The Captain sighed—thanked Talton for his admonition—"which, if it do not carry conviction to my reason," he continued, "has at least given a clue to my ideas on another subject, and may perhaps be the means of gaining you intelligence concerning the son of Lady Corbet. Young St. Ledger, if I mistake not, is now on board, and I doubt not will give you any information in his power."

Mr. Talton expressed his surprise, and earnestly entreated to see him. St. Ledger was accordingly summoned.

On his entering the cabin, the surprise in Mr. Talton's countenance increased to the highest degree.

"Sir Henry Corbet!" he exclaimed—starting from his seat, "Good God! what is the meaning of this?"

The fictitious St. Ledger appeared equally amazed at the sight of Mr. Talton, whose name he faintly articulated, and, staggering a few paces, sunk on a chair! Mr. Talton soon recollected himself, and going to him—

"Little did I think, Sir Henry, of seeing you on board the Argo; however, as fortune has given me the opportunity, excuse me if I endeavour to convince you of the impropriety—the cruelty I must term it, of your conduct! The friendship your worthy mother honours me with, authorises me in thus speaking, independently of the duty I feel incumbent on myself, as a man whose years and experience claim the privilege of dictating to unwary youth. Beside rendering the declining days of your mother unhappy, you do not recollect the idea you are implanting in the minds of the world! In the enjoyment of every blessing affluence could obtain—every wish gratified—what could be the reason of your clandestine procedure? This is not the age of romance, Sir Henry! Your conduct, then, can claim only the excuse of lunacy!—a charge which, if authorised by a continuance of your mysterious behaviour, may, in the end, deprive you of those possessions you now appear to slight and contemn! For your own sake, I conjure you, stop ere it be too late. I shall shortly return to London; go with me, and restore the peace of your mother, whose early days, you are well convinced, were too much embittered by your father, to need an additional pang from his son!"

"He shall return," said the Captain; "at least he shall not remain with me! As St. Ledger, the victim of misfortune, I received him; as such, Sir Henry, you should ever have been welcome to my purse, my interest, and protection! As Sir Henry Corbet, the regard due to my own name obliges me to insist on your returning to your friends!"

Sir Henry's countenance underwent various changes during the speech of Mr. Talton: but the Captain's positive renunciation awakened every painful sensation. He precipitately rose, and seizing his hand—"Give not your judgment too hastily, Sir; nor deprive me of your protection before you are certain I am in reality undeserving of it!" Then turning to Mr. Talton, with a modest spirit that glowed on his cheek—

"I am well aware, Mr. Talton, of the censure to which I expose myself in the opinions of the world; but as the world cannot give me happiness, neither shall it altogether bias my conduct! You, sir, have questioned me with freedom, and now excuse me if I answer you in the same style. Your friendship for my mother, I am well assured, will induce you to acquaint her with this rencounter: I do not wish it to be concealed. Of my regard—my love, she is well convinced; and the name of mother will never let the force of those ties diminish; but tell her, till authorised by the will of my father, no power on earth shall induce me to return! Ask me not—why, Mr. Talton. There is a reason, to me a dreadful one! one—which drove me from my home, an outcast—a wretched mysterious wanderer!"

"Romance! Sir Henry," exclaimed Mr. Talton. "Your conduct has been mysterious, but you need not be a wanderer. Return to your mother—."

"Mr. Talton," interrupted Sir Henry solemnly, "urge me not! I am neither so ignorant nor weak, as to be influenced by a childish romance. I again repeat—there is a cause! If the sacrifice of my life could secure my mother's happiness, freely would I resign it: but I must not—dare not see her! My wish is to remain with Captain Howard."

"At present, Sir Henry," said the Captain, "I think it more eligible for you to be under the immediate care of the guardian appointed by your father."

"Be you my guardian," said Sir Henry, again eagerly clasping his hand. "My heart acknowledged you as such, the first moment I beheld you; when, not knowing you were the Captain Howard whom I sought, I told you my name was St. Ledger. Can you forgive the falsehood? When informed who you were, a false shame withheld me from retracting the assertion, especially as you had given that protection, as Sir Henry Corbet I should have entreated! Under that protection let me still remain! It is a child of sorrow, Captain Howard," he continued, sinking on his knee, "begs—conjures you not to desert—not to drive him again an outcast on the world!"

The Captain was affected—but an expressive look from Mr. Talton, repelled each sentiment of commiseration, and in an instant decided the cause of the supplicating Sir Henry. Addressing him with a coldness ill according with the generosity of his disposition—

"I am almost induced, Sir Henry, for your sake, to wish this discovery had not happened: as some particulars recited respecting you, by Mr. Talton, must prevent my proving the friend you wish, I certainly cannot oblige you to return to your mother—but here you cannot be till you have previously obtained her approbation."

"Recited respecting me, by Mr. Talton!" repeated Sir Henry, rising indignantly. "It is well, Captain Howard!" He was leaving the cabin, but, turning at the door, regarded the Captain with a look expressive of anguish and disappointment: the tear trembled in his eye—he faltered—"When the child of Ellenor Worton needed protection, my father did not refuse it! Edward—Ellenor!"

He laid his hand on his breast,—burst into tears—and rushed in an instant from their sight.

Surprise, approaching to agony, for a moment bereft the Captain of utterance; but, recovering, he exclaimed—

"He named my Ellenor and her child! Fly, Frederick, and bring him back. Oh God! Could he give me information of them—!"

"Be calm, Howard," said Mr. Talton. "Sir Henry, take my word, knows not of your Ellenor."

"Why then did he name her?" asked the Captain, with quickness.

"That, I cannot say:" answered Mr. Talton: "but, so well acquainted as I am with every concern of the late and present Sir Henry, the occurrence he insinuates, could not possibly have escaped my knowledge."

At that moment Frederick re-entered with a letter for his uncle, which Sir Henry had desired one of the men to deliver.

"It is from Ellenor!" said the Captain, attempting with a trembling hand, but in vain, to open it. "Take it—read it, Frederick," he continued; "I am so agitated I can scarcely support myself!"

Frederick obeyed, and read as follows:—

"But he has denied your boon, my Ellenor!" said the Captain. "Shame—shame to him for it! Yet it is not too late: seek Sir Henry immediately: my life were little in recompence for friendship shown to my Ellenor!"

Sir Henry, however, was gone!—The moment he left the letter, he sprang into a boat which was putting off for the shore; nor with the strictest search and inquiry could they trace the way he had taken. For three days the Captain experienced the torture of suspense, when he received intelligence, that the corpse of a youth, answering the description of Sir Henry, had been washed on shore about two miles from Lowestoff. Alarmed by this account, he went to the cottage where it had been conveyed, accompanied by his nephew and Mr. Talton; and where their fears were fully confirmed, by the people producing the clothes, and a watch the Captain had himself presented to the unfortunate Sir Henry: who, they informed him, had that morning been interred.

A tear fell on the cheek of the Captain as he resigned the hope so lately raised, of hearing of—and seeing his Ellenor; accompanied by one for the unhappy fate of his favourite St. Ledger: nor did the severity of Mr. Talton refuse the tribute of a sigh: the faults of Sir Henry sunk beneath the sod which encircled him, and left to his remembrance only the youth he regarded for the sake of his mother.

With his mind deeply depressed, the Captain returned on board; long had he experienced unhappiness, but the events of the last week had struck the shaft still deeper in his heart; nor could the friendship of Mr. Talton, or the affection of Frederick, preserve him from a corroding melancholy.

The death of Sir Henry, as St. Ledger, was universally regretted; even the obdurate Harland, for a moment, forgot his enmity, and expressed a sentiment of pity; whilst the generous Frederick, who had regarded him with fraternal friendship, paid that tribute to his memory his merits demanded; and whilst he dwelt with praises on the name of his friend, the faltering accent and half-suppressed sigh evinced the sincerity of his grief for his loss.

Mr. Talton finding the impracticability of his endeavours to alleviate the sorrow of the Captain, took his leave, and set out for London, to acquaint Lady Corbet with the death of her son: as, however disagreeable the task, he rather chose to inform her himself, than hazard an abrupt disclosure from an uninterested person, or even by epistolary communication.

The Captain felt relieved at his departure, as he wished to visit the grave of Sir Henry, but was unwilling to betray the weakness of his heart, even to his friend. The ensuing morning, therefore, he went on shore, and, unattended, pursued his way to the church-yard; where a simple flag of fragrant turf marked the spot where the remains of the unfortunate youth were laid.

"Humble indeed is thy bed of rest, my poor St. Ledger," he exclaimed: "by far too humble for the virtues which I am certain were the real possessors of thy breast!—In thee my Ellenor has lost the friend she too, perhaps, fondly hoped, would one day have restored her to the arms of her Edward. With thee rested the knowledge of her retreat; and with thee—it may have perished!"

The idea was too much: he sank on his knee by the grave—to Heaven his heart was open.

"Oh God!" he cried, "immutable are thy decrees, nor can the proudest knowledge of man explore the mystery of thy ways! Greatly against thee have I offended, and just is the punishment thou hast inflicted: yet still let mercy blend with thy power, nor crush the head thou hast deigned to rear from the dust! Mine was the guilt; on me let thy vengeance fall: but spare my Ellenor the anguish which swells my heart; and if thy justice prohibit more, let me at least prove (however late the date) a friend to her I deceived, a parent to the offspring of our love!"

He bowed his head on his knee, and for some minutes continued in mental supplication; till a sigh, responsive to that which burst from his own bosom, aroused him, and, on raising his head, he beheld his nephew within a few paces of the grave.

"The same reason, my dear uncle," said Frederick, advancing, "I find, has separately brought us to this spot, that of taking a last farewell of the ashes of our worthy young friend, before we bid adieu to this part of England."

"Such was my intention," answered the Captain, "though remembrance at the moment has hurried me into greater weakness."

"Regret it not," said Frederick, affectionately taking his hand. "Sir Henry was deserving of the tear you have shed!—Peace to his spirit!—Nor need we doubt it: the God to whom he is gone, will condemn or acquit us according to the rectitude of our hearts, not the frailties of our words or actions."

"That reflection may conduce more toward restoring peace to my bosom," said the Captain, "than all the sophisms of philosophy!

"But come, Frederick, you have witnessed my weakness, let me retire from this spot, or I may relapse."

He took the proffered arm of Frederick, and, giving a last look at the grave, dejectedly retraced his steps from the church-yard.

A few days after, he received his expected orders to sail for Weymouth, previously to his convoying a fleet of Indiamen to the coast of China.

A sigh swelled his bosom as he passed the cliffs of Brighthelmstone, and beheld the spot where he had once resided with his Ellenor, now lost to him, he feared, for ever. Remembrance, with keener powers, recalled her perfections; the sweetness of her manners, her chaste affection; each look, each tender endearment, dwelt on his memory, and was cherished in his heart as all that remained to him of her whom he loved. The idea of Mrs. Howard involuntarily obtruded—

"Weak man!" he softly sighed, "ever to listen to the futile reasonings of resentment! Had I not yielded to thee, Ellenor might honourably have been mine; her arms my haven, her smiles the reward of my toils and anxieties! But now—no welcome ever greets my arrival to my native shore, no offspring bless my return; Ellenor and her son are lost to me; and he who only could have restored them, has resigned his being to the God who gave it!"

Frederick, with concern, observed the increasing melancholy of his uncle, and his anxiety on that account was considerably augmented by the arrival of Mrs. Howard! That lady, whose hatred to the Captain increased with her years, no sooner gained intelligence of his being at Weymouth, than she hastened there, well knowing her presence was a far greater punishment to him than any the law could have inflicted; and as such, it proved more gratifying to her revenge than any it could afford! The Captain bore her wayward humour with apparent composure; yet it preyed on his heart, and, by forcing a comparison with the happy period he had passed with Ellenor, rendered each moment as secretly unhappy as the rancour of his wife could wish.

From this disagreeable situation he was relieved by a visit from Mr. Talton, who, on beholding Mrs. Howard, no longer wondered at the measures his friend had formerly pursued.

"Surely, Howard," he cried, "fortune has selected thee from the rest of mankind, as an object on whom to display the worst of her capricious humours. My God! what a contrast to the gentle Ellenor! I can now, Howard, more sincerely feel for your loss of her, from that I am afraid I shall soon experience myself.

"I informed you, when at Yarmouth, I had left Lady Corbet with the St. Ledger family, who were soon relieved from their apprehensions on their son's account, by his return from an hymeneal expedition with a young lady, whom they, from a family pique, had objected to his marrying; their joy, however, at his return, obliterated every unfavourable sentiment, and they received the wife of his choice with every demonstration of affection.—Of his friend, Sir Henry, he could not give the least intelligence.

"On my arrival in London, I hastened to St. Ledger's; but I cannot attempt to describe the agonies of Lady Corbet at the intelligence I brought. It appeared, indeed, nearly to shake her reason, and make her regard the relater of her son's death, as the cause of it. She instantly retired to Wales, whither I likewise followed, but could not obtain the favour of an interview. She secluded herself from company, nor admitted the presence of any one but her own servant. Thus she continued nearly a fortnight, when a report was raised, that Sir Henry had been seen in the village; and the next morning I received a message from Corbet Hall, entreating my immediate presence.

"Pale—wild and breathless—the wretched mother, on my entrance, started from her seat—'My Henry, my son!' she exclaimed, wringing her hands, 'Oh, give me back the darling of my widowed heart! It is his mother's bosom only he has wrung with anguish; he never injured thee! Why then say he is dead, why tear him from my sight? Dead!' she repeated, with a scream. 'Oh no; it was but last night he blessed my sight. Even now his accents hang on my ear, as he told me that he lived!'

"Thus she raved—and it was a considerable time before I could soothe her to any degree of composure. When I had in some measure succeeded, I dispatched an attendant to the village, to inquire into the particulars of this strange story, and, if he could possibly discover those who were said to have seen Sir Henry, to bring them to the Hall. He soon returned with an old man, who affirmed he had seen Sir Henry, or his spectre, pass down the church hill the preceding evening; that although frightened, as Sir Henry was said to be dead, he had retained resolution to follow him till he arrived at the village; but what became of him then, he could not say, as he suddenly lost sight of him.

"This account was delivered with such hesitation, I should have condemned the whole as the effect of intoxication, had not the wretched mother again declared she had seen her son! The repetition recalled her frenzy, and for some time baffled my endeavours to calm her perturbation, by assurances, if her son in reality lived, he must soon be discovered, in which case I would use every endeavour to restore him to her.

"Lady Corbet has recovered from her derangement, though I do not think she ever will from the shock occasioned by the loss of her son. She is now at Bath for the benefit of the waters: but as my presence appears to recall the fate of Sir Henry more forcibly to her mind, I have determined to absent myself till time shall have mitigated her sorrow. I cannot, however, experience ease in my present state, and must therefore seek it in a change of objects. What say you, Howard, to an excursion for a few weeks? Fortune, perhaps, may grant us intelligence of your Ellenor."

As his presence was not essentially necessary on board, the Captain readily acceded to the proposal, and a few days after they set out for Caermarthen, accompanied by Frederick.

Fortune, however, favoured not their hopes; and, after three weeks spent in fruitless inquiries, they once more directed their course toward Dorsetshire.