Meanwhile Lady D.’s party, whom we left in high contest as to the identity of Lady Julia L.’s partner, seem to have settled that point in an amicable manner, and to be now busily occupied, listening to an oration from the old gentleman in black.

It is evident that he has been entertaining his audience with some of the particulars of our hero’s adventures when a child.

From the account which this seemingly well-informed speaker proceeds to give, it would appear that the information contained in the ill-spelt, undated letter of Edmund’s nurse, was, as far as it was intelligible, true: so much so, indeed, that we recommend a second perusal of the precious document to all who may have forgotten any part of its contents.

Fitz-Ullin was, it seems, the title of the great family alluded to anonymously by the nurse. Edmund had, as the letter stated, been stolen when an infant in arms off the lawn by a strolling beggar, at a time when the family were from home. His nurse had substituted her own child, at first, to avoid blame. Afterwards, she had grown too fond of seeing her son bringing up to be a young lord, to seize, or inform against, the bold vagrant when she discovered her, as mentioned in the letter, carrying the stolen child about.

The smiling boy, described in the letter as flinging his cake out of the carriage window to poor Edmund, when on crutches, and apparently with but one leg, he begged before it, was no other than our hero’s after friend, Ormond, now proved to be the nurse’s child. And the lady, who had sat with the smiling boy on her knee, thinking him her own son, and looked out, with but a passing feeling of compassion on the one little bare foot of the mendicant child, half sunk in the wet mud of the street, its little shoulders almost forced out of their sockets by its crutches, and its poor little features wearing the wan expression of premature misery, was no other than that mendicant child’s own mother, the first Lady Fitz-Ullin. This was some years after he had been stolen. Soon after this it was that poor little Edmund had been carried over to Cumberland by the said vagrant, in company with a ship-load of reapers. After the harvest he had been led about at Keswick Regatta, to excite the compassion of the company; and after the Regatta, abandoned, as we have described, by his then supposed mother, the beggar woman; who, when caught in the fact of stealing linen from a hedge, was obliged to have recourse to hasty flight.

The narrator next proceeded to recount, what we already know, the particulars of how poor Edmund, on the evening of the day he had been thus abandoned, and nearly perishing with cold and hunger, was found on the borders of the lake, by Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter, Lady L.; brought home by her; and, ever since, cherished and protected by the whole family.

“And was the gentleman who is now dancing with Lady Julia L.,” inquired a young lady, “that poor little boy that was begging under the carriage window; and who is now Lord Fitz-Ullin? How curious!”

“Precisely so, madam,” replied our sable orator.

When it was mentioned that the present Lord Fitz-Ullin, during all the years from childhood upwards, had, as Edmund Montgomery, been the constant, intimate companion of Lord L.’s daughters, the Colonel, addressing Lady D. aside, laid claim to some discernment.

“Well, I declare,” continued the young lady, “if I were Lord Fitz-Ullin, I should be always quite afraid I might turn out to be somebody else, some other time.”

“The proofs of his Lordship’s identity, madam,” said the important man in black, “had been carefully preserved by wretches, who hoped to have made a market of the secret; and who indeed would, as it has lately appeared, have done so, had it not been for the upright and honourable feelings of the poor young man himself.”

“But, sir,” enquired Lady D., “does Lord Fitz-Ullin intend to marry the lady, who figured in the papers lately as the cause of all the fracas?”

“Certainly not, madam!” replied the proud explainer of mysteries, who now saw himself surrounded by a numerous audience. “In the first place, madam, you must recollect, that it was not Lord Fitz-Ullin, but the unfortunate young man who was then supposed to be Lord Fitz-Ullin, who was about to marry the young lady. And in the second place, madam, the young lady is a sort of half sister of his Lordship’s.”

“Sister!” exclaimed Lady D., “surely the late Lord Fitz-Ullin left no daughter by either marriage.”

“I do not mean to say,” continued the speaker, “that the young lady, or young woman, is daughter to either of the Ladies Fitz-Ullin; she is, notwithstanding, daughter to the late Lord Fitz-Ullin, and twin sister to the unhappy young man who, for so many years, was called Lord Ormond; and who, for the last few months, has borne the title of Fitz-Ullin; and who is now simply Mr., or rather Captain Ormond; and that only by courtesy: such children having in law, I believe, no right to any name but their mother’s.”

“A terrible thing for him, poor young man!” said Lady D. “He can never bear to meet any of his former acquaintance.”

“The present Lord Fitz-Ullin, however,” continued our enlightened informer, “has behaved towards him with the noblest liberality, as well as towards Miss Ormond, as the sister is now called.”

“And pray, Doctor ?, what had she been called? There was no name mentioned in the papers, I think.”

“O’Neil, the name of her mother’s husband, who was the land steward.”

“And pray who was her mother?”

“The woman was the present Lord Fitz-Ullin’s nurse, madam: and one of her apologies for having substituted her own child in place of the rightful heir, when the Lady’s child (as she still calls his present Lordship) had been stolen from her was, that her own boy was a son of Lord Fitz-Ullin.”

“And what led to the discovery of all this just now? and can you tell, as you seem so well-informed, what all that was which appeared in the papers about a rivalship, and a marriage broken off at the altar, and a shooting-match, &c.”

“I can, madam:” and here the gentleman in black bowed, smiled, and took a pinch of snuff. “Indeed, I may say,” he added, while closing his box, “that I am (being a friend of the family) in some measure authorized to correct misapprehensions on this subject. We have, I believe, succeeded at last in silencing the papers; that is, since the first day or two; as soon, in fact, as Lord Fitz-Ullin had leisure to attend to any thing. It was his wish to do so, from delicacy to the feelings of Captain Ormond.” For the same reasons, as well as for many others, we suspect that his Lordship would have also gladly silenced the present speaker, had that been equally possible; for, if we are not much mistaken, he is far exceeding his commission for the correction of misapprehensions.

This self-elected friend of the family is, however, very good authority; being no other than the physician who had been, and still was, in attendance on Ormond. He is one of His Majesty’s physicians, and a man of so much eminence, notwithstanding his communicative propensities, that he is in the best society.

“In the first place, madam,” continued the Doctor, in answer to Lady D.’s list of questions, “though there certainly was a marriage broken off at the altar, there was no rivalship whatever, nor the slightest foundation for such a rumour. The catastrophe, indeed, was much hastened, and almost all the wild reports which have gone abroad, produced by Captain Ormond’s unfortunate passion for the young lady who afterwards proved to be his sister; and with whom he had at first become acquainted during her residence at some finishing boarding-school. So violent, indeed, was the attachment which subsisted between these young persons; strengthened, as it was, by long indulgence; for they had been secretly engaged for years, it seems; that nothing could prevent the marriage, but confession on the part of the mother. This she delayed till the last moment; in fact, till her son and daughter stood together at the altar! Then it was that rushing past them with screams like those of a maniac, and with such velocity that indeed, though every one looked round to discover whence the sounds came, (for I happened to be present, madam,) no one saw her till she stood beside the officiating clergyman; when, laying one hand on his lips and spreading the other over his open book, after remaining speechless from want of breath for a few moments, during which the wonder of the beholders was very great, she shrieked aloud, in accents that rang through the whole church, that they were brother and sister! nay, that they were twins! that she herself was their mother; their wretched, sinful mother; and that the late Lord Fitz-Ullin was their father.

“The poor young man was so much affected by the scene which followed; the frantic appearance of the old woman who called herself his mother; the fainting away of the interesting, and certainly very beautiful young creature, whose hand he still held, and whom he scarcely knew whether to call sister or bride; the great change in his own circumstances too, and the sudden revulsion of his feelings; that, in short, he went home, (or rather to the house which he had so long thought his home,) and shot himself!—that is, attempted to do so; indeed, did wound himself: it was his friend, the rightful and present Lord Fitz-Ullin, who was fortunate enough to prevent his completing his terrible purpose.”

Various expressions of pity and horror were here uttered by the listeners. “Indeed, the young man,” continued the speaker, “deserves well of the Earl, for his conduct on the occasion was truly noble.”

“On entering his hall, on his return from church, he was beset by the wretches, in whose hands were every proof by which his present Lordship could substantiate his claims. These they offered, for a certain sum, so effectually to suppress, that notwithstanding the wild declaration of the woman in church, the rightful Earl should never be able legally to dispossess him, either of title or property. He however, spurned all such offers with the utmost indignation; and would not suffer the persons to leave his presence, till he had sent for his Lordship—I mean his present Lordship—then commonly called Captain Montgomery, and laid all the facts before him. After which it was, that the poor young man retired to his sleeping apartment, and made that rash attempt upon his own life, which I before mentioned. I had always attended the late Earl, whose friendship I had the honour of possessing. I was therefore sent for by Lady Fitz-Ullin immediately, and have, of course, visited the house, either in my medical or friendly capacity, every day since; and I have the satisfaction to say, that I can now pronounce Captain Ormond out of danger.

“I never heard any thing so shocking!” said the Admiral, in a tone of much feeling, for since the first ebullition of his wrath on being contradicted, he had become an interested listener; “that poor young man, brought up to fortune, rank, title, every thing, now thrown on the world, without a home, or even a name!”

“When I last saw him,” said Lady D., “it was at his father’s table. A mild looking young man with a sweet smile. I remember he sat opposite to me, talking to a daughter of the Duke of B. I said, you know,” she added turning to the Colonel, “that this man’s countenance was not quite what I thought I could recollect of Lord Ormond.”

“The young man has been a most unhappy, and, it would appear innocent victim of the moral turpitude of others;” observed a gentleman who had not before spoken, and whose black silk apron proclaimed him a dignitary of the church. “The story affords a striking, practical revelation of the will of Him, who has ordained that misery shall be the fruit of vice;” he added, addressing a younger person on whose arm he leaned.

The general move occasioned by the breaking up of the now concluded set of quadrilles, dispersed our listening party, and sent them to seek various amusements in other parts of the gay assembly.

Immediately after Julia had gone into the dancing-room with Edmund, a handsome lively young man, not much above the middle size, but remarkably well made, came up to Lord L., with whom he appeared well acquainted. He particularly requested an introduction to Frances, which Lord L., without absolute reluctance, granted; for young Beaumont, though but second son to Lord Beaumont, might be classed among those whom Lord L. considered as proper young men, being grandson to the Duke of ?, and inheriting a large property in right of his mother, Lady Charlotte ?, his Grace’s only child. On being introduced, Beaumont requested the honour of Lady Frances L.’s hand in due form, and led her towards the quadrilles.

Whenever he addressed her, and that in consequence she raised her eyes to his face, she thought she must have seen him before, but could not remember where. A vague suspicion, however, sometimes crossed her mind; yet, if that were the case, the dress was now so different. Beaumont’s manners were very animated; and he was so assiduous to please, that Frances’s natural gaiety of heart, soon appeared with as little restraint, as if they had been long acquainted.

“This is not the first effort I have made to have the honour of being presented to Lady Frances L.,” said Mr. Beaumont, at last, with a rather conscious smile, and a little hesitation; “but I was not quite so fortunate in my former essay.”

“I thought I had seen you before!” said Frances. “Then you are the gentleman that played the flute on the Lake, and that had the two beautiful dogs, and that——”

Frances stopped short, for there was something in the sort of pleasure that Beaumont’s countenance expressed, which betrayed that he considered the accuracy of her memory as a compliment to himself. He immediately perceived that he had committed an error, which nothing but the greatest humility could rectify. With downcast eyes, therefore, he said, “he must esteem himself fortunate in possessing even dogs, worthy of being remembered by Lady Frances L.”

Frances was very near being taken in to believe that she had been guilty of a want of politeness, in having made leading personages of the dogs. She was just about to attempt some qualifying sentence, when, looking up for the purpose, she perceived, that notwithstanding the downcast eye, and assumed gravity of tone, the gratified smile was again stealing over the lips of Beaumont. She checked herself immediately, and determined never to have a good memory again.

“This excessive reserve,” (thought Beaumont, who had perceived both the first movement, and the change of plan,) “is not a bad symptom.”

“Now, I have,” he said, looking up again, and throwing as much gentleness, persuasion, and humility, into his countenance as possible, “on some occasions, at least, the most unfashionable of memories.” He then commenced a full and accurate account of every time he had but passed the Lodore house party, whether riding, driving, walking, or boating; whereabouts Frances had sat in the boat, what sort of dress she had worn, &c. At length, by his animated descriptions, he so far succeeded in throwing her off her guard, that he sometimes obtained, by a look or a smile, an inadvertent acknowledgment that he was right. Slight as was this encouragement, Beaumont already fixed his hopes upon it, so prone are young men, (even the best of them,) to egregious vanity. His spirits rose, and gave to his manners an additional vivacity, which seemed to Frances quite fascinating. She almost felt sorry when the set was drawing to a conclusion, notwithstanding her impatience to talk to Edmund about all that had happened, and express her own wonder and delight, at things turning out just as grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always said they would.

The quadrille ended, she requested Beaumont to lead her towards Julia and Fitz-Ullin. This proved no very easy task, and when at length she did catch a glimpse, at a distance, of the doleful countenance of his newly elevated Lordship, she could not help saying to herself, “Well, certainly, sentimental people are, after all, sometimes, very tiresome!” The qualifying expression, sometimes, was put in after the sentence was commenced, a feeling of affection for the so long, so dear Edmund, having arisen and reproached her, for her first movement of distaste at the sight of a melancholy object, just at a time, when she was so much inclined to be pleased. Her agreeable flirtation with her new acquaintance, however, was not destined to come to so hasty a conclusion, for the attempt to join Julia and her partner utterly failed.