TIME passed, and the children of either house exhibited those gradual changes which are scarcely perceptible to a parent’s eye, under which they so constantly remain. The young men exchanged school for college; the girls, under the protecting guardianship of their mothers, were taken into public; and a new sense of care, on a new ground, pervaded those anxious hearts, which beat but for their beloved offspring, and which were perhaps most solicitous for them, at the time they were indulging the innocent and artless gaiety natural to their age.

As Edmund Harewood had ever been a thoughtful youth, and possessed talents which were likely to render his study of the law beneficial both to himself and the community, Mr. Harewood changed his opinion as to the profession he intended him to pursue, and directed him to prepare for the bar, to the entire satisfaction of the young man.

Charles had for some time evinced a great desire to enter the army; but as his mother could not conquer her feelings, so far as to permit it, he was at length induced to resign the scheme entirely; but his anxiety to travel continuing as strong as ever, Mr. Harewood promised, if possible, to procure him some situation in life which would allow him to indulge his wishes, consistent with his duty; but this was conceded on the express terms of his diligent application to study; and as he perceived himself the positive necessity of becoming a good linguist, he applied himself to learning the modern languages with great assiduity.

Ellen grew up a pretty girl, but her figure was diminutive, and the gentleness and docility which had been ever her happiest characteristic, diffused a charm of feminine softness over her whole person, which was to many very attractive, though not striking. The equanimity of her temper had the effect of perpetuating that smooth and dimpled description of countenance which is peculiar to childhood; so that, although a year older than Matilda, she appeared younger; and when they were seen together among strangers, she was considered as a younger sister, supported by the kind attentions of her superior; for Matilda, although very modest, was dignified, and her person, being elegant and tall, confirmed the idea.

In a short time, Mrs. Hanson received several offers from men of fortune for Matilda, all of which were politely but positively refused; for the poor girl always showed a decided dread of leaving her mother, and very justly observed, that a very intimate acquaintance was necessary between persons who bound themselves to so sacred and indissoluble a connection as marriage; and although naturally too generous and ingenuous to suspect others of acting from unworthy motives, she was yet aware that a young woman who has a large fortune in her own disposal, and who has neither father nor brother to investigate the private character of those who address her, has need of a more than ordinary share of prudence, and will be wise in delaying a consent which deprives her of all control over the wealth of which Providence has appointed her steward.

Although thus wise in her decision on this important point, and ever assigning reasons which showed how utterly unbiassed her affections were towards the candidates for her favour, yet Matilda did not always act with equal wisdom; she was excessively fond of dancing, and as she acquitted herself with uncommon grace, perhaps vanity furnished her with an additional motive for her desire to partake this amusement more frequently than it suited her mamma; and once she accepted an invitation to a private ball, when Mrs. Weston was her chaperon. Waltzing was introduced, and Matilda, though by no means pleased with the general style of the dance, was struck with certain movements which she thought graceful, and the day following began to practise them with her young protÉgÉe.

“I think you waltz very well,” said Mrs. Weston.

“I soon should do so, I dare say, if I practised it; but as it was new to me, I durst not venture last night, although I made a kind of half promise to Sir Theodore Branson, that I would do it the very next time we met.”

“Do you call that waltzing?” said Mrs. Hanson, laying down her netting; “it appears to me to be more the work of the hands than the feet a great deal; and you go round and round, child, very foolishly, till one grows giddy to look at you—so, so—well, and what, do the gentlemen stand by to grow giddy too?”

“Dear mamma, the gentlemen waltz with the ladies; I said, you know, that Sir Theodore wished me to do it, but I refused.”

“You did perfectly right; I should have been much hurt if you had waltzed with any man.”

“It is very fashionable, mother.”

“More the pity; but I am sure I need no argument against it to you, Matilda.”

“Indeed, mamma, I see nothing against it—I think it very graceful; and I am sure, if you had seen Lady Emma Lovell last night, you would have thought so too.”

“My admiration of her person would not for a moment have changed my opinion of her conduct. I see beautiful women, who expose their persons in a manner I decidedly condemn (as I know, Matilda, you do likewise); looking at them as fine statues, I may admire the work of the great Artificer; but the moment I consider them as women filling a respectable place in society, the wives and daughters of men of rank and probity, and, what is still stronger, women professing, at least nominally, to be members of the Christian church, I turn from them with disgust and sorrow; and though I sincerely despise all affectation of more exalted purity than others, I yet will never hesitate to give my voice against a folly so unworthy of my sex, and which can be only tolerated by women whose vanity has destroyed that delicacy which is our best recommendation.”

Matilda applied all her mother said to waltzing, and thought it was equally just with the strictures she herself felt true, with regard to the mode of dress adopted by some whom she met in public. Ellen and herself were ever well, and even fashionably, dressed; but yet they avoided the fault they condemned: for some time, the sisterly affection which really subsisted between them, induced them to appear in similar dresses; but as Matilda rose to womanhood, a fear lest Ellen should be induced to expense, added to some jokes that were passed upon her respecting Charles, induced her to forego this plan, and Ellen had too much good sense to pursue it further; and, as the acquaintance of Mrs. Hanson increased, Matilda was necessarily led into parties where Ellen could not meet her; so that they became in some degree divided in person, but their attachment remained the same. Mrs. Hanson was desirous that her daughter should take a more extensive view of society than was necessary for Ellen; she dreaded an early marriage for her, although she thought it desirable to bring her into society, being persuaded that young women of large fortune too frequently are rendered unhappy in the marriage state, by being dazzled at their first outset in life by the novelty, and gaiety of the scene around them, which leads them to expect a continuance of the same brilliant career, incompatible with the duties of that state into which they incautiously plunge; whereas a short time passed in life, would show them the inefficacy of trifling amusement and splendid show to procure real satisfaction, and lead them to investigate those circumstances in the minds and situations of their admirers, most likely to ensure their future felicity, and most consonant with their real wants and wishes. The judicious mother saw, with the truest pleasure, that the well-turned mind of her daughter ever pointed to the scenes of simple enjoyment and virtuous intelligence which illumined her early years; but, in her peculiar situation, she was aware that Matilda, to a certain degree, should adopt the apostle’s advice—“Try all things, cleave to that which is good.”

On the other hand, Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, as the young people advanced towards maturity, had felt it a point of delicacy, however sincere and ardent their friendship might be, in a slight degree to abstain from that intimate and daily intercourse which had so long and happily subsisted between the families. The days were past when Charles could romp with, or Edmund instruct, Matilda; and although they held the same rank in society, yet as the noble fortune of Matilda (increased materially by the retired way in which her mother lived during her infancy) entitled her to marry a nobleman, Mr. Harewood did not choose that the presence of his sons should cause reports which might prevent her from receiving offers of this nature. He was attached to Matilda, as if she had indeed been his child, but he was too independent, as well as too honest, to render either his present affection, or his past services, the medium of increasing the general regard Matilda had manifested for both his sons into a decided predilection for either: nor was he aware that either of the young men had for her that peculiar attachment which a man ought to feel for a wife. Edmund was wrapt apparently in a profession which is in its own nature absorbing, and Charles appeared too eager to travel to have any tendency to early marriage.

About a week after the foregoing conversation had taken place between Matilda and her mother, the former went again to a ball, with a lady of rank, who engaged to be her guardian for the night, as Mrs. Hanson and Mrs. Weston had both caught severe colds, from being out late together.

Lady Araminta Montague, the conductor of Matilda for the evening, was a fashionable and showy woman, who never appeared in public without being surrounded by all those who affected to be considered persons of taste, and fitted to move in the first style. She was now sought with more than common avidity, on account of her attractive companion, whom she endeavoured to show off in the happiest manner, by leading the light conversation of the moment to subjects familiar to Matilda’s observation, or likely to draw from her those remarks in which the ability and talent she possessed would be naturally, yet strikingly, displayed. Of this species of kindness Matilda was wholly unconscious, as it was one which her own friends had never adopted; when, therefore, she found herself the universal centre of attraction in the room, it was no wonder that her spirits were unusually elated, and her vanity took the lead; so that when the sprightly dance added its intoxicating powers, and her mind was entranced by the pleasure of the moment, she forgot the resolutions and opinions formed in a wiser hour.

When the first two country-dances were over, several parties began, as on the preceding night, to form into couples for the purpose of waltzing, at that time a novelty in this country; and while Matilda was looking at them, to her surprise, Sir Theodore Branson just entered the room, and asked the honour of her hand, which he almost claimed as a promise.

This young gentleman was considered the handsomest man, and the most elegant dancer, in the circles of fashion. That he was at once a shallow coxcomb and an encroaching acquaintance, unfortunately did not prevent many young ladies from desiring him as a partner; and when Matilda perceived the leer of envy, and the pause of observation directed towards her, she half gave him her hand, being conscious that her own figure and style of dancing would be superior to any other of the candidates for admiration that had preceded her; yet she paused, remembering her mother’s words, and, with a kind of anxious, fearful gaze, that fell like a veil over the exultation and gaiety of her features, she looked an appeal to the lady who was her guide, or ought to have been.

“Really, my dear, I don’t know what to say; but as the thing is new, if you are not quite au fait, you will be pardoned, and Sir Theodore is so admirable a partner, I really think you may venture to try.”

Matilda, in a calmer moment, would have seen how totally distinct her ladyship’s fears were from those of her mother; but the flutter of her spirits, the demands of her vanity, and the address of her partner, combined to hurry her forward, and she found herself in the midst of the group before she was aware: it was then too late to recede: the motion for a short time restored her spirits; but as the arm of Sir Theodore encircled her waist, deep confusion overwhelmed her, she blushed to a degree that was absolutely painful; and though unable, in the hurry of the motion, to entertain a positive reflection, yet a thousand thoughts seemed to press at once for admittance, all tinged with self-reproach; and at length, unable to endure them, she suddenly laid her hand upon her forehead, and ran, or rather reeled, to her seat.

As it was the nature of the dance to produce the sensation of dizziness, this circumstance excited no particular attention, and her partner merely rallied her upon it, with that air of badinage young men now-a-days pretty generally adopt. Every word he uttered was distressing to Matilda, who felt as if she were insulted by his freedom, and had degraded herself too far to enjoy the right of resenting it; her native pride, however, contending with her self-condemnation, she removed her hand from her eyes, in order to give him a look which would repel his impertinence, and, to her utter astonishment, saw three gentlemen standing before, and looking earnestly upon her; two of these were her friends, Edmund and Charles Harewood.

The moment she looked up, the first withdrew, but Charles and the stranger advanced; they did not, however, find it very easy to approach her, guarded as she was by the officious Sir Theodore; but as Charles was not easily balked in any intention he had formed, he succeeded in inquiring after her health, and introducing his friend Mr. Belmont to her.

“I am very glad—I mean I did not know you were here,” said Matilda confusedly.

“Mr. Belmont introduced us. We only arrived from Oxford yesterday, and Ellen, being very anxious that Mr. Belmont should see you, proposed our coming hither.”

A little relieved from observing that Edmund still did not join them, under whose eye she felt that she should have shrunk, Matilda ventured to look at Mr. Belmont, recollecting that she had frequently heard him mentioned as the friend of both the brothers, during their residence at Oxford, and that he had been the visitant of the family the preceding winter, when she was on an excursion to Bath; she knew that he was highly esteemed by the family, and, aware in what a favourable point of view their affection for her would lead them to represent her, the idea that her first introduction had taken place at a moment which, of all others, she most regretted, was really insupportable to her.

Lady Araminta endeavoured, by her praise, to remove the chagrin which her ingenuous countenance (ever the faithful harbinger of her thoughts) betrayed so plainly—“I assure you, my dear,” said she, “that for some time you performed very prettily; didn’t you think so, Mr. Harewood?”

“Pardon me, my lady, from differing with you—I have seen a country actress do it much better: indeed I said so at the moment—Belmont knows I did; and my brother observed that——”

At this moment the country-dance was recommenced, and Matilda was hurried away, although her solicitude to hear what Edmund said amounted to misery; but as Charles was addressing Lady Araminta, not her, it was impossible to ask; besides, no small portion of anger at Edmund mingled with her anxiety—he had never yet approached her. She knew indeed that his ideas of feminine decorum were rigid; but still he had no right to resent her conduct, or he might have told her as a friend, as he used to do, wherein she erred. As these thoughts struck upon her mind, he passed her in the dance, and made her a profound bow of recognition; she watched to the bottom, and perceived him engaged in earnest conversation with a very lovely young person, whom she remembered as one of those who refused to waltz; again her heart smote her, yet her anger was the most predominant emotion, and she felt as if Edmund Harewood had injured her beyond forgiveness.

The waltzing recommenced, but the very name of it was now hateful to Matilda, and she hastily entreated Lady Araminta to order her carriage. Charles was near; accustomed to read her thoughts, he advanced to offer his hand to lead her down stairs—“You are not well, Matilda,” said he, tenderly—“at least not comfortable—I am sure you are not.”

Matilda replied only by a smothered sigh.

“They tell me,” continued Charles, “that you are about to marry Sir Theodore Branson?”

“’Tis false,” said Matilda, quickly, her bosom evidently palpitating with shame and anger.

“Then how could you think of waltzing with him? I am sure neither Edmund nor myself would have dared (brothers as we once deemed ourselves) to have taken—but—really I beg pardon, Miss Hanson; while I condemn another, I intrude too far myself.”

Matilda was just stepping into the carriage; she turned her eyes on Charles—they were full of tears, tears such as he had seen in her repentant eyes in early days; he was affected with them—he felt that the latter part of his speech had hurt her—that she was not the fashionable belle, but still the good girl he must love and admire.—“Then,” cried he, eagerly, “you will not marry that sprig of a baronet—eh, Matilda?”

“I will not indeed.”

“And do you not mean to waltz again?”

“No; I was a fool once, but——”

The carriage drove off, and Charles returned with a light heart to the ball-room; but that of Edmund was very heavy, and the friends shortly left the gay scene, and returned to Mr. Harewood’s.