'-m^k HTbrh^Tii m levere have dt hysBeddesI^-'^" I TTxeT\l\j^ookes cldd m «ldk or^ Qf Aristotle dnd.lusT^hilosoph ^dngobes ricW orTijhele orc(djS' ^ pR-R u. aei. 1^ % m ^ t^mx^^^-^M^V'i ^im-'i ■< '^'^fr\ Vi^.^^ r^i %^^9^ ^jM^^ M^M COLLECTION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN BRITISH AUTHORS VOL. CCCCVIII MOUNT SOREL PRINTF.D P.Y CR APFT.r.T, STREET OF V.MGIRARD, 9. MOUNT SOREL OR, THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES RV THE AUTHOR OF TOE "TWO OLn ME^^S TALKS." 'She lived within her father's halls, Beside the streams of Dove; A maid, whom there were none to praise. And v^ry,few to love." PARIS BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY 3, QUAI MALAQUAIS, NEAR THE PONT DES ARTS AND STASSIN ET XAVIER, 9, RUE DU COQ SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DK LA PAIX ; THEOPHILE BARHOIS, QUAI VOLTAIRf TRUCIIY, r.GUI.EVARD DES ITALIENS ; LEOPOLD MICHELSEN, LEIPZIG; AND liY ALL THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS ON THE CONTINENT 1845 MOUNT SOREL. CHAPTER 1. 'Twas but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again. Ren Johson Of this story I think with a sentiment of mingled regret and surprise. To me, the past appears, in the far distance from which I view it, as indeed a dream; so changed is every thing, even during the short period to which my personal experience reaches — two-thirds of a century. But of what a century I We often, in reading history, start and shudder, and wondcj' what ice should have felt, had we lived in such stirring times. Much, I believe, as we actually did feel, in times the most stirring, and under changes the most astounding, that have ever, perhaps, agitated society. The close relation in which we stand to the events of our own times, is frequently the very circumstance which prevents a due appreciation of their magnitude; we see them but as the flitting shadows of the day; mingled with, and often obscured by, the more pressing interests of our ov;n private story. We know little of their causes — far less of their eifects. It is not until they belong 10 the past — until gathered by that mighty artist into one vast pic- ture—until characters have assumed their due dimensions, and scenes their relative importance — that we perceive where we have been, and what we have passed through. Myself, loo! — how am I changed! Ami the same mysterious identity? — Can I— calmed, disabused ; every expectation in which I indulged, defeated; every hope which I cherished, disappointed ; every principle to which 1 clung, modified ; can I be the same? 2 ^TOUNT SOUEL ; OR, Caii I; the oid, 'CimUous, hosiLaling man ; clinging to the liier- arclial consiiMUioriS of bis 'country, as to ilic very foundations on ^hicll&ox^ief^r rests i^Bo Ih^ that enthusiastic youth, who yearned to sweep all these things away from the face of the earth, as with a flood— and to substitute. a reign of universal equal- ity? Can I, whose bosom beat high with passion ; to whom love was as the day spring of existence — the sole reality of life— can I be the same who smiles and sighs over the fond delusion ; and whose pen falters, as it attempts to trace the long-forgotten dream? Mys- terious identity— Divine sentiment of self! Personality— mystical gift of the Deity — His most wondrous, and his best I Yes, in spite of it all, I am still the same. Changed as I am— asl feebly retrace these passages of my his- tory, this faltering heart assures me that I am one. First, I must make you acquainted with Holnicote ; you shall hear of Mount Sorel by and by. There was, then, in one of the remote counties of England, bordering upon the principality of Wales, a certain mansion named Holnicote, which had stood, much in the state in which I was acquainted with it, for centuries. It was not a castle, nor even a castellated mansion ; it was an old manor-house. A beautiful relic of the domestic architecture of the middle ages ; of that era, of that taste, and of those manners, which I have lived to see contemned, by the philosophy of my younger days, as barbarous and childish to the highest degree; and a taste for which, 1 now live to see revived, amid the ardent, sensitive, imaginative race now springing up around me. This house was a thing of innumerable gables, peaked roofs, and clustered chimneys : of high narrow casement windows, with small diamond panes; of projecting oriels with octagonal ones; many filled with coloured glass, which shed its harmonising light upon the long twilight passages, and oak panellings within. A porch, ornamented with a profusion of carved stone-work, distinguished the garden front; and opened upon a walled and terraced garden — terrace below terrace, united by flights of steps, and supported by low walls covered with fruit trees and flowering shrubs, and or- namented by large stone urns placed at regular intervals. Very few specimens of this style of gardening continue to exist m this country ; the last I saw, was, many years ago, at Gloddarth, near Conway — whether still preserved or not, 1 am ignorant. You must have patience with a somewhat tedious description ; because I wish you to be well acquainted with the place, where so m.any of those whom I am about to introduce to you, dwelt. \ The upper terrace, that in front of the house, was very wide ; and THE HEIRKSS OF THE DE VERES. 3 it was nearly occupied by a broad gravel walk, edged on each side by narrow flower borders, quaintly trimmed with box, and, in , summer, filled with a thousand gay, but now discarded flowers. In that border, which ran close under the windows, were numerous flowering shrubs — or rather very old trees, which ^ trained to a great height against the Avails, mingled their fantastic branches with the variety of casements, peaks, c(jrnices, cai'ved water-spouls, andall the grotesque stone-work of the front, in a most picturesque and beautiliil manner. How rich was the effect of the clusters of the red and white roses, the dark myrtles, the clematis, jessamine, magnolias, ai)ricot and pear trees — twisting their hoar and ragged arms, and wreathing with their leaves and flowers, all the intricacies of this antique architecture ! From the centre of the terrace, a broad flight of stone steps descended to the one below — arranged and laid out much in the same manner. And so, terrace below terrace, and flight of steps succeeding to flight of steps — they fell in regular formal order, till they terminated in the valley beneath. F^ach flight of steps was surmounted, on either side, by its rampant griffons supporting the shield of the ancient family : so that, standing at the summit of the highest flight, the eye fell be- tween an avenue of these monsters, which, to compare small things with great, might have reminded you of an avenue of sphinxes at Thebes or Persepolis. The effect w^as not bad; neither was that of the many stone statues, intermingled, here and there, with the shrubs of the garden. This succession of terraces terminated in the green plateau of a narrow valley ; traversed by a wide, shallow, pebbly stream, clear as crystal — too wide to be called a brook, and too shallow to be called a river — which separated the garden of Holnicote from a precipitous, almost mountainous hill, rising opposite, covered by broken copses, and heathy knolls, with faces of red rock inter- vening. The gardens on each side were shrouded and altogether en- closed, by dark, deep woods; separated from the terraces by fences, over which the heavy boughs threw their black cavernous shade. On the upper terrace two low iron gates gave admittance to these mysterious, and almost impervious labyrinths; whose fu- nereal aspect offered little temptation to the eye. Altogether, Holnicote was a gloomy place — the woods and op- posite hills so completely enclosing it, as to shut out every vestige of that blue distance which gives cheerfidness to every landscape. The other front of the house bore a still more decided character of dulness. There was a broad gravel sweep before the door; and beyond this, the grounds stretched green and wide ; surrounded 4 MOU.M sorel; or, by black, heavy clumps and clusters of trees, which effectually excluded, on this side also, the cheerful effect of distance. The habitation stood in an extensive deer park. Such was the dwelling-place of Ralph de \ere : such the possess- ion — with its huge trees, ferny brakes, and an extent of, not too fertile, arable and pasture land — which had descended in a direct line, from father to son, since the days of Roger de Yerus, Knight- banneret; who had crossed the channel with the great Conqueror, and had obtained it by marriage with the beautiful Editha, heiress of that stalwart Saxon Erie, Morcar of the Danna Frith, or holy wood of Danna. Mr. de Vere was a very proud, and, at the same time, a very shy man: these qualities were, at his lime of day, more frequently united than they are now. Men lived more .^entirely upon their own estates, than they do at present; and did not habitually visit the capital, unless summoned by private or parliamentary business. That universal fusion of society which now takes place, and which has gone further to level distinctions, and to diminish unsocial pride, than all the legal institutions in the universe could have done — had not then generally obtained. Many country gentlemen resided, almost without interruption, at their I'emote country seats: tyrants, or benefactors, to the dependants around them — as the case might chance to be. Of these wasMr.de Vere. He disliked general society — because his pride of birth was continually froisse, by the pretensions of those whose pretensions he never w^ould admit ; and because his constitutional shyness prevented him from finding compensation for that which he thought so disagreeable, in the pleasures u\' conversation and cheerful intercourse. Cheerfulness, indeed, was a word the meaning of which he did not seem to understand ; he hated mirth; he was disgusted with laughter; and the free, unfet- tered intercourse of human beings, was offensive to his taste, and sense of the propriety of things. What a man have we here I — In what a false, unnatural, con- strained position is human life thus presented ! — How can any thing tliat is genial, affectionate, or animating, be expected to floui'ish in such a soil? It did not, and it could not. Mr. de Yere, though by no means wanting, either in imagination or feeling, was the very drijest msiU, with whom it was'ature — the workings of that character originally stamped upon the individual soul — and her domestic affections alone, united to form Clarice. The laws by which that original st^mp is governed, escape all calculation. Hereditary temperament seems to be one of them ; and yet how often does the child start forward, so blended of qualities inherited from various souches of the families of father, mother, grandfather, etc., etc., as to defy all attempts at tracing whence its features were derived : springing forward a new, original, delightful being — fresh, as it were, in creation, from the Great Master's hand. Born of the silent, drooping mother — of the cold, reserved father — whence did she diaw that warm, imaginative, genial being; that face instinct with spirit, life, and joy; that ardent, hopeful, active nature? Ah, Clarice I w^ert thou then, as poets have fabled, a bright one descended from the pure and glorious heavens; the beams still glistening in thine infant eye, and lingering round thy angel form and feature ? You can scarcely conceive a prettier sight, than when Mr. de Vere gave one of his grand, stately, formal dinner parties. Coun- try dinners are proverbially dull things now, but they were then the most excessively stiff', stately affairs you can imagine. All the company in full dress, by the staring daylight of four o'clock at latest, crossed from their country scats— ten to twelve miles, per- 8 MOUIST SOREL; OR, haps, distant — in their coaches and funr, and ranged themselves in a formal circle round the grand, cold saloon; which, locked up on ordinary days in its papers and coverings, was opened and visited solely upon such occasions. Not a book, not even a newspaper lay upon the tables; not the slightest relief to the eye or the ima- gination; the company sat, held up their high heads, and talked. I Avas often there with my father ; and I was going to say that no- thing could be prettier than the apparition, upon such occasions, of the fair gentle mother and the little Clarice. Mrs. de Vere used to be dressed in mxuch simplicity; her dress was a type of her pure and gentle nature; soft and delicate, and tucked and done about with lace ; so that the outline was undefined and hazy, as it were, like that of a misty, melting cloud : then her face was so pale, with her soft brown hair just slightly powdered — her voice so low, soft, and gentle The little Clarice held by her hand — she always appeared in the drawing-room with her mother. The httle girl dressed in her beau- tiful India muslin and lace frocks, with a very broad sash of blue or clouded riband, tied behind; or at times of painted tiffany and spangles ; her brown hair clustering round her cheeks, and falling m ringlets round her pretty shoulders; her complexion very fair, of that delicate porcelain transparency w^hich is so rare and so inexpressibly lovely; her little features cut in the finest lines — beautiful now, and promising more beauty — and her blue eyes usually cast down with a pretty childish shyness; but if raised to your face, by a sudden glance of curiosity or amusement, they had a smiling brightness, that was excessively delightful. Her mouth, too, how harmonious! how sweet and peaceful, yet how feeling, and how expressive ! Quiet as the lovely little being was; you felt that she could be airy, gay, and volatile as a bird, when the restraint of "the com- pany" was away. Many a young lady crossed the room to kneel down by her, as she stood at her mother's knee, and engage her in childish prattle. How cheerful and ingenuous her demeanour I How sweet and con- fiding her infant innocence! She seemed to know neither distrust nor fear; the charming shyness of young unspoiled nature, alone threw a pretty check over her spirits. She answered gaily, but in a little low whispering tone, as if she feared to make a noise — to disturb those grand, grown-up people — which a child ought not to do. But there was no reserve in her little heart ; she always had some pretty, clever thing or other, to say. The mother's eye spoke volumes as she stole a look down upon her, on these occasions; and even the father, as he stood wdth his back to the mantel-piece, discoursing upon the suh)jects of the rHE HEIRESS OF THE DE VEIIES. 9 day — might bo caught glancing, now and tlicn, at ihc little charmer; as her childish, merry, but suppressed laughter, rang softly through the a})artment. 1 was then a great big boy — my father was a gentleman, and I was tolerated as the son of one — but I was, in fact, a heavy, un- forme_d J. lubberly boy. I used to feel so to myself; as if T was a huge unlu'ked bear's cub — a heap of (;hao tic matter — hardly infoi-m- ed or animated by a soul — still all in amaze at itself, and every thing around it. The image I ))resented to my own imagination, was thatof a lump of heavy clary : the image that Clarice })resented tome, was that of a glittering, dewsprung, flower-cradled fairy — a sparkling, tiny, transparent, precious gem; a light, flitting, azure butii-rfly — like the [)etal of a flower on the wing. The beautiful child seemed too etherial a being to be looked upon as a child. She was to me, as the essence of beauty — as a vision — an airy dream — a creature of the element — framed of the crystal light of heaven! While I was a Polepheme — a heavy gnome — a big lump of eai'th and formless matter. I used, before dinner, to creep round and get as near to her as I eoyjd, and listen while she prattled to the pretty young ladies who would be kneehng before her ; she, twisting her little dimpled, delicate hands in their curly hair, or among their gay ribands and glittering ornaments; lifting up those loving, questioning, i)retly eyes — shrouded as they were by her beautiful long eyelashes — her infant lii)s prating and smiling, while sometimes in an ecstasy of delighted laughter, would those little soft fat arms be clasped round some favourite's neck ; and the sweet face smother the laugh in her bosom. Kvery change was to me more delectable than the last; more exquisite than the most beautiful picture, or the finest work of art could have been — it was ineffable. Couloured, living, brilliant before my eyes ; it was like a glory of the bright sunset clouds, or the rich variety of delicious flow^ers. Five minutes or so of bliss inexpressible used to be mine. It was the custom when the com})any arose and retired to the dining- room — to which apartment, marshalled in solemn pomp, they slowly adjourned — that Clarice's nurse should come into the saloon and carry the young lady off' to bed. Then my turn came — Nurse was the kindest and most indidgent of human beings; and on a fine summer's evening, the dear litth^ rebel hated to go bed. As soon as the last long sweeping train disappeared behind the door ; I used to creep up to her slow^ly — you may see me — I had no- thing of the gay forwardness of a lad brought up at a public school, accustomed to fight his way, and with a hai)py audacity to depend upon, and, yet think litile of himself. My self — everseemed to cumber 10 MOUNT SOREL ; Oil, me — my s^ //'-distrust made me think of my self — 1 did not know how to carry my 5e(/' about — it loaded me, it obstructed me. You may see the great heavy boy slowly leaving his chair, creeping up to the little smiling darling, and in spirit falling almost prostrate at her feet — kissing the very ground on which her tiny sandal trod. Conceive his ecstasy at these moments — for the little thing loved -- the lumbering boy ; he was almost her sole acquaintance in the world. The iitlle cherub would stand holding Nurse's hand in act to go away : lingering reluctant, and prattling, now to him, now to Nurse .... he would venture upon such gentle plays as his unformed nature could deal with. I see her now, running round Nurse, clinging to her white apron — shrieking half in real, half in feigned terror — as the great boy on hands and knees, roars, like the great brute he thought himself, and follows. Then it is time to go. Nurse says; — but no, the laughing rebel screams that she will not ; slips her dimpled hand from Nurse's fingers, and away flies the little fluttering white frock through the window, and along the ter- race ; and we pursue ; and 1, the happy victor, catch the little strug- gling wight; imprison her in my arms, and for my reward, Nurse gives us half a quarter of an hour ; and pick-a-back, 1 am her horse, dolphin, her humble slave — and carry her ; my fairy queen, my little divinity, love, and joy ! Thus began my connexion with Clarice : thus took rise those bonds , those influences , which have been ms fate. The boy is parent of the man. The childhood of Clarice was passed in pure and beautiful ima- ginations, as the thoughtless gaiety of the infant disappeared before that transition state, as w^e may consider it, of childhood — when growth of a more strong, and, if 1 may say so, fibry sort, takes place of the flower-like, soft developments of infancy. The young girl of ten or twelve sought in nature that companionship, which her own wild spirits had afforded to the infant. The little girl, on public days, appeared now, demure and grave ; the beautiful flowing curls cut off, the small head disclosed in all its fair pro- portions, by the close cut and neatly combed hair ; her frock of cambric, plain and unornamented ; her beautiful features and ex- (juisitely formed limbs, in the half-developed state of that age — yet lengthy and unproportioned as they were, commanding a cer- tain admiration by their delicacy; the long, dark eyelashes, on her colourless cheek ; and the lifting up of those large, lustrous eyes, almost the only beauty that attracted ordinary attention. To me, she w-as only more than ever charming — this sweet, demure, modest, good, little, well-behaved girl, seated by her mother's side — no kneeling young ladies now playing with or amusing her — answering in civil, measured accents, the polite THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 11 conversation addressed to her; colouring, and starting a little, if her father spoke to, or even was looking at her ; yet composed, though quiet ; a something even in this little, uncharaetered, and still demeanour, thatexcited respectand intei'esl — in me, it was worship. 1 was now a youth myself, and I was entered at. Academy That horrid feeling of lubberlyness had in great degree left me ; the Cyclopean mass was beginning to develope itself in well- formed lengthy limbs, to which even I could not deny a certain correctness of i)roportion ; my features were rising and breaking through, as it weie, that eloud of flesh and bone which had en- cumbered them — but my s})irits had not acquired elasticity, nor my conversation brilliancy. 1 was still a serious, thoughtful, reserved youth; speaking little, and enjoying little, except the pleasure of observing : leave me in a corner unnoticed, let me but watch others, and I was content. I ceased in this new pleasure to think so much about myself: — by an unfortunate contradiction, just at the age when this self-presence, if I may so call it, this self- inspection, might have been useful, by tending to self-improve- ment; to the formation of my manners, and polish of my appear- ance; the tendency seemed to leave me. I became extremely indifferent to the effect I produced upon others, and occupied only with that which they produced u})on me; and if it had not been for my good father's animadversions — 1 had long, alas ! been without a mother — my appearance might have been remarkable for its negligence. My desire to please him, corrected any offensive degree of this defect; but all those nicer graces, wiiich it seems the nature of youth to covet and by coveting to acquire, were unknown to me. I was a very phan-looking, though neither an ugly, nor a vulgar youth ; remarkably silent, dull, and unsocial ; except with a few chosen ones, with whom my spirit sympathised. I was, in those days quite contented to sit where 1 could look at Clarice ; the farther away the better pleased was 1 — because I the less feared to fix my eyes unceasingly upon her. I could have sat so for hours and hours. 1 was still too young to be considered a part of the company ; I was not expected to talk ; so my en- joyment was quite undisturbed. And there appeared to be little change or variety in it; for the young lady sat very still, and spoke very little ; only answering when she was addressed, and that in the quietest, and almost in a formal way , so composed was it. But 1 marked the slightest variation of colour, the slight- est change of feature ; I hung u[)on the low accents which reached my ear — often only as a faint murmur, for I could rarely hear what she said; but 1 distinguished that murmur amid the mingled voices of the largest company; — in fact, in the largest company, I rarely saw any thing else, or heard any thing else ; I was as 12 MOUNT SOREL; OR, entirely alone, as if I had been in a desert; sueh were my un- rortiinale habits of abstraction — I was alone with Clarice. Sometimes my father and I would dine at Mr. de Vere's when there was only a small party ; and then, when the usual severe formality was in some little degree suspended; when we sat in the blue parlour, and not in the saloon; when ^[r. de Vere and my father would be talking politics; when Mrs. de Vere had a little needlework in her hand, and every body did not seem so dreadfully unoccu[)ied and observant — I would by slow advances from chair to window, and window to table, slide into the seat next to Clarice, and begin to talk with her. Our happy little meetings when the company retired to dinner had been long over. On my return, after a considerable absence, I was summoned to take my place at the dining-table ; and a vei'y plain, grave old lady, dressed in black, with a very formal, though not in the least a forbidding manner, was substituted for dear Nurse. With her Clarice remained while we adjourned to the dining-room. The only communication, therefore, that we had together was in our little talks upon these occasions. She always looked pleased, when I at last accomplished that most diflicult and nervous enterprise of reaching her side ; and though she sat so still that her little delicate frame could not by any gesture evince joy, or alacrity; the readiness with which she turned her face towards me^ and, replying to my formal little ques- tions, soon entered into what might be called conversation — en- couraged me to cast off my shyness, by the delightful conviction that my presence was agreeable, and my talk interesting. Her ideas were chiefly engaged by the simple objects that sur- rounded, and occupied, her simple life. Like other little girls of her age, her atteetions and her lively imagination, unoccupied by more important things, overflowed upon those objects, animate and inanimate, which surrounded her. Her grotto in the garden was wreathed with dandelion chains and boinpiets of flowers; its tiny chambers tapestried with the rich col- ours of the poppy, rose, and campanula; on beds of la})is lazuli, foi'med of the chistering hare-bell, her little images of nymphs and fairies lay. She never had taken the least delight in the common amusement of a doll, dressed according to the mode — an image of ordinary life ; — her fancies were more inventive ; and found express- ion in the most beautiful creations of this imaginative sort. Her darling pet was a milk-white fawn, which she had reared from infancy — a milk-white doe, indeed, but it was happily so small, that it was little larger than an ordinary fawn. This beautiful creature, its neck wreathed with a garland of flowers, was the pri- THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 13 \ileged denizen of the terraces and gardens, where Clarice spent the greatest part of her time. It was her constant and cherislied companion — with it she ran races, lauglied, and sported; it was a young phiymate of her own age to her. Her good and gentle governess sat with her book, reading, while Clarice frolicked with her fawn. Lessons in those days were not very long things, and governesses were not expected to be able to leach every thing; they w^ere rathei' duennas than governesses — happily for good Mrs. Fermor, who had very little to impart in the way of accomplishment; but who nevertheless formed her pupil well. She imparted her i)iety, her gentleness, her just sense of things; and would have fain given her precision and exact order. The first qualities were imbibed as mother's milk ; the little for- malities laughed at, defied, and cajoled away, with wiiming wiles and kisses. As we sat together, Clarice w^ould talk of all her pets and plans to me; and blest was I , when any opportunity alloAved me to second, or assist them. In these more easy meetings, we used sometimes to w^alk out in the garden before dinner; when Mrs. de Vere, Clarice, and I, were sure to be found together. She would take me to her grotto, which was her bower of bliss; and, indeed, a bower of bliss it might be called. The grotto had been scooped in the hill, and in front of it was a hermitage, built of heath and the branches of oak trees mingled — with wooden seats and a table of rough oak. The grotto was in the fashion of those things, dark : scantily lighted from above, by some panes of coloured glass, concealed among the variety of shells and sparkling stones that adorned thc^ walls and roof. Here were all those faii-y constructions that I have mentioned , carried on; here this sweet Zenobia, queen and architect of the little world within, i-aised and adorned the beautiful and transient frostwork of her imagination. Proud was I, when some new and beautifully tinted shell, or lich coloured stone, could be obtained by me, to add to her collection; happy beyond measure,' assisting her to choose its place, and enshrine it among the rest. Mrs. de Yere used to sit in the hermit- age in front, while we were busy in the grotto within. Thus oc- cupied, Clarice was not in the least like the little girl of the drawing- I'oom; she was busy, energt;tic, animated; — but at all times, and everywhere, she was simplicity itself. Not the slightest alTectation, or pretension in her manner — cheerful, sprightly, eager, busied, occupied — about all, and everything, but herself. I don't know whether at this time I might be said to adore her — I was wrapped up in her — she was every tiling. She was all the joy, pleasure, and society, of my life. I loved my father in a |)ious 14 MOUNT SOREL; OR, way — 1 loved her in no way — I w^as made of love to her — I have continued so. She has been my being — it has not been as if /loved her — it has been, and is, as if (he love of her was me. Do 1 make myself comprehended ? I linger over those early days; who does not love to recall them? To whom, looking back, do they not appear coloured in all the tints of the eastern heaven — the aurora of life? As we recede, faint lies that light at a distance ; we are urged forward to the burden and heat of the day — but the soft lints yet linger behind us, mel- lowed into harmony by distance. Ah ! blest are those, who in the western sky behold the reflection of those early beams. Angel Clarice ! angel of my life I — But I will have done What right have I to fatigue any one, with my childish recollec- tions. CHAPTER II. Times go by turns, and chances change by course ; From foul to fair, from better pass to worse. Robert Sol th well. Mr. de Vere could not be called a rich man ; for so proud a man he might have been considered poor. Who is not poor who is in- satiable? and pride is insatiable. His ambition lay in the endeavour to recover that large extent of landed property, and consequent political interest, which had once belonged to his family ; but he was not of a liberal temper; he was fond of money. I have observed that this fondness for money justifies the notions of the phrenologists; by which 1 mean, that it does not seem the result of various other tendencies of the character, but often lies, as it were, accidentally jumbled among a heap of incongruous qualities; just as one should expect might be the case if their theories are true. I have observed the love of money among the noblest and the meanest; united with selfishness and with genero- sity; with enthusiasm, and with indifference; with pride, and with ambition — as well as constituting the low^ sordidness of the gro- velling miser. The contrary temper, the infatuated carelessness and waste of money which ruins the best and wisest, seems, in the same apparently accidental manner, to be engrafted upon every variety of character. Mr. de Vere's love of money was not merely a form of ambition. The love of money for money's ivorth is one thing, the love of money for money's so/re quite another. You may distinguish the THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 15 difference by a certain slowness, a dislilvc to part with the money, when the object is decided upon, and the sum to be sacrificed ascertained — a procrastination (^f all aiTairs where there is any- thing to jmy. This disposition was manilestcd by Mr. do Vere upon an important occasion. How important, he, or any of us, little anticipated. Dark future I— Inscrutable labyrinth of things I— Who shall i)cnetrate thy obscurity? — Not the wisest, the most expe- rienced, nor the best. To-day alone is ours — let us work, wliilc ii is called to-day. Beliind the mountainous hill which 1 have described, as form- ing the boundary to Mr. de Yere's property on the garden side of the house — was a very large estate, which marched with Holnicote for a considerable distance ; the boundary line traversing the top of the hdl in a devious, irregular manner, sometimes descending on the De Vere side , sometimes on the one opposite. So that in some places, the De Vere estate was commanded, to use the mi- litary term, by some portions of the Mount Sorel property ; while at others, the pro})rietor of Holnicote had a similar advantage over his neighboui'. From the windows of Holnicote, these portions of land were distinctly visible; but as the whole summit of this wild hill was nothing but a wilderness of heath and fern, the existence of this boundary line was of little consequence ; it being totally obscured to the ordinary observer. Mr. de Vere, however, well knew of its existence ; and he never cast his eyes upon that hill top from his terrace— where he so often walked in solitary, silent mu- sing — without a feeling of irritation and discontent. This estate had, indeed, once belonged to his ancestors. It had been forfeited at the great rebellion ; in which contest the house of De Vere was, of course, engaged on the cavalier side — advocates of the highest Tory principles. At the restoration, a considerable part of the family property had been recovered ; but this fine estate had fallen into the hands ofone^ho well understood, in those fickle times, how to make his part good with the influential under the new order of things; and the estate had never been restored to its original owners. The county in general had forgotten the contention for this pro- perty, which had in those distant days long agitated the courts of law ; but not so the family : the sense of injustice rankled at their hearts, and they ever looked upon themselves, as in equity still proprietors of the land. Their feehngs however of indignation, with a curious inconsis- tency, were not so much levelled against the government which had neglected to reinstate — as against the party which had origi- nally confiscated. The base desertion of his friends and fellow- sufferers, on the part of the gay and reckless king, was regarded 16 MOUNT SOPiEL; OR, ^vitll indulgence : the legitimate severity exercised towards a party opposed to them, on Ihe side of the republicans, resented with unmitigated bitterness; which bitterness overflowed towards the possessor of the estate, be he who he might. The lord of Mount Sorel had never been welcome in the halls of Dc Vere. " Have you heard the news, Sir ?" said Mr. de Vere's steward to him one morning, when they had finished the usual discussion of the affairs of the home farm, and of the estate in general. " Mr. Entwistle — returning from hunting late last night — his horse shyed, it is supposed, at the new white fingerpost put up at the corner of Parker's-lane. I suppose, Sir, he was rather mellow — for Mr. Entwistle was a capital horseman." "Well," said Mr. de Vere, somewhat impatiently, " what is Mr. Entwiddle — Entwitle — Mr. What-do-you-call-his-name's, horsc^ manship to me?" " Sir," said the old man — " he is dead." '' Dead I" exclaimed Mr. de Vere, somewhat shocked at the sud- den announcement. " He fell from his horse — which started off, they say, full speed, dragging his master in the stirrup. The groom was not far behind ; but before he could slop the horse, it was all over he was (pate dead." '' He was an inveterate drunkard," was Mr. de Vere's remark. " Why, yes. Sir — he was J oily. But a prettier man in a hunting saddle you could not easily see However, he's gone, Sir." " Will the hunters be sold?" asked the master. " LaAV, Sir I the hunters I There are strange reports atloat as to his affairs already. They say all must be sold. Hunters, plate, fui- niture, timbei', house, and Land." '' Land 1" reiterated his master. " 1 don't in course," continued the old man, '' know, for cer- tain , any thing as yet — but they do say, Mr. Entwistle took to strange courses ; and kept queer company w^hen he was in London. One Mr.. Wills . :. . . Mr. Wicks, Mr. ." " Wilkes," said the master. " Ay, that's the name — he be dead some time ago. Howe'er, in his day, Entwistle, they say, played strange sort of pranks — and dipped his estate pretty deeply— and sin' then, things have been little better — he has been among the prime o' that in Lonnon. Howe'er, he was, for certain, a beautiful figure on a horse." '' A low vulgar rake," said Mr. de Vere, as to himself. & THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. \7 '' So Sir, iho short and tlic long is, IhaL they say — all thoostat(^s. Mount Sorc'l and all — mnsl como lo llic lianinior.'*' " Mount Sorel !" said Mr. de Vcro. " WVll, Johnson, this is enough for to-day. Purton's rent must be paid on Monday, the 31st — you understand — and make him understand, or an execu- tion in the house." " Yes Sir," said the old steward, with a sort of sigh. " Tenants are only ruined by this pernicious system of delay and indulgence. Purton is a poor man, and a poor farmer. 1 shall be better without him. As for that rascal, Gregson, let me never hear a syllable in his favour again — the scoundrel ! Let him carry his vote and his conscience to a better market — I have no places for conscientious blackguards on my property — you understand — " "Yes, Sir;" another sigh. "This is all for to-day. — You remember, the eight acres in wheat. Good morning to you , Johnson." The old steward passed his hand downwards over his hair, made his bow, and left the room. "Mount Sorel in the market!" repeated Mr. de Vere, seatin himself before his writing-desk, as the old man left the room. " Mount Sorel"— He sat some time musing — then he rose slowly — he opened an iron door fitted to the wall, and displayed an iron cupboard filled with deeds and papers ; ranged in precise order ; the gray and hoary condition of most of them, testifying to the antiquity of the tran- sactions to which they had related — he removed several of these, and opened a drawer at the very back of the cupboard ; it was also filled with papers. He lifted them out one by one ; then he came to a small packet, and slowly opened it — it contained a lock of hair, and a handkerchief brown with age, but distinctly stained with blood. " Ralph de Vere, of Mount Sorel, shire, murdered by the bloody rebels, Anno Domini 1647." He examined it some time, and then carefully folding it up in the time-stained paper, replaced it with a sort of reverence in the drawer. After a little more search among the papers, he drew forth a long dust-defiled roll ; then he replaced the different packets, closed the drawer, and re-arranged the deeds, parchments, and red-taped rolls of more modern days ; with that slow deliberation with which we sometimes loiter and linger, before opening a most interesting communication. Then the iron doors were closed — the key turned with some difficulty in the hard grating lock — the covering of the lock replaced, and fastened by a secret spring; the key deposited in the inner drawer of his secretary, the drawer closed deliberately ; and then Mr. de Vere sat down, holding the roll in his hand. 2 18 MOUNT SOREL; OR, He remained musing a few moments, and then slowly unfolding the pai)er, spread it upon the ample desk before him. ''Survey of the estate of Mount Sorel, shire : Its Parks, Forests, Copses, Meadows, Arable land, Tenements, and Heredita- ments, its Fisheries, Mines, and Quarries. By order of the Lords Commissioners of the Parliament and People of England; this year of our Lord 1649. Done by William Hodson, Surveyor and Draughtsman, Helen-court, St. Mary Axe, London." There it lay before him ; all its magnificent extent figured upon that little plan. Its long line of woods, formed of secular trees, many of them now, indeed, cut down ; its wide, extended fields, pastures, and meadows ; its winding river — its chain of fish-ponds ; its lines mark- ed — "Here lead, it is supposed, may be found — Here marble was quarried in the reign of Harry YUL — A vein of coal is said to have run in this direction — Ancient Tilery, Marl pits," etc., etc. But he stooped his head low to the paper, and bent intently over one small black mark. "Ancient ruin of the Castle and Keep of De Vere and Mount Sorel, demolished in the troubles of 1460, under our sovereign Lords, King Henry YL and Edward lY." "Site of the manor- house of Mount Sorel, erected by Sir Ralph de Yere, Knight- banneret, A. D. 1557.". Round this was, marked by a green space of great extent, " Ancient Deer park," bounded by the wind- ings of the river. "Druids' Wood," "Woden Firth," "Bevis Copses," were marked upon the different long lines of wood that stretched on all sides of the mansion, and ancient ruin : while, "Garden," "Orchard," "Stables," "Tennis-court," "Bowling- green," etc., showed that Ralph deYere had not neglected creature comforts., or the means of country sports, when he erected his new manor-house. The acreage amounted to two thousand acres, all included ; — and Mount Sorel was to come to the hammer. To purchase it — to possess it — to escape the disgrace, as he felt and thought it, of suffering this estate again to pass into the hands of the stranger Mr. de Yere, as he slowly folded the roll, and replaced it — not in its original dark receptacle, but in a drawer nearer at hand — felt to be as an absolute necessity, as an im> perative duty imposed upon him — one that could not be evaded. He had never, in his life, visited the place ; but in crossing the country, was it impossible that he should not have seen its long line of dark woods covering the hills ; and at intervals have discerned the high-peaked manor-house crowning the beautiful verdant slope on which it stood. And now, the contemplation of the survey ex- cited his imagination to the highest degree. So noble a pos-» THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 10 session ! He had iori-otten , indeed had never known, the wealth it promised, beyond the preeious, precious reUcs of his family history which it enclosed. A tradition of the old castle had existed in the family ; but who had ever had the heart, for years, to examine the Survey, by order of the Lords Commissioners of the Parliament and People of England ; locked up, with all the ])apers connected with the ruinous law t>roceedings arising from it? It was l)robably a century since that iron drawer had even been opened. That these traces of his ancient descent — these very footsteps of his ancestors still unerased — that another should possess them I That they might still be his ! . . . . He fell into a deep reverie. His mind was too much excited to rellect upon the means by which the possession was to be obtain- ed : he was already, in thought, the actual possessor : for he fell, that, as it was impossible it should be any one's else than his own — as, at any cost, and at any sacrifice, he must obtain it — that It ivas his already. How complacently did his eye, as he paced his terrace that evening, turn to those well-known hillocks ; those obscure tufts of broken underwood ; those faces of bare rock ; which, to him, so distinctly defined a boundary, unobserved by every one else. With what fresh accession of pride and dignity did he take the hand of his little daughter; whom he now regarded with a certain reverence, as the heiress of all this; and walk slowly with her up and down the gravel walk : — the demure little thing, most good and obedient to her father, whom she had ever been taught to re- gard with the deepest reverence, walking, patiently and composedly, by his side; as if she had, in truth, been that dry, uncharactered piece of dignity, he wished and expected her to prove. Indeed he soon forgot the presence of his poor little prisoner ; absorbed as he now began to be, with plans for accomplishing his purposes. 3Ioney he had very little ; every thing but money, he seemed already to possess. He had land, he had timber, he had houses, he had plate, he had jewels, he had pictures, — he had every thing but a large sum of money in the funds, or in his banker's hands. This he had not ; and he had never much cared about it before. Mrs. de Vere's fortune had, it is true, consisted in part of personal property; but the money he had received with her had been em- ployed in paying off incumbrances upon the De Vere estate ; the rest of her fortune was invested in land, and was settled upon herself. To part with an acre of his own family estates for the sake of this new acquisition, was not for a moment to be thought of. Accu- mulation is the object of the proud— exchange is no gratification of their wishes. Neither did Mr. de Vere choose to cut down his ^0 MOUNT SOREL; or, limber; bis woods were regularly tbinned and trimmed, and bis woodman's account afforded a certain annual revenue; but a fall ol" timber would bavc been an affront to bis jyride, not to be for a mo- ment contemplated; to buy at a sacrifice, such as be would bave regarded any transaction of tbis nature, was to do notbing. It was as an object of pride tbat be coveted tbis new possession — tbe aim would bave been defeated by means commercial, and calcula- ting as tbese. His boards of plate tarnisbing in bis strong room — bis antique jewels, many of wbicb, too ancient in tbeir setting to be used, were laid unreckoned aside — bis cboice collection of pictures, — tbe same objection was open to all. Tbere w^ould bavc been a species of traffic in tbe conversion of tbese relics ; a sort of blaspbemy in tbe suffering tbem to be sold, utterly inconsistent witb bis way of tb inking or feeling. One plan alone remained— to sell bis wife's estate, and mortgage Mount Sorel for sucb part of tbe purchase money as be should be unable thus to obtain. To part with her estate— her father's estate — tbe place she was tenderly attached to by a thousand endearing ties— that w^as indeed a trifle. How idle were these mere local attachments! What nonsense, to make the slightest hesitation about sacrificing sucb empty imaginations ! Could any thing be more weak ? She would in all probability not hesitate to oblige him ; but if she did, could any thing, by possibility, be more senseless, selfish, and unrea- sonable ; — to indulge such weakness could not be thought of for a moment. His wife's estate — of course he would give her trustees proper security — no reasonable being could make a difficulty about it. So we reason on the prejudices and inclination of others! His wife's estate ! — Of course, tbat must go. XUE UEIRESS Ol- IflK DE VEllES. 21 CHAPTER 111. The ylories of our birth and stale Are shadows, not substantial thinj|;s; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on Kings. Sceptre and crown, Must tumble do^Yn, And in the dust be equal made. With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Shirley. It was i)erfectly true— Mr. Entwistle was dead; and he had lefl his affairs in the most horrible disorder. Every thing saleable was sold in a very short time, the estate was to come into the market bv and by. ^ In spite of the splendid impression any one might have received of its value and capabilities, from the Survey under the Lords Com- missioners, it was not a very saleable property. It had been excessively neglected and ill-managed, and was in a state of the greatest possible disorder. Rack-rented tenants had rack-farmed the tenements ; the ill-fenced woods had been infested by all the stray cattle in the county ; the unpruned and unthinned timber had run to decay, the old trees impeding the growth of the young; the buildings were all tumbling to pieces; and as for the tradition of the mines, it seemed to have been lost; at least, not a word was said about them by any one. The careless, reckless race who had possessed this property; mighty hunters, from father to son— hard drinkers— rakes while they were young, and sots when they were old ; had taken little heed of records or of surveys. The title deeds, happily for the creditors, were found in an old box at the banker's; but these once in possession, nobody troubled them- selves much about any thing else. Mr. de Vere, in silent satisfaction, began to feel sure that with a little caution on his own part, in concealing the ardent desire he cherished to possess Mount Sorel, he should not only accomplish his wishes ; but at an expense very far indeed below that which he had at first anticipated. In short, that the sale of Mrs. de Vere's property would supply funds amply sufficient for the purpose. For two years did this reserved, patient, and determined man conceal within his breast the purpose which occupied his thoughts, almost without intermission : filling up each vacant moment with scliemes and imaginations— with those delightful airy castles- snares to the wisest and the best. His solitarv walks had been, until now, almost altogether con- 22 MOOT SOREL; OR, fined to the terraces of his garden ; Avhere, pacing up and down, the silent, melancholy man might most frequently have been found. He was not of an active, stirring temper ; and though he was both too proud, and too prudent, to suffer his own estate, like that of his neighbour, to be wasted by improvidence or negligence, yet his home concerns were chiefly intrusted to his very faithful old steward, who, — though, from the glimpse I have given you of him, he may ap})ear to your modern ideas far below the situation he held, — was quite equal to it. The change which universal education has produced, is, in many respects perhaps rather ap])arent than real : and, 1 .am sometimes tempted to ask, with Tieck, how far we are substituting shadows for realities : — how far the real education from things, may not be preferable to the apparent education from their images ; how far the book being substituted for the action — that is to say, the experience of others in place of our own — may not tend to form a certain showy superficiality, so to speak, which appears, to my old pre- judices, to be the defect of our times. This remark is particularly addressed to the women of the lower classes, among whom, I should say, I have observed the greatest tendency to this defect. I have been shocked to see how frequently these denizens of the school-room, adorned with coloured maps and scientific diagrams, are really inferior to what their mothers used to be, in all those qualities essential to the w^ell-being of human life; in that direct, vigorous action; that sober, sound good sense, that were once so common among them. When I see these slip-slop pseudo-ladies , in their dresses, — their fashionable sleeves, their tight-fitting bodices; their hair dressed and bound Avith velvet, or covered with a dirty, showy cap of cheap lace and flimsy muslin, — I cannot help contrasting them with their predecessors, in the clean, stiff-quilled mob cap ; the wholesome linsey-woolsey petticoat ; the short, striped bedgown, so admirably suited to facilitate labour ; and the check apron, tied clean and compact round the smart, vigorous form. Education, as we call it; meaning shutting up children in school- rooms, and teaching them to read; has, I believe, had a great effect in improving the average morals : for the habit of doing no- thing very wrong is, at least, in most cases, acquired by being kept so many hours out of mischief : but something is yet wanting to form the man, and more still to form the tvomcm. It is difiicult to supply to the latter that domestic training which the household life supplies ; but something ought to be done to resist that spirit o[ finery which pervades our society in all its ranks; ' sick with it from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot.' A spirit which makes people ashamed of their duties: leading them to regard the THE HEIRESS OF THE UE VEUES. 23 very incapacity of fulfilling them, as a proof of a superior refine- ment and delicacy, and a distinction uponwhich they actually pique themselves, as on something peculiarly admirable and desirable. 1 have seen silly women of fashion proud of not being able to bear the sight of blood, — abandoning to the hireling the care of those they loved under the most pressing and dangerous circum- stances; and vain of their weakness. I have witnessed precisely the same species of false pride in a cottage, not very long ago. I see young ladies too delicate, or too enlightened, to waste their hours on domestic duties; just as I have seen a woman sweeping the house in a flounced skirt, and a pair uf tight fashionable sleeves. This is a long, tedious digression.... as the Irishman says in the I)OStscript, " Don't read it, if you don't like it." Mr. de Vere's steward was not of this modern school; what he knew, he knew well; for he had learned by action and experience. He knew how to govern men , and he kept those under his direction indue subservience. Moreover, he loved and honoured the master he served; for he had been taught from childhood to reverence his superiors — to pull off his little cap and make a bow, when those bearing the mere externals of superiority passed him — a sort of ha- bitual reverence of the heirarchy of ranks, which seems to me not undesirable, so long as ranks continue to subsist; because, I think, nothing degrades the man like contempt for the master be serves. Nothing can ennoble the position but the habit of reverencing the being to whom your time is devoted; — if you can love him, still better; but, by all means respect him — respect him as a man, if possible; respect him as a rank, at all events. So strongly does this sentiment seem implanted in human na- ture, that, perhaps, no quality excites the attachment of an inferior so much as that of dignity. We see cold, reserved, and even haughty characters, exercising an influence over the minds of their inferiors and dependants, which we contrast, in painful surprise, with the insolence and ingratitude, which more good-natured and facile characters too often meet. This arises from ignorance and want of penetration on the part of the vulgar; but it proves what 1 say, — that they require to have their imaginations elevated; and when they serve, to serve with honour; or to honour those they serve. Mr. de Vere was of this reserved and cold temper, but his manner was dignified in the highest degree. Every one feared him ; it would be hard to say why, for his politeness was habitual , his self-command unfailing ; he was rarely surprised into a rude or contemptuous expression. But we were all, in some degre«?: in awe of him. As for his servants, his slightest word was law; they served him better than any one else was served, loved him, and never left him. 24 MOUNT SOREL; Olt, The atlacliment of the old steward was devoted ; and his whole time and thought employed in the furtheranee of his master's in- terests. He might be seen, the silverhaired old man, mounted upon his white poney, visiting every corner of the estate. Not a hmce was suffered to be twenty-four hours out of repair ; not a labourer to w^aste his time in idleness and negligence : the whole was one system of sterling, methodical, persevering, good order. Experimental farming was not then, in general, the order of the day. There was, doubtless, a too obstinate adherence to the prac- tices of their ancestors in these steady old characters ; accustomed to follow one routine, and to devote their energies to the carrying that out in its perfection of details. But every age has its good and its evil. We pay for the advances we make; as we progress, how many graces and virtues drop from our side. Yet we have faith in progress, nevertheless — it is the law of our existence — and we have faith in the great Ordainer of that law\ And the garrulous tedious old man has taken all this time, aqd in this discursive method has told you, — why it was not neces- sary that Mr. de Vere should be for ever on the watch himself; and why he might indulge with impunity his habit of musing, as he paced in solitude the terraces of his gardens. Few people watched him at such times, for he detested being either watched or followed ; his wife rarely shared his moments of retirement. He had loved h^r but little ; correctly speaking, done little more than tolerated her, as the necessary appendage to those pecuniary arrangements of his father, which would liberate him, in some degree, from that weight of accumulated debts and mort- gages which had so long oppressed his family. She, as I have said, consoled herself with her daughter, from whom she w^as scarcely ever separated. Wherever the young, light figure of Clarice was to be seen glan- cing through the green shrubs of the garden, you were sure, soon after, to meet the pale, gentle mother, quietly walking, or sitting tranquilly under a tree. Mrs. de Vere was a woman of few words, and of still fewer caresses ; the warm current of her affections had been early chilled, and had gathered round her heart. A smile of gentle fondness — a hand passed over the silken tresses of her daughter — a few sylla- bles of quiet, soft raillery addressed to her now and then — these were the principal evidences of the deep, fervent idolatry with which she worshipped her. Clarice was of a more demonstrative character. How often have 1 seen those beautiful slender arms twisted fondly round her mother's waist, as she sat, Clarice kneeling by her side — die young and beautiful creature prattling away in all the gay Tin: HEllVESS OF THE DE VERES. 25 aiiimation of her confiding leniper! She was at this time lilteen. vShe was tall of her age — though you must not jucture her to \oiii-- selfas/oo tall — she was of a medium height; but the beau tilnl slcndeiness of her limbs and figure made her ap])ear taller than she was ; a defect I look upon as a great beauty. SIk^ was excea- .v/ve/y beautiful, too; — of that undefined essential beauty, wliich lies not in features, not in colours, not in forms, not altogether even in expression ; but in the ineffable harmony of the whole ; — harmonised by that bright spirit, instinct with that pure being, that soul, that love, that music breathing in the face, which con- stitute our ideal of the angel. If ever there were angel upon earth, it was my Clarice. Our relations had varied very little of late years. In me, tlie unformed youth, with all his strange contrasts, had settled down into the young man — had subsided into that form and temper which was henceforv/ard to be me. I had not well known what to make of myself, during my years of transition. I had had few opportunities of comparing myself with others ; and the bigness of my i)roportions, the heavy lumpiness of my frame, had hampered, as it were, my ow^n imagination. I could not tell what to make of the face and form my mirror presented ; it did not seem in the least to belong to the creature I felt myself really to be; for I was, in fact, made up of enthusiasm and imagination. My fancy was filled with forms of loveliness and grace. From my earliest infancy, my little secret heart had worshipped the beautiful, wheresoever found. I had been used, a little child, to hang enraptured over a tiny cave, lined with green and golden moss, and pranked with dew; to spend days of exquisite felicity, might I but sail my little fleet of tulip-leaves upon a clear pebbly brook, that — ah, blest child I — ran through my father's garden ; to sit down with my maid, content and quiet, peering into the flowers she liad gathered for me; peeping into their coloured cups and bells-, in a perfect ecstasy of delight. As I grew older, the boy would steal out on a stormy night, to watch the wild rocking of the pines against the dark lowering sky, his heart swelling to the grand and the sublime ; or would walk on the calm summer evening, alone and undisturbed, while the pale star of evening shone in tears; his eye i>lunging into the blue de])ths of the awful heavens, endeavouring to follow the dread idea of the Almighty to his throne. " But oh! thou mighty mind, whose powerful word said, thus let all things be, and thus they were — where shall I seek Thy presence? How, unblamed, invoke Thy dread perfection?" Such had been the boy — with images such as these was his being fed — and in what a covering had it been enshrined ! 26 MOUNT sorel: or, The mind does, however, certainly, in some degree, contribute to shape the body— and my frame had now lost much of its un- couth appearance. Still it was not significant of much refinement. My limbs were still those of a son of earth— long and Well enough proportioned, but too muscular and heavy. My face was the same, the features were regular and well enough; my complexion neither good nor bad ; but all was loaded ; there was too much matter evesy where, and too little expression. I was a very good looking sort of young man ; with a face and figure that could in- terest no one. I was slow and deliberate in all my motions ; of sparing speech and few gestures; and under all this, the fires of Etna were burning. Clarice treated me with the most affectionate cordiality. My in- tense love of the beautiful ; my deep enthusiasm for the great and for the good ; my even childish fondness for the gay and pretty ; in much of this, particularly in the latter, she thoroughly sympa- thised. The childish fancies in which we both indulged found words— those deeper sympathies were, with me, as secret things ; they never could find words ; but we spoke of them by the eyes. When we worked together at the grotto, or planted in the flower- garden, we talked with animation of what we were about ; and our raptures over a tulip, or over the graceful gambols of her does and fawns, were openly expressed. When we walked upon the terrace, in a still moonlight night, we were silent ; I pressed her arm gently to my bosom, and that v/as all ; but my heart was full LO overflowing— I asked no other happiness from the great author of all. She was too young for imaginations still dearer to disturb the serenity of my feelings. For those few years— that pure felicity which 1 then experien- ced—let me be for ever grateful. Few, in this Ufe of feverish exis- tence, — this mysterious, wayward, inexplicable dream, — are pri- vileged to begin with Paradise. Her mother and 1 were also the greatest friends— and yet, how little passed between us ! How little was ever said, as I sat by her side with my book in my hand, not reading— but with my finger between the pages, looking forward over those gardens ; and towards that beautiful ]>ur})le heathy hill before us ! Women did not read much in those days ; so, that abundant conversation, that flow of varied interests and ideas, which we now enjoy in their society, was rare. Young men, in the general, read little enough too, but I \vas a reader by nature. I Avas a devourer of books. Mrs. Fer- mor added little to the gaiety of the i)arty ; she was the most silent of the whole; she was like the silent woman: she seemed there only to take care of us all; to sit the personification of quiet pro- priety among us : but she Avas an excellent, a sensible, and a THE HEIRESS OF THE 1)E VERES. 27 really clcvoi' person; and the education she gave Clarice was a sound and wholesome one; composed of just views, strong prin- ciples, and healthy sensibilities. She turned her out a pure, unso- phisticated, right judging, right feeling, gay, hapj^y, healthy girl; l)erfect, as was the outline of that fairly proportioned form, sjjring- ing elastic from the earth on which she ti'od. While we sat under the plane-tree ; while we made and unmade the walls of our grotto ; and sauntered, and talked ; while 1 read, and they netted and knotted; Mr. de Vere was, as I said, left to the solitary life he loved. If any one had chosen to observe him, they might have seen that he now, after one or two turns upon the terrace, usually went through the gate which I have described as terminating it, and strolled into the woods beyond. These woods had not been laid out in walks; they were damp and gloomy; a thick underwood rendered them almost impervious to the sun; they were dark, close, and heavy. We never went there; nor did Mr. de Vere do any thing now, but })ass through them, by a narrow path termi- nating in a small rail and little bridge, crossing the stream which I have described as traversing the valley; and which, at this place, formed the boundary between the two estates. The opposite side was overhung by a dark, deep wood, of the same description as the one I have spoken of; and traversed, like- wise, by one narrow, solitary footpath. Here, unmarked by human eye, and fearless of observation, did the proud and solitary man cross over, and enter upon the long- forbidden territory . .". . . Through devious woodland windings did he thread his way, till he reached the brow of that steei) beneath which stood the ruined castle of his fathers. Down that red, preci- pitous rock which faced it,— hung w^ith creeping shrubs and the tall, waving, wiry grass,— he gazed. There stood the hoary ruin beneath .... tlie crumbling towers ; the relics of broken and de- faced windows; their beautiful stonework of frames and arches, clustered over by the ivy and traveller's joy. The grass was waving on its battlements; the dull wind sweeping through the in- numerable tendrils of the shrubs that sprung from its crevices; the dull clouds sweeping over the leaden sky— all silent I No sound but of the wind, as it tossed the branches of the woods around him. All still, mournful, dreary, and deserted— as a soli- tary grave. So had he seen it the first time, on his first visit. He looked round.— Beneath, at some little distance, lay the mansion, which in comparison might be called modern, — the mansion of Sir Ralph,— with its fantastic peaked roofs, its inner courts, and all the intricacies of its plan, displayed to the bird's- -28 MOUNT sorel; ok, eye view; looking like a small city rather a mansion bat all was equally silent there. A spiral of thin blue smoke issuing, from one chimney alone, showed that it was not entirely uninhabited ; some one yet remained to watch over it; but all was still as death, except that at intervals the hoarse baying of a large house-dog might be heard. The lawns were neglected and rough with briars and grass; the gales close shut; it was a picture of desolation. Had it been thus forsaken for him^ Was it to prepare for his return that those hateful, desecrating inhabitants, on whom his imagination could never dwell without loathing, had departed? — All vanished I — All dead ! It had reverted, as it were, to the law — to the grave, calm, sa- cred law. Silent under that holy protection, there it lay; until, from the hands of its ministers, he should receive it. The long interval, during w^hich it had been lost to his house, disappeared to his imagination. He felt as if the cherished possess- ion had never, really, been alienated ; he looked upon it, as one looks upon a beloved home, which circumstances have forced us to surrender to the temporary occupation of strangers. They are gone — every footstep is hastily obliterated — and all the previous associations with the past renewed. A path down one side of the steep led to the ruin. The burial place of his ancestors was there. Bursting with a hasty determina- tion through nettles and brambles, he came at length to the Chapel. The roof had not here entirely fallen in, and a beautiful gothic western window was still nearly entire . The sun breaking suddenly through the rock, illuminated, as he entered, the landscape beyond. The window hung over a precipitous face of rock, and commanded the far-spreading campaign. How gloriously beautiful ! A noble ' Claude Lorraine' of plains, woods, and far-stretching distance, melting into the blue horizon of the Welsh mountains ; the fore- ground skirted by the dark, waving forests, rather than woods, and fine swelling banks of the domain, as they fell in bold outlines to the plain below. He stood amazed with the beauty of the place. Then he turned to survey the interior of the chapel. It was paved where he stood with the tombs of his ancestors ; the brass indented figures of warrior, prelate, abbess, chatelain, were beneath his feet. On one side, near the wall of what had once been the choir, reposing upon a magnificent gothic tomb, lay the effigy of a kniglit ; his crossed limbs testify to the crusade ; his falchion by his side — his mailed hands clasped in prayer. The sun fell bright at that moment upon the time-stained marble. On the opposite side, decked in flowing robes, sculptured with that dignity and truth wdiich fill us with marvel at those wondrous THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. '29 flays— a prelate ; a Cardinal— as bis hat, lying by tbe side of the kneelmg figure, gave cvidenee. Mr. de Vere was well learned in tbe bistury of bis bouse. No one could bave instructed bim as to tbe qualities, actions, or dignities of tbose wbo bad preceded him. But to find tbe vestiges of their existence thus preserved; to stumble, as it were, upon these realities ; to see the effigies of the very men lying there substantially before bim ! It is not easy for one wbo has not experienced the pride of ancestry, to picture to themselves bis sensations. But fancy him, that tall, thin, dignified man, alone, in that ruined chapel ; these two beautiful monuments lying before bim gilded by the beams of tbe declining sun; but the sky mournful, dark, and cloudy, as bis fortunes. The wind moaning among the green tendrils of the plants, which clustered round tbe hoary ruins; moaning, in bis ear, like the dirge of the departed. It w^as very long after the first announcement of Mr. Entwistle's death, and not till the law had taken tbe business into its own bands, and it was very certain that the estate was to be sold for tbe benefit of tbe creditors — not until Johnson had assured him that tbe mansion was utterly forsaken, and old Goodman Grey and bis wife the sole inhabitants— that Mr. de Vere had trusted himself to pay the visit. But having once paid it, I believe the greatest part of his time, during the ensuing tw^elve months, was passed in the domain. He already appropriated it entirely ; and though he was chiefly occupied in meditating upon plans for tbe future, be could not altogether forbear, when he visited the ruins, from pruning, with his large woodman's knife, redundancies that he thought might be hurtful; or, with his aristocratic hands, from restoring, here and there, a fallen ornament to its place. In his study it became his daily amusement to trace in tbe book which contained his family records, the half-defaced names upon tbe brazen-plated tombstones; noting w4th his pen in tbe margin, the precise situation in the chapel which they occupied. Nor were bis examinations confined to the ruins; be soon found that he might venture undiscovered to explore the woods; might linger among the lonely glens, gaze upon tbe fine expanse of water before the mansion ; and even feed the swans that sailed upon its surface. He contemplated tbe splendid modern edifice, and its surrounding domain, with feelings of pride and complacency not to be ex])ressed. Tbe bitterness of that secret fountain which had long lain sealed in his heart, was changed, as by the prophet's rod, to a spring of sweet and peaceful waters — swelling up to tranquillity and joy. His countenance became serene and more than ever dignified ; 30 MOUNT SOREL; OR, and though still silent — ])erha})S even more reserved, more sepa- rated than ever from his family, by this treasured secret in which he allowed of no communion — there was a gentle repose, a peace, a calm satisfaction in every tone and gesture, which quickly spread its influence over those around him, conferring a sense of happiness which had not been felt before. Strange! that in all this time, one syllable upon the subject — except as far as a few inquiries from Johnson as to the fact of the property being upon sale, went — never passed his lips. He did not once allude to the subject either to his wife, or to his daughter — they had heard of Mr. Entwistle's death, and had been both of Ihem shocked with the manner of it, and this was all. What would be done with the estate they had never even inquired. It was to them, as any other large estate in the county ; it marched with Holnicote, that was all they knew of it. They were ignorant even of the precise situation, of the boundary line. The history of its earlier connexion with his family had never been alluded to by Mr. de Vere before his wife. He was not communicative by nature we have seen — and he held his wife as one incapable of sympathies of this high sort. He looked upon her as belonging to a different sphere from his own, and he even felt a kind of delicacy in not speaking of his family to her. His daughter was too young, at present, to be initiated into these traditions of his house. The time would come — and Mr. de Vere had long looked forward to it with a sort of sad solemnity — w^hen the story of their wronged and fallen house should be told Now the bright and glorious resurrection to its pristine splendour, should round the tale. Mr. de Vere was proud of his daughter — who but must have been proud of the high-born beautiful girl? jSo proud was he, that he had long ceased to regret that he had no other heir. Some youth with pretensions equal to her ow^n should unite his destiny with hers ; the name should be preserved, either wreathed with another as renowned, or merging one less dignified in its own splendour, and a title should crown those beautiful brows wdth a coronet. Less than that, the house of De Vere would not accept, nor even that in its late fallen position. The De Veres had decided to re- main in their present condition, first among the gentry of England, unless a change in their fortunes could enable them to add lustre t o a \\mh er . . Now 1 Such were his dreams I THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 31 CHAPTER lY. For Love it kno>Ys it is a greater griof To bear Love's wrongs, than Hate's ivnown injury. SlIAKSPEAilF.. Mr. de Vere was ratlier a dilatory man, but he had not neglected, very early in this business, to ^Yrite to his coniidential solicitor in London ; and confide to him his vie^YS with regard to Mount Sorel. And he had desired Mr. Lawson to keep a careful watch upon all the proceedings of those interested in the disposal of the estate. It was by the advice of this solicitor, esteemed a very shrewd and intelligent man, that he had remained so long apparently passive in the matter. Mr. Lawson assured him that the property was of a species not at all saleable. Its extent, its remoteness from any of the large towns, now^ rapidly springing up in England; the state of decay and disorder into which it had been suffered to fall ; the very name and character of its late possessors ; were against it. He named a very moderate sum at which he expected that he should be able to obtain it, when the day of sale should arrive, if this part of the business were left entirely to his management. To this Mr. de Vere most readily consented ; he hated all the details of business, and usually entrusted all that to his professional advisers. At length, a letter from Mr. Lawson summoned him from his fond reveries into action . " FurnivaPs Inn, "Sir, April 24, 1788. " I am assured that the managers in the affairs of Mr. Entwistle, have resolved to bring the Mount Sorel estate into the market, early in the course of this current spring. They will endeavour to dispose of it by private contract; if not successful, it is to be put up to auction in the course of the ensuing summer. There is abundance of time, therefore, to treat. "I have hinted to my friend, Mr. Biggs, that I have a purchaser in petto for him ; and he has promised me that I shall have the earliest information of any offer being made, that we may come dow^n with ours in due season. They seem, however, to anticipate nothing of the sort; and ajipeared not a little pleased at the pros- pect of realising in the course of the yeai-. "I understand people are clamorous to have things settled; the state in which Entwistle left his affairs, proves to be that of the 32 MOUNT SOREL; OR, most horrible confusion which has occurred for some time, in the annals of business. There seems to be a general persuasion that llie estate would prove rather a source of expense than revenue to any purchaser. And the expected sale excites no interest. I believe we shall get it for an old song. *' However, it is perhaps now time to inquire in what quarter we are to look out for the necessary funds ; and what part of your present proper tv you mean to render available for these purposes. 'Mam, Sir, " Your obedient servant, " Richard Lawson." The day after the receipt of this letter, Mr. de Vere approached his wife, as she sat netting under the plane-tree in the garden ; and with a certain grave solemnity, desired her company in his own room. She rose and obeyed the unusual summons. The private apart- ment of Mr. de Vere was no place for the happy unrestrained con- fidence of two friends, united as man and wife ought to be— no happy exchange of i)lans and cares, of mutual anxieties and mu- tual hopes— no tears of sorrow, or of bliss, had ever been shed together, there. Almost an exile from her husband's heart, Mrs. de Vere was a perfect stranger in his private sitting-room. He led the way ; and opened the door of that shady and gloomy chamber, in which so much of his time had been spent; endeared to him, if by nothing else, by those secret confidences — if I may use the strange expression— with his own soul, that there had taken place. Those gloomy moments of disappointed pride; those dark melancholy meditations on the fallen fortunes of his house, as circumstances would call them into contrast with the splendid progression made by others, with claims, in his opinion, far infe- rior Howmany bitter moments had there been occupied in censure of the changes society is hourly and necessarily ma- king! Thoughts but too common with those who can do nothing but look back ; and who in the hourly progression of things, can discern only what is lost. They cling to the prescriptions of the past with tenacity, under the impression that they are founded in the eternal laws of justice. And they deprecate change, not, as is supposed, from the calcu- lations of mere selfish advantage ; not from dread of what they may themselves personally lose ; but as one regards the destruction of some sacred time-hallowed edifice, which, be it upon his neigh- bour's land, he cannot see levelled without feelings of the deepest regret. The tall husband walked majestically first, the gentle wife followed timidly. When she entered he closed the door after her, THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 33 and presenting a chair with a sort of ceremonious politeness, took one opposite to her. He paused, and seemed to hesitate a short time, before ho spoke. He was going to ask something, in the nature of a favour, from his wife. He was uncertain whether to demand it haughtily, as a right of the superior, or to accept it as an obligation. This sort of uncertainty in his feelings, rather than in his thoughts, threw a more than ordinai'y coldness into his manner, as he at length began : ''Mrs. de Vere, I have requested the favour of your company for a few moments to enter with you upon a business of consider- able importance to me — and one, in which circumstances have rendered your co-operation necessary." " 1 am sure," she said in a subdued voice, '' Mr. de Vere knows me too well, not to feel certain of my co-operation, in any matter that regards either his interest or his happiness." "I flattered myself that I should find it so The business in question relates to the purchase of an estate — once belonging to my family; and forfeited, under circumstances of the most execra- ble injustice, during the great rebellion. The loss of a property so considerable, struck at the root of our prosperity The house of De Vere may be said to have merely vegetated since then. An opportunity now occurs, and in the most favourable circumstan- ces, of restoring this property to my family and name ; but such are the depressed resources which the changes of society have left this once powerful house, that to carry out our most legitimate pur- poses is no longer within our power. — We are necessitated to have recourse to the assistance of strangers." The word struck at her heart, with a pang not altogether new. She had felt, ever since her mariage, that she was but a tolerated stranger in the haughty family she had entered. She said nothing, and he continued, " These things are bitter. — Humiliation is the painful lot of many a time-honoured house in these days of many changes — but let me not dwell upon such feelings. I have, in this instance, to apply to you, madam, and to request your assistance in obtaining the means of accomphshing an object,— to me, the most desirable in this world." " I shall be happy," she said, faintly, " I shall be very glad " "I thank you, Mrs. de Vere, for this ready acquiescence. I have ever found you obliging and amiable — I thank you." She had long ceased to love him as she once had done — love can never continue to subsist, in its first strength, without a reci- procation of tenderness — but this haughty coldness, even while receiving her acquiescence, an acquiescence he seemed scarcely 3 34 MOUM SOREL; OR, Lo condescend to ask, hurl her. She felt a sudden return of those longings for a something kinder, sweeter, dearer which had ren- dered her early marriage life so unhappy. A faint colour spread over her cheek, and faded away; she sat passive and silent. " The estate," continued Mr. deVere, not in the slightest degree noticing her emotion, "the estate will prove, 1 believe, of consi- derable value; but will, 1 have reason to apprehend, be sold under circumstances most advantageous to the purchaser I say this, in order to assure you that the plan I am about to propose will be conducive to your own interests, — as wtU as to those of the house which has received you." " 1 have ever regarded my interests as the same with your own," said she quietly, but with a certain dignity "when I have been permitted so to do." "It was natural, and it was right" — was the reply. " 1 have had no reason to complain of a selfish indifference on your part, to the interests of that name wdiich was to descend to your children The plan, then, which I propose, is briefly this. I have, as you I believe are aware, little or no personal property which can be ren- dered available for this purchase ; the alienation of any of the scanty estates yet belonging to my house, in order to obtain another, would be futile| and inconsistent. Nor indeed, were it to be ent- ertained, have I outlying property — this present estate of Holnicote being excepted — which would be more than a mere drop in the bucket : could I prevail upon myself to make the sacrifice — a thing impossible. Every acre that I hold has been the property of my family for centuries. " The estate," he continued, after a pause, " settled upon you by your father is not open to the same objections. The possessions of a single generation can have no great hold upon the regards or affections of the next : that which was in the market yesterday, w^e may with little regret see consigned to a purchaser to morrow The property is, I understand, of sufficient value — its situation in the heart of the thriving commercial district where it lies, having rendered it a very marketable piece of land : of sufficient value, I be- lieve, to cover the whole purchase 1 am contemplating. Your trustees would receive that, or this we are upon, in exchange, as the secu- rity for your settlement ; — and ,our daughter would inherit the then splendid, undivided property, in a ring fence; in place of estates scattered here and there. " This is my proposal," he added, with a cold dignity, as if the slightest idea of difficulty or opposition on her part had never crossed his mind. " My father's estate !" she reiterated, in a tone of dismay. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE TERES. 35 " And pray, why not?" was Iho only answer. *' My father's estate!" There was a pause. She looked excessively distressed, hut said no more. After a considerable silence, during which the must j)ainful emo- tion seemed to agitate her features, though she sat, as usual, perfectly still : "Well, madam," he began, almost harshly, "what am I to understand by all this? — Am I to consider these half-muttered exclamations, and this extraordinary silence, as the signal of hesi- tation with regard to the most reasonable proposal ever made to Avoman?" No answer : the most painful mixture of timidity, doubt, and embarrassment, held her silent. He waited for her to speak; and her lips faintly moved, but no articulate sound passed them. " Really, " he began again, wilh increased irritation in his tone, ' • this behaviour is to me perfectly inexplicable. Your countenance is black as night : you will not condescend even to speak, upon an occasion which some women might have hailed with pleasure, as an opportunity, without the slightest sacrifice on their part either of pleasure or convenience— an opportunity of highly gratifying the man with wdiom they had united their destiny. You are gloomily silent. But the perverseness of your sex," said he, turning angrily away, "meets, encumbers, and perplexes us, in every course of action. Will you, however, have the goodness at least to explain the source of this prodigious discontent and uneasiness, w^hich I read in your countenance?" "Oh, Mr. de Vere !" she began, in a deprecating tone of voice. " Well?" sternly. " Oh, Mr. de Vere!" now raising her eyes imploringly and timidly to his face, "do not ask me to do that which I feel that I ought not." " W1ien f ask you to do that w^hich you feel that you ought not, it will be time enough for these displays of sensibility," said he, haughtily. " Be pleased to say when before, or how at this mo- ment, you have ever had reason to suppose that / would ask of human being, to do that which they ought not? I do not under- stand you, madam." "I do not mean — pray, do not misconceive me so — I do not mean that you would influence me to any thing you thought dis- honourable" — " I should think not," interrupted he, with a haughty laugh. " But, perhaps — 1 cannot explain myself— perhaps that may appear very wrong to my feelings, which may not seem so to yours." 36 MOUNT SOREL; OR, " Very probably, madam; om^ feelings on most subjects seem destined never to sympathise." ' ' My father," said she , becoming more courageous as she warmed to the subject, "bought this property ; it was the delight of his life to adorn and to improve it; it was the delight of his old age to believe, that I, his only daughter, loved it as he did; and that no consideration on earth should tempt me to alienate it. He flattered himself, that his generosity to me, in other respects, would render a regard to his wishes, in this one, consistent with" — '' Do you mean to reproach me, madam, with what you brought me?" said her husband, colouring. " Am I to be taunted with the few paltry thousands for which my father— sold me," he was about to say, but he had feeling enough, even under his rapidly increas- ing irritation, to drop at least this brutal termination of his speech. ''Reproach! — Oh, Mr. deVere!" and the careless indifference with which the hard-earned thousands of her father had been received by the haughty family she had entered , swelled to her heart . She , too , gentle as she w^as , began to warm with indignation . She coloured, and was silent. Mr. de Yere rose, and paced up and down the room. He was en- deavouring to conquer the violent irritation he felt at this unex- pected opposition to his desires : from the being, too, whose subservience and compliance had ever been without qualification — perhaps too much so — it had amounted to a passiveness, which certainly had tended to diminish the interest he might have been inclined to take in her. After a quarter of an hour passed in this manner : he, pacing up and ^ down the room, fighting with internal passion ; she, sitting perfectly still, endeavouring to keep down her struggling heart, and prevent the tears, which were filling her eyes, from escaping : He returned to his place ; and drawing his chair close to her, said, in a subdued tone, '' Then you absolutely refuse to assist me?" There was a melancholy, a slight shade of melancholy in the tone, calm as it was, that touched that softest of female hearts; she turned to him — " If I only knew what was right.". . . . Alas!— to do what she wished— to listen to the thousand voices of old and tender recollections— to yield to the ties of a thousand affections and associations pulling at her heart-strings— ^Ac^^ never entered into her thoughts. She was ready, with the self-sacrifice of one spirit-broken, to snap all these, without a hesitation— but a duty! and a duty so sacred as she felt it, to the reverential memory of that father, who, contemptuously as she knew him to have been looked upon, was only the more precious and dear to her— that she THE UEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 37 could not disregard. Her father, it Nvas true, liad risen IVoni the lowest condition : but he had been a man to have adorned any con- dition. His sole defect — and who is perfect — had been a too lofty ambition : the ambition of the imagination. His i)lacc, and his daughter, he had idolised. This place was to him as a creation of his genius : it was the form in which his mind had disi)layed itself; it was his picture; his drama; his divine poem. To destroy it! to piecemeal it! to sell it into the builder's hands! w^as to ask Milton to sell the manuscript of " Paradise Lost," to wrap up penny pies; Michael Aiigelo, to pull down St. Peter's to build stables ! When he had married his daughter to the son of Mr. de Vere, he had con- siderably impoverished and embarrassed himself, as he knew, that by a large sacrifice of money he might supply the exigencies of that decayed but ancient family — without risking the existence of his idol, either then, or hereafter. Had there been two sons, this pro- perty was to have been the apanage of the second : in default of that, it was to descend with the heir of the De Veres. He had felt a sort of glory, imaginative man as he was, in assist- ing to rescue this high, but sinking family from the distress into which it had fallen; he had sympathised in all the wants and dif- ficulties consequent on their high imaginings; why were his to be altogether disregarded? And was it reverend? Was it right in his daughter? — his cherished only daughter, thus to light the torch, which was to consume the little edifice of his pride ? She loved too, ardently loved that home, that most beautiful home, in its then secluded and romantic valley; one of the most beautiful and romantic of Lancashire. Every tree, every stone, every gushing stream, every hoary rock, was dear and precious to her. Alas I her married life had afforded few moments of joy, to detach her from those scenes where her happy childhood had been passed — where she had been adored, loved, idolised, tended, fondled, as a little divinity. Strange contrast with the cold formality which had surrounded her since. And yet, she had once loved De Vere — tenderly, adoringly loved him — and one softened look, one melancholy accent of his voice, still found an answ^ering chord in that fond w^oman's heart. " Alas!" she said, " if 1 only knew what was right.".... She was relenting — it softened him — he took her hand. Her very opposition had, after all, interested him ; this gentle relenting touched his heart. Touched it enough, to make him undesignedly substitute for his harsh requisitions, the far more dangerous influence of his feelings. " Right!" he said, " Sophia — could you believe, I would foi' one instant entertain the idea, of asking you to do that which was not right?" 38 MOUNT SOREL; OR, And then, yielding the whole proud man to the softer influences of nature, he opened his heart to her. For once his haughty reserve gave way ; for once he was sur- prised into human weakness; for once his true feelings were dis- closed. His intense sensibilities, whether justly or mistakenly directed ; those deep associations with the past, which throw a dark majestic dignity over thought and action; that melancholy brooding over glory faded, w^hich pales the silent imagination; that deep, earnest purpose to reconstruct, and to restore, which had been the aim and hope of successive generations ; frustrated by all sorts of adverse circumstances, but cherished and handed down from father to son, and resting at last, in him, on a character peculiarly fitted to receive such impressions with intensity. — All was disclosed. He unlocked the sacred recesses where, so long concealed, the relics of the man — the last champion of his house — the miniature of Sir Ralph lay. That noble and beautiful portrait, with the fair love locks hanging on his cheek ; his blue armour and his crimson scarf, and the sword of his king in his hand — he drew forth the sacred handkerchief stained with his loyal blood. He gave her to read the wailings poured forth by the heir of Mount Sorel, when he wandered round the dwelling of his fathers; now in the possession of a low upstart, who had made a fortune in one of those nefarious ways too common in revolutions, and had purchased it from the parliament. His last poetic lament, as he bade adieu to the halls of his ancestors, and hurried to the fatal field, where he fell. She read, and the tears of sympathy rolled down her cheeks ; she was melted, and she yielded. Her character was gentle and facile; and in this case it was, after all, one duty of the imagination weighed against the other. Her husband was far from possessing sufficient self-denial to re- fuse the advantage offered by this moment of confidence ; the first, perhaps, that they had ever known. He accepted the concession, but with expressions of gratitude and obligation, which were as new to him as gratifying to her. He kissed her hand tenderly as she rose to leave the apartment. He then sat down eagerly to his desk, and wrote to his solicitor, ordering him to put all in forwardness for the immediate sale of the Lancashire estate ; and to prepare the necessary papers for the com- pletion of all that would be necessary for the satisfaction of his wife's trustees. Sophia retired to her own room. Over the chimney-piece hung the jticture of hei' father; beneatli it^a drawing of Ash Grove. What had she done ! — Could he know, what would he feel at thus THE HEIRESS OF THE I)E VERES. 39 seeing his darling plan and wishes san-ihcod by his daughter to the plans and wishes of others? His l)eautifal Ash (jrovo disposed of to the careless stranger! Yet what could she do? Could she refuse her httsband ? Could she sacrifice the hai)piness of the living to reverence for the dead? And yet, that reverence for his memory which no one else paid I — Alas ! Alas ! These feelings may excite little sympathy, and those strong local attachments which influence many, cannot be understood by those who -have not felt them; but in this case they were linked with far deeper sentiments. Hers was the pious reverence of a child for the memory of a beloved and excellent father, disregarded by the rest of the world. The purest aspiration, at least— to support, by her own devoted respect, the honourable remembrance of one by others forgotten. She was weeping when Clarice entered the room. She often saw her mother sad; — she rarely, if ever, saw her weep. ** My mother," cried she, flying towards her, kneeling before her, wrapping her fond arms round her. " My sweet mother! — what is the matter?'*— kissing her tears away. *' My dear, dearest mother — you are crying." She lifted up her eyes, and smiled sadly upon her daughter. " My sweetest Clarice! — my lovely one! — don't mind me. I am only very foolish." But Clarice w^as not so to be put off; she drew from her too facile mother a confession of all that had passed. She pitied both parents—" Poor papa!— Sweet mamma !— what can be done ?" To go into the hands of strangers — to be defaced and destroyed. Cut in shreds, perhaps, and sold to some speculating manufac- turer. These ideas, she perceived, w^re what added to her mo- ther's regrets. She could not but sympathise with her father; she felt that to disappoint him was impossible ; yet that her mother, her gentle, sweet mother should be suffering— it was the first time Clarice had known perplexity ; and in that moment she flew to me. Happy — thrice happy refuge I for her young anxieties. I was reading in the hermitage when she flew in. '* What is the matter, Clarice?" for I saw she was hurried and uneasy. * ' Oh, Edmund I" sitting down by me, "my poor mother I She is unhappy, and I cannot bear to see her unhappy; and then, my fa- ther ! he would be so unhappy — and it is so dreadful to see him unhappy." And she related to me what had passed. If I were to describe the intense felicity with which 1 sal by. 40 MOUNT SOREL; or, now and then wiping the tears from her cheeks as she went on wilh her Httlc story, I must possess an eloquence never given to me. We both of us felt almost equally interested for both Mr. and Mrs. de Vere. We sympathised thoroughly in their feelings. We could not bear that he should be disappointed, in what we both felt to be an acquisition he must so intensely desire. Yet, Mrs. de Vere's regret and remorse were equally well understood. At last, a happy thought glanced into my slow brain. What if I should myself be the purchaser? My heart told me, that to me, Mrs. de Vere would, with less regret, relinquish this property. vShe knew me — she loved me. She would almost feel as if to a son of her own it were descending. 1 knew that the accumulations upon my mother's fortune, which had all been settled upon myself, were large : that my father wished them to be devoted to the purchase of an estate. Of all the estates in the wide world, this was the dearest to me. The sunshine chased the clouds from the fair face of my Clarice as I ventured to suggest this idea. " I am certain if it is to be, and be it must, that this is what mamma will like of all things. And then papa will be so glad not to pain her. Dearest Edmund ! I never did come to you without finding comfort. From the time you kissed my little hand, and sucked out the venom of that nasty bee which I caught in the cam- panula — do you remember me, running roaring to you — from that time to this, you have sucked the sting from every wound I ever had. Dearest Edmund! go to my mother; or, come to my mother — for I will lead you in triumph there. This will set all right, and we shall be so happy." Her hand was in mine, and she hurried with her most willing captive, to her mother's room. ^' Dearest mother!" she said, flinging her arms round her neck, and kissing her. "Here is what will set all right. Edmund will buy your estate." " I feel this very sensibly, Edmund," was Mr. de Vere's expres- sion upon the occasion. " I had very great pain in the idea of wounding Mrs. de Vere's feelings; though, I confess, not to me altogether comprehensible; still, it was a very painful thing to oc- casion her so much pain. This will almost reconcile her, I see, to the idea of parting with her father's property. It is scarcely like a sale." There remained only to consult my father. His consent and ap- probation of the plan were speedily obtained. My money was, in the funds ; I was still a minor ; the only thing necessary waSg that a proper valuation should be put upon Ash Grove; and my trustees satisfied as to the propriety of the investment. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 4l This maLtor took up some little time, during which Mr. Lawson remained apparently inactive, though never, for one instant, los- ing sight of the pro[)erty. Xo attention, however, was ])aid to it by others; his anticipa- tions were fully justified ; and there was every appearance that Mr. do Vere would add very considerably to his fortune, as well as to his happiness and consequence, by this most opportune state of things. As the money was not yet ready, Mr. Lawson debated only whether it would be most advantageous to make his offer and complete the purchase by private contract, or wait the event of a public auction ; which , he expected, would still further justify his opinion of the depreciated value. He well knew how acceptable to Mr. de Vere it would be, if a few thousands of the money destined for the purchase should remain, to be employed in turning the acquisition to the greatest advantage. The next few weeks of delighted expectation were passed in sunshine at Holnicote. Mr. de Yere's happiness and complacency shone out in every thing he said and did. His pride was of a sort to be softened by its gratification — it was so far of a generous nature — he had been jealous of his dignity in days of comparative adversity ; but now, satisfied and at ease, restored to that place which had been so long forfeited, his best qualities were called forth ; he was gentle and considerate, where he had been once so cold and austere. His intentions were all this time kept a profound secret ; partly from motives of prudence, but chiefly from that sense of secret dignity that renders the heart delicate, which suffers not a stranger to intermeddle with its joy. When the purchase was completed, and he in possession, it would be early enough to call for the con- gratulations, even of his nearest friends (acquaintance I should say — he had no friend, properly to be called so, but my father). My lather was in the secret alone ; and with him it was as safe as with Mr. de Vere himself. But this untold joy irradiated us all. I had cause, more near and dear, for the satisfaction of my spirit. What had occurred had drawn me sensibly closer to Clarice. The confidence between us ; the tears which I had been suffered to dry ; the happy complacency which I had been the blest means of dispensing ; gave me a more comfortable feeling of self-assurance than I had ever felt before. I was happy, I was at ease, I was in spirits; I conversed with more freedom and gaiety ; the lovely creature seemed quite to enjoy my company ; and her ideas flowed with fresh brilliancy when we talked together. 42 MOUNT SOREL; OR, How happy were we in that hermitage I She, her mother, I, and Mrs. Fermor — even Mrs. Fermor shared in the general good- humour. She had an odd httle whimsical vein of drollery in her (•om}>osition ; and her little dry jokes called forth many a merry laugh from the gay, thoughtless spirit of my Clarice. CHAPTER V VVer wird die Klugheil tadein ! Jeder Scliriil Des Lebens zetgt, wie sehr sie nothig sey. GOTHE. Mr. de Vere was silent, and never again spoke of his plans to any of us. The subject once settled, it had been dismissed from his conversation ; but he was not the less engaged with it. Not a day passed in which he did not spend many hours, visit- ing the domain so shortly to be his own. He had corrected the ancient survey by his own observations ; he now amused his leisure by examining the woods. In the close neighbourhood of the house he had never yet been seen : contented with viewing it from the eminence behind the ruins, he had never incurred the risk of being discerned by its present inhabitants ; but he wandered, like a spirit, under the hanging trees, and amid the remoter glens and valleys ; at his return home making notes of the various improvements which suggested themselves. The more he examined, the more he discovered reason for believing that he would very considerably increase his fortune by this pos- session. The quantity of timber which demanded to be cut down, was very great ; — then the mines ! Mr. de Vere was not a sufficiently scientific man to be able to decide w^hether any certain indications of their existence were to be discovered ; but that the hill was rocky, and that the rocks had, in places, slight metallic veins apparent in them, he had ascer- tained. He had discovered, too, that right to work the minerals ill that particular hill, was secured to the exclusion of those of the contiguous estate of Holnicote. This circumstance alone, which he discovered in looking over some old family papers, seemed to confirm the supposition that their existence had been considered at one time a certainty. One morning he called me into his study. '' Edmund," said he, " it is fair that you, who have, by your opportune proposal, con- ti'ibuted so much to advance my wishes, and to our general con- tentment and happiness, should be the first to be made acquainted THE HEIRESS OF THE I)E VERES. 43 with its completion. Read tliat"— and hr jnit into my hand the following letter. '' Sir, •' The transferor Ash Grove is eomph'ted, and the money lies in your banker's hands. As I anticipate no particular advantage from a further postponement of our final oifer to Messrs. Tennison and Biggs, I propose, on Monday the 12th current, to call upon those gentlemen and conclude the business, of which you sliall have the earliest notice from, " Sir, " Yours, respectfully, " Richard Lawson." Mr. de Vere did look at this moment, what 1 had never seen him look before, a truly happy man. " I shall say no more, Edmund," said he, as I laid down the letter; " I am a man, you know, of few words; but 1 only wish it may ever be in my power to show you the esteem and regard 1 entertain for you ; and how thoroughly I feel this obligation," This was a great acknowledgment from such a man ; but he was of too generous a nature to stint his expressions when he really felt obliged. " You will like to see the plan of the estate, I dare say," he continued, drawing forth the survey by order of the lords com- missioners. He pointed to the mark indicating the coal and lead mines. " I have examined these hills," he said, " and as far as I can be a judge,— with the very imperfect knowledge 1 have been able to glean from books upon the subject, — I feel pretty certain that my hopes, in this respect, will not be disappointed. Should this be the case, the acquisition will indeed prove a source of happiness. Shackled and embarrassed, irritated and annoyed, as I have been, during my whole life upon the subject of money, to be relieved from the pressure of such anxiety will be indeed gra- tifying." He was in a cheerful and communicative humour ; his compla- cency overflowed in a warmth of friendly affection, which he had never experienced before. He showed me the miniature ; he displayed the relics ; he opened the genealogical tree of his family. We examined it together. I felt there was something more than usually delightful to me in such httlc confidences. It was the father of Clarice, who seemed to select me, from among all the men in the world, as the sole de- pository of his secret feelings. ^4 MOUNT sorel; or, We had talked in this way for some time, before I perceived another letter upon his desk, directed to me. It was from my fa- ther. He desired me to retm-n home, if possible, that very night, as he wished to speak to me, before leaving home the next day to breakfast at some little distance. " Come, if you can, to-morrow, Edmund," he wrote, "for I rather particularly wish to see you. If you cannot come then, I shall not be able to speak with you till the ensuing evening ; when, at any rate, I shall be at home. But I wish you would be with me to-morrow night." " That is to-night— 1 am afraid I must leave you. Sir, immedi- ately after dinner," said I. ** Why, your father is an exact man, and loves to be obeyed without hesitation," said Mr. de Vere. " He is like myself; a man of few unnecessary words, but usually with good reasons. I am sorry we must lose you, Edmund. Come back as soon as you can ; you are welcome to every one of us here.". Had he a meaning in this last sentence? My flattering heart di- vined one. '* I shall do myself the pleasure of visiting you very soon again," I said, cheerfully. *' It will be an interesting moment to us all. You will conceal nothing from your father, Edmund. He is my friend; T have no secrets for him.— The only man on earth, beside yourself, of whom I would say so much." I was always low when I was to go away ; for I lived but in the presence of Clarice. Round her there was as an atmosphere of love and happiness, to which I was accustomed; and she, too, was undisguisedly sorry to part with me. '' It is so provoking," said she, 'Svhen to-morrow we were to have set about the new summer-house ! And all your pretty plans ! " tossing the papers upon the table : " I should like to know who is to understand all this, when you are gone! Dear Edmund! if you could only stay this one evening: — besides, I am positive it is going to rain." '' It has looked dark and lowering these three days," said I, "but rain, or not rain, go I must." "Ah! that is so like you— whatever you must, you must; but only look now at your father's letter again. I am certain it will do just as well if you get home to-morrow night. — Now do, Edmund." I seemed to hesitate. " Is this quite right, Clarice?" said Mrs. Fermor, "Do you not see it is Mr. Lovel's desire, that Mr. Edmund should return, if possible, to-night?" " But only look at the sky," said she. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 45 '' I don't think it will rain," said Mrs. Fermor. "But if it should — and he get wetted — and, perhaps, have a horrid eold, as he had last winter. Indeed, Edmund, you ought not to go," said she earnestly. I smiled — I persisted — partly beeause her desire to detain me was so delightful. I could have persisted in a much more painful duty, to have been thus dissuaded from it. *' My dear," said Mrs. Fermor, "how can you — " "Ah! " cried she, "you are against me too — but 1 am not always wrong. Do, Edmund, stay till morning. It will rain and thunder to-night; the clouds are getting up over the woods there, lam never mistaken in the weather — Mrs, Fermor, only look; 1 am sure, to-morrow w^ill do as well." But Mrs. Fermor was the advocate of duty. ,' Ml". Lovel seems very desirous to sec his son, Clarice; and we never know what a day, what an hour may produce." ( Well might she say so.) "Have I not told you, my dear, how dangerous it is, in this life, to trifle with what is right — even in small matters. My love, do not accustom yourself to these sort of deviations. Mr. Edmund ought clearly to go. If it should rain, cannot he stop at the half-w^ay house and be with his father before he sets out to- morrow morning?" '' 1 am certain by the tone of Mr. Lovel's letter, there is no ur- gency," persisted Clarice, with an obstinacy quite unusual. Had our better angel inspired her? Our fate was hanging by the thread of that hour. How little can we divine the consequence of some trifling deter- mination! Well might Mrs. Fermor maintain, as she ever did, that in this life, one course alone is sure — to do what is to be done, to- day : to trifle with no duty, to neglect no opportunity : and to leave the future — that dread morrow — to its own cares. " Oh ! fantome muet! oh, notre ombre ! oh notre hole! Spectre toujours masque, qui nous suit c6te h c6te ! Et qu'on nomme demain." " If it is likely to rain, however," said she, "as I am quite of your opinion, Clarice, that Mr. Edmund ought not to get wetted — though it seems a very inhospitable sort of saying, I think the sooner he is off the better." Still I lingered — I had resolved to depart after dinner; but till dinner was over I would not go. Had I followed the advice of Mrs. Fermor! — Yet, why lament! — What reason could there possibly be given, why I should not prefer my own? Enjoy a few more hours of the society of my adored one, and get to my father in the evening. 46 ' MOUNT SOREL; OR, Wc dawdled away the hours, busy with the summerhouse. Dear as she was to me, I did not give her a hint of how soon her father's wishes were to be accomplished; besides, we neither of us had ever seen Mount Sorel ; we were attached to Holnicote ; and all our little plans and schemes were still confined to the gardens there ; we both of us loved them dearly. Dinner came— and after dinner my horse was brought round. I had no servant : my father's simple habits were my own ; he hated parade, indeed his fortune would not allow of it; the allowance made to me during my minority was small : so I had not the habit of expense in any way. 1 mention the circumstance of my having no servant, because, even that was influential. Having no servant, I took no great coat ; it was too h(jt tu think of putting mine on— though certainly the sky did look more and more lowering— but I thought little of il ; I was full of Clarice. She look- ed so sorry that I was going away; and so excessively lovely in her gloom— at least, in my eyes — that I could think of nothing else. When my horse was brought to the door, 1 rose hastily. Mr. de Vere shook me by the hand ; 1 took that of Mrs. de Vere, of Mrs. Fermor, of Clarice — I ventured to press it with a tenderness, I had never before allowed myself to express. Did she colour — as her eyes fell suddenly? No ; she stooped hastily, to pick up a sprig of myrtle that had fallen out of her bosom upon the carpet. Might I ilatter myself? .... I mounted my horse and rode away — I thought of little but that soft, mantling cheek; of those beautiful dark eyelashes which sha- ded it ; of that sudden stoop to the floor, which made it, after all, a dubious matter, whether she had coloured at all, or whether it was my fancy. I rode out of Holnicote Park. The lane I had to take skirted, though at some distance, the wood of Mount Sorel. I saw them sweeping in dark magnificence over the hills ; tinted with gleam- ing rays of a setting sun, now pouring in splendour from beneath a heavy, black, lowering cloud. How noble they looked I I felt the most intense desire to turn my horse's head that way and endeavour to find some road through the park which which not carry me far out of my course. The woods and the rough moorland which formed part of the domain, stretched to a considerable distance; but no lane seemed to lead toward them ; and 1 rode on till I had left the boundaries of Mount Sorel a mile or two behind me. Turning now to take one last look of its crested woody hills, I was startled with the tremen- dous black cloud I saw rising from behind them ; at the same time the wind began to howl in fitful gusts ; a tempest was evi- THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 47 dently gathering. The clouds from all the different quarters of the heavens seemed rushing together, and a loud rattjing peal of thunder followed a Hash of ligliLning, whieh startled hotli myself andmv horse. This was immediately suceceded by a storm of rain and hail that fell clattering violently around me. I breasted the tempest for some little time, but my eyes were blinded ; so I made the best of my way, though with some litlle difficulty, to a small village that was scattered on both sides of the road; and seeing the sign of the Red Lion swinging in the tempest, horse and rider stumbled, as well as they could, up to the hospitable door. I dismounted, flung my bridle to the red-haired boy, who olli- ciated as hostler, and entered the house. The landlord, a jolly red-faced son of the spigot , stood ready to receive me. "A desperate night. Sir," said he, as the rain and hail peUed and rattled over our heads. " I am wet through," said 1, shaking the drops from my coat and hat. ^ Have you a parlour, and a fire where 1 can dry my clothes; and wait till the storm is over?" He opened the door of a very small, but neat parlour, with a casement window^ and a brick floor; one or two oaken chairs, and a small table. *' This is the only private room, Sir ; but we will light a fire im- mediately." A blazing fire was soon lighted. I took off my clothes, and they were hung to dry; mine host, from some of his stores, furnishing me with the needful to don in the meantime; in which equipment I made a curious figure enough. The wind, in loud gusts, shook every casement in the house; the rain continued to fall in torrents, and the hail-stones, as big as pigeons' eggs, made a desperate clatter. 1 sat by the fire, enjoying its warmth, late as was the season— it was now the month of June : and, forgetting the tempest without, was soon lost in a young man's fond reveries. 1 might have sat in this way about half an hour, when I was aroused by the noise of some one stamping his feet in the passage ; and the furling, as it should seem, of an obstinate umbrella, which, by the peculiar noise it' made, intimated that it had done the last service it intended to perform in this world. The tones of a loud cheering voice might be now heard calling out, " Hall, Landlord I Waiter! Boots? Are you none of ye within hearing?" They had clustered I'ound the kitchen fire, and the en- trance of the pedestrian had been unnoticed. *' A pretty house you keep, landloi'd, here. Why, I might have run away with it before any of you had heard a word. — To be sure. 48 MOUNT SOREL; OR, this hail and thunder keep such a patter over our heads, that it would deafen the deuce. Well, where's your fire?" " There, in the kitchen. Sir — there's a fire — or, in the tap." " Lead away ; all's one to me." "Faugh, what a smell!" he seemed to have retreated after put- ting his nose into the kitchen. " Are you grilUng iron bars! — Why, your kitchen stinks with all the abominable smells that ever were invented, Man. Do you think I can eat my supper in a hole like that?" The landlord did not seem exactly to know what to think of his guest. I heard him muttering something about the tap. " Tap I" said the other. " Ay, let's see thy tap." The landlord opened a door opposite to the one of my little par- lour, from whence various sounds of talking and laughing had before come. There was a horrid smell of bad beer and bad tobacco, issued out upon opening it. The guest drew back again. ^ ''Why, friend, thy tap and thy kitchen are much of a muchness. — Hast thou no parlour?" '* There is a gentleman already in the parlour," said mine host. " A gentleman ! eh? — ' One as rides a os' — is that it? Too good company for us foot passengers." Saying which, he laid his hand very unceremoniously upon the door. " The gentleman, mayhap, will not like to be disturbed. Sir," said the landlord officiously. "Won't he! Well, I suppose he'll say so then — Sir," opening the door, " a most unfortunate pedestrian implores your humanity, to shelter him under your hospitable parlour roof, from the com- bined effluvia of tobacco smoke and burnt bacon, which will other- wise drive him mad." As the door opened, the figure of a man between forty and fifty, with a bright cheering countenance, high nose, hawk eye, coal- black curling short hair, and a figure somewhat above the middle size, presented itself. His dress looked shabby enough ; a spencer which he had on, had evidently seen service, and his strong stout shoes, woollen stockings, and corduroys, were of the most ordinary description. Still, the first glance assured me that he was no ordi- nary mortal; sol rose, and civilly advancing, told him he was welcome to " half my parlour, half my table, two-thirds of my chairs, and as much of my fire as he could get." " Thank you, Sir," said he ; and came in without further cere- mony ; took off his spencer, displaying a coat of very ordinary cloth, and any thing but a fashionable cut; and laying in a corner a sword-cane, which he carried in his hand, took a chair, spread his THE UEIIIESS OF lllE DE VERES. 49 knees, and rubbing them before the lire ; seemed to make liimself quite at home, without further ceremony. I was standing with a sUght expectation that something of the nature of an apology on his part, lbrhitrusion,etc., etc., and *' Oh ! don't think of it," on mine, was to pass between us ; but I found nothing of the sort was intended ; so, I too, took a chair, and sat down opposite to my very unceremonious guest. Puzzling myself with the idea that 1 had somehow, or somewhere, seen that face, or heard that voice, before; or something like it — in a dream, perhaps — for the more I looked at him, the less did he resemble any one I had ever known. He was any thing but an or- dinary-looking being ; he was a very handsome man. His features well defined, his nose high, his mouth small, his teeth remarkably beautiful ; and that fine small advancing chin, which gives so much resolution and decision to the countenance ; his hawk, penetrating, quick eye, 1 have already mentioned ; it was black, and particularly expressive ; his admirably formed head w^as, as I said, covered with short, close, curling hair: his figure might have been thought square, but it was from the breadth and strength displayed in his chest and shoulders ; for he v/as spare, and his waist remarkably small and well-defined for a man of his apparent age ; his limbs were sinev/y, and promised at once strength and activity ; his hands and feet most remarkably well-made and small. A more completely handsome middle-aged man, I thought I had never seen; and he looked like a gentleman, too, in spate of the coarseness of his garments, the roughness of his tones, and his evident indifference to the choice of his expressions. I was at a loss to guess who, or what he could be , travelling on foot in such weather, and at this time of night, without apparent business, or companion of any sort. The rain continued to pelt violently against the windows. *' A pretty night," he began, rubbing his hands, with an appear- ance of cheerful enjoyment, before the fire; *' a pretty night, as poor Lear's fool says, ' to swim in.'" " It seems a most determined bad night," said I. ** So determined, that I shall begin to inquire of mine host as to- beds " saidhe. " Has the ^e7i^/e»^«/^," surveying me wdth something very like a sneer, '' bespoken his?" " I had not thought about it, as yet," I said. " Then I shall be beforehand wdth you," putting his hand to the bell. "Hollo I there — you Bridget— Molly — Betsy — what's your name? Have you any clean sheets in this most filthy hostelry of yours?" *' Beds good enough for such as you, belike," answered tlic girl, pertlv. 4 50 MOUNT SOREL; OR, "Ay, I know your sort well enough," said he; " any hole is good enougli for the poor, wearied fellow, who slaves on foot— any flock bed will do for him. But look you here, miss," taking out a well- filled purse, and chinking the gold which shone through it, *' the golden bough ofVirgil," winking at me. " There, my lass, do you see that? INow, don't I deserve you should be a little civil?" '' Sir," said the girl, '' shall I show you our best bed?" '' No ; get it ready for me by half-past nine, do you hear? — and put clean sheets on. Til pay you like a lord —treat me for the nonce as one, can't you?" " I'll try, at least," said the girl, laughing, and leaving the room. "Disgusting I" said he, throwing himself back in his chair. ' ' What a disgusting mass is human nature I What is to be done for these base, dissembling slaves?.... Their very fellowsl— Their very fellow-sufferers under the weight of that vile system of corrup- tion which oppresses society, — crushing men, like worms, to the earth, — their very fellows I Why, if that dirty slut thinks a man is hut poor — but poorer and more wretched than her miserable self ^'hy— she is among the very first to trample upon and despise him.... So it is with them all— one, and all I" '' What better can we expect Irom the vulgar?" said I. " The vulgar, Sir I— And who do you style the vulgar?— You Sir, or I Sir, or who Sir?— The man who wants the gold; or the man who values himself upon his gold ? Vulgar rascals one and all," said he laughing. "But, however," he continued, "as, for this one night, I chance to be among the more estimable of the earth— those with the gold— let us sup like princes I— Let us astonish the weak mind of the landlord I— Let us order as if we rode in our coaches! —Let us rifle his larder I— Let us make a fuss like kings! Lords of the hour!— Hallo, landlord!" Enter landlord— he had heard of the gold, and he looked civil. " Well, Sir— what can you give us for supper?" He had some trout in the house — veal cutlets — a couple of chickens. " All, and every thing," was the order. "The trout, by all manner'of means— the chickens grilled with mushrooms— and a good homely inn veal cutlet, mind. The best dish in the universe, in mv opinion," turning to me. "Wine, Sir?" said the landlord. " For this young gentleman, mayhap; water for me." It continued to rain so desperate, as I have said, that I began to think it was time for me to be inquiring for a bed. So I went out and bespoke one. ' ' You have done well, Sir," said my new friend ; ** I am learned THE HEIRESS OF THE PE VETIES. 51 ill the weather, it will rain all night. I saw the storm drawing up as I crossed Snakehead Moor." *' Landlord," turnine; to our host, wlio entered, X'arrying the first dish of a delicious little suj)})('r. " Is it not Snakehead Moor — that high ground which I |)assed, about two miles west of this?" '' The same. Sir." " And whose are those woods, that J saw in the distance; right H-head " " I suppose you must mean the woods of Mount Soi-el," said the landlord. " Mount Sorel!" re})eated I. " How lar are we from Mount Sorel?" " About two miles," was the answer. And no more was said at the time. We sat down to supper — the landlord continuing to wait at table. My friend handled his knife and fork — and ate with a voracity, which he did not attempt to restrain ; he gulped down great mor- sels — supped up his gravy with a relish, and yielded himself to the enjoyment of a hearty appetite, like a day labourei'; and, in- deed, with a disregard of all the delicacies and proprieties of the table, which one would certainly not have expected from a day labourer, seated in company with one whom he I'egarded as a gentleman. My amour propre was a little piqued to see, gentleman as \ con- sidered myself, and as I believe I appeared to others, how little that circumstance was regarded by my friend. He finished his meal with a loud smack of satisfaction ; and then stretching out his thick-soled heavy shoes to the fire, leaned back in his chair, with an expression of the most solid comfort. I was piqued, as 1 said, at this extreme self-possession; and with the common vanity of my age, I turned away from him, and began to address the landlord — to mention Holnicote as a place with which I was well acquainted; and to praise the beauty of its grounds and gardens. " Fine place, Sir, i dont't doubt; but, Lo my mind, no ]>lace in the county to be compared to Blount Sorel. Now, were I a gen- tleman. Sir, that's the place would be for my money. And yet they say. Sir, it'll go for a'most nothing — nobody as comes to look at it. To be sure, Entwistle did let all run to ruin in a strange sort — and that stew^ard of his. Burton, always half drunk, Sir, roaring and tii)pling — and p:ntwistle after the hounds all day— and drink- ing himself dead drunk to bed every night. Bad doings at the Hall, sir I — I'm no saint, I like a cheering glass well enough — but not as a man should make a sot and brute o' himself, as Entwistle, and that beast Burton did." 52 .MOU:\'T SOREL ; Oil, *' You say, it's only two miles from hence," said 1. I \Yas seized with a sudden sort of invincible desire to visit it. " Can one get to see it?" I asked. *' Oh ay, Sir, by applying at the lodge gate. It's on sale, you know, Sir — and though Ihey say as one must have a ticket, why, they wont't refuse you, Sir." '' Well," said my friend, by the hre. " In my opinion, one fine place is just like another.—! would not go a quarter of a mile, out of my way to see the finest of 'em. A big house— and big trees— and grass in a park, where bread for human creatures might be growing: symbols of that despicable and destructive j)ride, which makes man lord it over his starving fellow-creatures ;— starving, that Ids pride may be fed with ' wij Park: Pshaw I" " This is a remarkably beautiful and very singular place," said I, ^' and if you will go with me to-morrow, I believe I can show you the most beautiful ruin and view in the country — at least, so 1 have heard." *' Well, I liave nothing else to do.— 1 am rather a lover of tine prospects; though no great admirer of fine houses and aristocrat- ical park }>alings. Wlien shall you go?" " 1 must be away very early," I said, but if he would go, 1 would be up at six o'clock in the morning, and j*eturn to breakfast. '' I am your man, then," said he. " So be it," was my reply. 1 don't know what made me desire his company ; partly that I was piqued to shov,- him the beauty of Mount Sorel ; partly that he amused and interested me ;— and 1 was glad to see a little more of him. His conversation during dinner and the rest of the evening, was )\-markably entertaining and agreeable. He v/as a man who had evidently travelled much, and he took the most original views of things. His principles were of the most levelling description— and I, in my crude philosophy, began to speculate upon the danger to society, when men of abilities so remarkable were driven into obscure conditions, Avhich rendered ihem restless and discontented with every thing around them— and bent upon over- throwing every privilege, of every description, that could obstruct their own advancement. He told me litde of himself, except that he walked about the world staffin hand, doing Uttle, but observing. That his observa- tions had led him to the conclusion, that the mass of mankind was nothing but one heap of selfishness; that the luxury and corrup- tion of^the higher orders were sapping the very foundations of so- ciety ; and that nothing, but a complete regeneration, could re- medy the innumerable evils under v/hicli the human race was labouring. And, in short, he seemed to be much of opinion that THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 53 peripatetic philosophers, Hke himself, were the only section left of mankind, from whom cither truth, prineii)le, or patriotism were to be expected. All this was very new to me; and certainly his eloquence, for very eloquent he undoubtedly was, had its effect upon my mind. He seemed so ardently devoted to the happiness of his I'acc; so sanguine as to the results of the new and untried ex])erimenls in human society, which he advocated. He painted in colours so mournful, the desolation and degrada- tion into which so many of his fellow-creatures had fallen; execrated in terms so animated, the vices of those he stigmatised as their tyrants ; that my young mind was dazzled, my best feelings aroused, and a generous enthusiasm foi- the glorious cause of universal freedom, })eace, and well-being, animated me in a manner totally new. I, whose thoughts had till now been so entii'clv absorbed in the circle of domestic affections, and the secret ])assion of my own heart. 1 felt roused and ennobled by the glorious theme. I panted for the emancipation he promised; I longed to fling aside, what he called, the ignoble prejudices of education, and to take })art in the vast struggle which he announced as rapidly a])proaching. I was young, sincere, and ardent. How many of the young, sincere, and ardent, have felt their hearts glow^ responsive to the mighty theme. Alas ! that such generous aspirations, that such righteous and fervent desires, should have been so little guided by that wisdom which is of the acincd. So little chastened by that prudence which is born of ex])erience. There was a false glitter, a romantic hope, a delusive ignis fahnis in these things then, that misled, and deceived, many a better and a wiser man than I was. f look back upon those tempestuous days with sorrow and with hope. Great things were effected — mighty evils resisted. For the enthusiasm which effected much, let us be grateful; — for the steadiness which in this country sets limits to the excesses of that enthusiasm, let us be more thankful still. The mighty of intellect, and the righteous of heart, were to be found ranged on either side of this great argument. Alas! for the storms that rent them asunder. If I were to detail the conversation of that evening, I might enter iqx)n a subject which it is my determination strictly to avoid. It would bo im})ossiblc so to express myself^ as to escape the imputa- tion of taking one or other side in the great contest then fought; and, [)erhai)S, even noAV, not altogether ended. This, 1 repeat, it is my steady resolution to avoid. The effects of those days of conten- tion, upon private happiness; and the results, in their combination .')4 MOUNT SOREL; OR, with tlie characters and scenes in domestic life ; form that with which I have alone to do. I have erred myseh' like the rest, i have found reason to love and honour men of every side. Many of my own most decided opinions, 1 have lived to change : to think my own best weighed and most disinterested actions, mistaken. How, then, shall 1 judge others, who have need myself of so candid, and indulgent a judge? But where do I wander? As for me — how many bitter hours have been my portion, dating from that fatal night when 1 sat, a charmed listener, by my eloquent friend over that little blazing inn fire ; while the storm, as if typifying the consequences of that evening's meeting, roared and crackled without; the wind howling; the rain plashing and beating against the little casement. I I was one of the wildest nights I ever remember. My new friend, and I, laid more and more wood upon the fire. As the fire blazed, as the tempest without raved ; so rose the enthusiasm of the un- known. His words became more and more energetic; his senti- ments more and more enthusiastic; I listened in a sort of fascina- tion, under the influence of his extraordinary powers. It was late when we parted — mutually, it would appear, in- terested in each other. As we went up the little creaking stairs, to our humble chambers, I again mentioned the plan of visiting Mount Sorel at six o'clock the following morning. " We shall have an hour or two more of one another's society," said he, '' and 1 am glad to find you are, like myself, an early riser. The sloth, which confines men to their curtained bedrooms, when the sun is risen, and all nature full of the genial spirit of the day, is as iniurious, as it is contemptible.... Another of those forms of effeminacy and luxury, which I have been deprecating, as the de- struction of all that is energetic in the character of man. The slave of his bed I — can we want a filter tool, a more ready prepared subject, for the vile despotism of others? Any thing, the merest pretence of authority, can subdue the feeble Sybarite; who cannot even vanquish his own feather-bed. To-morrow, at six — I am at your service. Sir." And he entered through the Uttle black door of his apartment, and disappeared. TUE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 55 CHAPTER VI. The huge old hall, of knightly slate, Dismantled seemed, and desolate. ROKEBY. 1 DID not sleep for some time ; the conversation of the evening had excited me too much ; I lay tossing about, on my hard pallet — which, in spite of my new friend's Lacedemonian principles, I would fain have exchanged for a good pair of mattrasses; listening at intervals to the storm now subsiding. Oh, had it but continued to rave ! Only a few hours longer. — Had nature but maintained that contest of the elements, one short half day I But the thunder now faintly rolled in the distance, the wind lulled into whispers, the rain ceased; and I fell, at last, asleep. My slumber was troubled and uneasy. I w^as wandering, as I thought, in the woods of Mount Sorel, Clarice was by my side. We talked, as we were wont to do, of all thg innocent interests of the day; but, suddenly, we were in a dark, deep, entangled wood; we were struggling with all the painful, futile efforts of a dream, among briars and thorns; — I was urging her forward, her hand in mine, fighting darkly with the obstructions wiiich surrounded us; when the earth suddenly opened, a horrid gulf yawned beneath my feet; she screamed — she loosed my hand — she sank into the depths before my eyes — and, as the closing waves of earth wrapped over her, 1 awoke, my limbs trembling, and in a paroxysm of horror. The morning was shining peaceful and bright; the early dawn breaking before my little uncurtained window; th storm was all hushed, and had rolled away; leaving that delightful freshness in the air which follows a summer night like this. I heard my friend, already walking heavily about his room ; and I flung myself out of my bed ; resolved not to merit his reproaches on the score of that slothful effeminacy, which he a|)peared so much to despise. He was soon knocking at my door ; and seemed much pleased to find me ready. The morning showed him to still greater advantage, than the evening had done. His peculiarly manly and handsome features, his active and vigorous frame, the bright intelligence, the pene- tration, the fun, expressed in his eye — now he was refreshed with sleep, and the stain of travel effaced, by a good water and tow^l, —were still more remarkable and agreeable than before. He seemed 56 MOUNT SOREL; OP., 10 like mo too, as much boiler as I did liim, now Ihat he saw me dressed in my own ch)thes; which, certainly, improved my appear- ance a good deal. " Well, my yomig gentleman," said he, cheerfully, " I'm not sorry to see, in spite of your aristocralical habits,,'''' looking at my \\q]\ cut coat, and fashionable toilette ; " you can keep your word, and rise with the sun. Well, are you ready? Can you walk before breakfast?Oi", must you have something to supportnature, forsooth?" I said, " that I hoped he would not think me very much of a Sybarite; if I begged for a hunch of bread, and a glass of water. "" He laughed, and shook his head; but, of course, made no objec- tion. On the landlord making the same offer to him, however, he cried, " Pshaw! do you think /want six meals a day? Let us have a good substantial breakfast when we come back, that's all." " And my horse ready, for I must ride immediately afterwards," said 1. Was it not a strange perverseness? was il not as if to hurry me on my fate, that I seemed thus determined to persist, in the indulgence of this idle fancy — of visiting Mount Sorel that morn- ing with the stranger — when, if I had followed Mrs. Fermor's advice, I should immediately have rejoined my father; it being still possible to see him before he set out that morning. The stranger, himself, seemed, without intending it, to assist me in this straightforward course of performing the simple duty of the day ; for, he was very indifferent about visiting this grand place ; against which he appeared to entertain a sort of prejudice. It seemed written, that my own inexplicable pertinacity, alone, should be the cause of all that followed. W^e set out, then, on this most beautiful and brilliant of morn- ings. The air was inexpressibly fresh and delightful; the sun tinting the grass and trees, as he darted his pure early rays upon the steaming earth ; the dew drops hanging on herb and flower, as ^ve threaded a deei) and beautiful lane, and, at length, found ourselves before the splendidly wrought, but rusted, iron gates which opened upon the domain of Blount Sorel. The lodge was in a state of the utmost dilapidation ; the window- frames fast decaying, broken panes stopped with woollen cloths or paper, the roof wretchedly out of repair, the little garden a wilderness of docks and nettles, and the straggling ivy falling from the walls of the once pretty cottage, in large masses which trailed upon the earth. We were some time before we could make any one hear, lor the inhabitants were evidently still in their beds; and while Ave hallooed at intervals, we stood and admired the fine tracery of the gorgeous iron work, and the beautiful proportion of the magnificent gateway. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VEUES. 57 Dark majestic woods l(nvoi'0(] on each sido, spreading as far as the eye could reach, and the li'oes thai surrounded us were of the noblest growth and proportions. My friend seemenl to forget his contempt of worldly distinctions, in admiration of tliis grav(! and time-honoured magnihcencc before him. At last, an answer was made to our repeated summijus; and an old woman came grumbling out of the lodge, with gray hair, dii'ty cap, and a ragged blue and white bed-gown and })etticoat, her figure half-doubled and leaning upon her stall'. She moved heavily, and, opening a little side wicket, we were admitted. What a scene! The woods and bank — the shining exi)anse of w^ater — the splendid mansion of Sir Rali)he, with the beautiful green wide-spreading lawn before it swee})ing to the lake — the red preci})itous rocks beyond — the gray ruins!— all, gleaming in the full splendour of the bright morning sun, and glittering with the dew, burst at once upon our eyes. — It was the most glorious, the most magnificent, scene 1 had ever beheld ! My companion was struck dumb, as well as 1. The gay sarcasm of his conversation ceased; he became meditative and silent. It was a scene never to be forgotten, so wildly beautiful did it look that day; deserted and silent as it stood, — the numerous herds of deer alone, peopling that wide solitude. It seemed to me to be calling for its ancient owners, — to be standing there in mute expectation of him, its far-descended master, so soon to reas- sume, in that possession, his long lost place and dignity. With what a mixture of reverence, awe, and pleasure, did I tread those gleaming lawns — and wide, neglected ways! All the innumerable windows of the front were closed; but the sun was glittering upon them ; and this ]jeaked and picturesque mansion had an air of a rich romantic magnificence, that, to my imagination, far excelled the regularity, and symmetry, of a more classical edifice. So thought the stranger too. " This is grand!" said he/' this is historically grand! This speaks of old English days of simpUcity and genial hospitality.— No slip-slop imitation of" classical models here. Saxon-English to the very bone I never thought this Blount Sorel, which you, and mine host made such a fuss about, was a place so noble as this. — This is fine. Sir." We passed the house, and ascended the hill to the ruins. We, too, gazed upon these time-honoured monuments of departed things,— and stooped to si)ell out the half-defaced inscriptions on those tombs, over which the high tufted grass and flaunting ivy were growing. We gazed through that exquisite specimen of Gothic tracery, that 68 MOUNT SOUEL ; OR, beautiful western window, upon the loveliest mingled scene of woods and waters and blue distance, that ever visited my eyes. We then scrambled among the rocks. I was lost in delight, and said nothing. 3Iy companion was equally absorbed in thought. NoAv and then he stooped down, picked up a few stones, examined them, and threw them carelessly away; — one or two pieces, how- ever, he put into his pocket. He proposed as we returned, that we should visit the courts and offices; this somewhat annoyed me, for I began now to be impa- tient to return to the inn. I looked at my watch — it was eight o'clock; I said I feared I should be late; and that of all things, stables and offices were the least interesting to me. It was not so with him, he said; — he liked to see how these things wTre managed in olden times, but he begged he might not detain me. However, I would not leave him after his civility in undertaking the walk for the pleasure of my company ; so we ascended to the house together, and tried to make our way to the stables. These were very large and handsome, — the deep-toned clock over the great gates struck eight as we rang at the bell. 1 was impa- tient to be gone ; not so my companion ; he was examining every thing about him with increased interest and curiosity. After w^e had waited some time, old goodman Grey appeared at the gate. He was a fresh-coloured, gray-headed old man, his face covered with wrinkles, and the frosty colour of a healthy old age — like that of a withered apple — upon his cheek. He had the appearance of an old huntsman or groom ; and in some capacity about the stables, I suppose he had served, for he seemed quite at home here. He led us round these beautifully appointed stables, which were in a better state of repair, than any thing else that we saw. This part of his establishment had not been neglected by the late master; and there had scarcely been time since his death, for neglect and inattention to do their usual work of destruction ; all here having been, till of late, preserved in such nice order. We visited the dog-kennels ; their baying inhabitants, now, all departed ; the most mournful silence prevailing. " Ay, Sir," said the old man, mournfully. " Things were differ- ent awhile ago, when master in his pink and leathers and boots, — the prettiest man upon a horse you ever saw. Sir, — used to come through that door. Sir, to mount his hack and ride to cover. This court-yard, so lonesome now. Sir, would be full of gay young gentlemen then, all hallooing and laughing, and mounting their hacks — while the hunters were being led about up and down here, Sir, by the grooms. Ay, Sir, capital hunters had Squire Entwistle^ THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VEllES. 69 — the bravest rider of the country side. But it's lonesome work now, all like as a house of the dead, as one may say. A pity, Sir, so line a young man! — Drink — it was the drink was the death of him. " " What I" said the stranger, '* he was a tippler, was he?" '* Never went to bed sober for many a long day. Couldn't help it^ Sii.,_Bred to it from a boy. Th'ould squire 'd make little one toss off his glass of port, with ' Confusion to the king's enemies,' afore the little fellow was a five year old. It's a bad custom, Sir.... Been a fine young man, and a brave young man — but it's all uver now." " What a brute I" cried my friend, indignantly. '' Chasing a helpless creature to death I— hallooing on a pack of wild beasts after the poor helpless thing. Riding a brave and noble animal till his swelling veins are ready to burst,~and finishing a day so well begun, by swilling like a swine, and being carried drunk to bed. A noble recreation" for a rational being... ' In action like an angel, — in apprehension like a god' I" " Ay, Sir, but hunting be a royal sport, howsomever," said the old man, " and so you'd ha said, had you been ever in at a death — that a would. I've seen 'em on a fine spring morning come sweeping at full cry, out of the Danna wood, and over the farther park— right away beyond there,— hounds in full cry, man and horse at the top of their speed. Oh ! it's a sight for a king, Sir I" " Quite,''' said my friend. " And the hunter's horn echoing — and — and — " '' Come, come," said the stranger, somewhat impatiently, " have vou nothing more to show us?" " That's the way to the garden, Sir, but I haven't the key, -—this is the Tennis Court— and here is the bowling-green," leading to a beautiftd bowling-green, surrounded by a thick, well-trimmed yew hedge, and shaded on one side by a row of magnificent lime trees now in full flower. '* Now this is what I like," said the stranger, walking in and ^eating himself upon one of the benches. " This is what I call sound, manly, wholesome exercise. A bowling-green is what one seldom sees now-a-days. We are grown too fine for such simple sports. I like this, Sir. I like this place upon the whole very much," said he, giving the old man some money ; and turning to me, " I really thank you, my young friend, for making me come here. It is a very noble estate. I never thought I should meet with a thing of this sort so entirely to my taste. There is no flimsy gew^-gaw^ pretence and nonsense about this; all is pure, solid old English taste. I like it. Sir 1" We now returned by a walk that led us through another part of 60 MOUNT SOREL; OR, the woods. Hero was a noble g^o^Yth of timber; the oaks, elms, and cliesnuLs, spreading ^Yide their majestic arms, in all the gran- deur of the primeval forest. The white trunks and bare arms of several aged and decaying trees, forming the most beautiful groups and pictures, and every now and then affording natural openings for the blue sky. The gigantic ivy towered over the ruins of many a noble tree, perishing under the lapse of centuries. Nothing could be more wdldly beautiful, but nothing could present a more com- plete picture of reckless neglect, than did these woods ; abandoned, as it would seem, for generations, to the injuries of time, and the w^aste of accident. "This is wild — and it is romantic and beautiful, no doubt," re- marked my companion ; "and were it, in truth, a primeval forest, would gratify one's taste for the untracked solitudes of nature ; but there is something in waste and disorder such as this, near the ha- bitations of man, which disgusts and displeases me. I cannot bear to look upon that which might have been converted to purposes of utility ; to the advancement of improvement and happiness, through the resources of commerce ; — to see all these fine materials of en- joyment lavished by the hand of Nature, thus perishing through the vicious negligence and selfish indolence of their possessor. It is vexatious — it is irritating to think, into what hands these noble possessions have fallen, and may fall." Had I dared, I could have satisfied him as to this last particular. T could have told him that the hands into which they w^ere about to fall, \vere not those either of selfish indolence or vicious negli- gence. But my respect for Mr. Vere's wishes, kept me silent. We quit- ted the domain by a'j^ath which led through a gate into the high road. The gate was half broken, and stood partly open; while in the paling near, various defalcations showed that the people in the neighbourhood had been for some time in the habit of making a sort of wood-yard, not only of the w^ood, by picking the broken branches, but of the trees themselves. Several rough, year-old cattle, and various ragged horses, were trampling about ; regaling themselves upon the tops of the green springing underwood of ash and hazel. "Here again," repeated he, "see the mischiefs arising from the luxurious indolence of pampered excess! What do I see?" looking round, — " What do 1 see? .... In place of honest industry well paid, and well employed, to collect and to store, for the warming and comforting of wretched creatures, — the very gifts of nature cursed, as the temptation to pilfering, and thieving,-and all species of irregular gains. Sir, this wood is rearing immortal man for the gallows ; where I'll be bound this reckless master of thousands of THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VEllES. 61 acres, would have been just as ready to send him, as if his means had been converted, as they ought to have been, into the sources of human Avellare, instead of into a nursery for crime. The drunken, execrable, wealth-swollen sot!" He s])oke with an acrimony in his tone that was new to me ; and after we had gained the high road, fell into so profound a medita- tion, that he seemed scarcely to notice my presence. We reached our inn, where we found a homely and plentiful breakfast, ready spread, u])on the round table of our little parlour. My friend sat down ; but paid a very difli^rent attention to the viands from what he had done at the supper of the preceding night. He seemed lost in thought, and scarcely tasted a morsel. When the host came in, he asked at what time the first coach would jiass foi' London, where he had business ; and being inform- ed that one was to come up in about ten minutes, he hastily collected his things; threw his ^reat coat over his arm, stretched out his hand to me, shook mine cordially, and saying he hoped it would not be long before we should meet again, and that he would walk on to, meet the coach, took up his staff, and desiring the landlord to follow^ and sliow^ him the way, departed. When he was gone, J ordered my horse immediately to the door ; and while I waited for him, asked my host, who was now- returned, whether he knew any thing of the gentleman who had just left us. ''Why, as for gentleman," was his answer, "I don't much count them as gentlemen, who come walking in in their dusty shoes, or dripi)ing like drowned rats on a rainy day. I suppose he is some stroUing player, or verse-making gentleman, or so. — I never thinks much of walking gentlemen, not I . . . . though this one pays handsome for what he gets, which is more n(jr all of them does — however, I never saw him afore." CHAPTER VH. Yuu knew — who knew not? Astropliel. Of him — all find the merit such, I cannot say— you hear — too much. I F orxD my father expecting me with impatience ; a very old friend of his, knowing his desire that T should finish my education by making the tour of the continent, had writlen to inform him that a gentleman of whom he had a very high opinion, was upon the j)oint of setting out, in company, or rather in charge of, a very fine and promising young man, of about my own age. 62 MOUNT sorel; or, The gentleman, who had accepted the office of travelling tutor, was in circumstances of very singular pecuniary embarrassment ; and it had struck his friend, that if it could be arranged that the party should consist of two pupils instead of one, the advantages resulting to the travelling tutor would be so far increased, as to perhaps enable him to overcome his present difficulties. He did not mention the name of the young gentleman who was to be my companion ; but assured my father that he was a young man of the highest promise. My father 1 have not described, and I feel tempted to do it now. He does not take any very prominent part in the events of this historv; and yet I would fain attempt his portrait, were it merely for\hc sake of its extreme beauty. - To bef^in then, my father was a perfect gentleman; — 1 mention this first^ because it was the first impression every one received on meetino- him. It was not as a very remarkable man, in any other respect^ that one at first conceived of him : his qualities were in such just harmony, that no one, individually, claimed either that attention or adniiration, which is excited by characters more vehement. But those who came to know him well, discerned how various and valuable are the qualities of which the character of a perfect crentleman is composed. How much self-command— bow much self-discipline— how much habitual consideration of the wants wishes, and opinions of others— what calm and sound views of men and of society— what well-balanced feelings— what well- reo-ulated passions— must combine, to constitute the perfection of thai role. . i . i- j My father possessed a clear, penetratmg understandmg, and sound excellent, good sense; his mind was not excursive, for his imaoination was not powerful; neither had he the attributes of genfus ; he did not dwine, but he saiv. I think I never met with man, fiifted with so clear a mental eye. It was his, to penetrate the vain pretences, the idle subterfuges, under which man hides his true motives and impulses, not only from others but from himself. He could detect under the outward garb of disinterestedness, the pride, the vanity, the selfishness, and the base covetousness, which too often lurked beneath. The mask of religious zeal and austerity hid not from him the bi-otry and the ambition which it covered. He saw the fanatic of a party disguised under the garb of political martyrdom; and dis- cerned the mean ambition of mere personal advancement, under the harangues of the pretended patriot. He could distinguish be- tween the honest dupe, and the leader of dupes; and trace the dubious course of him, who worked the enthusiasm of others for his own advantage. THE HEIRESS OF THE I)E VERES. 6S He saw so justly, and so clearly, that, like the unhappy pro- phetess of Troy, he, too often, saw in vain Not so much that he was before his age — like many Avhose wisdom has been unavailing, because it has come too soon — as that his eye was more piercing than that of others, and few could see what he so distinctly dis- cerned. He was therefore, in general, a silent observer, keeping his opinions much to himself. — 1 must add, that he possessed a most gentle and polished wit, which flashing, from time to time, played round rather than struck its object. With a judgment so just, and so discerning, you will perhaps fancy that my father was a severe, and ill-natured man. Quite the reverse ; he was the most indulgent and candid judge that 1 ever remember to have met with. His temper was, indeed, naturally so agreeable and sweet, that any thing acrimonious or harsh was foreign to his very nature. And besides, he saw too justly not to discover the excellences, as well as the imperfections of poor hu- man nature : he would smile at the self-delusion which leads a man to believe that he is impelled by the purest sense of right, when his motives are in fact merely self-interested. He could smile at all his mistakes and delusions with a sort of affectionate pity; and could sympathise with the strong impulses of passions, by which his own heart was untainted. Never was misanthrope so kind, — never was cynic so amiable. Every one loved him, every one trusted him, every one honoured him ; but very few had an extraordinary opinion of his abilities, so that the influence he exercised was small; even 1, much as I loved and respected him, was somewhat in the habit of undervaluing his judgment, and trusting rather to my own more vigorous under- standing, — as I thought it. More particularly in the estimate of character. That annihilation of all personal idolatry which was the result of my father's tem- perate habit of thought, was insupportable to a temper so enthu- siastic as mine. I was not, because 1 would not suffer myself to be, guided by that clear perception which discerned blemishes, when I was dazzled with glories. With his usual caution, he now hesitated upon the proposal of his friend. He disliked the idea of entrusting one, so raw and un- practised as he knew me to be, to the influences that must inevitably spring from connexion of this sort, with a youth of my own age. He agreed, however, not to abandon without further inquiry, a plan which ai)peared to me fraught with enjoyment. The idea of parting with Clarice was the only drawback to the pleasure I anticipated. But I hoped to improve myself, and to shake off that sort of diffidence, that want of harmony with myself, — those per- plexing feelings of self-distrust, united to self-confidence, — of self- 64 MOUNT SOREL; OR, estimation, and of self-abasement, of vanity, and of humility, which disturbed and annoyed me. For I felt convinced that nothing ever could or would remedy these defects, but circulation in the great world, and the practice of men. He said he would w^rite to his friend, and be minute in his inquiries. " At least, let us begin by learning the name of this young gentleman. It is strange how invariably Clarkson forgets to in- quire, or to announce a name in matters of this kind. He looks only at things, with which he fancies names have nothing to do ; and embarrasses business, by what he imagines to be his direct and clear-sighted wav, of dropjjing all but the leading points of it.'' We then talked of Mr. de Vere, and I told him that the proposi- tion for a purchase was to be made on the ensuing Monday. He heard this with satisfaction. " I am glad to hear that there is to be no more delay about the matter," he said. '' Mr. Lawson may be an excellent solicitor, and so 1 dare say he is, but the law is a bad school. He has got into a habit of taking advantages which 1 dislike. When an estate is to be purchased; there is something unpleasant to me, in the idea of lying by, waiting for the depreciation of the market — that a pro- perty may diminish in value by the effects of a year's delay and di- lapidation. It is a false and ungenerous calculation ; for the injuries done, his principal will have to repair. Lawson is thinking too much of the credit he, the solicitor, shall obtain by making an ex- cellent bargain. It is well he has not found the price, which 1 am persuaded is far below the real value, raised upon him." Of Mr. de Yere's anxiety to obtain this property, he remarked, " I cannot help in great measure, sympathising with him. — I think, if I were in his place, I should feel the same. I have lived, perhaps, too much in the world, to understand the full force of this absorption of thought — this ])assion, with which the soul seizes upon one idea. — It seems difticult in these enlightened days, to com]>rehend that depth of melancholy interests with which some few, yet left in England, regard their ancient, long-descended families ; and mourn over their slow and insensible decay. "There is an appearance of generosity," he continued, " a rever- ence for the past, and for the fallen, which encourages a man of the high temper of Mr. de Vere, in this sort of devotion to one object ; magnifying it, in his eyes, into one of the most exalted duties of our nature — that, to the declining and the forsaken. He is devoted to a high and chivalric idea— which he sees trampled under foot by the eager herd rushing forward in pursuit of the material and baser enjoyments of life... Had it been necessary, he would have impov- erished himself and family for generations, to have restored Mount THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 65 Sorel to the house of De Yere. One is glad that he makes a capital hargain, at the same time, — a thing, (hough he does not suspect il, which Ml', de Yere likes as well as any one of us.'* " Well Edmund," he added, " amid this chopjung and changing — though Mr. Lawson has taken care that you shall ])ay a handsome price for Ash Grove, — if I am not deceived, your grandson will think you have made an excellent affair of it too." This was Wednesday. — On Monday, Mr. Lawson was to make his offer : — the news of its acceptance could not reach Holnicote till the following evening. Mr. de Yere had asked me to return and pass the Sunday with him and his family, and I had promised so to do.- On Saturday evening, therefore, 1 took leave of my father, and returned on horseback to Holnicote. My father shook his head when I mentioned my intention. " Take care of yourself, Edmund," said he. " Clarice is fast ripening into a very lovely young woman. Don't forget that she is no longer a little girl, — that she will soon be the Heiress of Mount Sorel, — and that you are a romantic and somewhat foolish young man. When you have made the grand tour, you may be trusted with the charge of any heart that may then remain upon your hands. For the present it is honest — it is enthusiastic — and I, at least, think it very well w^orth taking care of." " I thank you, Sir, for thinking it worth the caution. I will do my best to take care of it," said I, trying to laugh, but deeply mortified at his speech, however qualified. " Edmund," said he, kindly and gravely, perceiving this, "I spoke lightly, — for it is usually the best manner of treating these sort of matters, — but I feel this seriously. I feel anxious with regard to your happiness. There are very few young men whose hearts, in my opinion, are worth a thought ; bat I know the strength and the sincerity of yours. W^e may forget,— but depend upon it, Mr. de Yere will not long forget, — that his daughter has ceased to be a child. Accept my warning — it may be by and by too late. Too late ! Alas I it was already too late. I loved her with a pas- sion that had invaded every pulse of my being — 1 had not a hope, a thought, a purpose, that was not for her ! But I was not discouraged by my father's observations. I thougli i I knew them all, better than he did. A thousand circumstances, too trifling to be enumerated, but whose united evidence was con- clusive, had proved to me that I was a great favourite with both the parents. The satisfaction with which Mrs, de Yere had seen me the purchaser of her father's estate ; the confidence; with which Mr. de Yere had treated me; and, above all, the sweet affection 5 66 MOUNT sorel; or, with which my beloved Clarice invariably received me ; made me believe, with the fond security of youth, that for me, the waters were to reascend to their sources — the course of nature to bo interrupted— and the most ambitious and haughty man of my acquaintance, become reasonable, simple, and temperate in his objects and desires. They were at tea when I arrived ; and the general satisfaction which appeared in every countenance as I entered the little blue drawing-room, might have assured any one that I was, to all, a most welcome guest. They were sitting with the front window open to the ground, and the smell of the flowers was sweet; and the whispers of the breeze among the shrubs, in this soft evening, alone to be heard. Mrs. de Vere was knotting, Mr. de Yere read- ing, Mrs. Fermor knitting; and poor Clarice, looking rather ennmjee, and desceuvree, was sipping her tea, and playing with her tea-spoon. They seemed to be all rather dull, when my entrance aroused every one. Mr. de Yere threw aside his book, and rose with great cordiaUty to meet and shake hands with me; Mrs. de Yere and Mrs. Fermor gave me a very pleasant and friendly greeting ; and Clarice was all smiles and gaiety. She called me to her ; seemed to expect that I should take the chair by her side; and was soon prattUng, with her still childish vivacity, about this summer-house, which occupied her so much. Poor Clarice — she was fast arriving at that period of Ufe, when childish pleasures, please no more; when the paradise of infant happiness— the fairy realms of fancy, filled with those airy joys and glories to which all the wealth and grandeur of the earth is as nothing — was beginning to close its gates behind her, and to force her forward into youth. To youth with all its fervid hopes— its ideal aspirations!— an ideal, which reality alone can now satisfy. — The bright creative fancy of the child, which made what it imagined, exchanged for wishes as imaginative, but which the actual alone can now fulfil. With her, by faint symptoms, was first beginning to make itself felt, that dreadful scourge of ennui, which is the bane of youth : that fatal bane to happiness, arising from the void of faculties wasted and unemployed. Imprisoned, as she w^as, though in this pleasant prison; shut out from joyous healthy associations, with others of her own age ; confined to the society of two very quiet elderly women, whom she tenderly loved, but for whom she had nothing to do; already w^as that fatal disease, that living death, precursor too often of actual disease and real death, beginning to make itself felt. Already did Clarice begin to experience that desire to live, that longing for excitement; which makes pain, THE HEIRESS OF THE PE VERES. 67 effort, vexation, disappointment, agony, tears — any thing — better than repose. Repose! — tiie hfe of old age— tlie death of youth I No wonder, then, that she was glad to see me— no wonder that she hailed my approach with a pleasure, which I fondly hoped might ri})en to a tenderer sentiment. The next day, when wt retui-ned from afternoon church, Mr. de Vere asked me, as the evening was beautiful to walk with him. He opened the iron gate, and, for the first time, led the way through the w^oods. We came to the lonely stile and rustic bridge ; he crossed it, and signed to me to folio w\ *' Edmund," he said, " so near the moment of fruition, I cannot refuse myself the "pleasure this evening of walking through these grounds with you ; and sharing together the satisfaction I receive in visiting this beautiful spot." He took me by a narrow path, which led to the ruins. I had not found an opportunity of mentioning to him, my former visit; indeed, I did not feel quite sure that he w^ould like it. And he now entered so little into conversation —being quite absorbed in his own thoughts — that I forbore speaking upon the subject. It could not possibly matter, I thought. He took me to the chapel, now illuminated by the evening sun; and he sat down upon one of the tombs, looking round w^ith reve- rence and awe. "Edmund," he said, " I cannot tell you what I feel here, with all these crumbling monuments around me. When I look upon these sacred rehcs of the past, — of those whose blood circulates in my veins ; of the great, the magnificent, the renowned, whose ashes here are resting; and reflect, that in twenty-four hours — in less than that time — all will be restored to me all that my father's heart, and his father's heart, had in secret bled for, and mourned over as desecrated by the unhallowed foot of the stranger — that this will be restored, and thus restored— -deserted — as if no human foot had dared to trample upon the holy dead!" — He paused, and, then, "How beautiful! how tranquil is all this!" he said, as we stood gazing over the scene which lay beneath our feet. "A man had need do well, Edmund, that receives as his portion upon earth, so wide, so rich an inheritance." And the desire and the determination to do well ; to dispense, as a man of rectitude and high feeling ought, the power he was about to receive; and to restore, not only the splendours, but the best honours of his long-descended line, by a life of noble activity and virtue; was swelling, I am certain, at that moment within his veins. 68 MOrNT SOREL; OR, How I linger I — how 1 delay I — and pause and hesitate — as 1 approach the catastrophe of this high-minded man's fortunes! I would fain excite your sympathy for one, for whom, in spite of all his errors, I felt so deeply. But perhaps this is an impossi- bility, the intensity of passion with wMch he dwelt upon this one object, belonged rather to the individual , than to human nature in general. I, who have witnessed, can feel for it; but it may not be so with you. We walked quietly home through the darkening shades. The next day ; great as was Mr. de Vere's self-command, and ac- customed as he was, in every event of life, to preserve that air of > dignitied composure, which rendered his manner so imposing; it was impossible for him to preserve his equanimity. He abstained from the slightest expression of his feelings by words ; but his rest- lessness was only the more uncontrollable. It seemed as if it were impossible for him to sit still, or to remain in his own room. He came into the ladies' morning room, and sat down by Clarice who vv-as sitting at work ; then he rose, and went to the window, which commanded a view of the opposite hill ; and stood gazing some time; then he looked at his watch. The stable clock struck two. It was the hour, the moment, — the treaty must be at that instant in consideration. Oh, strange imprisonment of the human spirit I which chains it to one vacant spot, when interests, so vital to its very existence, are being carried on elsewhere. As the clock struck two such thoughts passed rapidly through my mind. I suppose they occupied his — he suddenly, as I said, looked at his watch, and then, hastily quitting the room, I saw him traverse the terrace, and bury himself in the wood. And there — was his haughty spirit humbled by the very excess of its felicity — there — was it bent to thanksgiving and prayer? — No one can ever know. — The day but one after, is to me as a dream ; of which, on being suddenly awakened, some faint confused impression remains. We remember that we did dream something, that is all. It is all obscure confusion to me still. At eight o'clock in the evening , the post came in. The London letters then arrived — we should hear from Mr. Lawson. The servant comes in — the letter bag is in Mr. de Vere's hand— I saw it tremble slightly as he endeavoured to turn the key. " Let me, papa," said Clarice, starting up from her chair and glancing uneasily at me. He looked very pale. He gave her the bag — she opened it — there was a letter. '' It is from Lawson," said he, and turning to the window, pro- ceeded to open and read it. He opened it— read it withoutmoving THE HEIRESS OF TUE DE VERES. 69 a muscle — folded it, and said, " Lawson was too late — the estate is gone !" — I could not understand him. I started up, while Clarice, with a faint cry of " 0! poor papa," sprang to his side. He was perfectly silent. lie seemed struggling t(j bcai' this hitler — this almost insupportable disa})pointment, with dignity. He succeeded. One syllable of vain regret — one expression of vexation at the useless delays which had occasioned it — nevIOIJNT SOREL; OK, woods, was effcclod with admirable judgment : and a sum, as 1 have heard, realised by the active proprietor, amounting to nearly hall* the fee-simple of the estate. That unfortunate morning, when I had with so much difficulty prevailed upon him to visit Mount Sorel, his rapid glance had at once discerned the value of the property, thus abandoned and neglected; the beauty of the scenery had charmed, and the situation of the house pleased him ; he had planned in five minutes how^ all was to be converted. Our visit to the hill and to the woods had decided him ; the immense quantity of timber falling to decay had not escaped his attention, nor had he overlooked the minerals upon the hill ; he had a smattering of science ; and he had picked up, among the stones which I have said that he carried away, specimens of the lead ore, the tradition of which had long died away from the me- mory of man. Mr. Higgins had a large sum lying at his banker's ; the aspect of political affairs in Europe, made him hesitate as to investing it in the public funds. He saw this estate ; and in his own prompt man- ner of seizing upon advantages, decided at once upon the purchase. During his short walk with the landlord towards the coach, he had learned that the general impression throughout the country was, that a purchaser was lying by ready to take the market at advantage,— so believing no time was to be lost, he repaired im- mediately to London, possessed himself of the particulars, and made his offer An offer so much more liberal, than any that Messrs. Tennison and Biggs had found the least reason to expect, that, as we have seen, they did not think proper to refuse it. The business was soon settled; and every thing concluded. The country rang with Mr. Higgins's proceedings. He was blamed, praised, admired, wondered at — but, upon the whole, censure predominated : and a feeling of dislike, and a prejudice far from being in his favour, was generated among the country gentle- men, his neighbours. It is one of the numerous petty injustices of human beings, that a man is not contented with enjoying his own sloth, and idleness; but he must object to the energy of others. As one, roused from his morning sleep by the healthful activity of a companion, groans, and grumbles, while his matinal associate creeps, or bustles about the room; and envious of the vigour he will not emulate, ends by resuming, in much ill-humour, his own unwiiolesome slumber; — so, the man too indolent for improvement, too listless for progres- sion, with an obscure sense of all the waste and injury to himself or others which his slothful inactivity occasions, looks with the greatest possible dislike upon the active, stirring spirit, starting forward, in the animating pursuit of the better. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 85 He encourages himself in his obstinate and slothful adherence to old abuses, and ipcnorant practices — by stigmatising as theoretical and dangerous every altei'ation, however necessary; every inij)i'OV(;- ment, however beneficial. All deviations of all descriptions, from the long-established, are with him wrong : for all liave the one ii- i-emissible fault— of making a noise at six o'clock in the morning, when he chooses to sleep till nine. So it was with the ordinary class of gentlemen about us; — not so, with my lather. His sweet temper aided the clearness of his un- derstanding ; and he was incapable of envying the success of othei's, though, perhaps, without sufficient energy himself to attain it. He saw the necessity, and estimated the advantages of many of these things ; — and yet the rage, at that time so prevalent, for universal change, under the idea of universal improvement, he steadily and invariably opposed. His prepossessions clung to the tried : he distrusted expectations of theoretical perfection ; and he could observe the canker in the bud, the small, almost imperceptible, but rapidly growing evil, too often insinuated under great changes. His inclination led him rather to desire the improvement of w^hat ivas, than to sweep away all before him, and upon that champ rase erect something altogether new. He had neither the daring, the activity, nor the contempt of consequences; that impelled Mr. Higgins. And with far more tenderness for the sufferings of human nature, he had far less con- fidence in beneficial results from the uncontrolled action of human beings. I am afraid he considered the mass of mankind, as being still neither very wise nor very disinterested. He was for making every body behave well, — men, women, and children; — but his means were so just, so gentle, so humane, in spite of their pretended severity, that his notions would probably have led to far more real freedom and happiness, than the wild de- fiance of authority and restraint advocated by Mr. Higgins. He looked on, interested and amused by the proceedings of his animated neighbour. He had not called as yet upon him ; a feeling of delicacy towards Mr. de Vere, had made him disinclined to be a visiter at Mount Sorel under present circumstances; and he lived so far off, that there was no incivility in the omission. But distant as we were, the report of these proceedings reached us from all quarters; and we both felt very great interest in every thing con- nected with the subject. These tidings also reached Mr. de Vere. His old garrulous stew- ard could not help entertaining him with all the gossip he could gather upon the subject. The good old servant was totally ignorant of what had been Mr. de Vere's views with respect to the ])roperty; but its vieinitv to his master's estate of course rendered it an ob- ^ MOUrsT SOREL , OR, ject of interest; and the old man would frequently terminate the long audiences in which he was indulged, by reverting to the subject. CHAPTER X. As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth ; So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy Worth and truth. SlIAKSPEAKE. ** He's a rare one, that," he began one day, after the usual busi- ness had been gone over. " He's a rare one — as bought the old place. Sure and certain, it's many a long day, since such a one has been seen in these parts." Mr. de Vere winced internally ; but it was impossible for him to resist the curiosity he felt upon the subject ; he looked up, and the old man went on. " My stars. Sir! he's not the one as '11 let the grass grow under his feet. Such a sweep as he has made already. All the Entwistle rubbish, as I call it, cleared away.... Ah, Sir! them Entwistles were a sore evil in this country, — but that chap, Higgins, is quite a dif- ferent guess sort of a matter. "■ I hope," Mr. de Vere began, " that the poor, at least, will profit by this change." " Law, sir! you never saw the like. Why there's hosts of them employed — and at good smart wages too. Why, Sir, it's a pleasure to hear on' t. Such a stir through the whole country! Work at Squire Higgins', for all and every one, — but then, work they must. No slips-slops quarter-day work for him. He pays well, and makes them work well — and that's the man for my money." '' I am glad of it," said Mr. de Vere. '* I had reason to think he was one of those newfangled, philosophical philanthropists, of whom we have lately heard so much." ** I don't know, what that same maybe," responded the old man, "but I have heard say" — lowering his tone, ' ' that he's some- what a bit o' a Jacobin. Not knowing well, what that same means either — save that it seems to be a topsy-turvey sort o' a thing ; wants to set the world heels uppermost. But Jacobin or phil — phil — phi call it, or be it what it may — a cleverer, ac- tiverer, sharper sort of a squire, has not been among our folk manys the long day. Law, Sir, he makes 'em look about 'em ! " "And what has he been doing?" asked the master, unable to resist the painful interest which attached to the subject. THE HEIRESS OF THE 1)E YEKES. ^7 *' He's begun," said the old man, " lirstand rnivniust, a swcoi)- ing, and a swoei)ing down". . . . ' ' What? " cried Mr. de Vero , alai-niod . ''Oh! all that mess o' dog-kennels, and stal)l('s, and things at the back o' the old house. But you don't know Iho place, Sii". You never saw such a Babel, ol' a place, as I may say, as was that Such a heap of old, dry, rotten rubbish got together. A stitch in time .... that was never the Entwistle fashion. No care, no thought, in that misfangled house. Sir I Bad man that. When one thing got out of repair ,"build up another, that was the word— for Squire Entwistle was one o' the must haves, as I call 'em, Sir. A family that always rides post on the high road to ruin Must have this— vmst have ih^ii— must have a quite new stable, and dog- kennel, was the last word; and see what a power of money that alone, cost him. And all for this Uiggins, like, to sweep clean awav." "1 don't think him so much mistaken there. But are there no other changes?" said Mr. de Vere, in a low voice. ''No other things he is expected to sweep away?" "Ay, ay, Sir, be sure o' that. He'll sweep away loads and loads of line tirnber, and put a power o' money in his pocket. Be sure o' that, Sir." ** Cut down the woods! " exclaimed Mr. de Vere. "Plentv to take, and plenty to leave. Thin 'em, Sir, only thm 'em as they ought to be, and as they ought to have been these fifty years back. Ah, Sir ! it's a fine estate, racked and ruined as it has been. You should have thought o' that purchase. Sir; as 1 once, or twice took the liberty to hint to your honour. The timber alone! . . . Why that Higgins will make a power o' money by it." An involuntary sigh escaped Mr. de Vere. *'And what will he do to the house? "Now, Sir, that's what I call queer in him. He's a neiv mmi, your honour,— altogether, a neiv man, Sir. Why his grandfather, as I have heard say, came from a place down in the north, Sir — I forget its name— but he was a poor, ragged boy, taken up as a charity, to oil the engine wheels,— in some of these new great fac- tories down there. And the young fellow had a head, Sir; and so, he peeped, and he peered about; and he got to understand the fashion of all those sort of merry-go-r3unds. And so. Sir, he got grand secrets— and the long and short of it is— that same was the making of them all. And a power of money this Higgins has, Sir." " But the house?" said Mr. de Vere, rather impatiently. "Oh ay. Sir,— why, I was saying, it was queer that one of these new men, Sir— should set store by them things.— Those rare old 88 '\rOlNT SOKKL; ou, houses, like MoiiuL Sorel nianor Innisc ^Vhy, Sir, it might have been yourself. Won't have a stone louehed. — Not a ^Yindo^v- t'rame, or a corbel, oi' a bit of carved work,— only all put into beautiful and complete rei)air. — I'd have thought he'd have been fur pulling that down too ; and for building one o' them, staring Avindowed, red, new houses, just like one of their stinking manu- factories i\o such thing— he seems to like the anticpiity. Sir, of the poor old place." Was Mr. de Vere pained or pleased at this?— Pained. All was pain upon this sul)jcct; he detested the idea of this new man, inhabiting the old house of his fathers; he would rather, perhaps, it had been swept away too. ''And the ruins?" at last he said. "Aye, Sir, there be some old ruins under the Red Castle Hill. — Can't justly say, what he'll do with them. Most like he'll call ihem old rubbish — and sweep away, slip slap, dish dash, as he's done with the Entwistle litter. Can't say for certain, what he'll do with the ruins — can't say whether they be to be swept away or not." The ruins ! — Yes, they would in all probability be swept away too, before this new man— this active, vigorous stranger— who seemed to come forward as the type of that destructive torrent, which threatened to submerge all he had loved and reverenced. The times in which he lived— the mighty changes that hung threatening over society— the dark clouds big with unrevealed forces, gathering on all sides of the horizon— added strength to the personal melancholy of Mr. de Vere, and depth to his feelings. Resolved, as he had been, never to set foot upon, never even to turn his eyes towards, the lost estate of his ancestors ; a sort of invincible desire impelled him, at this moment, to visit once more those relics ; so soon, as he imagined, to be swept from the face of the earth. It Avas a dark, windy, cold evening ; black clouds swept over the moon ; and the heavy branches of the trees, swinging in the wind, threw their dear shadows across his path; as, silent as a ghost, and fearful of being seen as the prowling thief, this haughty and unhappy man traversed his own woods ; and arrived at the brook, and at the bridge, that separated him from his neighbour. Shall we say his almost detested neighbour?— For, in Mr. de Vere's heart— a heart hardened by pride, and perverted by the vain prejudices of his situation— vexation and disappointment were fast assuming the form of personal hatred. He always felt a secret aversion towards any rising man, whose talents were advancing him to a share in distinctions which he deemed to belong, by i)rescription, to his own j)eculiar class; and THE HEIRESS OF THK DK VERES. 89 lio iievor could look upon coiicessioiis mado to the advancing spirit of commercial wealth, but as a species ol" injustice. How much, therelore, he felt inclined to dislike Mr. Ilig:p:ijis may be easily divined. liuL it was, at this moment, with melancholy rather than wilh bitterness in his heart, that he passed over the little bridj^c, and clear, hurrying stream; and traversing the deep woods of his more fortunate rival, api)roached the, to him, hallowed spot, where the ruins of the old chai)el lay. The moon gleaming from time to time, between the heavy hurrying clouds, threw streams of light at intervals, among the deep shadows of the place, as, descending to the cha[)el lloor, he stood mournfully gazing upon the tomb of the crusader. There he slept in his time-honoured grave — and a vision of those days of chivalry gone by, passed, as in a trance, through the mind of his unhappy descendant. One long series of ruins I The ruins of all that was venerable and dear to him lay before him ! . . . A new w^orld — a new day was rising! — cloudy, turbulent, and stormy : and his family was descending, with the things gone by, into the tomb. One frail, but precious creature, represented that house, once supported by the wise and the brave, the desperate in battle, and the high in council. One embarrassed, and unprofitable estato, was all that remained of the wide-spread possessions of the past. The moment had been, when he had thought.... when his hand seemed already to have grasped that, which w^as to restore so much.... Another had stept between. It was to his melancholy imagination, as the type of his age. The heart of the last De Yere gave vvay, and a few tears fell, as he bent low his head over the ancient tomb. It w^as very late when he returned home ; bidding, as he thought, a last farewell to those hallowed remains, so soon to be annihilated by the hand of improvement. But in this he was destined to be mistaken. Mr. lligginshad, in this matter, behaved w4th his usual original- ity. Family pride, he despised; the dignity of a long descent he ridiculed ; as was the fashion with him and many others of his day, by any thing not exactly founded on reason, — as they called it. They seemed to forget that man has other qualities — his imagination for instance ; and if that is not excited by high things, that the man will become but a poor, sordid, selfish and sensual creature after all. This, however, by the vvay. But, in the midst of this daring contempt for much that men had been long accustomed to respect and reverence, Mr. Higgins possessed a very lively imagination of his own. An imagination that could be worked upon by historic 90 MOUNT SOREL; Oil, recollections and tales of by-gone days — as well as other people's- And these ruins were exceedingly to his fancy. He woidd not have had a stone touched for the world. He had them cleared, so as to prevent, as far as could be done, the farther injuries of time : — but the ivy still hung over the time-honoured vestiges; the sun yet shot his slant beam through the flourished Gothic window ; and lighted the cold marble figures on the tombs. Another peculiarity too, distinguished this eccentric man. He had the greatest love for the beauties of nature, and took a singular interest in the preservation of those wild animals still to be found, in the remoter corners of this improvement-loving country. Not a gun was to be fired upon the Mount Sorel estate ; it w^as to be a sort of Eden of refuge for every bird, and beast, and creeping thing. The owls hooted in the woods ; the hawks soared against the clear blue sky ; the shrubberies re-echoed with the song of the thrush and black-bird. What effect this plan of proceeding had upon his game and upon his gardens, I never learned ; he seemed not to have quite so many pheasants and partridges as other people; but the productions of his orchards and kitchen-gardens were un- rivalled. Altogether, his domain was a charming place, — so wild, and yet so well kept up; and peopled with this happy community of living things; it was rendered cheerful and entertaining to every lover of nature. These proceedings of Mr. Higgins w^ere, of course, spread over a considerable portion of time, and occupied at least two years; a great part, however, of which was spent by him, as it will be seen, abroad, and more especially at Paris, then the centre of universal interest. To return to my own affairs. 1 was, as I have said, most impatient to set out for the conti- nent. The uneasiness I felt at the idea of meeting Mr. de Vere, had increased upon me; and, in spite of my passion for Clarice, I could find no rest but in the thought of getting away and begin- ning the tour, which my good father had planned. He had written to Mr. Broadhurst, the travelling tutor, and had made very particular inquiries about the young gentleman whose companion 1 was to be. This answer was not long in arriving — and, to my inexpressible satisfaction, informed us that his name was Reginald Vernon. I hare never mentioned this young man until now : but I had known and loved him, for eome time. Reginald ! Cenei'ous — joyous— Reginald I How shall I find words to convey a just im- pression of the fascinations of thy character? Thy bright blue eyes, instinct with vivacity and spirit ; thy beautiful features ; thy HIE HEIRESS OF THE PE VERES. 91 curling brown hair so lightly waving; that synnnotrical figure formed alike for graceful and vigorous action ; that cheering laugh, that infectious gaiety, before which dulness and nu'lanclioly melled away as morning mists before the sun I . . . I loved thee — wdio but must have loved Ihec — wlio l)ut nuist have loved that warm, candid, generous temper; that honest, and aifectionate heart. But to me, with my I'cserve, my languid spirits, my constitu- tional inertness both of body and soul — that weight o})pressive, which I could so rarely throw off— thy ])resencewas /ij'enud //(/lit. And, thou too, dear Reginald, thou too, no doubt, didst feel a certain enjoyment, when the bright beams of thy intellect played on and illuminated this clay ;— summoning into fitful existence the ardent spirit, that struggled for expression within. I had tirst met Reginald Vernon at the Academy, where we had been educated together; and had been drawn towards each other by that sort of attraction v/hich often unites oi)p()sitions. And now this agreeable fellow^ was to be the comi)anion oi my travels. A'ou may guess how pleased I was. It is not easy to say how^ very much I Hked Reginald then, or how warmly 1 soon learned to love him.— My whole existence has been made up of my affections ;— Reginald and Clarice!— my heart has been divided between them. I have loved them, not as men usually love. My friendship for Reginald has had almost the force of a passion— my love for Clarice all the strength and constancy of a friendship. In them I have lived. And now, when the unhappy accident which had clouded my enjoyment at Holnicote had made me nervously desirous to get away ; to change the scene ; and to forget the vexations and regrets of the past ; — it is needless to express with what satisfaction I turned to the idea of Reginald. As the one thing still left in life, on which this shadow that had darkened my existence would not fall. With what expectation of relief, I clung to this ideal— to the remembrance of his courageous and cheerful spirit — and trusted that its influence would disi)el the i)ainful ideas that saddened me. I should receive fresh life from the animating society of Reginald. And, by a good fortune, which in my depression of spirit I had thought never under any form would again be mine. Reginald was to be the companion of my travels. My father, upon receiving this information, acceded to the plan with the greatest alacrity. He was a father sucli as ihere are few to be found. Mothers tender, disinterested, generously devoted to the best happiness 92 MOUNT SOREL; OR, ui' their oilspring, are not rare— it is the precious attribute of their sex ; but lathers seldom look ui)oii their sons with an attection so pure and genuine. They are too apt to regard them merely as the instruments of their ambition — as those who shall complete the schemes of life they have themselves commenced ; or else, as very expensive and troublesome burdens, to be shoved off into the great ocean of life, to struggle and fight it out as best they may. The generous attention to a son's best happiness, that true test of real affection, is too often wanting. But my father had the kindest regard for mine. Perhaps, his more than common tenderness was occasioned by the early loss of my mother ; — and his compassion was excited for the helpless little boy ; possessing no near female relation ; and who was thrown entirely upon his gentleness and humanity, for all his enjoyments. He invariably proved to me, the most indulgent, and the most valuable of friends ; as well as the most charming of companions. I admired, as much as I loved and honoured him. We had no secrets. On my return home I had confessed to him the vexatious cause of Mr. de Vere's disappointment. 1 saw that he v,'as excessively annoyed at it; but he w(juld not wound me. He did his best to conceal a mortification that it was impossible for him, altogether, to disguise. I saw clearly, that he sympathised with Air. de Vere far more strongly than i did. At my age, and with my temper, any disap- pointment in which love has no share, excites after all but a feeble interest : but my father was no longer young, — and he understood how many, and how strong, are the passions which yet survive, when the first wild insanity of love is over. He could appreciate the bitterness, with which this destruction of so many desires, and of so many plans, must have fallen upon his friend's heart. I related to him the conversation with Mrs. Fermor. " I agree with her," said he, *' she decided like a woman of sense, as she is. But let neither of us forget, Edmund, that it is the duty of us both by every means that may i)ossibly present themselves, to repair the evil you have so inadvertently occasioned. This is one of those fine obligations which bind the man (jf ho- nour. A claim upon you, which no man could perha])s i)recisely assert, and certainly which no man could enforce. — It rests upon your own conscience, and sense of justice alone Such is true honour, Edmund." T was never demonstrative ; T c(nild rarely express what I most strongly felt; I made no answer; but the words sank into my mind, he saw that thev did, and was satisfied. THE HEIRESS OF THE HE VEUES. 9,1 He oomprehendocl iho uneasy fcolini'S, wliich would for tlio present make me less hapi)y al Holnieole than I had Ibrmerly been, and he did not seem to regret it. His whole mind was now enga- ged on this tour. He was extremely im])atient for me to set out. Julv and August were now passed ; it was September befoi-e all our various preparations were eompleted; and my father set out with me for London, to join Mr. Broadhurst and his pu[>il. We had, among other eauses of delay, been waiting for Reginald, who iiad been engaged, since we parted at the academy, touring throughout Scotland and Ireland : portions of the empire then but rarely visited, and where, in the more remote parts at least, com- munications were so uncertain and slow, that I had neither heard from him, nor he from me, upon the subject of the projected scheme. It was early in September when my father and I arrived in town, and took up our abode at the Old Hummums in Covent Garden, at that time a very fashionable hotel ; and we had just finished what was considered a lale dinner, at four o'clock, when the door opened, and Mr. Broadhurst and Mr. Vernon were announced. CHAPTER XI. '•Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Cnarakter in deni Sturm der Well," Says Goethe. I am sure no one wanted the last advantage more than I did, as my judicious father was well aware. We were very fortunate in our travelling tutor. Mr. Broadhurst was a learned scholar, and a thoroughly accomplished man ; ad- mirably calculated for the office he undertook. He understood the world too well, to play the part of severe censor, with the young men entrusted to his care ; but he was himself, a man of such high principles, both as regards rectitude and purity of morals, that there was a sort of infect ion of goodness, if you w^ill pardon the phrase, in his very company. You learned to love and esteem qualities, adorned by so much intellectual power and by manners so refined, — and a young man would have felt ashamed, and de- graded in his own opinion, had he yielded to temptations or in- dulged in excesses, so foreign to the fine and delicate sentiments and habits of him, with whom he was so closely associated. Of all the good intlucnces that pervade society, such infection, as I have called it, is perhaps the very best. 94 MOUNT SOBKL; OR, iMr. Broadliurst was also a man of fine taste, as well as of aston- ishing information ; and he failed not to arouse in his compa- nions, an interest for all they saw ; and that taste for the beautiful and the grand, which refines the thoughts, fills up the vacant hours, raises the tone and temper of youth, and forms the best defence against those vices and follies, which are chiefly, in such early and ingenuous years, the mere result of having nothing to do— and little to care about. He came in looking very agreeable ; though it must be confessed there was a slight formality in his manners; he was followed by Reginald. Reginald sprang forward, hand extended to meet mine. He had already been informed that we were to travel together, and had received the intelligence with as much pleasure as I had myself. I think I see him now— with his frank cordial manner— coming forward, looking so handsome, and so pleasant. I presented him to my father; they seemedrmutually pleased with each other. And then, my father introduced me to Mr. Broadhurst. We all sat down and began to talk ; and soon fell to arranging the plan of our proceedings, and settling the day when we should actuallv set out, ' ' iMy father," said Reginald, " writes me word that he w^ould like to accompany us to Paris,— and, perhaps, as far as Nantes or Or- leans. It is his suggestion," turning to my father, ' ' that we should spend the ensuing autumn and winter travelling through France. He wishes me, he says, to make myself well acquainted with the state of things, in a country which he considers to be upon the eve of great changes. I believe he sends me there in winter, that I may learn what misery is. ... 1 have seen enough of that, where I have just come from.' All this, however, is subject to your ap- probation. Sir.". ' ' I think you will approve of Mr. Higgins' idea," began Mr. Broad- hurst, deliberately. " Higgins I" I cried, looking at Reginald. '' Can that be your father's name?" " Why, Edmund," said he, laughing, " thou hast a droll way of forgetting things. Did 1 never impart to thee the fact, that my father's name and mine were different?" " Indeed if you did I never paid attention to it— and yet, now I remember that I must have known it. But it had escaped my recol- lection. . . . Higgins I repeated. " And why not Higgins?" said he. My father and I exchanged glances. " He has lately purchased an estate not very distant, I think, Sir, from the place where as Edmund informed me — I don't forget THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 95 names as he does — you lived. Mount Sorel , be tells me, is a very beautiful thing. Do you happen to know it, Edmund?" " To be sure, 1 do," said 1, turning my bead away. " It is, as I understand, a very line plaee," said my tatber, " but 1 have never seen it." "I should very mueb have liked," continued Reginald , " to have been allowed to run down, and get a glimpse of it myself. But my father is rather absolute in his ideas; and he will allow of no such waste of time, as he calls it. I expect him to be in town to-morrow ; and then I shall have the honour, with your permis- sion , of making you acquainted." Neither my father nor I said more upon the subject at present — and we continued the discussion of our plans. It was settled that we should set forward in the course of the week. We proposed in the first place to make the tour of France ; — to visit the Pyrenees ; perhaps, if the time would allow% take a glance at Switzerland ; and be ready to meet Mr. Higgins again in Paris in the following spring, to be present at the opening of the States General. " Mr. Higgins," said Mr. Broadhurst, " makes a shie qua non of that condition, and I think he is right. No event in modern history has at any time appeared so big with consequences, as this will in all probability be." " A'ou young men are singularly fortunate," remarked my father, ' ' to travel in such interesting and stirring times. 1 thought myself lucky at your age, to be in Germany at the close of the w^ar of '59 But what were the contests of princes, about a few leagues of territory — to the grand debate now going on, in France! 1 think, Broadhurst 1 shall myself be disposed to make one of the party; and to join the rendezvous at Paris next April. In the meantime, young gentlemen, keep your eyes open and note well the things that be, for I prophecy that they will not be long." And so, my agreeable acquaintance of the little inn — the almost detested purchaser of Mount Sorel — and the father of my friend, were one. It may appear strange, that this circumstance had not struck me when I saw the name in Mr. Law^son's letter. I do recollect that when I read the name Higgins, it did sound like an old memory ; but one rarely puts together things so remote, as I imagined young Vernon and Mount Sorel to be. We set out upon our travels. Mr. Higgins had joined us in London. When we met, he gave me a very hearty recognition ; and seemed delighted to see his companion of the little inn, and rainy night, again : I was less pleased to see him, — indeed, I felt almost sulky at first ; but my ill-humour speedily yielded to his frankness and cor- 9() MOUNT SOREL; OK, (lialilv. There was that in him which, to me, was irresistibly agreeable ; and I soon became as much fascinated as before by his oj'iginal views, and animated conversation. We left London late in September ; and after beating about two or thi-ee days on the river, and in the channel, arrived, disgusted with packet boats and sea-breezes, before the gates of Calais. Jean Crapaud was, still, what old caricatures and prints have represented him; — the lean, half-starved, lively, fiddling, dan- cing, amiable being, that Sterne and Moore have painted. I could have laughed, — and Reginald shouted with dehght, at seeing the identical figure of Hogarth's " Gates of Calais," still standing there. But, as we proceeded, things began to assume a different aspect. The summer had been most disastrous ; that hailstorm which had exercised so strange an influence over my fortunes, had been felt as is usually the case, with far more severity upon the con- tinent. The devastation that it had produced in France was ter- rific. The crops had been almost completely destroyed; the hopes of the vintage annihilated; and the dread of approaching famine, was a dready beginning to add its exasperation, to all the various causes of dissatisfaction wdiich at this time agitated the country. The gay carelessness of the French peasant, had not, it is true, as yet, entirely forsaken him — but there were clouds of discontent, and lines of moody thought on many a brow which, but a few years before, would, even in the worst of times, have been all cheerfulness, politeness, and lively good humour. The wretchedness of the common people, no longer relieved by their inexhaustible gaiety, now appeared in all its deformity; and observing these things as I did, under the influence of Mr. Hig- gins's opinions, they made the deepest impression upon my heart. I say his influence, for already had he obtained an influence over my mind which gave the bias to so many years of my life ; and has had a lasting effect in the formation of my character. Young, generous, and strongly susceptible of impressions, I seized with enthusiasm upon the ideas he presented. The aspect of misery before my eyes, was sufficient to arouse any man of feeling : — and the causes of that misery I readily attributed, as he did, to the long ages of oppression under which the country had languished. I hailed that rising day-star of liberty, which he pointed out to me, with a rapture at least equal to his ovn, and shared in the intoxication with which the world was reeling. It would be difficult, nay, impossible to convey to you, any adequate idea of the enthusiastic emotions of those days — the ecstasy, with which the dawn of that liberty and happiness, so fondly anticipated, was greeted. It was, as if the very air you breathed was inspiring. But it is vain to attempt to make you THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 97 sympathise with these rapturous anlici})ati<)ns. Those who have seen the reverse of the [)ioture, cannot realise them. We arrived at Paris. We had excellent introductions, and were speedily received into the very best company. We frequented the delightful soupers of that great world; at this moment, probably, composing the very best society that has been seen in modern times. What a curious, interesting medley it was ! of philosophers, petits maitres, states- men, poets — the most fascinating women of genius and the most elegant women of fashion. What delightful conversation we en- joyed I no pedantry — no boring — yet nothing of the elegant insipi- dity of our present mode. Every thing was discussed. No subject was too recondite or abstruse — too sentimental or too romantic, to engage these charming people. How lightly and brilliantly was all handled? How did every subject acquire fresh interest — the darkest become lucid, the gravest animating— when touched by these true artists in conversation! Well might my father congratulate us, upon the moment chosen for our travels — w^e arrived just in time to see the last of an aspect of society, such as, in all probability the world will never behold again. The elements of which it was constructed have disappeared, to make w^ay, we will trust, for fai more valuable things; but one cannot help sometimes wishing, that this leaf had been taken out of their book, as the saying is, before it was burned. I was so enchanted with what I saw — and still more with what I heard, that 1 became most unwilling to leave this exciting scene, in order to visit those remote and almost barbarous provinces, laid down in Mr. Higgins' programme. Mr. Broadhurst, however, and Reginald, resolved to persevere in the original plan. Reginald had much more bodily activity, and mental enterprise than fell to my share ; and he greatly preferred the labours and difficulties of a tour in whiter through these semi- civilised districts, to the fascinations of that society, which to me was so inexpressibly attractive. Not that you must fancy me taking a forward or distinguished part in these brilliant reunions, or captivated by the charms of the agreeable and high bred wom.en, who played so prominent a part in them. Reginald was much better fitted for this than I was though he seemed to care little about it. You must imagine Edmund, well, but plainly dressed, occupying some obscure corner in these magnificent apartmenls; listening greedily, drinking in with all his ears, the splendid paiadoxes, the intoxicating visions, the lively, the gay repartees, that crackled and sparkled around him. Above all, you must fancy him hanging upon the lips of one of those philosophers, who had assumed to 7 MOUNT SOREL; OR, themselves without appeal, the sceptre of truth and right reason: and gathering their axioms with earnest attention, to be laid up as the rarest of treasures in his heart. All the best qualities of mv mind, and all its worst defecis, were alike called into play. I could not endure the idea of exchanging all this excitement for mere valleys, rocks, and mountains, so, as long as Mr. Higgins re- mained in Paris, 1 staid with him, and when he returned to Eng- land, 1 crossed France; and travelling through Auvergne, and the volcanic valleys of. the Vivarais, rejoined Reginald and Mr. Broad- hurst, who had bv this time reached Toulouse. I have said, that it would be vain to attempt to give you an idea of the ferment that at this time agitated Paris. The enthusiastic anticipations of the middle classes; the ill-concealed apprehensions of the court and higher nobiUty ; the tumultuous stormy aspect of the lower orders ; the distress for bread ; the crowds at the bakers' doors— the dark ominous figures, quite unknow^n to every one, and rising no one knew from whence — that were to be seen, mingling with the people on every occasion of tumult! In the provinces things were no better. The elections were ])roceeding amidst the greatest aghation ; while the distress among the lower orders, in this terrihc winter, mocks description. A winter journey through France in the years 1788—9, inclusive, Avas enough to make the stoutest heart bleed. We returned in April to meet my father and Mr. Higgins, and to be present at that Assembly of the States General, upon which the eye of the whole civilised world w^as fixed. All Europe w^as aroused, and stood awaiting in a sort of raptur- ous expectation, the result of the mighty experiment about to be tried in France. Hearts w^ere beating high with an enthusiasm and ecstasy of hope wdiich is indescribable ; and mine, impressible and inexpe- jienced as I was, responded wwmly to the universal sentiment. Looking back upon those days, I may be allowed to marvel at the blind confidence with which we relied upon measures, so little governed by sound principle, so Uttle guided by prudence, so evi- dently, in many cases, the mere result of vanity, envy, or the most sordid desire of personal gain. But, alas I for young human nature, ignorant even of the work- ings of its own heart ; il is not till w^e have experienced the pride, the selfishness, the folly, and the vanity, which mingle with our own feelings, that we detect those fatal springs of action in others; and learn to reverence the strong authority of law, and ancient custom, which resist the influence of violent and sudden changes. They' had fine words in their mouths, those friends of liberty in France ;— but when they had succeeded in levelling all those THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 99 barriers opposed to ibeir basty presunii)lion, wbat ensued? a state ol' anareliy and disorder unparalleled in tbe liistory of man ; a state in wbicb every man found himscli' witbout delcnee, in tbe power ofanyotb(?r man, more unprincipled, more violent, more auda- cious tban bimself; a state wbere tbe weak were witbout protec- tion, tbe timid witbout refuge, tbe good witbout su))port! No lieree contests of ibe most ambitious monarcbs, no injustice of tbe most barbarous tyrant, could ever exceed, in reckless and selfisb cruelty, tbe contests and tbe wild injustice of tbe French Convention ; or display more empbatically tbe necessity of some strong coercive resistance to tbe passions, and tbe selfisbness of man. Tbe tremendous story of tbe Frencb Revolution, stripped of the vain illusions vvitb wbicb tbe imaginations of men bave invested it, will prove a treasury of knowledge in buman nature and buman affairs. And there are, as some think, signs of tbe times, wbicb would incline them to wish that page of history re[)resented in its bare reality, and studied as it ought to be. But enough, and more tban enough of this; my business is to paint wbat 1 saw and felt, and leave others to draw tbe inference. 1 felt then, excited to tbe highest possible degree, and filled with enthusiasm and expectation. My heart, which during the course of my travels, bad so often bled at the prospect of arro- gance and servility, luxury and misery, oppression and revolt, in fierce and terrible contrast with each other; swelled at that voice which bade tbe chains fall from all bands, and the tyrant's iron sceptre be no more. Universal freedom! Universal equality I Universal brotherhood I Universal peace and happiness ! — Such were our dreams. Alas I to be drowned in wbat a torrent of blood and tears ! Vast destruction! Mighty ruin! Funeral of the Middle Ages! with all their magnificence, their pomps, their ideal beauty, their tender superstitions, their honourable chivalry— their sins, their sorrows, their oppressions, and their crimes. A new world — a new race — new modes of thought — new^ forms of life succeed. Ob ! may that great Spirit who alone converts tbe end of all things! call forth out of this struggling chaos in which we are blindly and darkly fighting oui* way, a jmrcr, a fairer, and a better structure of society. Is it so to be? — or, dark and spectral vision of evil! " When tbe Son of Man cometh, will he find faith upon the earth?" We found Mr. Higgins in a state of high excitement; and pre- pared to adopt any extravagances, and go any lengths, with the 100 MOUNT SOREL; OR, domocratical party, now distinclly assuming a form, as a party. He had bocomc intimately acquainted with Mr. Thomas Paine — and from that fl£ VEJ^ES. . '.4^V tifunvomon in full dress ; ihc clang of music ;tlic hoarse yet stilly murmur of the assembled nmltitude; rendered this the noblest spectacle, I had then, or have ever since witnessed. My enthusiasm was excessive — tears of rapture, of which 1 was not ashamed, filled my eyes— as the long and sacred train; the harbingers, as I fondly hoped, of quite a ncAv, and far better or- der of things; slowly defiled before me Mr. Higgins, and a few of his particular friends, were at some little distance from us, engaged in deej) conversation ; and at times testifying their enthusiasm in the most energetic manner. My father looked at me— he saw, but he did not blame my emo- tion ; he said, however, " Let us wait the conclusion, before we rejoice without measure, Edmund : this is but the first act of a very long story." We remained in Paris for some time after this; my father, and Mr. Higgins alike, taking the deepest interest in the proceedings of what soon became, the National Assembly. Reginald and I were in Paris on the 12th, 13th, and I4th of July ; and were actual spectators of the taking of the Bastile. There are impressions ineffaceable by years. Still I see those splendid regiments, the Royal Allemand, the Gardes Francoises, with the Prince de Lambesq at their head, parading the streets — still I hear the lugubrious voice of the tocsin sounding from every steeple in ancient Paris. I see the surging populace sweeping down the dark, lofty, narrow^ streets; I hear the cannon of the Bastile ; the click of the musketry ; the enthu- siastic shouts of the multitude. I witness their heroic courage, their passionate excitement; and I see the mJghty, and invincible ocean of human beings, bursting with overwhelming force through the vain intrenchments of tyrannic powder. That was a noble spectacle! but it was a spectacle already, alas I stained and polluted with that blood, which was soon in such torrents to flow. But the dai'k edifice! It had taken such unhallowed hold upon the imagination! standing there a type, as it were, of the barba- rous injustice of ages. Was there a heart that rejoiced not in its overthrow? Mine did — Reginald's did — Mr. Higgins exulted aloud. Even my temperate father, though he shook his head, yet he could not but rejoice. After that we parted. Mr. Higgins and my father returned for the present, to England — while Mr, Broadhurst, Reginald, and I, pursued our course to Italy. It was no small matter to visit Italy in those days ; and to cross Mount Cenis, then so rarely traversed. The barriers which W^ MOUNT SOREL; OR, fenced in la bella Italia, bad not as yet been levelled by the pion- eering hand of the man of ages, and it was reckoned quite an enterprise to achieve them. With Italy, Reginald and I were equally in raptures. Assisted by the fine taste, and immense treasure of historic recollections, possessed by Mr. Broadhurst, we saw that delightful country to (he best advantage. We had abundant letters and introductions, and here also we cfained an entrance into the best societv. We spent a delightful winter. In the spring, we again traversed the Alps, and arrived in Paris to rejoin Mr. Higgins; and to be present at the Federation in the Champ de Mars, on the I4th July, 1790. My father this time, did not join us, so Mr. Higgins and I had it all our own way. We both worked lustily with our spades, in the preparation of the Champ de Mars for the august ceremony — even Reginald and 31r, Broadhurst lent a hand. . . . After that, we visited Germany and Poland, and returning by Prussia and the Netherlands rejoined Mr. Higgins, at Paris, in the spring of 1791. The space of time which we had occupied in travelling through so large and interesting a portion of Europe — improving our taste, increasing our knoweldge, and receiving such additional polish to our manners, as courts and the first society in the world could give — had been enjoyed in a very difterent manner by Mr. Higgins. He had been frequently in Paris during our absence ; had become an associated member of the Jacobin Club; was very intimate with all the leading characters in that Legislative Assem- bly, which w^as already urging forward the Revolution with strides so rapid — dow7iA\'a?-ds— SiS mam thought ; and had assumed the manners and habits, with the principles then beginning to prevail. This had not imjiroved him, — the contempt for the idle shows and observances of life, which had given so much spirit and originality to his manners and conversation, was rapidly degener- ating into a certain coarseness, and rudeness, into which it seems the tendency of man's nature to slide, when not restrained, and that pretty tightly too, by the laws of habitual good-breeding. Not that I was altogether aware of this defect at the time. There was something, to me, inexpressibly fascinating in the energy and simplicity of his principles, his disregard of external distinctions, his disdain of outward seeming, his enthusiasm for freedom and for nature — it was all so congenial to my tempera- ment. My shyness, my hesitations, my want of harmony with myself, and with the external world— which all my experience of courts and salons could not cure, were so much relieved by it. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 103 These vexatious feelings seemed to leave me, when 1 breatlie'l the free atmosphere of this new world. I was like Friday when he easts off the sailor's garb, when released by the new sehool from so mueh eeremonial observance. A eertain native delicacy and retinement preserved me from giving into the rude, overbeai'ing ways of many of oui* friends ; ways, which they dignified with the name of simplicity — but \ tolerated that , in them, which would have been, before I left England, insupportable. Altogether I was, perhaps, among the few who I'eally did improve under these new principles of good breeding : I certainly became more manly and consistent in my bearing; and, as far as my own feelings were concerned, much more comfortable. As for Reginald, he openly professed his disgust, and dislike, I'ov the whole clique. A moclere he began, and a inodere he remained. His imagination yet lingered round the elegancies and refinements of the w^orld which was now fast disappearing ; he had strong and tender associations with the past ; and besides that, he was a very pretty fellow, — and he ivoiild be recherche in his toilette, and ele- gant in his habits, say what his father might. But more of him by and by — he will make himself better un- derstood by his actions, than I can do by this hasty sketch. We had become warmly attached to each other. The contrast of our characters served to unite us. I do not know whether 1 more enjoyed the vivacity, fun, and invincible good humour, that distin- guished Reginald — or he, the somewhat sentimental, tender, reser- ved character, of his, ' ' best of Edmunds, " as he called me. Certain it was, that we understood each other perfectly ; we were both honest and well disposed, that I will say for us ; and, though we viewed many things in very different lights, in the desire for all that was good, and the admiration for all that was great, we thoroughly sympathised. We found that Mr. Higgins had collected round him, quite a sort of little school, of young Englishmen; devoted to his opinions, and attached to his person. There w^ere many clever young lads among them ; and a great many as stupid pretenders to great things, as one might wdsh to see on a summer's day. We passed the rest of our time in Paris, much to our satisfaction, exulting in the victory obtained by our opinions ; revelling in the bright prospects of the future, and enjoying all the delights of the present. We most of us lived for the day — and we had our reasons, Upon matters of deeper interest, matters that come home to the business and bosom of every man, we were as much emancipated as upon every other. The religion, or rather no-religion of those days, was astonish- 104 MOU.M SOREL; OU, ing. Since the world began, I suppose, such a complete denial of all relations, whatsoever, with a spiritual world, has not been known. Men have been Atheists in secret ; and idolaters in public. Atheists that trembled at their own darkness, — and idolaters who have discerned a spirituality under their vain forms. It was re- sented for the eighteenth century to look round the Avondrous universe, and proclaim that there was nothiny. I had not attained to this climax of philosophy, and right reason; but my mind, upon such subjects, was sadly unsettled, my thoughts were all in a maze of confusion. 1 neither believed, nor rejected — 1 tried, in fact, to think as little upon the subject as I could. I was too much occupied, indeed, by what was going on, to be sensible of the void within my soul. CHAPTER XII. Welcome pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves, These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. Sir H. Wotton. I?^ July we prepared to return to England — all in great glee. Mr. Higgins, Reginald, myself, and a number of young jacobins, disciples of Mr. Higgins, forming the party. Mr. Higgins had given us all an invitation to visit him at Mount Sorel, immediately upon our landing, and we had accepted it without hesitation. Even I. Mount Sorel had long ceased to be to me, a place forbid. I associated it in idea, with Mr. Higgins and Reginald, the two men I loved the best in the world ; and I thought with the greatest possible pleasure of spending a few days there with the joyous party, therein about to assemble, before I proceeded to my father's. But no sooner did I set my foot upon my native shore, than, as if by enchantment, all those feelings at once revived, which my long absence had in some degree appeared to subdue : those thousand and dear remembrances, hoarded in silence in my heart, on which time, absence, action, variety, had vainly exerted their power. I had kept up a regular correspondence with Holnicote ; to Mrs. de Vere or to Mrs. Fermor, I had written at stated intervals — and now and then to Mr. de Vere himself. Messages and postscripts addressed immediately to Clarice, had been answered by messages on her side ; so that I had been ever present with her. Still, nothing that passed gave the slightest satisfaction to that lUE UEIUKSS 01 TUK 1)E VERES. 105 anxious question, wliich still yearned at my boart. Did she — eould slie — love me? The first moment of our meeting, the lirst glanee into her eyes, I lelt persuaded would resolve this question; and my heart flut- tered with that nervous anxiety, to whieh I had lately been a stranger, at the tli oughts of seeing her again. My old timidity, shyness, and irresolution, seemed to beset me the instant 1 set my loot in England. Again, the painful circum- stanees connected with Mount Sorel began to perplex me ; the more so, that I was now become so thoroughly attached to its inhabit- ants, (hat the idea of sacrilicing their friendship, even for that of Mr. de Vere, was become insui>portable. I, very particularly, wished to accept Mr. Higgins' invitation, and join the gay grouj) about to be assembled there; and Reginald, for whom my affectiou was indeed become very great, pressed me so earnestly to be his companion upon his first visit to his new home, that I could not resist entreaties so warmly seconded by my own inclination. I therefore, true to my old character, halted between two measures. I knew that I should be less acceptable at Holnicote, for my intimacy at Mount Sorel ; and I resolved to conceal it — not altogether that, neither — but to make it as little obvious as might be. They were not, at Holnicote, aw^are of the time I intended to return; so I said to myself that it was a matter of indifference, and that 1 would pay my visit first, at Mount Sorel, whence I would proceed to my father's, and thence to Mr. de Vere's. This may seem a strange delay and hesitation on the part of a lover, so tender as I was; but it arose, I think, from that dread of bringing things at Holnicote to an issue, which haunted me. 1 don't know well how it was with me. 1 had only slightly mentioned the De Veres in my communica- tions with Reginald. Mr. de Vere had not called upon Mr. Higgins, at which Mr. Higgins, it was evident, w^as considerably nettled , though he scorned to mention it. With my morbid sensitiveness upon the subject, I dreaded also to have my feelings suspected ; so that no one was aware of our close intimacy. It is singular how young men thus brought together may live upon the most friendly and even confidential terms; and knowlittle, or absolutely nothing, of each other's intimacies and connexions. So it was, at least, in this case. It was decided that Mr. Higgins and many of his party should immediately repair to Mount Sorel : to which place Reginald and I, after remaining about two or three days in London, w^ere to follow them. Reginald, as it has been seen, had never yet visited Mount Sorel; and he was not a little desirous to make himself acquainted with a 106 M0r5T SOBEL: OR. plac^, about which he had heard so much. It was situated in a remote county, and promised to furnish less opportunity for society than he quite liked; but I assured him that he would tind it, nevertheless, sufticiently to his laste. Mr. Higgins, accordingly, and his compguiysetoflPinhigh spirits: and Reginald and I prepared to fellow in a few days. We resolved, according to the general custom of the times, to ride down on hoi^eback ; and on the day appointed we set out. We had a ver\' pleasant journey. Reginald was all life and gaiety, and 1. in spite of my secret causes of anxiety, was enlivened by his vivacity. We laughed and chatted — and admired fine views, and speculated upon fine things. As we entered the county to which he was hence for\\'ard to be long, Reginald was excessively interested in the scenery around him. it was, in general, picturesque, and interesting in a high degree. At length, after threading a deep valley, we suddenly opened upon an extended landscape ; and stretching far before us. we beheld that high amphitheatre of hills, which was crowned by the waving woods of Mount Sorel. We followed a sylvan lane for a mile or two, — a sudden turn brought us to the Lodge, and we entered by the richly ornamented iron gate as I had done just three years before. Reginald was in raptures with his father's possession. *' What a beautiful! what a splendid place, Edmund!" he kept exclaiming, as the iron gates clanged behind us. and advancing into the park, the fine sheet of water, the bold outUue of the woods, and the gray old peaked mansion, with its broad sweeping lawns, spread before us; all adorned by that fine and exact keep- ing, and order, which give so serene a dignity to a scene like this. It was a beautiful evening — calm and still; an immense flock of rooks were returning to their evening home among the distant woods ; the shrill whistle of the reed bird, sounding amid the tall sedges that ornamented one side of the lake; a flapping heron rising lazdy as we approached, and winging its way slowly over the sky, the dark blue azure of which was now melting into the opal tints of evening.... Reginald, ever responsive to the impres- sions of the moment, felt the full influence of that calm, and beau- tiful hour. His gay rattle was hushed to silence ; and letting the bridle hand fall, he checked his horse, and turning round, surseyed the scene without speaking.... *• This is noble! — this is princely!" At last, he said. — " Ed- mund, he had need to prove himself a man. who owns such an inheritance as this." " Yes, Reginald, and who, more than yourself, has the power to do so T THE HEIRESS OF THE T)E VERES. 107 He shook his head ; and slowly walkirii,' mn' hoi-sos, avo |)vooecded towards the house. The mood was soniewliat solemn, [)ei'liu{)s you Avill lliink, for the young, hrillianl, volatile heir (»r such a proju'i'ly, — aged just one and twenty, and entering upon so promising a [xjssession. Whether natural or not, — or too solemn Jbi' the oeeasion, — il was soon interrupted. We rang at the liall-door bell, but no array ol' I'oolmen , with pomj)ous butler at theii' head, answered in eold lormality to the summons. After waiting a few seconds, we heard some one hastily tugging at the heavy lock of the door;— open, at length, it flew, with a hideous rebound, and followed by a crowd of young men, forth rushed Mr. Higgins down the stejis. " How do I— how do I Welcome, my brave lads— that's right. Here, Reginald, my good fellow— down from your horse. Hallo! —Tom! Jack I— William I— No one to take Mr. Reginald's horse?" Out rushed two or three rough-looking stable servants, and took ])ossession of our steeds. " Hallo, Edmund!— how is't with you, my good fellow? Wel- come to the old place.— Come, Reginald!— come in. Thou'rt heartily, heartily, welcome to Mount Sorcl, my boy." Reginald responded to the hearty greeting; he w^as himself again, in a moment ; — his meiTV eye glancing I'ound ; his ready hand re- turning the cheering salutes of the whole jocund party. We were ushered into a s})lendid old hall ; wainscoted with dark carved oak and hung with ancient suits of armour, military trophies —and the dark banners still waving, on which I could discern the golden gi'y[»hons of De Vere. Reginald glanced round. I saw his eye kindh; ; and that })eculiar expression cross his brow^ wdiich in moments of excitement made so remarkable a change in the character of his usually lively coun- tenance. We followed Mr. Higgins into a handsome dining-room ; where , already, a plentiful and hospitable supper awaited us. Not, how- ever, such a supper, as would delight any of you f/astronomcs of the present day, for Mr. Higgins detested the old J^ouis Quinze school of French cookery, as much as he detested Louis Quinze notions and manners in every thing. Plain English fare for him — I'oast and boiled, and abundance of it. Every thing, though, very capitally served in that style : for nothing was evei' ill d(jne under his ad- ministration, be the style of it what it might. The only thing a man could not get in abundance at Mount Sorel might be wnne. Not that Mr. Higgins was not as liberal of that as of other things. Holding himself excused from the least approach 108 MOUNT SOKEL; Oft, to sucli brutal indulgence himself, he freely afforded to every one of his guests, as he said, the means of being " as drunk as a hog if he liked it." But his example operated of course upon us all; and before the man who took nothing, every one felt inchned to partake sparingly of the wine that was before them. We sat down to supper. Mr. Higgins at the head of the table ; his son, as croupier, at the foot. Every one was in the highest good humour. How we feasted I How we joked I How we laughed I How we declaimed I How we drank in our brightly tlowingcups, to the destruction of all tyrants and of all tyranny — to the freedom and happiness of the universe, when chains and fetters should clank no more ; w^hen the harsh cymbals of war and contest should be hushed; w^hen famine should forsake the field, and vice the city, and love, liberty, and reason, regenerate the world I There sat Mr. Higgins, joyous and animated, the very picture of vigour and energy irresistible, celebrating the natural equality oi" man — while we young neophytes, as devoted to him as ever w^ere the veriest slaves to the veriest autocrat, rejoiced in our emancipa- tion and our freedom. Picginald alone was perhaps less gay that one night, than usual. He might be tired with his day's journey, for his build w^as not Herculean like his father V; he might be for once overpowered by the noise around him.... certainly the excessive elegance of his appearance, formed a strange contrast with the philosophic con- tempt for manners polite professed by his father, and the most part of his followers. It is probable that this his first entrance into his new home, gave rise to many reflections. Once or twice I saw his eye glance round tlie room; where em- panelled in the wall, hung the noble portraits of the De Veres, arrayed in all the dignified simplicity of the middle ages ; with their amour on, their glittering scarfs, their trusty swords by their sides. I saw him glance at these portraits and then at the figures round the table, and as my eye followed his, though my heart rejoiced at the new order of things now rapidly approaching, my imagination would whisper, as I contrasted the present before us and the past around us — that all would not be pure gain. Reginald's pre-occupation was at last perceived by his father, — who, pausing amJdst the torrent of declamation, sarcasm, invective, reasoning wrong or right, assertions true or false, that poured from his lips,— looked down the table at his son, no longer the most brilHantand gay of the assembly, and exclaimed, " Hey day, my lad I what's the matter, now? You look as if you were just come out of the cave of Trophonius." THE HEIHES? of the DE VERES. 109 Reginald laughed. To be wearied in body, or to give way to that tenderness of thought whieh we have agreed to call the sentimental, were either of tliem, weaknesses, which no one dared to confess before Mr. Higgins. He had no conception of the one, and the supremest contempt for the other. So, Reginald roused himself; shook off the train of thought that was stealing over him; and his bright blue eye flashing as it was wont, his end of the table was soon echoing with laughter. CHAPTER XIII. The wind blows out, the babble dies. The spring entombed in autumn lies : The dew dries np. the star is shot, The flight is past, and Man forgot. King. The next morning I did not waken until late. I was never strong, stout as was my appearance ; I was too often the victim of that mysterious lassitude and langour of body or mind, which damps and enfeebles the purposes, and is the source of so much miserable hesitation, irresolution, and incon- sistency of action. I was more than usually a prey to these uncomfortable feelings at this moment; for my mind, ever since I had entered the house, had been a prey to uneasy reflections. I looked round, and the grave figures upon the wall seemed to reproach me. as I contrasted them with the noisy company as- sembled round the table — and compared the joyous and somewhat rude negligence of the present possessor, with the melancholy dignity of him whom he had supplanted. Occupied with these, and with thoughts still more agitating which haunted my restless pillow, I had rested ill ; and it was, as 1 said, very late before I left my bed-room. When I entered the breakfast room, breakfast had long been over, and every one was gone out. The deserted table strewed with newspapers, and covered with littered plates, half filled tea cups, frozen toast and broken egg- shells, was what received my melancholy self. The breakfast room was another specimen of those relics of the past, so precious to an imagination such as mine, and with which the house was filled. It was not a large room, and it was perfectly square — in which taste of our ancestors I cannot coincide. The whole room was panelled with beautifully carved oak. richly orna- no MOUNT SOREL; OR, mented with gilding ; noble doors with lofty architraves, on three sides of the apartment ; on the other a large open chimney, now filled with an immense bouquet of summer greens and holy oak flowers, and surmounted by a chimney-piece, which, with its beautiful Gothic carvings, its niches, ogives, and small statues of saints, might have served for the screen of a small Catholic chapel. The ceihug was covered with a profusion of trailing vines, bunches of grapes, and twisting roses in bold relief; and the curtains of a heavy damask of deep green, with a plain and massive cornice harmonised perfectly with the fine old fashioned chairs and settees. The windows were very lofty, but casemented and with small oval panes, and those heavy stone window frames that are so singularly rich in their effect. These casements were open at this moment. Roses and jessamine in profusion were trailing and flaunting round them, and a small border which separated the house at this side from the bowling-green, was filled with marigolds, sweet peas, and such sort of flowers. As in the dining room, so in this breakfast room, portraits were panelled into the wall — portraits of the female members of the ancient family. I had soon finished my cold breakfast; and, having glanced over the newspapers, filled with news from Paris, and those de- bates in parliament which now began to assume so deep an in- terest ... 1 threw them down; and, the servants coming in to clear away, I rose from my chair, and with my hands in my coat-pockets, walked round and began to examine the pictures. I was endeavouring, in the delicate, elegant, though somewhat formal features, of these, the once adored of their steel-clad rela- tions of the dining-room, to trace some of those features, so deeply impressed upon my heart. After some time thus employed, I sauntered to the window, and looking out, saw Reginald crossing the bowling-green. Reginald had risen with the lark, full of spirits, the portion of health, youth, and innocence. Happy in the enjoyment which visits him, who, slave to no selfish calculations, victim to no debasing vices, would fain gladden the univei'se with the overflow- ings of his own content. He rose this morning, as I said, with the lark, and whistling, opened the window of his room, and looked out upon the scene beyond. Before him spread the velvet lawn, peopled with troops of grazing deer; below him the wide extended lake glittering in the beams of the rising sun, as its tiny waves skimmed and broke upon the shore. The woods not yet illuminated by the spreading light, hung in a dark circle round; the whole scene softened by the dewy mists of morning. The steep precipices of the red hill, and THE HEIRESS OF THE PE VEUES. Ill the peaked arch of the Gothic window, were seen above the trees, as the hght fell from the opposite horizon full ui)on them. He was soon dressed and soon out; wandering among the h-afy labyrinths, which surrounded him. He had passed through the vast gloomy hall, as he went out; and again, the sight of those vestiges of heroic times — the massive suits of mail, the ti'ophies of arms, and Ihe dark waving banners — had arrested his attention. *' What race was this? Who were these that preceded my father here ? And how come he, here — and I, here — amid the ruins of a past, with which we have neither of us any thing to do? Where are they, the once proud inhabitants of this old house? — Have they vanished from the face of the earth? — Have they departed like so many of the most ancient families of England? Are they too gone; to clear the ground, as it were, for all these new things of which we hear so much?" He was full of these thoughts as he walked along, and, musing upon the scene before him, passed through paths, now cleared into a sort of wild order, and at length arrived at a point, where the over-hanging branches suddenly opening, the fine tracery of the beautiful Gothic window rose before him, crowning the face of the red precipitous rock. He determined to ascend to it, and followed the windings of the path he had chosen, which, now hidden by the heavy dew-be- spangled branches, now commanding the rich and extensive land- scape, at last ascended to the platform on which the ancient castle of Mount Sorel had stood. He made his way through the crumbling ruins, till he reachisd the chapel, and entering stood transfixed with surprise, and admiration at the scene. The eastern sun, now- gleaming upon the interior of the window, dressed up all its rich tracery in brilliant light ; gilding the magnificent tombs and de- caying monuments that covered the floor; and casting a warm glow upon the garlands of twisted plants and pendant ivy, which springing from every crevice waved and sported in the fresh wooing air. Unencumbered with foul weeds, cleared from all the decaying obstruction with which long neglect had defiled it, the beautiful chapel was now displayed. The ground was no longer embarrass- ed with a wilderness of nettles, docks, and briars — and the various carved tombs, the brass imprinted plates, and the dark reposing figures, were richly scattered around. The dead lay sleeping there silent and forgotten — the brave — the wise — the beautiful among men — a mouldering mass of dust and ashes, (here they lay; lonelv in the place of their graves. The imagination of the young man, so easily excited by every 112 MOUNT SOREL; OR, thing that was tender or sublime, was struck by this still and tran- quil scene. Long time he gazed, in a sort of enchanted surprise and wonder; — then, walking in, and treading softly, as in some deeply hallowed place, he began to examine the tombs. They were in general much defaced ; and the inscriptiousin that ancient character, which Reginald was far from being archajologist enough to decipher. But in some places the inscriptions seemed to have been renew- ed in more modern times; and upon the richly carved, and highly ornamented tomb of the crusader, lying there in his chain armour, with his small triangular shield upon his arm, and short sword by his side, as I have before described him, — though the an- cient inscription which ran round the capital of the tomb was not to be deciphered, Reginald read, upon one of the panels at the sides, in characters as late as those of King James's days, these words : HIC JACET CORPVS EQVITIS FORTISSIMI ATOVE CLARISSIMI RANVLPHI DE ^ ERE. BEQVIESCEiN'S IN SACRA TERRA QVAM CV3I CORPORE E PAL^STINA IN PATRIAM DEPORTAYIT AR3IIGER FIDELIS ET DOMINO LARORIBVS DEFUNCTO SANGTVM STRAY IT LECTVM. '' Here lies the most brave and noble knight, Ranulph de Vere; reposing on sacred earth, which, with his body, his faithful squire brought over from Palestine, that he might here make a sacred bed for his dead lord." De Vere ! That, was then the name. On the tomb of the cardinal, on other broken and half-defaced monuments around, on the brasses beneath his feet, the same name might be seen repeated ; while the salient gryphon upon the shield, was the same as upon the banners in the hall. As Reginald walked about this chapel, examining the ruins and pondering on the past ; anxiously endeavouring to discover some indications more distinct, which might illustrate the history of the evidently distinguished race which had preceded him ; bethought he heard the noise of a broom, as of some one very deliberately employed in sweeping at no gi^eat distance. And returning to the entrani;e, he spied a very old, grey-headed man, of the smallest possible dimensions, and almost bent double with age, who was THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 113 very slowly sweeping the path which led away from the the ruins. ** Voilct monfult, du moins,'' quoth Ueginakl to himself, and he went up to the old man. " Good morning to you, my good fellow!" said he, eheerily, accosting him, " you are early at your work to-day." " Bless your pleasant voice!" said the old man, lifting up his head, and fixing his grey, bleared eyes upon Reginald's face : " A gootl morning to you, my brave young gentleman. Ves, yes — I am early. Master Higgins does na' stomach slug-a-beds." " But it's rather soon, for you, my old father, to be out of yours. I'm sure Mr. Higgins will be indulgent to one of your years, and give you an hour's law or so." " Na, na," said the old man, " that's what he wonna do — not he — no law for ne'er a one. Not that I mean to say, as how, Hig- gins is a bad master — na, na — he's a bit o' a stiff un, but he's a just un — and that's much, now-a-days; better than 'twert ith day, afore un." " Did you serve in the family, then, from whom Mr. Higgins bought this property?" " Ay, ay, did 1, Sir — boy and man, these fourscore years." " And what sort of people were they ?" " Why, as rascally a devil's crew, one and all, on 'em — as ever came into this country." *' Indeed !" cried Reginald, a good deal disappointed. " Why, when did they come into this country? They had been settled here for ages, surely?" " 1 don't know for ages — but this, I know — when I war a little unbreeched boy, them ones, came here first; — ill luck to the county when they did come. The father had made a power o' money in the South Sea scheme, as they ca'd it, and he bought Mount Sorel from the last of them old starched Independents — or rather from his executors, as I ha' heard say — for the old man died here, and I can ajust remember him." " Then, it was from these South Sea people, that my father bought the estate?" " Ay, ay, Sir; them Entwistles— Sorrow be with 'em, wherever they be ! They were a sore scourge o' this country." " Then those, who preceded them" said Reginald. " Anan, Sir !" said the old man. " Those from whom the Entwistles bought the estate — the old Puritan family, you spoke of. What was their name ?" '' Canna justly call to mind," said he, resting on the handle of his broom. "Canna recall it, Sir, Should know it if I heard it named." " Was it Do Verus — De Vere— or something like that?" 114 MOTO'T SOREL; OR, " Na, na, na— not that neither. That's the name of the real old ancient folk. Na, na, na, 'twant Do Vere, for certain. Stay, stay, 'twas Oliphant. Ay, ay — now 1 ha' it — Oliphant. Na, na — De Yere — that's the name o' th' old stock of all." * ' Then the De Veres have been extinct for many years?" pursued Reginald. " I reckon so," replied the old man, evidently not altogether understanding him. " And when did the Oliphants come into possession?" " Oh Law, Sir I — before I can remember. My great grandfather —a pretty long time. Sir, sin' that un wore petticoats" — with a little laugh — " he used to speak, as I ha' hard tell — to him, as was my grandfather ; as how his father used tell of the great De Vere and Oliphant Cause. Afore King William's days it war, Sir, and how the De Vere lost it. And how all the country round put on mourning — that's to say, all the true old church and king families. Sir. And how, the Lady de Vere put on her widow's weeds — her husband being alive all th' time — and said, as how, being widowed of half his estate, she would mourn for him as for one dead. Ah, Sir ! that war a grand family in the old times — as I ha' hard say. Never a De Vere sat down to dine, but one hundred stout men-at- arms sat down to feed at his cost, that day. Never a De Vere raised banner on high — but fifty mounted and mailed rode forth to follow it. Ay, Sir, that war a family I All the sons were brave, and all the daughters virtuous— that was the saying then. But it's a long, long, weary time ago ; and it ha' been the talk from father to son sin' then, wi' those born and bred on this estate .... but, belike, it won't be th' talk much longer. They seem as how they were get- ting other guess things in their heads, the young uns o'this day. No un minds o'the De Veres, or such like now. It's a stupid non- sens — them old things, they'll be a telUng you." " And so, the family of the De Veres is swept from the face of the earth?" said Reginald. " Anan, Sir I" again repeated the old man. •' I say," said Reginald, " that not one De Vere is left?" " Law, Sir, what be ye a thinking of! There's the De Vere of Holnicote, lies just o'er this very hill , Sir! Don't you know the De Veres of Holnicote ?" " I am a stranger in these parts, " was Reginald's reply. " Mr. De Vere o' Holnicote there. — Ay, Sir, he's a proud man that. He's as haught as any De Vere o' them all. I wonder he didn't })uy this same, when 'twas i' th' market." " Perhaps he had ceased to care, or think about it. " ^' Not he, Sir! Not he! Many's the time, and many, when I ha' been creeping about. here; — for old Grey down there who kept IHE HEIRESS OF THE PE VERES. 115 th' house for the creditors Hke, war a kind ould body, and he'd gie me a job, now and then he would; niauy's the lime, and many, I ha' seen that same, come down this 'ere path as 1 am a sweeping — sure it war a wild bit of a path then. . . no path at all as I may say . . . and 1 ha' watched him to go in that same chapel— and he'd be there by the hour, Sir — and he'd wander about tins place like as a ghost or a si)iret, Sir, — but he ne'er liked any un to see him — and few did . . . We thought he was about to buy the place; but a' didn't. May be he was too poor — for it must a cost a power o' money." Reginald niade no observation upon this, and the old man went on, *' Sir! this estate you see, they lost it, as I ha' heard tell in Crumwell's time — and then y' that Charles' time ; there was the great Oliphant cause. They tried hard to get it back again; but some how or other those same Oliphants had the longest purse, you see. And so, the De Veres spent a power o' gold — good money after bad as it proved to be — and they lost their cause : and they ha' been a sunk family ever sin'. But they are as proud as the Pope for a' that still , as some say — but I dinna know. . . There is a pride — and there is a pride : — and the pride of a dark, mournful man, like that Mr. de Vere, does na misbecome him, to my mind, like. " " And has he any family, this Mr. de Vere?" said Reginald. " Ah, vSir! that war a sore point. Years, and years, did that man pray — ay they say," looking mysterious, " blaspheme for a son — but no son came But he ha' a daughter." — " A daughter I And what is she?" '' Oh poor thing! they say, as how, she's the beautifullst angel that ever was seen on the face o' the earth. — But old De Vere keeps her up there at Holnicote, and wont let any one so much as look at her." " Beautiful!" " Ay, Sir — them, as ha' seen her says, as how she's like th' sleeping beauty in the wood — or morning star — whose eyes was so bright they blinded man to look — with lips as red as cherries — and skin like minever, Sir. But she's mewed up there ; for old De Vere seems to be grown melancholy, like, thes'n two year back. He used for to visit, across the country; and there'd be grand din- nering among all they great folk ; but now, there's no more grand dinners at Holnicote. Th' ould servants are moped to death ; and Old John the coachman tould me t' other day — ' I don't see the use of keeping them four greys,' says he, 'a washed and a soap-sud- ded, Hke my young ladies white hands, if they ne'er be seen except i'the lanes,' says he." IIQ MOUNT SOREL; or, " Ami how does the young lady like this?" " I know na. Some say one thing, some another. Some say as how she pines a little like It aint nat'ral, for them young things, to be shut up a' this 'ns without sprig or sprin to make their con- gees, like, afore 'em. It ain't nat'ral Some say she's pleased, so as her parents pleased. She's a good, gentle, gracious child; that, one and all o' them say But there's the bell a' calling on us to breakfast, Sir; and Master Jones there, the steward, won't take excuses. Higgins don't like 'em. He gives us old folks breakfast, you see, if as how we come for it 'o the minnit like, you know. So, good day to ye, Sir." " Good day," said Reginald, giving him money; and leavmg his oratefuland garrulous new acquaintance to lay aside his broom and descend to the offices, he pursued his walk. The parlour breakfast-bell summoned him no very long time after; and there he found his father and his merry men all, fresh from their various early rambles. They were busy devouring the good things before them ; and, with almost equal alacrity and im- patience, tearing open newspapers and unsealing letters. Mr. Higgins was holding a newspaper at arms length, reading in a loud triumphant voice, the speech of one of the orators of his own party; reported in the newspaper of his own side, to the best advantage, of course; a speech of mighty colossal eloquence, — as I have heard the debates of those days characterised by one, who called them ' ' days of the giants." Of his train, some were eating, a few whispering, some, knife and fork arrested in either hand on the table, attentively listening as he read. " Where hast thou been? youth of my heart!" cried his father, in high good-humour, Ufting his head from the nev/spaper as Reginald opened the door. " Come forward, my Alcibiades— he of the ambrosial curling locks — and hear what a dressing we gave that d — d scoundrel of a minister on Wednesday." And elevating his voice still higher, and recommencing the liarangue from the beginning ; he poured forth in rich, stentorian tones, the eloquent harangue of the mighty orator. "There's for you, Reginald ! There's what I call a man ! That's what / call a statesman. That's what /call a monarch. That's what 1 call royal, glorious, godlike, divine. Thus to stand forth, and with Ihis little member— this power of the small, yet mighty tongue— to stem the mad career of tyrants ! arrest the ragings of oppression ! conjure the thunders of war! and assert the undeniable, the im- perishable, the unprescriptable rights of man ! What can a base venal minister, the tool of an insolent, ignorant, paltry German bred i)uppet— what can he— clever man as he unquestionably is, I THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 117 admit that — what can he oppose to the mighty voice?... to the ir- resistible, the unassailable power of reason and truth?" And he flung tlio paper to his son. Reginald took it and was soon lost in the del)at(», while Mr. Iliggins was partly occupied between the breakfast which he de- voured with the most ravenous vividity, and the papers which he hurried over.... Now making loud exclamations of joy— now ut- tering the bitterest denunciations, as events and senliments of varying character ])assed under his review. Reginald, absorbed in the vast interests of the hour, found the image of the past, as represented in the memory of the De Veres, fading from his mind — it could not compete with the more bright and urgent impressions of the present. Active life dispels these phantoms of the soul, these fond reveries of the imagination ; they haunt the secluded and the solitary, as the ghost or spirit lingers still in the remote and silent wilderness ; but they rarely visit the habitations of busy, stirring, every-day men. The impression, however, upon Reginald's imagination, thougli it diminished in intensity, was not altogether dispelled by the beams of the mid-day sun. He came, as I said, to the window 1 had strolled through, and we walked some time up and down the bowling-green together. Reginald asked me, whether I had read the last night's debate. "No," I said, " I had not." *' Why, what hast thou been doing with thy most deeply reflect- ing and solitary self, man? " said he. "Thou wert not at breakfast — wert thou like, myself, wandering about lost in foolish fancies?" " No, I have not been out — 1 have been looking at the old por- traits in the breakfast-room." "An interesting speculation, most peaceful of Jacobins! But what hath the study of those ancient minions and mistresses of wicked tyrants and feudal despots, to do with thee, man of the people?" "They have a particular interest for me, Reginald— because you know^ I am acquainted with the family, to w^hich they once belonged." "Ay I by-the-by, Edmund," said he, as if struck by a sudden re- collection ; " I have heard you speak of the De Veres, I think. Don't you know them?" "Yes — I have known them ever since I was a boy," said I slightly. I disliked to enter upon the subject with any one, most especially with him ; I was remarkably sensitive on the score of my relations with Holnicote and at Mount Sorel; for reasons too well known, 1 hated to think of them or hear them mentioned, As for Clarice, I 118 MOUKT souel; or, had concealed my feelings upon that subject, with the utmost care ; goodnaturedas Reginald was, 1 dreaded his raillery above all things. Every one is thoughtless and unmerciful upon love matters; and without I made a full confidence and led him to understand the whole depth and force of my attachment — a conhdence my soul revolted from making — how was it likely he would spare me ; and how should 1 escape from being eternally harassed by the light ar- tillery of his ever ready wit. This secret consciousness had prevented me from even mention- ing the De Veres, when 1 could help it. Reginald, therefore, had not the least reason to suspect the close intimacy which had subsisted between my father and Mr. de Yere. And I had been able, without the smallest difficulty, to preserve the precious secret of my hoarded love. " Well, thou art a deep and still water, Edmund — but, par pa - renthese, we will say... that truth and the honestest heart in the three kingdoms, lie at the bottom of the well. But it's very odd that you never talked to me about these De Veres." " Why should 1, Reginald? W^hat could you care about the De Veres?" " Why, not much," said he, carelessly ; " but I wonder you have been now ten days in England, and have never given them notice of your arrival." " How^ do you know that? However, it is true I have not; and 1 am afraid Mr. de Vere will think it very neghgent on my part, when he hears it; however, I shall go to him from my father's." Reginald looked sharply at me. "Art thou not very impatient now, to go to thy fathers?" " No," said I, " why should 1 ? 1 parted from my father only a few days ago in London, you know — why should I be so very im- patient to see him again?" " OhI I don't know in the least," said Reginald, again looking wicked. " What do you mean, Reginald?" " I mean — when do you go to Holnicote?" " 1 don't really know," said I, peevishly; " there is no particular hurry about it." "So, it seems — my dearest, most beloved, most apathetic of all young anchorites," said Reginald. And catching hold of a leaping pole which lay near, he began to make the most extraordinary and incredible displays of activity and force; wdiile I, seized with emulation, something like the poor ass in the fable— a part, I too often was fated to play — began jump- ing in a manner which made Reginald scream, hold his sides, and roll upon the grass with laughter. THE HEIRESS OF THE I)E VEKES. 119 He said, from that time, no more to me upon the subject of the De Veres; and appeared, indeed, to have entirely forgotten it. CHAPTER XIV. VVohl ist sie schon die Welt! In ihrer Weite Bewegt 6ich so viel Gutes hin und hev. Ach, dass es immcr nur um cinen Scbritt Von uns sich zu enlfernen sclieint, Und unsre bange Sehnsucht durch das Lebeii Audi Schritt vor Schritt bis nach dem Grabe locktl So sellen ist es dass die Menschen finden, Was ihnen doch bestimmt gewesen schien. TORQUATO TASSO. It was Sunday morning, a very fine one, and gave promise of a thoroughly hot day. We were assembled at breakfast; and, as if inspired with the gladness of all around us, every one, but my quiet self, was in the highest spirits. Reginald was perfectly wild. His fantastical imaginations; his lively sallies; his wit, his fun, his nonsense ; were inexhaustible. His very father, who seldom listened to any one but himself; even he listened, — and laughed aloud. His father's laugh acted as an additional incentive to the spirits of Reginald ; he was more inimitable than ever. f see him now% — the elegant, exactly-dressed creature, thrown negligently back upon his chair, — those laughing eyes, that winning mouth, the gay carelessness with which he laughed merrily with all the rest at his own jokes, — for he was far too natural and genuine to affect a gravity he did not feel, in order to enhance the effect of w^hat he said. All were talking and laughing at once, when Mr. Higgins' loud voice w^as heard among the melee. " Hallo, my boys! it's getting late — what's the order of the day? Where are we all bound for?" We stopped talking at this, and there was a little silence of ex- pectation. Mr. Higgins, in general, proposed his own plans, and those acceded to them who chose — usually, the greater part of us. " Well, my boys, what will you all do?" "Have you no plan, Sir?" said one. " What's yours? Wliat's yours?" Various plans for passing away the summer morning were pro- posed, debated, and rejected ; at last, they turned to Reginald, and there was a general cry of — '' What are you going to do? What are you for, Reginald?" "Go whei-e you all please. Do what you all like. 1 am for church," cried he, 120 MOtiNl SOllEL; Oil, " For church I" was the general exclamation. It was not the fashion, in those days, for any of the new school lo go to church. We all held that as a mere act of obedience to an empty superstition. We despied every form of public worship, as the useless relics of a by-gone age — the exploded usages of society in its infancy; equally derogatory from the Being to whom they were addressed, and from Jlhe lofty supremacy of human reason. So they all stared, and no one seconded the proposal. " I am glad, my most excellent son, to see thee so piously in- clined," said Mr. Iliggins, with a sneer; " I commend thee to thy devotions. For me — I am for a good long summer-day's walk this most beautiful morning. I have long aspired to the summit of Pen Vammah there— and I invite those whose aspirations are after the grand magnificence of nature to follow^ me." ^ We all assented ; but Reginald pinched me by the elbow. " No, Edmund," he said, "you must come with me." *' But I am going wdth Mr. Higgins," I rejoined. *' You are not going with Mr. Any-such-thing, Edmund, — you are going with me I " "And why?" " Because you are the most good-natured fellow in the whole world, and you'll come with me — do, Edmund now." He knew, by experience, that I could refuse him nothing; 1 yielded as usual. " Why, heigh day! Edmund," said Mr. Higgins, " are you of the pious? Well, be it as seemeth unto you good. What church are you going to honour, my chaps, with your most devout presence?" " Oh! the parish church below, I conclude," said I. "Make my compliments to the old fellow, then, Reginald, and try and persuade him to come up to dinner; though the poor old pedant will scarcely dare trust himself, I doubt, with such an im- pious crew." And, so saying, Mr. Higgins took his hat and stick, and, fol- lowed by his merry party of youngsters, away he went. When they w^re gone — " I'm not going to the parish church, Edmund," said Reginald, * * I happen to-day to have no particular desire to hear this Mr. Jones." " Where are you going then?" "Oh! you didn't know% perhaps, sagest, gravest, most discreet and silent of all possible Edmunds, that within the dark enclosure of these woods there lieth enshrined a divinity of no mortal mould ! A goddess! A cynosure of eyes! An enchanted beauty of the woods ! Enthralled within a magic circle, where no curious eye may peep!" " What can you be raving of?" said I, a little alarmed. I was IJIE UKllltSS (U THH Dli VKRKS. 121 always on the watch fur lloginald. 1 know the gaiety of his Icni- per, and the Yividness of his imagination; it had been a matter ol' surprise, as much as of satisfaction to me, to perceive that he had |>asse(l unscathed through the many temptations of the foreign worlds we had visited. I now feared U;'mi)tation under another form; under that of one of those rural beauties, so dangerous to idle young men in the (country ; one whom, in spite of our new principles, neither I, as his friend, nor Mr. Higgins, as his father, would quite relish seeing him united to. " Oh! some gamekeeper's daughter?" said I, contemptuously. * ' Viva !" cried Reginald . ' ' My man of equality— my most con- sistent of rea^soners— my most philosophic of Edmunds I And why, I pray you, child of reason," he w^ent on, *' why may not a game- keeper's daughter as you please to style her, gifted with all the graces of Venus and more than all the virtues of Diana, be, at the least, as good as a poor golden calf like me?" "Dear Reginald I What nonsense it does please you to talk. Don't be foolish," said, I, peevishly. " Why, what," he continued, " what would you have? Is not my father preaching equality— rights of man, and rights of women, from morning till night? Are we not carefully instructed that the first and indefeasible right of man, is to please himself ; and the first and indefeasible right of woman, to fall in love, when, how where, and with whom, she can? Is it not instilled into our infant minds, as mother's milk, that honour and praise from no condition rise? Nay— that true virtue, pure reason, generous sentiments, and the brightness of truth— all that which constitutes the sterling no- bihty of our nature— are we not instructed to seek them, not amid the vain sophistications of an artificial and perverted system, not in that life which man has till now been content to consider pol- ished, but among the children of nature I— the free, untaught, un- coiTui)led denizens of the plains I Among the glorious sovereign people I Doth he not every day teach, that the swinish multitude of Mr. Burke— by a reversal, as it were, of the cup of Circe— are suddenly become the only lords of reason, lords of themselves and all the w"orld besides? And therefore, most profound of logicians, is it not clear as Ught that the daughters of these supreme masterpieces of creation— shall be of the fairest and the most precious among the daughters of men ?" " They may be very fair, and very precious, for any thing that I know, Reginald; but I must say, that it provokes me, beyond measure, to see you perverting every thing ihat is admirable^ in your father's principles, in this absurd and ridiculous manner." *' Perverting I Most just, and candid, of all impossible philoso- phers. Perverting I— 1 merely humbly endeavour to carry out 122 MOUNT SOREL; OR, maxims so incontrovertibly true. I am no reasoner, thank Heaven ! —I am a plain man of action. My father has pretty nearly de- stroyed my faith in every thmgelse; let me, prithee, retain my liiith in him! Let me practise what he preaches, at least, as the pious son of so incontestibly infallible a father, ought best to do." *' How intolerable you are, Reginald I" said 1, quite provoked, for I thought I knew what was coming. " You know your father is a sensible man. To vice, I am sure you will never descend — and a marriage of the sort you allude to, would be excessively displeas- ing to him." " You think so, my grave and most sophistical Mentor — I am very positive, sure, and certain, as I ought to be — that my father is neither a pretender, a hypocrite, nor a fool. Neither do I believe hini to have quite such loose notions upon the propriety of govern- ing our actions by well ascertained principles, as you, friend of my heart, in your reverence, would attribute to him. But smooth that anxious brow of thine — cle mariage jms tin mot. What are you about, putting such extravagant romances inlo prudent young men's heads. I merely wished to see, that I might worship a certain sylvan divinity whom I have discovered abiding in these parts — and, lol your idle fancy runs upon marriage I" But, seeing me look really uneasy, " Pooh, pooh! Edmund," said he, with his usual gay good humour. '' Don't vex your good-natured heart, man. You would be sorry to see your Reginald make a fool of himself, would you? Dear Edmund I" looking affectionately in my face, " you are such a good-hearted fellow. I could almost find in my heart to play the part of a reasonable being, if it were merely to please you." " So, you are not going to church, then." "Pardon me, but I am going — only, not to hear old Jones. Besides, Edmund, I like to go to church; my good mother taught me a few things I have not quite forgotten yet — I'm not so clever as the rest of ye. . . . But Tm going, you must know, to a parti- cular church for a particular reason, so get your hat and come away, for it grows late." During our walk Reginald was in the wildest spirits ; springing over every rail and gate we had to pass; skirmishing with every old cow- ; decapitating every tow^ering thistle; laughing, bantering, joking, all the while : seeming to find it impossible, by any means, to exhaust his exuberant activity of body and mind. The path he took began to alarm and surprise me. '* Why, which way are you going?" I exclaimed. " Over moss, over moor — through bog, through briar, hurry- skurry — quoth the broomstick, as it answered the witch. Why you dear, lubberly, awkward, heavy Edmund, will you never get along? THE HEIRESS OF THE PK VERES. ' 123 Don't yon iioar tlic sweet bells ringing? Come away, come away, this is Nature's holiday." Such was his wild extravagant nonsense, as he hurried me forward — till all on a sudden we came in view of the neat little village church : that to which the De Yeres went. It stood in its little rural churchyard ; one of those small, square- towered, ivy-shrouded, anticjue buildings, which are the charm of rural England ; the churchyard tilled with the small green mounds, and mouldering grave-stones of the little secluded world to which it belonged, and shaded by a row of majestic elms on one side, and by the orchard and trees of the venerable old parsonage-house upon the other. The sky was of the cleanest blue— the lovely i)ale English blue— with one or two snow-white fleecy clouds gently floating in the vast expanse : the little birds were twittering— the bell sounding at intervals, summoning to church the parishioners, who came flock- ing in from all sides. The women, decently dressed in their black bonnets, quilted black petticoats, and black and scarlet open chintz gowns, leading their quaintly attired children along; teaching each curly-headed, clean-faced Uttle boy, in his corduroy shorts, and white stockings, to bob a bow— and every neat, modest-looking, little girl with downcast eyes, to drop a curtsey — when those passed whom they were accustomed, in tliose primitive days, to call their betters. While the husbands, hale and simple, handsomely dressed, but strictly according to their condition, represented the plain primitive old English character, as it then existed, but as, 1 fear, it exists no longer. These came trooping on, in mingled groups of various colours, trudging cheerily along, and winding uy) the little ])athway which led to the church. The bell had not yet ceased to ring; it never did until Mr. de Vere's carriage arrived. How shall I describe my feehngs ? With what gushing tenderness did I once more regard this peaceful picture, after all the exciting scenes through which I had so lately passed ! I felt my eyes moisten at this pure representation of the antique life; as yet undisturbed by the fierce turmoil that was raging round. Then, that angel !— the angel of this secluded spot I She, whom I had so often seen mingling among these groups, but shining forth amid the rest, *' as does a lily among thorns, for so was my love among the daughters." The remembrance was too much for me. A considerable degree of distress and perplexity mingled also with my other feelings. For the reasons I have mentioned, I had forborne as yet to announce my arrival in England to these beloved 124 MOU.M' SOllEL; OR, IVieiuls; but now, thu sort of nervous weakness wbieh had deter- mined me not to introduce myself at Holni«',ote until my visit at Mount Sorel should be over, appeared to me as the most con- temptible imbecility. What could have bewitched me ? What w ould they — what could they think when they stumbled upon me first by accident, as it were ? and with Reginald I Then Clarice I — that first meeting with Clarice I. ... That sacred meeting, which had occupied my days and filled my nights with such various anticipations of tenderness or terror, which I had taught myself to look upon as the decisive moment of my fate — the test by which 1 was at once to measure the nature of her sentiments towards me I All that was to ensue from that meeting so fondly desired and yet so intensely dreaded ! And thus suddenly to be hurried into it, and in the presence of Reginald too, whose quick eye was certain to observe my emotion, and to penetrate my secret ; that secret, which I had so carefully shrouded from him. I could not do it — I turned round resolved to escape before it was yet too late.... Then recollecting what a strange appearance my behaviour must have in Reginald's eyes, I paused — hesitated. And while I hesitated I heard the roll of a carriage rapidly approach- ing, and at the next moment Mr. de Vere's coach passed quickly dow^n the lane, which bounded the church yard on the side where we were standing. I saw a face rapidly presented at the open window, and as rapidly withdrawn. It was hers. . . . I saw that beaming face— I heard her exclaim " Edmund I" And turning to a lady within the carriage, she began talking with the greatest animation. She had seen me, she had certainly seen me; it was too late; retreat was now^ impossible ; I must meet them all when church was over, and account as best 1 could for my behaviour. But what should I say? How^ explain things? How indeed! in the hurried meeting within that little porch, under the intense emo- tion which already made my heart beat till I could hardly breathe. With what words shall 1 address her? What shall I find to say? The elegant carriage stopped ; the two tall powdered footmen in cocked hats, white and crimson liveries, and with cane in hand, flung down the steps. Mr. de Yere got out first. He looked thinner I thought than when we had last met. But 1 could not very well see his face, for he turned round and handed out his wife, who moved slowly towards the church in her usual composed manner. THE IIEIUESS OF THE DE VERES. 125 Then camo Clarice. Inexpressibly lovely she looked, her light figure contrasted with the short and decrepid one of Mrs. Fermor, to whom she offered her arm. They all entered the church and we followed. It was a little, dark, lowly church, filled with old ricketty oaken pews, and with a plain humble oaken pulpit and communion table. There was not an ornament throughout the wdiole building : a few tablets, and a few of those heraldic representations called achieve- ments, belonging to the family of the De Veres, had accumulated in the place, since the more ancient burying ground of their family had been alienated. Their pew, covered by a sort of canopy of carved oak, sup- ported on carved pillars of the same material, stood close by the pulpit. Reginald leaving me to my own agitating reflections, pushed his way into the church, and going straight up the centre aisle, opened the door of a pew just opposite to that of the De Veres, and com- manding a view of it. There was an old farmer and his wife within. Reginald, with a very polite air, seemed to demand permission to enter; it was granted with that appearance of pleasure, with which the old are so often filled when an opportunity occurs for obliging youth. That youth, which they both love and fear — that youth, which is to them, as a heavenly vision — but which the discouragement which waits upon old age, makes them too often regard with a certain apprehension. How sweet it is to them, when, courteous and reverencing amid all its gay exuberance of power, those de- lightful beings assume that gracious manner and behaviour which so well becomes them, and so well becomes the relations of their mutual years. Respect for age was a virtue of the antique world — the reverse is, I am sorry to say, one of my causes of quarrel with the highly progressed generation of to-day. Reginald, as I have said, who was with all his vivacity one of the most polite and considerate of human beings, having, in two se- conds, captivated with his winning smiles and congees the hearts of these two good old people — stood, holding the pew-door open ; I signed to him to go in first ; I wanted to be as near as possible to that magnet to which my heart so turned and trembled. Rut lie insisted, and I was forced to pass him. He sat down at the extremity of the pew, and I by his side, little indeed noticing either his presence or behaviour. 1 was entirely absorbed in my own thoughts and feelings. What 126 MOUNT SOnEL; OR, might the next few minutes }>i'odiice? Alas! How little could I divine ! My loved ! My loveliest I My dearest ! Treasure of my heart I Secret idol within a shrine never desecrated by other object I Sweetest and best I — It was then given to me to behold thee again I More lovely far than ever I thought thee, as my wandering eye glanced that w^ay — irresistibly fascinated to that spot where so often 1 had knelt and juayed at thy side ; prayed with thee — prayed for thee — invoked all the choicest blessings of Heaven upon that sweet and innocent head! She was grown taller, and the girlish, almost childish, love- liness of her face and figure had changed into something of a stronger and more marked character. She was, strictly speaking, perhaps not so beautiful — she had lost something of the rosy glow redolent of youth, health, and gaiety — and she was thinner; her form had lost something of its beautiful roundness; her features, too, were in the slightest degree attenuated, and her cheek was pale; a certain slight shade of sadness in her eyes had darkened, but at the same time, had deepened, their expression. As she knelt, and those eyelids fell, and the dark eyelashes lay upon her cheek, there was an expression of feeling in her brow that touching expression which I so well remembered, — a slight tinge of melancholy, which I had often seen settle there for others — never for herself — to me, so inexpressibly interesting. I saw plainly that all the world would say, that she had, in some degree, fallen short of her early promise of beauty ; but to me she had far exceeded it. Thus, was she a million times more precious to my doting heart, than in all the triumphs of her opening charms. 1 divined that the years of my absence had not been entirely happy; and my heart smote me as 1 looked at the group, and traced with sorrow upon their faces, the ravages of disappointment and time. Mr. de Vere was grown, as I had before remarked, thinner. And now that I could see his countenance, I could clearly discern the traces of that internal struggle which he had so long maintained with himself. His fine high features had assumed a certain hardness — a certain fixity, of expression — if I may so call it. So rigidly had he forbade them to express the feelings that w^ere for ever working within. They carried a sort of habitual but artificial calmness which struck me as unnatural — as no true reflection of the inner being. One could fancy that under that placid seeming, the hidden waves of passion might be surging and boiling. Mrs. deVere looked old; her countenance sunk and pale; the THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 127 gentle and passive expression of her face, however, unchanged : but she had more of I'air souffrante — as onr neighbours say. Mrs. Fermor was out of sight. One ghniee Claiico had given to the })lace whore 1 stood ; she had then turned a little, and placed herself so, that her eyes could no longer meet mine. But I could see her kneeling down, I could watch the pure expression of that sweet face in its holy and inno- cent devotion — that face rendered doubly and doubly dear by the sadness, which certainly was to be detected there. My Clarice, was it Ihine absent Edmund? Thy doting, thy adoring Edmund? Was it his absence that thus had shaded thy choicest features, and darkened the soft beauty of those lustrous eyes? Alas I alas I Service was over. Reginald hastily opened the door, and passing down the aisle, he placed himself within the porch as if to watch the congregation going out. He did not speak one word to me. I fancied that he had already in my disturbed countenance read the agitation of my thoughts. I never cast my eyes upon his, and soon ceased to think of him. What had Reginald and I in common at such a moment? They came out, and my head was swimming. I did not go up to them, but they all came up to me. Mr. de Vere kindly shook my hand. "I did not know, Edmund, that you were returned. How is your father? You are of course, bound for us?" "Edmund," said Mrs. de Vere, "how glad we are to see you safe back again.". "Ah, dear Edmund I " cried my sweetest Clarice, with the most animated pleasure dancing in her eyes, and holding out her hand, " how very, very glad we all are to see you again! " Fool I even this undisguised and artless joy flattered me. "We have wanted you so," said she, taking my offered arm, "and I thought you never would come back. I have a thousand things. . ." "You arc coming on to us?" said Mr. de Vere. "Not to-day," I replied, with a Uttle hesitation, "I have an engagement with a friend ; the day after to-morrow if you will take me in, I shall be delighted to resume my old lodgings." "Be it so," said Mr. de Vere, "but in the mean time, come home to luncheon,, which is waiting. It is difticult to guess from what quarter of the heavens you dro[) so suddenly among us ; but whencesoever, you are welcome. You must give us a quarter of an hour, Edmund, at least, this morning. That gentleman is your llic favour also to take luncheon at Holnicote?" " Introduce me," said Reginald, giving me a hasty push. " ^Ir. Vernon — Mr. de Yere." Reginald now came forward, looking excessively elegant, gen- tleman-like, and handsome. So I had ever thought him ; but he at that moment surpassed himself. How beautiful his charming features looked, his colour just heightened by a slight shade of embarrassed consciousness, which just subdued their usually gay expression, and rendered them the more interesting; how agreea- ble was his tone of voice; how distinguished, yet how frank and simple, his air and appearance! I saw the experienced eye of Mr. de Vere glance over him, and the dignitied distance of demeanour which he usually maintained before strangers, give way as by a charm. He was always polite and courteous, however cold ; but now something less reserved served to show that he had met with one of fine taste, and who satisfied his high requisitions; a being of his own element, as one might say, was before him. He was visibly captivated, and turning to his wife and daughter, introduced — a very rare favour — the young stranger to them. Never had Clarice, lovely as she was, looked so surpassingly lovely as she did at the moment, when her father turning suddenly round to where she stood, presented Reginald to her. Her face yet glowing with the pleasure of our meeting; the slight embar- rassment with which she received his salute ; the womanly dignity and childish ingenuousness mingled of her expression. Oh, my heart! my heart! why dost thou dwell on days so long gone by ? Cannot the wintry snows that blanch these scanty hairs — cannot they yet — have they not yet, chilled into cold oblivion, those hours of feverish joy ! How proud was I ! Her father was not more pleased than poor Edmund. Proud he certainly looked now, indifferent as he too often seemed to this choicest creature ; even his eye glistened with a father's pride as he presented this matchless pair to each other. And I, poor simple-hearted Edmund, how did 1 in secret glory in my handsome and captivating Reginald ! It crossed my mind hastily — •' What will Mr. de Vere feel and say when he discovers who he is? And what will they think of me for thus presuming to introduce the son of Mr. Higgins?" But there was no remedy. Reginald with the assurance so natural to us all, that what is so w^ell known to ourselves is not unknown to others, never adverted to the circumstance of his name, nor indeed could he possibly have THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 129 divined that any importance could attach to the matter. How could he imagine that his father, in purchasing the Mount Sorel estate, had committed an oflence, whicii, by M. do Voi-c, would never while he lived be forgiven ? Hours were earlier then than they are now, and fearful that we should be too late for Mr. Higgins' dinner, we declined luncheon ; but as the carriage did not appear, and the ladies seemed intending to walk home, by a short cut across the park with wliich 1 was well acquainted, we strolled on a little way in ther companv. Reginald was politely occupied wdth Mr. and Mrs. de Vere ; w hile 1 followed with Clarice and Mrs. Fermor. " And now do tell me," she impatiently began, as soon as we were relieved from the presence of the other three, " do tell me, Edmund, whence you come, where you are staying, and why you could be even a day in England without letting us know?" " I have been in England only a week, Miss de Vere," I began, with a little formality. " Oh! that is it," smiling sweetly in my face. " Is this your new Parisian style, Mr. Edmund Lovel ?" '' Ah, Clarice! may I still...." " And why should you not? Why, Edmund, you are quite unintelligible. You are in England a week, and do not come near us ; and when you do . . . you really hardly seem to know how to behave yourself. Does he, Mrs. Fermor ?"'^ Mrs. Fermor looked at me — she felt my arm shaking — she was leaning upon it. " That is a very elegant, charming looking young man," she said, as if to divert the conversation. " Who is he? Vernon is not a name belonging to this county." The eyes of Clarice glanced eagerly my w^ay. " A college friend," I rephed, slightly. " We have travelled together, and are just returned. I am staying at his father's house, w^ho is . ..." " He must live at a considerable distance from this," said Mrs. Fermor, " for I know no name. . ." She w^as interrupted by the party which w^as in advance of us, stopping. Reginald w^as making his apologies and taking his leave. I heard Mr. de Vere ask the favour of his company to dinner on the day I was to come to his house— that is to say, on the day after the morrow. Reginald accepted with evident pleasure. 1 was forced then to make my adieus also ; and thus we se[)arated, and no explanation was offered. 130 MOUNT SOREL; OR, CHAPTER XV. Farewell ! thou art doo dear for my possessing, And, like enough, thou know'st thy estimate. The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; My bonds in thee are all determinate. Shakspeare. We walked towards home, for some time in silence. Reginald's exuberant spirits seemed to have altogether forsaken him. He still with his cane decapitated sundry towering thistles which grew by our path ; but he spoke not one word. Once or twice he sighed. I was too uneasy myself, to attend to him. I felt dissatisfied with what had passed ; I did not know exactly why; but I was inclined to quarrel with the manner of Clarice, I could not say wherefore; and more than half inclined to quarrel with Reginald for having led me where he did. At last, I said, somewhat peevishly, " Well, I did not see this sylvan divinity of yours, after all, Re- ginald, in pursuit of whom you have led me such a tedious walk this hot day." " Oh I you did not?" was his reply, turning round, looking in my face, and immediately resuming hostilities against the thistles. " That is so like you, Reginald. I wonder you are not tired, by this time, of mystifying my simplicity. I am such a ready dupe, I am surely not worth the trouble of duping." " So I think," was the answer, and off flew half-a-dozen more heads of purple thistles. " Well, then," feeling quite cross, I did not exactly know at what ; " the next time you go in chase of a country girl with curd and currant cheeks, and the manners of an Audrey, please to leave me out of the expedition." " Vous croyez?" '* Yes ; I do think, that all the rhapsody in which you indulged this morning, was merely to gratify the very childish fancy you have for seeing one, not quite so active, and not quite so vigorous as yourself, killed with a walk in this intolerable weather." " Poor philosopher I" said Reginald. " Of the stoic school — eh ?" " What could you go for I" I repeated. " I thought you had found that out, already, most penetrating and sweet-tempered of Edmunds," said he, coming up to me in his usual pleasant way. " Friend of my soul, I thought thou hadst set- tled ii— that it was simply for the pleasure of plaguing thee." THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 131 '* You have done it very effectually, tlien," said I. " So it appears." And with one spring clearing a five-barred gale that stood before us, he was in the next field ; and had half crossed it before 1 could unfasten and open the gate. I walked after him as fast as 1 could ; but he kept before me, clearing at a bound every obstacle, which 1 so painfully and slowly toiled over; and when he had reached the Manor House, he opened the hall-door, went in, and I did not see him again till we all met at dinner. • Mr. Higgins was in his glory. He had had a delightful walk, had seen a glorious prospect, and had returned during the heat under the shelter of his own exten- sive woods. He was in the highest spirits ; talking away, in his most animated, discursive, and eloquent manner; and darting sundry sarcasms at his son, which in my opinion had much better have been omitted, as to the manner in which he had pleased to spend his sabbath. Reginald parried all with his accustomed good-humour, and kept his ground with his usual spirit. He declared himself a fool — quite incapable of entering into the more lofty views of others ; and that a fool he feared he should remain, drivelling on in the paths of his stupid forefathers, from mere want of common ability to dis- cern any that were much better. Did you ask Jones to dinner, then, according to the pious custom of our forefathers, which always led the parson to get drunk with the squire?" said Mr. Higgins, at last. " I did not go to that church," said Reginald. " Retter and better!" cried Mr. Higgins. " Why, Reginald is becoming a preacher hunter! Prithee, sweet youth! Didst thou go a pilgrimage, in search of that philosopher's stone — a profita- ble sermon ?" " Not exactly for the sake of the sermon. Sir, I confess," — said Reginald, " but I went to a more distant church." '* And where didst go, my son?" " To Holnicote," said Reginald. The fire flashed from Mr. Higgins' eyes. " To that insolent aristocrat's church!" said he, haughtily. '' And what took you there, of all places in the world — may I ask!" " Ask Edmund," said Reginald, colouring. " Nay, Reginald," I said, " don't ask me to find a reason." " F hope, Sir," said Mr. Higgins, again haughtily ; ** that though 132 MOUNT SOREL; OR, I tolerate in you, certain, pretty-fellow, coxcombical. Jemmy Jessamy notions— in pity to the prejudices of that blood which, on one side, runs in your veins— that a mean, cringing, fawning, sycophancy to the would-be-great men of this would-be-great world, is not to be numbered among your fashionable accom- plishments." " I should hope, not. Sir," said Reginald, temperately. *' Mr. de Vere," said Mr. Higgins, raising his voice , " has not thought it worth his while to cast his high-descended aristocra- tical eyes so low as upon me,— 'why should the beams of the great Phoebus gild a dunghill?' I scorn his empty pride, and despise and pity his absurdity." Reginald was silent. *' Well, Sir!" said Mr. Higgins, beginning to lose his temper; «' do you mean to say that you will stoop to curry favour with one, who presumes to look down upon your father?" '- Curry favour!" repeated Reginald— his colour began to rise, and the blue veins in his temples to swell. We sat by silent and aghast, at this sudden and unexpected explosion. " Don't bandy words with me. Sir !" ** I don't use to bandy words with any man," said Reginald, commanding himself with great effort; ** and most certainly, least of all with you, Sir. And when I know — that any man presumes to hold lightly by my father, I shall know how to resent it." *' Know ! What do you mean by putting an emphasis upon that word. Sir. Do you mean to insinuate, that what I assert you do not know.^^ '' You may be mislaken. Sir," said Reginald , coolly. " Mistaken! I am I own a ^ery likely person to be mistaken! Heighday, boys!" turning to us with a sarcastic sneer. *' I may be mistaken! it seems." But we were all silent. *' No man thinks you less likely to be mistaken, in general, than myself," said Reginald, *' but here I think you are." " And your reasons! Most wise and experienced and far dis- cerning youth— paragon of thine age! Velvet-bound epitome of all wisdom and all virtue! Hear him! Hear him! Hear him!" said the father, scoffingly. " A thousand reasons may be found for Mr. de Vere not choosing to call at Mount Sorel, besides a design to insult you," said Reginald, quietly. He kept his temper and preserved his self-command astonish- ingly ■ ' Name ! Name ! Name THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 133 '* I will leave your own candid mind to suggest thcni, Sir/' said Reginald. And dipping his lingers in his finger-glass, he deliberately wiped his hands, and saying, *' Come, Wickam, will you have a look how the mare gets on?" left the room with one of the com- pany. This broke up the table. An awkward pause of a moment suc- ceeded, and then, as if by general consent, we all rose ; and as Mr. Higgins did the same, we crowded to his end of the room, and began talking of all sorts of things to dispel our own embar- rassment and his. He evidently was disconcerted. He had received a check before us all, that he was little prepared for. And yet the tone and manner of his son had been so perfectly unexceptionable that it was impossible to feel him to be in the wrong. The self-command he had displayed, his firmness, his spirit, and his temper, had astonished us all. His father, accustomed to exercise the most unbounded and unresisted sway over every one who came near him, felt as if some sudden and unexpected obstacle had sprung up before his path : much as one, who has raised a spirit that he does not exactly know how to lay. He was, however, too proud to endure the thought, that any human being should suspect that the man existed, with power to quell, oppose, or embarrass him : so he shook off the momentary impression — "like dewdrops from the lion's mane:" and though his mirth and his talk were at first somewhat forced, we had soon the comfortable feeling that he was himself again. Reginald appeared at tea as usual ; the only difference that I could perceive in his manner was, that he laughed rather more loudly at his father's jokes, and was more emphatic in his expression of as- sent, or at least admiration of his ingenious paradoxes and brilliant sallies than the rest. This innocent flattery altogether restored Mr. Higgins to good- humour ; and we spent, after all, a very pleasant evening. As we went up to bed, Reginald and I happened to be left the last, lighting our candles. ** What shall you do about Mr. de Vere's invitation?" said I. *' I accepted at the time," he replied. *'Rut it is very awkward and very disagreeable. Really, Re- ginald — it is very perplexing — very untoward for you." " Dear Edmund, what a treasury of uncomfortable words you do possess. When a man has made an engagement, I suppose he ought to keep it — that is all." "But after what passed to-day." 134 MOUNT sorel; or, ''Don't speak of it, dear Edmund," said he, colouring a little; " let such things be forgotten as soon as passed. Slight clouds, in- deed, in a lot such as mine I " ''But your father ought to have weight, surely." " I love my lather, Edmund, —his wishes have great weight— I shall endeavour to do what my father's son ought to do." '* But, how wall you get off with Mr. de Vere?" '' I shall not get'off with Mr. de Vere." ' ' What I Shall you dine there ? " " To be sure 1 shall." 1 looked surprised. '* Understand me, Edmund," he said. '' Had Mr. de Vere, in any one instance, treated my father with insolence, this hand should wither before it w^ould ever meet his in friendship. But the merely having omitted to call, when so many reasons may have prevented him, is surely not an offence that any gentleman should think it consistent with his own dignity to resent. I should be a puppy, indeed, to take upon myself to do it. The politeness and cordiality with which Mr. de Vere received me to-day, prove there is no inten- tion of slighting my father ; and this may be the means of making two clever and accomplished men, acquainted with each other." I saw he was under a delusion wdth respect to his name ; and 1 trembled lest, on Mr. de Vere's part, an exhibition at least as violent of prejudice and ill-will might burst forth, on the discovery who Reginald really was. But I thought it best not to undeceive him. "1 dare say you are quite right, Reginald," I said ; " and I must add, as we are upon the subject, that your temper, and self-com- mand at dinner to-day, surprised while it gratified m_e excessively." " 1 am very glad to hear you say so, Edmund. 1 am most anxious to do right in these matters. Your praise, dear Edmund, recon- ciles me with myself. I was afraid I had been rude. Dear Edmund, why is your approbation so indispensable to me?" It w^as my turn to feel flattered now. Young and volatile as he was, there was that in him to wiiich my soul bent as to its superior, and yet he seemed to do the same by me. That was perhaps because I was honest. It is the only good quality on which I could ever pride myself. We shook hands affectionately and parted. THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 135 CHAPTEU XVI. Nor framed his lips in truth entangling linos To smile the lie his heart disdain'd to speak. Shelley. I DONT know how Reginald settled matters with his father ; but he managed to explain things so, that the disinclination Mr. Higgins felt towards his aristocratical neighbour, yielded to the representa- tions of a son, whom he certainly loved— as much as he was capable of loving any one or any thing ; but his temper was of that robust nature which is not always attectionate. I explained to my host that on the ensuing Tuesday 1 was to ac- company Reginald ; and that it was my intention to remain a few days at Holnicote before returning home. ''Well, I'm heartily sorry to lose thee, lad," said he, " and I'm half afraid we ha'nt w^ashed all the old leaven out of thee. Thou still hankerest a little after these painted idols of a gone-by worship, 1 fear.... Think it a grand thing to be hand and glove with those fine De Veres, I suppose. Well, thou'rt welcome to thy taste, man. Such fine porcelain articles are not for a rough hand like mine." I thought r could penetrate under this, a little secret chagrin, that seemed to me quite inconsistent with Mr. Higgins' principles. Few, that ever I have happened to meet with in my pilgrimage though life, have I found quite proof against this sort of inconsis- tency, with one or two noble exceptions, who carry out their prin- ciples to their full extent in actual life and practice. I told him that I was an old friend of the family, and had the highest respect for them all ; a tribute paid to personal qualities that well deserved it. '* I dare say, I dare say," was his reply. "All these magnificoes; these men of high blood; these noble Normans I have personal qualities that entitle them to respect in the eyes of the base, cring- ing, venal crew that surround them.. .. For my part," he continued, " I like a plain honest labourer ten thousand times better ; he has not such fine holiday manners it is true ; but he's got an honest heart under his frieze coat." I might have said that frieze and velvet had nothing to do with honesty, but 1 held my peace : to tell the truth, I was as much in- fected as any one with the cant of the day. I saw not the falKacies that lurked under the high sounding periods. 1 did not discern that, though, alas! it was too true that the aristocracy of England and of France, under the influence of those vicious principles which, dating from the day of the Regent of Orleans had prevailed 136 MOUNT SOREL ; OR, for nearly a century, had considerably degenerated, yet that it was not among the uncultivated and the ignorant that we should look lor those fitted and prepared to take their place. Alas I exj)erience loo soon demonstrated that luxury, oppression, sensuality and ciuelty are of no condition ; that they attend alike upon the posses- sion of irresponsible power, be that power lodged with the highest or the low^est. It was not the custom in those days for young gentlemen of our age, of ordinary rank or fortune, to order their carriage when they Avent out to dinner, and lolling like two young ladies to go out a visiting. Young men, unspoiled by the invention of cabs and tilburies, for even the humble whiskey had but just been called into being, rode on horseback ; unless indeed, they could command the pomp of the lofty and dignified phaeton and four. Any such piece of eifeminate luxury, Mr. Higgins would have scouted ; and Reginald had not been long enough in England to indulge his taste for these little refinements ; so we were to go on horseback. It was not considered to be against good manners then for gentlemen to dine in their riding dresses. Our servants followed US; mine with his saddle-bags, containing such of my things as I should want, during my stay with Mr. de Vere ; Reginald's with his master's great coat strapped round his waist. Neither of them in livery. Any such insolent badge of slavery, was contrary to all the liberal ideas of the day. Mr. Higgins would not tolerate it, in his family; and I, in this, as in so much beside, acted under the in- fluence of the same impressions. Reginald had beautiful horses. There w^ere certain things that he would have, let his father declaim as he might. He wore an ele- gant riding-dress ; and was a beautiful figure on horseback . I had a good horse, but 1 rode ill. The contrast w^ould have been sufficient to mortify a spirit less humble than mine ; but it was difficult to mortify one who expect- ed so little from himself. I admired the animated figure of Regi- nald ; and as it never entered into my head to rival, was not tempted to envy him . He was in high spirits, and made his beautiful horse curvet, and display his fine symmetry in a thousand graceful bounds as w^e went along. I see him now — his hand resting on his side, in a posture so graceful and easy — guiding his horse by that sort of magnetic intelligence, which seems to subsist between a good horse and a good rider ; and chattering away with the overflowing gaiety of his age. '' But most venerated of Edmunds," he said, '^ have you ever THE HEIRESS OP THE PE VERES. 137 coiisitk'rotl, in your })hilanthro[>ic heart, what I am to do with my most miserable existence, when deprived ol' you — my Achates — my Damon — my Pylades? Hang myself on the old hunter's oak? Or seek the frozen bosom of the lake, and pasture my father's pike and })erches? Now, what must you go and stay at Holnicote for? " Why, Reginald, you quite bore me upon that subject," said I, impatiently: *' have 1 not told you? I have known them all ever since I was quite a child ; and it is a great shame that I did not make my first visit in the county there. But you bewitched me, as you always do ; and I could not resist yours and your father's in- vitation." *' Very strange to my young and inexperienced intellect, and utterly confounding to my rationating faculties, are your proceed- ings, most consistent of men. — But," suddenly checking his horse, coming up close to my side, and looking me full in the face; '* do you think Miss de Vere pretty?" He startled me. *' What do you mean?" I said. " Do you think her pretty, or not?— a categorical answer is de- manded to a categorical question." " Yes, I think she is pretty. She has not grown up so beautiful, as I thought, once, she would have been," answered I with as much composure as I could possibly command. " Then you do opine— that you do not think her so transcen- dently lovely as, once, your foolish soft heart did hold her to be." " I don't know," I answered carelessly, " I have known her so long. I don't think, or care much, about her beauty." ** You do feel all, and more than, a brother's love for this s^veet perfection — do you not, mine Edmund?" " Really, Reginald,"—! began to think he was passing the limits that even our friendship would not allow ; " I don't understand why you question me in this manner. If it be that you may have the pleasure of laughing at me, and putting me out of countenance, on the subject of a very old and kind friend's daughter, you may spare yourself the trouble — I am proof. I have known Clarice de Vere too long; and she has know^n me too long; we have the sincerest friendship for each other." " Is this the truth, Edmund?" said he, stopping his horse. '' Yes." I prevaricated with myself; I, the lover, the worshipper of truth I I degraded myself so far as to satisfy my conscience with evasions. Ah I had I trusted so sincere a friend. But my sensitiveness upon this subject was invincible. That any living being in my present state of wretched uncertainty, should dis- cover my secret was insupportable to me ; and the more persever- 138 MOUNT SOREL ; OR, ingly he pressed upon the matter, the more obstinately did I deter- mine to baffle his penetration. I grew irritable and unjust, and began to resent as impertinent, this determination, as it seemed to me u})on his part, to penetrate that which I had resolved to con- ceal. I can only plead the miserable shyness of my too feeble charac- ter as a poor excuse for what I said next. Assuming an air of composure, I went on : " You know, or you don't know — when one has known a girl from a child, and a child a good deal younger than oneself, one gets a sort of feeling — like relationship I love Clarice, dearly ; she is a charming tempered, and generous-hearted creature ; but I be- lieve at my age men usually fall in love, as you know, with some- thing older and cleverer than themselves." He listened with attention, and a meaning in his penetrating eye. But he should not, I was determined, surprise the secret he seemed bent upon making himself master of. There were confidences, dear as he was to me, and great as was his influence over my mind, W'hich he should owe to the deliberate purpose of my own will, and not possess himself of, whether I so pleased or not. I was resolved to remain master of my wvn secret — and I per- fectly succeeded. After some time he seemed weary of his fruitless attempts to surprise from me, any, even the slightest, demonstration of feelings of a tenderer nature than those I professed ; or to discover any thing Avhich might justify him in the raillery in which he, evidently, was longing to indulge ; and he dropped the subject. As we approached Holnicote I began again to be troubled with uneasy thoughts upon the subject of Mr. de Vere's ignorance, as to whom my companion really w^as. I saw the circumstance had alto- gether escaped Reginald's attention ; and I could not, I felt, enter upon it without attaching an importance to it, which might betray those feelings of dislike on Mr. de Vere's part, of which I was most desirous, for many reasons, to keep Reginald in ignorance. I had, with my usual irresolution, hesitated to explain the real state of the case to him. I had feared that it might diminish that happy confidence of Mr. de Vere's good will, which 1 felt to be so necessary to insure the least chance for laying the foundation of any thing like cordiality between the families ; but I now began to con- sider, whether I had better give Reginald a hint of how matters stood, orw^hether I had best reserve myself for the possibility ot making Mr. de Vere aware of the circumstance first. I was certain that his habitual politeness would prevent theintellrgence, whether disagreeable or not, from diminishing the courtesy he ow^ed to his guest. On the contrary, should Reginald learn the true state of the THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 1S9 case, I thought it might make him feel annoyed and uncomfortable, and inclined to misapprehend Mr. de Vere's manner. Leave him but an hour in Mr. deVere's company, unembari-assed by such considerations, and I defied Mr. deS^ere; for no one on earth could resist him. There are characters with whom the counsel that demands least action is always sure to find favour ; mine was of this cast ; I deter- mined to preserve silence. We soon reached the lodge, and entered the somewhat flat and gloomy domain of Holnicote ; I saw Reginald look round ; he was contrasting its dark woods and somewhat rough pastures with the smiling and beautiful Mount Sorel. " Your father has the best lot of the two," I remarked. " Yes," he said, with something of a sigh, " I wonder that estate was ever alienated by the family. " " It was lost in the civil wars. '* " Ay, I have heard all about it. But why did Mr. de Vere not endeavour to repurchase it when it was upon sale?" said Reginald. '' He did — he would!" I exclaimed, a sudden spasm of pain contracting my face. ** AVhy Edmund, what is the matter?" *' Don't ask me, my dear fellow — don't ask me. Some time, Reginald, I will tell you all about it— don't ask me now— oh Heaven!" Reginald said not a word more; but walked on his horse a httle in advance of mine, giving me time to recover myself before we reached the house, and his servant rang at the door, Reginald gazed up at the front of the house, which though re- spectable, nay handsome, had a gloomy ill-favoured appearance on that side. The door, however, was now flung open, and we were received by a venerable-looking butler, and two remarkably respectful and well-mannered footmen, and by them ushered into the house with all the quiet ceremony of a well-appointed household. We first entered the dark low hall, which was hung with gloomy and very ancient pictures, and so heavily matted, that the sound of a footstep could scarcely be heard as it fell. The drawing-room door was then thrown open, and we entered. The ladies alone were there. Reginald came in with, if possible, more than the usual elegance and good-breeding of his look and manner, with more than the usual sweetness in the expression of his bewitching eyes and coun- tenance; he paid his compliments in terms so engaging, that 1 saw, at once, the favourable impression he had first made was strengthened. 140 MOUNT SOREL ; OR, He bowed but did not address Clarice, and seating liiniseK between Mrs. de Vere and Mrs. Fermor, was soon engaged in what appeared to be a very agreeable conversation; w^hile I, too happy, sat down by my charmer. So near as we both sat to where he w^as placed, it was impossible to mention him, so that I could make no allusion to that subject of his name which I so much wished to explain to her. I began to talk, therefore, of other matters; but I found with no little feeling of internal chagrin, that she seemed more anxious to attend to the conversation that was going on beside us than to listen to me. I comforted myself, however, as well as I could, thinking, that our conversations were usually of far too intimate and confidential a nature, to be entered upon with pleasure before strangers : and besides, she seemed so happy to have me near her again : and though her eyes took part in the conversation that was going on, they perpetually turned and appealed to me w^hen any thing that struck her attention was said, she at the same time demanding, in a low tone of voice, such explanations as might be required. So that I felt we w^ere keeping up a sort of running comment upon Reginald's discourse. It w^as at length interrupted by the appear- ance of Mr. de Vere; upon which dinner was immediately an- nounced. At dinner Reginald was extremely agreeable. Mr. de Vere, who seemed completely captivated by his manners, led him into conversation. Our tour, but above all, the vast poli- tical events which we had witnessed at Paris, furnished, in truth, matter interesting enough. Rut well as 1 knew Reginald, I was astonished at the spirit and power of description, with which he detailed the mighty scenes of which we had been spectators. He began to describe the fall of the Bastile. Again I heard the howling multitude, pouring through the nar- row^ streets, and between the lofty houses of ancient Paris. Again, the loud booming cannon of the Bastile pealed through the air. Again, the deep toll of the tocsin sounding at intervals, sent the blood back to the heart. Again, that mighty roar of the infuriated people swelled far above the booming of ten thousand cannon. Again, they swept irresistible over the frowning barrier. Again De Launay, pale and trembling, " but not with fear," was torn forward amid the yelling host; again his daughter fell prostrate at the feet of those enraged and passionate people, and supplicated for his life in vain. Once more I saw that old man — whom with our own eyes we had beheld — the miserable victim for forty years of irresponsible power, and vengeance unrelenting, come forth, sallow, hollow-cheeked, extenuated : like some poor plant blanched by seclusion from the THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. l4l heaven's sweet air : lifting up his bleared eyes in painful amaze- ment to the blue shining vault and gladsome sun. 1 saw the breast of Clarice heaving. I saw her eyes in a sort of wild terror, reflect the scene. I saw the varying colours flit over her face — the glow of indignation and enthusiasm — the paleness of horror. At last, the pitying drops swelled to her brimming eyes, and fell one by one unheeded on her cheek. All sat in mute attention. Mr. de Vere's cold impassible counte- nance bent forward in earnest attention towards the speaker; while Mrs. de Vere's faint shrieks and exclamations might be heard at intervals; Mrs. Fermor was wrapt in deep and silent listening. Reginald was sitting opposite to me ; I had taken my seat by Clarice. I saw him once or twice, in the course of his narrative, address himself to Miss de Vere, turning to her from her father : her countenance so expressively responsive to all he said, seemed to captivate him more and more. It seemed, at last, that he w^as addressing her alone. " It was the terrible, but magnificent downfall of the despotism of ages," he concluded by saying. *' Yes," said Mr. de Vere, after a pause, " there fell a gTand but dreadful engine of kingly power : but with it , fell the noble chiv- alry of Europe — with it, the era of lofty sentiments, unbought honour, generous loyalty! All that is noble and dignified; all that elevates man , and severs him from the base grovelling com- mon crew, the swinish, brutish, earthborn multitude; with it, in that dark night of destruction, passed aw^ay." ** And the old man?" said Clarice, turning her darkly lustrous eyes, filled with interest and pity, upon Reginald, " That poor old unhappy man — what became of him?" and, shuddering, " M. de Launay?" ' "He was massacred," said Reginald, " I saw him massacred." ''Oh, dreadful! And the old prisoner?" " I confess, I thought still more of him than even of M. de Lau- nay, Miss de Vere ... I saw him brought out in the midst of that wild hubbub and confusion — the almost fiend-like exultation of a mob, exasperated to the wildest frenzy, under the excitement of the most unbounded triumph— his poor eyes seemed almost blind- ed by the light, his poor faculties quite confounded by the noise. He looked about him, with the sort of mournful bewilderment with which you may have observed some poor dumb creature, a dog for instance, look piteously around; in a strange surprise, and with- out power to make itself intelligible." The ready tears again brimmed over her eyelids. " And had he no one to take him home?" " All dead ! A generation had swept away while he lay immured 142 MOUNT SOREL; OR, in a dungeon — for a song, Miss de Vere ! half a dozen verses on an execrable hard-hearted woman. He was come back from the tomb, but they w^ere all dead ; all he loved or knew had long been dead. He had only to go back to prison again." The tears were over her cheeks now. He looked at her — passionately. While I — sunk in a mournful reverie, lost in reflections upon those dreadful contrasts; those wrongs on all sides ; those inextri- cable entanglements of injuries and duties ; that scene of anguish, violence, injustice, and heroism on every hand — only just lifted up my head to catch with a sudden terror, that glance from the ardent eye of Reginald. *' We will not forget," began Mr. de Yere, with some stern- ness in his voice and manner, " while we pity the victim of a worthless woman, that far more interesting victim of loyalty and generous devotion to his royal master — of honourable adherence to military duty — the brave and unfortunate De Launay. That was a noble sight, if you please. That was a sight to redeem the char- acter of man. One noble heart, supported by the undying bravery of half-a-dozen old wounded invalids, opposed to the brutal power of an immense infuriated mob — incapable of even conceiving, far less sympathising in , the lofty motives which actuated him.'' "Oh, no, sirl there you mistake," I interrupted; "they ivere capable — they proved themselves capable. There w^re traits of generosity, ..." " Don't talk such nonsense to me, Edmund. Don't let me hear you raving in that absurd manner about the generosity of a beastly herd of infuriated tigers who tore the noble De Launay into atoms. . ." "Indeed, Sirl " Indeed!" cried Mr. de Vere, raising his voice. " Let me hear no rascally Jacobin — I beg your pardon, Edmund," said he, sud- denly interrupting himself, and recovering his composure and good manners, " but it pains me — however — I beg your pardon, Mr. Ver- non, you were going to speak." " I w^as only going to say . . ." began Reginald, " but really," he added, interrupting himself with much suavity, " really, I feel so far too young at present to make any reflections, that can be of the least value either to myself or to others upon such difficult sub- jects, that I will, like Miss de Vere, content myself with pitying all the world." She looked at him so sweetly as he said this. Oh, my poor jealous heart I Mr. de Vere seemed much pleased with the tone he took. It was so entirely without the slightest servility (sr weakness; it seemed THE HEIRESS OF THE DE VERES. 143 SO truly the simple expression of reverence for those older and more experienced than himself, and distrust in his own raw and jejeune ideas ; that it was very graceful. Mrs. de Vere, too, in her gentle way, looked much pleased to see the rising storm allayed by this halcyon wing of candour and mo- desty. It had lately become far too much the custom for every one to assert and maintain their own principles with most pertina- cious dogmatism; and to express violent and most unmitigated contempt for the opinions of those who presumed to differ. There w^as a pause. Reginald sat for a short time, looking down, playing with some leaves that had fallen on his plate. He started up from a deep reverie ; when Mrs. Fermor, as if to divert the conversation, asked him something about Italy. "Valombrosa? I beg your pardon, Madam. Oh! yes, Ed- mund, looking at me, and then directing his eyes, to Miss de Vere ; " you remember that night? " And off he w^as again ; and surely had Milton, on his return from his travels, attempted to paint that scene, as we had seen it lit by a trembling moon, he had described as Reginald did : not as I, poor feeble artist, not as I can, or will attempt, to do. Mr. deVere was, to the inmost soul, a true artist — a poet, in his own way. To all that was grand or beautiful, every pulse of his heart responded. He leaned his arm upon the table, and, both eyes bent down, Hstened as if charmed; while Reginald, led by the skilful questions of Mrs. Fermor, but his eyes most often addressing themselves to Clarice, wandered through that Italy, which then defended by its giant wall of Alp on Alp, possessed no high road, by which, dosing in his britshka-and-four, the indolent child of luxury on his sum- mer tour, should roll into, and desecrate with his presence, its sacred associations. I ow^n that I was myself astonished at the extent of observation, the eloquence of the classical taste, and the extensive acquaintance with classical literature, which my friend displayed. Mr. de Vere soon ceased to listen (mly and began to converse ; he was a very eloquent scholar himself; and he, to the regret parhaps of the ladies, soon carried Reginald away from Italy as it existed in his time, to wander with him among those associations of Italy as it once was, so enchanting to classically educated men. Mrs. de Vere now rose to leave the room. Reginald sprang up to open the door. Was there ever any thing surpassing the charm of his attitude as he held it for her? Or the loveliness of the slight courtesy with which Clarice passed him. Oh divine I — divinesl love I Shedding inspiration, breathing 144 MOUNT SOREL; OR, beauty, grace and sweetness! An atmosphere as it were of love- liness and fascination around thy favoured votaries. . . .Why must thou, stern and pitiless, reverse the charm for the wretched victims of a passion yet more pure, yet more devoted^ yet more true? Clouding the brow, bending and shaking the quivering limbs, and refusing to the poor stammering tongue the power even to express its wretchedness. "Love in ihine eyes for ever plays, He on Ihy snowy bosom strays, He makes thy rd'sy lips his care, And walks the mazes of thy hair. " How different is my fate from thine, No outward marks of love are mine, My brow is clouded with despair, And grief, love's bitter foe, is there." Such were the reflections that began to darken my heart, as, sunk in the gloomiest reverie, I remained absolutely silent; while Mr. de Vere and Reginald continued their conversation, both too much occupied with their subject to observe my depression. At length, on some subject arising which they could not quite settle to their satisfaction, they adjourned to the library, leaving me to my own reflections. I was awakening as from a dream. The fond, flattering visions of a peaceful night were fading ra- pidly away, and I was awaking to the drear truth. He would love her then — if he did not already love her, he would. And she? Ah! was she not already under the influence of that resistless charm, that ineffable fascination, possessed by Reginald? And I, poor Edmund ! poor slow, heavy Edmund! what had I but a heart — a heart so true — a passion so deep ... a love, stronger than death, ay, deeper far, than hell, or the grave! What had I? My Clarice ! my Clarice ! my infant playfellow! my little love ! I feel thy waxen chubby hands round my neck. I have thee in my arms — I, the rough hewn, yet most tender-hearted boy ! 1 feel thy little fluttering baby heart beating against my breast. My little love! I have thee still! No never! never! never! . . . Thou art mine — thou wert mine ! Infant ! baby ! pretty girl ! sweet feeling woman, of the sorrow-darkened eyes ! thou art mine. He shall not love thee — thou art not his, thou art mine. Who has loved thee like me? Who" can? who will? — whose entire of being has been thine, my Clarice! my little baby love! Oh ! thou arbiter of life ! if I am to lose her — take me, take me, to thyself. Take me away : let me never see it, let me never hear it : but dying believe. . . My love, my Clarice! my baby! my dark sorrow-eyed woman! IHE IIEIRKSS OF THE IH: VERES. 145 ihoii canst not, tl'.ou wilt noi, thou ( aiisL n(»l, forget thine Ed- mund I th) |ioor,hunjble, olay-dad, liiy liravy, earlli-boin, humble slave — thy Edmund I " And dropphig my head upon my I'olded aims, as (hey lay on the dining-table, I burst into a torrent of tears. Fast they Hewed, but the sound of a hand upon the lock of the door aroused me. I hastily guli)ed down a tumbler of water, and flinging my napkin upon the table, passed out by the open windov/ uijonthc terrace. It was dark, and the stars were shining brightly overhead : walking their silent course : marking their paths of the vast, the interminable skies. But alas I I had been lately learning to regard as an old and chih^- ish superstition, that doctrine which saw the eye divine of Provi- w retain- ed its painful expression; but the least possible intimation of a smile was upon her lips. Mrs. de Vere and Mrs. Fermor looked as grave and uncomfort- able as ever. " How couhl I guess, dear Madam?" 1 continued, in a depreca- ting tone. " Could 1, by possibility, have formed an idea of the pain I should so unwittingly occasion, I would have killed myself rather than have entered the church that day. I am deeply sorry to have given pain : but I think I am only born to give pain — " I ad- ded, despond ngly. ' ' You were not likely — you were not in the least likely, Edmund," said Clarice, looking up and speaking so earnestly and kindly; " how should you, indeed guess — how should you know ?" " Alas I Edmund," said Mrs. de Yere, " that is very true — how should you, indeed?" '' But Mr. de Yere : I am so grieved to have displeased him : shall I go to his room and endeavour to explain?" I was rising hastily— " No," said Mrs. Fermor, laying her hand upon my arm to stop me — " no, Mr. Edmund — no;" and she glanced at Mrs. de Yere; " you had better not; you had better wait till morning." " Don't vex yourself, dear Edmund," said my sweetest Clarice, seeing me look so much annoyed ; *' it will all be forgotten in the THE HEIRESS OF THE l»E VERES. 151 morning— poor papa I Some things are so excessively painful to him ; but don't vex yourself; it cannot be helped." How sweetly caressing were her kind, aifectionate tones I '' No,"said'Mrs. de Vere, " pray don't, Edmund." Mr. de Vere appeared no more that night ; and after a short time we all, feeling very uneasy, se))arated. I retired to my room — shocked and astonished at what I had seen. Could it be possible that Mr. de Vere had nourished so unrea- sonable a prejudice against his neighbour, chiefly because he had happened undesignedly to step in between him and this coveted estate. Could he not even tolerate the idea of his son ? A man with whom he had evidently been quite delighted till he discovered his unfortunate parentage. Was this Mr. de Vere? a man, haughty and stern, it was true, but one I should have thought utterly incapable, of what did seem to me — I will say it — a most culpable injustice. I was more provoked at him at that moment than at myself; a feeling almost new to me, who always, by some unfortunate con- currence of circumstances, seemed fated in every untoward trans- action, to be myself the one most to blame. CHAPTER XVni. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument, Deserves the labour of a worthier pen. SlIARSPEARE. And oh I sweet, tender Clarice, must we follow thee to thy cham- ber, and betray the secrets of thy innocent heart? Must we picture thee, glancing at thyself in thy mirror; gazing with a look of shy distrust at those features, and at that beauty, now no longer indif- ferent to thee? Thou takes L from thy bosom those few flowers : he had gathered them, on the terrace, as he passed with Mr. de Vere, and had offered them to thee. Thy white dress hangs in folds I'ound thee; thou takest out the comb which held back the rich treasure of thy beau- tiful dark hair, and it showers over thy neck and shoulders; while thou, sighing and looking down, lost in the sweet fancies of that most tender love now springing in thy gentle bosom, art thrown listlessly u})on thy chair, gazing pensively upon those withering flowers. Again those brightly beaming eyes, sparkling with intelligence and feeling, are meeting thine. Again the accents ofthat voice hangs upon thine ear, as sv/eetest, sweetest music. Thou recallest it all ; 152 >rOl.M SOIIEL; oil, every syllable that fell from those lips. It seems to thee, that every word has nieUed into thine heart. Sweet, tender erealure I and yet thou art ignorant of all this. Thou art ignorant of the very name of those bewitching feelings that are Stealing away thy soul. Ah, blest I too blest! to wander by his side; to be for ever ani- mated by that sparkling intelligence, that fire of energy, nature, and feeling. She hangs over the flowers, she gazes into their beautiful bells; she would fain read there his fate, and her own. Then she remembers whose son he is. Alas I alas I Then she recol- lects with dismay, those bitter feelings which her father has secretly nourished against Jiis father; betrayed by so many involuntary indications, though never distinctly expressed. She remembers all that she has heard of that father; of his rudeness, his violence, his dreadful democratical principles; and she wonders that such a father can have reared such a son. And again the sweet vision passes before her imagination; she sees those beautiful eyes bent upon hers, with an expression of ten- der interest, which even she, inexperienced as she is, cannot mis- take. And then her life, till now so colourless, so devoid of interest, assumes a new character, as when the sun burst forth and illumi- nates the leaden coloured landscape with a sudden glow of light and life. So was it with Clarice. But her father. Will he tolerate the presence of one, the son of the man he hates and despises? And that father! .... The strong- est, deepest interest of Clarice's life, was, after all, that father; cold as he was, stern as he was, reserved as he was, the mysterious sympathy v,hich unites father and child, had taught Clarice as by a sort of instinct, to understand and to sympathise with his feel- ings. That melancholy solitude of soul, the groanings of the deep and incurable disaj)pointment which was overlooked and misunder- stood by every one else, she had comprehended ; and her young heart had bled in secret for him ; and a still deeper and intenser interest than that which a tender child feels for a suffering father, had long rendered him the prime object of her attention; and the study of her life was to endeavour to make him happy. She loved her mother with the utmost tenderness ; to her she ever was most caressing, gentle and fond; but her father was become the main subject of her thoughts. During the two years of my absence, she had been left almost en- tii'ely to herself. She had no intimate companions of her own age ; and with the exception of those assembled at the formal dinner par- ties, no one was ever invited to pay a visit at Holnicote. jly fathin' alone excepted. So that Clarice lived in that solitude of thought and feelinc: which i^^ the h>i of the young, when eontnied to the sole so- THE flKIRESS OF THl- Di: VEIIKS. 153 ciolv of the aged ; but she avjis natiually of a gay, cheorfiil . ;m(l I a- ing disnusitiun ; and with her garden, her grottos, her Htth^ plans, her domestie }>ets, and her pious duties to lier i)arents, she would have been happy eould she but have seen them happy. Her mother's gentle depressed spirits exereised a somewhat de- pressing etVeet upon those around her. But a darker interest hung round Mr. do Vere ; there was somelliing beyond oi'dinary depres- sion in his settled melaneholy, and in the deej) distaste he seemed to feel for life, with all its interests and enjoyments. The sort of iso- lation in wdiieh he lived too, that virtual separation from liis family occasioned by the reserve and severity of his manners, was source of constant pain to the affectionate Clarice. She eould not but lament, in the father she loved and honoured, the coldness of his nranners to the mother she loved so tenderly. She could not but regret, that the mother so dear could not com- mand a more cheerful and genial temper. She wanted to make them all happy ; but how often were her best efforts disappointed, and how often were her beautiful eyes darkened with unavailing anxiety and }>ily. She was leading after all, a gloomy life; when she was gladdened by the sight of my re- turn, it was to her as the restoration of all that would make her happy. She remembered the enjoyment of those days that we had spent together when we were both so young, so ignorant of our- selves and so ha]>pily blind to much that was passing around us; and. with fond credulity — with Edmund returned, she expected those haj)py feelings to return too. Alas I sweet Clarice, such years return no more I thou hast past, n)y sweet one, the threshold of youth, and forth thou must go to fuUil the mysterious destiny of thy race : to suffer and to struggle— the victim of hope deceived , of purpose frustrated, of feelings wasted, and of devotion thrown away. The serene composure of thy feelings hath left thee and for ever. Thou hast given thy young heart with heedless innocence away. In the sweet ignorance of thy age, poor child, thou didst not even know what thou wert about, as thine ears drank the bewitching j)oison from the li])s of thy Reginald; and thine eye gazed with delight and gratitude upon him, who beguiled for the moment the melancholy of thy father. Nurse came up, as was her custom, to put Clarice to bed. Nurse was a dear creature ; a nice, little, round, rosy-cheeked, bright- eyed Welsh woman ; she was her foster-mo thei", and the child had loved her with that peculiar tenderness, which the habit of foster- ing, as it at that time existed, engenders. As for nurse, she was a young widow when taken into ^Ir. de Veie's family ; hiursc had long in secret lamented the seclusion to which her lovely charge seemed to be condemned ; and it was with great satisfaction she leained that Master Edmund, as he was called, was come back. She had always secretly favoured Master Edmund, and had indeed long regarded him as the eventual hus- band of her dear young lady. She now came up in high spirits, and surprised her charge ; sitting, as we have said, negligently reclining in her chair, wrap- ped in her long muslin dressing-gown, and with her beautiful hair all falling over her shoulders, her eyes bent on the floor, lost in thought. '' Gracious me, my dear young lady," she began, "I never hear't you ring." ''Goodness, nurse! is it you?" cried Glarice, starting, and colouring to the eyes, "how you startled me." *'I thought you must be come up to bet, and that you must have rung and I not hear't it — for master and Master Edmunt are both gone up to their rooms a quarter of an hour ago. Well, I dit see Master Edmunt, and I do think he's looking mighty pretty after his travels. He's grown bigger and thinner like, and a fery nice vounijj man he is. Don't you think, dear, as how Master Ed- munt is looking fery pretty ?" "I didn't observe it, nurse," said Glarice, languidly. ''Poor Edmund I now I recollect, I didn't think he was looking well — or pretty, as you call it, dear nurse. He's grown very pale, and he said he had a bad headache ; he looked out of spirits, I thought." "Well; my dear, I do wonder at that — and he just come home among the friends he is so fond of." "Ah I but nurse, you know he has been a very, very long time away, and perhaps he has seen some one during his travels that he is still fonder of. Suppose he should bring us home some morn- ing, a beautiful Italian lady — like that fine creature, Glementina, in Sir Gharles Grandison — what should we say then, nurse?" "Gracious, my dear I how you do talk. Master Edmunt '11 nefer think of any foreign lady, I'm sure and certain, and. . ." "But, nurse, did you see the other young gentleman, Edmund's friend, that came vvith him to-day?" said Glarice, hesitating a little. " iNo ; I didn't see him at all," said nurse; "but I've hear't of IHE HEIRESS OF lUE DE VEUES. 155 him ; and who doo you think he bo? Why he be the son of Hig- gins, as bought the old Manor House, as sliould by rights, all the country round say, ha' been master's — it's his son, and 1 think it }>retty inipetenl ol'hiin, his eoming here." "1 don't see why he should no( eouie her(% niiise." '' Wjiy, it can't be fery pleasant ibr master I'orXo see him." "I can't think why not. Surely he was not to blame because his father bought the Manor House." "Why, uo, to be sure, Miss (ihu'iee, he wasn't. He's a creet frienl of Mr. pAlnumt, too. And his man says he's the handsomest, cleverest, prettiest, best-temperl, most craeious creature, as ever groom rode after. He coin talk of nothing at sup})er but of his trafels and his young master; but they be such pragmatical pup- pies, them young grooms, that there's no believing a word tha( they say." Nurse stopped, but Clarice contiiuied in ihe attitude of one listening. Nurse went on. "He'll be a fast fortin, his man says; as he's 's mother's fortin now, which is the reason he's called Fernon ; ant that Higgins is as rich, as rich can be, and he's no odier chilt, so all will come to this one; and he'll have Mount Sorel all as one. They doo say it's the beautifullest place in the 'orld, now, my dear." A flash as of lightning shot through the eyes of Clarice ; then she looked up at nurse, and said, "So they say he is very clever and very good." "My dear, them grooms — there's no believing them, they're always ])raising their mastei^ up to the skies, or abusing them black and blue; but this one did speak rcnj handsome of his master. He says he's chenerous, brave, and coot, and all the 'orld knows it, and all the 'orld lofes him. And, indeed, my dear, to say the truth, I dit think there was somelhiuk even in ihat young man his groom, not exactly like the ordinar of other grooms; as iss the master, so iss the man. But that Higgins is a strange one." Again the colour forsook the cheek of Clarice, as that name sounded like the knell of all her unconfessed hopes, and indistinctly defined fancies. 1 passed a wi'etched night. Early in the morning 1 left my !yj!lvJ feverish, restless bed, and was down in the garden. I longed to u,„^,y see Clarice again ; attracted to her, as by an invisible power. v'i*v> Sometimes I hoped that the morning light would dispel the dark gloom that hung over my spirits; that I should find my terrors, after all, were but the vain apprehensions of a nervous anxiety, and that daylight would restore the cheerful confidence of my for- mer feelings. 156 MOTJ.M sorel; or, I went to the beluvi,'d hermitage — she was there before me. Slie was silting in an attitude of deep thought as T entered. How beau- tiful she looked I "■ Do I disturl) you?" I said, as slie started and looked Jiastily round . ** Oh no, dear Edmund I When do you ever disturb me?" said she, with her usual gentle kindness. " I have hardly had a word with you yet. Come in, the breakfast bell will not ring this half hour. Sit down. Tell me what you think of my father," said she, ** T think he looks thinner: but in other respects, w^ell." ** You think lie looks thinner Oh, Edmund I" She checked herself. She felt how painful any allusion to the subject of hi? disappointment would be to me, and she hesitated. " J am afraid, my dear Clarice," I said, ''that this unhappy business cost him more, than even 1 imagined it would do when 1 left you. I am," added I, in a tone of deep depression, '' fated to be the most hopelessly unfortunate man upon earth." *' Dear Edmund," said she, her sweet eyes filling with pity and anxiety, as she looked at me : " don't say so ; don't look so miser- able ; don't blame yourself. It was no fault of yours — it was a misfortune, that is all. But pray, dear Edmund, don't take it to heart. I was wrong to mention the subject r»f my father to you ; but indeed, Edmund, you m.ust forgive me. You don't know the j)leasure it is to talk things over with you. They are all very kind to me, but some way it is not like one of my own age, Edmund. Oh I how i have longed to have you b-ick again I" *' My sweetest Clarice I Forgive me — I was very sorry. Let us tiilk of your father. He has felt this very much, I fear." '■' I cannot understand it, Edmund. It sei-ms very strange to me, that any loss of this kind should be so very hard to bear. I don't think it would break my heart; would it yours, Edmund? If one is with those one loves, how little it matters where we are; but I am afraid my father has been vt^?'y unhaj>py : some way this seems ipiite to have changed him. I have heard the expression of the spring of life being gone ; it seems to me as if the spring of my father's life were gone. He seems to care for nothing now. " Poor little girl," continued she, playing idly with a bit of heath, and abandoning herself to the cuirent of her thoughts. " Don't you recollect what a fuss there used to be made about me when I was a little child. And now I think he is almost as indiffer- ent about me as he is about any thing else. 1 don't mind that, Edmund. I can love him dearly, and 1 don't want to trouble him about not having me ; but it is a proof he is secretly very unhappy, and will let no one share it," — raising h«'r head and looking at me anxiously. • Don'! vou fear so?" I HE HEIUESS OF J HE DE VERES. 157 '• To be iudiflerent to you, Clariro, ihal must, indetid, beajirooi* of some strange madness/' She started at the word, turned very j)ale, and whispei-ed, " U hat can you mean by using thai dreadful word, l^dnumd?" *' My sweetest Clarice I" *' Did you observe?" said she, speaking very low and looking round. " Did you observe any thing yesterday that led you to use the shocking word you did?" " No — I spoke inadvertenlly. I thought him more irritable tlian I had ever before known him lo be — but — " Alas I I had been too much absorbed by my r.wn feelings, to think much of those of any other human being. " No one does observe it but myself," said she, in the same low voice. "At least, no one but Mrs. Fermor perhaps. My mother— all the rest. I could hale myself, Edmund, but 1 never trusLed to human being the horrid anxiety I have felt, before. My poor father! God in heaven avert this horrible thing I" •'My poor, sweet Clarice," said 1, gazing athei- with tenderness. '' What you must have suftered !" '•I hove sullered, Edmund; I have had the most terrible, shocking, horrid kinds of doubts, and suspicions, and fears, creeping over me for some time. Do you know^?" laying her hand upon my arm and speaking still lower, "I have got secretly into my father's library, and have looked into all the books I could find upon this dreadful subject, is there not a thing tijey call fever of the spirits, Edmund?" " 1 have heard of it, my love." " It arises from concealed sorrow, they say. Ah. Edniund, if my father would but have talked ; would but have confessed how much this matter preyed upon his heart; — but he was ashamed of his weakness; he had that noble pride; but 1 think someway, it must be a mistaken pride, Edmund — for 1 think it would be better to confess oneself weak when one is weak ; and to lean on those we love to help us. Don't you think so, Edmund I Oh I if he would but have leaned upon me I" " Who would not lean on thee, my sweetest Clarice?" cried I ; the passion I felt was speaking in my eyes, but quite unperceived by her; she was intent upon her mournful subject. ** If you were to see him, days and days that he never opens a book or even a newspaper, but walks up and down that terruee or stands gazing upon those hateful hills as ifhiseyc^s were glued to the spot. And such a deep gloom upon his lace! And then those horrid politics, Edmund, when de does open the paper — oh, Ed- mund! — the violence of the times is dreadful. I don't mean, Edmund," again whispering and looking round; "don't think I 158 MOUNT SOREL; Oft, believe— thank God I 1 do not, that his reason— good heavens!" shuddering, " his noble reason— oh, that is not it I But it is this fever of the spirits I this something. Oh I I don't know what it is that I dread." She looked the picture of distress. " But oh! 1 am so glad you are come back, dearest Edmund." I took her hand, and pressing it gently, said : " There is but one remedy for a case of this kind, my Clarice — diversion. You have lived too much alone at Holnicote. My father is now come back ; he will be much here, Mr. de Yere always enjoys his company. I will do my best. A little diversion of thought will set all right, I doubt not." " God grant it," said she, " and indeed yesterday— I don't doubt that what you say is very true. Wow different he was yesterday from what I have seen him for years." " Reginald is very agreeable," said I, coldly '' I thought he was your friend," said she, in a low voice. I was ashamed of my unmanly jealousy. " He is my friend, and the best and dearest friend I have." She looked up in my face with an expression of innocent delight. " Mr. dc Yere seemed to take great interest in his conversation," I went on; it w^as, how^ever, with difficulty; I was making myself speak, as it were ; " I hope he will see more of him." But my father— and his father— oh, how unfortunate !" " I should think that circumstance could not really diminish any pleasure Mr. de Yere may take in Reginald's society." " 1 don't know. Surely it ought not; but you do not know how- he hates that man. He must be a very horrid, detestable man, I suppose. But, oh ! if my father could help hating him so." " My dear Clarice," said I, quite amazed, *' what can make you think him a very horrid, detestable man? He is rather rough, and, perhaps, sometimes almost coarse in his manners; but, in other respects, as worthy a man as lives, and very clever and agreeable." " 1 thought he was a horrible democrat," she said. " And if he be, my love, what great harm is there in that?'' " I don't exactly know, Edmund; but are they not all terribly vio- lent creatures, that would overthrow our holy church and dethrone our good king, and do, 1 know not what? And this Mr. Higgins, I hear, is dreadful." " My dear love, what strange prejudices have you contracted?" " Oh, Edmund I" drawing back with a look of almost aversion, " I hope you are not one." " My dearest Clarice, am not one what?" '' One of those horrid jacobins. Dear, dear Edmund, I hope you Jiave*not become ])erverted in vour travels." THE HEIRESS OF THE I)E VERES. 159 '' What ^Yords you use, Clarice." Our political feelings were so ardent at that lime that they mingled in, and inlluenced all, our dearest relations. " What I Is it possible I Can Clarice have no sympathies with those struggling for their existence, and for all that makes existence desirable? iNo interest in this grand contest against oppression and tyranny ? I thought yesterday that you pit- ied the poor prisoner in the Bastile." *' And so I did— and so I do. But 1 hope you are not a demo- crat, Edmund," washerwoman's answer. " 1 don't know what you mean by a democrat, Clarice. If you mean one whose heart beats high for that noble cause— the liberty, and progressive improvement of his race — 1 am one, and I glory in the name." " Good heavens!" cried she, eagerly, " don't let my father know it." '' i\ay, Clarice, I am not going to play false to my own convic- tions." '' Alas I alas !" said she, sadly, " and must I lose you, too?" " Lose me, my dearest, what do you mean ?" " Nay, they will none of them tolerate you, Edmund. But my father— alas! dear Edmund, so much as I have-longed for your return." She began to Aveep. " What would you have me do? Don't weep, Clarice I don't weep ;" cried I, with increasing tenderness of accent ; " don't weep, Clarice. W'hat shall I do, if you weep?" She gave me her hand. " Dear, kmd Edmund— but don't, don't be a democrat." , " Well, I won't," said I, coaxingly. *' I am sure you cannot be one by nature," said she, brightening; " you were only plaguing me; you are much too wise; and too good, Edmund. And Mr. Vernon, is he a democrat?" *' Dearest Clarice, you use the term as if you were speaking of some monstrous wild beast. No, Reginald is rather less of a de- mocrat, as you call it, than I am." I was astonished at the strength of her prejudices ; but I saw it would not do, she could not understand my feelings in this matter; I was forced to put aside my pride of sincerity.' To please her, alas I my best principles, I fear, would have yielded ; my best reso- lutions have melted hke wax. With the usual versatility of her sex and age, her apprehensions were as speedily allayed, as they had been excited. " How you frightened me I'" said she, recovering herself; " fool- ish Edmund, I am sure you are too good for such things. But the breakfast-bell is ringing. Now do take care, dear Edmund' and 160 MorNT sorF.L; or,