Dominie Sampson achieved with great zeal such tasks as Mr.
Mac-Morlan chose to intrust him with; but it was speedily observed
that at a certain hour after breakfast he regularly disappeared,
and returned again about dinner-time. The evening he occupied in
the labour of the office. On Saturday, he appeared before
Mac-Morlan with a look of great triumph, and laid on the table two
pieces of gold. "What is this for, Dominie?" said Mac-Morlan.

"First to indemnify you of your charges in my behalf, worthy
sir--and the balance for the use of Miss Lucy Bertram."

"But, Mr. Sampson, your labour in the office much more than
recompenses me--I am your debtor, my good friend."

"Then be it all," said the Dominie, waving his hand, "for Miss Lucy
Bertram's behoof."

"Well, but, Dominie, this money--"

"It is honestly come by, Mr. Mac-Morlan; it is the bountiful reward
of a young gentleman, to whom I am teaching the tongues; reading
with him three hours daily--"

A few more questions extracted from the Dominie that this liberal
pupil was young Hazlewood, and that he met his preceptor daily at
the house of Mrs. Mac-Candlish, whose proclamation of Sampson's
disinterested attachment to the young lady had procured him this
indefatigable and bounteous scholar.

Mac-Morlan was much struck with what he heard.

Dominie Sampson was doubtless a very good scholar, and an excellent
man, and the classics were unquestionably very well worth reading;
yet that a young man of twenty should ride seven miles and back
again each day in the week, to hold this sort of tete-a-tete of
three hours, was a zeal for literature to which he was not prepared
to give entire credit. Little art was necessary to sift the
Dominie, for the honest man's head never admitted any but the most
direct and simple ideas. "Does Miss Bertram know how your time is
engaged, my good friend?"

"Surely not as yet--Mr. Charles recommended it should be concealed
from her, lest she should scruple to accept of the small assistance
arising from it; but," he added, "it would not be possible to
conceal it long, since Mr. Charles proposed taking his lessons
occasionally in this house."

"Oh, he does!" said Mac-Morlan Yes, yes, I can understand that
better.--And pray, Mr. Sampson, are these three hours entirely
spent in construing and translating?"

"Doubtless, no--we have also colloquial intercourse to sweeten
study--neque semper arcum tendit Apollo."

The querist proceeded to elicit from this Galloway Phoebus what
their discourse chiefly turned upon.

"Upon our past meetings at Ellangowan--and, truly, I think very
often we discourse concerning Miss Lucy--for Mr. Charles
Hazlewood, in that particular, resembleth me, Mr. Mac-Morlan. When
I begin to speak of her I never know when to stop--and, as I say
(jocularly), she cheats us out of half our lessons."

"Oh ho!" thought Mr. Mac-Morlan, "sits the wind in that quarter?
I've heard something like this before."

He then began to consider what conduct was safest for his protege,
and even for himself; for the senior Mr. Hazlewood was powerful,
wealthy, ambitious, and vindictive, and looked for both fortune and
title in any connection which his son might form. At length,
having the highest opinion of his guest's good sense and
penetration, he determined to take an opportunity, when they should
happen to be alone, to communicate the matter to her as a simple
piece of intelligence. He did so in as natural a manner as he
could;--"I wish you joy of your friend Mr. Sampson's good
fortune, Miss Bertram; he has got a pupil who pays him two guineas
for twelve lessons of Greek and Latin."

"Indeed!--I am equally happy and surprised--who can be so
liberal?--is Colonel Mannering returned?"

"No, no, not Colonel Mannering; but what do you think of your
acquaintance, Mr. Charles Hazlewood?--He talks of taking his
lessons here--I wish we may have accommodation for him."

Lucy blushed deeply. "For Heaven's sake, no, Mr. Mac-Morlan--do
not let that be--Charles Hazlewood has had enough of mischief about
that already."

"About the classics, my dear young lady?" wilfully seeming to
misunderstand her;--"most young gentlemen have so at one period or
another, sure enough, but his present studies are voluntary."

Miss Bertram let the conversation drop, and her host made no effort
to renew it, as she seemed to pause upon the intelligence in order
to form some internal resolution.

The next day Miss Bertram took an opportunity of conversing with
Mr. Sampson. Expressing in the kindest manner her grateful thanks
for his disinterested attachment, and her joy that he had get such
a provision, she hinted to him that his present mode of
superintending Charles Hazlewood's studios must be so inconvenient
to his pupil, that, while that engagement lasted, he had better
consent to a temporary separation, and reside either with his
scholar, or as near him as might be. Sampson refused, as indeed
she had expected, to listen a moment to this proposition--he would
not quit her to be made preceptor to the Prince of Wales. "But I
see," he added, "you are too proud to share my pittance; and,
peradventure, I grow wearisome unto you."

"No, indeed--you were my father's ancient, almost his only
friend--I am not proud--God knows, I have no reason to be so--you
shall do what you judge best in other matters; but oblige me by
telling Mr. Charles Hazlewood, that you had some conversation with
me concerning his studies, and that I was of opinion that his
carrying them on in this house was altogether impracticable, and
not to be thought of."

Dominie Sampson left her presence altogether crestfallen, and, as
he shut the door, could not help muttering the "varium et mutabile"
of Virgil. Next day he appeared with a very rueful visage, and
tendered Miss Bertram a letter.--"Mr. Hazlewood," he said, "was
to discontinue his lessons, though he had generously made up the
pecuniary loss.--But how will he make up the loss to himself of the
knowledge he might have acquired under my instruction? Even in
that one article of writing, he was an hour before he could write
that brief note, and destroyed many scrolls, four quills, and some
good white paper--I would have taught him in three weeks a firm,
current, clear, and legible hand--he should have been a
calligrapher--but God's will be done."--

The letter contained but a few lines, deeply regretting and
murmuring against Miss Bertram's cruelty, who not only refused to
see him, but to permit him in the most indirect manner to hear of
her health and contribute to her service. But it concluded with
assurances that her severity was vain, and that nothing could shake
the attachment of Charles Hazlewood.

Under the active patronage of Mrs. Mac-Candlish, Sampson picked up
some other scholars--very different indeed from Charles Hazlewood
in rank--and whose lessons were proportionally unproductive. Still,
however, he gained something, and it was the glory of his heart to
carry it to Mr. Mac-Morlan weekly, a slight peculium only
subtracted, to supply his snuff-box and tobacco-pouch.

And here we must leave Kippletringan to look after our hero, lest
our readers should fear they are to lose sight of him for another
quarter of a century.



CHAPTER XVI.

  Our Polly is a sad slut, nor heeds what we have taught her;
  I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter;
  For when she's drest with care and cost, all tempting, fine and gay,
  As men should serve a cucumber, she flings herself away.
    Beggar's Opera.

After the death of Mr. Bertram, Mannering had set out upon a short
tour, proposing to return to the neighbourhood of Ellangowan before
the sale of that property should take place. He went,
accordingly,' to Edinburgh and elsewhere, and it was ill his return
towards the south-western district of Scotland,--in which our scene
lies, that, at a post-town about a hundred miles from
Kippletringan, to which he had requested his friend, Mr. Mervyn, to
address his letters, he received one from that gentleman, which
contained rather unpleasing intelligence. We have assumed already
the privilege of acting a secretis to this gentleman, and therefore
shall present,--the reader with an extract from this epistle.

"I beg your pardon, my dearest friend, for the pain I have given
you, in, forcing you to open wounds so festering as those your
letter referred to. I have always heard, though erroneously
perhaps, that the attentions of Mr. Brown were intended for Miss
Mannering. But, however that were, it could not be supposed that
in your situation his boldness should escape notice and
chastisement. Wise men say, that we resign to civil society our
natural rights of self-defence, only on condition that the
ordinances of law should protect us. Where the price cannot be
paid, the resignation becomes void. For instance, no one supposes
that I am not entitled to defend my purse and person against a
highwayman, as much as if I were a wild Indian, who owns neither
law nor magistracy. The question of resistance, or submission,
must be determined by my means and situation. But, if, armed and
equal in force, I submit to injustice and violence from any man,
high or low, I presume it will hardly be attributed to religious or
moral feeling in me, or in any one but a Quaker. An aggression on
my honour seems to me much the same. The insult, however trifling
in itself, is one of much deeper consequence to all views in life
than any wrong which can be inflicted by a depredator or the
highway, and to redress the injured party is much less in the power
of public jurisprudence, or rather it is entirely beyond its
reach. If any man chooses to rob Arthur Mervyn of the contents of
his purse, supposing the said Arthur has not means of defence, or
the skill and courage to use them, the assizes at Lancaster or
Carlisle will do him justice by tucking up the robber:-Yet who will
say I am bound to wait for this justice, and submit to being
plundered in the first instance, if I have myself the means and
spirit to protect my own property? But if an affront is offered to
me, submission under which is to tarnish my character for ever with
men of honour, ant for which the twelve judges of England, with the
Chancellor to boot, can afford me no redress, by what rule of law
or reason am I to be deterred from protecting what ought to be, and
is, so infinitely dearer to every man of honour than his whole
fortune? Of the religious views of the matter I shall say nothing,
until I end a reverend divine who shall condemn self-defence in the
article of life and property. If its propriety in that case be
generally admitted, I suppose little distinction can be drawn
between defence of person and goods, and protection of reputation.
That the latter is liable to be assailed by persons of a different
rank in life, untainted perhaps in morals, and fair in character,
cannot affect my legal right of self-defence. I may be sorry that
circumstances have engaged me in personal strife with such an
individual; but I should feel the same sorrow for a generous enemy
who fell under my sword in a national quarrel. I shall leave the
question with the casuists, however; only observing, that what I
have written will not avail either the professed duellist, or him
who is the aggressor in a dispute of honour. I only presume to
exculpate him who is dragged into the field by such an offence, as,
submitted to in patience, would forfeit for ever his rank and
estimation in society.

"I am sorry you have thoughts of settling in Scotland, and yet glad
that you will still be at no immeasurable distance, and that the
latitude is all in our favour. To move to Westmoreland from
Devonshire might make an East Indian shudder; but to come to us
from Galloway or Dumfriesshire, is a step, though a short one,
nearer the sun. Besides, if, as I suspect, the estate in view be
connected with the old haunted castle in which you played the
astrologer in your northern tour some twenty years since, I have
heard you too often describe the scene with comic unction, to hope
you will be deterred from making the purchase. I trust, however,
the hospitable gossiping Laird has not run himself upon the
shallows, and that his chaplain, whom you so often made us laugh
at, is still in rerum natura.

"And here, dear Mannering, I wish I could stop, for I have
incredible pain in felling the rest of my story; although I am sure
I can warn you against any intentional impropriety on the part of
my temporary ward, Julia Mannering.  But I must still earn my
college nickname of Downright Dunstable. In one word, then, here is
the matter.

"Your daughter has much of the romantic turn of your disposition,
with a little of that love of admiration which all pretty women
share less or more. She will besides, apparently, be your heiress;
a trifling circumstance to those who view Julia with my eyes, but a
prevailing bait to the specious, artful, and worthless. You know
how I have jested with her about her soft melancholy, and lonely
walks at morning before any one is up, and in the moonlight when
all should be gone to bed, or set down to cards, which is the same
thing. The incident which follows may not be beyond the bounds of
a joke, but I had rather the jest upon it came from you than me.

"Two or three times during the last fortnight, I heard, at a late
hour in the night, or very early in the morning, a flageolet play
the little Hindu tune to which your daughter is so partial. I
thought for some time that some tuneful domestic, whose taste for
music was laid under constraint during the day, chose that silent
hour to imitate the strains which he had caught up by the ear
during his attendance in the drawing-room. But last night I sat
late in. my study, which is immediately under Miss Mannering's
apartment, and to my surprise, I not only heard the flageolet
distinctly, but satisfied myself that it came from the lake under
the window. Curious to know who serenaded us at that unusual
hour, I stole softly to the window of my apartment. But there
were other watchers than me. You may remember, Miss Mannering
preferred that apartment on account of a balcony which opened from
her window upon the lake. Well, sir, I heard the sash of her
window thrown up, the shutters opened, and her own voice in
conversation with some person who answered from below. This is not
'Much ado about nothing'; I could not be mistaken in her voice, and
such tones, so soft, so insinuating--and, to say the truth, the
accents from below were in passion's tenderise cadence too--but of
the sense I can say nothing. I raised the sash of my own window
that I might hear something more than the mere murmur of this
Spanish rendezvous, but, though I used every precaution, the noise
alarmed the speakers; down slid the young lady's casement, and the
shutters were barred in an instant. The dash of a pair or oars in
the water announced the retreat of the male person of the
dialogue. Indeed, I saw his boat, which he rowed with great
swiftness and dexterity, fly across the lake like a twelve-oared
barge. Next morning I examined some of my domestics, as if by
accident. and I found the gamekeeper, when making his rounds, had
twice seen that boat beneath the house, with a single person, and
had heard the flageolet. I did not care to press any further
questions, for fear of implicating Julia in the opinions of those
of whom they might be asked. Next morning, at breakfast, I dropped
a casual hint about the serenade of the evening before, and I
promise you Miss Mannering looked red and pale alternately. I
immediately gave the circumstance such a turn as might lead her to
suppose that my observation was merely casual. I have since caused
a watch-light to be burnt in my library, and have left the shutters
open, to deter the approach of our nocturnal guest; and I have
stated the severity of approaching winter, and the rawness of the
fogs, as an objection to solitary walks. Miss Mannering acquiesced
with a passiveness which is no part of her character, and which, to
tell you the plain truth, is a feature about the business which I
like least of all. Julia has too much of her own dear papa's
disposition to be curbed in any of her humours, were there not some
little lurking consciousness that it may be as prudent to avoid
debate.

"Now my story is told, and you will judge what you ought to do. I
have not mentioned the matter to my good woman, who, a faithful
secretary to her sex's foibles, would certainly remonstrate against
your being made acquainted with these particulars, and might,
instead, take it into her head to exercise her own eloquence on
Miss Mannering; a faculty, which, however powerful when directed
against me, its legitimate object, might, I fear, do more harm than
good in the case supposed. Perhaps even you yourself will find it
most prudent to act without remonstrating, or appearing to be aware
of this little anecdote. Julia is very like a certain friend of
mine; she has a quick and lively imagination, and keen feelings,
which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in
life. She is a charming girl, however, as generous and spirited as
she is lovely. I paid her the kiss you sent her with all my heart,
and she rapped my fingers for my reward with all hers. Pray return
as soon as you can. Meantime, rely upon the care of, yours
faithfully,

"Arthur Mervyn.

"P.S.--You will naturally wish to know if I have the least guess
concerning the person of the serenader. In truth, I have none.
There is no young gentleman of these parts, who might be in rank or
fortune a match for Miss Julia, that I think at all likely to play
such a character. . . But on the other side of the lake, nearly
opposite to Mervyn Hall, is a d-d cake-house, the resort of walking
gentlemen of all descriptions, poets, players, painters, musicians,
who come to rave, and recite, and madden, about this picturesque
land of ours. It is paying some penalty for its beauties, that
they are the means of drawing this swarm of coxcombs together. But
were Julia my daughter, it is one of those sort of fellows that I
should fear on her account. She is generous and romantic, and
writes six sheets a week to a female correspondent; and it's a sad
thing to lack a subject in such a case, either for exercise of the
feelings or of the pen. Adieu, once more. Were I to treat this
matter more seriously than I have done, I should do injustice to
your feelings; were I altogether to overlook it, I should discredit
my own."

The consequence of this letter was, that, having first despatched
the faithless messenger with the necessary powers to Mr. Mac-Morlan
for purchasing the estate of Ellangowan, Colonel Mannering turned
his horse's head in a more southerly direction, and neither
"stinted nor staid" until he arrived at the mansion of his friend
Mr. Mervyn, upon the banks of one of the lakes of Westmoreland.


CHAPTER XVII.

  Heaven first, in its mercy, taught mortals their letters,
  For ladies in limbo, and lovers in fetters,
  Or some author, who, placing his persons before ye,
  Ungallantly leaves them to write their own story.
    Pope, imitated.

When Mannering returned to England, his first object had been to
place his daughter in a seminary for female education, of
established character. Not, however, finding her progress in the
accomplishments which he wished her to acquire so rapid as his
impatience expected, he had withdrawn Miss Mannering from the
school at the end of the first quarter. So she had only time to
form an eternal friendship with Miss Matilda Marchmont, a young
lady about her own age, which was nearly eighteen. To her faithful
eye were addressed those formidable quires which issued forth from
Mervyn Hall, on the wings of the post, while Miss Mannering was a
guest there. The perusal of a few short extracts from these may be
necessary to render our story intelligible.


First Extract

"Alas! my dearest Matilda, what a tale is mine to tell! Misfortune
from the cradle has set her seal upon your unhappy friend. That we
should be severed for so slight a cause--an ungrammatical phrase in
my Italian exercise, and three false notes in one of Paesiello's
sonatas! But it is a part of my father's character, of whom it is
impossible to say, whether I love, admire, or fear him the most.
His success in life and in war-his habit of making every obstacle
yield before the energy of his exertions, even where they seemed
insurmountable-all these have given a hasty and peremptory cast to
his character, which can neither endure contradiction, nor make
allowance for deficiencies. Then he is himself so very
accomplished. Do you know there was a murmur half confirmed too by
some mysterious words which, dropped from my poor mother, that he
possesses other sciences, now lost to the world, which enable the
possessor to summon up before him the dark and shadowy forms of
future events! Does not the very idea of such a power, or even of
the high talent and commanding intellect which the world may
mistake for it,--does it not, dear Matilda, throw a mysterious
grandeur about its possessor? You will call this romantic: but
consider I was born in the land of talisman and spell, and my
childhood lulled by tales which you can only enjoy through the
gauzy frippery of a French translation. O Matilda, I wish you
could have seen the dusky visages of my Indian attendants, bending
in earnest devotion round the magic narrative, that flowed, half
poetry, half prose, from the lips of the tale-teller! No wonder
that European fiction sounds cold and meagre, after the wonderful
effects which I have seen the romances of the East produce upon
their hearers."


Second Extract.

"You are possessed, my dear Matilda, of my bosom-secret, in those
sentiments with which I regard Brown. I will not say his memory. I
am convinced he lives, and is faithful. His addresses to me were
countenanced by my deceased parent; imprudently countenanced
perhaps, considering the prejudices of my father, in favour of
birth and rank. But I, then almost a girl, could not be expected
surely to be wiser than her, under whose charge nature had placed
me. My father, constantly engaged in military duty, I saw but at
rare intervals, and was taught to look up to him with more awe than
confidence. Would to Heaven it had been otherwise! It might have
been better for us all at this day!"


Third Extract.

"You ask me why I do not make known to my father that Brown yet
lives, at least that he survived the wound he received in that
unhappy duel; and had written to my mother, expressing his entire
convalescence, and his hope of speedily escaping from captivity. A
soldier, that 'in the trade of war has oft slain men,' feels
probably no uneasiness at reflecting upon the supposed catastrophe,
which almost turned me into stone. And should I show him that
letter, does it not follow, that Brown, alive and maintaining with
pertinacity the pretensions to the affections of your poor friend,
for which my father formerly sought his life would be a more
formidable disturber of Colonel Mannering's peace of mind than in
his supposed grave? If he escapes from the hands of these
marauders, I am convinced he will soon be in England, and it will
be then time to consider how his existence is to be disclosed to my
father--But if, alas! my earnest and confident hope should betray
me, what would it avail to tear open a mystery fraught with so many
painful recollections?--My dear mother had such dread of its being
known, that I think she even suffered my father to suspect that
Brown's attentions were directed towards herself, rather than
permit him to discover their real object; and, oh, Matilda,
whatever respect I owe to the memory of a deceased parent, let me
do justice to a living one. I cannot but condemn the dubious
policy which she adopted, as unjust to my father, and highly
perilous to herself and me.--But peace be with her ashes! her
actions were guided by the heart rather than the head; and shall
her daughter, who inherits all her weakness, be the first to
withdraw the veil from her defects?"


Fourth Extract

"Mervyn Hall.

"If India be the land of magic, this my dearest Matilda, is the
country of romance. The scenery is such as nature brings together
in her sublimest moods;--sounding cataracts-hills which rear their
scathed heads to the sky-lakes, that, winding up the shadowy
valleys, lead at every turn to yet more romantic recesses-rocks
which catch the clouds of heaven. All the wildness of Salvator
here, and there the fairy scenes of Claude. I am happy too, in
finding at least one object upon which my father can share my
enthusiasm. An admirer of nature, both as an artist and a poet, I
have experienced the utmost pleasure from the observations by which
he explains the character and the effect of these brilliant
specimens of her power. I wish he would settle in this enchanting
land' But his views lie still farther north, and he is at present
absent on a tour in Scotland, looking, I believe, for some purchase
of land which may suit him as a residence. He is partial, from
early recollections, to that country. So, my dearest Matilda, I
must be yet farther removed from you before I am established in a
home--And oh how delighted shall I be when I can say, Come,
Matilda, and be the guest of your faithful Julia!

"I am at present the inmate of Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn, old friends of
my father. The latter is precisely a good sort of woman;--ladylike
and housewifely, but, for accomplishments or fancy--good lack, my
dearest Matilda, your friend might as well seek sympathy from Mrs.
Teach'em,--you see I have not forgot school nicknames. Mervyn is
a different--quite a different being from my father; yet he amuses
and endures me. He is fat and good-natured, gifted with strong
shrewd sense, and some powers of humour; but having been handsome,
I suppose, in his youth, has still some pretension to be a beau
garcon, as well as an enthusiastic agriculturist. I delight to
make him scramble to the tops of eminences and to the foot of
waterfalls, and am obliged in turn to admire his turnips, his
lucerne, and his timothy grass.--He thinks me, I fancy, a simple
romantic Miss, with some--(the word will he out) beauty, and some
good nature; and I hold that the gentleman has good taste for the
female outside, and do not expect he should comprehend my
sentiments further. So he rallies, hands, and hobbles (for the
dear creature has got the gout too), and tells old stories of high
life of which he has seen a great deal; and I listen, and smile,
and look as pretty, as pleasant, and as simple as I can, and we do
very well. But, alas! my dearest Matilda, how would time pass
away, even in this paradise of romance, tenanted as it is by a pair
assorting so ill with the scenes around them, were it not for your
fidelity in replying to my uninteresting details? Pray do not fail
to write three times a week at least--you can be at no loss what to
say."


Fifth Extract.

"How shall I communicate what I have now to tell!--My hand and
Heart still flutter so much, that the task of writing is almost
impossible!--Did I not say that he lived? did I not say I would not
despair? How could you suggest, my dear Matilda, that my feelings,
considering I had parted from him so young, rather arose from the
warmth of my imagination than of my heart?--Oh! I was sure that
they were genuine, deceitful as the dictates of our bosom so
frequently are.--But to my tale--let it be, my friend, the most
sacred, as it is the most sincere, pledge of our friendship.

"Our hours here are early--earlier than my heart, with its load of
care, can compose itself to rest. I, therefore, usually take a
book for an hour or two after retiring to my own room, which I
think I have told you opens to a small balcony, looking down upon
that beautiful lake, of which I attempted to give you a slight
sketch. Mervyn Hall, being partly an ancient building--, and
constructed with a view to defence, is situated an the verge of the
lake. A stone dropped from the projecting balcony plunges into
water deep enough to float a skiff. I had left my window partly
unbarred, that, before I went to bed, I might, according to my
custom, look out and see the moonlight shining upon the lake. I
was deeply engaged with that beautiful scene in the Merchant of
Venice, where two lovers, describing the stillness of a summer
night, enhance on each other its charms, and was lost in the
associations of story and of feeling which it awakens, when I heard
upon the lake the sound of a flageolet. I have told you it was
Brown's favourite instrument. Who could touch it in a night which,
though still and serene, was too cold, and too late in the year, to
invite forth any wanderer for more pleasure? I drew yet nearer the
window, and hearkened with breathless attention--the sounds paused
a space, were then resumed--paused again--and again reached my
ear, ever coming nearer and nearer. At length, I distinguished
plainly that little Hindu air which you called my favourite--I have
told you by whom it was taught me--the instrument, the tones, were
his own!--was it earthly music, or notes passing on the wind, to
warn me of his death?

"It was some time ere I could summon courage to step on the
balcony--nothing could have emboldened me to do so but the strong
conviction of my mind, that he was still alive, and that we should
again meet--but that conviction did embolden me, and I ventured,
though with a throbbing heart. There was a small skiff with a
single person--O Matilda, it was himself!--I knew his appearance
after so long an absence, and through the shadow of the night, as
perfectly as if we had parted yesterday, and met again in the broad
sunshine! He guided his boat under the balcony, and spoke to me; I
hardly knew what he said, or what I replied. Indeed, I could
scarcely speak for weeping, but they were joyful tears. We were
disturbed by the barking of a dog at some distance, and parted, but
not before he had conjured me to prepare to. meet him at the same
place and hour this evening.

"But where and to what is all this tending?--Can I answer this
question? I cannot.--Heaven, that saved him from death, and
delivered him from captivity; that saved my father too, from
shedding the blood of one who would not have blemished a hair of
his head, that Heaven must guide me out of this labyrinth. Enough
for lane the firm resolution, that Matilda shall not blush for her
friend, my father for his daughter, nor my lover for her on whom he
has fixed his affection."



CHAPTER XVIII.

  Talk with a man out of a window!--a proper saying.--
  Much Ado About Nothing.

WE must proceed with our extracts from Miss Mannering's
letters, which throw light upon natural good sense,
principle, and feelings, blemished by an imperfect
education, and the folly of a misjudging mother, who called
her husband in her heart a tyrant until she feared him as
such, and read romances until she became so enamoured of the
complicated intrigues which they contain, as to assume the
management of a little family novel of her own, and
constitute her daughter, a girl of sixteen, the principal
heroine. She delighted in petty mystery, and intrigue, and
secrets, and yet trembled at the indignation which these
paltry manoeuvres excited in her husband's mind. Thus she
frequently entered upon a scheme merely for pleasure, or
perhaps for the love of contradiction, plunged deeper into
it than she was aware, endeavoured to extricate herself by
new arts, or to cover her error by dissimulation, became
involved in meshes of her own weaving, and was forced to
carry on, for fear of discovery, machinations which she had
at first resorted to in mere wantonness.

Fortunately the young man whom she so imprudently introduced
into her intimate society, and encouraged to look up to her
daughter, had a fund of principle and honest pride, which
rendered him a safer intimate than Mrs. Mannering ought to
have dared to hope or expect.  The obscurity of his birth
could alone he objected to him; in every other respect,

  With prospects bright upon the world he came,
  Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame;
  Men watched the way his lofty mind would take,
  And all foretold the progress he would make.

But it could not be expected that he should resist the snare
which Mrs. Mannering's imprudence threw in his way, or
avoid becoming attached to a young lady, whose beauty and
manners might have justified his passion, even in scenes
where these are more generally met with, than in a remote
fortress in our Indian settlements. The scenes which
followed have been partly detailed in Mannering's letter to
Mr. Mervyn; and to expand what is there stated into further
explanation, would be to abuse the patience of our readers.
We shall, therefore, proceed with our promised extracts from
Miss Mannering's letters to her friend.


Sixth Extract.

I have seen him again, Matilda--seen him twice. I have used every
argument to convince him that this secret intercourse is dangerous
to us both--I even pressed him to pursue his views of fortune
without further regard to me, and to consider my peace of mind as
sufficiently secured by the knowledge that he had not fallen under
my father's sword. He answers--but how can I detail all he has to
answer? he claims those hopes as his due which my mother permitted
him to entertain, and would persuade me to the madness of a union
without my father's sanction. But to this, Matilda, I will not be
persuaded. I have resisted, I have subdued, the rebellious
feelings which arose to aid his plea; yet how to extricate myself
from this unhappy labyrinth, in which fate and folly have entangled
us both!

"I have thought, upon it, Matilda, till my head is almost
giddy--nor can I conceive a better plan than to make a full
confession to my father. He deserves it, for his kindness is
unceasing; and I think I have observed in his character, since I
have studied it more nearly, that his harsher feelings are chiefly
excited where he suspects deceit or imposition; and in that
respect, perhaps, his character was formerly misunderstood by one
who was dear to him. He has, too, a tinge of romance in his
disposition; and I have seen the narrative of a generous action, a
trait of heroism, or virtuous self-denial, extract tears from him,
which refused to flow at a tale of mere distress. But then, Brown
urges, that he is personally hostile to him--And the obscurity
of his birth--that would be indeed a stumbling-block. O Matilda, I
hope none of your ancestors ever fought at Poictiers or Agincourt!
If it were not for the veneration which my father attaches to the
memory of old Sir Miles Mannering, I should make out my explanation
with half the tremor which must now attend it."


Seventh Extract.

"I have this instant received your letter--your most welcome
letter!--Thanks, my dearest friend, for your sympathy and your
counsels--I can only repay them with unbounded confidence.

"You ask me, what Brown is by origin, that his descent should be so
displeasing to my father. His story is shortly told. He is of
Scottish extraction, but, being left an orphan, his education was
undertaken by a family of relations, settled in Holland. He was
bred to commerce, and sent very early to one of our settlements in
the East, where his guardian had a correspondent. But this
correspondent was dead when he arrived in India, and he had no
other resource than to offer himself as a clerk to a
counting-house. The breaking out of the war, and the straits to
which we were at first reduced, threw the army open to all young
men who were disposed to embrace that mode of life; and Brown,
whose genius had a strong military tendency, was the first to
leave what might have been the road to wealth, and to choose that
of fame. The rest of his history is well known to you; but
conceive the irritation of my father, who despises commerce
(though, by the way, the best part of his property was made in that
honourable profession by my great-uncle), and has a particular
antipathy to the Dutch; think with what ear he would be likely to
receive proposals for his only child from Vanbeest Brown, educated
for charity by the house of Vanbeest and Vanbruggen! O Matilda, it
will never do--nay, so childish am I, I hardly can help
sympathising with his aristocratic feelings. Mrs. Vanbeest Brown!
The name has little to recommend it, to be sure.--What children we
are!"


EIGHTH EXTRACT.

"It is all over now, Matilda!--I shall never have courage to tell
my father--nay, most deeply do I fear he has already learned my
secret from another quarter, which will entirely remove the grace
of my communication, and ruin whatever gleam of hope I had ventured
to connect with it. Yesternight, Brown came as usual, and his
flageolet on the lake announced his approach. We had agreed, that
he should continue to use this signal. These romantic lakes
attract numerous visitors, who indulge their enthusiasm in visiting
the scenery at all hours, and we hoped, that--if Brown were noticed
from the house, he might pass for one of those admirers of nature,
who was giving vent to his feelings through the medium of music.
The sounds might also be my apology, should I be observed on the
balcony. But last night, while I was eagerly enforcing my plan of
a full confession to my father, which he as earnestly deprecated,
we heard the window of Mr. Mervyn's library, which is under my
room, open softly. I signed to Brown to make his retreat, and
immediately re-entered, with some faint hopes that our interview
had not been observed.

"But, alas! Matilda, these hopes vanished the instant I beheld Mr.
Mervyn's countenance at breakfast the next morning. He looked so
provokingly intelligent and confidential, that, had I dared, I
could have been more angry than ever I was in my life; but I must
be on good behaviour, and my walks are now limited within his farm
precincts, where the good gentleman can amble along by my side
without inconvenience. I have detected him once or twice
attempting to sound my thoughts, and watch the expression of my
countenance. He has talked of the flageolet more than once; and
has, at different times, made eulogiums upon the watchfulness and
ferocity of his dogs, and the regularity with which the keeper
makes his rounds with a loaded fowling-piece. He mentioned even
man-traps and spring-guns. I should be loath to affront my
father's old friend in his own house; but I do long to show him
that I am my father's daughter, a fact of which Mr. Mervyn will
certainly be convinced, if ever I trust my voice and temper with a
reply to these indirect hints. Of one thing I am certain--I am
grateful to him on that account--he has not told Mrs. Mervyn.
Lord help me, I should have had such lectures about the dangers of
love and the night air on the lake, the risk arising from colds and
fortune-hunters, the comfort and convenience of sack-whey and
closed windows!--I cannot help trifling, Matilda, though my heart
is sad enough What Brown will do I cannot guess. I presume
however, the fear of detection prevents his resuming his nocturnal
visits. He lodges at an inn on the opposite shore of the lake,
under the name, he tells me, of Dawson--he has a bad choice in
names, that be allowed. He has not left the army, I believe, but
he says nothing of his present views.

"To complete my anxiety, my father is returned suddenly, and in
high displeasure. Our good hostess, as I learned from a bustling
conversation between her housekeeper and her, had no expectation of
seeing him for a week; but I rather suspect his arrival was no
surprise to his friend Mr. Mervyn. His manner to me was
singularly cold and constrained--sufficiently so to have damped all
the courage with which I once resolved to throw myself on his
generosity. He lays the blame of his being discomposed and out of
humour to the loss of a purchase in the south-west of Scotland, on
which he had set his heart; but I do not suspect his equanimity of
being so easily thrown off its balance. His first excursion was
with Mr. Mervyn's barge across the lake, to the inn I have
mentioned. You may imagine the agony with which I waited his
return--Had he recognised Brown, who can guess the consequence! He
returned, however, apparently without having made any discovery. I
understand, that in consequence of his late disappointment, he
means now to hire a house in the neighbourhood of this same
Ellangowan, of which I am doomed to hear so much--he seems to think
it probable that the estate for which he wishes may soon be again
in the market. I will not send away this letter until I hear more
distinctly what are his intentions."

"I have now had an interview with my father, as confidential as, I
presume, he means to allow me. He requested me today, after
breakfast, to walk with him into the library; my knees, Matilda,
shook under me, and it is no exaggeration to say, I could scarce
follow him into the room. I feared I knew not what--From my
childhood I had seen all around him tremble at his frown. He
motioned me to seat myself, and I never obeyed a command so
readily, for, in truth, I could hardly stand. He himself continued
to walk up and down the room. You have seen my father, and
noticed, I recollect, the remarkably expressive cast of his
features. His eyes are naturally rather light in colour, but
agitation or anger gives them a darker and more fiery glance; he
has a custom also of drawing in his lips, when much moved, which
implies a combat between native ardour of temper and the habitual
power of self-command. This was the first time we had been alone
since his return from Scotland, and, as he betrayed these tokens of
agitation, I had little doubt that he was about to enter upon the
subject I most dreaded.

"To my unutterable relief, I found I was mistaken, and that
whatever he knew of Mr. Mervyn's suspicions or discoveries, he did
not intend to converse with me on the topic. Coward as I was, I
was inexpressibly relieved, though if he had really investigated
the reports which may have come to his ear, the reality could have
been nothing to what his suspicions might have conceived. But,
though my spirits rose high at my unexpected escape, I had hot
courage myself to provoke the discussion, and remained silent to
receive his commands.

"'Julia,' he said, 'my agent writes me from Scotland, that he has
been able to hire a house for me, decently furnished, and with the
necessary accommodation for my family--it is within three miles of
that I had designed to purchase--' Then he made a pause, and seemed
to expect an answer.

"'Whatever place of residence suits you, sir, must be perfectly
agreeable to me.'

"'Umph!--I do not propose, however, Julia, that you shall reside
quite alone in this house during the winter.'

"Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn, thought I to myself.--'Whatever company is
agreeable to you, sir,' I answered aloud.

"'Oh, there is a little too much of this universal spirit of
submission; an excellent disposition in action, but your constantly
repeating the jargon of it, puts me in mind of the eternal salaams
of our black dependants in the East. In short, Julia, I know you
have a relish for society, and I intend to invite a young person,
the daughter of a deceased friend, to spend a few months with us. '

"'Not a governess, for the love of Heaven, papa!' exclaimed poor
I, my fears at that moment totally getting the better of my
prudence.

"'No, not a governess, Miss Mannering,' replied the Colonel,
somewhat sternly, 'but a young lady from whose excellent example,
bred as she has been in the school of adversity, I trust you may
learn the art to govern yourself. '

"To answer this was trenching upon too dangerous ground, so there
was a pause.

"'Is the young lady a Scotchwoman, papa?'

"'Yes'--dryly enough.

"'Has she much of the accent, sir?'

"'Much of the devil!' answered my father hastily; 'do you think I
care about a's and aa's, and i's and ee's?--I tell you, Julia, I am
serious in the matter. You have a genius for friendship, that is,
for running up intimacies which you call such'--(was not this very
harshly said, Matilda?)--'Now I wish to give you an opportunity
at least to make one deserving friend, and therefore I have
resolved that this young lady shall be a member of my family for
some months, and I expect you will pay to her that attention which
is due to misfortune and virtue.'

"'Certainly, sir.--Is my future friend red-haired?'

"He gave me one of his stern glances; you will say, perhaps, I
deserved it; but I think the deuce prompts me with teasing
questions on some occasions.

"'She is as superior to you, my love, in personal appearance, as in
prudence and affection for her friends.'

"'Lord, papa, do you think that superiority a recommendation
?--Well, sir, but I see you are going to take all this too
seriously; whatever the young lady may be, I am sure, being
recommended by you, she shall have no reason to complain of my want
of attention.--(After a pause)--Has she any attendant? because you
know I must provide for her proper accommodation, if she is without
one.'

"'N-no-no-not properly an attendant--the chaplain who lived with
her father is a very good sort of man, and I believe I shall make
room for him in the house.'

"'Chaplain, papa? Lord bless us!'

"'Yes, Miss Mannering, chaplain; is there anything very new in that
word ? Had we not a chaplain at the Residence, when we were in
India?'

"'Yes, papa, but you were a commandant then.'

"'So I will be now, Miss Mannering--in my own family at least.'

"'Certainly, sir--but will he read us the Church of England
service?'

"The apparent simplicity with which I asked this question got the
better of his gravity. 'Come, Julia,' he said, 'you are a sad girl,
but I gain nothing by scolding you.--Of these two strangers, the
young lady is one whom you cannot fail, I think, to love--the
person whom, for want of a better term, I called chaplain, is a
very worthy, and somewhat ridiculous personage, who will never find
out you laugh at him, if you don't laugh very loud indeed.'

"'Dear papa, I am delighted with that part of his character. --
But pray, is the house we are going to as pleasantly situated as
this?'

"'Not perhaps as much to your taste--there is no lake under the
windows, and you will be under the necessity of having all your
music within doors.'

"This last coup de main ended the keen encounter of our wits, for
you may believe, Matilda, it quelled all my courage to reply.

"Yet my spirits, as perhaps will appear too manifest from this
dialogue, have risen insensibly, and, as it were, in spite of
myself. Brown alive, and free, and in England! Embarrassment and
anxiety I can and must endure. We leave this in two days for our
new residence. I shall not fail to let you know what I think of
these Scotch inmates, whom I have but too much reason to believe my
father means to quarter in his house as a brace of honourable
spies; a sort of female Rozencrantz and reverend Guildenstern, one
in tartan petticoats, the other in a cassock. What a contrast to
the society I would willingly have secured to myself! I shall write
instantly on my arriving at our new place of abode, and acquaint my
dearest Matilda with the further fates of--her

"Julia Mannering."



CHAPTER XIX.

  Which sloping hills around enclose, Where many a beech and
  brown oak grows, Beneath whose dark and branching bowers,
  Its tides a far-fam'd river pours, By nature's beauties
  taught to please, Sweet Tusculan of rural ease!--
  Warton.

Woodbourne, the habitation which Mannering, by Mr. Mac-Morlan's
mediation, had hired for a season, was a large comfortable mansion,
snugly situated beneath a hill covered with wood, which shrouded
the house upon the north and east; the front looked upon a little
lawn bordered by a grove of old trees; beyond were some arable
fields, extending down to the river, which was seen from the
windows of the house. A tolerable, though old-fashioned garden, a
well-stocked dovecot, and the possession of any quantity of ground
which the convenience of the family might require, rendered the
place in every respect suitable, as the advertisements have it,
"for the accommodation of a genteel family."

Here, then, Mannering resolved, for some time at least, to set up
the staff of his rest. Though an East-Indian, he was not partial
to an ostentatious display of wealth. In fact, he was too proud a
man to be a vain one. He resolved, therefore, to place himself
upon the footing of a country gentleman of easy fortune, without
assuming, or permitting, his household to assume, any of the faste
which then was considered as characteristic of a nabob.

He had still his eye upon the purchase of Ellangowan, which
Mac-Morlan conceived Mr. Glossin would be compelled to part with,
as some of the creditors disputed his title to retain so large a
part of the purchase-money in his own hands, and his power to pay
it was much questioned. In that case MacMorlan was assured he
would readily give up his bargain, if 'tempted with something above
the price which he had stipulated to pay. It may seem
strange,--that Mannering was so much attached to a spot which he
had only seen once, and that for a short time, in early life. But
the circumstances which passed there had laid a strong hold on his
imagination. There seemed to be a fate which conjoined the
remarkable passages of his own family history with those of the
inhabitants of Ellangowan, and he felt a mysterious desire to call
the terrace his own, from which he had read in the book of heaven a
fortune strangely accomplished in the person of the infant Heir of
that family, and corresponding so closely with one which had been
strikingly fulfilled in his own. Besides, when once this thought
had got possession of his imagination, he could not, without great
reluctance, brook the, idea of his plan being defeated, and by a
fellow like Glossin. So pride came to the aid of fancy, and both
combined to fortify his resolution to buy the estate if possible.