The party we left at the door, reinforced by a number of newly arrived nephews and nieces of my lord’s and my lady’s, were by this time entering the great drawing-room, at the further end of which Lady Arandale was seated on a sofa, arranging, on a table before her, the presents she had brought for her nieces. From out of the entering group, one lady, whose precedence seemed to be undisputed, came forward towards Lady Arandale. It was Lady Morven. She was very tall, and very slight with long thin limbs, a small head, a little round face, deeply pockmarked, small grey eyes, scarcely any nose, and a small mouth without any lips. She was highly rouged, and dressed both fashionably and extravagantly; and her figure, though totally without form, had an air of grace as well as of elegance. The first salutation over, she flung herself on a sofa opposite to that occupied by Lady Arandale.

“And pray, Matilda, my dear,” said the last named lady, “why did you not come to Lodore after all?”

“La! ma’am, I had nobody to drive me.”

“Had na’ ye, yier coachman, my dear?”

“You know, I can’t bear any body’s driving but Graham’s; and the wretch thought fit to fall out of his curricle the very day he was coming over to take me: so there I have had him, with his arm in a sling, lounging about at Morven Hall, ever since: quite a bore, I assure you!”

“Your ladyship does me in-fi-nite honour!” faintly drawled out Mr. Graham, from the depths of a repose-chair, well furnished with down pillows, in which he had established himself. “Cruel—the distance,” he continued, letting fall word after word, “which divides me—from—so much goodness—Pray—Lady Morven—are the cushions—on that—sofa—mul-ti-tudinous?”

“Yes, there are a good many,” replied her ladyship, and as she spoke she made room for him, adding, “had you not better come over?”

“I am meditating the exertion of a removal shortly,” he rejoined, “but just—at present—it is quite—impossible: I am—absolutely in—elysium—enjoying—the very first sweets of an attitude—the most deliciously easy, in which—I had ever—the good fortune—to place myself.”

“And pray,” asked Lady Arandale, “was this nursing of Mr. Graham’s wounds, a tÊte-À-tÊte business?”

“Yes,” replied Lady Morven, “except a parcel of the girls, you know,” (the girls were all above twenty) “and that creature, Sir Archibald Oswald, harmless as usual, though more mad, I think, than ever!”

“Which is that, Graham or Lady Morven, who does Sir Archibald Oswald the honour of naming him?” demanded a voice, in the tones of which a slight tincture of affectation was blended with melancholy and melody. It arose from a yet unseen personage, of whose arrival no one seemed to be aware, and who, reclining on a chaise-longue in the recess of a distant window, was sheltered from observation by a large circular stand of exotics. Lady Morven started on her seat with a sort of rebound. The young people smiled, and tittered a little. Lord Arandale looked at them and frowned.

“Are you there, my good friend?” he said, going towards the reclining gentleman, who, at his approach, slowly and reluctantly arose.

“Ye may weel ask whilk it was that spack, Sir Archy,” observed Lady Arandale, who prided herself on speaking broad Scotch. “It is vara true, there is nae telling the voice o’ the one, fra that o’ the other.”

“Why,” drawled Lady Morven, “I quite admire Mr. Graham’s accent, and therefore I make it a point to speak like him.”

“Your ladyship is too good!” articulated the drowsy subject of this compliment. Sir Archibald by this time stood quite erect, answering some polite enquiries of Lord Arandale and Lord Morven, who seemed desirous to unite in shewing a peculiar degree of courtesy to this guest. Edmund stood alone, observing with much interest the appearance of Sir Archibald, the peculiar and melancholy melody of whose voice had first drawn his attention. His figure was tall, well proportioned, and had an air of dignity. He seemed little more than fifty; but very grey for that age. His hair was parted on the forehead, and fell on either side of the face so long, and with so little regard to present modes, as to resemble that of one of the ancient bards. His countenance, though its beauty was almost defaced by the deepest furrows of affliction and premature old age, still retained the outlines of fine features, to which the melancholy that predominated in its expression, gave much interest.

Lord Arandale summoned Edmund by a look, and presented him to Sir Archibald, saying, “This gentleman, Sir Archibald, can talk to you on your favourite subject, of naval affairs, better than most people.” Edmund now joined the group, and while taking a part in the very incoherent conversation that was going on, observed, with much compassion, that the fire which awakened animation from time to time, called into the eye of the evidently unfortunate being before him, varied from wild to gloomy, and from gloomy to wild, but never once expressed pleasure; indeed it was when he attempted to smile that the light was wildest: and how instantaneously, how darkly did the cloud that thus had opened but for a moment, close again!

“What a wreck is there!” said Lord Arandale to our hero, as Sir Archibald and Lord Morven left the room together. Edmund looked a sort of enquiry, which the Earl answered thus: “Gambling, gambling it was which ruined him, as it has done many others.—There is a man who, twenty-five years since, possessed a property of twelve thousand per annum, in this county, where he was well known and much respected by us all;—now he has not sixpence in the world. He lives in the Isle of Man; his poor wife is broken-hearted, they say; and his boy is bringing up without education or prospects. It was the birth of that child to an inheritance of ruin, which, I believe, unsettled poor Oswald’s mind. When he is sane he remains on the island in the strictest retirement; but, when he wanders in mind, he wanders in body also, and throwing himself into any fishing smack or boat that happens to be on the coast, wherever he may chance to be landed on the main land he makes his way to this neighbourhood, visits the houses of those with whom he used to associate in his days of prosperity, seems unconscious that any change has taken place, and wears, wherever he goes, such clothes as are left for him in his room. Sometimes he enters the house where he once was master, fancies it still his home, and acts the host with all the graceful politeness for which he was once remarkable, treating the family now residing there, and any company they happen to have with them, as his guests.”

“He looks to great advantage when he is here,” said Lady Morven, “Alfred’s clothes fit him so well.”

“Did your ladyship ever happen to see him at the Laird of Moorland’s?” enquired Mr. Graham, who had now got to the sofa on which Lady Morven lolled; “the laird, you know, is very short, and very fat, and you never saw such a figure as Sir Archibald makes in his clothes!”

“Misfortunes, even when they are, as in this instance, the results of the sufferer’s own imprudence, still are bad subjects for merriment,” mournfully observed Lord Arandale, to whom the attempt to cast ridicule on his unhappy friend seemed very unwelcome. “You see, Montgomery,” he continued, turning to Edmund and leading him apart, “what gambling will bring a man to! It was,” and he lowered his voice and looked towards Henry to see that he was not within hearing, “it was that horrible St. Aubin, (that young fellow’s father,) who ruined poor Oswald. I believe too,” he added, “that Oswald was very sincerely attached to poor Maria before she made the unfortunate choice she did; and that disappointment had its share in throwing him into bad habits.”

“What is the cause,” asked Edmund, “of the interest Sir Archibald seems to take in the Navy?”

“He did belong to the profession in very early life,” replied his lordship, “and was fond of it, I believe; but left it when his father and elder brother died. In his lucid intervals, I understand, he wishes very ardently to get his boy afloat; but no one, you see, likes to take charge of a lad so unfortunately situated. It would be attended, too, with some share of expense; for poor Oswald has not even the means of fitting him out; and Lady Oswald’s relatives, who are very powerful, have never pardoned her the misfortunes she has brought on herself; for Oswald was nearly a ruined man when the marriage took place; she, however, had been previously engaged and attached, and would not break it off.”

Edmund was so forcibly struck by this melancholy relation, that he made no immediate reply. He thought of what he himself had been when a boy; of what he might have been at this day had no benevolent hand been stretched forth in his behalf. His resolution was taken, but he made no allusion to it at the time, and retired to dress pondering the subject: for the half hour bell was ringing, and all the party dispersing on the same important errand. Frances and Lady Susan, who had all this time been busily engaged in a distant window in seemingly very confidential conversation, were the last to part.