Mr. Mordaunt, finding it impossible to persuade Sir Henry Seymour's veteran coachman to resign his office of charioteer, or even willingly to admit a partner on his throne, was obliged to solace himself with Mrs. Galton's conversation, till they entered the park of Deane. At last, as the carriage turned up the long dark avenue which led to the magnificent though antique mansion, his delighted eye beheld Selina, as she supported her father, whilst "with measured step and slow" he walked up and down the broad smooth terrace, which stretched along the south front of the house, and commanded all the beauties of the rich vale below. Her fragile form and firm yet elastic step were contrasted with Sir Henry's tottering feeble gait. But though her sparkling eyes gave a joyous welcome, even from a distance, to Mrs. Galton and Augustus, yet, with the fond solicitude of filial love, she restrained her father's hastening steps, till Augustus relieved her from her charge; then light as a zephyr which scarcely bends the flower over which it passes, she flew to Mrs. Galton, and had already seen, if not examined, all her purchases, recapitulated her various occupations during her three hours' absence, and made Mrs. Galton repeat twice over all the particulars she could recollect, of "dear Mrs. Temple," and Miss Wildenheim, before Augustus had conducted Sir Henry to the hall door, or replied to more than half his inquiries about "poor Brown's lease, and the arrangements that were made for his wife and children."

Selina Seymour was nearly seventeen; her person

and her mind as well cultivated as could be expected under the peculiar circumstances of her situation; for she had lived entirely in the country, and never had as yet an opportunity of acquiring that brilliancy of execution in the fine arts, by which so many of our modern girls of fashion rival the painters, and the dancers, and the singers, and the players on musical instruments, who live only by the exertion of their talents in those different lines. Of what are usually called accomplishments she was comparatively ignorant. She knew little or nothing of fancy works—had never made any pasteboard screens—could neither waltz nor play on the flageolet—nor beat the tambourine in all the different attitudes practised and taught to young ladies by the Duke of York's band—but with several modern languages she was well acquainted, and had learned to draw from Mrs. Galton, who particularly excelled in miniature painting, and delighted in transmitting all her knowledge to her adopted child. Music was however Selina's favourite amusement, and for it she early discovered a decided genius. An old blind organist, from the town of ——, generally attended her for three months every summer, and certainly taught her well the only part of the art he understood, namely, thorough bass—but of the soul of music, he, poor man, had no idea; for that she was indebted solely to her own intensity of feeling; and whatever execution she possessed she had acquired by the indefatigable practice of such lessons of Handel's, Corelli's, Scarlatti's, and Bach's, as her father's old music chest afforded; for Sir Henry had not added an air to his collection since the death of her mother Lady Seymour, nor did he suppose it possible, that any improvement could have taken place in the art of composition since that period. Perhaps, had he heard Selina play some of Mozart's admirable melodies, he might have been induced to acknowledge their merit, as he generally thought all she did was perfection; though in her education he never interfered—the care of that had been intrusted, ever since she had lost her mother, to Mrs. Galton, and the excellent rector of the parish, Mr. Temple, who had been tutor to Sir Henry Seymour's ward, Augustus Mordaunt. With them Selina often joined in studies of a graver cast than those usually appropriated to her age and sex. And perhaps the peculiar style of her education was the one best adapted to her disposition. She had naturally uncommon vivacity. "Her cheek was yet unprofaned by a tear," and her buoyant spirits had never been depressed by those unfeeling prohibitions and restraints, which, "like a worm i' th' bud," feed on the opening blossom, and turn the happiest season of our lives into days of protracted penance. To her elasticity of spirits and brilliancy of imagination, which, but for an uncommon superiority of talent, might have degenerated into frivolity of mind, this calm and almost masculine education formed an admirable counterpoise. But yet such was her natural pliability of character, that Mrs. Galton scarcely deemed even this antidote sufficient; and looked forward with trembling anxiety to the period of her being introduced to society, knowing how probable it was, that her fancy, and even her heart, might be seriously affected, long before her reason or understanding were called into action.

Selina was the only one of Sir Henry Seymour's children who had survived their mother; in her were centred all his hopes and nearly all his affections; her vivacity amused, and her talents gratified him. But he was not capable of justly appreciating or fully comprehending her character; he had so long considered her as a mere child, it never entered into his calculation, that she was now approaching that eventful period of life, when more was required from the discretion and affection of a parent, than a mere tolerance of harmless vivacity. It did certainly sometimes occur to him, that she might marry, but he generally banished the idea from his mind as quickly as it arose; for it was always accompanied by a painful feeling, arising in truth from a dread of losing her delightful society; but he never analyzed this feeling, and always repeating to himself that she was still but a child, he concluded by his usual reflection, that there "was no use in thinking about it; for, if it was to happen, he could not help it."

Thus, with infatuated security, he anticipated no danger in allowing his daughter to associate with Augustus Mordaunt. They had been brought up as children together, and their manner to each other was so unrestrained, so free from all those artificial precautions, that by a premature defence first apprise innocence of its danger, that even wiser heads than poor Sir Henry's might have believed, as Selina really did, that only the affection of brother and sister existed between them: it is true, Mrs. Galton and Mr. Temple sometimes talked over together the possibility of their future union; and so desirable did it seem to both, and so certain to obtain Sir Henry's consent, that they left them to their fate, scarcely wishing that any circumstance should arise to prevent a mutual attachment taking place.

Augustus was nephew to the earl of Osselstone, and heir to his title. His father, dying when he was four years old, had left him to the guardianship of Sir Henry; and the boy had been removed to Deane Hall the year before Selina was born, where he had constantly resided since, except during the periods he had passed at Eton and Oxford. Sir Henry felt for him an affection almost paternal; nor was it unreturned, or unworthily bestowed. The disposition of Augustus was naturally benevolent and ardent in the extreme. Even in the most trifling pursuit either of knowledge or amusement, the fervency of his character was manifested; and where the susceptibility of his heart was once called forth, though expression might be repressed, his feelings were not easily to be subdued.

Mr. Temple, profiting by the example the fate of Mordaunt's parents had presented, early laboured to bring his passions under the control of reason. He succeeded in regulating them, though they were not to be extinguished; and though Augustus early acquired a habit of self-possession, yet the natural vivacity of his character was expressed in every glance of his intelligent countenance, which served to portray each fleeting sentiment as it arose, whilst his dark expressive eye seemed to penetrate into the inmost thoughts of others, and to search for a mind congenial to his own. His figure was not less remarkable for elegance than strength; and he particularly excelled in all those manly exercises and accomplishments in which grace or activity are required. He had derived, partly from nature, partly from education, such high and almost chivalrous ideas of principle, that, even as a boy, no temptation could have induced him either to deserve or submit to the slightest imputation on his honour; and as he approached to manhood, this jealousy of character had given him a reputation of pride, which his dignified manner and appearance in some degree corroborated.—Though to his inferiors his address was always affable, yet to strangers of his own rank in life he was generally reserved: he was therefore not always understood; and those who were incapable of fully comprehending his peculiar merits, frequently attributed that apparent haughtiness of demeanour, which repelled officious familiarity, less to the superiority of his individual character, than to the adventitious circumstance of his high birth and expectations.

He had early shown a strong predilection for the army, but he could never prevail on Sir Henry to consent to his entering that profession; and as a coolness existed between his uncle and his guardian, none other had yet been decided on for him. Nor, if it was to depend on Sir Henry's advice or exertions, was the selection likely soon to be made; for such was the habitual indolence of the baronet's character, that, unless the natural benevolence of his disposition was peculiarly called forth by any accidental circumstance, he was content with feelings of unbounded good will to all mankind, without making a single effort to promote the welfare of any individual. Yet, nevertheless, he was an affectionate father, an indulgent landlord, a hospitable neighbour, a kind friend, and as such universally beloved and respected. In his establishment at Deane Hall, old English hospitality was maintained to the fullest extent; and the regularity of this establishment was united to such an uniformity of pursuit, that it almost amounted to a monotony of life. The care of directing his household and doing the honours of his table he left entirely to Mrs. Galton, the sister of the late Lady Seymour. She was, however, only called "mistress" by courtesy, for though "still in the sober charms of womanhood mature," just "verging on decay," she was yet unmarried. In her youth this lady had been as beautiful as she was amiable, and being possessed of a large fortune, had many suitors: on one of these, a Mr. Montague, she had bestowed her affections, and was on the point of marrying him, when she discovered that he was an inveterate gamester, ruined in fortune, morals, and character, and of course unworthy of her regard; and though her good sense enabled her in time to recover from the misery this discovery occasioned her, yet she was never afterwards prevailed on to make another choice. Shortly after her refusal of him, Mr. Montague married a Miss Mortimer, who was as depraved as himself, and lost his life in a duel with one of his dissipated companions. Mrs. Galton had resided at Deane Hall from the period of her sister's death; and Selina soon filled the place of daughter in her affectionate heart. As that heart had been so deeply wounded, she had turned assiduously to the cultivation of her understanding; and in endeavouring to engraft her own perfections on Selina's ductile mind, she preserved the peace of her own, by withdrawing it from those corroding remembrances, that had threatened it with irreparable injury.

The day at last arrived, which was fixed for the annual visit of Mrs. Sullivan and her party at Deane Hall; for it may easily be supposed, that where such dissimilarity of character and pursuit existed, little intercourse would be maintained. At least an hour after the appointed time, the loud and peremptory knock of their London footman proclaimed their arrival; but their welcome was much less cordial, than it would otherwise have been, from all the assembled party at Deane, as they came unaccompanied by Miss Wildenheim.

Mrs. Sullivan, on entering the room, displayed a low, fat, vulgar figure, arrayed in all the shades admissible in fashionable mourning. Her gown was a soi-disant grey, approximating, as nearly as possible, to a sky blue, relieved with black and scarlet, and profusely ornamented with artificial flowers. On her head waved a plume of white ostrich feathers, which, in their modest color and airy form, served perfectly to contrast her piony cheeks and lumpish person.

Her petticoats, wired at the bottom, kept unbroken the ample circle, of which her breadth from hip to hip formed the diameter. Her shuffling gait put all her finery in motion from head to foot; and Selina could not help thinking, that, "if she might just give her one little twirl," she would make to perfection what in her girlish plays was called a cheese. Mrs. Sullivan was followed by her two elder daughters—Miss Webberly, loaded with all the superfluous decorations of modern costume, which could be called in aid to conceal her natural deformity, and her sister, dressed in the opposite extreme of capricious fashion, equally solicitous to exhibit her all unobscured charms. Soon after, the entrance of the remaining guests completed the circle, and the company insensibly dividing into small separate parties, Mrs. Galton found herself between her two intimate friends, Mr. and Mrs. Temple, and expressed to them her sincere regret at not seeing Miss Wildenheim, for whom Mrs. Sullivan had made an awkward apology.

"What a beautiful style of countenance hers is," said Augustus Mordaunt, who was standing by: "quite the Grecian head." "I look more to the inside of the head," replied Mr. Temple, "and find it as admirable as you do the outside." "You are always so warm in your admiration of your young favourite, that I am really quite jealous," said his amiable wife, with a look that expressed her love and pride in the speaker, and her regard for the object spoken of. "I do indeed admire her; nay, youthful as she is, I reverence her," resumed Mr. Temple.

"And how did you happen to know so much of her?" asked Mrs. Galton; "for she has been carefully secluded from the rest of the neighbourhood."

"I was called upon to attend her in my pastoral office last winter, during her dangerous illness; and having good reason to think that her pillow was unsmoothed by any kind hand, I pitied her most sincerely; and when we heard she was recovering, we both visited her frequently, and without much difficulty prevailed on Mrs. Sullivan, to permit her to come to the parsonage for change of air, where my ill-natured wife nursed her for six weeks." "I think," said Mrs. Temple, "one becomes better acquainted with a person in an invalide state, than in any other; the sort of charge that the healthy take upon them for the sick, entitles them to discard much of the formality of common intercourse." "You are right, my dear; and the being that is in hourly uncertainty of its stay here, is anxious to part with its fellow mortals, not only in peace, but in love; and receives every proffered kindness with gratitude. Impressed with these feelings," continued Mr. Temple, "Miss Wildenheim suffered us to gain a knowledge of her disposition no other circumstance could have procured us.—To know and not to admire her is an impossibility!"

Mrs. Sullivan, who had kept herself aloof to impress on her mind an inventory of the furniture, and to listen to the whole company at once, could no longer keep patience or restrain her indignation; and having gathered sufficient to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Temple were praising her lovely ward, she exclaimed with involuntary vehemence, "Lauk! how can you admire Miss Wildenheim, with her sallow complexion, and such a poke?" "Pardon me, Mrs. Sullivan," replied Mrs. Galton; "the only time I ever met her I thought her complexion the most beautiful brunette I ever saw: but perhaps her colour was heightened by exercise." "And her carriage"—rejoined Mrs. Temple, with less ceremony, "is grace itself!" "Et vera incessu patuit Dea[4]"—said the worthy rector to Mordaunt; and, as he abhorred gossips, sheered off to the window, to ask him some questions regarding his studies at Oxford. "Well, well!" resumed Mrs. Sullivan, "I loves a girl as straight as the poplars at Islington, with a good white skin, (casting a look of triumph at Cecilia); I never liked none of them there outlandish folk: why she's for all the world like a gipsy. My poor dear Mr. Sullivan didn't ought for to bring his casts-up to me and my daughters, who are come of good havage!—If she and my Carline wasn't sisters, they never would be so out of the way fond of one another. If Miss was her natural mother, she couldn't make more of her than she does now, for her father's sake: and my foolish little chit thinks this Frenchified lady a nonsuch. I'll warrant me her schooling cost a pretty penny in foreign parts, where she got that odorous twang on her tongue; howsoever, she's culpable to teach my little girl to jabber French; and, as one good turn deserves another, I takes a world of pains to teach her not to misprison her words: and would you believe it? she looks sometimes as if she had a mind to laugh; and then she casts down her hugeous eyes, and colours up as red as a turkey cock, all out of pride! But I'm resolved she shan't ruinate Carline's English; I'll supersede that myself."

Dinner being announced, prevented Mrs. Sullivan's female auditors from making either comment or reply, except by an "alphabet of looks," which had this sapient lady possessed sufficient shrewdness to decipher, she would not have been much gratified by its import.