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the i

This novel is one of the newest and most modern
now extant, and is out of the common track of no
vel-writing : it is an attempt to unite the variou?
merits and graces of the ancient romance and mo
dern novel; and, like history, represent human na
ture as real life. To attain this end, there is requir
ed a degree of the marvellous to excite the attention,
and real manners of life to give an air of probability
to the work, and to engage the heart in its behalf.
The characters are admirably drawn and supported;
the diction polished and elegant: and the whole so
closely connected, as to keep the imagination of the
reader continually alive to the subject before him.
Thus mankind are naturally pleased with what
gratifies their vanity; and vanity, like all other pas
sions of the human heart, may be rendered subser*
vient to good and useful purposes.
The reader is not, therefore, confused with the as
sociation of truth with fiction, although fiction is the
basis of the story. The passion that awakens and
gives energy to life, is alone painted in those colours

which Aurora gives to the morning—when .nil ani
mated nature wakes to feast on the luxuriant fruits
of summer ; t when all is ecstacy, harmony and joy.
“Venal orators, who are dissatisfied with their own
situation, ever discover either vice or error in the
most meritorious performances. This production is
submitted to the candour of a generous public, who
ever censure with lenity, and reward with liberality.
“ It seemed to me that it is possible to compose a
work upon the same plan, wherein these defects
might be avoided; and the keeping, as in painting
might be preserved. But then I began to fear it
might happen to me, as to certain translators and
imitators of Shakspeare; the unities maybe pre
served while the spirit is evaporated : however, I
•entured tee attempt, and read it to a circle of friends
f approved judgment.”

In one of those seminaries devoted to female instruc
tion, with which the environs of London abound,
lived Miss Bridewell, whose sway within the limits
of her own jurisdiction, was equal to that of the most
poterit_monarch in the world, not excepting Napo
leon himself. IJer word was law —her nod was fate
—and her approbation or displeasure settled the de
gree of consequence enjoj r edby every individual that
approached her. Miss Bridewell had been so many
years a preceptress of youth, that she began to en
tertain thoughts of changing her appellation from
Miss to Mrs.; still, this was delayed, and the juve
nile title was now the only remains of youthful pre
tentions. "With increase of years, however, Miss
Bridewell had the consolation of enjoying a propor
tionate increase of fortune. "When she made her de
bit/ as a governess, it was in a small house atBromp-
ton, where a large board disclosed hers to de a board
ing school for young ladies. Her talents as a 6chool
mistress, soon raised her from this station, and she
opened Camondalc House with all the eclat of modern
Ep’cndour. Still, however, among scholars that

crowded her esteemed Seminary, some 'plebeian souls
; would creep in—scarcely could the immense sums
paid for their education, reconcile Miss Bridewell to
the degradation of admitting them into her circle.
The happy time at length arrived, in which the state
of Miss Bridewell’s finances enabled her to form an
establishment upon more exalted principles. Can-
nondale House was let at an enormous premium, and j
an exorbitant rent, to a governess of a subordinate
degree, glad of an opportunity of treading in the sue- j
cessful steps of her predecessor, and whose soul had i
not yet risen above the task of teaching the children
of tradesmen. The soaring mind of Miss Bridewell
was not so easily contented. Ladies of title, or oi
high family, were alone the objects of her attention,
and the name of establishment was given to her semi
nary, as having a grander sound, and better suited to
her exalted ideas. We all know, however, that there
are many people of high rank, who are straitened
in their circumstances, and whose names, although
they may bestow eclat, will not support expence.
Miss Bridewell soon found this, and it induced her
to admit a few rich heiresses, as a great favour, into
the happy group that formed her establishment, as
she was a true disciple of the world, she bestowed
her favours, which cost her nothing, in proportion as
she received those from her pupils, that cost a great
deal. The house stood in a shrubbery, with a velvet
lawnbefore the door: the windows were on the French
construction, and adorned by virandas, whilst the
most costly display of orange trees, and other exo
tics of the rarest kind, gave the coup d’ceil, to the en
trance of “ Myrtle Grove,” as this retreat of the mu-
. sea was poetically denominated.—Could it be possi
ble for pride to be happy, Miss Bridewell must have
been so, but it is well known that the gratification of
our passions never yet gave the happiness it pro
mised, and pride above all other feelings is the hard
est to be satisfied. Miss Bridewell was far from

happy, for her haughty temper was insatiable of ho
mage, and, notwithstanding she supported imperial
dignity amongst her immediate dependants, she al
ways felt that uneasiness inseparable from conscious
unworthiness, whenever she went into public. She
fancied if she was independant, she should be more
respected, and deplored the necessity there was for
her continuing the occupation of governess so long
after the aggrandisement of her wishes had rendered
every thing short of haut-ton degrading to her in
flated pride. Her domestic establishment was on a
larp'e scale ; she had two men, a coachman, and a
porter at the cate, besides a proportionate number
of female servants; and this stately parade was be
come so necessary to her existence, that it obliged
her to pursue that occupation which alone could pre
serve itj for her. Her avarice, therefore, increased
with her fortune, and rendered her the ready tool of
every person whose power or riches seemed to pro
mise to assist in supporting the consequence she
prized so highly. Miss Bridewell had a limited
number of pupils, and as her price was exorbitant,
the number was generally on the deficit side; and,
notwithstanding her.constant boast of the many ap
plications she" was obliged to refuse, she felt herseli
more frequently anxious because of their poverty
than their multitude.
During the Christmas vacation, in 1798, Miss
Bridewell being on a visit at one of her honourable
pupils, the care of her family was left to the lady
styled sub-governcss in the teaching department.
This lady, whose name was Dawson, bad long been
a great favourite with her employer, because her dis
position was of that kind, that is!exactly suited to such
people as Miss Bridewell, whom she took care to
flatter on the weak side of her understanding, and by
that means led her whichever way she pleased.
Two young ladies, West Indians, of large fortune,
always passed the holidays at Myrtle Grove; and

Mrs. Dawson was sitting one dismal evening with
them in the drawing room, relating a string of ad
ventures that befell ner during the reign of Robes
pierre, which term of terror had been passed by Mrs.
Dawson at Paris, Miss Barlowe declared tiiere was
not such a bore, as long dismal stories: and Miss
Emily, hersister, observed with a yawn, that she wish
ed there existed a probability of an interruption to
their solitude, by the arrival of company. Just as
she spoke,' a ring at the carriage gate made them
jump. "Company,”exclaimed MissEmily, dancing
about in an ecstasy of joy, we shall have something
to amuse us at last.” A servant came into the room
at this moment, leading a little girl by the hand, of
the most prepossessing appearance, and announced
to Mrs. Dawson, that a lady in a very dashing equip
age, desired to speak with her at the gate. Mrs.
Dawson was much disturbed at this as she was par
ticularly afraid of catching cold; and one servant was
sent for her shawl, another for clogs, and another for
her swansdown tippet, whilst she stood lamenting the
untoward circumstance that exposed her to the dread
ed danger, at length she was equipped to her mind,
and proceeded to greet the unseasonable visitor. But,
heavens I what was her surprise and consternation
when the porter told her that the carriage was that
instant gone, “ the lady waited,” said he, “ as long
as she could ma’am, but finding you did not come,
she said she must go, and that she would call again;
but she said there was a letter in the young lady’s
trunk that will explain every thing. Mrs. Dawson
walked back to the house in silence; a secret fear
pervaded her mind that she should incur Miss Bride
well’s displeasure, although, excepting time she had
wasted in equipping herself, she could not be implica
ted in the blame of receiving the child, without see
ing the person who brought it. Mrs. Dawson found
the two Miss Barlowe’s amusing themselves with
their new companion, who was a beautiful little girl,

about five years old, and who appeared as much de
lighted with her playfellows, as they were with her.
“ This is the sweetest little angel that ever was seen,”
said Miss Emily, “ pray dear Mrs. Dawson, tell me
who she is ? the little creature herself says she has
no name beside Fanny." “ Indeed I know nothing
about her,” said Mrs. Dawson, “I have a great mind
to send her to the workhouse, for I suspect it is a
mere swindling trick to impose the child upon Miss
Bridewell.” “ The workhouse ! dear Mrs. Dawson,
how can you talk so shocking ?” said Miss Barlowe.
Miss Barlowe was very generous where she liked, and
Mrs. Dawson had often felt the pleasing effects of
her bounty ; she was not willing, therefore, to incur
the censure of so convenient a friend, and as she was
well versed in the art of tacking about, she changed
her note in a minute, and taking the child upon her
knee, she said, “ It is a pretty little creature, indeed,
my dear j I believe I should be as unlikely as your
self to act unkindly towards her. What is yonr
name,poppet?” continued Mrs.Dawson, addressing
the child, “ Fanny,” answered the little innocent.
“And your other name,” asked her interrogator. “ I
have no other name,” said the child. “ Who is
your father, my dear “ I have none," answered the
prattler; “ they used to call me Fatherless Fanny.”
“ Who were those that called you so 1” “ I don’t
know,” replied the child, “ Mrs. Sydney was my
mamma, and that’s all I can tell you.” “ Oh dear,”
interrupted Mrs. Dawson, givinglittle Fanny to Miss
Barlowe, “ I had forgotten to ask for the child’s
trunk i the porter says there is a letter in it that will
explain every thing.” So saying, she pulled the bell,
and ordered the servant to bring up the young lady’s
trunk, that was just come: the servant obeyed; and
the girls pressed round Mrs. Dawson, whilst she
opened it. On the top of the package lay a letter,
directed for Miss Bridewell; and as Mrs. Dawson
considered herself that lady’s representative, she did

not scruple to satisfy her curiosity, by opening it.
The first object that presented itself to her eyes on
so doing, was a bank post bill for two hundred pounds,
she then perused the letter, and: found the following
“ The young lady, the companion of this letter, is
nobly born, and entitled to a large fortune. Reasons,
which cannot with prudence be revealed, oblige her
friends to conceal her in some safe retreat for a few
years. Miss Bridewell is selected 'as the most eligi
ble preceptress for little Fanny, to whose care, there
fore, she is consigned, with a strict charge not to
spare expense or labour in her education.^ The sum
enclosed will be paid yearly to Miss Bridewell for
the support of her ward, who is to be distinguished
by the appellation of Panny only.”
“There,” said Mrs. Dawson, exultingly, “I am
glad this affair has turned out so well, for I was sadly
afraid we should have a hurricane at Miss Bridewell’s
return: but come, let us examine the little brat’s
wardrobe; we shall guess by that whether the account
of her be true or not.” The clothes were produced
and convinced the committee that Panny was, in
deed, the personage the letter described her to be.
Yet no trinket or picture appeared which might serve
as a guide to ascertain her identity, when she should
be re-demanded by her friends. When the exami
nation was finished, the ladies re-seated themselves
on the sofa, where they found poor Fanny fast asleep.
A servant was ordered to attend the new comer to
bed. Emily Barlowe entreated she might share hers
“ and do let her be my child, Mrs. Dawson, indeed
I will teach her, and take care of her, and become
quite a mother to her.” “ Ah you cunning puss/’
replied Mrs. Dawson, “thus it is that you always
have your way with me.” “ Oh then I may have
her 1” interrupted Miss Emily, snatching the child
up in her arms. “You will spoil your shape, Emily,”
iaid her sister, “ if you carry that heavy child about,

and what do you think mamma will say when she
sees you?” “Pa^adesiredmenottospoilmy heart,"
answered Emily, “ and therefore I am sure he will
approve of my doing anything that keeps the feel
ings of humanity in exercise.” The sweet girl with
her little charge in her arms, now left the room, at
tended by the maid. When Emily returned to the
drawing room from putting Fanny to bed, she said,
“my little girl has got the prettiest necklace and
bracelets made of hair, and locked with bullion, that
ever were made. I dare say they are composed of
her father and mother’s hair, for I can perceive two
sorts, but I would not unclasp them, for fear of wak
ing the little stranger.”
The next day when Fanny, withher “cmpedlocks,”
of golden brown, her large blue eyes, and lips like
the rose bud, madeher appearance at breakfast, every
beholder was charmed, and “ sweet little creature,”
echoed from every tongue. Innumerable questions
were addressed to the sweet prattler, but they could
only learn by their questions that she had no papa,
that Mrs. Sydney was her mamma, and that she was
a very old lady, and wore a black hood over her cap
like & picture, and that a pretty lady used to kiss her
at night after she was in bed, and cry over her, and
call her poor Fatherless Fanny, and that she never
saw tliat lady excepting at night Of the bracelets
andnecklacewhichshe wore, and which had “ Fanny”
engraved inside the clasps, she could give no other
account than that she found them on ner neck and
arms one morning when she waked.
Emily perfectly doated upon her adopted child,
and could scarcely be prevailed upon by Mrs. Daw
son to practise the hours which her progress in mu
sic demanded. _ At length Miss Bridewell camehome
from her visit in a very ill-humour j her vanity was
considerably inflated by the attentions she had re
ceived during her stay at| the Marquis of Peters-
ficld’s: but alas! her purse had not been proportion-

ably increased; for, although her account for Lady
Maria and Lady Isabella Trentham’s education, was
. of three years’ standing, no notice was taken of dis
charging it But neither honours nor good graces
will support a household, and Miss Bridewell, much
as she loved great people’s sufferance, felt most sen
sibly that it might be purchased too dearly. She had
her extravagances as well as the lords and ladies with
whom she was so fond of associating, and it was abo
minably provoking to think that she could not pur
chase their society, without giving up the hopes of
receiving what could alone enable her to support the
expence incurred bv its indulgence.
It was evening when Miss Bridewell arrived, and
Fanny was already retired to bed. Mrs. Dawson
was summoned to attend Miss Bridewell in her bou
doir, and requested to give an account of the occur
rences during her absence. The wily favourite per
ceiving that ner superior was disconcerted at some
thing which had crossed her wishes, endeavoured to
find out what the grievanccvwas, that she might suit
her story to the humour of the moment; with a look
of anxiety, therefore, and an affectionate pressure of
the hand, she said, “ excuse me, madam, but I cannot
speak,on any other subject until you have quieted
my apprehensions respecting yourself: your looks'
betray uneasiness; deign to confide your sorrow to
the most faithful of your friends ?” “ You are a good
creature, Dawson,” replied Miss Bridewell; “ your
anxiety, however, has overrated my present grievan
ces, as they are nothing more than what spring from
pecuniary disappointment. The Marquis has not
settled that long account, nor even offered to accom
modate me with a part, and I have some payments
to make, that would render a couple of hundreds very
acceptable to me just now. Two hundred pounds
would be absolutely worth four to me at this mo
ment.” Mr*. Dawson smiled, and turning out of the
room without speaking, went in search of her pocket

book, which contained the bank bill that had been
received with little Fanny. When she re-entered
^he room, she presented the pocket book to Miss
Bridewell. “ Would to heaven,” said she, “ it were
always in my power to administer thus fortunately
to your exigencies, what wish of my dear friend’s
would then remain ungratified V’ Miss' Bridewell
looked surprised, but mechanically opening the book,
she cast her eye upon the bant bill. “ My dear
Dawson,” said she, as she took it in her hand, “what
can this mean !” “ It means, my dear madam, that
the two hundred pounds you were just wishing for is
there, at your command.” Mrs. Dawson then re
lated the story of Fanny’s arrival—produced the let
ter, and described the childas a perfect cherub. Her
narrative was worded in a manner so well suited to
Miss Bridewell’s particularities, that it had the effect
her narrator intended. The seasonable supply of two
hundred pounds, when it was so much wanted, had
put her into a good humour, and the manner in which
the tale had been unfolded, completed the favourable
impression. Fanny was received at her levee the
next morning, in the most gracious manner; Emily
Barlowe was highly commended for having noticed
the “ sweet little creature as Miss Bridewell styled
her,new pupil, and of course it became the order of
the day at Myrtle Grove to make “ Fatherless Fan
ny," (as she sometimes pathetically Called herself
the favourite of all those who aspired to its lofty mis*
tress’s good graces. Every visitor was shewn the
“ lovely girl,” and told, with a significant nod, that
time would prove the child to be somebody. Never
was there a happier being than little Fanny. Emily
Barlowe was the dearest object of her infantile love,
and on her gentle bosom the sweet prattler generally
composed herself to sleep. To Emily, Fanny was
now become the suroum&onim of happiness, who filled
up every moment of leisure with the delightful task
of instructing her darling, to whom every accom-

plishment was imparted, her tender age was capabi;
of receiving. Lady Maria Trentham was very torn
of Fanny too, and vied with Emily Barlowe in thf
task of instructing her, and such was the zeal of the
teachers, and such the capacity of the scholar, that
the little favourite soon became a miracle of clever
At the end of the first year, Miss Bridewell, who
had depended upon the annual two hundred, promised
in Fanny’s recommendatory letter, felt herself ex
tremely inconvenienced at its not appearing; hut
when a second year elapsed, and no notice was taken
either of the promise or the child, her patience was
entirely exhausted. Poor Fanny was no longer a
favourite; but a little troublesomebrat, that had been
imposed upon her by some designing person, who,
depending upon the benevolence ofherheart, imagined
she would keep the child for nothing, when once it
had got such hold of her affection, as to make it pain
ful to her to part with it; however, they would find
themselves mistaken, for she was not a person to be
imposed upon in that manner. “ I will advertise the
girl in the newspapers, and if that expedient does not
make her friends come forward, I will send the chit
to the workhouse, where she ought to have been sent
at first, if Dawson had not been a fool.” “ My dear
Miss Bridewell,” said the amiable Emily, “ let me \
plead for this poor little innocent, try one year more
before you have recourse to such severe measures ;
perhaps the most fatal consequences may accrue to
her unfortunate mother, if you should advertise the
particulars of this mysterious story, and may prove
the ultimate ruin of the dear child. If nobody comes
forward in that time, I will-pay you the expences of
this year of grace out of . my own allowance ; and if
you are determined to part with the lovely orphan, 1
will write to papa for permission to take her with
me to Jamaica when I leave school.” Miss Bride
well knew her own interest too well to refuse such a

request as the foregoing, and Fatherless Fanny, as
she was now generally denominated by her governess,
was permitted to remain at Myrtie Grove, for the
space of another year.
That year elapsed like the former two, Emily
was obliged to pay the charge made by Miss Bride
well for the last year. This sacrifice of all the good
girl’s other extra expences, was made with the most
perfect good will, in favour of her little darling, yet
it was not rewarded with the satisfaction so benevolent
an action was entitled to ; for, alas! in answer to the
letter she had sent to her father, pleading the cause
of the unfortunate orphan, she received one from her
mother, couched in terms of high displeasure:—“ I
have intercepted the ridiculous letter you addressed
to your father,” said Mrs. Barlowe, “ and I consider
it a lucky circumstance that it fell into my hands, as
I know his silly good nature would most likely have
led him to comply .with your request. I desire 1
may never hear of such a thing again. Adopt a child
indeed 1 I fancy you will find uses enough for your
fortune, when you get it without encumbering your
self with brats that are nothing to you. Caroline
would never have thought of such a thing. Remem
ber, girl, 1 charity begins at home .’ ”
This severe injunction was a cruel blow to Emily,
who thuslost the power ol'snatching Fanny from the
evils that threatened her. Only one year wafc now
wanting for the completion of the Miss Barlowes
education; they were then to return to Jamaica, and
Emily consoled herself with the reflection, that at
least when she saw her father, she should be able to
accomplish her wishes respecting Fanny, if that dear
£irl should then stand m need of her assistance.
iady Maria Trentham, who was Emily’s particular
friend, would gladly have assisted her in maintaining
Fanny; but, alas, a profusion of fine clothes, and an
unnecessary display of trinkets, besides a truly be-
nevolentheart, was all the poor girl possessed. Any
1U< B

thing would have been granted her, indeed, by hei
indulgent mother, that did not require ready money,
for of that pleasing article there could not be less in
•my house than in that of the noble Marquis of Pe~
tersfield ; but poor Lady Maria knew it was of no
use to offer any thing but ready to Miss Bridewell,
who was already promised crammed."
The expedient of advertising the helpless Fanny
was therefore adverted toby Miss Bridewell, without;
farther delay. The following is the advertisement
which appeared in the most popular papers of the
day, which Miss Bridewell dictated herself:—
Whereas some ill-minded Person or Persons left a
little Girl at the house of Miss Bridewell, Myrtle
Grove, three years ago, with an intention, no doubt,
of defrauding thatlady of the maintenance of the said
child. This is to give notice, that unless the before-
mentioned little Girl be taken away from Myrtle
Grove, within one month from the date hereof, she
will be sent to the Workhouse. The child answers
to the name of Fanny.
Lord Ellincourt was a young nobleman of that
thoughtless kind, which is but too often met with in
this age. His lordship possessed abilities calculated
to shine in the senate, had their latent powers been
drawn forth by the society of the wise and virtuous.
Instead of that, however, he had been precipitated
into the vortex of extravagance and folly, at college,
where so many of his liijjht Honourable cousins as
sailed him with the temptations into which they had

longbeen initiated themselves; that between precept
and example, his mind became perverted, and he
forsook the paths of learning for those of dissipation.
At his debut in the great world Lord Ellincourt kept
a stud of race-horses for the sake of employment / two
packs of hounds for the same reason; and when the
pleasures of London confinedhim to the metropolis for
the season, he drove with the fury of a Jehu, a tandem,
dog-cart, a mail, and an inexplicable, to the astonish
ment of the natives, and the imminent danger of the
sober foot passenger who came in his way. Lord
Ellincourt, like most men of fashion, had many fa
vourites amongst the fair sex, but few upon whose fi
delity he could place much reliance. One excep
tion, however, he had longbeen in possession of, who
although a female, had never for an instant broken
her faith. Some of his favourites received his lord
ship according to the state of his finances, and smiled
or frowned in proportion to the golden shower that
fell into their laps from his bounty; but his little
Fan lavishedjher caresses upon her beloved lord with
out considering whether he had had a run of good or
ill luck. Whithersoever his lordship went, his faith
ful friend went with him, and even partook of his
bed-room ; but I must inform my readers that poor
Fan was a four-footed lady, and therefore the intima
cy that subsisted between her and Lord Ellincourt
could reflect no disgrace on either party. A mis
fortune, however, happened, that disturbed the hap
piness of this loving pair. Poor Fan was stolen away,
and every effort to fin'd her proved ineffectual. The
loss of hislittle favourite had been the theme of Lord
Ellincourt’s conversation for many weeks, and his
gay companions began to grow weary of the subject.
“ What nonsense it is,” said Colonel Ross to Sir
Henry Ambersley, “ to be obliged to listen to Ellin-
court’s lamentations forthe loss of his little mongrel,
every time one meets him.”
“ Let’s hoax him,” replied Sir Henry, “ and cure

26 FAlHEBLEfft. PAtfNY : OSS,
him of such nonsensical prosing.” “ In what man
ner V* asked his friend. “ I’ll showiyou,” replied Sir
Henry, taking a newspaper that lay_before them on
the table, and pointing out Miss Bridewell’s adver
tisement. “ Here comes Ellincourt, and I will put
my scheme into execution immediately.” Lord El
lincourt entered the coffee-room, and coming up to
the two friends, he asked, “ what news ?” “ The best
in the world, 1 ’ replied Sir Henry: “ your little Fan is
found.” “ The deuce she is: but tell me, the wheres
and the hows, and all that.” “ I’ll read you the ad
vertisement,” answered Sir Henry, reading Miss
Bridewell’s advertisement aloud, only substituting
the word dog in the place of child and girl, suppress
ing the date, and concluding line, respecting the work
house, and a threat to hang the poor animal, if not
reclaimed within a month. “ What a barbarian!” ex
claimed Lord Ellincourt, “ to talk of hanging poor
little Fan. I will drive down there directly. I know j
Myrtle Grove immensely well; I have been there to
see the Trenthams, with my mother. A queer old
figure that said governess is; I remember her well. I
I did not like her phiz. May I be bamboozled the j
next Newmarket meeting, if I don’t scalp the old !
savage with my own hands, should I find she has j
used Fan ill, mind that.” Sir Henry and Colonel j
Ross laughed, “ Had not your lordship better read
the advertisement yourself, before you setout?” said j
Colonel Ross, offering the paper. “ Oh! no,” re- !
plied Lord Ellincourt, “ there can be no mistake the
description answers exactly.” As he spoke, his lord
ship hastened outof the room, and left his two friends
laughing at the credulity with which he had taken
the hoax. “ I little imagined,” said Colonel Ross,
“ that he would have swallowed the bait so easily.”
“ You are a pretty fellow too, an’t you 1” replied Sir
Henry. “ I thought you would have spoiled the
ioke. Quiz me if I would not give a cool hundred to
be present when he and the old governess get at it

tooth'and nail." “What, do you think they will
fight?” “ I am sure of it," answered Sir Henry, “ El-
lincourt will insist upon having his dog, the old girl
will say she has not got it, and then there will be a
quarrel. She is a very dragon, my sister tells me,
and Ellincourt is Cayenne itself: so if there be not
a row, I shall be surprised.” This was too good a
joke to, be confined to two people; therefore, the
fashionable pair strolled out “ to set it a-going,” and
to prepare a merry meeting for their friend Ellin
court, at jhis return from Myrtle Grove.
The drive to Myrtle Grove appeared of an immo
derate length. At length the white gate, leading to
the sweep before the mansion, struck his eyes, and
giving a crack of his whip to increase the speed of
his barbs, the dashing equipage presently stopped
before it. The porter answered in the affirmative to
the question whether Miss Bridewell was at home,
Lord Ellincourt alighted, and was ushered into the
elegant boudoir of the modish governess. His lord
ship’s patience experienced a severe trial, whilst
waiting the arrival of the antiquated virgin; for hav
ing sent in his name, the lady was too anxious to ap
pear in style to think of coming before his lordship
until she consulted her mirror. When completely
equipped, she descended to her expected visitor. She
began a long apology, which, however, Lord Ellin
court interrupted by saying, “ Dear madam, excuse
my impatience: your advertisement informs me that
you have got my little Pan, and I am in a great hur
ry to see the dear creature.” “ And does little Fanny
belong to your lordship ?” exclaimed Miss Bride
well, in a tone of surprise, whilst a smile of complai
sance expressed the pleasure she felt at the intelli
gence. “How happy I feel that the dear little crea
ture fell into my hands! I am sure your lordship
will be satisfied with the care I have taken of her.”
“You are very good ma’am,’’ answered his lordship
with an impatient inclination of the head: “ I have

no doubt of your kindness to the little thing, but I !
really wish to see her ; she is a great favourite of
mine, and so was her mother.” “ Your lordship was
acquainted with Fanny’s mother then,” said Miss
Bridewell, drawing up her moilth in a -formal man
ner. “ Oh, yes,” answered his lordship laughing,
—“ her mother and I were old acquaintances, and
so, indeed, was her father, I was very fond of him
too.” “ And pray, my lord,” asked the prim lady,
“ what is become of poor Fanny’s father t I under
stood he was dead.” “ I wonder by what means you
ever heard any thing about him,” replied Lord El-
lincourt: “ however, I must inform you he was
hanged, about two years ago.” “ Hanged I did your
lordship say hanged ?" exclaimed Miss Bridewell,
with horror and astonishment on her features. “ Yes
my good ma’am,” answered his lordship, with a smile,
“ the poor fellow was really hanged for sheep-stealing,
but what’s the matter, Miss Bridewell? you look
frightened.” “ And enough to make me so, my lord,”
answered, she, “ to reflect that I have been harbour
ing the daughter of a sheep-stealer in my house all
this time.” “ Oh 1 is that all ?” answered Lord Ellin-
courtlaughing: “ don’t let that frighten you; my life
upon it, little Fan will never meddle with your limbs. j
“ I assure your lordship,” said Miss Bridewell, with
a toss of her head, “ the contamination has already
been too great. But pray, my lord, what is become.
of the mother of this unfortunate female ? is she still
alive ?” “ No, she is dead too/’ answered his lord
ship : “ I kept her as long as she lived; and so I
mean to do by Fan, if you.will but let me have
the dear little creature.” “ I have no intention of
detaining her, I assure your lordship ; but I beg to
observe, that I shall expect to be reimbursed for tha
expences I have been at in her "maintenance and
education.” “ The maintenance of such a little ani
mal,” replied his lordship, “ cannot be much to be
sure; but as to her education, I cannot imagina

what the deuce you can have taught her; she knew
how to fetch and carry before I lost her.” “ Your
lordship talks in a very odd strain,” answered Miss
Bridewell; “ but I can produce the masters’ bills,
who have taught her music, drawing, and dancing.”
Lord Ellincourt burst into a fit of laughter. “ Ex
cuse me, Miss Bridewell, but really I cannot help
it If you will prove to me that your scholar h&s
learned anything of what you pretend to have taught
her. I will pay for it whatever you think proper to
charge ; for, upon my soul, I think I shall make my
fortune by showing the little creature about the
streets. Dancing she may have acquired, but as to
anything else, excuse me if I don’t believe a word
of it.” “ Your lordship is at liberty td think what
you please,” answered Miss Bridewell, haughtily,
“ but I shall insist on being paid, before I deliver up
the child. I will fetch her to convince your lord
ship that she has capacity, and that she has received
instruction.” So saying, Miss Bridewell flounced
out of the room, and left Lord Ellincourt mute with
astonishment. Miss Bridewell returned leading
Fanny by the hand, whose terrified countenance and
streaming eyes plainly evinced the severity with
which her governess had just been treating her.
Fanny was now eight years old, a tall, elegantly-
formed child, whose dazzling complexion and beau
tiful features were calculated to strike every beholder
with admiration. Lord Ellincourt gazed at her with
a surprise mingled with delight. “ What a sweet
creature I” exclaimed his lordship : “but why is[she
weeping ?” “ There, my lord, is little Fanny,” said
Miss Bridewell, not noticing his question ; “ and if
your lordship were fond of her worthless
parents as you pretend to have been, you will not
think much at paying the debts their offspring has
contracted.” “ Upon my honour, madam,” replied
Lord Ellincourt, “ I am wholly at a loss to guess
what you are aiming at: I never had the honour of

seeing the parents of that sweet girl.” “ Why, good
heavens 1” exclaimed Miss Bridewell, “ did not your
lordship say, that her father was hanged for sheep-
stealing, and that her mother was a naughty kept-wo -
man ?” “Who, It” rejoined LordEllincourt, start
ing. “ I am astonished at your lordship ; indeed, I
am, said Miss Bridewell; “ did not your lordship
say you were come to fetch Fanny away, and that
you intended keeping her as long as she lived, as you
had done her mother! And all that we hesitated
about was respecting the payment of my demand for
her education.” “ Herenas been a great mistake,” '
replied Lord Ellincourt, “ and I feel ashamed of
having occasioned you so much trouble. I came
here, madam, at the instigation of a friend, who told
me you had found a little dog, which I lost some
time ago. The little animal’s name was Fanny, and
hence originated the mistake. My friend, Sir Henry
Ambersley, read an advertisement to me this morn
ing stating that the creature was found, and might
be heard of here. I am persuaded he did it for a
hoax.” Miss Bridewell reached a newspaper which
contained her advertisement, and begged Lord El
lincourt to read it. As soon ashe had complied with
her request, he said, “ And is it possible you intend
to send this child to the workhouse ?” “Yes, my
lord, unless reclaimed by the time specified.” “By
heavens you shall not 1” said his lordship. “ I will
pay for her myself, if no one comes to claim her. I
will keep a horse or two less at Newmarket to en
able me to doit. Do you agree to that, Miss Bride
well ?” Miss Bridewell smiled, and was vastly plea
sed. “ Your lordship understands there are arrears 1"
** Undoubtedly; and as I have just had a run of good
luck, let us have your bill.” Miss Bridewell pre
sented her exorbitant demand, which she had got
ready, in case of any application from the child’s
friends. Lord Ellincourt only looked at the sum
total, and drew upon his banker for the amount.

There,’’ said he, “ remember now Fanny is my
child henceforward; and mind you use the little an
gel kindly, or blame me if I don’t blow your house
up with gunpowder. I may come to see her some
times, mayn’t I ?” added his lordship. “We shall
esteem your lordship’s visits an honour,” answered
Miss Bridewell, “and Fanny, lam sure, ought to love
Lord Ellincourt.” “ And so I do most dearly,” an
swered the sweet girl, holding up her lovely face to
kiss her benefactor. “ I shall pray for Lord Ellin
court every night and morning, and so will Emily
Barlowe and Lady Maria'Trentham, for they have
been so unhappy about me.” “Apropos,” said his
lordship, turning back as he was leaving the room,
after having embraced Fanny half-a-dozen times for
farewell, “ I forgot, I ought to see the Lady Trent-
hams they are my cousins.” Miss Bridewell en
treated his lordship to defer that intention until his
next visit, and after some hesitation he complied.
Fanny, who accompanied her governess to the door,
to witness his departure, followed the carriage with
her eyes full of tears, “ What a dear sweet gentle
man that is I” said the innocent girl: “Oh how I
love him.” “ He is a very generous man indeed,”
said Miss Bridewell. And well she might say so,
for he paid her enormous charge for the whole time
Fanny had been with her. The two hundredpounds
that came with her, and Miss Barlowe’s generous
contribution, were therefore a clear profit; and Fa
therless Fanny then became one of the most advan
tageous scholars she had ever had.
When Fanny returned to the apartment where the
oilier young ladies were, she entered it with a lively

bound, and running up to Miss Emily Barlowe,
clasped her arms about her neck; the good-natured
Emily’s tears fiowedso fast, that she could not speak;
but Miss Barlowe, the haughty Caroline, came and
disengaged Fanny from her sister’s embrace^ saying,
“ This disgraceful intimacy has endured long enough;
I insist now upon its termination.” Fanny looked
aghast, and turning her eyes upon the other ladies,
observed contempt and abhorrence painted on every
countenance, excepting those of Emily and the com
passionate Lady Maria Trentham, who took the ter
rified girl by the hand, and said, “ Don’t be,fright
ened, Fanny, I will always be your friend.” “ Indeed!
but I say nay to that,’’ interrupted Lady Isabella:
* a very pretty story, truly, for the Marquis of Pe-
tersfield’s daughter to be the companion of a sheep-
stealer’s child." Here all the girls burst into a fit of
laughter, and poor Fanny was so overcome, that co
vering her face with her hands, she sobbed aloud.
Emily Barlowe could not support the sight of her
favourite’s sorrow, but taking her in her arms, she
pressed her to her bosom. “ Nothing short of a pa
rent’s commands shall induce me to forsake this dear
child,” said she, “ let her be the daughter of what she
will.” Soothed by this kindness, poor Fanny reco
vered her speech—“I am not a sheep-stealer’s daugh
ter ; indeed, Miss Emily, it was all a mistake, for
Lord Ellincourt said so.” “ Lord Ellincourt 1” ex
claimed Lady Maria Trentham, “ was it Lord Ellin
court who has just been here ? lie is my cousin 1” “I
know it,” replied Fanny; ’* and his lordship asked
Miss Bridewell to let him see you and Lady Isabella;
but she begged him to wait until he called next time.”
“Is becoming again soon!” asked Lady Maria.
“ Yes,” replied Fanny, “ very soon. Oh how 1 love
Lord Ellincourt.” “ And so do I,” said Lady Maria,
“ he is so good-natured. I wonder why Miss Bride
well would not let us see him.” “ I don’t know,” an
swered Fanny. When Miss Bridewell had quitted

the room to fetch Fanny to Lord Ellincourt, her
mind was impressed with the imputed worthlessness
of the child’s parents, and proud of an opportunity
of revenging the anxiety she had suffered on her ac
count, she immediately spread the report of poor
Fanny being the daughter of a sheep-stealer. The
young ladies looked astonished: “Yes, indeed,ladies,”
said Miss Bridewell, “ this girl is the offspring of a
kept mistress, and a man that was hanged for slieep-
stealing!” The consequence of such a speech to a
group of young girls, proud of their births, and tena
cious of their consequence, may readily be ima
gined; every one was unanimous in execrating the
innocent object of their hatred, with the excep
tion of Lady Maria Trentham and Emily Barlowe,
who could only weep over a misfortune they could
not remedy. The joy these benevolent girls expe
rienced, when they heard Fanny say the whole was
a mistake, may be readily imagined ; and when it
was confirmed by Miss Bridewell herself, who re
lated the stbry of the dog, as an elucidation of the
mistake, a hearty laugh removed every vestige of
sorrow and displeasure.
Lord Ellincourt’s generosity had put Miss Bride
well into such a perfect good humour, that Fanny
was once more her “ little poppet and Mrs. Dawson,
from a “ great fool" was become her, “ dear Dawson,”
and received the pleasing intelligence of the debt
contracted by Fanny having been so nobly dischar
ged, as well as the promise made by Lord Ellincourt
of supporting the little orphan in future. “ The turn
off about the dog, my dear Dawson,” said Miss Bride
well, “ was extremely well done ; but I assure you it
did not impose upon me, for I firmly believe it at
this moment, that Fanny is Lord Ellincourt’s daugh
ter. But as much good may be drawn from keeping
the girl, you may be sure I shall not breathe my
suspicions: and I desire you to be equally circum
spect.” “ Oh, you know my dear ma’am, that yoq

fatherless fanny : <
can rely upon my prudence. But do you really
think Fanny can be Lord Ellin court’s daughter? I
understand his lordship is only just two and-twenty,
and Fanny you know is turned of eight.” Miss
Bridewell paused—then answered, “ I don’t care how
old either of them is, I have adopted my opinion,
and I am not apt to relinquish them when once
formed.” Notwithstanding "Miss Bridewell’s boast
to Lord Elhncourt, no masters had attended Fanny
since the defalcation of the payment. Miss Emily
Barlowe had supplied their place to the utmost of
her abilites, that her favourite might not entirely
lose the accomplishments in which she was making
such rapid progress. “That girl must be attended
.to now,” said Miss Bridewell, “ for I dare say she
will go somewhere in the holidays, where her ad
vancement will be ascertained.” “ I will observe
what you say, my dear ma’am,” said the suppleMrs.
.Dawson : “ you know the neglect she has experi
enced was at your own suggestion.” "Yes, yes,”
replied Miss Bridewell. " I am aware of that; but no
doubt you remember the old French adage—* Point
ar gent, point de suisse and so it ought to be at
Myrtle Grove.” “ Undoubtedly,” rejoined Mrs.
JJawson, “we must not throw our attention upon
beggars .” )
Whilst matters were settling according to this pru
dent plan at Myrtle Grove, Lord Ellincourt pursued
his way to London, singing to himself with a gaiete
de cceur of which, till that moment, he had been in
sensible. That sweet sensation of the soul is the re
sult of conscious virtue; and the first time Lord El-
lincourt experienced its happy influence was when
he nrst reflected on a benevolent action. It was not
that bis lordship was destitute of humanity, or insen
sible to feeling, but from,a natural thoughtlessness
ol disposition, that he had never before extended the
hand of charity to the sons and daughters of misfor
tune, as an expedient against the ennui of which he

was always complaining. Chance had now thrown
an opportunity in his way of trying a new kind of
delassement ; and the result of the experiment was, a
determination to pursue the path that liad been struck
out for him. The motion of the light vehicle he was
driving was not more rapid than the progress of the
ideas that succeeded eacn other in Lord Ellincourt’s
mind, as he returned towards the metropolis. Fanny,
the lovely artless Fanny, was the subject of all these
cogitations. Her interesting countenance still seem
ed to rise before him; her blooming cheeks suffused
with pearly drops; her eyes of “softest blue,” turned
with a supplicating look towards him, that, might
have softened the most obdurate heart. “ Sweet
creature 1” said his lordship, as he drove along; “I
never spent money with such delight as that I paid
for her to-day. She shall be my child! by heavens,
she shall; and I will maintain her like a little prin
cess 1” This resolution filled Lord Ellin court’s heart
with pleasure, and when he drove through the turn
pike at Hyde Park corner, he was so absorbed in the
agreeable reverie that he did not perceive Colonel
Ross and Sir Henry Ambersley, who were strolling
along the pave, for the purpose of way-laying his
lordship on his return. “Ellincourt,” exclaimed
Sir Henry, “where's little Fan?” Lord Ellincourt
drew up to the side of the pavement, and extended
his hand to Sir Henry. “A thousand thanks, my
dear fellow,” said he, “ for procuring me the greatest
pleasure I ever experienced in my life. The little
Fan you sent me in search of, instead of a dog, is an
i angel.” Lord Ellincourt gave the reins to his groom,
and descending from his carriage, he joined his
h friends. “He’s caught,” said Col. Ross: “oldBridewell
i knows what she’s about, I warrant her; she has been
| showing off some title-hunting Miss . and the trap has
I' taken a lord. A true bill, is it not, Ellincourt?”
r “ That my heart is touched, I allow,” replied his
lordship ; “ but it is an artless amour on both sides,

SO Fatherless fanny : oh,
and owing entirely to your hoax about the dog, Am-
bersley. It is an attachment that will last for life,
however, I am persuaded: and when I show the ob
ject of my affection, if you do not say she is the most
fascinating creature you ever saw, I will never cite
you for men of taste again as long as I live.” “ But
when shall we see her?” asked Sir Henry, “for you
have set me longing: is the show open to everybody?”
“Ob, no,” said Col. Boss, “I suppose Ellincomt
has ordered her to be shut up until he puts his coro
net on her brow. Is it not so ?” “ Time will show,”
answered his lordship : “ but this I will promise you,
next time I go to Myrtle Grove, I will take one of
you; for I suppose they will not grant admission to
three such sad dogs; and then you will be better able
to form your judgment of my charmer." “ Hoax for
hoax,” said Colonel Uoss: “ Ellincourt has been
put into the stocks at Myrtle Grove for his ill-beha-
viour, and he wants to get us into the same scrape.”
“ You may io as you like about going,” rejoined his
lordship, “ but I never was more serious in my life.
And to prove it, I intend persuading my mother to
accompany me in my next visit. I shall drive her
in my mail, and you can sit withme upon the dickey .”
“I will go with you,” said Col. Ross, “if you are
not afraid of a militaire. If I should rival you, it
would not be so well.” “True,” rejoined Lord El
lincourt, “but lam fearless on that subj ect. My
Fanny will love me best, see who she will.” “ I do
not feel so sure of that,” said Sir Henry Ambersle.y-:
“ and as I have 110 inclination to measure swords with
you, I will abstain from going.” “ Comme il vous
plaira,” answered Lord Ellincourt, and the subject
was immediately changed
The whim of adopting Fanny did not turn out like
most of Lord Ellincourt’s former whims; it survived
the lapse of several days, and seemed to acquire
strength from reflection. The Dowager Lady Ellin
court, his lordship’s mother* was one of those indul-

gent parents that feel every other sentiment absorbed
m their maternal tenderness. Her ladyship had been
left a young widow, and although several very ad
vantageous offers had been made her, she had re
mained in the solitary state of widowhood out of pure
affection to her children.
Lady Ellincourt had only two children living;
the son, of whom we have been speaking, and one
daughter, who was some years older than her brother.
Lady Caroline Mason had been married, at the early
age of seventeen, to the Earl of Castlebrazil,an Irish
nobleman, and resided chiefly in that country. Lord
Ellincourt was therefore his mother’s only solace;
and there was no request that be could make her,
with which she did not feel eager to comply. Her
ladyship was at her villa, at Richmond, when Lord
Ellincourt paid his visit to Myrtle Grove ; she knew
• nothing therefore of her son’s new attachment until
her return to London, about a week afterwards, when
Lord Ellincourt called at her ladyship’s house in
Hill-street, and broke the ice in the following man
ner :~
“ I have something to ask you, my dear mother.”
“ What is it, Edmund if” said Lady Ellincourt, with
i a smile.
“ I have taken a fancy to a sweet girl, and I want
; your countenance for her,” “ Edmund,” said Lady
Ellincourt, looking very grave, “ I hope you are not
forming an attachment I am likely to disapprove of.
. Marriages, against the consent of parents, are seldom
j productive of happiness. My own family will fur-
; nish you with an instance of the most melancholy
ikind, that could not fail of impressing your mind
< with a salutary fear of falling into the same error.”
‘“You give excellent advice, my dear mother,” replied
Lord Ellincourt; “ but my attachment is not of the
Ikind you suppose it to be. The girl I have taken a
1 fancy to is quite a child; she is destitute of friends;
i and 1 am determined to defray the expenses of her

82 FAiflEBLESa PAttlttr : OS,
education. The favour I want you to grant me, is
your countenance for the sweet little creature, which,
when you have seen, you will admire as much as I
do," Lord Ellincourt then related the trick Sir
Henry Amhersley had paid him, about the advertise
ment and the visit to Miss Bridewell’s Temple of In
struction. Lady Ellincourt laughed; “ Are you sure
Edmund,” said she, “that this is the truth, and nothing
but the truth ?” “ Upon honour,” replied his lordship,
“ when you have seen her you will not doubt it: let
me drive you there to-day, my dear mother.” “ Not
to-day,” replied her ladyship, “ but I will accompany
you to-morrow.”
The next day Lady Ellincourt kept her appoint
ment: and her son, accompanied by Colonel Ross,
drove her to Myrtle Grove. Lady Ellincourt had
been in the habit of visiting the ladies Trentham, and
was therefore known to Miss Bridewell. Lady Isa
bella and Lady Maria were called to see their aunt;
and at their entrance Lord Ellincourt demanded his
dear little Fanny. The sweet child, regardless of the •
presence of Lady Ellincourt and Colonel Ross, ran
with open arms to embrace her benefactor. As soon as
the loving pair could separate from each other, Lady.
Ellincourt took Fanny by the hand, and exclaimed,
“ What a sweet creature! What is her name, Ed
mund?” “ Fatherless Fanny 1” replied Lord Elhn-
court, “ she has no other.” “ I am not to be called
Fatherless Fanny any more,” said the child, -for
Lord Ellincourt will be my papa.” Colonel Rosa
smiled and looked significant, and Lady Ellincourt
pressed the sweet girl to her bosom. A suspicion
she could not repress made her incline towards the
Colonel’s and Miss Bridewell’s opinion, although a
moderate calculation of their respective ages would
have proved the fallacy of such an idea. The play
ful innocence of Fanny won completely upon Lady
Ellincourt, who became as warm an advocate for the
scheme of adoption as her son. Lady Maria Tren-

tnam, who rejoiced in Fanny’s good fortune, recei
ved her cousin with more than usual cordiality; and
Lord Ellincourt, who had been informed by Fanny
of her ladyship’s kindness to hia favourite, thought
he had never seen the amiable Maria look so bewitch
when Lady Ellincourt gave the signal for depar
ture ; Lord Ellincourt, putting a little parcel into
Fanny’s hand, which he told her contained a keep
sake, kissed'her for farewell, and the whole party se
During the drive home, Colonel Ross repeated his
conjectures, respecting Fanny’s affinity to her bene
factor, adding, with a laugh, that he could not have
supposed his lordship capable of so much art as he
had that day displayed. “ Why you have done the
old lady completely,” said he. “ If you mean that
I have imposed upon my mother,’? said Lord Ellin
court. you are mistaken; for I am sure I did not
know there was such a being as my little Fanny, un
til Ambersley sent me on a fool’s errand in search of
her namesake.” “ If that be really the case,” said
Colonel Ross, “ I can guess what are your views
with this girl. * She is a pretty creature, and will
i make an agreeable variation in your amours passageses
i by and by.” 4< I may have been dissipated and
i unthinking,” replied Lord Ellincourt, reddening
1 with resentment at the vile suggestion, “ but I hope
. l am incapable of deliberate villany, such as you in-
! sinuate. The precaution I have taken of getting my
: mother’s sanction to my whim ought to teach you
! better.”
“You astonish me I” interrupted Colonel Ross:
‘ “is it possible that you have no other view but be-
l nevolence in this munificent action ?” “ None, upon
i my honour; excepting, indeed, the pleasure of con
tributing to the happiness of a being I love, in a
i manner wholly unaccountable, even to myself,” said
i Lord Ellincourt.
16 % c

Then I must compliment your lordship’s philan
thropy," rejoined the colonel, sarcastically; “ and 1
hope you will let me participate in the happiness re
sulting from such heroism, by permitting me some-
times to visit your beautiful protege in your com
“No, by heavens 1” replied Lord Ellincourt:
“the man who could suspect another of such base
ness as the deliberate perversion of innocence, is un
fit to be trusted where he could prove himself capa
ble of the same turpitude, to the detriment of a de
fenceless female.”
Here the conversation ended, and the remainder of
the drive passed in silence on both sides. Lord El
lincourt was piqued, and Colonel Ross was digesting
a scheme which had presented itself to his fancy,
whilst conversing on the subject of the gentle Fanny;
the accomplishment of which promised to gratify
sensuality and revenge. Lord Ellincourt had offend
ed his pride by censuring his sentiments, and he
wished for an opportunity of being even with him.
To deprive his lordship, at some future period, of the
object of his generous affection, offered a fair pros
pect to the diabolical colonel of revenging the sup
posed injury, and at the same time obtaining a beau
tiful creature to administer to his unlawful pleasures,
and finally become the victim of them.
It was certainly a long while to look forward to,
but Colonel Ross was one of those epicures in sen
suality, who could deliberately plan, and unrelenting
ly execute the most atrocious acts of cruelty, if they
promised the slightest gratification to his depraved
13ut we will leave him to his cogitations, and pro
ceed with our narrative. The happy Fanny, as soon
as her new friends had departed, opened the parcel
Lord Ellincourt left with ner, and found, to her ^reat
delight, an elegant gold chain for her neck, with a
small watch suspended, and a pair of bracelets to

correspond. She jumped about in rapture, and dis
played her “ Papa’s ” present, as she styled Lord
Ellincourt, to every creature that came'near her.
However, she soon became accustomed to the pos
session of trinkets; for Lord Ellincourt never was
so happy as when bestowing marks of his generosity
upon his favourite. Anxious to purchase good treat
ment for her, his lordship took care to remember Miss
Bridewell with a munificence that completely won
that lady’s heart. The improvement of Fatherless
Fanny seemed now of more real consequence than
that of any lady in the house. It has already been
i said, that Fanny possessed great natural abilities:
her rapid progress may therefore be supposed under
i such advantageous circumstances ; ana she soon be-
i came abrilliant proof of tilt skill so justly ascribed
to the preceptress of Myrtle Grove establishment, in
i bestowing polite accomplishments upon the pupils
-under her care. But barren is that mind, whose lm-
; provement has been confined to the study of mere
: ornamental acquirements. The musician, the dan-
•cer, or the paintress, however skilful in the various
' branches, will make but a poor wife, ifshebe deficient
I j in the more solid and valuable qualities of good sense,
igood temper, and above all, religion and virtue.
All the pains bestowed upon Fanny’s education by
!Miss Bridewell and her assistants would have availed
little, had not the good precepts instilled into her
iheart by the amiable Emily Barlowe given solidity
to her principles. Emily Barlowe hadbeen instructed
by her father in the principles of religion : and her
|(youthful heart glowed witn the fervour of genuine
j:piety. Thus Fanny, in imitation of the example
|!Ennly set before her eyes, became good-natured,
patient, and forgiving from principle, and benevolent
lrom the irresistible feelings of her heart.—
‘ OuBt as the twig ia bent, the tree’s inclined.”
The superiority in virtue over the generality of

her sex to which Fanny afterwards attained, might
justly be said to owe its perfection to the early in
structions of the amiable Emily, who watched the
infancy of her favourite, and took the advantage of
that critical season when the human mind is fittest
to receive the impression of piety, and which, like
the seed time in agriculture, if once neglected cannot
be retrieved.
Lord Ellincourt’s presents were but too well cal
culated to engender pride; and the praises he always
lavished upon Fanny’s person 'every time he saw her,
would inevitably have rendered her vain, had not the
watchful Emily repressed the rising emotions, and
awakened in the mind of her youthful auditor re
flections that would have done honour to a girl double
her number of years.
Is The effect of Lord Ellincourt’s attachment to Fan
ny was of the most salutary kind. With the genuine
spirit of paternal affection he was frequently calcu
lating his expenses, and projecting curtailments of
their extent, in order to purchase some advantage or
pleasure for his darling, and to the astonishment of
all the gentlemen of the turf, his lordship’s stud at
Newmarket was sold off, and horse-racing abandoned
within a year after he took the whim of adopting
Fanny, because he had made a determination to re
trench, in order to have it in his power to make a set
tlement upon his favourite. .
Lady Ellincourt, greatly pleased with her son’s
reformation, indulged him so far as to invite Fanny
to spend a month with her during the summer’s va
cation, at her country seat, which lay in Yorkshire,
on an estate that had been lately purchased for her
by her agent, and was celebrated for the antique
grandeur of the house, and the beauty of the parks
and grounds.
To this delightful retreat Fanny was conveyed in
Lady Ellincourt’s coach : and no sooner had she en
tered the great hall, than she exclaimed in ecstasy,

“ Oh! this is mamma Sydney’s house; do let me see
her.” And running forward, she made to a door op
posite to her, and attempted to open it. The lock
resisted her efforts. “ Pray open itfor me,” said the
child, to a servant. “ Mamma Sydney is in there!
and I want to see her! Lord Ellincourt, who had ar
rived before his mother, now came into the hall.
“ What is the matter with my Fanny V’ said his
lordship; “ I want to see mamma Sydney,” replied
i Fanny, “ and I know she is in that room : she always
■ used to sit there.”
“Were you ever in this house before, my love P'
i asked his lordship. “ O yes, papa, I used to live
h ere; and this door you will not open for me is mamma
Sydney's parlour.”
Lord Ellincourt ordered a servant to enquire for
:the key of the "room, and turning to Fanny, he
■said, “Your mamma Sydney cannot be in that room,
for you see it is locked.” In the mean time Lady
[Ellincourt, came up to see what had arrested the at
tention of her son and Fanny. When she was in
formed of the child’s assertion respecting the house ;
“ Some resemblance, I suppose,” said her ladyship
“between this and the house where she formerly re-
ssided ; but this could not be her mamma Sydney’s
ihouse, because the estate belonged to a Mr. Hamil
ton, who had resided abroad some years before his
ideath, and I purchased it of his heir, about two years
ago.” The servant brought the key, and the door
<was opened; Fanny ran into the room, but presently
returned with a sorrowful countenance. “ Mamma
; Sydney is not there,” said she, her eyes full of tears.
“ Are you sure this is the room where your mamma
Sydney used to sit?” asked Lady Ellincourt. “Oh
yes, ma’am,” replied Fannjr; “ see here is her work
table !” And the child going up to the fire-place,
[raised a bracelet that seemed mad'e for the conveni
ence of holding a candle-stick ox book, for any body
who chose to sit close to the fire. “ Mamma Sydney

used to put her work bag upon this, when she was
working; and when she was doing nothing her snuff
box used to stand upon it," said Fanny.
Lord and Lady Ellincourt were very much struck
with an account so distinctly given of an event so
remote; and her ladyship said she would inquire the
particulars relative to the former inhabitants of her
mansion, and endeavour to elucidate the mystery.
Fanny was now led about the spacious rooms by
her beloved “Papa," and every now and then express
ed her delight at the discovery of some old acquaint
ance either in the rooms or their furniture ; and her
recollection of trivial circumstances was so clear,
that, notwithstanding the evidence that appeared to
contradict the probability of Fanny’s having been
formerly an inmate of Pemberton Abbey,'neither
Lord Ellincourt nor his mother could divert their
minds from the belief that her account w;as correct.
Every inquiry was made amongst the tenantry,
likely to elucidate the mystery, but to little purpose.
Of her removal from Pemberton Abbey Fanny
could give but a very imperfect account. She re
membered having been in a carriage a long time, but
whither she was carried, or by whom, she could not
tell; all she knew perfectly, was, that her mamma
Sydney did not go with her, and that the lady with
whom she stayed for some days before she was
left at Miss Bridewell’s, was very cross with her.
A wide field was here opened for conjecture, and
Lord and Lady Ellincourt were left to wander m it,
as all their efforts to obtain any light upon the sub
ject failed of effect A circumstance which occurred
just before Fanny’s return to school served to in
crease the perplexity of their minds.
The apartment little Fanny slept in was divided
from Lady Ellincourt’s room by a small chamber,
occupied by her ladyship’s woman. The screams of
poor Fanny, one night, awakened Lady Ellincourt,
and the amiable lady ran to the assistance of her fa-

' vourite. Mrs. Parsons, her maid, was there before
I her.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed Lady Ellin*
i court. “ My dear Fanny, what is the matter 1 n
* “ Mamma Sydney has been here; shecame and look-
i ed at me; and when I spoke to her, she ran away,
i and would not answer.” “ You have been dreaming,
imy love,” said Lady Ellincourt.—“ No, indeed,
i ma’am, I was wide awake,” replied the child; “ I
I heard her open my door, and saw her come up to the
i bed, with a candle in her hand.” “ My dear child,”
i answered her ladyship, “ this is mere fancy, I assure
.you. Nobody could come into your room without
: being heard by Parsons.” “ I heard nothing, I as-
i sure your ladyship,” said Mrs. Parson, “ until Miss
iFanny screamed out; and I was not asleep, for I
i had been indulging myself with a book.”
It was with great difficulty that Lady Ellincourt
i succeeded in pacifying the terrified Fanny, who lay
s trembling, and in the greatest agitation. “ The poor
i child has been frightened through a dream,” said
? the compassionate lady; “ so take her into my bed,
IParsons; she shall not be left alone again to-night,
;or her nerves may suffer severely.” Mrs. Parsons
obeyed her lady’s command, and Fanny was so de
slighted at being permitted to sleep with her dear
jbenefactress, that she forgot her terror, and her tears
jgave way to such emotions of joy, that Lady Ellin-
: court was sensibly affected, by a proof of attachment
iso unquestionably exquisite.
The next day, however, Fanny persisted in her as
sertion, that she had really seen her mamma Sydney;
:that she was wide awake when the figure of mamma
iSydney had appeared before her, and that the noise
sof some door opening had awakened her. “ It seem-
jed,” said she, “ as if a door had been forced open that
ihad been long shut, for it made a bursting noise.”
The room in which Fanny slept was pannelled with
!cedar wood. The child’s obstinacy respecting the

person Bhe had seen, impressed Lady'Ellincourt’s
mind so strongly, that she sent for a carpenter to
examine the wainscot to ascertain whether there was
any secret entrance to the apartment.
The scrutiny, however, produced nothing to eluci
date the mystery. The man declared the partitions
perfectly sound; and that it was an impossibility that
they should conceal any way of entering the room
impervious to his investigation. This satisfied Lady
Ellincourt that Fanny had been misled by a dream.
And the circumstance was soon forgotten by the
child, as no recurrence of the same terror could hap
pen, as her joy at sleeping with Lady Ellincourt had
endeared her so much to that lady, that she was per
mitted to remain the partner of her bed during her
stay at Pemberton Abbey, from whence she was con
veyed to school, at the expiration of the vacation.
The Christmas following the Miss Barlowes left'
Miss Bridewell’s and poor E-anny lost her best friend
in her beloved Emily. Her sorrow was somewhat
assuaged, however, by an unexpected event. Mr.
and Mrs. Barlowe had come to England to letch their
daughters, and the health of the latter was so delicate,
that it was judged necessary to her recovery to
breathe her native air for some time. She determined
therefore to stay a year in England, and thus Emily
Barlowe had frequent opportunities of visiting her
dear Panny, as Mr. Barlowe entered into his daugh
ter’s feelings respecting the child with all the warmth
of benevolence natural to his disposition. The high
patronage the little orphan now enjoyed rendered all
pecuniary aid unnecessary; but Mr. Barlowe knew
enough of the world to believe that, notwithstanding
present appearances, there might come a day when
fanny would find that friendship is no inheritance.
“ If Lord Ellincourt should neglect to make any
settlement upon his adopted child,” said the good
gentleman, “ life is a precarious tenure 5 and how
soon may the sweet girl be exposed to the frowns of

a cruel world, or indeed to the snares which are con
stantly spread for indigent beauty, by the remorse
less panders ot opulent depravity 1”
Mr. Barlowe never discussed any subject, either
moral or divine, without acting up to the principles
he professed; and in this instance he wenteven farther
than the common bounds of benevolence, for he pro
vided'tor a contingency which appeared perfectly
imaginary to every eye but his own.
JBefore he left England he vested five hundred
pounds in the funds, in the name of Fanny, and ap
pointed a trustee to apply it to her use, in case any thing
should happen to render such an assistance necessary.
The friend, to whom the trust was confi ded,was charged
to give immediate notice, by letter, to Mr. Barlowe,
should any accident happen to place Fanny in cir
cumstances of necessity, as the generous gift was in
tended merely as a prelude tohiS' further bounty, in
case of such an event, as it had always been Mr. Bar-
lowe’s intention to indulge his daughter’s wish of
adopting the pretty orphan, if it could be done with
out prejudice to her favourite.
The amiable heart of the gentle Emily felt the most
grateful impression ofher father’s kindness; yet,still
she found it impossible to believe anything that mili
tated against the opinion she had formed of Lord
Ellincourt’s. The benevolence his lordship had
evinced for her favourite, had first recommended him
to her favour ; the agremens of a handsome person
and highly-finished mannfers,had completed the con
quest, and the gentle Emily had bestowed her af
fections upon the unconscious Ellincourt, before she
even suspected such a thing was possible.
A father’s anxious eyes had penetrated the guard
ed secret of her bosom: by them he had seen his
daughter twice in Lord Ellincourt’s company : he
had observed too, with equal precision, that his lord-
6hip’s ideas h$di)pyer wapdered towards thelove-sjck

Emily, and his prudence suggested an immediate
The year allotted for Emily Barlowe’s stay in Eng
land soon glided away, and the mournful hour ar
rived that was to tear her from dear England—her
tenderly-beloved Fanny—and from the contemplation
of that admired countenance, whose smile never failed
to impart delight.
Fanny was at Lady Ellincourt’s house, at the time
of the Barlowes’ departure; and as Emily was a
particular favourite with her ladyship, she was invited
to spend the last week of her stay in London under
the same roof with her favourite. This was a danger
ous indulgence to the tender girl, who had now an
opportunity of more frequently meeting with another
favourite , not so congenial to ’tier happiness as the
blooming Fanny. Lord Ellincourt had always
thought Emily Barlowe a sweet girl, but he was too
much accustomed to the boldness of modern ladies,
to be easily charmed by unobtrusive merit, veiled by
the shade of general modesty.
His lordship felt surprised, therefore, to find what
a charming girl he had so long regarded with indif
ference, when, a more social intercourse displayed
those attractions to his notice, which had been hither
to concealed by theamiablediffidenceofthethelovely
possessor. “ Upon my honour,” said his lordship,
the morning after Emily’s departure, “ I should have
been desperately in love with Emily Barlowe, if she
had staid a little longer. Where did she hide all her
powers of charming so long? This lovely .creature
seems to rise in one’s estimation every time one con
verses with her; and I have never examined her
blushing countenance of late, without discovering
some beauty unobserved before, yet which appeared
too striking to be overlooked by any but an insensi
ble. Can you tell me, my dear mother, the reason
of this late discovery 1 ”
Lady Ellincourt smiled. " She always appeared

to me a lovely girl, both in mind and person.” “ I
wish you had said so before,” replied Lord Ellin
court, with a thoughtful look. Lady Ellincourt, smil
ed: “I never wished to direct your choice, Edmund,”
said she; “but if it had fallen on Miss Emily Bar-
lowe, I certainly should have started no objection.
Her fortune is large, and her family unexception
able : but she is gone, and you must endeavour to
forget her.”
“That is impossible,” replied his lordship, whose
imagination had grown warm in discussing the sub
ject, “ I can never forget the charming Emily, and I
have a great mind to follow her to Jamaica.” “ Take
a little time for consideration,” said Lady Ellin
court ; “ the fit may go off.” “ Depend upon it you
will find I am serious,” said Lord Ellincourt, “ in
the meantime, I am glad to find this alliance does
not come within the censure of ill-assorted matches,
which I remember you once seriously warned me
against.—Apropos, you said there was a melancholy
instance, in our family, of the folly of such mar
riages, I wish you would tell it to me.” “ With plea
sure, my dear Edmund,” replied Lady Ellincourt
“This evening, I shall be at your service, for Fanny
is to return to Myrtle Grove this morning.” Lord
Ellincourt said he would accompany his mother in
her morning drive, and assist in taking their mutual
favourite to school.
Fanny was now in her eleventh year, and beautiful
as an angel. Lord Ellincourt contemplated his love
ly ward, as he sat opposite to her in his mother’s
barouche, and he was more than ever struck with
her exquisite beauty. That sweet girl, thought he,
must be protected with unceasing vigilance, or she
will fall a sacrifice to some of the wretches her un
common loveliness will not fail to attract around her.
But, although Lord Ellincourt felt the necessity of
protecting l'anny, he neglected the surest method
of doing so, and thereby verified Mr. Barlowe’s opi-

nion of him, that he was a thoughtless as well as a
young man.
We will now bring our readers to Lady Ellincourt’s
fire-side ; where, her ladyship on one side, and her
son on the other, they may listen to our next chapter,
which contains a long story.
“ MYfather,” said Lady Ellincourt, “was, you know,
the marquis of Petersfield; but at the time of his
coming to age, there was very Jittle probability of his
ever attaining to that dignity, as he was only a very
distant branch of the Trentham family, and no less-
than thirteen living claimants, besides the chance of
theirhaving children, stood between him andthetitle;
yet such is the mutability of all human tenures, that,
notwithstanding these opposing obstacles, my father
became Marquis of Petersfield by the time he was
eight-and-thirty. He was then a widower, with two
children—my dear lamented brother and myself.
Never was a fonder parent, a more indulgent friend,
than he always approved himself to us, whilst we were
so happy as to share his love between us.
“ My brother was nearly three years, older than I
was. My beloved Seymour was of so sweet a dis
position that he made it his study to render me hap
py. At the time of my father’s second marriage, I
had just attained my fourteenth year, and Seymour
was seventeen.
“ The lady selected for our mother-in-law was every
way my father’s inferior, being merely the daugh
ter of a subaltern officer, who had been educated as
half-boarder at a school of repute, and from thence
attained to the employment of governess to two over
grown girls of fashion. The eldest Miss Howard,

was seventeen at the time Miss Henderson entered
Lady Howard’s family, and the youngest fifteen.
• “The girls were co-heiresses, and perfectly aware
of their approaching independence. Their fortunes
were to he at their own disposal the day of their com
ing of age.
“Miss Henderson was artful enough to consult
her own interest rather than the improvement of her
pupils, and entered into their most unreasonable
projects with a degree of patient perseverance that
succeeded in rendering her indispensible to their
happiness. Instead of being dismissed when her pu
pils were presented, Miss Henderson was retained
as their companion, with an increased salary, that
she might be enabled to visit with them, in a style
suitable to the appearance of the ladies she accom
panied. This much wished-for intercourse with the
fashionableiworld, introduced Miss Henderson to my
father, and her ambition was fired with the hopes of
obtaining his notice as a lover, which hopes were af
terwards but too fatally realized, for the welfare of
my unfortunate brother and myself.
“In the station she had hitherto filled, it had been
necessary for her to display the most unvarying com
plaisance. She had appeared, therefore, to my fa
ther’s fancy, a gentle, timid creature, whose unas*
suming modesty veiled the perfections of her mind ;
and he exulted in the thought of bestowing upon his
children a mother-in-law, who would be as solicitous
for their welfare as he was himself. No sooner was
Miss Henderson Marchioness of Petersfield, than all
her complaisance and gentleness, vanished like the
fading meteor. ' 1
“ To my brother she took the most inveterate dis
like, from the first week of her marriage; and Lord
Durham’s extravagance, and Lord Durham's idleness,
the unformed rudeness of his manners, soon became
the unfailing theme of her invective. Whilst he was
St home the poor youth never enjoyed a moment’s

respite from her malice; and when he returned to
college, his bills were censured, his allowance cur
tailed, and every vexatious torture inflicted upon him
which cruelty could invent, or ingenuity devise. To
me she was more indulgent, for she felt not the same
jealousy of my existence, which disturbed her with
regard to my brother.
“ She'was ambitious of becoming the mother , as
well as the wife, of a marquis; and the birth of a son
the year after her marriage, rendered her more for
midably malicious to Lord Durham, than she had
ever been before. At the age of nineteen my dear
brother was sent abroad. The evening before his de
parture, the amiable youth was in my dressing-room,
passing the last few hours of his stay in the parental
mansion, with the only person who appeared to la
ment his departure. My father’s affection had long
been weaned from him by the artifices of his cruel
“ ‘My dear Catharine,’ said Lord Durham, pressing
my hand as he spoke, ‘ I am at this moment labour
ing under an affliction of which your gentle breast
has no idea. The pangs I feel at parting from my
sweet sister ate severe indeed; but what will she say
when I assure her that there exists another dear one.
I have undone myself by my imprudence, and invol
ved the most amiable of her sex in my ruin—I. am
married!’ ‘Married!’repeated I; ‘and to whom? Have
you never hinted your situation to my father?’ ‘I
never touched upon the subject but once,’ answered
he, ‘ and then I was silenced in a manner too decisive
to admit of my again renewing it’
‘“But who is the lady?’ said I. ‘You know Lady
Emily Hinchinbroke.’ ‘ I do,’ replied I; ‘ but surely
it is not her, the daughter‘of my father’s deadly foe;
the man who would have deprived him of life.’ * It
is, it is,’ exclaimed Seymour, in an agony of grie£
* But I will no longer keep you in suspense; the
mournful story is a short one :—

“ ‘ I became acquainted with tbe fascinating Emily
whilst on a visit to Lord Riversdale, her maternal
uncle, whose son has always been my most intimate
friend at college: the attachment was mutual; and I
really believe its violence was increased by the cer
tainty that it never cdlild be approved by our parents.
A secret correspondence has been carried on these
two years between us; and at length, in a fit of des
peration, it was determined that we should be asked
in church, and married, as we were both under age,
and could not be united by any other means. This
plan was the suggestion of Sir Henry Poulet, Lord
Iliversdale’s son, who has been our confidant from
the beginning of our attachment. In a fatal hour we
both acceded to it. Emily was on a visit at Lord
Iliversdale’s, in Berkeley Square ; and as I visited
there every day, with the freedom of a son, the un
fortunate scheme was but too easily accomplished.
“ It is five months since we were united, and already
have we deeply repented our imprudent rashness ;
and yet our repentance does not originate in any
decay of affection. The secret has hitherto been kept
unsuspected ; but that security is it an end, for Lord
Somertown has fixedupon ahusbandfor hisdaughter,
and she has received notice to prepare herself for the
event. The rich Marquis of Alderney is his intended
son-in-law. Emily entreats me to leave her to the
developement of our unhappy secret, and assures me
that,she considers it a fortunate circumstance that I
am about to leave England, as she thinks her father’s
anger will cool sooner when he feels the impossibility
of wreaking it upon me.
“ 4 All our hopes rest upon some accidental rup
ture of the marriage treaty,.between Lord Somer
town and the Marquis of Alderney. If Emily could
but remain unmolested until I am of age, every thing
1 would be well. Henry Poulet has promised to give
: me notice, should any violent step be taken with my
Emily, that I may fly to her succour.’

“ I listened to this recital of my brother's unfor
tunate story with an aching heart. Lady Petersfield
I knew would aggravate every thing likely to render
my brother obnoxious to my father’s anger; and I
too plainly foresaw 1 that the unpropitious union
would not be long a secret Yet still I thought it
better that my brother should not be within reach of
Lord Somertown’s vengeance, during the first emo
tions of fury that would follow the fatal discovery; I
therefore urged his immediate departure; and, endea
vouring to veil my own agonized feelings, I spoke the
words of hope, whilst my heart trembled with terror.
Seymour wrung my hand, whilst agony was painted
on his countenance. ‘ It is in vain, my sister, that
you attempt to console me—that pale cheek—that
tear-fraught eye, but too plainly tell me what you
think of our situation. The die is cast, and our fate
is irrevocable. To heaven I commend my Emily.
And yet, why should I abandon her? Nol I will
this night confess my marriage to my father, and im
plore his protection for my adored wife. He will
not, I am sure, be able to resist the eloquence of a
love like mine.'
‘“For heaven’s sake,’ interrupted I, ‘think no more
of such a mad scheme, replete with instant ruin.
You talk of softening my father by your eloquence;
but oh 1 tell me who shall be found sufficiently skill
ed in persuasion to soothe the anger of Lord Somer-
town? You are both under age; the marriage t can
therefore be set aside ; and that would be the’ first
step her vindictive father would take, should you,
by a premature discovery, put it into his power to
do so. You are going abroad ; when you return you
will be of age. It will be easy to find an opportunity
of rendering your marriage indissoluble by repeating
the ceremony; and who knows what accidents may
intervene, during your absence, that may render its
renewal more propitious? LordSomertown isnotim*

mortal; and should he die, I am sure my father’s
animosity will die with him.
“‘True, my dear sister,’ replied Lord Durham.
‘ But instead of the fair prospect you endearour to
place before my eyes, suppose my Emily’s stern pa
rent should insist upon her giving her hand to ano
ther; what will become of the timid girl, unsupport
ed as she will then be by the husband for whose sake
she must brave the brutal fury of that vindictive
ea ‘ man?’ ‘ Should any treaty of marriage be likely to
the 1 1 be brought to a conclusion,’ said I, ‘ it will then be
time enough for you to return and acknowledge your
marriage. I promise to take the first opportunity
of getting an interview with Lady Emily. I visit a
lady who is intimate with her. We will then lay a
iplan for carrying on a correspondence; and I pro
mise to inform you of every movement which seems
ilikely to threaten your beloved Emily with danger.’
“Soon after this conversation my brother took
ihis leave, and I passed the remainder of the night in
(tears and lamentations. At the peep of day I heard
the carriage that was to convey him away, come to
ithe door. I crept to my window, and saw him step
lintoit, attended by his tutor j the door closed upon
him, and the rattling of the wheels was soon lost in
ithe distance. 1 listened to the last faint sound: and I
exclaimed, ‘ He is gone! I shall see that beloved face
■no more.’ Alas! my words where prophetic—I saw
the noble youth no more! He was doomed to fall be
neath the murderous steel of an assassin !
“ Through the medium of a discarded servant of
Lord Somertown’s, our cruel mother-in-law learned
-the secret of my brother’s attachmentto .Lady Emily
Of the marriage, however, I do not believe a suspi
cion ever crossed her imagination. This was, how
ever, sufficient to exasperate my father. The bare
idea of a connexion between his son and the daugh
ter of his implacable enemy filled him with fury ;
and so artfully did his unprincipled wife work upon
167 D

his irritated feelings, that he tools a solemn oath never
to see his son again, if he persisted in his choice of
Lady Emily for a wife.
“ This resolution was communicated to my brother,
in a letter from his incensed father, who imprecated
the most dreadful maledictions upon his son, should
he dare to act in disobedience to his commands.
“ In the meantime I had fulfilled my promise of
cultivating Lady Emily’s friendship. We could not
meet openly, but we enjoyed our friendly inter
courses, unsuspected, at the house of a third person.
Poor Lady Emily’s health began to decline rapidly.
She became pale and thin, ana the depression of her
spirits seemed to increase daily. She was so urgent
for me to pass as much time as possible with her,
that I often went imprudent lengths to gratify her;
and the consequence was, the implacable Lady Pe-
tersfield discovered our intimacy, by means of some
of her spies. This was fresh food for her malice;
and she did not fail to make use of it to the destruc
tion of the unhappy lovers.
“Lady Emily had shown so much firmness in the
refusal of the Marquis of Alderney, that her father,
who did not in the least degree suspect the cause of
it, yielded to her obstinacy, and dismissed the lover.
What then was his fury when he was informed by a
letter from Lady Petersfield, that there was a secret
correspondence carried on between his daughter and
Lord Durham ? The letter was couched in terms of
haughty defiance, and implied to have been written
by my father’s order. It contained a peremptory in
junction to put a stop to the connection, or to trem
ble for the consequences.
“ No language could do justice to the rage of the
furious earl. He sent for Lady Emily into his pre
sence j and so violent was his anger, that he would
certainly have made her its victim, by destroying her
the instant she came before him, but for the timely
interference of a servant, who forcibly dragged her

lrom ner enraged father, at the peril of his own life,
i and conveyed her out of her paternal mansion before
Lord Somertown was aware of his intention. The
i sweet girl lay concealed in an obscure lodging for
several days; and the servant having disappeared
also, the voice of scandal soon spread the report that
Lord Samertown’s daughter had run off with her fa
ther’s footman.
“ Lady Petersfield took care to have several para-
I graphs respecting this pretended elopement inserted
m different papers, and collecting the various reports
.together, she made a packet of them, and sent them
with Lord Durham’s letters to Florence. A- letter
from me, however, went by the same mail. I assured
him his beloved Emily was in safe hands, and had
i determined to return no more to her father, as she
i found herself in a fair way of becoming a mother,
i and therefore knew too well the fatal consequences
i of such a circumstance being known to her father,
, to risk so dangerous a step. I endeavoured to in-
: spire my brother with a degree of confidence I did
■ not feel myself: but my letter produced the contrary
• effect, for it made him take the rash resolution of re
turning immediately to England, and without giving
me any notice of his intention, the unfortunate youth
i set out on his retrograde journey. In the meantime
! every effort was made by Lord Somertown to dis
cover the retreat of his daughter, but without suc-
iaess; she still eluded his vigilance, and was so for
tunate as to reach the house of a generous friend.
.As soon as I was informed of this lucky circumstance,
II wrote the pleasing news to my brother, little ima
gining that he was on his way to England, regardless
:of danger, and impatient of delay.
“ At this time my father removed to the country
for the summer, and I was under the necessity of .ac
companying him. This was a cruel trial to me, as I
found, it very difficult to obtain any intelligence of
iEmily, as it was impossible to write to her by direct

means 5 arid the tedious methods I was forced to
adopt, renderedmy suspense and anxiety intolerable.
At length the agreeable news reached me that she
had given birth to a daughter, and was in a fair way
to do well.
“Lord Durham had pursued his journey to Eng
land with such unremitting diligence, that he ar
rived in London before I thought he had received
my letter.
“ Disappointed at not finding mein town,he wrote
to me in liaste to inquire the retreat of his beloved
Emily. This letter fell into the hands of our im
placable mother-in-law.
“ Lord Durham’s hand-writing was well known to
her ; and as the London post-mark struck her eye,
her fertile imagination presented the possibility of
my brother’s return to England on Lady Emily’s
account There was nothing Lady Petersfield dread
ed more than my brother’s marrying; and she na
turally concluded, as he was so much attached to
Lady Emily, if she could but prevent the marriage,
there would be little danger of his making another
choice. Full of these ideas, the cruel woman car
ried'my brother’s letter to my father, without break
ing the seal; and imparting her sentiments to him
upon the subject, left it to his own option whether
he would read it or not My father did not hesitate
a moment, but tearing open the fatal letter, he soon
became master of the carefully concealed secret
“ Good heavens ? what a scene followed 1 I was
sent for by my enraged parent, and loaded with every
epithet anger could dictate or passion utter. In ac
cents scarcely articulate from fury, he demanded
the place of Lady Emily’s retirement, and said he
would not only disinherit, but instantly renouce me,
if I refused to satisfy him on that head. His threats
had, however, no other effect than that of determin
ing me to keep the secret inviolable. ‘ Oh 1 my fa
ther,’ said I, throwing myself on my knees before

* him ; ‘ oh! my father, I have solemnly sworn not to
> reveal to any one the retreat of my unhappy sister ;
j and I cannot break the sacred vow.’
“ ‘ Begone from my presence, serpent,' said my
!father; ‘ begone, or I shall curse thee! you talk of
‘friendship with your father’s bitter enemy; and
1 would prefer wounding his heart to the unpardonable
crime of betraying this highly prized friend. But
call her not your sister. She is not—she cannot be
that. No marriage can be good which is contracted
by a minor; and I will take care your brother shall
have no opportunity of renewing the contract. ( Be-
igone to your apartment, girl, and I forbid you to
leave your room until I withdraw the prohibition;
sand if you value your brother’s happiness attempt
mot to write to him.’
“ I obeyed my father’s harsh mandate in silence,
iand retired to my room, where I had the mortifica
tion of finding myself constantly attended, and
closely watched by Lady Petersfield’s confidential
“ In the meantime my father wrote to Lord Dur- '
ham, and informed him that having come to a know
ledge of his most unpardonable misconduct, in at
taching himself to Lady Emily, he offered him his
pardon, on one condition only, namely, to return
immediately to the continent, without attempting to
see the object of his imprudent choice. ‘ All efforts
to obtain an interview,’ added my father, ‘will prove
ineffectual, and only serve to expose you to my just
resentment, as Lady Emily is now in her father’s
house, where I hope she will recover a proper sense
of her duty, and no longer endeavour to seduce you
from yours.’
“jThe receipt of this letter, instead of intimidating
my brother, determined him instantly to declare
his marriage to both families, and demand his wife.
Full of this resolution, he wrote a letter to his fa
ther, acknowledging his fault in having taken such

a step without his sanction, but at the same time de
claring that it was his fixed resolve to live only for his
Emily. * I am going,’ added he, ‘ to demand her of
her cruel father, for she shall no longer remain un
der his tyranny.’
“The letter concluded with a most affecting en
treaty for pardon, and an appeal to Lord Peters-
field’s parental feelings in behalf of his unfortunate -
son. ■ As soon as my brother had despatched this let
ter, he flew to Lord Somertown’s, and requested an
interview with his lordship. 'Lord Somertown re
ceived him with haughty coldness, but without any
appearance of the violence he had expected. . En
couraged by this, Lord Durham entered upon an
immediate explanation of his marriage with Lady
Emily, and in’a mild, but determined manner, de
sired to be allowed to see her.
“‘ Who told you she was in my house ?’ asked
Lord Somertown. ‘ My father,' replied Lord Dur
ham.. * The information is worthy the informer,’ re
joined the exasperated earl. ‘ I will tell you what,
young man,’ added he, in a voice scarcely articulate
through stifled fury ; ‘ I will tell you what, you have
injured me beyond the reach of remedy, and I will
have vengeance. Remember 1 I tell you so. As to
my daughter, she is not, nor ever shall be your wife.
Your boasted marriage is null and void, for you are
both \m der age. I will annul it.’
“ ‘ My marriage is valid, and no power can annul
it,’ replied Lord Durham; ‘ we were married at our
parish church, after having the banns published
three times, in the same place, according to the form
“ * Vile traitor 1’ exclaimed Lord Somertown, ‘ be
gone from my presence:’ and he rang the bell for
the servants to turn my brother out, which they did
by force, with the most insolent brutality. .
“ * Remember,’ cried Lord Somertown as the men
'"ere dragging my brother out, ‘ remember I will an*-

nul the marriage; there are more ways than one of
/doing it. No Trentham shall unite with my family,
and live.' When my brother returned home, he wrote
a letter to me, relating all that had passed at Lord
Somertown’s, and entreating me to inform him whe
ther his Emily was, indeed, under her father’s roof.
“The writing of this letter was the last action that
was known of the unfortunate youth's life. A note
had been given him, whilst he was employed in it,
and as soon as he had finished it he took his hat, and
went out
“ My father, on the receipt of my brother’s letter,
had set immediately offfor London, and arrived there
late the same night. The house was in the utmost
confusion when he alighted from his carriage, as the
bleeding body of my brother had just been found in
Kensington Gardens, and recently owned by his af
fectionate valet, whose anxiety for his master’s safety
had led him all over the town in search of him. The
report of a wounded gentleman being found in Ken
sington Gardens soon reached his ears, and he flew
to the spot whither Lord Durham had been conveyed
by the persons who found him, and where surgical
aid had been administered in vain ; for although my
dear brother showed signs of life 'for several hours
after he was found, he never gave the least token of
sensibility. On searching his pockets narrowly, a
note, which had escaped the notice of the first exa
miners, was found, which Lord Durham had received
only a few minutes before he left his father’s house,
and which, no doubt, led him to the spot where he
was murdered.
"The hand-writing was an imitation of the Lady
Emily’s and the words where merely these—' Pre
cisely at five o’clock this afternoon you will find a
person at Kensington Garden gate, who will lead you
to your faithful wife.—Emily.
“ A latent hope of reviving his dear lord, notwith
standing his lifeless appearance, and the opinion of

the surgeon, had induced poor Graham to have my
brother conveyed home, where every aid was imme-»
diately summoned that anxiety and affection could
suggest; but the vital spark had fled, and the inani •
mate body was incapable of receiving succour.
“ The fatal sentence had just been pronounced by
the surgeons Graham’s care had assembled, at the
moment of my father’s arrival. It is impossible to
describe the agony of that distracted parent, when
the fatal news was revealed to, him. He had set out
on his journey with sentiments of the most violent
anger towards his son, and determined to annul the
marriage, little expecting to find it for ever set aside
by a catastrophe so fatal. The circumstances of my
poor brother’s being discovered were extraordinary.
Two men, employed in the gardens, had heard the re
port of two pistols, they both agreed that it was a
duel, and made the best of their way towards the spot
the sound appeared to come from.
“They were some time, however,before they found
any thing to confirm their suspicions. As it was a
rainy day no person was. walking: and they were
about to abandon their opinion, and return to their
work, when one of them stumbled over a pistol. This
circumstance reviving their former suspicion, they
made a diligent search, and soon afterwards discover
ed my unfortunate brother lying at the foot of a tree,
whose spreading branches had so darkened the spot,
that thelong grass concealed him, until the men were
close to him. His bat was off, and lay at some dis
tance from him, and a pistol unloaded lay close be
side him. Some faint signs of life, that appeared ou
a close examination, induced the men to convey him
to the nearest public house. On their entrance, the
men desired the landlord to examine the dear youth’s
pockets, when his purse was found, containing a con
siderable sum of money, and his watch, a gold re
peater of great value; which proved beyond a doubi
that he had not been robbed.

“ Prom a fear of getting into trouble, the landlord
of the public house where my brother lay had sum
moned the coroner with the utmost despatch, and an
inquest was held upon the body before it was cold.
At this investigation it had been decided that the gen
tleman had been killed in a duel with some peison
unknown. The mournful ceremony was over before
the arrival of Graham, who reprobated their precipi
tation in the strongest terms, exclaiming, ‘ That he
was sure his dear master was not dead, but had only
fainted through loss of blood.’
He had his lord removed, therefore, with the teri-
derest caution; but disappointment was the sad re
sult of the all the faithful creature’s endeavours.
“ The consequences of this mournful event was a
serious fit of illness to my father; he reproached
; himself incessantly with his son’s death, believing
his own severity had driven him on his ruin. Not
withstanding the circumstance of two pistols being
I found at a distance from each other, my father al
ways thought that Lord Durham had killed himself;
: although the note found in his pocket by Graham,
i but too plainly pointed out the mournful truth, and
! left not a shadow of doubt upon my mind that my
ibrother had been trepanned by the vile forgery into
'the power of an assassin: who that assassin was has
never been discovered, though I must own my sus
picions rested on one person only, either as the prin
cipal or at least the employer. My father sent for
ime the day after he took his bed, and endeavoured
:by his tenderness to a tons for the harsh manner in
which he had treated me.
“ He mentioned his intentions of acknowledging
Lady Durham and her infant, and sent me to the
place of her concealment, with a kind message to
that purport.
But, alas I the retFeat of the unfortunate Emily
nad been discovered by her implacable father, who
forcibly conveyed her to one of his own mansions

in a distant country. The lovely creature had re
fused to part with her child, who was accordingly
permitted to accompany her in her banishment.
" My father received the news of this fresh act of
cruelty with real concern. He had rested his hopes
of conciliating his uneasy conscience by showing to
the beloved wife of his lamented son the deep peni
tence he felt for his former cruelty, and endeavour
ing to atone for it by every act of tenderness her for
lorn situation required. This mournful satisfaction
was, however, denied him; and he took on so hea
vily, that his grief produced a train of disorders,
which soon became fatal. He survived his son only
thirteen months. Lady Petersfield endeavoured in
vain to displace me from my father’s sick-room; and
as my services appeared more agreeable to my un
happy parent than any other person’s, all her ma
noeuvres were fallacious.
“ When her ladyship found I was stationary, she
came less frequently into the apartment, and soon
returned to her gay habits, without concerning her
self about the invalid, whom she represented as an
hypochondriac to all her acquaintance. Indeed her
ladyship’s spirits appeared better than ever, after
my brother’s death. Her favourite point was ob
tained, her son was now Lord Durham. She beard
of my brother’s marriage, and that there was a child,
but her indefatigable genius soon discovered that it
was a daughter, and therefore not to be feared. Dur
ing the whole time my father lived, I received no
letter from Lady Durham, nor could I gain any ac
cess to her by all the stratagems I could devise.
At length the awful moment arrived—the agonized
frame of my poor father could no longer support the
{>ainful struggle—he died of a broken heart, in hia
brty-ninth year, and left me an isolated being,
without one friend to console me. .1 could not re
main with Lady Petersfield, the sight of her was in
supportable ; I therefore removed as soon as I de«

cently could to my Aunt Morrison’s, where I re
mained until I married Lord Ellincourt, which event
tooltplace the ensuing year.
“ The bustle of my marriage obliged me to mix
more with the world, and by degrees I recovered a
portion of my former spirits, yet still I heard nothing
of my poor Emily that was satisfactory : she never
appeared in public, and I had every reason to sup
pose she yras a close prisoner in her father’s gloomy
mansion in Westmoreland. Seven years had elap
sed without my obtaining any light upon the sub
ject, when, one day, taking up the newspaper, I was
struck by reading the following paragraphOn
Thursday died, at her father’s seat,in Westmoreland,
Lady Emily Hinchinbroke, only daughter of the
Earl of Somertown: her ladyship had been long in
a declining state.” I was inexpressibly shocked.
“ Poor victim of implacable revenge,” said I, “thou
hast then escaped from thy dreary prison! Butwhat,
alasl is become of thy offspring ?” The air of dis
claiming her husband’s title, in announcing Lady
Durham’s death, seemed to indicate that her child
was no more.
“Eight years more elapsed before I was convinced
this idea was erroneous; I then received the follow
ing words:—
“ Dear Aunt,
“ I have been taught to love you by the best
of mothers, and I do love you with all my heart,
though I have never been so happy as to see you.
My grandfather is gone to Ireland on some business,
and my kind governess has promised to take me to
your house, ifyou will condescend to receive your
I dutiful and affectionate niece,
Emily Trentham.”
" My answer may be guessed, and the next day the
\ Bweet angel was introduced to me. I will not pre
tend to describe what I felt when I beheld the most
I striking likeness of my injured Seymour, in the soft

features of his lovely daughter. A more perfect
beauty I never saw, nor a female so devoid of vanity.
She seemed the very soul of affection, and capable
of interesting the sternest heart in her favour. Her
governess assured me that Lady Emily had so won
upon., her grandfather, that she believed his lord
ship loved no other being upon earth but herself.
The sweet girl could stay but a short time with me,
but we often renewed the pleasure we experienced in
meeting during Lord Somertown’s absence.
“ These visits were, however suspended at his re
turn, and a letter now and then, clandestinely ex
changed, was all our consolation under the privation.
I did not see the dear Emily again for two years, and
then I found her everything the fondest heart could
wish, in mind and person : but there was an air of
melancholy about her that greatly distressed me.
She blushed when I questioned her, and replied that
she would some day lay open every thought of her
heart to me; but at present she must be excused.
Alas 1 I saw her no more from that period, for about
this time her cruel grandfather died ; and I at first
hoped, when I heard the news, that the lovely girl's
emancipation would follow. In this hope I was fa
tally mistaken; his son and successor, the present
lord, was the counterpart of his father, and seemed
to consider hi6 cruelty as much an inheritance as
his estate.
“ In his hands the hapless Emily found another
tyrant, and she was soon afterwards married, against
her inclination, it is generally thought, to a noble
man, whose name I shall not now mention ; and
went over with him to Ireland immediately. I am
astonished she has never written to me since, al
though I have addressed several letters to her, sup
posing that the restraint she formerly suffered had
now been agreeably changed to liberty. A murmur
which has lately reached me, respecting her present

situation, makes me very unhappy; but as it has not
yet been confirmed, I will pass it over in silence.
“ I hope, however, that my melancholy story has
sufficiently impressed your mind with the truth of
what I first advanced—That marriages, contrary to
the express prohibition -of parents, are generally un
happy, and often fatal.’
“’Would you imagine my stupidity, my dear mo-
ther,” said Lord Ellincourt; “ I have been listening
to your story with the most profound interest, be
cause I took it into my wise head, that the denouement
would prove my Fanny to be the daughter of your
hero and heroine. A curious anachronism, certainly.”
“Yes,” replied Lady Ellincourt, “the daughter
of my unfortunate brother is at least six years older
than you are, and ha's been married several years.”
“My sapience will be found a little more pro
found,” said Lord Ellincout, “in regard to the name
of the nobleman who married that child of misfor-
! tune—I know him well.”
“ About two months ago, I received a letter from
i my sister, which contains a long history of the lady
’ you allude to, and who, by the by, is wife to the Eavl
(of Ballafyn, the Bluebeard of Ireland. You shall
i read Caroline’s letter.’
“ I never liked Lord Ballafyn, I have been often
m his company, during his visits to England, though
; I little thought he was related to me. By Caroline’s
laccount he is a monster in the form of a man, who
inot content with rendering an innocent woman
^wretched, has now taken the diabolical measure oi
iblackening her character.
“ I will enclose my sister’s letter to you in a cq -

ver, as soon as I return home; and then my dear
mother can indulge her curiosity.”
Lord Ellincourt kept his promise ; and in a few
hours his mother was in possession of the letter. It
was as follows :—
“ My dear Edmund,
“lam truly sorry to hear you do not in
tend visiting Ireland this year; and as my good lord
has positively assured me that he cannot afford to
take me with him, when he goes to England; we
shall not meet therefore for many months. I had a
story to entertain you with had you kept your word
of spending the Christmas with us, and Iliad intend
ed to reserve the surprise for a winter evening’s
delassement; but now you must have it in a letter.
“You have frequently mentioned Lord Ballafyn’s
brother, Col. Ross, as one of your intimates, and
therefore I dare say you are no stranger to his lord
ship. Some years ago, this fascinating nobleman
married one of the loveliest women England ever
produced, and brought liis bride with him to Balla
fyn Castle, where she was looked up to as a divinity
by all the guests who were admitted to the castle.^ .
“Lady Ballafyn’s carriage was such as the strict
est prudence, joined to the most unaffected modesty,
would dictate; but the melancholy that seemed to
prey upon her spirits excited the sympathy of many,
and the curiosity of all. This was naturally sup
posed to originate in the treatment she received from
her husband, who, although the greatest libertine
that ever entered the pale of matrimony, took it into
his wise head So be jealous of her, and led her a life
suitable to his liberal ideas of female chastity.
“ All this Lady Ballafyn bore with unrepining pa
tience, and finding that her unreasonable lord ap
peared displeased with the admiration she excited,
the charming Emily declined going into public as
much as she possibly could.
“Lord Ballafyn permittedhis wife to return ito Eng-

land for her lying-in, and she passed several months
in her native country after that event; during which
period the child died, and the poor lady returned to
Ireiand, in a state of mind bordering on melancholy,
ana never afterwards mixed with any company what
ever. Lord Ballafyn’s visitors now consisted of gen
tlemen only ; and Lady Ballafyn, either by her own
choice or his cruelty, inhabited an obscure corner
of the castle, where her very existence was nearly
“ It is said that she visited England once during
. one of her lord’s absences, unknown to him; and that
a discovery which he lately made of that transaction,
has been the cause of the cruelty with which she has
been treated within these few months. Such un-
heard-of barbarities were, I believe, never before,
practised, unless by his namesake, Bluebeard ; which
title has been bestowed upon his lordship, by all the
ladies in the neighbourhood.
“ My maid assures me that the poor lady has been
shut up for days together without provision, and that
i the monster has more than once lifted his ugly paw
i against her, and even dragged her by the hair of her
i head from one apartment to another. No person is
' suffered to have access to her; nor can any letter
i reach her hand, as she is surrounded by his creatures
sand never left one moment to herself.
“ A few months ago, a young man of noble mien,
land with the most beautiful countenance in the world,
iwas seen creeping about the purlieus of the castle,
sand endeavouring to penetrate within its walls. His
lattempts were, however, fruitless; and at last he ap
plied himself to one of the servants, whom he endea
voured to interest in his cause by a bribe, that show
ed however mean his apparel might be, that he was
mot in indigent circumstances.
“ The servant pocketed the bribe, and he listened
ito all the stranger had to say, and promised to ob-
itain for him an interview with Lady Ballafyn. The

hour of midnight was appointed for the meeting, and
the unwary youth, trusting to his deceitful betrayer,
was led into the presence of the exasperated lord ; who
after loading him with abuse, assured him that the
only means of saving his life was by making a full
confession of his own and Lady Ballafyn’s guilt.
The youth listened to the base proposal with silent
contempt, and when forced by his persecutors to an
swer the charge, he persisted in asserting the inno-
cence of the traduced lady, and declared that she
knew not of his coining, and therefore could not be
culpable, if he was.
“ He refused to answer any further questions,
treating the threats of his persecutors with ineffable
disdain, 1 To die,’ said the gallant youth, ‘ is no such
mighty hardship, but to betray a trust is impossible to
a man who thinks as I do.’ He was kept several
days prisoner at the castle, in order to.extort some
confession from him ; but when Lord Ballafyn found
him impervious to all his stratagems, he employed
some of his myrmidons to get rid of him in a way
that has not yet been properly ascertained. Some
reports say that the stranger has been sent to T
Gaol to take his trial the next assizes, as a house
breaker: others, that he has been smuggled onboard
a transport lying at Y at the time, bound for the
West Indies, whither he was sent as a recruit in a
regiment going in that ship thither; the captain ol
which is a creature of Ballafyn's. But my maid as
sures me that he was thrown down the black rock,
that hangs over the sea, a little distance from Bal
lafyn Castle, and that his ghost has been seen every
moonlight night since, standing on the rock, and
pointing to the restless surges beneath.
“ The people pretend that this interesting stranger
resembled Lady Ballafyn so strikingly that he might
have been supposed to be herself in man's attire. _
“ It is impossible to hear stories like these with in.
difference; I confess, therefore, that I have been

ffiE'tlttLfi crENDICANt. 65
deeply interested by this tale, particularly so, as I
understand the unfortunate lady is a near relation of
ours. I don|t know whether you ever heard of an
ill-fated marriage in our family, that caused my poor
grandfather’s death. My mother could tell you the
sad history more perfectly than I can ; but I would
not have you ask it, unless she leads to it herself, for
I have beard that the sad consequences of that fatal
vmionnearly oversetherreason, during the first shock
she sustained.
“ Lady Ballafyn is the offspring of that marriage,
and seems to inherit the misfortunes of her parents,
“My imagination hasformedhalf a score of roman
ces! out of the materials I have been able to collect,
the most probable of which appears to me to resemble
the pathetic tale of ‘ Owen of Carron or, the tragedy
of ‘Douglas.’ The stranger must be a son of Lady
Ballafyn’s, by a former' marriage, and having just
found out who is his parent, he has experienced the
fate of the artless Owen, or the more magnanimous
Douglas; My maid says that the stranger appeared
too old to be the son of Lady B. and if that be true,
he must be her lover, and her lord is not quite so cul
pable, as we think him. And yet he isaid Lady Bal
lafyn did not expect him, nor knew anything of his
coming. He might therefore be a lover, though not
i a favoured one ; and yet why did he not come before,
if he meant to come at all? And if Lady B. did not
i know of his coming, how could he expect she would
i receive him, or, what end could he hope to have an-
- swered by so dangerous a step ?
“I think it would have been a delightful feat of
i knight-errantry for you to have delivered the fair
i lady from the claws of her persecutor, which you
imight have done in the character of her nearest re
lation. Your intimacy with Colonel Ross would have
igained access to the castle for you, and your own in-
igenuity must have accomplished all the rest. You
-see what a charming plan I had laid out for your
167 K

winter's campaign, but your obstinate attachment to
your own country spoils every thing. One thing 1
lorgot, which is a material part of my story—Lord
Ballafyn has publicly reported that his lady has been
guilty of infidelity, and that, for that reason, he
chooses to immure her in solitary confinement; he
pretends that he has detected the crime he alleges
.igainst her, asserting that he has several letters in his
!>ossession that are irrefragable proofs of her delin
“One of his lordship’s friends ventured to ask him
why he did not sue for a divorce from a woman who
reflected such dishonour upon hisname. But he re
plied, that he . knew that was what Lady Ballafyn
wished, and therefore he was determined to disappoint
her. This is his ostensible reason ; but depend upon
it the real one originates in his own evil conscience,
How could a man demand justice upon his wife for
a breach of faith who has a mistress in every place he
inhabits ? He keeps a very expensive lady in Dublin :
another in England; and there is one who was his
favourite before he was married, who resides within
the precincts of his own demesne; and this woman
it is, they say, who instigates his cruelty to his suf
fering lady. What think you of our modern Blue
When Lady Ellin court had perused her daugh
ter’s letter, she felt the most poignat. affliction.
“ Oh 1 my brother,” she exclaimed, “ my beloved
brother,[the sufferings of thy innocent offspring awa
ken in my mind the sad remembrance of thy cruel
death. The wounds of my heart are torn open, and
bleed afresh, and I am still the same powerless crea
ture, as when weeping thy misfortunes. I can only
lament / to remedy is not within the compass of my
power •'

When the first emotions of Lady Ellincourt’s sor
row had subsided, she sat down to write to her daugh
“ Cannot you, my dear Caroline,” wrote she, “ find
some generously disinterested person who could be
persuaded to write to Lord Somertown, and state the
actual situation ofhis'niece. Ihave been told he is
very fond of her; and I think if he knew how she is
treated, he would find some means to redress her
wrongs. s
“ I understand that Lord Somertown resides con
stantly now at his seat in Yorkshire, a prey to the
most profound melancholy. I fear there is but too
much cause for such a disposition. Surely he will
be glad of something to rouse him from the torpor of
despair, and force him to exert all the energy he
possesses in behalf of his suffering niece.”
In answer to this letter, Lady Ellincourt received
the following from her daughter:—
“The object of your solicitude, my dearest mo
ther, is no longer an inhabitant of this cruel world I
Lady Ballafyn had been dead a fortnight when your
letter reached me. I wonder you have not seen it
announced in the English papers.
“ Many people assert that her ladyship met an
untimely death by poison, administered to her by
her cruel lord. Of this number Mrs. Flyn, my maid,
is the most devout believer, for she has seen people
there who have seen Lady Ballafyn’s ghost all in
white upon the crag of the rock, where her lover ap
peared some time ago.
“ Other people assert that Lady B. has made he*

escape to England, and that it was only a log of wood
that was so pompously interred, a few days ago ; and
that my lord’s reason for choosing to believe her
dead, is because he intends marrying the woman he
has kept so long, and make her as good as a great
many more ladies who wear coronets, and came by
them in the same manner.. But I confess that I am
a convert to neither opinion ; for I think it natural
that a person of a delicate frame, like Lady Balla-
fyn, should sink under the pressure of ill-treatment
and confinement.—I only wonder she has lived so
“ That Lady Ballafyn was innocent I don’t enter
tain a doubt; and in that case what an exchange is
hers. She is now translated to the fulness of giory
and happiness for evermore.’’
Lady Ellincourt’s mind was relieved from the tor
tures of suspense and anxiety, by the mournful news
conveyed to her in her daughter’s letter; and her
agitated feelings gradually sunk into the calm of
settled melancholy. The last vestige of her beloved
brother was now extinct, and his name for ever blot
ted out. t
Lord Ellincourt beheld with real concern, the ha
voc grief was making on his mother, and he used his
utmost endeavour to divert her melancholy. The -
society of the engaging Fanny seemed to promise the
best antidote. Lord Ellincourtentreated his mother
therefore to take the child from school; and by mak
ing her the constant inmate of the house, insure to
herself the comfort of a companion.
Lady Ellincourt approved of-the scheme, and
Fanny was installed in her new abode before ano
ther week had elapsed; to the almost uncontrollable
joy of the lively girl, who thought she could never
sufficiently express her gratitude to her dear—dear
mamma, as she now styled Lady Ellincourt, for a fa
vour as delightful as unlooked for. That Fanny
might be no loser by the removal Lady-Ellincourt

determined to engage an accomplished governess to
complete the education of her darling under her
Miss Bridewell, who just at that period was wish
ing to getiid of her dear Dawson, recommended that
lady as the fittest person she knew to fill up the im
portant station.
Lady Ellincourt approved the measure, and Mrs.
Dawson became the governante of Fatherless Fanny.
It is necessary in this place to mention, that soon
after the Lady Trenthams left school, the amiable
Lady Maria became the wife of the far from amiabU
Col. Ross, whose pleasing exterior had beguiled her
of her heart, before she was aware that she had one:
and whose large fortune and high family rendered
him agreeable to the Marquis of Petersfield as a son-
in-law, particularly as there appeared to be a fair
chance of the family title and estate of Ballafyn cen
tering in that gentleman, as his brother had been
married many years without having an heir; and the
rumours that had reached the marquis respecting
Lady Ballafyn’s supposed infidelity, rendered it pro
bable his lordship would never marry again.
During the ensuing five years of Fanny’s life, lit
tle occurred to vary the scene. She was the cherish
ed companion of her kind benefactress, and the still
undiminished favourite of Lord Ellincourt; , who,
though he continued his giddy career through the
mazes offashion, never abated aught of his kindness
towards his adppted child.
Mrs. Dawson had now completed the education
of her pupil, and' the recommendation of Lady El
lincourt obtained for that lady a similar situation in
the family of a lady who resided a part of the year in
i Mrs Daw.son,it has before been observed, was o{
a disposition exactly calculated to make her way in
the world. She well knew how to catch the whim of

the moment, and to humour it with the most con
summate skill. '
She, was always, therefore, a great favourite with
her employers. Lady Ellincourt, who was one of
the best women in the world, thought Mrs. Dawson
the epitome of perfection, for to her observation she
had appeared as pious as she was accomplished, and
in the latter point there was no deception.
Mrs. Dawson had found the secret, however, of
winning Fanny’s affection, who judged every body
by the pure model of her own heart. Every secret
of her soul had been reposed in Mrs. Dawson’s keep
ing, and she had not a thought she wished to'con
ceal from the person she had so long considered in
the light of a second self/
Fanny’s grief, which had been continually increa
sed by the artful suggestions of Mrs. Dawson, ap
peared beyond the control of reason when the final
separation took place, and to mitigate its violence
Lady Ellincourt consented to an arrangement which
had not her entire approbation, namely, the esta
blishing of a regular correspondencebetween the pu
pil and her ci-devant governess, when at a distance
from each other.
This was exactly the object Mrs. Dawson had in
view all the time, and the attainment of her wishes
promised to gratify the two ruling passions of her
mind, curiosity and selfish policy. Things being
thus arranged, Mrs. Dawson took her leave, with
every appearance of the deepest regret, although re
joiced at the change, as her salary was considerably
augmented by the event; and she went away laden
with, marks of Lady Ellincourt’s munificence, be
sides all the valuable trinkets she had obtained from
the simple Fanny, by “ loving "them for the sake of
the “ dear—dear wearer”

Lord Ellincourt’s attachment to Emily Barlowe,
although it had never yielded to any new attraction,
had not been sufficiently strong to induce him to
follow her to Jamaica, as he once talked of doing.
At length, however, an incident occurred that re
united them in a most unexpected manner.^
Lady Ellincourt’s health had been declining for
some time, and her physicians recommended the
mild climate of Lisbon as the dernier resort. Lady
Ellincourt received the fiat with real regret, at length
she promised to acquiesce with the doctor’s injunc
tions, provided her dear Edmund would accompany
This was precisely what her dear Edmund had al
ways intended to do. And so said her tenderly-at
tached Fanny, when Lady Ellincourt asked lier whe
ther she would prefer being'left at Miss Bridewell’s,
or Lady Maria Ross’s, during the forced absence of
her maternal friend. “Surely my dear-mamma
would not be so cruel as to talkof leavingwze in Eng
land, when ill-health obliges her to seek a distant
home. In pity to my agonized feelings, do not pro
nounce so hard a sentence upon a heart which ac
knowledges no mother but you!”
As Eanny pronounced these words she clasped hei
arms round Lady Ellincourt’s neck, and endeavour
ed, with one of her fascinating smiles, to shake the
good lady’s resolution. But although deeply affect
ed by the sweet girl’s earnestness, and fully con
vinced of the sincerity of her attachment, Lady El
lincourt was not to be persuaded by all the rhetoric
poor Eanny was mistress of.

“I have well considered the subjeot we are u^on,
my sweet girlreplied her ladyship, “but life is
uncertain and greatly would it embitter the pangs of
death, could the painful reflection present itself to
my mind that my Fanny was exposed, by my im
prudence, to the trying situation of being left in a
strange country, without a proper protector of her
own sex, to re-conduct her to her native country.”
“But, my dear mamma,’’interruptedFanny, “ will
not Lord Ellincourt go with you ? and whose pro
tection could be better than his, should I indeed be
deprived of my best friend?”
“ Edmund would prove a kind friend and a power
ful protector to my girl, I am sure,” answered Lady
Ellincourt; “but so young a man is not a proper
chaperon for her, and that must be studied, my sweet
girl. Maternal anxiety, such as mine, foresees and
provides for every contingency.”
It was in vain that Lady Ellincourt preached pa
tience and submission to Fanny; no argument could
convince her that it was right to separate her from
her beloved mamma, and sne wept incessantly at the
fiat she could not alter. When urged by Lady El
lincourt to decide upon her residence duringher ab
sence, she would reply, “ It matters not where I go;
all places will be alike to me, when my dear mamma
is taken from me.”
At length, however, she was induced,by Lady El-
lincourt’s insisting upon an answer, to choose Lady
Maria Koss for her protectress, in preference to Miss
Bridewell. Col. Ross’s intimacy with Lord Ellin
court, and Lady Maria’s near relationship to the
Ellincourt family, had conspired to render them the
most frequent visitors Lady Ellincourt had ; and as
Fanny loved Lady Maria with the truest affection,
from the time she first became acquainted with that
lady at Miss Bridewell’s, it was natural she should
Erefer her protection to the formal jurisdiction of
er quondam governess. Col; Ross had never beep

a favourite'of Fanny’s, although the uniform kind
ness and attention with which he treated her seemed
to demand her gratitude.
Since his marriage, the Colonel had affected to
consider Fanny in the light of a child; a mode of be
haviour which seemed to increase rather than dimi
nish with her increasing years and stature.
Lady Ellincourt’s allowance for her favourite’s
maintenance was extremely liberal; and both the
Colonel and Lady Maria appeared pleased with the
arrangement,, when they learnt that Fanny was to
become their guest.
At length the dreaded moment arrived; and Fanny
vas torn, more dead than alive, from the arms of her
lear Lady Ellincourt, whose heroism never forsook
ler, and conveyed in Lady Maria’s coach to that
ady’s house.
Lord Ellincourt, notwithstanding the levity na
tural to him, possessed an excellent heart, and the
itender attachment of the artless Fanny deeply afflict
ed it. When he pressed her in his arms, and kissed
ioffthe tears that rolled down her blooming cheeks,
:he 'thought it was impossible he should ever love any ■
human being as he at that moment loved Fanny.
“ Dear girl,” said his lordship, “ how shall I bear
to live apart from you ? The sight of you is become
mecessary to my happiness, nay, almost to my exist
ence; and I verily believe I shall soon find that I
: cannot do without you.”
Col. Ross was present when Lord Ellincourt
thus expressed himself, and the heightened colour of
his cheek, and the stern expression of his eye, too
plainly told to the observing Lady Maria, that her
.husband was not pleased. Of the cause from whence
his displeasure sprung she was ignorant; butshehad
already learned to watch the variation of his coun
tenance, with the trembling anxiety of a dependant
“ Oh ! thsit I were so dear to you as you say!” ex-

claimed the artless Fanny; “ O! that it were true,
indeed, that you could not exist without seeing me.
Lady Ellincourt would not then r efuse to take me
with her; she would compassionate the feelings of
her son, although she has no pity for mine.” Un
conscious of the full force of what she had said, Fan
ny 'clasped her hands together with an expression of
tender anguish, whilst tears poured from her eyes,
raised, as in supplication, to watch the countenance
of her dear mamma, still cherishing the hope that she
might relent.
Such a thing was, however, farther than ever from
Lady Ellincourt’s thoughts, as a suspicion that mo
ment crossed her imagination, that rendered her
dreaded journey a most fortunate circumstance in
her estimation. Fanny’s beauty had been an object
so familiar to her eye, that its progressive improve
ment had not awakened any fears on Lord Ellin
court’s account until that moment; but her eyes ap
peared to be suddenly opened, and the energy with
which he had just expressed himself, joined to Fan
ny’s artless wish of tne realization of his love for her,
seemed to strike conviction on her mind. “ They
love each other,” said she, mentally, “ and my im
prudence has undone them both, unless this fortun
ate separation should wean them from each other.”
Dear as Lady Ellincourt loved Fanny, and ten
derly alive as she was to the happiness of her son,
yet such was the effect of hereditary pride upoD her
mind, that the idea of uniting her son to a person ol
obscure birth, was worse to her imagination than
even the prospect of his being miserable for life.

Arrived at Lisbon, Lady Ellincourt soon found
benefit from its salubrious atmosphere, and her son
had the satisfaction of seeing his mother’s health im
proving hourly.
A few weeks after their arrival they were agreeably
surprised, one morning, by a visit from Mr. Barlowe,
who informed Lord and Lady Ellincourt that he and
his whole family were come to reside some months,
perhaps years, at Lisbon; as their stay depended
upon the life of an infirm relation, who was im
mensely rich, and who intended to make Mr. Barlowe
her heir, had entreated him to come and reside near
her during the little time she had to stay in this
world; and that he intended to go to England after
the death of his relation, and fix his abode there, as
his estate in Jamaica had been disposed of, previous
to his quitting that island. The evident pleasure
with which Lord Ellincourt listened to this recital
delighted his mother, as she saw plainly in his eager,
bat confused inquiries after Emily Barlowe, that the
interest that sweet girl had excited in her son’s bo
som was still undiminished in fervour.
It gave her still greater satisfaction when she learn
ed, by a seemingly careless inquiry, that Emily was
disengaged, or at least that no positive plan of a ma
trimonial nature had yet occupied her father in that
respect to her.
The eldest daughter was on the point of marriage
with a young West Indian, ofimmensefortune, whose
attachment to her was sufficiently potent to induce
him to follow her to Lisbon, whither curiosity, or
perhaps coquetry, bad led her, in spite of her lover’a

entreaties, and her father’s remonstrances, who had !
intended to witness her nuptials before he left Ja- J
The haughty Caroline, however, chose to enjoy the
triumph of leading her captive from one quarter of
the globe to the other, and her vanity was not a little
inflated, when she found her influence strong enough
to accomplish her wishes. The gallantry 'of this ar
dent lover devised a thousand fetes fox the gratifica
tion of his beloved mistress ; and on these occasions
Lord Ellincourtwas sure to make one of the party,
and by his attentions to Emily, to prove that she too
had a lover no less ardent than her sister’s.
To talk about Fanny, the mutual favourite, was, at
first, their excuse for being so often seated near each
other; but by degrees another topic was substituted
in the place of Fanny, and the result was an appli
cation to Mr. Barlowe for his permission to address
his daughter; and as no reasonable objection could
be started to the alliance, it was soon agreed to on
both sides.
Lady Ellincourt had now the happiness of seeing
her son united to the lady she most approved of, ana
safe from the witchery of the fascinating Fanny.
Yet the good lady heaved a sigh now and then for
the poor girl, lest her youthful heart should have
been touched by the influence she had dreaded for
her son. The letters which her ladyship received
from her favourite did not, however, give any reason
to suppose her so affected ; for when she replied to
the one in which Lady Ellincourt had spoken of her
son’s-intended union with Emily Barlowe, Fanny
thus expressed herself—
“ Thank you, dearest mamma, for your charming
news. Oh I what a happy girl will your Fanny be,
when she sees her dear papa, and her dear Emily to
gether, and thinks that they will never more be part
ed, and that she shall always live with them, and
love them, and see them every d<iv I"

tCHE Lima MgKfilOAKH. , ' 11
These expressions certainly had not the appear
ance of a hopeless attachment; still Lady Ellin court
.had taken the idea so strongly in her head, that,like
imost old ladies when they form on opinion, she did
mot like to give it up, and acknowledge herself in an
error, even to herself.
: In themeantime, Fanny,“who never dreamt of jove,”
■was passing her time in the full enjoyment of in-
•nocent delight. The spirits, at sixteen are very elas
tic ; and her sorrow for the loss of Lady EllincOurt’s
society, soon gave way to the kind attentions of Lady
(Maria, who spared no pains toamuseher dear Fanny.
Col. Ross was no less attentive, but far less suc-
■cessful in his efforts to please. It was not that Fanny
felt ungrateful for his kindness, but that she experi
enced sensations of repugnance, she could not ac
count for, whenever he addressed himself to her, par
ticularly when they happened to be alone ; for then
there was a fervour in his manner, a look in his eyes,
>as disagreeable as it was new to her; and which,
ithough it roused her resentment, she dared not to
complain of, as she knew not why she felt offended,
although the emotions of anger were irresistible.
Col. Ross had penetration enough to see that he
was 110 favourite with Fanny, and this he attributed
to aprepossession in favour of Lord Ellincourt, rather
than any deficiency in his own powers of pleasing:
and the same vanity suggested the probability of
gaining upon the unsuspecting heart of his intended
victim, and supplanting the image of Lord Ellin
court, which he supposed was cherished there with
all the fervour of a first love. Amongst the friends
*to whom Fanny was now introduced by her‘new pro-

tectors, was a young lady of immense fortune, of the
name of Stanhope, who was, like most other heiresses,
a spoiled girl in the fullest sense of the word.
Accustomed from her infancy to have her will the
law of all about her, she had reached the age of eigh
teen, without havihg been once contradicted. Miss
Stanhope was, therefore, the epitome of caprice, and
fashionable folly; yet was she naturally of agenerous
disposition, and perfectly good tempered. This young
lady had hitherto resided with her grandmother, whose
doating affection had been the cause of her follies.
This lady was lately dead, and the care of Miss
Stanhope’s person and fortune had devolved upon
the Marquis of Petersfield, whose ward she was, and
at whose house she was to reside, until her marriage;
which was expected to talie place in a few months.
This alliance had been projected by the parents of
the young people, during their infancy, and was con
sidered a most advantageous union of property for
both parties. The young nobleman intended for
Miss Stanhope's husband was the Duke of Albemarle,
who was about four years older than herself, also an
orphan and only child.
The young duke had been abroad some years, on
account of the delicate state of his health, for which
the climate of Sicily bad been recommended by his
physicians. He was now on the point of returning
to his native country, in order to fulfil his father’s
will, by marrying Miss Stanhope.
Lady Ellincourt had been absent several months,
at the time of Fanny’s introduction to Miss Stanhope,
and it was declared absolutely necessary for the per
fect re-establishment of her health, that her ladyship
should remain in Portugal some months longer, a
circumstance, which gave the utmost alarm to poor
Fanny, whose terrified imagination was continually
presenting to her the dangers of her benefactress’s pro
tracted stay, in a country so formidably threatened
by the ranacious invader.

Miss Stanhope laughed at her fears, “ My dear
i girl,” said that wild young lady, “ I perceive you are
; asfond of LadjrEllincourt as I was of my poorgrand-
i mamnia ; and if you live with her much longer you
-vail bejustsuch a fool as I am; so I think it will be
iAn excellent thin" if the French should runaway
i with her, and not let her come home any more.”
“ Lady Ellincourt is certainly very indulgent to
ime,” replied Fanny, “but-she never spoiled me.”
“ There’s a conceited puss,” interrupted Miss Stan-
i hope ; “ she wishes people to think that she can bear
indulgence better than I can, and that all the old
' women in the world cannot spoil her. Well child/’
added she, laughing, “ since you are indulgence proof,
by your own confession, you must promise to spend
i the honeymoon with the poor duke and me, when we
i are married, for we shall be vapoured to death, de-
: pend upon it, until we get used to each other’s ways.’,
“You seem to have formed a strange idea of con
jugal felicity, Miss Stanhope,” replied Fanny, “to
talk of been vapoured to death in the society of your
husband, so soon after your marriage.”
“ Formal creature 1” rejoined the mad-cap, “ I’ll
venture to lay a wager, when thou art married, thou
wilt trot about, arm in arm, with thy lord and mas
ter, like Darby and Joan, and talk about the su
preme felicity of unlimited confidence and congenial
“ I hope,” said Fanny, smiling, “ if ever I do mar
ry, I shall be able to realize your charming picture,
or else I would rather live single.”
“ Live single, my dearl” interrupted Miss Stan
hope, “why that is the extent of human felicity, in
my idea of happiness. I would give half my fortune
this minute to be allowed to live single; at least un
til I could find somebody amiable enough to make
me change my mind.”
Is not the duke amiable ?’’ asked Fanny.
-.1 really cannot tell,” replied Miss Stanhope {

“ I have never seen him since he was an Eton boy.,
and then the animal was well enough to look at; but
I always hated him because I knew I should be ob
liged to marry him.’’ • ^
‘‘ But who can oblige you to marry his Grace,”
said Fanny, “ against your inclination ? You have
no parents alive, and surely, your guardian’s power
cannot extend to such violence.”
“The wise junto of fathers, mothers, uncles, and
aunts,” answered Miss Stanhope, “that made up
this match for the poor Duke of Albemarle and me,
tookihfinite pains to strike the balance between those
that envied Ms title and my riches, by dooming us
both to be tied together, whether we liked it or not.
Whichsoever refuses to fulfil the compact, forfeitc
the bulk of their fortune to the other. Now, though
I would give half my fortune to be off the wedding,
I should not like to lose the whole, and therefore I
must submit to be noosed. The duke, I dare say, is
of the same mind; but I suppose he would not like
to give me his largest estate to be off the bargain.
Thus you see are two people going to be tied toge
ther to please their dead papas and mammas, who
wish each other at the Antipodes.”
Fanny's artless sweetness rendered her a great fa
vourite with Miss Stanhope. Her vivacity was con
genial to her own, but far more equal in its tenor.
Unaccustomed to control, the slightest contradic
tion, the most trifling disappointment, had the pow
er to discompose Amelia Stanhope, and put her into
the “ pouts,’’ as she herself styled her fits of ill-hu-
mour; and whenever the demon of ill-temper spread
his malign influence, Fanny was the only person
who could effectually dispel the cloud thatobscured
her countenance, and restore the capricious girl to
her smiles again. Miss Stanhope became, therefore,
the inseparable companion of Fanny ; and as Lady
Maria Ross positively refused to let her charge be
come a guest at the Marquis of Petersfield’s, as l^liss

Stanhope 'was continually teazing her to be, that
young lady passed nearly the whole of her time with
/ler new friend, at Lady Maria’s house in Grosvenor
Miss Stanhope was very fond of riding^ on horse
back, and so eager was she for her favourite to par
take of the amusement, that she presented her with
one 01 the most beautiful horses that she could pur
chase, at which Fanny was not a little delighted, as
she had learned to be a tolerably expert horsewoman,
during her summer visits to Ellincourt’s country
Miss Stanhope had a carriage appropriated.for her
own use, and this conveyed the young friends'out of
town, where the horses, attended by two grooms, in
Miss Stanhope’s livery, waited their pleasure.
These rides formed the most delightful part of
Fanny’s life, for she was far from having any predi
lection in favour of nocturnal amusements ; and al
though Miss Stanhope insisted upon her accom-
panymgherwherevershecoMWgo,yetshewould often
have preferred the quiet retirement of her own cham
ber, to the brilliant ball-room, thronged opera, or
: motley masquerade.
Some of Lady Maria Ross’s friends made a point
of inviting Fanny to their entertainments, particu
larly when they perceived what a great favourite she
'was with the rich and celebrated Miss Stanhope;
but a great number declined showing her that favour,
from the aristocratical fear of making acquaintance
■ with some obscure person, whom nobody knew.
Fanny’s story, as far as Lady Ellincourt was ac
quainted with it, was generally known, as the hope
of tracing Fanny’s family, by detailing the adven
tures, had induced that good lady to talk more of
them than she would otherwise have done. Her la
dyship had strictly adhered to the request made in
the letter addressed to Miss Bridewell, Dy the person
'who put-Fanny under that lady’s care 8 namely—not
Id 7 a

to add any name to the simple appellation of Fanny,
by which only she had hitherto been distinguished.
These precautions, without having the desired ef
fect, had exposed the sweet girl to the malevolent re
marks of the envious and the unfeeling; and often
had she experienced the mortification of hearing the
inquiry of astranger, respecting her name, answered
by some ill-natured insinuation, from those whose
envy had been excited by the eulogium that pre
ceded the question.
One evening, in particular, a gentleman, whose
attention had been long fixed upon Fanny, asked a
lady who was sitting next him, if she could inform
him who that beautiful girl was. “I never beheld
such a lovely creature,” added he, in atone of rap
turous admiration.
“The girl is a perfect mystery,” replied the ill-na
tured fair one; “I don’t believe any body knows
who she is, unless, indeed, it is the Ellincourt’s.
Some people suppose she is Lord Ellincourt’s daugh
ter, but for my part I think it much more likely she
is his mistress; and I am astonished that any body
will admit such an unaccountable person to their
parties. She has no name but that of Fanny, and
she is generally called, by way of distinction, Fanny
nameless J But I think it is past ajoke to be obliged
to sit in the same room with a person of such douDt-
ful origin, and, indeed, for what we can tell, of such
doubtful character.”
“ I do not wonder,” answered the gentleman drily,
" that any lady should object to sitting in the same
room with that lovely creature, who is not proof
against the envy natural to her sex ; for however du
bious her origin may be, her claims to admiration are
undoubted, and that is what few women will excuse
tn her.”
Fanny had heard all that passed, for she was placed
60 near it was impossible to avoid ii; and her confu
sion may be imagined. When she was talking to

!thb lti'tle mbndioans . 83
Miss Stanliope the next day, she mentioned the dis
tress she had suffered, adding, “that she preferred
staying at home to the being exposed to such cruel
remarks.” 1
“ Mjr dear creature,” replied Miss Stanhope, “ all
this arises from Lady Ellincourt permitting your
story to be exposed and persisting in calling you by
the name of Fanny only. Tell me candidly, is not
such a proceeding calculated to raise the curiosity
of the quitest creatures in the world, and to set the
giant Observation staring at you, wherever you go?
Now, if Lady Ellincourt chooses to behave so ridi
culously, surely Lady Maria Ross might have had
more sense; she might have given you some fine
sounding surname, and trumped up a probable story
about you, that would have quieted all the he and
she gossips that visit her, and then every thing would
have gone on smoothly. But never mind, I have a
scheme in my head, and will put it in execution the
first opportunity; and depend upon it, it will an
“ What is that, dear Amelia?”' said Fanny, anxi
“ Oh ! never mind,”, replied Miss Stanhope, “ you
shall know nothing about it, until my plot is ripe.
The beauty of a novel consists in well-managed
surprises, and I am determined mine shall be a first-
rate performance. Do you know Lord Somer-
town ?”
“No,” replied Fanny; “I have heard his lord
ship’s name, but I never saw him.”
“ He is the Duke of Albemarle’s uncle and guar
dian. There is nothing in the world_ would please
me so well as to see the wretch stand in the pillory,
but I am afraid I shall never attain to such a good
fortune. However, if I can but succeed, in plaguing
him, I declare I shall be the happiest girl in Chris
“ I hope, if you are going to play any tricks with

Lord Somerlown,” said Fanny, looking grave, “ that,'
my dear Amelia, you will not bring me into the
scrape; for, you know, what would be tolerated in
you, would be deemed unpardonable in me.”
“ Oh! don’t frighten .yourself,” replied Miss Stan
hope'; “ you shall have no hand in the plot, though
the heroine of the piece.”
“ How, the heroine ? Dear Amelia, you frighten
me,” said Fanny, looking alarmed.
“ Nay, never look so terrified,” replied her lively,
friend; “ I don’t intend you to marry Lord Somer-
town, although that would be an excellent method of
plaguing him, if you had my spirit. No, nol he
must be tormented, and I think I know how. They
say he broke his niece’s heart by his cruel usage,
and if I can find the way to his, I will remunerate
him as he deserves. I dare say there is not a spot
bigger than half a split pea, in his whole heart, that
is vulnerable to the sense of feeling; and my skill
must be exerted to find it out, and transfix it with
the shaft of remorse.”
“Do what you please to Lord Somertown,” said
Fanny, “ but for heaven’s sake spare me ; for I feel
the most unaccountable dread of being implicated in
the hoax, be it what it may.”
“You are a silly child,” answered Miss Stanhope*
laughing; “ and your unaccountable dreads ^ust nofc
spoil the getting up of my play.”
Fanny had always been accustomed to early riiing.
and always, in fine weather, took a walk before break
As Lady Maria Ross was a dormouse, she knew no
thing of this indulgence, or she would not have suf-

fered a girl of such extraordinary beauty as Fanny
to go strolling in the Park of a morning, accompanied
only by her maid, who was very little older than her
self and far less fit to be trusted. The grove in the
Deer Park was Fanny’s favourite stroll; and one
beautiful morning in May, having taken a longer
round than usual, she determined to rest herself be
neath the shade of one of the large trees in that beau
tiful spot.
Her maid, Betty, was expatiating on the, prefer
ence that ought to be given to a walk, such as they
had had, to the unwholesome custom of lying in bed,
in a close room, until “the sun was ready to burn
their noses,” to use an expression of her own.
“ Well, Miss, you take the right method to look
ruddy and wholesome,” said the girl, “ and that’s
what makes people call you so deadly pretty. Yes,
and look there stands a gentleman as thinks so, I am
sure'; for he looks as if he was planet-struck.”
Fanny turned mechanically to look at the object
Betty had pointed put to her. At a little distance
from the spot where she was, she beheld a tall gentle
man habited in black, of the most elegan t form, whose
countenance wore the interesting cast of settled me
lancholy. So absorbed too was he in the contem
plation, that he attempted not to withdraw his eyes,
when Fanny turned to observe him. Confused atthe
glances of the stranger, Fanny arose to depart, with
out making any answer to Betty’s animadversions.
Fanny walked on in silence, and with hurried step,
whilst Betty followed her and continually turning
her head to observe the stranger; at length she ex
claimed, “Well, to be sure, if that dismal looking
man is not following us, I wish I may never be mar
ried.” ■ _
ts Betty,” replied Fanny, in an angry tone, “ you
behave so ridiculously, that it is no wonder you ex
cite the notice of every body that passes.”
Betty talked so loud, and stared about her so, that

she verified Fanny’s accusation of attracting the notice
of every body that passed her. A gentleman on horse
back had been observing her some time, and hejump-
ed off his horse, andgiving it to his groom, he came
up to the terrified Fanny, and placing himself fami
liarly by her side, “ For heaven’s sake; my sweet
girl,” said he, throwing his arms familiarly round
Fanny’s waist, “ where did you pick up that strange
monster for an attendant?”;
Fanny made no reply, but distressed and terri
fied beyond expression struggled to get from her
persecutor. As it was early in the morning, but few
people were in the park; and the gentleman who
had assailed Fanny, not fearing a rescue, amused
himself by seeming to let her escape, and then catch
ing her again, until her exhausted spirits gave way,
and she burst into tears.
At that moment the stranger, whose observation
of Fanny had first excited Betty’s loud exclamation,
advanced to her assistance, and waving his hand with
an air of dignity, that immediately awed the rude
object of his resentment, “ Desist, Sir,” said he, in a
tone of authority; “that young lady shall not be in
sulted whilst I can protect her.”
“ And pray, Sir,” said the brute, “ who are you ?’’
“A man," replied the|majestic stranger; “ and that
is a title you can lay no claim to, whilst you debase
yourself so low as to insult a defenceless woman !’*
Ashamed of the part he had acted, and yet unwil
ling to acknowledgejhiserror, the gentleman appeared
inclined to resent the interference of Fanny’s protec
tor, and muttered something about satisfaction. But
with a dignity truly irresistible, the interesting stran-.
ger waved his hand ; “ Begone !” said he, “ and talk
not of having sustained any degradation from me,
since it is impossible to place you in a more despi
cable light than that in which I first beheld you.”
Then turning to Fanny, “Rely safely on my
protection, sweet girl,” said he, “ and rest assured

that I would sooner forfeit my life than suffer you to
be insulted.” Confused beyond the power of ex
pression, Fanny could only courtesy in silence to
her deliver, ana pursue her way towards home, with
a quickened step, in which agitation and alarm were
still visible. Her persecutor, however, had quitted
the Park, and mounting his horse, was out of sight
in a minute. As he turned away from her, however,
he said, in an insulting tone, “He hoped that, as
she had found somebody more to her mind, she would
act conformably to her own real character, and not
give hevself'airs that did not belong to her.’*
“ My dear young lady,” said the benevolent stran
ger who had just rescued Fanny, “I feel persuaded
that you are as innocent as you look ; but I entreat,
you, in future, not to walk out without some attend
ant more proper to protect you than the one you
have now got. The strong resemblance you bear to
a dear departed friend of mjne first attracted my no
tice ; and as I gazed upon your features, a train of
melancholy recollections crowded upon my mind,
and I mechanically, and without design, followed
your footsteps, I am most happy that I did so, as it
gave me an opportunity of being of service to you."
Fanny thanked her deliverer in terms of grateful
respect, and assured him that in future she would
never venture to walk out unprotected.
They had now reached the confines of the Park ;
and as they were preparing to cross the road into
Park-lane, Col. Ross overtook them on horseback,
lie immediately dismounted, and giving his horse in
charge to his groom, joined the party, with aston
ishment painted in his countenance.
Fanny, who saw that he expected an explanation,
briefly related the circumstances of the insult she
had received, and acknowledged the kind interfer
ence of the benevolent stranger. Col. Ross thanked
the stranger for his assistance, adding, in a tone that
allowed he did not wish to cultivate the acquaintance,

“The jroung lady,being now under the imroediato
protection of her guardian, your walk, sir, need not
be any farther interrupted.” And then, with a stiff
bow, he wished the gentleman a good morning.
The bow was returned with equal stiffness; and
measuring the Colonel with a penetrating glance, the
stranger said to Fanny, “ Farewell, sweet girl; may
Heaven protect and keep you from the sly designs
of the wicked, as well as the open attacks-of the li
As soon as Fanny reached Grosvenor Street, she
retired to her own chamber, where she was long be
fore she could recover her wonted serenity.
Her terror, indeed, had subsided, but the recollec
tion of the interesting stranger affected her in a man
ner she could not account for.
The ungrateful manner in which Col. Ross had
treated her deliverer pained her to reflect upon, and
she felt surprised that a man of the Colonel’s refined
breeding should have shown himself so wanting in
common civility, on an occasion which certainly did
not warrant such an infringement on the laws of po
liteness. Fanny little imagined that jealousy had
actuated the Colonel’s behaviour, whose suspicious
eye had beheld in the stranger a more formidable
rival than lord Ellincourt himself.
It was true, that he appeared to be past the first
bloom of youth, but it was impossible to behold him,
and not confess that he had a most graceful form, and
a most beautiful countenance.
At breakfast, Fanny related the adventures of the
morning, and received a lecture from Lady Maria,
for her imprudence in walking out so far without any
companion but a silly country girl, more likely by
her awkwardness and folly to excite, than repel im
In this reprimand Col. Ross joined with some se
verity, “ I don’t know,” added he, “ what may be the
consequence of Fanny’s adverture; the man who

i delivered her from her first persecutor being, in, my
s opinion, the most dangerous of the two!”
“ Why do you think so, sir?” asked Fanny, blush
ing deeply as she spoke.
“ Because,” replied the Colonel, “ I believe him
i to be a notorious fellow that I remember seeing tried
ifor a swindler, some years ago; and, if my conjec
ture is right, he will no doubt endeavour to make
i something out of this adventure.”
“ Oh, dear!” said Lady Maria, “ I am frightened
to death. We shall be robbed, I dare say. Indeed,
: Fanny, you must be very careful; and above all
things never speak to that man, if you should happen
;to see him, let his appearance be ever so prepossess-
?ing, or the company you see him in ever so respect
able. Swindlers have the art of introducing them
selves every where; indeed you cannot be too much
jupon your guard.”
This was the very distrust Col. Ross had wished to
iinspire, and he was happy to see his artifice had pro
duced the desired effect upon his lady, ^s he well
knew she would effectually prevent the approach of
the stranger, of whose future attempts to obtain the
confidence of Fanny he was really apprehensive, but
from a motive very different to the one he had as
Fanny did not feel herself at. all inclined to give
credit to Col. Ross’s insinuations against her deli
verer, and she told him that she thought it illiberal
to asperse the character of a man he did not know,
upon no better foundation than the slight recollec
tion of a face that might resemble the stranger’s,
•without the least proof of his being the unworthy per
son he represented him. “ For my part,” added the
ingenuous girl, “ I must confess, nothing short of
conviction should induce me to think unworthily of
that gentleman.”
“ At seventeen ,” replied Col. Ross, “ such a super
ficial way of judging people may be excused; but

believe me, Fanny, when I tell you as a friend, that!
it would be very dangerous for you to rely upon so:
erroneous a guide, in choosing your acquaintance.”'
The conversation was here interrupted by the ar- ■
rival of Miss Stanhope, who came to ask Fanny>toi
ride out with her.
“If Fanny is prudentshe will refuse your request,” 1
said Col. Ross: “she has made one excursion too
many this morning.”
“ How*so ?” asked Amelia.
The colonel then told the story in his own way;
whilst Fanny, out of all patience at the account he
gave of her kind deliverer, took up the subject, and
drew a picture of her new acquaintance that delight
ed Miss Stanhope. “ Oh,” said that giddy girl, “ I
am dying to see your swain, Fanny. I love pensive
countenances beyond description. I hope you are
■ not far gone in the tender passion , for you may de
pend upon it I shall become your rival, provided
your delineation be a faithful one.”
“ It will be an honoured rivalship to be sure,”
said Col. Ros?, with a sneer; “a competition who
shall accompany^ the hero on his voyage to Botany
Bay, for there his career will end, depend upon it.
He is a swindler,' or I am a dunce!”
“ I should think the latter assertion far more likely
to be true than the former ,” said Miss Stanhope,
laughing. “ Fanny’s account of the charming crea
ture convinces me he is some incognito of conse
quence, and the glory of developing liis real charac
ter will, perhaps, be mine. Thank you, my dear girl,
for giving^me something to do, that will protect me
from the demon Ennui. The delightful task of find
ing out who this stranger is will amuse me for this
month to come. But mind, you must look out for
him, and show him to me.”
“ The Duke of Albermarle is expected in town to
day ;” said the colonel, “ and it will be hard if the

preparations for your nuptials cannot supersede the
idle curiosity this silly story has excited.”
“ A pretty remedy for ennui, upon my honour,’
6aid Miss Stanhope. “ Married, indeed 1 I am sure
if the duke is as much averse to the match as I am,
our union will make an excellent subject for a tra-
igedy, and may be called—‘ The double Sacrifice.’ ”
“ The world may thinkmine a bullion lot, but it
;must not be very angry with me for dissenting from
its opinion. I would give half my fortune, and all
the honour of being a dutchess, for the delightful
i privilege of choosing for myself.”
Fanny sighed deeply, and then blushing, because
Col. Ross looked at her as if he wishedto penetrate
her thoughts. She rose from the table, and_ walked
to the window. “Nay, don’t sigh about it,” said
i Miss Stanhope, “ perhaps I might not choose your
swain if I were to see him; and if I should, I would
1 give you the duke in his stead; I am sure I never
shall like him; and all I have to wish is, that he
i may not like me : for he has the power of declining
i the alliance by the trifling sacrifice of ten thousand
per annum, but poor I must lose all my fortune, if I
“ If Fanny rides with you, /must make one of the
) party,” said Col. Ross, “ lest she should meet with
i either of those impertinent fellows she saw this morn
“By all means,” said Miss Stanhepe, “we shall
i have no objections to a beau.”
When Fanny had put on her riding habit, she re
turned to the breakfast parlour, and Miss Stanhope’s
: carriage conveyed the trio to the spot where tlie
grooms were waiting with the horses.
The animal Amelia rode, on was very spirited,
fcnd she frequently expressed her fears thathe would
be too much for her skill to manage. Fanny, who
was the better horsewoman, offered to change with
her friend; but,the colonel pridcavoured to j&ersu.'ule

her not to venture such a hazardous undertaking, bu t:
rather to return to the carriage, and defer the rides|
till another day, when a safer horse could be provi-j
ded for Miss Stanhope.
The giddy Amelia refused to listen to this salutary tj
advice, however ; and, as Fanny repeated the offer, j
the exchange was made. Eor some time the fieryr'
animal seemed to submit to the superior skill of his!
new manager until the sudden elevation of a boy’s >
kite startled him, and darting forward with fury, he !
left his companions far behind him. ’ .
Terror deprived Fanny of all power to check his i
speed, and losing her balance, she was thrown to the
ground. When Col. Ross and Miss Stanhope came
up to her, they found her lying, apparently lifeless,
in the arms of a gentleman, who had stopped his car
riage when he saw the accident, and flown to her as
For the first few minutes they were too much ab
sorbed in terror to observe the countenance of Fanny’s
supporter; but when, after the application of cold
water to her temples, she revived, and assured her
friends that she was not materially hurt, Miss Stan
hope instantly recognised, in the features of the gen
tleman who had assisted Fanny, too strong a resem
blance of the Duke of Albermarle to be in doubt of
his identity.
Though only a boy offour teen when she hadlastseen
him, the peculiar cast of his countenance was too re
markable to be mistaken, and she had soon the sa
tisfaction of observing that she had the advantage over
her intended husbana, and was convinced that her
own form had undergone a more material alteration
in the space of seven years than his had done, since he
appeared not to have the slightest idea who she was

93 '
A hoax!
'The Duke of Albemarle, for it was really he, offered
his carriage to convey Fanny home; but Amelia re-
Elied, “ that as Miss Stanhope's own carriage^ would
e there immediately, there was no occasion to intrude
upon his politeness.’’ A groom had been sent in
search of the coach, and it soon made its appearance.
The duke instantly recognised the arms, and be-
oame the dupe of Miss Stanhope’s artifice, by mis
taking Fanny for his bride elect : ahoax Amelia had
determined upon playing him as soon as she foun(f
herself unknown to him.
The duke assisted Fanny to the carriage, and then
took his leave, without taking any notice of the dis
covery he thought he had made, and proceeded to
town, full of the most pleasing anticipations of hap
piness, in his approaching union with a girl of such
exquisite beauty as the one he had just been admiring.
Lord Somertown’s house was to be the duke’s town
'residence, until he should fix upon one to his mind,
and he alighted there in the highest spirits about half
an hour after he had parted with Fanny.
When the duke related the accident that had
brought him acquainted with Miss Stanhope, Lord
Somertown was much pleased, as the description he'
f ave of the impiession her beauty bad made upon
is fanoy was in the true style of a lover. “ When
I saw the lovely creature thrown from her horse,”
) said his grace, “terror was the instinctive emotion
of mr heart; but little did I imagine how deeply mv
own liappiness was concerned in her safety. Thank
heaven. - ’ added he, “the sweet girl, though greatly
; fxighiened, was not hurt.”

6-1 FATHERLESS FANXt 1 (3ft,
“ Well, well, boy,” answered Lord Somertown, “ 1'
am glad it is as it is, for it would have been an incon
venient thing if the girl had been killed before you
had married her. Her fortune is very necessary to
the repair of yours, as that long Chanceiy suit with
the pretended heir to your title cost an immensity ot
money. Who was with Miss Stanhope in her unlucky
excursion this morning V’
“ A lady and a gentleman,” replied the duke.
“ The lady I dare say I can guess at, for she has
picked up an adventuress, who is making a good thing
out of her; and I hope the first act of your power
will be to break that connexion. I hope the gentle
man was not a rival though. Girls are such vain
creatures that they cannot live without an admirer;
and I have begun to be afraid, for some time past,
that you would stay so long abroad, that some needy
fellow would snatch up the prize before you returned.”
“ I heard the young lady who was with Miss Stan
hope, call the gentleman Col. Ross,” said the duke.
“ Oh I then all is well,” rejoined Lord Somertown.
“ Col. Ross is married, so there are no fears from
that quarter.’
“ I am glad to hear it,” said the duke, “ for thero
was so much anxiety painted on his countenance,
that I could almost have ventured to believe that he
was an admirer of the lady who had met the acci
dent. But, my dear uncle, you talk of Miss Stan
hope’s marrying some needy man, I thought her fa
ther’s will insisted upon her marrying me, on the
penalty of losing the bulk of her fortune : and that
I was bound by a similar injunction to marry none
but Amelia.”
“ A mere tale invented by me,” rejoined Lord So
mertown, “ to make you both cement the union I
have set my heart upon. As you have fallen in love
with the girl, 1 may venture to disclose the secret to
you; but I beg you will guard it carefully from

Amelia, on whose docility we must not rely a single
instant after that restraintis taken off.”
“ Deceive her no longer, I entreat you,” said the
duke. “ the object of Miss Stanhope’s unre
strained choice would make me happier than I can
express; and how can I ever know that I am so,
whilst she acts under the influence of the supposed
clause in her father’s will ?”
“ I did not imagine you were such an idiot, Hen
ry,” exclaimed Lord Somertown, angrily; “you
talk of things that never existed. No woman ever
had an unbiassed choice in a husband. When you
know as much of the sex as I do, you will despise
them as completely as I do. I have .confided my
secret to you, and if you betray it I will find a me
thod of revenging the affront. I have done much to
be revenged of those who have scorned my power,
and you have benefited by it; take care, therefore,
how you incur my displeasure: no one ever yet did
so with impunity. You know the ties of blood are
nothing in my estimation, when exposed to excited
vengeance. Remember that, and tremble! I leave
your mode of acting to yourself, after this caution.”
The duke shuddered as he listened to this exor
dium, for he well understood his uncle’s allusion :
and he would gladly have given his title and estate
to be freed from the unpleasant sensations, the re
collections it awakened, excited in his bosom. He
knew, however, the vindictive temper of Lord So-
mertown too well to hazard the slightest contradic
“ Where my duty and my inclination go hand in
hand,” said his grace, “ there is little fear of my dis
obeying your lordship’s injunctions. To marry Miss
Stanhope is the most ardent wish of my heart: that
I should do so is your lordship’s. I shall not there
fore risk the possibility of a disappoiiitinent, by di
vulging the important secret I”

In the meantime Miss Stanhope and Fanny returnedX
to town ; the former exulting in the imposition she
had practised, of which, however, she avoided giving
the slightest hint to either of her companions, fear
ing lest they should impede the success of her plot,
before she had an opportunity of laying its founda
tion with the security she meditated, and which once
put in train, she felt certain would defy their genius
to overturn.
Fanny’s spirits were flurried with the accident she
had met with, and she was but ill able to bear the rail
lery with which her lively friend attacked her.
“ My dear Fanny,” said Amelia, “ I really think
it would be the safest expedient we could hit upon,
to send you into the country immediately.”
“And why so 2” asked Col. Ross; for Fanny was
“ Why don’t you perceive,” rejoined Miss Stan
hope, “ that she can neither walk nor ride without
meeting with adventures and knight-errants. De
pend upon it she will be run away with some day,
and then we shall lament the temerity that exposed
Her to such danger. You were afraid of the Adonis
she met in the morning, but I have the most reason
to be afraid now; for I will wager a thousand gui
neas she steals my lover from ine before I am a week
“Your lover!” re-echoed the colonel, “for hea
ven’s sake, Miss Stanhope, whom do you allude to ?’*
To the Duke of Albemarle,” replied she ; “ that
was the invincible knight who just now spread his
fostering arms to shelter this beautiful damsel.”

As Miss Stanhope spoke, Fanny’s cheeks were
dyed with crimson, and a deep sigh escaped her.
1 She was sorry to hear that the stranger she had
(thought so agreeable, was a man of whom she must
think no more. She tried, however, to turn the con-
^ versation, by observing, that she wondered the duke
i had not recognised Miss Stanhope.
nslT “I dare say,” answered Amelia, laughing, “ that
ivin^l' the duke thinks me so much improved in beauty,
fearJ, 1 f that he does not suspect his happiness in being des-
plot: tined to so lovely a creature, and so his humility
mda i i painted out a fair one more-upon a par with his own
—merits. Well, the duke does not please me, but I
shall not say so. Let him cry out first”
In this unmerciful manner did Amelia continue to
roast poor Fanny, until the carriage stopped at Col.
Ross’s door, and for the first time since they had be
come acquainted, Fanny felt rejoiced to get rid of
hinki 1 her agreeable friend, who could not command time
ipoDjl' enough to alight to tell Lady Maria Ross “ the won
ders of the ride ,” a circumstance she lamented most
Col. Ross was as glad as Fanny to see Amelia de
lta!)-H part, for the jealousy .her suggestions had raised in
jjoutji his bosom, required the retirement of his closet to
Be-;!' subdue and bring within the limits of his usual self-
J a y,-1 1 command. To his closet therefore he flew, as soon
osed as be entered the house, and Fanny repaired to her
[onis'!' own chamber, where, throwing herself on her bed,
she gave way to the flood of tears that had long been
struggling for freedom. She had suppressed them
while in Amelia’s presence, because she feared she
would attribute their flowing to a silly and sudden
hca- ! Partiality imbibed by a first-sight impression, a spe-
, 0 (ii i cies of romance Fanny had always condemned, when
that' 1 conversing with Miss Stanhope on the subject of at-
j,; s • tachment. _ ~
Scarcely, indeed, could she herselftell from whence \
the weeping propensity originated, but felt most in-
167 G

clined to attribute it to the influence of her wounded
{iride, which had shrunk from Miss Stanhope’s rail-
ery, with a degree of pain very unusual to the natu
rally humble-minded Fanny.
“ Poor outcast orphan as I am,” said the weeping
girl, “ dependant on the bounty of strangers, and
unblest even with a name. Miss- Stanhope is blest
with fortune, and its sure attendants— friends. She
can command admirers; it is ungenerous therefore
in her to make my insignificance the subject of her
These reflections were the bitterest Fanny had
ever made; the secret cause that made them so. I
leave to my sagacious female readers to find out. not
in the least doubting that they will be able to ascribe
the effect to its genuine cause.
In a few hours after Miss Stanhope’s return home,
she received a note from the Duke of Albemarle, an
nouncing his arrival, and entreating permission to.'
pay his compliments to the lady who held his future
happiness at her disposal.
Amelia fixed the following morning for receiving
the visit of the impatient lover. When the appointed
hour arrived, the duke was announced, and entered
the apartment where Amelia was sitting at her mu
sic, with such a degree of eagerness, that he scarcely
save the servant time to name him ere he stood be
fore her. His impatience, however, was not more
evident than his disappointment, when, on Amelia’s
rising to receive him, he perceived that she was not
the lady he expected to see.
The duke was accompanied by Lord Somertown t
he did not, therefore, dare to account for his embar
rassment, and that nobleman attributed it solely to
the foolishness inseparable from a boy’s attachment.
The Marquis of Petersfield soon entered the room,
and relieved him in some degree, by turning the con
versation upon general subjects.
Lord Somertown asked the marquis whether hg

ha cf purcnased the pictures at Christie’s, which he
saw him bidding for 1
“ I have,” replied Lord Petersfield; “ and if your
lordship will give ,me your opinion of a Titian I
have amongst the number, it will greatly oblige me?”
“ Certainly,” answered Lord Somertown. “ The
young people,” added he, “will excuse our leaving
them together for a few minutes.” So saying the
two guardians left the room, and the duke’s embar
rassment returned with increased violence. Miss
Stanhope, who enjoyed her poor lover’s confusion,
determined to increase it “I little thought,” said
she, smiling archly, “when 1 received such jpolite
attention from your grace yesterday, morning, after
my unfortunate fall, that it was to the Duke of Al
bemarle I was indebted for assistance: but your
grace seems to have forgotten the whole circum
stance, for you have not once inquired how I am af
ter my fright.”
The duke was struck dumb at this speech ; and
Miss Stanhope burst into a fit of laughter that com
pletely disconcerted him.
“ It is time,” said she, “ to finish the joke. I have
entered most unwillingly into the deceit that is
practised upon you, and I feel myself unequal to the
task of imposing any longer upon your credulity.
I'will,therefore, be candid, provided your grace will
pledge your word and honour that you will not own
I have done so, until I give you leave.”
The duke, whose curiosity was raised to the high
est pitch by this preamble, and whose hopes began
to revive at the same time, readily entered into the
conditional promise, and Miss Stanhope proceeded
1 with her hoax.
“Amelia Stanhope,” said she, “is a whimsical
' creature; for, although I love her dearly, nobody is
: quicker in discovering her errors than I am. This
: giddy girl could not bear the idea of being introdu-
■ tod to her husband elect as a commodity he was obli-

ged to take, whether he liked it or not; and she de
termined to get up a little drama, which was to be
performed in honour of your grace’s arrival. In this
piece / have the principle part, for I am honoured
by personating Miss Stanhope, whilst she herself has
assumed the simple guise which belongs to me, and
which you will see her perform with the admirable
r> grace and naivete. In that disguise she expects to
win your grace’s heart; and, if I have any skill in
augury, her expectations are not ill-founded. Lord
Somertown and the marquis are both in the secret,
and they are anticipating the pleasure of seeing your
embarrassment, when you find yourself entangled in
an attachment so seemingly contrary to their wishes
and which the denouement of the piece is to dissipate
in the prettiest manner imaginable. The moment I
saw your grace enter the room this morning, I re
collected your features, and knew you for the gen
tleman who assisted Miss Stanhope yesterday morn
ing. The hoax I knew, therefore, must fall to the
ground, and this determined me to tell .you of it
first; and if you have half a grain of wit, you will
turn the tables upon the authors of it, by appearing
to believe things as they represent them, and ac
quiescing in wishes as to the proposed alliance. This
will secretly mortify them, whilst you can assure
Amelia’s good will by clandestine testimonies of
your admiration; and by private marriage with her
under her borrowed character, you can put the most
romantic finish to the whole affair, llest assured of
my assistance, provided you keep the secret; and
when you have seen the pretended Fanny, you will '
be better able to tell how far you will like to proceed
under my directions.”
It is impossible to describe the astonishment and
delight that filled the duke’s mind as Amelia laid her
pretended scheme before him; but although hewon-
aered, he did not doubt. He readily, therefore, pro
mised to act under the direction of his treacherous

i guide, who, in return, assured him that he would see
; the real Miss Stanhope that night, if he should meet
, them at the Opera.
The arrangement was but just made when the two
lords returned, and the duke soon after took his leave
; saying, as he quitted the room, “At the Opera, then,
i madam, I shall hope to renew the pleasure I have
enjoyed this morning.” Amelia nodded assent, and
: the lover departed, accompaniedby Lord Somertown, *
- neither of them dreaming of the trick Miss Stanhope
had been playing.
The duke passed the hours that intervened till the
Opera, in arranging his plans respecting the double
part he was to act, as to keep up the farce of atten
tion to the pretended and yet satisfy the rightful sove
reign that lie was devoted to her alone.
In the mean time, Miss Stanhope called upon
Fanny to entreather to accompany her to the Opera,
and spend a few days with her at the Marquis^ of Pe-
tersfield’s. Fanny did not appear much inclined to
join the party; but after a little persuasion, and a
good deal of raillery upon her sudden predilection for
solitude, she yielded to her lively friend, and pro
mised to make one in the Marchiones of Petersfield’s
box that evening, and accompany Amelia home for
a few days, provided the scheme was approved by
Lady Maria Iloss, who was also of the party; and
about half-past nine they entered the Op era House.
His grace was in the pit, with his eyes fixed on
that part of the gay hemisphere where he expected
the rising of the star he worshipped. No sooner had
he recognised the entrance of the party, than he flew
to join them.

Miss Stanhope received his compliments with a
smile, and turning to Fanny, begged leave to intro
duce her friend to his grace.
“ Miss Fanny," said she, emphatically; “ I would
add another name if I could, but I must leave that for
your grace’s ingenuity to supply in what manner you
please.” The latter part of this, spoken in a low
t voice, convinced the duke that Amelia alluded to her
own assumed character.
The admiration the duke had felt at the first inter
view with Fanny was increased at this moment: there
was a dignity in her look and manner he had riot be
fore observed, and the expression that beamed from
her beautiful eyes was calculated to awe, as well as to
The cause of this change in the usual appearance
of Fanny, which generally gave the idea of feminine
softness, rather than dignity, originated in the pecu
liarity of her feelings respecting the duke.
His appearance nad struck her as the most agree
able she had ever seen, before she knew who he was:
and when she learnt the disagreeable truth, she in
stantly determined to subdue the slight partiality she
Full of this resolution, Fanny’s eyes wore a look
of hauteur very differen from their usual expression:
yet was the change an improvement, as it gave a
spirit to her beauty that rendered it more striking and
In vain did the duke endeavour to engage her in
conversation ; her laconic answers, politely, out cold
ly given, still terminated every subject he started.
In the coffee-room, after the Opera, Lord Somer-
town joined the party, and the duke’s attention to
Fanny was not lost upon that cynical nobleman.
“ The boy is a fool,” said he,mentally, “ and ready
to fall in love with every school-girl he meets with.
A few hours ago he was dying for Miss Stanhope, and
now the idiot is worshipping a new divinity; but I

i:l know boys too well to notice their folly. Opposition
■ only gives fire to romantic love; thespark will go out
of itself, if the breath of contradiction does not fan it
i into flames.”
t The next day the Dube of Albemarle paid Miss
I Stanhope an early visit. “Whatan amiable creature
! are you, my dear madam,” said he, “ in showing such
r compassion to me. Had you left me in ignorance, on
this trying occasion, my sufferings would have been
■ insupportable.” - '
! “it is plain you think me very amiable ," replied
• Amelia, laughing, “when you confess so candidly to
i my face, that the bare idea of being united to me
i would have been insupportable to you?”
“Nay,” interrupted the duke, “you wrong me,
i jmadam. I did not say the idea of marrying you
would be insupportable; it was my suspense, re-
ispecting the object of my choice, that I exclaimed
iagainst; and as that choice, as sudden as it is ardent,
was made before I had ever looked at you, surely the
ishadow of offence cannot be imputed to me.”
“ Tolerably well turned,” answered Miss Stan
hope; “but tell me, my lord, candidly, supposing
all that I have told you should be proved a mere
i fabrication of my own brain, how would you be in-
yj clined to act ? Would you throw away the world for
III love, or insist upon your/ bond?’ ”
ffl _ -The duke started; he did not like the suggestion;
R; it gave rise to doubts that had not before tormented
W him. and he knew not what to answer. Amelia saw
B his confusion, and enjoyed it.
II ■■ 1 11 tell you what,” said she, “I am afraid you
are too lukewarm a lover to Amelia Stanhope; she
gS’ is romance personified, and the man who would not
n run atvay with her, at the risk of never possessing a
H i shilling of her fortune, will never marry her you may
||) depend upon it.”
H “ The man who could think ol fortune, when put
P in competition with the' possession of Miss Stanhope,

would be unworthy such a prize!” said the duke. “Bui
why, dear madam, torment me with queries that in
volve even your own veracity, as well as my Happi-i
ness, in clouds of obscurity ?”
“ I don’t know why I started the difficulty,” said;
Miss Stanhope, laughing, “unless it were meant to:,
increase your passion; for, say what you will, therei’
is no stimulus in love equal to difficulty/’
“There is a charm in your mischief-loving spirit,!
that would be dangerous to contemplate,” said thei
duke,“ to aman less a captive than I am. The witchery i
of your smiles is increased by the mischief that seems;
to lurk beneath them; and those you most delight;
to torment, would be most likely to feel pleasure from I
the infliction.”
“Don’t waste your time in complimenting me,*’ 1
said Amelia, laughing, “ for betide what will, from i
me you can have no expectations. Had I not been i
quite clear upon that head, I would not have under
taken the part lam playing.”
“ If then you are so clear as to what I may hope
for from yourself,” said the duke, “deign, dear ma
dam, to inform me what are my dependencies with
your friend?" “There are few women who can an
swer for themsdves,” said Amelia, “ and you are un
reasonable enough to expect that I should answer for •
my friend. I do not give so wide a latitude to the
duties of friendship. Thus far I will venture to tell
you, if you win Amelia Stanhope, you must possess
more merit than is at this moment apparent to your
humble servant Exert your energies, therefore, my
lord duke, and who knows what may happen ?”
“ Provoking, tantalizing girl,” said the duke, in a
tone of impatience, “ how can you make an amuse
ment of my sufferings, and laugh at my distress 1
Surely such softness of feature was never intented to
enshrme a heart so impervious to humanity. But
to be serious,” said the duke, “ will my fair instruc
tress condescend to tell me what I am to say to my

uncle, when he questions me as to my reception by
Miss Stanhope ? Am I to report a gracious hearing
or not?”
“Nay, I leave that to your own discretion,” re
plied Amelia. “ I am the ostensible Miss Stanhope,
and I am sure /have received you very kindlu; there
fore you may safely say so. But I would advise you
to throw in a few hints, when you are talking to your
uncle, how much you would prefer the portionless
Fanny to the rich heiress, provided you could follow
your own inclination.
“ Lord Somertown will pretend to reprove your
imprudence, but he will be secretly pleased- with
your penetration and sound judgment; for he is as
eager for the success of the romance as my friend,
and quite as deep in the plot. Suffer all the preli
minaries to be settled, just as if you intended to
marry Miss Stanhope in her proper character, and
then give zest to the joke, run away with her a few
days before the one fixed for your nuptials, under
the fictitious name of Fatherless Fanny. Oh 1 the
story will make the prettiest novel that ever was, and
Amelia Stanhope will be better pleased with the de
nouement than any other person!”
“ Would to Heaven I were sure of that 1” said the
duke ; “ but the expression of hereyes doesnotspeak
so flattering a language.”
“ Nay, never mind that,” replied Amelia, laugh
ing, “ for that may be as foreign from the truth as
the rest of the plot. ‘ Faint heart never won a fair
lady.’ Go on, therefore, and prosper. You ; have
my good wishes, and Miss Stanhope’s too, or I am
mistaken 1”

106 fatherless fanny : or .
Miss Stanhope, without disclosing her plotto Fanny,
managed it so well that she made her act in concert
with her. The necessity of meeting the duke con
tinually was very irksome to Fanny ; but Amelia
laid her plans so adroitly that the former could not
excuse herself from joining the parties of the latter,
without giving the very reason she wished to conceal.
Instead of feeling flattered by the duke’s attentions,
as she would have done had she considered herself
entitled to receive his addresses, Fanny looked upon
them as little short of insult, since the pointed man
ner in which they were paid her, left no possibility
of mistaking their import.
The duke, who supposed Fanny a party in a plot
to deceive him, persevered in paying her the most
marked attention, still carefully adhering to Miss
Stanhope’s injunctions not to give ahint of his know
ledge of the deception. The duke was a general fa
vourite with the ladies, and his attentions to Fanny
were not observed without exciting envy and malice.
Tiie nameless girl was already obnoxious to their ha
tred from the eclat of her beauty, and now they gave
vent, in the most unequivocal terms, to their ran
cour and ill-nature. “It was a shame,” they said,
“ that a girl like that should be suffered to rival a
Siung lady of Miss Stanhope’s consequence ; and
ey wondered the Marquis of Petersfield and Lord
Somertown would allow of such doings. They ought
to interpose their authority, and remove a person so
unfit for the circles of fashion as Fanny certainly
These whispers reached Lord Somertown’s ear,
and as he had always felt the most decided aversion

! for poor Fanny, he determined to speak to Col. Ross
land Lady Maria on the subject and try if nothing
i could be done to get rid of so dangerous a person be-
i fore the mischief had gone too far. His lordship re-
j collected thathe hadhimself betrayed the secret to the
: duke respecting his alliance with Miss Stanhope, at
j t i a moment when he had been led to imagine that his
■t r nephew was as anxious for the match as he was; and
[. i by this imprudence the duke knew that there was
:a mo penalty attached to his dereliction from the pro-
)t ; posed marriage.
f) After all the pains Lord Somertown had taken,
1, 'and the guilt he had incurred, to insure the title of
s Albemarle to his nephew, the bare idea of his ingra-
|( :titude was distraction!—Should he marry the name-
n Jess, portionless girl, that seemed now to engross all
ihis attention, Lord Somertown felt that he should
» i scarcely survive the event, since the hatred he felt
for,the innocent object of his nephew’s affection was
[ j as violent as it was undeserved.
I The Duke of Albemarle had been in England now
iabout two months; and it'was daily expected that
•his grace’s nuptials would be shortly fixed with the
-rich Miss Stanhope ; whilst the busy circles thatre-
iported these conjectures never failed to add, that
f “ the divine friendship that subsisted between Ame
lia and Fanny would be a source of much pleasure the Duke, whenever the union took place : and as,
;no doubt, all parties were agreed, it might prove a
j happy compact.
I The only persons who heard nothing of these whis-
I i jpers were those most concerned in their import, —
i i the trio themselves,
j At a concert one evening, however, the buzz was
i more than usually active; and Fanny, who was
I imore particularly the object of ill-natured observa
tion, felt the painful impression of the whisper in
i ! circulation.
Nof so Miss Stanhope. She, with her accustomed

liveliness, was listening to the nonsense of Sir Eve-
rard Mornington, a young man of dashing celebrity,
>ho, besides being a member of the Four-in-HancL
Club, was the epitome of everything ridiculous ini
the long list of fashionable folly. His fortune was ;
large, and his person handsome; and therefore, even:;
those people who had sense enough' to laugh at his;
foibles, pretended to tolerate them in. considerations
of his extreme good nature and generosity. In Missf
Stanhope’s eyes, however, he rose above toleration,,
for she doated upon eccentricity, and her ear wass
charmed by the frequent repetitions of those elegantl
phrases prime and bang-up, and the rest of thatun-'
intelligible slang whicn has lately been substituted I,
for good sense and good breeding. Sir Everard was i
not insensible to the honour of Miss Stanhope’s ap-.
probation ; and from the first evening of their ac
quaintance, he had determined that she alone, of all t
the gills he knew, should sit beside him on the dicky i
when he drove to the temple of hymen. The slight.
difficulty of a. prior engagement was nothing to bis
magnanimous soul.
The duke had been conversing with Fanny at the
beginning of the entertainment, and paying her those
thousand delicate and nameless attentions which
mark so well the affection of the heart. Fanny had'
received them, as she always did, with the most fri
gid coldness. The duke felt piqued at her indiffer
ence, and began to doubt whether he had not been
deceived by his informer, when he was taught to sup
pose she had cherished a wish to enslave him.
Full of these thoughts, he had quitted Fanny’s
side, and wandered to the opposite side of the room.
Lady Maria Ross, who sat on the other side of
Fanny, was engaged in deep conversation with some
ladies near her, and the poor girl was left exposed
to the whispers and the observations of the surround
ing ladies, a situation of whose disagreeableness she
was by no means insensible.

Absorbed in her own unpleasant reflections, she
did not observe that a gentleman had taken the seat
next her, which the duke had just left, until his voice
addressing her, roused her from her reverie.
“ Once more,” said he, in a tone which Fanny in
stantly knew to be the voice of the stranger who had
rescued her from insult in the park : "once more I
am so happy as to meet with the sweet girl whose
image has lived in my heart ever since the first mo
ment 1 beheld her. Yct mistake me not, gentle lady,”
continued he, speaking more softly, “ I am no lover
come to ofTer the incense of flattery at the shrine of
beauty; that passion is for ever extinct in this bo
som.: it is buried in the tomb of her you resemble.
The offering I bring you is friendship the most sub
lime ; such love as guardian angels feel for those they
watch over. Deign then to listen to my warning
voice:—temptation and danger, nay, even death it
self, appear to threaten you ; refuse not then the
friend that heaven itself has sent.”
It is impossible to describe the variety of emotions
that filled the bosom of Fanny as she listened to this
strange address. The most predominant was fear.
Terriiied at perceiving that she was observed more
than ever, her first impulse was to fly; and was ris
ing from her seat, unconscious of the action, when
she felt the stranger’s hand laid upon her arm to pre
vent her removal and she mechanically re-seatedher-
“ You seem to fear observation,” said he, in a gen
tle voice, “ and yet you were about to excite it in the
most imprudent manner. Sit still, sweet girl, and
be not atraid of the only friend this room contains for
There was a chnrm in the voice of the stranger that
had n powerful efi'ect upon the heart of Fanny ; she
had fell it the first time he spoke to her, and it seem
ed to increase rather than diminish in the repetition.
“ 1 am impelled towards you, lovely girl,” said he,

“by an interest as indefinable as it is irresistible.
The instinct of the soul is incapable of error; I am
persuaded, therefore, that we shall one day be satis
fied why we experience the emotions that now agitato
us both.”
Fanny continued silent during the whole of this
address; for she feared to trust her voice, lest its tre
mulous sound should betray her agitation.
She had been combating with the rising partiality
that had been awakened in her bosom by the Duke
of Albemarle, and she could not help feeling both
surprised and provoked, that a person, of whose very
name she was ignorant, and whom she had seen but
once before, should be able to excite sentiments of
tenderness in her heart, far superior to any she* had
ever before experienced ; and which, although they
bore no resemblance to the partiality she felt for the
duke, were so new and undeimable, that she trembied
to admit them.
“ I perceive,” said the stranger, “ that the abrupt
ness of my address has alarmed your delicacy. But
fear not, sweet girl, I repeat I am no lover : consider
me as a monitor and friend, and listen to my ad
monitions You are surroundedby treachery. Be
ware of the Duke of Albemarle; beware of Col. Ross;
but, above all, beware of Lord Somertown.”
Fanny turned pale. “ Good heaven,” exclaimed
she, “ what danger threatens me ? The people of
whom you warn me are nothing to me. why, then
should I fear them? Explain your mysterious cau
tion, I implore you; for it terrifies without instruct
ing me.”
“ Explanation here is impossible,” replied the
stranger; “but meet me in the park where I first
saw you, to-morrow morning, and I will reveal the
mystery that perplexes you.”
“ Meet a stranger by appointment!” naid Fanny,
colouring with indignation, “ it is you, sir, I ought to
fear, who advise me so imprudentlyand rising from

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e Duki j
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her seat as she spoke, she quitted the side of the stran
ger, and immediately joined Miss Stanhope, who had
just beckoned her to come to her. “You are a pretty
miss, indeed,” said she, laughing, as Fanny approach-
ed her: “ two conquests in an evening are too much:
—you have been first flirting with the Duke of Albe
marle, and now I have caught you coqueting with the
rich Mr. Hamilton.”
“ Mr. Hamilton I” said Fanny; “ is the gentleman
who has just been talking to me named Hamilton ?”
“Yes, my dear: do you like the name better than
Albemarle ?”
“ Oh, no,” said Fanny ; naively, “ I only repeated
the name because the house Lady- Ellincourt pur
chased in Yorkshire belonged to a Mr. Hamilton, and
I have always had my thoughts about that house.”
“ Well, and now I suppose you will have your own
thoughts about its late master,’’ said Miss Stanhope,
“ for that gentleman in black is he. The late Mr.
Hamilton left his immense fortune to him, on the
condition of taking his name. He met him abroad,
and took a fancy to him for some of his winning ways
that seemed to have charmed you; for I hear he was
no relation to him.”
“ Do you know,” said Fanny “he is the stranger I
met with in Hyde Park, that morning when Col.
Ross was so angry with me ? And he is the person
the colonel said was a swindler .”
“ Charming, charming 1” rejoined Miss Stanhope,
“ I like the story vastly, and you shall marry which
you like, the duke or Mr. Hamilton.”
“ It is ridiculous to talk of marrying either,” re
plied Fanny, in a tone of vexation.
“ It is not so ridiculous as you may choose to think
it,” interrupted Miss Stanhope, “ for I have the most
unquestionable authority for asserting that the Duke
of Albemarle is in love with you.”
Amelia raised her voice a little as she pronounced
the latter part of her speech, and Lord Somertown

112 fatherless faxn t nt : oe ,
caught the important information ashe was approach
ing to speak to her. It was enough to rouse all the
demon within him, and turning upon his heels, he
sought for Col. Ross, to whom he merely said, that
“he wished for a private conference with him the
next morning, and begged to know whether he would
do him the honour of receiving him to breakfast with
The colonel said, “he vvas disengaged, and would
certainly expect his lordship at the hour appointed.”
Lord Somertown bowed, and immediately quitted
Colonel Ross for the purpose of more strictly observ
ing Fanny.
The result of this observation was not pleasing to '
him, for he had soon the pain of seeing the Duke of
Albemarle resume his place beside her, and Lord
Somertown had been too long an inhabitant of the
world to remain any longer ignorant of his nephew’s
sentiments respecting her.
Fury flashed from his eye as conviction shot through
his heart, and the emotion was so strong, that the
following words escaped his clenched teeth, as his ter
rible glance fell upon the object of his hatred :~
“ Base worm; thou shalt perish for daring to oppose
my wishes.”
His rage was changed to horror, however, when a
voice close to his ear, exclaimed in an awful tone—
“Thou, too, art perishable, frail mortal! thy power is
limited, thy days are numbered—beware, then, how
thou threatenest another 1 An eye observes thes that
thou dreamest not of.”
A cold shiver ran through Lord Somertown’s frame
as he listened to accents too well remembered ; and
his eye involuntarily sought the person who had ut
tered the terrific words: it caught a glimpse of his
retiring form, and, instantly his limbs stiffened, and
he fell on the ground. He was raised from the ground, r
medical assistance was sent for, and an apoplectic fit
was the name given to the visitation of remorse.

The confusion this accident occasioned put an end
to the concert. The company hastily retired; all
except those immediately connected with his lord
ship. They stayed and witnessed his recovery from
the stupor, into which an accusing conscience had
plunged him ; they saw his wildly staring eyes, as
lie cast them around the room in search of the spec
tre that had alarmed him ; and listened with horror
to his incoherent allusions to scenes of former guilt
and cruelty.
The Duke of Albemarle, however, finding that his
uncle uttered expressions that too plainly told that
all was not right within, proposed his being removed
to his own house; and his lordship was supported to
his carriage in the arms of his servants, and by that
conveyed to where he was put to bed.
But, alas ! the ready domestic, however willing to
anticipate his lord’s wisljes, could not present him
with the only cordial liis'fevered lip pouted for—the
water of oblivion, whose friendly powers might teach
him to forget his guilt, and thereby escape the re
morse that harrowed up his soul, and filled him with
unutterable anguish.
Alas! why does, not remorse induce repentance?
Lord Somertown was torn by the recollection of the
deeds of cruelty and injustice he had been guilty of;
yet, although struggling as it were in the grasp of
death, he seemed to wish a prolongation of his life
merely to use it for the destruction of others.
His ear had convinced him that a being still ex
isted of whose death he had long thought himself
certain ; and the tempest that conviction awaked in
his soul, gave enerev to his debilitated frame, and
167 k

roused him from the lethargy into which terror had
plunged him, when first the surprise assailed him.
“ I will live,” said the furious earl, raising him
self in his bed, with an energy that astonished his at
tendants ; “ I ivilllive, for I have much to accomplish
before I die.” , _
Supported by the fervour which had seized his
mind, Lord Somertown was able to keep his appoint
ment the ensuing morning with Col. Ross, who felt
a surprise bordering on incredulity, when the man
he had thought dying the preceding evening was in
troduced into his library, and he beheld his erect
carriage and ardent eye, in neither of which remained
a single vestige of indisposition.
“The business which has brought me hither,”
said his lordship, “is important to the dignity of my
family, and forcible indeed must ha,ve been that
power which could have tempted me to defer it
Your high character for politeness, colonel, induces
me to.hope that you will give me the information I
require: and, perhaps, subsequent circumstances
may induce you to lend your assistance to the for
warding of my views in an affair of much moment.”
The Colonel bowed, and Lord Somertown pro
ceeded : “You have a girl under your care who is a
perfect enigma; would you, sir, inform me who she
really is 1”
“ I assure your lordship,” said the colonel, “ that
neither Lady Maria nor myself know the least tittle
concerning the person you allude to, excepting that
she is a foundling, and is called Fanny. She has no
surname, nor do I believe the poor girl is any wiser
on this subject than ourselves.”,
“ If it be not impertinent,” said Lord Somertown,
“may I ask what motive could induce people of
rank, like Col. Ross and Lady Maria, to make a
person so obscure, the inmate of their house, and
to introduce her into parties where her doubtful origin
must be a source of pain to herself, and resentment

to those who feel their dignity insulted by having
such a person obtruding upon them ?”
“ Indeed!” replied Colonel Ross, “ we never gave
ourselves the trouble of conjecturing who the girl
might be, but merely took her under our care at the
request of Lady Dowager Ellincourt, who is a rela
tion and friend of my wife’s.”
“ Lady Dowager Ellincourt!” repeated Lord So-
mertown, and his lip quivered with stifled rage. “ If
she be an eleve of Lady Ellincourt’s, there is every
thing to be expected from her which intrigue and
artifice can accomplish. I mortally hate that wo
man continued his lordship, knitting his. brow;
“ and the babbling iool her son is even more into
lerable than herself. But this has nothing to do with
the business before us. Are you aware, colonel, of the
mischief your mistaken condescension to this beg
gar’s brat has occasioned ?”
“ No, my lord,” replied Col. Ross ; “ I never yet
supposed her of consequence enough to become the
source ot mischief to any one.”
“ In the first place she has formed an intimacy
with Miss Stanhope,” replied Lord Somertown,
“ which I deem an intolerable degradation to that
young lady; and, in the next, acting with the con
summate art which those low people generally pos
sess, she has insinuated herself into the favour of my
half-witted nephew, who, bewitched by the artful
blandishments of the sorceress, fancies himself des
perately in love with her: so much so, that forget
ful of his engagements to Miss Stanhope, and the
dignity of his own rank, he is at this moment plan
ning a scheme to run away with and marry this young
adventuress. I have this information from the most
unquestionable authority, confirmed by my own
Colonel Ross was thunder-struck when he heard
Lord Somertown declare that the Duke of Albe
marle intended to marry Fanny, He had observed

the duke’s, attentions to the object of his own designs,
but an idea of marriage had never entered his ima
gination ; the cold disdain which the countenance
of Fanny uniformly displayed whenever the duke
addressed her, in company,‘.had thrown Colonel Ross
off his guard, and lulled his fears to sleep. He
seemed now to awaken to a sudden sense of nis dan
ger, and his rage was little inferior to Lord Somer-
town’s as the conviction darted through his mind.
“ Consummate hypocrite I” exclaimed he, “ so
young and so artful 1 The coolness with which she
always appeared to treat the duke made me believe
his grace’s overtures were of a different nature.”
“ I rejoice,” said Lord Somertown, “ that Col. Ross
appears to see this affair in the same atrocious light
tnat I do. Your feelings are so consonant to mine
upon this subject, that 1 flatter myself you will not
refuse your aid in preventing so fatal a termination
of my hopes as this ill-assorted marriage.”
“ Your lordship may command me,” replied Col.
Ross. “ There is nothing that I would not do to pre
vent it.”
Lord Somertown shook the colonel by the hand—
“ My good friend,” said his lordship, “ this ready
compliance exceeds my hopes. I will now lay aside
all reserve, and you and I will presently understand
each other, I am sure.”
Lord Somertown was right: Col. Ross was not
one of the scrupulous sort, when he had any self-gra
tification in view; and as Lord Somertown’s propo
sals all appeared calculated to further his own wishes,
he started no objection to the diabolical scheme
bis lordship laid before him. What that scheme was
will appear hereafter, for the conversation was inter
rupted by a servant, who announced the arrival of a
“Mr. Hamilton,” said he, “requests the favour of
A few minutes conference, sir.”
“Hamiltonl Hamilton 1” repeated the colonel, “1

don’t know him; why didn’t you say I was enga
ged ?”
“I did, sir, but he would not be denied. He said
he knew you were at home, because Lord Somer-
town’s carriage was waiting at the door, and he heard
his lordship make an appointment with you at the
concert last night.”
“ Oh,” said the colonel, “then it must be the rich
Hamilton; for he was there last night, I was told.
But I don’t know him when I see him; so what he
can want of me I cannot conceive.”
“ Mr. Hamilton asked if Miss Fanny was at home,
first,” said the servant; “ and when I told him she
was on a visit at the Marquis of Petersfield’s, he gave
his name, and desired to see you, sir.”
“ Very well,” replied the colonel; “ tell Mr. Ha
milton I will wait upon him immediately.”
The servant withdrew.
“ I think we may make some use of this circum
stance,” said Lord Somertown. “This is some lover
of that artful girl’s.”
“ Perhaps so, indeed,” answered Col. Ross, red
dening, for he hated to hear of any lover for Fanny.
“Does your lordship know Mr. Hamilton? He
seems to know you.”
“That may be very possible,” replied Lord Somer
town, answering the colonel’s last observation;
“many people know me, of whom I have not the
most distant knowledge. This Hamilton is one ol
them. He may be a rich man, but he is certainly
not a man of consequence ; for I never heard of him
Lord Somertown now proceeded to his carriage.
He readily believed the colonel’s assertion that he
was interested in the event, because he had promised
him a borough, for which honour he had long bee-”
sighing. t

When Colonel Ross entered the breakfast-room, he
was struck with the noble appearance of the gentle
man who was there waiting for him, and a faint re
collection of having once seen him before stole across
his mind.
Mr. Hamilton appeared to be about forty years of
age, or hardly so much, for there were traces of suf
fering on his countenance that seemed to tell a tale
of sorrow rather than of years.
It was impossible to find a face with more fault
less grace; it displayed the perfection of manly
beauty, yet did the shades of deep melancholy sit'on
his pensive brow, and cloud his eye with sadness;
but it was melancholy that spoke of resignation and
fortitude, awakening sympathy allied to respect in
the hearts of his beholders.
The dignity with which he returned Colonel Ross’s
compliments convinced him that he must be noble
as well as rich, although Lord Somertown had pro
nounced him to be nobody , because not upon the list
of his right honourable acquaintances, and he felt
so little doubt of his claim to respect, that he began
an elaborate apology for having kept him waiting so
“ It is I who ought to apologize for my intrusion,
6ir,” replied Mr. Hamilton, with a benignant smile;
“but I trust, when you know the motive that in
duced me to take such a liberty, that you will be in
clined to forgive me for it.
The colonel bowed, and Mr. Hamilton proceeded:
“ You have a young lady under your protection,
sir, for whom I feel an interest it will be as difficult

for me to describe, as I already finditjto comprehend
the cause of: unless, indeed, it be the resemblance
she bears to a dear friend of mine, long since num
bered with the dead.”
“ Fanny has powerful attractions,” said Col. Ross,
rather sarcastically, “ and I think I can understand
the sort of interest she has excited in your heart, sir,
without any far fetched illustration of so common an
The blush of resentment mantled on Mr Hamil
ton’s cheek as he listened to the colonel’s illiberal
• “Your suspicions, sir, are premature,” said Mr.
Hamilton, “ I am not come here in the character of
a lover; it is a title I disclaim. My heart is for ever
shut against the power of beauty ; my passions are
dead; and philanthropy is the last surviving .feeling
of my soul. Miss Fanny’s features awakened the
remembrance of a long-lost friend, and she became
immediately an object of inexpressible interest to
me. I inquired who she was, and was informed that
she is an orphan, and dependant on the bounty of
strangers. This young lady pleases me; she is poor,
and I am rich: 1 am alone in the world, without a
single claim upon me for the inheritance of the im
mense fortune I enjoy: what, therefore, can I do
more likely to conduce to my own happiness, than
to insure that of this child of misfortune, by
“ Marrying her, I suppose, sir,” interrupted Colo
nel Ross.
“ I am astonished,” exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, “ at
your persisting in perverting my meaning sir. I tell
you i am not a lover: and I beg you will attend to
what I say, and endeavour to believe it.”
“ That would be an effort above me,” replied the
colonel. “ I must confess, I am not so romantically
given as very easily to believe, that a sober, middle-
aged gentleman, like yourself, Mr. Hamilton, would
interest himself about a pretty girl, like the one un-

der my protection, foi the mere philanthropic grati
fication of disinterestedly providing for her. Under
this impression, I am constrained to tell yon, sir,
that your visits will be dispensed with at this house.
“ You confess that you have no intention of mar
rying Fanny; and as no other overtures can be received
by her guardians, all questions respecting her from
vou, sir, will be deemed impertinent/'
As Col. Ross spoke, he rose from his chair, and
pulled the bell; a servant appeared.
“ Mr. Hamilton’s carriage,” said he.
Mr. Hamilton rose indignantly, and darting a look
of contempt at the colonel, “ I have stooped,” said
he, “ to ask as a favour, what, perhaps, I ought ra
ther to have demanded, as the champion of oppressed
innocence. I have marked you, Colonel Ross; and
I warn you to beware what you do. We seldom sus
pect sinister designs in others, unless we have cher
ished them ourselves.”
“ The application is good in your own case, sir,”
said the colonel, and turned on his heel; for there
was a scrutinyin Mr. Hamilton’seye that disconcert
ed him.
As soon as Mr. Hamilton was gone, Colonel Ross
returned to his study, in order to think over, without
the probability of an interruption, the best means
that could be devised to prevent Fanny from being
informed of Mr. Hamilton’s designs.
The colonel did not entertain a doubt that a mar
riage was her new friend’s ultimate view.
Colonel Ross was the younger brother of an earl,
and provided for by his father, as younger brothers
generally are in noble families. His meanness, allied
co his natural cunning, had easily taughthim to win
upon his elder brother’s heart by the blandishment
of adulation, and servile submission to his will. The
artifice had succeeded, and Lord Ballafyn had
rewarded his complaisant brother with a commission
p.nd a pretty estate, to support the dignity of the

family, in addition to what his father had left him.
His marriage with Lady Maria Trentham had in
creased his fortune, as she had thirty thousand pounds
more than her sisters, which had been bequeathed
her by her maternal grandfather. i
Colonel Ross was avaricious, and extremely proud:
it was difficult to reconcile the opposite propensities
of these feelings, as the demands of his pride were
severe taxes upon his meanness. An opportunity
now offered of gratifying all his evil tendencies, and
he felt the impulse irresistible.
Should Mr. Hamilton’s generous intentions be
made known respecting Fanny, it might prevent the
execution of his scheme, and disappoint his hopes of
realizing both riches and power, by the very act
that would give him the uninterrupted possession of
the girl he had long secretly sighed for.
Colonel Ross had a head formed for intrigue; he
was not therefore, long in hi& deliberations ; but de
cided with a promptitude for which he had often
been praised by his partners in iniquity.
As soon as he saw his amiable lady, he informed
her of Mr. Hamilton’s visit, but disguised the mo
tives of it under the most daring falsehood. He re
presented that gentleman’s application to himself as
the nefarious trick of an abandoned seducer, who,
pleased with the pretty face of an inexperienced girl,
wished to ensnare her by a pretended show of friend
“ He did not dare to avow his diabolical designs,”
said the colonel, “ because he feared I should kick
him out of my house: but after having offered to
provide for the girl, out of the ample fortune he pos
sesses, he had the effrontery to own, when pressed
upon by my questions, that he had no thoughts of
marrying her. I was greatly incensed,” continued
the colonel, “ and after forbidding him the house, I
rang the bell, and called for his carriage.’-

“ Charming,” said Lady Maria j “ and what did
he say to that ?”
“ Oh, he sneaked off without resenting the affront
I had offered him. But, my dear Maria, we must
take double care of poor Fanny. I wish she had
finished her visit at the Marquis of Petersfield’s.
This is a dangerous fellow ; he is certainly the hand
somest man I ever saw, and extremely fascinating;
and although he is past the bloom of youth, he may
be a formidable tempter to the inexperienced Fanny.
I really think it would be wise to take her into the
country for a little while. Should you have any ob
jection to visiting Pemberton Abbey for a few weeks?”
“ Oh no, I should like it of all things, if you think
it necessary,” said Lady Maria.
“It is necessary, you maybe sure,” replied the
colonel. “ Hamilton will leave no artifice untried
to entrap her, you may depend upon that; and the
poor girl will be lost before we are aware of his de
signs. But you must not let Fanny suppose we
leave town on her. account, or it is an hundred to one
but it will make her unwilling to go.”
“ Indeed,” said Lady Maria, “ you are mistaken;
I am sure that reason would make her go more readi- 1
]y. You have now alarmed me so truly that I shall
be as much on the watch as you are.”
“ Fanny is very beautiful; and if such a man as
Mr. Hamilton can form such designs against her,
what has she not to fear from those of less sober
habits, who openly profess to admire her f”
“It is impossible to calculate,” said the colonel;
“ and therefore the sooner she goes into the country
the better.”

When Lady Maria met Fanny, in the course of that
day, she mentioned the circumstances of Mr. Hamil
ton’s visit, and her own and Colonel Ross’s alarm
upon the subject, adding that it was their decided
opinion that her safety depended upon her immedi
ate removal into the country. “ I have not the least
objection to leaving town,” said Fanny, laughing,
“but really cannot see any necessity for so doing
on Mr. Hamilton’s account. I am sure, were I to
consult my own inclination, he is one of the lastper-
sons I should wish to fly from.”
“You astonish and frighten me,” said Lady Maria ;
“ this must be a most dangerous man indeed. Why,
you have seen him only once, and he has absolutely
turned your head.”
“ I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” replied Fanny,
“ I have seen Mr. Hamilton twice ; for he is the gen
tleman who rescued me from the man in Hyde Park.”
“ It could not be the same person, my dear,” an
swered Lady Maria, “or Colonel Ross would have re
membered him; for you know he saw him.” “I
know he did,” rejoined Fanny ; “ but, perhaps, he
did not make such a strong impression upon the
colonel’s memory as he did upon mine: it is impos
sible that I should ever forget him.”
“Well, upon my honour, Fanny, you talk so
strangely, I cannot tell what to make of you; to fall
in love with a stranger, and then speak about it as
unconcernedly as if there was nothing in it.”
“ I know very little about love," replied Fanny,
1 naively ; “but I do not think what I feel for Mr.
Hamilton is what is generally understood by the term

falling in love. Yet am I irresistibly drawn as it
were Dy a secret instinct, to feel interested for this
gentleman beyond what I ever before experienced
for any mortal. I am nevertheless ready to accom
pany your ladyship at the shortest notice.”
"When Miss Stanhope was informed of Lady'Maria’s
sudden determination to quit London, and take Fan
ny with her, she expressed the most violent discon
tent. It was impossible any .longer to carry on the
cheat that had hitherto puzzled the duke, for he had
more than once entertained doubts as to the perfect
truth of the story which he at first implicitly believed.
“What can be the meaning of this unaccountable
whim 2” said that young lady to Fanny : “ Is Lady
Maria light-headed ? or has the colonel some in
trigue upon his hands, that he cannot carry on so
well while his wife is in town 1 for I imagine he is
not to make one of the expedition.”
“ I really do not know,” answered Fanny.
“Well, my dear,” answered Miss Stanhope, “if
I were you I would go into the country, butit should
be where I liked myself. I will explain myself this
evening if you will come into my aressing-room as
soon as we leave the dining-parlour.”
Fanny in vain entreated Miss Stanhope to explain
herself more fully: she would not do it.
“Where is itthey aregoingto takeyouto, Fanny?”
said she.
“Into Yorkshire,” replied her friend. “Lady
Ellincourt gave Colonel Ross and Lady Maria per
mission to make use of her seat there, whenever they
found itagreeable; and 1 assure you I shall feel great
pleasure m revisiting a place where I have spent so
many happy days.”
“ Why, Pemberton Abbey is an odd place to take
you to if they are afraid of Mr. Hamilton. He has,
a large estate that joins Lady Ellincourt's, which,
you know, together with the mansion, was purchased
cfthe gentleman wholeft the fortune to Mr. Hamilton,

Apropos, you s,iy he was your champion in Hyde
Park, when you were attacked by the Dragon of
Wantley. Do you think him handsome ?"
“The handsomest man I ever saw,” answered
“ Hush, my dear ; you forget you have seen the
Duke of Albemarle. You surely do not think Mr.
Hamilton to be compared with the Duke.”
“ I don’t expect you should think so,” replied
Panny; “ but you may allow me to prefer Mr.
Hamilton to the duke.”
“Prefer him! Why, certainly, you donot like Mr
Hamilton best,” interrupted Miss Stanhope.
“ Nay, as to liking either,” answered Fanny, “I
am liotwell enough acquainted with them to warrant
such an expression; but I certainly know which in
terests me most.”
“ And pray let us hear who thathappy creature is,”
said Amelia.
“Mr. Hamilton beyond all comparison,’’ rejoined
Fanny; “ and yet I know not why it is so.”
“ Why, my dear, he is an old man compared to
ynu,” exclaimed Amelia “ For heaven’s sake don’t
fall in love with an old man.”
“ I am not in love,” answered Fanny, pettishly ;
“ I hate that word. I tell you, Amelia, I would not
marry Mr. Hamilton if he were the emperor of the
“ Marry him, indeed ! No, I hope you would not
think of marrying a man who is old enough to be
your father.”
“ My father 1” ejaculated Fanny; “ sweet words 1
How does my orphan heart pant to hail that honour
ed name I Oh, that I had a father! that Mr. Hamilton
were my father 1”
“ Now, that’s a good girl,” said Miss . Stanhope,
“ that’s anexcellentthought. I dare say Mr. Hamil
ton is your father; and that accounts for the won-

derful sympathy between you. You are a foundling,
you know.”
“ But Mr. Hamilton is a Creole, is he not ?” said
Fanny, who caught eagerly at the suggestion so
lightly made by her giddy friend. “ Mr. Hamilton
is a Creole, and never was in England till now.”
“ Oli, never mind that,” rejoined Amelia, “ incon
sistencies are nothing in a novel. You were sent over
in a hamper to be educated in England : and then he
forgot to enquire where they had placed you, and so
you came to be lost.”
Fanny’s countenance fell when she perceived, by
this speech, that Miss Stanhope had no serious idea
of the probability she had suggested.
“ It is a happy thing,” said Fanny, with a sigh,
“ that you have got me for a butt."
“ Nay, my dear,” said Miss Stanhope, "it will be
your turn soon ; and then, if you don’t make a butt
of me it will be your own fault. But there is the first
bell; make haste to your toilet; and if you are not
of Thomson’s opinion on the subject of unadorned
beauty, make yourself as killing as possible. Your
good looks will not be wasted.”
“Who is coming to dine here?” asked Fanny,
“ Several gentlemen, and perhaps Mr. Hamilton.”
“ Pho 1” cried Fanny, “ you only say that to teaso
“ Upon my honour I should not be surprised if ho
were,” replied Miss Stanhope; “fori heard Lord
Cheviotdale praising Mr. Hamilton to the marquis ;
and the latter said he would get acquainted with him.
And should that be the case, I will ask him to give
you awav when you are married, and then he will be
your fattier.”
“ Giddy girl!” exclaimed Fanny, as she left the
room. “ Will there ever come a time that you wil’
be serious!”
“ Oh, yes, my dear; when I am married.”

When Fanny entered the dining; parlour, the Duke
of Albemarle took her hand and led her to the chair
next Miss Stanhope’s, and seated himsell’beside her.
“ Your lovely friend,” said his grace, addressing
Fanny in a low voice, “ has given me permission to
assume the character of your Cicesbeo. Tell me,
madam, has that grant your sanction ?”
“ It is an honour to which I am by no means en
titled,” replied Fanny, blushing excessively.
“ It will confer an honour upon me,” rejoined the
duke, “ more highly valued than any other can be.
Say then, lovely Miss Stanhope, that you do not forbid
the presumption.”
“Your grace mistakes the person you are speaking
to,” replied Fanny, “ and you render my situation
distressing beyond expression.”
“Heaven forbid 1” exclaimed the duke. “I will
be silent vow; but the moment approaches which
must dissipate this cloud of error.”
The whole of this conversation had passed in a
whisper, and unheard by the surrounding guests ; but
the duke’s marked attention to Fanny had not passed
unnoticed by several ladies who sat near the mar
chioness, andwhoobserved," that it really was too bad
to begin flirting before marriage, close to his bride’s
elbow too. But, no doubt, the forwardness of the girl
, was the cause of such strange behaviour.” Poor
| Fanny, in the meantime, sat the very picture of con-
j fusion and embarrassment, totally at a loss to under-
j stand the duke's enigmatical address to her.
On retiring to the drawing-room, Miss Stanhope
reminded Fanny of her engagement.

“ Come,” said she, offering her arm, “ you know
we have an explanation. I thought you would be
dying for it I did not expect to be obliged to re
mind you of it.”
By this time they had reached Miss Stanhope’s
dressing-room, an elegant apartment on the first
floor, with folding doors that opened upon a terrace
in the gardens of Petersfield House. The weather
being warm, these doors were thrown open, and
Amelia seated herself upon a sofa that stood on,the
outside, and placing Fanny beside her began her
promised explanation in the following words:
“ I know,” said she, “ what you will say to me for
the prank I have played you: but as I lose a,
and you gain a coronet by it, I think you have not
much cause to be angry. In the first place, then, I
must tell you, that I never could endure the idea of
marrying the Duke of Albemarle, and I have always
been beating my brains to imagine some quaint de
vice to get rid of the match, and yet preserve my
fortune; which I had always been told must be the
forfeit of my refusal of the duke’s hand. My imagi
nation was not, however, sufficiently fertile to supply
any scheme that appeared practicable, until the lucky
hour in which your accident introduced you to my
intended husband. He saw and admired you, and
I was sufficiently clear-sighted to penetrate the se
cret in an instant; I lost no time in arranging my
plan of attack, and so scientifically did I manoeuvre,
that I made you both prisoners without your even
suspecting an ambush. I should feel more vain of
my skill in tactics if it were not for this one recol
lection ; I believe my wits had been sharpened a lit
tle while before, by a discovery that made prompt
measures indispensible. I had found out that I not
only detested the idea of marrying the duke, but that
there was a being in existence for whom I felt no
such antipathy, and whose wife I had rather be than
the empress of the modern Alexander himself, My

fortune was now become of greater value in my eyes,
because I thought it would be acceptable to the man
of my choice; and I determined, if possible, to make
the duke the transgressor, and thus insure the pos
session of it to him.
“ The scheme succeeded beyond my expectations ;
more, / believe, owing to the love-sick blindness of
the duke than any great ingenuity of mine. I there
fore laid a trap for his prudence, and baited it with a
a savoury scrap of plausibility, and had soon the un
speakable satisfaction of seeing my silly mouse
caught, beyond the possibility of an escape. I made
up a serious face, the first time we met after the ac
cident, and assured him with a great show of truth
that you were Miss Stanhope, and that you had pre
vailed upon me to assume your name and character,
under the romantic hope of obtaining his grace’s af
fections for the sake of pure merit and disinterested
love. I added, that Lord Somertown was a party in
the trick, and that nothing would please his uncle so
well'as to see him take notice of the real heiress, in
her disguise, although his outward carriage would
imply resentment. Your being here, on a visit, fa
voured the deceit; and the consequence is, that the
poor swain is too far gone in the tender passion to
recede, although he is informed that he has an ex
planation to expect, that will place the disinterested
ness of his passion at issue. We shall see howhe
will behave, when I confess the whole trick. If he
continues faithful, I shall esteem him: if otherwise, I
shall despise, and will take care to be even with him.”
“YOU! have elucidated a mystery,” said Fanny,
M that has tormented me a long time: but I cannot
167 I

say you have done it in a satisfactory manner. Your
artifice can answer no purpose whatever but to ex
asperate your guardians, disgust the duke, and ren
der me ridiculous, or even more than ridiculous ; for
it will be supposed that I had some part in the plot:
and rest assured, if that be the case, it will make nu
more wretched than any other circumstance possi
bly could.’*
“ Never fear, my dear Fanny,” replied Miss Stan
hope, “4he duke is too far gone to think about pru
dence now. I have watched him ; and I am sure he
would as soon part with his life as with the hope of
marrying you. He has had frequent opportunities
.of observing that your beauty is the least part of
your powers of pleasing; and he has expressed him
self to me in rapturous terms of those mental charms
that are to form the happiness of his future life when
he is united to * the most lovely of women.’ Those
are his own words.”
‘‘You have done me an irreparable injury,” re-,
plied Fanny, “ by making me act a part in this di-a-
ma, although without my concurrence,”
“ How so?” asked Miss Stanhope : 11 surely it is
no injury to lay a plan for making you a dutchess 1
Surely to a girl who has no dependance but on the
bounty of her friends, the opportunity of marrying
so advantageously ought not to be slighted.”
“ Your ideas and mine are very different upon this
subject,” replied Fanny, indignantly, “nothing
ought to be considered advantageous to a woman
that militates against her delicacy; and poor and de
fendant as I am, I would not abate one single grain
of that nice feeling to become an empress. These are
my sentiments; and I trust, now you know them,
you will at least respect me so far as to forbear men
tioning the subject to me any more.”
“I have done,’' replied Miss Stanhope, laughing:
“ but here comes one to whom the interdiction doea
not extend.

As she.spoke the Duke of Albemarle entered from
the garden.
“ I am punctual,” said he, addressing Miss Stan
hope. “ Tell me, my charming friend, that I am
“ To me most welcome,” replied she, “ but for
that young lady, (pointing to Fanny,) I cannot an
swer so well as I flattered myself I could.”
“ The visit of the Duke of Albemarle to Miss Stan
hope canwantno concurrence of mine,” saifl Fanny;
“ I will therefore retire.”
The duke seized both Fanny’s hands as she rose
from her chair and made a motion to go.
“ No, by heavens I” said he, “ I have suffered sus
pense too long; you shall not now leave me, lovely
incomprehensible, until an explanation has taken
place between us.”
“ Your grace requires an explanation of me,” said
Fanny, blushing, “ whilst I am unconscious how it
is possible that I should have one to give you. There
has been nothing mysterious in any part of my con
duct since I have had the honour of being known to
your grace.”
“ Good heavens !” exclaimed the duke, turning to
Miss Stanhope, “ what can this mean ?”
“ In pity to you both,” replied that giddy girl, “ I
will accuse myself.” She then recapitulated the par
ticulars relating to her plot, already known.
“ I must express my concern,” said the duke,
“ that Miss Stanhope should have so far mistaken
my character, as to suppose any deceit necessary to
induce me to act towards her with the liberality she
is so justly entitled to. Had I been aware of your
plot, it would have saved me much pain, as I should
not have told my uncle that Miss Stanhope was the
choice of my heart, and the arbitress of my happi
ness.—This lady,” turning to Fanny, “ has maae it
impossible for me to offer to any other woman the
heart which is hers alone, and which henceforward

depends for happiness upon her acceptance, or re
fusal of its devotion. But you, Miss Stanhope, who
know Lord Somertown so well, must be aware how
difficult you have rendered the task of breaking to
him a circumstance so opposite to his views and
wishes, and of which he has not the most distant
“ On my account, my lord,” said Fanny, “ I trust
you will not incur any displeasure from your uncle,
since, however highly honoured by your grace’s no
tice, I am so circumstanced that it is utterly impos
sible for me to listen to your addresses. My pre
sence here is no longer necessary, as the mystery of
which you complained has been unravelled; and if
you entertained any doubt of my sentiments, I trust
they are for ever removed.” So saying, without giv
ing the duke time to answer her, and before Miss
Stanhope was aware of her intentions. Fanny darted
out of the room, and left her two auditors in a frame
of mind not very agreeable to themselves.
“What an unaccountable creature that girl is!”
exclaimed Miss Stanhope, as Fanny left the room.
“ Who would have supposed a dependant creature
like her possessed such a lofty spirit?”
“I should,” replied the duke ; “ and if you had
thought me worthy of your confidence, Miss Stan
hope, I would have shown you the fallacy of such an
experiment with a girl like Fanny. Good heavens 1
that I should only be made acquainted with her worth
to lament the impossibility of possessing her. You
have ruined me, Amelia; for ever destroyed my
peace of mind, and exposed me to the vindictive spi
rit of Lord Somertown, without obtaining one ad-

Vantage yourself. Had you candidly told me, at our
first meeting, that you were averse to the alliance, I
should not have led my uncle into the error that will
render his wrath a thousand times more fierce when
he finds thathe has been deceived. And who knows 1
perhaps the lovely and innocent object of my affec
tion may be the sacrifice first immolated upon the
altar of revenge.—Alas ! I know my uncle too well
to trust him with the fatal secret, unless I were wil
ling to devote the lovely Fanny to the dife conse-
quehces of his resentment.”
“ Upon my honour, you frighten me,” said Miss
Stanhope, turning pale ; “ what a marplot I am ! I
will never attempt scheming again. Well, I will do
all I can to repair the injury; the secret must be
faithfully kept, and trust to me for the denouement.
It shall be a happy one: that is unless Fanny is
“ Forgive me,” said :the duke, “ but you have
shown yourself so unskilful at plotting, that I do not
like to trust you without knowing what your inten
tions are; for if the secret be kept, and everything
go on as usual, I see no possibility of avoiding the
worst of all denouements —our ill starred nuptials.”,
“Well, to be sure, you are the politest creature
that ever lived, to tell a lady to her face that the worst
thing that could befal you would be to marry her;
but I must take it for my pains, for I have deserved
it; so now I will retaliate, that is the only satisfac
tion left me. There cannot exist a greater antipathy
on your side to the alliance than that cherished in
my heart, an antipathy which is strengthened and
increased by an attachment to another person. It
was the hope of making you the aggressor, in break
ing off the treaty of marriage, that led me to the
stratagem which has so completely failed; as there
by I hoped to escape the penalty attached to the de
linquency, not that I intended to take the forfeit-
money from you, but merely to save my own. This

134. FATHP.TiLT.3S FANNY : OB, ‘
mercenary view inducedme to quit the path of truth
and wander in the trackless maze of cunning; but
now I renounce the paltry scheme, and regardless
of fortune or any other consideration, have resolved,
to make reparation for the error I have committed;
leave it therefore to me, and fearlessly pursue your
accustomed attention; and proceed with the pre
parations for our expected nuptials. I will take care
to render them impossible. And to free you from
the shadow of blame, I will not tell you my plan, be
cause I have set my heart upon a surprise; but
I repeat, you may safely trust me.”
“ I will trust you," said the duke, “ although you
have so cruelly misled me, fpr it is impossible to
doubt the candid tale you tell; but remember, I will
riot dishonour my name, nor be stigmatized with the
imputation of dishonourable dealing ; therefore, if I
follow your directions, and go on with the appear
ance of a courtship, our marriage is inevitable, un
less you prevent it: for I will not act like a scound
rel, though death were the alternative!”
“Fear me not,” answered Amelia; “hereismyhand
as a pledge of my fidelity. I will not foil you. But
lest the slightest idea of collusion should attach to
you, from this minute we drop the subject until it
be finally decided; so now eo about your business,
and I will seek Fanny, and try to sooth her ruffled
“Do not irritate her feelings, I entreat you,” said
the duke; “ she is exquisitely sensitive ; and should
she imbibe an idea that I presumed upon the know
ledge of her dependant situation, she will be for ever
lost to me.”
The duke now retired, and Amelia went to look
for Fanny. She found her in her own apartment,
whither she had fled when she quitted Miss Stan
hope’s dressing-room. A torrent of tears had re
lieved the oppressed feelings of her heart, and she
was now more composed.

“ Never!" said the noble-minded girl, as she quit
ted Miss Stanhope’s apartment, “ never could I re
ceive the addresses of a man whose confidence in my
integrity had been destroyed by the implication of
artifice upon my character. No, generous Albe
marle, I can now never listen to your vows ; and al
though my heart overflows with grateful tenderness
for the partiality you have honoured me with, the
die is cast, and I can never be yours. Doomed to
conceal within the aching boundary of my own bo
som the sorrow that consumes me, I shall gladly re
tire into the country, where at least the restraint that
now holds every feature in bondage may be dis
pensed with, and I may weep unquestioned and •
alone 1” '
Such was the soliloquy that had employed the
mind of Fanny, before Amelia came to disturb her.
The lively girl made use of every argument her in
genuity could supply her with, to prove that she
ought to receive the duke’s addresses with compla
cency, although she could not deny that for the pre
sent, at least, those addresses must be clandestine.
“ Enough, my dear Amelia,’’ interrupted Fanny,
“ that single proposition overturns your argument;
nothing clandestine can be right. This excellent
maxim I owe to my beloved, my lamented Lady El-
lincourt—I say lamented, because some secret in
telligence seems to assure me that I shall see her no
more. If the duke is ashamed to acknowledge me
as the object of his choice, I should be equally
ashamed to be a party in so mean:a connection. I en
treat you will never name" the subject to me again,
for I would not wed with royalty upon such mortify
ing terms. To-morrow I shall return to Col. Ross’s
to preparefor my journey; when you wish to see
me, you will favour me with your company there. t
I shall not, therefore, be obliged to meet the duke,
who I trust will soon forget me; and depend upon

it, I will make every effort in my power to efface his
image from my mind.”
“It will require some effort, then/’ said Amelia,
archly. “ I am glad, however, to hear that, and I
will take care to report it to my client by way of a
“ If you value my peace of mind, you will , never
name me to your client again,” said Fanny, “but
whether you do or not, my resolution will remain
unshaken. But come, let us return to the company,
where, no doubt, our absence has been noticed.”
“Oh, no doubt,” replied Amelia, “such charm
ing creatures as we are, must be missed, so allons,”
• ana she took Fanny’s arm, and led the way to the
drawing room. As soon as they entered, the Mar
chioness of Petersfield called Miss Stanhope to her;
“Amelia,” said she, “we are going to the Opera,
will you go ?”
“ I never thought about it,” said Miss Stanhope;
“ what occasions this sudden resolution? You did
not intend it before dinner.”
“ Oh, no,” replied the marchioness, “ but the
Marquis of Cheviotdale has been teazing me into the
scheme. He says this new Opera is the most divine
thing; and as a futher inducement, he has promised
to introduce the interesting Creole to us; and every
body is making such a fuss about him, that posi
tively it is quite a bore not to know him.”
“ And who, in the name of wonder, is the interest -
ing Creole ?" said Miss Stanhope. “Iam an en
thusiast a.bovi\interesting people,; do tellme his name.
Is he young?”
“ His name is Hamilton; he is not young, but he
is the most beautiful creature that ever was seen.
Lord Cheviotdale says, the ladies are positively dy-
Jng for him by hundreds.”
“ Then I pity them,” rejoined Amelia, “for it ia
labour in vam for them to fall in love with him, if he
be the rich Mr. Hamilton.

*5 He is indeed the rich Mr. Hamilton in the voca
bulary of the votaries of Plutus ; but he is the hand
some Mr. Hamilton, and the interesting Creole , with
the ladies,” answered the marchioness; “so you must
go. But apropos, you spoke as if you were acquaint
ed with him just now; do you know any of his his
tory ? They say it is a most extraordinary one.”
“ What I know about him,” answered Amelia,
“has nothing extraordinary in it; it is the most na
tural thing in the world: he has fallen in love with
a young girl, and old bachelors are very apt to do
“Who is she? what young girl do you mean?” ,
was vociferated from two or three voices at once.
“ I will not tell you,” answered Amelia, laughing;
“ if we all go to the Opera you will soon see.”
“ Come, Fanny,” continued Miss Stanhope, “ let
us go and put a little more brilliancy on our heads ;
the simple costume in which they are now dressed
will not do for the Opera. I intend to be very kill
ing. Perhaps you may think you can do mischief
enough without the foreign aid of ornament, but I
am not so vain.”
“ Don’t be long at your toilet,” said the marchio
ness, as Amelia and Fanny left the room, “ we are
going to have tea directly.”
As soon as they were gone,-“What a ridiculous
fuss is made about that girl! I am positively sick of
it,” said the marchioness. “ Miss Stanhope’s regard
for her is quite infatuation.” _
“ Fanny is a very good girl,” said Lady Maria,
“but I really do wonder sometimes myself, what
people see in her, to be so violently enchanted.’’
“ When do the Ellincourts come home 1” asked
a lady who sat by.
“ 1 don’t know, indeed," answered Lady Maria;
“ I wish they were come, for I grow quite uneasy
about my charee,”

“ How so ?” said the marchioness, “ i thought you
said she was a very good girl.”
“So she is,” replied Lady L Maria: “but I am
afraid somebody .will run away with her; Colonel
Ross says there are so many people in love with her.”
The ladies laughed. “ On never fear,” said one
ofthem, “ pretty girls are not scarce enough to tempt
men to much risk to obtain one 1—Don’t some peo
ple say she is the daughter of Lord E. by that Ita
lian mistress he kept ?”
“ Oh dear no,” answered another, “she is too old
for that; but I have heard Lady Ellincourt was afraid
,she would be her daughter, for Lord Ellincourt was
crazy about her, and would certainly have married
her, if his mother had not made him go, abroad.”
“ Lord Ellincourt is safe now,” said a third, “ for
he is married to a lady of very large fortune.”
“ Whither is your ladyship going into the coun
try ?” said the lady that spoke first, addressing Lady
“We are going to Pemberton Abbey; Lady El
lincourt gave us leave to make what use we pleased of
it in her absence ; and the colonel seems to wish me
to stay there the few months he intends lieing in
/ “ Is the colonel going to Ireland directly ?”
“ Ohno, he intendsTemairiingatPemberton Abbey
for three weeks or a month, and then going back with
Lord Ballafyn, who is now in England, and returns
to Ireland at that time.”
“ Is Pemberton Abbey a pretty place V
“ I really don’t know, for I was never there; but
Fanny speaks of it in raptures,” said Lady Maria.
“ It was part of the rich Hamilton’s estate,” said
the talkative lady; “ at least I believe so. I think
Lady Ellincourt said she bought it of Mr. Hamilton’s
executors. I don’t mean the Mr. Hamilton we were
talking of just now, because you know he is alive:
but he only inherited as legatee. He was no relation

i to the old gentleman, I understand. Did your lady-
i ship ever hear why old Mr. Hamilton went abroad?”
“ Never,” answered Lady Maria. “ I did hear
I Lady Ellincourt say there was some melancholy
i cause; was it any thing very shocking ?”
“ Oh, yes 1 he had only one child, and that was a
son ; but he was lost when he was just come of age,
and never heard of since.”
“ Surely,” exclaimed Lady Maria, “ that must be
impossible; how could a young man of that age be
lost, unless indeed it was at sea 1”
“Oh, no, it was not at sea: he was one of the finest
young men that ever was seen, and everybody, loved
him that knew him: poor Mr. Hamilton perfectly
idolized him. It is a great many years ago. I am
ashamed to say I remember it, for it makes one ap
pear so shockingly old ; but I really do. O dear !
there was nothing else talked of at the time; and
some thought one thing, and some thought another ;
but nothing ever came out. And it hurt poor old
Hamilton so much, that he went abroad, and would
never come home again; and he died in the West
Indies, I believe.”
“What a very extraordinary story!” said Lady
Maria. “But how came the old gentleman to give
his money to thife Mr. Hamilton, if he is no relation
to him ?”
“ Indeed, my dear, I don’t know; but I suppose
he met with him when he was just going into his dot
age, and he playedhis cards well, and got on the weak
side of the old man. I hear this Hamilton is very
“ As he is of the same name, I should suppose,”
6aid Lady Maria, “ that he pretended to be related to
the Hamilton family.”
“ Oh, no, my dear, he took the name of Hamilton
for the estates; he is a Creole, they say, and was never
in England till now.”

“ How along ago is it since the son disappeared V ’
said Lady Maria.
“ My dear creature, what a shocking question, when:
I have-just told you, I recollect-the circumstance.-
But, however, I may as well tell you; it is nineteen:
years ago; I was then just a bride, Dear me, itseems"
only yesterday!—Have|you heard that Mr. H. is going-,'
to be married ?” 5 ‘
“I know nothing about it,” said X,ady Maria, witht
an air of ennui; for Mrs. Ellis had tired her with heri
circumstantial narrative. The entrance of Missi
Stanhope and Fanny put an end to the conversation
and as soon as tea was over, the whole party adjourn- i
ed to the Opera, attended by the Duke of Albemarle. J
the Marquises of Petersfield and Cheviotdale, andll
Col. Ross.
The two ladies who accompanied the Marchioness of
Petersfield’s family party to the Opera, had a box
adjoining her ladyship’s, and as that could boast a
better view of the stage, Miss Stanhope accepted
their offer of sitting there in preference to the mar
chioness’s ; and as she was known to be inseparable
from Fanny, a seat was also offered to her.
The first objectthat struck Fanny, on her entrance,
was Mr. Hamilton sitting in the pit with his arms
folded across his breast, and his eyes pensively fixed
upon the part of the house where their box was situ
ated. He instantly recognised Fanny, and rising
from his seat, made her a low bow. Confused beyond
measure at this public salute, the deepest crimson
covered her cheeks; but she returned the compliment
by a slight inclination of the head.
This did not pass unobserved by Col. Ross, who

was in a back part of the box, talking to Lord Che-
viotdale, and exclaimed in the first ebullition of fury,
“ Curse the fellow 1” Colonel Ross was unconscious
that he had spoken aloud, until Lord Cheviotdale,
whose eyes had followed the colonel’s, as it glanced
at the object of his anger, asked him with surprise, if
he meant Mr. Hamilton.
“ I know very little of that gentleman,” said the
colonel, “ nor do I wish to increase the acquaintance,
for he resembles a person I detest j and it was that
likeness which forced from my lips the apostrophe
that surprised you.”
“By heaven!” rejoined Lord Cheviotdale, " if
Hamilton be like any body who is unamiable, it can
be only an exterior resemblance; therefore, to do
away such unjust prejudices, I shall immediately
fetcn him hither, and I will bet ten thousand pounds
you recant your unfavourable opinion in half an hour
The marquis did not wait for Colonel Ross to an
swer ; but, quitting the box, returned in a very few
minutes, accompanied by Mr. Hamilton.
“I have fulfilled my promise,” said his lordship,
addressing the Marchioness of Petersfield; “ here is
Mr. Hamilton, drawn hither by the ardent desire he
feels to be introduced to your ladyship.’’
The marchioness replied, “ that she should esteem
herself happy in the honour of Mr. Hamilton’s ac
Col. Ross bit his lip, and received his share of the
introductory ceremony with stiff politeness.
Miss Stanhope looked at Lord Cheviotdale with an
air of reproach, who instantly understood the hint,
and whispering to Mr. Hamilton, led him into the
adjoining box, where he renewed the ceremony of
introduction, both to Miss Stanhope and her friend.
The ladies who were in the same box were acquaint
ed with Mr. Hamilton, and gave him so cordial a
reception that he accepted their invitation to take *

142 . 5’A'THEEIiESS FA.NNf : OS,
I seat in their box, and placing himself behind Fanny*
he addressed the chief part of his conversation to her
and Miss Stanhope.
There was solid sense in everything Mr. Hamilton
said; and he expressed himself in such elegant lan
guage that Fanny listened to him with delight, whilst
her soft eyes beamed upon him a look of the sweetest
The Duke of Albemarle, who was in the box ad
joining, had watched Fanny with all the tortures of
jealousy, from the first moment of Mr. Hamilton’s
introduction ; and when he read upon her intelligent
• countenance such unequivocal proofs of her admira
tion of the man he deemed his rival, he could scarce
rein-in his rage and indignation;
Alarmed lest his emotions should betray him, he
left the box, and endeavoured to recover his self-
command by a walk in the adjoining corridor.
Sir Everard Mornington was at 'the Opera that
evening, and as soon as he espied Miss Stanhope he
hastened to join her party.
Sir Everard was one of those lively people who are
at home every where, and acquainted with every
body ; he entered the box therefore without ceremo
ny, and afcer a slight nod, and “ How do,” to 4-melia,
he began a long story to one of the old ladies, about
a narrow escape he had experienced in the morning,
having been thrown out of a dog-cart tandem which
he was driving, to the imminent risk of hiis own neck,
and the total demolition of the poor woman’s wheel
barrow that had caused the accident, by crossing the
street just at the moment young Jehu was driving'
down Bond Street, in the true style of prime and
bang-up !
Miss Stanhope was not deficient in sense, and yet
she was charmed with a jargon that had not a parti
cle of that quality to boast of.
There is no accounting for partialities between the
sexes, as it may very frequently be observed that

persons of the most opposite tastes and propensities
will selectileach other, and consider it indispensible
to their mutual happiness to be united.
The brilliant alliance which fortune seemed to of
fer her in her union with the duke, had no attraction
in her eyes; nor could his grace’s elegant person,
his fine understanding, nor the fascination of his man
ners, tempt her for a moment to forego her choice.
Sir EverardMomingtonwas a finehealthy-looking
young man and might perhaps have displayed some
thing like a mind, had studying been the fashion in
stead of driving ; but the company he had been obli
ged to keep, in order to attain any degree of perfec
tion in the science he was ambitious to shine in, had
as completely vulgarised his ideas, as the quaint dress
of the natty coachman had disfigured his naturally
fine person.
Yet still in Miss Stanhope’s eyes he was all per
fection ; and as she was no less agreeable to him,
there had been an explanation between them that had
developed their views to each other. _
A clandestine marriage had been decided on, and
the giddy couple anticipated with delight the noise
their elopment would make in the great world.
Sir Everard was rich, and therefore Miss Stan
hope’s fortune was not his object in addressing her;
and when she explained to him the clause in her fa
ther’s will, which made her fortune the penalty of
her refusing to marry the Duke of Albermarle, ho
laughed, and told her, “ he thought it would be primo
. to tip the knowing-ones the go-by, and show them they
: had more spirit than to mind what old musty parch-
. ments said, that helped to do the mischief the old
■ quizzes that made them could not live to finish.”
But to return to the Opera House. Mr. Hamil-
' ton, in the course of the conversation, learned that
Fanny was going out of town; and when Miss Stan-
! hope named Lady Ellincourt’s seat in Yorkshire, he

(clapped his hand to his forehead, and exclaimed,
1 “ Heavens, what a circumstance I”
“ Do you know that part of the world ?” said Miss
Stanhope, whose curiosity had been raised by the
“ Know it!” rejoined Mr. Hamilton, “ Oh, would
to God I had never known it!”
Miss Stanhope was alarmed, for she thought Mr.
Hamilton was insane, as his eyes rolled tor several
minutes with a wildness truly terrific. “ I thought,”-
said she, endeavouring to turn the conversation, “ that
you were a stranger in this country, sir, and had been
m England only a few months.”
“Most true,” replied Mr. Hamilton, seeming to
recover himself a little, “I am a stranger in this
, country; I have no existence here. But I am tres
passing on your attention, ladies,” continued he,
turning to Miss Stanhope and Fanny, “ whilst more
pleasing objects demand it. The name of the estate
that formerly belonged to my deceased friend, awa
kened ideas most painful to recall; butitis over, and
I entreat your pardon.”
Fanny was affected beyond measure by the an
guish expressed on the countenance of her new friend
and she found it difficult to restrain the tears that
were ready to drop from her eyes. Mr. Hamilton
perceived her emotion, and fearful lest it should at
tract the notice of the ladies aroundher, he rose from
his seat and quitted the box. The Duke of Albemarle
entered as he did so, and placing himself behind
Fanny, he remained stationary until the party quit
ted the theatre.
Inflamed with jealousy, and exasperated beyond
the bounds of prudence, be seized Fanny’s arm as
ehe was entering the coffee-room, and darting at hei
a look of anger, he said, in a tone of voice that spoke
his inward emotion , u Inexorable girl, forbear to tri
fle thus with my happiness—remember my life is in
your hands; never will I marry any other woman 1”

As Miss Stanhope spoke, Fanny’s cheeks were
dyed with crimson, and a deep sigh escaped her.
- She was sorry to hear that the stranger she had
thought so agreeable, was a man of whom she must
think no more. She tried, however, to turn the con
versation, by observing, that she wondered the duke
had not recognised Miss Stanhope.
“I dare say,” answered Amelia, laughingi “ that
the duke thinks me so much improved in beauty,
that he does not suspect his happiness in being des
tined to so lovely a creature, and so his humility
painted out a fair one more upon a par with his own
merits. Well, the duke does not please me, but I
shall not say so. Let him cry out first.”
In this unmerciful manner did Amelia continue to
roast poor Fanny, until the carriage stopped at Col.
Ross’s door, and for the first time since they had be
come acquainted, Fanny felt rejoiced to get rid of
her agreeable friend, who could not command time
enough to alight to tell Lady Maria Ross “ the won
ders of the ride,” a circumstance she lamented most
Coi. Ross was as glad as Fanner to see Amelia de
part, for the jealousy her suggestions had raised in
liis bosom, required the retirement of his closet to
subdue and bring within the limits of his usual self-
command. To his closet therefore he flew, as soon
as he entered the house, and Fanny repaired to her
own chamber, where, throwing herself on her bed,
she gave way to the flood of tears that had long been
struggling for freedom. She had suppressed them
while in Amelia’s presence, because she feared she
would attribute their flowing to a silly and sudden
partiality imbibed by a. first-sight impression, a spe
cies of romance Fanny had always condemned, when
conversing with Miss Stanhope on the subject of at
Scarcely, indeed, could sheherselftellfromwhence
the weeping propensity originated, but felt most in-
167 Q ■ \

clined to attribute it to the influence of her wounded
{iride, which had shrunk from Miss Stanhope’s rail-
ery, with a degree of pain very unusual to the natu
rally humble-minded Fanny.
“ Poor outcast orphan as I am,” said the weeping j
girl, “ dependant on the bounty of strangers, and '■
unblest even with a name. Miss Stanhope is blest
with fortune, and its sure attendants— friends. She
can command admirers ; it is ungenerous therefore
in her to make my insignificance the subject of her
These reflections were the bitterest Fanny had j
ever made ; the secret cause that made them so, I j
leave to my sagacious female readers to find out, not j ■
in the least doubting that they will be able to ascribe
the effect to its genuine cause.
In a few hours after Miss Stanhope’s return home,
Bhe received a note from the Duke of Albemarle, an
nouncing his arrival, and entreating permission to
pay his compliments to the lady who held his future
happiness at her disposal.
Amelia fixed the following morning for receiving
the visit of the impatient lover. When the appointed
hour arrived, the duke was announced, and entered
the apartment where Amelia was sitting at her mu
sic, with such a degree of eagerness, that he scarcely
gave the servant time to name him ere he stood be
fore her. His impatience, however, was not more
evident than his disappointment, when, on Amelia’s
rising to receive him, he perceived that she was not ,
the lady he expected to see.
The duke was accompanied by Lord Somertown j
he did not, therefore, dare to account for his embar
rassment, and that nobleman attributed it solely to
the foolishness inseparable from a boy’s attachment.
The Marquis of Petersfield soon entered the room,
and relieved him in some degree, by’turning the con
versation upon general subjects. (
Lord Somertown asked the marquis whether he ; >

hacf purcnased the pictures at Christie’s, which he
saw him bidding for ? ,
“ I have,” replied Lord Petersfield; “ and if your
lordship will give [me your opinion of a Titian 1
have amongst the number, itwill greatly obligeme?”
“ Certainly,” answered Lord Somertown. “ The
young people,” added he, “will excuse our leaving
them together for a few minutes.” So saying the
two guardians left the room, and the duke’s embar
rassment returned with increased violence. Miss
Stanhope, who enjoyed her poor lover’s confusion,
determined to increase it “I little thought,” said
she, smiling archly, “when 1 received such polite
attention from your grace yesterday morning, after
my unfortunate fall, that it was to the Duke of Al
bemarle I was indebted for assistance: but your
grace seems to have forgotten the whole circum
stance, for you have not once inquired how I am af
ter my fright."
The duke was struck dumb at this speech; and
Miss Stanhope burst into a fit of laughter that com
pletely disconcerted him.
“ It is time,” said she, “ to finish the joke. I have
entered most unwillingly into the deceit that is
practised upon you, and 1 feel myself unequal to the
task of imposing any longer upon your credulity.
I'-will, therefore, be candid, provided your grace will
pledge your word and honour that you will not own
I have done so, until J give you leave.”
The duke, whose curiosity was raised to the high
est pitch by this'preamble, and whose hopes began
to revive at the same time, readily entered into the
conditional promise, and Miss Stanhope proceeded
with her hoax.
“Amelia Stanhope,” said she, “is a whimsical
creature; for, although I love her dearly, nobody is
quicker in discovering her errors than I am. This
giddy girl could not bear the idea of being introdu
ced to her husband elect as a commodity he was obli-

ged to take, whether he liked it or not; and she de*
termined to get up a little drama, which was to be
performed in honour of your grace’s arrival. In this
piece / have the principle part, for I am honoured
by personating Miss Stanhope, whilst she herself has
assumed the simple guise which belongs to me, and
which you will see her perform with the admirable
grace and naivete. In that disguise she expects to
win your grace’s heart; and, if I have any skill in
augury, her expectations are not ill-founded.' Lord
Somertown and the marquis are both in the secret,
and they are anticipating the pleasure of seeing your
embarrassment, when you find yourself entangled in
an attachment so seemingly contrary to their wishes
and which the denouement of the piece is to dissipate
in the prettiest manner imaginable. The moment I
saw your grace enter the room this morning, I re
collected your features, and knew you for the gen
tleman who assisted Miss Stanhope yesterday morn
ing. . The hoax I knew, therefore, must fall to the
ground, and this determined me to tell you of it
first; and if you have half a grain of wit, you will
turn the tables upon the authors of it, by appearing
to believe things as they represent them, and ac
quiescing in wishes as to the proposed alliance. This
will secretly mortify them, whilst you can assure
Amelia’s good will by clandestine testimonies of
your admiration ; and by private marriage with her
under her borrowed character, you can put the most
romantic finish to-the whole affair. Rest assured of
my assistance, provided you keep the secret; and
when you have seen the pretended Fanny, you will
be better able to tell how far you will like to proceed
under my directions.”
It is impossible to describe the astonishment and
delight that filled the duke’s mind as Amelia laid her
S retended scheme before him; but although hewon-
eired, he did not doubt. He readily, therefore, pro
mised to act under the direction of his treacherous

guide, who, in return, assured him that he would see
the real Miss Stanhope that night, if lie should meet
them at the Opera.
The arrangement was but just made when the two
lords returned, and the duke soon after took his leave
saying, as he quitted the room, “ At the Opera, then,
madam, I shall hope to renew the pleasure I have
enjoyed this morning.” Amelia noaded assent, and
the lover departed, accompanied by Lord Soinertown,
neither of them dreaming of the trick Miss Stanhope
had been playing.
The duke passed the hours that intervened till the
Opera, in arranging his plans respecting the double
part he was to act, as to keep up the farce of atten
tion to the pretended and yet satisfy the rightful sove
reign that he was devoted to her alone.
In' the mean time, Miss Stanhope called upon
Fanny to entreather to accompany her to the Ojiera,
apd spend a few days with her at the Marquis of Pe-
tersfield’s. Fanny did not appear much inclined to
join the party; but after a little persuasion, and a
good deal of raillery upon her sudden predilection for
solitude, she yielded to her lively friend, and pro
mised to make one in the Marchiones of Petersfield’s
box that evening, and accompany Amelia home for
a few days, provided the scheme was approved by
Lady Maria lloss, who was also of the party; and
about half-fast nine they entered the Opera House.
His grace was in the pit, with his eyes fixed on
that part of the gay hemisphere where he expected
the rising of the star be worshipped. No sooner had
he recognised the entrance of the party, than,he flew
to join them.

Miss Stanhope received his compliments with a
smile, and turning to Fanny, begged leave to intro
duce her friend to his grace. -•
“ Miss Fanny," said she, emphatically; “ I would
add another name if I could, but I must leave that for
your grace’s ingenuity to supply in what manner you
please.” The latter part of this, spoken in a low
voice, convinced the duke that Amelia alluded to heir
own assumed character.
The admiration the duke had felt at the first inter
view with Fanny was increased at this moment: there
was a dignity in her look and manner he had not be
fore observed, and the expression that beamed from
her beautiful eyes was calculated to awe, as well as to
The cause of this change in the usual appearance
of Fanny, which generally gave the idea_ of feminine
softness, rather than dignity, originated in the pecu
liarity of her feelings respecting the duke.
His appearance had struck her as the most agree
able she had ever seen, before she knew who he was :
and when she learnt the disagreeable truth, she in
stantly determined to subdue the slight partiality she
Full of this resolution, Fanny’s eyes wore a look
of hauteur very differen from their usual expression':
yet was the change an improvement, as it gave a
spirit to her beauty that rendered it more striking and
In vain did the duke endeavour to engage her in
conversation ; her laconic answers, politely, but cold
ly given, still terminated every subject he started.
In the coffee-room, after the Opera, Lord Somer-
town joined the party, and the duke’s attention to
Fanny was not lost upon that cynical nobleman.
“ The boy is a fool,” said he,mentally, “ and ready
to fall in love with every school-girl he meets with.
A few hours ago he was dying for Miss Stanhope, and
now tha idiot is worshipping a new divinity; but I

know boys too well to notice their folly. Opposition
only gives fire to romantic love; the spark will go out
of itself, if the breath of contradiction does not fan it
into flames.”
The next day the Duke of Albemarle paid Miss
Stanhope an early visit. “ What an amiable creature
are you,my dear madam,” said he, “ in showing such
compassion to me. Had you left me in ignorance, on
this trying occasion, my sufferings would have been
“ It is plain you think me very amiable ,” replied
Amelia, laughing, “when you confess so candidly to
my face, that the bare idea of being united to me
would have been insupportable to you?”
“Nay,” interrupted the duke, “you wrong me,
madam. I did not say the idea of marrying, you
would be insupportable"; it was my suspense, re
specting the object of my choice, that I exclaimed
against; and as that choice, as sudden as it is ardent,
was made before I had ever looked at you, surely the
shadow of offence cannot be imputed to me.”
“ Tolerably well turned,” answered Miss Stan
hope ; " but tell me, my lord, candidly, supposing
all that I have told you should be proved a mere
fabrication of my own brain, how would you be in
clined to act ? Would you throw away the world for
love, or insist upon your ‘ bond?' ”
The duke started ; he did'not like the suggestion ;
it gave rise to doubts that had not before tormented
him, and he knew hot what to answer. Amelia saw
his confusion, and enjoyed it.
“ I’ll tell you what,” said she, “I am afraid you
are too lukewarm a lover to Amelia Stanhope; she
is romance personified, and the man who would not
run away with her, at the risk of never possessing a
shilling of her fortune, will never marry ner you may
depend upon it.”
“ The man who could think ot fortune, when put
in competition with the possession of Miss Stanhope,

would be unworthy such a prize!” said the duke. “But
why, dear madam, torment me with queries that in
volve even your own veracity, as well as my happi
ness, in clouds of obscurity V’
“I don’t know why I started the difficulty,” said
Miss Stanhope, laughing, “ unless it were meant to
increase your passion; for, say what you will, there
is no stimulus in love equal to difficulty.”
“There is a charm in your mischief-loving spirit,
that would he dangerous to contemplate,” said the
duke,“to amanlessacaptivethanlam. The witchery
of your smiles is increased by the mischief that seems
to lurk beneath them ; and those you most delight
to torment, would be most likely to feel pleasure from
the infliction.” <
“Don’t waste your time in complimenting me,”
said Amelia, laughing, “ for betide what will, from
me you can have no expectations. Had I not been
quite clear upon that head, I would not have under
taken the part I am playing.”
“ If then you are so clear as to what I may hope
for from yourself,” said the duke, “ deign, dear ma
dam, to inform me what are my dependencies with
your friend?" “There are few women who can an
swer for themselves ,” said Amelia, “ and you are un
reasonable enough to expect that I should answer fox
my friend. I do not give so wide a latitude to the
duties of friendship. Thus far I will venture to tell
you, if you win Amelia Stanhope, you must possess
more merit than is at this moment apparent to your
humble servant Exert your energies, therefore, my
lord duke, and who knows what may happen ?”
“ Provoking, tantalizing girl,” said the duke, in a
tone of impatience, “ how can you make an amuse
ment of my sufferings, and laugh at my distress 2
Surely such softness of feature was never intented to
enshrine a heart so impervious to humanity. But
to be serious,” said the duke, “ will my fair instruc
tress condescend to tell me what I am to say to my

ancle, when he questions me as to my reception by
Miss Stanhope ? Am I to report a gracious hearing
or not?”
“Nay, I leave that to your own discretion," re
plied Amelia. “ I am the ostensible Miss Stanhope,
and I am sure Jhavereceived you very kindly ; there
fore you may safely say so. But I would advise you
to throw in a few hints, when you are talking to your
uncle, how much you would prefer the portionless
Fanny to the rich heiress, provided you could follow
your own inclination.
“ Lord Somertown will pretend to reprove your
imprudence, but he will be secretly pleased with
your penetration and sound judgment j for he is as
eager for the success of the romance as my friend,
and quite as deep in the plot. Suffer all the preli
minaries to be settled, just as if you intended to
marry Miss Stanhope in her proper character, and
then give zest to the joke, run away with her a few
days before the one fixed for your nuptials, under "
the fictitious name of Fatherless Fanny. Oh l the
story will make the prettiest novel that ever was, and
Amelia Stanhope will be better pleased with the de
nouement than any other person !”
“ Would to Heaven I were sure of that!” said the
duke ; “ but the expression of hereyes does notspeak
so flattering a language.”
“ Nay, never mind tliat,” replied Amelia, laugh
ing, “ for that may be as foreign from the truth as
the rest of the plot. ‘ Faint heart never won a fair
lady.’ Go on, therefore, and prosper. You have
my good wishes and Miss Stanhope’s too, or I am

106 fatherless fanny : ok ,
Miss Stanhope, without disclosing her plotto Fanny,
managed it so well that she made her act in concert
with her. The necessity of meeting the duke con
tinually was very irksome to Fanny ; but Amelia
laid her plans so adroitly that the former could not
excuse herself from joining the parties of the latter,
without giving the very reason she wished to conceal.
Instead of feeling flattered by the duke’s attentions,
as she would have done had she considered herself
entitled to receive his addresses, Fanny looked upon
them as little short of insult, since the pointed man
ner in which they were paid her, left no possibility
of mistaking their import
The duke, who supposed Fanny a party in a plot
to deceive him, persevered in paying her the most
marked attention, still carefully adhering to Miss
Stanhope’s injunctions not to give ahint of his know
ledge of the deception. The auke was a general fa
vourite with the ladies, and his attentions to Fanny
were not observed without exciting envy and malice.
The nameless girl was already obnoxious to their ha
tred from the eclat of her beauty, and now they gave
vent, in the most unequivocal terms, to their ran
cour and ill-nature. “It was a shame,” they said,
“ that a girl like that should be suffered to rival a
young lady of Miss Stanhope’s consequence ; and
they wondered the Marquis of Petersfield and Lord
Somertown would allow of such doings. They ought
to interpose their authority, and remove a person so
unfit for the circles of fashion as Fanny certainly
These whispers reached Lord Somertown’s ear,
and as he had always felt the most decided aversion

for poor Fanny, he determined to speak to Col. Ross
and Lady Maria on the subject and try if nothing
could be done to get rid of so dangerous a person be-
tore the mischief Iiad gone too far. His lordship re
collected thathe hadhimself betrayed the secret to the
duke respecting his alliance with Miss Stanhope, at
a moment when he had been led to imagine that his
nephew was as anxious for the match as he was; and
by this imprudence the duke knew that there was
no penalty attached to his dereliction from the pro
posed marriage.
After all the pains Lord Somertown had ,taken,
and the guilt he had incurred, to insure the title of
Albemarle to his nephew, the bare idea of his ingra
titude was distraction 1—Should he marry the name
less, portionless girl, that seemed now to engross all
his attention, Lord Somertown felt that he should
scarcely survive the event, since the hatred he felt
for the innocent object of his nephew’s affection was
as violent as it was undeserved.
The Duke of Albemarle had been in England now
about two months; and it was daily expected that
his grace’s nuptials would be shortly fixed with the
rich Miss Stanhope ; whilst the busy circles that re
ported these conjectures never failed to add, that
“ the divine friendship," that subsisted between Ame
lia and Fanny would be a source of much pleasure
to the Duke, whenever the union took place : and as,
no doubt, all parties were agreed, it might prove a
happy compact.
The only persons who heard nothing of these whis
pers were those most concerned in their import,—
the trio themselves.
At a concert one evening, however, the buzz was
more than usually active; and Fanny, who was
more particularly the object of ill-natured observa
tion, felt the painful impression of the whisper in
Not so Miss Stanhope. She, with her accustomed

liveliness, was listening to the nonsense of Sir Eve-
rard Mornington, a young man of dashing celebrity,
who, besides being a member of the Four-in-Hand
Club, was the epitome of everything ridiculous in
the long list of fashionable folly. His fortune was
large, and his person handsome; and therefore, even
those people who had sense enough to laugh at his
foibles, pretended to tolerate them in consideration
of his extreme good nature and generosity. In Miss
Stanhope’s eyes, however, he rose above toleration,
for she doated upon eccentricity, and her ear was
charmed by the frequent repetitions of those elegant
phrases prime and bang-up, and the rest of that un
intelligible slang whicn has lately been_substituted
for good sense and good breeding. Sir Jiverard was
not insensible to the honour of Miss Stanhope’s ap
probation ; and from the first evening of their ac
quaintance, be had determined that she alone, of all
the gills he knew, should sit beside him on the diclcy
when he drove to the temple of hymen. The slight
difficulty of a prior engagement was nothing to his
magnanimous soul.
The duke had been conversing with Fanny at the
beginning of the entertainment, and paying her those
thousand delicate and nameless attentions which
mark so well the affection of the heart. Fanny had
received them, as she always did, with the most fri
gid coldness. The duke felt piqued at her indiffer
ence, and began to doubt whether he had not been
deceived by his informer, when he was taught to sup
pose she had cherished a wish to enslave him.
_ Full of these thoughts, he had quitted Fanny’s
side, and wandered to the opposite side of the room.
Lady Maria Ross, who sat on the other side of
Fanny, was engaged in deep conversation with some
ladies near her, and the poor girl was left exposed
to the whispers and the observations of the surround
ing ladies, a situation of whose disagreeableness she
was by no means insensible.

Absorbed in her own unpleasant reflections, sho
did not observe that a gentleman had taken the seat
next her, which the duke had just left, until his voice
addressing her, roused her from her reverie.
“ Once more,” said he, in a tone which Fanny in
stantly knew to be the voice of the stranger who had
rescued her from insult in the park: “ once more I
am so happy as to meet with the sweet girl whose
image has lived in my heart ever since the first mo
ment! beheld her. Yet mistake me not, gentle lady,”
continued he, speaking more softly, “ I am no lover
come to offer the incense of flattery at the shrine of
beauty; that passion is for ever extinct in this bo
som : it is buried in the tomb of her you resemble.
The offering I bring you is friendship the most sub
lime ; suchlove as guardian angels feel for those they
watch over. Deign then to listen to my warriing
voicetemptation and danger, nay, even death it
self, appear to threaten you; refuse not then the
friend that heaven itself has sent.”
It is impossible to describe the variety of emotions
that filled the bosom of Fanny as she listened to this
strange address. The most predominant was fear.
Terrified at perceiving that she was observed more
than ever, her first impulse was to fly; and was ris
ing from her seat, unconscious of the action, when
she felt the stranger’s hand laid upon her arm to pre
vent her removal and she mechanically re-seatedher-
“ You seem to fear observation,” said he, in a gen
tle voice, “ and yet you were about to excite it in the
most imprudent manner. Sit still, sweet girl, and
be not afraid of the only friend this room contains for
There was a charm in the voice of the stranger that
had a powerful effect upon the heart of Fanny ; she
had felt it the first time he spoke to her, and it seem
ed to increase rather than diminish in the"repetition.
“ I am impelled towards you, lovely girl,” said he,

“by an interest as undefinable as it is irresistible.
The instinct of the soul is incapable of error; I am
persuaded, therefore, that we shall one day be satis
fied why we experience the emotions that now agitate
us both.”
Fanny continued silent during the whole of this
, address; for she feared to trust her voice,lest its tre
mulous sound should betray her agitation.
She had been combating with the rising partiality
that had been awakened in her bosom by the Duke .
of Albemarle, and she could not help feeling both
surprised and provoked, that a person, of whose very
name she was ignorant, and whom she had seen but
once before, should be able to excite sentiments of
tenderness in her heart, far superior to any she had
ever before experienced ; and which, although they
bore no resemblance to the partiality she felt for the
duke, were so new and undefinable, that she trembded
to admit them.
“ I perceive,” said the stranger, “thatthe abrupt
ness of my address has alarmed your delicacy. But'
fear not, sweet girl, I repeat I am no lover : consider
me as a monitor and friend, and listen to my ad
monitions ;—You are surroundedby treachery. Be
ware of the Duke of Albemarle; beware of Col. Ross;
but, above all, beware of Lord Somertown.”
Fanny turned pale. “ Good heaven,” exclaimed
she, “ what danger threatens me ? The people of
, whom you warn me are nothing to me. Why, then
should I fear them? Explain your mysterious cau
tion, I implore you; for it terrifies without instruct
ing me.”
“ Explanation here is impossible,” replied the
stranger; “but meet me in the park where I first
saw you, to-morrow morning, and I will reveal the
mystery that perplexes you.”
“ Meet a stranger by appointment!” said Fanny,
colouring with indignation, “ itisyow, sir, I ought to
fear, who advise me so imprudently;” and rising from

her seat as she spoke, she quitted the side of the stran
ger, and immediately joined Miss Stanhope, who had
j ust beckon ed her to come to her. “ You are a pretty
miss, indeed,” said she, laughing, as Fanny approach'
ed her: “ two conquests in an evening are too much:
—you have been first flirting with the Duke of Albe
marle, and now I have caught you coqueting with the
rich Mr. Hamilton."
“ Mr. Hamilton !" said Fanny; “ is the gentleman
who has just been talking to me named Hamilton?”
“Yes, my dear: do you like the name better than
Albemarle ?”
" Oh, no,” said Fanny ; naively, “I only repeated
the name because the house Lady Ellincourt pur
chased in Yorkshire belonged to a Mr. Hamilton, and
I bave always had my thoughts about that house.”
“ Well, and now I suppose you will have yourowm
thoughts about its late master,” said Miss Stanhope,
“ for that gentleman in black is he. The late Mr.
Hamilton left his immense fortune to him, on the
condition of taking his name. He met him abroad,
and took a fancy to him for some of his winning ways
that seemed to have charmed you ; for I hear ne was
no relation to him.”
“ Do you know,” said Fanny “he is the stranger I
met with in Hyde Park, that morning when Col.
Ross was so angry with me 1 And he is the person
the colonel said was a swindler
“ Charming, charming 1” rejoined Miss Stanhope,
“ I like the story vastly, and you shall marry which
you like, the duke or Mr. Hamilton.”
“ It is ridiculous to talk of marrying either,” re
plied Fanny, in a tone of vexation.
“ It is not so ridiculous as you may choose to think
it,” interrupted Miss Stanhope," fori haye the most
unquestionable authority for asserting that the Duke
of Albemarle is in love with you.”
Amelia raised her voice a little as she pronounced
the latter part of her speech, and Lord Somertown

caught the important information ashe was approach
ing to speak to her. It was enough to rouse ail the
demon within him, and turning upon his heels, he
sought for Col. Ross, to whom he merely said, that
“he wished for a private conference with him the
next morning, and begged to know whether he would
do him the honour of receiving him to breakfast with
The colonel said, “ he was disengaged, and would
certainly expect his lordship at the hour appointed.”
Lord Somertown bowed, and immediately quitted
Colonel Ross for the purpose of .more strictly observ
ing Fanny.
The result of this observation was not pleasing to
him, for he had soon the pain of seeing the Duke of
Albemarle resume his place beside her, and Lord
Somertown had been too long an inhabitant of the
world to remain any longer ignorant of his nephew’s
sentiments respecting her.
Fury flashed from his eye as conviction shotthrough
his heart, and the emotion was so strong, that the
following words escaped his clenched teeth, as his ter
rible glance fell upon the object of his hatred
“ Base worm; thou shalt perish for daring to oppose
.my wishes.”
His rage was changed to horror, however, when a
voice close to his ear, exclaimed in an awful tone—
“Thou, too, art perishable, frail mortal! thy power is
limited, thy days are numbered—beware, then, how
thou threatenest another 1 An eye obseivea the« that
thou dreamest not of.”
A cold shiver ran through Lord Somertown’s frame
as he listened to accents too well remembered ; and
his eye involuntarily sought the person who had ut
tered the terrific words: it caught a glimpse of his
retiring form, and, instantly his limbs stiffened, and
he fell on the ground. He was raised from the ground,
medical assistance was sent for, and an apoplectic fit
was the name given to the visitation of remorse.

your ungrateful delinquency; but beware. Remem
ber you are passing 1 sentence upon your minion.”
After a sleepless night, the morningbroke upon the
Duke of Albemarle; no hint had been given him, by
the merciless Amelia, to cheer his flagging spirits,
and he now began to think himself the dupe of a mean
artifice. “ She saw my reluctance to marry her,*’
said he, mentally ; “ and fearful lest my repugnance
should surmount every other consideration, and in
duce me to declare my sentiments to Lord Somertown
she has stooped to the meanest disguise to entrap me
securely. And shall I marry such a woman 1 No I
every feeling of my soul recoils from the bare idea.
How can I listen to that awful exhortation at the com
munion of the sacred ceremony, “ As he shall answer
at the great Day of Judgment I” Can I listen, I say,
-and then consent to rush on wilful perjury? Impos
sible 1 If, indeed, I am driven to that extremity, I
will throw off the disguise that so ill conceals my
ifeelings, even at the foot of the altar. But, alas !
what do I rave at? Lord Somertown will then wreak
his vengeance upon the lovely object of my affection
iand transfix my heart with a far keener shaft'than
any suffering inflicted on me alone. Yet surely I
shall have time enough to warn her of danger ere it
1 can reach her."
When he arrived at Lord Petersfield’s, where the
ceremony was to be performed, he found all the com
pany assembled.
r The duke advanced to take Miss Stanhope’s hand,
r who stooping forward, said in a low voice, whilst an
' arch smile played on her lips:
167 L

“For a laggard in love, and a dastard In war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of young Locllinvar.’ ,
The duke paid but little attention to her words,
however, for his whole frame shook with agony whens
he saw the Bishop of P , who was waiting to per
form the ceremony, open his book, and heard hisi;
voice, reading the awful exhortation just now allud
ed to. A mist seemed to cover his eyes, and a sickness!
seized his heart; for Amelia stood passively, andl
seemingly assenting to the compliance of the sacri
fice. When, however, the bishop made a little pause,
at the end of the solemn exordium, Amelia stepped
“ Stop,” said she, “that awful appeal to my sin-
i^erity demands a serious answer. You exhort me
not to conceal any impediment that may forbid my
union with Henry Pierrepoint, Duke ot Albemarle,
and I know of one that is insurmountable
The whole company were struck with astonishment,
the duke’s countenance brightened, but Lord So-
mertown, clapping his hands together, exclaimed,
“ Some infernal plot as been hatching; but beware,
boy, how you trifle with me !"
The bishop commanded silence by waving his
hand, and then addressed Miss Stanhope.
“ This is a strange time, madam,” said he, in an
impressive tone, “ to start objections to a union to
which you have hitherto appeared to assent; and let
me tell you, that you have been guilty of great levity,
in suffering matters to go so far before you'make
known your objections to the marriage we are all met
here to see solemnized.”
“ I entreat your lordship not to censure my con
duct,” said Amelia, “ under the impression that levity
induced me to act as I have done, since I can solemn
ly assure you, that I acted from a far better motive.
The marriage which was to be cemented between the
Duke of Albemarle and me, was a union of interest,
projected by our friends, without consulting our in*

clinations; and from the firstmoment I was informd
of the circumstance, I determined that it should
never take place. Until very lately, I imagined that
my fortune would he the forfeit of my disobedience;
but ! have lately been better informed. And I de
termined to be revenged of Lord Somertown ;for the
artifice he had used to deceive me, by deceiving him
in my turn, and making him come to my wedding
without marrying his nephew. I felt perfectly satis
fied that the duke would feel no disappointment in
losing me, and therefore I have kept him in ignor
ance until this moment; for he believed, when he
took my hand just now, that it was my intention to .
marry him. That, however, is no longer in my
power, as I was married this morning to Sir Everard
Mornington. The banns were regularly published,
and we have been legally married atourparish church,
as that certificate will show,” producing one as she
“ One thing, however,” said Lord Somertown, in
terrupting Amelia, “ one thing, however, your sa
gacity has overlooked; the signature of the mar
riage articles will at least entitle Henry to half your
fortune, madam.”
" No, my lord,” replied Amelia, “it is your lord-
iship's sagacity that was faulty there. The marriage
larticles that were signed yesterday, were made 111
Sir EverardMornington’sname; the signatures were
duly placed; and the deeds, sealed and executed in
your lordship’s presence, and ratified by your lord
ship's sign manual, secure to him and his heirs for
ever, the same proportion of my fortune as would
have belonged to the Duke of Albemarle had tiie
writings been drawn up in his grace’s name.”
Lord Somertown stamped his foot in a paroxysm
of rage. The bishop again waved his hand to stop
the torrent of passion, which he saw ready to burst
(rom the lips of the angry (nobleman.
“ Surely, madam,” said the prelate, “ this declara-

tion might as well have heen made at the signature
of the articles, as at this moment”
“ No, my lord,” replied Amelia, “ I was then a
minor, and some effectual step would have been taken,
to prevent what I have now accomplished. I shall
now take my leave of this kind assembly, who, hav
ing met expressly to celebrate my nuptials, cannot
surely refuse their congratulations on their happy
completion, so much to my own satisfaction. My
husband is waiting for me in a carnage at the door.
I particularly requested him not to enter the house,
as I feared some altercation might take place in tlie
first heat of resentment, which on cooler reflections
will, 1 am sure, be deemed useless and ridiculous,
even by Lord Somejtown himself.”
“ Lord Somertown,” replied that angry nobleman,
“ will not be so easily appeased as you may imagine,
madam. He will find an opportunity of calling to
an account the dastardly incendiary, whose coward
ice is now sheltered by the audacity ofhis wife"
“Nay, never threaten, my good lord,” replied
Amelia, smiling contemptuously. “ If you meddle
with Sir Everard you will find him no coward. The
disparity of your ages will insure your own safety;
for he would not lift his hand against an old man.
But take care how you attempt any bravo expedition
against him; you may not be so fortunate as your
father was, in the Kensington Gardens affair. Lord
Durham fell without investigation of the cause of hi3
death, by those who had a right to make it; but sus
picion, with her thousand tongues, has whispered
dreadful things. Come,” continued she, turning to
the duke, and offering her hand to him with a smile,
“ you my safely receive this now; so lead me gal
lantly down stairs.” Then turning to the company,
she repeated the last lines of Lady Heron’s song :
" She Is won, we are gone over,
They have fleet steeds that follow, cried young Lochinvar.’

The duke mechanically took the proffered hand,
and led the intrepid Amelia to the carriage that wait
ed for her.
“ A thousand blessings attend you, lovely Amelia,”
said the duke, as he assisted Lady Mornington to
ascend the dashing vehicle; “ a thousand blessings
attend you, and may you be as happy as you have
made me.”
“ Thank you, thank you,” replied she, smiling,
“lam glad you are in a good humour with me again.”
Sir Everard Mornington received his lovely bride
with rapture ; and, bowing to the duke, the gay ba
rouche, with four beautiful grey horses, dashed off
in the true style of prime driving, and the duke re
turned to the party above stairs.
“ You are very humble to your jilt of a mistress,
Henry,” said Lord Somertown to his nephew; “ for
my part, I would sooner have kicked than handedher
down stairs. She carries things with a high hand
just now, but I will see whether there is not some re
dress to be obtained for the insults she has offered
me.’ Then ringing‘for his carriage, he made a stiff
bow to the company, and left the house. As he was
quitting the room,he turned to his nephew, and said,
in a sarcastic tone, “ You may accompany me, if
you please; but not unless you feel inclined to do
so. Perhaps it might be more agreeable to you to
stay here, and celebrate the nuptials of the Amazo
nian fury who has just jilted you.”
The duke made no answer, except by following
his uncle down stairs. During the whole of their
drive home neither party uttered a syllable, and when
they arrived in Hanover Square, they retired to their
respective apartments. At dinner time, the. duke
was astonished to find his uncle in the most perfect
good humour possible. As soon as the cloth was re
moved, and the servants withdrawn, Lord Somertown
told his nephew, that upon mature consideration he
did not see that cause for regret, in the Joss of Miss

Stanhope, which he was at first inclined to indulge
in: “ Her fortune, ample as it is, would not be an
equivalent,” said he, “ for the torment of being mar
ried to such a virago. Now tell me, honestly, are
you glad she has served you this trick?”
“ I am certainly not sorry," answered the duke,
“ because my heart being engaged to another, Miss
Stanhope’s merits are lost upon me 1”
“ It is, indeed, a pity any one should be blind to
her superlative merits,” answered Lord Somertown.
“ I know nothing will vex her equal to your marrying
directly. Her vanity would be gratified, by having
it supposed, ,that you were dying of piquie at her cru
elty : I will therefore give my consent to your mar
rying that pretty girl, I mean Fanny, the nameless
beauty. You seem thunderstruck; what don’t you
understand me V*
“ I am astonished,” answered the duke, “ at such
a sudden revolution in your lordship’s opinion.”
“ Well, then, you may suspend your astonishment,
and prepare to set out for Pemberton Abbey next
week. Do not defer it any longer, lest Hamilton
should forestal you there, as Sir Everard Moming-
ton has done here. I understand he has gone down
after her; but you know, I suppose, whether the girl
is inclined to favour your suit in preference to his.
If she is, you have my leave to address her. Are you
willing that it should be as I say ?” , ;
“Most assuredly I am,” answered the duke, “bu(
feel afraid to indulge in the hopes your lordship has
awakened, lest they should lead to disappointment.”
You ought to know me by this time,” rejoined lord
Somertown, “that what I promise I generally per
form. Set out, therefore, to-morrow for Pemberton
Abbey; and, if Hamilton has not yet married the
girl, take her for your wife.”
The duke was going to reply, but Lord Somer-
town’s eye reproved him; and he merely bowed and
'eft the room. He rang for his servant to give orders

respecting his journey, which he determined to com-
mence the first day of the ensuing week. Yet still,
amidst preparations that seemed calculated to fill his
heart with joy, a strange presentiment of evil intrud
ed itself upon his mind. This newly-adopted
scheme of his uncle’s was so sudden, that he could
not help fearing some deep design was concealed be
neath the specious covering of pretended indulgence.
But although the duke’s mind was thus harassed by
conjectures the most painful, he was obliged to act
as if satisfied that Lord Somertown’s intentions to
wards him were actuated by the purest benevolence.
To these conjectures we will now leave him, and
return to Pemberton Abbey. ,
One night, when Fanny was retiring to rest, she
found a sealed note upon her toilet, superscribed to
herself. Surprise, and something like fear, seized
her mind as with trembling hand she broke the seal
of this mysterious address ; for mysterious it must
appear, that a note should be left upon her dressing-
table, in a place where she knew nobody beyond the
walls of the house she inhabited.
On opening the paper she found it was from Mr
Hamilton. It contained the following words:
“ I have kept my word, and am now an inhabitant
of the house that contains you. This assertion star
tles you, no doubt; but when we meet I will explain
the mystery to your satisfaction. I have now no
doubts remaining respecting who you are, neither
will you, when you hear the wonders I have to relate
to you.
“ Be not alarmed at my entering your chamber to
morrow night, at twelve o’clock; I shall then con-

duct you to an old friend, who will convince you that
you are indeed my daughter. Yes, beloved Fanny,
you have found a father in the man who now uses the
name of Hamilton I ”
“ Merciful heaven I” exclaimed Fanny, lifting up
her hands, and dropping the note which nad excited
such emotion in her heart. “ Can it then be, that I
have found a parent ? All-powerful nature 1 it was
thy voice that spoke within me, when first I beheld
the author of my being; it was thy power that called
forth my affection with such irresistible force, and
bid me love, before I knew my father I Alas! how
shall. I bear the agitation, that now harrows up my
feelings, for so many hours as those that must inter
vene before the time appointed for our meeting ?”
Full of emotions such as these, poor Fanny paced
up and down her chamber, forgetful of the waning
night, and incapable of calming her perturbed ima--
gination. Sometimes she felt such an ecstasy of joy
that she could scarcely flatter herself the picture her
fancy drew, of the happiness awaiting her, could
really be a true one. A doubt would then obtrude
itself, that perhaps this was some artifice to ensnare
her and she recollected, with dismay, that Mr. Ha-
milto^'was a total stranger to her; and that, whatever
might be the instinctive affection she had felt for
him, she had yet no certain proof that he was wor
thy of the confidence she must repose in him, when
she was called upon to commit herself to his guid
ance at the dead hour of the night, and suffer him to
lead her to seme sequestered spot, impervious to the
knowledge even of those who inhabited the same
After several hours spent in the most painful agi
tation, her wearied frame seemed ready to sink under
the combined powers of emotion and fatigue; and
unable any longer to bear up against their force,
Fanny threw herself, dressed as she was, upon her
bed. A deep slumber soon sealed her senses, and

she awoke not until the sun had been some time ri
sen. Her first thought, on starting from her bed, was
to look for Mr. Hamilton's note, which she recol
lected she had dropped from her hand in the first
moments of her astonishment at reading its myste
rious contents. She wished to re-peruse it, as she
remembered the peculiar manner in which the note ’
concluded, where her father said, he now used the
name of Hamilton; implying, that it was not the one
that properly belonged to him. 1
As she sought for the note, her eagerness to re-
peruse it increased. What then was her consterna
tion and dismay.when, having spent about half an
hour in the search, she was obliged to yield to the
conviction that the paper was no where to be found.
At first her terror was excessive, as the loss was as
unaccountable as it was unfortunate. That the note
had been conveyed out of her room, during her sleep,
, was evident, but by whom was appoint it was impos
sible to determine ; and whoever was in possession
of that paper was master of the secret it contained.
When, however, Fanny reflected that the note had
been placed upon her table by an invisible hand, she
concluded that the same person hadresumedit whilst
her sleep had enabled them to do so unperceived.
It was, however, an unpleasant circumstance to be
at the mercy of a being who could enter her cham
ber at any hour they pleased, and even without her
knowledge. She now recalled to mind the circum
stance that occurred the first time she spent the holi
days at Pemberton Abbey, when she had been awa
kened in the night by the appearance of her mam--
ma Sydney, at ner bed-side.
The recent occurrence of the note having been
placed upon her table, and afterwards removed by
the same invisible hand, proved the fallacy of Lady
Ellincourt’s researches, and she now felt convinced
that her infantine ideas, respecting Pemberton Ab
bey being the place of her earliest residence, were

Eerfectly correct. These reflections strengthened
er reliance upon her newly-found parent; and she
longed for the arrival of the important moment,
which was to reveal the secret of her birth, hitherto
so darkly enveloped in mystery.
The hour of breakfast new approached, and Fan
ny repaired to her toilet to arrange her dress, and to
'remove, as much as possible, the traces of emotion
and trouble which had been impressed upon her
countenance. She succeeded tolerably well^ and de
scended to the breakfast parlour with a face dressed
in smiles.
Lady Maria was already there, and as soon as;Fan-
ny entered she called out, “ Great news! important
news in the London Gazette; ‘ Miss Stanhope is
married, and the town talks of nothing else I’ ”
Fanny’s countenance fell instantly, as lady Maria
finished the sentence. “ She is no longer Miss Stan
hope then,” said she, “but the Dutchess of Albe
“ Oh, no,” answered Lady Maria, “ you are not at
all in the secret; Amelia is married, but not to the
Duke; and there is the mighty wonder of the story.”
Lady Maria then read, from the newspaper she held
in her hand, the chief of those circumstances that
have already been related respecting Amelia’s coup-
Fanny felt comparatively indifferent to any of the
particulars, but that which spoke of the rupture of
the contract between Amelia and the Duke; that
news was doubly welcome now, as her imagination
had already been expatiating in the field of proba
bility, and fondly fancying, that when her birth was
ascertained, it might be found such as did not pre
clude the possibility of the union her heart was most
inclined to wish for.
Of Amelia’s partiality for Sir Everard Morning-
ton, Fanny had been long convinced; and she re
joiced that her friend’s inatfinuitj had supplied her

with the means of so dexterously substituting the
man she did like, for the one_ for whom she had al
ways expressed the most decided aversion.
When Col. Ross came in to breakfast, he said,
“Arethere any letters this morning 1"
" Oh dear,” replied Lady Maria, “ I declare I was
bo taken up with the newspaper that I forgot the let
ters; here are several,” added she, “and amongst
them two for you, Fanny.’'
When'Fanny took the letters into her hand, she
recognised the writing of her beloved Lady Ellin-
court. An exclamation of joy burst from her lips,
and she retired to one of the windows to peruse her
treasure. What was her rapture then on reading the
following words:
“ I know you will rejoice, my beloved Fanny, to
hear that we shall soon embrace you. We have ta
ken our passage on board a ship of war, and are
waiting for a convoy. You may therefore depend
upon soon seeing us.”
Fanny could read no further, but running up to
Lady Maria, she put the letter into her hands, then
burst into tears.
The other letter was from Lady Mornington, and
written in her accustomed style of giddiness. After
recounting the particulars of her manoeuvres, which
are already known, she continued.
•• We intend passing the honey-moon at this place,
namely, Mornington Park, in Lancashire; and in
our way from hence to London we design to favour
you with a visit en passant. I make no doubt you
will receive a visit from the Duke of Albemarle long
before that time; if you should, pray don’t forgetto
tell him, with my compliments, that I never saw him
look so animated, as when he blessed me and thank
ed me,at parting, for running away from him. Adieu.**

Fanny’s anxiety to have the mystery of her birth
elucidated, made the day appear particularly tedious
that intervened between her impatience and the hour
appointed by Mr. Hamilton for their nocturnal
meeting ; yet, as the moment approached, she felt
dismayed, and almost unequal to the undertaking.
A thousand times was she on the point of making
Lady Maria her confidant, yet something withheld
her from doing so, although the secret trembled on
her lips: yet such was her eagerness to penetrate
the mystery that involved her, and such her instinc
tive reliance upon Mr. Hamilton’s integrity, that
she kepther resolution of meeting him,notwithstand
ing the fears that assailed her. Her stifled emotions,
however, made her extremely absent; and Colonel
Boss remarked it several times, in the course of the
day, with some asperity.
At length the important hour arrived, and Fanny
retired to her apartment, and sat with a palpitating
heart, expecting her mysterious visitor. The large
clock over the stables had struck twelve some time
and yet he did not appear.
As the moment seemed to approached, Fanny’s
courage expired; and to such a pitch of terror had
her perturbed imagination wrought itself, that she
was just on the point of flying to Lady Maria’s apart
ment for rei'uge from the appearance she now dread
ed, when a crackling noise behind her made her start
and turn round. A large looking-glass was fixed in
the jamb between the window ana the chimney; it*
old-fashioned frame, curiously wrought, forming the
cornice of the compartment, appeared to have been

stationary in that spot ever since the building of the
house, as many of its rude ornaments corresponded
exactly with the antique cornice that bordered the
ceiling. The part of the wall where the glass was
fixed appeared perfectly solid, not being covered like
the other parts with wainscoting. How great, then,
was Fanny’s astonishment, when she saw the frame
open like a door, and Mr. Hamilton entering from
the aperture. He advanced towards her, and took
her trembling hand:
“ Be not dismayed, my precious child,” said he,
tenderly ; “you are in the guardianship of your best
friend. I can allow for this terror, however: it is
very natural that your tender nature should be
alarmed at the appearance of a mystery that involves
the approaches of your parent. But there is reason
for this caution, as you will readily allow when you
have heard my eventful story. Pear not to trust your
self to my guidance. I will lead you to the friend
of your infancy, and I doubt not that her testimony
will do away every remaining doubt.”
Fanny passed through the secret door in silence,
and her guide shut it with a spring, then resuming
the hand of the trembling girl, he led her, without
speaking, down a long flight of narrow stairs, which
terminated in a long passage.
At length a door opposed their progress; Mr.
Hamilton rapped three distinct times, presently it
was opened, and they entered a small apartment,
through which they passed into one of larger dimen
sions, where there were two candles upon a table.
Fanny now distinguished the face of the person
who had let them in, and to her unspeakable aston
ishment beheld her “ Mamma Sydney.”
The old Lady pressed the trembling Fanny to her
bosom, and sobbed aloud.
“ And does my dear child recollect me at last V*
said she. “ Yes, I perceive you do: those intelligent

eyes beam upon me with all your mother’s sweet
“But you look terrified, my love,” added the old
lady, in a tone of tender concern. “This agitation
is too much for the dear child, Orlando,” turning to
Mr. Hamilton; “let her rest herself a little before
we ask her any questions.”
Fanny now seated herself on a chair, between Mr.
Hamilton and her Mamma Sydney, and yielding to
the emotions that oppressed her almost to suffoca
tion, she burst into tears. Her two friends suffered
her to weep, without interruption, until the violence
of her feelings gradually subsided.
The old lady then began to interrogate Fanny as
to her recollection of herself, and those who sur
rounded her, prior to her being placed at Miss Bride
Fanny related what she had before said to Lady
Ellincourt, the first moment of her visiting Pember
ton Abbey, about her Mamma Sydney. She men
tioned, too, her terror at seeing her Mamma Sydney
in the middle of the night, in the very same apart
ment she now inhabited, and described the pains
Lady Ellincourt took to ascertain whether there was
any secret entrance to the room, concealed in the
wainscoting, and the result of that investigation.
“ The mystery is now cleared up,” replied the old
lady, “ for I indeed appeared to you, and pressed jrour
rosy cheek with my lips, before you were conscious
of my approach.^ That imprudent action awakened
you; and the shrieks you uttered imparted the terror
I had occasioned you to my own heart.”
“ But tell me, dear and honoured madam,’’ inter
rupted Fanny, with a look of earnest supplication,
“ Oh, tell me who you are; and give ease to my
agitated heart, by informing me who I belong to.”
Mr. Hamilton arose, and taking her in his arms:
“ My Emily, my murdered Emily!” exclaimed he,
pressing the weeping girl to his bosom; “ yes, thou

art indeed my daughter I every feature in that lovely
face recals thy sainted mother.”
“I have then no mother /” faintly articulated
Fanny ; then dropping on her knees at the feet of her
newly found father, and raising her streaming eyes to
his face, she exclaimed, “ Receive, then, most hon
oured of human beings, the homage ofan affectionate
heart, that has long panted to embrace its parents.
I have only one ! Oh, let me then bestow on that one
the duty and affection due to both.”
Mr. Hamilton raised the lovely girl and embraced
her. “ AVhat a moment is thi3 I” said he. “ Me-
thinks I hold my Emily once more to my bleeding
heart! The name of Fanny was given you in prefer
ence to Emily, the better to conceal you from your
cruel persecutors. It has had the desired effect; and
my child is preserved to bless her doating father: and
I shall yet see her assert a right to the rank of her
ancestors, and rise superior to the malice of her ene
mies. But time wears, and I forget that my child
is anxious to know the elucidation of the mystery that
now veils her birth. The story is mournful; but she
for whose sake your tender heart will weep, has long
ceased to suffer, and we must look for her in the
realms of bliss, not in this vale of sorrow and disap
pointment. Keep this in mind, my love, and let_ it
soften the anguish your filial tenderness must inflict
upon you during the recital of the tale of woe.”
“ My mother was the sole heiress to an immense for
tune, "with the title and estates of a dukedom entailed
upon her eldest son. Her mother was sister to Lord
Somertown ; and it was always the design of that ava
ricious and vindictive nobleman to unite his son to

my mother. She was accordingly kept very much
secluded in the early part of her life, to prevent her
forming any attachment before Lord Sheldon return
ed from his tiavels. This veiry precaution, however,
was the occasion of her doing so; for in the retire
ment she lived in with her governess, she became ac
quainted with my father, who was then just inducted
into the living of D , the village adjacent to
Canington Park, the seat where my mother resided.
The consequence was a clandestine marriage; and
when Lord Sheldon came home to claim is bride, she
confessed herself already the wife of another.
“ It is impossible to describe the rage and fury of
Lord Somertown, when informed of his niece’s
delinquency. He vowed the most unrelenting ven
geance, and immediately took every step to punish
Mr. Evelyn, her unfortunate husband, and distress
Lady Lucy, which was my mother’s name. A pro
cess was commenced against him in the court of
Chancery, for stealing an heiress; and although, by
the testimony of my mother, it was proved beyond a
doubt that the act was entirely her own, and his life
thereby preserved, yet the expenses incurred by the
law-suit ill agreeing with his narrow circumstances,
he was thrown into prison, where he languished the
remaining years of my mother’s minority. Nor was
her confinement less rigid than her husband’s, as she
was kept a close prisoner by her inexorable guardian,
and every motion strictly watched, lest she should
convey any assistance to my father.
“ My birth, which happened a few months after the
discovery of the fatal secret, inoreased my mother’s
distress; and the terror lest I should fall into the
merciless hands of her uncle, nearly proved fatal to
her during her lying-in. I escaped the jaws of the
lion, and was conveyed by a faithful servant of my
'mother’s, to a safe asylum.
“ My father had a sister who was married to Mr.
Hamilton, but who, together with her husband, was

abroad at this trying moment. To her my father had
written an account of every thing relating to his un
happy marriage, excepting his pecuniary embarrass
ments ; a gaol being preferable in his eyes to th,e idea
of dependance. His pathetic description of Lady
Lucy's situation, and his account of Lord Somer-
town’s cruelty, alarmed his sister, and she wrote im
mediately to a friend she could rely upon, and desired
her to find means to inform my mother that there
was a friend, she might safely trust, ready to receive
her child, should she wish to place it out of the reach
of her crul uncle.
“ I was accordingly tom from my weepingparent
and conveyed to the asylum prepared for me.
“ Lord Somertown was outrageous when he found
his victim had escaped him; and he spared no pains
nor expense to find out my retreat. In this, now-
ever, he was disappointed, for my watchful friend had
me conveyed to my aunt, at Jamaica, as soon as my
tender age admitted of my undertaking such ajour-
; ney. There I remained until my mother came of
age, at which period she effected her escape from the
confinement in which she had been kept upwards of
four years.
“ The first use she made of her liberty was to re-
i store that of my father; and they were re-married at
St George’s, Hanover-square, in the most public
manner possible. The immense fortune to which
they now acceded promised them every enjoyment
this life can afford; but all their pleasures seemed
imperfect whilst separated from their beloved child.
“My aunt, at this time, returned to England, and
■came to reside at this very house.
“ In this place I was first conscious of the embraces
of my parents, and had I no other reason, that single
recollection would endea* Pemberton Abbey to my
heart. I was soon however removed to the splendid
seat of my ancestors, and became the prime object of
solicitude to all those that surroundedme. Myjmother
167 m

died when I was no more than twelve years old, and
my father was immediately involved in a Chancery
suit, by a claimant to the estate and title to which I
was lawful heir. Lord Somertown’s malice to my
mother, which survived her, induced him to support
the claim of this pretender: and as his lordship had
taken care to destroy the evidences of Lady Lucy
Darnley’s first marriage with Mr. Evelyn, which
had'been celebrated with all its proper forms, and the
banns regularly published, by suborning the clerk to
tear the leaf containing the register out of the church
books, the marriage could not be proved; and I was
bastardized by my own mother’s uncle, and our cause
fell to the ground, My father’s grief and distress
may be imagined. It took such an affect upon his
health that he survived my mother only two years.
Destitute as I now was of fortune and rank, I yet
never wanted a friend; my uncle, Mr. Hamilton, re
ceived me into his h ouse, and treated me like his son,
and from that time I assumed his name. A secret
hope always pervaded my mind that Lord Somer-
town’s heart would be touched with remorse for his
injustice to me, and that he would restore me to my
just rights, by permitting the man to return who had
been sent abroad by his means, and whose testimony,
as a witness to the marriage, would have been suf
ficient to reinstate me in the privileges he had de
prived me of.
“ In this expectation, however, I was deceived; his
malice still pursued me : and although he did not
know that I had assumed the name of Hamilton, nor .
had been able to ascertain what asylum sheltered
me, his endeavours to penetrate the mystery never
relaxed, until a report of my death being industri
ously spread by my friends, his lordship rejoicing
in the extinction of his enemy, deemed himself hap
py in the consummation of his wishes. The present
Duke of Albemarle’s father was then the possessor
of my just rights; and Lord Somertown, who stood

in the same relationship to him as to my mother,
was afterwards appointed guardian to his son, the
present duke, by his will made on his death-bed. Of
my relationship, or connection with Mr. Hamilton,
Lord Somertown heard nothing, as he had always
been too proud to investigate my father’s family; and
the report of my death precluded suspicion. I grew
up therefore, in the neighbourhood oi his family seat
without his ever entertaining an idea of my existence.
When I was about nineteen, I came home for the
summer vacation from Oxford, and Mr. Hamilton
received me with more than usual satisfaction in his
countenance. -
“ ‘ I am far from despairing,’ said he, ‘of seeing
you restored to your just rights, if your inclinations
should lead you to second my wishes; but, remem
ber, before I communicate what those wishes are, I
disclaim all intention of putting the least force upon
your affections.’ '
“ I was at a loss to guess what this prelude was to
lead to: but mjr good uncle soon put the matterpast
a doubt, by telling me that Lord Somertown had a
granddaughter that resided with him, who was the
most beautiful creature he ever beheld, but whose
birth was attended with such circumstances of mis
fortune, that it is but too probable his lordship may
find it difficult to marry her to his satisfaction. ‘You,’
added my uncle, ‘ are supposed to be my son ; your
fortune in that case must be immense. Lord S. does
not suspect who you really are, and as no reasonable
objection can be made either to your family or for
tune, in your present character, I intend to propose
the alliance, provided you should be as much en
chanted with the lovely Emily as I am. If you are
accepted, it will be an agreeable surprise to Lord
S : to find, when you have married his grand
daughter, that you are the lawful heir of such rank
and fortune as that which certainly belongs to you,
nor do I entertain a doubt that lie will immediately

produce such proofs as will reinstate you in your
“ My dislike to Lord Somertowri was so deeply
rooted in my heart, that I could scarcely hear my
uncle to the end of his speech. When he paused, I
said, * You leave me free to do as I like, my dear
sir: and therefore I decline having anything to do
with such a wretch as Lord S . Let him
keep his malice, and leave me my resentment. I
could not love a granddaughter of his, I am sure,
were she as beautiful as Hebe.’ The lovely Emily
was kept in such seclusion, that all the privilege she
enjoyed was the liberty of walking sometimes in her
grandfather’s park; and even that indulgence was
restricted to an early hour in the morning.—During
these rambles she was attended by the governess who
had brought her up, and who doted upon her. It
chanced on morning in the shooting season, that I
strolled near the precincts of Sheldon Park; my dogs
sprung a covey of partridges, who, in their flight,
made towards a small enclosureadjoining to the park
gate, the interior of which was screened from my
view by a plantation of young trees. With the ea
gerness of a young sportsman I discharged my gun,
and was preparing to climb the fence in search of
my game, when loud shrieks from within filled me
with consternation and dismay. I scarcely knew
how I got to the spot from whence they proceeded;
but when I reached it, I beheld a female figure
stretched on the ground, covered withblood, and ap
parently lifeless, whilst another was bending over
her in an agony of terror, I too plainly perceived
that I was the unfortunate cause of the accident, an£
I hastened to offer my assistance to the' distressed
‘“My beloved child,’ exclaimed she, ‘is wounded,
I fear mortally; let me entreat you, sir, to assist mo
in conveying her to the Porter’s Lodge, which is not
far from hence.’ I stooped to lift the young lady

from the ground : but when I raised her from her
lowly bed, heavens! what a beauty struck my senses.
My heart died within me, as I bore the lifeless bur
den to the place her governess had pointed out to
me, for I firmly believed she had breathed her last.
When we reached the Porter’s Lodge, the lovely
Emily (for it was herself) was laid upon a bed, and a
man despatched on horseback to fetch the nearest
surgeon, a distance of three miles, I will not jire-
tena to describe the agony I suffered during the time
the sweet girl remained in a lifeless state. At length
her governess came to me, and assured me that Miss
Hincheliffe (that was the name my Emily bore) was
much better, and that she could venture to pfonounce
without seeing the surgeon, that the wounds she had
received were of no material consequence.
“When the surgeon arrived, his testimony con
firmed Mrs. Bolton’s favourable opinion, for he pio-
nounced the wounds, which were in the fleshy part
of the arm, not at all dangerous, and assured us, that
the fainting fit, in which the lovely Emily had lain
so long, was occasioned by terror more than by loss
“ Time will not permit me to dwell on the events
that followed this accident, by which I was intro
duced to the arbitress of my fate, and became en
amoured of the very woman I had declared to my
uncle I could never love.
“The distress I had shown on this occasion, ex
cited an interest for me in the heart of the beauteous
Emily. At first, the excuse of inquiring after her
healtli, and_ entreating her to forgive the injury I
had so unwittingly done her, served to apologize for
the liberty I took in way-laying her morning ram
bles. By degrees she appeared to expect my visits,
and soon ventured gently to reproach my ncgligenco
if by any accident I was later than usual in making my
appearance. To be brief, our attachment was mu
tual, and we exchanged vows of unalterable fidelity

to each other. I now entreated my uncle to make
the proposal to Lord Somertown he had before sug
gested, explaining to him, at the same time, the cause
of this sudden change in my opinion. My uncle
shrugged up his shoulders and sighed.
“ ‘How perverse is human nature 1’ said he. * At
the time I proposed the alliance to you, there ap
peared to be no impediment to the union ; you then
were averse to the proposal, and I let the subject
drop, little supposing you would happen to wish to
renew it at a moment when I am convinced it is im
possible. Lord Somertown’s inflexibility to all en
deavours at thwarting his will is almost proverbial;
whatever he has said shall be, is like the laws of the
Medes and Persians, ‘which altereth not.’ An at
tempt, therefore, to turn him from his designs is
really akin to madness. I have ju^t learnt, from un
doubted authority, that there is an alliance for his
granddaughter now on the tapis; the lover is Lord
Ballafyn, of Ballafyn Castle, m Ireland.. And as he
has never seen the lady, it must be the fortune the
grandfather has promised her, that is the object of
his affections.’ I was struck dumb by this intelli
gence, and almost ready to sink into the ground,
As soon as I had recovered myself a little, however,
I entreated my uncle not to let a vague report deter
him from making the proposal I was now so eager
about; adding, with all the sanguine confidence of a
youthful lover, that as my fortune exceeded that of
Lord B. it was more than probable, if money was
Lord Somertown's object, he might he inclined to
favour my suit in preference to his lordship’s. My
uncle shook is head; but, nevertheless, promised to
make the application. He did so, and was rejected
in the most positive terms by Lord Somertown, who
assured him that Miss Hinchelifle was disposed of al
ready. ‘She knows nothing of my intentions, as
yet,’ added his lordship, sternly; ‘but it is time
enough: when she knows my will, she must obey it.’

My uncle entreated me to abandon all ideas of so
mad an intention, and recalled to my remembrance
the sorrows of my unfortunate jparents, as well as
those of the hapless Emily. This argument had no
effect, however, with me; misery appeared in no way
so certain as in a separation from her I loved ; and
could I but obtain the object of my affection, the
world appeared a cheap price to pay for such an in
estimable treasure.—When I had an opportunity of
conversingwith Emily, and imparting my sentiments
to her upon our cruel situation, it was some consola
tion to me to find her as willing as myself to brave
the frowns of the world, and the dangers of poverty,
rather than relinquish the sweet hope of being uni
ted. At length the dreaded proposal was made, in
person, by Lord Ballafyn, and his lordship introdu
ced to Emily, who was informed by her grandfather,
that she must look upon his lordship as her future
husband, without a single question being asked her,
whether he was agreeable to her or not.
“ The day after this meeting, Emily appeared in
such terror of mind, that it drove me almost to mad
ness, and in the insanity of the moment I proposed
a clandestine marriage to her. There is not, said I,
any danger of our union being set aside, if we can
once accomplish it, as I am of age; and it will be
easy to get the banns published without Lord So*
mertown’s knowledge, who never goes to church.
Emily listened to me with complacency, and I soon
prevailed with her to consent to the measure, which
was immediately adopted. I gave a very large sum
of money to the clergyman, and also to the clerk,
and by that means obtained the secrecy I wished for.
The former had a great impediment in his speech,
which defect he managed so dexterously as to render
our names totally unintelligible to the congregation.
Our being asked in church was unnoticed, a circum
stance that was considerably assisted by several other
couples being asked at the same time. Not long

afterwards during a short absence of Lord Somer
town from Sheldon Park, we were married, and fond
ly flattered ourselves that we were now safe from the
tyranny we dreaded. About three months after our
marriage, Emily received orders to prepare herself
to become a bride. It was in vain that the poor girl
implored her inexorable parent to listen to her for a
few minutes ; he spurned her from him, telling her
that no reply was necessary on her part, as she had
nothing to do, now she knew his will, but to obey it
—‘ Lord Sheldon,' said he, * is coming from Sax
ony, whither he had been sent on a diplomatic mis
sion ; and when he returns, your marriage will take
place immediately. Lord Ballafyn intends being
here the latter end of this month, and I desire you
to receive him in a manner suitable to my wishes.’
“ The terror and agitation the sweet girl suffered
on this trying occasion, brought on a most alarming
illness, and for many days her life was despaired of.
Think what must have been my sufferings when I
knew that the beloved object of all my hopes, in this
world, lay at the point of death, and I did not dare
to approach her pillow, to whisper one word of ten
der consolation in her ear. The kind-hearted Mrs.
Bolton did all she could to mitigate my anxiety, and
gave me regular information three or four times a
day; and every night, during my Emily’s extreme
danger, I watched beneath her window, disguised in
the coarse frock'and slouched hat of a ploughman;
who being frequently employed to watch the poach
ers, excited no suspicion by being seen lurking about.
in the dead of the night.
“ At length the sweet creature was restored to my
prayers. This joyful event was followed by another,
which appeared to promise us the confirmation of
ourhappiness; Imean the death ofLord Somertown,
which nappened suddenly, just before Lord Balla-
fyn’s expected arrival.
“ The death of Lord Somertown put a stop to all

ideas of the proposed alliance with Lord B for
some time; and as the ne>v lord was still detained
abroad by his diplomatic functions, Emily was left
for several months to follow the bent of her own in
clination. It may easily be supposed that it was the
society of her husband she would seek under such
circumstances; and many a half gone hour have we
spent together, in these very apartments, whose pri
vate communications with Pemberton Abbey had
been but lately discovered by a servant of mine, who
informed me of it, and showed me the secret spring
that closed the mysterious pannel. As a reward for
so valuable a discovery, I settled fifty pounds a year
upon the man, and gave him that small house to live
in. And, with the assistance of his wife, and the
worthy Mrs. Bolton, whom you have hitherto known
by the name of your Mamma Sydney, your beloved
mother, in this secluded asylum, gave birth to a love
ly infant, who was immediately baptized by the name
of Fanny. And such were the precautions adverted
to on this occasion, that not the slightest suspicions
were awakened amongst the domestics at Sheldon
Park, who were all, excepting one confidential ser
vant, wholly ignorant of my Emily’s 'absence. As
soon as her weakness would permit, she returned to
her home, but you was left here with your nurse, the
wife of my servant.
“ We now awaited Lord Sheldon’s return with the
utmost impatience, as^we had come to the resolution
of declaring our marriage to him at the first inter
“ As soon as Lord Somertown arrived in London,
be wrote to his niece, to inform her that the nuptials/
which he was sorry had been so long delayed on hit
account, should be solemnized immediately: and
that it was his intention to be at Sheldon Park in ten
days from the date of his letter.
“When Emily communicated this unwelcome
news to me, my mind buggested the propriety of ini-

mediately informing Lord Somertown of our mar
riage, and entreating his sanction to it, as I judged
it would only exasperate him the more, to suffer him
to come down in the country under such erroneous
“ I accordingly wrote to him on the subject. His
answer was couched in terms the most friendly, and
contained only a very slight stricture upon secret,
marriages, which he said were but too often the cause
of much unhappiness in families; adding that he
hoped ours would not prove of that description.
His lordship requested my immediate presence in
London, as he said it was necessary we should have
some conversation together, previous to his visiting
the country, and he concluded his letter with every
assurance of the most cordial friendship.
“ This was so much above my hopes, that I was ip
ecstasies, and my Emily was several times obliged
to check my transports.
“ When I arrived in London, I waited upon Lord
Somertown immediately, and was received with.the
utmost cordiality. As soon as the first compliments
were over, I began speaking upon the subject of the
settlements ; and as my unclenad authorized me to
do, I made the most liberal offers.. Lord Somer
town seemed rather to evade than press the subject;
and he once said, with rather a mysterious air, ‘There
are some circumstances with which I am acquainted,
that perhaps you do not suspect are known to me;
on some future day we will talk upon those matters,
as I should wish the real rank of the man my niece
marries should be known to the world.’ I caught
at this insinuation and assured his lordship, that from
that' moment I could have no secrets with a friend
so nearly allied to me. ‘Not now,' said he, nodding
significantly, ‘but the time is not far distant when
the confidence will be mutual.’
“ A few days after this I received a note from Lord
Somertown, requesting me to dine with him at his

villa, on the banks of the Thames, near Richmond,
as he had some business to transact with me of the
utmost importance. I obeyed the fatal summons
with alacrity, and reached the appointed place just
as dinner was ready.
“ Lord Somertown welcomed me by a cordial shake
of the hand, assuring me that I had made him happy
by this ready compliance with his request. ‘ And
I trust,’ added he, with a smile, ‘that you will con
fess, before we part, that I am not your debtor.
Every thing is arranged for your future welfare in a
manner that cannot fail of success.’ I understood
by this speech that Lord Somertown alluded to my
claims on the title and estates of Albemarle, and I
expressed my warm sense of his kind attention to
my interest
“We dined tfite-&-t6te; but as the servants waited,
not a word passed during dinner. After the cloth
was removed, I adverted to the subject of our former
correspondence; but Lord Somertown pressed me
to take some wine with such eagerness, that I could
not refuse : glass after glass was forced upon me,
which I swallowed much against my inclination,
' merely to get rid of his importunity.
“ I did not at first perceive that Lord Somertown
was not drinking himself, for my mind was so occu-
picd with the ideas that crowded upon it, that I had
scarcely any perception of what was passing before
me. "When, however, I did observe it, I declined
drinking any more.
“ ‘ Your Lordship,’ said I, laughing, * has a design
upon me, for you are making me drink, whilst you
are abstaining from wine yourself.’ ‘ There may be
reasons,’ answered he, ‘ that may render it more ne
cessary for you to take wine, than would stand good
for me : however, I believe you have taken enough,’
added he, emphatically,«and therefore you may do
as you like about having any more.’ _ ,
“After conversing for some time longer upon in-

different subjects, and studiously avoiding the one I
wished to lead to, Lord Somertown, after looking
earnestly at his watch for some minutes, suddenly
started up—* It is time,’ said he, * to drop the mask
of dissimulation ; the drug I have administered must
have taken effect, and I should lose half my ven
geance if my victim remained in ignorance of the
hand that inflicted the blow.
“ Too certain in its effects, I already felt the all-
subduing influence of the drug creeping over my
frame ; and whilst horror and resentment struggled
at my breast, my unnerved limbs trembled beneath
my weight, and almost refused to sustain me, whilst
I listened to the sentence pronounced by my arch
“ ‘ Know,* said he, in a voice trembling with rage
and guilt, ‘know, unhappy wretch, that I am ac
quainted with your origin; yes, I am informed that
you are the offspring ofthat proudbeauty who scorn
ed my proffered lov.e, and of my detested rival, whose
insidious arts made her forget her duty, and render
ed her blind to the superior meiit that sued for her
affection. My father hated your parents, and I in
herit his hatred -with his title. Your mother eluded
my vengeance by death—your father also escaped
me; but their offspring is mine, and I shall have
glorious revenge. I see your senses are becoming
torpid through the influence of the drug you have
swallowed, I will therefore hasten to inform you that
you are doomed to live, but to exist in such a state
of wretchedness, that death would be a mercy. Re
member, your misery flows from me: Oh! forget
not that circumstance, or I have but half my ven-
feance. Your wife, too, my degenerate niece, who
as dared to unite her fate to that of the enemy of
her family, shall have an equal portion of suffering.
Let that reflection gall you, ana add to the anguish
of perpetual slavery. The manner of her punish
ment I will not tell you, for suspense and doubt ag-

gravate affliction of every kind. Know tin’s only, she
shall wed another i"
“ The drug had begun its operation indeed, and a
torper not to be resisted was creeping over my whole
frame ; yet when Lord Somertown pronounced the
last fatal words, ‘ she shall wed another,’ my expiring
senses were awakened, and the fury that transported
my soul inspired one last effort of strength. I flew,
and seized the collar of my insulting foe 1 but whilst
I held him struggling in my grasp, he contrived to
stamp with his foot, andseveral of nis creatures came
to his assistance. I was easily secured, for the short
lived energy had already subsided, and my stiffening
limbs and stupified senses overpowered me more than
the united strength of the bravoes. '
“From this moment I remembered nothing more,
until I found myself confined in a narrow inconve
nient recess, which appeared intended for abed; but
the cruel way in which my hands and feet were man
acled, prevented me from stretching myself upon it,
so as to obtain any rest. Impenetrable darkness en
veloped me; but the constant splashing of water
close to my head, couvinced me that I was upon the
“ I attempted to tear off the manacles that confined
me. The effort I made was attended by so much
noise, that it brought one of the ship's crew to my
little cabin.
“ ‘ You had better be quiet, my heartyexclaimed
he, * you will be worse off if you don’t mind what you
are about; and considering the crimes you have
been guilty of, it is no great matter.’
“ ‘ Crimes 1’ reiterated I, ‘ what crimes can pos
sibly be laid to my charge, who never injured any
one V
“ ‘ Gh, you have forgotit, have you V answered he.
‘Well, then, I’ll-rub up your memory a bit. Don’t
you remember when you attempted to kill your un
cle, Lord Somertown V

“ ‘ 1 attempted to bill Lord Somertown !’ inter
rupted I. * Heavens, what a falsehood! I never even
dreamt of such a thing.’
“ ‘Why, as for that, you know best,' replied the
tar: * but the short and the long of it is, your uncle
says you did so ; and out of compassion to you, and
to save the disgrace of having you hanged, be had
you conveyed on board our vessel, whilst you were
dead drunk. For when you found your wicked in
tention was frustrated, you took a' quantity of lau
danum, in hopes to escape your deserts; but it was
not enough to kill you : and as the affair was blowed
you must have been prosecuted if your good uncle
had not sent you beyond seas. We shall land you
as soon as we find a convenient place, for we don’t
want the company of murderers in the Blithe Betsy
I can assure you.’
“ As soon as my informer could be prevailed up
on to listen to me, I told my tale, and laid open to
the honest seaman a train of iniquity that shocked
his simple nature. He, who had been taught to hate
me as a murderer, now pitied me as an oppressed
victim ofthe blackest treachery.
“He determined upon my deliverance, and un
loosing the manacles that coafined me, he bade me
be of good cheer, for that he was certain his captain
would scorn to bethe implement of oppression in the
hands of a tyrant like Lord Somertown. He had
been prevailed upon to take charge of me for a large
reward, under the supposition that he was doing an
act of mercy to a culprit who merited death.
“As soon as my new friend, Jack Thomson, had
repeated my melancholy story to him, I was order
ed into his cabin, and received from Captain Arm
strong the credit my narrative deserved. From that
moment I was free, and treated with the same kind- ,
ness as his chief mate, who was also his nephew. The
generotis Armstrong was, however, bound to the
coast of Africa; and as I was eager beyond expres-

sion to return to England, that I might ascertain the
fate of her who was dearer to me than life, he kindly-
promised to put meonboardthe firstvessel we should
meet with, bound to my native shore. ‘ And when
you get there, my friend,’ said he, ‘keep close un
der hatches, until Roger Armstrong returns; then
nfever fear but we will work him pretty tightly.
Your testimony will argufy nothing without a wit-
- ness; you had better therefore be mum till you can
jaw him to some purpose.'
“Two days only had elapsed, after this promise,
before a vessel spoke to us, consigned to London.
The terms of my passage homeward were soon agreed
upon, and paid for by the generous Armstrong, who
also supplied me with a small sum for my present
emergency, and took leave of me with the kindness
of a brother, recommending the greatest caution in
concealing myself from Lord Somertown, whose de
termination to destroy me could not be doubted, and
who would now have double reason to wish my ex
“ When within a few leagues of our native land, we
were attacked and captured by a French vessel, of
such superior force as made all resistance on our
side vain.
“ My story, in this, presents but little variety. A
prisoner, unaided by money, undistinguished by ap
parent rank, I suffered the severest hardships ; nor
could 1 procure my exchange, although I wrote se
veral letters to my uncle, Mr. Hamilton, describing
my situation, and entreating his assistance. _ To,these
letters I received no answer, and four tedious years
rolled away in hopeless captivity. At length two of

my fellow-prisoners proposed to me to attempt an
escape. We did so and succeeded; and after en
countering perils that would have disheartened minds
less determined upon emancipation, we landed upon
a lonely part of the coast of Sussex.
“ The joy so naturally the consequence of such an
escape was considerably diminished in my breast, by
the dread that seized me, as I reflected upon the,
state in which I left my Emily, when, I was torn
from my native land by her barbarous uncle.
“My fellow-sufferers and I were relieved from the
{iressure of our hunger and nakedness, by a benevo-
ent gentleman, whose hospitable mansion received
us for one night. This amiable man dedicated the
chief of his fortune to the relief of his fellow-crea-
tures ; and always kept warm coarse clothing in his
house, to bestow upon the half-perished creatures
that were so often thrown upon his mercy by the
storm and tempest. Clad in a complete suit of this
comfortable apparel, and supplied with a small sum
for my present necessities, I took leave the next
morning of my benevolent host, and pursued my
journey towards the metropolis, so much disguised
in my appearance, that, had not hardship and long-
suffering already altered my countenance, it would
have been impossible for any one to recognise me.
“ When 1 arrived in London, I made several in r
quiries concerning Lord Somertown, but could learn
nothing more than that he was in good health ; for
little was known at those places where I could ven
ture to inquire, concerning the interior manage
ment of his family. I therefore hastened to reach
my native home, not doubting that I should find all
the relief I stood in need of as soon as I reached my
reputed father’s house. Alasl how miserably was X
disappointed when I arrived there, weary and almost
sinking with fatigue and sorrow, to find it shut up,
and to hear the heart-breaking intelligence from the
only domestic that inhabited the forlorn pile, that

grief for the loss of his only son had affect Mr. Ha
milton’s health and spirits so severely, that he had
quitted England, and was gone to reside abroad en
“ I commanded my emotions however, and inquir
ed whetherthis little mansion was still inhabited by
the same person that occupied it five years before":
the servant answered in the affirmative, and I bent
my footsteps hither. Without discovering myself I
inquired of my faithful servants if they knew what
was become of Mrs. Bolton: at first they hesitated,
but Franklyn happening to look earnestly in my
face, uttered a scream, and exclaimed, ‘ Good hea-
vensl can it indeed be my beloved master'?’ Dis
guise was now useless, and I acknowledged myself
to him, entreating him to be prudent, and not letmy
arrival be suspected.
“ I then found that Mrs. Bolton was the secret in
habitant of Pemberton Abbey* where she acted the
part of a mother to my beloved child. ‘ Oh show me
to her,’ said I, * she can tell me something of my
adored Emily, whose beauteous image I am dying
to embrace.’ ,
“‘Alas! alas!’ said the faithful Franklyn, ‘the
news Mrs. Bolton can tell you of Lady Emily will
not give you pleasure.—Would to God you were ne
ver to hear it’.’ ‘ What is there,’ exclaimed I, ‘ that
can surpass what my own terrified imagination now
suggests? To be brief, I was introduced through the
subterraneous passage into the Abbey, and left in
one of its desolate apartments, whilst JFranklyn went
to prepare Mrs. Bolton for my reception.
“The good woman came to me with streaming
eyes. As soon as she could speak, she exclaimed,
‘Oh! my friend I you have come too late to save your
Emily!’ ‘ She is dead then!’ said I. ‘ Oh no, she is
not dead; death would have been a mercy compared
to the anguish she has suffered.’ * Tell me, on tell
me the worst,’ said I; ‘ my min d is prepared for horror.’
167 n

‘“Your Emily is married then,’ answered she;
* or rather tied to a tyrant whose cruelty no sweet
ness can soften, no gentleness subdue.’
“ My agony was now without bounds, and for se
veral minutes I was in a paroxysm of rage and dis
traction. At first view of my unfortunate situation
1 was inclined to throw some blame on Emily.
“ * Blame not that faultless creature,’ replied Mrs.
Bolton, ‘for she is a martyr to the most exalted vir
tue ; and her undying tenderness for your memory,
could not be more strongly proved than by the ac
tion that made her the wife of Lord Ballafyn. She
had been imposed upon by an account of your death;
and when sunk in the affliction that belief entailed
upon her, the preservation of the dear pledge of your
love alone could rouse her to any regard for what
was passing in a world she no longer wished to re
main in, but for the sake of that sweet innocent:
what then must have been her agony when she was
informed by her cruel uncle^that he held her dar
ling in his power, and that a compliance with his
proposals, and implicit obedience to his commands,
could alone insure its safety ! The wretched mother
listened with horror to the dreadful alternative : but
maternal tenderness triumphed, and the lovely vic
tim was led to the altar in mute agony, to seal her
wretched doom, and complete the triumph of diabo
lical revenge.
“ ‘ Before the inauspicious nuptials, nowever, she
insisted upon the possession of her child, which was
accordingly delivered to her, and by her confided to
my care, with the most solemn injunction to conceal
it in some place of security from the knowledge of
Lord Somertown, whose vengeance she still dreaded
and on whose promises she could place no reliance.
My knowledge of the secret inlet to Pemberton Ab
bey made me choose that for my asylum, and Mr.
Hamilton’s consent being obtained, I retired hither,
unsuspected and unknown; nor has it ever, been

aupposedsince Mr. Hamilton’s absence, that anyone
inhabited that mansion, excepting the servant left to
take care of it, whose superstitious fear of the wing
I inhabit, which is reported to be haunted by a man
dressed in complete armour, effectually secures me
from any interruption from her.’
“ ‘ Where then is my Emily?’ cried I, in a tone
of agony. ‘ Oh tell me where she is, that I may fly
and snatch her from the tyranny she groans under. I
will assert my right to her, although legions of infer
nal beings guarded the access to her prison/
“‘Immediately after her nuptials,’ replied Mrs.
Bolton, ‘the angelic sufferer was dragged to Ireland
by the unfeeling man who had married her. There
she has been immured ever since in an old castle be
longing to her tyrant, without even the consolation
of a single friend’s conversation to relieve the tedium
of captivity; and during the space of three long
years, I have received but two letters from her. The
last contains only a few lines, and arrived a few days
ago; it came through the medium of Franklyn.
Mrs. Bolton took the letter from her pocket-book,
and I eagerly snatching it, read these words:—
“ My kind friend,
“ Accept the best thanks a broken heart
can afford for the care you take of my treasure. I
am obliged to withdraw it from you for reasons that
I dare not name. Fear not to trust it to the person
I shall send for it, who will tell you a secret known
only to us three, and thereby prove her identity.
“ E; H."
44 ‘ And is my precious child gone then V said I.
“ ‘ She is still with me,’ answered Mrs. Bolton,

1 and I am happy you came before her removal; it
will be a great satisfaction to me.’—So saying, the
worthy woman led me to the apartment that contained
my blooming treasure.
“ I will not dwell upon that scene. The emotions
excited by rapture, mingled with extreme anguish,
were too much for my agitated frame, and delirium
was the consequence. For several days, Mrs, Bolton
attended me, with scarcely a hope of my recovery ;
at length, however, my youth triumphed over disease,
and I was restored to health of body, but not to sani
ty of mind; and the wild project of visiting Ireland
to emancipate my injured Emily, became the fixed
determination of my soul.
** There was so much method in the madness that
affected me, that Mrs. Bolton was not aware of the
danger of my situation, and she suffered me to depart
on my wild Expedition without opposition. How I
found my way to Ballafyn Castle I cannot now tell ;
but certain it is I reached it.
“ The result of the attempt, however, was an in
crease of wretchedness. Lord Ballafyn had been ap
prised I believe of my existence, by some strange
chance ; and I was suspected, as soon as observed to
loiter near the castle. By a stratagem I was induced
to enter its walls, and by its base owner betrayed into
the hands of ruffians, who conveyed me on board a
ship that was lying at a neighbouring port, waiting
to receive recruits for the West India service. In this
receptacle of misery, I was stowed down in the hold
with a set of unfortunate beings, who had been in
veigled, or rather kidnapped, by the,wretches em
ployed to procure them for a service no man would
enter voluntarily.
“ In our way to the. island we were bound to, our
vessel touched at Jamaica, and there the yellow fever
breaking out amongst our ship’s crew, we were landed
for the recovery of our health. I entered the hospital

among the rest, and stretched upon my wretched
pallet, was expected hourly to expire.
“ An English gentleman of large fortune, who re
sided on the islands had long made it his custom, in
imitation of the benevolent Howard, to dedicate not
only his fortune, but his time, to the divine task of
mitigating the sufferings of his fellow creatures.
“ This philanthropist visited my forlorn pallet,
little imagining the reward prepared for his benevo
lence. Yes, my sweet girl; his angelic goodness was
rewarded, for in the person of the forsaken sufferer
he had visited from motives of pure humanity, he
found a long-lamented and still tenderly-beloved
“It was my worthy uncle, Mr. Hamilton, whose
frodlike charity led him to my succour, when the
amp of life was just expiring, and my sufferings and
my wrongs were justsinking into thevale of oblivion.
“ The tenderest care, the most unremitting solici
tude, soon conquered my bodily indisposition,; but,
alas ! the distemper of my mind lay deeper rooted,
and long did it baffle every effort made for my re
“ At length, when he had nearly relinquished all
hopes of my recovery, my reason was restored to me,
ana Ihad the inexpressible delight of once more em
bracing my truly paternal friend.
“ Heavens, what a scene followed! It is impossible
to paint the indignation felt by Mr. Hamilton whilst
he listened to the recital of my wrongs.
“ He made immediate preparations for returning to
England, determined to lose no time, and spare no
expense, in order to expose the villainy of so daring
an outrage upon the safety of civilized society. But,
alas! a premature death put an end to all these pro
“ A relapse into my former malady was the con
sequence of the grief I felt at my uncle’s death.
That kind friend had foreseen the probability of such

a misfortune, and provided accordingly for my safety
and the security of my fortune, in case of such an
event, by appointing two gentleman my trustees
whose integrity he could rely upon. They fulfilled
his expectation ; and by their humane attention I was
preserved, during three melancholy years, from the
miserable consequences of occasional insanity, and,
at length, restored to the full possession of my senses,
and all the enjoyment of iny fortune I could now
hope to experience.
“ My most earnest wish was now to return to Eng
land, for my lacerated heart panted to enquire after
my Emily and her offspring. Mr. Barlowe, one of
my trustees, opposed me, however, and entreated me
to wait until the inquiries he had set on foot, rela
tive to the object of my anxiety, should be replied
to. Alas! the result of those inquiries gave the
death-blow to my hopes. My Emily, I found, was
no more; her beatified spirit was nowbecome an in
mate of the heaven for which her sorrows had so per
fectly prepared her. And my lovely infant, Mrs.
Bolton wrote me word, had been conveyed to France,
by the lady to whom my Emily had confided her;
and that, notwithstanding all the inquiries she had
since made after the sweet innocent, she had never
been able to obtain the slightest information, al
though she had strictly followed the directions given
her by the lady who took her lovely charge from her,
who styled herself Lady Betty Molineux. ‘As no
reason was everassigned for taking the dear childfrom
my care,’ said Mrs. Bolton, in her letter, * I think the
action never could be the freewill of my sweet Emily.
I have looked at both her letters on the snbject of
the child’s removal, and compared them with others
in my possession, and every time I examine them I
feel more and more convinced they are forgeries.
“ ‘ From this belief I am inclined to fear the dear
child is fallen into the hands of the inexorable ene
my of her family. But you can travel, my good

friend; seek her, therefore, in France. You cannot
fail of knowing your child hy her likeness to her mo
“ I followed my friend’s advice; hut without suc
cess. I resided several years in France, travelling
from place to place, still cherishing the hopes of find
ing my darling, but still meeting disappointment
“ About a year ago I returned to Jamaica, on some
business ofimportance, and there met my kind friend
Mr. Barlowe.
“ In speaking to him, one day, on the subject next
my heart, he relate/1 to me a story of a friendless
girl, who had been placed, in a mysterious manner,
at the school where nis daughters had been educated;
and the description he gave of your person, age, and
the time of your being placed at school, correspond;-
ed so exactly with my own narrative, that I felt as
sured I had found the long-lost jewel.
“ I hastened to England, and found my hopes con
firmed by Mrs. Bolton, who related the circumstance
of her nocturnal visit to your chamber, soon after
you became the protege of your near relation, Lady
“ She had written to me on the subject during my
stay in France; by some chance, however, the letter
had never reached me. I had the mortification to
find that Lady Ellincourt and her son had left Eng
land ; and Mrs. Bolton at first imagined you had ac
companied them. This opinion proved erroneous,
for I soon afterwards found you in London.
“As soon as I had convinced myself that you were
indeed my daughter, I wrote to Lady,Ellincourt upon
the subject, and received the kindest answer possible.
Her ladyship entreated me, however, to keep the
matter secret until her return, and to act with cau
tion respecting Lord Somertown, who, though ad
vanced m age, has not grown in goodness. I have
followed her ladyship’s advice, without ever losing
6i£ht of my darling, whose footsteps have heen clos^-

ly watched by an anxious father ever since he was so
happy as to find her.
“ Lord Somertown does not suspect my existence;
for my face is so much altered it is impossible he
should recollect me, particularly as he supposes me
dead so many years ago: for the report of my having
died of the yellow fever had been carried to Lord
Ballafyn, by the captain to whose care he consigned
“ I had, one evening, the pleasure of terrifying
my cruel enemy, by'speaking, in my own voice, close
at his ear, some words that struck with deep remorse
his guilty soul, and made him shrink, appalled at the
dreadful warning: whilst terror palsied his tottering
frame, he fell on the ground, incapable of ascertain
ing from whence the voice came.
“ I had, therefore, plenty of time to escape : and
to this moment he supposes the words were uttered
by some supernatural being.
“When, therefore, I found my precious child un
der the protection of so near a connection of her bit
terest enemy, I determined to forbear making known
my claim until the return of Lord Ellincourt and
his amiable mother, should render my darling’s si
tuation secure, during the time necessary for the in
vestigation that is to restore her to her rights in so
ciety : that happy moment approaches, for Lady El-
lincourt is expected every day,”
“ I know it,’’ said Fanny, interrupting her father;
“ I have received a letter from her own dear hand,
announcing that blessed news.”
“Lord Ellincourt,” replied Mr. Hamilton, “has
married a daughter of Mr. Barlowe, my old friend
and trustee ; and in her person my sweet girl owns
another sincere friend.”
“I owe to Emily Barlowe’s kindness,’’ said Fan
ny, “all the happiness I now enjoy; for her bounty
saved me from the cruel fate Miss Bridewell had 4es«

tined me to. I should certainly have been sent to the
workhouse but for her kind interference.”
“My child has been a peculiar care of Providence,”
answered Mr. Hamilton, “through every eventful
period of her life; and to that divine and unerring
protection do I still commend her.
“ I must how re-conduct my Fanny to her cham
ber, for the night wears apace. I shall not see my
dear girl again until I come to claim her, for I am
going to set off for London by the dawn of day to
meet the Ellincourts on their arrival, and to arrange
matters for the important changes that must take
place. Mrs. Bolton will accompany me,” So saying,
Mr. Hamilton embraced his daughter, who then
clasped her arms round Mrs. Bolton’s neck, and sob
bed her adieu.
“ What shall I do,” said the sweet girl, “ with the
newly awakened feelings of my agitated heart? How
conceal them from the penetrating eyes of Colonel
Ross?” “You must keep in mind,” replied Mr.
Hamilton, “ that he is the brother of Lord Ballafyn,
and th e friend of the cruel persecutor of your sainted
mother, as well as your fond father’s bitterest ene
my.” '
Mr. Hamilton now led Fanny back by the same
way she had come, and having seen her safe through
the mysterious pannel, bid her a final adieu.
It was in vain that the agitated girl threw herself
upon her bed ; to sleep under the impressions that
now filled her mind was impossible; and morning sur
prised her before she had closed her eyes for a single
jnstant. She arose therefore from her pillow, and em
ployed the intermediate time between that and break
fast in removing, as much as possible, the traces of
fatigue and weeping from her countenance. She
succeeded better than she expected, and descended to
the breakfast parlour with tolerable composure. The
day passed without any material occurrence, and
Fannv retired at an early hour to her chamber, un-

der the plea of a bad head-ache, that she might re
novate her exhausted spirits by a good night’s rest.
•On the morning following, Lady Maria Ross was
surprised at Fanny’s not appearing at breakfast, “ I
cannot think what is become of Fanny,” said her la
dyship to the colonel, “she is never so late as this:,
do ring and desire the servant to inquire for her.”
When the servant appeared, “ Desire my woman to
inquire for Miss Fanny,” said LadyMana, “and tell
her that breakfast waits.” The servant presently re
turned ; “ Miss Fanny’s door is fastened,” said he,
“ and Mrs. Brown cannot make her hear.” Lady
Maria started up from the table, “ The dear girl is
ill,” exclaimed she, “and I am to blame for suffering
her to sleep in that desolate part of the house.” So
saying, Lady Maria made immediately to Fanny’s
apartments, followed by Col. Ross, and the servants*
Lady Maria called aloud, but without receiving
any answer. “ Let the door be immediately forced,”
exclaimed her ladyship ; “ some fatal accident has
befallen my beloved Fanny.” Col. Ross smiled :
“ She is gone to take a walk, I dare say,” said he
sarcastically: “such sentimental ladies love ram
bling of a morning.”
The proper implements being brought, the door
was broken open; but what was the consternation
of all present, when, upon entering the chamber,it
was found empty I and from the state of the bed it
was evident that Fanny had never been into it Se
veral things lay scattered about the apartment in con
fusion, and on the ground lay one of the bracelets
she had worn the preceding evening. Lady Maria
picked it up; the clasp was bent as if a heavy foot

had trodden upon it, and crushed it. “ The dear girl
has been forcibly dragged away,” said her terrified
friend, as she examined the bracelet. . “ Alas! my
dear Fanny, what may have been your sufferings
when you dropped this?”
“ What romance has your ladyship been reading
lately ?” said the colonel, affecting to laugh, though
it was evident he was much agitated. “ If the girl is
gone, depend upon it she went willingly. For hea
ven’s sake, who do you think would take the trou
ble of dragging her away against her will?”
On examining Fanny’s drawers, it appeared plain
that several articles of her apparel had been taken
out of them with apparent hurry, for those left with
in were rumpled and displaced. A small black trunk
too, that used to stand in the room, was missing ; and
from all these circumstances it was evident that Fanny
was gone, and had taken some clothes with her; and
by that it appeared that she was not unwilling to go, or
she would not have made provision for her flight.
But whither, or how she was gone, it was impossible
to conjecture, although every one’s mind suggested
something, eitherprobable or improbable,to account
for her strange disappearance. Amongst the ser
vants, it was confidently believed, that she had been
spirited away by some supernatural power; and a
thousand stories were reported of ghosts and goblins
that had formerly been said to haunt Pemberton
Abbey. Nor was the circumstance of Fanny’s terror,
on the night she was visited by Mrs. Bolton, forgotten
amongst the relation of wonders.
There appeared no probable, nor, indeed, possible
means of her having left the room, as both the doors
were fastened on the inside, unless, indeed, there
were some secret entrance to the chamber; an idea
which the lately-revived story of the nocturnal visit
Fanny had received, in the same apartment, when a
child, seemed certainly to warrant
The examination of the wainscot, however, by the

best carpenter they could procure, turned out just
the same as the former one had done, when resorted
to by Lady Ellincourt, to elucidate the mystery that
fit that time filled Pemberton Abbey with dismay.
The colonel, during the whole of the bustle, affect
ed the utmost unconcern. “The girl is so artful,”
6aid he, “that I am not surprised at any contrivance
of hers to throw an air of mystery over her departure.
She has run away with some of her gallants. That
adventurer, who calls himself Hamilton, has been
seen in the neighbourhood within these few days;
and you may depend upon it, she is gone with him,
for she was stark mad about him before we left Lon
“And will you not send to trace the fugitives?”
asked Lady Maria, “ or at least to ascertain whether
Fanny is, indeed, gone willingly ?”
“ Not I, indeed,” answered the colonel. “ Girls,
such as Fanny, are not so scarce, that men need risk
their lives to obtain them. She went willingly, or she
would not have gone at all, and therefore I deem her
not worth seeking after.”
Lady Maria was deeply hurt at her husband’s ap
parent apathy, and although she could not make him
do what he ought to have done, for the recovery of
her favourite friend, she secretly employed several
of the neighbouring farmers to make diligent search
for her beloved Fanny. These inquiries, though
made with the sincerest wish to succeed, were how
ever fruitless; not the smallest light could be thrown
upon the subject; and a whole week elapsed, without
Lady Maria being able to acquire the smallest atom
of intelligence. _
In the meantime, Col. Ross was making prepara
tions for his departure for Ireland; and although he
received a letter from Lord Ellincourt, announcing
his arrival in' London, and his intention of visiting
Pemberton Abbey, in the course of two days, the
colonel refused to stay to receive his lordship, bqt

Bet ofi on his journey the very day Lord Ellincourt
was expected, leaving an apology with Lady Maria
for his friend ; alleging, as a excuse, that he had re
ceived a very urgent letter from Lord Ballafyn, to
request his immediate presence in Ireland.
In a few hours after Col. Ross’s departure, Lord
Ellincourt arrived at Pemberton Abbey. Feeble,
indeed, would be any attempt of mine to describe the
rage and distraction that seized his lordship, when
he heard the fatal tale of Fanny’s disappearance.
Lady Maria was perfectly terrified at his violence.
As soon as he would permit her to speak, she
mentioned Col. Eoss’s supposition that Fanny had
been taken away by Mr. Hamilton. “It is false,”
exclaimed Lord Ellincourt, “ it is basely false, and
Boss knows it is so. I saw Mr. Hamilton yesterday,
in London, and I am the bearer of a letter from him
to his daughter ; for such is the unfortunate Fanny
to that amiable man.”
'“No, no,” continued his lordship, not heeding the
astonishment he saw pourtrayed upon Lady Maria’s
features; “no, no; if she be spirited away, it is by
the vile Somertown, or some of his miscreants. And
by Colonel Ross’s sang-froid in this dreadful affair,
I suspect he knows something of the plot; but, by
heavens, they shall soon know that they have roused
a lion, when they angered me. And I will make
them produce my Fanny, or by heavens I will shoot
every mother’s son of them. I will immediately re
turn to London, and set on foot a search which shall
find the lost jewel, if they have hid her at the anti
It was in vain that Lady Maria endeavoured to
persuade Lord Ellincourt to take any refreshment;
he would not hear of it. He just took a survey of
poor Fanny’s forsaken apartment, made a cursory
examination of the servants, and jumping into his
carriage, he returned full speed to London, leaving

poor Lady Maria overwhelmed with grief terror, and
It is now time to return to Fanny, whose disappear
ance from Pemberton Abbey must have excited the
reader’s curiosity, and perhaps some degree of sym
On the night this mysterious circumstance occur
red, it has already been said that Fanny had retired
early to her chamber. It was Fanny’s invariable
custom, on entering her apartment for the night, to
offer up her prayers and thanksgivings to her Ma
ker. Whilst employed in this sacred duty, she was
startled by the creaking of the mysterious panel,
and rising from her kneeling posture, was surprised
to see it partly open. Yet notwithstanding her sur
prise, she was not alarmed, as she concluded that her
father had forgotten something he wished to mention
to her, and had commissioned Mrs. Bolton to ac
quaint, her with it. She drew near the opening,
therefore, without apprehension, for she imagined
that Mrs. Bolton found some difficulty in removing
the barrier that opposed her entrance, and Fanny
Sut out her hand to assist her. What then was her
ismay, when she saw two horrid-looking men enter
at the aperture, and immediately felt herself seized
by them, and a handkerchief tied over her mouth,
to prevent her from giving utterance to her fears 1
“ Come, miss,” said one of the wretches, “ as you
are so fond of midnight vagaries, fegs ,'you shall have
enough of them. I suppose you thought yourself
mighty cunning, but you see there are some folks
as cunning as you.” Struggling, and almost dying
hi the rude grasp that held her, Fanny had still re-

solution enough to keep herself from fainting, and
by a strenuous effort succeeded at length in remov
ing the handkerchief from her mouth sufficiently to
ask what they intended to do with her. “ Oh, you
are only going a little journey with your old beau,”
replied one of the men, laughing. , “ Where’s the
trunk?” continued he, turning to his comrade; “did
not Mabel say she had packed it up ?” “ Yes, yes,”
replied the other ruffian, “ it stands in yonder corner:
if you will take the young gentlewoman down, I will
bring the trunk.”
Fanny, wholly overcome by terror, was carried
along the narrow passage, through which they had
passed the night before, into the house_ where she had
been acknowledged by her father, without making
an attempt to escape from her persecutors, or even
uttering a groan. When she arrived at the apartment
where she had listened to Mr. Hamilton’s interesting
narrative, she was met by an elderly woman, who re
primanded the men for the violence they seemed to
have used towards their charge.
The woman now removed the handkerchief, and
setting Fanny oh a chair, endeavoured to sooth her,
whilst the men returned to her forsaken apartment
to fetch the little trunk, which had been prepared by
the woman for her departure, and wfiich contained
a sufficient change of linen, &c., for the journey she
was about to take. These things had been taken
from Fanny’s drawers by the woman these men call
ed Mabel, and whom Fanny rightly supposed to be
the person Mr. Hamilton had said was formerly a
servant of his, and who had been placed there at the
commencement of his unfortunate marriage, in order
to facilitate the meetings between himself and the
ill-fated Emily.
Fanny vainly endeavoured to persuade the woman
to suffer her to escape. She was inexorable to all'
her entreaties. _ When the poor girl found her elo-
qucncc unavailing to prevail with her gaolar to re-

208 ?athebless panny : o &,
store ner to freedom, she then strove to penetrate the i
cause of her detention. “ For what reason,” said
the weeping girl, “ am I deprived of my liberty ?
Who is it that thus cruelly tears me from the asylum
that protected me ? Surely Mr. Hamilton cannot be
an impostor.”
“ V/hether he is or no, it is most likely you will
never see him again,” replied the woman j “ so don’t
let that trouble you. The person who removes you,
does it out of pure kindness, to save you from a worse
fate. You are going a little journey, and it will be
your own fault if you don’t make your fortune. But
here comes Robin and Franklyn, so hold your tongue,
or it will be worse for you.” The men now entered
the room, and one of them declared thatthe carriage
was come. Poor Fanny was obliged to submit to
have the bandage replaced over her mouth, and
being wrapt in a large cloak, she was conveyed to a
post-chaise that was in waiting at the door of the
house. More dead than alive, the poor victim was
lifted into it by the men ; but unable to keep her
seat, she dropped apparently senseless on the bottom
of the carriage. “ Come, Mabel,’* 'cried one of the
men, “ you had better get into the chaise, and sup
port the poor §irl in your arms ; she will die else be
fore she reaches the water, and then you know the
colonel will blow us to the old one.”
Although Fanny was incapable of speaking or
moving, she heard every word that was spoken ; and
when the colonel’s name struck her ear, her heart
died within her, for she did not doubt but that the
violence she was suffering originated in Lord Somer-
town’s malice ; and the recollection of the note she
had lost so unaccountably, and which she had forgot
ten to mention to Mr. Hamilton, made her imagine
that the secret of that gentleman’s existence was dis- ,
covered by bis inveterate foe.
The agonizing fear this idea created was too much

for poor Fanny to support, and dropping lier head
upon Mabel’s shoulder she fainted away.
The woman, whose heart was not quite obdurate,
although she had been seduced for the sake of a large
sum of money, which had been promised her, to lend
her aid to this cruel violence, felt herself seriously
alarmed, and called to the drivers of the carriage to
stop, that she might make some effort to revive her
unfortunate companion ; but no attention was paid
to her entreaties : and when she exalted her voice, in
order to make herself better heard, her husband, who
was on horseback, rode up to the carriage, and,
threatened her with his horsewhip, if she did not
hold her tongue.
By this time Fanny had revived, and finding by
Mabel’s lamentations, that she had awakened some
sympathy in her bosom, she began imploring her to
inform her whither her persecutors were conveying
“ Did not I hear something about accompanying
me to the water?” said the trembling girl. “ Surely
they are not going to send me out of England."
And as she spoke she thought upon Mr. Hamilton’s
narrative, where he described what he had suffered
on a similar occasion, when sent on board a vessel by
Lord Somertown.
“ Lord bless your poor heart,” replied Mabel, “you
must not frighten yourself so, that’s what you must
not, else I am certain you will not live to go any
where. And if so be you are to be taken over sea,
you my depend upon it great care will be takien of
you ; and you will be a great lady, and very happy,
or it must be your own fault: for the colonel said,
as how, that if a hair of your head was hurt, he would
be the death of the person that injured you. And
indeed,miss,/would not have had any thing to do
with the conspiration, if I had not knowed that you
was not to be hurted!”
“ And where am I going to then?” said Fanny. '
167 o

“Well, if you won’t tell what you know, miss,
will-just whisper what I suspect I fancy you be
going to Ireland.”
“ To Ireland I” ejaculated Fanny: “ What can
they be taking me to Ireland for?”
“ Oh dear, I am sure that is more than I can tell,’!
answered Mabel; “I wish they had let you stay
where you was. But they know their own business^
I suppose; though, I am sure, I be frightened out o>
my wits, between one thing and t’other.”
“Pray do ask your husband to let you go with me,”
said Fanny; “ I shall think myself safe if they do not
take you from me.”
“ Dear heart, miss, I dare not ask no such thing,”
answered the woman, “ for my husband is the most
snappishest man you ever seed m your life, and would
not mind, more than nothing at all, giving me a black
eye, or any other bruise, if I was to go about to cir
cumvent him.”
“;i must submit to my fate, then,” said Fanny,
sighing; “ for I am sure I would not be the occasion
of suffering to any one, if I could avoid it, for all the
Fanny now threw herself back in the carriage, and
sunk into a silent reverie. Fatigue, and excessive
weeping, soon converted that reverie into a slumber,
and she awoke not until the chaise stopped for refresh
ment and change of horses, at a lone house upon a
dreary common.
The two men who had torn her from her chamber
kept close watch by the carriage, whilst the horses
were changed.
One of them pulled a basket from the boot, and
took from it a bottle of wine, and a parcel of cake,
part of which he offered respectfully to Fanny. At
first she refused to touch it; but on Mabel’s declaring
that she would immediately quit her, unless she con
sented to take some refreshment, poor Fanny sub
mitted, and swallowed half a glass of wine, and ate a
email biscuit.

The little mendicant. 211
Poor Fanny’s dreary journey continued through the
whole of the ensuing day, only stopping for change
of horses, which were found at somelone place wait
ing for the approach of the chaise. ,
They continued travelling long after night had set
in : and the darkness prevented Fanny from distin
guishing the country she was passing through. At
length the carriage stopped, and the hollow-sounding
wind that then struck her ear, accompanied by the
loud dashing of water, convinced the unhappy sufferer
that she was near the sea.
A new agony of terror now pervaded her soul, and
when the man whom Mabel called Franklyn ap
proached the chaise, and opened the door of it, Fanny
screamed aloud, and clasping her arms round Ma
bel’s neck, implored her not to leave her.
The woman was terrified at Fanny’s violence,
and began weeping excessively, and promising that
she would not leave her.
“ Here’s a fine to do!” exclaimed the ruffian, tak
ing Fanny in his arms, and lifting her in spite of her
struggles, from the chaise. He was soon, however,
obliged to alter his behaviour; for the terror oc
casioned by his violence so completely overpowered
Fanny, that she sunk lifeless on the ground, and he
and every other person present believed that she had
indeed breathed her last.
“ Let us make haste and get her on board,” said
Franklyn, “ and then we can swear she died of sea
“ No, that you sha’nt," exclaimed Mabel; “ for I
vow I will betray you, if you do not directly get

some help for this poor dear lamb. I’ll tell the colo
nel it was your ill usage killed her.”
“ Don’t you know, Mrs. Chatterbox,” answered
her husband, “ that you may be silenced before you
expect it? so don’t let me have any of your threats.”
_But_ although he carried such an air of bravado
with his wife, he was dreadfully alarmed lest the poor
victim had sunk under her sufferings! and calling
the other men to assist him, they conveyed Fanny
into a little cottage belonging to the fisherman in-
whose skiff they were going to embark their hapless
Several hours elapsed before Fanny showed the
least symptom of recovery; at length, by the tender
assiduities of Mabel and the fisherman’s wife, she
slowly revived; and having been persuaded to swal
low a little wine and water, she was able to speak.
The first question she asked, was, whether Mabel
would stay with her. The woman assured her, with
tears, that she would, and entreated her to try to take
a little rest, pledging, at the same time, her word, in
the most solemn manner, that she would not quit her
bed-side whilst she slept.
Fatigue and excessive suffering, both of body and
mind, had entirely exhausted Fanny’s strength, and
she willingly yielded to the drowsiness that over
powered her, now she bad received such assurances
of se curity whilst she indu Iged it.
S’ne awoke not until the day was far spent, and
found Mabel seated on one side of her bed, and the
fisherman’s wife on the other, with the strongest anxi
ety painted on their countenances. At first her
ideas were too much confused to allow her to recol
lect where she.was ; but as they became more clear,
the dreadful truth flashed upon her mind, and she
burst into tears.
“ Don’t cry, there’s a dear good lady,” exclaimed
Mabel; “I have got leave from'my husband to cross
the water with you, and, I warrant me, nobody shall

hurt you whilst I be with you. Lauke a me, if 1
had knowed what a deal of unhappiness I should have
had on your account, I would no more have under
taken the business than I’d a fiyed, that's what I
would not; no, not for twice the money the colonel
has promised us.”
“ Oh! contrive some means for my escape,” ex
claimed Fanny, “and if gold is the object which has
induced your husband and you to betray me,' I will
promise you twice the sum he is to give you: and
fear not that I can pay you, for I am sure Lady El-
lincourt will not hesitate to ransom me, as soon as
she knows the service you have done me.”
“ Lauke, miss, you talk just as if I could do what
I likes. But howsomdever, if you will but go quietly
with the folks as be conveying you to Ireland, why
it shall go hard but I will send somebody after you
as shall get you back again in a crack. But if you
goes about to b e rumbustical, and the like of that,
why then my husband will kill me; and then you
know, I cannot tell your friends. And I defy Sa
tan himself to find you, unless I blab the secret: so
you see what you have to trust to.”
Fanny uttered a deep sigh as she listened to Ma
bel’s strange exhortation, for she felt too truly how
much her chance of escaping depended upon theex-
ertions of that woman, to dare to contradict a tittle
of what fehe advanced. She wondered much that
Mabel should speak so openly, before the fisher
man’s wife, of affairs that certainly endangered her
own safety, should they be made public; this sur
prise subsided, however, when she found soon after
wards, that the poor woman was quite deaf; a cir
cumstance that gave her real concern, as she had
hoped, from the humanity expressed in her coun
tenance, that she should have been able to interest
her in her behalfi
Poor Fanny was obliged, therefore, to be silent,
and commit herself to the care of that God, who was

alone able to deliver her. As soon as Eranklyn un
derstood that Fanny was awake, he insisted upon her
being put immediately on board the little vessel that
lay waiting for her in a creek near the fisherman’s
habitation. Resistance was in vain; Fanny there
fore submitted without making any, and was pre
sently conveyed into the miserable little cabin of the
fishing-smack. But here a fresh trial awaited her, .
and her fortitude had nearly forsaken her when she
found that, notwithstanding his promise to let Ma
bel cross the water with her, the barbarous Frank-
lyn insisted upon leaving his wife behind. Fanny’s
tears and entreaties availed her nothing; the vessel
was soon under weigh, and the hapless, girl launched
on the boundless ocean, accompanied only by the
most unprincipled of ruffians.
The wind being fair, in a few hours the shores of
Ireland presented themselves to their view. The
vessel ran into a narrow creek, under a chain of hills
that seemed the counterpart of the one they hadjust
left on the other side. Here they disembarked, and
Fanny was conveyed to a miserable mud cabin,
where she was obliged to wait whilst the owner of it,
at the request of Franklyn, went in search of a car,
to carry her to the place of her destination, which
she understood, from the conversation ofthosearound
her, was at the distance of three miles.
To those who have never seen the interior of a ca
bin in Ireland, it would be in vain to attempt to give
an idea of the scene that presented itself to Fanny,
on her entering that abode of poverty and wretched
ness. The men who were at once the persecutors of
■Fanny, and her guard, entered the cottage, bearing
a basket containing provisions. Some refreshment
was offered Fanny, but she refused it, and entreated
tbat what was intended for her use might be distri
buted amongst the poor objects around her. This
request was complied with, and Fanny felt her sor
rows fa*, a while suspended by the heartfelt satisfao-

fcion of beholding a group of starving children made
happy by her bounty. It is impossible to describe
the joy of the popr little^ creatures, at the partition
of the food, or to do justice to the surprise and de
light painted on their meagre countenances, whilst
partaking of such uncommon fare. The mother stood
by, contemplating her offspring with silent pleasure,
and when pressed to take a part of the dainties, she
declined the invitation.
“ Let the childer eat it all,” said she; ° it does me
more good to look at them, than to eat any myself.”
The return of the man with the car he had been
sent for, now obliged Fanny to quitthe wretched ho
vel. Whilst the men were busy placing her little
trunk upon the vehicle that awaited her, she found
an opportunity of slipping., a little piece of money
into the poor woman’s hand. Scarcely could the
wretched creature believe her senses, when she looked
upon the welcome gift; but no sooner was she con
vinced that she held the value of seven thirteens in
her hand, than dropping on her knees she called
down blessings on the donor’s head, with all the en
thusiastic gratitude which is characteristic of her
country. Fanny implored her to rise, for she felt
the danger of the men’s return; and, putting her
hand over her mouth, besought her to be silent.
“And so I will, my lady,” cried the poor woman,
“ because you desire it; but oh! it is fit you should
know that you have saved me and mine from starving
for now we can pay our cruel landlord, and then he
will not drive away our pig, before it is half big
enough, and so ruin us for ever. Oh! and it is
Dermot who is grateful: he will never forget your
goodness. And if it should ever fall out that he can
do you a service, he will ° o through fire and water tfe
do it. We are poor, my lady, but our hearts can feel
a kindness with the richest lord in Christendom. “'I
am no lady,” cried Fanny, “ but an unhappy girl,
even more destitute than you are.” .

“Then you shall not rob yourself to help us,” re
plied the woman, attempting to return the seven
shilling piece. “ You mistake me,” said Fanny; “ I
do not want money, it is friends I stand in need of;
so keep it, good woman, and let me have your pray
ers.” “ Yes, and you will have them, my sweetjew-
el,” replied the woman ; “ and if it is friends you
want, it is Dermot that will be one to you; for he
will watch you by night and by day.” Just at this
moment Franklyn entered to say the car was ready,
and Fanny made a sign to her new friend to be si
lent. The men walked on each side of the vehicle ;
and Dermot, her promised friend, was the driver of
the sorry horse that drew her along. Fanny could
scarcely refrain from a smile, when she contemplated
the ragged figure of the protector so boastingly pro
mised her by his grateful wife. The day was closing
in when Fanny left the cabin, and the shades of even
ing enveloped the landscape as she approached the
end of her journey.
Yet still the lofty battlements of a large castle, that
rose on an eminence before her, could not be hidden
by the dusky veil. Fanny shuddered as she gazed
upon the immense prison, for such she fearedit would
prove to her; and once or twice a thought of her un
fortunate mother crossed her imagination, and she
could not help fancying that this might have been
the scene of her sufferings.
The gate of the castle was opened, on Franklyn’s
knocking, by an old man who seemed to have ex
pected the arrival of Fanny and her escort, for he
immediately led the way to an inner range of build
ings, where an elderly woman of no very preposses
sing appearance came out to meet them. She wel
comed Fanny to Ballafyn Castle, and confirmed the
suspicions which had before arisen in her mind.
Scarcely now could her trembling legs support her
exhausted frame; and she was obliged to lean upon
the woman’s arm, a* she walked through the lonq

passage that led to the apartment that was prepared
for her. When she entered the room, she sunk upon
the first chair she came to, without even casting a sin
gle ' ‘ :e that surrounded her.
“ ” said the woman in a
shai x ^ , „ re tired, and had rather
go to bed than sit up to supper. I can assure you
there is a very nice one got for you. My lord gave
orders that you should have the best of every thing.”
“ I would, indeed, wish to retire to bed,” answered
Fanny; “ the fatigue I have suifered has quite over
come me.”
“ Well, miss, I will order Rose to warm your bed
directly, and return to show you the way to it.”
The woman left the room and Fanny had leisure to
observe the room she was in, which appeared to be one
of the best in the castle, for it was furnished in a style
of grandeur that, accustomed as Fanny was to the
mansions of the great, struck her with surprise. But,
alas 1 thesevery walls had once contained her mother,
and, perhaps, could they speak, might have told a tale
of murder. The woman had said, “ My lord has or
dered that you shall have' every thing of the best.”
Di^ she then mean Lord Ballafyn ? Surely not; for
how cowld he be interested about a person he had
never see* St No, no, the infernal agent in this dark
business could be no other than Col. Ross: and her
60ul shuddered as she thought upon the motive that
had induced him to take such a step as that of im
muring her in a prison, from which it appeared, to
her finite idea, impossible to escape.
While she was engaged in this unpleasant reverie,
the woman returned, and told her the bed was ready.
Fanny arose immediately, and followed her guide
into a large hall, in which was the great staircase.
They ascended its marble steps, and entered a Jong
gallery with doors on each side; one of them was
partly open, and the light within showed that it was
'prepared for a guest. Fanny’s euide stopped at tins

door, and told her that was her apartment. On en
tering the room, Fanny found it was an elegant bed
room with every requisite for her accommodation.
A young woman, of a pleasing open countenance, was
warming the bed; and Fanny observed that she seem
ed to look at her with peculiar complacency as she
dropped her courtesy, an'd bid her welcome at her
entrance. Here Fanny found also the trunk, the key
of which was given her by the old woman, who said
at the same time, “ I hope you will find every thing
you want, miss, in this room; but if you should not,
you have nothing to do but to ring, and either Rose
or I will immediately wait upon you.”
Fanny thanked her; but said she was in want of-
nothing, “ excepting, indeed,” added she with a sigh,
“ that I want my liberty .”
“ Oh, as to that,” answered the old woman, “ I war
rant me, you will have liberty enough when my lord
comes, for he is very good to pretty young girls; and
if he had not liked you, he would not have given such
orders about you, nor been at ai! this expence and
trouble to get you here.”
“Pray,” asked, Fanny, “who is your lord? if I
may take the liberty to inquire.”
“ Lord Ballafyn is my lord,” answered the old
woman,“and as noble a gentleman as any in the
north of Ireland ; but I dare 'say you know that as
well as I do.”
“ I never saw Lord Ballafyn in my life,” answered
Fanny, “ and therefore cannot imagine why he should
take such trouble about me.”
“Oh who knows?” answered the beldame,“per
haps he is going to make a lady of you. There is
such a likeness between you and my late lady, that
you might pass for her, only you are rather too
“ How long has your lady been dead ?” asked
“ Above fifteen years,” answered the old women.

•‘But come, this is only keeping you out of your
bed, when you must want to De m it by your pale
“ Oh no, I do not want to goto bed,” said Fanny,
“ for I am sure in this strange place it will be im
possible for me to sleep. Is there any body that
sleeps near me ?”
“ If you should want any thing, miss,” said Ros9,
good naturedly, “you need only tap against the wall;
there is a door opens into this room out of the one
where I sleep.”
1 Fanny’s mind was a little calmed by this intelli
gence, and she wished the two women good night,
and as soon as they were gone she threw herself up
on her knees, and imploring ^ the Divine Protection,
.succeeded so far in subduing her terrors, that she
arose from her kneeling posture and began to pre
pare for bed. The fatigue she had suffered of late,
joined to her anxiety of mind, had entirely exhausted
her strength, and miserable as she felt herself, her
grief yielded to the weariness that came over her,
and she dropped asleep in a few minutes after she
was in bed, nor once awoke until the broad beams of
morning had illuminated her chamber.
W hen Lord Ellincourt returned to London, his first
care was to find Mr. Hamilton, and apprise him of
Fanny’s disappearance. It is impossible to describe
the consternation this information excited in the
breast of that afflicted father. “ Depend upon it the
detestable Lord Somertown,” saidhe, “ is at the bot
tom of this infernal plot. I heard him once threaten
the sweet creature, when he was unconscious that he
was speaking aloud. The provocation that induced

this brutality was some attention shown to Fanny
by his nephew the Duke of Albemarle; his lordship
seemed to think he degraded himself by his par
tiality for the lovely girl, little imagining that she
was the lawful heiress to the honours ; and estates
which constituted the supposed superiority. I re
primanded Lord Somertown in a voice that made
him tremble, for he thought it came from the grave,
and the conscience-stricken wretch fell down in a
“ What a pity his conscience did not choke him!”
said Lord Ellincourt. “ But good heavens I then
what shall we do to find the dear girl ? It matters lit
tle who is the instigator of this violence, unless we
can trace the instruments employed to execute it. I
have strong suspicions that Ross is concerned in it,
or at least bribed to pass it over without investiga*
tion. It is very odd he should set oiF for Ireland
when he knew I was expected, and that before any
decisive step had been taken to trace the lovely girl.
By heavens, if I could ascertain that it is so, I would
follow the villain to Ireland, and shoot hini'as I would
a crow.”
“We had better take every possible precaution
here,” said Mr. Hamilton, “before we talk of going
to Ireland .”
“ I will go,to Bow Street,” said Lord Ellincourt,
“ and set all the theief-hunting hounds in full cry,
after the culprits who have,stolen my Fanny. 11
they are above ground we will find them. I will ad
vertise her in all the papers; you know I told you I
found the sweet girl through an advertisement at
first, so perhaps we may be as lucky now.”
“ I have been thinking,” said Mr. Hamilton, in
terrupting Lord Ellincourt, “ that if I were to at
tempt to obtain an interview with Lord Somertown,
and suddenly discover myself, and demand my
daughter, the terrors of his conscience might lead

him to betray something of the plot, if he is indeed
concerned in it.”
“ A very good scheme,” said Lord Ellincourt j
u and I will accompany you, as soon as I have been
to Bow Street, for I should like to shoot him too,
just by way of bringing my hand in, before I at
tempt-winging Ross: for I think it will turn out he
is entitled to a share.”.
“As yet my poor mother knows nothing of this ca
lamity and Emily too. There will be fine weeping
and wailing when the sad tale is told.”
Mr. Hamilton accompanied Lord Ellincourt to
Bow Street, where proper information was lodged,
and a description of Fanny’s person given. The
large reward offered, by both Mr. Hamilton and
Lord Ellincourt, insured the attention and exertions
of the men employed in the search ; and.they did not
hesitate in promising a speedy eclaircissement of the
Lord Ellincourt now reluctantly returned towards
home, in order to inform his mother and wife of the
disaster that distressed him, and to prepare advertise
ments for the papers of the ensuing day. Mr. Ha
milton, at his particular rjequest, accompanied him ;
for he had already been introduced to both the La
dies Ellincourt,; and received as the father of the
amiable girl that had been so long dear to them.
The dowage? Lady Ellincourt, who loved the un
fortunate Fanny for her own sake, before she knew
who she was, now held her doubly dear, as the sole
surviving offspring of her lamented brother. What
then were her agonized feelings, when the melancholy
late of that beloved brother was so forcibly recalled
to her memory by the mysterious disappearance of
his hapless grandchild.
“ It is my fault,” said she, weeping; “ I ought not
to have parted with the lovely girl. Alas I into what
hands have I confided her 1 Oh! my brother, how
would your injured shade reproach your careless sis-

. ter, could you be conscious that to her imprudence
is owing this insupportable calamity, the extinction
, of thy last surviving heir 1”
Lord Ellincourt used every argument his imagi
nation could suggest to calm his mother’s sorrow ;
hut finding her inconsolable, he gave up the hopeless
“ Do let us go directly to Lord Somertown’s,” said
his lordship to Mr. Hamilton ; “ I want to be doing
something, just to keep me from hanging myself. I
knew I should be ten times worse when I had the
women's grief added to my own.”
Mr. Hamilton readily consented to the proposal;
and they immediately proceeded to Hanover-square.
On ascending the steps of his lordship’s house, they
found the knocker muffled; and the servant inform
ed them that Lord Somertown was extremely ill, and
not expected to live.
“Wnatishis complaint?” said Lord Ellincourt.
“ A violent fever and delirium," answered the ser
“ Is the Duke of Albemarle here?” said Mr. Ha
“No, sir,” replied the man; “we don’t know where
to send to the duke, and that distresses us very much.
I believe it was a letter from his grace that first made
my lord ill; for he was in such a fury after he had
read it, that he stamped about the room like a mad
man, and he was seized just afterwards with the le
ver that has held him ever since. His lordship burnt
the duke’s letter in his passion, or else his man could
have found out by that where to direct to his
“How long has his lordship been ill ?” asked Lord
“Only since the day before yesterday, sir; and he
has raved incessantly ever since,” said the man. “ He
talks of the duke, and says he is married to an im
postor ; and then he wants to got out of bed to go in

pursuit of his nephew, crying out that he will be
ruined, for that he is gone to Ireland after a nameless
Mr. Hamilton and Lord Ellinoourt looked at one
' “ Could I speak a few words to Lord Somertown’a
confidential servant i” said the former. “ I have
something of great importance to communicate to
his lordship ; and perhaps it would be prudent to in
form his lordship’s valet of it.”
The porter immediately sent to desire Lord So-
mertown’s gentleman to come down stairs; and Mr.
Hamilton and Lord Ellincourt were shown into the
Whilst they were.waiting there, an elderly man,
between fifty and sixty years of age, with a fat red
face, and little, sharp-looking eyes, came into the
room: his person was short and thickset; and he
wore a flaxen wig curled tight to his head, his clothes
were plain, but of the best quality, and his manner
ignorantly consequential.
' “ Servant, gentlemen, your servant,” bowing to
each as he entered: “hope no offence;” and then,
with a significant nod, he seated himself. “ Nice
easy chair this,” continued he. “ Stuffed with eider
down I fancy. Wonder whether the old lord ever
found himself easy when he sat in it. Fancy not
much of that. A rum old chap, I believe; but sup
pose you know that as well as me.”
“We are not acquainted with Lord Somertown,’*
answ ered Mr. Hamilton.
“ So much the better: no loss, can assure you.
They say he is ill: fancy I gave a doser myself last
' time I saw him. Could not swallow what was said;
and yet would not part with his mopasses to make a
body hold their tongue. Now you know, gentlemen,
a man ought to be paid for holding his tongue. You
take me, don’t you ?”
“ Not quite clearly ,” answered Mr. Hamilton,

224 Fatherless fanny: oa,
who now hoped to draw something from the talkative
“ Well then I’ll explain it. Now you must know,
fentlemen, that I have got a secret that concerns
<ord Somertown, and I have kept it a great many
years; because why? I could not tell it; for he sent
me to India, to have me outofthe way. "Well, what’s
the upshot? "Why I was lucky ; scraped a little mat
ter together; made the most of it; and at last made
up my mind to set off for England. Well, coming
home our ship was taken, and I lost the sight of
things. Well, what’s the upshot ? Why, when Igets
home, which I did, by being retaken by an English
privateer; the first thing I did .was to inquire for
Lord Somertown; for thinks I, ’tis fit he should pay
my loss. Well, when I tfent to ^explain matters
in the civillest manner possible, why he falls into
a great passion, and called me a scoundrel. * Well
then,’ says I, ‘ my lord,’ says I,'* your secret shall be
known, and more than you thinks I know; and it
shall go into the newspapers, and into the Parliament
House, and into—’ ” Just at this moment Lord So-
mertown’s valet came in.
lie bowed respectfully to Lord Ellincourt and
Mr. Hamilton, and begged to know their commands.
Before they could answer, however, the flaxen-
wigged gentleman stepped between them, and said,
in a tone of importance.
“ Has my lord sent me any message ? Does he
come to terms 1 Will he down with the mopasses ?”
“ I have already told you, Mr. Fortesque, that my
lord is too ill to be spoken to,” said the servant. “ I
beg you will wait a little longer for an answer.”
“No, shan’t wait another day. Have great reason
to think the right heir’s alive; if so, will be sure to
find him. Warrant he will be glad enough to pay
“ Pray, Mr. Fortesque, do not talk so strangely,”
interrupted the servant. “ What must these gentle-

men think? If my lord was well, you would not dare
to do it!”
“ What!” said the stranger, “ would he put me in
a bag , and send me on board a ship, eh ? I£now his
tricks pretty well; all over now.”
“ I wish you would let these gentlemen speak, Mr.
Fortesque,” said the valet: “it is really a great
shame you should affront them so.”
“ Ask pardon ; hope no offence: pray speak gen
tlemen ; perhaps you have got a secret to tell.”
“ No,” replied Mr. Hamilton, “ we have no secret
to tell; we want to find out one; and we will give
a handsome reward to whoever can give us the least
information upon the subject. I have lost a daugh
ter, and I have reason to suspect she is secreted
by Lord Somertown; the truth must soon come
out, and then woe unto the delinquent. In the mean
time, however, I offer pardon and a reward to any
of the accomplices in this dark plot, that will disco
ver it to me, so that I may recover my lost child.
Five hundred pounds shall be given to whoever will
discover where she is.”
“ Five hundred pounds!” repeated the talkative
Mr. Fortescue; “ why five hundred pounds is very
well for telling a secret. So, sir, if you please to give
me your direction, will try what I can do for ye.”
Mr. Hamilton put a card into his hand., The mo
ment he glanced his eyes over it, “ What, Hamilton,
of Pemberton Abbey ?” exclaimed he.
“ The same," answered Mr. Hamilton.
“ Well then, will call on you in an hour, and tell
you something make your hair stand on end.”
“ What, about my daughter?” said Mr. H.
“ No, no: about somebody nearer akin to you.”.
“Who can that be?”
“ Why yourself, to be sure,” replied the oddity,
laughing at what he thought his own wit.
Lord Somertown’s valet appeared much agitated
and distressed during the whole of this scene j but ha
167 *.

persisted in saying that he knew nothingof the young
lady,; and adding, that he believed his attendance
would be wanted with his lord.
The gentlemen were obliged to go without obtain-,
ing any satisfaction.
_■ The loquacious Mr. Fortescue retired at the same
time. As he turned from the door, lie nodded his
head, and said with a grin, “ Be with you atthe time;
bring some intelligence of young Miss by then per
Before the gentlemen returned home, they called
at the Duke of Albemarle’s, and learnt, with con
cern, that his grace, was out of town, and not expect
ed to rpturn for some time, as his servant, who had
been left in London, had orders to follow him to Ire
land, whither his grace was unexpectedly gone.
“To what part of Ireland is the duke gone?” asked
Lord Ellincourt.
“ We are not certain, sir,” answered the servant:
“ his valet is to meet his grace in Dublin. His grace
did not think of going to Ireland, when he left Lon
don for Pemberton Abbey.”
“ For Pemberton Abbey!” exclaimed Lord El
lincourt “ When did his grace visit that place ?”
“ It is nearly a week ago, sir,” replied the man,
“ at least as near as I can recollect But his grace
did not stop there at all; for on the road he met with
some intelligence that obliged him to go to Ireland;
and then the duke wrote home for his valet to go to
Dublin, and take the things the duke wanted with
him ; and his grace said he should meet him thero
The gentlemen thanked the servant for his intelli-

gence, and departed towards Mr. Hamilton’s house,
that they might be in time for the loquacious visitor
they expected.
“ This is a dark business,” observed Mr. Hamilton
as they walked along. “ I do not believe that Lord
Somertown does not know where the duke is gone.
What appears the strangest to me, is, that it should
be ownedtha.t his grace set out for Pemberton Abbey,
since his attachment to Fanny is so well known, that
it would be supposed by every body, that his visit
could be intended for her alone.”
“ I dare say he is the very man who has run away
with poor Fanny,”, said Lord Ellincourt but J
will soon know the truth: for by heavens I will set
off for Ireland directly.”
“ But will it be prudent,” said Mr. Hamilton, “ to
set off for Ireland, without knowing to what part of
it you must direct your footsteps ?” ,
“ Oh, I shall gain some intelligence on the road,”
answered his lordship : “ for I mean to go down to
Pemberton Abbey again, and endeavour to trace the
fugitives from thence. Ross is gone to Ireland too ;
and I still think he is in the secret. Lord Ballafyn’s
castle is in the north of Ireland, you know; I shall
therefore cross from Port-Patrick, and make imme
diately for Ballafyn' Castle, .and make that rascal
Hossgive me an account of the sweet girl I entrusted
to his care 1 and, if it is not a satisfactory one, I will
shoot the scoundrel.”
“ Let me accompany your lordship,” said Mr.
Hamilton. “Who can be so proper to go in search
of the dear creature as her father ? Besides, I know
the danger of going alone to Ballafyn Castle too well,
to let you risk it.”
“ Oh, never fear me," answered Lord Ellincourt 5
“ I will take servants enough with me, to defend me
Against an ambush.”
By this time the gentlemen had arrived at Mr.

Hamilton's. They had not been long there before
Mr. Fortesque was announced.
“ Now, sir,” said he, “ I must ask one question
before I say any thing more. Are you old Mr. Ha
milton’s son, of Pemberton Abbey?”
“ I am not, sir,” answered Mr. Hamilton, empha
tically ; “ but I am his heir.”
“ Thought as much as soon as I glimpsed you ;—
same turn of face little older to be sure. But
what’s the upshot? If people live long, must grow
old—a little older myself.”
“ Well, again,” interrupted Mr. Hamilton, “whi
ther does this tend, sir?”
“ Well, then, I have got documents in my posses
sion, that will prove your right to the Albemarle title
and estate ; and if you are willing to come down with
the mopasses, we’ll set the lawyers to work directly,
and make old Somertown hang himself. But there
must be some mopasses, you understand me. Can’t
tell a secret without mopasses ”,
“How came you by these documents, sir ?” asked
Mr. Hamilton. “ Very honestly, I can assure you ;
come to me like a legacy. My father was clerk of
the parish where your father and mother were mar
ried ; and to please the late Lord Somertown, and
for a few mopasses, (winking) he tore the leaf out of
the register, and got out of the way when the marriage
was tried to be proved. A very keen old man, lived
to be ninety-five—dietf only a few weeks ago—sent
for me into Scotland, as soon as he heard L had re
turned to England—said he >had got something to
leave me. So off I set,—thought there were some
mopasses ,—very few of them,—though for this, Lord
Somertown had behaved shabby to him, and neglect
ed to pay him his annuity, when he thought there
was no danger of a claim to the estate.”
“Well, father was resolved to be upside with him;
so sent for me. ‘ Tom,’ says he, (he giving me a
tin box) ' there’s soniething to make your fortune

In that box.’ And then he told me that it contained
the register he had torn out of the book.
•• ‘Lord Somertown sent to me a few days ago,’
said he, ‘ to smooth me up a bit, and bid me keep
close; for he heard that the man who could claim
the estate, and was supposed dead, was alive; and
therefore it was necessary to caution me not to an
swer any questions, if I should be found. I pro
mised I would not. But I have not forgot his ill-
treatment of me, when he thought I was not wanted; '
and so, Tom, I was glad to find you was comeback,
for now you can sell the secret well to one side or
t’other. The leaf of the book will be known to be
the real one, when it comes to be compared with those
that follow it; for the hand-writing and the dates
will agree. And to make it firmer, I will make affi
davit to the hand-writing being that of the vicar of
the parish, at the time the marriage was solem
nized.” •
“ And so he did before a magistrate, and I have got
it snug; and you shall have it for a few mopasses."
“ If I should be so happy as to find my daughter
again,” said Mr. Hamilton, “ I might be tempted to
assertmy right to that estate: but honours and riches
are mere drugs to the unhappy. Besides, whilst
my own marriage cannotbe proved with Lady Emily,
my child cannot inherit: and Lord Somertown has
taken care to prevent tnat, by sending the only sur
viving witness out of England.” “ Know it very
well,—nobody better. I am the man. Sentmeto
India,—gave me a good birth,—plenty of mopasses,
—kept me there these eighteen years,—placed me
where I could not get off. The only one in the se
cret died at last, and then off came I; but lost my
mopasses coming home. Well what’s the upshot?
why went to Lord Somertown for more. Flew in a
great passion,—called me a scoundreltold him he
had better be quiet. So he ordered the servants to
kick me out; bijt they knew^ better. He did not

know I was son to the man he was^ keeping in Scot
land, because he never heard my right name: but I
wrote it in the book at church.”
“I remember,” said Mr. Hamilton, “that the
witness to my marriage, who was one of the garden
ers at my reputed father’s, and who acted as parish
clerk, was named Thomas Halford, and I have
sought him without ever being able to trace him.”
“Yes that’s my name,” answered the man, “ that’s
my name: but I was always called Fortescue to Lord
Somertown, because I did not want him to know I
was the son of the man his father had pensioned.
Well, what do you think of me now ?” ,
“ Why I think,” answered Mr. Hamilton, “that
you have acted a rogue’s part, in becoming the tool
of such a villain as Lord Somertown ; and that whilst
I pay you to do me the tardy justice you offer, 1
shall despise you for your baseness. Yet should my
daughter be restored to me, I will accept your offer,
and pay you your demand.”
“ Never fear about your daughter,” answered Mr.
Fortescue, “ she is run off with the Duke of Albe
marle. Heard it myself; heard old Somertown curs
ing and swearing about it. The duke sent him a let
ter, and I' was in the next room waiting to speak to
him; so put my ear to the door, when the old man
began to sputter, and heard him say his hopes were
for ever blasted, and that his nephew would marry
that beggar; that girl, who was born to be his tor
ment. And now, too, he had found out she was the
offspring of the detested Hamilton. So you see I’m
the man for discoveries.”
“ I think so,” said Mr. Hamilton : “and now, in
deed, your discovery is worth something. iLllin-
court, let us not lose a moment: I will ring and or
der horses.”
“ So do,” replied his lordship, “ but remember I
have a wife and mother to take care of; so I will re
turn home, and you can call for me.”

“ So I will,” said Mr. Hamilton, “ and within an
hour too.”
Lord Ellincourt now departed, and Mr. Hamilton
ordered his servant to get post-horses immediately.
Then turning, to Mr. Fortescue, “ If you will leave
your address with me, sir,’’ said he, “ I will write to
you as soon as I return, and inform you of my de
termination.,. In the meantime, I hope you don’t in■
rend to tamper with Lord Somertown ?”
"No, no,” answered the old man, “know better
how to make bargains understand trap : —but shall
jook about me, and try to pick up what news I can.”
1 en taking a card from his pocket, he gave it to
Mr. Hamilton and departed.
Wb must now return to poor Fanny, whom we left
at jBallafyn Castle, just awaking to the renewal of all
her. terrors.
Rose, the young, girl who had warmed Fanny’s
bed on the preceding night, came into the room the
next morning, theinstant sheheardhermoving about,
and asked if she wanted any thing. Fanny thanked
her, but replied in the negative.
“I hope,ma’am,” said the girl, courtesying, “that
you will let me stay, and help to dress you; for I am
afraid you i'eel very lonely in this strange place.”
“Indeed I do,” said Fanny, bursting into tears;
“but I fear my sorrow is hopeless-”
“ Oh no, miss, you need not be uneasy, for my lord
wil} be down,to-night, or to-morrow, and then I am
cure he will do every thing to make you comfortable.”
“Why should you imagine so?” said Fanny.
“ Lord Ballafyn does not know me.’’

“ Indeed, miss, I have heard,” said the.girl, “ that
my lord is going to marry you.”
“ It must be a mistake,” said Fanny, “ altogether ;
for I assure you I never saw Lord Ballafyn.”
“ Well, miss, to be sure, you must know best; but
that’s what is said.” She then asked Fanny whether
she would choose to breakfast below, or in her own
apartment. '
“ Here, if you please,” said Fanny; “ for my spi
rits are too weak to'bear the thoughts of moving from
this spot.”
As soon as Fanny was dressed, Rose .'eft her to
fetch the breakfast; and when she was gone, Fanny
had leisure to examine her apartment. It was a spa
cious room, and on each side were two modern sash
windows that looked into a beautiful park, where
great quantities of deer were seen grazing. At the
other end of the apartment was a large closet, which
was formed in one of the turrets of the castle, and
still retained its antique form. A long narrow win
dow, in the shape of a loop-hole with a casement of
glass, gave light to the apartment; and from it Fan
ny discovered the top of a lower tower, that appear
ed almost within reacn of the window. Her eye mea
sured the distance with anxiety, whilst a thought of
escape vaguely crossed her imagination ; yet, sup
posing she were able to elude the vigilance of her
guards, and quit the castle, whither could she turn
her fugitive steps? or from whom hope to receive
that protection she stood so much in need of?
‘When breakfast was over, Fanny said she would
take a walk in the park into which her windows look
ed; but Rose told her, with a respectful courtesy,
that she had received orders from the old woman,
who was her aunt, not to lose sight of her; and there
fore, if she chose a walk, she must suffer her to ac
company her.
“1 am a.prisoner then!” said Fanny, tears starting
into her eyes.

“No, miss, not a prisoner ,” said Rose; “ only my
i lord has given such a strict charge about taking care
of you, that my aunt is afraid of letting you wander
about alone for fear you should lose yourself.”
“Your aunt is very considerate,” said Fanny,
“but the restraint is of no consequence to me, for I
have no means of escaping, were I at liberty to wan
der wherever I pleased. I will, therefore, take the
walk in your company, or remain withiii doors, which
you like best.”
“ Dear heart, miss,” said Rose, “ you are very con
descending and good; but I am sure my aunt would
not wish you to be deprived of a walk, and so I will
go and mention your wishes to her.”—And away she
ran, and presently returned with her bonnet on, and
her aunt’s respects, and begged miss would walk
where she liked, provided Rose accompanied her.
They now strolled into the park, and Fanny had
a full view of the immense edifice, called Ballafyn
Castle. There was something grand and striking in
its appearance, at least where it had not been mo
dernized; but wherever such windows had been in
troduced, although they gave cheerfulness to the
apartments, they destroyed the solemn grandeur of
antiquity, and spoiled the effect upon the imagina
“ This seems to be a very old place,” said Fanny,
addressing Rose: “ do you know how long it has
been built?”
“ Oh lauk, no, miss; but I dare say these many
hundred years. I wonder my lord don’t pull it down
and build a pretty new fashioned house in the place
of it; for this is good for nothing, but to harbour a
pack of ghosts, and the like of that.”
“ Of ghosts 1” interrupted Fanny : “ do they say
that ghosts haunt the castle ?”
“ Oh yes, miss,” answered Rose, “ that they cer
tainly do; and not only the castle, but that great
rock thatyou seestraight on beforeyou there towards

the sea. The late Lady Ballafyn walks there all in
white every moonlight night, as I have been told;
but I can’t say I ever saw her, for I have always
taken good care not to look. And there was a beau
tiful young man that came here to court my lady, I
believe ; and some people say my lord killed him in
a fit of jealousy, and his ghost was seen upon the
rock ; and they say he walks the castle now, with a
taper in his hand, and a long sabre.”
They walked on towards the haunted rock, and
Rose was so taken up by the discourse she was hold
ing, that she was unconscious whither she was going
until she found herself close to the tremendous spot.
“ Oh lauk ! miss,” screamed she, turning~~hastily
back, “ I declare we are close to that frightful haunt
ed place; let us make haste away, for fear we should
see any thing.”
( f But ghosts only appear at night,” said Fanny,
' “ Oh lauk, miss, they say Irish ghosts walk in the
. day-time; and then they are called fetches. And if
this should be one, what will become of us, if it should
jump out upon us ?”
. “Never fear,” said Fanny ,- “I will not require
youPto go any farther. Sit still upon this stone, and
let me climb the rock alone. I am sure the prospect
from the top must be very beautiful, and I long to
try whether my conjecture is right.”
The rock was of considerable magnitude, and lofty
crags rose majestically from the solid mass that com
posed the base, and seemed to emulate the sky; for
the clouds often rested on their summits, long after
the god of day had driven them from the lower .world.
The ascent to this romantic promontory; was made
easy by a sort of natural staircase, which wound
round the basement of the rock, and Fanny had soon
the satisfaction to find herself on a point so elevated,
that she could see the winding coast for a consider
able length of way j and on the distant waves, she

could distinguish vessels passing, their white sails
glistening in the sunbeam. On the other hand, a
wild country, with a few scattered cabins, presented
a striking contrast to the richly wooded and well cul
tivated demesne that skirted Ballafyn Castle, and
bespoke the riches of its owner. As Fanny gazed
at the dark battlements of that proud edifice, she
heaved a sigh to the memory of her mother.
“ Strange and unsearchable,” said she aloud, “ are
the decrees of heaven ! and frail mortals can only
bow the head and suffer beneath the correcting hand
of unerring wisdom. In that castle did my sainted
mother breathe her last sigh, and sink the victim of
tyranny and oppression ; and although bred an alien
I to every tender tie, and equally a stranger to those
f who would have loved, and those who would have
persecuted her, the hapless offspring of thatmartyred
saint is now brought by force to the same spot where
J her mother suffered, to fall, perhaps, by the same
cruelty 1”
As Fanny spoke, she clasped her hands together,
whilst tears of anguish chased each other down her
cheek;—“ On this rock,” continued she, looking
around her, " the spirit of my mother is said to walk.
Oh, would to heaven that I might be permitted to
behold it 1 Dear murdered saint! in pity listen to
thy daughter's sighs; and if thou art still conscious
of what is passing in this mortal vale, oh deign to
show thyself to her!”
The enthusiasm that had seized Fanny’s mind, as
: ■’ fancv suggested the possibility of beholding the spirit
ioi her mother, seemed to change her timid nature,
ana fortify her soul to meet the awful visitation she
was wishing for.. She cast her eyes around with an
intrepid look, and seemed almost to believe that the
being she apostrophised would really appear before
i ner. No object of that, description, however, met
i her view, ana the hollow echoes of the caverns be-
: | neath her alone answered to her voice.

230 fatherless fanny : oe ,
She now, heedless of the vicinity of Rose, began
to apostrophise her mother in a louder strain, but
was awakened from her delightful reverie, at last,by
the loud vociferations of Rose, who, terrified at Fan
ny's long stay, had advanced nearer the rock, and.
catching the sound of the words uttered by Fanny,
concluded she was conversing with some of the dread
ful inhabitants of that awe-inspiring spot.
“ Oh, miss, for heaven’s sake, come to me,” cried
the girl, “or I shall certainly die with terror!”—
Fanny suddenly starting from her day-dream, which
encouraged erroneous, butfondly-cherished thoughts
—thoughts that her reason, now resuming the em
pire over her mind, struggled hard to expel, and which
her gentle bosom was but too well disposed again to
adopt. However, she immediately descended the
rocK, and hastened to relieve the ill-founded fears of
the frightened domestic; Their excursion was ex
tended no farther; and when they returned to the
castle, Fanny was shown into the stately apartment
she had occupied on her arrival the night before;
but she entreated that she might be allowed to re
main in her chamber, for she dreaded the idea of
Lord Ballafyn’s expected arrival; and thought, if
she did not quit the precincts of her bed-room, she
should at least have notice when he came, and not
be liable to meet him unexpectedly.
The old woman indulged her in her request, and
her meals were served to her in her chamber. The
window of her closet was the favourite scene of her
contemplations, for from thence she could see the>
distant rock; and she watched there after night-fall
in hopes of seeing the apparition.
The moon rose in full splendour about midnight,
and reflected her brightness on the craggy summit
of the rock. Fanny gazed for a long time without
seeing any object like the one she sought for;_ and
she was retiring from the window to seek her pillow,
when her attention wag avrested by a sight that filled

her fiosom with an awe unfelt before that momen
tous period.
A tall slender figure seemed to rise from one of
the projections of the mysterious rock, and standing
on its summit, spread out its arms towards the sea.
The moon shone full upon the figure, and rendered
it so distinctly visible, that Fanny could perceive
the dark folds of the loose robe that enveloped it,
waving occasionally to the breeze.
For a while it seemed absorbed in contemplating
the mighty waters. Then starting suddenly, as if
called by some superior power, it dropped upon its
knees, and raising its clasped hands to heaven, it ap
peared preferring some earnest petition to the throne
of mercy. Fanny’s feelings were worked up to such
a pitch of enthusiastic awe, whilst gazing at this .
strange phenomenon, that she could not have uttered
a syllable, or moved from the spot, to purchase even
liberty itself. Whilst she wasthuslostin silent won
der, the cause ofitsuddenlydisappeared: and although
Fanny’s eyes were fixed upon the figure at the mo
ment it vanished, she was unable even to conjecture
how, or whither it had departed. She stood for near- ,
ly half an hour afterwards riveted to the spot, but
the vision came no more ; and Rose having several
times entreated her to retire to her rest, Fanny was
obliged to comply.
Not a syllable did she atter to Rose of the appari
tion she had seen, for she well knew it would for ever
interdict her walking to the rock ; which place she
now felt more than ever interested in exploring: for
so entirely was her mind engrossed by the desire of
' Beeing her mother, that fear was entirely forgotten,
and she felt as if she could meet the whole world of
spirits, provided that beatified being were amongst
The next day, directly after breakfast, Fanny re
newed her walk to the rock, and Rose accompanied
her; the latter was now provided with a book to

amuse herself with, whilst Fanny went upon her ad
venturous expedition. As soon as she had left Rose
seated on the stone, and engaged with her book, Fanny
mounted the rock, and bent her footsteps to the very
spot, as nearly as she could judge, where she had seen
the figure the preceding night All was silence and
desolation, however, ana she was just about to return
to Rose, whose patience she was afraid of trying too
severely, when she thought she heard a slight noise
behind her, and turning round her head, she beheld
through a fissure in the rock, the very figure that’
had so powerfully affected her mind the preceding
night. 1
The form was that of a woman ; and although clad
in a loose robe, that seemed calculated rather to hide
than display its symmetry, it was impossible not to
perceive the grace that adorned its every movement.
The veil that covered her head was thrown back, and
displayed a face in which the traces of sorrow had
anticipated the ravages of time, and robbed it of its
beauty before age authorized the theft. Yet still a
sweetness of expression remained more interesting
than beauty itself; and although the'lire of her eyes > j
hadbeen quenched with weeping, their languid beams j
were capable of penetrating the heart, and exciting it j
to affection. j
Fanny stood entranced as she gazed upon the aw
ful vision, and scarcely daring to breathe, she waited
in silent expectation of it speaking to her. She was,
however, disappointed; for after looking some time
with mournful earnestness La her face, the figure ut
tered a deep sigh, and waving her hand, as if forbid
ding Fanny to follow her, instantly disappeared.
After a considerable time had elapsed, ana no sign »
of its returning, Fanny was obliged to leave the rock I
and return with Rose to the castle. The impression ;
her mind had received by the wonderful sight she i
had seen, kept Fanny silent as she walked with Rose
in her return; but when she had reached the castle,

all her thoughts were put to flight by the news that
awaited her there. Lord Ballafyn was arrived, and
had been inquiring for her; and Mrs. Owen, the old
housekeeper, was waiting to conduct her to his lord
ship as soon as she came in.
At first Fanny refused to go with her: but on Mrs.
Owen’s saying that she was sure Lord Ballafyn would
visit lier in her bed-room, if she did not obey his
summons, she was obliged to submit, and was ac
cordingly conducted to the drawing-room. She en
tered with evident reluctance, which Lord Ballafyn
perceiving, rose to meet her, and taking her hand,
said, “You are welcome to Ireland my pretty lass.
Upon my honour you are a devilish handsome wench,
a how long have you been in keeping with my
ler ?” Terror had hitherto tied Fanny’s tongue,
but indignation now burst the bonds of silence.
“Unhand me, my lord,” said she, making a vio
lent effort to free herself from his grasp; “ nor you,
nor your base brother, have any right to detain me a
prisoner here; and friendless as you may think me,
you may find to your cost that I shall be claimed,
and powerfully too, by those who will neither want
the inclination nor the means to punish the violence
that has been done to me.”
“Well said, my pretty little actress,” said Lord
Ballafyn, placing his back against the door to pre
vent Fanny from escaping at it, as he saw she was
meditating to do. “ Upon my honour I admire my
brother’s taste so much that I have half a mind to
steal you from him : but perhaps you would notlike
the exchange, for Ross is some years younger than
I am. I cannot think,” continued Lord B., “ where
I have seen your face before; your features are quite
familiar to me.”
As he was speaking, Fanny lifted up her eyes to
his face, and instantly recollected his countenance;
it was that of the man who had insulted her in Hyde
rark. when Mr. Hamilton released her from the per-

secution : and the remembrance of his former bru
tality added terror to the thought of being so entirely
in his power.
“ Upon my soul,” said his lordsbip, “ I like tbat
little vixen look of yours so well, and the air of mo
desty you counterfeit becomes you'so much, that if
you will leave Ross, and consent to live with me, I
will settle a vast deal more upon you than it is in his
power to do ; and then if you behave well, and wheedle
me prettily, who knows but you may persuade me
to marry you? and that, you know is what you
can have no chance of with Ross. Come, I see the
storm that is gathering, and I hate female hurricanes,.
so I will let you go to your own chamber, and you
shall have four-and-twenty hours to consider of the
proposal. Ross will be here in two days, so if you
agree to my offer, it must be settled before he comes,
and you and I must slip off until the breeze is blown
over. Come, I will have a kiss, and then you shall
So saying, he clasped the terrified Fanny in his
arms, and almost smothered her with kisses.
Bursting from his grasp, by an effort of super
natural strength which terror supplied her with, she
escaped from further persecution, and flying to her
chamber, locked herself in; then, sinking on a chair,
a flood of tears came to her relief and saved her from
fainting. Here she commended herself to him who
was alone able to defeat the intentions of the wicked
men into whose power she had unhappily fallen.
Her determination neither tobe intimidated by threats
nor moved by entreaties, to unlock the door, became
fixed, and was the only preventative which she could
provide for the preservation of her honour. It was
in vain that Rose and Mrs. Owen alternately applied
for admittance at her door; she resolutely refused
to admit them, nor would she take any of the food
they brought her, because she must have opened the
door to receive it

The state of mind in which the poor girl passed
that day would be difficult to describe. When the
darkness of night surrounded her, and she found her-
Belfwithoutlight, she could almost have compromised
her other fears to have obtained a candle; but she
wasnowleftto.herself, for nobody came nearher; and
as she was afraid to go to bed, she opened her closet-
window, and stood watching the distant rock as the
moon rose over the romantic landscape.
The autumn was far advanced, ana the breeze of
night was so chilling, that Fanny was obliged to retire
from the open window, as she was shivering with
As she turned to go out of the closet, a slight rap
on the window made her start. It was again repeated ;
and her eye plainly perceived a letter, close to the
Poor Fanny’s heart beat quick as she watched the
strange appearance, but sne summoned courage
enough to go to the window, and open it. A piece of
paper, fastened to the end of a stick, presented itself
before her, which she took with a trembling hand ;
but, alas I the moon-light was not sufficiently bright
at that momentto enable her to decipher its contents;
and the curiosity this occurrence had awakened made
her hardy enough to look out of the casement, to try
whether she could discover the person who had pre
sented it to her.
On the top of the turret, beneath her window, she
could plainly perceive a man standing, with his eyes
raised to her apartment His appearance was rough
and forbiding, and the tattered garments that clothed
his athletic form bespoke him of the lowest order of
“What are the contents of this note, friend ?” said
Fanny, in alow voice, leaning as far out of the window
as she could reach. “ Do you know what it con
"Take it to the candle, honey,” said the man}
1G7 <3

“you will see in a jiffy that it is from your own
sweetheart, that iacorned all the vyay from Epgland
|o ( fetch you.”
. ; “I have nota candle,’’^said Fanny, disWssed beyond
pleasure ti^at'she Had rupie.'
1 Wellineviermind,Honey,’’replied the man; “you
can go wicl me first, and read the note afterwards.”
Go witH youf”' exclaimedFanny. “ How, can I
go with you ?”
“Oh, the asyest thing in the world, jewel. Just
lend me your hand and I-’11 lift you down on this here
place in a jiffy ; and then leave-the rest'to] me. I
have got a ladder below that will set you,down on the
ground as asy as a bird flies.”
“ But I don’t know you,” said Fanny.
“ Och, and that don’t signify at all at all; for if you
don’t know me, there’s plenty that do ; .and they’ll
tell you there’s not an honester fellow in the province
of Ulster than Dermot Macfarlane: so nevermind
about not knowing me.”
“ What, are you the man that brought me from the
sea-side here,” asked Fanny, “ on that wretched car
“Sure and I am,” replied the honest Hibernian:
“ and I have been watching: about the place, to and
fro, ever since; for my wife said she should never
sleep again if any bad luck happened to you. And
so Imet the young man that’s looking for you.
“ But who is he V' said Fanny: “ for you know I
cannot read the note: but I will read it to-morrow
morning, as soon as it is light.”
“ Indeed, and that will be too iate,” said Dermot;
“so, if you don’t choose to read it till to-morrow
morning, plase to give it back to me, and I’ll take it
to the poor youth that sent it; for there’s nothing so
ioolish as reading a letter when it is too late to do
what it bids you.”
Fanny stood at the window in the utmost distress,
with the letter in her hand. Her fears of Lord Bai-

lafyn would have induced her to fly with any protec
tor that seemed to promise an honourable asylum.
But this appeared so strange an application, and the
person employed so uncouth a being, that she could
not help fearing that she might fall mto some dread
ful snare by listening to the invitation. At length,
however, to her unspeakable joy, the moon emerged
from the clouds that had shaded her brightness for
the last half hour, and she was enabled to read the .
following words on the note she held in her hand:—
“ Condescend, most lovely of women, to accept the
protection of one who would die to shelter you from
danger. Theimost imminent now threatens yourlife.
Your honour is not safe a single moment whilst you
remain beneath the roof of the most abandoned of
men. I have followed-you from England, with a de
termination to rescue your innocence from the grasp
of an oppressor, and have been guided by the hand
of heaven to the mansion that contains you. I can
not tell,you the particulars now, for time presses;
and if you escape not to-night, to-morrow will be too
late. Fear not to trust the honest creature that is
the bearer of this. He would lay down his life to
serve you. You befriended his family ; and grati
tude once awakened in the bosom of an Irishman,
is never after extinguished. Oh, hesitate not an in
stant, but hasten to the asylum prepared for you by
your faithful " '
’ Albemarle.” '
Fanny put the note into her bosom, arid, leaning
forward, asked, Dermot how she should get out of the
“Och, if you are coming, honey,” said he, clap-
fiing his hands together for joy, “I’ll fetch you the
ittle ladder in a jiffy.” And as he spoke he disap
peared, and returned in a few minutes with a little
;hand-ladder, which he placed against the window;
arid Fanny having pushed her slender form througli
its narrow opening, was able to descend toher rough

244 Fatherless fanny : oa,
protector with all the ease imaginable. He begged
her to close the casement; “ and then, honey,” said
' he, “they will think that you have fled away up the
chimney, or that the banshee has taken you away
through the key-hole.”
Fanny trembled so, as she descended from the
lower tower, that she had nearly slipped from Der-
mot’s hold.—“By the powers,” said he, “but you
frightened me so, that I shan’t be myself again for
these two hours. A pretty story I should have had
to tell now, if you had broke your neck down that
bit of a penthouse there; and a fine botheration the
young spark would have made at me for cheating
him of his sweetheart.”
“Pray do not talk in that style,” said Fanny,
trembling: “I have no sweetheart, as you call it.”
“ Indeed and indeed but you have,” answered Der-
mot; (i and so you’d say yourself, if you had but
. heard all the poor young man had said about you.
I am sure he sot down in our cabin, and talked about'
you a whole hour, till he made Judy, and the chil-
der, and myself, cry.”
“ What could he have been saying of me all that,
time ?” said Fanny, astonished that theduke should
have been so imprudent.
“Och, and he did not say much, honey, for I was
the chief talker: for when I described your journey
to Ballafyn Castle, and the piteous look you cast at
your persecutors,he was just like one beside himself,
and he wiped his eyes and made me tell the story
over and over again.
“ Then he wanted me to direct him where and how
he could get to speak to you ; but I told him it was
as much as his life was worth, and yours too, if he
should attempt to get into the house. And then I
told him the story about poor Lady Ballafyn, and
the gentleman that came and tried to see.her; and
how I knew he was sent off, nobody could tell

“ And when I let him into the secret about the
poor lady escaping from that spalpeen of a lord of
hers, and told him who got her off—och I it was /
was the clever fellow wid him directly. But, come,
miss, let us make haste, for we are not safe whilst
we are in reach of the devils that live at that castle.”
Fanny now laid hold of Dermot’s arm without he
sitation, and almost flew along, to keep pace with his
rapid strides. She soon found that they were mak
ing towards the haunted rock.
“.Whither are we going?” said she; for she felt
alarmed, as she recollected that she had looked from
the summit without observing one decent habita
“ Be asy, miss,” replied Dermot; “you are going
to such a safe place, that the devil himself will not
be able to find youand he almost dragged her to
wards the rock.
“ Oh heavens 1” exclaimed Fanny, almost faint
ing, “ for what am I reserved?” And she dropped
from Dermot’s arm upon the stone where Rose had
sat when she accompanied her in her morning ram
“ Miss,” said Dermot, stopping at the same mo
ment, “ it is a very hard case you cannot believe a
man is honest, becase you see he is poor. Look ye
here, miss, you did a kindness to my poor family
without asking, and sure I have a right to return the
favour without asking too.
“ Fifteen years ago I saved a beautiful lady from
being murdered ; I was but, a youngster then, but I
had a stout heart, and neither minded man nor devil
in a good cause. You will see that lady presently,
and she will tell you that Dermot Macfarlane is wor
thy to be trusted.
“ That rock, which now goes by the name of the
Haunted Rock, is the private entrance to a house at
nearly half a mile distant. That house is inhabited
by a few nuns, who, afraid of having their retreat

discovered, generally receive'what necessaries they
stand in need of by this rba‘d.‘ ■ l am the person who
waits upon them; and it was I who persuaded th‘P v n
to receive Lady Ballafyn amongst them, when the
poor soul did not know where to fly.
“ At that time I was a servant at the castle ; and
I discovered what was going on, and determined to
save the lady. So her maid and I laid our heads
together, and contrived to get her off one night: and
it was reported she died,'and glad enough my lord
was, for he mortally hated her.
“Her maid set off for England, poor soul, s u on
after her lady went into the nunnery, on purpose to
tell her ladyship’s friends where she was; but the
foor soul was drowned in her passage, so I suppose
am the only person that knows a word of the mat
“ As to the poor lady, she is quite melancholy like
and would not leave the nuns if itwere ever so. And
she walks sometimes upon the rock ; but she is safe
enough of being discovered, for nobody would go near
her for all the world. She is called the banshee,
and avoided by every creature like the devil’s own
It is < impossible to describe Fanny’s emotions
whilst listening to this tale of wonder. She had there
seen her mother; and the person whose honesty she
had doubted, and whose protection she had feared,
was the champion of that distressed parent. She
arose immediately from the stone she was seated on,
and seizing Dermot’s arm—
“ Let us hasten, my good friend,'’ said she,to the
asylum you have promised me. All my doubts are
at an end, and I will soon convince you that I am
not your inferior in gratitude.”
They soon reached the rock, and ascended its
craggy s : des; then winding amidst its mazes, they
came to the identical spot where the figure had dis
appeared from Fanny the morning before.

Near this spot Dermot lifted a loose stone that lay
at his feet, and showed his astonished companion the
entrance to a spacious cavern. The light of a to^ch,
held by a man muffled up in a large great coatj illu
mined the gloomy chamber, and Fanny 1 was pre
sently convinced by his voice thatthis'waS’the Dtfke
of Albemarle. “ I have waited here With a degree
of suspense and anxiety almost insupportable. I
feared that Dermot would not succeed in persuading
you to come, lovely Fanny, if he was ever so happy
as to obtain the power of speaking to you 1 : but thank
God, you are come, and I hope now out of th e reach of
“I was not a bit afraid of being able to speak to
miss,” said Dermot, “ becase I knowed she watched
at her window every night almost ; and T saw her a
good bit before I spoke to her, becase I was’afraid of
flustering her: but, ohl by the powers, I have had
a tight job to persuade her to come, for she was afraid
of trusting me, poor jewel. She little thought it was
impossible for her to fall into worse hands than she
was in already.”
“ I beg your pardon for my doubts,”’ said Fanny,
“ and I nope you will never have cause to complain
of such ingratitude again. As to you, sir,” continued
she, turning towards the duke, “ language is inade
quate to express what I fee] for your goodness to a
poor forlorn creature like me. Oh, if you knew what
a wretch your timely interference has delivered me
from, your generous heart would feel gratified in the
consciousness of bestowing happiness.”
The duke took Fanny by the hand, but was unable
to reply, and giving the torch to Dermot, he led the
lovely object of his affections through the long dark
passage tnat led through the caverns of the rock to
the house where the friendly nuns resided.
Fanny was received by the sisterhood with the
greatest kindness: they had been waiting up for her;
and observing her pale looks and faint voice, they

insisted upon her taking some refreshment, which
was prepared for her.
The duke and Dermot were now obliged to retire,
after commending the precious charge a thousand
times to their care : the former, however, promised
to return on the morrow, and inform Fanny of the
means by which he had been so fortunate as to trace
her footsteps, and ultimately release her from her
As soon as they were gone Fanny inquired after
the object of her constant thoughts, the_ lady she had
been informed was an inmate of their hospitable
mansion. At first they seemed unwilling to admit
that Lady Ballafyn was really amongst them ; but
when they found that she was in full possession of
the particulars, they admitted the fact.
“Why does Lady Ballafyn interest you so much,
my dear?” asked the superior. “It is impossible
you can ever have seen her.”
“ Yes, I have, I am sure I have: I saw her on the
rock yesterday. I took her for an inhabitant of
another world. Ah, if she knew it is a daughter that
languishes to embrace her, she would fly with open
arms to receive me.”
“A daughter 1” reiterated the superior, “good
heavens,what do youmean?’’ But before Fanny had
time to reply, the figure that she had seen upon the
rock the preceding day rushed into the room, and
folding Fanny in her arms, strained her to her bosom
in a fond embrace, and then sunk lifeless on the floor.
At length, however, she opened her eyes, and the
first object they sought was the dear child, whose
sudden appearance had so nearly closed them for
ever. A thousand incoherent questions, a thousand
tender endearments, were mutually exchanged ; but
as neither was capable of bearing an explanation at
-hat moment, the superior insisted upon their retiring
to bed, and deferring the elucidation of the wonderful
mystery until the morrow-

“Then my child shall not quit me,” said Lady
Ballafyn, holding Fanny’s hand tight between both
hers, as if she feared somebody would run away with
her. “She shall occupy my pallet, and I will watch
beside her pillow. Sleep has long been a stranger to
these eyes: but oh, when have they awakened to joy
like this ?”
We will now leave the enraptured mother, and the
not less delighted child, to the enjoyment of a bliss
too mighty for utterance, and introduce the reader
to Lady Caroline’s husband.
Sir Christopher Desmond was descended from one
of themosthonourable families in the sister kingdom,
but being the son of a younger brother, was early in
life obliged, with little more than a good education,
to enter the world, and depend for his future success
on those resources which a mind naturally strong
and highly cultivated might supply. Although the
many restrictions which political foresight once
thought necessary to enact, for the preservation of
Protestant ascendancy in Ireland, could not militate
against Desmond, his family having soon after the
accession of Elizabeth embraced the doctrinesof the
Established Church, yet, his maternal uncle enjoy
ing a chief command in the armies of the Austrian
monarch, he determined on seeking his fortune in
that clime. On the voyage, he became acquainted
with a young Englishman, whose mind and disposi
tion would, in the days of chivalry, be held up as an
example worthy of imitation. An enthusiastic
warmth ran through his speeches ; yet neither that,
nor the eccentricity of his manners, removed the fa-.
yourahle impression he rqade even at first sight. The

convulsions which disfigured the face of'Europe
about this period had engaged his most anxious
thoughts,; and his ardent disposition was continually
urging him to take an active part in the 1 passing
events. Oh the voyage to Hamburgh, though short,
yet, so much in unison were the souls of these youths,
it proved of sufficient duration for them to forma
friendship, as firmly cemented as the materials of
which humanity is composed had the " capability of
The word farewell was equally dreaded by each of
these amiable and manly youths as the mandate of
eternal separation. Digby, with a generosity that
did honour to his noble disposition, offered to share
his fortune with his friend. Desmond, though deep
ly affected by this mark of friendship, refused the
princely proffer; his love of independence was too
fjreat, to allow him to become the satellite of any
luman being. Upon his refusal, the' friends, with
mutual regret, parted; Digby in quest of adventures,
and our hero to commence his career as a soldier.
Desmond pursued his route towards Vienna, and
arrived there as the army which the emperor was or
ganizing, to act in conjunction with the Russian and
Prussian forces, had commenced their march for ill
fated Poland. Having presented his letters of re-
commendation, and waited upon his uncle, he adopt
ed him as his son, and declared him heir to all his -
property. He had not been long in Vienna before
he was appointed to a lieutenancy in Baron 'Hum-
bolt’s regiment of Hussars; and, as they were order
ed unto actual service, he joined them immediately.
Scarce had the troops entered the Polish territo
ries than the left wing of the army was attacked by
a considerable body of lancers, aided by an undis
ciplined and badly armed peasantry. Their onset
was as the rushing of the mountain torrent; but the
coolness displayed by the Austrian's^ in repelling
(his impetuous charge, made the Poles, from bernj;

the assailants, became the assailedtheir lines were
broken—to rally was impossible. Humbolt’s regi
ment sustained the post of honour, and Desmond re
ceived particularly the thanks of the commander-in-
chief. As they advanced into the interior of 'the
country, and actions became more frequent, his
mind naturally humane and benevolent, made him
regret that he was forced by his circumstances to
continue in a profession so replete with evil to man
kind. One evening, Desmond, now advanced to a
captaincy, was ordered to proceed with a detachment
and attack a position held by the enemy a few miles
in advance of Warsaw. This service he performed
with his usual ability, and took possession of the re
doubt ; but the miscreant band set fire to a neigh
bouring village. Actuated by motives of humanity,
he immediately proceeded to the spot in order to re
strain, if possible, their brutal violence. At the far
ther end of the village, he observed two hussars drag
ging a female from a house: their intention being
easily perceived, no time was to be lost. “ Wretches,”
exclaimed he, “ desist.”—’Twas the voice of their
commander; and, growling like the disappointed
hyena, they reluctantly resigned their devoted vic
tim. The fire, which had now spread from habita
tion to habitation, gave him a full view of the female
he had saved from pollution. He saw her—and cold
and phlegmatic must he be who would not admire.
She raised her hurried eyes, and encountering his,
seemed to say, “ Am I safe ?” The language of na
ture is understood by all, and Desmond broke this
expressive silence by assuring her that she was safe.
The lady started at the sound—joy enlivened her
countenanoe—she grasped his hand, and pressing it
to her lips, cried out in an ecstasy, “ I am safe 1 you
are an Englishman !” and fainted. After procuring
for her all the assistance the place could supply, he
had her conveyed to a hut, and then proceeded toin-
cpect the posts, and put the redoubt in a state of de»

fence, fearful that some sudden attack might be made
before more troops could arrive.
Returning to the hut, Desmond found the fair ob
ject of his solicitude recovered from her agitation;
and as she thanked him for his protection, the grati
tude which enlivened her countenance gave fresh
charms to her beauty.
She informed him thatshe was betrothed to ayoung
Englishman, who served as a volunteer inthe Polish
army, and that her father had approved of the at
tachment, not only from a desire of conducing to
her happiness, but also from the wish he had long
cherished of emigrating to England. This wish he
was now realizing; and the last letter she received
from her dear parent, the Count Ponitusky, was da
ted from Dantzic, on board the United States’ ship
Amelia, bound to Hull. It was her intention to
proceed immediately to the same port, in company
with a faithful domestic, to whose care her father had
intrusted her. Her lover, she continued, would
shortly follow, being, to be united to him on their
meeting in that kingdom. The lady was now begin
ning to launch forth in describing the fairy scenes
of felicity, which her youthful imagination had been
pourtraying to her mind, when the delightful theme
was interrupted by the sudden intrusion of a hussar,
who informed Desmond, that a numerous body of
troops, whether friends or enemies he could not say,
were observed marching towards the post. Desmond
apologized to the fair narrator, and withdrew, in or
der to examine into the truth of the soldier’s report.
He found it correct; and knowing them to be Poles,
he put himself on the defence, conceiving that his
post was the object which they intended to attack.
The situation of the lady became next his most mo
mentous concern.
She had given him to understand that her inten
tion was, as soon as possible, to proceed to England,
§nd join her father, where, upon the arrival of her

iovef, she conceived her earthly happiness would
commence. Desmond’s cousin, Lady Augusta Dun-
boyne, of Eitzroy Square, London, had a heart that
sympathized in the distresses of the sons and daugh
ters of affliction; and, in her hospitable mansion,
the expatriated child of misfortune was sure of a
safe asylum. To this lady’s notice he intended to
introduce the beautiful and interesting Polish dam
sel. Seating himself upon a bank, he hastily wrote
the following note :
Dear Lady Augusta,
The best excuse I can offer for being so
laconic in my epistle is the exposed situation I am
in. You may smile when the fair messenger deli
vers this to you, and say, that Mars had, at last, sur
rendered his liberty to Venns; but in this conjec
ture, my dear Augusta, you are wrong. The lady
to whom this is to be an introductory letter to your
ladyship’s favour, is the daughter of a Polish grandee;
and as there is nothing so erroneous, in my opinion,
as to stop the loquacity of a fair female by forestall
ing her story, I leave the • explanation to herself.
This maybe the last favour I can request of you.
The outposts are already engaged. My respects to
Dunboyne. Adieu.
Yours, &c.
Christopher Desmond.
He^sent the above to the lady by his servant, giv
ing him his purse, and an order to accompany the
fair fugitive to Dantzic.
The servant and his beautiful charge had but just
cleared the precincts of the post when the attack be
gan. The Poles, headed by a youth that seemed to
place danger at defiance, displayed in this rencoun
ter more than their wonted courage—they became
irresistible—the Austrians gave way—in short, they
were obliged to abandon the redoubt. Desmond and
the few that escaped the slaughter, retreated upon
their main body. In the action, his lieutenant, for

2 Si I’ATHEBIiESS fanity :, ,0B,
whom he had a high esteem, was, severely wounded
by the youthful leader of the assailants. His. wounds
becoming painful, and the enemy not demonstrating
any desire of pursuit, Desmond ordered his little
band to halt. Then upon Nature’s bed, .under the
green canopy of heaven, the tired warrior, stretched
his weary limbs.
He was, roused by the noise of approaching troops:
they, were Austriaps ; and having been detached for
the sole purpose of aiding him, they began to lay
plans for the retaking of the post, which the com
mander-in-chief considered of the first importance.
The Imperialists moved forward ; and no'sooner did
they appear before the redoubt than it was abandon
ed by the Poles. Desmond once more renewed his
applications to the Austrian court for leave to return
to his native land : but, like the former ones he had
madei it remained unanswered. However, although
his aversion to the military life daily increased, his
known courage, skill, and perseverance,. pointed
him out to those in command as a person' fit to be en
trusted with enterprises ofthe greatest moment; and,
on this account, scarce a day passed without his
.being actively engaged.
One day, being on a reconnoitering party, he was
surprised by the besieged, wounded, and taken pri
soner. As soon as he was recovered from his wounds,
he obtained permission to promenade particularparta
of the city; and as he was enjoying this liberty, the
veteran warrior and patriot Kosciusko crossed his
way. All eyes were directed towards him, and among
the rest Desmond’s ; butwhat was his astonishment,
when, among the officers which attended the general,
he recognised Digby I Their glances met; quick al
most as their thoughts, the friends flew towards each
other. Their surprise was mutual—their pleasure
equal—their embrace cordial and sincere.
Digby, after having obtained for his friend an ex
tension of his liberty, took him to his quarters.

No sooner were they seated, than Digby began to
relate to his friend the adventures into which he bad
fallen, since their separation at Hamburgh. De
smond soon found by his narrative, that although
Digby had been fighting for the liberty of the people
among whom he resided, yet he had surrendered
himself a willing captive to a female, whom lie des
cribed as concentrating within herself all that was
attractive and charming in woman. Desmond ex-
Eressing a wish to be introduced to this incompara-
le l£dy, his friend’s face became suddenly overcast
with the deepest marks of sorrow. “My friend,”
answered Digby, “ there is, at present, too much
mystery for my peace of mind over the fate of my
dear Marian. W hen first I entered into the service
of this ill-fated country, I became acquainted with
a nobleman, whose high patriotic notions were so
congenial to my own, that an intimacy commenced,
which in time ripened into friendship. The con
sciousness that his country would be degraded from
her rank as a nation, and her laws and her liberties
expireunder the overwhelming force of[ the invaders,
he agreed to proceed the first opportunity to Eng
land, and there secure.a retreat for himself and daugh
ter, the lady to whom I have promised eternal con
stancy. A few weeks back, the father commenced
his journey towards England, and the lovely Marian
followed, in company with a trusty domestic; but
having an uncle to whom she was much attached, and
who commanded a detachment stationed about four
miles in advance of this city, she visited him for the
purpose of taking her last farewell. She had been

256 frATHMlLESS FANNY : Ofc,
but a short time in his company, when the place was
attacked by a party of Austrians, and her uncle was
obliged precipitately to retreat. Arriving in War
saw that night, and waiting on me, he told the dread
ful tale. Immediately I flew to all that I had the
least influence with; and full of that ardour which
love gives to the human soul, I succeeded in obtain
ing a numerous body of friends, determined to re
take the redoubt, and rescue my loved Marian from
the power of those whom I had every reason to ex-
Sect were base and unprincipled. We succeeded in
islodging the enemy, and 1 instantly began to
earch for her who was dearer to me than my own ex-
(Stence; but the search was in vain.
“ On entering a hut, which seemed to be the only
one that escaped the fury of the Austrians, my anx
iety was relieved, in a great measure, by a'letter
which I found there directed to me. One circum
stance which it contained, however, gave me,—and
does,—nay, my friend, it will ever imbitter my life.
The letter mentioned, that her honour and her ex
istence had been saved by the interposition of the
officer who commanded, and that that officer was an
Englishman ; adding, that he had sent his servant to
escort her to Dantzic. When we attacked the place,”
continued Digby, “mad with the thought of my
Marian being exposed to the brutal ferocity of the
soldiery, I, with an avidity almostinconceivable even
to myself, fell upon my foes indiscriminately. My
example wa3 followed by those under my command.
I wounded, and I think severely, the young man who
acted so honourably by my Marian. Shocked at the
ungrateful return that war makes, I am determined
to relinquished the sword ; and if ever again I should
draw it in an get, it must be in defence of old England.”
Desmond had now the elucidation of the young
lady’s history, ajtid relieved Digby from his uneasi
ness, by relating what he knew of her. The gratitude
of Digby was excessive, when he Warned that it was

his friend who saved his Marian. Desmond inform
ing him of the determination he had formed of re
turning to his native land, Digby agreed to accom
pany him; nor was it long before a circumstance
occurred which enabled them to proceed on their
journey. By the arrival of an Austrain flag of truce,
several letters were brought to the prisoners; among
which there were two for Desmond, one from home,
directed to him as Sir Christopher Desmond; the
contents of which were, that Sir Hugh Desmond had
died without children, and he being the next heir, the
family title and estate devolved, of course, on him.
The other was from the Austrain cabinet, with liberty
for him to retire. And that they might mark the
high sense they entertained of his services, it was ac
companied by the Cross of Maria Theresa. ^
Desmond, now as independant as pecuniary cir
cumstances could make him, set off in company with
Digby ; and, embarking at Dantzic, proceeded with
a fair wind on their voyage. They had not been
many days on the ocean, when a lady, of the name
of Watkins, (whose husband was American consul
for some time at Dantzic, and who, for commercial
reasons, had removed to England,) was playing with
her little child on the deck, the vessel suddenly
heaved, and the dear innocent was precipitated^ into
the ocean. Digby, who was near the spot, perceiving
the perilous situation of the child, plunged into the
deep ; he seized the little innocent with one hand,
and held the poor baby up to the view of the ago
nized mother. A boat, which a vessel at no great
distance was sending to the brig, on board of which
Digby had taken his passage, took him and the child,
and was proceeding with them to the vessel, when
the convoy made the signal of an enemy in sight;
this induced the men in the boat to return to their
own ship, in spite of all the remonstrances of Digby.
The perturbation of the distracted parent had just
Bubsided; and though she loneed to embrace her
167 B

little one, yet the consolation of knowing it was safe
gave her relief. The French vessels now hove in
sight, and the vessel to which Digby was taken, be
ing a heavy sailer, was captured. The French ves
sels soon gave up the chase, and tacking about,
made the best of their way to France; but not before
the captain of the privateer put the child on board an
American merchant-man, that was proceeding with
the English traders. Digby seized this opportunity
to convey a letter to his friend Desmond, in which
he expressed his happiness at being instrumental in
the preservation of the dear little boy, and that the
pleasure he experienced from the transaction more
than compensated for the attending evils. He con
jured him by every tie of friendship to seek out his
Marian, and her father, and be a protector to them
until lie could relieve him from the office. Mrs.
Watkins’s happiness was at its height, when she
clasped her infant to her bosom; yet sorrow might
be seen blending itself on the countenance of the
mother. He that saved her child had lost his liberty
—perhaps a domestic circle anxiously waited his ar
rival—or a dear partner, from whose embrace he had
been long severed, daily looked for his return.
We must now leave Digby for a time to his fate,
while we follow Sir Christopher to England. Mrs.
Watkins, on their landing, was met by her husband;
and after informing him of the transactions of the
. voyage, he pressed Desmond to make his house his
home while he remained in London. This offer was
accepted, and^he accompanied the happy couple to
their dwelling. The fate of poor Digby cast a gloom
over Desmond’s countenance, particularly as his
cousin Lady Augusta Dunboynehad, but a few days
before his arrival, left town for her country seat in
Ireland. He had written to his relative for informa
tion on this subject; but it would be some time be
fore an answer could arrive from that kingdom. To
try to divert his thoughts from the melancholy chan-

nel in which they began to glide, Mr. and Mrs. Wat
kins strove to draw him towards the places of public
amusement. A new performer having to make his
appearance at Covent Garden, they agreed to go and
see him pass the public ordeal. He had but just ap
peared on the stage, when Desmond glancing at the
countenances of those who surrounded him, his eyes
encountered those of Marian, which seemed doubt-
ingly, though eagerly, to examine his features: he
bowed, and with a smile of recognition acknowled
ged she was right. Without heeding the curious
gaze of the audience, she flew to Desmond, and em
braced him as her tutelary angel. Pleased as he was
with the rencounter, yet there was with her in the
box a young lady of incomparable beauty, that
made the first impression which love ever engraved
on his heart. Marian quitted him for a moment; and
returning, informed him that he would oblige her if
he would accompany her after the performance to
the house of her benefactress. This Desmoud pro
mised ; and proceeding at the conclusion of the piece
to fulfil his engagement, a man of foppish appear
ance detained him, conceiving that Desmond, by too
abruptly passing him, deserved a reprimand. The
altercation caused considerable delay, and when he
arrived in the lobby, neither the fair Pole norher
agreeable companion could be found. Chagrined
and disappointed, he sought his host and hostess, and
informing them of the untoward adventure, they ad-
tised him to attend the theatre for a few successive
nights, in hopes of again meeting her. This advice
he adopted, but to no manner of purpose.
One morning on his entering the breakfast parlour,
he was agreeably surprised by meeting an assemblage
of those mercantile gentlemen, for whom Mr. "W.
always expressed the highest respect. “ This day,”
said the host, “ is the birthday of my little boy ; and
1 hope, Sir Christopher, you will be happy, not only
with us, but with tne friend of your bosom.” At

this moment a door was opened, and Digby grasped
the offered hand of Desmond. Immediately alter,
the Count Ponitusky was presented to the company ;
and upon being introduced to Desmond, he thanked
him for the kindness he had done bis daughter, and
hoped, in the day of disasters, none of his relatives
might want a defender. Mr. Watkins striving to
thank Digby for his noble conduct towards his son,
was overcome by his feelings.” After breakfast,
Digby, when Mr. W. retired, briefly related the cir
cumstances of the voyage, and informed them, that
from the military air he had acquired among the
Poles, the captain of the privateer conc'eived him to
be an officer in the British service ; and, but for that,
he should have been put on board the American ship.
That, after being a few days in prison, an order ar
rived from the French government for his release,
and passports given him for Hamburgh, together
with a letter to be presented to the American consul
there. What was his astonishment, when arriving
in that city, to find that it was through the influence
of a Mr. Watkins that his liberty was granted; and
the letter contained a bill of credit on one of the first
bankers of the place, together with a request that he
would, as soon as he landed in England, call on him,
an d make his house his home! To this request he had
acceded, and found that Mr. W. was the father of the
child he saved from a watery grave. “ The vessel in
which I had taken my passage notbeing ready to sail,”
continued Digby, “ I strolled about to kill time; for
my mind was too much engaged by a particular ob
ject to think of any thing else. I accidentally fell
in with the Count Ponitusky. The vessel in which
he had embarked for England had been wrecked
on the coast of Holland, and he was at that period
striving to procure a passage over; but, for want of
money, he was fearful of accomplishing his purpose.
I relieved his mind on this head; the Count embarked
with me, and we arrived at this hospitable mansion

late last,night, and had the inexpressible happiness
of learning from our kind host, that Marian is in the
metropolis, and under the protection of a lady, who,
from the appearance she made, was of exalted rank.”
The next morning, a letter arrived, directed to Sir
Christopher Desmond: it was from Lady Augusta
Dunboyne, in which she informed him that the lady
he had recommended to her protection was fully en
titled to it. She is, at present, continued Lady Au
gusta, under the protection of Lady Ellincourt, of
whose fair daughter she cautioned her cousin. Sir
Christopher proceeded to Lady Ellincourt’s resi
dence, where, presenting his card, he was, instantly
ushered into the presence of Lady E.
After complimenting him on the conduct he pur
sued in respect to Marian, she introduced him to that
lady, and to her own lovely daughter Caroline, in
whom he recognised the female whose beauty made
such an impression upon him at the theatre. Des
mond, when the first ebullition of Marian’s gratitude
subsided, informed her of the intimacy which subsis
ted between him and Digby, of their meeting at War
saw, their departure from thence to England, the oc
currences of the voyage, and lastly, his being at pre
sent in London. When Desmond said that Digby
, was in the metropolis, Marian’s eyes sparkled with
pleasure, but regret, like a passing cloud, dimmed
their lustre. “ Oh heaven !” she exclaimed, “ was -
but my dear father here, my happiness would be
complete.” “Yourhappiness is complete; he is
in London, and with Digby.” “ Oh ! harbinger of
good—messenger of glad tidings, thou hast realized
my fondest hope—let me fly to the dear, fond, the
wished-for kind paternal embrace.” Lady Ellin
court participated in her feelings, and ordering her
coach proceeded with Desmond and Marian to Mr.
Watkins’s. To describe the interview between the
father and the daughter, the lover and beloved, would
be impossible. The expression of their feelings hav-

ing.assumed a calmer aspect, Lady Eliincourt re
quested the party to accompany her home, and spend
the remainder of the joyous day at her mansion.
This proposition Desmond seconded the more ear
nestly, that he might enjoy the company of Lady
Caroline, whose beauty, and the slight conversation
he had with her, made such an inroad to his affec
tions, as left all chance of escape (if her mind ap-
? eared disposed to hold him captive) impossible,
he continual expression of gratitude with which Ma
rian noticed the name of Desmond, and the amiable
character which Lady Dunboyne bestowed upon
him, added to his interesting appearance, made the
susceptible Caroline long for the return of her mo
ther, that she might again have the pleasure of Des
mond’s company. In this wish she was gratified, for
the whole party arrived, and Desmond, without per
ceiving it, found himself seated beside the fair object
of his tenderest regards.
Not long after the introduction of the friends to
Lady Eliincourt, Digby received the hand of the fair
Marian, and proceeded with his beloved bride, ac
companied by her father, to Digby-hall, in North
Desmond continued a welcome visitor at Lady
Ellincourt’s, and, as the Watkins had returned to
America, he had the more leisure to study the cha
racter of Caroline, which he found to be all he wished
for. Making his proposals to the mother, they were
accepted, and Sir Christopher was introduced to
Lady Caroline as a lover, countenanced by her re
spected andreveredmother. Caroline loved him,and
the passion was equally ardent in the breast of Des
mond. Sir Christopher’s mother arriving, in com
pany with Lord and Lady Dunboyne, they urged
the beauteous Caroline to name an early day for the
celebration of their nuptials. This Desmond him
self strove to accelerate, by every device which love
could dictate.

He was the more eager to have his nuptials solem- '
nized, as his presence was become necessary in Ire-'
land; and his friend Digby being iii town, together
with Count Ponitusky and the amiable Mrs. Digby,
he wished to have them present at the cer6tiiohy 4
And now that day, to which so many look forward
as the gate of happiness—arrived. Desmond, on
this his wedding-day, solemnly prostrated himself,
before his Maker, praying for his guidance and di
rection in the new sphere of life in which he was just
going to move. Nor'did his Caroline neglect to of
fer up her devotions atthe throne of mercy, for grace
to guide her in the new situation she was entering
upon. The ceremony over, they immediately pro
ceeded to Ireland; and at intervals, Sir Christopher
and Lady Desmond visited their friends in England.
That honour which markedhis early youth increased
with his manhood. As a husband, a father, a friend,
a master, he was what those who were so placed, as
to be acquainted with him in any of these relative
situations, would wish.
To the mansion of this gentleman Mr. Hamilton
and Lord Ellincourt directed their course, particu
larly as it was in the immediate neighbourhood of
We will now return to Bailafyn castle, where all was
confusion, noise and uproar, as soon as Fanny was
missed, which was not until a late hour on the en
suing morning ; for as she had refused to admit either
Rose or Mrs. Owen the whole of the preceding day,
they concluded she was either sulky or asleep ; "and
after finding entreaties and threats equally unavail
ing they broke into her apartment, and to their as-

tonishment found it empty, without the smallest trace
being visible how Fanny had escaped.. It was quite
impossible to conjecture what could have become of
her, because her escape from the window was totally
impossible, unless aided by some abettor without;
and that she could not have made any friend in that >
part of the world, was equally evident, since she had
never been permitted to quit the house, even for a
stroll in the park, unattended.
Lord Ballafyn attributed the event to the villainy
of some of his servants, who had been induced to con->
nive at her escape, by the fascination in her manner,
which had so completely captivated his lordship.
He therefore breathed nothing but vengeance, and'
walked about the castle swearing that if Fanny was
not found within twelve hours, he would shoot every
person he suspected as her accomplice.
In the midst of all this bustle Colonel Ross arri
ved. He was surprised to find his brother at the cas
tle before him, as he had understood by his last let
ter, that he would be detained in Dublin above a
fortnight beyond the present period; and during that
interval he had hoped so to dispose of Fanny, as to
have secured her possession entirely to himself.
Jealousy was roused, therefore, when he found his
brother already at the castle, and rage was added to
that feeling when he heard that she was no where to
be found. In the first paroxysm of passion, the two
brothers began abusing each other in the most vio
lent manner. Colonel Ross did not hesitate to ac
cuse Lord Ballafyn with having secreted Fanny on
purpose to deprive him of her, adding, that the well-
known infamy of his brother’s character might have
warned him not to trust so practised a villain with a
treasure of such inestimable value. Equally guilty,
they began to recriminate each other, and the most
vile language seemed inadequate to express the feel
ings of their diabolic minds.
Lord Ballafyn was an Irishman in everything but

honour, but there he belied his country. His spirit
was too turbulent and haughty to brook the aggra
vating expressions made use of by his brother, and
bidding him defiance, he seized his pistols, and or
dered him to follow him to the plantation, at a little
distance from the house. Colonel Ross, whose whole
frame shook with fury, obeyed the mandate; and
in a few minutes the wretched culprits had sealed
their condemnation in each other’s blood, and the
crime of Cain was renewed by the mutual fratricides.
Both fired, and both fell, whilst the sanguine stream
smoking up to heaven, called down tenfold vengeance
on the murderer.
But let us turn from the horrid scene, and visit
Fanny in her calm retreat.
Her mother told the sad tale of her sufferings al
ready related to the Teader, with this only addition,
that when, after Mr. Hamilton’s visit to Ballafyn
castle had excited the jealous rage of its imperious
owner, the treatment of the wretched Lady Ballafyn
had been beyond measure intolerable, and she had
the most urgent reasons to believe that her death was
intended by her remorseless lord.
The intervention of honest Dermot had prevented
the catastrophe, and the unhappy lady had found a
safe and comfortable asylum with the benevolent
nuns, who, though differing from her in some points
of religion, had never varied in their attentions to
her comforts, nor denied their sympathy to her suf
In her turn, Fanny had related the eventful nar
rative of her life, anil the wonderful discovery of her
parents, which had been made to her by Mr. Ha
milton. But, heavens 1 what were Lady Ballafyn’s
emotions, when she head that he, for whose sake she
had suffered so severely, still existed 1
Whilst the mother and daughter were engaged in
this tender discourse, they were interrupted by the
arrival of the Duke of Albemarle. He was admitted

to their presence, and Fanny immediately Deggecl
leave to introduce her mother to the duke, who re
ceived the information with a look of surprise amount
ing almost to incredulity.
“ I bring you news,” said he, “that will surprise
you almost as much as you have done me. Some of
your best friends are arrived in search of you. I
have this moment spoken to Lord Ellincourt, who
tells me he was accompanied by Mr. Hamilton.”
“ Oh heavens, my father I” exclaimed Fanny, “ let
me fly and embrace him.” But, as she spoke, she
turned, and saw her mother pale and faintr Every
other feeling now gave -way to terror for that dear
parent’s safety; nor would she say another word to
the duke, until she had seen her perfectly restored,
and persuaded her to retire to her bed to compose
her shattered nerves, where she left her in the care
of one of the benevolent nuns, whilst she went to
learn the particulars of the joyful news just announ
ced to her.
“ May I not fly to my dear father ?” said the af
fectionate Fanny, when she returned to the duke.
“ No, lovely girl,” replied his grace, “your father
will be here very shortly, Sir Christopher Desmond,
Lord Ellincourt, and several gentlemen of the neigh
bourhood, with him. They are at present engaged
in a very melancholy office, that of giving orders for
the proper attendance on two unfortunate men, who,
forgetful of their duty to God and themselves, have
been engaged in a duel.”
Th^ duke then briefly related the particu lars of Lord
Ballafyn and Colonel Ross’s quarrel and its fatal ter
“They are both wounded desperately,” said he.
“ but not dead. Mr. Hamilton and Lord Ellincourt
arrived at the castle at the precise moment when the
wretched men were being carried into it. I had been
attracted to the fatal spot by the report of fire-arms,
and came up to the combatants just as they both feiL

44 1 hastily summoned assistance from the castle,
and the wounded brothers were conveyed thither by
the terrified servants, who at first eyed me with a
suspicious look, imagining that I had had a hand in
the fatal catastrophe. The incoherent sentences ut
tered by Lord Ballafyn soon convinced them of their
mistake; for although he spoke with difficulty, he
said enough to exculpate me.
“The arrival of Lord Ellincourtand Mr. Hamilton,
at such a moment, increased the confusion; for the
former with the impetuosity natural to his character, 1
began a string of questions relating to you, my sweet
friend, which it was impossible the servants could
answer satisfactorily; and learning that you had been
at the castle, and were now missing, made him out
“ To calm his rising passion I advanced towards
him, fori had entered the hall with the throng of
domestics; and I thought it my duty to relieve his
anxiety; but I had nearly got into a scrape with the
choleric lord, for he immediately suspected me of
being concerned in the barbarous violence of taking
you from England.
“ Mr. Hamilton’s calmness was here of great ser
vice to us, and the explanation was at length made in
a satisfactory manner: and his lordship’s resentment
changed into the most enthusiastic gratitude.
“ I explained to him the manner in which I had
been deceived by Lord Somertown’s pretended per
mission to pay my addresses to you, which wa§ only
given me to add mortification to disappointment; for
he well knew you were to be removed from Pember
ton abbey before I could arrive there.
“ By the fortunate circumstance of my meeting
with the woman whose husband had acted as chief
manager of the infernal plot, I became master of the
important secret that so nearly concerned my hap
piness. She mistook me for Lord Ellincourt, whose
arrival was hourly expected, and enjoining me secrecy

as to the source from whence I drew my information,
she entreated me to lose no time in flying to your as
sistance. She, directed me the exact route you had
taken, and she described your terror and distress
during the part of your journey she had accompanied
you in, with a degree of sympathy that will ever make
me remember Mrs. Franklyn with pleasure. I crossed
by the same vessel that had taken you over, and learn
ed at the cabin of poor Dermot the rest of the par
ticulars necessary for your deliverance.
“ I determined to effect that first, with the assist
ance of that honest fellow, and then call the infamous
author of your imprisonment to the account his
crimes merited ; but another hand has chastised him,
and I am satisfied.
“ A surgeon had arrived at the castle before I came
away, and he pronounces the wounds of both the un
principled brothers very dangerous, but Lord Bal-
lafyn’s the most so. His lordship has been made
acquainted with his danger, and remorse has visited
his heart. He has desired to see Lord Ellincourt;
but as the surgeon said any violent emotion might be
instantly fatal, the interview has not yet taken place.
His lordship does not know that Mr. Hamilton is in
existence, at least he dreams not that his house now
holds the man whom he has so irreparably injured.
“ Concealment is now no longer necessary,” added
the duke; “your enemies are incapable of further
injuring you: and, indeed, if they were not so, you
are surrounded with a posse of friends able to defend
you from their malice. It is therefore proposed, that
iou should be removed to Lord Ellincourt’s sister,
.ady Caroline, who has been prepared to expect
you. She lives at no great distance from hence, and
Lord Ellincourt, Mr. Hamilton, andSir Christopher,
mean to come prepared to escort you thither.”
“ But I have found a parent here,” said Fanny,
“ a parent that they have no idea is in existence, and
I cannot so soon consent to tear myself away from

her; and I am persuaded slie will nevei quit these
Walls whilst Lord Ballafyn lives.”
“ That may not be long,” replied the duke, “ for
the surgeon gives but very poor hopes of his reco
very. But I. mean not to dictate to you, madam:
Mr. Hamilton and his friends are coming, and then
my mission ends. Oh, may that gentle bosom deign
to bestow some compassion on the man who exists
but in the hope of being one day dear to you!”
“1 entreat your grace never to mention that sub
ject to me again,” said Fanny. “ Your addresses are
unsanctioned by your uncle, nay, against his con
sent, and cannot therefore be received by_ me.”
“ Of my uncle Ibeseech youneverto think again,”
said the duke ; “ he has for ever broken the link that
held me to him. The insult he has offered me, by
pretending to give his consent to a marriage which
he believed at the moment could never take place,
has determined me to renounce him; and I have
written to him expressive of my resolution.”
Before Fanny had time to reply, Mr. Hamilton
and Lord Ellincourt arrived, and the scene that fol
lowed put all ideas of lovers out of Fanny’s head.
The discovery of Lady Ballafyn’s existence was a
surprise so sudden and unexpected, that it nearly t
overturned Mr. Hamilton’s faculties, and he was
some hours before he had sufficiently recovered the
shock to converse with any degree of self-collected
ness upon the subject. The manner of introducing
himself to her presence became the next considera
tion, and it was agreed that the interview should be
deferred for a few days, as during that period perhaps
Lord Ballafyn might pay the forfeit of his crimes.
The event justified the supposition, forthe unhappy
nobleman breathed his last, just eight and forty hours
after the duel, in the most excruciating tortures both
of fnind and body.
Mr. Hamilton visited him, to pronounce forgive-
- ness for the injuries he bad sustained from the dying

sinner; but, alas _! the sight of him threw Lord Bal-
lafyn into a delirium that ended in dissolution; and
thus the wretched sufferer was deprived pf the con
solation the Christian charity of Hamilton had in
tended to bestow upon him.
I will not pretend to describe the meeting between
Mr. Hamilton and his long-lost Emily, for it is im
possible for any pen to do justice to such high-
wrought feelings as filled the breasts of the long-
severed lovers. The presence of their child increa
sed their joy, and the excess of their happiness seem
ed to threaten to be more fatal to their health than
even their long sufferings had been ; for both of them
fell ill in consequence of , the violent effect so won
derful a revolution had taken upon their frail con
At length, however, they recovered, and the hap
py party removed to Sir Christopher Desmond’s,
where they spent a few weeks of uninterrupted feli-'
city ; after which the whole party, with tne excep
tion of the injured Emily, returned to England, in
order to make the proper investigation of Lord So-
mertown’s conduct, and to prove the marriage his
infamous plots had annulled ; and on which proof
depended the legitimacy of Fanny’s birth-right. 1
Emily, who had now dropped the title of Lady Eal
ia fyn, insisted upon remaining at the hospitable
convent until every thing should be settled respect
ing the validity of her marriage, 'and refused with
determined steadiness the entreaties of her daughter
to permit her to remain with her.
Before the p.irty set off for England, especial care
was taken by Fanny, that the family of honest Der-
mot should be rewarded for their exertions in her be
half. She found herself forestalled, however, in her
kind intention, by the generous Albemarle, who had
purchased a piece of land for them, adjoining their
cottage, which was sufficient, with a little industry,
to maintain them all .comfortably; to this gift Fanuy

added a sum of money bestowed upon her by her fa
ther, to enable them to build a comfortable cabin in,
lieu of the wretched one they now inhabited.
Fanny, accompanied by lier father, Lord Ellin-
court, and the Duke of Albemarle, arrived in safety
at Pemberton Abbey in three days from their de
parture from Donaghadee. Lady Dowager Ellin-
court and the amiable Emily, were waiting to receive
them, and Fanny was pressed alternately in their
arms with all the fervour of affectionate joy.
The happy termination of all their sorrows had
been announced to them by letter, and Pemberton
Abbey was appointed the place of rendezvous. Poor
Lady Maria lioss was still an inhabitant of that man
sion, but grief and anxiety had preyed so severely
upon her gentle mind, that she was confined by se
vere illness to her bed, and thereby rendered inca
pable of flying to the pillow of her suffering, and
now deeply penitent husband, Col. Boss, who still
say with verv slender hopes of recovery at the dreary
Castle of Bailafyn, and who expressed the most earn
est wish to see his injured wife.
Amongst the happy group assembled at Pember
ton Abbey we must not forget Mrs. Bolton, who had
never quitted Lady Ellincourt during the dreadful
suspense she had been suffering whilst Fanny was
Mr. Hamilton took every step to trace the wicked
and treacherous Franklyn, who had so basely betray
ed his helpless daughter into the hands of her ene
mies, for the consideration of five hundred pounds,
which was paid him by the detestable Lord Somer-
town. The wretch, however, eluded their vigilance
for the present; for as soon as he found his wife had
betrayed him, he made off to Portsmouth, and enter
ing on board a ship just sailing for the West Indies,
he escaped the pursuit
In consideration of Mrs. Franklyn’s tenderness to
Fanny, and her subsequent discovery of the plot to

the duke, she was pardoned, and received a small an
nuity from the bounty of the duke.
In short, that young nobleman behaved with such
generosity, and displayed so noble a spirit through
out the whole of this business, that Mr. Hamilton
and Lord Ellincourt joined their eloquence to that
of the two ladies Ellincourt, to persuade Fanny to
accept his offered hand.
_ It was difficult to resist such special pleaders, par
ticularly as she felt a still more powerful advocate
for his cause within her own bosom.
Fanny therefore yielded to the persuasions of her
friends, and gave a conditional promise to marry the
duke, provided her mother approved of the match.
The duke was all love, gratitude and rapture: and
in consideration of this arrangement, it was agreed
that Mr. Hamilton should drop his claim to the Al
bemarle title, and suffer the two claims to be united
in the persons of the two lovers.
It was now absolutely necessary to break up the
happy party, and that the gentlemen should go to
London; but the ladies remained with Lady Maria,
who now began to recover her strength, and pro
mised herself the consolation of visiting her poor
husband, now Lord Ballafyn, in his mournful con
It had been proved on the inquest'that had been
taken at the time of Lord Ballafyn’s death, that he
was the aggressor; Colonel Ross’s life was not there
fore endangered by any thing but by his wounds,
which still continued very unfavourable in their ap
pearance, owing to the harrassed state of his mind,
which was now a chaos of remorse, terror, and con
The presence of his lady, who flew to his assistance
as soon as her health permitted her, restored him to
some degree of composure; for her gentle nature
induced her to pronounce themost unequivooal par-

don on the penitent sinner, as far as she was con
Hr. Hamilton soon settled his business in town;
the validity of his marriage was proved beyond a
doubt, by the assistance of Mr. Fortescue, who had
the satisfaction of receiving his favourite mopasses,
as the meed of his testimony.
In regard to Lord Somertown, all proceedings
against him were become unnecessary : Heaven had
anticipated the punishment .designed him, and vi
sited him with a total privation of his mental facul
ties. He lived but a short time after Mr. Hamilton’s
return, and died at last, despised and detested, leav
ing his name covered with the infamy of his long-
concealed actions, which now became known to the
world, filling it at once with horror and detestation
for the monster who had so long encumbered the
Lord Ellincourt and Mr. Hamilton setoff for Ire
land, as soon as the business was settled, to fetch
the amiable and long-suffering Emily; and soon
after her return, the nuptials of her beloved daughter
were to be solemnized with the Duke of Albemarle.
It only now remains for me to add, the happy party
soon after arrived in England, and Fanny had once
more to experience the delightful sensations of press
ing to her bosom her earliest friend, and of receiv
ing the affectionate and joyful embrace of her rever
ed benefactress, Lady Ellincourt, who, as she gazed
on her beloved niece, could not help exclaiming. “
is, indeed, the child of my ill-fated, my noble bro
ther; and I never shall sufficiently accuse myself
of stupid insensibility, for not immediately djsco-
167 a

vering in that face his every features more elegantly
The duke now waited impatiently the arrival of Sir
Everard and Lady Momington, who had written to
'Fanny to say she should expire if she ' 4 was not pre
sent at her marriage.
In the morning the lively Amelia arrived, and
Fanny had now under the same roof every friend she
loved; and the marriage shortly after took place be
tween the duke and the amiable girl.
The grand saloon of Lady Ellincourt’s house was
fitted up for the performance of the ceremony.
Mr. Hamilton taking the hand of his daughter,
moved towards the apartment destined for the per
formance of the sacred ceremony. The duke receiv
ed her from the hands of her father as heaven’s best'
gift, and led her to the altar, where the bishop of
L stood ready to unite them for ever.
Fanny supported herself with a placid dignity,
and firmly answered the solemn impressive questions
addressed to her by the bishop. The ceremony now
concluded, and she gracefully received the congra
tulations of the party, and kissing her hand, as fare
well, was led to the carriage in waiting by the en-'
raptured duke, and they immediately set off to Al
bemarle park. Lord and Lady Ellincourt, Lad}
Mornington, &c., were to follow in two days.
A month soon elapsed, and the happy party re
turned to town in order to be introduced at court. It
was agreed that the three brides, Lady Ellincourt,
Lady Mornington, and our heroine, should be pre
sented the same day. At length the important day
arrived, and never was a more brilliant and crowded
drawing-room, than that which graced the introduc
tion of the youthful, elegant, and blooming Dut
chess of Albemarle to the first court in Europe.
The three ladies were attired alike in Brussels laco
falling over white satin, with a profusion of dia
monds ; feathers and diamonds adorned their heads?

the only difference was, that a ducal coronet of dia
monds encircled the fair open forehead of Fanny. A
buzz of astonishment followed their entrance into the
antechamber; and though the gentlemen allowed the
Ladies Ellincourt and Mornington to be fine women,
but that the dutchess was the superlative degree was
voted nem. con.
_ Her majesty received her with infinite condescen
sion, and honoured her with particular attention, in
timating her hopes of frequently seeing her Grace
of Albemarle adorn, by her presence, the circleof
the drawing-room. Bending with a graceful dignity
Eeculiar to herself, she acknowledged with gratitude
ow much she felt the honour conferred by the con
descension of her sovereign, and after a fewminutes’
conversation she prepared to quit the presence. A
murmur of admiration followed the departure of the
fascinating dutchess, who the gentleman again de
clared would be the prevailing toast for at least three
Though compelled, by the station to which she was
raised, to mingle amongst the fashionable throng,
she despised the glittering vanities she beheld; and
never felt so truly blest as when enjoying the society
of her husband, and a party of select friends, at their
beloved retirement in Hampshire. There they had
spent the honey-moon; and at those seasons when
parliamentary business did not require the presence
of the 'duke in London, they delighted to sojourn.
Pemberton Abbey was also a favourite residence.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton took up their abode Ihere. It
was sufficiently large both for the family o tthe El-
lincourts and them to hold possession. The Dowa
ger Lady Ellincourt, as also her daughter, became
tenderly attached to the mother of their sweet Fanny;
and it was the mutual wish of all parties that one roof
should contain them. Lord Ellincourt was the best
of husbands. He loved the amiable Emily with an
affection that virtues bright as hers could not fail to

excite in abreast replete with such transcendant good
ness ; and the afflictions which the mother of her he
had been wont to call his little Fan had undergone,
whilst bearing the hated title of Lady Ballafyn, rais
ed the tear of sympathy in his susceptible bosom.
The Duke of Albemarle was a model for his sex to
follow; he was a stranger to the ways of dissipation.
Till he was so inexpressibly happy as to become the
accidental means of saving his adored from the fall
she would have otherwise sustained, the passion of
love was a guest with whom he was unacquainted.
The fascinations of the fair had never possessed pow
er to alter the happy system of his disposition ; the
name of seduction was odious to his ear; and when
he heard of plans laid to betray defenceless innocence,
he invariably expressed himself with detestation to
wards their perpetrators.
His grace had early learnt to penetrate the thick
veil of dissimulation worn by his dissolute compa
nions ; and his native good sense instructed him to de
spise the arts they adopted to accomplish their de
signs. His friend Lord Ellincourt was not quite so
deep a philosopher.. Before his marriage with the
enchanting Emily, his principles were not so strict
as they should have been: yet never did he devise
projects for the destruction of virtue. After the union
of Lord Ellincourt with the attractive MissBarlowe,
his thoughts never centred for a moment in any other
woman ; he considered her the mirror of female ex
cellence, and began to view with utter contempt the
life he had led, till introduced by providence to her
society. One day, when holding a conversation with
the Duke of Albemarle on this subject, he thus ex
pressed himself: “ Oh, how blest is the condition of
matrimony 1 I need not describe to your grace the
delights that it produces, as you are yourself so well
acquainted with them; but had mortals an insight
into half the joys that heavenly state unfolds, how few
would pass their days in a routine of nothingness^

enter into erimnal engagements with the most worth
less of the Bex, and disdain the possession of one de
serving fair, whose perfections reach beyond a cap
tivating exterior, and whose beauties are of such a
a nature as will last to the end of time.” “Would
that your observation was just, my dear fellow,” re
plied the duke; “ but I am very much afraid, from
the manners of the beau monde, that sentiments such
as yours, and such as I trust are mine, are nearly
obsolete. Nothing seems to afford pleasure in this
luxurious age but extravagance and intrigue: mora
lity is discarded from the assemblies of the great, and
voluptuousness takes the lead in place of sober re
flection. As to love, it appears, to be Jbanished from
the breasts of the masculine gender; in women that
sensation is more predominant than ever; but we
only affect to love, whereas in them there is no de
ceit ; they yield to us all that can make them valuable,
and we in return hate them for consenting to our de
sires. / Marriage, that presents to us a prospect so
agreeable, is treated with derision by the rakes of
London. Oft am I compelled to listen to the abomi
nable discourses of these modern hell-houses; and
numberless are the disputes into which I have been
drawn for persisting in maintaining my own opinions
which I glory in, acknowledging they are widely op
posite from those asserted by the profane wretches in
This discourse was held at Pemberton abbey, where
the duke and dutchess were on avisit; they had been
married two months, but were still overwhelmed with
compliments on the blissful occasion. The lovely
Fanny, though tenderly attached to the Ellincourts,
had yet another reason for wishing to spend much of
her time there ; it was the residence of her parents ;
those parents whom, till lately, she had never seen ;
whose sorrows she had been unacquainted with; of
whose existence she had even entertained a doubt.
“ We shall have.a party to-day,” said Lady Ellin-

court to Fanny, “ as you, my love, leave us next
week. We expect Lord and Lady Mountmorris,
Lord and Lady Newcombe, Sir Richard and Lady
Palmer, and half a hundred fashionables besides.
Your poor dear mother has been so shut up in that
odious castle in Ireland, that the world is quite new
to her. She seldom saw the face of a living creature
while she was distinguished as Lady Ballafyn ; she
never saw his lordship except at those periods when
he was pleased to lay additional restrictions on his
unhappy victim: even the servants were denied ac
cess to her apartments, exclusive of those who / were
under his appointment; ‘ but her sorrows are past,
and her joys are yet to come.’ ” “ Ah !” sighed our
heroine, “but how many of those years, that ought
to have been devoted to love and felicity, have been
sacrificed to the villainy of that monster 1” “Too
true,” replied Lady Ellincourt; “ yet as time can
not be recalled, we must strive to banish these melan
choly reflections, and only contemplate on future
prospects of prosperity.” To this remark her grace
assented, and now hastened to hold some private con
versation with Mrs. Hamilton. When she announ
ced that visitors were coming, that lady turned pale.
“ Alas!” said she, “ I know not how I shall support
the presence of company. I have lived so long in a
state of seclusion, that I am scarcely fit to appear
before a fashionable assemblage : you, my daughter,
will grace the table.” “ But do not weep, my dear
est mother,” cried Fanny, folding her arms about
her in a tender embrace. “ Grief is fled, and bliss
shall henceforth reign within these walls. You would
grace anysociety. The friends of Lady Ellincourt
are acquainted with the trials you have undergone ;
they will not therefore expect to see a gay and giddy
woman, delighting in vain nobility, and a stranger to
rational amusements: your sorrows must have al
ready engaged their esteem, and when they have seen
you, they will doubtless become prejudiced in your

favour.” “ You are very compassionate to my feel
ings, my child,” replied Mrs. Hamilton ; “ but I fear
that instead of having engaged the esteem of the
friends of my worthy aunt, they have imbibed an un
favourable opinion of me, as Lord Ballafyn took care
to spread every where the report of my infidelity,
and to represent my character to the world as tainted
with every vice.” “ Oh, let not that consideration
distress you,” answered Fanny: “Lord Ballafyn
was known to be a wretch, and regarded as such by
every class of beings; therefore his calumnies were
listened to with abhorrence, and disbelieved as of
ten as they were uttered.” This suggestion seemed
to infuse comfort into the breast of Mrs. Hamilton.
She admittedits possibility, but doubted its proba
bility ; and kissing the cheek of her daughter, “ Thou
art a powerful consoler,” said she; “ thy words would
almost persuade me that matters are as thou hast
taught thyself to wish. However, I will trust in that
God before whom I have asserted my innocence, and
who is acquainted with the purity of my soul: to
him I have confided my every care, ana in him I
will rely for future succour. The triumph of my
enemies has ceased, they can no longer exult over
my misfortunes: they are, I trust, forgiven, and at
rest.” Mrs. Hamilton here wept, and Fanny min
gled her tears with hers. By degrees she regained
a small portion of composure. “I will,” said she,
“join the company, ana assume as cheerful an aspect
as I am capable of. If I show an unwillingness to
appear, they will interpret my behaviour into some
thing very different from the truth; and virtue never
endeavours to wear the face of vice, though vice fre
quently adopts that of virtue.” With this observa
tion, the dutchess quitted the apartment, and went
to prepare herself for the coming of the visitors.

At length the gay party arrived. The court-yard was
thronged with carriages, and Pemberton Abbey be
came a scene of noise and bustle—a picture totally
the reverse of what it usually was ; for the Dowager
Lady Ellincourt was a woman that ever loved retire
ment, though her situation had obliged her to join
the great world, and participate in what were termed
the pleasures of the day. It is necessary we should
give a faint insight into the characters of the persons
invited on this occasion. ,
Lord Mountmorris was about fifty; he still retain
ed a commanding air, and expressive countenance :
his mind was truly noble, and his disposition such as
few can boast. He was married, unfortunately mar
ried, to one of the vilest termagants that ever existed.
She was scarcely eighteen, ana beautiful as an angel.
She had imposed on the best of men by an outward
appearance of goodness, and too effectually secured
him for her prey. They had.been united but six
months, and reason already had he to curse the day
that made him a slave to her fascinations. He had
known Lady Ellincourt many years, and had been
the sincere friend of her husband ; she was the only
person that he could venture to advise with, or to
unbosom his grief to.
When, in the fulness of his joy, he informed her
that he waS going to lead to the altar his amiable
and adored Miss Rivers, she said, “ Mountmorris, I
wish you truly happy, but I am afraid you will be
miserable.” She had heard of the gaiety and dissi
pation of Miss Rivers, and she was too disinterested

to flatter with hopes of bliss, where she thought the
cloud of wretchedness was impending. She was con
cerned for his lordship, and he was almost angry
with Lady Ellincourt for suggesting an idea, how
ever remote, that might in the least prejudice him
against his intended bride. Too soon, however, he
found she was right: he had been deceived. She
had an intriguing spirit; in short, to number her
vices, would occupy a larger space than the limits
of this chapter will allow. Wnen he imparted his
sorrows to the benevolent Lady Ellincourt, she com
miserated them with feelings of anguish, such as
greatness, dignified as hers, could not fail to have,
for the friend she esteemed. She felt for his afflic
tion ; but wishing to preserve his acquaintance, she
was obliged to be on terms of civility with his lady,
though in her heart she despised her. They were
often invited to Pemberton Abbey, and as often the
conduct of Lady M. created increased disgust in the
breast of Lady Ellincourt. We hastily pass on to
the other guests. ,
Lord Newcomb was what is called a man of the
world: he was a first-rate jockey, and a famous hun
ter. He had married on the common fashionable
views of interest, and as he neither cared for his lady,
nor she for him, they were very well matched; little
therefore can be said of them.
Sir Richard Palmer was an avowed libertine, and a
hard drin ker, consequently a tyrant of a husband. La
dy Palmer was the most amiable ofwomen. Sir Rich
ard was likewise whatis called a freethinker, in plain
words, an Atheist. He did not hesitate to profane
the most sacred writings. Whenever the subject oi
religion was started, he suffered his wit to flow at the
expense of hazarding an eternal forfeiture of God’s
favour. It may appear singular that such a charac
ter should have been encouraged as a visitor at the
table of Lady Ellincourt; b\it it was the love she bore
to Lady Palmer, while bearing the name of Miss

282 I'ATIIEBI/ESS fanny: OB,
Hargrave, that induced her to keep up an intercourse
with a wretch so abandoned as Sir Richard. Of the
remainder of the visitors, few observations can be
Sir Anthony Dale was a gentleman of Philosophic
genius and deep reflection. He was a bachelor, not
because his person was disagreeable, or his manners
forbidding ; for neither was the case. He had every
requisite that could please the other sex, but he had
no heart to bestow. He was so much attached to his
schemes of speculation, that he had always fancied a
wife would be an encumbrance, and therefore deter
mined to live free. He possessed such traits of good
ness as ever recommended him to the society of the
wise. Where he was known, he was esteemed and
beloved. Refined from the company he kept, and
the studies he was engaged in, to women Tie was
always polite, never gallant—he was generous without
ostentation, and brave without being a warrior.
The next in our list was Captain Townsend. He
had distinguished himself in his military career, and
was certainly a brave officer, and he was always ex
tolling the courage of the general under whom he
served. *
The last we shall speak of in this place is Dr
Woodward, the minister of the parish, who, I must
not. omit stating, conferred honour on his cloth. He
was religious without being a bigot. His ideas were
not confined, as are those of many of the clergy.
True religion never has the effect of making people
dull; it, on the contrary, infuses cheerfulness in
every breast. It is only false professors that are ren
dered phlegmatic and miserable by what they mis
interpret into piety, but what is in reality hypocrisy.
He was universally respected by his poor parishion
ers—would that I could add, by his rich ones; but
as he devoted half his income to acts of charity, the
very means that raised him in the opinion of the for
mer, lowered him in that o'f the latter; at least, though

they were obliged to acknowledge his claim to esteem
they hated him with an inveterate rancour. They
had thousands, and refused to spare a small portion
to alleviate the distresses of their fellow-creatures ;
they could not, therefore, bear the reflection, that
Dr. Woodward, with a third part of their fortunes,
should spend it in such nobler pursuits. Conscience
reproached them, as it will do at every error we com
mit: however we may strive to banish that unwel
come guest, it sticks close, and never quits us We
must now drop these subjects, and convey the reader
to the table of Lady Ellincourt, where the visitors
were now assembled.
When the Dutchess of Albemarle entered the
room, she was of course greeted with unanimous ap
plause ; every tongue congratulated her on her au
spicious nuptials. She returned their salutations
with becoming dignity and ease. “ Give me leave,”
said Lady Mountmorris, in her usual affected style,
“ to wish your grace many years of uninterrupted
happiness.” “ I am obliged to your ladyship,” an
swered the dutchess, “ nor do I despair of the felicity
you so kindly invoke.” Fanny was struck with the
surprising beauty of this lady, yet there was some
thing in her aspect so expressive of the vixen, that it
was impossible for her charms to make that impres
sion as if they had been tempered with a look of mo
desty and innocence.
When Mrs. Hamilton appeared, she was received
by some of the guests with respect and courtesy, by
others with civility and distant hauteur; a few, per
haps, maintained the former behaviour from her
being the mother of the dutchess, and a few from very
different motives. Lord Mountmorris, Sir Anthony
Dale, and the excellent Dr. Woodward, knew her
worth, and could feel for injured virtue. Lady M.
preserved a coolness in her deportment, and conver
sed with Mrs. Hamilton as little as possible; but
Lady Palmer paid her particular attention ; she had

herself experienced unhappiness, whjch made her
mote inclined to compassionate others.
During dinner, the conversation turned on the
usual fashionable topics. Lord Newcomb began a
dissertation on his favourite theme, horse-racing.
“ I vow and protest,” said he, “ that only last week
I won a thousand guineas by the dexterity of Sir
Nicholas Blanchard, as fine and as fleet an animal
as ever trod the turf. Am I not a luckj 7 dog?” “I
think you are,” returned Sir Richard. “If it is
not an impertinent question,” said Dr. Woodward,
“ may I ask whether your lordship appropriated part
of that sum to the benefit of the poor?” His lord
ship started at this query, as if he had been struck
with a flash of lightning. “ Why', no,” at length he
replied; “ I can always find uses for my money.”
“ I do not doubt it, my lord; but you cannot find a
more eligible use, than in contributing to the com
forts of the necessitous: the approbation of your own
heart, and the blessings of tne poor, will always at
tend you, for acting so agreeably to its dictates.”
“PshawI” answered Lord Newcomb, “I don’t
like moralizing.” The worthy minister would of
course have said no more, but Sir Richard Palmer
proceeded—“ Self-approbation, Sir, I scarcely know
what it means.” “ Consult your conscience, Sir
Richard, when you have done a worthy or benevolent
action, and that will best inform you.” A sarcastic
smile was his reply. “There are some people, I be
lieve,” cried the blunt Sir Anthony Dale, that never
partake of the enjoyment self-approbation affords:
they scorn to do a deed of justice, much less of cha
rity : therefore it is not to be wondered at that they
are ignorant of the term.” Sir Richard looked
haughtily at Sir Anthony as he concluded this re
mark, but the latter was too much the philosopher to
notice or to care for his disesteem. “ I thmk we
should vary this subject,” said Lady Mountmorris;
it grows tedious.” The expressive glance of her

eyes, as she spoke, did not escape the'notice of Sir
.Richard; and as those of the company were directed
another way, he had an opportunity oi returning the
sense they conveyed : they both pretty well under
stood each other.
Sir Anthony did not pursue the discourse, and it
• soon changed. His conversation was chiefly direct
ed to Lord Mountmorris and Dr. Woodward : those
three gentlemen seemed mutually^ pleased with each
other. Sir Richard Palmer at intervals surveyed
the Doctor with looks of mingled contempt and dis
like. His being a clergyman was enough to make
him hated by a man of his dissolute principles. Had
he been at any other table than Lady Ellincourt’s
he would probably have shook off the mask of out
ward decorum, and vowed openly to insult the worthy
divine ; but in her presence, and before such distin
guished characters as she entertained, he was obliged
to preserve an air of respect.
Earl Vincent was a nobleman remarkable for boast
ing of his genealogy. At every assembly he regu
larly presented the company with an account of his
pedigree. He was descended from a branch of the
Northumberlands, and could trace back his family
to several generations. He was upwards of eighty,
but as vain of his nobility as a youth just acquainted
with his pedigree.
This gentleman conversed with much freedom; and
if he had said less of himself, his society would have
been more agreeable.
Lady Mountmorris looked and behaved as if she
believed herself the superior 'of every body ; and
' whatever subject was started by her lord^she point
edly expressed herself averse to, and introduced
something else. But when Sir Richard Palmer spoke,
she listened with evident avidity, and joined in his
opinion. Had he been less a libertine, he could
scarcely have resisted such conduct as she display
ed ; as it was, he marked her for an easy bait. A

286 fatherless fanny : oa,
single view of Lady Mountmorris would have inform
ed any person of the smallest penetration, that little
persuasion was necessary to accomplish her ruin.
There was no danger, however, of Sir Richard de
priving her of her reputation, as it had long been
sacrificed. She was also so imprudent as to speak
with scorn of people in years, though Lord Mount
morris was past the prime of life, and several others
were present who were considerably advanced. This
was not merely an essential breach of politeness, but
it clearly evinced that her ladyship was divested of
those natural feelings of humanity and decency which
every age and sex should cherish.
The dinner being ended, the ladies retired, and the
gentlemen were left more at liberty to indulge them
selves. But women, lovely women, being absent,
their party soon became dull; and upon the sugges
tion of Lord Ellincourt, they joined the ladies, in the
drawing-room, and music, both vocal and instrumen
tal, began to engage the attention of the party.
Lady Mountmorris was requested to play a tune,
and accompany it with her voice. She immediately
declined it, stating as an excuse, that her nerves were
affected. “ Do, my dear Charlotte,” said Lord
Mountmorris, “ oblige the company with one tune.
I am sure your compliance will give them inexpres
sible satisfaction.” “ Indeed, my lord, I am not well,
and singing is a great fatigue.” He looked displeas
ed and disappointed, though, alas ! this circumstance
was not new, as she invariably thwarted his wishes.
At this moment Sir Richard Palmer rose up, and
said, “You cannot conceive, madam, the distress
into which your refusal has thrown us all. My
lord,” turning to her husband, “ you must persuade
her to yield to our entreaties.” “ Lady Mountmor.
ris must pursue her inclinations,” said his lordship,
gravely. Sir Richard, however, would not let the
subject drop, and at his repeated solicitations the
lady consented to what she had disdained when re-

quested by others of the party. This event was na
turally calculated to inspire Lord Mountmorris and
the innocent Lady Palmer with jealousy, though that
was a passion they never encouraged; but when er
rors so palpable are committed in the presence of
the injured, it is impossible for them to be blind.
The preference of Lady Mountmorris to Sir Richard
was already obvious, though they had never met till
this occasion, and the guilty pair were preparing to
inflict fresh daggers in the hearts of the most deserv
ing of their sex. Their behaviour was remarked by
every one; and all whose breasts were not steeled to
compassion, commiserated the amiable -victims of
depraved libertinism.
The day was spent in the manner that has been
described, and in the evening cards were introduced.
Our wise philosopher and the pious Dr. Woodward,
chose to converse, instead of joining in the games.
Lord Ellincourt played very deep ; he had not yet
conquered his love of gambling. The Duke of Al
bemarle took one turn at chess, and then joined Sir
Anthony; he was no friend to play. Lady Mount
morris asked Lady Palmer if she would play with
her at cribbage; that lady refused. She waslabour- .
ing under great mental uneasiness, and her attach
ment to cards was not strong enough to afford any
solace to her cares. Neither did the fanciful smile
of Lady Mountmorris, when putting the question,
weaken the indifferent opinion she hadformed of her
goodness. “ I have a rival,” inwardly sighed she;.
“ this fascinating female has alienated the slight re
mains of affection which my husband entertained foi
me. Oh that he had not been invited to this man
sion ! Lady Mountmorris pretended to be chagrined,
but in reality was rejoiced, as it gave her an excuse
for joining in a game with Sir Richard, who gallant-
ly made her the offer. The brow of Lord Mount
morris was clouded; be walked to the window in or
der to conceal his disorder. At length, finding an

opportunity of speaking privately to the Dowager
Lady Ellincourt, he unburthened his griefs to her in
a few words. “Oh, madam,” said he, “I am dis
tracted. I must sue for a separation from Lady
Mountmorris; I cannot exist in the manner I do
and his eyes swam with tears. “ I pity you,” said
the Dowager Lady Ellincourt, “ truly pity you :
but how is it possible for me to advise you ? I would
comfort you if I could.” He grasped, her hand,
thanked her for her kindness, but still begged her to
explain what she •would do if she was situated as he
was. “ I cannot tell,” replied her ladyship ; “it is
difficult to decide upon the question: butletmesee
you again shortly,, when I am free from intruders,
and we will talk upon the subject, though it is a pain
ful one, that I could wish might be for ever banished.
Oh, Mountmorris, wouldst that thou hadst never
married!” “Would so indeed,” he cried: “ I had
escaped the worst of evils. If I had not been ensnar
ed by beauty, and a vain show of accomplishments,
I had not been the miserable wretch you now behold
me.” But the deed is past, irrevocably past: the
priest hath joined our hands, and happiness and I
are for ever divided.” Lady Ellincourt was much
affected at the solemnity of his countenance, and
the grief that was pourtrayed in every lineament of
his still handsome face. The majesty of his air, and
dignity of his deportment, added to the impression
his sufferings made in the breast of Lady Ellincourt.
She could only sympathise in his affliction—only
did I say ? Is it not the greatest consolation to a
wounded heart, that a fellow mortal participates in
its sorrows ? If we cannot dispel the load of anxiety,
we may at least soften its heavy weight, and render
it more supportable.
They now returned to the company, Lord Mount
morris having promised to wait upon her ladyship
the next morning. Some of the gentlemen had re
tired to the billiard-room, but Sir .Richard was still

playing at cribbage with Lady Mountmorris. “We
must prepare to depart, madam,” said he, “thenight,
is far advanced,” casting a stem glance at Sir Rich
ard. “You are a hurrying creature,” said her lady
ship. Perceiving Lady Palmer, however, as if wish
ing to speak to her husband, she arose and moved to
wards her lord. “ It is distressing,” she resumed,
“to leavethoseworthy friends. Ihavebeen so happy
here, that I should like to become a resident at Pem
berton Abbey.” Sir Richard answered, “ Your de-
Earture, madam, will be sensibly regretted by us all.”
iord Mountmorris was pressed to lengthen hisstay,
but he refused: and he and his lady departed ; the
former with the esteem and commiseration of the
whole party, the latter with united detestation. Sir
Richard next ordered his carriage to the door. Lady
Palmer and Mrs. Hamilton took a very pathetic
leave, though upon so slender an acquaintance;
they seemed to own each other as kindred souls, and
to have contracted an indissoluble friendship. The
dutchess of Albemarle likewise fell the sincerest
compassion for this unfortunate lady, who, she
was lully convinced, was miserable with Sir Richard.
The rest of the visitors soon dispersed, and the
peaceful inhabitants of Pemberton Abbey were once
more left to the quiet possession of their beloved
The next morning the conversation turned, as may
be imagined, on the various charactcrs of the late
quests. They all joined in execrating that of Sir
Richard Palmer, and the worthless Lady Mount
morris. The Dutchess of Albemarle loudly exclaim
ed against the conduct of the latter, givinc it as her

opinion that women who acted so were the seducers,
instead of the seduced. The duke acquiesced in the
observation. Mr. Hamilton remarked that the lady’s
face was not unknown to him: he had seen her at
public places while Miss Rivers, and was sure she
was reckoned a woman of intrigue. “ So young,”
exclaimed Lady Emily, “ and yet so artful.” “Her
youth and beauty,” said Lord Ellincourt, “rendered
her schemes doubly certain of success. She wished
not to retrieve her character, for that she knew was
unattainable. But she had too great a knowledge
of the world, not to foresee, that as Lady Mount-
morris, if she disgraced her husband and herself
twenty times a day, she would be caressed as the
most perfect of her sex; but as Miss Rivers, if she
made one delation, her reputation was blasted for
ever.” “ True, too true,” answered the duke : “if
a young female derogates in the least from the
paths of virtue, though ten thousand reasons may be
brought forward to extenuate her fault, who is single
and perhaps unprotected, she is condemned at once,
declared an abandoned creature, and excluded from
the society of the fashionable. Virtuous they term
themselves; but let her be a married woman, and of
any consequence, her frailties will be unheeded, and
herself regarded as the mirror of excellence. I
know this to be a fact, as I have lived a sufficient
period to comment on the manners of the great, and
in my researches I have found daily occasion to con
firm, instead of altering my opinion. Lady Mount-
morris, I dare say, is received every where with ap
plause, and her errors are effaced in the bright at
tractions of a lovely exterior: this proves that per
sons are valued according to their rank, not merit.”
“It does indeed,” replied the dowager Lady E.
“ and I will appeal to the truth of your assertions,
as circumstances very similar in their nature to
those attendant on the case of Lady M. have come
under my own ocular demonstration.

She then acquainted them with his lordship’s pri- .
vate conversation with her, and the affliction that was
pictured in his expressive countenance. When she
mentioned his determination to gain a divorce, “ I
hope,” said the duke, “ he will embrace that measure
speedily. If he delays, she will probably have ob
tained a separation by a more dishonourable method, .
and his grief will then be stronger; but if they part
by consent, before she inflicts further disgrace on
herself and him, though her dishonour will be equal,
the shame will rest less on his name, than if she elo
ped while still with her husband.” “ I expect a visit
from Lord M. this morning,” resumed her ladyship;
“ he has requested my advice, though, alas ! I am
incapable of offering any; but I have long known
him, and he seems to derive a melancholy satisfac
tion from being condoled with in his misfortunes.”
Mrs. Hamilton spoke in high terms of admiration
of the amiable Lady Palmer, lamenting that she was
not united to an object who would prize her worth as
it deserved. “ I thought,” observed the dutchess,
“ the moment I beheld Sir .Richard, that he was a
wretch: his looks betokened the villain. He is
handsome, and may be reckoned agreeable; but
there is an appearance of depravity in his air that
rendered him forbidding in my eyes at a single
glance; and when I perceived him inattentive and
negligent to his beautiful wife, I was then convinced
ef what I had before suspected.” “ Her charms,”
said the Duke, “ are of a very different nature from
Lady M’s; the latter is, I dare say, called the most
attracting, because simplicity and innocence are no
longer fashionable; but I think Lady Palmer far
the most desirable.”
A servant now entered to acquaint Lady Ellincourt
that Lord Mountmorris was arrived. She immedi
ately rose, and descended to a small parlour, where
his lordship was waiting. When she entered, she
was struck with the deep dejection of his counte-

nance, and the almost fearful wildness of his eyes,
He advanced to meet her, but seemed unable to an
swer a word. She entreated him to sit down, and en
deavour to compose hi ms elf. “ Compose ?” said he,
at length, “ yes, I "hope I shall soon be composed:
they say that peace is in the grave, and I am fast
hastening thitner.” “Perhaps peace may yet be
reserved for you on earth,” replied Lady Ellincourt.*
He shook his head. “Never,” answered he^ “ tran
quillity and I have taken farewell."
After a lapse of some minutes he proceeded. “I
come, madam, to ask your advice, yet fear that I
may be unable to take it. I have expostulated
warmly with Lady M. on the impropriety of her
conduct, and have insisted upon having an explana
tion of her behaviour: she refuses to assign any rea
son for her indifference, but hints at the disparity of
our years. ‘You had eyes, and chose me, madam/
I returned. * No, ray lord,’ said she, ‘I was your
choice : but you are the last object I should have
selected, had I been left to my own free will.’ I
started at this remark. Your own free will!’ I
. cried, ‘ I do not understand you: you were under
no control that ever I heard. Your parents had
long been consigned to the silent tomb, and your
fortune was independent of every one ; how, there
fore, could you be constrained to marry me V She
i looked confused, and was silent. I requested an
answer. ‘What means this lecture, my lord?’ im
periously she exclaimed. ' I am sure repent
your bargain, I do as heartily.’ ‘I do indeed re-
{>ent it,’ said I; ‘for your sake and my own, sincere-
y I repent it.’ ‘ For my sake,’ she contemptuous
ly answered. ‘ Yes, madam, for your sake ; our un
happy union has been productive of wretchedness
to us both.’ ‘ Have I not been the best of wives V
she continued. ‘ Is there any thing’ that your lord
ship can lay to my charge V As I did not instantly
Teply, she went on, ‘ As you, my lord, have insisted

upon an explanation of my conduct, I in return
must insist upon knowing of what I am accused. I
will .never seek to justify myself till acquainted with
my fault.’
‘“This candour,’ said I, ‘pleases me. If you
would hold an argument upon subjects, we should
have fewer disputes : I will be equally generous with
you. I do not accuse you of faults, but follies : I
allow for the little gaieties of youth : it is not to be
supposed that eighteen will conform to the caprices
of fifty. Yet where a man has loved with the passion
ate ardour that I have, (have did I say? Oh; Char
lotte, I would love you still,)—where he has resigned
himself to your charms, and disdained your sex for
you alone,—surely such an affection demanded a re
turn. You must acknowledge that your behaviour
yesterday was imprudent to a degree ; you discovered
no deference to my opinions, you despised my at
tentions ; and forgive me if I declare, that your too
visible partiality for Sir Richard Palmer excited
jealousy in my breast. My apprehensions, I hope,
were groundles, but yourself gave rise to them.’ I
paused. ‘ Sir Richard Palmer,’ said she, ‘ a mar
ried man—is it possible, my lord, you can harbour
suspicions so injurious to his honour and my repu
tation?’ ‘ His "honour, madam, has long been for
feited ; yours, I trust, will ever remain unsullied.’
‘And yet you are trying to asperse it,’ she uttered
in a sarcastic tone. ‘ No,’ said I, * I am wishing to
clear it from aspersion ; but the world will make their
comments. And I fear your absurdity, to give it no
harsher term, has exposed you to its severest cen
sure.’ ‘ I do not care ; I defy the tongue of slander
I am justified in my own eyes, and it is of little con
sequence what the world dares to think or say of me,’
replied she.
“ This arrogance increased my ire to an amazing
height. I confess, I never was so enraged before.
But consider, dear madam, the provocation I re-

ceived, and whether it was in the nature of man to
preserve his temper amidst such degrading treat
ment.” “I am only surprised,” said Lady Ellin-
court, “ that you preserved it so,long.” He resumed
—“ X started up, inflamed with anger, and exclaim
ing, ‘ It is well, madam: I shall now take the ne
cessary measures.’ I was about to leave the room,
but she prevented me. 1 Stay, my lord,’ she said,
‘ you are too hasty.’ ‘ Of what avail is it,” an
swered I, ‘for me to stay? you are indifferent as to
my estimation, and regardless of your fame, there
fore it is requisite for the happiness of both parties
that a separation should immediately take place.’
She looked amazed. ‘ Why this perplexity?’ said
I, ‘you neither love nor esteem me. I would not de
sire the former sentiment, unaccompanied by the
latter; for which reason, as you have rendered your
self unworthy of my esteem, I must for ever cease to
love you. I shall always pray for your felicity ; but
from this day we are disunited.’ She seemed a little
affected. I nadnever seen her evince any appearance
of feeing till this moment—it almost unmanned my
resolution; but recovering myself, I was again retir
ing from the apartment, when turning my head, I per
ceived she was as pale as death, and as if fainting.
So moving a sight quickly disarmed myresentment;
I flew to her, took her hand, and placing her in a
chair, held volatile liniments to her nose. She was
apparently insensible of my solicitude. I called her
by the most endearing appellations. At length she
pretended to revive, I say pretended, madam, as
you will presently be informed of the deception
she had practised. She cast her languid eyes upon
me. ‘ I thought you had forsaken me,’ said she.
* And would it give you concern ?’ I cried. She an
swered in the affirmative. I cannot describe the
contending passions that assailed my breast at this
declaration; I pressed her hand to my lips, and
vowed that she was still most dear to my soul. ‘ Ob

Mountmorris,* she sighed,' I own that I have done
wrong; that I am very, Very reprehensible.’ 1
caught the delightful sounds, and enraptured, clasp
ed her to my'bosom, pronouncing her the joy and
solace of my future life. This moment was, to me,
one of the happiest I had ever experienced. I felt
a renewal of the sweet sensations that had occupied
my heart on the day that yielded her to my arms ;
but transitory was the bliss : her perfidy was dis
covered by a most singular circumstance. A little
box, which in her alarm she had neglected properly
to secure, dropped from her person, and revealed to
me her base dissimulation; its contents where white
paint, a small portion of which she had dexterously
spread upon her cheeks, which entirely faded her
complexion, and gave her a most death-like aspect.
She had easily contrived to adopt this expedient, to
excite my commiseration, when I rose, intending to
quit the room; and she then affected to swoon away,
as already stated. At this proof of her deceptions, I
could not contain my fury within any bounds, save
those of personal vengeance. I did not attempt any
injury to her, but withdrawing her from my fond em
brace, I vehemently protested that she was the vilest
of her sex, and that I must have been a madman to
have been duped by her insidious wiles ; and with
out waiting for a reply, I darted from the apartment
and the house ; when I instantly hastened hither to
communicate my sorrows to your ladyship, andcon-
Bult with you how I ought to proceed.’*
Lord Mountmorris here stopped, and a flood of
tears came to his relief. Lady Ellincourt did not
interrupt them; she was sensible that their influence
■was most salutary to a mind opprest as his. He
wept a considerable time, and then raising his de
spondent eyes to those of her ladyship, implored her
to direct him howto act. My dear friend,” mourn
fully replied she, “ to abide by my directions, were,
perhaps, to be farther rendered miserable. I, aweak

woman, am inadequate to the task of offering advice;
yet as you so earnestly request my opinion, I wih
give that, without presuming to advise. I hope, for
your sake, that the honour of Lady M. has not yet
been sacrificed j but I fear that she is determined on
destruction, and will shortly become the victim of
dissipation. Would you be separated from her in a
legal way, you will immediately pursue the necessary
methods for that purpose ; yet be not swayed by any
thing I say. I have esteemed you, Mountmorris,
when in prosperity; I doubly respect you in adver
sity ; and gneved am I that you should have made
so unworthy a choice: but, alas, it is difficult to dis
cern the merits of one whom we design as a partner
through life.
“During the period of courtship both men and
woman conceal their evil propensities; and if they
have iany virtuous ones, display them: if not, they
falsely assume the appearance of some: and if they
have any skill at all, they find it but too easy to de
ceive their vassalled slaves, till at last the noose is
drawn, the veil is thrown aside, and too often repent
ance treads close upon the heels of matrimony.”
“You have read the book, of the world, madam,”
said his lordship ; “ your sentiments are too just. I
have proved it in myself. I had not been united two
days before I had reason to repent, though I was a
victim to such beauty; and it was long before I
could persuade myselfl could be otherwise than hap
py with a creature so divinely fair. But oh! mistaken
wretch that I was, to imagine that external qualifica
tions could constitute the felicity of mortals, when un
allied to goodness. Her charms, blooming as they
were,800n losttheir'power ofpleasing. She sought not
to please. Wraptup in fatal security, she blindly fan
cied that the heartwhich had once been hers must ever
remain m her possession, let her conduct be what it
would. She was not deceived in thinking I loved
her, madam; I did, with an ardour almost un-

the little mendicant . 297
•equalled. I believed her the peerless daughter of the
graces; and when I pressed my suit, so far from
starting an objection to my years, she seemed not to
consider it as one, but to surrender me her affections
entire: it is the more cruel, therefore, to allude to
that circumstance now. She has nearly alienated
every particle of that tenderness which once reigned
in this constant heart; I will not say utterly, as the
recent proof I have given of a remains of attachment,
evinces that I have not wholly conquered my former
love; but I will endeavour to banish past impres
sions, and with them the object who occasioned them.
I will return to Lady M., and strive to gain her con
sent to a lawful divorce. I do not wish to dispute
with her, nor to cause her any uneasiness ; her for
tune is ample, it is hers, and I shall settle an ad
ditional annuity upon her.” After some farther con
versation, Lord Mountmorris departed, having de
termined with Lady Ellincourt to commence a judi
cial process, respecting the affair in question. “ It
Lady M. refuses her compliance, I must proceed
without obtaining it," said he ; “ but I would rather
she would give her sanction to the measure.” She
begged to hear from him shortly, and with a melan
choly mien he took his leave.
"When Lady Ellincourt returned to the apart
ment, where she had left the family, she entered upon
the subject of her discourse with Lord Mountinor-
ris, and brought tears into the eyes of all present,
by her description of his sorrows, and the remorse
less conduct of his tyrannical lady. “ It is well she
is not my wife,” cried Lord Ellincourt; “ by hea
vens she would soon repent of her tyranny, if she
displayed it to me.” “ Take care how you behave,
Lady Ellincourt," said the Duke of Albemarle;
“you see you have not the tamest of mortals to deal
with.” “ When I act like Lady M.” said Emily,
emiling, “ I shail not expect to meet tameness. I
think it is astonishiug that he can have borne with

her for six months: though that, to speak of, is a
short period, it is a great while to be made miser- y
able.” “ It is, indeed,” replied the Dowager Lady
Ellincourt; “but I believe he is determined to en
dure it no longer. He seems fixed in his resolution
of obtaining a separation, and that speedily.” This
resolve receiving the universal applause of every in
dividual, the parties shortly retired from the break
fast room to perform their usual avocations.
act's of charity.—return to darby house.-
The remainder of the week passed on without any
thing of importance occurring, and early in the fol
lowing one the duke and dutchess took leave of dear
Pemberton Abbey, and its beloved inhabitants. The
parting between our heroine and her amiable mother
was very affecting. The Ellincourts would have
persuaded them to continue longer in their society,
butthey were desirous of returning to Darby House,
Hampshire, where their presence was anxiously ex
pected by the surrounding gentry. They did not,
however, depart without receiving the blessings of
the neighbouring poor, to whom they displayed
many acts of generosity. The dutchess made it a
greater part of her morning's employ to seek into
the distresses of the hapless indigent; and the affa
bility with which she listened to the sad story of
their woes, arid immediately presented them,.like a
beneficent angel, with the assistance they required,
derived her the love and esteem of every virtuous
heart. The duke turned his head to the establish
ment of Public Institutions, but not like some other
persons in a yet higher sphere than the Duke of

t'he little mendicant . 299
Albemarle, who grant their the support
of national charites for the sake of a name, when a
private petition would be rejected with scorn; he pro
moted the welfare of every individual, and never turned
a deaf ear to the voice of complaint As soon as he got
back to his country-seat, he erected an asylum for the
aged, and those who were infirm. When one of this
description applied for relief to him, they were dismis
sed with a guinea, andinformed that there they would
find a refuge, if they were willing to go in .' How
readily and how gratefully they embraced this offer
may be imagined. It is here also necessary to ob
serve, that Lord Ellincourt did many benevolent ac
tions. He was the founder of a building for orphan
children, and likewise for decayed tradesmen who
had been reduced by misfortune to a state of penury.
He was universally respected and adored, and he
was rewarded for the numerous estimable qualities
he possessed by every signal favour that heaven
could bestow. To add to his felicity, his,lady’s ap
pearance was such as to betoken the day not far dis
tant when, to the duties of wife, that of mother would
be added, an event that contributed to the happiness
of both parties. Our lovely Fanny was in the same
hopeful situation. Both looked forward to the pros
pect of future heirs with inexpressible delight. The
duke and dutchess had been settled about two days
in their favouite retreat, when their lively friend
Lady Mornington and her husband arrived, to pay
their promised visit. The meeting' between the
amiable Amelia and her grace was tender and af
fectionate ; they warmly embraced each other, and
a series of congratulations took place. Sir Eve-
rard, "complimented the duke on his miptials, and
his grace in return wished him joy with the fair
creature he had selected for his bride. “ I thank you
heartily,” said Sir Everard, “and glad am I to my
soul that you rejected one another, as I should have
lost an incomparable prize.” “I always adir : rcd

300 fatherless : fanny or ,
Miss Stanhope,” answered the duke, “aud doubt
less, had not my affections been engaged to Fanny,
she would have secured the victory; but for a great
while, as you know, I was induced to believe that
my beloved was actually Miss Stanhope.” “Yes,”
replied Sir Everard, smiling, “ my Amelia acted her
part bravely; she is versed in dissimulation : I shall
always glory in tsr art, however, as to it I am in
debted for the possession of the most invaluable of
Lady Mornington, meanwhile, gave the dutch ess
an account of what she had seen in London, and
how much she had lamented that she was not pre
sent to behold them. “ I have witnessed enougn of
them,my dear,” answered Fanny, “ and do not in
the least regret my absence from riot and noise.”
“You are of a happy disposition,” said Amelia,
“ and I have at periods thought that I was; but I
fear I should soon grow melancholy, if I was to live
entirely out of the world, having been always ac
customed to gay assemblages. When I.pass an an
tiquated abbey or church, rendered desolate by the
impairing hand of time, a sensation of awe seems to
thrill through my bosom. Were I to indulge my
feelings on such occasions, I should be as spiritless
as one of the marble statues they contain. I fly
with avidity from such places, and hasten to
scenes more congenial to my nature ; but your gra
vity, I warrant could endure the idea of spending
iwo or three hours in such solitary spots, and yet be
free from vapours.” “ It could endure not merely
the idea, but the act,” replied Fanny. “ I prefer
surveying the monuments in Westminster Abbey
to.seeing all the plays in England.” “What a bar
barous taste 1” cried her friend, “ I protest I never
heard one of your sex and age make such a declara
tion before.” “ Possibly not, my dear; yet I can
assure you it is the simple truth.” “Well,” said
Lady Mornington, “ when I propose to write a tra-

gedy, I will take example by our wise Shakspearian
bard, who made a point of walking in the dreary
cloisters, that his mind might be turned to horrors
rare. At present I have no such intention. We
have nearly completed the work I informed you we
were employed in, and before we send it to the press
; r ou shall enjoy the gratification of perusing it. I
ong for your opinion on its merits.” Amelia was
only in jest, as she had never designed to write such
a book as she had described, though her imagination
was sufficiently exuberant to have furnished her
with ample powers for the accomplishment of her
undertaking; but her sportive fancy, and.copious
flow of wit, enabled her to play off upon some of her
acquaintances without being detected. Not so with
the Dutchess of Albemarle. She quickly penetra
ted the veil the little hypocrite wore, and affected
not to be deceived.- “ I really thought,” said_ she,
“ from your last letter, that you were becoming a
rational creature.” “ Lord bless you!” exclaimed
Amelia, “ did you suppose I could be completely
rational all in a minute ? No, no, I shall grow so by
degrees to be sure. Such sudden transitions would
inevitably destroy my health.” Our heroine smiled.
She was irresistibly charmed with the conversation
of this sprightly female. Though, sometimes, her
flightiness seemed carried, in her opinion, too far,
yet there was such an innate goodness blended with
her youthful eccentricities, that it was impossible to
help loving and esteeming her. “Oh, I know we
shall not be dull here,” continued her. ladyship :
“this mansion, though it is situated in the country,
is exquisitely beautiful, and the gardens are delight
fully pleasant. I expect great satisfaction from pro
menading them.” The.dutchess now led her friend
into the different apartments, and strove to divert
her by introducing all her curiosities to her notice.
She was in raptures with every thing she saw, and
complimented the taste of the inhabitants of Darby

House in terms of the highest warmth. The library,
in particular, engaged her attention. The order in
which the books were arranged, set them off to in
imitable advantage: they were placed methodically
in rows. The works of sublime and sentimental au
thors composed the greatest part History, ancient,
modern, and natural, was widely diffused throughout
the whole. A few select novels, and some of the
best plays, made up the collection. Lady Morning-
ton was extremely fond of reading, though her im
moderate desire of rambling had prevented her from
resigning herself to so sweet an enjoyment, long
enough to enter fully into the spirit of the writers
she perused. , She had hitherto only skimmed first
into one volume, and then in another; but she in
tended, when tired of seeing the same thing over
again, which she acknowledged might one day be
the case,- to give her mind to nobler attainments.
“ I shall begin the laborious task while I am with
you,” said she, “ and then I shall be able to judge
whether I could pursue it.” “ You will not find it
so difficult as you imagine, I trust,” returned Fan
ny; 1 “ you have a natural love for learning, and you
will find here a choice variety that will both amuse
and improve.” Amelia took hold of one, on the
back of which was beautifully lettered, “ Tasso’s Je
rusalem.” “ It would tempt one to read your books,
Fanny, to look at the elegant bindings.” “ The in
side of that valuable work’is more precious than its
binding,” said the dutchess, with unwonted energy
of expression. “ I have only scanned a page here
and there,” answered Amelia, “and I think the lan
guage very fine ; but what have women to do with
war ? Peace is the female province.” “ True,” said
Lady Albemarle, “ yet women may like to hear of
what they have no concern in. For my part I could
pore over the beauties of this divine author till the
gates of my eyes closed with languor or fatigue, its
fiction is so gloriously energetic, and every line

breathes harmony. I have seldom participated in
the pleasures of metrical composition to so high a.
degree as when meditating on the perfections of this
godlike boob.” “Your praises,” said Lady Mor-
nington, “ have inspired me with a curiosity to go
through the whole. I think I shall indulge it. Re
collect I am at home here; I shall not consider my
self a visitor under the roof with my Fanny.” “ I
should be very sorry if you did,” interrupted the
dutchess: “ I detest formality, and from Lady Mor-
nington it would he insufferable.” “ Sir Everard is
no formalist, I can assure you,” cried Amelia: “he
holds with the observation of the celebrated Lord
Chesterfield, who affirms, ‘that true and dignified
politeness is ease and freedom.’ What is generally
called by that name is merely an affectation of the
term. He was an advocate for the graces, and no
man ever practised them more strenuously ; but as
to a parcel of constrained airs, such as were, and are,
adopted by most of those who are denominated the
fashionable world, he was a professed enemy to
them; and Sir Everard admires all he says. Now I
do not tell you,” she continued, with an arch smile,
“that the poor man is capable of copying the man
ners of Lord Chesterfield ; but I think, if be could
acquire the task, it would be the utmost height of
his j[ambition. He reveres his character, and re
spects his principles; but his understanding—”
“ Hush, my dear Amelia,” hastily exclaimed the
dutchess, “ I will not hear you redicule your hus
band.” “Pshaw,” said Amelia, “you know I am
only in fun; I would die to promote the happiness
of Sir Everard; but I must , have my joke, like Mr.
Pope, though I lose my friend.” “ You have men
tioned a very comfortable way to promote his hap
piness,” answered Fanny; " you had better have re
versed it, and said you would live for ever with that
intent.” “ Oh, I hope I shall not survive Sir Ever
ard ; I could not bear to be a widow.” “ We must

all bear what the Almighty pleases to inflict,” said
Fanny, “ and that with resignation. However, I
trust you will both long be spared to make each other
happy.” The fervour with which these words were
uttered brought tears into the eyes of the suscepti
ble Amelia. Her feelings were strong ; and persons
who are naturally of a lively spirited disposition, are
generally endued with finer, quicker feelings, than
those of a calm, uniform temper. The former are
soon elated, and as soon discouraged; but they never
yield to despair. They act according to the in
fluence of the moment, and experience either the"ex-
tremes of bliss or wretchedness. When reflection
comes to their aid, their native sense directs them to
moderate these extravagant salliesj and they com
monly succeed. But the latter, who are perfectly
lukewarm, live and die without partaking of the
pleasures that attend either love or friendship : they
are seldom overjoyed with the gifts of fortune, but too
often suffer their spirits tobe totally depressed. When
the fickle goddess disdains to smile upon them, the
former may be violent, but soon.the storm of grief
blows over, and hope begins to dawn : the latter en
courage not the bright sensation, but give themselves
up to a fatal despondency, and are very frequently
the people who are urged by their melancholy habit
to a deed of desperation. The reason is obvious.
They ruminate on nothing but the dark side of the
picture, and refuse the consolations that religion
would afford. Rarely do we hear of a person com
mitting suicide whose passions were strong and ar
dent. It is those who ponder on their misfortunes,
and forgot there is a merciful God that can deliver
them from affliction, who resolve to abandon them
selves to the power of satanic darkness.
To return to our subject Amelia, the gay Ame
lia, kissed and wept upon the bosom of her kind
friend. “ I have leeling,” she said, “ and thou hast
awakened it.” At this moment the door opened,

the little mendicant . 36 b
and the duke and Sir Everard entered: the latter,
seeing his wife in tears, rushed to her, and tenderly
inquired the cause. She ingenuously explained the
conversation that had passed, preparatory to the
words of the dutchess that had caused the emotion
he beheld. “ Amen to her sweet prayer,” cried he
in raptures; “and do you weep, Amelia, because
her grace implored the divine goodness to bestow
long life and happiness upon us?” “ No,” answered
Lady Mornington, affectionately embracing Sir
Everard, “my tears are those of joy.” “Nought
else shall here be shed,” exclaimed the duke, “ for
fieace doth reign within these walls.” He then sa
uted his lovely Fanny. “I have been showing Sir
Everard, my dear, all the grounds ; and he is won
derfully pleased with the picturesque prospect.”
“ And I have been diverting Amelia, by taking her
all over the house, I believe, The library, however,
seems to have fixed her attention. I have done
wrong to bring her here, for now we shall have less
of her company.” “ Oh no, indeed you are mistak
en,” said the sprightly dame; “I shall only take
the liberty of reading at those times when you are
employed in the affairs of your family. As to Sir
Everard he regularly shoots for a couple of hours
every morning, and when I am not disposed to at
tend him, you will permit me to amuse myself here.”
“ Is your grace fond of shooting ?” asked Sir Eve
rard. “ No,” he replied, “it is a sport I have al
ways thought cruel, and therefore never participated
in.” Sir Everard looked disappointed. “I would
do any thing to oblige you, my dear friend,” con
tinued the duke, “ save rebelling against my con
science. I can never be reconciled to the destruc
tion of what is the work of an Almighty hand : his
righteous fiat created every thing that is created,
and he alone is empowered to destroy.” Sir Ever
ard did not,_ with many others, spurn at religion,
and despise its professors : thoueh he adhered to the
107 u

•pleasures of the age, his character was not tainted
by any odious vice. He listened to the argument
held by the duke, and acknowledged the justice of
it, but could not consent to lay aside his favourite
pastime. “ What is a crime in one man,” said he,
“ is not in another ; with your present sentiments
upon it, you would be very reprehensible were you
to be prevailed upon to engage in it. I may, upon
rejection, become a convert to your opinion; "but
hitherto I have considered shooting an innocent en
tertainment. The fault lies in persisting in what our
own heart dictates to us is wrong.” “ Your obser
vation is good,” answered the duke, “ and proves
you not a stranger to theory.” The conversation
here closed. Sir Everard went out on his usual ex
cursion, and his lady sat down to peruse some of
the works that were so highly recommended to her
notice. The duke had a little business abroad; and
the dutchess, as her friend was so well employed,
took her customary round to visit her sick and dis
tressed neighbours.
As she was returning from her charitable ramble,
her steps were arrested by sounds of distress. She
listened; they seemed to proceed from a child. She
turned towards the spot, and presently perceived a
little girl, about ten years of age, sitting on a step,
weeping in the bitterness of mental anguish. She
humanely advanced, and regarding the napless in
nocent with an expression of kind commiseration,

requested to be informed the nature of her grief.
“ Oh, madam,” said the poor girl, looking in the
face of the dutchess, “ deep indeed is the measure of
my woe.” “ Speak, oh speak,” cried our heroine,
impatiently, “ reveal to me your sorrows, and if
human assistance can avail, they shall be relieved.”
She then delivered the following artless tale.
“ My mother, madam, resides in yonder cottage,”
pointing to a small thatched hut, at a little distance;
“ my father was ashoe-maker; but, unhappily, meet
ing with lo'sses in his business, he became a bank
rupt. He was an honest man,” continued she, “ and
would have paid if he could; but he was inevitably
ruined. Every thing went to wreck, and all his de-
pendance was upon a gentleman who had known him
in better days, and felt for his misfortunes. With a
yearly allowance from this generous man, he retired
withmy dear mother and myself, who was their only
surviving child, to the cottage you now behold. We
could exist, though scantily; and for a great while
my father, who had been respected for his integrity
of principle, obtained a little employment now and
then, which helped us ; but at last he fell sick : this
was an aditional calamity. To add to our distress,
our quarter’s payment was due, and it came not at
the usual time. We were fearful of offending our
benefactor by noticing ,the delay; yet, under such
circumstances, what could we do? My mother, in
our agony of mind,, wrote a few lines, briefly explain
ing rny father’s illness, and the affliction we were all
in, humbly entreating his pardon for the liberty she
took, and begged to hear from him speedily. Soon,
too soon, she received an answer, but not from him
self j our amiable protector and friend was no more.
His brother, oh ! how different a character! wrote in
the most inhuman manner, acquainting us that the
folly and extravagance of his relation had long been
gradually reducing him to a state of beggary, and
that in a fit of despair he had shot himself. * Think

not,’ continued the unfeeling wretch,' that I will add
another fool to the number of my unfortunate family.
My brother owed his ruin to his ridiculous liberality.
I owe my prosperity to my love of parsimony; I can
therefore say or do nothing in your case; and I in
sist upon never being teased by the objects of my
deceased relative’s bounty.’
“ I cannot describe, madam, the agonizing grief
that pierced our ,souls at this dreadful information.
My father in a dying state, and destitute of every
necessary, his end was accelerated by the awful tid
ings ; he expired in two days after it arrived, implor
ing heaven to preserve his wife and child. Alas I
what is farther to befal us I know not. We expect
a jail to be our fate. We have been punctual in our
payments to the landlord till the last quarter, when
we had it not to pay; he is inexorable, and declares
that he shall sue immediately. My father must be
buried by the parish, and that is hard; but, God rest
his soul, he is as happy as if interred with funeral
pomp. It is my mother I am grieved for now. Ilis
trials are, I hope, at end ; but she has yet to suffer.”
Agathor, that was the little girl’s name, paused.
The dutchess was charmed with the simplicity of
her language, and moved to tears by her pathetic
story. “ Conduct me to your mother my dear,” said
she ; “ I will alleviate her sorrows, if it is possible.’*
She instantly led the way, and her countenance
brightened up with a ray of hope. When they entered
the miserable hovel, the poor woman was sitting by a
rough oak table, her face bathed in tears, and look
ing the melancholy image of despondency. On per
ceiving her daughter accompanied by a lady of such
extraordinary beauty and elegant appearance, she
started in astonishment from Her seat. Do not be
alarmed, my good woman,” said the dutchess, in a
tone of gentleness peculiar to herself: “I have heard
from this iiinocent, the calamities you endure; and
it is, I trust, in my power to soften their heavy weight.

Here is a trifle for the present,” presenting her with
ten guineas; “ inthe coarse ofthe day I will do more
for you. The grateful creature, overpowered with
her feelings, was going to throw herself at the feet of
her benefactress, but she prevented her. “View
me,” said she; “ I am a woman, created in the same
mould with yourself.. Because Providencehasmade
me rich, shall I exact submissions such as these ?
No, it is a duty incumbent upon mortals to assist
each other, and I rejoice that the goodness of the
Eternal has directed me to this abode of wretched
ness. Cheer up, my friend; confide in the Divine
mercy, and your reward, will be everlasting.” “ Oh
may God of heaven bless you,” sobbed Mrs. Pierce,
courtesying respectfully ; “ the prayer's of the poor
will ever be offered up for your eternal welfare. But
dear and noble lady, let me know to whom I am in
debted for this support.” “I am the Dutchess of
Albemarle,” modestly replied her grace. This in
telligence created no amazement, as her air and dig
nified deportment were sufficient indications of her
quality. “ You have Saved my poor child and my
self from perishing by famine,” cried she, “ and I
would thank you if I could, but I have no words to
express my sentiments of gratitude.” “You have
already sufficiently expressed them,” she returned.
“ I have only done what we all should dp ; and I de
sire you will consider me, not as the Dutchess of
Albemarle,-but as a friend, whb sincerely compas
sionates your woes.” Mrs. Pierce could only say,
“Heaven” And the dutchess, as
she departed, kissed her hand to the object of her
mildbeneficence; thus did the manner of her con
ferring an obligation enhance its value. She returned
to Darby House, contemplating on the scene of
affliction she had witnessed, and meditating on the
graciousness of that God who had endued her with a
heart to pity, and the power to relieve distress. Sir
Everard and the duke were admiring some admirable

portraits in an apartment set aside for paintings, and
particular curiosities. Lady Mornington was still
m the library; as soon as she heard the voice of her
friend,'she hastened^ to meet her. “ My dear Fanny,”
said she, “ I am quite in raptures with your favourite
Tasso. I never perused him with attention before,
or I could not fail to have been charmed : he has in
spired me with the true spirit of poetry. But you
have been cryin'g; what is the matter, my love?”
The dutchess recounted to her the adventure she had
met with: and Amelia, the tender-hearted Amelia,
ever ready to administer to the wants of the sufferer,
instantly pulled out her purse, from which she took
forty guineas, saying, “ She was sure Sir Everard
would contribute farther to the assistance of the poor
As the gentlemen wpre engaged, they walked into
the gardens, and there admired the beauteous face
of nature. Amelia was delighted with the choice
assortment of flowers that ornamented the beautiful
paths ; and as she surveyed the long majestic groves
of trees, which formed a lovely evenue to the house,
she acknowledged that felicity might be found in
verdant plains and rural bowers. “ This_ retreat,”
said she, entering an arbour, whose cooling shade
was an invitation to repose within, “is surely the
habitation of the muses ; it cannot be the work of
terrestial beings. The voice of Nature speaks
throughout the whole, and says, “ I created thee.”
Fanny, in astonishment, exclaimed, “ And is it pos
sible that the charms of this sweet delusion can at
once have made so deep an impression on your
mind ?” “ It is both possible and probable,” return
ed Lady Mornington ; “ I can assure you, that in
my present frame, and I do not think it will ma
terially alter, I could be content to live for ever in
glorious solitude, and ne’er behold the face of Lon
don more.” “ Scarcely can I credit what I hear
you yourself declare,” answered the dutchess, “aa

three hours have not yet performed their revolution,
since you avowed your dislike to the country, and
professed your admiration of the town.” “ True,”
replied the fair one, “ hut hasty impressions prove
oftener indelible than those contracted on reflection,
and by experience: this may be a syllogism to you,
yet it is just. I am not merely alluding to the pre
sent topic of our discourse, though there it will hold
good. But in affairs where the heart is concerned,
as love, orfriendship, I could convince you, that the
first influence of those passions on our souls will ever,
in a degree, reign predominant. "VVe may for pru
dent reasons, endeavour to restrain its ascendency,
but it will be difficult to efface its overpowering
heat. When I first saw Sir Everard Mornington, I
felt sensations I cannot describe: I did not then
know that they were the origin of a tender passion;
but they increased even with thinking of him. _ And
when he revealed the nature of his sentiments in my
favour, the pleasure with which 1 listened to the soft
tale was a sufficient evidence that I loved. Yes,
my Fanny, I loved Sir Everard; and, perhaps, I
was not so backward in declaring it as some prudish
things of my sex. I have no notion of women con
cealing their predilection till the last moment; but,
indeed, they could not, if their feelings were as
strong as mine. If they really dislike their suitor,
let them dismiss him at one ; if not, why such affec
tation and nonsensical caprice?” “ I must allow the
force of your arguments,” said the dutchess, “ and
perhaps strengthen them by what I ain going to ad
vance. At my first introduction to the Duke of Al
bemarle, if I had not imagined him the intended
husband of my friend, I should probably have been
smitten with the fascinations of his person and ad
dress; but that consideration, together with the sup
position that 1 was his inferior in rank, made me on
my guard against admitting sentiments that should
be injurious to my honour and happiness. I saw hi?

merit, and was surprised that you should be indif
ferent to such perfections. Had I known your heart
had been engaged, I should no longer have wondered
it your obstinacy.”
“ The duke certainly possessed every claim to my
esteem,” answered Lady Mornington; “but love I
was a stranger to, till Sir Everard secured the vic
tory. He was the great, the mighty conqueror, that
was to reign triumphant o’er this heart.” “And
there may he ever reign,” cried Fanny, “ as firmly
as the duke does'here.” “I hope he will,” replied
Amelia; “ they are both deserving of our tenderest
affection ; and happy, happy are the unions founded
on motives such as ours.” Having here concluded
their observations, and walked once more round the
gardens, they entered the house. The duke and Sir
Everard were in the parlour, waiting their approach.
“You will be sorry, Sir Everard,’’ said Amelia,
“ that you have brought me- here, for I shall now be
as solicitous to go down to your country seat as I
have been hitherto desirous of remaining in London.
I am in absolute esstasies with this mansion, and yet
more so with the gardens that surround it.” “ You
are altered indeed, my dear,’’ smilingly answered Sir
Everard; “ but what will you say when I affirm that
I am as much so 1 I have acquired as strong a dis
taste for busy life as I before was prejudiced in fa
vour of it; and what is still more astonishing, I have
resolved to relinquish the pleasures of shooting and
the chase. I have taken _my leave of them to-day.
You may well look surprised, but I assure you it is
the truth, I have killed one brace of pheasants this
morning, though, I must own, not without reluc
tance ; and I have since pondered on the words of
the duke, till I am nearly of his opinion. Do not,
therefore, my beloved, regret our coming here, as it
has wrought so happy a change in us both.”' “ 1 do
riot regret it, indeed,” answered Amelia; “ I was
only fearful that you woulcj.” She then mention^

e indif.
n to my
it love I
the vie-
s firmly
und the
and Sir
now be
at as I
red Sir
cm that
; a dis-
in fa-
I have
ng and
suit is
its this
jrds of
o not,
>. as it
«1 do
J was
the event of the morning, and the sum she designed
to contribute to the reliel of the oppressed female. He
'warmly applauded her intention; and he and the
duke added another fifty pounds, making 1 , in all, a
hundred. This they instantly dispatched by a ser
vant, the dutchess sending a message, that she would
visit her cottage the next day. When he came back,
he gave such an account of the grateful joy with which
the poor soyl was overwhelmed, as quite penetrated
the bosoms of her amiable benefactors. During din
ner the conversation was principally on the subject.
They all concurred in declaring and believing that
charity was its own reward. “ There cannot be a
clearer proof of this last assertion,” argued the duke,
“ than the blissful sensations which the performance
of a benevolent action causes to arise in the human
breast. Every heart that is really invested with the
feelings of humanity must have tasted these pleasur
able emotions. It is not the ostentatious satisfaction
of being loaded with thanks that I mean. No, it is
the internal approbation of the soul, that is higher,
and far more exquisitely gratifying, than all the en
comiums that can be heaped upon us; and those
alone can experience it who do good, not because
they have the pattern of it in another, but taking ex
ample by our sacred Redeemer, act agreeably to the
dictates of a pure and uncontaminated conscience!
When this is the case, that ever powerful monitor
fails not to inform us ; and it is likewise pleasing
to behold the heartfelt joy of the individuals we
snatch from ruin’s speedy brink. To have the bles
sings of the virtuous poor, is far more to be coveted
than the false caressess of the rich, who only praise
us for too nearly-resembling themselves.” “True,
indeed,” answered Sir Everard; and never did I lis
ten to a moral discourse with such deep interest a&
I do to yours. Your language is consistent with the
rules of reason ; and^rensou is a being that seems dis-
p^rded from the minds of the generality of tho

world.” “ Reason is not required at the card table,*'
said Lady Mornington ; “ and that is the fashionable
resort now for both sexes.” “I am amazed,” re
plied the dutchess, “that people can be so infatuated
with a love of play. For my part I think it a dull,
unmeaning amusement; and instead of beguiling an
hour, serves to render it more tedious.” “ I like a
game very well by chance,” answered Amelia; “but
I should be sorry to devote half my time to it, as
many do who despise nobler employments. The
folly consists, in my opinion, in the abuse of them,
more than in the cards themselves.” “Your ideas
correspond with mine, madam,” said the duke.
“There are many things that are harmless in them
selves, which are rendered criminal by being sub
verted to evil purposes. Novels, for instance, are a
kind of reading universally in vogue, and I have no
thing to offer against them. Numbers of them
abound in morality, and contain sentiments worthy
to be imbibed; yet I believe I may safely assert
that they have corrupted the morals of more than
they have improved. The reason may be easily
conjectured. The fault is not in the author, but in
the peruser. If people are determined to reject
every thing else, and spend whole days and years in
the studying of what a few hours would suffice to
make them acquainted with, it is not to be wondered
at, that they produce in such the most pernicious
effects. Where they read them as a sort of pastime,
and by way of choosing variety, without their na
tures are depraved, these productions will never in
jure them. So it is with cards. Not that I design
to place them upon a level with any kind of books:
for I think them far less rational than the most in-
volous and unimportant. At the same time, were
they only made use of as the diversion of an hour,
and not with views of gaming, they might be perfect
ly inoffensive. As it is, they are the root of every
vice ; and farewell to the happiness of those who in*

dulge in them to excess.” “ I never played for any
large sum,” said Sir Everard, “ and always made up
my mind to lose, as I knew the chance on which it
depended. But I must acknowledge, I have felt
( greater satisfaction in bestowing a trifle on this dis
tressed, unhappy woman, than ever I did in winning
a prize. The latter success I was indebted to for
tune for obtaining; but the former, goodness in
spired me with a desire to promote the welfare of a
fellow creature ; and the action has rewarded itself,
which verifies the truth of your grace’s observation.”
“It certainly does,” replied the duke; “ and every
heart that is guided by motives pure and systemati
cal, must feel the inward estimation I have described,”
Dinner was now concluded, and the remainder of
, the day was spent in talking over family topics.
Thus had a few hours made entire converts of the
blooming Lady Mornington and her once gay hus
band. They had been gradually yielding to the
power of reason and reflection, and may at length be
denominated beings not unacquainted with the
charms of sentimentality.
Early the following morning, the dutchess went, as
she had promised, to visit the cottage of Mrs. Pierce.
Agathor beheld her approach, and ran, with stre .m-
ing eyes, to meet and bless the saviour of herself and
parent. The dutchess kindly took her hand, and
begging her not to weep, led her into the hut. To
describe the scene that ensued between her grateful
parent and our amiable heroine, would be a task in-

adequate to perform. Upon the latter desiring hel
to restrain her thanks, she said,' “Would you,
madam, deprive me of the only means by which I
can support my weight of obligation ? Were not my
overcharged heart to pour forth the weak effusions
of my humble giatitude, it must burst assunder.
Your grace’s benevolence has preserved my poor
dear husband from being interred by the parish. I
shall now be able to lay him comfortably in the
ground, and that is a greater consolation to my soul,
than the thought of any personal benefit. We once,
madam, lived in credit; but misfortunes overtook us
—such misfortunes as we are all liable to meet with.
With pleasure, however, lean state, that they did
not originate in our own imprudence. This reflec
tion brought a gleam of satisfaction .to the mind
of my deceased husband, even in his departing mo
ments. His conscience bad nothing to reproach him
with;: therefore he died happier than many a prince'
who has closed his existence beneath a gilded canopy
of state, and with his bed surrounded by nurses and
physicians. He had nothing to tranquillize his ex
hausted frame but that inward serenity which none
can feel, save those who act uprightly. He injured
'no one—he oppressed no one: and ho is gone; I
hope, to the regions of the blest.”
Mrs. Pierce here wept a torrent of tears to the me
mory of him who was beyond the reach of hearing
them. The dutchess tenderly sympathised in her
affliction. Seeing Agathor weeping in melancholy
silence she said, “ You have a good little girl; she,
I hope, will be a ! comfort to you.” “ She is, indeed,
my only remaining comfort,” sighed Mrs. Pierce.
“ She is a dutiful child, and possesses sensibility
above her years. Kiss me, my Agathor.” She ran
to her mother, and folding her arms about her neck,
embraced her with true affection. Her endearments
were returned by her sorrowing parent with mater
ial warmth. The heart of the dutchess bounded

with mournful transport at this affecting scene. It
rejoiced her to perceive the love that reigned in the
bosoms of this poor but worthy woman, and her in
nocent child. Internally she observed, there are
stronger feelings in’a cottage than in a palace. The
laijter banish every sensation that could give them
pain. The former encourage the exquisite acute--
ness of their anguish, at least in so high a degree as
to render them deserving of being ranked amongst
reasonable mortals. Who, oh! who would aspire to
riches and a title, to be divested of every natural,
every refined sentiment ? Amiable Fanny! how.few
can boast of a mind elevated as thine! Had all, with
an equal share of power, the same exalted inclina 1 -
tions, what a benevolent globe should we reside on!
Instead of the excessive penury we daily behold, in
digence would be generally relieved ; and the great
people would leave a name, not'of infamy, but of
honour. Their characters would be held up to pos
terity, as worthy of everlasting perpetuation; and
their bright example would be followed by succeed
ing generations. But what do I say ? the world is
for itself— God is for us all. He preserves us, but
we protectnot one another. To proceed. Thedutch-
ess stayed some little time conversing with the ob
jects of her bounty ; and, at length, left them over
powered with her goodness. Having visited her
other dependants with her usual beneficence, she re
turned to Darby House. There, alas 1 her spirits
were doomed to receive a considerable shock. A
letter awaited her arrival, from her unfortunate and
most unhappy friend, Lady Maria Ballafyn, late
Ross. It was sealed with black wax. Trembling
with impatience and alarm, she opened it. Its ter
rible contents were as follows:—
. . My beleved Fanny,
I am distracted. Lord Ballafyn has com
mitted the rash act of suicide. He has for a length

of time been relapsing into all his former vices. I
was deceived in imagining him reformed; but oh !
Fanny, little did I think he meditated self-destruc
tion. On Tuesday afternoon he'had been treating
me with more cruelty and indifference than he was
accustomed to do : and_ at last, upon my venturing
mildly to expostulate with him, he rushed franticly
up stairs, and presently 1 heard the report of a pis
tol. I flew towards the fatal spot, but it was too late
to prevent the awe-inspiring deed, or save the guilty
perpetrator from its dreadful consequences : he was
stretched on the ground in the agonies of death. The
noise of the pistol had alarmed the house, and the
servants were in a moment in the apartment. I as
sisted them in endeavouring to raise him: he was
sensible. “ Leave me, Maria,” said he, “ I desire
not your presence; you can only be come to load
me with upbraidings, and in this moment of extre
mity they maybe spared.” “ Oh how wrong a judg
ment have you formed of your unhappy wife!”
cried I, in an agony too great to be described. " In
deed, indeed, my lord, you are mistaken. I hoped
to save a life that ever was, and ever will be dear to
me.” He looked at me wildly, and then said, “ And
does my Maria speak to me in accents such as these?
Dear inspired excellence, how deeply I have wrong
ed thee 1 Oh! mercy, heaven! Mercy did I say?
Mercy! on a wretch like me!—the murderer of a
brother—and, lastly, the murderer of myself I”—
He was by this time put to bed, and medical aid had
arrived. Three gentlemen of the faculty were called
in, and they all gave it as their opinion that twenty-
four hours would decide the patient’s fate: they
faintly intimated that it might be favourable, but
forbade us to expect that it would. They recom
mended that he should be kept perfectly quiet, as the
least agitation would increase his danger. Several
shots had lodged in his left side; these it was impos
sible at present to extractj as he was in araging fevet

I watched by his bed-side with unceasing attention.
He called me his guardian angel, and implored me
to supplicate the Most High in his benalf. He
showed no symptoms of delirium, but maintained
his senses to the very last. “ Do you really forgive
me i” said he, pressing my hand to his burning lips,
“Yes,” I returned, "as God is my eternal witness.
I forgive thee.” “ I confess,” he continued, “ that
I have been the destroyer of thy felicity; that I am
the most wicked of creatures.” “No,” I replied,
“ not so; you are at least awakened to a conviction
of your errors ; and the Saviour, who shed the grand
atoning work of grace, will, I trust, have mercy on
your transgressions, and receive you to his courts
above.” “ Oh 1 cease, Maria,” said my dying lord,
“ to encourage me with hopes it would be presump
tuous to entertain. I have sinned too far to be an
object of interest with the Lord. I have infamously
defied his power, and I dare not even pray for par
At this moment, a clergyman came to converse
with him, who had been sent for by his own desire.
I offered to retire, but my lord requested me to stay
and join in prayer with the worthy divine: this I did
most fervently. He prayed for upwards'of two hours
with true devotion, and he seemed at length to have
derived comfort from the consolations that were
offered by the excellent Dr. Woodward, for that was
the name of the reverend gentleman. After he had
left him, he grew gradually more composed, and
talked very rationally on the subject of death—a state
to which he was so near hastening. “ I would live a
little longer to repent,” he cried, “ but it cannot be.
I feel that my end draws nigh ; I have limited the
•period of my days, and taken the Almighty’s power
into my hands." He then fell into a slumber, but it
was far from refreshing: his dreams were disturbed
and uneasy. As soou as he awoke, he called for me;
I had not quitted the room, but was withdrawn to a

farther part—I was instantly at his side. “ My dear
Maria,” said he, “ can you support this.scene of me
lancholy, you that have been so unaccustomed to
such mournful images 'of horror J” “ Oh, are you
better?” I exclaimed, in a voice of agony. “Bet
ter!” answered he, “no, I am much worse. I can
hardly endure the pain I suffer; but it will not be
of much longer duration; that is to say, my present
tortures—the future I am unacquainted with.” “ I
hope the present will be all,” I replied. “ I would
fain hope so too,” he ejaculated, “but I dare not ex
pect it, for I am very wicked. My brother’s blood
calls aloud for vengeance, and it must be satisfied.”
—I strove to console him, by representing that his
brother’s guilt was equal to his; that he had not
wantonly planned the method of his dissolution, but
had placed his own life in danger in engaging in a
duel. “This is true,” he returned, “ and I felt ex
asperated against him ; but I should have considered
the ties of consanguinity, and not have embrued my
hands in a brother’s blood. I sent him out of the
world, unprepared, to meet the sovereign Judge.
His crimes were black as mine, save in this last sad
instance. He had time allowed him for repentance;
and oh! may that repentance have availed him in the
sight of his Maker ; may his sins be obliterated be
fore him, and his soul have received admission into
his sacred kingdom.” He was now so faint he could
not proceed; after this period he held no regular dis
course, but spoke a few words at intervals. He ex
pired in less than twenty-four hours from the time of
the direful disaster, his hand clenched in mine, and
calling on the name of Jesus. Here was indeed an
awful scene. Lord Ballafyn, in the prime of life, cut
off in a moment by violent measures; dreadful to
state—his own executioner. Pity me, dearest Fanny.
But what do I ask 2 Need I doubt your commiser
ation ? I know your tenderness of heart. 1 loved
Lord Ballafyu ; cruel as he has behaved to me, I

loved him: but I could have supported his loss with
resignation, had it happened under any other au
spices ; as it is, I can scarcely endure my weight of
grief. Unite your prayers with mine for his eternal
repose ; his contrition was great, and God’s justice
surpasseth all understanding. In a state bordering
on mental distraction, I style myself
Your truly Affectionate,
But most afflicted Friend,
Maria Ballafyn.”
The dutchess had nearly swooned as she perused
this dreadful letter. “ Good God!” exclaimed she,
“pity theel Yes, dear Maria, companion of my
early infancy, I do indeed pity thy calamity! Un
fortunate fair, to have fixed thy affections on such a
wretch I”
When she communicated the sad catastrophe to
the duke, and to the humane Sir Everard and his
lady, they were inexpressibly shocked. Every heart
compassionated the. gentle Maria, whose amiable
virtues shone conspicuous on every occasion. And
despicable as was the character of Lord Ballafyni
now that his career was over, his sufferings called
forth the tear of anguish. He had repented of his
enormities, though when too late to amend; and
even in the last action of his guilty life, he had been
spared long enough after, its commission to evince
the sincerity of his penitence! for which reason we
hope he is forgiven by the Creator he so highly of
The dutchess, after the first violent emotions of
ner mind had subsided, took up her pen to write an
answer to her friend. She condoled with her in the
most soothing language she could devise, assured
her of her continued love and esteem, and implored
her to direct all her thoughts to the grand Disposer
of events; Him, who could alone console her in her
afflictions. She mentioned her knowledge of Dr.

Woodward, and described him as the most amiable
of men ; concluding by once more entreating her to'
confide in the goodness of infinite wisdom. Her'let-
ter was a cordial to the drooping soul of the oppress
ed Lady Ballafyn. She kissed and wept over this
testimony of ardent affection. “ Oh,” sighed she,
** that I had ever exchanged the name of Trentham
for that of Ross ! I had now been in the enjoyment
of felicity, and perhaps my husband living; for if
be had never married me, he might have escaped the
rock of dissipation into which he plunged. His
heart was never mine, though his hand was proffered
at the altar; but I was weak enough to believe in the
sincerity of his protestations of attachment. Happy
in the imagined possession of his love, too readily I
consented to become his wife. I should not so has
tily have disposed of myself.” '
Such were the melancholy reflections of the de
jected Lady Ballafyn. Her mother, the March
ioness of Petersfield, as soon as she heard of the dis
mal tidings, hastened to her sorrowing daughter.
The presence of her parent had been ever gratifying:
it was peculiarly so at this moment. From whom
could she hope for consolation so effectually as from
the force of maternal affection 1 The marchioness
was a woman of exquisite sensibility, and possessed
most acutesensations. It was longere either of them
could utter a word, but continued to weep upon the
bosoms of each other. At length Lady Maria strove
lo express her satisfaction at beholding her mother.
The marchioness spoke the language of comfort to
her tortured breast, and she succeeded in restoring
her to a degree of composure. We leave them, ana
return to Darby House.
This unhappy event threw a damp even over the
spirits of the sprightly Amelia. Though unacquaint
ed with Lady Ballafyn, she largely participated in
her woes. She had heard the dutchess speak of her.
in such terms as had created the warmest esteem in

her favour; but exclusive of this, she would have
pitied her as a woman, had she been a stranger to her
character. A female that does not sympathize in
the afflictions of her sex, is hardly worthy to be
called a woman. Lady Mornington was not of this
description. She was sorry for every distress, and par
ticularly for this deserving lady who had been ren
dered miserable by the late vile dissimulator. “Every
thing I observe,” remarked she to the Dutchess of
Albemarle, “ confirms my reverence to heaven for
the blessings I enjoy. When I look around the wide
universe, and see the numberless varieties of wretch
edness that its inhabitants are compelled, to endure,
and then view my own situation, I think that I am
an object of peculiar bounty. The idea may be pre
sumptuous, yet it is powerful; and I should be the
very essence of ingratitude, where I not constantly
to return thanks for the manifold graciousness ol
the Eternal.” Her grace expressed herself of the
same opinion, as indeed every person must who
thinks of religion in a proper light. The obligations
we are severally under to the beneficient Author of
our being, ana of every felicity we enjoy, demand
our signal veneration; and it is not satisfaction at
another’s misery that should increase our happiness;
that would be aselfish and inhuman joy. But, sure
ly, when we behold the suffering of our fellow-crea-
tures, and consider that we are exempt from such
and such calamities, we should be grateful for the
mercies showered on our heads, and not impiously
imagine them our due.
The dutchess now prepared to write an account of
the dreadful transaction to the Ellincourts, who, she
knew, would sincerely lament the sorrows of their
amiable relation. The lovely Maria was an univer
sal favourite, from the numerous, mild, and dignified
virtues which characterized her nature. Her praise
worthy conduct as a wife deserves to be particularly
noticcd, though her tenderness had never been re-

39A ' • FATHERLESS FAifNT: 03,
paid by Lord Ballafyn butwith cruel and unworthy
treatment. She had, from the day that united her
to him till the hour of his dissolution, maintained
the most affectionate behaviour. She was convinced
that adopting contrary methods could be of no ser
vice, but would degrade her; and she always enter
tained a hope that her continued love and attention
might effect a reformation in his heart. Yet, not
withstanding it failed in this case,> let not my fair
readers be dissuaded from practising the same; for
never was there an instance of a man’s being con
quered by a woman’s assuming the curb of authori
ty, but many, many have been convinced of their
errors, and brought to a knowledge of their duties,
by subduing gentleness, and mild entreaty. They
may be won by affection, but never will be awed by
• tyranny.
When the Ellincourts received the afflicting intel
ligence, they were, as may be imagined, truly griev
ed for the sufferings of Lady Ballafyn. The health
of the Dowager Lady Ellincourt had been for some
weeks visibly on the decline. The shock she now
sustained affected her spirits to a violent degree, and
increased the indisposition under which she labour
ed. Lord Ellincourt declared that his fair cousin
ought to rejoice, and not to lament the death of such
a wretch. “ He murdered the happiness of the
sweetest of women,” cried he; “and if I was her,
instead of mourning at his disease, I would leave the
willow for a worthier object, and assume the garb ol

THE little mendicant. 325
Joyous exultation.” “ Oh, fie ! Edmund,” said his
mother, “ thus to express yourself on an event that
plunges every other individual into the deepest afflic
tion.” “ I. am afflicted on her account,” warmly re
plied he; “I have the sincerest affection for my
amiable cousin, but I cannot endure the thought
that she should shed a tear to the memory of a man
who has proved himself so utterly undeserving of her.
His life was as abandoned as his end was unbecom
ing.” “ It is the knowledge of his wickedness that
creates these emotions in our breasts,” said Lady
Emily. “ It is awful to reflect on the future state
of a character so depraved. His vices were render
ed more heinous by the artifice with which he sought
to gloss them over ; and the warning that was offer
ed him in the fate of his guilty brother, had he ac
cepted, he might have become a worthy member of
society for the remainder of his days. But his ap
parent reform, and the relapse, proved that the seeds
of corruption were sown into his nature, and that his
heart was hardened to conviction. It is not the loss
of such a husband that can be a source of calamity
to the gentle Maria, but it is the consideration of—
Oh ! dreadful idea I—of what may be his everlasting
This latter suggestion checked the vivacity of
LordEllincourt. He acknowledged the impropriety
of jesting on a subject so replete with solemnity, but
repeated bis detestation of the principles of Lord
Ballafyn. “ I always despised him,” continued he,
“ since he uttered a vile insinuation respecting her
who now is Dutchess of Albemarle, llis daring to
suspect me of designing the deliberate perversion of
an innocent and lovely girl, rendered him, from that
moment, odious in my eyes. I had never thought
highly of his moral character; but the greatest lib
ertine in the world, I should have imagined, could
not have been so base as to have devised plans for
the seduction of a child. He was sufficiently a vil-

lain, however, for that basest of all purposes ; and
because I had unthinkingly participated in too many
of his pursuits, he believed that I was capable of
practising vice in any shape. I always feel the stig
ma cast upon my fame by such a suspicion ; and I
abhorred the fiend that had grossly intimated it.”
“ Your warmth on this point is natural,” answered
his mother. “ Many men would have resented it in
a way that I have ever rejoiced you did not; but I
am sorry to say, there is a class of beings, without
being as diabolically inclined as the object we are
speaking of, who are loath to ascribe merit to the
actions of their fellow-creatures. They impute the
most benevolent deeds to motives vastly foreign
from the truth, and interpret virtue into the ex
tremes of vice. So cruel is the world, that those peo
ple who have no goodness or humanity in themselves
cannot bear to find others possessed of any. They
would, in fact, banish such sentiments from the hu
man breast; but they will never succeed where tliev
are radically engrafted in the heart.” “ No,” replied
Emily, “ it is not every one whose bosom will admit
corruption, though there are numbers not proof
against the tempter.” “ I never presumed to boast
of extraordinary goodness,” said Lord Ellincourt:.
“ but I think and hope I should have shuddered, even
in my most dissipated hours, at an act of premedi
tated baseness.”
Lord Ellincourt did not, like many of his sex, at
tempt to conceal the imprudences of his youth from
his amiable lady. He was too ingenuous in his tem
per to attempt dissimulation. The sincerity of his
affection for Emily was evident; and his conduct
since his marriage had secured her from jealousy.
It showed him the more noble, therefore, to confess
the failings he had been guilty of; and instead of
weakening her attachment, it strengthened it on more
durable grounds.
To add to the already too heavy burden of woe,

news was received from Ireland of the death, after a
short illness, of Lady Caroline. The Doweger Lady
Ellincourt bore it with that calm resignation which
ever accompanies those who believe that the decrees
of him who rules the universe must be wise and just;
yet it will not excite surprise, that such reiterated
trials should have produced the most dangerous con
sequences on a constitution very far from robust.
She had a mind that never permitted itself to be de
pressed at trifles; but no one suffered more severely
under the force of real calamity. The strongest
minds feel more intense anguish, than those which
are termed weak ones. The latter are oppressed at
things that are of no moment, as much as if they were
of the utmost importance; but the former spare
their sorrow for the hour when efficient reasons shall
demand the tear of agony or sympathy. Thus did
Lady Ellincourt She was ever ready to weep at
affliction, whether she or her friend experienced it
Nor was it for herself alone she now endured the bit
terness of grief, though her own troubles preponde
rated over every other.
We shall leave her for a while, and give our read
ers a brief account of the farther misfortunes of that
worthy nobleman, Lord Mountmorris, whose caso
must have raised commiseration in every feeling bo
som. His woes were now complete. His guilty
abandoned wife had eloped with the yet more aban
doned Sir Richard Palmer. When Lord M. return
ed from the affecting interview that has been detailed
between him and Lady Ellincourt, he went imme
diately to the apartment of his lady. She was sit
ting by the window, her arm resting carelessly on its
frame, and reading a letter. On perceiving the en
trance of her lord, she coloured, and put it hastily
into her bosom. “You need not, madam," Said he,
advancing towards her, “have feared that I should
inquire into the contents of the paper you were pe«
ruBing, as I have not so much curiosity about mat-

ters that concern you. Your insufferable behaviour,
when last we parted, has rendered you an object too
contemptible in my eyes, fov your present or future
conduct to occasion me the least uneasiness. I ne
ver thought I could have despised Lady Mountmor-
ris; but the weak artifice she has practised upon my
too easy credulity is not to be forgot, though for
given. I forgive you, madam, from my soul; but
the purport of my visit is to insist upon an imme
diate separation. I do not wish it to take place in
animosity: I repeat, that I bear none to you. I
would, at this moment, resign my existence to pro
mote your welfare : yet hear me, madam, and do not
interrupt'what I am going to say. I will no longer
be the dupe of vanity and base dissimulation, I
have suffered the dictates of an extravagant affection
to lead me beyond the bounds of reason; but there
is a period when all shall be convinced of their er
rors. A day is not far off, when, perhaps, your la
dyship will repent of the part you have acted.
However, to bring matters to a speedy conclusion,
will you give your consent to a divorce 1 I will state
to you the terms by which we part; and I hope you
will not think me ungenerous. Your fortune is
sufficient to maintain you in splendour. I shall
allow you an additional annuity of five thousand
pounds, which'shall be regularly paid, while your
character is untainted ; should I find that degraded,
you cannot blame me if I withdraw it. Do you, or
do you not accede to these measures ?” Had her la
dyship entertained the smallest particle of love for
Lord M. this cool deliberate way of arguing would
have affected her twenty times more than if he had
been in a passion: but her heart was insensible to a
manner refined as his. She seemed totally at a loss
how to answer him, but kept twirling her fan, and
swelling with pride and indignation. He grew im
patient for a reply. “ My conduct to you, madam,
has been honourable 5 I expect to be treated with

the same.” “ Really, my lord,” exclaimed she, at
length, “ you are so impetuous, there is no knowing
how to deal with you.” “ Oh, no, madam, you are
mistaken; I am not impetuous, but calm and deter
mined. It is of no use to evade my question, for I
will be answered.” After some farmer hesitation,
she said, “Well, my lord, as we cannot agree, I
think it reasonable that we should separate; and
your conditions are certainly honourable: but you
must allow me to-dav to consider of the affair—to
morrow morning it shall be settled to your satisfac
tion.” This reply, though it abounded in indiffer
ence, contained a larger share of condescension than
he had ventured to hope for from Lady M. He
granted her repuest; and, bowing politely, left her
to her meditations. 1
It is not to be supposed that he could wish to pass
another hour in the presence of the woman who had
ruined his tranquility for ever ; for let it not be ima
gined that he could forget the love he once,had borne
her. No, affection is not so easily eradicated.
Though he despised her principles, he could not hate
the woman. Her behaviour at his entrance, and the
haste with which she folded up what he feared, and
not unjustly, was a guilty evidence of shame, excited
suspicions m his breast, very injurious to the honour
of his lady; and, notwithstanding his apparent un
concern before her, his soul was a conflict of agita
ting passions. “ Yet, wlierefore,” cried he, “ am I
thus tortured, and unhappy ? She is lost to me—she
shall be lost to me. Ah ! but shall another trample
on my rights, and dare to bask in beauty’s arms,
while f, condemriingand condemned, wander through
the earth alone ? Shall this wretch—this Sir Richard
Palmer, who is himself the husband of the most amia
ble ol'women, be the man to destroy my everlasting
peace? Oh, Charlotte! Charlotte'l little did I think,
when leading thee to the hymeneal altar, how soon
I should repent my vows. Unworthy woman, lost

to virtue and thyself. Was that charming person
bestowed upon thee that thou mightest have the pow
er of subduing all mankind, without ever forming a
rational attachment for any one individual ? Great
heaven 1 how wide a contrast between thy external
and internal perfections 1 Was thy mind as noble as
thy exterior is lovely, happy would have been the
lot of thy husband: as it is, I am the most miserable
of my sex 1” In this strain, Lord M. bent his steps
to a coffee-house he was accustomed to frequent.
His chagrin was noticed by his companions, and
some of them rallied him upon the cause of it. His
lady had made her character too conspicuous not to
be known to every one, and by all his friends. It
was held in the contempt it deserved. “ Well,
Charles,” said Lord Belgrove, “ still does your
countenance wear that melancholy aspect, and all
concerning that painted darling of yours. I would
sacrifice the whole sex before I would submit to be
made eternally miserable by the arts of a perfidious
fair. Mountmorris,” he continued, “I am aston
ished at your want of resolution. Your present life
is a state of wretchedness ; and till you'are deter
mined to be free, as once you were, never expect fe
licity ; for it is a gift that cannot be possessed with
Lady M.” His lordship answered that he had form
ed a resolution, and explained the terms by which he
intended to gain a separation. “ You are toogener-
ious,” exclaimed his friends: “she has enough to
support her in elegance ; and why should you con
tribute to the maintenance of a woman who is totally
beneath your notice, and that can already be in
dulged in every superfluity?” “I would not go
from my word,” replied Lord Mountmorris. “ I
have agreed to this settlement, under the conditions
named, and cannot swerve from them. I would wish
to act honourably by her, though she has behaved
with such injustice to. me.” Arguments were then
produced for and against this undue liberality. But

he still maintained his determination; and after some
hours’ conversation, in which they sought to console
him different ways, he quitted the party, and pre-
(>ared to return home—a home that was now, alas,
>ecome hateful to him. He supped, however, at the
house of a friend, and then repaired to Favel Lodge.
When he arrived there, he was informed hy the ser
vants that Lady M. had retired to her chamber for
the night. As he was no longer the slave of her
charms, he retired to a room where he could, in se
cret, meditate on his sorrows. His rest was far from
tranquil. His imagination was haunted with visions
of wild affright—visions that were, alas, too fatally
realized. In the morning he ordered his breakfast
to be brought up stairs, as he was resolved not to see
his lady till he went to receive his final answer. His
commands were obeyed. On inquiring after Lady
M. he was told she had not yet risen; a circumstance
that rather surprised him, as she was by no means a
late riser. A horrid foreboding of evil flashed across
his mind. He was upon the point of directing the
domestics to ask if she was within her chamber, but
fearing to betray his emotion, he left the breakfast-
parlour, and descended to bis study. The first ob
ject that met his eye was a bit of paper folded up,
and directed to himself. Instinctively he took hold
of it It was the hand-writing of his guilty wife.
The contents were as follows:—
My lord,
By the time you have read this, I shall be
beyond the reach of your pursuit. I have adopted
the only method to free myself from restraint. I ac
quit you of every imputation ; but the cares of a wife
are very far from suiting my disposition. I have
money'enough, therefore request no addition from
your lordship. You may perhaps guess the partner
of my flight, but attempt not to follow us, for it will
be of no avail. I never loved you, my lord, as I have

repeatedly desiared; and as it was not in my power
to make you happy, do not blame me for making,
another so, who can fully return the obligation that
s conferred.
I am, my lord, wishing you every felicity,
“ Dreadful !’* exclaimed Lord Mountmorris, throw-'
ing down the letter, aud stamping upon it. “ In-i
famous woman—disgrace to thy sex—follow thee!
No, I despise thee and thy accursed paramour too-
much to risk my life about thee. I would once have-
fought for thee—died forthee ; butnowit is all over.:
Contempt and bitter indignation have conquered:
love,” furiously he continued, as if shocked at the
remotest suggestion of a faint remains of affection.]
For some minutes he walked about the room in a
state of frantic distraction. His servants having |
heard some exclamations of alarm, hastened to their
master, who they feared was ill. Observing their
terrified looks, he said, “My friends, your mistress
has yielded herself to the arms of a seducer.” They
started with horror. “ Nay, start not, nor be distress
ed at the information; for she was as unworthy of
your services as of my regard.” He now inquired
whether they were certain if their lady had slept at
home. They answered in the affirmative- Upon en
tering her chamber, however, that did not confirm
their assertions, as it was evident from the situation
of the bed, that no person had been in it. Her own
female attendant was not to be found, so that she
had doubtless accompanied her mistress; the rest
were ignorant of the matter. These circumstances
were a convincing proof that she had eloped the night
before; and on a farther investigation it was yet more
fully ascertained: all her jewels and apparel were
gone ; her flight, therefore, must have been premedi

After the first emotions had subsided, he wrote to
ILady Ellincourt, acquainting her with his misfor
tunes, she being the only friend that truly condoled
•with him in his calamity. This was a third dreadful
stroke to that amiable lady s she never felt her fa
mily afflictions so acutely as to prevent her sharing
iin the sorrows of others. She particularly commis
erated those of the excellent Lord M., who deserved
to have possessed the best, instead of the worst o!
women. But thus unequally are mortals joined—
virtue and infamy are too often united. We shall
proceed in our next to give a short account of the
From the period of Sir Richard Palmer’s first meet
ing with Lady Mountmorris at Pemberton Abbey,
he had determined on securing her for his prize.
They mutually read the language of each other's
eyes, and those ready instruments of destruction con
tain a much larger share of expression, than any
words that can be uttered by the tongue. If a counte
nance would betoken anger, love, friendship, or
soft-beaming pity, all those sensations may be dis
covered in an eye. There is not a passion that can
be named, that may not be traced in legible charac
ters, on viewing those organs of refined sentiment, or
its reverse.
This guilty pair were reciprocally inspired with
what they termed an ardent flame. I will not pre- •
sume to call it love, as it was only the effect of un
lawful desires. Sir Richard soon found an oppor
tunity of declaring himself to the object of his depra-

ved affections. He had not much difficulty in con« i
veying a letter to her hands; and it was answered asi
warmly as he could expect. Several epistles passed
between them. Meanwhile, the amiable Lady Pal
mer suffered additional tyranny from her cruel hus-<
band. She was just in her suspicions. She had, in- ,
deed, a dangerous rival in Lady M. She had always'
been slighted by Sir Richard, but since his intro- >■'
duction to that beautiful woman she was treated with
more and more indifference. More than once he had £
the effrontery to discourse with eloquence on the*
charms of his favourite, in the presence of his wife;
and to speak with admiration of the lustre of black ?!
eyes, though hers were the softest blue. These were r
insults that many woman would have deeply resented;;
but Lady Palmer bore them without repining; at i
least she concealed the . pain they gave her. From i
his observation, her heart was the secret abode of t
agony. Jealousy racked her soul to madness ; not i.
that her gentle disposition would have sought to in- .
jure her enemy, had the power presented itself; but s
she could not be blind to what was, alas! too palpa
ble a truth.
She had married Sir Richard from a pure affection, r
and he had possessed an equal attachmentfor her. But t
of what signification are’the vows of an Atheist? they ;
axe no sooner made than broken. A wretch, who be
lieves the vast creation to be the work of chance, is not i ;
likely to pay homage to any sacred institution. He *
placed no confidence in a future state, but thought, .
when this present life was spent, he should sink into >
the chaotic mass from whence he sprung; that we were f
born for pleasure ; and that, as the only enjoyment I
we could ever derive must be from the indulgence of I
sensual gratifications, those mortals were infinitely ?
to blame, who extolled the glories of virtue, and i
lived and died in the practice of it.
Such were the sentiments of this vile infidel; and I.
fiach ascendency did they gain over him, that his I

whole time was divided between gaming, wine, and
the worst characters, of the female sex. He had
cautiously concealed his opinions on religion from
his lady, till they were united, or she never would
have consented to wed a man of such principles.
He did not long, however, preserve the veil of sanc
tity. After the sacred knot was indissolubly tied,
he threw of the subtle mask he had assumed, and
showed himself in his native colours. Lady Palmer
was surprised and shocked at the shameless artifice
of the abominable dissimulator; but it was too late
to betray the extreme horror that she felt—she was ,
the wife of Sir Richard Palmer, and she was sensible
of the duties that appertained to her in that situation.
They had been married about‘two years, when her
happiness was for ever blasted by the machinations
of the infamous Lady Mountmorris.
To proceed with our story, Sir Richard at length
ventured to propose an immediate elopement. It
was at first gently refused by the lady, as she knew
that a little opposition would but serve to increase
the ardour of his wishes. He implored her to have
pity on his sufferings, and relieve the torments un
der which he lingered. She at lastagreed to fly with
him to Holland, representing Lord M. as a rigid and
austere tyrant, with whom she could never hope for
felioity ; and stated his resolution to obtain a di
vorce, adding, that she was conscious she had done
nothing to give him the least offence, but he was an
implacable judge. In short, she had never loved him,
but had been compelled by force to marry him. He,
in return, assured her, that he had never even pre
tended to like Lady P. but she was a forward woman,
that had wantonly aspired to his hand, without seek
ing to possess his heart; and he was now far more
anxious to .free himself from the clogging reins of
matrimony, than ever he had been to wear them ;
This was the letter her ladyship was perusing,
when Lord Mountmorris entered the room; it con-

eluded with thanking her for her compliance with
his desires, and promising that she should never have
cause to repent of her preference to him. That very
night was fixed for her departure. She was strength
ened in her resolution when she found her lord so
impatient for a separation, and appointed the next
morning for her final answer, well Knowing that by
that time she would be beyond the reach of giving one.
In the evening she affected to retire to rest earlier
than usual, informing the domestics that their attend-
dance was unnecessary. Her own maid, Honoria,
however, was in the secret of all her amours. She
had lived with her before her marriage, and been a
witness to her scandalous licentiousness ; it was
therefore the interest of Lady M. to retain this faith
ful servant. Had she discharged her, she would
have hazarded the risk of her character being ex
posed; besides, she could not easily have got ano
ther who would have answered her purpose so well.
This girl had packed up her wardrobe, and every thing
that belonged to her mistress, ready for setting out,
and offered to accompany her with a most hearty
good-will, declaring it was her wish to live and diein
her service. Lady M. said she was a kind creature,
and requested she would attend her.
The servants being engaged at supper, they es- •
teemed it a proper opportunity to go off. They left
Favel Lodge without exciting notice, and hastened
to a carriage that was waiting for them at a little dis
tance, in which was Sir Richard Palmer. He in
stantly alighted, and hurried them into the vehicle,
exulting with fiery transport at the effect of his en
terprise. They drove with rapidity for some miles,
till arriving at a sea-port,they embarked for Holland,
her ladyship rejoicing at the success of her plans,
and the emotions that would rend the heart of her
lord, on reading the letter that would impart to him
her disgrace. We leave the guilty pair to pursue
their journey, and return to Lady Palmer.

On learning the above dreadful intelligence, that
amiable woman was in a state of distraction. Her
sister, Lady Campbell, happened to be on a visit
to her at the time. She had been about three months
a widow. She soothed her as tenderly as she could,
and endeavoured to reconcile her to the loss of a man
so unworthy of her. “And yet,” sighed she, “I
loved him.—Oh ! Lady EUincourt, would -that we
had not accepted your invitation to the Abbey, I
might still have been happy with Sir Richard.”
Happiness, indeed, she haa never tasted since she
became Lady P. She had been acquainted with too
many of his acts of gallantry for her peace not to
have been materially destroyed, though she had for
bore to load with reproaches the man whom she had
sworn to love, honour, and obey ; but now the small
remains of tranquillity she possessed were forfeited.
“ Cruel Lady M.” she exclaimed, “ to forsake so
good a husband, and plant daggers in the bosom of
a woman that never injured you.
How few would have expressed themselves so
leniently 1 But revenge was a sensation never encour
aged in the breast of this excellent female; it is a
passion too despicable to be harboured in a virtuous
mind., She felther wrongs, and despised the perfidy
of her who was their vile occasioner. Yet she pitied
the sufferings she was convinced she would endure,
when the stings of conscience should overtake her;
for that thejr would was a truth she could not doubt.
Conscience is the concomitant of guilt, and sooner
or later, those that err against the djvirie command
ments will labour under its oppressive influence.
She sought for consolation in prayer to the God of
all graciousness; Him from whom alone she could
hope to find a solace from all her cares. She had
received a pious education froin the best of parents ;
but they were now committed to the tomb.
Notwithstanding the impious profanity that mark
ed the character of Sir Richard Palmer, and the ten-
167 Y

der attachment her heart had ever entertained for
him, her principles were uncorrupt. She had not
allowed the force of her affection to subdue the reli
gious sentiments that had been inculcated into her
nature from earliest infancy ; and many disputes had
arisen on this account between her and Sir Richard.
She had mildly endeavoured to convince him of the
doctrines of Christianity, and to converse upon the
foodness of the Eternal. When this was the case,
e always protested his unbelief of every thing of the
kind, and repeated over and over again his firm con
viction, that no Supreme Being existed, and that it
was only indulging ourselves in false expectations to
place credence in ridiculous stories about heaven,
and such sort of stuff. At these periods, tears were
generally the reply of Lady Palmer. It was in vain
to offer to reason with him, for he detested all at
tempts at argument; but oft did she importune the
Deity to inspire him with a love of those sacred pre
cepts he so wickedly disavowed. And even now, that
her misery was at its height, she still prayed for
his reform with fervent devotion,
i We now go back to our unhappy friend, Lord
Mountmorris. We have stated that he informed
Lady Elhncourt, by letter, of the flight of his lady.
A few days having passed, his grief being sufficiently -
abated to admit of his leaving the solitude of his apart
ment, he ordered his carriage, and proceeded to
Pemberton Abbey, as he wished to hold one more
mournful conversation on the subject of his woes.
On arriving there he was told that Lady Ellincourt
was seriously indisposed, and could not see company
but, upon sending in his name, he was instantly ad
mitted. Her ladyship was sitting on a sofa, sup
ported by a pillow, and looking, indeed, very ill.
She desired Lord M. to advance, with a countenance
expressive of the deepest melancholy. “ I am con
cerned, madam," said he, “ to behold you thus, and
fear that my present visit is an intrusion.” “Oh,

no,” answered Lady Ellincourt, pressing his 1 hand,
and requesting him to be seated, “ your visits were
never intrusive. They are now,'more than ever, ac
ceptable. Since we last met, I have drank of the cup
of affliction, therefore can more fully participate in
yours.” “ We are then mutual sympathizers,” said
his lordship: “but I hope your afflictions, madam,
are not irremediable—mine can never be removed.”
Lady Emily, who was present, would have re
tired, but her mother said, “ No, my dear, Lord
Mountmorris knows I have no secrets from my fami
ly. You are acquainted with the story of his sor
rows, and, I am sure, compassionate them as strongly
as myself.” “ Indeed I do,” replied the lovely
Emily, a tear glistening in her eye.
Lady Ellincourt then said, that her calamity was
of a nature that would admit of no removal, save by
death ; arid proceeded to relate to him, as well as her
agonized feelings would allow, the loss she had sus
tained. “ After an estrangement of so many years,”
cried she, weeping, " conceive, my lord, the distress
of mind I endure, on hearing that my daughter was '
no more.” “ I do conceive it,” answered he; it
must have been poignant in the extreme. Yet time,
I trust, will alleviate the pungent smart.” “ It will,”
said she, “ I know it will. I feel that my sufferings
draw near a close. I think, and hope, that I am fast
hastening to that bourn from whence no traveller re
turns.” As she uttered these words a ray of celestial
animation lightened up her countenance, and seemed
to diffuse comfort through her heart. Nothing is so
pleasing to an opprestmind, as the consideration that
a time is near when that oppresion must cease; par
ticularly if it is to heaven we are looking for succour
and relief. Earthly prospects of redress are uncer
tain ; but God’s power ana wisdom never fail. When
man rejects our cause, he takes it up, and preserves
us with almighty care. Lady Ellinoourt likewise
mentioned the fate of Lord Ballafyn, representing

that as an additional source of disturbance and un«
easiness. She now adverted to his own sorrowful
case, and inquired how he intended to proceed. “ I
shall hasten, “ answered he, “ to the Supreme Court
of Judicature; and, stating circumstances, sue for a
lawful divorce. 'Is is the only method I can have
recourse to ; for did I know the retreat of my aban
doned wife, I would now disdainto ask her consent
to a measure which the laws of my country give me
a right to claim. She is unworthy of the shadow of
respect from me : and as to damages, I should never
think of; for money could not afford the least com
pensation for the injury that hasbeen done me: there
fore I shall decline a prosecution of the kind. The
sole object of my wishes is to be declared free.”
Lady Ellincourt strongly commended that determin
ation, and advised him to pursue it without delay.
“ O that I hadabidedby your instructions,” exclaim
ed he, “a few months ago, and viewed Miss Rivers,
not as the most angelic of her sex, but as a dangerous
enchantress, who would prove an everlasting foe to
my happiness. Had I so acted, I should not rashly
have plunged into so wretched a thraldom. Yet,
wherefore do I talk thus, since what is past cannot be
recalled ? As soon shall the world be uncreated; as
one hour of our existence be revoked. She was beau-—I thought her virtuous. Perhaps I was not
the first who has been deceived by a false show of ex
ternal allurements.” “ Few men, I acknowledge,”
answered Lady Ellincourt, “ could have been im
penetrable to the charms of this most deceitful fair :
and while you believed her perfection, it is not to be
wondered at that you were rather directed by the dic
tates of affection, and your own experimental obser
vation, than guided by the advice of others. How
ever, do not, I implore you, give way to grief. You
nave, in reality, lost nothing; as a woman that can
desert her husband, especially such a husband as you
have been, is unworthy his possession. As to your

character, it is too well known for the smallest slur
to be cast upon your fame. All must respect you,
and all have long despised her.”
Lord Mountmorris assured her that he would not
indulge grief upon the occasion; that he was sensible
of the truth of all she had advanced, and should en
deavour to derive consolation from the joys of a sen
timental life. “ A life,” exclaimed he, with a sigh,
“ which I have always admired,' but never tasted since
my inauspicious marriage. I have not been used to
gaiety anddissipation, but Lady M. could not endure
the name of domestic amusements. Nothing but
plays and public entertainments suited her taste;
therefore I was obliged to renounce my speculative
schemes, and rush into a vortex of folly and extrava
gance that my heart inwardly abhorred. She was
very young, and I thought would become more ra
tional in the course of time: but how far this was
from the case your ladyship knows.” He could not
here help bursting into a violent flood of tears, in
which Lady Ellincourt and Emily joined. Regain
ing more composure he resumed, “ I the readier made
excuses for her volatility, as I imagined that whilst
single she had led a retired life, conceiving it impru
dent as an orphan, and without a protector, to launch
into the busy world ; consequently, when married,
she was doubly impatient to see every thing that was
to be seen; but I find now, that so far from living in
retirement, she partook of the pleasures of the town
as much as when under the sanction of a husband’s
authority; and unaccustomed to restraint, she had
regarded not the laws of propriety and prudence.”
Lady Ellincourt was no stranger on this point; but
she did not increase the distress of Lord M. by con
tinuing the discourse. Further condolences having
passed between them, he took his leave.
Lady Ellincourt was somewhat soothed by his
friendly sympathy, but her health she felt was get
ting gradually worse. She was prepared for the so-

lemn moment of her departure, and resigned to meet
the presence of her grand Eternal Judge. Oh, happy
resignation’.may all, as the blissful period draws nigh,
oe inspired with thy potential influence.
During this period, the amiable inhabitants of Dar
by House were not unacquainted with the sorrows
of the worthy Lord Mountmorris. The elopement
that had taken place soon found its way into the pa
pers of daily intelligence. Affairs of that nature are
never long a secret. The world is too ready to ru
mour calumnious reports, to the disadvantage of in
nocent individuals, to omit the publication of real
facts. The accounts spoke very plain of the lady’s
real character, and hinted that it was believed the
parties were gone to Holland; but on that point they
were not certain.
“ I vow and protest,” said the mischievous Ame
lia, when the Duke of Albemarle had finished read
ing this fashionable crim. con. case, “ that were it
not for the sufferings of the wife and husband of these
wretches, I should rejoice at their tormenting one
another. He is too great a libeitine not to forsake
her soon, and then she will have powerful scope for
repentance, and perhaps it may be the means of her
reformation: but I am very sorry for their misfor
tunes, though I think, if they are wise, they will
hardly consider them as such.”
“ Oh, madam,” said the duke, “ we may think so
upon taking a casual survey of circumstances, but
on reflection it will appear in a different light. This
unhappy nobleman believed his wife was virtuous

till he proved her otherwise, therefore great is his
calamityand Lady Palmer loved the villain not
withstanding his unworthiness, consequently her
grief must be excessive. As to a reformation being
worked inJier ladyship, I fear it will be a long time
ere that happens. She is too beautiful not to have
plenty of admirers ; and whilst she can lead a life of
pleasure and infamy, she will be in no baste to re
“ I have met Sir Richard Palmer at the gaming
table,” remarked Sir Everard; “he is a handsome
and polite man, but I never was much prepossessed
in his favour. We once entered into a little conver
sation, and I found his sentiments so opposite to
mine, that I was far from pleased with his society.
Soon after I heard the character he bore, and then I
cautiously avoided his company.”
"My neairt bleeds for Lady Palmer,” said the
Dutchess of Albemarle: “ her mild dignified graces,
and melancholy, though lovely countenance, won
my esteem at a first glance. Too quickly I perceiv
ed the cause of her. misery } the negligence and in
attention of her husband convinced me that she had
either lost or never possessed his affections. But
when; I saw all his attention directed to the worthless
Lady Mountmorris, I felt as if the barbed arrow was
pointed to destroy my own peace. The manner in
which she received his .compliments showed that she
was not displeased with them; and there cannot be
a greater incentive for a man to proceed in his base
designs, than a woman seeming flattered and obliged
with what she ought to repulse with the utmost in
dignation. Few men are so depraved as to persist, when
they know they are despised.”
“ That observation I am sure is just, my dear,"
replied the duke. “ Half the women owe their ruin
to their imprudent behaviour. When first a man
offers to notice them, particularly married men, a
female that has any pretensions to goodness or sen-

sibility, must be aware that the assiduities of a mar
ried man can be only with a view tb deprive her of
her honour. He has a wife* to whom his love and
tenderness are due; and did she at once disdain his
profligate addresses, he would probably r.eturn to a
sense of virtue, and the duties incumbent on his situ
ation ; but j'while he is caressed and treated as the
most amiable of his sex, instead of being spurned at
as a monster of corruption, he will continue to prac
tise his artillery of seductive arts, and betray more
victims to destruction. If the lady is likewise mar
ried, her guilt is doubly aggravated, as she breaks
the most solemn of all vows; if single, her crime is
still of the blackest die. She injures not herself
alone, but an innocent, unoffending woman* Where
either has entered into the sacred bond of matrimo
ny, no excuse can be alleged."
“ Certainly not,” answered the dutchess ; “ and
that woman who can take a delight in triumphing
over the felicity of another, deserves, to fall a sacri
fice to her inhuman cruelty. For my part, I love
my sex too well to bear the idea qf occasioning them
a moment’s pain; but I have seen many, ana even
heard them declare, that nothing gave them so much
satisfaction as raising a spark of jealousy in the
breast of a rival, though they have vowed at the same
time that they had not the smallest intention of in
juring the object: but their pride was flattered, by
the supposition that they Were of consequence
enough to create a passion of such a tendency.”
“ That is, indeed, a malicious gratification,” cried
Lady Mornington, “ and cannot be too much re
prehended. The bare supposition of such treachery
would fill .a mind endued with rectified principles
with horror, and instead of flattering their pride, hum
ble it to the very dust.”
“ Nothing is so diabolical in my opinion,” said the
duke, “ as a character that wantonly labours to des-
*roy the happiness of a fellow-creature. There are

numbers who would not adopt the effectual measures
for that purpose, that yet would not hesitate to act
as ifglorying in its commission. I think this is a
vice equal to, if not exceeding, libertinism; It evin
ces such an utter want of principle and feeling, that
those who can be guilty of it must be dispossessed
of every moral sentiment. I have known both men
and women, that have studied to engage the affec
tions of the oth6r sex> merely with a design to ren
der them miserable, by proving at last what they
should have done at first—that no regard existed to
wards them. However, this is a digression from the
subject of our discourse. To return to what you
were observing, my dear Fanny, on the negligence
of Sir Richard to his lady, when we were at the Ab
bey; I believe it was visibly remarked by all present,
and the conduct of Lady Mountmorris to her hus
band was as obvious. Few men could have resisted
such behaviour as she displayed; and, indeed, I
must affirm, that in cases of this kind, more unhap
piness arises to individuals from a neglect of public
attention to each other, than from any source that
can be mentioned. A man, for instance, without be
ing a professed libertine, who sees a beautiful woman
like Lady Palmer slighted by a wretch similar to
Sir Richard, watches the actions of both. She is re
spectful and affectionate ;, he austere and reserved.
If he is not as great a villain in himself, he is touch
ed with commiseration for her misfortunes, and he
surveys her with an eye of pity. After viewing her
a considerable time, an opportunity presenting it
self, he ventures to address, her. He expresses his
surprise that a husband can be possessed of so lovely
a woman, and not be more sensible of the merits of
the treasure heaven has' bestowed upon him. This
speech is perhaps made when she is least prepared,
to answer it; it is not uttered in a way to create of
fence, and her heart is the abode of innocence. She
is affected by his kindness, a tear trickles down her

cheek, and she heaves a heavy sigh. . These tokens
of distress add to her charms, and heighten the com-
Sassion of him vrho is by gradual degrees becoming
er admirer. He then exclaims, ‘ Heavens! what a
villain to requite such tenderness as thine with such
barbarous treatment 1 Oh 1 that I could boast of
such a wife ! how different would I behave I’ Awak
ened to a conviction of her danger, she now attempts
to fly, requesting that he will not again presume to
force a conversation so improper for her to hear.
The indignant warmth with which she repulses his
improvident declaration increases his passion. Hur
ried away by its dictates, he madly seizes her hand,
and imprinting on it a fervent kiss, implores her not
to be offended with the liberty he takes; 'that he re- •
veres her virtue, but is distracted to think it should
be rewarded with cruelty and indifference.
“She replies not; but, snatching her hand from
him, hastens away with precipitation. He is not
deterred by this discouragement from renewing his
protestations of esteem at the next interview he can
iind an opportunity of having. If she has indeed the
virtue and the presence of mind of the amiable Lady
Palmer, she will repel every attack upon her honour,
and maintain it to the very extinction of her exist
ence. But it is not every woman who can preserve .
her reputation amidst such degrading usages as she
was constantly in the habit of receiving. We will ’
suppose her but too susceptibly inclined. Her lover '
is young, handsome, and insinuating. At first she '
represents the duty that is owing to her consort, and
intimates that he having failed in his; is no extenua
tion for her dereliction from the paths of rectitude. .
He quickly obviates these objections to his wishes,-.
and to come to a point, asks her if she could love !
him, were she under no restraint to the contrary.
She blushingly acknowledges that she could then i
prefer him to the rest of his sex. In a transport of f
delight he kneels at her feet, to thank her for so gen- •

erous a declaration; vowing that he never fell so
truly blest as in this moment of rapturous ecstasy.
She desires him to rise, and gently beseeches him to
forget that there is such a creature as herself in being.
He then can no longer restrain himself within bounds.
‘ Shall 1/ cries he, ‘ forget that the sun shines, whilst
I feel the warmth of his powers ? As soon shall that
be the case as your dear image be banished from my
remembrance. Oh, cruel fair 1 to advise me to for
get thee.’ * Your impetuosity is alarming,’ she an
swers : 4 1 never can be yours; and why will you
torture yourself and me by pursuing a discourse so
destructive to our peace?’ Every reply she mates
augments his ardour. I need not dwell upon the suc-
cessofhis endeavours. She has listened to the tender
tale; that is the first step towards guilt. She has
owned a return of love; that is a second: and what
the third will be, may be too easily guessed. Thus
may the noblest sentiments be corrupted by circum
stances. Pity was the origin of this unhappy event
on his side; gratitude on hers.”
Sir Everard perfectly concurred in what the duke
had advanced, adding, “ that he did not believe one
man out of twenty would attempt to molest the hap
piness of a couple who were living in mutual felicity,
and who seemed to make it their study to be obliging
to each other.”
“Your description,” said Fanny, addressing the
duke, “is, I dare say, far from exaggerated; these
things are but too common. Would women, who
have the misfortune to be united to objects so un
worthy of them, preserve their native honour, they
must be blest with an unwonted shar'e of prudence
and discretion ; they must resolve to combat against
passions that are likely to prove hostile to their re
pose. It is difficult, when a woman receives repeat
ed slights from him who ought to be her sovereign
protector, instead of meeting with tenderness and
affection, to assume a cheer f ul countenance even foi

a moment; yet in some cases it is indispensably
necessary. Her closet is the place for lamentation:
let her not expose her unhappiness and her hus
band’s character abroad. It will be of no other avail
lhan laying her open to the insults of the other sex,
and seldom obtaining for her the compassion of her
own. If she is necessitated to appear in public,
great will be the merit if her face can wear a smile
when the heart is breaking.
“Lady Palmer, it was evident, endeavoured to
conceal the agonizing state of her mind, though
through the thin veil might be traced her inward sor
row. Her deportment to the author of her woes was
assiduously attentive, and her features were render
ed more interesting for not being adorned with that
look of extreme gaiety which, I think, diminishes,
instead of improving, female charms.”
“I may be very culpable,” said Lady Morning-
ton archly, “ but I declare I should hardly condemn
a woman for resenting such indignant conduct, could
she do it without the shame recoiling on herself;
but the consequences must be more destructive to
her honour and tranquillity, than to that of the wretch
on whom slie would be revenged. Virtue is trans
parent as crystal, and when once forfeited, eternal
peace is for ever sacrificed.”
“ Most true,” answered the dutchess; “ yet I can
with your ladyship, plead excuses for women that
deviate under such aggravating circumstances.”
This conversation passed whilst the family were
at breakfast, the newspaper having given rise to it.
The meal being ended, the discussion closed.
The duke and Sir Everard went out fora morn
ing’s ramble, and our heroine and her friend repair
ed to their beloved study. Here they read and com
mented by turns for about a couple of hours. The
dutchess then played a tune upon the harp, and ac
companied it with her melodious voice. Amelia
joined in the singing. Her voice, without being pow-

erful, was peculiarly sweet; it was agreeably modulat
ed, andfull of the mostlpleasing variation. The dutch*
ess was more scientific, but both were admirable.
“ I never heard any person play so much to my
liking as your grace,” cried Amelia, “though I have
always been amongst musical folks. I am not ac
customed to flatter, and particularly my Fanny,but
I must,tell the truth. There is as much difference
in. the manner in which practitioners perform music,
as in any science on the face of the universe.”
“I have been told that I am skilful,” replied the
dutchess, “ but I do not pretend to vouch for the
justice of that assertion. I am fond of music, and
that may be one great reason why I excel.”,
“ Music,” exclaimed Amelia, “ in the language of
the Mourning Bride, has charms to sooth a savage
breast, to,soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak.
I am surprised,” continued she, “ how any one can
be averse to such divine harmony as these sweet in
struments afford. There seems to be a magic inspir
ation attached to them, that conveys a power to the
soul indescribable, and almost inconceivable, save to
those who feel its heavenly influence in themselves.
If a temper is ruffled by a temporary disappoint-
meritj or perplexed by an unforeseen accident, com
fort may be derived from music: this I know, not
from experience, but by inward reflection and out
ward observation. Itis reckoned the universal com
poser of affliction.”
“I believe,” replied Fanny, “that where one dis
likes it, fifty are enamoured of it. I never heard
but two people express a decided aversion to it; one
was a rough sailor, and the other a nobleman whose
taste was little worthy of imitation. In general, men
are as partial to it as women.”
They were here interrupted by the entrance of a
servant, with a letter for the dutchess. It was from
the young Lady Ellincourt, and contained the foj-
lowing distressing intelligence.

350 FATHEftLESS FANN* : Oil,
My dearest Fanny, r
Do not, upon receipt of this, be too much
alarmed, Lady Ellincourt, the mother of my Ed
mund, our thrice dear and valuable friend, is dying.
She has been indisposed for some days, but is now
considerably worse. She requests to see you imme
diately. We all are distracted. The thoughts of
losing such a woman, such a mother, such an orna
ment to her sex, is afflicting in the extreme. Yet
the loss will only be ours; she will exchange an
earthly tabernacle for a heavenly one; this barren
spot of land for an eternal kingdom, where the wic
ked cease from troubling—where immortal pleasure
reigns, and sorrow there no entrance finds. This
blissful consideration is all that consoles us at her
departure; all did I say t Will it not be the greatest
of consolations—that which God himself dictates?
Oh! Fanny, were we all as secure of happiness in
the celestial courts as the amiable Lady Ellincourt,
how few would dread to die! I cannot proceed any
further. If you can reach Pemberton Abbey soon,
you may enjoy the mournful satisfaction of a part
ing interview with her whom I know you so greatly
I am, dearest Fanny,
Your unhappy friend,
Emily Ellincourt.
Tears flowed fast down the cheeks of the dutchess
as she pursued this epistle. She gave it into the
hands of Lady Mornington, for she could not com
municate its contents. She warmly sympathized in
her sorrow.
Presently the duke returned with Sir Everard.
On bearing what had happened, he proposed to set
out as speedily as possible for the Abbey., “If we
delay,” said he, “ we may be too late to beihold our
worthy friend once more. Sir Everard and Lady
Mornington will, I am sure, in such an emergency

as this, excuse our absence. We shall probably re
turn in the course of a few days.” “Most certainly
replied they, “ we should be very sorry if we were
to be an obstruction.” •' 1 hope,” said Amelia,
“ Lady Ellincourt is not quite so bad as is represent
ed, at least that she may recover.” “ I am afraid,”
answered Fanny, “ that that hope is vain, yet can
not help myself indulging it.”
The carriage being now at the door, the duke and
dutchess took leave of their guests, and set off with
woe-frought hearts for Pemberton Abbey.
When they arrived at the Abbey, a melancholy
scene indeed awaited them. Lady Ellincourt, they
were informed, still lived, but a few hours were ex
pected to terminate her existence. Emily came in
tears from her apartment to meet them. She seized
Fanny’s hand, and pressed it to her lips, exclaiming,
“The last time we metour hearts were the mansions
of joy: now, alas! they are the inmates of afflicting
The dutchess could hardly articulate a reply,
so overcome was she with the poignant weight of her
feelings. “I will go and apprize her that you are
come,” said Emily ; “ it will be a source of pleasure
to her to behold her loved Fanny once again.”
“ She is then perfectly sensible ?” asked our heroine.
“ O yes,” replied Lady Ellincourt, “ her mind has
never been alienated for a moment. She anticipates
her departure with feelings of ecstatic rapture, such
as can only be tasted by those whose consciences

are purified by the of the Holy Spirit.”
“ I am rejoiced to hear she is so resigned,” said Fan
ny. “ Goodness like hers, emanating from religious
sentiments, has nought to fear on that day, which to
the sinful sin-loving children of vice and folly is a
day of terror. No, to. those who look towards the
joys of heaven through the merits of the Redeemer,
the approach of the grim tyrant carries no terror:
he is rather hailed as a friend that relieves them of
the load of mortality; takes them out of this state of
trial and temptation; places them where they are
secure from both ; and bestows immortality as glori
ous as it is lasting.”
Emily hastened to her chamber, and presently re
turned, desiring she would walk up. - The duke,
meanwhile, was asked into a parlour, where sat Lord
Ellin court and Mr. Hamilton. Woe was painted on
the countenances of both ; they rose and mournfully
saluted him; he endeavoured to repress his emotion,
but his looks were a more faithful prognoSticator.
Lord Ellincourt, no longer gay and sprightly, burst
into tears, as he exclaimed, “There are no hopes.”
“ No hopes from mortal aid, perhaps,” replied the
duke, “ but God can yet restore her.” “ If it ishis gra
cious will,” ejaculated Lord Ellincourt. “And if
not,” returned the duke, “he will receive her to his
empyreal courts. "Wafted by cherubic legions to the
heavenly coast, a ministering angel she will shine,
and there irradiate the st&rry globe.” “ Oh, she has
ever been the best of women and of mothers,” cried
LordEllincourt; “her portion must be endless bliss.”
“ Then let that sweet reflection prove a consolation
at once,” answered the duke and Mr. Hamilton : “ we
lose her, but she will gain the brightreward of all her
Whilst these friends were mutually condoling with
each other, the dutchess accompanied Emily to the
chamber of Lady Ellincourt. As she entered, a cold
tremour seized her frame; the though/, of how recent-

ly its occupant had been in the enjoyment of good
health, and was now expiring, chilled her blood. Re
covering her resolution, however, she approached the
bed. As soon as Lady Ellincourt perceived her, she
extended her band, saying, “ Oh my beloved Fanny,
I am glad you are come. Why do you weep ?” con
tinued she, observing the tears roll down her cheeks—
“ is it because I am hastening to the palace of the
Eternal, the seat of righteousness 1 If you knew the
inward tranquillity that lodges here,” pointing to her
heart, “instead of tears, smiles would illume tliatlove-
ly countenance.” “ I would hope, oh thou friend and
guardian of my early infancy,” returned. Fanny,
that many years are* yet reserved for you on earth.”
“Dear girl, ’tis almost cruel, “answered the^ dying
Lady Ellincourt, “ to desire such a procrastination,
of my happiness. It was intended by our wise Cre
ator, when he formed us out of kindred dust, that to
that dust our mortal bodies should return ; but our
souls will, we are instructed to believe, ascend to the.
presence of their heavenly judge, or descend into
a place preparedfor the devil and his angels ! as soon
as breath shall have left this frail tenement of clay.
I have long anticipated the moment of departure, and
I am convinced it is nigh at hand. I had but one
wish—it was to see ypu; that wish is gratified, and I
die content. You have always been the object of my
tender affections. When first I saw you, a sweet,
and as I imagined, an orphan girl, I felt an interest
in your welfare that was indescribable, and an inward
conviction that your extraction would one day be
proved to be noble: it was not a false conjecture.
The transports I experienced, on the discovery of
your parents, are not be expressed; they resulted
from the ardent sincerity of my regard. And when I
beheld your vows given at the altar to the Duke of
Albemarle, I rejoiced with joy unfeigned. You are
worthy to possess such a husband, and he is deserving
even of your inestimable self. But is he atthe Abbey,
167 Z

or have you taken this journey alone V* “ He is with:
my father and Lord, Ellincourt,” said Fanny.,
Emily, who was sitting by the bed side, asked if she '
would wish to see the duke. “ I am afraid,” replied! ]
Fanny, “ that Lady Ellincourt will be fatigued by i I
conversing so much.” “ Oh, no,” answered she, “ I!
like to converse ; I am better whilst discoursing with !
my friends. Let me, I entreat thee, see the husband I
of this angel fair, and bless them together ere I de- •
part to the kingdom that is prepared forme on high.” '
Emily then retired to acquaint the duke with Lady '
Ellincourt’s desire. He instantly hurried to her'
chamber. She took his hand, and putting it in Fan- ■
ny’s, said, “May the Almighty bless and preserve :•
you both; may you long be spared to make each ;
other happy j and when, at last, death shall receive >
you in his cold embrace, may the knot that binds i!
you still be undissolved : it is ratified above, and an--
gels will confirm your vows.” The duke was sensibly
affected by the fervency of this address. “ Amen to
that prayer, dearest Lady Ellincourt,” said he; “ and
may it be answered.” Fanny regarded him with a
look ofbewitching tenderness. “ Amiable pair,” said a
Lady Ellincourt, observing them attentively, “ it is
heaven on earth, to love and be beloved. Kind souls, ;
how you weep 1 and jret it is not kindness, since it
would induce you to wish my bliss delayed. Emily,
my child, comfort them if you can. Alas! you are
as distressed as they are.” Here Lord Ellincourt
entered. He enquired, with anxious solicitude, if
she felt any change. “ The best of changes,” replied
she, “ I am every moment nearer to my God ; his
judgment-seat is already in my view; already havel
obtained a glance of his incorruptible glories. Ed
mund,” she continued, taking his hand and joining it
to Emily’s, “ promise me that you will always love
this dear—this excellent creature. I could not with
pleasure have seen you united to another, but she is
worthy of you.” “ Oh if I love her not with the af«

faction her merits so richly deserve,” answered Lord
Ellincourt; “if regard her not as a treasure sent
to create my felicity, and while life remains, reward
her with an attachment the most ardent; may Inever
approach the throne towhich thou, my revered, re
spected parent, art hastening.” On which he warmly
embraced the charming Emily, who returned his car
esses with kindred feelings. The agony which Fan
ny’s mind endured for Lady Ellincourt, had hitherto
prevented her from asking after her mother. That
worthy woman had never left the bed-side of her aunt
for two days before, but had at length been prevailed
on to retire for an hour to her chamber, on condition
that she should be disturbed in case of the smallest
alteration taking place. She now appeared. The
sight of her weeping Fanny illumined her counten
ance with a momentary joy. She ran to her embrace ;
but her transports subsided, on perceiving the coun
tenance of Lady Ellincourt turn suddenly to an
ashy paleness. They flew to her. She had swooned;
it was not, however, the swoon of death. She presently
“Where is my nephew?” she demanded. “He
is not here.” Mr. Hamilton was sent for. They all
surrounded her_ bed. “ What a happiness,” cried
she, as an angelic smile played upon her features,
“ to die in the midst of relations such as these 1 Oh I
when your last moments approach, may every one
of you be as composed and resigned as I am I—a
greater blessing the divine favour cannotbestow upon
you. Death, my children, is only an evil to the
wicked. We are all guilty creatures, and at the best
but unprofitable servants; but then the Lord is mer
ciful to pardon. His graciousness is beyond our
comprehension; and happy is it for us when we know
that he is gracious.
My beloved niece,” said she addressing Mra,
Hamilton, “ you have experienced affliction’s smart t
you have been separated for above twenty years froiur

the husband of your early choice, and -made to de
plore the imaginary loss of an only child. You are
now restored to the arms of the best of men and of!
daughters; may it be long, my Emily, ere you are 1
deprived of either of these dear relations, doubly
dear from having been torn from you under such in- ■
auspicious circumstances. May the remainder of!
your days be spent in the enjoyment of tranquillity: ,
and when the ransoming debt of nature is paid, may ■
we meet in realms of joy.”
“We shall all meet, I trust,” answered Mrs. Ramil- •
ton; “and oh, how glorious a meeting will it bel!
Not as mortak shall we congratulate each other,but;
as heavenly spirits released from slavery and bond- .
“ This world,” said Mr. Hamilton, “ can produce
only one solid gratification, that is, the love and es- •
teem of those attached to us by the ties of blood; or,,
what is nearly as binding, friendship. Wealth, titles,,
honours* are not to be ranked in competition with a ,•
reciprocation of tender offices from those about us.,
All that can call forth a sigh at leaving this earthly •
abode, is the parting with our relatives and friends;:
yet it is but parting for a moment, and ere long we •
shall meet to part no more. There, surrounded by ?
the beatified spirits of those who, through a merci
ful and gracious Saviour, have entered into the re- •
gions of eternal bliss, our kindred souls, released t
from their clayey tenements, will meet—recognize—
and, refined from the grossness of earthly feelings,,
rise to the highest altitude of friendship, love, and i
joy. Oh! how these thoughts exalt the soul! How,
even on this earth, do I taste, by anticipation, the >
joys of heaven! Your loss will be my gain—my eter- ■
nal gain. This dispensation must be right; 'tisfrom:
God. Be reconciled to his will, remembering that ;
life is his gift, and death his messenger.”
“Your sentiments accord with the worthy Dr. 1
Woodward’s,” replied Lady Ellincourt; “ he main* •

tains the same opinion, and it has ever been mine.
Human nature will be human nature. I acknow
ledge that I cannot restrain a pang when I think of
leaving thee; but it is wrong, since I die assured of
rejoining thee in the paradise of the saints.”
Thus spoke this excellent woman, this pattern for
her sex to follow. She would have proceeded to say
more, but they begged she would for the preserit en
deavour to gain some repose, and not weary herself
by farther conversation. She was at last persuaded,
and laying down, fell into a slumber that continued
two hours : this, it was hoped, would cause afavour-
able change when she awoke; but in that hope they
were disappointed: it was only the prelude to her
Dr. Woodward had now joined the family. He
had long known Lady Ellincourt; and to know, was
to esteem her. Since her illness he was frequent in
his visits. The conversations of a really pious and
good man are ever acceptable, and they were pecu
liarly so at this period : his presence seemed to in
crease her satisfaction. Shelooked around her, and
smiled serenely. Her speech never forsook her.”
“ God bless you, my children,” said she ; “recollect
I bid you but a short adieu.” A few moments having
passed, growing rather paler, she said, “ I come, I
obey thy sacred mandate,my Saviourandmy Lord;”
and reclining her head on the shoulder of Mr. Hamil
ton, she heaved a gentle sigh and expired; one hand
clasped in that of her niece, the other in Lady Ellin-
court’s. Happy, enviable exit! Who would not
wish to die’in such a frame as hers! And to die sur
rounded by such affectionate relations was a tenfold
source of ecstasy. She was not afflicted with any
particular complaint. The primary cause of her in
disposition was the grief she sustained at the loss of
her daughter; that, together with the other accumu
lation of shocks she received, brought on a decline*
which occasioned her demise.

To describe the sorrow of these amiable indivi
duals would be impossible : severe was their loss;
long they wept over the departed. Mrs. Hamilton
closed her eyes, and embraced her for the last time;
the Dutchess of Albemarle likewise pressed her lips
to those of the deceased, as did also Emily. The
mournful scene being passed, they withdrew from
the awful chamber of death to a farther apartment;
and it was long ere any of them could find words to
address each other. At length they offered at mu
tual condolement. Dr. Woodward opened the dis
course, by expatiating on the goodness of her, who
from a woman was transformed into an ethereal spir
it. “ Conceive, my children,” said he, “ if mortals
dare conceive, the state of bliss to which she is rais
ed. Mortality is shaken off, and she is arrayed in
robes of righteousness. Let her piety, her exalted
worth, nonsole you.”
“ It will, it must,” said Mr. Hamilton, “ the vio
lence of our emotion over, and reflection will bring
comfort to our aid.”
“ We had vainly flattered ourselves with a hope,”
cried Mrs. Hamilton, “ that so valuable a life would
have been longer continued to us, asshehadbutjust
completed her sixtieth year; but Grod’s will be done.
He has seen fit to remove her from a troublesome
world, and translate her to his celestial kingdom, and
we must not repine.”
Thus passed this day of grief, a day that would
ever be held sacred by the family of this deserving
woman. When we think of the immense sums which
the affluent so wantonly lavish in the pomp of reti
nue, equipage, and dress—when we see the quantity
of viands which form the dinner of one epicure in
high life, and consider how many £oor families the
price of this expensive entertainment might, if pro
perly applied, redeem from the horrors of famine—
can we for an instant wonder, that the poor should
with indignation look oa them while living, and fol-

low them with apathy, and more than silent curses
to-the tomb ? The rich wonder that they are unhap«
py, and yet are ignorant of the cause; they become
more extravagant, and then expect felicity. Fatal
mistake 1 When on the bed of sickness, when their
palefaces are turned towards the wall, and Death,
that grim monster, approaches in all his terrors, nei
ther the prayers of the fatherless, nor of the widow,
are offered to the throne of grace in their behalf.
When they die they are unlamented; the sigh of
heartfelt sorrow—the tear of gratitude—the warm,
yet melancholy glow of admiration,—all, all are ab
But those who to riches unite benevolence, to
rank condescension, and in exalted stations become
accessible to the calls of humanity, are loved and re
vered during life ; when dead, they are deplored with
the tenderness of friendship, and their memory cher
ished with delight. Thus was it with Lady Ellin-
court, from the lowest domestic of her establishment
to the highest nobles of her acquaintance. It might
well be said of her that she was a Christian indeed.
The next morning the duke of Albemarle quitted
Pemberton Abbey. The dutchess could not think
of leaving her parents and the Ellincourts till their
sorrow was a little abated. She wrote a note to Lady
Mornington, apologizing for continuing absent from
her, but representing it as a duty owing to the me
mory of the deceased, and to the feelings of the sur
vivors, to remain with them till after the funeral.
She concluded by desiring that she would consider
Darby House as hers, and act as the mistress of it.
The duke conveyed this epistle. It was received by
Lady Mornington with much concern. She knew
how deeply her friend wa3 affected, and she partici
pated in her woe. The amiable Lady Ellincourt
would have excused the attendance of Fanny, on
consideration ofher personal feelings; buttlie Dutch
ess of Albemarle never 6tudied her own feelings,

when there was a probability of contributing to the
ease of another. Death was a melancholy scene, yet
she forgot the pain it occasioned to herself in the
pleasure it afforded to the soul of the departed. Had
Lady Ellincourt died without seeing her, she could
never have been happy. Those who regard the suf
ferings of the living, and let them operate so as to
prevent their granting consolation to the last mo
ments of the dying, prove themselves divested of the
very feelings they would boast of possessing, as the
sensations they would experience would be only
a horror at thinking of the grave, and that they must
shortly be as the object then before them; not the
dictates of nature acting within them, or they would
prefer the tranquillity of those who had but a lew
hours to Survive, to their own.
About three days had elapsed from the death of
Lady Ellincourt, when Mrs. Barlowe, the mother of
Emily, paid a visit of condolence to the afflicted in
habitants of Pemberton Abbey. This lady came
not so much to partake in the general grief, and
pour the balm of comfort into the heart of her daugh
ter, as from a curiosity to see the dutchess of Albe
marle, of whose beauty she had heard much talk.
She had been extremely mortified, upon the mar
riage of the lovely Fanny, whom her proud spirit
had hoped to find indeed an orphan and of no conse
quence. The discovery of her birth, and the eclat
sue afterwards made in the fashionable world, in
stead of creating pleasure in the bosom of this haugh
ty woman, raised her spleen to a powerful degree.
“A nobody,” said she, “a creature but yesterday
dependant upon the charity of the public, all of a
sudden to be noticed by a man in such a high sphere,
and caressed like one of the first ladies in the land I
I dare say it is all a fudge about her mother being a
descendant of the Somertown’s, hatched up by the
artful wench herself, and some of the sycophants
whom she has persuaded to believe the, idle tale,

and then report it abroad. I am not so easily
duped. My daughter Emily, silly girl, was always
prejudiced in favour of the chit; but she takes after
her father. 'Poor man, he will not come to an igno- ..
minious end for setting the Thames on fire.” Tliis^
ridiculous discourse was held with one of her female
associates, who^e ignoble ideas corresponded with
her own. “ Yet methinks,” said she, “ I shouldlike
to obtain a peep at the doll they make such a parade
with. I reckon myself a judge of beauty, and none
can render it more iustice,” pursued the arrogant
Mrs. Barlowe. ** Ah, but,” replied Mrs. Godolphin,
with a satirical smile, “ if report tells truth, you
would have no room to criticise there, for she is the
perfect paragon of feminine charms.” “ Then she is
more than ever woman was before her,? resumed
Mrs. Barlowe, trying to screw up her mouth, that
was naturally of a prodigious length, and grinning
with malicious spite. The passion of curiosity,how
ever, dwells more or less in woman. She grew more
and more inquisitive to behold our heroine, but it
was not a laudable inquisitiveness. Had she been in
the habit of going into public, she might have seen
her frequently; but Mr. Barlowe being of a very
different turn from herself, and fond of a retired life,
she was constrained to affect an accordance with his
principles, though she inwardly despised them.
When Lady Ellincourt died, and the dutchess was
at the Abbey, she thought she had a fair opportu
nity of having^ a sight of her. Accordingly she
came, and was introduced to Fanny. She addressed
her with an air of complaisance, and after pretend
ing to sympathize with her in the loss she had sus
tained, and said, “Your grace was, if I recollect, the
companion of my daughter at school.” The dutchess
answered in the affirmative, adding, “that she had
been so happy as to engage the early affections of
her dear Emily, and that she now possesther Warm
est friendship.” Mrs. Barlowe surveyed her from

top to toe, and felt the bitterest envy rankling in her
soul, as she could not help acknowledging that she
was the most beautiful of women, though she in the
same instant was angry with herself for making the
declaration. The dutchess was far from prepossess
ed in her favour; there was nothing to attract in her
deportment; but as the mother of herbeloved Emily,
she wished to treat her with respect, and, if possible,
to try to esteem her. The latter point it was not so
easy to succeed in; the former could be no difficulty
to the refined manners of the polished Dutchess of
Albemarle. To Mrs. Hamilton.she was civil, but no
more ; they were both too handsome to share an in
terest in the heart of a woman resembling Mrs. Bar-
lowe. She did not make a very long stay. She had
accomplished her desire, and maternal tenderness
was not strong enough to induce her to prolong her
visit. So singularly depraved was this unhappy be
ing, that because her husband had extolled the
charms of Lady Albemarle, and she knew sometimes
called at Darby House, she had not hesitated to sus
pect, and even accuse him of harbouring an impro
per attachment for her. It is needless to state that
he despised so gross an insinuation. To say that he
loved his wife would be to assert almost an impossi
bility, as her disposition was too unamiable to either
love, or admit of being loved ; but to say that he was
a good husband, is no more than strictly the truth.
He indulged his lady in every thing that her caprice
demanded, as to dress, and keeping what company
she pleased; the only restraint was her abstaining
from public places. She had plenty of money, and
no man was ever more constant. His character has
been admired, respecting the lovely—once Father
less Fanny. His conduct concerning her was no
ble ; and now that her history was revealed, he par
ticipated in the universal joy that was manifested on
the occasion. He was himself a father, therefore
could conceive a father’s feelings on discovering a

beloved child. But Mrs. Barlowe, though a mother,
was unsusceptible to every soft emotion; avarice,
pride, and ambition, were the ruling passions in her
Dreast. After her interview with the dutchess, the
latter retired to her apartment; and the rest of the
'melancholy inhabitants of Pemberton Abbey, hav
ing performed their evening’s orisons, separated for
the night.
Nothing of any importance occurred from this pe
riod till the day on which the funeral of the depart
ed Lady Ellincourt was to be solemnized. On that
day the robes of grief were wide displayed. They
added to the sombre appearance of the Abbey, and
its now forlorn possessors: every eye streamed with
tears ; every heart was the habitation of woe. The
long evenues to the house were crowded by a con
course of attendants, who were to follow the weeping
procession. The bell began its deep funeral knell.
Twelve carriages were occupied with the relations
and particular friends of the deceased. In the first
where Lord Ellincourt, Mr. Hamilton, the Duke of
Albemarle, and Mr. Barlowe. Lord Mountmorris
went alone ; in no face were the tokens of sorrow
expressed stronger than in his. She was the only
friend to whom he could pour forth his complaints,
and find a soothing balm ; in her he lost his every
consolation. Fifty carriages belonging to the no
bility and gentry followed the mourners. The ser
vants of the lamented Lady Ellincourt, and the
poor who h^d oft experienced the effects of her boun-

ty, formed a cavalcade on each side; crowds of at
tendants closed the melancholy train. The whole
was conducted with elegant magnificence, but suit
able decorum. It was a mile and a half to the Ab
bey Church, whither they slowly proceeded. She
was interred in the family vault, and a splendid
mausoleum was erected to' her memory, oil which
was engraved the following inscription :— ;
Here lie
the last mortal relics of
Louisa Frances, Lady Dowager Ellincourt,
who departed this life in the 60th year of her. age,
On Monday, September the 9th, in the year of ouv
Lord 1780.
She was adored
by hernumerous relations
for the many eminent virtues
by which her character was distinguished,
and esteemed by a large circle of acquaintance.
To the poor a universal friend :
• the defender of the fatherless, and comforter of the
Peace eternal be to her sacred Manes.
0 ’scaped from life ! O safe on that calm shore
Where sin, and pain, and passion, are no more I
What neither wealth could buy, nor power decree,
Regard and Pity wait sincere on thee :
So soft remembrance drops a pious tear,
And holy friendship stands a mourner here.
The last mournful obsequies were performed by
the Rev. Dr. Woodward, who gave out, that on the
next Sabbath he should preach her funeral sermon,
when her relatives would then be able to attend.
The ceremony was truly grand and impressive ; it
seemed to inspire those assembled on the occasion
with sentiments of awe and reverence they were un
accustomed to feel: being at an end, they returned
in the same order they had set out. The ladies of

the family awaited their arrival in an apartment
where they had met to condole; and the day was
spent in tears and lamen tations. Mrs. Barlowe had
been invited; she would gladly have declined the in
vitation, but as her husband was one of the^mourn
ers, and she stood in a degree of relationship to the
Ellincourts, she could not very well refuse. There
was no danger of her spirits being affected, for they
were impregnable to the finer feelings.
Thus passed a week, and on Sunday the whole
barty repaired to church, to hear the funeral sermon
af the beloved Lady Ellincourt. Dr. Woodward
eulogized with much feeling, warmth, and plathos,
on the merits of her who had so recently been com
mitted to the cold silenfrtomb ; he described her as
the pattern of female excellence, and proposed her
as an example for the fair sex. Not a dry eye was
to be seen during this commentary on the virtues of
a woman so much respected by those who knew her.
Her sweet affable deportment had secure'd her the
affections of every class. And to provewhether a per
son is really worthy of estimation, is to enquire into
the character they bear amongst the poor ; if they
speak with energy of their past amiable qualities,
and drop a tear over their graves, we cannot doubt
that they were deserving of the applause bestowed.
But if the rich alone bewail their loss,—if the coun
tenances of the poor are unmoved, and their tongues
are only exerted to declaim against the deceased,—
rest assured their goodness was only in the name;
had it existed in the heart, gratitude would have
drawn a sigh from these dependants on public bounty.
The service being over, the family returned to the
Abbey ; and the next morning, the duke and dutch-
ess took leave of its beloved, at present unhappy
residents. They felt themselves necessitated to has
ten back to Darby House, but they promised in the
course of a few weeks to pay them another visit.
The dutchess at parting embraced her mother and

her dear Emily, and implored them to be as recon
ciled as they could to the divine will.
Lord Ellincourt seemed, if possible, to receive a
larger share of affliction than even Mr. Hamilton or
Emily ; he had loved his mother with an affection
almost unequaled, and his passions were of that ar
dent nature that they were not easily appeased. His
native good sense, however, was its own operator, as
is often the case. Arguments held with ourselves
frequently prove more efficacious than those dicta
ted by another. He evinced every public, as well
as private respect, to the memory of his revered re
lative. He retained all the old domestics, who had
served in, the family for a number of years, iexcept
one; that was the butler, Mi-. Norris, who had been
in that capacity upwards of forty years, and was now
turned of fourscore: by reason of his infirmities, he
was incapable of holding it any longer, and he beg
ged permission to retire. Lord Ellincourt told him
that he was sensible, at his age, it was very unfit he
should have any office to think of; but that he had
acted with so much prudence and propriety ever
since he had been in the service of Lady Ellincourt,
that if he liked his situation, he was welcome to re
main in it without undergoing any farther fatigue.
“ No, my lord,” said the poor man, overjoyed at
such a mark of favour, “ you are the best of gentle
men, and I shall always in gratitude be bound to
pray for you ; but I cannot endure the idea of be
coming a burthen to so good a master ; if I am past
doing service, I will notbe an encumbrance. I have,
by my industry, amassed wages enough to support
me decently for the little while I have to live ; but
I will endeavour to stay and make myself as useful
as I can, till your lordship has secured another
servant.” “ Honest creature,” said Lord Ellin
court, “well may they say, ‘ Honesty is its own re
ward,’ since no jewel is equal to it” He did not
apprize him of his intentions concerning him, as he

5 recoii«
lilton or
that ar
id. His
se dicta-
as well
ered re-
who had
, except
iad been
was now
lities, he
he beg-
;old him
unfit he
the had
(ty ever
ie to re
loved at
ound to
a of be
am past
I have,
vei M
s useful
own r £ ‘
did not
ti, as he
feared his upright principles would defeat his pur
pose, but, consenting to his wishes, he dismissed him.
As soon as he had quitted his presence, this wor
thy nobleman ordered his carriage; and taking a
ride round the country,'he fixed his eye upon a cot
tage pleasantly situated: it was to let. He alighted,
and surveyed it. It consisted of two apartments on
the ground floor, a comfortable bed-room up stairs,
a good kitchen, a pantry, a cow-house, and a large
garden well stocked with vegetables. He instantly
hired it on reasonable terms,and returned home, his
heart considerably lightened of its weight of sorrow,
by reflecting that he had contributed to the welfare
of a fellow-creature. He then wrote to London to
his banker, ordering him to make over the sum of
fifty pounds per annum to the said Thomas Norris.
Having so acted, he acquainted this valuable servant
with what he had done for him. “ You tell me, my
friend,” said he, “ that you have saved money. I
am glad to hear it; but, although you have no wife
surviving, you may have some dear relative, tha
you could wish to be kind to, or to leave a trifle ot
money at your decease. If so, preserve the fruitsf
of your virtuous industry. The pittance I have
mentioned will enable you to live. You shall be
rent free; and you will find plenty of pigs, poultry,
and kine, on the grounds of the cottage I design for
To describe the surprise, the grateful joy of the
faithful Norris, as he listened to this detail, would
be beyond the power of mortals; it produced such
an effect, that he fell prostrate at the feet of his mas
ter, and sobbed, unable to utter a word. Lord El-
lincourt raised him from the ground. “ Oh! my
master,” he cried, “ Oh I my master.” “Why are
you thus affected?” said his lordship. “Have I
done any thing more than your long continued ser
vices and strict fidelity gave you a title to expect ?
It is meet that years should be rewarded for the la-

bours of youth ; you deserve'to'enjoy the comforts of
life in your latter days, and you shall enjoy them.”
So saying, lie warmly shook him by the hand, wish
ing be might be spared for some years, to inhabit
his rural abode. “ You are, indeed, a man,” replied
Mr. Norris; “ true is the learned Mr. Pope|s obser
vation, “that worth makes the man, and want of it
the fellow.” You have proved your intrinsic worth,
by your benevolence to an aged man ; and God Al
mighty will, I hope, bless your lordship.”
Lord Elliricourt quitted him, overwhelmed with
his prayers and thanKS. Would you be loved like
him, study to behave like him; not that study will
form a heart, for if God has not been pleased to
give one. no mortal endeavours will'ever acquire
it. The heart is the seat of either virtue or vice.
Knowledge lies in the brain: but goodness,or its
' reverse, is in the breast of man. The most sensible
people are often the most wicked; for this reason,
if they are disposed to evil, being endued with a fine
understanding, they have double opportunities to do
mischief. An ignorant creature has not the power of
concerting sfchemes for the accomplishment of des
perate undertakings; but one possessed of wisdom,
if he has devoted it to bad purposes, is crafty, full of
contrivance, and ready to aid in any plot for the com
pletion of his vile machinations. A very sensible
person, of either sex, is generally extremely amiable
or famed for avowed dishonour; seldom do we ob
serve them between the two extremes. Those who
move in a middling direction, neither rushing into
guilt and idle dissipation nor living in the practice of
every virtue, are gifted, it is said, with a moderate
capacity, ’ and not without honourable principles.
But it must be borne in memory, that however some
may strive to exalt such characters, the half-hearted
in virtue s cause are more to be dreaded, than those
who plunge deepest into every sink of 'vice and dis
sipation. rheir half-formed and palliating principles

continually lay them open to temptation, malting
them more ready to listen to the suggestions of their
Sassions, than the voice of reason. He who is en-
owed with strong intellects, but perverts the gift of
the Creator to vile purposes, becomes known to the
world as a vicious character, and maybe avoided.
The half virtuous, he who regulates his vices b'ycold
calculation, is as the snake m the grass, and stings
when all seems secure. The moderately virtuous is
in society what the lukewarm is in religion. Where
Ihere are great parts, there is a greater elevation of
ideas; and they must be displayed either in a good
or a bad cause.
The next action of Lord Ellincourt was to provide
for the poor parishioners, whom hismother had ren
dered assistance to in their distress. For several of
them he built some almshouses, putting each family
into possession of one; thus making them perfectly
comfortable for the remainder of their existences. In
short, he was the universal reliever of indigence, and
the condescension with which he inquired into cases
of calamity enhanced the value of his gifts tenfold.
About this time a friend arrived from Paris, whom
he had not seen for ten years, having been hurried
to that country on business of the highest importance.
This was Sir Henry Ambersley. He had negociatecr
the affair he went upon, and now returned elated with
his success. He hastened immediately to the Abbey
as he was impatient to see Lord Ellincourt, for whom
he had a warm regard. His joy was, however, a little-
damped, on learning the loss he had sustained; he
condoled with him in language most affecting. But
on being acquainted with his nuptials, and introduced
to the lovely fair whom he : had chosen for his bride,
he congratulated him on the blissful event, and wish
ed him many years of uninterrupted happiness.
Sir Henry Ambersley was, I must inform my read
ers, not the only person who had corae from abroad,
and was desirous of an Interview with Lord Ellin-
167 2 a

court. He was accompanied by a lady, who, though
past the prime of life, was still handsome. She had ,
tong been tenderly attached to Lord Ellincourt, and A
he had once loved her with an affection the mostfer» j
vent. Once did I say 1 It had never been eradicated
from his breast; its strength had rather been con
firmed by their separation.
Methinks I see the reader start, look puzzled, and
perhaps heave a sigh for poor Emily. Go on, my
friends, be assured poor Emily is in no danger of
being made jealous by the allurements of this inno
cent female, since she was neither more nor less than
the identical little Fanny whom his lordship lost so
many years before. She actually came from France .
under the escort of Sir Henry. By what means she
was carried out of her native land isby-and-by to be
told. Sir Henry had intended to have a bit of fun
about the dog before he introduced her to his lord
ship, but finding this to be an unseasonable period
for jokes, he, after the most important conversation
was over, asked him if he had forgotten the little ani
mal they had once had such sport about. “No,”
answered he, “ I have not forgotten her; I have often
wished I could find her; but I despair of it after such
a length of time.” “Do not despair,” said Sir Henry, i
“ for I have found her, and can restore her to you.”
“Are you hoaxing me?” returned Lord Ellincourt, »
viewing him attentively. “ No, indeed,’’replied Sir :
Henry; “ this is not a time for hoaxing. I have
really got the dog;” and he rang the bell for a ser
vant. On one appearing, he ordered him to go to
his carriage, andbringthespanielthatwasinit. He
obeyed. As soon as he entered with her, the animal,
who knew her master, sprang out of his arms, and ;
fell down at the feet of Lord Ellincourt in a fit. She
was instantly picked up, and presently restored to
animation; on which she was caressed by her master
in the kindest manner. She wagged her tail, and

began to exhibit every sign of exultation. There is
no quadruped ^o sagacious as dogs; they never for
get good treatment, and as seldom remember bad.
They arenoble.'andlovingintheirdispositions,fraught
with the most acute sensibility, and ready on every
i occasion to testify their zeal in our cause. Lord
Ellincourt became eager to know the, story of the
little Fanny, and how she had been conveyed abroad.
“ Do you remember,” said Sir Henry, “ Jack Rob
ertson, the servant whom you dismissed a few months
before I embarked for France, on suspicion of pur
loining plate ? butthe fact wasnever clearly proved.”
“Very well,” answered Lord Ellincourt. “ He then
stole your dog,” resumed Sir Henry. “ I cannot say
whether he was a plunderer in any thing else or not;
but knowing your attachment to it, a brutal desire of
revenge for the impeachment of his character, as he
termed it, prompted him to deprive a defenceless
animal of her protector. He took her to France,
and had been there four months when I reached that
place. I was no stranger either to the person of the
servant or to the dog; therefore immediately identified
them both. He strove to evade my questions, but could
not dispute my authority as to Fan. When I calledher
by her name,ishe showed by hervarious gesticulations
that she understood me. In short, I insisted upon
his giving her up, or I would expose him to the vin
dictive sentence of the law for the robbery he had
been accused of when in England. He did not offer
to justify his past conduct, but quietly resigned the
dog. I would willingly have returned to England
without delay, but it was impossible; the nature of
my affairs required that I should continue abroad.
I have taken great care of Fanny, however, and am
glad to find she knows your lordship.” Lord Ellin
court thanked him for his considerate attention, and
again ren ewed his endearments to his favourite, whose
eyes sparkled with delight. The'conversation chang*

ed. Sir Henry asked if Colonel Ross was in Lon
don. “ He is in heaven or the other place,” answer
ed Lord Ellincourt. Sir Henry started. “ It is very
true,” he pursued, and instantly related the manner
of his death, with some coincident circumstances at-
tendingit. Sir Henry was much shocked on hearing
so sad an account. “I always thought him a wicked
fellow,” said he, “hut I hoped that by this time he
was reformed.” “ I believe,” replied Lord Ellincourt,
“ that his repentance was at last sincere; but he seem
ed to have devoted himself to destruction, and his
behaviour to my amiable cousin was barbarous to a
Surprised as was Sir Henry at this relation, there
was an event that remained to be unfolded to him of
a far more astonishing nature: this was the history
of the lovely Fanny, who had been the occasion of
so much merriment. Lord Ellincourt revealed the
story of her birth, and her union with the Duke of
Albemarle, concluding by affirming her to be the
most deserving of women. “ I am amazed, indeed,”
returned Sir Henry, “ yet I must confess there was
an air of dignity in her even then, that denoted some
thing more than ordinary. Is she as beautiful as
when a child ?” “ Fifty times more so, if that can be
imagined,” cried Lord Ellincourt with energy.
“ She is divinely handsome; but it is her mind, Am-
bersley, that has raised her to her present station.
My friend the Duke of Albemarle, would never have
married a woman, let her beauty have been ever so
transcendent, had she not been endowed with those
rarer accomplishments that the mind produces.
Personal charms soon fade, but internal perfections
are more durable.” 11 In troth they are,” replied
Sir Henry: “ but justly do you call them rare, for
I have proved them such. I was near being caught
myself whilst in Paris; but, thank heaven, I escaped
the noose.” “ Are you then heart-whole as well as

hand-whole ?” said Lord Ellincourt. “I am,” Sir
Henry resumed. “ In my travels I met with a young
French woman, whose bright attractions quickly won
upon my soul. I paid my addresses to her. Shere-
turned my declarations of love, and we were on the
eve of marriage. A few days, however, before the
wedding was appointed to take place, I had the good
fortune to hear that she was a noted woman of in
trigue, and wanted to get married to the first man of
rank that would make her the offer. I should there
fore have been the tool of her pleasures, instead of
the husband of her choice. I call it good fortune,
because it preserved me from ruin. I instantly wait
ed up&n the lady, and told her I thought she had
great merit for her contrivances, but that for once
the biler had been bitten. I had the honour to be
her most humble servant. She answered me only
with a contemptuous sneer, and I never saw her af
ter. I was very ill mortified, as you may suppose,
at being so near made the dupe of an artful and de
signing female; but I can assure yo'u that was the
only sensation of concern I experienced. I was not
sufficiently in love to break my heart about theper-
fidy of my mistress.” “ I cannot think,” cried Lord
Ellincourt, “ what could prepossess you for a mo
ment to have an idea of marrying a foreigner, such
plenty of English beauties as you may daily see.”
“ Ah, but,” said Sir Henry, “ I knew I was doomed
to dwell on foreign shores' for such a lapse of time
that I almost feared I might die a bachelor; and the
bare thought of that is insupportable. Whenever I
hear of a man dying single, unless he is quite a
youth, it occurs to me that there was something so
disagreeable in him no woman would venture to ac
cept him; and now how shockingly one’s vanity
wouldbehumbledtohavethatsaidofone after one’sde-
cease.” Lord Ellincourt could hardly forbears smil
ing at this discussion; he however congratulated bis

friend on his return to England, and wished hemight
soon find a lady with whom there might be a pros
pect of happiness in the matrimonial state. With this
concluding observationtheyfor the present took leave.
When the dutchess returned to Darby House, Sir
Everard and Lady Mornington were taking a walk
•n the beautiful gardens that surrounded this elegant
.nansion. Thither the duke and his bride hastened
to meet them. Their first salutations were mourn
ful ; Amelia’s countenance wore not the playful
smile it was wont to do. Her friend was unhappy,
and she participated in her emotions of grie£ By
degrees, however, affliction weaxs away; the sharp
est sorrows grow less and less acute, particularly
those inflicted by death. God has ordained that we
should die; and if he pleases to remove those we
love best on earth, we hope it is to inherit a crown
of unfading righteousness;; and that should resign
us to their departure. There are a variety of evils
which our own misconductimay have occasioned us
to smart under. It is not so easy to derive consola
tion under them, because they have been our own
seeking. But death, even supposing it an evil we
are not accountable for, to presume, however, to give
it that appellation, is to call the goodness of the
Eternal in question. On the contrary, it is the most
signal of the divine blessings. When the heart, is
oppressed by a series of calamity; when sickness,
indigence, and other accumulating trials, nearly
weigh us to the ground; ifwe address the omniscient

Source of mightiness,—if we consider him as a Being
ready to redress our woes, and reflect that there
is a heaven above, to which we shortly shall repair,—
our troubles will quickly be alleviated. The only
real comfort we can derive, is, that a period must
come when we shall be delivered from misfortune,
and received into the presence of our Lord. Our
souls must surely thrill with transport at an idea so
replete with ecstasy. The more miserable our sit
uation, the brighter our contemplation on the Deity
and' his unspeakable glories, and the stronger our
leelings of joy on anticipating a release from suffer
To return to our subject. The amiable Lady
Mornington and her husband having stayed a cou
ple of months at Darby House, took leave of their
beloved friends, and repaired to London, though not
without evident regret, as they were made entire con
verts to their opinions, and fonder of the country
tnan ever they were of the town. The dutchess was
now in a situation which promised the house of Al
bemarle an heir, and all necessary preparations were
making for the birth of the child, and all things wore
tne face of joy. Grief for Lady Ellincourt gra
dually absorbed into a reverential respect for her me
Pemberton Abbey became once more the seat of
festive mirth; tears were banished, and smiles usurp
ed their place. Some months having elapsed, Lady
Ellincourt presented his lordship an heir. This
event increased the happiness of all parties, as it had
long been fervently wished for. The child was
christened Edmund after his fathar. The lovely
Fanny presented the duke about the same time with
a daughter the image of herself in beauty; she was
called Emily, as it was her mother’s name, and her
dear Lady Ellincourt’s. They received the congra
tulating compliments of all the nobility on tnesc-
truly blissful occasions.

Ladv Palmer, whose calamity must have drawn
forth the tear of universal compassion, became the
steady friend of. Mrs. Hamilton, and of the Ellin-
courts. Time obliterated her sorrow for the loss of
her abandoned husband, though she never entirely
forgot the sincerity with which she once had loved
him. Her tranquillity was in a measure restored,
and her virtuous and praiseworthy character secured
the esteemof all who knew her. Lord Mountmorris
embraced the. advice of his departed friend, and pro
cured an immediate divorce from his lady, after
which he retired into Wales, and resided at a beauti
ful seat he held in that principality. Herehestrove
to forget the charms of her who had seduced him to
his ruin; but it was long ere he could tear her image
from his remembrance. Her bewitching smile, her
artful balndishments, when striving to captivate his
heart all returned with resistless force upon his fond
imagination. He endeavoured, notwithstanding, to
efface these impressions so destructive to his peace.
He dwelt upon her cruel indifference after they were
married, and the scandalous conduct she at last dis
played ; on which he taught himself by slow degrees
to despise her ; not to hate, for his generous nature
was incapable of that passion ; but he abhorred her
treachery, and detested her principles. He was ne
ver perfectly happy, but the rural joys of a country
life'contributed far more to render him so, than the
empty noise of the tumultuous town. There every
thing conspired to remind him of the perfidious Char
lotte. In the former his passions were calmed; and
his reason had more scope for exertion.
.We shall now say a few words concerning the wic
ked authors of bis wretchedness, and the fate that at
tended their proceedings. On arriving in Holland,
this guilty pair prescribed no bounds to their extra
vagant licentiousness; their flame was at its height,
and they failed not to indulge it. They loved, or

e drawn
ame the
e Ellin-
id loved
md pro-
ly, after
him to
ir image
lile, her
fate his
bis fond
dingi to
ey were
ist dis
ted her
i/as ne*
an the
dj and
e wic>
hat at-
edj or
i thought they loved, and they imagined themselves
in the possession of happiness; but soon they grew
tired of each other. Sir Richard vas too versatile to
be long attached to the same woman. There is as
much variety in beauty as in the perfections of the
mind. He was spmetimes charmed with the lustre
of a black eye, at others with the delicate softness of
a blue one. He began to manifest signs of indiffer
ence that her proud spirit could not brook. She ac
cused him of treating her with negligence. “ Had
you the vanity to suppose, madam,” said he, “ that
your captive once would be your captive always 1
No, Lady Mountmorris, you may think yourself
lucky to have held me in chains'till now ; a month
is a much longer period than fashionables of our
stamp generally live together.”—
“ 1 have captives enough in my train, I assure
you,” scornfully uttered Lady M. “ I do.notdoubt
it, madam,” answered Sir Richard, with a look of
sang froid. “ I well know I was not the first. Your
character “ Is it better than yours, Sir Rich
ard ; so prithee no more of that,” interrupted the
lady. “Was it for such an ungrateful monster I
11 deserted my husband and my home ?” “ Do not talk
ji of ingratitude, madam,” vehemently replied Sir
Richard; “ your own breast is its abode, or you
would never have been what you are.” “ I under-
j stand you, Sir,” pursued Lady M.; “ you wish al
ready to get rid ol me. No matter, 1 have as little
i regard for you, as you can have for me. I had a
very handsome offer yesterday from the Duke of
I Carlisle, and I shall embrace it instantly. Good
| morning, sir :” and courtesying gracefully, she trip-
! ped out of the room. Sir Richard bowed his head,
and thus our lovers parted.
Her ladyship ordered her carriage, and drove to
the house of the Duke of Carlisle. He was an Eng
lish noble, but in Holland on business. By him she

was received with raptures. Angel, goddess, com-
mon-place words, were by turns bestowed upon her.
He had a wife and family in England, and bore the
name of living very happy with them; but this fe
male fiend had seduced his senses, and driven them
away like a whirlwind. She was soon, however, off
his hands. Her next gallant was Colonel Candeker,
of the Light Corps. From the time of her elope
ment from Lord Mountmorris, she led for a twelve
month a life of depravity and vice. At the end of
that period, torn by contending passions, the mind,
as if wearied of the storm, often relapsed into a calm.
In those moments the- gentle disposition of Mount
morris would be placed in competition with those
of her present lovers. If they were for a time
profuse, parsimony succeeded; but his generosity
was always the same. His love, if not ardent,
was steady; theirs, as the meteor’s light, illumin
ed but for a moment, deceived, and left the wretch
who expected felicity in their smiles a poor for
lorn outcast Did she desire to mix in that socie
ty which from her earliest infancy she had been
used to frequent, the vice which she had plunged
into barred the doors of virtue, discretion, and good
fame, against her. Was it so in those days when
Mountmorris by her side was as a passport to the
most elevated families? “ Oh ! no, (distracting
thought!) I have abused his confidence; I have
wounded his peace ] I have lost my own reputation,
and involved him in my shame. O God 1 Hush!
There is no Supreme Being; Sir Richard told me
so. Curses light upon thy head Palmer. Oh! thou
hast robbed me of hope; thou hast made me a wretch
indeed. The last resource of the troubled spirit is
religion; thou hast made me doubt its reality. If
thy arguments are fallacious, I am undone: soul
and body are doomed to eternal torment. Oh! how
i dread to prove—is there a helll” A cold shivering

seized her, the thought was fraught with horror, and
she sank lifeless on the floor. The noise of her fall
called in the owners of the house in which she had
apartments. For a time, they thought the vital
spark had fled; after applying the usual remedies, .
however, animation returned. Her eyes, wildly
gazing, seemed to enquire if she had thrown off the
mortal coil. “ Where am I ?” said she, in a fearful
faltering voice. “ Safe,” answered herjhost. “ Safe,”
cried she, in ecstasy, and hounding from the sofa,
exclaimed, “ then I am in hell. Oh! no. Thank
you, my friends, I have been ill; I am better now : i
send my woman to me.” “ Your woman,” said the
hostess, “ she has set off in the Diligence this morn
ing, and I thought your ladyship knew of it. I
helped her myself to pack up the boxes.” “ The
boxes,”_said Lady Mountmorris, “ the boxes ! now
I am miserable indeed. Leave me,” continued she;
“I have something of importance to do before I fol
low her.” They retired. And now the frenzy of
passion seized her; the lovely countenance, which
once pleased, and astonished, was now filled with
horror ; and that eye which was once the seat of a
thousand loves, became the habitation of despair.
She was now robbed of every resource : her money,
her valuables, her trinkets gone, stolen by her who
she thought loved her, who she expected was bound
by every tie of gratitude and honour. “ Honour
ha I honour; when I had none myself, how could I
expect it in her ? Mountmorris,no—Palmer, to you
-we shall meet again,” said she, while all the hag
gard furies appeared disputing for the ascendency
in her once fair face; then seizing a phial, she
emptied it to the very dregs : ’twas poison. “ Ha,
ha 1” with a hectic laugh, “ ’tis done.” And now
the subtle poison works, and nature, unable to re
sist, sinks beneath its powers. Poor lost child of
xmssion! thou soughtest pleasure, and in its eager

pursuit passed the object. She is gone, with all th«
catalogue of her crimes unrepented of, to face the
awful presence of her Maker. Such was the end of
the young, handsome, gay, and attracting Lady
Mountmorris. Thatof Sir Richard was scarcely less
shocking. Whilst his vile paramour was revelling
in guilty pleasures, he was forming additional plans
for the destruction of more victims. He had made
a resolution never to return to his wife ; and for se
veral months he continued in the paths of libertinism.
At last Almighty vengeance overtook him. He had
concerted a project for the seduction of a lovely girl,
and had nearly accomplished it, by professing to ad
dress her with views of marriage. His real designs
were discovered by the brother of the maiden ; he
challenged him, and they fought. Sir Richard was
mortally wounded, but no fault could be imputed to
his antagonist. We shall; however, leave this sub
ject, and proceed to the other characters, as it is ne
cessary we should be brief. ,
Lady Ballafyn did not long survive the loss of her
lord; his injurious treatment and disgraceful exit
nearly broke her heart. She expired in the arms of
the best of mothers. The Marquis and Marchioness
of Petersfield soon followed; they were rather ad
vanced in years, and the misfortunes of their beloved
Maria overpowered them. Their remaining daugh
ter, Lady Isabella, married the Earl of Somerset
She has been represented as proud and haughty; but
the afflictions her family had. met with subdued her
spirit. She made an excellent wife, and her man
ners became softened and refined.
Mrs. Barlowe, the imperious Mrs. Barlowe, after
tyrannizing over all with whom she had any power
for a number of years, died suddenly in an apoplec
tic fit. The worthy Mr. Barlowe lived to a great age,
and continued to be universally esteemed. Their
eldest daughter, Mrs. Cornel, lived and died abroad.

the little mendicant .
She 7 was a woman without any_ natural fellings,
therefore had not the smallest inclination to re
visit her native clime, or to behold the relations and
friends of her earliest infancy. She had one child,
which was still-born. She was as happy with her
husband as such women generally are; he grudged
her nothing, and as there was no want of money, there
was no discord with them. Her sister, the amiable
Emily, fully secured the affections of Lord Ellin-
court by her tender,'obliging assiduities, and the uni
form tenor of her conduct. They had several chil
dren, and they educated them in the best man
ner. Our heroine, the charming Fanny, was like
wise blessed by Providence with numerous pledges
of their mutual love. She was an affectionate mo
ther, and her offspring inherited the virtues of
their excellent parents. Would wives be happy like
Fanny, let them study to behave as she did. Every
man is not a similar character to the Duke of Albe
marle, but almost every man might be made to re
semble him in a degree, would women conform to their
tempers, and respect, as it deserves, the matrimonial
vow. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton lived many years to
enjoy felicity, and thought themselves amply recom
pensed for former trials in present happiness, and
the hope of future bliss. Sir Henry Ambersley short
ly married Lady Margaret Noland, a female of distin
guished beauty and sense, with whom he was very
happy. Lady Mornington, in about a year and a
half after their nuptials, presented Sir Everard with
twins, a lovely boy and a girl. This couple grew
more and more domesticated ; their time was divided
between town and country, and their dispositions
- were such that they derived enjoyment from both.
Amelia still preserved the sprightliness that was na
tural to her character, but was entirely divested of its
volubility. Sir Everard totally forsook the pleasures
of shootinp- and the chase, and commenced a rational