. Willoughby had no ſhare in their going. You ſurely do not think he had? As we know ſome part—great part of what you have heard, to be utterly falſe and unfounded, why may it not all be ſo? Certainly you do not believe any of it."

"Pardon me," anſwered Vavaſour, "I believe that this young man, this Monta⯑gue Thorold, is what they call in love with you; for the reſt, I know ſome of it is falſe, and I believe the greateſt part of it is ſo."

"Gracious heaven! you have doubts then, Vavaſour: doubts whether Wil⯑loughby—But it is impoſſible you can [143] doubt it. You know he is all honour, ge⯑neroſity, integrity, and goodneſs."

"I know I always thought ſo, or I ſhould not have loved him better than any man breathing. But don't let me alarm you; I cannot doubt when I recollect all I ever knew of my friend: yet I very ho⯑neſtly tell you, that the myſtery he made to me of his reaſons for going abroad, the gloomy reveries in which I ſo often ſaw him, his evident ſtruggles with himſelf, and a thouſand odd circumſtances which ſtruck me when we were laſt together—upon my ſoul, Celeſtina, I know not what to think, and ſhould deceive you were I to tell you that I have no doubts: yet they ariſe rather from my miſtruſt of human na⯑ture in general than my opinion of George as an individual: but when I look at you, and remember that he was within one day of calling you his, I cannot upon any com⯑mon principles account for his conduct, and am ſure that no common motives can juſtify it."

[144] Celeſtina, whoſe heart ſunk within her while it could not deny the juſtice of this remark, ſighed deeply, but remained ſilent; and Vavaſour went on—"Be his motives, however, what they may, it is certainly your determination to await the event of this myſterious journey?"

"It is certainly," ſaid ſhe faintly.

"Well then, is there not any more eli⯑gible ſituation for you than one where you are the ſubject of ſuch reports as I have juſt repeated to you? Suppoſe, if it be only for ſuppoſition ſake, they were to reach Willoughby: if he ſtill loves you—"

"If!" repeated Celeſtina; "good hea⯑ven! you believe then that it admits of a queſtion."

"I did not mean to hurt you. But my dear Celeſtina, there is nothing ſo inſecure as our affections I am afraid; and you muſt recollect too many inſtances of their change to ſuppoſe it quite impoſſible that—"

"Well, I will interrupt you no more. If then—if Willoughby ſtill loves me—"

[145] "He will ſuffer extremely from ſuch a report; and ſhould—though I allow it to be very improbable—ſhould any change have happened, your apparent approbation of Montague Thorold will juſtify that ca⯑price which nothing elſe can juſtify."

"Ah! Vavaſour," ſaid Celeſtina, in faultering accents, "I ſee, I too evidently ſee, that you believe your friend is loſt to me for ever, and that all you have now ſaid is merely to prepare me for a blow, which, if it fell on me ſuddenly, would, you think, deſtroy me; but believe me, Vavaſour, believe me, ſuſpenſe ſuch as I have long endured—ſuch as I at this mo⯑ment endure—is, I think, more inſupporta⯑ble than any certainty could be, unleſs it were the certainty that Willoughby is more miſerable than I am: that I think I could not bear: but for the reſt, however I might ſuffer in my pride or in my love, I truſt that my mind would in time be reconciled to whatever is inevitable; and perhaps," continued ſhe, ſtruggling with the violent [146] emotion ſhe felt—"perhaps that very pride might aſſiſt me to cure the anguiſh of diſappointed and improperly indulged affection. But yet it is ſurely impoſſible Willoughby can have acted as theſe ſuſ⯑picions in regard to Miſs Fitz Hayman would make me imagine, and ſtill write as he writes to me! However, Vavaſour, I again entreat you, if you know more than I do, to conceal nothing from me through miſplaced and needleſs tenderneſs."

"You know me very little," anſwered Vavaſour, "or you would know how little concealment and diſſimulation are in my nature. My dear Miſs De Mornay, I have faithfully related to you all I know of our friend, and even my half formed doubts I have not attempted to conceal from you: be now equally ingenuous with me, and tell me, whether you think your preſent ſituation is either the moſt pleaſant or the moſt eligible you could poſſibly chuſe."

"It is not pleaſant," anſwered Celeſtina, "becauſe I am not miſtreſs of my time; [147] but it is eligible ſurely, becauſe Willough⯑by himſelf in ſome meaſure placed me in it, and it is to his wiſhes I am to attend while he is yet intereſted about me, and not to the vague and unfounded reports of peo⯑ple who care nothing whether I am happy or miſerable, ſo long as they have ſome⯑thing to talk of."

"But reflect a moment whether Wil⯑loughby, when he mentioned his deſire of your continuing here, was aware that Cap⯑tain Thorold would therefore remain at home all the ſummer, or that Montague Thorold would chuſe to make you the object of his romantic paſſion, and the ſub⯑ject of his poetical panegyric: you cannot but know that he does both; and were you wilfully blind to it, his behaviour to-day would have ſufficiently convinced me."

Celeſtina could not deny his extreme particularity in company, and his private declarations were leſs equivocal: without however acknowledging either to Vavaſour, ſhe ſaid in general, that for many reaſons [148] ſhe ſhould not be diſpleaſed to change her reſidence if ſhe knew whither to go.

Vavaſour then began to lament that he had no mother, no ſiſter, of whoſe friendly reception of her he could be aſſured; "but," added he, "my dear Miſs De Mornay, give me a day or two, and ſome proper place will perhaps occur to me, or rather to an excellent female friend whom I will apply to. In the mean time I will ſee Cathcart, as I propoſe to ride over to Al⯑veſtone to-morrow, and we will talk the buſineſs over together." He then took her hand, and in a manner more tender and leſs lively than was uſual with him, aſked her if ſhe would pardon him for any thing he might have ſaid to give her pain. Celeſtina aſſured him ſhe could not forgive becauſe ſhe had never been offended, but that ſhe muſt ever be greatly obliged to him for the friendly part he had taken; and then, fearing that ſome invidious remarks might be made by the company they had left if they were any longer abſent, ſhe deſired [149] Vavaſour to rejoin them, while ſhe went for a few moments to her own room to re⯑cover from the ſtill apparent emotion which ſhe had been thrown into from what had paſſed.

She had hardly, however, time to breathe, before ſhe ſaw Montague Thorold walking anxiouſly on the lawn before her windows, looking towards them as if he knew ſhe was returned to her apartment, and almoſt immediately afterwards Mr. Cranfield's carriage drove up to the door to take them home. Celeſtina now, therefore, com⯑poſing herſelf as well as ſhe was able, haſtened down to the company, who, ex⯑cept Montague and Vavaſour, were hardly conſcious of her rejoining them: Mr. Cranfield being buſied in giving to the elder Mr. Thorold a long detail of a cauſe that had been lately decided at the ſeſſions in which he had a principal ſhare; Mrs. Thorold and Mrs. Cranfield engaged in ſettling the affairs of the neighbourhood, and comparing notes on the frequency of [150] Mr. Langly, the curate's viſits to Mrs. Poole, the widow of a rich farmer, a mat⯑ter in which theſe good ladies were migh⯑tily intereſted; while Miſs Thorold was violently flirting with Bettenſon; and the other two military men walking together, were talking over their former adventures, and Muſgrave laughing at Captain Tho⯑rold for being thrown out, as he termed it, by his brother with Celeſtina. "What the devil," ſaid he, "d'ye bury yourſelf alive in this manner for; if Montague is to ſupplant you? Faith, my dear Edmund, 'tis ſo much againſt the honour of us all, that if you don't make more progreſs I ſhall try what I can do myſelf. Don't you ſee that her attachment to Willoughby is all ſtuff, and that ſhe throws out her lure for this Vavaſour? If you like her, what a curſed fool you muſt be to let her ſlip through your fingers."

"As to liking," replied Captain Tho⯑rold, "you don't ſuppoſe I intend to [151] commit matrimony. The girl is handſome, and has more ſenſe than moſt of them—"

"And therefore 'tis more worth a man's while to make a fool of her. There I perfectly agree with you; for though, if I were condemned by any deviliſh miſchance to marry, I ſhould dread nothing ſo much as one of your ſenſible women, yet it is glorious to ſee how a little fooliſh flattery can ſet the ſenſe of the ſhrewdeſt of them at nought. But by the way, Edmund, how did you get off with that buſineſs in Ireland?"

"Which? for I had ſo much buſineſs upon my hands that I don't know what you mean."

"Why between you and Miſs Obrien: was there not an impertinent brother or—"

"Oh! aye poor Fanny Obrien. 'Twas the old ſtory: Fanny was very pretty, and faith I was very fond of being with them all, for there were three others, all ſweet little dears. Their mother, a good ſort of a widow, was a little upon the qui vive [152] when ſhe heard I had a fortune and ſo forth, and ſomehow or other I lived a good deal at the houſe, and talked nonſenſe to the girls in my way you know, till this Miſs Fanny took it into her head to fancy herſelf in love with me, and to ſuppoſe I had told her that I was ſo with her, though if I did upon my ſoul 'twas only by impli⯑cation. I dangled to be ſure, and dined and danced with her; but I meant no⯑thing, and was obliged at laſt to tell her mother ſo, who very plainly ſignified to me, one evening after I had paſſed the day with them, that it was time to under⯑ſtand me. Well, I gave her to underſtand then, as civilly as I could though, for faith they were a good ſort of a family, that I had no thoughts of marrying, and the good gentlewoman waxed wrath about it, and told me I had done a very unhand⯑ſome thing in winning her daughter's af⯑fections. I could only lament they were ſo eaſily won, and return them undamaged by me. Something I ſaid, however, gave [153] Mrs. Obrien offence, and ſhe deſired to ſee me no more; a prohibition which I of courſe did not attempt to diſobey; and ſome other pretty girl falling in my way, faith I thought no more of my poor Fanny, till being one night at an aſſembly at Dub⯑lin, I ſaw a great buſtle ſoon after my en⯑trance, and was told that Miſs Obrien had fainted away upon ſeeing me, and was gone home extremely ill. 'Twas no fault of mine you know that the girl was ſo ſimply ſuſceptible: but her brother, a fierce young ſailor, who came a day or two afterwards from his ſhip, thought otherwiſe, and talking to me rather cava⯑lierly, we agreed that the matter muſt be ſettled in the Phoenix Park by a brace of piſtols. Un beau jour we accordingly met there, and exchanged each a couple of ſhot with all poſſible politeneſs, in which it was my fortune to lodge a bullet in the ſleſh of his left arm, which was immediately extracted. I heard there was no danger; and as he was of courſe ſatisfied, I came [154] off to England the next day, having taken my paſſage ſome time before."

"Your folks here at home never heard of the hazard you ran?"

"No, I believe not. My father is a little too apt to lecture and preach on ſuch occaſions, and ſo 'tis as well ſunk I be⯑lieve; and ſince I've been in England faith I've had no inclination to amuſe myſelf in the ſame way, nor indeed any opportunity, except with this Celeſtial beauty, and ſhe don't ſeem to take to me."

"The greater will be the glory," re⯑plied Muſgrave. "I own I ſhould like of all things, were I thee, to drive out a ſolemn, ſettled, ſentimental affection from ſuch a heart as her's, and jockey thy bro⯑ther Montague."

Here the gentlemen were interrupted by the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Cran⯑field and Vavaſour; after which Muſgrave and Bettenſon took leave themſelves, hav⯑ing firſt received a general invitation from Mrs. Thorold and her daughter; who, [155] though by no means pleaſed to obſerve that Vavaſour, entirely occupied by Celeſ⯑tina, had beheld and heard her with frigid indifference, was yet much conſoled by being almoſt certain that ſhe had ſecured the heart of the little Cornet. She judged very right. Muſgrave, to whoſe care the father of Bettenſon had recommended him, had purpoſely introduced him to Arabella Thorold, under the idea of detaching him from two milleners, to both of whom he had been making very ſerious love ever ſince his reſidence at Exeter; and the elder Mr. Bettenſon was ſo deſirous of ſaving him from a connection of that kind, which he was thus likely to form, that he no ſooner heard of his growing partiality to Miſs Thorold, than he beſought Captain Muſgrave by every poſſible means to en⯑courage it, declaring that fortune alone was no object to him, and that he ſhould conſi⯑der himſelf happy if his ſon was fixed in his choice of the daughter of ſo worthy and reſpectable a man as Mr. Thorold.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ſhort remainder of the evening paſt very unpleaſantly to Celeſtina while ſhe continued in company, for Montague, to whom ſhe could not prevail upon her⯑ſelf to be rude, was yet ſo diſſatisfied, either from the conſtraint he obſerved ſhe wore towards him, or from her long conference with Vavaſour, that he could not conceal his concern, and ſighed ſo loud and ſo long, as to attract notice and ſome very acrimonious ſpeeches from his mother. Mr. Thorold too, ſhe thought, looked un⯑eaſy, and Arabella evidently diſliked her more than before; while the Captain's rude examination of her countenance, from which ſhe always ſhrunk, was now more pain⯑ful to her than ever. She got away as ſoon [157] as poſſible; but was far, very far from finding repoſe in ſolitude. All that Va⯑vaſour had ſaid now returned to torture her; and inſtead of finding ſleep when ſhe retired to her pillow, the ſame uneaſy thoughts and harraſſing conjectures which had long rendered it of difficult acquire⯑ment, had now received ſuch a reinforce⯑ment as made it impoſſible for her to ſleep at all.

She roſe with the dawn of day, hoping ſhe might in the courſe of it ſee Cathcart; and yet from him ſhe had little to expect as to her removal, unleſs he could find for her ſome farm houſe in the neighbourhood of Jeſſy, where ſhe might have board and lodging. But even to this ſcheme there were objections: it would be too near the Thorold's: the young men might ſtill viſit her, and the reports ſtill obtain which Va⯑vaſour had repeated to her; becauſe, though Montague was really, ſhe found, returning to Oxford in a few days, there would be other occaſions of his being at home. It [158] was alſo too near Alveſtone, which, ſince ſhe almoſt deſpaired now of ſeeing again with pleaſure, ſhe wiſhed to eſcape ſeeing even at the diſtance from which ſhe fre⯑quently beheld it; when the clump of firs and ſome of the high grounds in the park, conſpicuous from almoſt every part of the country within ten or fifteen miles, often drew from her heart many a bitter ſigh.

About eight o'clock, ſhe ſaw Cathcart enter the little lawn before the houſe and immediately went down to him. He ap⯑proached her with more than ordinary cheerfulneſs; but in anſwering her queſ⯑tions told her he had not heard from Mr. Willoughby.

"I flattered myſelf you had," ſaid Ce⯑leſtina, ſinking again into dejection, "for I thought, Cathcart, you ſeemed unuſually cheerful."

"If any thing could make me long ſo," replied he, "when you, my dear Madam, and my noble friend are divided and un⯑eaſy, [159] it would be the intelligence I have received about my ſiſter, whoſe ſituation, you know, and my ſolicitude for her and her children; was indeed the only one Mr. Willoughby's goodneſs would have left me, if he had himſelf been as happy as he deſerved to be."

"And what then have you heard," en⯑quired Celeſtina, "of Mrs. Elphinſtone?"

"That her huſband, who has been long wandering about the world, is at length ſettled, in a very remote ſituation indeed, but one which he happens to like and which is likely to become profitable. He is appointed to ſuperintend the fiſheries eſtabliſhed by a ſociety of gentlemen in the weſtern iſlands of Scotland, and is already put in poſſeſſion of a good houſe in the iſle of Skie. Thither my ſiſter is about to follow him; but I have prevailed upon her to ſend to me her two youngeſt children, whom I ſhall put to nurſe in ſome farm houſe where Jeſſy or I can viſit them every day: the other two are [160] as many as it will be poſſible for her to take care of, and when ſhe is ſettled, I have engaged to conduct the little ones to her. She has already received money from Elphinſtone to enable her to ſet out well equipped, and waits only to ſee me before ſhe takes leave of London, and, ſhe ſays, ſhe hopes for ever."

"And when do you go?"

"I propoſe ſetting out for London on Thurſday, unleſs you or Mr. Willoughby have any commands for me that may de⯑tain me longer."

"Alas! Cathcart," ſaid Celeſtina, "I am afraid you will receive no intelligence of Willoughby by that time: but I can find, I believe, ſomething for you to do for me which will rather expedite than de⯑tain you."

Cathcart then aſſuring her how happy every opportunity of ſhewing his gratitude would make him, Celeſtina ſaid—"Well then, my commands are ſimply theſe, that inſtead of going on horſeback you come [161] hither in a poſt-chaiſe on Thurſday morn⯑ing, and take me with you to ſee my dear Jeſſy, as I cannot go without having that ſatisfaction, and afterwards, Cathcart, you ſhall take me to London with you,"

Cathcart expreſſing ſome ſurpriſe at her reſolution, ſhe told him that ſhe would account for it as they went; that Devon⯑ſhire was at preſent very unpleaſant to her, and that ſhe fancied change of place would relieve her ſpirits more than all her reaſon and her philoſophy, "which, to tell you the truth, Cathcart," ſaid ſhe, "may be accuſed of acting a little like Horatio; and I ſometimes am tempted to ſay to them—

But however, I find really, Cathcart, that I cannot here obey our dear friend in the points he moſt inſiſts upon, thoſe of keep⯑ing my cheerfulneſs and preſerving my health, and I have a mind to try his [162] remedy and ramble a little. Perhaps I may go to Scotland with your ſiſter. Do you think ſhe would admit me as a tra⯑velling companion?"

"Admit you, dear Madam," ſaid Cathcart. "Surely ſhe would be but too much honoured. But you can never be ſerious?"

"It is, however, very likely that I may become ſo. At preſent, my reſolution is to take leave of this family and go with you to London. You will ſee Vavaſour to day, and you may tell him ſo."

They then ſettled the hour at which the poſt-chaiſe was to be ready for her the next morning ſave one. Cathcart returned to Alveſtone; and Celeſtina to the houſe, where ſhe propoſed taking the earlieſt op⯑portunity of acquainting Mr. Thorold with her determination.

She conſidered herſelf rather as Mr. Thorold's viſitor than as the gueſt of any other of the family; and wiſhed to have his approbation for the ſtep ſhe was about [163] to take, without however aſſigning the reaſons that actuated her to take it. She had frequently fancied of late that he ſaw more than he choſe to notice, and that, though he was too generous to repent the friendly invitation he had given her, he was too prudent not to foreſee ill conſe⯑quences from her long continuing to ac⯑cept it. In the midſt of a large family. to which he was greatly attached, Mr. Thorold lived much of his time alone. His ſtudy and his pariſhioners divided the day, and, except at dinner and for about an hour afterwards, his wife and children ſaw very little of him. Celeſtina was un⯑eaſy till ſhe had ſpoken to him; and there⯑fore when he roſe to go for his walk after dinner, ſhe enquired whether he would allow her to go part of the way with him, as ſhe wiſhed to ſpeak a few words to him alone.

Montague bluſhed deeply as ſhe thus addreſſed herſelf to his father; who led her however out of the room, and taking her [164] arm within his in his uſual friendly way, took the way towards the village ſtreet, where he had, he ſaid, ſome patients to viſit that evening; for he was the phyſician as well as the paſtor of his people. After a few minutes of embarraſſing ſilence on the part of Celeſtina, ſhe collected courage enough to tell him, that in conſequence of ſome intelligence ſhe had learned from Mr. Vavaſour, ſhe had determined to go to London.

"Not under his convoy I hope?" cried Mr. Thorold, eagerly interrupting her.

"No," anſwered Celeſtina, a little ſtartled by the manner in which he ſpoke: "not by any means with him, or under his care; but with Mr. Cathcart, who is going on buſineſs of his own."

"You know, my dear Miſs De Mor⯑nay," ſaid Mr. Thorold very gravely, "that my houſe and my beſt advice are equally and always at your ſervice: you may have reaſons for quitting the one and rejecting the other, into which were I to [165] enquire it would produce for me nothing but mortification. I will not then enquire; I will only entreat you to conſider well, whither and with whom you go. Mr. Va⯑vaſour has, I apprehend, no mother or ſiſter, and you cannot be ignorant that he has the character of indulging himſelf in liberties, which even in this age of free⯑dom make him rather a marked man."

"My dear Sir," replied Celeſtina, "I have not the moſt diſtant idea of quitting your protection for one ſo little proper as Mr. Vavaſour's muſt be, though he is the moſt intimate friend of Mr. Willoughby. But my meaning merely is—"

"Come," cried Mr. Thorold, inter⯑rupting her, "I will explain your mean⯑ing, or rather the meaning of Vavaſour. He has been talking to you about my ſon Montague. He has repreſented the im⯑propriety of your liſtening to ſuch ſort of converſation as I know Montague has more than once entertained you with. Is it not ſo?"

[166] "I own it is," ſaid Celeſtina in ſome confuſion.

"I do not blame him," rejoined Mr. Thorold; "and if his vigilance is the effect of friendſhip, I commend him. Nor do I, my dear ward, diſapprove of your wiſhing to ſhun the boyiſh importunity of Montague. I only entreat you to reflect well on your removal, and to remember, that notwithſtanding Mr. Vavaſour's inti⯑mate connection with Willoughby, I con⯑ſider myſelf as having ſome claim to your confidence and as in ſome degree anſwer⯑able for your diſpoſal of yourſelf."

"You are very good, dear Sir, and deſerve I am ſure my gratitude as well as my confidence. You deſerve too that I ſhould ſpeak to you with the utmoſt ſin⯑cerity." She then related to him, all that Vavaſour had ſaid to her of the reports that had obtained relative to her and Mr. Montague; and concluded by ſaying, that though ſhe highly eſteemed his ſon, and had the moſt grateful regard for the [167] whole family, ſhe could not liſten to theſe reports without concern, becauſe they might be diſpleaſing to him and injurious to views he might have for his ſon, even putting herſelf out of the queſtion. "I think therefore, dear Sir," added ſhe, "that it will be better for me to put an end to my viſit for this time, and to travel into the North with a ſiſter of Mr. Cath⯑cart's, who is going thither: change of ſcene will relieve my ſpirits, and wandering give me perhaps a new reliſh for the beauties of Devonſhire; where, believe me, I ſhall be moſt happy to return, whenever I can do it without ſubjecting my beſt friends as well as myſelf to uneaſineſs."

"I am vexed," ſaid Mr. Thorold, "that the romantic temper of Montague has made this removal neceſſary in your idea. He goes very ſoon to Oxford: in⯑deed in a few days: and afterwards, per⯑haps, you would find my houſe leſs objec⯑tionable. As to the goſſip of the country, you are I hope too wiſe to mind it, and I [168] have long ſince learned to deſpiſe it. That, therefore ſhould not weigh with me at all. But in return for your charming ſincerity, I will ſpeak very plainly to you. Montague is a young man of good abi⯑lities, and of an excellent heart; but the violence of his paſſions keep me in perpe⯑tual concern leaſt they ſhould deprive me of all the happineſs that I may hope to derive from ſuch a ſon: and already I have twice, with great difficulty, delivered him from engagements he had made with young women quite unworthy of him: engagements which, though he ſoon ſaw the folly and impropriety of them, he fancied his honour obliged him to keep. Another—I know not who; one perhaps not much ſuperior to theſe, (as I learned by a friend who keeps a ſteady eye upon him,) had ſucceeded to the imaginary poſſeſſion of his affections when he laſt came home. I was uneaſy at it; but perhaps conſidered my own feelings too much and your's too little, when I ſaw with pleaſure his inſtant [169] admiration of you. I encouraged it, becauſe I hoped, that in learning what true merit was, he would hereafter be leſs liable to be miſled by the poor ſemblance of it, when aided by a pretty face, or a ſlender ſhape: at the ſame time I thought I had ſufficiently guarded him againſt any exceſs of attachment, by repreſenting to him your ſituation and convincing him it would be not only preſumptuous but hope⯑leſs. I believe, however, from ſome late obſervations I have made, that I have judged ill; and to ſave him from maladies that might be trifling or curable, have ex⯑poſed him to the ſeverer misfortune of feeling a real paſſion where he can meet with no return."

Celeſtina could not with ſincerity diſ⯑claim what ſhe had ſo much reaſon to fear was true. Affecting, however, to believe that Mr. Montague would ſoon loſe the impreſſion when ſhe was no longer preſent, and would find many infinitely more wor⯑thy of his affection, who might be proud [170] to receive and at liberty to return it, ſhe renewed the ſubject of her going to Lon⯑don, beſought Mr. Thorold ſtill to honour her with his friendſhip, and promiſed to return to him again in the winter if no ob⯑jection ſhould ariſe to his receiving her. She heard with gratitude the advice he gave her about Vavaſour.—"Do not," ſaid he, "put yourſelf too much in his power under the idea of his being the cho⯑ſen friend of Willoughby. He is called, and I believe is, a man of honour, in the common acceptation of the term; but I am afraid there is little real honour among thoſe who are in any reſpect ſo very licen⯑tious as Vavaſour is ſaid to be in regard to your ſex; the ſtile in which he lives among a certain deſcription of women, is not only the means of degrading all in his opinion, but hardens the heart while it corrupts the morals: and with all Vava⯑ſour's boaſted honour, I dare ſay he is a man, who, if he happened to take a fancy to the miſtreſs of his friend, would [171] ſteal her affections and her perſon without heſitation, and ſuppoſe, that by an appeal to the ſword or piſtol to vindicate the wrong he had done, the action, however unprincipled, would derogate nothing from his honour."

"Sure, Sir," ſaid Celeſtina, "Wil⯑loughby would not have ſo much friendſhip for Mr. Vavaſour were he ſuch a man?"

"I don't know, my dear," anſwered Mr. Thorold, "that Vavaſour is ſuch a man; but you will allow at leaſt that it is very probable; and as to Willoughby's friendſhip, I am afraid that is no criterion of merit. The college friendſhips of young men—But let me not make you too much out of humour with the world, while I mean only to put you upon your guard againſt the evil with which it too often teems towards unprotected youth and lovelineſs. It grieves my heart to let you go. But—upon the whole, if you promiſe to write to me often—to remain with this ſiſter of Cathcart's, who is, I conclude, a [172] woman of character, and to take no new courſe without informing me; above all, to keep yourſelf quite out of the power of Vavaſour, and not to be introduced to any of his acquaintance by way of ſtaying with them, unleſs you are very certain who they are; I ſay, on all theſe condi⯑tions I will not oppoſe your going, though it hurts me to conſent to it."

Celeſtina, having thus relieved her mind by explaining herſelf to her generous friend, became better ſatisfied than ſhe had been for ſome time, and found at leaſt an alle⯑viation of the concern that preyed on her heart, in the idea of change of place. She parted ſoon after from Mr. Thorold, whoſe buſineſs ſhe was fearful of interrupting, and walked back towards the houſe, in⯑tending to open her intentions of leaving them, to the reſt of the family, when they were aſſembled to their tea.

Montague, however, who had never loſt ſight of her, but had followed her and his father at a diſtance during their walk, [173] now haſtened acroſs the field ſhe was in to meet her. His eagerly enquiring eyes were fixed on her face when he came up to her; but not daring to aſk the ſubject of her conference with his father, nor able to turn his thoughts from it, he only ſaid—"Well, Miſs De Mornay, you have left my father?"

"You ſee I have," ſaid Celeſtina, ſmiling, "and I have left him well ſatiſ⯑fied with the reaſons I have given for quit⯑ting his hoſpitable roof on Thurſday."

"Quitting it!" exclaimed Montague, turning pale—"quitting it! What are you going to leave us then? and before I go to Oxford?"

"My good friend," replied ſhe, "you did not ſurely ſuppoſe that I was to be a perennial viſitor at your father's. I have now been here almoſt a month, and you muſt certainly allow that to be a very long viſit from a perſon, who, till within five weeks, had not the good fortune to be known to your family at all."

[174] "I know not," ſaid Montague, ſigh⯑ing, "what I thought, or what I ſup⯑poſed; but I would to heaven I could for⯑get having ever ſeen you, as eaſily as I am convinced you will loſe the remem⯑brance of me."

Celeſtina, with one of thoſe faſcinating ſmiles which lent ſuch peculiar charms to her countenance, now aſſured him that he was miſtaken: "indeed," ſaid ſhe, "I ſhall always remember you all, with plea⯑ſure and with gratitude."

"Well," anſwered he, "I thank you; and I thank you for not excepting me, and by putting us all together, ſhewing that you have no particular favourite in the family, but that one is as indifferent as another. But however, I wiſh you would not ſmile, for I cannot bear it."

"Ridiculous!" cried Celeſtina. "I am amazed, Mr. Montague, that with your underſtanding, you give way ſo fre⯑quently to ſuch abſurd fits of—I hardly know what to call it—a romantic ſtile of [175] behaviour, which you ſeem to think wo⯑men like, whereas I aſſure you that to me at leaſt it is the moſt unpleaſant in the world."

"When did you ever ſee me in this ro⯑mantic ſtile, as you are pleaſed to term it, with any woman but yourſelf?"

"I never did, becauſe I happen not to have ſeen you with any other women than thoſe of your own family: but you know that yout mother, your ſiſter and your brother, nay, even your father, all have repeatedly ſaid it was your way with every body."

"They are miſtaken however; and I own I have often miſtaken a tranſient de⯑gree of liking for love, which I never felt—no never—till I ſaw you!

[176] "There now," ſaid Celeſtina, "that is exactly what I complain of: there is no rational converſation with you, capable as you are of adorning it; but, as Arabella very truly ſays, you do nothing but make ſpeeches out of Otway or Shakſpeare."

"Arabella did not ſay I made ſpeeches, but that I made love; and I make love becauſe I feel it—feel it to an exceſs which is dreadful, becauſe I know, and have known from the beginning, that it is hopeleſs! But as this hurts nobody but myſelf, I don't ſee why it ſhould diſpleaſe you, or why you ſhould affect to miſ⯑underſtand, or attempt to laugh off a paſſion, which, whatever may be its effect on me, can never diſturb your tranquillity or that of your fortunate lover."

Celeſtina finding him thus ſerious, thought it would be better, and indeed more generous, not to pretend ignorance of his meaning, and to reaſon with rather than rally him; ſhe therefore dropped the gayer tone with which ſhe began the con⯑verſation, [177] and ſaid gravely—"Mr. Mon⯑tague, I will not affect then to miſunder⯑ſtand you. I am undoubtedly honoured by your partiality, and very much con⯑cerned if it is the ſource of preſent pain to you. Let it become rather a ſource of pleaſure to us both, by reducing it to that generous and diſintereſted friendſhip which I may return with ſatisfaction, and for thoſe warmer ſentiments, which you now ſuppoſe are entirely diverted from any other object, ſeek one who can deſerve and return them, and ſpare me, I beſeech you, the pain of believing, even for a moment, that I have brought ſolicitude and ſuffering into any part of a family to which I am ſo much obliged. I need not tell you my ſituation: you know it is a very comfortleſs and a very uncertain one: perhaps I may never ſee Mr. Willoughby again; or if I do, perhaps I may ſee him the huſband of another. But in either caſe my attachment to him is unalterable; and were I ſure to-morrow that we are di⯑vided [178] never again to meet, I ſhould only think of ſubmitting in ſuch a way as would leaſt wound him, to a blow, which I am ſure he will not voluntarily give me, but never of running the hazard of making unhappy ſome equally worthy man, by giving to importunity what I can never give to love—for my heart has been Wil⯑loughby's ever ſince I knew I had one, and it will be his, till I remember it no longer."

Montague gave no other anſwer to this than a deep ſigh; and Celeſtina pauſing a moment to recover herſelf from the emo⯑tion her words had occaſioned, went on—"You love quotations, and undoubtedly recollect, though perhaps from an author I ought not to quote, theſe words: Il n'y a point d'bomme pour celle qui aime; ſon amant eſt plus, tous les autres ſont moins."

Montague now impatiently interrupted her—"You need not," ſaid he, "thus refine on the cruelty with which you tell [179] me that you can never throw away a thought on me. I knew it before; and in the wildeſt paroxyſms of that paſſion which I glory in feeling and in cheriſhing, I never dared flatter myſelf that you would. Yet—perhaps even this fortunate Wil⯑loughby himſelf—this happy man, who may neglect you, leave you for another, and yet ſtill be beloved—is not more ca⯑pable of an ardent, a ſincere affection, than I am. If he leaves you for ever—good God!—Even if he entirely deſerts you, you will ſtill love him—Even then no other would have any hope."

"None," ſaid Celeſtina, "for then I will never marry. But, my good friend, this is an uneaſy ſubject to us both; let us then never reſume it. Allow me to offer you my friendſhip and my eſteem, and to aſſure you that this ſudden partiality, which believe me you will ſoon and eaſily con⯑quer, is the only ſubject on which I cannot liſten to you with pleaſure."

[180] They were now ſo immediately before the parlour windows, that Montague, who ſaw the family aſſembled there at tea, dared not give way to what he felt; but aſked her, in a lower voice, when ſhe went. She told him the day after the morrow. Again he ſighed; and when they got into the hall, turned towards his own little ſtudy, which was on the ſame floor, while Celeſtina went to join the party in the parlour; where ſhe found Mr. Bettenſon, who ſhe underſtood was now the profeſſed lover of Miſs Thorold; and ſo entirely did he now occupy the atten⯑tion both of her and her mother, that they hardly noticed the entrance of Celeſtina. She took, however, the earlieſt opportunity of a pauſe in their converſation, to ſignify her deſign of going on the following Thurſ⯑day.

Miſs Thorold contented herſelf with coldly ſaying ſhe was ſorry to loſe her ſo ſoon; and her mother, even leſs civil, as her huſband was not by, ſaid—"And [181] pray, Miſs De Mornay, where are you going?"

"To London, Madam."

"To London. Bleſs me! and pray who are you going to there?"

"To a Mrs. Elphinſtone, I believe, Ma'am."

"You believe! and pray when do you go?"

"On Thurſday, Madam."

"And alone?"

"No, Madam."

"Not alone? then who do you go with?"

"With Mr. Cathcart, Madam."

"Oh! with Mr. Cathcart. And pray, how do you go? In the ſtage?"

"No, Madam," replied Celeſtina, bluſhing at the indelicacy with which all theſe queſtions were aſked before a ſtranger.

"How then pray?"

"In poſt chaiſes, Madam."

"Humph! Poſt chaiſes are expenſive." Here ſhe ſtopped; being unable to find any other queſtions, or rather not daring [182] to aſk any more, as her huſband and eldeſt ſon that moment came in with Captain Muſgrave. Celeſtina however interpreted the look ſhe put on, as ſaying, "no mat⯑ter how you go, ſo long as you do go," and again ſhe congratulated herſelf on the reſolution ſhe had taken.

CHAPTER IX.

CELESTINA, finding that Montague Thorold did not join the party, conſtrained herſelf to ſtay with them, leaſt it ſhould be imagined they were together. Captain Thorold, as if he took advantage of his brother's abſence, ſat down by her, and be⯑gan in a half whiſper to make her ſome of thoſe ſpeeches, between a ſneer and a compli⯑ment, which always confuſed and diſtreſſed her. Soon after tea, however, Montague came in, and then, the evening being rainy, cards were propoſed, to which his mother deſired him to ſit down; while Celeſtina, ſaying ſhe had a few preparations to make for her journey which ſhe might as well begin in time, went away, nobody aſking her to take a ſeat at the card table.

[184] She was no ſooner gone, than Mrs. Tho⯑rold, addreſſing her eldeſt ſon, ſaid—"So, Edmund, we are to loſe your father's viſitor at laſt, my dear."

"Are we?" ſaid he careleſsly. "What is her intended come back?"

"Oh no," replied his mother, "the young lady is going to London it ſeems."

"Lord, Ma'am," cried Bettenſon, "I'll tell you what Muſgrave and I heard t'other day; did'nt we Muzzy?"

"Faith I don't know whether we did or no, Jacky Boy, till you tell me what it was we heard."

"Why we heard—Lord why 'twas that night we drank tea and ſupped, you know, with that there family of the Killigrews—we heard that Mr. Montague Thorold was a going to be married to this Miſs De Mor⯑ning, and that Mr. What d'ye call him—he that was to have had her, had given Mr. Montague a living to take her off his hands."

[185] Either the purport of this ſpeech, or the manner in which it was delivered, threw Captain Thorold and his friend Muſgrave into burſts of laughter, which they very freely indulged; but poor Montague turned pale, and trembled with vexation; while Mrs. Thorold, purſing her mouth and drawing herſelf up, ſaid—"Pray, Mr. Bettenſon, where did you ſay you heard this ſtory? Pray, Edmund, what do you laugh at? I ſay—Mr. Bettenſon, pray was it at Mr. Killigrew's you heard this abſurd ſtory?"

"Lord yes, Ma'am, and upon my ſoul I've heard it elſewhere. Why, Muſgrave, don't you remember?—why half the people at Exeter I'm ſure have talked to me about it."

"I'm very ſorry for it," rejoined the old lady. "People give their tongues ſtrange liberties methinks. My ſon I can aſſure them will never, at leaſt with mine and his father's conſent, form any ſuch connection. What! with a foreigner! an [186] alien as one may ſay! brought up upon charity, and I dare ſay not very honourably born, or how did Mrs. Willoughby get her ſo eaſily from her own country. People of faſhion don't part with their children to ſtrangers. For my part, I would be very civil to a young woman in diſtreſs, as 'twas Mr. Thorold's whim to have her here for a little time, but I am very ſorry it has given riſe to any ſuch report, which I beg the favour of you gentlemen to con⯑tradict. A living indeed! it is very likely that Montague Thorold ſhould accept of a living with ſuch an incumbrance, or on any ſuch conditions."

"But Madam," cried Captain Thorold as he dealt his cards, "what think you if poor Montague avows his penchant for the lady, and talks of dying without her inſtead of getting a living with her?"

"Think," replied his mother, redden⯑ing with anger—"why think that he is a fool, and that you are very little better for encouraging a ſilly boy in ſuch nonſenſe."

[187] "Nay, Madam," cried the Captain, "I am ſure I don't encourage him. I was only pitying him, as one naturally does all gentle youths who are croſt in love."

Arabella, who knew that her mother ſometimes ſuddenly threw off her every day character to appear in one far leſs amia⯑ble, when unchecked by Mr. Thorold, now feared that ſhe might give way to one of theſe fits of ill humour and exhibit a ſcene before Mr. Muſgrave and Mr. Bet⯑tenſon which might give them no very fa⯑vourable idea of the family temper; ſhe therefore gave her brother Edmund a hint to forbear puſhing the converſation any far⯑ther. He deſiſted; the game went in fa⯑vour of Mrs. Thorold; and in the pleaſure of winning five ſhillings, ſhe forgot for that time the diſpleaſure ſhe had conceived againſt her youngeſt ſon.

Celeſtina was in the mean time pre⯑paring for her journey. She had nothing now but her cloaths to pack up; for her books and her drawing caſes were at Al⯑veſtone, [188] where Cathcart beſought her to let them remain a little longer, promiſing that if events were finally determined other⯑wiſe than he was ſtill willing to hope, he would take them all from thence and ſend them to her whitherſoever ſhe might de⯑ſire. She wiſhed moſt earneſtly the next day over: for ſhe had now learned to dread more than before ſome extravagance on the part of Montague Thorold, for whom, notwithſtanding the trouble ſhe had re⯑ceived from his continual perſecutions, ſhe could not altogether withhold her pity and her eſteem. In his figure he reſem⯑bled his father, whom ſhe had ſo much reaſon to regard with grateful affection; and his faults were merely thoſe of youth and a vivid imagination. Whether his partiality to her was of a permanent or tranſitory nature, it was pretty certain that it now gave him pain, of which Celeſtina could not conſider herſelf as the cauſe with⯑out deſiring to alleviate or rather to end it. At ſupper, however, ſhe learned, with [189] great ſatisfaction, that Mr. Thorold and his two ſons were engaged out for the whole of the next day, and were to leave home early in the morning. She fancied, from ſeveral remarks ſhe made in the courſe of the evening, that this was purpoſely con⯑trived: and the eyes of Montague, though he dared not otherwiſe ſpeak, told her how cruelly he ſuffered from an arrange⯑ment which would deprive him of almoſt all the opportunities of ſpeaking to her which her ſhort ſtay might yet afford him. Though he ſaw that his mother remarked all his looks, and was reſtrained only by the fear of offending his father from openly avowing the anger ſhe had con⯑ceived, he could not forbear watching every turn of Celeſtina's countenance; and, when he bade her good night at the door, ſighing deeply and ſaying in a low whiſ⯑per—"At what time do you go on Thurſ⯑day?"

"Early I hope," replied ſhe; and to avoid all farther queſtions haſtened away.

[190] The next day paſſed quietly enough: for Mrs. Thorold, ſure of being delivered from a viſitor who had never been agree⯑able and was now uneaſy to her, thought it as well to be tolerably civil to her; and Arabella, who thought very little about any thing at preſent but ſecuring her con⯑queſt over the heart of Mr. Bettenſon, was hardly conſcious that ſhe was with them.

Late in the evening the gentlemen re⯑turned; but Celeſtina had left the parlour before their arrival, on pretence of going early to bed that ſhe might be ready the next day for Mr. Cathcart, whom ſhe had appointed to meet her in a poſt chaiſe at ſix o'clock. She took leave of Mrs. Tho⯑rold and her daughter therefore this even⯑ing, who received her thanks and adieus with great formality and no kindneſs. Very willingly would ſhe have eſcaped bidding farewel to Montague Thorold the next morning, but ſhe feared it would be impoſſible: Mr. Thorold had told her he ſhould himſelf put her into the chaiſe; [191] and he always roſe ſo early, that this, ſhe knew, would not put him out of his way.

As ſoon as her window was opened in the morning, which was almoſt as ſoon as it was light, ſhe ſaw Montague Thorold ſtanding under it. He kiſſed his hand to her when he perceived her, and looked ſo dejected that ſhe could not ſee him without concern. She was very ſoon dreſſed, and went down into the parlour, where he no ſooner ſaw her than he came to her.—"You are ready even before the time, ſo impatient are you to leave us," ſaid he in a mournful voice. "Ah! Miſs De Mor⯑nay! this houſe then will never again be bleſt with your preſence!"

"Indeed, Sir, I hope to ſee it very fre⯑quently again, and ſhall always be happy to hear of the health and welfare of it's in⯑habitants. But is your father in his ſtudy? I muſt ſee him before I go."

"Do not, Celeſtina," ſaid Montague very gravely—"do not ſo induſtriouſly try to deprive me of this laſt poor moment. [192] Yet a little—and my unfortunate, my de⯑ſpiſed attachment will trouble you no more."

"You are miſtaken, Mr. Montague," replied Celeſtina. "Any circumſtance that you have occaſion to deem unfortu⯑nate will trouble me long, wherever and whatever I may be: pray therefore, for my ſake as well as for your own, exert your excellent underſtanding, and con⯑quer this unlucky partiality towards a per⯑ſon, who, whatever may be her ſenſe of your worth, or her gratitude for your good opinion, can never return it otherwiſe than by eſteem and good wiſhes."

"I had rather you would hate, deteſt, and drive me from you," cried he, ſtarting up and going to the window: "'twould be leſs cruel than this gentle reaſon, which I know to be juſt, but which I cannot obey: and yet indeed, Celeſtina, I have no hope: I am not quite frantic enough to ſuppoſe there can be any for me. All I aſk is to be permitted to be miſerable, and that, after all, you cannot prevent. [193] Yes, there is yet another favour I would ſo⯑licit, though I know—I know you will not grant it."

"Any thing I can do without impro⯑priety," replied Celeſtina, "I certainly will do."

"I do not know," ſaid he, in a depreſſed and ſolemn voice, "what you may call propriety or impropriety; but the favour I would ſolicit is to be allowed to write to you.—Nay don't interrupt me with a re⯑fuſal before you hear me—to be allowed to write to you, ſo long as I confine my letters to literary ſubjects only, and that once or twice a year you would acknow⯑ledge the receipt of my letters."

"My dear Sir," cried ſhe, ſmiling, "you would be weary of this project long before the firſt half year had elapſed. Had you never talked to me of I know not what particular regard, there might have been no impropriety in this, and I am ſure the pleaſure and advantage would have been wholly mine; but after the extrava⯑gantly [194] gallant things you have ſaid, how can I—"

"If I infringe the articles of our agree⯑ment," ſaid he, "then ſend my letters back."

"But tell me," cried Celeſtina, inter⯑rupting him in her turn, "tell me what good can this poſſibly do you?"

"Good!" replied he: "you are not yourſelf inſenſible of a tender attachment to Willoughby, and yet aſk what good it can do to be admitted to write to a beloved object. Good! why it will be the ſoftener, the ſweetener of my exiſtence! While I am writing to you, I ſhall forget that I am never to ſee you—I ſhall forget every thing but the pleaſure of knowing that you will read what I am writing, that your hands will unfold my letter, your eyes paſs over the traces of my pen; that ſometimes I may amuſe or intereſt you, and at others, perhaps, raiſe in your boſom a compaſſion⯑ate ſigh for my ſilent, my unhappy love! [195] Beſides, I ſhall by that means always know where you are.

Celeſtina had no time to anſwer this otherwiſe than by ſaying, that if he had ſagacity enough to find out where ſhe was he poſſeſſed more than ſhe did, who could not even gueſs where ſhe might be. He anſwered that he could always know of Cathcart; and before ſhe could urge the many objections ſhe ſaw to his requeſt, the chaiſe, with Cathcart in it, drove up to the door, and at the ſame moment Mr. Thorold came to them. He appeared ſin⯑cerely concerned that ſhe was going from him; deſired her again to write to him; [196] and while he was haſtening breakfaſt, which he inſiſted upon her taking before ſhe went, Vavaſour rode into the court yard, and giving his horſe to his ſervant, came into the room alſo.

Celeſtina, who knew that Cathcart had informed him of her reſolution to go, had felt ſome ſurpriſe that he had not called upon her the day before to expreſs his ap⯑probation, and enquire how ſhe intended to diſpoſe of herſelf: but he was ſo volatile and inconſiderate, that ſhe thought it not impoſſible but that he might have forgot⯑ten on Wedneſday what he ſo vehemently urged on Monday; and ſhe now rather wiſhed he had, as ſhe ſaw Mr. Thorold was very little pleaſed either with his pre⯑ſent viſit, or the manner in which he ad⯑dreſſed her, without taking either of him or his ſon quite ſo much notice as the laws of civility required.

Celeſtina had frequently remarked the extreme inattention and diſregard, which, as Vavaſour felt, he never choſe to take [197] the trouble of concealing, for the opinions of thoſe to whom he was indifferent; and he was indifferent to three fifths of the world, and not very ſolicitous about the reſt, unleſs for a few, a very few friends, whom he loved. He diſliked the Tho⯑rolds, without knowing or enquiring of himſelf why he diſliked them; and eager and ſolicitous only about Celeſtina, he hardly gave her time to addreſs herſelf to them, or returned their invitation to par⯑take of their breakfaſt by the uſual ſpeech. A party who ſeemed ſo little pleaſed with each other, Celeſtina thought could not too ſoon ſeparate: ſhe therefore haſtily drank her tea, and telling Cathcart ſhe was ready, ſhe gave the elder Mr. Thorold her hand, and thanked him, not without emotion, for all the kindneſs he had ſhewn her: ſhe then wiſhed Montague Thorold health and happineſs, deſired him to offer her compliments and acknowledgments to his mother, ſiſter, and brother, and then Mr. Thorold leading her, and Montague [198] walking ſilently on her left hand, ſhe went out and ſtepped into the chaiſe.

Cathcart followed her, and Vavaſour went round to ſpeak to her at the oppoſite ſide. "You did not wiſh me good mor⯑row," ſaid he, "and therefore I ſuppoſe you foreſee that I intend going with you part of the way."

Celeſtina had no time to anſwer; for Mr. Thorold offering his hand once more to bid her adieu, ſhe gave it him, ſaying—"Adieu! dear Sir; a thouſand and a thouſand thanks and good wiſhes." Mon⯑tague, who ſtood by his father, at that mo⯑ment caught her eye, and there was on his countenance an expreſſion of ſorrow which affected her ſo much, that under the ſudden impulſe of concern and pity ſhe held out to him the hand his father let go.—"Farewel, Mr. Montague," ſaid ſhe. He ſeized it eagerly, and held it as if he would never part from it more: but Cathcart at that moment bowing to the gentlemen and bidding the poſtillion drive [199] on, he was compelled to releaſe it, though it was with a ſigh as if his heart was half broken; and when the chaiſe drove off, inſtead of following it with his eyes, he turned away and went into his own room, unable either to ſee Celeſtina go or Vava⯑ſour following her.

The concern ſhe felt for him kept her ſilent the greateſt part of the way to the cottage near old Winnington's, where Jeſſy was to meet them. Cathcart, who was unhappy at the neceſſity of parting from his wife, was not diſpoſed to inter⯑rupt her; and though Vavaſour now and then rode up to the door of the chaiſe and talked, ſhe was not in ſpirits to anſwer the gay nothings with which he addreſſed her. The meeting with Jeſſy was more in uniſon with her feelings. Jeſſy threw her⯑ſelf into the arms of her benefactreſs, from whom ſhe had been ſo long divided, and who ſhe now ſaw only for a moment before they were to be ſeparated for a yet longer time. Neither of them could ſay much, [200] for their hearts were full: but had they been diſpoſed for converſation, Vavaſour, who felt only pleaſure in having got Ce⯑leſtina away from the Thorolds, was very little inclined to give them an opportunity: but in his rattling way rallied Jeſſy, and then Celeſtina, whom he teazed about Montague Thorold and his father, one of whom he called her pedant and the other her prieſt, till ſhe was half angry. Cath⯑cart at length, however, prevailed upon him to leave the friends alone; and as they walked together before the door of the cottage, he enquired whether he had any commands in London. "Oh none, I thank you," replied Vavaſour, "for I ſhall be there myſelf almoſt as ſoon as you. Pray where does Miſs De Mornay intend to lodge?"

Cathcart declared himſelf entirely ig⯑norant; and then, for the firſt time, from ſome expreſſion or look of Vavaſour's, he ſuddenly entertained a notion that there was ſomething more than friendly ſolici⯑tude [201] for Willoughby's betrothed wife in the eager and aſſiduous attentions of Va⯑vaſour; and he determined from that time to remark more narrowly his behaviour to her.

"You do not intend to ſet out for Lon⯑don to-day, Sir?" enquired Cathcart.

"Yes I do," anſwered Vavaſour: "that is, I juſt ride back and make my bow to thoſe honeſt humdrum Cranfields, and then I am off for Oakhampton, where I've told them I have buſineſs, and from thence I ſhall take four horſes, and ſo come up with you, my good fellow, and your fair compagnon du voyage, before you reach Ho⯑niton."

"And does Miſs De Mornay know of your intentions, Sir?"

"No; for I know what ſcalping ſavages all the people about here are; and though there can be nothing you know in my attending her on behalf of Willoughby, yet on her account one would not ſet the clacks of the old cats within twenty miles [202] round at work about it, and ſo I have made up a ſtory of having a lawyer to meet about the affairs of my deceaſed aunt, who, luckily for the honour of my veracity, had a farm or two near Oakhampton, which are now mine; and I intend the Cranfields, good matter of fact ſouls, ſhall fancy me carefully looking after my property and ſet⯑tling repairs and renewals with Mr. Palmer the attorney."

"You intend, no doubt, to tell Miſs De Mornay of it, however, Sir?"

"Oh! yes, now I ſee her ſafely out of the hands of her confeſſor, or elſe perhaps he would have put it into her head that I am not a fit eſcort for her; though I think, Cathcart, thou art ſo grave and ſage that thou'lt make as proper a third to our party as his reverence himſelf. Come never look ſo calamitous, but go and take leave of thy weeping wife, and let me and Celeſtina have a little converſation."

Cathcart then went into the houſe, and Celeſtina preſently afterwards came to Va⯑vaſour, [203] who continued walking before it. "Has Cathcart told you my plan?" ſaid he, before ſhe could ſpeak. "I intend to go to London with you from Honiton, where I ſhall be almoſt as ſoon as you."

Celeſtina now recollected all Mr. Tho⯑rold had ſaid to her; but the great friend⯑ſhip which had for ſo many years ſubſiſted between Vavaſour and Willoughby, and the undeſigning openneſs of Vavaſour's cha⯑racter, put all the ſuſpicions he had raiſed to flight, even when this ſcheme ſeemed moſt ſtrongly to corroborate thoſe ſuſpi⯑cions. "I had much rather you would not join us," ſaid Celeſtina, "becauſe, though I ſhould certainly be glad of your company as well as Mr. Cathcart, yet per⯑haps a thouſand ill natured things may be ſaid about it."

She was proceeding, when Vavaſour in⯑terrupted her. "Yes, that's juſt the poli⯑tics you have learned at the Thorolds. What does it ſignify to you what any body ſays or thinks but Willoughby, and you [204] know that he would put you himſelf into my protection on every occaſion where he could not protect you himſelf. Come, come, Celeſtina, acknowledge that your old Men⯑tor has been warning you againſt having any acquaintance with ſuch ſad young rakes as Vavaſour."

"If you think ſo," replied Celeſtina, "you undoubtedly know that he has rea⯑ſon for his precaution; and as for his calling you what I always fancied you rather piqued yourſelf upon being, I don't ſee why my Mentor, as you term him, ſhould give you offence by that."

"Rake as I am, however," anſwered he, "curſe me if I would do a diſhonour⯑able thing towards George. No, by hea⯑ven, not if I were dying for love of you."

"I believe you indeed," ſaid Celeſtina; "and ſuch perfect confidence I have in your honour, that I ſhould truſt myſelf with you as with a brother."

"And never, you dear candid angel," interrupted he, "never ſhall you repent [205] that confidence. But I tell you very plainly, that though I am upon honour with Wil⯑loughby I am not ſo with thoſe Thorolds, and can allow nobody elſe to uſurp that fa⯑vour, which perhaps I might have taken it into my head to diſpute even with my friend George himſelf if he had not made out a very early and almoſt an hereditary claim to you: as it is, however, I have no pre⯑tenſions for myſelf, but I am confoundedly jealous for him; and now I have got you out of the way of that prating, piping, poetical pedant—that Montague Thorold, I ſhall be quite eaſy when I ſee you ſituated where you are not very likely to meet with him again: ſo you won't oppoſe my meeting you on the road; and, till then, my ſweet friend, adieu!" He then, with⯑out waiting for an anſwer, ran to his horſe, which his ſervant was leading about, and mounting it, was out of ſight in an inſtant. Cathcart and Jeſſy then came towards Ce⯑leſtina; and the latter hanging on her neck, could hardly prevail on herſelf to bid her [206] farewel; while Celeſtina, melting into tears, kiſſed her, and willing to ſhorten a ſcene ſo uſeleſsly painful, ſtepped into the chaiſe, where Cathcart, having taken again a tender leave of his wife, immediately fol⯑lowed her, and they took the road that led acroſs the commons to the turnpike.

CHAPTER X.

THE road they were travelling led along the ſide of Alveſtone Park for near a mile and a half. Celeſtina had never paſſed it before, but on the day when Mr. Thorold had taken her to his houſe; and then ſhe had been ſo loſt in mournful con⯑templations as hardly to notice whither ſhe went. Now, however, the profound ſi⯑lence ſhe had fallen into on parting from Jeſſy, was ſuddenly broken by an excla⯑mation; for on looking up, ſhe ſaw one of the park gates, and cried—"Alveſtone! is it not?—oh! yes, I ſee it is: there is the houſe!" Cathcart anſwered that it was; and after another ſhort ſilence, Celeſtina ſaid—"To any body but you, Cathcart, I ſhould be afraid of betraying my weak⯑neſs; [208] but you are now in place of a bro⯑ther to me, and knowing my ſituation, will indulge my regret: I have a ſtrange fancy to get out and go up to that tuft of beech trees on the brow of the hill. It is not far. I ſhall not be gone long. Will you wait for me?"

"My time is your's," replied he. "But will you allow me to obſerve that it is per⯑haps wiſer to endeavour to conquer this uſeleſs regret than to indulge it?"

"I know it would be wiſer," anſwered Celeſtina: "but alas! we are not always able to be wiſe. I think I ſhall be eaſier when I have once more taken, of that ſpot where I have often been ſo happy—a laſt adieu!"

"Heaven forbid it ſhould be the laſt," cried Cathcart, as he aſſiſted her to leave the chaiſe. "I foreſee many, many happy days for you yet, when you will be miſtreſs of that houſe."

"Ah! dear Cathcart," returned Celeſ⯑tina, half ſmiling through the tears that [209] filled her eyes, "how happy a convert ſhall I be to the doctrine of ſecond ſight if your prophecy ſhould ever be fulfilled. But no; I feel too certainly that this is the laſt time I ſhall ever behold this dear place."

She then went into the park over the ſtepping ſtile, and walking about half a quarter of a mile, reached the group of beech trees which ſhaded a high knoll in the park; from whence the houſe, half concealed by intervening wood, appeared to great advantage. It was now the be⯑ginning of May, and the trees under which ſhe ſtood were juſt coming into leaf, while others ſcattered over the park were many of them of the moſt vivid green, contraſted by the darker ſhade of fir and cypreſs min⯑gled among them. One of the trees of this clump was marked by Willoughby with her name, his own, and his ſiſter's, and the date. It was five years ſince; and the bark had grown rough and knotted round the ſcars, but the letters ſtill re⯑mained. It was to re-viſit this well known [210] memorial that Celeſtina had been anxious; and now ſhe could hardly bear the thoughts of leaving it. She recollected every trifling circumſtance that happened when Wil⯑loughby cut thoſe letters: the cloaths he wore, and his very look, were again pre⯑ſent to her; while in the breeze that ſighed among the trees ſhe fancied ſhe heard the ſound of his voice, and that he pronounced the name of Celeſtina. In this ſtate of mind ſhe had almoſt forgotten that Cathcart waited for her; till a herd of deer ran bounding by her, and looking up, ſhe ſaw following them in mimic race, ſeveral horſes which grazed in the park. There was among them a favourite little mare, which Willoughby had been fond of from a boy: it had always carried him to Eton, and been the companion of all his boyiſh ſports; and when it became old, had been turned into the park in ſummer and carefully ſheltered in winter. While Mrs. Willoughby lived, it had been ac⯑cuſtomed to be fed with bread once or [211] twice a day from her hand, from her daugh⯑ter's, or Celeſtina's; and ſince her death the old ſervants in the houſe, with whom it was a ſort of cotemporary, had accuſ⯑tomed it to the ſame indulgence; to which it had become ſo habituated, that on ſight of any of the family it went towards them to be fed. This creature therefore no ſooner ſaw Celeſtina's cloaths fluttering among the trees, than it left it's compa⯑nions, and came neighing towards her.

Celeſtina fancied the animal remembered her. She careſſed it fondly, and with tears in her eyes, and a deep ſigh, cried—"Ah! Fanchette, you recollect then your old friend, when perhaps your ſtill beloved maſter is trying to forget her, and may al⯑ready have ſucceeded but too well." She found herſelf too much affected with this idea, and turning her ſwimming eyes to⯑wards the houſe, the contraſt between what ſhe now was, and what, hardly a month ſince, ſhe expected to be—the fear⯑ful apprehenſion that Willoughby had ſud⯑denly [212] become a convert to avarice and ambition, and that Miſs Fitz-Hayman, who had the power to gratify both thoſe paſſions, would ſoon poſſeſs the place where ſhe had fondly hoped to conſtitute the happineſs of his life whoſe happineſs was dearer to her than her own—all crouded with cruel force on her mind; and feeling her ſenſations become more and more painful, ſhe tore herſelf from the ſpot which had ſo forcibly preſented them, Fanchette ſtill following, and importuning her to be fed. She walked ſlowly towards the park gate, and ſaw Cathcart, who be⯑gan to be uneaſy at her ſtay, coming to meet her. He underſtood the nature of her ſenſations too well to make any en⯑quiries; but offering her his arm, in ſilence led her towards the chaiſe. Before ſhe aſcended the ſteps of the ſtile, ſhe turned once more to look at the horſe; kiſſed the ſenſible animal as it licked her hands; and pronouncing a half ſtifled and tremulous "adieu Fanchette!" ſhe got as haſtily as [213] ſhe could into the chaiſe, and deſired Cathcart to order the poſtillion on quickly. "Since I muſt go," ſaid ſhe, "I would be ſoon out of ſight of this place, for I find I cannot bear it."

"I feared indeed," replied Cathcart, "it would too much affect you."

Both then returned to their former ſilence; while Celeſtina, as her thoughts went back to paſt pleaſures, and as her heart felt all the bitterneſs of diſappointed hope, in⯑dulged herſelf without reſtraint in the ſad luxury of ſorrow. She no longer ſaw the objects ſhe paſſed, or thought of whither ſhe was going: but Alveſtone was ſtill preſent to her eyes, and ſhe ſaw Willoughby wandering among it's ſhades as if looking for loſt happineſs, and returning diſcon⯑tented to his houſe; whence the ſullen magnificence and arrogant ſuperiority of his haughty heireſs had driven all domeſtic comfort. She heard him ſigh forth too late his regret, and lament that for advantages he could not enjoy, he had relinquiſhed the [214] competence he might have poſſeſſed, with the tender attachment and grateful affection of his Celeſtina. Tears fell ſlowly down her cheeks as theſe diſtreſſing images pre⯑ſented themſelves, and inſenſibly the tender adieu ſhe had taken of the place, the ten⯑der wiſhes ſhe had formed for the lamented friend and lover to whom it belonged, ar⯑ranged themſelves into verſe, and produced the following

[215] This diſpoſition of mind, mournful as it was, afforded Celeſtina ſo much me⯑lancholy indulgence, that it was very re⯑luctantly ſhe was rouſed from it by their reaching Honiton; where ſhe was glad to find Vavaſour not yet arrived: for though ſhe was ſenſible of the friendly intereſt he took in whatever related to her, and im⯑puted it to no other motive than regard for Willoughby, and pity for her own ſitu⯑ation, there was an impetuoſity in his manner, and a freedom in his diſcourſe, which, though it did not offend her becauſe ſhe knew it was his uſual way with every body, was yet often oppreſſive to her, and ſince Mr. Thorold's caution, had become more ſo than before. She obſerved too, that Cathcart was not pleaſed at his purpoſe of accompanying them to London, and had expreſſed more than once, in the little converſation they had together during their journey, his hope, that ſhe would find his ſiſter, Mrs. Elphinſtone, ſuch a companion as might engage her to continue with her.— [216] Celeſtina, who was, perhaps, a little too faſtidious in the choice of her company, from having in her early years had her taſte ſet very high by Mrs. Willoughby, was become generally indifferent now, from the little expectation ſhe formed of being gratified, and though her overcharged heart languiſhed for the ſoothing pleaſure of unburthening itſelf to ſuch a friend as the ſimple and ſenſible Jeſſy, ſhe knew it was very improbable that any one whom ſhe might meet ſhould replace her. She an⯑ſwered Cathcart, however, that ſhe doubted not Mrs. Elphinſtone's merit, ſince ſhe was his ſiſter, and was greatly prejudiced in her favour by Jeſſy's account of her. "But, my dear Sir," ſaid ſhe, "it is I who have the greateſt reaſon to doubt of my recep⯑tion, and I have thought ſince, the plan we haſtily formed a very wild one. Mrs. Elphinſtone, occupied by her family, may have as little occaſion for a companion as taſte for an intruder into her domeſtic cir⯑cle; and ſhe may perhaps, on your recom⯑mendation, [217] accept, what her own inclina⯑tion may be averſe to receive. Beſides ſhe has a huſband, of whom I know nothing, and to whom the preſence of a ſtranger, when he expects only his wife and family, may be diſagreeable. I own I have thought of a journey into the North with more plea⯑ſure than any thing elſe can now give me, for it is the only part of this iſland I have not ſeen ſomething of, in thoſe ſummer excurſions which my dear Mrs. Willoughby was fond of making. But with whatever ſatisfaction my fancy has dwelt upon it, I ought not to think of it farther, at leaſt till I have ſeen your ſiſter."

Cathcart repeated again and again his aſſurances of the happineſs her company would beſtow on his ſiſter, and continued to lay plans for the accommodation of their journey: while Celeſtina could not but think with internal anguiſh on her very forlorn ſituation, compelled to ſolicit the friendſhip and protection of ſtrangers, or remain alone, unfriended and unprotected. [218] She bleſt, however, again the fortunate chance that had brought her acquainted with Jeſſy and Cathcart, without whom her condition would be yet more deſolate; and for once ſaw evidently the laſting good that had been produced by a tranſient evil, the troubleſome impertinence of Mr. Jedwyn.

As they arrived at Honiton ſooner than they expected, Celeſtina propoſed going on as far as Axminſter, nine miles farther, before they dined. To this Cathcart con⯑ſented; heſitating however a moment whe⯑ther they ought not to wait for Vavaſour. Celeſtina ſeemed averſe to it, and ſaid if there was any rudeneſs in their going on without him, ſhe would herſelf be anſwera⯑ble for it.

They proceeded therefore to Axmin⯑ſter, and were juſt ſet down to their dinner, when Vavaſour, at the expence of almoſt killing the four horſes which drew him, ar⯑rived.

His volatile humour never forſook him, and he ſeemed now unuſually diſpoſed to [219] indulge it. He gave the moſt ludicrous account of the manner in which he had miſled the curioſity of Mrs. Cranfield, by ſetting out very gravely for Oakhampton; and then cried—"Oh! and I tell you who I met as I rode back to Cranfield's; your languiſhing lover, Montague Tho⯑rold, looking, poor dog! ſo diſtanced and ſo diſmal: he was compoſing, I fancy, an elegy on your departure, for I rode almoſt againſt him in the croſs lane that leads from old Thorold's grounds towards Cran⯑field Hall, and he had a paper in his hand, on which he was ſo intent that he did not ſee me, till I awakened him with a ho hoop! ho hoop! as if I had been in at the death. He ſtarted, and I was afraid, as I might have ſpoiled a thought, that he would feel ſome poetical indignation; but inſtead of that, he popped the paper into his boſom, as if he feared I ſhould have ſeized it; and then, with as much humility as if I had been the head of his college, he pulled off his hat, and profeſſing himſelf [220] glad to ſee me, enquired where I had left you: I told him on your way to London, and that I was going back to Cranfield's; and we parted with the utmoſt politeneſs."

Celeſtina, who had really a friendſhip for Montague Thorold, could not hear of his anxious ſolicitude for her, without a mingled ſentiment of regard and concern, which, as her face expreſſed every emotion of her heart, was immediately perceived by the quick and penetrating eyes of Vavaſour. He did not ſpare her; but rallied her with more ſucceſs than politeneſs on the influ⯑ence this college lad, for ſo he choſe to term him, had obtained over her. "Upon my word," ſaid he, "I ſhall think it ne⯑ceſſary to put Willoughby upon his guard a little."

"And how do you know, Sir," an⯑ſwered Celeſtina, "that Mr. Willoughby will thank you for it? or, that admitting Mr. Montague Thorold was really more to me than a common acquaintance, which you do not ſeriouſly believe, how are you [221] ſure that your friend would not be rather pleaſed, that the affections he may wiſh to be troubled with no more, are transferred to another?"

"Transferred!" exclaimed Vavaſour. "You admit then that ſuch a transfer is probable?"

"Not probable at all: but certainly it would with moſt people be poſſible."

"And if it were with you, I am con⯑vinced that Montague Thorold is not the man to whom Willoughby would wiſh them to be transferred."

"He could, however, have very little pretence, after having reſigned them him⯑ſelf, to dictate to whom they ſhould be given. But of what uſe, Mr. Vavaſour, is all this argument? Whether I ſhall ever ſee Willoughby again or no is very uncer⯑tain: but it is very certain that if I do not, I ſhall never marry at all."

Vavaſour ſaw he had gone too far; and Cathcart at that moment returning to them to ſay the chaiſes were ready, the conver⯑ſation [222] dropped for that time; Celeſtina pe⯑remptorily reſiſting the efforts Vavaſour made to induce her to go at leaſt the next ſtage, in the chaiſe with him.

They reached Dorcheſter that evening; and Celeſtina, after a ſlight ſupper, com⯑plained of being a good deal fatigued with her journey, and going as ſoon as ſhe could to her chamber, left the two gentlemen to⯑gether.

Vavaſour, naturally unreſerved, even to indiſcretion, and ſeldom taking the trouble to conceal his ſentiments, was totally off his guard when he had drank five or ſix glaſſes of wine; and ſince Willoughby, who alone had the power to reſtrain any of his exceſſes, had been leſs with him, he had accuſtomed himſelf to take more than double that quantity when he either dined or ſupped. Celeſtina was no ſooner gone therefore, than he ordered in another bot⯑tle of claret, and before it was finiſhed, he had told Cathcart without reſerve all that he thought. Taking occaſion to toaſt [223] Celeſtina, he ſaid—"Tell me, Frank! what do you think of her? Is ſhe not a charming girl?"

"Moſt undoubtedly," replied Cathcart, ſhe appears ſo to me, who know that her very lovely perſon is the leaſt of her merit; to me, who owe her more than life, and who throughout mine ſhall have reaſon to bleſs the hour that firſt threw my Jeſſy in her way."

"Yes, by heaven," cried Vavaſour, "ſhe is an angel, and I cannot for my ſoul gueſs at this ſtrange myſterious buſineſs of George's leaving her: for though it is a deſperate undertaking for a man to marry at all, yet he had got over that, and doated upon her to a degree that I never imagined poſſible till I ſaw them together. I cannot underſtand it; and the more I think about it, the more incomprehenſible it becomes. Tell me, Cathcart, do you think he will now ever marry her?"

"My dear Sir," replied Cathcart, "I [224] can only ſay with you, that the more I think, the leſs I comprehend of the affair."

"I'll tell you, Frank: I am pretty well perſuaded that he never will marry her; nay, that he has made up his mind to tie himſelf to the fifteen thouſand a year, and the Viſcount's title, which are the appen⯑dages of his couſin: yet why, unleſs he had fully determined againſt all the temp⯑tations that match offered him—why carry matters ſo far with Celeſtina? and who the devil could thoſe two women be who it ſeems put the matter by and ſent him off in ſuch a hurry?"

"I never could find out," replied Cath⯑cart. "He was himſelf the only perſon who knew, and of him, as he avoided all explanation, I could not enquire."

"What! did you never aſk whether they were young or old?"

"I aſked; but the people hardly ſaw their faces. They came in the evening, and went away in the middle of the night; [225] but from the little information I could make out, neither of them appeared young."

"I ſhould have thought, (for you fel⯑lows that affect principle are not always to be depended upon,) that George had got into ſome filly ſcrape or other with ſome wench that he might have promiſed to marry: but any ſuch entanglement might have been eaſily got rid of, without his flying away from Celeſtina or even from his country. Well! there is no making it out: but I believe it is clear enough that Celeſtina will now never be his wife, and that being once aſcertained, Cathcart, do you know ſhe is the only woman upon earth whom I ſhall ever think of making mine?"

"Your's Sir!" exclaimed Cathcart.

"Aye, mine, Sir. I own 'tis rather ex⯑traordinary that even my divine Celeſtina ſhould make me meditate on matrimony; but ſuch a wonder was worthy of her only, and ſhe has effected it. I never was un⯑eaſy half an hour in my life about any [226] woman till I ſaw her at Alveſtone, or ra⯑ther till I became acquainted with her; for I have ſeen perhaps handſomer women, or at leaſt thoſe that were at firſt view more ſtriking. Faith I found myſelf growing ſo curſed fooliſh about her, that ſuppoſing her then to be on the eve of marriage with my friend George, I thought it beſt to fly for it, and by going back to my old haunts—you know my way—I got her out of my head a little, and could have ſeen her Willoughby's wife coolly enough; but the moment I heard he had left her, this confounded love, I ſuppoſe you call it, began to play the devil with me again, and I could not be eaſy, knowing the folks ſhe was with, without coming down to ſee after her. However Captain Thorold, (it was that puffing fellow I was moſt afraid of,) had not, I believe, the leaſt intereſt."

"Nor will any man have it, I fancy," replied Cathcart: "at leaſt I am ſure that nothing leſs than the certainty of Mr. Wil⯑loughby's marriage with another, would [227] for a moment detach her from the invaria⯑ble affection ſhe has for him. I even queſ⯑tion if that would make any alteration in her heart, though it might in her proſ⯑pects."

"Pooh, pooh," cried Vavaſour, "you have not ſtudied women I find. Celeſtina has too much ſpirit and too much ſenſe to mope away her youth and beauty, and dwindle into the neglected uglineſs of an⯑cient maidenhood, becauſe Willoughby did not know his own mind. Her pride, and ſhe is not without it, will help her to get the better of an attachment which will only be a ſource of mortification to her. No, no, let me be once ſure that Wil⯑loughby gives her up, and I don't think it very preſumptuous to ſay, that in a fort⯑night afterwards I carry her, to Ortney-bury, Mrs. Vavaſour."

"'Till then, however, Sir," ſaid Cath⯑cart—"till you are quite ſure that all is at an end between Mr. Willoughby and Miſs De Mornay, you will of courſe hold it a [228] point of honour not to declare your in⯑tentions. It will diſtreſs her extremely if you do. For thinking of you as I know ſhe thinks, ſhe will conclude you are very certain that all ties are diſſolved between them, or you would not addreſs her in a way, which, while thoſe ties are undiſ⯑ſolved, ſhe will call a breach of honour to⯑wards your friend."

"Aye, that's all very true," replied Vavaſour. "But let her take care then how ſhe ſhews a diſpoſition to favour that ſucking parſon—that Montague Thorold. Though I'm willing to allow Willoughby the preference, I am by no means diſpoſed to give the pas to ſuch a green horn as that: and to tell you the truth, Frank, If I were ſure ſhe preferred him I might commit ſome d—d folly or other."

"Well, Sir," cried Cathcart, riſing to wiſh him good night, "ſhe is not likely to be in his way; and if ſhe were I am very certain Mr. Willoughby has nothing to fear from him; and as to yourſelf you [229] know, you agree, that while he is in queſtion you are entirely out of it."

Cathcart then left him to finiſh another bottle alone, and carried with him no very agreeable reflections. Notwithſtanding all that had paſſed he could not diveſt himſelf of the hope of ſeeing Celeſtina united to Willoughby, whom alone he thought worthy of her. His own competence and happineſs, which they only had given him, would, he felt, be incomplete if both or either of them were unhappy; and un⯑happy he thought they muſt be if they lived not for each other. Whatever ſcheme therefore interfered with a union he ſo much deſired, he felt as a ſort of injury to himſelf; and though the extreme good humour, generous ſpirit, and gay temper of Vavaſour, made it impoſſible to diſlike him, Cathcart was convinced, from the little he knew of his manner of life and his very free principles, that were Willoughby wholly ſet aſide, he was a man with whom the ſenſibility and purity of mind of Celeſ⯑tina [230] would never allow her to be happy: he foreſaw, therefore, nothing but uneaſi⯑neſs for her in his intended purſuit of her, and thought with redoubled anxiety of her ſituation.

As early the following morning as Va⯑vaſour could be prevailed upon to move, they renewed their journey; and about ſix o'clock that evening, having taken leave of Vavaſour in Piccadilly, (who took Cath⯑cart's directions, in order to be with them the next morning,) Celeſtina was ſet down at the lodgings Mrs. Elphinſtone had re⯑moved to in Suffolk-ſtreet, Charing Croſs.

CHAPTER XI.

CATHCART had given his ſiſter no⯑tice of the arrival of Celeſtina, and there⯑fore the joy with which Mrs. Elphinſtone received her brother and the lovely perſon to whom he had been ſo much obliged, was unallayed by the ſurpriſe ſhe might have felt at the unexpected entrance of a ſtranger.

Celeſtina was extremely pleaſed with her new acquaintance, and very ſoon forgot that ſhe ſaw her for the firſt time. Her fi⯑gure was very tall and thin, and would have had as much dignity as ſymmetry but that an habitual though ſlight ſtoop ſeemed to beſpeak oppreſſion of ſpirit and the weight of many ſorrows. Her face very much reſembled that of Cathcart; but the bloom [232] of youth and the glow of health were gone: ſtill it was intereſting, though languid and faded. Her eyes were eminently beauti⯑ful; and there was an air of mild reſigna⯑tion over her whole countenance particu⯑larly touching, which, even in her moſt cheerful moments, beſpoke her rather ſtudy⯑ing how to bear the evils ſhe ſeemed to foreſee, than capable of enjoying the paſſing pleaſure. Sorrow had left on her expreſ⯑ſive features marks of it's cruel power, and had anticipated the hand of time: for though ſhe was not yet thirty, ſhe appeared four or five years older; and her dreſs of⯑fered nothing to undeceive the imagination, for it was ſo plain that nothing but it's ex⯑treme neatneſs and finer linen diſtinguiſhed her from women in the humbleſt rank of life. Her manners, however, would, in any dreſs or any ſituation of life, have marked her for a well educated woman; and her voice was particularly pleaſing to Celeſtina, who had been wearied by the [233] harſh monotony of Mrs. Thorold or the affected liſp of her daughter.

Celeſtina had not been an hour in com⯑pany with Mrs. Elphinſtone, before ſhe not only determined on going to Scotland with her if it were practicable, but felt ſo uneaſy in the fear of a diſappointment that ſhe wiſhed to have it immediately diſcuſſed. Cathcart, who eaſily underſtood her, then began to talk the matter over with his ſiſter, and found, that from the hint of it which he had before given her, ſhe had been aſſi⯑duouſly removing every objection that could ariſe. She anſwered for Mr. Elphin⯑ſtone, whom Cathcart had before deſcribed to Celeſtina as good natured even to a fault, and ſo fond of ſociety as to have owed great part of his misfortunes to a paſſion for it; and Celeſtina, willing to be con⯑vinced of what ſhe wiſhed to believe, no longer heſitated. Nothing then remained but to prepare for their departure, which was fixed to be at the diſtance of two days. Cathcart undertook every preparation; and [234] having ſettled every thing as far as it could be that evening, he took leave of Celeſtina, for whom Mrs. Elphinſtone had procured an apartment in the ſame houſe, and went to a coffee houſe, where he had beſpoke a bed, promiſing to be with them the next morning.

Celeſtina early on that morning aroſe to write the letter ſhe had long meditated to Willoughby. She was now able to give ſuch reaſons for her quitting Mr. Thorold as he could not diſapprove; and though he might perhaps think her preſent plan a ſtrange one, he would be eaſy, ſhe thought, in the reflection that it was attended with no perſonal danger and that ſhe was with Cathcart's ſiſter. One only objection now ſtruck her, and that was the length of time which muſt elapſe before ſhe could re⯑ceive his letters: but on the other hand, if the ſtrange obſtacles to their meeting re⯑mained, it was uncertain whether he would write to her; and if they were re⯑moved, ſhe hoped that he would fly to her [235] with equal eagerneſs whether ſhe was in Devonſhire or in the extreme parts of Scotland. She collected, therefore, every thing her tenderneſs ſuggeſted to make Willoughby eaſy about her if he ſtill loved her, and was ſhedding involuntary tears over that painful doubt, when, as ſhe had juſt concluded her letter, Vavaſour very abruptly entered the dining room, where Mrs. Elphinſtone had not yet taken her ſeat, being detained by the care of her four children, whom ſhe attended to entirely herſelf.

Vavaſour entered with the gay confi⯑dence of a welcome viſitor; but was a little diſconcerted by the languid coldneſs with which Celeſtina received him, and by the air of melancholy ſhe aſſumed, and the traces of recent tears which he obſerved on her cheeks. He enquired if ſhe was not writing to Willoughby; and on her an⯑ſwering "yes," aſked her what ſhe had ſaid to him of her future intentions as to reſi⯑dence.

[236] "I have told him," replied ſhe, "that I am going to Scotland."

"To Scotland! impoſſible! you are laughing at me."

"Indeed I am going to Scotland," ſaid ſhe; "and I thought you had known it."

"To Scotland! No, I imagined you would take lodgings either in London or it's neighbourhood, and wait for letters from George, which muſt ſoon be here and be certainly deciſive."

"That is by no means certain," an⯑ſwered Celeſtina; "and whatever the pur⯑port of thoſe letters may be, I may hear it there as well as here."

Vavaſour now enquired more minutely into her plan; againſt which he firſt le⯑velled his whole powers of ridicule, as be⯑ing wild, romantic, unpleaſant, and pro⯑ductive of nothing but diſappointment and fatigue; but finding Celeſtina proof againſt all the ludicrous lights in which he could repreſent it, he became ſerious, and vehe⯑mently inveighed againſt the folly and ha⯑zard [237] of a journey to the moſt deſolate and dreary country of Britain, to reſide with people whom ſhe did not know, and who were themſelves only adventurers on a wild and ſpeculative ſcheme that would proba⯑bly be abortive. He repreſented very forcibly the diſcomforts ſhe muſt meet with, and the little pleaſure or knowledge which the view of ſuch a country could offer to counterbalance them: but ſhe was as indifferent to local circumſtances as to the ridicule of thoſe who would, he ſaid, laugh at her pilgrimage to the ſhrine of St. Columba; and he had exhauſted al⯑moſt all his arguments without making any alteration in her reſolution, when the en⯑trance of Mrs. Elphinſtone and Cathcart obliged him to deſiſt.

From their converſation he had the mor⯑tification of hearing that every thing would be ready for their journey the next day but one, and of finding that Cathcart never ſuppoſed he meant to object to any plan of Celeſtina's, who was entirely miſtreſs of her [238] actions. Unuſed to any oppoſition, Vava⯑ſour could hardly brook it, even from thoſe who were his equals; and though he had hitherto behaved to Cathcart as if he had conſidered him as ſuch, his ſpirit now re⯑volted at what he thought the oppoſition of an inferior and a dependant. He became ſilent during breakfaſt, and was very evi⯑dently diſpleaſed; and as ſoon as he could he deſired Cathcart to walk with him for half an hour in the Park. He there re⯑monſtrated very warmly againſt Celeſtina's going, and urged, among many other rea⯑ſons, the objections Willoughby would make to it. Cathcart, convinced from this converſation that it was neceſſary for her to be removed as far as poſſible from Vavaſour, kept his temper, and referred his impetuous opponent to Celeſtina her⯑ſelf. He went back, therefore, to Mrs. Elphinſtone's lodgings to make another effort, but had the additional mortification of finding the ladies gone out to make pur⯑chaſes, and all his ſubſequent attempts that [249] day to ſee them were abortive. The next, he attended very early at their door, and ſaw a chaiſe there, into which he found them almoſt inſtantly ſtepping, to dine at Rich⯑mond with an old relation of Mrs. El⯑phinſtone's and Cathcart's, of whom it was neceſſary for the former to take leave; and all Vavaſour's diſregard for forms could not authoriſe his intruding himſelf upon them there. He called in the evening in Suffolk-ſtreet, but they were not returned; and was there again at ten o'clock, and told they were gone to bed. At day break the next morning he propoſed to beſet the door, though almoſt hopeleſs now of detaining Celeſtina. The habits of life, however, he was accuſtomed to, and ſome additional wine drank the evening before to conquer his vexation; contributed to keep him long after day break from being on the watch; and on his arrival about ſe⯑ven o'clock, he learned from Cathcart, who was juſt ſetting out for Devonſhire with the two little girls and a ſervant he [240] had hired to take care of them, that Ce⯑leſtina and his ſiſter had been gone above two hours, and were probably many miles on the North road. Vavaſour received this intelligence with indignation and reſent⯑ment, which Cathcart pretended not to obſerve; and buſying himſelf in placing his little girls in the chaiſe and ſettling their baggage, he in a few moments wiſhed Vavaſour a good morning, and left him to curſe his deſtiny at his leiſure, which he did very liberally for ſome moments; and then determining to think no more of Ce⯑leſtina, he plunged, in order to forget her, into thoſe ſcenes where he was certainly not apprehenſive of meeting any body like her; and with a party he formed there, he went in a few days to Ortney-bury, his ſeat in Staffordſhire, where he tried to perſuade himſelf that he hated and deſpiſed all mo⯑deſt women, and never would give himſelf a moment's concern about one of that de⯑ſcription again.

[241] Very differently did Montague Thorold ſuſtain the loſs of Celeſtina's company, and the cruel probability, amounting almoſt he believed to a certainty, that he ſhould never ſee her again. While he remained at his father's houſe, which was hardly a week after her quitting it, he fed his un⯑happy love by collecting many little me⯑morials of her, which he preſerved as ſa⯑cred relics with all the fond idolatry of romantic paſſion. A cambrick handker⯑chief which ſhe had dropped, marked by her own hands and with her own hair, was one of the principal of theſe, and in it he conſtantly kept folded up the ſonnet, written with a pencil, which he ſteeped in milk to preſerve the letters from being eraſed; a card on which ſhe had ſketched a landſkape, and a profile which he at⯑tempted to make of her one evening by a ſhade, though his trembling hand and want of ſkill had deprived it of much re⯑ſemblance, were added to the packet which he thus wore in his boſom, and which he [242] ſo delighted in contemplating, that he for⯑got all other claims upon his time; and regardleſs of what his family ſaid or thought, paſſed whole days alone in the fields, or when he was with them, was reſerved, ſilent, and reſtleſs.

Mr. Thorold ſaw all this with great con⯑cern, but ſtill flattered himſelf that abſence, and returning again to his ſtudies and his college friends, would inſenſibly wean him from the indulgence of a fruitleſs paſſion; and ſometimes he entertained a vague and diſtant hope that if Willoughby reſigned all pretenſions to the hand of Celeſtina, the merit and attachment of Montague might have a claim to her gratitude and her affec⯑tion. But of this he gave not the moſt diſ⯑tant hint to his ſon, and parted with him without naming Celeſtina, or ſeeming to notice the ſtate of his mind in regard to her.

Celeſtina in the mean time was journey⯑ing towards Scotland with Mrs. Elphin⯑ſtone and her two little boys. As Cathcart had hired a chaiſe to carry them to Edin⯑burgh, [243] where Elphinſtone was to meet them, they travelled ſlowly; but as the weather was delightful, and her companion became every day more agreeable to her, Celeſtina was in no haſte to reach the end of her journey. Every thing in this part of England was new to her; and ſince the fatal hour of her ſeparation from Willough⯑by ſhe had never been ſo calm as ſhe now felt herſelf, though far enough from being happy. The oftener ſhe read over the let⯑ters ſhe had received from Willoughby, which were her conſtant companions, the more ſteadily ſhe reflected on his principles and his character, more firmly ſhe became perſuaded that whatever was the cauſe of their ſeparation, it was not owing to his pre⯑ference of another, to idle caprice, or to any motive which ſhould make her bluſh for his morals or his heart.

In this reliance on the honour of the man to whom her heart was fondly devoted, ſhe found ſo much conſolation, that ſhe drove from her as reſolutely as ſhe could all thoſe ſuſpicions which had embittered her mind [244] on the information Vavaſour had given her. She thought it very poſſible that the Caſtle⯑norths were gone abroad, becauſe Lord Caſtlenorth was never well in England; and his lady, of more conſequence among the Engliſh in Italy than ſhe could be in London or even at Caſtlenorth, was much fonder of being looked up to there, than in being loſt in the crowd of thoſe who were of equal or ſuperior rank at home. Their daughter too affected foreign manners and foreign ſentiments; and with the figure and countenance of a coarſe Engliſh fe⯑male peaſant, aſſumed ſometimes the ani⯑mated vivacity of the Neapolitan beauty, and ſometimes the inſinuating languor of the Venetian; and when in England, had very frequently declared her diſlike of the people and the country, and expreſſed her wonder that thoſe who could converſe in any other, ſhould uſe the harſh and vulgar language of the Engliſh.

That a family thus diſpoſed ſhould not remain in their native country, and above [245] all, after the mortification they muſt have met with from Willoughby's rejection of their alliance, was not extraordinary; but Celeſtina endeavoured to perſuade herſelf, that though they were on the Continent it was with no intention of renewing their negociation with him, to which their pride would never ſuffer them to ſtoop; and that, though he ſhould meet them there, it would be on his part involuntary, and only as the nephew of Lord Caſtlenorth, by no means as the lover of his daughter.

Notwithſtanding all her arguments, how⯑ever, and all her dependance on Willough⯑by's love and conſtancy, ſhe was ſometimes conſcious of returns of ſuſpicion and fear; and unable wholly to ſtifle the pangs ſhe then felt, ſhe endeavoured to think leſs of herſelf and more of others; and above all, to intereſt herſelf for Mrs. Elphinſtone, who ſeemed every hour more worthy of her regard.

In the courſe of their converſation ſhe found, that Mr. and Mrs. Elphinſtone, [246] reduced as they had lately been in circum⯑ſtances, had once been in a very different ſituation of life; and ſhe could not reſiſt the inclination ſhe felt to learn what reverſe of fortune had thrown them into the diſ⯑treſſed condition which Jeſſy had deſcribed to her, and which had made a deep and painful impreſſion on the generous ſenſi⯑bility of Celeſtina: but however her anxiety was excited, ſhe had ſo much delicacy as to avoid wounding her new friend by ſhew⯑ing it: unlike that very common deſcrip⯑tion of people, who love to enquire into the ſorrows and misfortunes of others, not with any view to relieve or even to ſoothe them, but merely to gratify an impertinent curioſity, and to riſe higher in their own idea by the compariſon, while they cry like the Phariſee—"Lord I thank thee that I am not as other men are, even as this pub⯑lican."

To an heart ſuch as heaven had beſtowed on Celeſtina, there was ſomething in mis⯑fortune not only reſpectable but ſacred; [247] and ſhe behaved towards Mrs. Elphinſtone with infinitely more attention than ſhe could ever prevail upon herſelf to ſhew to Mrs. Thorold, amid all her buſtle of affluence and her claims upon the veneration of the world from good dinners and rich connec⯑tions.

Mrs. Elphinſtone, however, who was aware that Celeſtina knew part of her hiſ⯑tory, was very ſolicitous to relate to her the whole of it; conſcious that in her opinion ſhe ſhould loſe nothing, and that Celeſtina had in ſome meaſure a right to enquire into the life of a perſon to whom ſhe had given her confidence, and who was a can⯑didate for her friendſhip and her eſteem. She waited therefore a fit opportunity the ſecond day of their journey to drop ſome⯑thing of her family; and ſeeing that Celeſ⯑tina wiſhed to know more, ſhe ſaid, ſmiling,—"It is ſomething like the perſonages with whom we are preſented in old ro⯑mances, and who meet in foreſts and among rocks and recount their adventures; but [248] do you know, my dear Miſs De Mornay, that I feel very much diſpoſed to enact ſuch a perſonage, and though it is but a painful ſubject, to relate to you my paſt life?"

"And do you know, dear Madam," replied Celeſtina, "that no wandering lady in romance had ever more inclination to loſe her own reflections in liſtening to the hiſtory of ſome friend who has by chance met her, loſt in the thorny labyrinth of uneaſy thoughts, than I have to liſten to you."

"Well then," rejoined Mrs. Elphin⯑ſtone, "you ſhall hear all that has be⯑fallen me, "even from my girliſh days." Mine has been a life, not marked, I think, with any thing very extraordinary but in⯑variable ill fortune, which, though I could not eſcape it, I truſt I have ſuſtained with fortitude. But here," continued ſhe, point⯑ing to her children, here are my little ſup⯑porters: without them, without feeling that they were a truſt committed to me by [249] heaven, from my ſacred attention to which, no perſonal ſufferings, no care for myſelf, could exempt me even for a moment, I am afraid that I ſhould have tired long ago in the rude and various path I have trod. But my exordium will be longer than my hiſtory.

"My family are of Scottiſh origin. My father, one of it's younger branches, was ſettled as a merchant in London, and was engaged in the American trade, by which he was making a reſpectable proviſion for his family, of three daughters and three ſons, of whom my dear Frank was the youngeſt, when the courſe of his buſineſs brought him acquainted with the family of Mr. Elphinſtone, who had poſſeſſions in the Weſt India iſlands.

"The father of Mr. Elphinſtone inhe⯑rited ſome of theſe from his family, but, of a greater part, became poſſeſſed by pur⯑chaſes made of lands in the iſlands ceded to England at the peace of 1762. They at firſt promiſed to anſwer his moſt ſanguine [250] expectations; and on the ſtrength of thoſe promiſes he quitted the Weſt Indies, where he had lived many years on his own eſtate, and came to London, eſtabliſhing his houſehold in a ſtile of expence more ſuit⯑able to his imaginary than his real fortune. His family conſiſted of a wife, who had never been in England before, and who brought with her all the pride ſhe had boundleſsly indulged in Antigua, five chil⯑dren, and as many negroes.

"A few years convinced Mr. Elphin⯑ſtone that he had reckoned ſomewhat too faſt on his annual income; but he was not diſpoſed to diminiſh the ſhewy and expen⯑ſive ſtyle in which he firſt ſet out; and had he himſelf thought of it, the oppoſition he was ſure to meet with from his wife and children would have deterred him from any attempt to put a ſcheme of oeconomy in practice.

"His daughters were moſt expenſively educated, and ſtill more expenſively dreſſed, their mother wiſely making a [251] point of their being always the beſt dreſſed girls in the ſchool to which they were ſent, though among their ſchoolfellows there were many children of the nobility. The two boys were placed at Weſtminſter School, where the elder was ſoon diſtin⯑guiſhed for having more money and leſs underſtanding than any boy of his age, and where the tyrannical diſpoſition which he had been ſuffered to exerciſe over the unfortunate black people among whom he had paſſed his childhood, broke out in ſo many inſtances, that he was as much hated for his overbearing temper as deſpiſed and laughed at for his ignorance and his vanity.

"The youngeſt, who is now my huſ⯑band, was in every thing the reverſe of his brother: open, good humoured, and un⯑deſigning; too gay and careleſs to think, too quick to learn, which, however para⯑doxical it may ſound, is in many inſtances true—the boy who knows he can learn in half an hour a taſk which another cannot conquer in a day, is very apt to let alone [252] learning it till application becomes too late. Alexander Elphinſtone however was ſo much a favourite, that when he neg⯑lected to do his buſineſs ſomebody or other was always willing to do it for him; and when his father took him from ſchool to place him at an academy where he was to be qualified for a merchant, he was as much regretted as his brother was deteſted, who had now acquired in the ſchool the name of 'Squire Squaſhy, which he never afterwards loſt.

"It was about the year 1770, that Mr. Elphinſtone, the father, in ſeeking for a counting houſe to place his youngeſt ſon, was introduced to my father. The pomp with which the old gentleman was ſur⯑rounded, the high ſtyle in which he ac⯑cuſtomed himſelf to talk, the detail of his eſtates, (though ſome of them brought him every year in debt,) his negroes, and his ſugar works, dazzled my father's eyes, who had been accuſtomed only to a plainer ſtile of life, and leſs flattering views of [253] profit. He was pleaſed with the thoughts of taking into his counting houſe the ſon of a man ſo opulent; and when he ſaw the young gentleman himſelf, was imme⯑diately prejudiced in his favour. Elphin⯑ſtone was then a tall boy of ſixteen: his dark complexion was enlivened by black eyes full of ſpirit and vivacity; and his countenance, if not handſome, was expreſ⯑ſive of an open and ingenuous mind. The premium which my father aſked was agreed to, and young Elphinſtone became one of our family, which conſiſted of my father, his ſecond wife, by whom he had no chil⯑dren, my two ſiſters, and myſelf; for of my three brothers, one was placed at the Tem⯑ple, another was gone to the Eaſt Indies, and the youngeſt, my dear Frank, was then at ſchool.

"My mother-in-law was one of thoſe common characters which are ſo difficult to deſcribe unleſs it be by negatives. She was not ill natured; ſhe was not a woman of underſtanding; ſhe was not handſome; [254] ſhe was not young; ſhe was not well born or well educated: but my father, who had married her to take care of his family, and to put the three thouſand pounds ſhe poſ⯑ſeſſed into his buſineſs, was well enough contented to ſee that ſhe did not behave ill to his children, that ſhe brought him no more, and that ſhe had always a plain din⯑ner ready for him when he came from 'Change; was ſatisfied with going on a Saturday to a country houſe at Clapton, near Hackney, and receiving the viſits of the wives and daughters of traders like himſelf; and had been brought up with no higher ideas of elegance than what were anſwered by their ſociety, or fancied any ſuperior entertainment was to be found than what ſhe enjoyed in the front boxes at a play twice a year, or in a Chriſtmas at⯑tendance at Hackney Aſſembly.

"It is true that on theſe occaſions ſhe loved to be fine, to wear rich ſilks and good lace, to clean and exhibit her mo⯑ther's roſe-diamond ear rings, and to wear [255] my father's picture by way of bracelet, faſtened by garnets on her comfortable round arm. But theſe were indulgences about which he never contended; and was rather pleaſed that Mrs. and the Miſs Cathcarts began to be conſidered as people of ſome conſequence in the circle in which they moved, while he gradually obtained in the city the name of a warm man.

"I was not more than eleven years old when Mr. Elphinſtone became a member of our family. One of my ſiſters was four years older, and the other a year younger; but my eldeſt ſiſter, at about the age of ſeventeen, was married to a young Weſt Indian of whom my father had the care, and went with him to ſettle in Barbadoes. My ſiſter Emily and I grew up to conſider Elphinſtone as our brother; but I ſoon learned to think of him with particular par⯑tiality, and to grieve at the frequent oc⯑caſions which my father had to complain of him. He was wild, eccentric, and un⯑governable: ſometimes rode away to races [256] when he ought to have been ſettling with the grocers, (for my father was now deeply engaged in the Weſt India trade,) and ſometimes got into ſcrapes with his old ſchoolfellows, and was found at the watch-houſe inſtead of the counting houſe; or if he attended thoſe ſolemn meetings at which the price of freight or the quality of Oſna⯑burghs was diſcuſſed, he turned the vene⯑rable perſons of the old merchants and grocers into ridicule; and while they thought he was making calculations, was frequently drawing caricatures of them in all their majeſty of wig, upon the leaves of his memorandum book. But with all this, he was ſo capable of buſineſs, ſo ready with his pen, and ſo perfectly maſter of accounts, that my father often ſaid he could do more buſineſs in an hour than he himſelf could do in three; and that if once he became ſteady, he would make a great figure as a merchant.

"His father, the elder Mr. Elphinſtone, found it convenient, after his ſon had been [257] with us a year or two, to cultivate very aſ⯑ſiduouſly an acquaintance with our family. Mrs. Elphinſtone, who had reluctantly conſented that her youngeſt ſon ſhould be brought up a merchant, now condeſcended to viſit us, and in her drawling way to at⯑tempt civility. The Miſs Elphinſtone's were directed to forget the diſtance between Cavendiſh-ſquare and Mincing lane, and to viſit us often; while we were of courſe mightily delighted to receive invitations to their routs, and to be admitted to add to the croud which four or five times in a winter filled their rooms in Cavendiſh ſquare.

"Inſenſibly my good mother in law ac⯑quired a taſte for what was then called the other end of the town; and no longer contented with the gratifications of Haber⯑daſher's Hall, or the Crown and Anchor, which had once been the utmoſt limits of her ambition, ſhe learned to ſigh for the Soho Aſſembly, for five and twenty tables, [258] and the company of "titled Dowagers and Yellow Admirals."

"If this unfortunate mania ſeized her, it was not wonderful that it extended it⯑ſelf to us. Emily had a very fine voice, and the Miſs Elphinſtones had concerts to which ſhe was invited. We both had learned among ourſelves to act parts of plays; the Miſs Elphinſtones had at their houſe at Ealing a private theatre, and we were promoted to parts in their drama. Looking upon us as inferior to them in our perſons, in our education, in our fa⯑mily and in our fortunes, no idea of rivalry ever diſturbed this intercourſe, and inſen⯑ſibly we paſſed more time with them than we did at home; whither I ſhould always have returned with murmurs and regret, if it had not been the only place where I could meet young Elphinſtone without witneſſes, the only place where ſome folly of the moment did not ſeem to make him forget the preference he profeſſed to give me.

[259] "Such was the ſituation of the two fa⯑milies, when the eldeſt ſon of the Elphin⯑ſtone's, the gentleman who had been diſ⯑tinguiſhed at Weſtminſter by the appella⯑tion of 'Squire Squaſhy, arrived from a twelvemonth's tour in France and Italy, and with him a ſort of tutor who had been ſent with him at a very exorbitant ſalary. To all the native arrogance and invincible ſtupidity of his original character, this elder brother had added the pertneſs of fancied knowledge and the conſciouſneſs of travelled ſuperiority; a more diſguſting character could hardly be imagined. He was now not only above all the reſt of the world, but infinitely above his own family: his mother was ſilenced by—"Good Ma⯑dam! how is it poſſible you ſhould know?" his father, by a ſilent ſhrug of contempt and a diſdain of argument; while his ſiſters, who piqued themſelves upon their elegance and faſhion, were ridiculed for being ſi bourgoiſe, that they were hardly within the poſſibility of being made comme⯑il [260] faut. As to my ſiſter and myſelf, who were with them when he arrived, he looked at us once through his opera glaſs, enquired who we were, and hearing we were the daughters of his father's merchant and lived in the city, he never, on any oc⯑caſion that I can recollect, deigned to no⯑tice us again. Unhappily, the gentleman who had travelled and who ſtill continued with him, ſaw with different eyes my poor little Emily, then not quite fifteen: he affected to be highly pleaſed with her ſing⯑ing, and undertook to give her inſtructions. He would teach us both French, and cor⯑rected our acting. We were invited to paſs two months at Ealing, at a houſe which Mr. Elphinſtone rented, and to which his daughters had given the name of Cypreſs Grove, though not a cypreſs higher than a gooſeberry-buſh was near it; and there we were to act plays: in which, though the elder hope of the family de⯑clined taking a part and abſented himſelf from the ſet entirely, his travelling friend, [261] whoſe name was Beresford, was of great conſequence; and Alexander Elphinſtone was permitted by my father to quit, on thoſe occaſions, the high counting ſtool and ſharp deſk for the throne of King Pyrrhus, or the triumphal car of his name⯑ſake Alexander.

"I will own, that young as I then was, being not quite ſixteen, my childiſh heart was enchanted with theſe amuſements, eſ⯑pecially when he bore a part in them to whom that heart was already ſo fondly attached. Unſuſpecting and artleſs, I dreamed not of the miſchief which lurked under all this feſtive pleaſure; and inca⯑pable of thinking for myſelf, I was a very inſufficient guard to my ſiſter, who was ſtill younger and more thoughtleſs; yet to me was ſhe entruſted; unleſs, which did not very often happen, my mother left the card table to be a ſpectator of the amuſements of the younger part of the company.

[262] "Emily, however, was always with me; but it is true that young Elphinſtone was always with me too, and in liſtening to him, I heard not or attended not to the more dangerous converſation with which Mr. Beresford entertained my ſiſter. He contrived moſt artfully to put her upon her guard againſt all confidence, which he knew muſt ruin his ſcheme; and the firſt idea I had of my poor Emily's misfortune, was, when on awaking one morning I found ſhe was already riſen, contrary to her uſual cuſtom. I was not, however, alarmed, till, on beginning to dreſs myſelf, I found the drawers where we kept our cloaths were emptied of every thing of her's: even then I had only a confuſed idea of what had happened, 'till, in looking wildly round the room, I ſaw a note upon the table, which I opened in trembling aſtoniſhment, and read thus:

"My ideas were at once ſo painful and ſo confuſed, that I loſt all recollection for a moment, and running down ſtairs half dreſſed as I was, I aſked in breathleſs agi⯑tation for my ſiſter—my ſiſter Emily! The ſervants who were up, (for it was yet early morning,) ſtared at me without compre⯑hending my diſtreſs; and I found nobody diſpoſed to attend to me till the younger Elphinſtone met me and eagerly enquired what was the matter. I put the note I held into his hand, ſat down in the ſeat of a [264] window, and burſt into tears. He ſaw in a moment what my ignorance of the world had in ſome meaſure concealed from me; and knowing that Beresford was the laſt man in the world likely to marry, he knew that Emily was loſt. Neither my father or his wife were then at Ealing; and he pauſed a moment on what could be done.

"He then endeavoured to conſole and reaſſure me, and went to his father and his mother to inform them of what had hap⯑pened. The old gentleman came to me in a few moments, adviſed me to go imme⯑diately home and acquaint my parents, and ſent a ſervant for a poſt chaiſe, in which he ſaid his younger ſon ſhould attend me. I hardly know how I left the houſe; but I remember Mrs. Elphinſtone did not ap⯑pear, and that the young ladies expreſſed none of that concern which I thought I ſhould have felt for the reſt, had any one of them diſappeared under circumſtances ſo prejudicial to their fame."

[265] The travellers now arrived at Stilton, where they were to reſt that night. It was late, and Mrs. Elphinſtone appearing a good deal fatigued, Celeſtina beſought her to delay any farther gratification of her curioſity till the next day. She then aſ⯑ſiſted her friend in giving her children their ſupper and putting them to bed; and after a ſhort repaſt together, they retired to reſt in two beds in the ſame room, where the children were already aſleep.

CHAPTER XII.

THE following day they proceeded early on their journey, and Mrs. Elphin⯑ſtone thus reaſſumed her narrative.—"In our way from Ealing to London, Alexan⯑der Elphinſtone endeavoured by every ar⯑gument in his power to ſtrengthen my re⯑ſolution, and calm thoſe fears I expreſſed at meeting with my father and mother; who would, I apprehended, be enraged againſt me for a misfortune they had themſelves taken no pains to prevent. This dreadful meeting muſt however be hazarded: I tottered as well as I was able into the dining-room, and ſending for my father out of his counting-houſe, I put into his hands the fatal note, and informed him as well as I could of what had happened. He [267] was too reaſonable to blame me for an error he had as little foreſeen himſelf; but haſtening out of the room with Elphin⯑ſtone, enquired, as I afterwards learned, whether he thought Beresford meant to marry my ſiſter? Elphinſtone, with ſome heſitation, anſwered that he feared not. "Let us then," ſaid he, "endeavour to find her, and if it be poſſible, huſh up this un⯑happy affair before it becomes more known."

"Elphinſtone moſt willingly agreed to aſſiſt him in the ſearch, and my elder bro⯑ther was ſent for from the Temple for the ſame purpoſe. His anger and indignation were much more turbulent than my father's. He vowed vengeance againſt Beresford, and ſat out in purſuit of him in ſuch a temper of mind as made me dread the conſequence ſhould he find him.

"To find him, however, every effort proved abortive. Among other places, my Mr. Elphinſtone went to enquire for him at the lodgings his elder brother had taken in Piccadilly. The 'Squire received him [268] with that contemptuous coldneſs which he thought was all he owed to a merchant's clerk; and upon his eager enquiry after Berresford, and learning the reaſon of it, he ſaid—"What a fuſs is here, indeed, about a little griſette: why, one would think Beresford had carried off an heireſs. Let him alone, and I dare ſay he will bring her back again." His bro⯑ther, enraged at this inſult, ſpoke to him very freely, which he returned no other⯑wiſe than by calling him quill-driver, and maccaroni of Mincing-lane. The brothers parted in wrath; and the younger returned home lamenting his fruitleſs ſearch, and deviſing new meaſures for the next day. Theſe, however, were equally ſucceſsleſs. Poor Emily was loſt to us for ever; and the feeble hope that Beresford might have married her every day became fainter.

"This unhappy affair put an end to our intercourſe with the Elphinſtone family, and was indeed the firſt ſignal of a long long ſeries of calamities. I obſerved that [269] my father grew extremely uneaſy at ſome⯑thing that related to the ſituation of his affairs: he began to complain that Mr. Elphinſtone's remittances fell very ſhort of what he expected; that he was paid no in⯑tereſt for the large ſums he had advanced for him; and while he was deliberating how to get out of the difficulties theſe cir⯑cumſtances threw him into, he received information, that Mr. Elphinſtone, deeply involved before, had been overwhelmed by the expences of his eldeſt ſon, and the failure of his remittances, had gone off in the night from his houſe at Ealing to Fal⯑mouth, whence he had embarked in the packet for Antigua; while his lady and fa⯑mily had ſhut up their houſes at Ealing and in Cavendiſh-ſquare, and were gone to Bath.

"Theſe terrible tidings fell on my fa⯑ther like a ſtroke of thunder, and for ſome time he was unable to attempt applying any remedy to the evils he ſaw gathering around him. But from the torpor of imme⯑diate [270] anguiſh, he was rouſed by the preſ⯑ſing demands of thoſe, of whom he had on his own ſecurity borrowed money for the ſupply of Mr. Elphinſtone. It was at a ſeaſon when many months were to intervene before he could receive any remittances from his correſpondent, even if his correſpondent ſhould have honour enough to ſend them, and bankruptcy and ruin ſeemed inevi⯑table. He had however, as he thought, a friend in a very eminent banker, who a few months before, on his engaging ſo largely with Mr. Elphinſtone, had heard ſome report that that gentleman, had in⯑fluenced him in favour of the banker with whom he was connected; on which my father's friend, a man of immenſe pro⯑perty, had then written to him thus—

To this affectionate and ſincere gentle⯑man (whom my father had inſtantly obliged in dropping all thoughts of complying with Elphinſtone's requeſt,) he now wrote; and deſcribing with great ſimplicity his pre⯑ſent embarraſſment, which he hoped would be only temporary, beſought him to ad⯑vance him five hundred pounds for the preſent demands of tradeſmen, till remit⯑ances came in, and till he could obtain aſ⯑ſiſtance from his other friends: to which be received the following anſwer—

"The eyes of my poor father were now compleatly opened, and all the horrors of his fate were before him. Young Elphin⯑ſtone, ſtill ſanguine as to his father's pro⯑perty and his father's honour, was on this occaſion his great reſource. He was in⯑defatigable in ſtemming the torrent of ill⯑fortune thus brought upon us; and ſuc⯑ceeded [274] ſo well by various expedients, as to ſupport for a while the ſinking credit of the houſe; but ſeeing my father become every day more and more anxious, and doubtful about the elder Mr. Elphinſtone, he propoſed to go over to Antigua himſelf; and to this propoſal added, that of marry⯑ing me and taking me with him. My fa⯑ther, who found his health giving way un⯑der the accumulated calamities that had lately befallen him, now thought it better to accept this propoſal, and by a union of families make it Mr. Elphinſtone's intereſt to be juſt. We were married then, after a reluctant conſent wrung from the haughty mother of my lover, and three weeks after⯑wards embarked for the Weſt Indies.

"I was not yet old enough to conſider the ſituation of our fortune with any great con⯑cern: but I parted from my own father with a ſad preſentiment that we were to meet no more, and I dreaded my intro⯑duction to the father of my huſband. But I loved him; he was the moſt cheerful and [275] ſanguine creature in the world; and painted to me only ſcenes of proſperity and happineſs, which I was well pleaſed to con⯑template as true repreſentations. Gracious heaven! could I then have foreſeen all the miſery that was in ſtore for me, how ſhould I have ſhrunk from a deſtiny ſo in⯑ſupportable! how ſhould I have wiſhed that in a violent ſtorm we met in the Bay of Biſcay, we might periſh.

"We arrived, however, after a tedious paſſage, at Antigua; and I was relieved from the diſcomforts of a long voyage, to encounter, as I believed, what I dreaded more—the diſdain and rudeneſs of my fa⯑ther in law. I landed, trembling with this apprehenſion, diſguſted with every thing I ſaw, and overcome with heat and ſickneſs: but the firſt intelligence we heard was, that Mr. Elphinſtone had been dead about a week of an epidemical diſtemper, and that his houſes and plantations were in the poſſeſſion of the agents of his eldeſt ſon.

"It was in vain that my huſband deſired [276] to be admitted to reſide on one of them till he could ſee into his father's affairs: the people who had been placed there refuſed him any ſatisfaction; and it was only by applying to the Governor that he at length obtained a ſight of the will, by which he found that his father had left every thing to his elder brother, and an annuity to his mother of eight hundred a year, with five thouſand pounds, to each of his daughters and to his youngeſt ſon: but as the eſtates were not charged with theſe laſt legacies, nor able to pay them if it had, his nominal fortune gave him but little comfort, nor alleviated the concern with which he ſaw too evidently that all the ſums of money lent by my father to his, were entirely loſt.

"The pain this gave him, the inceſſant fatigue to which he expoſed himſelf in go⯑ing to Granada and St. Vincents, where his father had made purchaſes, at length overcame the natural ſtrength of his con⯑ſtitution. After we had been about four [277] months in the Weſt Indies, living with his friends, he was ſeized at Granada with one of thoſe ſevers ſo common in that cli⯑mate. An old French lady, who lived on her own eſtate near the lonely habitation where he was taken ill, had pity upon him, took him to her houſe, and by her extra⯑ordinary care carried him through the diſor⯑der: but he was very long in a ſtate of infan⯑tine weakneſs, and could articulate nothing but a requeſt that he might ſee his wife. It was ſome time before I received intel⯑ligence of his ſituation, and ſome time lon⯑ger before I could get to him. The kind⯑neſs of our foreign friend did not ſtop there: I was now in a ſtate which excited her generous compaſſion towards me, and ſhe inſiſted, that inſtead of returning to Europe in a ſituation ſo unfit for a voyage, I ſhould ſtay with her, till the birth of my child.

"Poor Elphinſtone's weak condition of health indeed, rendered ſuch a voyage as im⯑practicable for him as for me. We accepted [278] therefore the generous hoſpitality of Ma⯑dame Du Moulinet, and at her houſe in Granada my eldeſt child was born.

"During the five months we remained there, we heard that the elder brother was come over himſelf to Antigua and had taken poſſeſſion of every thing. We had therefore no buſineſs to go back, where we had no authority nor indeed any provi⯑ſion; but as ſoon as our hoſteſs would give us leave, embarked again, to return to England more deſtitute than we had left it, and with a little unfortunate baby to ſhare our diſtreſſes.

"We arrived there, after an abſence of thirteen months; and haſtened to London as cheaply as we could, for we had very little money. My poor Elphinſtone left me at the inn where we ſtopped, and went to my father's houſe. Never ſhall I forget the look with which he returned to me: his bloodleſs cheeks, his wild eyes, his trem⯑bling lips, ſpoke before he could utter a ſyllable. He ſat down; looked earneſtly [279] on me a moment, then on his child, which was ſleeping in my arms, ſtarted up, ran from us, ſtaggered towards the wainſcot, and fell.

"My ſcrearns brought the people of the inn into our miſerable room. They took up the unhappy young man, and gave him what aſſiſtance they could, ſuppoſing that he had fallen into a fit. After a moment, he recovered his ſpeech, and entreating to be left alone with me, told me that my fa⯑ther was dead inſolvent, all his effects ſold, and my mother in law gone to reſide with her relations in the North: "and 'tis I have undone thee, my Sophy," cried he—tis I and my family who have reduced thee to beggary, and now I have not a place wherein to ſhelter thee and this dear hapleſs innocent."

"Agony now choaked his utterance; and all my reſolution was neceſſary to prevent his relapſing into the ſtate he had juſt reco⯑vered from. Stiſling therefore my own an⯑guiſh, I beſought him to take courage; de⯑clared [280] that I feared nothing while he was with me and well, and urged him to think of ſome place where we might paſs the night and recover courage to encounter what was before us.

"He ſeemed comforted by my calmneſs, and recollected an old ſervant of his father's who kept a lodging houſe in Northum⯑berland-ſtreet. Thither we determined to go; the man was gone from thence, but ſome other people who let lodgings now in⯑habited the houſe: they had a bed cham⯑ber on the ſecond floor to let; and know⯑ing ſomething of us, took us in.

"Fatigue of body overcame for a ſhort time the agony of mind my poor huſband had felt. He was aſleep by me; my infant was at my breaſt; but I could not ſleep; all the horrors of poverty were before me, and my agitated ſpirit ran over every hope which yet remained for us, but reſted ſe⯑curely on none.

"The morning at laſt came; and I now deſired Elphinſtone to enquire out my el⯑deſt [281] brother, who when we went away had chambers in the Temple; and to diſcover what was become of my dear Frank, whom we had left at ſchool, and to whom I was always fondly attached. Poor Emily too recurred to me, but for her, alas! I dared not enquire.

"He went out, therefore, after break⯑faſt, and returned in about an hour with looks that gave me no favourable impreſ⯑ſion of his ſucceſs. My eldeſt brother, he told me, had left his chambers, and had been married ſome months to a young wo⯑man of ſome fortune, at leaſt in expectancy, being the only child of her parents, with whom they lived; and that her father, an attorney of practice in Warwick-court Hol⯑born, had taken my brother into his buſi⯑neſs. "I ſaw him however," ſaid Elphin⯑ſtone; "but he received me ſo coldly that I ſhall hardly repeat the viſit."

"My heart ſunk cold within me, and I had hardly courage to aſk what was be⯑come of Frank.

[282] "He is at I know not what academy, replied Elphinſtone. "Your brother John told me, very coolly, that though he was ſo lucky as to have a proviſion by mar⯑riage himſelf, it was out of his power to provide for all his father's family; and thought it quite enough, that he had been at ſo much expence for Frank, who muſt now," ſaid he, "do ſomething for himſelf, for I cannot undertake to pay his ſchool⯑ing another year: and you, Sir, as it is owing to your family that my father was ruined, I hope you will now take this burthen off my hands; for my wife's fa⯑mily are very much diſcontented at my bearing it."

"Gracious God!" cried I, "what will become of us! Oh, my poor baby! why wert thou ever born!"

"To embitter our calamities," cried El⯑phinſtone. "Rather aſk, my Sophy, why I was ever born, who brought them upon thee, and on that dear little victim."

"We had ſo little money left, that it was neceſſary to think of ſomething di⯑rectly: [283] Elphinſtone therefore went out again to enquire after his mother and his ſiſters, from ſome of thoſe families who had, during their ſplendour, been the fondeſt of their ſociety and the moſt fre⯑quently at their houſe. Among theſe was one lady who had always profeſſed the greateſt affection in the world for them all; never ſpoke to Mrs. Elphinſtone but as her dear friend, nor to her children under any other appellation than her ſweet creatures, or her amiable young friends. Elphinſtone gave me, as nearly as he could, the words in which ſhe anſwered his enquiry.

"Why, my dear, dear Sir, you muſt think how ſhocked and amazed I was—your poor good mother!—to be ſure I had a moſt ſincere regard for her—and your ſiſters too; good ſweet young wo⯑men—ſo amiable, ſo accompliſhed!—I'm amazed they never married.—Well, poor things—God knows, to be ſure, what is beſt for us:—Whatever is, is right, as Pope obſerves."

[284] "But, dear Madam, I muſt beg to learn where my mother and my ſiſters are?—I am but juſt come from the ſhip that brought me back to England."

"Is it poſſible!—Poor young gentle⯑man!—I'm ſure I wiſh I could inform you of any thing agreeable. You don't know, then, perhaps, that every thing in Cavendiſh-ſquare, and at Ealing, was ſold under executions, as I heard; but I heartily hope it was not ſo. Such a re⯑ſpectable family! and ſo many fine young people! and your poor good mother!—I ſaw her at Bath laſt winter, after thoſe diſagreeable affairs, and was ſorry to ſee that ſhe had loſt a great deal of her cheerfulneſs. To be ſure that was not to be wondered at. I told her how ſincerely I wiſhed her a pleaſant voyage, poor worthy woman!" After being compelled to liſten to a great deal more of this ful⯑ſome cant, he at length learned that one of his ſiſters boarded with an apothecary's fa⯑mily at Bath, being in an ill ſtate of health; and that his mother, and the other two [285] ſiſters, finding Mr. Elphinſtone, who was diſtinguiſhed as 'Squire Squaſhy, little diſ⯑poſed to do them juſtice, had, by advice of their friends, embarked for Antigua; ſo that we probably paſſed them at ſea.

"This was terrible! Every reſource ſeemed to fail us, and in a few days fa⯑mine was likely to ſtare us in the face. My beloved brother Frank, however, was, among all my own diſtreſſes, ever near my heart; and I determined for his ſake, and becauſe I would leave nothing unattempted for Elphinſtone and my child, to go myſelf to my eldeſt brother, to implore the kind⯑neſs of one, and obtain a ſight of the other. I ſaid nothing, however, to Elphinſtone of this intention, fearing he might op⯑poſe it. I ſet forth alone, with my baby in my arms, for I could not leave it, nor could I afford to hire a coach. I rap⯑ped at the door; and enquiring for Mr. Cathcart, was told by the footman who opened it, that I might wait in the paſſage, and he would ſee. In the paſſage I waited ſome minutes, and was then told that Mr. [286] Cathcart was buſy with ſome gentlemen, and that I muſt ſend in my buſineſs and call again.

"Ah! Miſs De Mornay, you have no relations, I think; nor can ever, nor will ever, I hope, "feel how ſharper than a ſer⯑pent's tooth it is" to meet cruelty and ſcorn from thoſe to whom the ſick heart looks for pity and protection.

"I was unwilling to ſend in my name and a verbal meſſage, as there were people with him; I therefore ſat down on a bench where porters and ſervants ſit in thoſe paſ⯑ſages, and wrote with a pencil—"It is your ſiſter Sophy, who cannot call again." This brought out the great man, for great he ſuddenly was become. His likeneſs to my father, the tender recollection that he was my brother, made me forget all his unkindneſs the moment I ſaw him, and I was throwing myſelf and my child into his arms, when a cold—how d'ye do Mrs. Elphinſtone? fixed me to the place. I ſuppoſe he thought by my looks that I [287] ſhould faint, and was afraid of being ex⯑poſed to his ſervants and new relations, for he took my hand, faintly kiſſed my cheek, and leading me into a little dark parlour where there was no fire, and deſired me to ſit down.

"Some remains of natural affection, which, in a young man, is very rarely totally extinguiſhed, ſeemed to be contend⯑ing with pride, avarice, and mean policy, and for a while kept him ſilent: he then enquired coldly into our ſituation, and as I related it, (for he had no idea it was ſo bad,) I ſaw thoſe affections gradually ſhrink from the detail: his heart ſeemed to become harder as it's tenderneſs became more ne⯑ceſſary; and he declared to me at laſt, that I had formed erroneous ideas of his ſituation if I thought it was in his power to be of any ſervice to me. I roſe to go; but deſired a direction to Frank, which he gave me very unwillingly; for ſince I could contribute nothing to his ſupport, he thought it uſeleſs for me to ſee him. [288] I do not now very well know how I got out of the houſe of this cruel brother, who ne⯑ver introduced me to his family, or ſeemed to wiſh to ſee me again: but I recollect that when I came into Holborn I became ſo very faint and ſick, that I was obliged to get into a coach to return home, which I paid for by changing the laſt guinea I had in the world.

"Ah! my dear Miſs De Mornay! veteran in ſorrow as I have ſince been, I look back with wonder on the ſcene I af⯑terwards paſſed through; I wonder how I ſupported it. We lingered on for three months at theſe lodgings; my beloved Frank often, and always happy to be with us. He was now near ſixteen; very tall and very manly, and repeatedly declared to Elphinſtone that he was well able to get his bread, or to aſſiſt him in any way of buſineſs he could enter into. Buſineſs however was not to be obtained without money; but my father's creditors knowing how well Elphinſtone was acquainted with [289] his affairs, engaged him to aſſiſt them in recovering debts due to him, and allowed him from time to time ſome very trifling compenſation, which was our only ſup⯑port.

As long, however, as he was well—as long as my little boy bleſt me by it's innocent ſmiles, I murmured at nothing; and the little time I could ſpare from nurſ⯑ing him, and after he was in his cradle of a night, I found exquiſite pleaſure in ap⯑plying thoſe little arts I had learned as matters of amuſement, to the purpoſes of profit. They produced not much; but in our ſituation every thing was an help; and our ſimple meal, partly the produce of my induſtry, and ſhared with my brother Frank, after Elphinſtone came home of a night, was infinitely a ſweeter banquet than the inſipid though ſplendid tables of the affluent had formerly afforded me. At length, however, the perſecution of ill for⯑tune, which ſeemed to have relaxed a little, began anew, and miſery fell upon me [290] where I could leaſt bear it. Elphinſtone was ſeized again with an infectious fever, differing only from that he had at Gre⯑nada, in the ſymptoms occaſioned by dif⯑ference of climate. On his attendance on the creditors, our daily and ſcanty ſubſiſt⯑ence depended: with his confinement, every aid of that ſort ceaſed; and I ſaw him languiſhing in a ſick bed, in all the depreſſion of a malignant fever, without the means of giving him the neceſſary aſſiſt⯑ance.

"A neighbouring apothecary, however, attended him, who told me that wine was abſolutely neceſſary to be given him in large quantities. Where was I to get it?—For the firſt time, I had recourſe to a pawnbroker, and my dear, dear Frank was my agent: for now, attached entirely to us, he quitted his ſchool, where, indeed, he knew more than the maſter, and gave himſelf up wholly to our ſervice: while my brother John, not ſorry to be relieved from the expence of ſupporting him, re⯑monſtrated, [291] or rather quarrelled with him once, and, obtaining an excuſe for ſhak⯑ing him off, ſaw him no more.

"I had a watch, and a few trinkets; theſe were firſt diſpoſed off, and then ſuch clothes as I could ſpare; for I could not endure the thoughts of taking any thing that belonged to Elphinſtone, though my trem⯑bling heart too often whiſpered that he would want them no more. Youth, and the ſtrength of his conſtitution, carried him on many days through a rapid and gene⯑rally fatal diſtemper; and, at length, my fainting courage was ſuſtained by the hope of his recovery, when my lovely infant was ſeized with the ſame terrible diſorder; and I was told, that as it was almoſt always fatal to children, I muſt not hope.

"I know not, then, what became of me; but I think, that for ſome hours I was not in my ſenſes. I recollect being ſeized with an earneſt wiſh to have my child attended by a phyſician I had heard named, as eminent for his humanity as for his [292] peculiar ſkill in this diſorder; and, as Frank was not at that moment with us, I wrap⯑ped myſelf in an old cloak, and leaving my poor infant to the care of his father, who was juſt able to ſit by the cradle and look at him with eyes of hopeleſs agony, I went away myſelf to implore this phyſician to come to us; and had juſt ſenſe enough to remember the direction I had received to his houſe, but none to notice the objects around me, or to care what people might think, who ſaw me, with wild looks and uncertain ſteps, hurrying through the crowd of the buſy and the happy.

"I had proceeded as far as the corner of Cecil-ſtreet, when a croud of carriages and paſſengers impeded the croſſing; I was making my way through them, heed⯑leſs of the danger, and hardly hearing the noiſe, when a footman, in a livery glitter⯑ing with lace, ſtopped me, and told me he was ordered by his lady to beg I would ſtep to the door of her carriage and ſpeak to her.

[293] "Oh! I cannot; I cannot, indeed," re⯑plied I, without enquiring who his lady was: "my child—my child is ill—I am "going for advice for him." I would have paſſed the man; but he followed me, and pointed to an elegant vis-a-vis that was drawn up cloſe to the broad pavement. "Here is my lady, Ma'am," ſaid the man.

"I looked up:—it was my Emily, my long loſt, lamented Emily! I gave a faint ſhriek, and hardly heard her in a low and tremulous voice articulate—"My ſiſter! "my ſiſter Sophy!"

"Not quite in my ſenſes when I left my lodgings, this interview quite robbed me of them. I caught hold of the door of the carriage, or I ſhould have fallen in the ſtreet. Every object ſwam before me; and I retained only recollection enough to cry, "My child! my child! ſave my child!" and to hear Emily repeat—"What child? "what can I do for you? Good Heaven! what can I do for you?" But I was unable to anſwer. I found myſelf, however, in [294] a few moments, placed in the carriage, and Emily holding her ſalts to my noſe, and chafing my temples. When my ſenſes returned, my child was their firſt object; and again I exclaimed—"Oh! do not, do not detain me; I muſt go to ſave my child—my poor little boy!"

"My dear, dear ſiſter," cried Emily, pray ſummons your recollection, and tell me whither you would go; we will drive "to the place directly." In my anxiety for the life of my infant; I forgot the culpable conduct of my ſiſter; and, telling her where the phyſician lived, ſhe gave orders to her coachman to haſten thither inſtantly. A ſtrange ſtupor overwhelmed me; I could not ſpeak till we came to the door of the houſe: I then looked out; I would have flown out of the carriage. He was not at home: but juſt as we were leaving the door, he drew up to it.

"Then my voice and recollection re⯑turned to me. I beſought him moſt ear⯑neſtly to go with me. He was that mo⯑ment [295] come from his firſt round of viſits to change his horſes, and begged we would wait a few moments: but Emily urged him ſo earneſtly to get into her carriage, ſaying ſhe would take him to my lodgings and bring him back, that he could not reſiſt her importunity. He went with us then; and ſo totally was my mind abſorbed in the danger of my child, that I heeded not the ſtrange contraſt between my appear⯑ance and the gay ſplendour of my ſiſter; I forgot what ſhe was, and almoſt who ſhe was; and only enquired, when the phy⯑ſician had ſeen my child, whether he would live.

"I ſaw by his looks his opinion to the contrary; nor, indeed, did he attempt to conceal it: but he beſought me to attend to my own health, and to that of my huſ⯑band; gave directions about us all, and departed with my ſiſter, refuſing the fee I offered him, and telling me he would come again early the next day.

"Elphinſtone, amazed as he was at [296] the ſcene that had paſſed, had no power to enquire the meaning of it, and I had none to explain it: all my reſolution was rouſed to attend my dying infant; but all could not ſave him—he died: and I now tell it with dry eyes, though, when it beſel me, I thought no blow could be ſo ſevere, and that I could not ſurvive it:

"Yet I have lived now above ten years longer, my dear Miſs De Mornay; and have learned that there are ſuch evils in life as make an early death a bleſſing.

"I was delirious, I know not how long, between the exceſs of my affliction and the opiates that were given me to deliver me awhile from the ſenſe of my miſery. In the mean time my ſiſter ſent a careful per⯑ſon to attend me, and ſaw me every day herſelf, though I no longer knew her, or [297] any body but Elphinſtone, whoſe hand I held for hours, imploring him not to let them take my child from me. Emily did yet more: ſhe ſupplied us with every thing we wanted, attended herſelf to the funeral of my poor baby, and then took lodgings for us at Kenſington, that we might be re⯑moved from the place where we had ſuf⯑fered ſo much calamity. In her frequent viſits ſhe ſpoke not either to Elphinſtone or Frank, unleſs they firſt ſpoke to her; and never but on the ſubjects of my health and eaſe. I was not yet quite reſtored to my ſenſes when we removed. She ſent us, by a porter, the next day, a forty pound note, with theſe words:

"As ſoon as I was capable of reading and underſtanding this, all that had paſſed came back to my recollection. I had been ſupported, then, for many days, by the wages of ſhame; and now had nothing but a gift from the ſame hand, to ſave my huſband, my brother, and myſelf, from actual hunger. "Oh! my dear father," cried I, "can you forgive your unfortunate child; or rather, your unfortunate chil⯑dren! and ought I to refuſe taking this lovely loſt one, whoſe heart, ſo generous, ſo full of ſenſibility, cannot ſurely be quite hardened in a courſe of evil!"—I ſhall tire you, my dear Madam, if I am ſo minute: ſuffice it to ſay, that I ſaw my ſiſter; that ſhe owned all her guilt, and all [299] her folly; without having the power, or, at that time, perhaps, the wiſh, to quit a man⯑ner of life, where ſhe poſſeſſed boundleſs ſplendour and luxury, for ſuch a preca⯑rious ſubſiſtence as women can earn in bu⯑ſineſs. My remonſtrances ſhe heard with gentleneſs, and mingled her tears with mine: but ſhe pleaded gratitude to the friend who ſupported her, and the impoſſibility of her abandoning him, or exiſting if ſhe did. I was afraid of enquiring who this was; but I found that it was ſome man of high rank who had taken her from the worthleſs Beresford, and with whom ſhe had lived ever ſince.

"Her purpoſe ſeemed to be to detach my thoughts as much as poſſible from her ſituation, and to fix them on my own: and indeed it was very neceſſary; for we had now, in conſequence of Elphinſtone's long illneſs, no ſupport whatever but what her tenderneſs afforded us.

"As Elphinſtone recovered his health, his ſanguine temper returned, and again [300] he formed various projects of entering into buſineſs. It was now the midſt of the American troubles; and ſome part of my father's property, which was thought reco⯑verable, was there. Elphinſtone, who now from long habit and from his natural diſpo⯑ſition, was become unſettled and fond of ſpeculative ſchemes, propoſed to the credi⯑tors to go over there in ſearch of theſe ſums. I was ſtill too ill and too much depreſſed by paſt ſufferings to give very minute atten⯑tion to this plan: I only reſolved not to be left behind, but to ſhare his deſtiny what⯑ever it might be. In a fortnight or three weeks he was every day in town, and the latter part of that time returned in remark⯑ably gay ſpirits, and told me of I know not what proſpects that were opening to him; to which, indifferent to every thing beyond a mere ſubſiſtence, now that I had loſt my boy, and long accuſtomed to hear of viſionary fortune, I gave very little ap⯑plauſe, till he came home one day elated beyond what I had ever ſeen before, and [301] told me that an offer had that day been made him to become a ſort of under ſecre⯑tary to a man high in adminiſtration, into whoſe houſe he was to be taken; that he was to enter on his place the following week, had taken a lodging for me in the neighbourhood, and hired two female ſer⯑vants and a footman to attend.

"I wondered at, and rather blamed his precipitancy; but he aſſured me he was right. Frank went with us, as he was to be a ſort of ſecretary, in his turn, to El⯑phinſtone, who was now domeſticated with his patron, while my brother and I were in very handſome lodgings in Weſtminſter. I do not know by what means the money came, but from this time it was as plen⯑ty with Elphinſtone as it had before been ſcarce. In a few months his views were ſo much enlarged that he took a houſe for me, increaſed the number of his ſervants, and from one thing to another our eſtabliſh⯑ment was at length on a footing of ſplen⯑dour, againſt which I remonſtrated in vain. [302] He aſſured me that his future ſucceſs depended on his keeping up ſuch an ap⯑pearance; that the emoluments of his place fully entitled him to it; and that I ſhould ſoon ſee him permanently fixed in a ſituation, ſuch as would put us out of the power of fortune.

"In the mean time, as I never loved London, and as my health was very much hurt by a long continuance in it, I pre⯑vailed on him to let me have a ſmall houſe at Shene, near Richmond, where it would not be neceſſary, for me at leaſt, to be always in company, which began to be unavoidable in London. To this propo⯑ſal he conſented at firſt with reluctance; but afterwards, I thought he was not ſorry to have his houſe in town at liberty to receive the parties he now made there, by which it became diſtinguiſhed for good cheer and high living. I had by this time two boys; one of whom I have ſince loſt, and the other is the eldeſt of theſe: and with many a ſilent and ſtiſled ſigh I [303] wiſhed their father would think, while in this proſperous train of fortune, of making ſome proviſion for his increaſing family.

"He heard me always with his uſual good temper, and as conſtantly aſſured me that he was laying by money every year; though I never could gueſs how or from whence it came.

"Frank, however, was not only ſup⯑ported like a gentleman, but had really more money than, had he been leſs pru⯑dent and ſteady, would have been proper for ſo young a man.

"Of this, notwithſtanding the infec⯑tious example of the people among whom he lived, and even of Elphinſtone himſelf, he always brought a part to me to put by for him. On theſe occaſions I ſometimes queſtioned him of their manner of life in London, whence I now entirely abſented myſelf; and though he gave me ſuch anſwers as would, he thought, prevent my inquietude, he was too ingenuous to [304] be able to conceal the whole truth. Thus my proſperity was embittered by the fear of falling again into the adverſity, from which we had been delivered by miracle; and I lived in perpetual dread of evils I had no power to prevent. Alas! the greateſt evil was already arrived—the eſtrangement of Elphinſtone's heart!—I ſaw it in a thou⯑ſand inſtances; but I knew that reproaches and importunity would not recal it; and I endeavoured, whenever he came down to Shene, to appear cheerful, leſt he ſhould be quite won from me by thoſe whom he now frequented.

"Though he has an excellent under⯑ſtanding, he became inſenſibly intoxicated with his good fortune, and never gave himſelf time to think how ſoon it might be at an end, till this fatal period actually arrived. His patron was diſmiſſed from his employment, and the golden dream vaniſhed at once.

"I then knew, that out of immenſe ſums of money he had made, by means, of [305] which I underſtand nothing, he had not reſerved five hundred pounds; and I knew that a miſtreſs whom he had ſupported in great ſplendour, had pillaged him of twenty times that ſum. But he was now hum⯑bled and unhappy! I forgave all his fail⯑ings; and ſhould have bleſſed the chance that had reſtored him to me, had we but had a competence to live upon.

"After all our plate and fine furniture in London was ſold, and our debts called in, we found ourſelves about two hundred pounds worſe than nothing. But Elphin⯑ſtone ſtill told me he had friends; and now commenced a courſe of folicitation and attendance, to which the humbleſt and ſevereſt labour is in my mind infinitely preferable: and in the mean time our ſubſiſtence was derived from his writing for the papers, and now and then by an eighteen-penny political pamphlet.

"I did not notice, that in the height of our proſperity my brother John aſſi⯑duouſly courted our regard; and Elphin⯑ſtone [306] had procured him many advantages: among others, that of being ſteward to a nobleman, by whom he made a great deal of money; ſo that he was, on our de⯑cline, more proſperous than ever. With our failure, however, his love failed alſo; and all we could now obtain of him was, to take Frank as a ſort of aſſiſtant into his buſineſs.

"My poor Emily, who from gratitude and pity I could never wholly forſake, was at this time abroad with her friend; and I had nothing to ſupport me againſt the heavy tide of adverſity but the conſciouſ⯑neſs of having done my duty, and the firm reliance on heaven which that conſciouſ⯑neſs gave me. Four years we lingered on, ſometimes flattered by hope of ſome tri⯑fling place, and ſometimes ſupported by ſmall remittances from Elphinſtone's mo⯑ther; while ſhe complained heavily of the conduct of her eldeſt ſon, who had de⯑prived her and his ſiſters of every thing he could take from them.

[307] "Oh! never may thoſe who have it in their power to ſecure an independance, fooliſhly throw it away, and truſt to the fal⯑lacious aſſurances of that friendſhip which flouriſhes only in the ſunſhine of affluence!

"Day after day did poor Elphinſtone now attend thoſe men, who but a few months ago were his aſſiduous friends: many, into whoſe pockets he had been the means of putting thouſands, now ſhut their doors againſt him; while, of thoſe who could not ſo eaſily eſcape from his importunity, ſome blamed him for the expence at which he had lived, talked of the ad⯑vantages of oeconomy, and of the de⯑mands of their own family—others very gravely harangued on the caprice of for⯑tune, the ups and downs of the world, thanked God they had but a little, but that little was, they hoped, ſecure; yet moſt truly lamented that it was too little to enable them to follow the warm dictates of their hearts, in aiding a friend they ſo much reſpected and eſteemed; and with [308] this ſort of language bowed him out, whoſe favour and recommendation they had only a few months before ſolicited with mean⯑neſs equal to their preſent ingratitude.

"Wearied at length by this ſad ex⯑perience of a world to which he was ſtill too much attached, and where, from the vivacity of his ſanguine temper, he was long unwilling to relinquiſh the hope of riſing again into conſideration, he took up once more his old projects of recovering the money due to his father in America: and though that country was no longer under the government of Britain, and his ex⯑pectations of ſucceſs greatly diminiſhed, he contrived to perſuade thoſe perſons who were intereſted, to furniſh him with a ſmall ſupply of money; and we went, a wandering and unhappy family, to Ame⯑rica.

"I could give you, my dear Miſs De Mornay, a long detail of our pilgrim⯑age—of our being once fixed on a farm in the back ſettlements, and expoſed to [309] terrors from the Indians, which, with all my courage, it was utterly out of my power to ſupport; but I have already been too prolix, and tired you with a long hiſtory of ſorrow, from which your ſenſible heart requires ſome relief.

"Alas! I cannot give it you while I dwell on my own ſad ſtory; I will there⯑fore, as briefly as I can, conclude it, by telling you that we were four years in America, and two in Antigua; where my huſband joined his own family, and tried to eſtabliſh himſelf as a merchant. But he was, by this time, conſidered as a ſchemer—as an unlucky man—as one not born to be proſperous; and this deſign ended, like the reſt, in diſappointment.

"I have obtained, however, ſome ad⯑vantages by my itinerant life; I have learned reſignation, and have ſeen, that almoſt every condition of humanity has evils equal to mine, though I have ſome⯑times thought them inſupportable. But in acquiring patience, hope, I own, has eſcaped me: nor have I now any other [310] wiſh, than to ſee my children well, and to be able to find them bread.

"The diſtinctions of rank have long ſince too been loſt to me, who have paſſed from competence to extreme poverty, from extreme poverty to high affluence, and have again fallen to all the miſeries of dependence and indigence. When Frank, therefore, firſt declared to me his attach⯑ment to Jeſſy Woodburn, I oppoſed his marriage, not from pride, but from the apprehenſion of redoubling his difficulties. I then, it is true, depended almoſt entirely on the generous aſſiſtance of that excellent brother; but, believe me, that would never have induced me to oppoſe what was requiſite to his happineſs. I had not known Jeſſy long before I loſt every idea of oppoſition to it, and I wiſhed to ſee them married long before I knew what favourable proſpects might one day open to the object of his affection. To foreſee to whom ſhe would owe the realizing thoſe proſpects, to whom ſhe would afterwards [311] be the means of my being known, was, you know, impoſſible."

"And where, my dear Madam," en⯑quired Celeſtina, "where was Mr. Elphin⯑ſtone at the time you ſpeak of?"

"He was gone again to Antigua, on ac⯑count of his mother's death. I was left with four children, and ſo little money, that heaven only knows what would have become of them and of me, had it not been for Frank."

"And your ſiſter Emily!—I cannot help being intereſted for her with all her failings."

"Ah! would to heaven I knew what was now her lot! I loſt all traces of her after my going to America; nor could mine or Frank's moſt aſſiduous enquiries ever ſince, gain any intelligence. She has changed her name, or taken ſome other means to avoid us; circumſtances that make me fear ſhe is ſunk below her former brilliant but diſcreditable and de⯑ſtructive condition. When I think of [312] her and of my children, my ſtoiciſm forſakes me—and of her, unleſs I could ſnatch her from a manner of life ſo terrible, I endeavour not to think; for the thoughts of what ſhe is, and of what ſhe may be, I am very frequently unable to bear. You will allow, my dear Miſs De Mornay, that my own ſituation requires all my courage. A new and perhaps an abortive project now carries me to the remoteſt part of Scotland—with a heart, I hope not callous, but exhauſted by long ſuffering. My huſband is amiable, good tempered, and, I believe, truly at⯑tached to me; but he is ſo volatile! ſo unſteady! misfortune has made him reſtleſs, and his deſultory life encreaſed the original blemiſh of his temper—a want of firmneſs; from which have ariſen ſome of the evils that have purſued us.

"One of his ſome-time friends procured him the little appointment he now holds, rather to get rid of his importunity, I think, than to do him real ſervice. It [313] may, however, afford us a reſidence and a ſupport, and I need not ſay that its diſ⯑tance from the ſcene of our former proſ⯑perity and former adverſity is to me its greateſt recommendation. If my huſband can learn to be content among the cold and dreary Hebrides, if my children have there health, food, and ſhelter, never ſhall I be heard to repine; and indeed my journey, in having you for my companion, begins under auſpices ſo favourable, that my heart, dead to hope as it has long been, is yet not inſenſible of ſomething that nearly reſem⯑bles it."

This converſation brought the travellers to the end of their third day's ſtage; and Celeſtina, more than ever intereſted for Mrs. Elphinſtone, forgot for a moment every thing but the ſeries of undeſerved calami⯑ties to which ſhe had been liſtening.