The funeral of the late Mr. Bertram was performed with decent
privacy, and the unfortunate young lady was now to consider
herself as but the temporary tenant of the house in which she had
been born, and where her patience and soothing attentions had so
long 'rocked the cradle of declining age.' Her communication with
Mr. Mac-Morlan encouraged her to hope that she would not be
suddenly or unkindly deprived of this asylum; but fortune had
ordered otherwise.

For two days before the appointed day for the sale of the lands
and estate of Ellangowan, Mac-Morlan daily expected the appearance
of Colonel Mannering, or at least a letter containing powers to
act for him. But none such arrived. Mr. Mac-Morlan waked early in
the morning, walked over to the Post-office,--there were no
letters for him. He endeavoured to persuade himself that he should
see Colonel Mannering to breakfast, and ordered his wife to place
her best china and prepare herself accordingly. But the
preparations were in vain. 'Could I have foreseen this,' he said,
'I would have travelled Scotland over, but I would have found some
one to bid against Glossin.' Alas! such reflections were all too
late. The appointed hour arrived; and the parties met in the
Masons' Lodge at Kippletringan, being the place fixed for the
adjourned sale. Mac-Morlan spent as much time in preliminaries as
decency would permit, and read over the articles of sale as slowly
as if he had been reading his own death-warrant. He turned his eye
every time the door of the room opened, with hopes which grew
fainter and fainter. He listened to every noise in the street of
the village, and endeavoured to distinguish in it the sound of
hoofs or wheels. It was all in vain. A bright idea then occurred,
that Colonel Mannering might have employed some other person in
the transaction; he would not have wasted a moment's thought upon
the want of confidence in himself which such a manoeuvre would
have evinced. But this hope also was groundless. After a solemn
pause, Mr. Glossin offered the upset price for the lands and
barony of Ellangowan. No reply was made, and no competitor
appeared; so, after a lapse of the usual interval by the running
of a sand-glass, upon the intended purchaser entering the proper
sureties, Mr. Mac-Morlan was obliged, in technical terms, to 'find
and declare the sale lawfully completed, and to prefer the said
Gilbert Glossin as the purchaser of the said lands and estate.'
The honest writer refused to partake of a splendid entertainment
with which Gilbert Glossin, Esquire, now of Ellangowan, treated
the rest of the company, and returned home in huge bitterness of
spirit, which he vented in complaints against the fickleness and
caprice of these Indian nabobs, who never knew what they would be
at for ten days together. Fortune generously determined to take
the blame upon herself, and cut off even this vent of Mac-Morlan's
resentment.

An express arrived about six o'clock at night, 'very particularly
drunk,' the maid-servant said, with a packet from Colonel
Mannering, dated four days back, at a town about a hundred miles'
distance from Kippletringan, containing full powers to Mr. Mac-
Morlan, or any one whom he might employ, to make the intended
purchase, and stating that some family business of consequence
called the Colonel himself to Westmoreland, where a letter would
find him, addressed to the care of Arthur Mervyn, Esq., of Mervyn
Hall.

Mac-Morlan, in the transports of his wrath, flung the power of
attorney at the head of the innocent maidservant, and was only
forcibly withheld from horse-whipping the rascally messenger by
whose sloth and drunkenness the disappointment had taken place.




CHAPTER XV

     My gold is gone, my money is spent,
     My land now take it unto thee.
     Give me thy gold, good John o' the Scales,
     And thine for aye my land shall be.

     Then John he did him to record draw.
     And John he caste him a gods-pennie;
     But for every pounde that John agreed,
     The land, I wis, was well worth three.

          HEIR OF LINNE.


The Galwegian John o' the Scales was a more clever fellow than his
prototype. He contrived to make himself heir of Linne without the
disagreeable ceremony of 'telling down the good red gold.' Miss
Bertram no sooner heard this painful, and of late unexpected,
intelligence than she proceeded in the preparations she had
already made for leaving the mansion-house immediately. Mr. Mac-
Morlan assisted her in these arrangements, and pressed upon her so
kindly the hospitality and protection of his roof, until she
should receive an answer from her cousin, or be enabled to adopt
some settled plan of life, that she felt there would be unkindness
in refusing an invitation urged with such earnestness. Mrs. Mac-
Morlan was a ladylike person, and well qualified by birth and
manners to receive the visit, and to make her house agreeable to
Miss Bertram. A home, therefore, and an hospitable reception were
secured to her, and she went on with better heart to pay the wages
and receive the adieus of the few domestics of her father's
family.

Where there are estimable qualities on either side, this task is
always affecting; the present circumstances rendered it doubly so.
All received their due, and even a trifle more, and with thanks
and good wishes, to which some added tears, took farewell of their
young mistress. There remained in the parlour only Mr. Mac-Morlan,
who came to attend his guest to his house, Dominie Sampson, and
Miss Bertram. 'And now,' said the poor girl, 'I must bid farewell
to one of my oldest and kindest friends. God bless you, Mr.
Sampson, and requite to you all the kindness of your instructions
to your poor pupil, and your friendship to him that is gone. I
hope I shall often hear from you.' She slid into his hand a paper
containing some pieces of gold, and rose, as if to leave the room.

Dominie Sampson also rose; but it was to stand aghast with utter
astonishment. The idea of parting from Miss Lucy, go where she
might, had never once occurred to the simplicity of his
understanding. He laid the money on the table. 'It is certainly
inadequate,' said Mac-Morlan, mistaking his meaning, 'but the
circumstances--'

Mr. Sampson waved his hand impatiently.--'It is not the lucre, it
is not the lucre; but that I, that have ate of her father's loaf,
and drank of his cup, for twenty years and more--to think that I
am going to leave her, and to leave her in distress and dolour!
No, Miss Lucy, you need never think it! You would not consent to
put forth your father's poor dog, and would you use me waur than a
messan? No, Miss Lucy Bertram, while I live I will not separate
from you. I'll be no burden; I have thought how to prevent that.
But, as Ruth said unto Naomi, "Entreat me not to leave thee, nor
to depart from thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and where
thou dwellest I will dwell; thy people shall be my people, and thy
God shall be my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I
be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death
do part thee and me."'

During this speech, the longest ever Dominie Sampson was known to
utter, the affectionate creature's eyes streamed with tears, and
neither Lucy nor Mac-Morlan could refrain from sympathising with
this unexpected burst of feeling and attachment. 'Mr. Sampson,'
said Mac-Morlan, after having had recourse to his snuff-box and
handkerchief alternately, 'my house is large enough, and if you
will accept of a bed there while Miss Bertram honours us with her
residence, I shall think myself very happy, and my roof much
favoured, by receiving a man of your worth and fidelity.' And
then, with a delicacy which was meant to remove any objection on
Miss Bertram's part to bringing with her this unexpected
satellite, he added, 'My business requires my frequently having
occasion for a better accountant than any of my present clerks,
and I should be glad to have recourse to your assistance in that
way now and then.'

'Of a surety, of a surety,' said Sampson eagerly; 'I understand
book-keeping by double entry and the Italian method.'

Our postilion had thrust himself into the room to announce his
chaise and horses; he tarried, unobserved, during this
extraordinary scene, and assured Mrs. Mac-Candlish it was the most
moving thing he ever saw; 'the death of the grey mare, puir
hizzie, was naething till't.' This trifling circumstance
afterwards had consequences of greater moment to the Dominie.

The visitors were hospitably welcomed by Mrs. Mac-Morlan, to whom,
as well as to others, her husband intimated that he had engaged
Dominie Sampson's assistance to disentangle some perplexed
accounts, during which occupation he would, for convenience sake,
reside with the family. Mr. Mac-Morlan's knowledge of the world
induced him to put this colour upon the matter, aware that,
however honourable the fidelity of the Dominie's attachment might
be both to his own heart and to the family of Ellangowan, his
exterior ill qualified him to be a'squire of dames,' and rendered
him, upon the whole, rather a ridiculous appendage to a beautiful
young woman of seventeen.

Dominie Sampson achieved with great zeal such tasks as Mr. Mac-
Morlan chose to entrust 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.'

'O, he does!' said Mac-Morlan.' Yes, yes, I can understand that
better. And pray, Mr. Sampson, are these three hours entirely
spent inconstruing 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.'

'O ho!' thought 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
protegee, and even for himself; for the senior Mr. Hazlewood was
powerful, wealthy, ambitious, and vindictive, and looked for both
fortune and title in any connexion 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 got such
a provision, she hinted to him that his present mode of
superintending Charles Hazlewood's studies 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 crest-fallen, 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 in 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 on 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, and 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 find 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 Dumfries-shire 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 telling 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 tenderest 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 of 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 farther
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
Paisiello'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 O,
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 O 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 be 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 farther. 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? O 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 on 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 mere 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 me 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 be 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 farther 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 farther 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
unpleasing 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 reentered, 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 springguns. I should be loth 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
must 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 recognized 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 to-day, 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.