'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 ringers 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.

'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 not 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.

'"O, 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
dependents 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"--drily 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 was 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 farther fates of--her

'JULIA MANNERING.'






CHAPTER  XIX
     Which sloping hills around inclose,
     Where many a beech and brown oak grows
     Beneath whose dark and branching bowers
     Its tides a far-fam'd river pours,
     By natures beauties taught to please,
     Sweet Tusculan of rural easel

          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 dove-cot,
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 Mac-Morlan 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.

Let us do Mannering justice. A desire to serve the distressed had also
its share in determining him. He had considered the advantage which Julia
might receive from the company of Lucy Bertram, whose genuine prudence
and good sense could so surely be relied upon. This idea had become much
stronger since Mac-Morlan had confided to him, under the solemn seal of
secrecy, the whole of her conduct towards young Hazlewood. To propose to
her to become an inmate in his family, if distant from the scenes of her
youth and the few whom she called friends, would have been less delicate;
but at Woodbourne she might without difficulty be induced to become the
visitor of a season, without being depressed into the situation of an
humble companion. Lucy Bertram, with some hesitation, accepted the
invitation to reside a few weeks with Miss Mannering. She felt too well
that, however the Colonel's delicacy might disguise the truth, his
principal motive was a generous desire to afford her his countenance and
protection, which his high connexions, and higher character, were likely
to render influential in the neighbourhood.

About the same time the orphan girl received a letter from Mrs. Bertram,
the relation to whom she had written, as cold and comfortless as could
well be imagined. It inclosed, indeed, a small sum of money, but strongly
recommended economy, and that Miss Bertram should board herself in some
quiet family, either at Kippletringan or in the neighbourhood, assuring
her that, though her own income was very scanty, she would not see her
kinswoman want. Miss Bertram shed some natural tears over this
cold-hearted epistle; for in her mother's time this good lady had been a
guest at Ellangowan for nearly three years, and it was only upon
succeeding to a property of about L400 a year that she had taken farewell
of that hospitable mansion, which otherwise might have had the honour of
sheltering her until the death of its owner. Lucy was strongly inclined
to return the paltry donation, which, after some struggles with avarice,
pride had extorted from the old lady. But on consideration she contented
herself with writing that she accepted it as a loan, which, she hoped in
a short time to repay, and consulted her relative upon the invitation she
had received from Colonel and Miss Mannering. This time the answer came
in course of post, so fearful was Mrs. Bertram that some frivolous
delicacy, or nonsense, as she termed it, might induce her cousin to
reject such a promising offer, and thereby at the same time to leave
herself still a burden upon her relations. Lucy, therefore, had no
alternative, unless she preferred continuing a burden upon the worthy
Mac-Morlans, who were too liberal to be rich. Those kinsfolk who formerly
requested the favour of her company had of late either silently, or with
expressions of resentment that she should have preferred Mac-Morlan's
invitation to theirs, gradually withdrawn their notice.

The fate of Dominie Sampson would have been deplorable had it depended
upon any one except Mannering, who was an admirer of originality, for a
separation from Lucy Bertram would have certainly broken his heart.
Mac-Morlan had given a full account of his proceedings towards the
daughter of his patron. The answer was a request from Mannering to know
whether the Dominie still possessed that admirable virtue of taciturnity
by which he was so notably distinguished at Ellangowan. Mac-Morlan
replied in the affirmative. 'Let Mr. Sampson know,' said the Colonel's
next letter, 'that I shall want his assistance to catalogue and put in
order the library of my uncle, the bishop, which I have ordered to be
sent down by sea. I shall also want him to copy and arrange some papers.
Fix his salary at what you think befitting. Let the poor man be properly
dressed, and accompany his young lady to Woodbourne.'

Honest Mac-Morlan received this mandate with great joy, but pondered much
upon executing that part of it which related to newly attiring the worthy
Dominie. He looked at him with a scrutinising eye, and it was but too
plain that his present garments were daily waxing more deplorable. To
give him money, and bid him go and furnish himself, would be only giving
him the means of making himself ridiculous; for when such a rare event
arrived to Mr. Sampson as the purchase of new garments, the additions
which he made to his wardrobe by the guidance of his own taste usually
brought all the boys of the village after him for many days. On the other
hand, to bring a tailor to measure him, and send home his clothes, as for
a school-boy, would probably give offence. At length Mac-Morlan resolved
to consult Miss Bertram, and request her interference. She assured him
that, though she could not pretend to superintend a gentleman's wardrobe,
nothing was more easy than to arrange the Dominie's.

'At Ellangowan,' she said, 'whenever my poor father thought any part of
the Dominie's dress wanted renewal, a servant was directed to enter his
room by night, for he sleeps as fast as a dormouse, carry off the old
vestment, and leave the new one; nor could any one observe that the
Dominie exhibited the least consciousness of the change put upon him on
such occasions.'

Mac-Morlan, in conformity with Miss Bertram's advice, procured a skilful
artist, who, on looking at the Dominie attentively, undertook to make for
him two suits of clothes, one black and one raven-grey, and even engaged
that they should fit him--as well at least (so the tailor qualified his
enterprise) as a man of such an out-of-the-way build could be fitted by
merely human needles and shears. When this fashioner had accomplished his
task, and the dresses were brought home, Mac-Morlan, judiciously
resolving to accomplish his purpose by degrees, withdrew that evening an
important part of his dress, and substituted the new article of raiment
in its stead. Perceiving that this passed totally without notice, he next
ventured on the waistcoat, and lastly on the coat. When fully
metamorphosed, and arrayed for the first time in his life in a decent
dress, they did observe that the Dominie seemed to have some indistinct
and embarrassing consciousness that a change had taken place on his
outward man. Whenever they observed this dubious expression gather upon
his countenance, accompanied with a glance that fixed now upon the sleeve
of his coat, now upon the knees of his breeches, where he probably missed
some antique patching and darning, which, being executed with blue thread
upon a black ground, had somewhat the effect of embroidery, they always
took care to turn his attention into some other channel, until his
garments, 'by the aid of use, cleaved to their mould.' The only remark he
was ever known to make on the subject was, that 'the air of a town like
Kippletringan seemed favourable unto wearing apparel, for he thought his
coat looked almost as new as the first day he put it on, which was when
he went to stand trial for his license as a preacher.'

When the Dominie first heard the liberal proposal of Colonel Mannering,
he turned a jealous and doubtful glance towards Miss Bertram, as if he
suspected that the project involved their separation; but when Mr.
Mac-Morlan hastened to explain that she would be a guest at Woodbourne
for some time, he rubbed his huge hands together, and burst into a
portentous sort of chuckle, like that of the Afrite in the tale of 'The
Caliph Vathek.' After this unusual explosion of satisfaction, he remained
quite passive in all the rest of the transaction.

It had been settled that Mr. and Mrs. Mac-Morlan should take possession
of the house a few days before Mannering's arrival, both to put
everything in perfect order and to make the transference of Miss
Bertram's residence from their family to his as easy and delicate as
possible. Accordingly, in the beginning of the month of December the
party were settled at Woodbourne.






CHAPTER XX
    A gigantic genius fit to grapple with whole libraries

        --BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON


The appointed day arrived when the Colonel and Miss Mannering were
expected at Woodbourne. The hour was fast approaching, and the little
circle within doors had each their separate subjects of anxiety.
Mac-Morlan naturally desired to attach to himself the patronage and
countenance of a person of Mannering's wealth and consequence. He was
aware, from his knowledge of mankind, that Mannering, though generous and
benevolent, had the foible of expecting and exacting a minute compliance
with his directions. He was therefore racking his recollection to
discover if everything had been arranged to meet the Colonel's wishes and
instructions, and, under this uncertainty of mind, he traversed the house
more than once from the garret to the stables. Mrs. Mac-Morlan revolved
in a lesser orbit, comprehending the dining-parlour, housekeeper's room,
and kitchen. She was only afraid that the dinner might be spoiled, to the
discredit of her housewifely accomplishments. Even the usual passiveness
of the Dominie was so far disturbed that he twice went to the window
which looked out upon the avenue, and twice exclaimed, 'Why tarry the
wheels of their chariot?' Lucy, the most quiet of the expectants, had her
own melancholy thoughts. She was now about to be consigned to the charge,
almost to the benevolence, of strangers, with whose character, though
hitherto very amiably, displayed, she was but imperfectly acquainted. The
moments, therefore, of suspense passed anxiously and heavily.

At length the trampling of horses and the sound of wheels were heard. The
servants, who had already arrived, drew up in the hall to receive their
master and mistress, with an importance and EMPRESSEMENT which to Lucy,
who had never been accustomed to society, or witnessed what is called the
manners of the great, had something alarming. Mac-Morlan went to the door
to receive the master and mistress of the family, and in a few moments
they were in the drawing-room.

Mannering, who had travelled as usual on horseback, entered with his
daughter hanging upon his arm. She was of the middle size, or rather
less, but formed with much elegance; piercing dark eyes, and jet-black
hair of great length, corresponded with the vivacity and intelligence of
features in which were blended a little haughtiness, and a little
bashfulness, a great deal of shrewdness, and some power of humorous
sarcasm. 'I shall not like her,' was the result of Lucy Bertram's first
glance; 'and yet; I rather think I shall,' was the thought excited by the
second.

Miss Mannering was furred and mantled up to the throat against the
severity of the weather; the Colonel in his military great-coat. He bowed
to Mrs. Mac-Morlan, whom his daughter also acknowledged with a
fashionable courtesy, not dropped so low as at all to incommode her
person. The Colonel then led his daughter up to Miss Bertram, and, taking
the hand of the latter, with an air of great kindness and almost paternal
affection, he said, 'Julia, this is the young lady whom I hope our good
friends have prevailed on to honour our house with a long visit. I shall
be much gratified indeed if you can render Woodbourne as pleasant to Miss
Bertram as Ellangowan was to me when I first came as a wanderer into this
country.'

The young lady courtesied acquiescence, and took her new friend's hand.
Mannering now turned his eye upon the Dominie, who had made bows since
his entrance into the room, sprawling out his leg, and bending his back
like an automaton, which continues to repeat the same movement until the
motion is stopt by the artist. 'My good friend, Mr. Sampson,' said
Mannering, introducing him to his daughter, and darting at the same time
a reproving glance at the damsel, notwithstanding he had himself some
disposition to join her too obvious inclination to risibility; 'this
gentleman, Julia, is to put my books in order when they arrive, and I
expect to derive great advantage from his extensive learning.'