Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scans provided by Google Books,
https://books.google.com/books?id=OAQiAAAAMAAJ
(Public Library, Long Island City, N.Y.)
2. "This work was published many years ago anonymously, and received the name of 'Delaware; or, The ruined family.'"--Introd., p. [v], to London, 1848, ed.
THIRTY YEARS SINCE;
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.
A Tale.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,
AUTHOR OF
"A WHIM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES," "GOWRIE," "SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON,"
"BEAUCHAMP," "LAST OF THE FAIRIES," "MARGARET GRAHAM," ETC., ETC.
NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1860.
THIRTY YEARS SINCE:
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.
CHAPTER I.
Most cities are hateful; and, without any disposition to "babble about green fields," it must be owned that each is more or less detestable. Nevertheless, among them all, there is none to be compared, as a whole, to London--none which comprehends within itself, from various causes, so much of the sublime in every sort. Whether we consider its giant immensity of expanse--the wonderful intricacy of its internal structure--the miraculous harmony of its discrepant parts--the grand amalgamation of its different orders, classes, states, pursuits, professions--the mighty aggregate of hopes, wishes, endeavors, joys, successes, fears, pangs, disappointments, crimes, and punishments, that it contains--its relative influence on the world at large--or the vehement pulse with which that "mighty heart" sends the flood of circulation through this beautiful land--we shall find that that most wonderful microcosm well deserves the epithet _sublime_.
To view it rightly--if we wish to view it with the eye of a philosopher--we should choose, perhaps, the hour which is chosen by the most magnificent and extraordinary of modern poets, and gaze upon it when the sun is just beginning to pour his first red beams through the dim and loaded air, when that vast desert of brick and mortar, that interminable wilderness of spires and chimneys, looks more wide and endless, and solemn, than when the eye is distracted by myriads of mites that creep about it in the risen day.
It may be asked, perhaps, who is there that ever saw it at that hour, except the red-armed housemaid washing the morning step, and letting in the industrious thief, to steal the greatcoats from the hall; or the dull muffin-man, who goes tinkling his early bell through the misty streets of the wintry morning? Granted, that neither of these--nor the sellers of early purl--nor the venders of saloop and cocoa--nor Covent Garden market-women--nor the late returners from the _finish_--nor he who starts up from the doorway, where he has passed the wretched night, to recommence the day's career of crime, and danger, and sorrow--can look upon the vast hive in which they dwell with over-refined feelings; and, perhaps, to them may come home unhappy Shelley's forcible line--
"Hell is a city very much like London!"
The valetudinarian, too, who wakes with nervous punctuality to swallow down the morning draught, prescribed by courtly Henry's bitter-covering skill, may curse the cats that, perched upon the tiles, salute their lady-loves with most discordant cries, and keep him from repose; and with all the virulence of DesprÉaux, may exclaim upon the many hateful sounds of a town morning. But, besides all these, there are sometimes persons who, rising five hours before their usual time, come forth in all the freshness of the early day, stimulated by the vast effort that roused them from their beds, proud of a successful endeavor to get up, and excited by the novelty of the circumstance and the scene, and who rush on, admiring all the beauties as they go to take their places in the gay stage-coach.
Fully double the extent of ancient Athens, in its days of greatest splendor--at least, if the calculation of Aristides be correct--London lies in circuit more than one day's journey, and many a day's journey may be taken in the interior, without ever threading the same streets. It would not matter much, therefore, in what corner of the town was placed the coach-office whence, at an early hour of every lawful day, set forth a smart-looking vehicle, drawn by four fiery bays, for a distant town in ----shire; but nevertheless, as it may be a satisfaction to the reader's mind, it is but fair to state, that the aforesaid four-inside light coach took its departure daily from that wild scene of bustle and confusion, which, within the last century or two, has usurped the site of what a modern writer of ancient romance terms "the sweet little village of Charing," and which is now popularly called the Golden Cross, Charing Cross.
As the things that were, are now no more, and even three short years have made sad havoc amidst the brick antiquities of dear Pall Mall, it may not be amiss more particularly to commemorate the appearance--at the time our tale commences--of that agglomeration of street-corners, Charing Cross, from which--on account, I suppose, of its beautiful vagueness--all rogues and insolvent debtors were wont to date their letters. But this commemoration had best be given in describing the effect of the whole upon a young and unsophisticated mind.
From a place that they call a hotel, in Piccadilly--think of a man taking up his abode at a hotel in Piccadilly!--but he knew no better--from a hotel, in Piccadilly, at about half-past five o'clock, on the morning of the last day of August, one thousand eight hundred and something, set out a hackney coach, containing within its sphere of rotten wood, and rusty leather, a small portmanteau on the front seat, and the portmanteau's master on the other. He was a well-made youth, of about five-and-twenty years of age, with firm, graceful, and yet powerful limbs, and a fresh, clear complexion--not villainous red and white, but one general tone of florid health. His eye was blue and bright, and the clustering curls of fair hair--as pure Saxon as Sharon Turner's last new book--might have looked somewhat girlish, had it not been for the manly features and the free, dauntless look that they overshadowed. At the same time, be it remarked that there was something of melancholy, if not of gloom, in his aspect; but that did not prevent him--after the chambermaid had been satisfied, and the waiter had been paid, and boots had had his fees, and the porter had claimed more than his due, and, in short, all the exactions of an inn had been played off upon him in succession--that did not prevent him, when fairly rolling away toward the top of the Haymarket, from gazing out upon the scene around him with a sufficient degree of open-eyed curiosity to make the waterman stick his tongue into his cheek and mentally denominate him "_a raw_."
It may be necessary to inform the unlearned reader, that the sun rises, in the end of August, a few minutes after five in the morning, and at the time I speak of the great luminary was pouring a flood of radiance through the loaded air of the vast city, filling the long empty perspective of the streets with the golden mistiness of the morning light. Closed within the dull boards which defend the precious wares of many a careful tradesman from the cosmopolite fingers of the liberal Many, the shops exhibited nothing but the names and occupations of their various owners; but the wide streets, with all their irregular buildings, in the broad light and shade, were not without beauty of their own peculiar kind, distinct from all the mighty associations connected with their existence.
The coach rolled at the statute pace along Piccadilly, unobstructed by any thing, and, indeed, unencountered by any thing but two slow market carts, wending heavily toward Covent Garden, and another fac-simile of itself, just overcoming--in order to take up some other early passenger--the _vis inertiÆ_ which had held it on the straw-littered stand for the last hour. In the Haymarket, however, the progression was more difficult; for there already had congregated many a loaded cart, the drivers of which, as usual, had, with skillful zeal, contrived to place them as a regular fortification, obstructing every step of the way. Gin and purl, too, were reeking up to the sky from the various temples of the rosy god that line the west side of the street; and, amidst the bargainings of some early dealers, and the pÆans of the gin-drinkers, no one attended to the objurgations of the embarrassed coachmen. Nevertheless, all these difficulties were at length removed by one means or another; and Cockspur-street opened wide before the traveler, exposing at the end, black with the smoke of fires innumerable, the famous statue and the girthless horse. On one side, wide and open, lay Whitehall, with all those offices, whence many a time has issued the destiny of the world; on the other hand, dark and dingy, wound away the Strand, with the house of the Percys maintaining still the last aspect of a feudal dwelling to be found in London. The King's Mews, on which a violating hand had hardly yet been laid, occupied all the space to the left; and the flaming ensign of the Golden Cross, stuck up in front of a tall, narrow-fronted house, told that the place of many coaches was before the traveler's eyes.
He found, on alighting, that he had arrived at least ten minutes before the time; and after having been cheated, as usual, by the hackney-coachman, and gazed about the dull, desolate yard, shut in by the high houses round, in the far shadows of which stood two or three red, blue, and yellow vehicles, all unpacked and unhorsed, he once more sauntered out through the low-browed arch which gave admission to the court, and amused himself with the wider scene exhibited by the street.
At that hour, one-half of Murillo's pictures find living representatives in the streets of London; and when the young traveler had moralized for a minute or two on some groups of beggar-boys playing round the statue--had marked the sage and solemn pace with which an elderly waterman brought forth his breakfast to a coachman on the stand--and had listened to the Solon-like sayings of each upon the weather and the state of the nation--he was looking back to see whether the coming of the coach was hopeless, when the rushing noise of rapid wheels caught his ear, and he turned his eyes in the direction of the sound.
If people would but remark, they would find that they have presentiments of little events a thousand times more often than they have presentiments of great ones; and the feeling of the gallant Nelson was not more strong, that the sun of Trafalgar was the last that was destined to shine upon his glory, than was at that moment the conviction of the young traveler that those rolling wheels were about to bring him a companion for the stage-coach. Nor, let me tell you, gentle reader, is it a matter of small importance, who is to be brought in such close contact with one for the next ten hours. What is life but a chain of those brief portions of eternity which man calls hours, so inseparably linked together that the first and the last, and every link throughout the series, have a mutual dependence and connection with each other! Oh, let no one despise an hour! It is fully enough to change dynasties, and overthrow empires--to make or mar a fortune--to win high renown, or stain a noble name--to end our being, or to fix our destiny here and hereafter, in time and through eternity. So awful a thing is one hour--ay, one moment of active being!
The companion of the three hundred and sixty-fifth part of one out of seventy years, is a person to whom we may well attach some importance; and the young traveler looked with no small eagerness to see who was about to fill that station in relation to himself. The first thing that his eyes fell upon, as he turned round, was a dark-brown cabriolet, whirled along with the speed of lightning, by a tall bay horse, full of blood and action, and covered with harness, which, though somewhat elaborate and evidently costly, was guarded by scrupulous good taste from being gaudy. Behind the vehicle appeared a smart, active boy in groom's apparel, but with no distinctive livery to designate him as the tiger of Colonel this, or the Earl of that, though a cockade in his hat told that his master pretended either to military or naval rank. Where the young traveler stood, the appearance of the driver was not to be discerned; but, from the style of the whole turn-out, he began to doubt that his anticipations in regard to their approaching companionship were fallacious, when, dashing up to the pavement, the horse was suddenly drawn up, the groom sprang to the head, and the person within at length made his appearance.
He was a young man of about seven-and-twenty, tall, and rather gracefully than strongly made; but still with a breadth of chest, and a sort of firm setting on his feet, which spoke a greater degree of personal strength than appeared at a casual glance. His clothes were all of that peculiar cut which combines the most decided adherence to the prevailing fashion, with a very slight touch of its extravagance. Every thing, however, in the whole of his apparel, was in good keeping, as the painters call it; and though the colors that appeared therein were such as no one but a man of rank and station in society would have dared to wear, the general hue of the whole was dark.
"He's a dandy!" thought the young traveler, with a somewhat contemptuous curl of the lip, as the other descended from the cabriolet; but the moment after, hearing him bid the boy tell Swainson not to forget to give Brutus a ball on Wednesday night--and to walk Miss Liddy for an hour twice every day in the park, he concluded that he was a gentleman horse-jockey--a thing, in his unsophisticated ideas, equally detestable with a dandy. Scarcely had he come to this conclusion--and his conclusions, be it remarked, were formed very quickly--when the stranger strode rapidly past him. The cabriolet drove away, and its owner, with a quantity of glossy black hair escaping from under his hat, and mingling with whiskers more glossy still--entered the inn-yard, and proceeded to the coach-office.
The other traveler followed, in hopes of seeing some signs of approaching departure; and, as he did so, he heard the reply of the book-keeper to something which the owner of the cabriolet had asked. "No room outside, sir;--very sorry, indeed--got our full number,"--he had got three more, by the way--"plenty of room inside. That 'ere gentleman's going inside, 'cause he can't get room out."
"Well, inside be it then," replied the other.
The book-keeper began to write. "What name, sir?"
"Burrel!" replied the stranger.
"Any luggage?"
"None," answered Burrel.
"One pound, ten shillings, and sixpence, sir, if you please!" said the book-keeper; and, as Burrel paid the money, the coachman's cry of "Now, gentlemen, if you please!" sounded through the yard.
In another minute the horses were dashing through that antique and abominable arch, which, in days of yore, gave egress and regress to the Golden Cross, while Burrel and the other traveler, seated side by side, held their breath as the rough vehicle clattered over the London stones. It has often been remarked, that it is wonderful how much shaking together two Englishmen require before they speak to each other; and, in setting out from a town like London, there is scarcely an individual who has not too much to think of--either in parting from well-loved friends--in quitting scenes of pleasure or of pain--in self-congratulations on escaping from smoke and noise--in anticipation of quiet and repose, of joyful meetings, and smiles of welcome--not to court a few minutes' calm reflection, as they leave behind them that great misty den of feelings and events. Our two travelers then leaned back in their respective corners, without the interchange of a word--the one, Burrel, apparently buried in deep thought; and the other too proud, if not too shy, to begin any conversation himself, even had he not had memories enough in his bosom to furnish him, also, with food for meditation. Such, however, he had; and--seeing that his companion appeared wrapped up in that sort of gentlemanly reserve which so often covers over a man's eyes, ears, and understanding, as he goes through life, and leaves him, like the Grand Lama, with nothing to speculate upon but his own perfections--the younger traveler gave way also to his thoughts, and, ere they had reached Brentford, had forgotten that there was any being in the coach but himself.
His reflections did not seem very pleasant; for at Hounslow, what appeared to be the first act thereof, ended in a sigh so long and deep, that it attracted the notice of his fellow-traveler, who turned his head, and, for the first time, examined him somewhat attentively, as he sat looking out of the windows, with the objects as they passed, skimming hardly noted before his eyes. The second act of the young man's thoughts did not seem quite so abstracted as the first; for when the coach stopped for a few minutes at Staines, he put his head forth from the window, and demanded the name of the place, addressing Mynheer Boots, who gazed in his face, and answered nothing.
"This is Staines," replied his hitherto silent companion, in a mild and gentlemanly tone, in which there was not the slightest touch of _coxcombry_ or affectation; "perhaps you have never traveled this road before?"
"I have, indeed," replied the other; "but the first time was many years ago; and when last I passed, I had various things to think of, which prevented my noting particularly the places through which I traveled."
"Oh, any thing on earth to think of," replied Burrel, "of course renders traveling out of the question. It is no longer traveling, it is locomotion. It becomes the act of a stage-coach, a steam-engine, or any other machine, as soon as a person has one thought occupied by either business or memory, or any one of the troublesome things of the world. Before one sets out on a journey, one should shake out one's mind, as the ancient pilgrims did their wallets, and leave no trace of friends, or relations, or feelings, or prejudices, or remembrances of any kind, in short, to hang about it; but make all void and clear for the new stock of ideas that are to be placed in it."
"Yours is a strange doctrine," replied his companion, "though I believe it might be as well to practice it."
"Why, if a man carries about in his mind," continued Burrel, "his uncles and aunts, and sisters and brothers, and all the luggage of associations that they bring along with them, he might as well jog on in the old family coach at the rate of forty mortal miles per day, from the town house in Berkeley-square to the country house in Staffordshire. But let a man resolve to forget every thing on earth but the scenes through which he is passing, and he will find as much to interest, and amuse, and excite him--ay, and as much to the purpose of real information, too--between London and Dorchester, as between Paris and the Dardanelles."
His companion smiled, perhaps as much from surprise at the very unexpected tone of his fellow-traveler's tirade, as from any acquiescence in the tirade itself. "Nay, nay," he said, "surely you won't deny that--putting all other advantages out of the question between the two journeys you mention--there is still much more picturesque beauty to be found between Paris and the Dardanelles than between London and Dorchester?"
"I do not know that," replied Burrel. "There may be newer scenery, and perhaps more sublime scenery; but whether the more sublime be calculated to produce a finer or sweeter effect upon a man's heart and mind than softer and gentler pictures, I much doubt, There is something in an English landscape to be found nowhere else--an air of rich, sweet, happy repose--of safe tranquillity and successful industry, that is in itself almost sublime. Let your eye now run over that view as the coach climbs the hill. Where did you ever behold a scene on which sight can so pleasantly repose? The rich scattered wood in front, full of old England's grand primeval oaks. Then look how, bending over a thousand slopes, in the true lines of beauty, the hedgerows wind along, dividing wealthy field from field--now giving skips and glances of fair towns and uplands, and now massing together, till the eye believes them to be deep groves; then that catch of the river, glistening under the hill, while the sunshine streams through the valley, and that broad shadow of some cloud we do not see, passes slowly on--at every change that it effects in the light and shade of the landscape, bringing out some new beauty, as if it itself delighted in the loveliness it produces. Then again cast your eyes up yonder to the village church hanging half way down the hill, with its neat parsonage embowered in tall elms; and looking, as it is, the abode of peace and virtue. As good a man dwells there as the whole world can produce, and a true representative of the great majority of the much-belied English clergy. But say, did you ever see a fairer scene?"
"Seldom, indeed," replied his companion, whose attention, called to the principal points of a purely English picture, found more beauties in it than custom suffered him to see before. "But still," he added, "I am fond of mountain scenery."
"And so am I," replied Burrel. "I am fond of every kind of scenery, from the bold blue mountain, with its purple heath, as bare, as naked, and as wild as the banks of Loch Awe itself can show, to the rich and undulating plains of Champagne, where soft line beyond line of faint and fainter shadows, vanishing away in Claude-like sunshine, are all that mark the wide extent over which the eye can roam. There is such a thing as the economy of admiration; and by husbanding that faculty properly, you will not find a scene in all the world on which you can not afford to bestow some small portion thereof."
The other traveler replied, not a little pleased to find that all the fine sketches which he had been making of his companion's character, during the earlier part of their journey, were as empty as a protocol; and, with the very natural jump which man's heart takes when it finds itself agreeably disappointed in the estimation it had formed of another, perhaps the stranger now felt as much inclined to over-admire his companion, as he had before been disposed to undervalue him. A growing remembrance of his features, too, for some time made him fancy that he had met with an old friend, whose face, like a worn piece of money, though half obliterated by time, was still sufficiently plain to tease memory--one of those provoking recollections, as tenacious as remorse, and intactible as a soufflet. After some further conversation, and one or two thoughtful pauses--in which memory was so busy in digging among the ruins of the past, to see if she could find the name of Burrel, that she would not even let the young traveler's loquacious powers go on, for fear of disturbing her search--he suddenly exclaimed, with that degree of frank simplicity which at once spoke him but little a child of the great world, "Oh! now I remember where it was I saw you before!"
"Where?" demanded Burrel, with a slight smile, which he instantly repressed, lest he should give pain.
But the young stranger was not of a nature to think there could be any thing wrong or absurd in acknowledging whatever he felt, if what he felt were pure and natural. "It was at the door of Lord Ashborough, in Grosvenor-square," he replied, at once. "You were coming out as I was going in to call for his lordship. It was but yesterday; and yet I have been searching through many long years to find out where it was I had seen you before."
"Memory is like the philosophers," replied Burrel, "and often sends out far to seek what she might stumble over at her own door. I now remember your face also, and think I heard you give your name as Captain Delaware."
"The same," answered his companion, with somewhat of a sigh. "Do you know Lord Ashborough well?"
"I have known him long," replied Burrel; "but to know a man well is a very different thing: for I am afraid that all men have learned nowadays what Sallust regrets in the decline of the Romans--_magis vultum quam ingenium, bonum habere_. Not that I mean to say it is so with Lord Ashborough; far from it. He bears a high character in the world, and is esteemed upright, honorable, and talented, though somewhat stern and haughty."
A grave and rather melancholy expression came over the countenance of the other; and he replied, changing the subject abruptly, "You were speaking of the Dardanelles. Were you ever there?"
"Never," answered Barrel, "though once within little more than a hundred leagues. I should have been well pleased to have gone on, but circumstances called me back to England."
"I have been there," replied the other; "and there is nothing more delightful than the sail from Corfu to Constantinople--except, indeed, some parts of the coast of Sicily."
"You are a naval man, then, I presume!" said Burrel. The other answered in the affirmative, and his companion proceeded:--"For nothing on earth could be more disagreeable to me, and I suppose to most landsmen, than a sail from any one given point of the globe's surface to another. When you speak of Sicily, however, you speak of a land that I, too, know well; and in regard to which I can enter into your enthusiasm. There are few lands more fertile in beauties of nature and association than Sicily, and epicurean Calabria, and the old Etruscan groves! You have of course visited Italy, if you so well know Sicily."
"I have done little more than cruise along the coast," replied Captain Delaware; "but in Sicily I was landed, and remained some months for the recovery of my health."
"Oh, the sweet coasts of the Mediterranean Sea!" said Burrel, "where at every league there is some beauty and some memory--some pleasant dream of the present or the past--from the Imperial City and its wolf-suckled founder, to the gray majesty of PÆstum and the Calabrese peasant with his long gun and his Mother Goose hat, caroling his gay ditty as cheerfully as a pickpocket. In every other corner of the world I feel earth stuffed with stern realities; but in Italy I can fully enter into the feeling of Metastasio, and exclaim, '_Sogno della mia vita e il corso intero?_"
"You are an enthusiast, I see," replied the other, with a smile.
"When I am in company with one," answered Burrel, laughing. His companion colored slightly, but good-humoredly, and the conversation went on in the same easy manner in which it had commenced, through the rest of their journey. It is unnecessary to give any farther details thereof; for such light nothings, though very pleasant to while away the hours in a stage-coach, are most excessively tiresome in the small pages of an octavo. Let it suffice that Captain Delaware, surprised and pleased with his companion, found the journey far shorter than he had expected. Indeed, so captivated was he, that in the whole of Burrel's deportment there was but one thing which he thought might have been altered to advantage, which was a certain air of taking every thing as a matter of course--a tone of indifference which men of the world acquire they know not well how, and which, in the present instance, blended in an extraordinary manner with the high feeling of the beautiful and the excellent, which his conversation breathed throughout.
That tone, however, is not without its advantages also; and the young sailor found that it might be serviceable, when, at Hartford Bridge, a person of a very different description was intruded upon them. He was a short, broad-made man, with long, baboonish arms, and a face on which nature had so plainly written the class to which it was to belong, that, had fortune, in some of her freaks, covered it either with the coronet of a peer, or a peasant's straw hat, his mother, or fortune, or nature, would have had much to answer for. Some of the features were good, however--the eyes were very tolerable, for instance; and the nose was not bad. But then the cheek-bones! good heavens, such cheek-bones! From Crim Tartary to Banff there is nothing to be seen like them. The mouth, too, was worse--one of those fearful mouths, whose broad, fat, wide-parted, irregular lips seem to vaticinate the fate of the owner with such distinctness, that no person of common foresight can see them without at once picturing the person who possesses them--not as about to be hanged, but as actually hanging. The skin that was over all was of that reddish, coarse, mottled kind, which puts one in mind of a gross strawberry; and although, as before said, the eyes in themselves were _goodish_, blue, meaningless eyes enough, yet the place where there should have grown eyelashes, being alone furnished with a red, knotty line in their room, gave them a ferret-like sharpness, without which they would have signified nothing at all.
This worthy, "_passant À joints pieds_," as Madame de SevignÉ calls it, over all ceremonies, was inclined to make himself so much at his ease, that Captain Delaware, disgusted and offended, yet without any absolute pretext for anger, felt strongly inclined to quarrel with, and eject from the window, a person who interrupted a pleasant conversation to substitute vulgar impertinence in its place. Burrel, on the contrary, with cool indifference, amused himself for a moment or two with the other's vulgarity, and then trode him into silence by contempt. He then calmly resumed the conversation with his first companion, from which there was something in his tone and manner that irresistibly excluded the other, who, to revenge himself, looked out of the window, and like my Uncle Toby, whistled _lillebullero_.
Thus passed the remaining hours of their journey--Burrel every moment increasing upon the esteem of his traveling companion, till at length they approached, about six o'clock, a little village, which, though it may bear a different name in the county map, we shall take the liberty of calling Emberton. The sun had so far declined from the meridian, that the shadows were getting long and blue; but still the sheeny splendor of the summer's day was not at all decreased, though the approach of evening had cleared away the hazy brightness which hangs ever about a very hot and sunny noon. The coach wound along the road, every now and then passing various objects which gave notice that it was approaching some place where the busy and improving emmets that lord it over this ant-hill world had congregated together, and adorned their place of sojourn. Now came a neat gate and a detached cottage, too miniature in all its proportions, from the little Turkey-carpet garden to the rustic porch, to be the country mansion of any man of large property; and yet too neat, and one might, perhaps, say too elegant, to be the dwelling of the poor. It was evidently the house of the doctor or the lawyer, or the retired maiden lady of some village near at hand, and it, again, was succeeded by a long, clean, whitewashed wall, belonging to garden, or shrubbery, or semi-park, between which and the coach road ran a fair gravel footpath, defended by green posts and iron chains. The manifold paths and roads branching to the right and left, clean and well kept, told the same tale of man's habitation; and in a moment after, winding over a slight rise, the coach reached the brow of the hill, from which the whole village or little town of Emberton was visible.
It lay in a country slightly undulating, but backed by some high hills at the distance of about fifteen miles, and between them and the elevation which the coach had reached, the expanse might rather be called a plain than a valley. The village was close beneath the slope, and had little to distinguish it from any other English country town, having all that peculiar air of cleanliness, of regularity, and of the spirit of industry and cultivation, which is only to be seen in England. Its greatest ornament was the river, which, clear, smooth, and tranquil, ran through the town very nearly at the middle, and was itself spanned over by a neat stone bridge of about fifty yards in length. That bridge, however, was to be remarked for something more than its light and elegant construction: its balustrade formed the continuation of a low stone wall which separated the village from a wide park on the right hand side, full of majestic trees, scattered, in groups of four or five, over a fine undulating piece of ground. Through the midst, the river flowed gently on, reflecting the evening sky and two or three swans that floated on its bosom, the clear light of which was only broken here and there by a fall of a few feet, which scarcely increased the flow of the current. As one looked up the park from the bridge--at the distance of about a third of a mile on either hand--might be seen a grove of tall, graceful trees, sufficiently extensive to take the appearance of a forest, in some of the glades of which the eye caught occasionally the remains of old summer-houses, in the Charles the Second taste; and in the central point was seen the mansion itself, built of mingled gray stone and red brick, with small innumerable windows. It bore the aspect of what it really had been--a monastery erected early in the reign of Henry VIII. by a wealthy community of friars. From them it was afterward wrested by that pink of reforming monarchs, tyrants, and plunderers, and bestowed upon some minion of the day. The buttery of their time had become the lodge now, and was a detached, building in the same fashion as the house, projecting into the high road, and flanked by two large iron gates, which, to say sooth, were somewhat rusty for the want of paint. In what state of repair the dwelling-house itself was kept, could hardly be discerned at that distance; but no kinds of deer were seen sporting in the park, and sheep had evidently taken their place, as affording, probably, a more profitable manner of employing the land.
"That seems a splendid park!" said Burrel, as his eye first lighted on it. "Do you know what it is called?"
"Emberton Park," replied the young sailor, briefly.
"And belongs to--?" said Burrel.
"Sir Sidney Delaware--my father," answered the young man, with so deep a sigh that Burrel asked no further questions.
After dragging the wheel, the coach ran rapidly down the descent, and then rolling on, stopped at a neat, clean house, with a small garden in the front. At the little white gate were four fine setters, with a servant out of livery, who instantly touched his hat to Burrel, and, approaching the door, said, "This is the house, sir."
"Very well," answered Burrel; "and now farewell, Captain Delaware," he said, turning to his companion, and giving hint his hand with as much frank good humor as if he had addressed an old acquaintance; "I doubt not we shall meet again."
Delaware grasped his hand without reply, and the other alighted. All his dogs sprang up to greet him with evident joy, much to the detriment of his clothes, but little to that of his good humor, and after gazing up and down the road for a moment, as one does in a strange place, he walked through the little gate, and entered the house, at the door of which stood a tidy old lady, evidently courtesying to a new lodger.
The coach drove on, and then again stopped at the lodge of the park, where Captain Delaware alighted also. His portmanteau was given to the woman at the lodge; and he himself, with a quick step, walked up the path which led to the mansion.
CHAPTER II.
Whether there be something inherent in the nature of things which renders any object that man very much desires, thenceforth very difficult to be obtained, or whether it be that, by a certain perversity in man's nature, he only desires those things that _are_ difficult to be obtained, I can not tell; but one point is very clear in every body's experience, that whenever we fix our heart upon one particular object, and strive for it very ardently, however easy it might seem before, we find a thousand difficulties and obstacles start up upon our path, and overrule our wishes. Nevertheless, as there is nothing upon earth half so tiresome--ay, and half so useless, too--as a disquisition upon causes and effects, we will proceed with the events which gave rise to the above sage observation, which, by rights, should have followed this chapter as a corollary upon it, instead of a sort of epigraph at its head.
The person who has figured before the reader during a long day's journey in a stage-coach under the name of Burrel, entered the small, neat house we have before described; and, after having considered attentively with his eyes all the proportions and dimensions of the little parlor which was to be his sitting-room, he seated himself before the antique, and somewhat obscure mahogany table that it contained, and addressed his servant--who had followed into the room, together with the decent, respectable landlady--pronouncing those two important, but somewhat laconic words, "Get dinner!"
The man bowed, and left the room without reply; and Barrel proceeded, speaking to the landlady, who was beginning to fear, from certain symptoms that she saw, that both master and man were equally taciturn--"Well, my good lady," he said, "my man has doubtless arranged every thing with you, and I hope you are satisfied with the bargain he has made?"
"Oh, dear, yes, sir!" replied Widow Wilson, as the good dame was denominated. "There was but one word to that bargain, I can assure you."
"I suppose so," said Barrel, dryly, "if Harding concluded it. But tell me--that is a beautiful park opposite the window; who does it belong to?"
"Bless you, sir, that is Emberton Park!" replied the landlady, looking unutterable things at Barrel's ignorance. "You must have heard tell of Sir Sidney Delaware, Bart., of Emberton Park, surely?
"I think I have heard the name," replied Barrel. "What family has he!"
"Why, Lord bless me, sir! you came down with his own son," answered the old lady, more and more surprised at her lodger's ignorance of village facts, and beginning greatly to undervalue his understanding. "Why, I saw the captain's head as plainly as possible when you got out of the coach."
"Indeed!" said Burrell, with gravity not to be shaken; "and is he an only child?"
"Oh, no, sir, no!" answered Mrs. Wilson. "Sir Sidney has a young lady, too. Himself, his son, and his daughter--that is all of them, poor people!"
"Poor people!" exclaimed Barrel; "I should think they were rich people, with such a fine estate as that!"
"Ah, sir, things that show best are not always as they look!" replied the good woman. "They are as poor as church mice, sir, and that's poor enough. I wish to God they were richer--much good would they do! But I have heard Lawyer Johnstone say, that, with all the fine estate, Sir Sidney, when all is paid, has not four hundred a year of his own; and gentility without ability is like a pudding without plums! Then there is the captain's half-pay you know; and if they could let the house and park, it might bring something more. They tried one year, and went and lived at a cottage down at Sidmouth--but it did not let, and the place was going to ruin--and so they came back; for, though there are not many of them, yet two or three in a house are better than none at all."
"That is very true," said Barrel; "very true, indeed; and now, my good lady, see if my man has taken up the hot water to the dressing-room."
The good woman took the hint, and retired; and here it may be as well to mention one or two circumstances which preceded the arrival of Henry Burrel, Esq., at the neat little village of Emberton. These circumstances were simply as follows:--Two days before that on which we have thought fit to begin our tale, arrived by the coach--together with four portmanteaus, four dogs, and a gun-case--the servant whom we have seen waiting the traveler at the door of Mrs. Wilson's house. After a few inquiries at the inn, all conceived in very laconic style, he proceeded at once to Mrs. Wilson's, and, in words inexpressibly brief, concluded a bargain for her apartments, as they were called, for one month from that period, in the name of his master, Henry Burrel, Esq. As soon as the important fact was generally known that a gentleman possessing four portmanteaus, four setters, a gun-case, and a man out of livery, was about to take up his residence for one month in the village of Emberton, the wise may imagine the commotion that was created. The object of his visit was evidently to shoot, otherwise what could he do with four setters and a gun-case; but there were various other matters to be ascertained by the young and old ladies of the village; first, and foremost, whether the shooter might not be shot by Cupid's shaft--next, whether he were rich--next, whether he were young or old--next, whether he were a bachelor or a widower--and next, whether he had ever been in India. All these points, with the various branches into which they spread, were matters of consideration to the three classes of ladies who inhabit a small country town; namely, those who will not or can not marry at all, or any more--those who will marry when it suits them--and those who, at any time, will marry any thing or any body. However, not to enter into disagreeable particulars, the surgeon and apothecary, well knowing the importance of the case, the immense increase of influence he might acquire by learning the whole facts, and all the concomitant advantages which might thence accrue, was the first to watch the servant out of the house, after the rumor had spread, and--accosting him in an easy and familial way--to propound to him what the law people call leading questions. But the servant was as taciturn and as guarded as a thrice-convicted old Bailey witness is, or the embassador's private secretary's valet-de-chambre _should_ be and nothing could the doctor make of him. The lawyer tried him next, and then the innkeeper, but all equally failed; and the consequence was, that at the hour the coach was expected to arrive on the two subsequent days, all Emberton was in a flutter. There were the Misses this and the Misses that, as fine as--but there is no word for it--all taking their afternoon walk along the line of road--and there was Mrs. the-other-thing, the fair young widow, in such becoming weeds--buying some gray silk at the mercer's opposite, which she found it necessary to examine by the broader light of the street-door--just as the wheels came rattling down the hill. The coach at length was seen to stop; and Burrel, who had noticed no one on the face of the earth, but his own servant at the door of Mrs. Wilson's, walked into the house as we have before described, while the fact spread like lightning through the place that the gentleman at Mrs. Wilson's was young, handsome, dark, tall, and exquisite, and undoubtedly unmarried--for, by a peculiar test, or sort of instinct, which heaven has bestowed upon womankind, among their many other excellences, the fair sex have an extraordinary gift of discovering whether any male thing be married or single, at the distance of a hundred yards.
There was but one subject of conversation throughout Emberton during the course of that evening. The old topic--the unhappy poverty of the people at the Park, and the absurd pride which prevented them from giving tea-parties, because they could not give dinners, with all the little malice and tittle-tattle thereunto attached--was forgotten for the time, and nothing was spoken of but Mrs. Wilson's lodger and his silent man-servant. Indeed, the latter, with his extraordinary and unaccountable taciturnity, divided with his master the anxious curiosity of the two tea-parties given that evening; and one lady even went so far as not to doubt that he was a foreigner, and could not speak English, in proof of which she adduced his heavy black brows and egregious whiskers--an argument which, combined with the man's reserve, left one half of her hearers nearly convinced.
In the mean while, however, Henry Burrel sat down to his dinner, which he concluded with an excellent appetite, and in perfect silence, totally unconscious of the restless moments he was giving to the tongues of Emberton. This state of meditation continued unbroken till the cloth disappeared, and the silent servant, placing the inviolate bottle of comet claret before him--a supply of which, by the way, had been sent down to the coach-office ten days before, arguing, the lawyers would infer, a predetermination to lodge at Emberton--was about to retire, when he was arrested by his master's voice.
"Have you yet," demanded Burrel, musing, "made the inquiries I directed you, Harding!"
"Yes, sir," replied the man, and was again silent.
"Where does he live, then--this Mr. Tims?" asked his master. "How far is it from the village?"
"About a mile and a half, sir," answered Harding, "down a back lane at the end of the park--a very retired place, but easily found."
"And what else did you discover!" continued his master, "I mean in regard to the Delawares?"
"They visit no one, sir--in the village at least," replied the man, "and receive no one."
"Do any of the family shoot?"
"None, sir; and they have often given leave to gentlemen staying at the inn, for the mere asking."
"Very well," answered his master. "Now bring me my writing-desk, and some books from the library--the greatest trash you can find."
The man disappeared, and returned with the desk, from which, while he was again absent bringing the trash, in quest of which his master had dispatched him, Burrel took out some notes and accounts, and apparently went over the latter with the accurate attention of a man of business. He then wrote a brief note, which he folded and sealed, and, giving it to Harding on his return, bade him deliver it the next morning early, and wait an answer. All this being completed, he took up the first volume that had been brought him, cast himself back in his chair, and skimmed the pages till bedtime.
The breakfast table was laid out by the neat hands of Mrs. Wilson, exactly at eight o'clock the next morning--the white table-cloth, the jug of rich yellow cream, the two smooth rolls, somewhat browner than the same article of food in London, but doubtless much more the children of the corn--all bespoke a comfortable country breakfast; and when, in about half an hour after, Burrel descended in shooting guise, he looked round with that air of satisfaction which a man feels, after a long London season, on waking and finding himself really in the country. The hot water, not in the accursed lukewarm urn, but in a kettle hissing hot from the fire, was brought in by Mrs. Wilson; but in about ten minutes Harding himself appeared, and, with his usual silence, presented his master with an answer to his note of the evening before. It ran as follows, and explains both itself and the one to which it replied:
"Emberton Park, Wednesday Morning.
"Sir Sidney Delaware is happy to have the power of affording Mr. Burrel any gratification; and begs to say, that he is at perfect liberty to shoot over any part of his property with the exception of the grounds in the immediate vicinity of the house, the game on which he wishes to preserve."
"Hum!" said Burrel, shaking his head as he read the note. "Whom did you see, Harding?"
"A maid-servant, air," replied the man, "and the old gentleman himself."
"Did he say nothing about calling on me!" demanded Burrel; "or being happy to see me!"
"Nothing, sir," replied the man; and, with an injunction to get his gun ready, and see that the old lady did not give the dogs any thing to eat before they went out, his master dismissed him.
"We must find some means," said Burrel to himself, when the servant was gone; "but I'm afraid it will be more difficult than I thought--but the young man will call, of course."
Now, though it would be very easy to look into the mind of Henry Burrel, Esq., as he there stands pondering, with his hand leaning on the table, yet it may be better to pursue him a little farther ere we take such a liberty, and see him set forth upon his shooting expedition, in the course of which he approached as near to the mansion of Emberton Park as he decently could. His expedition was solitary, however; and if he expected or hoped to meet any of the family, he was disappointed. No one did he see but an occasional shepherd, and a hedger and a ditcher; and at three o'clock he returned home, with nothing to repay his walk but ten brace of birds.
The following morning it was no better; but Burrel seemed resolved upon another line of conduct, and, at the risk of seeming to intrude. he called at the house itself as he passed, and, on finding that its owner was from home, left a card with his compliments and thanks for the permission which had been granted him. "They will perhaps think me a presuming coxcomb," he thought; "but I care not." The next day, in crossing the fields with his dogs and his gun as usual, he suddenly, met his stage-coach companion, Captain Delaware, with a young lady leaning upon his arm, whom, from a certain family likeness, he at once concluded to be the sister of his acquaintance. Her dress was as plain as possible; but the model was good, and no one could have doubted that she was a lady, though it is probable that the walking-dress of the mercer's daughter at Emberton was, beyond comparison, more fashionable--in price. Her figure was extremely good, though, Heaven be praised, not at all sylphlike; and all that Burrel remarked was, that she was a very pretty girl, and had a very pretty foot. Her brother stopped for a moment; and with a countenance in which various emotions, strangely mingled, of pleasure and pain, called up an eloquent glow, he hoped that Burrel had met with good sport, introduced him to his sister, Miss Delaware, and then, in a manner somewhat abrupt and embarrassed, bade him good-by, and turned away.
Burrel walked on with his gun under his arm; and for a minute, as he did so, he bit his nether lip, and his brow slightly contracted. The moment after, however, he laughed, lightly murmuring, "Well, I must have recourse to the old miser, after all, though I hate his instrumentality;" and, turning on his heel, he sauntered back toward his own abode.
He was suffered to enter in peace; but his Manton was scarcely laid on the table, and his dogs given into the charge of his servant, when, to his horror and astonishment, Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon of the village, was announced, and a smart, dapper little man, of pale and gentlemanly aspect, made his appearance. Burrel was cool and civil; for it was a part of his code to be civil to every one till they were insolent; and, after the usual symphony concerning the weather, Mr. Tomkins proceeded to the chief motive of his visit.
"He had always," he said, "proposed to call upon Mr. Burrel as soon as his manifold occupations would permit; but he had that day been charged with a commission, which gave so much additional pleasure to his proposed visit, that he, of course, determined to pay it immediately. The fact was," he added, "that he had that morning been visiting Mrs. Darlington, the lady to whom that beautiful house and those sweet grounds upon the hill belonged, and who, having heard of Mr. Burrel's arrival in Emberton, though she could not, of course, call upon him herself, had begged the identical Mr. Tomkins, then before him, to say how much pleasure she would have to see him, if he would do her the honor of dining with her on the following day."
She was a widow lady of a certain age, Mr. Tomkins implied, who had all her life moved in the best society, and was the most charming and good-tempered person in the world--"Draws beautifully; has a great taste for music; sees a good deal of company at her house, where the cookery is excellent; does a great deal of good, and takes a vast deal of interest in every thing that is doing in the village."
"What a disagreeable person!" thought Burrel. "Nevertheless, I may as well amuse myself with her and hers, as walk about these fields from breakfast till dinner-time, or read these idiotical romances from dinner till bedtime." He replied, however, according to the letter of the law of civility, "Mrs. Darlington does me a great deal of honor, my dear sir," he said; "and I will do myself the pleasure of accepting her invitation, which I will notify to her forthwith by my servant. Pray, how far may be her house?"
"Oh, not above five miles, certainly," replied the worthy chirurgeon.
"Five miles!" said Burrel; "that is a tremendous way to roll in any thing but a cabriolet after eating. I shall certainly die of an indigestion if I trust myself to a hack post chaise in a state of repletion."
The man of medicines grinned at what in his ears sounded something very like a professional joke, but assured Burrel, at the same time, that his apprehensions were vain, for that Mrs. Darlington's invitations always implied a bed at her house.
"That alters the case," replied Burrel; "for I expect some horses down to-night, and will ride over, and dress before dinner."
The doctor, who felt that a vast accession of dignity would accrue, if he could expose himself to the wondering eyes of Emberton, in close companionship with the young and fashionable stranger, proposed to drive him over in his pony chaise; but this honor Burrel declined, replying quietly, that he would prefer riding; and, after one or two faint efforts toward discovery of all the hidden things appertaining to the young traveler, the surgeon, finding that the conversation began to fall continually to the ground, took the hint, and retired; and Burrel proceeded to change his shooting-dress for one better suited to the town.
Leaving him, however, to make this alteration, and to send off his answer to Mrs. Darlington's invitation, we shall now beg leave to follow home Captain Delaware and his sister; and, as every thing in a tale like the present should be as clear as possible, without the slightest mystery or absurd concealment, shall explain a few things that may have hitherto appeared strange in the conduct of that family.
The spot at which Burrel had that morning met his traveling companion was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and the brother and sister walked on directly toward one of the smaller doors in the park wall, and, passing through, turned their steps homeward. They proceeded, however, in silence; for there was something evidently in their rencounter with Burrel unpleasant to them both, nor was that unpleasant sensation, perhaps, relieved by the aspect of their paternal dwelling, or the grounds that surrounded it. Without entering into the painful details of a family's decay, it is sufficient to say, that the whole place bore the character--not of neglect--but of means incompetent to ward off the constant, unremitting, insidious assaults of time. They passed a temple in the park, which had been built in imitation of some famous specimen of Grecian architecture, and now came nearer still to the original by its decay. A large mass of the frieze had fallen and over the green and disjointed steps the brambles were shooting their long thorny arms. The path itself, too, which wound on toward the house, was half overgrown with grass; and where an effort to hoe it up had been begun, it had speedily been abandoned, from the necessity of employing the man in some more useful service. The mansion, too, more than half closed, had about it all--not the aspect of ruin, for it had by no means reached that pitch--but a look of desertion and of poverty which contrasted painfully with the splendor of the original design.
To the eye of Miss Delaware and her brother all this was customary; but yet it struck them both, after their meeting with Burrel, perhaps more forcibly than it had ever done before; and there was something like a sigh escaped the lip of each, as, opening the large door, they passed on into what had once been a splendid vestibule. The day was a sultry one, and the door of a rooms entering immediately upon the hall, was open when Captain Delaware and his sister entered. The step of Miss Delaware, as she walked on, caught the ear of some one within, and a voice, in the tone of which there was the slightest possible touch of impatience, was heard exclaiming, "Blanche, is that you, my love?"
The young lady, followed by her brother, immediately turned her steps into the fine old library from which the sound proceeded, and found reading, at a small table near one of the long, many-paned windows, a person who--however contrary to rule--deserves a more particular sketch of his mental and corporeal qualities, and of his previous history, than we may find it convenient to give of any other person connected with this book.
Sir Sidney Delaware had set out in life a younger son. His father, Mr. William Delaware, had been a man of great talents, and very little common sense, who, by the help of his abilities, and considerable family influence, had been raised to offices in the state, conferring large revenues, which he squandered profusely. Mr. William Delaware, however, kept up the appearance of a man of fortune; and as his uncle, the then possessor of Emberton Park, was unmarried and advanced in life, his prospects were admitted on all hands, even by Jews and money-lenders, to be good. Be it remarked, nevertheless, that though he was the direct male heir to his uncle's property, there were two other persons who more than equally shared in his uncle's favor--his own first cousins, and equally the nephews (though by the female line), of the Sir Harcourt Delaware who then held the lands of Emberton. These were Lord Ashborough and his brother, the Honorable Henry Beauchamp. However, he did not let any thing disturb him, but continued to live splendidly and well--gave his eldest son a commission in a crack regiment of cavalry, and sent his second son, Sidney, to Christ Church.
At Christ Church there were two or three peculiarities observed in Sidney Delaware. With his scholastic education we shall have nothing to do, being no scholars ourselves. The first of these peculiarities was an uncommon degree of accuracy in paying his bills, and living within his income; and his elder brother was wont to say, that Sidney was so sick of seeing nobody paid at home, that he was resolved to pay every one to the uttermost farthing. The next trait remarked by his fellow-collegians was his extraordinary good-nature; for was any one in difficulty or distress, Sidney Delaware would help them to the very utmost of his power, though in many instances he was known to hate and contemn the very men he assisted; and the third quality was a talent for satire, and a faculty of vituperation, which might have been envied by Gifford among the dead, and two or three we could name among the living.
The secret of his character, perhaps, was the combination of an extraordinary sensibility of the absurd, with a high and severe moral feeling. He studied for the church, however; and as he did so, many of the injunctions of that divine book, to which his mind was naturally turned continually, appeared so contrary to the asperity of his sarcastic disposition, that he determined to make a powerful effort to restrain the bitterness of speech and writing to which he had before given way. Time and years, too, had their effect, and the biting satire that used to hang upon his lip remained bidden in silence, or only broke forth casually, when he was off his guard. He tried to banish from his heart that feeling of contempt and scorn which he experienced whenever any thing mean, or false, or base, met his eyes; and perhaps the very good-natured facility with which he could be induced to assist any one, might spring from an apprehension lest the scorn he felt for all that was pitiful in others, might affect his own actions, and render him uncharitable himself. His elder brother died before he himself was ordained; and, on the persuasion of his father, he abandoned his purpose of entering the church; traveled for several years, and then studied for the bar. His next step was to marry, and he was a widower with two children at the time his father succeeded to Sir Harcourt Delaware. The baronet, however, in dying, had given to his two nephews, Lord Ashborough and Mr. Beauchamp, who had been very constant in their attentions, a far larger share of his fortune than he left to him who was to inherit the baronetcy; and thus, the latter, having counted largely on his future fortune, found himself more embarrassed than relieved by the death of his uncle. The estate that was left to him was also entailed by the will of the last possessor; and his only resource to free himself from the most pressing difficulties, was to engage his son to join him in raising money upon annuity. Sidney Delaware consented with a heavy heart, and the money was borrowed, much against his will, from his father's cousin, Lord Ashborough, between whom and the young heir of Emberton a quarrel had previously taken place, of a nature not likely to admit of reconciliation. For the pitiful sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, the estate of Emberton was charged with an annuity of two thousand per annum; and scarcely had that sum been swallowed up by his father's debts, when Sidney Delaware succeeded to a splendid name and a ruined property.
Griefs and disappointments had impaired his health, had broken his spirit and crushed his energies; and, dwelling almost in solitude, he had given himself up to the education of his children, forgetting that a time would come when the acquaintances which he was losing every day, would become necessary to his children in the world. In bitterness of heart, too, he often thought that his friends were neglecting him, when in fact he was neglecting them; and exclaiming, "Donec eris felix, multos numerabis amicos!" he shut his doors against the world, believing that his poverty would meet with nothing but contempt.
As time wore on, however, he found that he erred in not exerting his abilities, in order to remove the incumbrances which his father had incurred. His son grew up and entered the navy, and half the interest of a small sum, which had been his wife's fortune, afforded sufficient to maintain the boy in that service. But it was when his daughter also grew toward womanhood that Sir Sidney Delaware felt most severely that he had committed an error. His son, he thought, had an honorable profession, and, by his own high merits and activity, was making rapid progress. At the death of Lord Ashborough, too, the annuity which swallowed up almost the whole rents of his estate would lapse, and his heir would have enough. But Lord Ashborough was scarcely an older man than himself; and when he gazed upon his daughter, and saw her growing up with all her mother's beauty and grace, with every quality fitted to charm and to attach, and at the same time remembered that she was to live cut off from society, during all those brighter days of youth and hope which lie between sixteen and five-and-twenty, he would have given his right hand to have recalled the years which, by active exertion, he might have employed to remove the difficulties that held him down. Now however, he felt, or persuaded himself, that it was impossible to seek society. He could not mingle with persons in his own rank of life upon an equality, and he would not mingle with any other class, or, with them in any other manner. Few of these old friends existed for him, on whose generous feelings he could fearlessly rely, and feel certain, from a knowledge of their nature, that no thought even would ever cross their minds, which could have wounded him if spoken. Thus, he had no old channel of communication with the world still open, and pride, rendered irritable by disappointment, as well as the circumstances in which he was placed, prevented him from seeking any new connection with society. Could he in any way have given his son and daughter the means of mingling with the world, while he himself shunned it altogether, he would have snatched eagerly at the opportunity; but that of course was out of the question, and day went by after day, and found them all in the same situation.
Such was still the case, at the time of my present tale; and when Miss Delaware and her brother entered the library in which their father was, as usual, driving away thought by reading, they found him seated near the open window with Pope's Essays in his hand. His hair, which had once been dark brown, was now nearly white--in fact, much whiter than his years would warrant. Yet, though the body was in some degree broken _curis et laboribus_, still temperance and fine air had done much to counteract even grief. His countenance was florid, his eye was clear, and he appeared a hale healthy man, though looking six or seven years older than he really was.
Long conversations being, like love and marriage, excessively tiresome to every one but those concerned, a summary of what followed will be better than a chapter; and it is quite sufficient to say, that the rencounter of the brother and sister with Mr. Burrel soon became the principal topic of conversation. Captain Delaware, whose loves were very first-sighty, dashed at once into such an encomium of his stage coach companion, that an arch smile, at this pouring forth of his well-known enthusiasm, played for a moment on the lip of Blanche Delaware. Her father, however, looked grave, and said he was sorry that they had met him at all. "This young man," he went on, "seems to be a person of fortune and station, whom, in happier times, we might have been delighted to see; but you are well aware, William, that under our present circumstances, it is perfectly impossible to invite a man of horses and dogs, and guns and servants, to this house. Did he seem so charming to you, Blanche!"
Miss Delaware replied, that her brother's acquaintance had not appeared either quite so handsome or quite so fascinating in his shooting-jacket as her brother had described him in his traveling costume,--"But at all events," she added, "his appearance savored nothing of arrogance or presumption."
"Alas! my dear Blanche," said her father, "you do not know what a man of the world is. Every point in the situation of a poor gentleman is painful, but none so much so, as the having to endure the compassion of fools and puppies."
Captain Delaware turned to the window, and after looking out for a moment or two left the room. Blanche remained, but dropped the subject, and it was no more resumed.
