/VIST
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON 
 
 f 
 . 
 
 OF THE DENE: 
 
 THE STORY OF A LIFE. 
 
 ACTHOK OS 
 
 "THE HALL AND THE HAMLET," 
 
 "THE TEAK, BOOK OP THE COUNTKY," &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENEY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 MARLBOROUGH STREET., 
 
 1851.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON, 
 
 OF 
 
 THE DENE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE traveller in the midland counties of 
 England, as he pauses on the edge of an ample 
 vale, which spreads its fields, its hedge-rows, 
 its scattered farms, and its masses of dark 
 woods, all clearly and pleasantly before his eye 
 for some miles, running from the north to the 
 south, sees opposite to him, on the other side 
 of the vale, an object which always arrests 
 agreeably his attention. It is a village planted 
 high and airily on the western boundary of the 
 vale. Amid a fine envelopment of trees, its 
 houses are discerned, and its sloping gardens 
 on the hill-side; and on the summit of the 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 2203359
 
 2 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 elevation, stands boldly aloft one of those tall, 
 massive square church- towers so common to 
 that part of the country. The large grey mass 
 of the church itself is dimly discerned amid its 
 yew-trees ; and often you may hear, especially 
 on a Sunday, or a summer evening, the church 
 bells ringing with a merry music that seems to 
 fall in loving tones over the quiet landscape 
 which has lain listening to them through so 
 many ages. From the bottom of the vale to 
 the village, perhaps a mile in extent, the up- 
 lands present a delightful aspect. Green crofts, 
 marked out by their noble hedge-row trees, 
 and ampler fields, swelling and descending in 
 many a ridge and hollow, with copse and scat- 
 tered tree, and mingled shade and sunshine, 
 charm the eye. Below, in the valley, stretches 
 a wide heath, through which a little river, 
 traceable also by its fringing trees and bushes, 
 and here and there a bright glance of its waters, 
 winds its way. But from this heath to the very 
 village runs a deep, shadowy glen, as if ploughed 
 out of the hill-side ; and more thickly grown 
 with wood, and at its head, yet some way below 
 the great grey church- tower, shines out a con- 
 siderable white house, flanked and screened at 
 the back with lofty masses of trees. The
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 3 
 
 house, with its two semi-hexagonal towers, OHC 
 at each front corner, and its piazza connecting, 
 as it were, these towers, is an object too peculiar, 
 both for situation and character, not to arrest 
 the gaze at once, and to constitute one of the 
 most marked features of the scene. 
 
 " As I paused on my way," says our au- 
 thority for this narrative, " and drew in the 
 reins of my horse to contemplate this striking 
 landscape, I did what almost every strange 
 traveller on that road does, asked the first 
 person visible, what village that was standing 
 so boldly on the hill, and what house that was 
 which, at the top of the glen, looked out so 
 quaintly pleasant ? The reply was, that village 
 is Westwood, and that house the Dene." 
 
 " The Dene ! and why the Dene ?" 
 
 " Mester," replied the man whom I had 
 asked, and who was no other than a stone- 
 breaker at work just by on the highway, " I see 
 yo're a furriner. It's caw'd th' t)ene, becos it 
 stands at th' yead o' th' Dene ; that valley ut 
 runs reyt up th' hill-side." 
 
 " And pray who lives there ?" 
 
 " Madam Dorrington." 
 
 It was exactly as my friend Vincent had 
 said, but I resolved to ask further. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " Madam Dorrington ! A widow lady, most 
 likely ?" 
 
 " Widow ! no bless yer life, Sir ; nor won't be 
 many a year yet, it's to be hoped." 
 
 " If there be a Mr. Dorrington then, as I infer, 
 my friend," I continued, " why tell me that 
 Madam Dorrington lives there ? Why not Mr. 
 Dorrington ?" 
 
 " Well, Mester, I canna reytly say ; it's ar 
 wey here." 
 
 " Is Mr. Dorrington a man of weak intellect, 
 or afflicted with insanity, or anything of that 
 sort ?" 
 
 The man stopped his hammer with which 
 he had been smiting the stone-heap without 
 any pause while he answered my questions, and 
 stared at me. 
 
 " Of weak intellect ! insane ! Lord have 
 mercy, Mester; but ye mun be a stranger, 
 indeyd. No, beleddy ; I should think he isn't 
 neither. Mester Dorrington's as long a headed 
 gentleman as most yo'll meyt wee, I can tell yer." 
 
 " What then can be the reason for passing 
 him over, and saying Madam Dorrington lives 
 there ? Is she some termagant that rules her 
 husband, and makes a cypher of him in the 
 country ?"
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 5 
 
 " A tarmigant ! rules her husband !" The 
 man fairly laughed. " Eh, Mester," he continued, 
 " but yo would mak 'em stare a bit if yer 
 war to ax 'em i' Westwood whether Madam 
 Dorrington was a tarmigant, and ruled 
 her husband. Why, she's one of God's 
 angels -just the gentlest, best creatur alive 
 and th' mother, as one may say, of all th' 
 parish." 
 
 " Really ! I am glad to hear it ; but then why 
 for you only increase my wonder why do 
 you only say Madam Dorrington ? Perhaps 
 the property was hers by inheritance, and so it 
 comes about." 
 
 "Nay," said the man," " it warna hern; it 
 war th' mester's auncetters' ; and though it war 
 in debt, and out o' th' family some time, he 
 redeymed it, and it's his own, and nubbodey 
 else's." 
 
 " But there must be a reason for this odd 
 practice of yours, my friend," I added; "there 
 must be a cause for the name of Madam Dor- 
 rington getting, as it were, the upperhand of 
 her husband's." 
 
 "Well, it's th' wee we han here; and it's 
 th' wee aw th' country round," added the 
 man. " Beleddy though, till yo made me
 
 6 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 think on't, I niver gen't a thowt; but it mun 
 be as we thinken more of Madam Dorrington, 
 becos hou thinks more of us poor folks than 
 th' mester does/' 
 
 There came out the mystery ; it was en- 
 tirely as Vincent had told me. His mother, 
 by her lively interest in all about her ; by her 
 warm sympathy with every one in her neigh- 
 bourhood, had gradually grown the most 
 prominent object in the people's minds all round 
 there; the more quiet and cold nature of his 
 father letting him lie, as it were, in the back- 
 ground. 
 
 I thanked the poor man, dropped him six- 
 pence to furnish his pipe, which lay with his 
 clothes on the road-side, and rode on. It was 
 singular how well known, and yet how different 
 to all my imaginings, was every object that I 
 now approached. Westwood the Dene Ma- 
 dam Dorrington the little river Wilder, which 
 ran clear and shallow over its bright gravel along 
 the bottom of the vale, and beautiful with its 
 alders and its oaks overhanging its banks; I 
 knew them all, and saw that they ought to look 
 exactly as they did, though my mind had pic- 
 tured them very differently. The old, deep 
 lane, along which I now rode leisurely, with its
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 7 
 
 tall hazel bushes tangled with the wild rose, 
 and its lofty banks covered with the wild straw- 
 berry, the oxalis, and the crimson cuckoo-flower, 
 and that woody glen to the left, the old fish- 
 ponds, and the beautiful fields tumbling, as it 
 were, from the hills above in beautiful disorder 
 they were just as Vincent Dorrington had des- 
 cribed them a hundred times. 
 
 And here I was, not sitting on some shaded 
 crag in the Pyrenees or the Appenines listening 
 to my friend's talk of his native home, his native 
 fields, and his almost adored mother, but on a 
 fine June day riding, according to promise, up 
 the hill to Westwood, on a visit to Madam 
 Dorrington herself. 
 
 I know not whether part of the charm was 
 in my own fancy and associations, but as I 
 had approached the neighbourhood, the country 
 seemed to me to have not only a beautiful, but 
 a gladsome character about it. There are places 
 where we instantly feel a light and cheerful 
 spirit, as there are others that can be nothing but 
 gloomy and heavy. This is oftener felt than 
 seen in any marked particulars. It would be 
 often difficult to describe the causes of the plea- 
 sure that comes over you in those scenes. But 
 nature altogether has a riant aspect ; and you say
 
 8 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 this is a charming country. Here, after the 
 glorious scenes in which Vincent Dorrington and 
 myself had travelled on together, some of the finest 
 and most inspiring in the world, it would seem 
 strange to many that he could have spoken of 
 his native place as so truly beautiful and deli- 
 cious. Here were no Alps nor Alpine valleys, 
 with their dizzy cliffs, their thundering water- 
 falls, their magnificent views over the tops of 
 purple or snowy mountains, or their splendid 
 flowers ever meeting you by the way-side with 
 faces of new and superb beauty. There were 
 scarcely hills at all and yet my heart confessed 
 that my friend's descriptions and encomiums 
 were just there was a genuine English and 
 home-charm in the country about me. The 
 fields were full of grass and flowers. Trees of 
 luxuriant growth and forms of finest grace, stood 
 clad in their new verdure. The sky was blue 
 and bright the few light clouds floated airily 
 through it; the larks were singing exultingly 
 overhead a variety of birds as joyously around. 
 There were groups of people wading and weed- 
 ing in the green corn, whose voices and light 
 laughter reached the ear ; and from the masses 
 of hawthorn-blossom, not yet shed, and from 
 other things came delightful odours breathing
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 upon you. All was so fresh, so pure, so sweet, 
 as nothing but nature in her purest and sweet- 
 est scenes can be. 
 
 As I ascended the hill, and drew near the 
 village, the lambs running races in the old croft, 
 the cows lying in fulness under the shade of 
 broad-spreading elms, the sound of young rooks 
 cawing in the oaks to which they had made 
 their first flight from the rookery, and the occa- 
 sional harsh cat-like cry of a peacock, were 
 things that all told me I was approaching a 
 genuine English hamlet. I met some boys 
 driving to pasture a flock of newly- clipped sheep, 
 and passed a hind with his cart laden with 
 newly-mown clover, gushing with a honeyed 
 and herbacious fragrance. Then, came in sight 
 the lodge-gate on the left, leading up an avenue 
 of immense Spanish chestnuts, with shattered 
 tops, and girths of some yards, bespeaking ages 
 of growth. I almost expected to see Mrs. Dor- 
 rington herself standing just within the gate 
 watching for my arrival, and for news of her 
 beloved son, as he had told me she often awaited 
 his arrival after a long absence standing for 
 hours there, and asking any one that she knew 
 whether they had seen nothing of Mr. Vincent 
 on the road though, had they done so, it were 
 
 B 3
 
 10 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 not likely that they would have passed him, so 
 active and rapid a rider as he is. A few more 
 minutes, and I had passed through the gate, 
 turned the corner, and halted before the house 
 itself. 
 
 On this side, the house had a very different 
 appearance to that which it had presented on 
 the other from the opposite side of the valley. 
 Here it was somewhat low; was of various 
 heights, and erections of different dates ; a low 
 porch, and a short flight of steps up to a glass 
 door formed the entrance. And the gardens 
 and other parts were separated from this side by 
 a sunk fence a low wall, and a thick screen of 
 evergreens, overtopped by the mass of trees which 
 had given such bold and dark effect at a dis- 
 tance. To the right a winding carriage-drive 
 led into the village. 
 
 I was admitted on ringing the bell, by a boy 
 in livery, who rang another bell, which imme- 
 diately brought thither a groom who led away 
 my horse, and I was conducted to a lowish, 
 large, and somewhat shady room, which seemed 
 half library, hah sitting-room. This was sur- 
 rounded by glass-cases of books, and a few por- 
 traits, evidently family ones, in dingy frames, 
 and themselves almost lost, some of them, in
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 11 
 
 the blackness that required the hand of the 
 cleaner. There were easy chairs and couches 
 arranged on the side nearest the fire-place, show- 
 ing that this was a family room ; but in the fire- 
 place was a large bush of lilacs and peonies. 
 
 The lad went off again with great alacrity to 
 fetch Madam Dorrington, as he too called her ; 
 but instead of her there appeared a woman - 
 servant of middle-age, and with a broadish pro- 
 vincial accent, who said she thought Madam 
 Dorrington was gone into the garden, and she 
 would seek her she knew she was expecting 
 me. The woman had her apron turned up over 
 her arms, as if she had just taken her hands out 
 of water, and was actually wiping her arms at 
 the moment ; and there was such an air of 
 shrewd familiarity about her, that I could not 
 be mistaken in one whom I had so often heard 
 Vincent talk of the old house-maid of his boy- 
 hood. 
 
 "That's Sally Horobin," I said, "and no 
 mistake." 
 
 The woman reddened with unaffected aston- 
 ishment, and said : 
 
 " Eh, Sir ! dun ya know mey ?" 
 
 "To be sure I do. I have known you 
 these years. I hope you are quite well, Sally,
 
 12 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and that your master and mistress are quite 
 well !" 
 
 " Well, now !" said the woman, laughing 
 heartily : " that's Mester Vincent that's been tell- 
 ing you about me God bless him ! An' I hope 
 yo left him well, and that he's meaning to come 
 home soon. Laus-a-me ! what a man it is for 
 ranging and rambling about ! Gracious me ! 
 what he must ha seyn ! An yo've been wi' him, 
 Sir ?" 
 
 "Ay, Sally ; we've talked of you on the top 
 of some of the highest mountains in Europe. 
 You must have felt your ears burn dreadfully 
 sometimes, I'm sure, when you've been talked of 
 in France, and Spain, and Holland, and actually 
 in Macedonia !" 
 
 I threw in Macedonia because I knew that it 
 was a name familiar to her in the Bible. 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! Good Lord alive ! 
 and mercy on us ! In France, and Spain, and 
 Macedonia ! Oh ! Mester Bathurst, you're 
 joking me now ah ! I can see it in your eyes ! 
 Oh ! you are fond of joking, I can see. But yo 
 know Sally Horobin that's plain; and it's 
 Mester Vincent God bless him ! that's been 
 telling all this stuff about me." 
 
 And here Sally, covered all over with blushes
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 13 
 
 and delight, burst out into the heartiest laughter, 
 and hurrying off, said : 
 
 " But 'what am I doing, and Missis standing 
 on pins and needles till her sees yo ?" 
 
 "Stop, Sally!" I said; "let me go myself. 
 I know your garden as well as I know you. I 
 should like to find Mrs. Dorrington myself. I 
 dare say she's gone to the Nest to enjoy her 
 flowers. Has she taken her knitting out with 
 her ?" 
 
 Sally's wonder rose at every word. 
 
 " An yo known the Nest, anau ? an' about 
 Missis's knitting ? Oh, Mester Vincent ! if 
 he has na tould you iverything ! Well, that 
 shows that you're bossum friends, however. 
 Ye mun ha bin pratty thick afore you could ha 
 talked all these things o'er. Well," and Sally 
 burst into laughter again at my intimate know- 
 ledge of " iverything," as she said, " well, 
 Missis has ta'en her knitting out, but yo'll not 
 find her at the Nest, for hou's gone to watch the 
 beys, that are about swarming, and taen a lad 
 wi' her to ring upo' th' fire-shovel yo'll not so 
 easily find where that is, as the Nest. I mun 
 show you." 
 
 " By no means, Sally there is not the 
 slightest occasion. I know where it is down
 
 14 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 below the holly fence at the barberry- 
 tree.' 
 
 " Well, if iver onybody seeyd the like ! 
 Mester Bathurst, yo're a conjurer ! Yo know 
 ivery inch o' th' ground here, and niver seeyd it 
 in yer life afore !" and Sally clapped her hands 
 in utter astonishment. 
 
 As much amused with Sally Horobin as she 
 was amazed at me, I passed through the door 
 she opened, and found myself in the piazza 
 which ran along the front between the two 
 towers, and all the scene in its beauty lay at 
 once before me. The sun was shining and 
 glowing warmly over the whole; the pillars of 
 the piazza were twined round with creepers and 
 passion-flowers, whose blossoms, hanging in 
 masses of many rich hues overhead, were full of 
 bees. How sunny and happy is the sound 
 of bees ! 
 
 There were seats in the piazza, where you 
 might enjoy the shade while contemplating one 
 of the loveliest landscapes imaginable, and on 
 the roof of the piazza there were others, where 
 you might take a still ampler range of prospect 
 amidst the cool airs of morning or evening. 
 And there stood masses of rich flowers in pots, 
 geraniums, acacias, roses, agapanthas, heliotropes,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 15 
 
 or other more splendid kinds, as the green-house 
 and the season yielded them. There was a 
 sweetness and beauty about this piazza that was 
 delightful, but still more delicious was the scene 
 lying before me. It was a glance into one of 
 those many enchanting paradises that attach to 
 the homes of England. The house standing, as 
 already mentioned, at the head of this valley, or 
 glen, calle'd the Dene, the lawn before it de- 
 scended with considerable steepness, the hollow 
 and the sides of the valley clothed with the 
 finest turf, and scattered with some of the 
 noblest trees imaginable. Here rose a broad, 
 dark cedar ; there a gigantic oak, its immense 
 stem, to which the old, close-shorn, mossy turf 
 seemed to creep in very lovingness of ancient 
 affection, surrounded by a seat ; here masses of 
 Portugal laurel, or fragrant bay, with various 
 foreign trees, as the tulip-tree, the American 
 she-oak and hickory, which had been planted 
 with great taste, and now stood in stately grace 
 on the velvet slopes. To the right wound away 
 a walk along the higher ground, bounded by a 
 tall hedge, or rather wall, of nicely- clipped 
 laurel, and losing itself in a woodland mass. 
 To the left, a similar walk led along beneath an 
 avenue of noble lime-trees, and in an easy
 
 16 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 circuit brought you to the flower-garden. At 
 the bottom of the hollow lawn gleamed a large 
 pond, margined to the very water with the rich 
 green turf; and, at its farthest bank, soared up 
 two or three lofty and full-grown Lombardy 
 poplars. Various water-fowls might be seen 
 swimming or flashing about in playfulness in 
 this pleasant reservoir, and birds in numbers, 
 unmolested because they claimed their share of 
 fruit, flitted from tree to tree, or sought for 
 insects in the grass of the lawn. 
 
 As I proceeded along the lime-walk to the 
 garden, I beheld a summer-house rear its domed 
 roof most attractively out of the wood opposite, 
 and my eye followed the valley, into which me 
 verdant crofts seemed to fall with their swelling 
 ridges, and dimpled hollows, and spreading trees, 
 as if emulous for their full share of beauty 
 where all was beautiful. Beyond them, my eye 
 ranged over the ample valley which I had 
 crossed in coming hither, and flitted on over 
 cheerful villages, over the broad uplands, farms, 
 mills, and here and there dense masses of woods, 
 with the occasional glimpse of a country house 
 on their skirts. I thought I had seldom looked 
 on a more pleasant English landscape, and this 
 place itself seemed so shut in to its own beauty,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 17 
 
 and to have such yet unexplored nooks and dells 
 as delighted the imagination. 
 
 But I shall have other occasions to speak of 
 the different parts of this spot. I was going on, 
 and now holding abruptly to the left, I came to 
 where tall masses of evergreens seemed to 
 hound the lawn, and, passing through an opening 
 in them, I exclaimed to myself: 
 
 " The Nest !" 
 
 Here, close at my left hand, under the shade 
 of an enormous lime-tree, stood a rustic garden- 
 house, or shed. It was huilt of rough wood, 
 and thatched with heather. Within, it was 
 paved with blocks of wood, end uppermost, and 
 seated round, and in the centre stood a rustic 
 table. Before it lay a little enclosed lawn, 
 hemmed in by tall masses of evergreens, laurus- 
 tinus, laurels in full flower, and over them 
 dark ilexes and cedars showing themselves in 
 luxuriant growth. Honeysuckles and jasmines 
 dotted the sides of the Nest and borders of 
 flowers ran on each side of it, the flowers chiefly 
 in pots, the shade of the lime evidently injuring 
 the growth of others. But out before it, a 
 little fountain played in the centre of the lawn, 
 whence a troop of birds that were washing and 
 frisking in the shallow basin darted away as I
 
 1 8 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 appeared ; and all around were beds of the most 
 glowing flowers, perfect masses of the richest- 
 colouring: tulips, ranunculuses, roses of different 
 kinds, geraniums of superb beauty, and annuals 
 of the intensest hues scarlet, crimson, blue, 
 and white all in their respective borders, and 
 without the slightest mixture, producing the 
 most enchanting effect. Mrs. Dorrington's 
 passionate love of flowers stood there mani- 
 fest. 
 
 I could not help lingering a moment there in 
 admiration, nor taking up a book which I saw 
 lying on the table of the Nest, and which turned 
 out to be Thomas a Kempis's " Imitation of 
 Christ." 
 
 Proceeding onward in my quest, I descended 
 a sloping wilderness of alternate flowers, and 
 leaves, and evergreens, till I found myself at a 
 boundary of one of the loftiest holly-hedges I 
 have ever seen, and, spying a little gate in it, 
 found myself next in an old orchard, down 
 which I wandered, admiring its shady antiquity, 
 till, in a little hollow close to the open fields, I 
 spied a screen of shrubs, that convinced me I 
 had reached the place I sought. Approaching 
 quietly, I stood in an opening into this enclosure, 
 but so under the boughs of trees as not to be
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 19 
 
 seen myself, and beheld a sight which became to 
 me an indelible picture. 
 
 A bee-shed, containing at least a dozen hives, 
 all of the old-fashioned straw kind, stood with 
 its back to the fields, and screened from the east 
 wind by a clump of wilding trees. Over the 
 bee-shed clomb masses of honeysuckle, and 
 around it grew thyme, and lilies, wallflowers, 
 syringas, and other honey -yielding and fragrant 
 flowers. Beyond, suddenly swelled up a 
 green mound, on which lay a biggish, sturdy, 
 country lad, who was placed so as to command a 
 view of the hives, but seemed more occupied 
 with playing with the ears of a little, jet-black, 
 silky dog. Within the screen of shrubs, and 
 seated under the arching branches of a remark- 
 ably huge barberry-tree, which had been so cut 
 away beneath as to form a capacious arbour, 
 while overhead it was one golden canopy of 
 flowers, in which hummed some thousands of 
 bees, sat Mrs. Dorrington, as if deep in thought, 
 her knitting in one hand upon her knee, as if 
 she had paused to give way to her reflections ; 
 and on her right hand, on the arm of the rustic 
 seat she occupied, dozed a large tortoise-shell 
 cat. 
 
 But at once the little dog caught sight of me,
 
 20 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 gave a violent bark, the boy started up staring 
 from the grass, and Mrs. Dorrington, turning 
 her head quickly in the direction to which the 
 dog and boy were attracted, started up too, and 
 we stood face to face.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 As I had seen Mrs. Dorrington sitting, 
 before I myself was seen, her countenance 
 struck me as the saddest in expression that 
 I had ever looked upon: as she arose, and 
 turned towards where I was, without clearly 
 perceiving me from the shade in which I stood, 
 there was a dignity in her manner, and an 
 almost severe gravity in her face, which fell 
 over me with a deep and somewhat unexpected 
 effect ; as I advanced and announced myself, 
 the change in her whole person was like that 
 of the sun bursting out of a cloud. She was 
 expecting me, without knowing on what day I 
 might arrive, and it was evident that she did
 
 22 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 not anticipate that it was her son's friend, that 
 would step from the shade of the orchard trees 
 into her presence. The moment that she saw 
 me clearly, a suspicion of the fact was obvious 
 in the expression that passed over her features. 
 She came towards me with an inquiring look, 
 that gradually grew into a courteous smile; 
 and when she heard my name, she caught my 
 hand with enthusiasm ; and with the most lively 
 joy beaming from her large blue eyes, and 
 ' irradiating her whole air, she exclaimed : 
 
 " O ! my dear young friend, how glad I am 
 to see you here ! Welcome, most welcome to 
 the Dene ! I have been looking for you these 
 three or four days. How very glad I am to 
 see you. How like you are to what my 
 Vincent has told me." 
 
 At the mention of her son's name, the tears 
 filled her eyes, and she added, with a melan- 
 choly tone : 
 
 " Ah ! shall we ever see that dear, unkind, 
 insatiable wanderer again ? How little he must 
 care about us, Mr. Bathurst. How very little, 
 how very little indeed !" 
 
 " No, not so, Madam," I replied. " You 
 cannot say so. There never was a son that 
 entertained so deep and affectionate an attach-
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 23 
 
 ment to his mother. You must know and feel 
 that." 
 
 " But why, then, does he not come home ? 
 Why does he go wandering all over the world, 
 as if any place and any people were dearer to 
 him than his own home and own connections ? 
 Ah ! Mr. Bathurst, I must scold him, I must 
 complain of him, and yet, if I thought that Vin- 
 cent did not love me as warmly as he used to do 
 and he has been more like a daughter than 
 a son to me I should be very, very miserable." 
 
 " Believe me, dear Mrs. Dorrington," I said, 
 " that Vincent is changed in nothing, but in 
 the knowledge and expanded views which his 
 wide travel and experience have given him; 
 and these, one day, will only serve to make you 
 justly proud of him." 
 
 As I said this, the fond mother fixed her 
 gaze on me with such a gratified and grateful 
 expression, that her large, clear eyes seemed to 
 grow larger, her somewhat pale complexion 
 glowed with affectionate pride, and she said : 
 
 " Thank you, my dear friend thank you for 
 that. I know it is and must be true : but it is 
 such a long time since Vincent left us five 
 long years and, for aught I can see, may be 
 five more that one cannot help growing im-
 
 24 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 patient and scolding. But, come, we will 
 return to the house. How did you find your 
 way here ? Who showed you ?" 
 
 I told her of what had passed with Sally 
 Horobin, and of my insisting on finding my 
 own way, at which she appeared much amused, 
 and said : 
 
 " But you really must want some refresh- 
 ment after your ride : let us go in." 
 
 " But suppose your bees swarm in your 
 absence ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Ben Hardy there will look after them. 
 Ben, is your father at work in the croft, as I 
 told him ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, he's mowing the nettles i' th' 
 little durable." 
 
 " That's right ; if the bees swarm, call him 
 in a minute." 
 
 The boy assured her that he would. 
 
 " But I really am not hungry," I said ; " and 
 I had much rather be here. It is so very 
 pleasant. What a delightful nook you have 
 made here for your bees ; and what a mag- 
 nificent barberry-tree this is ! Why it is like 
 a tree made of gold. And how delicious and 
 sunny is the sound of the bees in all its myriad 
 bunches of lovely flowers."
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 25 
 
 " And Vincent had told you all about the 
 Dene, and even this very barberry-tree ? He 
 was very fond of reading here in warm weather, 
 and of watching the bees as the anthers of 
 the flowers closed on their proboscis as if alive. 
 But I'm afraid you really must be half famished." 
 
 I assured her I was nothing of the kind, and 
 she said : 
 
 " Well, then, we will sit awhile, if you wish 
 it ; it will be luncheon time in half an hour." 
 
 We seated ourselves under the green-and- 
 gold, odorous, and sonorous canopy of the 
 barberry-tree, and the little silky black dog, 
 which had ceased its barking the moment it saw 
 its mistress and myself shake hands, and had 
 come caressingly to me, now ran off to renew 
 its play with Ben Hardy on the mound, and the 
 large tortoiseshell cat, which had commenced its 
 homeward march, once more resumed its doze, 
 not on the arm of the seat which was now 
 near me, but in the grass before her mistress. 
 
 We were soon in deep talk about the past 
 wanderings of Vincent and myself of our 
 first acquaintance in a lonely, wretched inn 
 in the Landes of France of our subse- 
 quent adventures, and how he looked, and 
 thought, and meant for the future, and a 
 
 VOL. i. c
 
 26 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 thousand such things. All at once, the lad 
 roused us from our absorbing conversation by 
 a loud shout of " They're gooing, Missis!" and 
 with the commencement of a tremendous clan- 
 gour on a fire-shovel with a little iron rake, 
 called there a " coo-rake," an abbreviation of 
 coal-rake, used to rake the ashes from beneath 
 the fire. We started up, and beheld a dense 
 brown cloud, like a living smoke, issuing from 
 one of the hives, about the mouth of which 
 there had all the morning, I was told, been the 
 unmistakable working and clambering of num- 
 bers of bees, and a deep hum from within that 
 denoted the whole internal population to be in 
 a state of violent agitation. 
 
 Up now poured and soared this brown 
 stream of bees, taking the direction of the 
 fields beyond, and deafening was the din of 
 Ben Hardy's fire-iron music. It is supposed 
 that the bees follow the migrating queen partly 
 by the sound of her wings, and that this clamour, 
 which has been used from the most ancient times, 
 drowning that, confuses the bees, and makes them 
 ready to settle down. It is probable that it 
 alarms and confuses the queen herself, for so long 
 as she flies the bees would follow. Whatever be 
 the cause, the effect is certain. Allow the bees
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 2? 
 
 to go off in peace, and they will rise and soar 
 away into some distant scene, probably alighting 
 on some house-roof, or still higher church- 
 steeple. But, as our friend Ben's stunning 
 noise soon showed, the bees, on such a sa- 
 lute, begin to waver, appear -confused, and 
 speedily drop down on some neighbouring 
 object. Here, they passed over a sunk-fence 
 into the field beyond, whither Ben pursued them, 
 scrambling and tumbling in a desperate fashion 
 over the fence, and renewing his clangour with 
 redoubled ardour. At the same instant, a man 
 of almost gigantic stature, clad in linen trousers 
 of a singular broad and bright blue stripe, a 
 linen jacket, and a round-crowned hat, beneath 
 which hung his long dark hair on his shoulders, 
 sprang into the orchard through a little gate, 
 and snatching up a little round table and a 
 bee-hive, which had stood unseen by me, 
 with immense strides cleared the mound and 
 the ditch, and was speedily at the side of 
 his son Ben ; for this I recognised at once 
 was Dan Hardy, with whose character and 
 exploits I was also familiar. 
 
 Taking a rather more circuitous way to the 
 field namely, by the gate, Mrs. Dorrington 
 led me, where, wading up to the knees in 
 
 c 2
 
 28 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 grass almost ready for the scythe, we found the 
 bees now suspended from the boughs of a tall 
 hawthorn hedge in a dense, dark cluster. Here 
 Dan Hardy placed the table beneath them, 
 spread a clean white napkin upon it, and taking 
 up the hive, and holding it upside down under 
 the living bunch of bees, his son Ben keeping 
 up a steady banging on the fire-shovel all the 
 time, he struck the bough on which the swarm 
 hung, and they dropped in a mass into the 
 hive, which, reversing, he placed on the 
 table. 
 
 It was marvellous to me that the man was 
 not stung in a thousand places, for he was sur- 
 rounded by a cloud of the humming and appa- 
 rently angry insects, scores of which settled on 
 his hat, buzzed in his long locks, and crawled 
 upon his hands. But he appeared to entertain 
 no alarm, and Mrs. Dorrington assured me that 
 they would do no mischief, if unmolested. And 
 true enough, by degrees the little insects gra- 
 dually left him, and circled wildly round the 
 hive, while Dan quietly withdrew himself to a 
 distance from it. 
 
 At this moment, a bell rung at the house 
 it was the summons to luncheon and Mrs. 
 Dorrington assuring me that all was now safe
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 29 
 
 that the bees having found a home exactly like 
 that they had left, would not quit it, but at 
 night would be removed to their proper place in 
 the shed, we left Ben to watch them, and took 
 our way to the house. The scene had been to 
 me perfectly delicious a little bit of Arcadian 
 life which, in combination with the beauty of 
 the place and the weather, had a delightful 
 novelty in it. We found luncheon set out in 
 the shady ample room I had passed through, 
 which, though called the library, Mrs. Dorrington 
 informed me was the sitting-room, where they 
 usually took most of their meals except dinner, 
 and which was their favourite winter evening- 
 room. There was no one besides Mrs. Dor- 
 rington and myself; Mr. Dorrington being gone 
 to the county town, and only expected at home 
 to dine. It may be imagined what were our 
 topics as we were thus alone. We again re- 
 verted to many things which had occurred to 
 Mr. Vincent Dorrington and myself abroad 
 and then to many things connected with the 
 Dene, the village, and Mrs. Dorrington's life 
 here. And here I may as well make my readers 
 a little more acquainted with the mother of my 
 friend, my honoured hostess. 
 
 To have listened to mv friend Vincent's ac-
 
 30 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 count, Mrs. Dorrington was a perfect woman ; 
 not one of those faultless monsters that, in the 
 well-expressed phrase of Elizabeth Smith, are 
 " good and disagreeable," and are perpetually 
 thus committing " high treason against virtue," 
 because while practising it, they make it repel- 
 lant. Mrs. Dorrington, even according to her 
 son's testimony, had her failings but they were 
 such as " leaned to virtue's side." She had a 
 quick resentment of what was wrong that some- 
 times made. her hasty in her judgments, and 
 carried her too far in condemning on the mo- 
 ment ; but none were so ready to confess their 
 errors, or to make all possible amends. She 
 resented for the sake of virtue and her fellow- 
 creatures, but the sinners being fellow-creatures 
 too, she cherished no ill-feeling towards them 
 though there were characters, such as continued 
 in evil courses, and showed little sign of good- 
 ness or repentance that she felt a genuine horror 
 of, and avoided when possible ; and when that 
 was not possible, showed by the severe gravity 
 of her air and manner how much she disap- 
 proved of their spirit and lives ; how much she 
 regarded them as perpetual sources of moral 
 mischief to their neighbours. 
 
 Another of her failings was, that although
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 31 
 
 possessed of a sound understanding, and of a 
 true general sagacity and a manner that deeply 
 impressed and overawed, she was yet often sin- 
 gularly imposed on by pretended distress. There 
 were rogues who actually made it their boast 
 that they had got on her blind side, and taken 
 her in grossly. When she heard of such, she 
 only said, " May God forgive them." But the 
 general feeling towards her the whole country 
 round was one of profound respect and affection, 
 such as few women have ever arrived at. She 
 was born in the neighbourhood, where her 
 family had lived for many generations, and she 
 seemed to be bound up with it in a particular 
 manner, and to look on all who lived in it, as it 
 were, akin in some degree to her, and under her 
 motherly care. It would have been difficult to 
 say whether her love of nature or of mankind 
 were the greater. These were both, in a man- 
 ner, born with her in an intensity that is rarely 
 seen, and had been developed by circumstances 
 to a degree that was quite extraordinary. There 
 was only one feeling which was more profound 
 in her heart, it was that of love and reverence 
 to God and Christ. God she saw in all nature. 
 She seemed to feel His presence in everything 
 around her. Admiring the beauty of the coun-
 
 32 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 try, and especially of sunshine and of flowers to 
 an extent that was not a passion but a part of 
 her being, her love of them seemed mingled 
 with the feeling of their being God's handiwork; 
 and His handiwork, for the pleasure of His crea- 
 tures, in such a constant and vivid way, as 
 awoke a perpetual sentiment of delight and 
 affectionate gratitude, such as I never saw in 
 any other human being ; such as we only read 
 of and envy in eminent saints whose hearts 
 seem to have been altars of fervent and loving 
 devotion on which the divine fire burned un- 
 ceasingly. It was a sentiment in her of inter- 
 woven light, and warmth, and fragrance, that 
 made you feel, in coming into her presence, as 
 into a place of sunshine and of a delicious in- 
 cense. 
 
 There were those who did not fail to call her 
 an enthusiast and a mystic. An enthusiast she 
 was, but it was of that kind which one would 
 give much to be. Ah ! what would one not 
 give to be able to maintain the heart always in 
 a warm consciousness of the beauty, the great- 
 ness, and the sublime glory of life ? To have 
 its feelings quick as they were in childhood, and 
 pure as they were in youth, and peaceful as in 
 early manhood, ever beautifully alive to the
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 33 
 
 charm of beauty, and goodness, and truth. But 
 such natures are as much the gift of God as life 
 itself. They are the dowry of those who are to 
 pass through this earth for the warmth and 
 comfort of others, as the comets pass through 
 the illimitable wastes of creation, cars of celestial 
 flame bearing new fuel to suns and systems grow- 
 ing faint with time. It is for these only to pass 
 under the scathing fires of the world's passions, 
 crimes, and treacheries, without being seared by 
 them to meet its frosty w r inds and yet retain 
 their feelings tender and fresh as the leaves of the 
 most delicate vernal plant. These are enthusiasts 
 of God's own framing and kindling and such 
 was Mrs. Dorrington an enthusiast whose solid 
 sense was yet superior to the intelligence of 
 those who had sense without warmth; in her 
 no one ever saw a trace of flightiness. 
 
 She was a mystic too in the same sense as 
 Fenelon, and in some degree as Emanuel 
 Swedenborg and Jung Stilling. In her, faith 
 was rather a theory of the heart than of the 
 head. It was an effect of her constitution 
 rather than a product of her reason. It was 
 more properly an instinct. No subtleties of 
 scepticism or clevernesses of infidelity had ever 
 any other effect on her mind than that of pity 
 
 c 3
 
 34 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and wonder over those who could entertain or 
 parade them. Religion to her was as clearly 
 written on the leaves of nature as t)n those of 
 the Bible on those of the Bible as on those of 
 nature. They seemed so perfectly akin in their 
 spirit and promises, that her heart acknowledged 
 them ere her head had time to question them ; 
 and when it did question, it was only to confirm 
 the divine instinct that had outrun it. She no 
 more looked in the Bible for a perfectly spotless 
 history than in nature for a perfectly celestial 
 landscape ; she did not expect that the mysteries 
 of revelation should be less than the strange 
 enigmas of this world ; but she saw such broad 
 and bold traces of the Divine hand in both 
 such an unmistakable line of love, of wisdom, 
 of prophecy, and of progression towards some 
 greater end than was placed within the limits of 
 this earth, that she thanked God for life with 
 all its difficulties, and was therein wiser than if 
 she had made that life a rack of agony and 
 ungrateful doubtings. She was accustomed to 
 say, that the highway of life 'was cast up of such 
 a breadth, and with its line bearing so directly 
 off from the rotundity of this globe into eter- 
 nity, that it could only be the work of a weak 
 intellect to regard it as abruptly broken off
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 35 
 
 almost at its commencement a magnificent 
 miracle leading to nothing. Faith was her 
 bridge over the chasm that seemed to yawn in 
 it but that faith had in it so much of the love 
 and wisdom which she saw everywhere else, 
 that she felt it to be equally divine and sub- 
 stantial. 
 
 The reverent affection which she entertained 
 for the Saviour was one of the holiest and most 
 actual things conceivable. In her it was no 
 abstract veneration, but a living and sacred 
 feeling filling her mind with daily gratitude 
 and worship. Her most profound pleasure 
 seemed to be the constant reflection on what 
 He had done for herself and mankind, and the 
 spring from which for ever bubbled up the 
 love she substantially manifested for her fellow- 
 man. 
 
 Hence you were not surprised when you found 
 conspicuous amongst her books the religious 
 writings of Fenelon and Madame Guyon; the 
 " Meditations of Hervey amongst the Tombs ;" 
 the poems of Herrick and Wither ; " Herbert's 
 Temple ;" " Quarks' Emblems" and " School of 
 the Heart." Her love of poetry, and especially 
 religious poetry, was inherited from her father. 
 Nor less esteemed by her were " Bunyan's
 
 36 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Pilgrim's Progress ;" " Penn's No Cross No 
 Crown ;" the " Holy Living and Dying" of 
 Jeremy Taylor, and the sermons of some others 
 of our old divines. 
 
 I had learned from my friend \ 7 mcent her 
 devotion to the poor but it was not the poor 
 alone. People of ah 1 classes in the neighbour- 
 hood seemed to look on her as their natural 
 and established friend, adviser, and physician. 
 In any trouble, domestic or spiritual, or in 
 any ailment, they sent for her, whether it were 
 night or day, and she never failed them. It 
 was for such things that she considered that 
 she lived. She rose from her bed in the 
 coldest winter nights, wrapped herself well in 
 cloak and fur, and with the blunt but faithful 
 Sally Horobin carrying her lantern, traversed 
 the most solitary fields to the distant houses, 
 and plunged and waded on through the 
 darkest and dirtiest lanes. 
 
 In her youth she had spent some years in 
 London, and the memory of the dense masses 
 of misery which she found there, and the 
 opposite extremes of unthinking and unheeding 
 affluence and splendour, seemed to have op- 
 pressed her with despair. She declared that 
 she could only escape from the horror that it
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 37 
 
 overwhelmed her with by the reflection that 
 the whole was in the hand of God. She had 
 some great offers of marriage there, for she 
 was said to have been, and must have been, 
 peculiarly beautiful and piquant by her unusual 
 tone of mind and sentiment ; but she avoided 
 all such overtures as calculated to inveigle her 
 into the mere spirit of the world, and escaped 
 back to the only life in which her heart lay 
 that of her native scenes. 
 
 A great lady once is reported to have asked 
 her, when she prepared to return to the country 
 and devote herself to the care of the poor, how 
 she could thus sacrifice herself for a set of 
 people of no significance poor, ignorant, and 
 low persons ? To whom she replied : 
 
 " Madam, do you call yourself a Chris- 
 tian ?" 
 
 " How can you ask such a question ? replied 
 the astounded dame. Certainly ; I hope I am a 
 Christian !" 
 
 " Then, perhaps, you remember for whom 
 your Saviour sacrificed himself. To what 
 honour, if honour I sought, could I aspire 
 greater than to sacrifice myself for some of the 
 same poor, ignorant, and low persons ? Who 
 are the poor ? They are the widow's mite 
 thrown into God's treasury ; not the least
 
 38 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 - 
 
 valuable things there, though not wrapped in a 
 golden napkin, or contained in a diamond-set 
 casket : and if it he true that God is no respecter 
 of persons, why should I be so ? If God valued 
 the poor enough to create them, how honoured 
 should I feel in being permitted to minister 
 to their needs, and to help to guide their steps 
 towards the seats which they may, if they please, 
 one day climb more noble, more elevated, 
 more illustrious than any that earth has to 
 bestow." 
 
 It may be imagined with what hopeless 
 astonishment the fashionable woman listened 
 to such language from young and lovely lips. 
 But Mrs. Dorrington, or rather Miss Delmey, 
 as she then was, put her resolution into force. 
 She came down into the country, having 
 married Mr. Dorrington, and for above thirty 
 years had now pursued the peaceful life which 
 had been full of daily pleasures to herself, and 
 daily benefits to others. 
 
 Perhaps there never was a person who had 
 established so close and intimate a union with 
 everything about her. No more tender, anxious, 
 or indefatigable a mother ever lived. She had 
 had four sons, two of whom she had lost. But 
 her care was extended over every household in 
 the parish, and farther; and there was not a
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 39 
 
 living thing on her husband's property that she 
 did not take the liveliest interest in. She had 
 a large collection of poultry in the farm-yard, 
 to which she made a daily visit. There were 
 many fine fowls that she took great pride in, 
 besides turkeys, peacocks, guinea-fowls, and 
 the like. She knew every horse, was familiar 
 with every cow ; and not seldom in her rambles 
 through the fields paid much attention to the 
 sheep. 
 
 If you stood for a moment on the 
 brink of the pond at the foot of the lane, a 
 tribe of fish, including large eels, came up and 
 almost threw themselves out of the water, 
 showing that they were accustomed to be fed 
 and petted. The swallows that built in the 
 chimneys, and under the eaves, had often to 
 experience her fostering care when accidents 
 occurred to their nests, and they fell down with 
 their young ones into the rooms or the garden. 
 They were carefully taken up, placed in baskets 
 with warm cotton wool, and set where the old 
 ones could feed and cherish them till they could 
 fly. In fact, Mrs. Dorrington was the Eve of 
 Westwood, and though in the retirement of a 
 secluded country, never knew what it was to be 
 in want of occupation. By the sick-bed of the
 
 40 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 cottage, or the farm-house, by the bed of death, 
 or in the hours of domestic ease and peace, she 
 was a welcome and a cheering visitor, and had 
 generally some thorn of human care to extract, 
 or some ruffled current of life to cast the veil of 
 reconciliation upon. 
 
 Such were her occupations and pleasures ; 
 and an unceasing pleasure to her was the enjoy- 
 ment of the country itself, with all the changes 
 and developments which the onward roll of the 
 seasons produced. Flowers and the music of 
 birds were to her the most exquisite gratifications. 
 She regarded flowers as revelations of heavenly 
 beauty she heard in birds' songs the language 
 of a life to us yet but dimly known. She 
 watched the growth, bloom, and decay, of every 
 flower, from the earliest primrose to the latest 
 sad though gorgeous blooms of autumn. 
 There were little gates and a footpath leading 
 down the Dene to the very heath in the distant 
 valley, which permitted her, at any hour, to 
 ramble through their own sheltered and beauti- 
 ful fields ; and many were the hours which she 
 spent- in watching the wild creatures in their 
 haunts, and wondering at the singular forms, 
 passions, and fancies, that the great Creator 
 has diffused through even feathered and furry
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 41 
 
 heads. To her the harmless snake coiled on a 
 stump amid fragrant herbs, or the dashing, 
 wild flight of the blue dragon-fly, as if giddy 
 with an unknown joy, were sources of a pro- 
 founder pleasure than the midnight drawing- 
 room, crowded with the great and the gay of 
 fashionable life, ever conferred on coronetted 
 beauty. Here she was alone with peace and the 
 works of God, with no envy or heartlessness of 
 man thrusting themselves between. 
 
 In a word, Mrs. Dorrington was a genuine 
 lover of country life ; and here she sat, looking 
 as thorough an English lady as town or country 
 could produce. She could not now be less than 
 fifty-five, yet so fair and bright was her appear- 
 ance, that you might almost have fancied her 
 young, and felt that you had seldom looked in a 
 more delightful countenance. Her complexion 
 was somewhat pale, but her skin was delicate 
 and soft, and time had yet scarcely dared to set 
 a wrinkle on it. When she wore a thoughtful 
 air, you saw a few circling lines visible about each 
 eye-brow; but as she smiled, these vanished. Her 
 dark-brown hair was sprinkled with grey, but 
 not so much as to be obvious, except in a strong 
 light ; and her remarkably large and clear blue 
 eyes had an alternate sunniness and depth of ten-
 
 42 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 derness, that gave a very loveable character to the 
 whole face. Her nose was well defined and expres- 
 sive of strength, as well as grace of mind; but it was 
 about the mouth that you would most distinctly 
 see the peculiar sentiments of her soul her de- 
 votion, her intellectuality, her deep affectionate 
 sympathies, and something of sorrows that have 
 yet to be learned. 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Dorrington had had her sorrows 
 deep, lacerating, almost destroying sorrows. 
 The mistress of a fine estate, the mother of 
 such a son as Vincent Dorrington ; with all those 
 objects of beauty around her in which her soul 
 delighted ; with the prayers of hundreds of 
 grateful hearts beating under rustic roofs around 
 her ; with tender friendships in her own class, 
 one might have imagined that earth had fewer 
 paths more fair and smooth than that of Mrs. 
 Dorrington. But not so ! If this world were 
 not a world of trial, we may believe that it 
 would not have been needed as a world at all. 
 If any have not had their trials, we might suspect 
 that they were sent here in vain. It is certain 
 that Madam Dorrington had had hers to the 
 full.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON, 43 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MRS. DORRINGTON promised, after luncheon, 
 to go up the village with me, and introduce me 
 to sundry old acquaintances of my friend Vin- 
 cent's, with whose characters and humours I 
 was as well acquainted as if I had myself 
 known them for years, though their persons 
 were utter strangers to me ; but we gradually 
 got so deep into matters interesting to us both, 
 that when we again thought of this domiciliary 
 series of visits, it was found too late ; Mrs. Dor- 
 rington, therefore, proposed that we should return 
 to the garden till the hour of dinner. Taking 
 up her knitting again, which was no other than 
 a substantial worsted stocking, apparently for 
 such a leg as did not belong to the house,
 
 44 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 namely, of a good sturdy boy of some six or 
 seven years we therefore started once more 
 into the garden, admired various flowers and 
 trees as we passed, sauntered on to the Nest 
 where we sate some time, and then rising, as if 
 with the excitement of the subject which occupied 
 us, and in which the interests and character of 
 Vincent took the prominent place, we gradually 
 descended into the valley and the fields. 
 
 Thobgh extremely engrossed by the topics we 
 discussed, I had sufficient freedom of mind to 
 notice the delicious scenes through which we 
 passed. Here stood old masses of hedges, some 
 of hawthorn, some of laurels, of whole yards in 
 width, and carefully clipped, so that you might 
 have walked on their surface, with narrow walks 
 between them ; tall old trees, then sloping fields, 
 with a depth and exuberance of flowery grass, 
 that was wonderful ; deep, shady walks, under 
 cool, tall old hedges; here and there an old 
 pond, amid its shrouding trees and rampant 
 vegetation ; till at length we arrived at a large 
 sheet of water, with a fishing-house on its banks, 
 amid scattered old Scotch fir-trees ;. and beyond, 
 the heath, lying in a warm sunny exposure, now 
 fragrant with its masses of flowering gorse and 
 broom.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 45 
 
 Returning as slowly as we had gone, now 
 resting on some rustic seat, or the stump of 
 some once- giant tree, while the cuckoo would 
 come and sing its monotone on the very oak 
 above our heads, or the hare would pass just 
 before us in the grass, rearing on her hind legs, 
 and lifting her ears occasionally to discover any 
 danger : now clapping a little gate behind us, 
 and now pausing to feel the Sabbath beauty 
 and repose of the scene, we were still at the 
 Dene in time for dinner : and, in the meanwhile, 
 over what lands, and into what depths of human 
 life had we not gone ! 
 
 Here I met Mr. Dorrington, who received me 
 with a cordiality and evident welcome which 
 made me, for a moment, think that Vincent had 
 done him less justice than he had his mother. 
 Mr. Dorrington was a tall and stately man, 
 little, if anything, short of six feet in height. 
 There was a somew r hat antiquated cut in his 
 dress, which yet was that of a country gentle- 
 man. He had not made me so much of a 
 stranger a formal visitor as to deem it neces- 
 sary to appear in a strictly evening costume, 
 which I found that he hated ; but his black 
 surtout was retained, and sate well on his ample 
 figure. His hair was white as snow ; he was
 
 46 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 considerably bald, and the conformation of his 
 head was such as to denote great natural capa- 
 city. There was a massiveness of feature which 
 agreed well with the fully-developed frame, and 
 a freshness of complexion which was in full 
 keeping with it. I know not when I had seen 
 a man who had so much impressed me. 
 
 There was a fine growth, a stately bearing, 
 and the calm, self-possession of the English 
 gentleman, though there was nothing to indicate 
 the excessive polish and etiquette of very high 
 breeding. You felt the country and seclusion about 
 him, with a yet shrewd knowledge of what was 
 going on in the world, and the spirit which 
 would secure to the possessor his share of it. 
 
 When I cast my eyes from my host to 
 Mrs. Dorrington, who stood near him, and 
 evidently was gratified with the involuntary 
 feeling which a woman and a wife instinctly and 
 instantly perceives, I thought that there were 
 few pairs which could have stood with such 
 singular comeliness at their marriage altar, or 
 that could now present a fairer example of the 
 class that occupy the rural " homes of England." 
 
 I had often wondered, as Vincent had talked 
 to me, how a woman of Mrs. Dorrington's 
 temperament and views could have married a
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 47 
 
 man of the temperament and views of her 
 husband ; but I saw that there was a wife's 
 pride in the eye of Mrs. Dorrington as it fell on 
 her consort's manly form and countenance, full 
 of strong, clear sense, and I ceased to marvel. 
 So few are the connections where the two 
 natures united in the matrimonial bonds find 
 all in each other, that they fain would seek, or, 
 perhaps, once imagined that they had found, 
 that I did not doubt that Mrs. Dorrington had 
 struck a balance of her husband's qualities, that 
 left her at least equanimity, if nothing more. 
 
 Vincent had said to me : 
 
 " My father will give you a cordial welcome, 
 though you are the friend of the thriftless poet, 
 as he thinks me. You belong to an aristocratic 
 family, and you have land, and are heir to more. 
 There is nothing in the world to the influence 
 of which my father is so sensible. He loves 
 land as William the Conqueror loved great deer. 
 He will know as much of your family, its rise, 
 its honours, and its possessions, as you do your- 
 self perhaps more. You will therefore stand 
 well with him, and see the best side of him." 
 
 And, indeed, I have rarely met with a man 
 that was more easy, agreeable, and sensible
 
 48 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 nay, he was even gay and jocose, and told a 
 merry story with peculiar relish and humour. 
 
 He exhibited the utmost attention and zealous 
 hospitality as a host, and soon introduced into the 
 discourse a knowledge of the affairs, connections, 
 and estates of numbers of even our most dis- 
 tant aristocracy, as perfectly astonished me. As 
 Vincent had told me, he even seemed to know 
 more of my own family than I did myself. For 
 there were things and personages that I had so 
 grown up with as matters of course, that I had 
 never inquired about them for more than I saw ; 
 and I now heard things which surprised me at 
 the instant, but which I found afterwards to be 
 perfectly correct. Mr. Dorrington, indeed, 
 seemed to take an interest in the titles, property, 
 and connections of our gentry and aristocracy, 
 such as I had rarely witnessed, and that not in 
 anything like a fawning spirit of adulation, but 
 of solid respect for station and estate, as of 
 things in their own nature deserving it. 
 
 When I spoke of his son, he listened rather 
 pleasantly than otherwise, and said : 
 
 " Ha ! you saw a good deal of my son. He 
 was well when you left him ? ay yes, to be 
 sure and when you last heard of him ? Mrs.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 49 
 
 Dorrington hears very often, but I don't find 
 that she hears anything of his return. What 
 Vincent means to make of such endless vaga- 
 bondizing I don't know." 
 
 " I replied, that I had no fear for the use 
 that Mr. Vincent would make of his talents and 
 his vast information when once he had come 
 back to his native country ; and I went on to 
 speak of his extraordinary powers and acquire- 
 ments as they deserved. But here I elicited no 
 response : Mr. Dorrington shook his head." 
 
 " A rolling stone, Mr. Bathurst ; you know 
 the proverb." 
 
 " True," I replied ; " there is matter in the 
 maxim, but not exactly that which is com- 
 monly inferred. A rolling stone, that is merely 
 kicked about by idle impulses as by the feet of 
 idle passers, will for ever remain a barren stone ; 
 but there are other stones that descend from the 
 mountains of genius with the impetuosity of 
 noble impulses, that bound over the heads of 
 many a great fixture of the particular spot be 
 it tree, or house, or man, and fixing themselves 
 deep in the fertile valleys of duty and usefulness, 
 remain to be clothed with all the mosses of 
 time, and the colourings of fame. Such stones 
 have been selected by the artist for the purposes 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 of eternity. They give beauty and spirit to the 
 painter's canvas ; they have been shaped by 
 the inspired chisel into forms of imperishable 
 glory." 
 
 " There, Mr. Dorrington !" exclaimed his 
 wife. I glanced at her and saw her whole face 
 beaming with delight. " There, will you be- 
 lieve that, now you hear it from Mr. Bathurst ? 
 Oh, Mr. Bathurst ! how often have I wanted to 
 say the same thing, but could not find the 
 same happy illustration. Mr. Dorrington is 
 always so unjust to Vincent. He will never 
 give him credit for his brilliant talents and 
 generous heart, but would put him down by a 
 stale adage; and really discourages him by his 
 unfairness." 
 
 " My dear ! how can you say so ?" replied 
 Mr. Dorrington. " Whatever did I discourage 
 in Vincent, but his distate for any settled and 
 practical pursuit ? I am sorry to say that Vin- 
 cent has never given me an opportunity to 
 approve of any actual choice of a profession. 
 Of what use are mere books, and music, and 
 languages, and roaming from one country to 
 another? That, unluckily is a rolling stone 
 that does not fit your simile, Mr. Bathurst : it 
 never settles. I admit Vincent's abilities, but
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 51 
 
 I want to see some fruit of them ; he seems to 
 "me to have all sorts of sense but common 
 sense." 
 
 " There you are again," said Mrs. Dorring- 
 ton, " with those eternal spirit-destroying pro- 
 verbs. To me they resemble stones that any 
 dwarfs can slay giants with by dropping them 
 from the tops of houses." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear, for the comparison," 
 said Mr. Dorrington, with a very quiet smile, 
 and putting on the decanter to me ; " when I 
 see your giant showing only an ordinary man's 
 common sense, I will not be the dwarf to fling 
 a stone of an ounce weight upon him." 
 
 " Depend upon it," I said, " your son will 
 show as much common sense as he does all 
 other sense. I'll guarantee that, most confi- 
 dently." 
 
 " Thank you, you kind friend," said Mrs. 
 Dorrington; but Mr. Dorrington rising from 
 table added only in compliment to me : 
 
 ' I wish you could give Vincent some of 
 your good sense, Mr. Bathurst." 
 
 " Most gladly," I rejoined, " would I give 
 him any amount that I may have, if I could 
 only take some of his genius in exchange-; but 
 
 D 2
 
 52 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 I fear you would not find in me many proofs of 
 that practical sense you so highly admire." 
 
 " At least you have had the good sense to 
 come home" and with this Mr. Dorrington 
 withdrew to his private room, saying he should 
 see me at breakfast in the morning, and should 
 he glad of my company in a ride. 
 
 When Mr. Dorrington had withdrawn, Mrs. 
 Dorrington turning to me with earnestness, said : 
 
 " Is it not strange, cruel, unaccountable, that a 
 father with the sense of Mr. Dorrington, can be 
 so excessively unjust to such a son ? Are you 
 not shocked at it, Mr. Bathurst? does it not 
 appear to you dreadfully unnatural ?" 
 
 I had fallen into reflection on what Vincent 
 had said to me so often : " My father is so prac- 
 tical, that he never can sympathise with my 
 views and feelings ; nay, he seems to dislike in 
 me what he tolerates and almost admires in 
 others. I never perpetrated a line of poetry, 
 yet he pertinaciously sets me down as a poet, 
 because I have my mother's tastes, because I 
 admired and loved her father one of the most 
 amiable and pure-minded of men, and because 
 I have always loved our vicar and his music. 
 Yet my father even reads, copies, and hums over
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 53 
 
 to himself the poetry of the very recentest poets. 
 He is incensed at the love of books in me, yet 
 he loves books, and transcribes, and seems to 
 take a pleasure in many of them. Yet, I be- 
 lieve, if I were to declare that I selected author- 
 ship as my profession, it would cause him almost 
 to turn me out of doors. When I have spoken 
 in his presence of some man of unquestioned 
 genius, he has with a sneering smile invariably 
 quoted the words of a wretched poetaster ad- 
 dressed to him in some begging lines 
 
 Oo O 
 
 ' Poets thou know'st are always devilish poor.' 
 
 Of his three surviving sons he really seems to 
 evince indifference to two, and only obviously 
 esteems the one who has married a woman with 
 a good number of broad acres. That is to him 
 the certain proof of the most solid talent ' He 
 has made a man of himself,' that is his con- 
 stant observation." 
 
 These things came over me vividly with the 
 conversation which had just passed, and when 
 Mrs. Dorrington put these questions to me, I 
 scarcely was prepared to answer. I felt strongly 
 that there was a wide gulph between the na- 
 tures of Mr. Dorrington and those of his wife
 
 54 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and son. The latter had tastes and feelings of 
 the most unworldly and devoted kind. Mr. 
 Dorrington was essentially a practical man. He 
 had made his way, and could only respect those 
 who seemed likely to make theirs. His views 
 were shrewd but confined. The phrenologist 
 could have settled the question in two minutes 
 he would have ideality very large in mother 
 and son, and totally absent in the father; he 
 would have pointed to the organs which indi- 
 cated a totally different range and class of 
 sympathies. In the two heads there was large 
 veneration in the one it was not small, but 
 was of a lower character, and from the influence 
 of other organs, fixed itself on birth, stand, and 
 property. 
 
 When I looked at Mrs. Dorrington I saw her 
 eyes were filled with tears, and she was earnestly 
 expecting my answer. 
 
 I replied, 
 
 " It is much to be regretted that such differ- 
 ences of disposition do exist as I see between 
 you, Madam, and Mr. Dorrington as well as 
 between Mr. Dorrington and Vincent ; but they 
 are founded in nature and organization, and 
 cannot be helped. Mr. Dorrington, I fear, will 
 be a stern judge where worldly success does not
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 55 
 
 make judgment of little consequence. There is 
 one way for Vincent to please his father, and to 
 produce the most entire revulsion of feeling to- 
 wards him." 
 
 " What is that ?" inquired Mrs. Dorrington 
 eagerly. 
 
 " To be successful in the world to become a 
 large landed proprietor." 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington smiled and said : 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Bathurst most true but is 
 that likely to be ? I know Vincent too well to 
 expect that he will stoop to the arts by which 
 large fortunes are usually acquired. Will he 
 ever plod in the ordinary dusty way ?" 
 
 " My notion is, Madam, that he will plod in 
 a certain way, in commercial business if ne- 
 cessary ; but I have a feeling that it will not 
 be necessary. That fortune will smile on 
 Vincent, and that he will become a landed man 
 on a far larger scale than even Mr. Dorrington 
 can imagine or expect." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Dorrington in the most manifest surprise, and 
 with all a mother's anxiety. " You know some- 
 thing, Mr. Bathurst ! Tell me, for Heaven's 
 sake. What, what do you mean ? Has
 
 56 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Vincent formed some ambitious attachment? 
 Is it that which detains him abroad ? Oh ! 
 how you alarm me. Speak, let me know the 
 truth." 
 
 I was taken by surprise. In seeking to 
 give the anxious mother consolation, I had 
 overshot myself E had raised deeper and most 
 restless anxieties, which I was not prepared to 
 allay. I saw my dilemma, and repented my 
 words. 
 
 " Be satisfied, Madam," I added. " What I 
 mean is, that Vincent has in his travels made 
 acquaintances and friends amongst those of a 
 class that can, and I am convinced will, serve 
 him. I consider the path to fortune and dis- 
 tinction open to him, and that nothing will be 
 easier than for him to become a wealthy and 
 honoured man." 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington's eyes were still fixed 
 anxiously and dubiously upon me. I saw that 
 I had not satisfied her. 
 
 " That is pleasant to hear, Mr. Bathurst," 
 she added after a thoughtful pause. " I can well 
 believe it a mother's affection makes such a 
 hope easy ; but there is something yet, I fancy, 
 in the back-ground, and I rely on your friend-
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 57 
 
 ship for my son to tell me candidly. Say at 
 once that there is some attachment on which 
 you ground your belief of such large landed 
 acquisition by Vincent. Heaven forbid that he 
 should be willing to banish himself to some 
 foreign land through such alliance." 
 
 " There is no fear," I said ; " depend upon 
 it, that if Mr. Vincent marries, it will be to an 
 Englishwoman, and in every way to the satis- 
 faction of both his parents. But of any such 
 attachment, dear Mrs. Dorrington, I have no 
 actual knowledge, and no warrant to speak. 
 Be satisfied, therefore, to take my plain 
 meaning, that I am as confident of Vincent's 
 upward course, as one can be of any man's. That 
 is what I mean, really." 
 
 It was, in truth, all that I could say from 
 positive fact. I had my internal convictions, 
 but I had no authority from Vincent to believe, 
 much less to communicate such a belief. Mrs. 
 Dorrington leaned her elbow on the table, and 
 continued for some time thoughtful ; she then 
 rose up, and said : 
 
 " You have made me very uneasy, Mr. 
 Bathurst. I do not know why I should doubt 
 your explanation, but you know how foolishly 
 
 D 3
 
 58 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 anxious is a mother's heart ; and I shall not 
 easily rid me of the fancies you have raised." 
 
 I endeavoured to laugh it off, but it did not 
 wholly succeed; and after tea, 1 betook myself 
 early to rest.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 59 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I WAS so much vexed with the blundering 
 work I had made, that I did not sleep well, but 
 with a feverish feeling. I started frequently 
 from a doze through the night, and more than 
 once arose and looked out of my window, which 
 opened on the garden. At the very first glimpse 
 of dawn, there were scores of birds on the wing, 
 twittering and flitting to and fro. There were 
 soft odours that came breathing up,' and a 
 twilight sweetness over the dim scene that was 
 delicious enough to soothe senses more ruffled 
 than mine. A thrush came and sung on a 
 bough near the window so divinely that, flinging 
 myself again on my bed, I slept, and heard the
 
 60 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 song of the bird in my dreams, which, oddly 
 enough, became a song of my friend Vincent, 
 accusing me of betraying his confidence. 
 
 " But, on that point," I exclaimed, in depre- 
 catory energy, " there was none to betray. You 
 never reposed any in me." 
 
 I awoke with the impulse, and could not 
 avoid laughing at my folly. It was broad day- 
 light: the thrush had ceased, but in its place 
 there was a perfect clamour of lesser birds' 
 songs, and other sounds from without. I sprang 
 up ; it was still but six o'clock ; but, looking 
 out, what was my astonishment to see both Mr. 
 and Mrs. Dorrington already in the garden, 
 standing with the gardener, who was busied with 
 thinning out the shoots of the wall-trees. I 
 made haste to dress, and soon descended to 
 them. It was a glorious summer morning ; all 
 around were sparkling dews, the odours of freshest 
 flowers, the happy voices of birds and bees, and 
 the sun playing on the beautiful landscape of 
 the Dene. 
 
 When I approached my friends, they both 
 hastened to meet me, with Idoks as fresh and 
 cheerful as if no troublous ideas had crossed 
 their minds the evening before. They expressed 
 their fear that I had not slept well, as they did
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 61 
 
 not expect to see me down at such an hour, 
 which, though it was one that long habit had 
 made very delightful to them, was a strange one 
 to townspeople. I assured them that I had 
 always been an early riser in the country, con- 
 sidering the morning scenes of summer as 
 amongst the most beautiful in life, though so 
 strangely lost to the greater part of the world 
 at least the world of England. 
 
 Mr. Dorrington proposed to take a ride, 
 which, though the hour was so unusual, I did 
 not object to. We found coffee in the house 
 ready, and having taken a cup each, we mounted 
 our horses, to return at nine to breakfast. 
 
 Mr. Dorrington naturally was proud to show 
 me his property, his crops, his cattle, his flocks, 
 and his improvements. I found him having the 
 strongest relish for all those pleasures of a 
 country life which are included in the manage- 
 ment of an estate. He was by no means blind 
 to the beauty of woods and fields, but this 
 feeling was always connected with the sense of 
 property. 
 
 " It is a fine neighbourhood," he observed. 
 " Mr. So-and-So has a fine estate here. Those 
 woods hang well on those slopes ; they are well- 
 grown, too, and will vield an immense sum in
 
 62 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 timber : but I hope he will not think of felling 
 in my time they come into my view. What 
 fine lands are these !" he observed in another 
 place ; " and how well managed ! They cannot 
 be worth less than three pounds per acre ! Did 
 you ever see more grass ? And that dairy of 
 
 cows what breed ! Mr. is certainly a 
 
 clever man !" 
 
 We crossed a brook, rode up a very charming 
 valley by its winding course, beautiful with its 
 masses of overhanging alders, and dewy bushes 
 of the hazel and the wild rose, and then ascend- 
 ing a slope of some distance, we suddenly 
 appeared in a broad meadow, at the end of which 
 stood an old Elizabethan house, backed with 
 lofty woods. 
 
 " What a delicious old place !" I exclaimed. 
 " What a sweet, old English seclusion ! How 
 one might love to live here occasionally, when 
 worn with the busy world !" 
 
 " That is Fulbourne Mr. Anthony Del- 
 mey's," said Mr. Dorrington ; and rode on, as if 
 little disposed to notice it. 
 
 " Delmey !" I said. " Why, that was Mrs. 
 Dorrington's name ! Is this Mr. Delmey re- 
 lated to her ?" 
 
 " Her brother," replied Mr. Dorrington.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 63 
 
 " What a happy man !" I exclaimed. " If he 
 at all resemble Mrs. Dorrington in taste, he 
 must vastly enjoy his good fortune." 
 
 Mr. Dorrington smiled with his quiet, but 
 sarcastic smile. 
 
 " Good fortune ! Ruin ! Mr. Bathurst 
 ruin ! This estate, Sir, has been in his family 
 for six centuries. There is scarcely a rood of 
 land on which your eye can fall all round you, 
 that once did not belong to it. It has dwindled 
 down, though, from generation to generation, 
 and now there is not a rood that is not mort- 
 gaged. The foolish fellow has neither child nor 
 chick, and yet he has run through the whole 
 property. He is the last of the Delmeys, and 
 he and the estate will go together." 
 
 " What a pity !" I involuntarily added. " But 
 you will buy it ?" 
 
 "Buy it? why should I? It would be 
 only to perpetuate it in my family as the monu- 
 ment of the folly of theirs. It should naturally 
 have come to my children but he has taken 
 good care of that it is already spent." 
 
 " But you may still buy it." 
 
 " No : that is taken care of too. He has 
 mortgaged it in a quarter where such chance is
 
 64 MADAM DORRINGTON 
 
 not to be hoped. It is his wish that it should 
 be so." 
 
 Mr. Dorrington spurred on his horse, and we 
 changed the subject. We continued ascending 
 till we reached the village, then gallopped across 
 an extensive common, dotted with cottages, and, 
 after looking at some men at work in fencing 
 out lands newly enclosed, and fallen to Mr. 
 Dorrington in allotment, and others paring 
 turf for burning, and others making bricks for 
 a farm-house to be erected on the spot, we rode 
 on through various deep lanes, and along the 
 margin of a fine sheet of water. 
 
 "We have time, I think," said Mr. Dorring- 
 ton, looking at his watch, " for a peep at some 
 of the finest woodlands in this neighbour- 
 hood." 
 
 He turned down a side-road, which brought 
 us in a few yards to a rustic lodge, the gate of 
 which was thrown open by a curtseying girl, and 
 we rode along under some of the noblest beeches 
 that can be imagined. For a mile, this wood- 
 land continued, with rare occasional openings, 
 the pheasants scudding across our path, and the 
 hares, still in the bright morning, kept abroad 
 by the solitude of the place. On ascending
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 65 
 
 from these old shady woods, where the laugh of 
 the woodpecker, and the deep cooing of the 
 cushat broke the silence with an appropriate 
 chorus, we found ourselves in an ancient park, 
 surrounded with such woods, and beheld on a 
 rising ground an old hall, of dark-red brick, 
 that, with its turrets, gables, and large projecting 
 windows, had a most impressive aspect. 
 
 " Why, what hidden paradises you have here- 
 about, Mr. Dorrington !" I said. " Pray, what 
 fine old place is this?" 
 
 "This is Arden Lodge the seat of Mr. 
 Gerard Arden, now abroad. It is because no 
 one is here at present that I have taken the 
 liberty to ride this way. I thought you would 
 like the old place." 
 
 " Arden Lodge ! Oh, indeed !" I exclaimed, 
 with an emphasis, and rising in my stirrups to 
 take a fuller view of it ; " Arden Lodge ! Mr. 
 Gerard Arden's !" 
 
 "Do you know Mr. Arden?" asked Mr. 
 Dorrington, with a curious expression, as if sur- 
 prised at the intense interest I evinced. 
 
 " To be sure I do !" I exclaimed. " Arden 
 Lodge ! Well, I am glad that I have seen it ! 
 Delightful ! de-light-fol ! Ah ! I must tell 
 Vincent of this !"
 
 66 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Mr. Dorrington continued to gaze with a 
 deeply-scrutinizing look at me as I evinced such 
 an excessive pleasure in the recognition of the 
 place. 
 
 " You seem to have some very pleasurable 
 associations with Arden Lodge. You know 
 the Ardens, you say; perhaps there may be 
 peculiar reasons for your delight, Mr. Bathurst," 
 he added with his quiet and significant- smile. 
 " Miss Arden, perhaps, is a favourite of yours ; 
 she is a very lovely young woman, and very good, 
 they say ; and may well be very charming to a 
 young gentleman like yourself. What an estate 
 she will have ! Three thousand acres ! all lying 
 together here with such woods, and minerals, 
 and other property I believe in Kent. But 
 I hear that she is already engaged to my 
 Lord Chellaston. Did you know that, Mr. 
 Bathurst ?" he added, again eyeing me 
 curiously. 
 
 " Lord Chellaston ! oh, to be sure, I've heard 
 it ; and many another such thing. But bless 
 me ! here we are in the very front of this grand 
 old place. What glorious old giants of trees ! 
 What a glorious old swelling lawn ! What 
 bewitching old oriel and bay windows ! And that 
 grand old gate-way in the centre, and its coat
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 67 
 
 of arms over it. Admirable ! delightful ! and 
 what a solitude, and what a view out there !" 
 
 I gazed round and round ; stood some time 
 with my eyes fixed on the old house spreading 
 out its dark-red square of buildings over a great 
 space under its scattered old trees, and then 
 suddenly wheeling my horse round, and giving 
 him the spur, said : 
 
 " Thank you ! thank you, Mr. Dorrington, 
 for this. Arden Lodge !" I turned my horse 
 again for a moment took another good look at 
 it, liked it better than ever and then trotting on 
 by Mr. Dorrington's side, I added, " Well, this 
 is a famous ride before breakfast. Oh, I shall 
 come here some of these days, and then I will 
 revel in all its old charms, and woodlands, and 
 shadowy nooks." 
 
 Mr. Dorrington looked as though he would 
 have thought me crazed, if he did not believe 
 me really in love. 
 
 " I am truly glad," he said, hastening on his 
 horse, and giving one of his significant smiles, 
 " that I have by chance stumbled on such an 
 evident gratification for you. But, without 
 wishing to pry too deeply into the sources of 
 your joy at least for your own peace don't
 
 68 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 forget that there is such a man as my Lord 
 Chellaston." 
 
 " Oh, not a bit of it," I said, laughing. " I 
 shall not forget him, I dare say, though I don't 
 care the snap of my finger for him." 
 
 Mr. Dorrington looked surprised, but without 
 noticing my last words, continued : 
 
 " So you know the Ardens well ?" 
 
 " Oh, very well." 
 
 " Knew them in England, perhaps ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Met them abroad !" 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " Oh ! But what did you say of telling 
 Vincent ? Does Vincent know them, too ? 
 He never knew them here." 
 
 " Oh, he knows them perfectly well ; 
 they are very fond of him, I assure you. 
 I dare say he is with them at this moment." 
 
 " At this moment ! Where ! He is or was, 
 I believe, when last Mrs. Dorrington heard, in 
 Italy." 
 
 " Exactly ; they are in France. They are 
 coming home ; they are on the way homewards. 
 And what a sweet old home it is ! Arden 
 Lodge ! well, but I am glad though."
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 69 
 
 " Is Vincent with the Ardens, do you think ?" 
 continued Mr. Dorrington gravely. 
 
 " I have little doubt of it," I said. 
 
 " But that is strange," rejoined Mr. Dor- 
 rington. " I hope he knows how to conduct 
 himself that he does not intrude. He is 
 aware that I have always objected to associate 
 with that class have avoided it have wished 
 him to avoid it. He knows my feelings and 
 wishes. Has he long been with them ?" 
 
 " Oh, some months," I replied ; " but 
 why do you object to this acquaintance 
 with the Ardens ; they are really very nice 
 people. " 
 
 " Oh, unquestionably," said Mr. Dorrington. 
 " Unquestionably, most unexceptionable people ; 
 but there are inconveniences in such ac- 
 quaintance with such close neighbours of such 
 rank. I have my views ; Vincent knows 
 them. I trust he does not degrade himself 
 so far as to intrude where he is not wanted ; 
 that he does not lay himself under obliga- 
 tions." 
 
 " None whatever," I replied ; " quite the con- 
 trary," surprised beyond measure at the anxiety 
 that Mr. Dorrington, a man so constitutionally
 
 70 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and habitually attached to landed property, and 
 so possessed of the idea that his son would never 
 become that en viable person a landed proprietor, 
 displayed at the news that he was on so amicable 
 a footing with the greatest landowner of his 
 native neighbourhood. It was an enigma 
 that I sought in vain to penetrate by the test of 
 ordinary principles ; but Mr. Dorrington was 
 obviously disturbed at the information, and as 
 he rode on, engrossed by his feelings, and I 
 thrown into a long train of my own we went 
 at great speed the remainder of the way, and ex- 
 changing only a very few remarks till we came 
 clattering down the village street, and had pulled 
 up at the door of the Dene. 
 
 We found breakfast awaiting us in the old 
 shady room such a breakfast as only the 
 country, with its delicious bread, and cakes, 
 and cream, and flowers for the garniture of the 
 board, can furnish ; we discussed it with such 
 an appetite as only a ride like ours could give. 
 
 Scarcely, however, were we seated, when Mr. 
 Dorrington said to his wife 
 
 " Do you know, my dear, that Vincent is not 
 only acquainted with the Ardens, but is actually 
 very familiarly so ?"
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 71 
 
 " Vincent ! the Ardens !" replied Mrs. Dor- 
 rington, with astonishment. " What do you 
 mean, my dear ?" 
 
 " I mean what I say. Are you aware that 
 such is the fact ?" 
 
 " Not in the least : not a word of it." 
 
 " Has Vincent never mentioned it in his 
 letters of late ?" 
 
 " Never ! What makes you ask ?" 
 
 " Just that Mr. Bathurst tells me so. I own 
 that I am much surprised." 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington looked with an expression 
 that I shall never forget. She seemed to 
 think deeply to go back to last night, and, 
 after a pause, said in a low, but somewhat 
 tremulous voice : " It is quite new to me ; Vin- 
 cent has never said a syllable on the subject ; 
 and why he should not, if he had met with such 
 near neighbours, seems strange." 
 
 " But for the fact, we have Mr. Bathurst's 
 authority. There can be no manner of doubt 
 about it ; that he has not mentioned his inti- 
 macy is proof that he is very well aware that it 
 cannot be agreeable to me. This is one of the 
 mischiefs of young men gadding about, who 
 should be settling down to something solid at 
 home. Here we avojd a direct intimacy ; there
 
 72 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Vincent goes and plunges directly into it, I do 
 intreat, my dear, that you lay on him my serious 
 injunction to return home ; and in order to 
 compel it, if necessary, that you remit him no 
 further supplies. It is you, and you alone, that 
 are responsible for his stay abroad, and for any 
 follies that may be the consequence." 
 
 I was extremely pained at the evident an- 
 noyance which a disclosure that I should have 
 imagined could only give pleasure, had clearly 
 occasioned. The more I saw, the more I was 
 puzzled and chagrined. Mrs. Dorrington said 
 gravely : " I will certainly communicate to Vin- 
 cent your wishes and commands : I own that I 
 am much surprised." 
 
 The conversation was changed, and turned 
 upon other things that I had witnessed in my 
 ride. I praised the beauties of the neighbour- 
 hood, as I felt it. Mrs. Dorrington smiled, and 
 seemed to have a pleasure in my having seen 
 her native spot the secluded Fulbourne. But 
 the weight which the introduction of the Ardens 
 into the conversation had occasioned, was never 
 got rid of. Mr. Dorrington soon retired to his 
 private room, where he read and wrote, and 
 Mrs. Dorrington, with a melancholy expression, 
 said :
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 73 
 
 " What is this about the Ardens, Mr. 
 Bathurst ? How and when did Vincent be- 
 come acquainted with them ?" 
 
 I told her exactly what I knew. 
 
 " You will, perhaps," added she, " think me 
 very foolish ; but I own that what you said last 
 night about Vincent's probably becoming a great 
 landed proprietor, startled and alarmed me, and 
 what you now tell me, has made me very uneasy. 
 If Vincent can have been weak enough to in- 
 dulge in any hope of an attachment on the part 
 of Miss Arden, he will make me a most mise- 
 rable woman. I never saw Miss Arden 
 strange as it may seem but I hear that she is 
 very lovely and very fascinating; and the effect 
 of an intimacy with her, in such a warm and 
 impulsive nature as Vincent's, with his power 
 of appreciating the highest excellence, may be 
 most fatal, and cannot be good." 
 
 " Why not ?" said I. 
 
 "Why not? Mr. Bathurst, how can it? 
 Miss Arden, with her beauty and her fortune, 
 may command the hand of the highest noble 
 in England. She is affianced to the heir of a 
 splendid earldom. Mr. Arden is one of the 
 most haughty and aristocratic men of the 
 
 VOL. i. E
 
 74 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 county, and notoriously ambitious in his views 
 for his daughter. I tremble, therefore, for the 
 effect of a familiar intercourse with such a woman, 
 who may enjoy the intelligence and the talents 
 of a youth like my Vincent, without reflecting 
 on the danger to him. And only imagine the 
 exasperation of Mr. Dorrington, should any 
 rumour reach him of any aspiration of Vincent 
 in such a quarter, and the consequent the 
 inevitable repulse ! My fears on this head you 
 may think ridiculous and uncalled for. Perhaps 
 so : but a mother thinks her son a son like 
 Vincent has a moral claim to equality any- 
 where, and therefore she fears, where there may 
 be no real cause for fear. But you wonder at 
 Mr. Dorrington's apparent inconsistency his 
 love of property and respect for its possessors 
 and yet his avoidance of these possessors at 
 least, the greatest of them. Mr. Dorrington 
 has his pride he has great pride and I will 
 not say that it is altogether unreasonable. 
 
 " By his care and ability he has won back 
 his paternal property, which was sunk in debt 
 by his progenitors, and was in danger of escaping 
 altogether out of the family. He has won it 
 back by his legal diligence and talent. But you
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 75 
 
 know the different standing of the barrister and 
 the solicitor. It was in the latter capacity that 
 he entered life, as the second son of a second 
 son. Death early placed him in the position of 
 heir, but it was not till he was the partner in a 
 most extensive and lucrative legal firm. He 
 saw a certainty of his clearing his estate by 
 continuing in this firm he might, if he trans- 
 ferred his exertions to the more honourable arena 
 of the bar, have won still more, but he might 
 also fail. He preferred the humbler certainty, 
 and he attained it. But during a long course 
 of practice at the head of the chief legal firm of 
 the county town, he was in the employ, that is 
 the term, of the greater part of the high landed 
 gentry of this neighbourhood. In all their 
 intercourse with him, they showed nothing but 
 respect for his talents, and kindness in all their 
 behaviour. Still, when he quitted his practice, 
 and became an independent landowner, he did 
 not forget that there might be a repugnance on 
 the part of these neighbours to receive as an 
 equal their late attorney. 
 
 " I must do them the justice to say that there 
 never has been any direct exhibition of this 
 feeling, there have been various proofs to the 
 contrary ; and on all occasions, when business 
 
 E 2
 
 76 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 has drawn Mr. Dorrington into their society, 
 their treatment of him has heen most affable 
 and courteous. But this may have arisen from 
 Mr. Dorrington never having presumed to ignore 
 the conventionalism of the case. He has, as I 
 observed, his pride a pride equal to that of the 
 proudest of his wealthy neighbours, and he has, 
 therefore, carefully stood aloof from any direct 
 association with that class of our neighbours 
 who rank as the higher aristocracy. 
 
 " We may have lost by it, and it may have 
 been an excess of delicacy on our part ; but we 
 have yet abundant friends in a class in which 
 all the intelligence and the virtues, if not the full 
 grace of the highest circles, exist; and neither 
 Mr. Dorrington nor myself are fond of too 
 much society. If we had all as we could wish 
 it at home, what a home would this be, my 
 young friend." 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington sighed, and added : 
 " It is some years now since Mr. Dorrington 
 retired personally from practice. He is of an old 
 and honourable family, and I doubt not but we 
 might be well received in the highest houses 
 of the county ; but we shall never seek it ; and 
 with Mr. Dorrington's peculiar feelings, any 
 dishonour, resulting from anything like a for-
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 77 
 
 tune-hunting spirit in our son, would produce 
 the most deplorable consequences on our do- 
 mestic peace. I speak freely to you, Mr. 
 Bathurst, because I know that Vincent has 
 reposed much confidence in you. Will you 
 repose so much in me as candidly to say whe- 
 ther my anxieties are groundless or not ?" 
 
 " Totally groundless, my dear Mrs. Dorring- 
 ton !" I replied with emphasis. I saw there 
 was need of plain and decisive action, and I 
 spoke as I felt. " Be assured that both you 
 and Mr. Dorrington have been conjuring up 
 spectres that do not exist. I take a great inte- 
 rest in the Ardens, and some day you shall 
 know why. At present, I must say no more. 
 Perhaps / may be in love with Miss Arden; 
 perhaps 7 may set at nought the formidable 
 rivalry of an Earl's son : but at all events, 
 believe me, you may make yourself perfectly at 
 ease." 
 
 " I will believe you, my dear friend. You 
 have taken a weight from my heart. Thank 
 you ; and so now let us make our calls in the 
 village."
 
 78 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHILE Mrs. Dorrington was gone to put on 
 her bonnet and shawl, I had time to reflect on 
 what had passed. I now understood much in 
 Mr. Dorrington's character, which before was 
 inexplicable. I also asked myself whether I 
 had been fully justified in the assurances of 
 security, regarding her son's position and peace 
 of mind which I had given Mrs. Dorrington, 
 and I came to the conclusion that I was com- 
 pletely so. I had my private views, and settled 
 convictions ; but I had no authority for stating 
 a single fact on which any one had a right to 
 arraign my friend Vincent regarding these mat- 
 ters. I had, in truth, no fact to state.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 79 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington appeared smiling as openly 
 as the day. I gave her my arm, and we were 
 soon ascending the village. The progress, 
 however, was not the most rapid. At each 
 cottage-door, the wife, young or old, appeared 
 and courtesied. There were inquiries after the 
 health of the family, and long stories from 
 , some of the older dames of ailments and 
 troubles, which even the presence of the strange 
 gentleman did not check. There were lots of 
 children peeping from behind their mothers' 
 "skirts, too young for school. Here there was a 
 sick man, and there a lame limb, and still 
 further a piece of work to be looked at ; and 
 so we progressed by fits, every one seeming 
 desirous to attract the notice of Madam Dor- 
 rington, as they all called her ; and little children 
 came cunningly and slyly pulling her gown to 
 catch her attention, which was sure to procure a 
 smile, and generally a few kind words. At the 
 foot of the churchyard we were stopped by the 
 apparition of a drunken man, who proved to 
 belong to another village such a sight was 
 rare in Westwood but who did not on that 
 account escape a severe lecture from Madam 
 Dorrington ; and, intoxicated as he was, it 
 seemed greatly to sober him, for on our leaving
 
 80 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 him, he seemed to make the best of his way 
 down the village, turning two or three times to 
 look whether he was clearly out of the reach of 
 the awful reprover. 
 
 Mounting a number of steps into the church- 
 yard, which lay in the middle of the village, and 
 on the summit of the hill, so that thence were 
 obtained the most ample views, nearly all round, 
 over a fine country, I was particularly struck 
 with the rustic air of the place. The church was 
 a large building, calculated for a much more 
 numerous congregation than you could suppose 
 this hamlet to furnish in the times in which it 
 was built, which was obviously a very early 
 period ; and Mrs. Dorrington showed me an 
 inscription on an old piece of glass in one of 
 the windows, Ed. A.D. IIIL, which she said 
 was the reputed date of this venerable fabric. 
 It was built of grey stone, which did not seem 
 to have been much worn by the weather of so 
 many ages. The churchyard, too, testified to 
 the age of the church, for it was enclosed by 
 an old stout wall of at least seven feet high 
 from the village street, but filled up within by 
 the accumulated soil of ages to nearly the 
 very top, so that the human deposits of this 
 long course of years had become a huge mound,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 8i 
 
 and threatened to throw down the very walls. 
 These at various times had been propped up 
 with strong buttresses. 
 
 It was evident that a great population had, 
 for more than seven centuries, worshipped and 
 laid their bones here ; and the great number of 
 the people which lay reduced to dust under 
 our feet, Mrs. Dorrington accounted for by the 
 known fact that, till of very late years, this 
 church had been the only one for many miles 
 round: and the imagination presented to you 
 a pleasant picture of the people coming from 
 their distant farms and hamlets, through the 
 woody valleys to this old mother church to 
 worship, or with solemn psalms accompanying 
 the funeral train. Even yet it seemed that there 
 were villages a mile or two distant without 
 a church ; and Mrs. Dorrington assured me 
 that on Sunday I should see one of the 
 most old-fashioned congregations that I could 
 conceive. 
 
 Taking a leisurely circuit round this old 
 edifice, admiring its fine old yew-trees, and 
 noticing some very ancient, as well as very 
 curious, grave-stones, we casually met the 
 sexton with the keys in his hand returning 
 from winding up the clock; and Mrs. Dor- 
 
 E 3
 
 82 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 rington bade him open the chancel-door to 
 give me a peep into the interior. It was an 
 ample village church plain and clean, with no 
 great number of monuments of families of 
 note. 
 
 Though the mother church of a rural district, 
 the place never seemed to have been inhabited 
 by any of the great aristocracy. The tablet of 
 an odd squire or two were the most conspicuous 
 monuments. I should except some monuments 
 of another kind which were more new to me, 
 and which extremely delighted me. They were 
 the memorials of village maidens who had died 
 in their maidenhood ; and, in memory of whom, 
 garlands and gloves cut in white paper were sus- 
 pended from the roof over the seats which these 
 village favourites had occupied. Besides there 
 being something delicately graceful and poetical in 
 the custom which should have perpetuated it, the 
 stories of these early-dead were preserved in the 
 memories of their cotemporaries with an affec- 
 tion that presented the most lively contrast to 
 the rapidity with which the deceased are for- 
 gotten, more especially in over-crowded places. 
 Scarcely does the mould close over the heads 
 of our fellows, than we seem to hasten away, 
 and think no more of them. On the contrarv
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 83 
 
 here was Mrs. Dorrington giving me as 
 warm details of maidens who had died thirty 
 years ago as if they had not been thirty days 
 departed. She conjured up, by her loving and 
 imaginative words, images of beautiful creatures, 
 beautiful scenes and times, so full of purity and 
 innocent joy, and broken affections, that they 
 were actual poetry, and made me think that in 
 the good old times at least they loved better, 
 and remembered longer than we hurrying livers 
 do now. 
 
 The sexton asked if I would not like to 
 ascend the steeple and see the " phrase o' th' 
 country," as he called it. I declined, because I 
 would not leave Mrs. Dorrington below ; but she 
 pressed me to ascend, and to my surprise de- 
 clared she would go up too. It was at least 
 fifteen years, she said, since she had climbed 
 the tower so often ascended in her early days, 
 and she had a fancy to go up once more. 
 Accordingly we ascended the steep, dark, spiral 
 staircase, rested awhile in the belfrey, then in the 
 clock-chamber, and another while amongst the 
 bells, and theft emerged to certainly a most 
 immense and glorious landscape. There was 
 scarcely a quarter in which we had not a clear 
 view of from ten to twenty miles. We had a
 
 84 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 complete panorama of Woods, lake-like waters, 
 villages, and fields mapped out with their hedges ; 
 and here and there an old hall peeping from its 
 trees, that was most airy and delightful. Mrs. 
 Dorrington pointed out to me many scenes and 
 solitary houses, and gave brief glimpses of the 
 possessors past and present, some of which I 
 could see made the tears start to her eyes. She 
 looked down on the leaden roof on which we 
 stood, and pointed out the outlines of feet that 
 had been cut in merry moments by young peo- 
 ple that were now resting below. There was 
 her own amongst them, and there was a whole 
 history in the expression of her countenance as 
 she gazed on those traces of the past. I did 
 not venture to inquire of anything that she did 
 not voluntarily express, especially in the presence 
 of the sexton, who declared " this prospec' was 
 reckoned th' eighth wonder o' th' world." 
 
 But we had the whole village lying below us, 
 and could see every walk and nook of the peo- 
 ple's gardens, and every soul that was out in 
 them. Here, just under us, lay the Vicar's 
 house and garden, there, on the other side, the 
 great square old brick house of Captain Parry- 
 more in its grounds, and farther off the ample 
 buildings of Farmer Greatorex, to each of which
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 85 
 
 places we were bound. We accordingly de- 
 scended, and a little gate in a clipped holly- hedge 
 admitted us from the churchyard to the garden 
 of the clergyman. The name and character of 
 the venerable Jeremiah Gould had been made 
 so familiar to me that I thought I should have 
 recognised the noble old man had I met him 
 anywhere. I was impatient to look upon him 
 as the friend and tutor of my friend Vincent, 
 who regarded him with an affectionate venera- 
 tion which resembled little that we see in the 
 present day. It was he who had formed the 
 tastes, and filled the mind of my young friend 
 with the knowledge, the aspirations, and the 
 ideas which had led him through the immense 
 regions that he had traversed, and made him 
 what he was. 
 
 Our reception on entering the garden of this 
 worthy divine was warmer in one respect than 
 we looked for. We found ourselves in an 
 enclosure of considerable extent, surrounded by 
 its clipped holly- hedge so lofty as to form a 
 perfect screen from all without, except the spec- 
 tator was, as we had been, on the church tower 
 itself. In this ample area extended various 
 walks and beds of flowers some of which were 
 covered with canvas awnings. We could see
 
 86 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 glowing masses of rich ranunculuses, and other 
 splendid flowers, forming by their brilliant group- 
 ing a sort of magnificent mosaic on a large scale. 
 Opposite to us in the corner nearest to the church- 
 yard, stood the parsonage a plain brick building 
 of two stories, of no pretensions to beauty or the 
 picturesque except what had been given it by a 
 veranda covered with climbing plants, and by 
 stands of most gorgeous geraniums, fuchsias, 
 and other flowers on the little lawn in front. 
 
 Scarcely, however, had we entered the garden, 
 when at least half-a-dozen dogs some large, 
 some small a brace of greyhounds, three or 
 four spaniels, and terriers, Scotch and English, 
 came fiercely barking at us, as though they 
 would tear us limb from limb. I was alarmed 
 for Mrs. Dorrington, and proposed to make a 
 hasty retreat to the outside of the gate. But 
 she only stepped before me, and began crying 
 out, " Oh, for shame, Ponto ! for shame, Fly 
 for shame on you, Bell Biddle, for shame on 
 you !" at which the ferocious animals recog- 
 nising the voice, as suddenly stopped, began to 
 crouch, and cower, and whine, wagging their 
 tails as 'really ashamed of not having known 
 their friend. But the next moment, catching a 
 glimpse of me, they renewed their yelling and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 87 
 
 barking as wildly as ever; but were suddenly 
 interrupted by a short, stiff man running from 
 the house, and with a huge stick and loud cries, 
 assailing them. At this attack in the rear, the 
 dogs fled in every direction, only stopping to 
 give a whine and a bark from some distant 
 corner. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Toby, " said Mrs. Dorrington, 
 " your dogs are quite uncivil. I never saw 
 them in such a way !" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Ma'am," said the short, 
 stiff man, out of breath, " but it's because we 
 have had the sweeps this morning, and the 
 poor creatures are quite out of sorts with it. 
 And I dare say they saw this strange gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " And took him for another sweep eh ! 
 Mr. Toby?" said Mrs. Dorrington, smiling at 
 me. 
 
 " No, Madam, no ! They could not do that, 
 poor things ! they could not do that. I beg 
 your pardon, Sir," bowing to me, "they are 
 better judges than that, Madam Dorrington, any 
 how !" bowing again to me, and wiping his 
 brow on the sleeve of his brown, short coat. 
 " But the poor things are flusticated, and thrown
 
 88 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 off the hinges with the sweeps, and the smell 
 of the soot, and all that. Pray come in they 
 wo'n't hurt you now they know you too well, 
 Madam Dorrington. Master is in the summer- 
 house I'll fetch him." 
 
 " No ; stop, Mr. Toby," said Mrs. Dorring- 
 ton. " We'll w r alk down there." 
 
 " Very good, Madam very good. And I'll 
 go and put up the dogs in the stable while you 
 stay, lest they should annoy you again." And 
 with this the little, thick, but active man, of 
 whom I had heard often enough, bustled off, 
 and we walked down the garden. 
 
 Mr. Jeremiah Gould was not only a very great 
 florist, but had a passion for all fine flowers, as 
 the whole space here testified. We passed beds 
 in which hyacinths, tulips, and auriculas had 
 flourished, and where many of the latter, with 
 polyanthuses, and pansies of the richest dyes, 
 were still in great splendour. 
 
 The Vicar's love of flowers had created the 
 same spirit in many of his humbler parish- 
 ioners ; and here might often be found with him 
 some three or four of those village patriarchs 
 who boasted floral beds nearly as fine, and had 
 raised flowers whose names are now known
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 89 
 
 through the whole kingdom. There was a fine 
 auricula which bore the name of Madam Dor- 
 rington, and a dahlia, not yet in flower, which 
 had that of Vincent Dorrington. 
 
 Passing through an opening in the holly- 
 hedge, we were in a piece of ground full as large 
 as the flower-garden we had left, which seemed 
 half kitchen-garden, half orchard. It abounded 
 with fruit-trees, had walks nearly overgrown 
 with filberts and quinces, and was surrounded 
 by a low wall, over which you looked into the 
 village crofts, which sloped down the hill towards 
 Fulbourne. At the lower right-hand corner 
 was a plain, brick summer-house, on the wall, 
 in which we found the Vicar, quietly smoking 
 his pipe, and surveying the rich and solitary 
 valley spread below him. 
 
 The door of the summer-house stood open, 
 and our friend did not perceive us till we were 
 ascending the steps. He arose, holding his pipe 
 in his left hand, and shook Mrs. Dorrington by 
 the hand with the right, so cordially delighted to 
 see her there, that he did not at once perceive 
 me. On the mention of my name, he ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Ha ! Mr. Bathurst ! Ha ! my dear Vin-
 
 90 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 cent's friend and fellow-traveller ! Oh ! how 
 glad I am to see you, dear friend !" 
 
 Down went his pipe upon the table, and the 
 tall, thin man stood before me, clasping my 
 hand in both his, and shaking it with an energy 
 that came evidently from the very soul. 
 
 " Well, this is a happiness indeed ! And 
 where did you leave poor Vincent ? and when 
 does he come ? Ah ! what a time has he been 
 away ! what he has seen and learned ! and 
 how a gracious, kind Providence has preserved 
 him through all ! Thank God ! thank God ! 
 What a mercy it is ! But we shall see Vincent 
 soon shall we not ? for, till we do, you know 
 that I stand charged with all the sin of his 
 wanderings and his dangers." 
 
 Madam Dorrington tapped the good man on 
 the arm with her parasol, and said, smilingly : 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Gould ; well may you desire to 
 see our Vincent back, for a heavy weight lies on 
 your soul till then." 
 
 " And yet, my dear friend," he replied, in a 
 jocose tone, " yet, when I tossed the young 
 bird up, you cut its tether, and let it go away 
 into the wide air !" expanding his long arms 
 till they seemed to reach across the little summer-
 
 MADAM DORRTNGTON. 91 
 
 house. " Well, God be thanked ! I trust, ere 
 long, all will be right. And here is good Mr. 
 Bathurst as the avant courier of the greatest 
 vagabond that Westwood, or almost England 
 ever produced. How wonderful to think of ! 
 Here stands the old rush-bottomed chair in 
 which Vincent has sate with me, at his studies, 
 for whole long summers, and here lies the little 
 Elzevir copy of " Sallust" in which we read ; 
 and since then, and before the age of twenty- 
 three, the boy has made himself at home in 
 every country of Europe has travelled Greece, 
 Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt ! It is wonderful ! 
 wonderful ! But sit down, my friends ; and 
 now tell me something, Mr. Bathurst, of our 
 absent friend. I dare say Madam Dorrington 
 won't think it tedious," he added, with an arch 
 smile ; and, laughing, we sate down. 
 
 The little summer-house was as simple an 
 affair as possible. An interior of some six 
 feet square, a brick floor, the sides almost 
 all windows, now standing open, and giving a 
 full view of the country, with Fulbourne in the 
 bottom of the valley, and the blue hills of the 
 Peak of Derbyshire in the distance. A plain, 
 old oak table, with twisted legs, standing in the 
 middle, a couple of common turned chairs, and
 
 92 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 window-seats, if more seats were needed that 
 was the total of the summer-house, and its 
 furniture, except the Vicar's straw-hat, his pipe, 
 and an old classic or two. 
 
 As for the worthy Vicar himself, his tall, 
 spare figure, and his venerable face, and white 
 hair combed backwards on each side from the 
 centre of his head, were familiar to my mind's 
 eye ; but there was an expression of unworldly 
 simplicity, mingled with the air of a gentleman, 
 that I could not sufficiently admire. His white 
 cravat, his loose surtout of black linen, his ample 
 trowsers and copious slippers, spoke of rustic 
 ease and carelessness of costume ; but the lofty 
 head, white as snow, but without a trace of 
 baldness; the somewhat long, and when they 
 were not lit up by a smile or conversation, 
 melancholy features ; the strong eye-lids, still 
 dark; the large grey eyes, and the fresh com- 
 plexion, made a picture that completely met my 
 ideal of the good, the learned, and the noble- 
 hearted, Jeremiah Gould. 
 
 There were no less than three cats, of great 
 dimensions and apparent age, basking on the 
 window-seats, and which did not even move at 
 our entrance, nor till we rose to go, and the 
 Vicar to accompany us to the house, when they
 
 MADAM DORIIINGTON. 93 
 
 came sleepily in our rear. I found that it was 
 a weakness of the good man's, that he would 
 never have anything killed, if he could help it ; 
 and hence such a troop of both dogs and cats. 
 They were the worst possible gardeners, and 
 had it depended on Mr. Gould himself, they 
 would have ranged over flower-bed and glass 
 panes, to the destruction of everything ; but of 
 these matters Mr. Toby took care. He slyly 
 destroyed kittens and pups on all possible occa- 
 sions, was constantly finding and proposing nice, 
 very nice, most desirable homes, for the older 
 dogs and cats, and often prevailed. Where 
 these very nice homes lay, and whether they 
 ever reached them, was best known to Mr. 
 Toby ; for once out of the Vicar's eye, they were 
 soon forgotten. 
 
 As it was, there was an abundance left, and 
 dreadful would have been the damage done by 
 them had not Mr. Toby devoted a good portion 
 of his time to their education during his master's 
 absence and daily rounds in the parish. Mr. 
 Gould never heard a single mew or yelp as of the 
 creatures under correction, and often remarked 
 what very docile and considerate things they 
 were, never walking over a bed or breaking a 
 pane, There were neighbours who could have
 
 94 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 told of pretty lively outcries, however, at times, 
 as of creatures under the operation of education, 
 and who saw the glazier quietly stealing thither 
 and away occasionally ; and Mr. Toby might be 
 found not unfrequently, with three or four dogs 
 in strings, and with. a whip in his hand, tra- 
 versing the various walks, skirting the various 
 beds and glass panes, and sometimes treating a 
 young dog to the sight of a flower in a pot, as if 
 recommending it to his particular attention and 
 remembrance, accompanied by very significant 
 flourishes of the dreaded whip. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Toby were the sole establish- 
 ment and family of the venerable Jeremiah 
 Gould. They were not much younger than 
 himself, and had come hither with him from 
 his native Wiltshire. They had a look and a 
 mode of speech totally different to the natives, 
 which you perceived at once. Much as they 
 were liked in West wood, and kind as they were 
 to everybody, they never made any secret of 
 it that there was no place, according to their 
 notions, like the country and village they came 
 from ; and were it not for their beloved master's 
 sake, they would have soon been there again. 
 A pretty country this, they said, for the uncon- 
 genial north ; but they would like to know
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 95 
 
 what the Westwoodians would think if they 
 were to see Salisbury Plain and the Wiltshire 
 Downs ? 
 
 We now visited the Vicarage for a few 
 minutes, where we found that Mrs. Toby, a little 
 stout woman, the very counterpart of her 
 husband, had set out cake and cowslip and 
 currant wine for us, early as it was ; and with 
 very low courtesies, presented her " duty" to 
 us, and asked after Mr. Vincent Dorrington, as 
 though I had seen him yesterday. 
 
 The Vicar's parlour was a low, rather large 
 room, with books in plain shelves lining all 
 the walls, even to between the windows, and 
 sundry violins, and a noble violoncello greet- 
 ing the eye, as I trusted they would greet 
 my ears before I left. Our Vicar was like 
 the Vicar in Crabbe's Borough, " fiddling 
 and fishing were his arts ;" and yet it might 
 truly be added as of him, at his death, 
 that 
 
 " Never mortal left this world of sin, 
 More like the being that he entered in." 
 
 The heart of the child never had died in him ; 
 it had only grown into the man's heart in the 
 greatness of his generous affection, and in the
 
 96 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 firmness of the martyr. But we shall have 
 often occasion to see again Jeremiah Gould ; 
 we must now hasten away on our morning 
 round. 
 
 Behold us then at the gate of the wealthy 
 Farmer Greatorex. Farther on in the village, 
 we pass a huge barn, which turns its back on 
 us, and then we are standing at a little white 
 gate in a white paling, where a small garden 
 leads up to a farm-house that stands some 
 twenty or more yards back from the village 
 street; the end of the house forming a lofty 
 wall on our right, covered with pear and 
 apricot-trees. We are admitted into a low 
 and darkish hall, and then shown into a large, 
 well-furnished room, which is just as light, 
 and looks out down the hill still towards Ful- 
 bourne over an ample old garden on the slope, 
 and green and well-wooded fields. 
 
 Here, while Mrs. Dorrington is pointing out 
 to me the beauty of a great wooded valley, 
 which seemed to run off right to the foot of 
 the Peak mountains, and in which lay, at the 
 distance of a mile or so, a large sheet of water 
 that she called the great Dam of Lerk, there 
 entered a tall, large, comely woman of fifty, 
 and three buxom damsels of a fine growth,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 97 
 
 fresh complexions, and countenances full of 
 health and smiles. They are Mrs. Greatorex 
 and her three daughters. For Madam Dor-. 
 rington, as they phrased her, there were the 
 most cordial of hand-shakes ; for me, the pro- 
 foundest of respectful courtsies. 
 
 At the mention of my name, there was a 
 sudden outbreak of loud exclamations of " Oh, 
 Mr. Bathurst, how glad we are to see you ! 
 And how did you leave Mr. Vincent?" All 
 were talking at once to myself or Mrs. Dor- 
 rington, and the picture of English country 
 growth, of bright complexions, and the sound of 
 clear bell-like voices, was something to me 
 extremely novel, and fell on my senses like 
 the sight of the luxuriant fields without, 
 and. the glad clamour of their numerous 
 birds. 
 
 But at this moment entered a tall, fresh- 
 looking man, the farmer himself. His large, 
 goodly fresh-coloured face, his strong head of 
 hair, which time had only been able to grizzle 
 not to thin, his stout, well-fed person arrayed 
 in a suit of drab with striped ample waistcoat, 
 and his coat, buttoned over the chest by one 
 huge pearl button, bespoke one of the j oiliest 
 sons of the soil. He extended a hand huge 
 
 VOL. i. F
 
 98 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and horny to grasp the delicate one of Mrs. 
 Dorrington ; and then, on my being simul- 
 taneously introduced by his wife and daughters 
 in one breath, he turned his broad shining 
 face on me, and gave me a gripe like that of a 
 good-natured bear, saying with a voice which 
 seemed sent out of an iron-chest, and laughing 
 heartily : 
 
 " So ! so ! indeed ? What ! this is our friend 
 Vincent's fellow-tramp, eh ? This is one of 
 our young runagates come to hand at last, eh, 
 Madam Dorrington ? Good day to you, Mr. 
 Bathurst, and a right hearty welcome to you. 
 Drat it, Madam, but I take it we mun ha 
 th' bells set a-ringing, mon't we ? Such an 
 arrival as this doesn't reach Westwood every 
 day. Bilemmy, no ! What ban yer seen th' 
 Parson ? Eh ! So ! so ya have ; and isn't th' old 
 man almost out of himself? Drat it, but he 
 will be in a fidget till Master Vincent turns up 
 now. My word though ay ! ay ! But, 
 prithee, Mr. Bathurst, where hast ta left our 
 friend Vincent after all ? Maybe, he's no 
 nearer yet than Cappadocia, or Pamphylia, or 
 somewhere in Nebuchadnesser's dominions. 
 Ha ! ha ! But, mother, where's th' lads ? 
 Where's George ? where's James ? eh, Betsy ?
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 99 
 
 Nancy, my dear, where are your brothers ? 
 Mary, my dear, where are these chaps ?" 
 
 " They are somewhere out in the fields, 
 father," replied two or three of these young 
 ladies at once ; " but Mr. Bathurst is not going 
 away from Westwood yet. We shall see him 
 again." 
 
 " See him again ! I should think so," ex- 
 claimed the old farmer. " Going away ! why 
 no, I should think not. Drat it, why he's 
 hardly come yet. Why he has not seen what 
 land we've gotten here, and what stock, except 
 family stock what I call ' calves of the stall' 
 eh, Mr. Bathurst, eh ? ha ! ha ! Drat it, Sir ! 
 I reckon now you did not see three finer grown 
 lasses than Mary, and Betsy, and Nancy here 
 in all Mesopotamia. Ha ! ha !" 
 
 " For shame, father," exclaimed the blushing 
 damsels, blushing as crimson as the richest 
 damask rose ; " how can you talk so to a 
 gentleman like Mr. Bathurst ?" 
 
 " Pray excuse him, Sir," said Mrs. Greatorex, 
 with a respectful courtsy ; my husband is very 
 rough, but he means no harm." 
 
 " Harm !" said the jolly Mr. Greatorex. 
 " No, lass, I should think not ; I should think 
 not neither ; but Mr. Bathurst is none of your 
 
 F 2
 
 100 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 fine-fingered gentry, mind you. He's roughed 
 it ; he's seen a thing or two, eh, Mr. Bathurst ? 
 You've been amongst the Babylonian bricks 
 that th' Parson talks of, and know how to take 
 the humour of a plain farmer. Harm ! the 
 worst harm that I can see is, that you give our 
 friends nothing to eat. Bring out th' cake and 
 wine, dame ; bring 'em out. There's nothing 
 like a bit and a sup when you are going round 
 amongst your friends." 
 
 It was in vain that we assured them that we 
 had already taken refreshment with the Vicar. 
 The tray and a whole load of- good things 
 speedily made their appearance, and I must 
 drink a speedy return to my friend Vincent. 
 
 " And what sort of farming is there in those 
 eastern countries eh, Mr. Bathurst ? No great 
 shakes, I reckon ; a few lanky sheep and cows, 
 and wild asses, I reckon. Can you match me 
 a few hundred acres about Jericho or Jerusalem 
 like these ?" said he, going to the window, 
 and pointing to his fields knee-deep in grass. 
 
 " Father ! father !" exclaimed the daughters ; 
 " it is quite shocking." 
 
 " Shocking ! What's shocking ? Fields 
 like those out there ?" 
 
 " No, father, but bringing in the Holy Land ;
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 101 
 
 the ground on which our Saviour and the 
 Apostles trod." 
 
 The farmer looked rather aghast. 
 
 " Well, my wench, maybe I was speaking a 
 little too freely all reverence to sacred things. 
 But I meant no harm, Nancy, my lass so let 
 that pass. No offence, Madam Dorrington, I 
 hope?" 
 
 "Not in the least, my friend," said Mrs. 
 Dorrington, who knew the good heart of the 
 farmer : " no one would wish less than you, 
 Mr. Greatorex, to speak irreverently of anything 
 holy. And, really, I don't doubt but you are 
 quite right, " smiling as she spoke. " An 
 English farmer and a Bedouin of the Desert are 
 rather different things." 
 
 " Spoken like a sensible woman !" said the 
 farmer. " Madam Dorrington for my money, 
 Nancy. Take pattern by Madam Dorrington, 
 and then you need not be taking up your old 
 father so roughly for just talking of Jericho ! 
 Drat it, Mr. Bathurst ! if we old-fashioned 
 fellows have not shrewd work on it in these 
 eddication days ! Tother day, I says to Betsy, 
 here : ' Well, my lass, I've been baulked in my 
 hopes to-day.' ' Baulked ! ' says she : * you 
 should not say baulked, father, but disappointed.*
 
 102 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 So, tother night, I says to the lad for I deter- 
 mined to be right and larned as any on 'em : 
 ' Jack,' says I ; ' I've left th' lanthern upon th' 
 disappointment ith barn, run and fetch it. 
 ' Eh ! disappointment ?' says the lad, consider- 
 ing. ' What's that, Mester ? I niver seed such 
 a thing !' ' The balk, lad the balk, I mean.' 
 Drat your fine words ! I was obliged to speak 
 plain English after all." 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington was greatly amused by the 
 anecdote, the full force of which was lost on me 
 till I recollected that a balk is a beam. 
 
 But our time was up, and promising to come 
 and take tea with my farming friends, of whose 
 good qualities 1 knew more than they were aware 
 of, and shaking honest Greatorex heartily by 
 the hand, we took our leave, and were soon 
 standing before a great gate, on whose brick 
 pillars stood a pair of eagle's heads, with crowns 
 on their necks. These opened, and admitted 
 us to the grounds of Captain Parrymore. The 
 Captain's house was one of those great, square, 
 plain piles of brick that one so often sees in the 
 country, which are themselves as bald and ugly 
 as possible, yet, standing amid fine old trees, and 
 green lawns, and winding walks amid shrub- 
 berries, and with a few rooks cawing about them,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 103 
 
 as this had, are quite agreeable and refreshing, 
 spite of their architectural plainness. 
 
 The Captain, a spare, gentlemanly man, grave 
 of manner, and grey of trouser, with drab cloth 
 walking-shoes, was sauntering in the grounds 
 with Mrs. Parry more, und a niece, Miss Theo- 
 dosia Vining. Mrs. Parry more appeared a very 
 complacent and polite little body, and expressed 
 many felicitations and respects to my humble 
 self, and made many inquiries after the dear 
 Mr. Vincent Dorrington, and envied us Oh ! 
 how she envied us having trod the very ground 
 which our dear Redeemer had trodden, and seen 
 the City of Solomon and David ! 
 
 Miss Theodosia Vining, a pale, slim, and 
 meagre girl, who was wrapped in a thick shawl, 
 and had a boa round her neck and cork-soled 
 shoes on, and yet seemed starved in the sun- 
 shine, gazed intently at me over her aunt's 
 shoulder, with a face that seemed to me more 
 fraught with sense than health. We shall see 
 her again ; so that we may leave the Parrymores 
 at present, as our time gets short. 
 
 There was one call more that Mrs. Dorrington 
 was bent on making. For this she led the way 
 to one end of the village, where we came to a 
 small white house, standing on a lawn at a con-
 
 104 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 siderable distance from the road, with three or 
 four huge elm-trees in front of it. I was very 
 much attracted hy the neatness of this little 
 dwelling, and its little lawn, on which stood 
 several fruit-trees, with a swing depending from 
 one, and round the lawn a border of the most 
 flourishing flowers, when a sight still more 
 attractive presented itself. The door opened, 
 and out rushed three or four little children, 
 crying : 
 
 " Grandmamma ! dearest grandmamma ! " 
 and in the next instant were clinging about 
 Mrs. Dorrington, kissing her, and dancing for 
 joy, and clinging to her skirts in the highest 
 delight. 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington returned their caresses 
 with equal affection, and was listening to 
 the thousand little things they had all at 
 once to tell her ; and was just turning to tell me 
 that these were the children of her dear lost 
 son, Delmey Dorrington, when out came trip- 
 ping a young lady, that seemed to have all the 
 lightness and buoyancy of a whole summer 
 about her. She seemed to dance up to Mrs. 
 Dorrington as on the very air, and, clasping her 
 offered hand, kissed her with the most affec- 
 tionate gaiety.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 105 
 
 I saw before me a young, elastic figure, some- 
 what full, but all lightness, with a face beaming 
 with a joy and a beauty that made me silent with 
 wonder. I certainly had not anticipated such 
 an apparition of glad and lovely womanhood in 
 Westwood, 
 
 I saw a face, round, but fresh and fair as a 
 May morning ; sunny, blue eyes, auburn, and 
 almost golden hair, and a set of features, deli- 
 cate, soft, and full of the most womanly, the 
 most amiable, the most gay and clever expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " My dear friend, Harriet Russell Mr. 
 Bathurst, my dear Harriet," said Mrs. Dorring- 
 ton, and the charming girl gave me a cordial 
 recognition, that was as frank as her whole 
 nature appeared artless and genuine, 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Mrs. Dorrington," said Miss 
 Russell, " now I see why you never came to see 
 us yesterday. I hope you bring us good news 
 of Mr. Vincent Dorrington, Sir?" 
 
 I replied that I had no newer news than our 
 friend Mrs. Dorrington had ; but that I could 
 speak more confidently of his speedy return than 
 she seemed to do. 
 
 " That will give great pleasure to many here, 
 sir. Oh ! how the Vicar does long for him. 
 
 F 3
 
 106 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Never did man, I think, love his own son as he 
 loves Mr. Vincent. I should have come down 
 to the Dene last evening," added she, turning 
 to Mrs. Dorrington, " but Mr. Gould came 
 here and took tea with us, and proposed a 
 walk into the Arden woods. What a delight 
 it was to the dear children; and the greatest 
 child oh, certainly ! that was Mr. Gould him- 
 self ! Never did I see a man so completely forget 
 himself back into childhood again. He ran with 
 the children in the long grass till they all tum- 
 bled down together, and then he sat in the 
 grass, and told them everything that grew 
 around them. Every kind of grass and plant, 
 and tree and the children ran out, tore up 
 grasses, and herbs, and branches of trees and 
 he told them what they all were, and what were 
 their properties, and how beautifully God had 
 made them all ; and to show them that, he held 
 up a branch of wild roses, and said : ' Where 
 is the King that could command that to be? 
 and if he had never seen it, where is the philo- 
 sopher that could get an idea of it ?' 
 
 " It was wonderful to see how the children 
 gazed at it and then at him, and seemed to see 
 a new beauty and romance in that very bough. 
 And then he took out a small microscope, and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 107 
 
 let them peep into the heart of the flowers, and 
 then took out his knife, and cut off a bit of the 
 wood of the bough, and showed them the veins, 
 and the air-cells that fed it, and said : ' Is not 
 that wonderful, now?' And the children shouted, 
 ' More, Mr. Gould ! more !' 
 
 " But the old man then took out a flute, and 
 he played to them : how wonderfully he does 
 play ! The very nightingales struck up in the 
 copse behind him, and the thrushes, came to 
 the near tree tops, and seemed all on fire with 
 emulation. But, unfortunately, I spoiled all. I 
 asked him to play us a favourite tune of mine. 
 He began, stopped, looked at me I saw the 
 tears in his eyes he jumped up, and unscrewing 
 his flute, put it into his pocket, as he walked on. 
 The very children seemed to comprehend that 
 there was something wrong, for they sat silent, 
 till he turned and beckoned to us to come on. 
 I dared not express a word of regret at my 
 unlucky deed ; but the cloud seemed to have 
 passed. He seized the hands of two of the 
 children, and shouted, ' Now for a famous 
 bird's-nesting !' and with a screech of delight the 
 whole troop sprang into the woods. 
 
 " Would you believe it that venerable old 
 man climbed some of the tallest spruce fir-trees,
 
 108 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and brought down, for the children to see, young 
 wood-pigeons, and eggs, and then carried them 
 up again. And he beat the bushes on the 
 borders of the lake, and found nests there ; and 
 then in the grass, he seemed to pounce by in- 
 stinct on the nests of larks, and showed them 
 to the children, and to get them away again, for 
 he would not let them rob one nest, he began 
 to imitate the cries of birds, and their various 
 songs how wonderful ! You would have 
 thought that you really heard the blackbird, 
 the turtle-dove, the wood-pecker, the nightingale 
 itself. The children were wild with delight, and 
 made him promise often to go into the fields 
 with them. For my part, I could not avoid 
 expressing my astonishment at his powers of 
 imitation, and not less of the zest with which 
 he could throw himself into such things. 
 
 " ' Ah, Miss Russell !' he said, ' those things 
 belong to a world that is gone a happy, happy 
 world of which these and my music are the 
 only fragments left. I was a boy. I have 
 never been a man !' and with this he began 
 to run races with the children. I watched this 
 boisterous pleasure some time before I could over- 
 take them ; and do you know, when I saw that 
 tall, spare man, with his white locks, standing
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 109 
 
 with his uplifted cane, in mock anger, keeping 
 the children at bay, I could not help sitting 
 down behind a bush, and having a good hearty 
 cry." 
 
 I saw Mrs. Dorrington press the young crea- 
 ture's arm ; there were tears in her own eyes, 
 and she said : " God bless you, my dear Har- 
 riet ; you may do our friend much good by your 
 cheerful society. It were a holy deed. There is 
 but one Jeremiah Gould ; and how many times 
 have I had cause to praise Heaven that sent him 
 to Westwood." 
 
 We now entered the little abode of these 
 orphan children and their lovely governess, and 
 my wonder was not diminished by what I saw 
 there. One room was a schoolroom, with its 
 desk, its maps, its globes, and elementary books. 
 The other room, looking into a sweet little 
 garden, and out over the level fields, was 
 plainly furnished, but there were the marks of 
 no common taste and mind about it. I ob- 
 served not only a good piano, but a harp there, 
 the music-books, which I ventured to open, were 
 of a class which I as little expected to see there, 
 as I had to see such a person as Miss Russell. 
 There were books, too, in French, Italian, and 
 German, well read, and of the noblest authors
 
 110 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 of those nations, which deepened my respect 
 wonderfully for the fair and radiant creature that 
 delighted in them. 
 
 But matters crowd on me what I saw here 
 and at Westwood altogether in these few days 
 what I learnt, and what I now know, demand 
 that I should not only open a fresh chapter, but 
 commence a fresh course of narrative. I will 
 only say, that I dined with the good Jeremiah 
 Gould, and listened to the grand notes of his 
 violoncello ; ate a quiet, excellent supper at the 
 Greatorex's, and saw not only Betsy, Nancy, and 
 Mary, but those two full-length specimens of 
 the clever farmers of to-day, George and James, 
 and breakfasted with Captain Parry more, and 
 his very polite wife, and ever-cold, yet really 
 clever niece, Miss Theodosia Vining, and finally 
 took my leave of Westwood, with a world of 
 thoughts in my head and my heart that will 
 endeavour to make their way out in the fol- 
 lowing pages.
 
 MADAM DORRJNGTON. 1 1 1 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN the Dene there was a room which, though 
 during my stay there, I spent a good deal of 
 time in it, I have not yet spoken of. It was 
 Mrs. Dorrington's sitting-room. This was on 
 the first floor, and included the eastern tower. 
 You approached it by an ample staircase, on the 
 landing of which stood a stand of plants in full 
 flower, casting a delightful fragrance. On enter- 
 ing the room you were struck at once with its 
 light, cheerful air, its freshness, and its elegance. 
 The large bay window or recess formed by the 
 semi-hexagonal tower, amounted almost to a little 
 room of itself. This seemed almost all glass. 
 There was another window on the left hand as
 
 1 1 2 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 you entered, but this had the blind invariably 
 drawn down as if to shut out the excess of light, 
 though at the same time it excluded perhaps 
 the finest portion of the landscape, that in- 
 cluding the view of the Derbyshire hills. Oppo- 
 site to you was also a window opening on the 
 balcony, where, as I have said, always stood a 
 number of plants in bloom, and whence you had 
 a splendid view over the garden, the valley of 
 the Dene, and the country round. How many 
 hours have I sate in that balcony enjoying the 
 scene and the conversation of Mrs. Dorrington. 
 On the other two walls of the room hung four 
 pictures, one was a small full length portrait of 
 Mrs. Dorrington herself in her youth, and as 
 Miss Delmey. She appeared in a gipsy hat, a 
 gown with long, train and short sleeves trimmed 
 with point lace, and with a parasol of a most 
 diminutive size and Chinese look, walking in 
 the fields. Her little black dog Tiny, the great 
 grandmother of the present Tiny, and as like it 
 as possible, was running on before her with one 
 of her gloves in its mouth. Miss Delmey 's 
 dark brown locks hung in rich masses on her 
 shoulders, and her fair complexion and blue 
 eyes were finely contrasted by the dark hues of 
 her hair and dress. The work was that of a
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 113 
 
 very good artist, done in London, and with all 
 its quaintness had a beauty and sentiment about 
 it that were extremely attractive. The other 
 three were simply heads. The one of Miss 
 Delmey's father, a middle-aged gentleman of a 
 singularly mild and contemplative countenance ; 
 the second was a young man of a handsome 
 and somewhat gay aspect her brother that 
 died an early and bloody death ; and the fourth 
 a boy of some seven or eight years of age, 
 whose rich locks of pale gold, and beautiful 
 features, presented the image of the eldest child 
 of Mrs. Dorrington, which lived in her memory 
 as an angel surrounded by the glory of a brief 
 bright life, and a death which carried the 
 lacerated mother's heart up into the heaven of 
 its rest, and filled her memory with many 
 dreams of that fair but invisible world into 
 which the tender child had travelled on alone. 
 Besides these portraits, which were calculated to 
 inspire many thoughts of her past home and 
 connections, there were the books, which her 
 father had loved and which she loved still. 
 Between the windows and the partitions of the 
 windows these volumes were crowded on plain 
 shelves, and some of them half or wholly hidden 
 by the folds of the curtains.
 
 114 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 The furniture of this sweet room was richer 
 than that of any other apartment in the house ; 
 it consisted of tall, old, but very elegant chairs 
 of ebony and ivory, with the seats and centres 
 of the backs of crimson velvet. They were a 
 wedding present to her from a lady, a dear de- 
 ceased friend, who had been much attached to 
 her. They had been as far back as the reign of 
 Elizabeth the property of the favourite of that 
 Queen Devereux, Earl of Essex. Besides 
 these, there were a couple of cabinets of the 
 same rich material and of the same descent, and 
 tables of a different kind but in good keeping. 
 In the centre of the recess formed by the bay- 
 window, stood a small one bearing a little richly 
 inlaid desk, and the working- apparatus of Mrs. 
 Dorrington, where she generally sate, having 
 under her eye the lovely landscape which I have 
 already described. 
 
 In this charming room we frequently took 
 tea, and here Mrs. Dorrington enjoyed all the 
 retirement and opportunity of study and thought 
 which were so congenial to her nature. Here 
 I had much and serious talk with her, and 
 here, on taking leave, she once more pressed 
 me earnestly to use all my influence to bring 
 home her son. " He does not know," said she,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 115 
 
 impressively, " how much it concerns him." 
 During my late dining with the Vicar, he had 
 urged this same topic with the most solemn 
 tone. There was more in the manner and 
 words of both than the mere importance of a 
 long expecting affection. Even Sally Horobin, 
 with whom I had frequently laughed and joked 
 during my stay, as I was about to take my 
 leave stopped me in a dusky passage, and 
 making a low courtsy, said : 
 
 " You do think, Sir, that Mr. Vincent will 
 come home soon !" 
 
 " I think so, Sally," I replied. 
 
 " But you do really think he will, Mr. 
 Bathurst ?" 
 
 " Well I do really, truly, and in double-down 
 truth, as the boys here say in their play." 
 
 Sally smiled and said : 
 
 " Eh, Sir ! yo noticen ivery thing. But 
 as to Mr. Vincent, I hope he will come soon 
 really and truly. He does not know how 
 Madam frets, or he'd be here in a jiffy for he's 
 a good heart, th' lad has." 
 
 I could not help smiling at Sally's phrase- 
 ology she noticed it, and added : 
 
 " Excuse me, Sir, I mean no disrespect 
 nobody respects Mr. Vincent more than Sally
 
 1 1 6 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Horobin does ; but I've nursed him and tother 
 lads from childer ommost, and I always think of 
 'em as lads yet. Eh, bless 'em, hav'nt I washed 
 'em, and smirked 'em (slapped them), and sent 
 'em to school, dee after dee, for years ? And so 
 if I speak familiarly-like, it's out of no disre- 
 spect, but only love to 'em, Sir, only love." 
 
 Sally was very earnest she saw no incon- 
 sistency nor anything of the ludicrous, in slap- 
 ping the children, out of affectionate zeal, to get 
 them off to the village-school, and still thinking 
 of these great grown men as lads. 
 
 " But, excuse me, Sir, I dunna want to betray 
 no family secrets, nor family confidence ; but I 
 must speak, as you're Mr. Vincent's bossum 
 friend, like. I must off wi' the weight from 
 my heart, and tell you that there's things going 
 on that should not. That Mr. Bulkley you 
 know him Mr. Vincent's elder brother he 
 winds the old master round his finger; and, if 
 Mr. Vincent does not come home soon, oh, 
 Lord ! who knows what 'ull happen ?" 
 
 Sally's lips trembled ; she took up the corner 
 of her apron, and wiped her eyes. Then with 
 fresh energy : 
 
 " You'll promise me, Sir, to lay it fast and 
 strong on Mr. Vincent to come home at once
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 117 
 
 to be over like a shower of rain you'll promise 
 me that, Mr. Bathurst ? Tell him Sally Horo- 
 bin says ay, swears say swears, Sir, if you 
 will that, for Madam's sake for his own sake 
 for the orphan dears' sakes for everybody's 
 sake to come directly. Lord bless us ! what 
 can people find in those furrin parts, and such a 
 home as this to come to ! Tell him, Sir, from 
 me, that there's wrong going on there is I'm 
 sure on't and th' old master is so bamboozled 
 and bewitched by I needn't say who by him 
 as does and shouldn't do it that he'll wrong 
 iverybody, and see no wrong he does. Eh ! for 
 God's sake, Sir ! do as I say, and you'll never 
 ha' done a more blessed deed in all your born 
 days !" 
 
 But here a distant step startled Sally. I took 
 her hand, pressed it warmly, and said, softly : 
 
 " Depend upon it, Sally, I will do everything 
 that you wish me depend upon it, as God's 
 truth !" 
 
 I could not see Sally's face, but I felt her 
 snatch at my hand as I was withdrawing it, 
 felt her kiss it passionately, and away she 
 darted up a back pair of stairs, to her own 
 upper regions. 
 
 As I rode down the shady lane from West-
 
 1 I 8 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 wood, and looked over the gates as I passed 
 them into the fields, all so sunny and beautiful, 
 I could not avoid pondering these things in my 
 heart. I could not help wondering at the twist 
 there is everywhere in human affairs, and how 
 the fruits of the fall are found ripening in every 
 spot, however fair, the moment we begin to look 
 closely into it. How the very loveliness of this 
 earth dims in the human mind the higher love- 
 liness of the discharge of God's trust, and the 
 sacred dictates of affection. What I had seen 
 further of the temperament, tastes, and feelings 
 of Mr. Dorrington, deepened these reflections, 
 and gave them a melancholy power. I have 
 since put down some things which had, from 
 another source, come to my knowledge, and 
 subsequent events have led me on to complete 
 the narrative. Here it is : 
 
 Mrs. Dorrington, as I have said, was born at 
 Fulbourne. That secluded spot had been six 
 centuries in her family. The property was not 
 of such extent as to place the possessors high 
 amongst the landed gentry. They were, in fact, 
 rather what now are termed gentlemen-farmers. 
 They wrote themselves yeomen, and sometimes
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 1 1 9 
 
 gentlemen, and were so designated in all title- 
 deeds, wills, and in summonses to serve on 
 juries, and the like. Some five hundred acres, 
 and which would not yield a clear rental of 
 eight hundred pounds per annum, was the extent 
 of the property. But then, it lay altogether, 
 occupying the bottom of the valley, and run- 
 ning up both its sides to the summit. The 
 woods were fine, solemn, and of great value, and 
 the land was of a quality which, without much 
 agricultural skill, had made the house of Ful- 
 bourne a scene of rural plenty. 
 
 It was singular, that through all this time the 
 family had never exceeded three, rarely two, 
 children, and oftener one. In the case of Mrs. 
 Dorrington's father, there was only himself and 
 a sister, married to a distance. In her own case, 
 there had been only herself and two brothers. 
 This might account for the estate being so long 
 kept together; and, moreover, for the noble 
 wood which abounded on it. This wood had 
 several times been left as the portion of the 
 younger children, but had always been redeemed 
 by the eldest son. And thus Fulbourne had 
 . stood till of late years a solemn, fruitful, 
 pleasant place of woods and fields lying amid 
 heavy full-grown hawthorn hedges, and the
 
 120 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 tinkling waters of the winding brook, which 
 was often the Full-bourne of which it bore the 
 name. 
 
 The house was still screened on the north 
 and east side by a fine mass of trees, which in 
 the spring was swarming with rooks ; and about 
 the old house were still left many signs of its 
 old farming plenty ; its fowls ; its turkeys ; 
 its peacocks, and cattle. But dreadful had 
 been the ravages made amongst the rest 
 of the timber, and a heavy debt lay on its 
 now much-deteriorated lands. But this is 
 anticipating. 
 
 Here Grace Delmey, now Mrs. Dorrington, 
 found herself at the earliest period of her 
 remembrance, the youngest of three children. 
 Her recollections of her early life there were 
 a mixture of love and beauty and wonder 
 approaching to romance, with many a strange 
 and bitter ingredient thrown in by the hands 
 that might naturally have been expected to 
 have infused only the honey and the fragrance 
 of young life. 
 
 Mr. Francis Delmey, her father, was a man 
 answering most completely in character to the 
 mild and contemplative portrait seen in Mrs. 
 Dorrington's room. He was a man wholly and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 121 
 
 essentially of this neighbourhood. He had 
 scarcely ever travelled out of it. A sorrowful 
 visit to Portsmouth, and an occasional one to 
 London to see his only sister, married there, 
 were almost the sole exceptions. As a boy, he 
 had found two companions amongst those who 
 went with him to the Vicar's school at West- 
 wood, to whom he had attached himself with 
 boyish ardour. The one was the son of the 
 Vicar himself, and the other the son of a small 
 freeholder of Lerk, the next village up the 
 valley. George Parsons, and Andrew Harrison, 
 had been his constant school-fellows, play- 
 fellows, and explorers of the woods and fields 
 around Fulbourne and Lerk. They had helped 
 each other along in their tasks, though they 
 never could drag along the slow but affectionate 
 Andrew Harrison with them. He was always 
 behind in books, but never behind in play. 
 He would ascend the highest tree for a nest, or 
 scale the crumbling precipice of the stone- 
 quarry on a similar quest. He kept all their 
 fishing-tackle in order, and was ready to fight 
 for them in any attacks from village lads, or 
 skirmishes with distant farmers who found 
 them in their fields in quest of birds' nests, 
 or in winter of the birds themselves. 
 VOL. i. G
 
 122 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 George Parsons, on the contrary, was quick, 
 clever, and full of ideas of travel and adventure. 
 He had an uncle at sea ; and at the proper age 
 went thither as midshipman on board his 
 uncle's vessel. But his career was short. In 
 the great battle in which Rodney took de 
 Grasse, he was desperately wounded, was even- 
 tually obliged to lose a leg and one hand ; and 
 his nervous system could not stand the shock. 
 He came into harbour at Portsmouth in a 
 condition of fast-sinking vigour. He had 
 thence sent to beg his two old school-fellows, 
 and cronies of the fields, to go and see him. 
 Francis Delmey and Andrew Harrison went. 
 The meeting, as may be supposed, was affecting 
 beyond description. So much so, that Mrs. 
 Parsons, the aunt of the young midshipman, in 
 whose care he was left, for his uncle was still 
 at sea, was fearful that the visit would be 
 mischievous to the sufferer. 
 
 The two country youths, full of health and 
 strength themselves, were agitated most violently 
 at the sight of the pallid and thin fragment of 
 what once had been their active and joyous 
 friend. All three wept so excessively that it- 
 was necessary to request the two visitors to 
 retire, and to impress on them the most serious
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 123 
 
 duty of restraining their feelings, for the 
 sake of their invalid friend. The exhortations 
 were not thrown away. The two youths con- 
 tinued at the earnest request of the dying 
 George Parsons, for such he really was, not to 
 leave him. They took lodgings near, and 
 during several weeks that he still lingered on, 
 they devoted themselves to watching by him, 
 reading to him, and when that was too much 
 for him sitting in silence with him to soothe 
 him by their presence. They read to him 
 alternately in the Bible, the " Pilgrim's Progress," 
 and " Robinson Crusoe," the latter books they 
 had read some score times before, in the woods 
 of Fulbourne, and the hay-chamber at Lerk. 
 
 Many times did the tears stream silently 
 down the face of poor George as they read ; 
 his heart, no doubt, was in the scenes of boyish 
 happiness which they recalled, and many a time 
 did the reader stop, and close the book, and 
 clasp the sole remaining hand of the poor 
 mutilated sufferer. 
 
 George died while Francis Delmy was reading 
 aloud to him in the 17th chapter of the Gospel 
 of St. John, " And now I am no more in the 
 world ; but these are in the world, and I come 
 
 G 2
 
 124 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 to thee," Andrew kneeling down beside him, 
 with his face buried in the pillow, which was 
 soaked with tears. The two broken-hearted 
 lads saw his remains laid in the grave, and 
 returned to their native place, united, as it 
 were, in a bond of a new and more sacred 
 sympathy. 
 
 George's pistols, and the books in which 
 they had read, were received as his bequests by 
 them, and preserved to their dying days. To 
 that period, which terminates all here, the two 
 friends retained their attachment. Mr. Delmey 
 became in time the possessor of his paternal 
 acres, and lived at ease. He might have made 
 more brilliant friendships, but he seemed little 
 solicitous of them. 
 
 Andrew Harrison, too, inherited his forty 
 acres of land, and old paternal house in Lerk. 
 He married a wife as quiet and industrious as 
 himself, and following the need of his still and 
 slumberous hamlet, in which there was no shop, 
 he opened a couple of not very pretensious 
 windows, which, though they projected some 
 foot or so from the wall, could neither be called 
 bay nor bow windows. They were at all events 
 shop-windows, and as his house stood at the
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 125 
 
 corner of the village green, shaded by a couple 
 of huge walnut-trees, one window showed each 
 way. 
 
 This shop soon contained as miscellaneous 
 a stock as such country shop usually does. 
 At one window were displayed woollen cloths, 
 woollen stockings, and waistcoat pieces, all of 
 a quality and character likely to meet the tastes 
 and wants of the homely agricultural population. 
 At the other appeared sugars, teas, and sweet- 
 meats, with sundry quantities of tops and mar- 
 bles. From the ceiling of this shop hung large 
 supplies of candles, heads of mops, and similar 
 articles. In fact, Andrew Harrison was become 
 not only a small farmer, but a small shopkeeper. 
 The affairs of the shop were chiefly managed by 
 Mrs. Harrison and the servant-maid, and it was 
 wonderful where the business came from, but 
 very soon there did come a very notable quantity. 
 It could not be supplied by the hamlet of Lerk 
 itself, for that did not consist of more than a 
 score houses of labourers and farmers. But it 
 was soon seen that the people came from the 
 villages and scattered houses for a considerable 
 distance round, and it was found necessary to 
 have an apprentice to serve in the shop. In 
 the course of time, Andrew Harrison purchased
 
 126 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 an old house in the village, and converted it 
 into a malt-kiln ; and thus as farmer, shop- 
 keeper, and maltster, was looked upon as a very 
 shy, but still a very thriving man. No quieter 
 man or man of fewer words was to be seen 
 for twenty miles round. He let business go on, 
 casting a quiet eye over the land and his garden, 
 in which he worked himself more than anywhere 
 else, and into his malthouse, but he never was 
 seen in a flurry, and the profound quiet of his 
 house was as unbroken by the growth of his 
 speculations as if they did not exist at all. 
 
 His sitting-room, or house-place, as it then 
 was called, was entered by a capacious old porch. 
 Nothing could be more simple and neat than its 
 appearance and furniture. The floor was of 
 square bricks, smooth and hard, and was kept 
 nicely swept, but never knew the covering of a 
 carpet. A set of rush-bottomed chairs, of sim- 
 plest fashion, stood round. An old oak table 
 occupied the centre, on which they took their 
 meals. There were other smaller ones in 
 the room, set in a window or by the wall. 
 An old cuckoo clock, with yellow face, had 
 sung " cuckoo" every hour all his father's time. 
 The fire-place was under one of the old wide 
 chimneys so common in past times, on one side
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 127 
 
 of which stood Andrew's ample arm-chair, and 
 his father's, and in the other a bench, fastened 
 to the wall, and rendered sufficiently soft by a 
 horse-hail' cushion. 
 
 This was a warm winter fire-side, and here 
 Andrew and his wife, and the maid, might be 
 found comfortably sitting of winter evenings, 
 the apprentice joining them after the closing of 
 the shop, while over their heads were suspended 
 or arranged on a shelf, the household stock of 
 candlesticks, smoothing-irons, nutmeg-grater, 
 sugar-nippers, toasting-forks, and kettle-holders, 
 with various bags of dried herbs, and a singular 
 assortment of walking-sticks, none of which, 
 however, he used, but was most constant to a 
 sturdy crab-stick, which was uniformly found 
 behind the door when not accompanying its 
 master on his walks. 
 
 Beyond this was a best parlour, rarely used, 
 except on Sundays, with a carpet on the floor, 
 a long cushioned seat, called a sofa, but cer- 
 tainly not resembling anything of these days, 
 and lofty sash windows, more resembling those 
 which you see in a Dutch or Flemish town 
 than windows of British make of our times. 
 These high windows looked out into one of the 
 loveliest, most fertile, and quiet of gardens, with
 
 128 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 a low cut hedge, also giving prospect into some 
 very quiet and tree-shaded crofts. 
 
 Such was the home of Andrew Harrison, 
 where silence reigned, except for the shrill 
 song of the cricket, and the occasional bark of 
 the old grey cross dog that, half blind, basked 
 on the hearth, or hobbled about the door. 
 
 Mr. Francis Delmey, though the proprietor of 
 five hundred acres of as fine lea and woodland 
 as man need to look upon, never for a moment 
 dreamed of feeling ashamed of the shop, or the 
 homely dwelling and dealings of his old friend, 
 Andrew Harrison. On the contrary, he seemed 
 to take a real interest in his speculations; and 
 it was surmised, though no one could prove it, 
 that Mr. Delmey's money was not unconcerned 
 in the extension of Andrew's transactions. Very 
 few were the days on which Mr. Delmey did not 
 walk up in the evening to sit and have a chat 
 with Andrew. There was a public road leading 
 to Lerk, along which ran a high raised cause- 
 way of flagstones, such as may yet be seen in 
 various country lanes of many of the midland 
 and northern counties. This road was flanked 
 by high banks, and overhung with trees, and 
 wound along between old-looking fields, and 
 across the Fulbourne brook and its old water-
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 129 
 
 mill. Woods and wooded dells lay on one hand, 
 on the other were seen fields sloping down to- 
 wards this ancient road ; and a more sylvan and 
 primitive country could not well be imagined. 
 
 The other way was a foot-path leading from 
 very near Mr. Delmey's house, directly over the 
 brook, and through the green fields, to a deep 
 and hidden place of woods and deep, dark waters 
 called the Dams of Lerk. The way issued from 
 this thicketty wilderness over the head of the 
 great open sheet of water, also flanked with 
 woods, called the Great Dam of Lerk, very near 
 to Andrew Harrison's house. 
 
 Mr. Francis Delmey had the eye and the 
 spirit of a poet, and the various objects which 
 presented themselves in these walks to see his 
 friend had a never-failing charm for him. The 
 primrose of the woodland hanks in early spring, 
 the richly cowslipped-meadows, the pale oxalis 
 of the summer copse, the lark in the sunny sky, 
 the blackbird and the nightingale on the tree- 
 top or in the wayside bush, were all welcome to 
 his heart and imagination, richly stored with 
 the thoughts and imagery of our old writers. 
 On his return, the quiet Andrew would often 
 go a-gaitards (gatewards) with him as it there is 
 called, and on Sundays he took Fulbourne on 
 
 G 3
 
 130 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 his way, and the two friends walked up the hill 
 together to church. 
 
 Andrew's marriage made little difference in 
 these habits. Mr. Delmey walked over to Lerk 
 and had his chat with Andrew just the same, 
 and Andrew with his wife on his arm, took the 
 way on Sunday mornings by Fulbourne, and a 
 very pleasant way quiet Mrs. Harrison thought 
 it ; or if she were detained at home by family 
 cares, Andrew still went, and as of old was seen 
 entering with his friend Delmey the church 
 together, where they occupied Mr. Delmey's 
 pew. In course of time, a boy was born to 
 Andrew, which received the by no means rare 
 name of John. John Harrison grew and be- 
 came a sturdy lad to describe whom we must 
 misquote Shakespere and say, 
 
 "With his satchel 
 
 And shining morning face, trudging his way 
 Right willingly to school," 
 
 at Westwood, as his father had done before. 
 But neither did this produce any change in the 
 movements between Delmey of Fulbourne and 
 Harrison of Lerk. John Harrison was, and 
 continued the only child that Andrew and his 
 wife had, and his presence seemed to make no
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 131 
 
 other difference in the still paternal dwelling, 
 than that of a deeper sense of its homely happi- 
 ness. John was a quiet lad, as became such 
 parents ; and however he might play and shout 
 at Westwood, he would doff his hat on entering 
 the house, and if Mr. Delmey was there, softly 
 sink into his little nook in the warm corner, eat 
 his supper, and listen till he began to nod, and 
 was led off by his mother to bed. 
 
 The great change came with the marriage of 
 Francis Delmey.
 
 132 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. DELMEY was leading that life which 
 young ladies dub the life of an old bachelor, 
 especially where there is a handsome estate con- 
 cerned. It is true, Mr. Francis Delmey was 
 yet only five-and-twenty, and not averse to 
 enjoy the pleasures of life. But he had his own 
 notions of these pleasures. He was by nature 
 of a contemplative disposition. He enjoyed 
 greatly the management of his property, and he 
 enjoyed it the more, because he had a pleasure 
 in it that most of his neighbours had little con- 
 ception of. He had a love of nature, and saw 
 a beauty in it which seemed to have come with 
 life itself. It had, in fact, come down from
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 133 
 
 some of his ancestors. Some generations ago 
 when George Fox came preaching into those 
 parts, the Delmey of Fulbourne had joined him. 
 He was a man of a deeply religious feeling, and 
 had all that life of the imagination and that 
 solemn tenderness of the heart which create 
 what are called mystics and enthusiasts. He 
 recognised in the preaching of that great apostle 
 of the people, who brought to the common 
 acceptance again many divine truths of Chris- 
 tianity which logic, so called, and the doctrine 
 of mere schools had buried under their rubbish 
 a principle which had been early preached to 
 him in his favourite Thomas Kempis, and 
 which had grown to him in his solitary life 
 there, into a great and practical fact. " To walk 
 in the presence of God as manifested within, and 
 not to be enslaved by any worldly affection, is 
 the state of the spiritual man." " I will hear 
 what the Lord my God will say within me. 
 Blessed is the soul that listeneth to the voice 
 of the Lord, and from His own lips receiveth 
 the meed of consolation. Blessed are the ears 
 that receive the soft whispers of the Divine 
 Breath, and exclude the noise and tumult of 
 the world; yea, truly blessed are they who, 
 deaf to the voice that soundeth without, are
 
 134 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 attentive only to the TRUTH teaching within. 
 Blessed are the eyes which, blind to material 
 objects, are fixed only upon those which are 
 spiritual. Blessed are they that examine the 
 internal state of things ; and by daily exercises, 
 more and more prepare the mind for the com- 
 prehension of heavenly truths." 
 
 It was this very doctrine that George Fox 
 came preaching. It was the TRUTH, as he 
 emphatically called it, which he had hit upon in 
 communing with God, and no novelty, but the 
 ancient and most Divine Truth, that he felt bound 
 to publish abroad, and which brought so many 
 hungry souls after him. Officers of the army, 
 magistrates, clergymen, and gentlemen, gathered 
 about him as well as the poor, and a great dowry 
 of noblest principles was handed by him to a 
 new people. Truly, that people have had a 
 narrow escape of being a great people; but 
 they forgot the glory of those great truths in 
 the poor crochets of caps and coats of a certain 
 fashion, and in the gathering of the dross of 
 that world which Fox and Penn exhorted them 
 to despise. Professing to cast off all forms and 
 ceremonies, they enslaved themselves to the 
 most ungraceful and unpoetical of all forms and 
 fashions. The great and Divine truths, however,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 135 
 
 were not lost ; other religious professors took them 
 up, and the gospel of freedom, of peace, and 
 truth which Fox preached, is now preached by 
 thousands. To the remnant of his own people, 
 there is left a remnant of the sublime testimony 
 which he maintained. They call it Philanthropy. 
 Let them cling to that, and bear about them the 
 marks of a once-glorious endowment for truly 
 they have had a narrow escape of becoming a 
 great people. 
 
 The ancestor of Francis Delmey was one of 
 the most tender and spiritual of the disciples of 
 Fox, who often took up his abode at his house 
 at this very house of Fulbourne ; and many a 
 time did Mr. Delmey, as he listened to that great 
 man of God and of the people, still hear the echo 
 of those words which his beloved Thomas of the 
 Mount had written, those which we have quoted, 
 and many others : " Speak Thou, O Lord God, 
 the inspirer and enlightener of all the prophets ; 
 for Thou, alone, without their aid, canst perfectly 
 instruct me ; but, without Thee, they can profit 
 me nothing. They, indeed, can pronounce words, 
 but cannot impart spirit ; they speak eloquently, 
 but if Thou art silent, they warm not the heart. 
 They teach the letter, but Thou openest the 
 sense; they utter the mystery, but Thou re-
 
 136 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 vealest its meaning ; they publish Thy laws, but 
 Thou helpest to carry them into effect ; they 
 point out the way to life, but Thou bestowest 
 strength to walk in it ; their influence is only 
 external, but Thou instructest and enlightenest 
 the mind ; they water, but Thou givest the in- 
 crease ; their voice soundeth in the ear, but it is 
 Thou that givest understanding to the heart. 
 
 " Let not, therefore, Moses speak to me, but 
 do Thou, O, LORD, my GOD, Eternal Truth ! 
 lest, being only outwardly warned, but not in- 
 wardly quickened, I die, and be found unfruitful." 
 
 Peace ! peace ! inward peace ! was the cry of 
 thousands in that day. The Mr. Delmey of that 
 time had deeply studied Thomas a Kempis's 
 " iiii thynges that brynge peace to man," and 
 had often exclaimed in his words : 
 
 " I long, indeed, for the blessings of peace. 
 I earnestly implore the peace of Thy children, 
 who are fed by Thee in the light of Thy coun- 
 tenance. Shouldst Thou bestow peace 
 shouldst Thou pour forth the treasures of 
 heavenly joy the soul of Thy servant shall be 
 full of harmony, and devoutly celebrate Thy 
 praise." 
 
 He found the peace he sought in the bosom 
 of the new people of Fox, and a chapel built for
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 137 
 
 them by him at Lerk, yet stood opposite to 
 Andrew Harrison's, bearing on its front, on an 
 old, square stone : " Builded by Francis Delmey, 
 Anno 1659." His descendants had since left 
 the Society of Friends, and returned to the 
 Church, but the traces of that period still sur- 
 vived in the heart and mind of Francis Delmey, 
 and in many an old book on his shelves, in 
 which he delighted to read. He had a sense of a 
 spiritual and Divine presence in his heart, and in 
 nature, and this had grown into poetry, as it has 
 since done in the case of Wordsworth, whose 
 poetical system, deemed by most of the critics 
 to be an original one, is but the doctrine of 
 Fox, with whose writings he had been made 
 familiar by Lloyd and Lovell, reproduced in 
 metre. 
 
 Mr. Francis Delmey believed in a world of 
 things which philosophy terms superstition, in 
 dreams, sudden impressions, forebodings, and 
 spiritual apparitions. He partook, with his 
 neighbours, in many of these things, but he had 
 a world which to them was unknown, in the 
 poetry of Milton, Herbert, Spenser, and others. 
 These he often read with his friend Andrew 
 Harrison, and mused on as he walked his own 
 woods, or superintended the labours of his fields.
 
 138 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 He was accustomed every few days to walk up 
 to Westwood, and play a rubber with the old 
 clergyman, the father of his friend George 
 Parsons, who was now growing infirm as well as 
 old ; and he found society in the curates who 
 performed the duties of the parish for the vene- 
 rable old vicar, now past it. These were generally 
 young men of family and expectations, who 
 officiated for a time at a nominal salary, to qua- 
 lify them to hold a living, a thing of no little 
 consequence to Mr. Parsons, whose income was 
 small. 
 
 Here, too, Francis Delmey enjoyed reading 
 and talking with the sole remaining daughter 
 of the Vicar, Amy Parsons, a little and very 
 gentle creature, whose mild eyes spoke all that 
 deep affection of which her soul seemed wholly 
 made. She watched and tended her father with 
 the most devoted care, and yet contrived to keep 
 up a school for the poor children of the parish, 
 and to visit many of the families of their parents 
 with the consoling attentions which her father 
 could no longer bestow. Mr. Delmey and Amy 
 Parsons had grown up together so much from 
 children, and had been drawn so much the closer 
 by Mr. Delmey's attachment to George, that 
 they looked on each other rather as brother and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 139 
 
 sister than as friends. Had they met some- 
 where as man and woman, Amy Parsons was 
 exactly the creature that would have won the 
 heart of Francis Delmey at once and for ever. 
 Those deep loving eyes, that gentle form and 
 face, so pure, so good, so devoted, they could 
 not have been seen without a conviction on the 
 part of Francis Delmey that they were made for 
 him and Fulbourne. As it was, how came it 
 that such a thought never occurred to him ? It 
 was the veil of a too great and too constant 
 nearness which has interposed itself between 
 thousands of hearts that have beaten together 
 for years, and yet never dreamed of the bliss of 
 beating on so for ever. But did no such dreams 
 ever visit the gentle Amy Parsons ? Oh ! there 
 were deep, sudden glances, quick changes of 
 colour, sad, solitary thoughts, and a gentle 
 trembling of the nerves, as Francis Delmey 
 often talked with her, or read to her, or paid 
 the attentions, as it were, of a son to her fast- 
 wearing away father, or, as these things were 
 pondered over, that spoke of a consciousness 
 more than lived in the heart of Francis Delmey. 
 Yet in the simplicity and homely habits of 
 the time and place, Amy Parsons would not 
 seldom go down to Fulbourne, but generally in
 
 140 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Delmey's absence, and at the command of her 
 father, and see that all was comfortable and 
 pleasant for the solitary bachelor. " He has 
 nobody but that housekeeper," Mr. Parsons 
 would say, " who seems to think more about 
 the cheese-making and the farming men's sup- 
 pers than of her master. Go, dear Amy, and 
 see that things are in order that all is straight 
 and clean." And often Mr. Delmey would be 
 astonished on coming in to find such a fresh 
 air about his room. His slippers so bright and 
 set so orderly ; his books so nicely dusted and 
 arranged ; such beautiful bouquets of flowers on 
 his table and in his windows, and the very 
 garden so orderly and lovely. 
 
 And did the gentle-hearted Amy Parsons, in 
 these kind offices, mingle with them hopes or 
 designs such as the world, or the world's laws, 
 would at once have attributed to her? Such 
 designs were as foreign to her nature as dark- 
 ness is to the sun. Such hopes ah! never 
 did she see one atom of ground for them to 
 grow up in. Francis Delmey loved Amy Par- 
 sons, and enjoyed her company, and. her full 
 appreciation of the authors that he delighted in. 
 He walked with her often to church on Sun- 
 days, not seldom on summer days in his own
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 141 
 
 woods and fields ; but the feeling of a brother, 
 strangely enough, shut out the very thought of 
 his love. 
 
 At length there came a shock. Old Mr. 
 Parsons told Francis Delmey one day that he 
 had news that would please him. Amy was 
 going to be married ! 
 
 Married ! Francis Delmey started. " I am 
 very sorry !" he said, and was silent. 
 
 " Sorry !" said poor Mr. Parsons. " My dear 
 Mr. Delmey, I thought it would give you real 
 pleasure to hear it. It is to Mr. Delorme, a 
 man of so good a family, with so good a living, 
 so good and fine a young man. You recollect 
 him as curate here two years ago ?" 
 
 " I recollect him," said Mr. Delmey ; " a fine 
 young man. I am sorry that we shall lose Amy 
 that is what I meant." 
 
 " Ay, it is a sad thing for me, to lose my 
 dear Amy, and to such a distance as Somerset- 
 shire : but then, what won't a father sacrifice 
 for a daughter ? and such a daughter ! And 
 poor Amy ! ay, poor, dear thing ! it has been a 
 sore trial to her ! It was on my account. She 
 would not for a very long time hear of it . She 
 refused Mr. Delorme point blank. She was 
 lost in trouble and tears about it, and it was given
 
 142 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 up : but Mr. Delorme would not give it up so : 
 he has resumed his addresses, and pleaded so 
 passionately, that Amy could withstand no 
 longer. Mr. Delorme will be here the day after 
 to-morrow with a licence, and they will go away 
 at once. It is sharp work, Mr. Delmey, but we 
 must bear it as well as we can. I have a niece 
 coming to live with me, and you'll come and see 
 me too, I know, as often as you can." 
 
 It was sharp work for more than one. The 
 scales fell from Francis Delmey's eyes. Oh ! 
 how much he now found that he loved Amy ! 
 For her thus suddenly to go away, it was like 
 tearing out his very heart. He went home 
 deeply agitated ; he thought, and was almost 
 resolved to rush up to Westwood, and attempt 
 to snatch the prize from Mr. Delorme. But no ! 
 He could not do it. To have left the blessing 
 thus blindly lying at his feet till now ! It was 
 too late ! He steeled himself, and walked up the 
 next day to take leave of Amy Parsons, and 
 present her with a valuable token of remem- 
 brance ; but no sooner did he enter the room 
 where she was, trembling in every limb, and 
 unable to utter a word, than Amy rushed from 
 the place in a violent flood of tears, and Francis 
 Delmey, laying down the jewels that he had
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 143 
 
 brought, hastened in distraction down the hill 
 to Fulbourne, and, mounting his horse, rode 
 away, and did not return for several days. 
 
 Francis Delmey was now indeed a sad and 
 solitary man. He was obviously struck by some 
 great inward trouble. He went to Andrew 
 Harrison's, but did not rest there ; he went up 
 to old Mr. Parsons', but could not read, and 
 played so badly at whist, that the old vicar 
 actually scolded him, and told him he thought 
 he had lost his senses. He set off to London 
 to visit his sister, and did not return till near 
 autumn, " a sadder but a wiser man." 
 
 That autumn there came to Fulbourne Major 
 Hinchliffe, to shoot with Mr. Delmey. The 
 Major was a grave and friendly man, who had 
 retired on half-pay at the age of fifty, to his/' 
 native village, Kirbrook, about six miles from 
 Fulbourne. Mr. Delmey had known him for 
 years, and was much attached to him. The 
 Major was a married man, but had no family. 
 Mr. Delmey was therefore surprised when his 
 carriage drew up at the door, to see, on going 
 out to receive him, not a couple of pointers 
 seated at his left hand, as was usually %e case, 
 but a very handsome and dashing young 
 lady.
 
 144 MADAM DORRINGTON 
 
 " I have brought my niece with me, Delmey," 
 said the Major. " You'll excuse me bringing a 
 young lady to an old bachelor's house ; but she 
 was staying with me, and I thought she would 
 help to enliven us a little. Besides, Miss 
 Hinchliffe is three-parts a sportsman herself. 
 Gad ! I don't know whether she could not bag 
 more game than either of us, if she were to 
 take to the stubbles with us a day." 
 
 The Major said this as he was descending 
 from the carriage, and then handed out the fair 
 and unexpected visitor, and presented her to 
 Mr. Delmey. 
 
 Mr. Delmey was much struck with the ap- 
 pearance of the bright apparition before him, 
 and well he might, for Elizabeth Hinchliffe was 
 as handsome a young woman as the whole 
 midland counties could produce, and the sur- 
 prise of seeing her there deepened the effect in 
 Mr. Delmey's mind. He bade her most heartily 
 welcome ; and as she walked before him into the 
 house, and turned round to say what a charm- 
 ing old spot Mr. Delmey had there, he could 
 not help thinking so fine a woman had seldom 
 passed that door. She was tall, finely formed, 
 of a free and graceful carriage. Her hair was 
 as black as jet ; her eyes and eye-brows as
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 145 
 
 richly dark ; and in her handsome features there 
 was a spirit and, as it were, consciousness of her 
 charms that seemed warranted by their unques- 
 tionable greatness. There was a fresh elegance 
 in her dress as well as person that seemed to 
 bring a cool fragrance along with her. 
 
 Mr. Delmey was extremely attentive to his 
 fair guest; and during the few days that she 
 stayed there, she seemed to diffuse a new life 
 through the old house. She did not scruple 
 to laugh at many things in the establishment, 
 and arrange some as she would have them, 
 and tell Mr. Delmey that he ought to have 
 others becoming the time and his property. 
 She sung well, with a rich, clear, powerful voice ; 
 and sorely lamented that there was not one of 
 those new instruments, a piano, to amuse herself 
 with. 
 
 Miss Hinchliffe was an excellent horse- 
 woman, and rode with her uncle and Mr. 
 Delmey over the estate, and about the neigh- 
 bourhood. She seemed to have the spirit of 
 an Amazon in her, and dashed across the 
 brook at Fulbourne in a leap that made Francis 
 Delmey himself pull up his horse in astonish- 
 ment. She was fond of firing pistols, and did 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 it on horseback, too, keeping her horse under 
 the most perfect command. She was full of 
 life and gaiety ; and when she had left with 
 her uncle, there seemed to have passed 
 through the house a blaze of lightning, or 
 something like it, that left it dark, and still, 
 and strange. 
 
 Mr. Delmey had been recommended, or 
 rather requested, by the Major, if at any time 
 he was inclined to change his legal adviser, 
 to employ the brother of Miss Hinchliffe, his 
 nephew, Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe, in the county- 
 town now in good practice, and with whom 
 Miss Hinchliffe resided. On the strength of 
 this recommendation, communicated to Mr. 
 Coxe Hinchliffe by the Major, Mr. Hinchliffe, 
 soon after meeting Mr. Delmey in the town, 
 invited him to dine with him. Here Mr. 
 Delmey again met Miss Hinchliffe, who ap- 
 peared as charming as ever. Mr. Coxe Hinch- 
 liffe, who appeared a shrewd, clever, and lively 
 sort of man, did not fail to cultivate the friend- 
 ship of Mr. Delmey, who might turn out a good 
 client, and began to ride over and spend the 
 Sunday at Fulbourne occasionally. Mr. Delmey 
 became also a more frequent visitor in the
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 147 
 
 town, and also at the Major's. Things came 
 to that pass, that Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe, in a 
 merry way one day over his wine, said : 
 
 " You must be deucedly dull, Delmey, at 
 that Fulbourne all alone. Why don't you 
 marry ? There's Elizabeth, now what say 
 you to such a wife as that to enliven your 
 solitude? She'd make a jewel of a farmer's 
 wife 'pon my word ; and the girl is no mean 
 prize, eh ! and not without money either 
 she has two thousand pounds of her own." 
 
 Mr. Delmey made some complimentary reply, 
 and the thing passed on ; but some time after, 
 the Major said : 
 
 " Coxe tells me that he was recommending 
 Elizabeth to you one day. Bless me, Delmey, 
 I wish that proposal took your fancy for I 
 should like, 'pon my life, to see such a wife at 
 the head of your table ; and you may believe as 
 well, that I should be most happy to see my 
 niece so well settled." 
 
 Mr. Delmey only replied that the Major was 
 joking, but he assured him that nothing was 
 farther from his thoughts, and added, that as 
 they had said so much, he would be candid 
 with him, and say at once, that it was the 
 
 H 2
 
 148 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 thing he had set his heart on. He would 
 tell him the simple truth and that was, a 
 certain scapegrace, Jim Hattersley, well-known 
 to Mr. Delmey, had been very assiduous in his 
 attentions to Elizabeth, and he was afraid had 
 produced too much impression on her mind. 
 There were things about Hattersley and his 
 affairs, that made it important that nothing 
 of that kind should go farther ; and he felt 
 assured if Mr. Delmey was to make his niece 
 an offer, there would be an end of it. 
 
 Now this Jim Hattersley was a tall, dashing, 
 and handsome young fellow a wine-merchant 
 of the place, whose personal attractions and gay 
 habits had recommended him to the notice of 
 the young gentlemen of the neighbourhood, and 
 led him to ascend the back of an expensive 
 hunter oftener than he descended into his 
 wine-vaults. He became a judge in dogs and 
 horses, perhaps better than of wine, though 
 that was highly praised, freely ordered, and 
 slackly paid for. There were now rumours 
 about the state of Hattersley's affairs that were 
 none of the pleasantest; and both the Major 
 and Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe, looked on his atten- 
 tions to Elizabeth as only involving a design to
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 149 
 
 patch his shattered fortune for a while with 
 her dowry to be followed by more wholesale 
 and miserable ruin. 
 
 Francis Delmey knew enough of the Major 
 to feel assured that he had no design of a selfish 
 nature and what indeed could there be in 
 wishing to see a woman of his niece's person 
 and pretensions well married to a man like Mr. 
 Delmey. This had its weight with Francis 
 Delmey; he thought and re-thought, and at 
 length proposed, and was rejected. 
 
 Miss HinchliiFe said that that which, under 
 other circumstances, would have been a proud 
 day for her, was, as it happened, a deep vexa- 
 tion ; for she esteemed Mr. Delmey too much 
 to be willing to hurt his feelings in the slightest 
 degree, but that her heart was already firmly 
 disposed of. 
 
 The communication of this result excited the 
 most lively anger in both the Major and Mr. 
 HinchliiFe ; they severely upbraided Elizabeth 
 with her folly, and vowed that they would see 
 her stretched dead before them, rather than see 
 her thrown away on such a disgraceful spend- 
 thrift as Hattersley. Miss Hinchliffe met this 
 anger with anger and scorn as lofty, declared 
 herself free and independent, and resolved to do
 
 150 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 as she pleased. But circumstances speedily 
 became public that seemed to put an abrupt end 
 to the connection of Jim Hattersley and Eliza- 
 beth. It came out, that, to carry on his credit 
 a little longer that is, till he had secured the 
 dowry of Miss Hinchliffe he had forged a 
 bill ! He fled, and Elizabeth Hinchliffe saw 
 him advertised as a criminal, with a price upon 
 his head. 
 
 The Hinchliffes could have had him ar- 
 rested : they had kept their eye upon him, but 
 they were much more anxious to see him safe 
 out of the country, and his return for ever 
 precluded ; and they contented themselves with 
 having him watched, till, in disguise, he em- 
 barked at Liverpool for America. 
 
 The violence of Elizabeth Hinchliffe's passions 
 on this occasion was excessive. It was long before 
 Mr. Delmey saw her again, and she was then pale 
 and thin, but with a much more haughty air 
 than before. Her gaiety had fled, and a defiant, 
 wayward temper seemed to have taken its place. 
 The Major was very kind to her, and, without 
 ever entering on the subject, endeavoured to 
 soothe her by his affectionate attentions. Mr. 
 Delmey, forgetting his own repulse, felt the 
 sincerest pity for her, but he avoided coming
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 151 
 
 into her company. In the early spring, how- 
 ever, meeting Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe in the street, 
 the young lawyer reproached him with never 
 calling to see him, and added : " I thought you 
 really liked Elizabeth, and now all obstacles are 
 out of the way." 
 
 " Not all," replied Mr. Delmey, gravely. 
 
 " Not all ?" rejoined Mr. Hinchliffe ; " what 
 then remains ? Surely you are not too proud to 
 forgive a silly girl saying ' No ' to you, when 
 she felt herself bound by a prior ' Yes ?' " 
 
 " I feel nothing of the kind," replied Mr. 
 Delmey ; " but you forget that your sister may 
 still be in the same mind as ever. I have no 
 wish to hazard a second repulse." 
 
 " There will be none," added Mr. Hinch- 
 liffe : "I can speak positively. I know that 
 my sister has seen her folly. Does that satisfy 
 you?" 
 
 " It would satisfy me, if Elizabeth said that 
 herself." 
 
 " Then, mark me, Delmey : if I ask you to 
 
 meet us at St. 's church to-morrow, with 
 
 a licence, and engage to deliver to you there 
 Elizabeth as your bride, will you come ?" 
 
 " I will," said Francis Delmey.
 
 152 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 He went, and on the afternoon of that day 
 Fulbourne received Elizabeth Hinchliffe as its 
 mistress. 
 
 Ah ! Francis Delrney, a hitter day's work 
 that will prove to thee ! Thou should st have 
 by thy side a sweet and gentle creature, with 
 doves' eyes and a fond woman's heart, to 
 make thy fireside glow with more cordial bright- 
 ness than mere earthly fuel. Thou shouldst 
 have a fair and dear companion to walk with 
 thee through wood and field, when the primrose 
 was springing, when the summer rose and the 
 lily opened their beauty to the poet's eye, when 
 the ruddy leaves of autumn whirled along the 
 grove, speaking of melancholy and decay. Thou 
 shouldst have a sweet, delicate face gazing on 
 thee, or following the course of the needle with 
 the tear in her eyelid, as thou read out some 
 lofty passage of Milton, or some tender verse of 
 later lyrics ; and an angel's face looking up with 
 thee from thy family pew on the still and solemn 
 Sabbath. When the merry bells pealed over the 
 fields, as thou descended to the old Fulbourne 
 after service, there should be a soft step by 
 thee, and a soft hand resting within thy happy 
 arm ; and when sickness, or the approach of
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 153 
 
 death, stretched thee on thy bed, a voice, full 
 of heavenly music, saying: " Farewell, dear 
 Francis ; it is but a moment that I stay 
 behind." 
 
 But, ah ! Francis Delmey, instead of that, 
 thou hast taken to thy fireside a desperate and 
 a deceived woman ; and it were better that a 
 tigress were crouching at thy feet. 
 
 H 3
 
 154 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MR. DELMEY had done one of those rash 
 deeds with his eyes open, which of old made 
 men firm in their belief of fates ; and which 
 now are styled infatuation. There was much 
 gaiety going on for some time ; but he did not 
 find it peace or satisfaction. His young and 
 handsome wife did not pretend to love him. 
 She was a desperate woman, whose pride had 
 been wounded as well as her passions outraged ; 
 and she had come ultimately to listen to the 
 persuasions of her family, who represented the 
 folly of rejecting such a man as Mr. Delmey, 
 and such a home as Fulbourne, for a disgraced 
 felon, who could never again set foot on
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 155 
 
 English ground, but with the halter awaiting 
 him. She had sent a letter to Hattersley, 
 on the first news which reached her of his 
 having fled, to assure him that he had only to 
 say whither he was bound, and she would 
 follow him. Her passion was of that kind 
 that she defied shame, and was ready to abandon 
 all her connections to meet and marry him in 
 America. 
 
 To this letter she had received no answer. 
 Her messenger assured her of its safe delivery 
 to Hattersley, as he was on the point of em- 
 barking; that he had read it, and then went 
 on board without a word. That had sunk 
 deep ; yet for a long time she had indignantly 
 repulsed every proposition for a renewal of the 
 matrimonial project with Mr. Delmey ; and it 
 was avowedly at length as a desperate woman, 
 that cared not what became of her, that she 
 gave her consent. 
 
 Months rolled on, and Mr. and Mrs. Delmey 
 lived as many another young married couple 
 might have done. They gave and received 
 entertainments. They visited amongst Mrs. 
 Delmey 's friends in the county-town. They 
 passed some days at the Major's, and he and 
 his wife, and Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe, frequently
 
 156 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 rode over, and spent the Sunday at Fulbourne. 
 Mrs. Delmey did the honours of her house 
 gracefully, and sometimes even gaily. She was 
 still pale, but extremely handsome. She rode 
 out with Mr. Delmey on a spirited horse, and 
 the people who saw them regarded them as a 
 handsome and happy pair. 
 
 Happy ! where was the happiness ? It cer- 
 tainly did not sit on the face of Mr. Delmey, 
 where there was a grave and careworn look. 
 It certainly did not sit on that of Mrs. Delmey, 
 for brilliant as were her jetty locks, her high, 
 clear forehead, and her dark eyes and strongly 
 marked brows, there was a fire in the eye, and 
 an expression on the brow that had more of 
 haughtiness than love. Mr. Delmey was as 
 frequently at his friend Andrew Harrison's as 
 before ; but after one or two visits at Fulbourne 
 on his way to church on Sunday, Andrew did 
 not care to repeat them. He made excuses 
 to Delmey, that he did not like to intrude 
 upon young married people ; that now he 
 had Mrs. Delmey to accompany him, he felt 
 it was his own duty to see Mrs. Harrison to 
 church, and so on. 
 
 But it could not be concealed from Francis 
 Delmey that the real cause was his wife's
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 15? 
 
 hauteur to his old friend. Mrs. Delmey had, 
 in fact, expressed wonder at Mr. Delmey's want 
 of selectness in his associates. She did not dis- 
 approve of his going as often as he pleased to 
 read to old Mr. Parsons, or amuse him with a 
 game at whist ; but what charm or honour he 
 could find in this countrified village huckster, she 
 could not for her soul tell. Francis Delmey 
 expressed his indignation at his wife's pride, 
 and continued his visits to Andrew, but 
 ceased to ask or expect his presence at Ful- 
 bourne. 
 
 As time passed on there might be seen on 
 the surface of things at Fulbourne, a suffi- 
 ciently smooth aspect. Mr. and Mrs. Delmey 
 met, took their meals, and sometimes actually 
 laughed and joked together in a manner that 
 made Mrs. Delmey's friends believe that all 
 was going on right that old feelings were 
 softening down, and new ones acquiring power 
 by habit. But there were times again when 
 the temper of Mrs. Delmey appeared as if 
 vexed by some secret feeling into a fierceness 
 and irascibility that were wonderful. At such 
 times she seemed on the verge of breaking out 
 into some desperate fury. There was a strange 
 fire in her eye, a strange bitterness in her
 
 158 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 words. Her manner became imperious beyond' 
 conception, and struck terror into all about her. 
 And at such times she had a laugh which made 
 the stupidest menial feel an internal chill. 
 Byron has described such a laugh in the 
 " Corsair" 
 
 " There was a laughing devil in his sneer." 
 
 If ever a devil spoke through human organs, 
 it was and is in such a laugh. When it was 
 heard at Fulbourne, there was an universal 
 silence perceptible throughout the house, and 
 Mr. Delmey was found as much as possible 
 abroad in his fields amongst his people. 
 
 Mr. Delmey had never intermitted his visits 
 to Andrew Harrison's, and he and his friend had 
 often been seen walking near the Dams of Lerk 
 in deep and serious conversation. What was 
 the subject, or whether Mr. Delmey had confided 
 to Andrew any domestic unhappiness which 
 preyed on him, no one could say ; but it had 
 been observed that on such occasions both the 
 friends often wore a melancholy aspect, and 
 Andrew, contrary to his wont, was apparently 
 the greater talker, and appeared to be reasoning 
 with, and consoling Francis Delmey.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 159 
 
 It was a fine summer night, and the moon in 
 the sky, as, on one of these confidential walks 
 the two friends had proceeded from Lerk to the 
 little plank which furnished the foot-bridge over 
 the brook below Fulbourne, not far from Mr. 
 Delmey's house. They had paused over this 
 bridge, and Mr. Delmey had seemed unusually 
 sorrowful and depressed. Andrew had loitered 
 to cheer up his friend, but they had stood 
 there long, when at length Francis Delmey sud- 
 denly pressed his friend's hand, and saying : 
 
 " Well, good night, dear Andrew ! God 
 bless you ! It is late goodnight !" had strode 
 over the bridge, and plunged into the narrow 
 path in the wood, where he was instantly lost in 
 the shadow. 
 
 He had not, however, advanced far, when he 
 thought he heard a voice. He stopped lis- 
 tened. It was a voice to a certainty, and what 
 surprised him was, that he thought he recog- 
 nised it as his wife's. He stood rooted to the 
 ground, his heart beating hurriedly and loudly ; 
 but he endeavoured to repress his sensations, 
 and again advancing a few steps, listened. The 
 voice was unquestionably that of Mrs. Delmey, 
 and it was earnest and impassioned. 
 
 " No ! I never loved him ! how could I ?
 
 160 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 I never loved but one, and that was you, James. 
 But I have been deceived cruelly, barbarously 
 deceived ! I was assured that you were gone to 
 America could never possibly return, and you, 
 oh, James ! you never deigned to give me an 
 answer to my offer to accompany you." 
 
 A deep and suppressed voice here replied : 
 
 " That, Elizabeth, was only because I could 
 not. I had not a moment I was watched. I 
 was obliged to go : but I did not let a day pass 
 on landing without re-embarking ; and here I 
 am. It is the first possible hour that I could 
 arrive, and I have answered by my presence, 
 and at the risk of my neck." 
 
 That was the voice of Hattersley ! The 
 listening husband knew that voice; he had 
 heard the dreadful words of his wife, and he 
 stood still, because he seemed changed into a 
 pillar of stone, with a fire raging at its heart. 
 He gasped, assayed to shout to move : it was 
 in vain. Once more he heard Mrs. Delmey's 
 voice. 
 
 " Oh God ! and when I had resolved to share 
 any fate with you to bear your disgrace, to 
 suffer anything and everything in a strange, 
 distant, savage country, I was deceived ; and I 
 am another's. James Hattersley, it drives me
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 161 
 
 mad ! My heart is bursting with rage and 
 passion. I could tear myself limb from limb : 
 I will not live !" 
 
 " Yes, my Betsy," replied the deep voice of 
 Hattersley. " You shall live live to be mine. 
 You never were in reality another's. There is a 
 bright, free life yet for us in the Western woods. 
 Let us fly it is dangerous here." 
 
 " Fly !" exclaimed the fierce voice of Mrs. 
 Delmey : " Whither shall we fly ? Am I not 
 looking forward to becoming the mother of 
 his child ? Has he not got my fortune ? 
 W T hat is the use of talking of flying ? There 
 is nothing for us but misery and destitu- 
 tion." 
 
 " Not so," replied Hattersley. " As for his 
 child, when it is born, we will send it back to 
 him. Let him have it that is all that is his 
 due. And for your money never fear ! I 
 will instruct you how to obtain that. You 
 know your husband's hand. Give me his sig- 
 nature give me an old cheque, and a new 
 VJlank one, and I will so imitate his hand that 
 you may yourself receive that, or double the 
 sum, at his banker's." 
 
 There was a pause a deep silence. 
 
 " I would do all that was possible " said the
 
 162 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 broken voice of Elizabeth Delmey ; but the 
 sentence was not completed, for the outraged 
 Francis Delmey, as if loosened from a deadly 
 conjuration, sprang forward, shouting : " Vil- 
 lain ! forger ! dastardly seducer ! is it thus you 
 return to counsel my wife !" 
 
 In the next moment he stood before the 
 startled and guilty pair. His wife clung to the 
 left arm of her lover, and the two stood erect 
 and determined, though trembling, before the 
 incensed man. 
 
 Francis Delmey rushed to strike Hattersley 
 with his stick, but the self-possessed villain, hold- 
 ing Mrs. Delmey with his left arm, said : " Stand 
 back, Delmey ! I am a desperate man ;" and at 
 the same instant the click of a pistol was heard. 
 
 " Stand back !" repeated Hattersley. " I am 
 only come to claim my own. You have heard, 
 no doubt, what Elizabeth Hinchliffe I will 
 recognise no other name has said. Yield up 
 her fortune, and let her go. She does not 
 love you why should you detain her ?" 
 
 "Yes, mean listener," said the haughty woman, 
 "let me go; give up my property, and release 
 me from the misery of a fraud that can bring no 
 comfort to you. Let there be a divorce. I 
 assent to it I demand it. Be free, and let
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 163 
 
 me be so. Why should we torment each other 
 with our hate, like two demons ?" 
 
 " Never !" exclaimed Delmey. " I will not 
 object to a divorce; but never shall you fly 
 with that base villain : I will give you to the 
 care of your relatives. Off, scoundrel ! or I will 
 make the gallows sure of you !" 
 
 Francis Delmey rushed on his enemy, and 
 Hattersley, with terrible curses, endeavoured to 
 close with him. Possibly the fear of immediate 
 alarm at the house, and consequent capture, 
 prevented his discharging his pistol. The two 
 antagonists were clutched in a desperate and 
 mortal struggle, when the voice of Andrew 
 Harrison was heard loudly shouting close at 
 hand, " Delmey ! Delmey ! what is that ?" and 
 in the next instant he was rushing upon the 
 combatants. Scarcely had he turned to go 
 homewards, when he caught the sound of 
 angry voices, and hastened back. On his 
 appearance upon the scene, Hattersley flung 
 Delmey violently from him, and dashing through 
 the bushes, disappeared. 
 
 Andrew Harrison caught his friend in his 
 arms, and inquired, " Are you hurt, dear 
 Francis are you hurt ?" Francis Delmey only 
 replied by a deep groan.
 
 164 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " For God's sake, Delmey, speak !" cried 
 Andrew. " Tell me what's your hurt ? what 
 is it?" But Delmey only hung on his neck 
 and groaned, and writhed like a man in torment 
 and what torment is so unutterable as that 
 under which Francis Delmey was then quailing? 
 Andrew began to guess that it was no bodily 
 harm that agonized his friend. For some time 
 the two men stood in silence, when Francis 
 Delmey suddenly flung himself on the ground, 
 and groaned fearfully. 
 
 " Be calm, for God's sake ! Compose your- 
 self, Francis," entreated Andrew, " and let me 
 know how you are hurt." 
 
 " Hurt ! hurt ! deadly, mortally hurt !" ex- 
 claimed Delmey. " It is all over with me, 
 Andrew. I am a ruined, miserable man !" 
 
 Andrew sate and held his friend's hand in 
 silence. They continued there sitting mutely for 
 some time, only interrupted by Delmey's groans. 
 But at length he was able to explain the affair, 
 and Andrew began to expostulate and rouse him. 
 He bade him be a man to hope for the best. 
 That this villain must be pursued and brought 
 to justice. The country would thus be really 
 cleared of him, and better days might come. 
 But Francis Delmey only shook his head, and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 165 
 
 continued to groan, and rock himself convul- 
 sively he had heard the words of his wife, and 
 they were so many daggers to his heart. 
 
 At length Andrew Harrison sprang up, 
 saying : 
 
 " Well, Francis, at least collect yourself suf- 
 ficiently to reach the house. I must pursue 
 this villain. I must put Mr. Hinchliffe on his 
 track ; he must not carry off this infatuated 
 woman." 
 
 At these words Mr. Delmey rose as awak- 
 ening from a trance. They looked round 
 where was Mrs. Delmey ? She was not there ; 
 had she followed Hattersley ? 
 
 " We must see to this," said Francis Delmey, 
 with a melancholy resolution. " But, Andrew, 
 my dear friend, you must not appear in it; 
 it will only aggravate the grief and shame 
 of of the Hinchliffes. I will apprize them 
 myself. Pursuit of that villain shall take 
 place. Return home you shall soon hear from 
 me." 
 
 Andrew gave his friend one long, cordial 
 shake of the hand bade him trust in God 
 and turned away. Francis Delmey staggered 
 on towards the house. When he reached it, it 
 was some time before he could gather strength
 
 166 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 to enter all seemed to come over him again 
 with a fresh bitterness of astonishment. At 
 length he went in, and ascertaining that Mrs. 
 Delmey had returned, he ordered the sleepy 
 maid-servant to bed, and flung himself on the 
 sofa in the sitting-room; We may imagine 
 what were the wretched man's feelings. He 
 was like a reptile which was bruised and 
 smashed in every part of its substance. There 
 was no repose no enduring the very quietness. 
 He arose and paced the room till the day began 
 to dawn, and the swallow gave the first awak- 
 ening twitter on the chimney, when he pro- 
 ceeded to the stables, and saddling his horse, rode 
 softly out of the back-yard. 
 
 There was a bridle-road through the wood, 
 and his state of mind and his purpose in- 
 stinctively impelled him to take that, rather 
 than the carriage-road to the Westwood highway. 
 He had not proceeded far, however, before he 
 perceived something occupying the path before 
 him. The high trees, which spread their 
 swelling bases on the dry turf beneath, also 
 arched the way overhead, and shut out much 
 of morning's dawn. But, as he drew near, the 
 object became conspicuous enough. It was 
 his wife !
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 167 
 
 Her dress, a light summer dress, of thin 
 azure muslin, was the same which Mrs. Delmey 
 had worn the afternoon before. It was clear, 
 too, she had not been to bed. But over this 
 light and now crumpled dress, was thrown a 
 dark silk cloak, and a handkerchief was tied 
 over her head, leaving her clustering raven locks 
 hanging loose about her neck. A white flower, 
 which she had worn in her hair the previous 
 evening, was there still, crushed and withered, and 
 added to the haggard and death-pale countenance 
 an additional effect of misery and despair. 
 
 Francis Delmey involuntarily paused before 
 this terrible object which stopped his way. He 
 tried to speak, but no word came. The un- 
 happy woman, too, seemed assaying to articu- 
 late something, but it could not pass her livid 
 and quivering lips. At length, Delmey said, in 
 a husky voice : 
 
 " Woman, let me pass !" 
 
 " No, Delmey, here you shall not pass, 
 except over my body. I know what you 
 meditate. You are proceeding to apprize my 
 relatives of what has passed, and to set the hell- 
 hounds of the law on on " A convulsion 
 seemed to twitch her every limb. The word 
 came not, but she again cried out : " No,
 
 168 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 never ! Why will you make others miserable ? 
 Let them be ! Let them find the wretchedness, 
 when it comes of course ; but that should not 
 be from you. They have sown to the wind 
 they must reap the whirlwind; but for you, 
 Francis Delmey, I demand that you go back. 
 That you give me back all that you can my 
 dowry and let me bury the shame of my 
 blighted attachment where no friend of mine shall 
 ever find it. There is law take that. Take 
 your divorce. I will think you just. It is only 
 justice to me; but give me my own, that I may 
 live." 
 
 " But will you, Elizabeth, promise me that 
 you will consent to live in this country, and not 
 fling yourself away on that villain, who only seeks 
 you to spend your substance? Is it possible 
 that you can love such a wretch?" 
 
 " Is it possible ? Do I love him ? Ay, 
 Francis Delmey, 1 love his little finger more 
 than I do your whole body. He has done 
 wrong, and is disgraced. There is more to 
 forgive he needs more consolation." 
 
 "Abandoned woman!" exclaimed Mr. Delmey. 
 "Never will I consent to your destruction 
 make way !" 
 
 He put on his horse, but the animal reared,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 169 
 
 and when again spurred, shrunk aside, as fearful 
 of treading on the unhappy woman. At the 
 same moment Mrs. Delmey, drawing a pistol 
 from her bosom, exclaimed, with flashing eyes 
 and a desperate mien : " Death ! sooner than 
 you shall pass." 
 
 She aimed the weapon at his head, but he 
 calmly rode on, saying : 
 
 " Death, then ! what good can my life do 
 me !" 
 
 The trembling steed pushed against the frantic 
 woman, but she did not fire. The heart of 
 the woman or the mother was too strong. 
 Her whole frame seemed twitched by spasms, 
 her arm shook, the pistol was agitated to and 
 fro, but was never discharged. As Delmey 
 passed, she flung down the weapon, and turning 
 towards him, said : 
 
 " Go then ; it is the last time we meet ; and 
 may a wife's curse go with you. May your life 
 be as miserable as mine ; and may you die in 
 a ditch." 
 
 Delmey, as if frozen, after this dreadful 
 imprecation, rode on, his face white as that 
 of a corpse. 
 
 Andrew Harrison was a horror-struck spec- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 tator of this scene amongst the trees not far off. 
 He had never quitted the wood during that 
 night. As Delmey rode forward slowly, he 
 caught a sight of Andrew, who made a sign 
 to him to hasten, and as Delmey understood it, 
 that he would himself remain there. 
 
 Francis Delmey was soon riding rapidly on 
 towards the county town, and in a few hours 
 was again at Fulhourne accompanied by Mr. 
 Coxe Hinchliffe. Neither Mrs. Delmey nor 
 Andrew Harrison were anywhere to be found. 
 The astonished servants said that Mrs. Delmey 
 had ridden towards Westwood ; and while the 
 two gentlemen were considering what was best 
 to do, a messenger on horseback came hurrying 
 in with a note from Andrew Harrison, announcing 
 that Mrs. Delmey was at present with a relative 
 in the county town, and that he hoped to have 
 reached them with that intelligence before they 
 had quitted it. 
 
 Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe now took measures to 
 prevent Mrs. Delmey's flight from her present 
 retreat, and to secure the fugitive Hattersley. 
 No thought was now entertained by him, but 
 of securing him, and letting the gallows 
 terminate his plots and his career. The
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 171 
 
 most vigorous and unremitted exertions were 
 made to that end; but once more the cul- 
 prit escaped and was on his way across the 
 Atlantic. 
 
 I 2
 
 172 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE events narrated in our last chapter, and 
 which had burst forth like an earthquake, or a 
 volcano, under the feet of every one concerned, 
 went by as to their violence, and there fell on 
 the scene an outward calm or, as it were, a 
 death stillness. True, though the real facts never 
 escaped from the few intrusted with them, that 
 is, the Hinchliffes, Andrew Harrison, and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Delmey themselves, there were many 
 rumours, and many strange stories running to 
 and fro around Westwood. All that was 
 really known, however, was that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Delmey had had a violent quarrel, and that 
 Mrs. Delmey was gone to her friends.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 173 
 
 The Hinchliffes had succeeded in detaining 
 Mrs. Delmey amongst them. Her brother and 
 the Major together did all in their power to 
 persuade her to abandon all thoughts of a man 
 who was so destitute of principle, so covered 
 with disgrace ; and whose life, should he ever 
 dare again to set foot on English ground, 
 would to a certainty be forfeited with ignominy. 
 But the most cogent restraints were the want 
 of funds, and the watch which her friends kept 
 over her. They did not oppose the plan of a 
 divorce, nay, they promised to aid in it, after 
 the birth of her child, if she then wished it. 
 There was no charge of direct breach of her 
 matrimonial faith, no suspicion of it, beyond 
 the wild scheme of a divorce, and a subsequent 
 marriage with Hattersley ; but there could be 
 little hope that Mr. Delmey could ever forget 
 or forgive the dreadful things which had been 
 said and done. The avowal of preference to 
 his rival, and a deadly weapon aimed at his 
 life by the hands of both the unhappy wife and 
 her tempter, were circumstances that seemed 
 to leave wounds too deep for any healing art 
 even that of time. 
 
 For Mr. Delmey himself little was seen of 
 him for many, many months afterwards. It
 
 174 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 was rumoured that he had left the neighbour- 
 hood, and was residing in London near his 
 sister. It was more generally believed, however, 
 that he was still at home hiding his miseries in 
 the deepest seclusion. The servants, when 
 asked, replied that they could not say whether 
 Mr. Delmey was at home or away ; they never 
 saw him. Andrew Harrison managed every- 
 thing, both in the house and the estate ; and as 
 to Mrs. Turton, the housekeeper, you might as 
 soon hope to get honey out of a hornet's nest 
 as an answer on the question from her. Her 
 sharp reply was, " Pray, let people mind their 
 own business ; ask me no questions, and I'll tell 
 you no lies." 
 
 For the rest, both the Major and Mr. Coxe 
 Hinchliffe were seen occasionally riding to the 
 house. If Mr. Delmey was at home, it was 
 evident that they and he were still on friendly 
 terms ; if he werfr not there, from the good 
 understanding which obviously existed between 
 Andrew Harrison and them, the same thing 
 might be inferred. 
 
 But wherever Francis Delmey might be, one 
 thing must have been certain, that through the 
 long period of six months during which no one 
 saw him, a weight of misery had lain upon
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 175 
 
 him which can only be conceived by those who 
 possess the same nervous temperament, and 
 have had all their most sacred feelings and 
 hopes equally outraged. 
 
 In the early spring, nearly twelve months 
 from his ill-starred marriage, he might be again 
 seen riding over his estate, but shunning obser- 
 vation as much as possible. He might be 
 observed too, in the dusk of evening stealing 
 into Andrew Harrison's quiet dwelling ; and the 
 two friends were now again occasionally met at 
 night on the way towards Fulbourne, but it was 
 in the public lane, and not by the former 
 favourite walk of the fields, and the wood. 
 Those who saw him were startled at the ravages 
 which misery had made in his once cheerful and 
 youthful countenance ; it was shrunk, pale, and 
 melancholy. There was a hollowness of the 
 eye, and dark premature lines about the mouth 
 that told sad tales of woeful endurance. None 
 ventured to speak to him. They simply 
 touched their hats, and passed on in an 
 awed silence. To none did he speak, but 
 expressed his recognition by a short quick 
 nod. It was evident that the bolt of domestic 
 calamity had fallen on him with its wildest 
 force.
 
 176 MADAM DORR1NGTON. 
 
 About the same time that Mr. Delmey began 
 to make these shy and stealthy appearances abroad 
 again, it was whispered that Mrs. Delmey had 
 been confined of a boy. But time went on, and 
 there was no longer talk of a divorce. When 
 the Major had ventured to speak of Mrs. 
 Delmey to her husband, he listened without 
 visible emotion, far less with bitterness. On a 
 late occasion, he observed to the Major : 
 
 " Mrs. Delmey is not the only one who 
 has done wrong. We are all to blame, my 
 friend very, very much to blame. It was well 
 to preserve her from the arts of that bad man ; 
 but was it well to endeavour to urge her into a 
 union contrary to her feelings ? We have no 
 right to force the human heart from its own 
 volition. Mrs. Delmey is a woman of vast 
 passions, and the recoil has been in proportion. 
 It has threatened to destroy all around it. 1 do 
 not want to blame her own friends, Major, and 
 excuse myself. I ought not to have accepted 
 her hand without a full and clear understanding 
 of her wishes, and the condition of her mind. 
 We have all been punished : let us endeavour to 
 be just. If Mrs. Delmey shall still wish for a 
 divorce on the ground of incompatibility of 
 temper, I am willing but I do not urge it.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 177 
 
 But, be it as it may, I am prepared in any case 
 to restore her dowry, and more ; or, if she 
 desire a mere separate settlement, it shall be 
 made satisfactory both to her and her relations. 
 The child shall be in her care, under your 
 guardianship, till he is of years to go to a school, 
 and at all times I wish her to have free access to 
 him." 
 
 In the course of some months, this conversa- 
 tion was communicated to Mrs. Delmey by her 
 uncle the Major, and she was asked whether she 
 still wished for a divorce. She was silent for 
 some time. The calm and just sentiments of 
 Mr. Delmey seemed to produce their effect upon 
 her. At length she replied : 
 
 " No ; I wish for no divorce. I see too that 
 I have been very wrong. I have had time to 
 reflect. I renounce I have long done it all 
 further thoughts of an attachment that certainly 
 is not for my good. I do not say that the 
 feelings which youth inspired in a very vehe- 
 ment and unbroken nature are wholly eradicated, 
 but I shall make it my business to eradicate 
 them. But, above all, I wish no stigma, or 
 shadow of stigma, to rest upon my boy. I 
 would have no shadow thrown across his path 
 further than what is inevitable from the past 
 
 I 3
 
 178 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 no bar to the enjoyment of his property, even 
 from his boyhood. The rest I leave to you and 
 my brother. Make what arrangements for my 
 income you please." 
 
 These words being reported to Mr. Delmey, 
 seemed to give him satisfaction. They appeared 
 to argue a more reasonable mind in Mrs. Delmey. 
 He had evidently had similar thoughts regarding 
 the position of his son. The yearly allowance 
 which he was to make her was settled by her 
 own friends, and she continued to reside amongst 
 them. 
 
 The impetuous affections of Mrs. Delmey 
 were now all concentrated on her child. Her 
 passionate attachment to it was more like a 
 frenzy, than the deep and happy love of a 
 mother. Her devotion to it was incessant and 
 feverish. She lived for it, and it alone ; night 
 and day, she rarely suffered it out of her sight ; 
 and there were times when the violence of her 
 emotions and of her caresses seemed to partake 
 rather of madness than anything else. But it 
 was nearly twelve months before Mr. Delmey 
 saw the boy. He avoided the county town as 
 he would have avoided a upas-tree, lest he 
 should encounter his wife in the streets. At 
 length, however, the child was brought to him
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 179 
 
 at Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe's, and the emotions of 
 the father were too deep to be altogether de- 
 lightful. He looked, indeed, on the fine, 
 handsome lad, blooming with fresh health, and 
 he covered him with caresses. But there were 
 the dark eyes, the fast-darkening hair of the 
 mother, which forced bitter tears from his 
 heart. Once seen, however, there was a warm 
 desire for the renewal of the interview. Mr. 
 Delmey ventured to the town oftener, taking 
 such a circuit there as he deemed most likely to 
 spare him an encounter with Mrs. Delmey, and 
 he carried the child presents of toys, which he 
 saw him take and use with delight. In the 
 course of the summer he chanced, however, to 
 meet Mrs. Delmey in the public street, and, 
 though it was a violent shock to them both, 
 Mr. Delmey, though pale as death, did not fail 
 respectfully to bow to his wife, nor she to return 
 the passing recognition, though with evident 
 agitation. 
 
 From this time the way was made easier to 
 all parties. Mr. Delmey met Mrs. Delmey 
 abroad without much outward sign of agitation, 
 and occasionally found himself in the same room 
 with her at her brother's or her uncle's, the 
 Major's. Awkward as these meetings at first
 
 180 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 were, the knowledge of the justice done hy each 
 party to the other went a long way to smoothe 
 down the difficulty, and at length Mr. and Mrs. 
 Delmey might be found conversing together on 
 matters connected with their son, with all 
 apparent equanimity and ordinary courteousness. 
 
 Had it depended on Mr. Delmey this discreet 
 basis of their intercourse might have continued 
 for the remainder of their lives. He was satis- 
 fied to see his son at pleasure, and he had 
 devoted himself with so much ardour to his 
 love of literature and religion, that his days 
 flowed on in a calm, deep tide of intellectual 
 enjoyment, almost unconscious of a void. His 
 friend Andrew's fireside was as quiet and as 
 much enjoyed as ever. He hurried thither to 
 read anything that had delighted himself. He 
 still paid his visits duly to the old Vicar, and 
 found companionship in the Curate of the time 
 who found also a hospitable house at Fulbourne. 
 For the rest, his farming duties and field sports 
 filled up the round of his year. 
 
 But hardly had two years passed over when 
 Mrs. Delmey was seized with one of her head- 
 strong caprices. She was wearied of the town 
 she said she desired her son to enjoy flowers, 
 and the fresh air and food of the country, and
 
 MADAM DORR1NGTON. 181 
 
 she was resolved that he should forthwith enjoy 
 his own heritage. To the consternation of Mr. 
 Delmey, therefore, she drove up to the door of 
 Fulbourne in a chaise, and announced that she 
 was come to take up her residence there. She 
 did not desire, she said, to interrupt the domestic 
 or studious habits of Mr. Delmey, he could 
 pursue his own way, and maintain the inviola- 
 bility of his own library, but she saw no reason 
 why two people, who, she believed, entertained 
 no ill-will against each other, should not meet 
 at the same table, and in the same walks, for 
 the mutual enjoyment and benefit of their 
 child. It was in vain that Mr. Delmey re- 
 monstrated and entreated, evidently shrinking 
 from the memory of the former explosion 
 offering to locate her anywhere near so that 
 their son should enjoy every advantage of the 
 country, and daily walks, if desired on the pro- 
 perty. It was in vain, Mrs. Delmey with a 
 firmness and decision against which all argu- 
 ments fell fruitless, declared her right, and her 
 will to be there in her own natural home, and 
 the home of her child. 
 
 Mr. Delmey retired from the conflict, seri- 
 ously contemplating a flight himself. But a
 
 182 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 very little reflection showed him the mischievous 
 consequences of such a step ; and avoiding Mrs. 
 Delmey as much as possible, he determined to 
 retain the possession of his own house and estate. 
 No sooner did Mrs. Delmey's own relatives 
 ascertain this singular movement, than the 
 Major and Mrs. Delmey's brother hurried over 
 to induce her to quit the place, and return to 
 her old lodgings. It was perfectly ineffectual. 
 There she was, and there she avowed her deter- 
 mination to remain. She disclaimed any wish 
 of annoyance to Mr. Delmey ; on the contrary, 
 asserting that she was prepared to add to his 
 comfort by maintaining his home in order and 
 good housekeeping. Her friends could only 
 lament to Mr. Delmey their inability to induce 
 her to return, and withdrew, leaving him to his 
 irritating position. 
 
 For months Francis Delmey kept his own 
 reading-room, took his meals there, and spent 
 the remainder of his time on his land or amongst 
 his friends. He made no further remonstrance, 
 much less recrimination. He knew that the will 
 of Mrs. Delmey was like a granite rock. He, 
 moreover, found his house admirably kept, and the 
 order and agreeableness of it greatly augmented.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 183 
 
 He had the satisfaction of seeing his child as 
 much as he liked, and began to carry him out 
 to the fields before him on his horse. The 
 child's joy in everything won wonderfully on 
 the father's heart, and very soon its strong 
 attachment to him, being delighted to be with 
 him, reconciled him still more to the state of 
 things. 
 
 Being courteously invited by Mrs. Delmey on 
 one occasion to sit down with thern to breakfast, 
 as he came in with the boy in his arms from the 
 garden, he at once complied, and sat with the 
 child on his knee all the time. From this time 
 forward the ostensible union of the family was 
 established. There was one table, and one 
 general intercourse. Friends and visitors came, 
 and found both Mr. and Mrs. Delmey amongst 
 them, certainly without any professions of con- 
 jugal affection, but with courtesy and outward 
 respect. 
 
 This state of things had continued about a 
 year when the child, who by this time had 
 wound himself firmly round the father's heart, 
 was taken ill. A violent inflammation of the 
 lungs made such rapid progress that the doctor 
 soon put on a serious air. The alarmed parents 
 called in a physician from the county town.
 
 184 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Everything was done which two experienced 
 heads could suggest to arrest the evil, but, to 
 the consternation of the parents, the medical 
 men, after a long private consultation, announced 
 that they entertained serious fears of the boy's 
 life. They apprehended that some sudden ex- 
 posure to cold had given such deep root to the 
 complaint, that it might exhaust his vital powers, 
 spite of their daily and nightly exertions to save 
 him. We may imagine the terror and grief of 
 the parents. Mr. Delmey hung over the little 
 sufferer with a look of unutterable anguish, 
 as if the last tie to the earth was being rent 
 asunder. 
 
 The grief of Mrs. Delmey was in accordance 
 with the violence of her nature. She went into 
 such impetuous paroxysms of passion and vio- 
 lence as astonished the doctors; insisted that 
 they could, should, and must save the child. 
 " What were they good for what was the use 
 of medicine, if it could not save a healthy child 
 like that ?" 
 
 The physician patiently replied, that they 
 would undertake to do all that human science 
 could do, but that they did not pretend to 
 occupy the place of God. His will must be 
 done. They would, he assured her, exert every
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 185 
 
 means, and that while there was life there was 
 hope ; but he took a piece of thin writing- 
 paper, and dropping a drop of oil on it 
 " It is thus, Madam," said the mild and gen- 
 tlemanly man, " that the inflammation runs 
 over the tender lungs of the dear child. It 
 is so rapid that it demands watching every 
 minute. And every moment we will watch it 
 till we can see the result." 
 
 The afflicted and confounded mother flung 
 herself on her knees by the panting child, on 
 whose little side a host of leeches were busily at 
 work, and began a violent lamentation, that 
 startled the little patient, and compelled the 
 physician to say that, if she did not at once 
 restrain herself, no power on earth could save 
 the boy. Mrs. Delmey sprung away, and, 
 flinging herself on the floor of her own room, 
 beat the ground with her hands and her head 
 frantically, and called vehemently on God to 
 save the child to pardon her deadly sins, to 
 which she attributed this visitation to forgive 
 her having aimed a weapon at the father of the 
 babe, and to punish her some other way but 
 to save this, their only child. 
 
 Having somewhat relieved her feelings by 
 this outburst, she returned to the side of the
 
 186 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 little sufferer, and, with stoical command of her 
 wretchedness, watched and tended the child, 
 following the minutest directions of the medical 
 men, and preparing with her own hands every- 
 thing ordered by them to assist their remedies. 
 There were days and nights of dreadful suspense 
 still to be endured. 
 
 At length, one day as the light of morning 
 was breaking palely on the sick room, the two 
 medical men withdrew to a consultation, and 
 calling for Mr. Delmey, informed him that they 
 had done all they could they had now aban- 
 doned nearly all hope of saving the child's life. 
 Mr. Delmey, struck as by a violent and crushing 
 power, and feeling the stroke like a death-chill 
 through heart and soul, and limb, yet said 
 meekly : " The will of God be done ! But poor 
 Elizabeth, what will become of her ?" 
 
 " You must do all you can to persuade her 
 to resignation and endurance, violent as is her 
 nature ; she can endure much, but impress on 
 her that the sole hope for the child lies in her 
 being calm and still." 
 
 With this the two gentlemen silently with- 
 drew ; and Mr. Delmey felt, as they closed the 
 door, as if they had left the sentence of death 
 behind them. Mrs. Delmey met him in the
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 187 
 
 passage, and demanded what the doctors said. 
 He was silent a moment, and the quick feelings 
 of the mother leapt to the fatal conclusion. 
 " Oh, God !" she exclaimed, " they have given 
 him up ! Tell me at once, Delmey I will 
 know !" 
 
 " They give little hope," replied Francis 
 Delmey; " but that little, as they said, lies in your 
 command of your feelings, and in your stillness 
 and patience." 
 
 Mrs. Delmey stood still and death-like as a 
 stone ; then suddenly hurrying away, Mr. Delmey 
 followed her, lest she should give way to some 
 fatal extravagance of feeling, in the presence of 
 the child. She had reached the side of its 
 little couch, and already on her knees, with 
 hands clasped, as with an iron force, and a 
 face of ghastly fixedness, was gazing on the 
 equally pale face of the apparently unconscious 
 little boy. Mr. Delmey knelt beside her, and 
 contemplated the shrunk and corpse-like features 
 of the child that he deemed had only a few 
 hours remaining of this human life. While he 
 inwardly prayed, that if possible this cup might 
 pass from him, Mrs. Delmey suddenly exclaimed, 
 in an agonized tone : 
 
 " Great God! forgive me, forgive me, wretched,
 
 188 MADAM DORR1NGTON. 
 
 passionate creature ! Punish me some other 
 way. I dared to lift my hand against the father, 
 in the fury of an exasperated soul, and now thou 
 snatchedst away the child ! Great God ! forgive ! 
 forgive ! I abhor myself in dust and ashes ! 
 I ask not to be spared punishment, but to be 
 spared this punishment !" 
 
 Mr. Delmey put his arm round the trembling 
 woman, and said, affectionately : 
 
 " May God forgive you, Elizabeth, as I have 
 long done. May He hear your prayer, for both 
 our sakes, and for the sake of the dear child." 
 
 Elizabeth Delmey turned with a look of as- 
 tonishment on her husband, who kissed her 
 cheek, and said : 
 
 " Let all be forgotten, Elizabeth, over the bed 
 of this precious child." 
 
 Mrs. Delmey burst into a passion of tears, 
 and, lifting her clasped hands, exclaimed : 
 
 " He has forgiven me ! Thou, God, wilt not 
 refuse to forgive ! No ! no ! Thou wilt leave 
 us yet this dear, suffering child." 
 
 At this moment the child, who had lain for 
 some hours as in a state of unconsciousness, 
 suddenly opening its eyes, said : 
 
 " Don't cry so, mama ; don't cry so, papa. 
 Take me down stairs."
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 189 
 
 " Let him go down ! What matters it ?" 
 exclaimed the excited mother. And Mr. Del- 
 mey, putting his arms under the little mattrass 
 on which he lay, carried the child down stairs. 
 He was afraid that he could not go softly enough 
 to prevent giving him pain, but the child did 
 not move ; and as they reached the foot of the 
 stairs, and Mr. Delmey would have turned into 
 the sitting-room, the child said : " Out out 
 garden." The watchful mother unhesitatingly 
 opened the door, and the half-frightened father 
 saw the little patient, on whom it had been the 
 care of every one to prevent anything like a 
 cold air blowing, now fairly in the open air. 
 But it was a warm, beautiful May morning; 
 and the child, lying with its eyes shut, said : 
 " Sweet, very sweet I like it. Water give 
 me water." 
 
 The mother darted away, and brought some 
 new milk, which the little creature drank, and 
 then slept. He was then carried in, and laid 
 on the sofa. The crisis was come. From that 
 hour the child began to recover, and soon, 
 though wan and wasted, and with features 
 changed from their plump and infantine round- 
 ness to those of a sharp-looking and thought-
 
 190 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 fill child, might be seen carried on the father's 
 arm, through the flowery fields, listening once 
 more to the birds, and watching the butterflies 
 and bees. 
 
 From this period the entire breach in the 
 Delmey family appeared healed. Mrs. Delmey, 
 as if truly penitent and grateful for the recovered 
 child, restrained the violence of her passions, 
 and exhibited genuine respect, mingled with 
 something like affection for her husband. Her 
 disposition to command appeared to indulge itself 
 in the household and even in the farm manage- 
 ment. By degrees, she seemed to have assumed 
 almost entire authority in such things, but with- 
 out clashing with Mr. Delmey, or contradicting 
 his orders. Another year brought them another 
 son, who was named Anthony ; the elder one, 
 whose name we have not yet noted, being Hinch- 
 liffe, called, in somewhat of self-will and anta- 
 gonism, after her own family at the time. 
 
 A new life seemed to have dawned on the 
 family of Fulbourne. Mr. and Mrs. Delmey 
 continued to lead an apparently cordial and 
 accordant life. Her friends, and especially her 
 brother Coxe and the Major, were frequent 
 visitors, and all the past clouds seemed blown
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 191 
 
 away for ever. Mr. Delmey enjoyed his books, 
 his walks, and his friend Andrew Harrison. 
 Andrew might even occasionally be seen at Ful- 
 bourne, and was treated with perfect affability by 
 Mrs. Delmey. Little Hinchliffe was Mr. Del- 
 mey's constant companion out in the fields, and 
 was often carried on his back in his walks to 
 Lerk, where John Harrison, now a great boy, 
 showed him the wonders of tops, and marbles, 
 and mousetraps, and coils of rope, which formed 
 part and parcel of the stock of the shop. 
 
 Who could have anticipated that this state of 
 calm and comfort at Fulbourne should be broken 
 up by an event which, of all others, seemed 
 calculated to give an additional strength to it 
 the birth of a daughter? But so it was. 
 About two years later than her brother Anthony, 
 and six than her brother Hinchliffe, a little, fair- 
 haired girl appeared upon the scene, to whom 
 the name of Grace was assigned. But never 
 was less grace manifested by a mother towards a 
 child than was shown by Mrs. Delmey to this 
 little daughter. Her affection for her two boys 
 was unbounded. It had all the passionate ex- 
 travagance of her character. Her pride in her 
 two handsome boys was immense. Her indul- 
 gence was perpetual and exhaustless. Her very life
 
 192 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 seemed bound up in them ; but, from the hour 
 of her birth, her daughter seemed to excite in 
 her an actual aversion. Never did she manifest 
 the slightest touch of tenderness or affection for 
 her. She shortened the usual period of her 
 nursing in her case, and turned her over to a 
 female servant. The remonstrances which Mr. 
 Delmey was compelled to make on account of 
 her want of affection for the child, seemed only 
 to bring back her old moodiness and fitfulness. 
 A spirit of discontent and growing violence 
 became again visible in her. She grew imperi- 
 ous in her commands to the servants wayward 
 in her conduct to Mr. Delmey, and still more 
 passionate and boisterous in her manifestation of 
 the most excessive fondness for her two boys. 
 She seemed alike insensible to pain in herself, or 
 in others, and both servants and visitors often 
 stood astonished at her more than Indian mas- 
 tership over all evidence of suffering. On one 
 occasion, scolding the housemaid for not 
 scouring a floor to her mind she seized the 
 bucket and scrubbing-brush to give her a prac- 
 tical lesson, and, going to the boiler to procure 
 hot water, the iron lid fell, and actually crushed 
 her thumb as it rested on the boiler-edge. The 
 blood spun from beneath the flattened and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 193 
 
 blackened nail, the thumb instantly swelled and 
 blackened; but, without pausing in her lecture 
 or her labour, she went on without a wince or a 
 grdan, pushed aside the servant, who would have 
 again relieved her from the affair to attend to 
 her hurt, and went through the whole operation 
 of scouring the floor as if not a nerve had been 
 jarred. The indifference which she thus mani- 
 fested in herself, she manifested in the case of 
 others, and bound up desperate wounds received 
 by the men in the course of their labours, as if 
 they were attended by neither suffering nor blood. 
 No one saw these instances of firmness or cal- 
 lousness of nerve without wonder, but all started 
 as they again heard that peculiar laugh which 
 had ceased since the unhappy time when Mrs. 
 Delmey quitted Fulbourne for a season. 
 
 There were not wanting those who surmised 
 that Mrs. Delmey had again received news of the 
 unfortunate Hattersley from beyond the Atlantic ; 
 that he had been importuning her for money, or 
 something of the kind. It was rumoured that 
 he was leading a strange life amid the troubles 
 that were now breaking out in that country, and 
 that Mrs. Delmey had more than once complied 
 with his demands. Be that as it may, some 
 inauspicious circumstance coincident with the 
 
 VOL. i. K
 
 1 94 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 birth of poor Grace Delmey, seemed to make 
 Mrs. Delmey cast into oblivion all her better 
 feelings and resolves. The old woman the old, 
 desperate, and defiant spirit, seemed to assume the 
 tyranny over her once more, and no trivial portion 
 of it fell on her unhappy child. She even declared 
 more than once or twice, that she hated it for its 
 likeness to its father. In such circumstances 
 did Grace Delmey, now Mrs. Dorrington of the 
 Dene, commence her life on the earth.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 195 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 GRACE DELMEY was a fair, delicate child, 
 with large, blue eyes, clear and brilliant as the 
 heaven above her. There was a winning gentle- 
 ness about her that seemed made to draw all 
 hearts towards her ; but, from some unexplained 
 cause, it never drew that of her mother. The 
 unnatural dislike on her part only called forth a 
 more tender sympathy on that of Mr. Delmey. 
 From the very birth of this little daughter, he 
 seemed to cherish a peculiar affection for it. 
 Many a rude push, or hard knock and slap, the 
 poor child, even in early infancy, received from 
 the hands of its mother, who at the same time 
 was lavishing the most extravagant fondness on 
 its two brothers. 
 
 K 2
 
 196 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 These only called forth cries of pain and 
 astonishment in the child when it was too young 
 to comprehend any singularity in the case. 
 But it habitually acquired a habit of shrinking 
 from its mother, and creeping towards its father 
 for protection and indulgence. The indignation 
 of Mr. Delmey gradually drew more and more 
 his attentions from his two boys, and concen- 
 trated them on the little girl ; so that by the 
 time she was five years old, she was become 
 his constant companion. 
 
 Meantime, the two boys were growing into 
 great lads, and were sent daily to Westwood to 
 school; but during their play-hours they had 
 their ponies to ride, and all kinds of playthings 
 which could be had. The mother, who never 
 purchased even a battledoor and shuttlecock for 
 the daughter, lavished all kinds of things, in- 
 cluding sweetmeats, on the lads. The boys 
 showed no want of affection for their sister, but 
 often admitted her to their sports, and even 
 occasionally indignantly interposed against what 
 seemed to them the strange injustice of their 
 mother ; but they were still growing masterful 
 and dictatorial, and little Grace was often obliged 
 to retire to the quiet room of her father, and sit 
 near him with a book. He was her schoolmaster.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 197 
 
 Thus more and more the strong attachment 
 between the father and daughter grew. She went, 
 holding by his hand, through the fields with 
 him ; she assisted him for hours in a garden 
 which he had at some distance, surrounded by a 
 lofty, thick hedge, and possessing a shady old 
 laurel arbour, carrying him plants and pots, and 
 fetching tools as he wanted them. 
 
 Oh ! very happy were the hours that father 
 and daughter thus spent together, though often 
 would a sigh escape from his heart, as he 
 reflected on the strange absence of affection 
 towards this dear child in the maternal heart ; 
 and as he heard the two boys shouting, and often 
 gallopping past in their strong and eager amuse- 
 ments, the want of general unity in the family, 
 the headstrong and unbroken habits which, 
 spite of all that he could do, were growing up 
 in these two boys, and the increasing assump- 
 tion of unquestioned rule in Mrs. Delmey to 
 oppose which only was to awake a series of 
 storms, and scenes of violence gave many a 
 train of melancholy thought to Francis Delmey. 
 
 The growing stature and unfolding beauty of 
 Grace Delmey, it might have been supposed, 
 would at length attract the mother's eye, and 
 awake in her mind some germs of natural pride.
 
 198 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Grace, at the age of seven years, was as lovely a 
 thing as sun could shine upon. Her form was 
 light, agile, and beautiful. Her complexion was 
 extremely fair, and her hair, rich and abundant, 
 was darkened already to a glossy brown, while 
 the azure clearness of her eyes gave an expression 
 to her face that spoke at once of deep affections, 
 and a very gentle nature. Many a tear had 
 those eyes shed in bitter wonder over her mother's 
 unkindness to her. She had often, weeping, 
 asked her father how it was that he was so 
 affectionate to her, and that her mother only 
 loved, and said that she only could love, her 
 boys? 
 
 " Dear child !" Mr. Delmey would say, 
 addressing her in the simple idiom of poetry 
 and of the Scriptures which he always used 
 towards her, as if in his intercourse with her 
 all the tenderness of his being was called 
 forth : " it is a wonderful and sad thing. 
 God only knows whence it comes. But thy 
 mother had deep troubles in her youth, and she 
 has strange feelings. Don't let it trouble thee 
 too much, dear child. I will love thee two-fold. 
 I will love thee for both ; and we will pray to 
 God to open thy mother's heart more and more 
 to both of us. And never let us think hardly
 
 MADAM DOSINGTON. 199 
 
 of thy mother, dear Grace ; let us love her, and 
 forgive her any harshness; and in time, God 
 knows, hut she may come to see differently." 
 
 And wonderful was the patience which Grace 
 displayed towards that strange mother. Some- 
 times, as the gentle girl was sitting with her 
 needle or her book, Mrs. Delmey, suddenly 
 passing, would strike her with the back of her 
 hands on her lips, saying : 
 
 " Ha ! that is just the way your father sets 
 his lips over his stupid books ! Have done 
 with it, and look like other people." 
 
 The tears of anguish would start from the 
 poor child's eyes, and for a few moments she 
 would give way to a great bitterness of grief; 
 but anon she would wipe off her tears, and seek 
 to solace herself by her father's side, without a 
 complaint ; and never omit, on any occasion, an 
 endeavour to perform for her mother the little 
 offices that were in her power. 
 
 Sad was that experience for a heart like that 
 of Grace Delmey, which longed to love every- 
 thing, and especially her mother. But beautiful 
 were her experiences of opening life which she 
 gathered by the side of her father. To her he 
 was the power which opened all the wonder, of 
 creation, and the hopes of still more beautiful 
 life than the present. He read to her the stories
 
 200 MADAM ORRINGTON. 
 
 of the Bible all the beautiful narratives of the 
 young world the wonderful history of the people 
 chosen to keep alive the true faith the sublime 
 deeds of prophets and sainted kings and then 
 the heavenly tale of the coming of the Messiah. 
 She heard the angels singing in the fields of 
 Bethlehem saw the young Messiah walking in 
 his solemn beauty, musing on His great mission 
 ere it yet were time to enter upon it saw Him 
 go forth at length, to collect His disciples, to per- 
 form miracles, to die, and ascend into the beau- 
 tiful heavens to the great and living God. From 
 him she heard of martyrs and their marvellous 
 endurance, and listened to poetry, which he 
 repeated or read aloud by the fireside, of the 
 grave and good Andrew Harrison. There were 
 lines like the " Litanie to the Holy Spirit," of 
 Herrick, which were imprinted by the sad yet 
 musical voice of her father as firmly in her 
 memory as life itself in her heart. 
 
 } In the time of my distresse, 
 When temptations me oppresse, 
 I And when I my sins confesse, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When I lie within my bed, 
 Sick in heart, and sick in head, 
 And with doubts discomforted, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 201 
 
 When the house doth sigh and weep, 
 And the world is drowned in sleep, 
 Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the passing-bell doth toll, 
 And the furies, in a shole, 
 Come to fright a parting soule, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the priest his last hath praid, 
 And I nod to what is said 
 'Cause my speech is now decaid 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the tempter me pursu'th, 
 With the sins of all my youth, 
 And halfe damns me with untruth, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the judgment is revealed, 
 And that opened which was sealed, 
 When to Thee I have appealed, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 In still later years, when she heard him 
 chanting these lines to himself, she involuntarily 
 joined in the prayer, for she knew that some 
 sorrow lay heavy on him. 
 
 But now, he could wander with her through 
 
 K 3
 
 202 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 wood and dell ; and on some flowery bank, the 
 birds singing around, and sweet waters lapsing 
 at their feet, he would read some splendid passage 
 from his favourite Milton, or some grave essay 
 from the " Spectator," such as that sublime one 
 on " The Starry Heavens," in which Addison 
 dilates so nobly on the words of David : " Lord, 
 what is man that Thou art mindful of him, 
 or the son of man that Thou visitest him;" 
 and when the sweet child would ask : " And 
 does God visit us, dear papa ? Does He walk 
 amongst these beautiful trees as He did in the 
 Garden of Eden ?" he would reply : " Yes, my 
 dear child, yes, surely. God walks everywhere, 
 and may be seen everywhere, in the wonder and 
 glory of His acts. See these sweet and beautiful 
 flowers. What but His hand has fashioned 
 them? Are they not revelations of Heaven? 
 Do they not seem things transplanted by angels 
 from Paradise ? Ah ! I often fancy, that when 
 God has created a world, He gives troops of 
 rejoicing angels permission to go and [sow all 
 over it, flowers, and trees, and wonderful forms 
 of vegetative beauty and usefulness, which they 
 gather in glorious worlds far above us, here and 
 there, in the heaven of heavens. 
 
 " In what sun-bright planets, in what radiant
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 203 
 
 homes of radiant life, may not the original forms 
 of these odorous flowers around us be blowing, 
 and breathing the air that angels breathe ? 
 
 " Dear child, canst thou not feel the sweet 
 presence of God in thy heart, as thy eyes wander 
 over the flowery traces of His footsteps, in the 
 gorgeous meadows, and on the purple hill ? Ay, 
 surely, surely, my child, the more we purify our 
 souls from earthly desires, the more we see and 
 feel the presence of God around us, like a new 
 life in the life of everything. 
 
 " I love, dear child, to believe with that spi- 
 ritual people to whom some of our ancestors 
 belonged, that God never is far off us ; it is 
 only we that have gone far off God. We are 
 become dead to the faculty of looking into the 
 heaven that lies around us. Like the poet, in 
 his own epitaph, we may say of ourselves : 
 
 Weep for the dead, for they have lost this light, 
 And weep for us, lost in an endlesse night ; 
 Or mourne, or make a marble vase for me, 
 Who writ for many : Benedicite ! 
 
 " But to me, dear child, and I trust it will be 
 so to thee in all thy coming life, it has been no 
 mere outward recreation to walk through flowery 
 meadows, or in woods, or under the silence of
 
 204 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 the starry night. There is a spirit there which 
 has the ear of our spirits, the spirit of a never- 
 sleeping intelligence, the spirit of a love that 
 clasps us with a " he would have said, a 
 mother's affection, but he sighed, and added, 
 " with a tender father's cherishing arms, and 
 whispers things that strengthen the heart as 
 with celestial food, and send a glow through it. 
 Oh, warm, warmer, and more delicious than 
 the beams of the great sun himself. 
 
 " There is manna, dear child, still scattered 
 over the wilderness of this earth for those that 
 are willing to gather it. It is like the dew, 
 glittering, sweet, ethereal. If I had not tasted of 
 it, what had this earth been to me ? There are 
 souls that sprinkle divinest essences on us in 
 our solitary hiding-places, when we faint under 
 human unkindness, and that send thoughts 
 through the darkness that give us courage, 
 where the valiant of this world faint and 
 tremble. Ah, dear child ! if it were not for 
 this companionable and quickening spirit which 
 inhabits the obscurest nooks and fields of earth, 
 that familiar which made Socrates wiser than all 
 his generation, and with which many glorious 
 saints have communed in all ages, what were 
 all these hanging boughs, and sloping glades,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 205 
 
 and the deep, deep blue streams, but a mere 
 painted show ? But I say with my old favourite, 
 Quarle : 
 
 I love and have some cause to love the earth ; 
 
 She is my Maker's creature therefore good : 
 She is my mother, for she gave me birth, 
 
 She is my tender nurse she gives me food. 
 But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee ? 
 Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me ? 
 
 I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh 
 
 My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me : 
 
 Her shrill-mouthed quire sustain me with their flesh, 
 And with their Polyphonian notes delight me. 
 
 But what's the air, or all the sweets that she, 
 
 Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee ? 
 
 I love the sea : she is my fellow-creature 
 My careful purveyor ; she provides me store : 
 
 She walls me round she make my diet greater, 
 She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore. 
 
 But, Lord of Oceans, when compared with Thee, 
 
 What is the ocean, or her wealth to me ? 
 
 To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
 Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
 
 Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
 Transcends the chrystal pavement of the sky. 
 
 But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee ? 
 
 Without Thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me.
 
 06 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Without Thy presence, earth gives no refection ; 
 
 Without Thy presence, sea affords no treasure ; 
 Without Thy presence, air's a rank infection ; 
 
 Without Thy presence, heaven itself 's no pleasure. 
 If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee, 
 What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ? 
 
 Such were the thoughts and scenes that were 
 made familiar to Grace Delmey in her girlhood. 
 They took deep root there ; they laid the foun- 
 dations of her mind, and that profound piety, 
 that spiritual faith and feeling which were part 
 of her father's existence, became as much a part 
 of her own, constituting at once her weak- 
 ness and her strength, contributing to the 
 perfection, and it may be, to the failings of 
 her character. 
 
 But time rolled on, and brought Grace Delmey 
 to the verge of womanhood. Her father, 
 thwarted in the education which he meant for 
 his sons, by the strong will and weak indul- 
 gence of their mother, was left to do as he 
 pleased with Grace ; and great as was the sacrifice 
 of her loving and gentle society, he had found a 
 school to his own mind, and thither he conveyed 
 her. She came back at seventeen, to appear- 
 ance, nearly a full-grown woman. She had 
 reached a stature of more than middle height ;
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 207 
 
 her form was finely developed, she still retained 
 her fair, rather pale complexion, had hair dark 
 and rich, resembling her mother's, though not 
 so intensely deep, and her father's amiable and 
 thoughtful face. There was a gravity about her 
 that was unusual for her age, but her smile, 
 though quiet, had a witching sweetness in it. 
 Every one was struck with her peculiar beauty, 
 except her stern, cold mother, who declared her 
 very insipid, and thought she had a moping look 
 like her father. It was something of the Quaker 
 blood, she verily believed, that hung about the 
 family. Grace thought her mother had become 
 progressively vulgarized she would have denied 
 it to herself if she could, but she could not. 
 She saw with sorrow and consternation a lower 
 expression amid the lofty sternness which used 
 to awe her, that now deeply pained and humi- 
 liated her. 
 
 Francis Delmey looked with proud love on his 
 daughter. She was to him like some delightful 
 vision of his youth. There was a quiet manner, 
 but full of feeling, about her, and a tone in her 
 voice that woke in his heart long trains of 
 poetry. When he had embraced her with emo- 
 tion, he retired to his own room, and shed some 
 thankful tears. Prudence and good tuition had
 
 208 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 given him a daughter, just as he had prayed she 
 might become through many a sleepless night, 
 when the ways of his sons, under the guidance of 
 their mother, had made him very, very sad. 
 But Grace had come back to him with all the 
 freshness of her heart, and all her tastes so 
 accordant to his own, that in listening to her he 
 seemed to see a new light cast over all that he 
 had loved and admired. She enjoyed with him 
 all their old walks, all their old books, and 
 brought new ones, which she read to him in 
 tones that were to him a new music, unlocking 
 new worlds of thought and wonder. 
 
 Ah ! if these two kindred souls could but 
 have lived there alone, what an enchanted place 
 had that old Fulbourne been to that now lost 
 father, on whose head deep sorrows, rather than 
 time, had began to sprinkle grey hairs. But no 
 such enchanted spot could Fulbourne become. 
 It was now a place of wild and wayward spirits. 
 There came there many whom it was a misery for 
 Francis Delmey, and a startling thing for his 
 daughter, to see. In her absence, the acquaint- 
 ance of the house had spread apace. There 
 were many comers and goers, much riding and 
 driving, many gay doings, much wild laughter, 
 and many secret and bitter tears.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 209 
 
 Grace's brothers were handsome and high spi- 
 rited young men. Anthony was about nine- 
 teen, Hinchliffe twenty-five. Through their 
 mother's connections in the county-town, where 
 they now attended markets, they had also got 
 a great number of acquaintances, to whom it 
 was a fine ride and a famous outing, as they 
 called it, to a place like Fulbourne, where they 
 could fish, and shoot, and gallop, and find the 
 best of jolly cheer. These young men were, or 
 thought themselves, judges in horse-flesh ; talked 
 knowingly of hounds and bets ; followed my 
 Lord Sempergreen's pack, and were to be found 
 at all race-grounds and county balls. They had, 
 through the Delmeys, extended their acquaint- 
 ance largely amongst the young bucks of the 
 country, sons of gentlemen farmers ; agricultural 
 roues, not high-bred, but stylish dandies, half fop, 
 half ruffian ; amphibious pretenders to association 
 with the sporting noblemen of the midland 
 counties ; youngsters who rode famous horses of 
 their ow r n rearing, which they generally con- 
 trived to sell at high prices, by being seen with 
 them in the field or on the turf. These fine 
 fellows, who hud all the knowingness of the 
 town with the additional coarseness of the 
 country, were always dropping in at Fulbourne,
 
 210 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 and making appointments with the young Del- 
 meys for one scene of country dissipation and 
 expense or another. Mrs. Delmey seemed vastly 
 to enjoy their society, and kept a flowing table 
 for them. 
 
 .To Mr. Delmey they were a horror and 
 an aversion ; but then who w r as Mr. Delmey 
 with them? Nobody thought or cared any- 
 thing about Mr. Delmey, a mere book-worm, fit 
 only to keep the parson, or some such ancient 
 prigs, company. 
 
 " Mrs. Delmey was the man there," they 
 said. "A prime, clean-limbed jade that! with 
 the spirit of a Briton ; the grey mare that was 
 the better horse out and out !" 
 
 Mr. Delmey treated all these guests with the 
 utmost distance and contempt, but also found it 
 most comfortable to keep as much as possible 
 out of their way. 
 
 Who can keep up a constant struggle with 
 vulgar insolence ? There are fine things said 
 in books of the commanding eye of man that 
 can make even a wild beast, even a lion, quail 
 by simply looking on it. But there are brutes in 
 human form that are proof to the most solemn 
 eye that ever gazed. There are fine things 
 said in books of the noble spirit, like Milton's
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 2 1 1 
 
 "Abdiel," severer in youthful Beauty, which can 
 so calmly put down the spirit of the most daring 
 presumption, and make the dignity of virtue, 
 and of sense felt. But let those who write 
 thus go a little into such association, and try 
 their prescription. We have seen many such 
 conflicts hetween refinement and vulgarity, 
 intelligence and ignorant conceit, delicate mind 
 and low T -bred emptiness, and have acknowledged 
 the force of Shakspeare's simile of cutting blocks 
 with a razor. 
 
 Mr. Delmey was a man not without a suffi- 
 cient spirit. He had shown that formerly, as 
 we have seen, but he had now to contend with 
 fearful odds. His wife had by the practice of 
 years gradually gathered the reins of manage- 
 ment into her own hands. To have successfully 
 checked that steady pressure and presumption, 
 there was but one remedy a thorough crash 
 and separation. Mr. Delmey had shrunk from 
 that on account of his children ; but he now felt 
 that it would have been better to have passed 
 through that fiery tempest, even for them. Their 
 mother, in whose mind all the temporary signs 
 of grace had died utterly and for ever, had laid 
 the broadest foundations of the ruin of his sons. 
 They had grown up with the most unrestrained
 
 212 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 wills, the most unbroken tempers, the intensest 
 love of licence. Mr. Delmey groaned over this 
 with a bitterness of grief that is not easily to be ex- 
 pressed. To Mrs. Delmey nothing seemed wrong, 
 not even the most glaring and unceremonious 
 disregard of her own washes by these very sons. 
 In her eyes, it was only spirit ; their reckless 
 associates were full of the gaiety of youth. She 
 laughed at their wildest sallies and grossest 
 jests ; and to Mr. Delmey's indignant remon- 
 strances only replied, contemptuously : 
 
 " Pho, Delmey ! you don't expect all the 
 world to be mere moping book-worms, like 
 you. Gentlemen will enjoy themselves." 
 
 " Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! mark my words," 
 Mr. Delmey had many a time said, " sorely 
 will you repent what you are now doing, be- 
 fore you measure out your last portion of this 
 world under yon old Westwood tower. You are 
 sowing sorrows for yourself that will spring 
 thicker and with more blistering rankness than 
 the nettles there on the unknown pedlar's grave. 
 These sons that your counsels have ruined 
 
 " Ruined ?" Mrs. Delmey would interpose. 
 " Bless the lads, where did you ever see young 
 men that do greater credit to their rearing? 
 Ruined ! gay and full of life they are,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 213 
 
 Delmey but is it not natural ? is it not now the 
 flower of their youth ? Pshaw, man ! pshaw ! 
 you and I were young once ; and God knows 
 you are grave enough, at all events." 
 
 Mrs. Delmey would laugh, sweep one hand 
 over the other as if wiping away some dust, or 
 wafting away some noxious air, and walk away 
 in lofty scorn. 
 
 But there were inroads making into Mr. 
 Delmey's property which he had striven man- 
 fully to stop. On this point, he had even 
 stormed and uttered stern denunciations, and 
 taken the most resolute steps to end the mis- 
 chief. He had refused to discharge their debts 
 he had stood the fury of his incensed wife, 
 who declared that her sons should not be dis- 
 graced ; and he had sought a calm retreat from 
 the battering of the tempest by seeking the 
 quiet roof of Andrew Harrison. For days, and 
 even weeks, he had occupied the quiet parlour 
 looking into the garden, and the bed always 
 kept for him in a little chamber having the 
 same view. Hence he had ridden over his lands 
 in the day time to superintend his men. But 
 even here mortification met him. He found 
 his orders contradicted and disobeyed. The 
 confounded labourers would say :
 
 214 MADAM DORRINGT N. 
 
 " God help us, mester, what mun we do ? 
 The missis says a' thissens, and th' young mesters 
 a' thatens ; and you, sir, sen another way. 
 Who is to be obeyed ? " 
 
 " Me, to be sure ! " Mr. Delmey would say ; 
 but he found, when he turned his back, he was 
 not obeyed. A more domineering rule had 
 overridden his. In endeavouring to maintain 
 his authority in his own house, he often found 
 himself insulted before the guests, whether his 
 own or those of his sons and wife. And even 
 the quiet roof of Andrew Harrison was scarcely 
 able to protect him from the haughty reproaches 
 of Mrs. Delmey. 
 
 One such scene when he had refused to pay 
 gaming debts of his sons was of so shocking 
 a kind, that quiet Andrew Harrison was com- 
 pelled to assert his lordship over his own house 
 in protection of his friend ; and thenceforward to 
 give the most solemn orders that on no occasion 
 should Mrs. Delmey pass his threshold. 
 
 Mr. Delmey had come there deeply depressed 
 in spirits. He had stated to Andrew the ruin- 
 ous debts that were accumulating, and his re- 
 solve to perish rather than to pay them. He 
 would let his sons go to prison rather than 
 consent to their utter ruin. Andrew calmly
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 215 
 
 strengthened his resolve. But in the midst 
 of their conversation Mrs. Delmey entered the 
 house with a haughty and inflamed air, and 
 abruptly stalking into the parlour, began in a 
 tone of bitterest reproach : 
 
 " Are you not ashamed, Delmey ? are you 
 not ashamed ? You a gentleman and a father 
 are you not ashamed to skulk away hither ! 
 More shame on you, Harrison, for harbouring 
 him ! " said she, glancing fiercely on Andrew. 
 Andrew only bowed. " Are you not ashamed 
 to let your sons be arrested for the paltry sum 
 of two hundred pounds, and the poor fellows to be 
 disgraced before the whole country ? Out upon 
 you, cowardly curmudgeon out upon you !" 
 
 " It is a waste of words, Elizabeth," replied 
 Mr. Delmey, trembling with agitation ; " a total 
 waste of words. If you will encourage your 
 sons to run headlong to ruin, you shall not have 
 help from me. I will be no party to it. Better 
 disgrace and a prison now, than utter and eter- 
 nal ruin hereafter. Oh, my God ! " exclaimed 
 the wretched man, " what dost Thou prepare 
 for me in this thoughtless woman and these 
 misguided sons ! Oh, woman ! woman ! would 
 I had never known you !"
 
 216 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " Ah ! would to God you never had !" ex- 
 claimed the furious wife. " Would to God I 
 had shot myself before I ever consented to marry 
 such a heartless, moping, pigeon-livered pol- 
 troon ! But what, sir, are you going to do ? 
 Do you mean to pay this money or not ?" 
 
 " Never ! so help me God ! Never, Mrs. 
 Delmey, though I myself should be dragged to 
 a dungeon for it, and never saw the light again. 
 Never ! never !" exclaimed he, trembling more 
 violently and turning excessively pale. " Oh 
 what would I not pay and do for those dear, 
 lost boys, if they would only listen to me ; but 
 to feed their ruin to encourage their licence, 
 and help to bring them to a dunghill or a work- 
 house, no never never !" 
 
 Mr. Delmey, overcome by his feelings, sank 
 down in his chair, and laid his head on the 
 table before him, his face buried in his hand- 
 kerchief. For a moment, Mrs. Delmey stood 
 as if blazing all over with wrath and indigna- 
 tion, and then as suddenly uttering the words : 
 " Mean wretch ! Base man !" commenced 
 striking her husband across the shoulders and 
 about the head with a riding-whip, which she 
 had in her hand, with the air of a fury. The
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 217 
 
 astonished man started up, glowing with shame, 
 and sprang at his wife to wrest the whip 
 from her, exclaiming : " Are you woman or 
 devil?" 
 
 But Andrew Harrison had anticipated him ; 
 quick as lightning he had snatched the in- 
 famous weapon, and flung it through the open 
 window into the garden, saying : 
 
 " Madam, begone from this house ; I am 
 master here !" pointing to the door. 
 
 " You are master here ?" said the scorn- 
 ful woman, speaking in a slow voice, calm 
 with the force of contemptuous rage. " You 
 master ? and a pretty master ! though I have 
 not forgotten you sneak! spy! cowardly 
 pryer into a wife's actions ! It is not the first 
 time that you have thrust yourself into my way 
 cursed reptile fit companion of that pitiful 
 man," looking at Mr. Delmey. " I shake off 
 the dust of my feet against you, and I go." 
 
 In the same instant, she seized a large jug 
 which stood on the table near her, and dashing 
 it against a pier-glass between the windows, 
 stalked out of the room past the astonished 
 Mrs. Harrison, and the people in the shop, who 
 saw the tall and frowning woman spring without 
 aid of horse-block or hand to her horse, and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 gallop off without taking time to place her foot 
 in the stirrup. 
 
 The wretchedness of poor Francis Delmey, 
 thus outraged before his friends, and before the 
 eyes of servants and common people may be 
 conceived ; but Andrew Harrison comforted and 
 strengthened him, exhorting him by all means 
 to stand firm. Better, he said, be miserable, 
 and keep his substance, than be so, a beggar 
 and his children beggared. Francis Delmey 
 resolved to stand by this counsel, and he imagined 
 that he had triumphed ; but he soon found him- 
 self deceived. The demand for the money was 
 not repeated, things assumed their accustomed 
 course ; but it was only because means had 
 been found to raise the cash in a manner that 
 ere long only opened the unhappy man's eyes to 
 deeper wrong and ruin. Mrs. Delmey had 
 broken open the drawer where he kept the 
 deeds of the estate, and deposited one with her 
 brother for the necessary advances ! 
 
 This Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe had always main- 
 tained a friendly manner towards Mr. Delmey ; 
 on many occasions, which we formerly have seen, 
 had done all in his power to persuade Mrs. 
 Delmey to act with reason and moderation. He 
 had invariably appeared to side with Mr. Delmey
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 219 
 
 in all cases of difference, and to strive to soften 
 down Mrs. Delmey's harshness and overbearing 
 temper. But as life advanced, Mr. Delmey 
 persuaded himself that he saw the spirit of the 
 calculating lawyer growing over Mr. Hinchliffe. 
 He was a thriving man in his profession ; he had 
 sons now growing up in it, who were, to a cer- 
 tain extent, associates of their cousins, the young 
 Delmeys, though they never were allowed to 
 neglect an hour's business for dissipation. The 
 Major, who had fallen into infirm health some 
 years Jbefore, was dead, and since then Mr. 
 Delmey had less and less liked Mr. Coxe 
 Hinchliffe. 
 
 He soon found that he had advanced Mrs. 
 Delmey more than one sum on a valuable deed. 
 When Mr. Delmey remonstrated with him on 
 doing such a thing without direct orders from 
 him, he only replied, smiling : 
 
 " My dear Delmey, how could I do otherwise ? 
 My sister, we all know, exercises unlimited sway 
 at Fulbourne. We know that she will have 
 indulgences for her boys too much, too much, 
 indeed, I do confess ; but then what is to be 
 done? Like other young men of their age, 
 they are just now sowing their wild oats and, 
 in truth, Delmey, I know you would not have 
 
 L 2
 
 220 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 them disgraced. Oh no ! no ! it all amounts 
 to the same thing; if I had not made this 
 advance to Elizabeth, I must have made it to 
 you." 
 
 " Never !" exclaimed Mr. Delmey ; " it is 
 utterly contrary totally opposed to my mind." 
 
 Mr. Coxe Hinchliffe looked for a moment 
 astonished ; but then smiling again, and laying 
 his hand on Mr. Delmey's shoulder, he added : 
 
 " Ah ! Delmey, it is all very well very well 
 for you to say so, but sure I am that when the 
 pinch came it would have been yes, yes, we 
 know how it would have been ; and you see, my 
 dear Delmey, the thing is done and all's over 
 and nobody any wiser. Gad, the lads must 
 be reasonable, though ! I shall talk to them, 
 and to Elizabeth, too, seriously. I promise you 
 it shan't occur again, if I can help it." 
 
 The deed, therefore, had lain in Mr. Hinch- 
 liffe's hands ; things had run on again much to 
 Mr. Delmey's displeasure, who felt a secret sense 
 of debt growing under his feet, though he did 
 not see it, or feel it, till again there was a heavy 
 palpable proof of it, arid he found to his over- 
 whelming grief and indignation that sum after 
 sum had been advanced on that deed by Mr. 
 Hinchliffe.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 221 
 
 It was under these circumstances that Grace 
 Delmey came home. Many a sorrow, many a 
 violent family feud, many an insult and humilia- 
 tion before strangers in his own house, had com- 
 bined their force to wring the heart and bend 
 the spirit of Francis Delmey. Little thought, 
 as Mrs. Delmey had, of the consequences of 
 the thoughtless life which was led at Fulbourne, 
 even that little was unavailing to effect a check 
 upon it. The will of her sons was now domi- 
 nant over her own haughty will ; they could 
 drag from her what they pleased, even when 
 they treated her with the utmost disregard. 
 Often did she pronounce them ungrateful and 
 unfeeling, but in the very same moment she 
 was ready to heap upon them fresh indulgences.
 
 222 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GRACE DELMEY, amid the many things which 
 disturbed and distressed her in the circumstances 
 she found then at home, did not fail to note the 
 depressed and careworn expression of her father. 
 Amid the pleasure which he manifested in her 
 society, there was a melancholy in his manner 
 and his tone that went to her heart. She longed 
 to know what it was more than the general un- 
 kindness of her mother, in which she too amply 
 shared, that weighed on her father's mind. She 
 divined that the gay habits of her brothers, and 
 the associates, who made her sensitive nature 
 recoil in mingled fear and offence, must have a 
 deep portion in the sadness which hung upon
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 223 
 
 him. To her, her brothers were kind, and she 
 did not omit to talk with them on their mode of 
 life, and the grief it occasioned to their father, 
 They had received this, and especially Hinchliffe, 
 not at all ill ; but had said : 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Delmey was too particular ; they 
 must see a little of life and their neighbours. 
 They could not become hermits all at once, or 
 farm oxen either; but all would be right by 
 and bye." 
 
 Grace, in her young and hopeful heart, trusted 
 it would be so. She knew that her mother was 
 always counselling them to marry rich wives 
 telling them they were fine young fellows, who 
 might pick and choose where they pleased, and 
 bidding them pluck an apple from the topmost 
 bough. When, therefore, her father complained 
 of the expenses they had put him to, Grace 
 endeavoured to smile off the painful subject, 
 and to bid her father hope the best ; adding that 
 probably her brothers would marry well and 
 then all would be well. 
 
 The old man only shook his head, saying : 
 
 " Ah ! dear child, if they were only like 
 thee ! but, alas ! alas !" 
 
 To drive away her father's despondency,
 
 224 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Grace often invited him to long walks. They 
 once more traversed the woods and the woody dells 
 round Westwood, and up beyond Lerk. One day 
 they had gone farther than usual, and were 
 sitting amongst the ruins of Lambley Abbey, 
 engaged in deep conversation. The peculiarly 
 soft and beautiful spring day had failed to chase 
 from Mr. Delmey's brow the sadness that had 
 of late so much clouded it ; and, pointing to 
 some flowers that scattered the bushy knolls 
 under the shadow of the old walls at their feet, 
 he repeated Herrick's lines " To Primroses filled 
 with Morning Dew :" 
 
 " Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
 Speak grief in you, 
 Who were but born 
 Just as the modest morn 
 Teem'd her refreshing dew 1 
 Alas ! you have not known that shower 
 That mars a flower, 
 Nor felt the unkind 
 Breath of a blasting wind ; 
 Nor are ye worn with years, 
 
 Or warp'd as we, 
 Who think it strange to see 
 Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
 Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 225 
 
 Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known 
 The reason why 
 Ye droop and weep ; 
 Is it for want of sleep, 
 Or childish lullaby ? 
 Or that ye have not seen as yet 
 The Violet ? 
 Or brought a kiss 
 From that sweet heart to this 1 
 No, no ; this sorrow shown 
 
 By your tears shed, 
 Would have this lecture read : 
 That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
 Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' " 
 
 The tears started into the eyes of Grace, and 
 she implored her father to open his heart to the 
 spirit of the time, and take, if possible, a more 
 cheerful view of things. 
 
 " Ah ! my dearest child," said Mr. Delmey, 
 fixing his eyes on the ground before him ; " fain, 
 for thy sake, would I do it. Fain would I be 
 hopeful and buoyant, as I once was. But I am 
 no longer young, my darling, and a weight hangs 
 on me that pulls me towards the earth. I could 
 bear thy mother's hardness if it were spent only 
 on me ; but, gracious God ! what soul of granite 
 must she have to hats thee, innocent child to 
 hate and tread on thee as she does !"
 
 226 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " No, no, dear father," said Grace, colouring 
 highly and then becoming as pale. " No, do 
 not say that she hates me, father. She never 
 loved me ; that I have always felt, and perhaps 
 deserve. Perhaps I am not one to be loved," 
 added she, despondingly ; " but I have your love, 
 dear father, and I endeavour to be content." 
 
 The tears fell from poor Grace's eyes as she 
 spoke into the vernal grass. 
 
 " Ah, Grace 1" said her father, " it is a mys- 
 tery a dreadful mystery I cannot tell how it 
 is ; but when I look forward, all is so dark, so 
 cold. There is no balm for the grief of a parent 
 over the ruin of his children ! How different 
 how different they should have been if I could 
 have ruled. And how often do I feel that the 
 fault is mine. Ah, dear Grace ! there was once 
 a young creature in these scenes, not so fair, but 
 good, like thee. That dear, loving soul, I know 
 loved me ; but, blind and stupid fool as I was, 
 I did not see it. There was the jewel of an 
 angel-woman's affections lying at my feet, and I 
 saw it not till another hand was put forth and 
 snatched it away. Why do we accuse Provi- 
 dence for our afflictions ? When is it that we do 
 not fashion them for ourselves ? Such a mother 
 might thy brothers and thou have had, and I
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 227 
 
 gave you a Ah, well," said Francis Delmey, 
 dashing the drops from his eye, " but it is all 
 over. God help us." 
 
 " No, dearest father ; all is not over," said 
 Grace, laying her hand fondly on her father's 
 shoulder, and tenderly kissing his uncovered 
 head. " We love each other, dearest father. 
 1 will always be by your side. I will read to 
 you, and sing to you, and I will strive lovingly 
 with my brothers, .and I will not grieve nor 
 resent the harsh treatment of my mother ; and 
 God above may bless us yet, father, and shed a 
 softening influence, and give us bright days 
 yet." 
 
 Grace Delmey smiled through her tears, and 
 her father took her hand, and kissed it fondly, 
 and said : 
 
 " Ah ! Grace, Grace ! thou art a precious 
 comforter ! God Almighty be praised for thy 
 gift to me ! What should I do without thee ? 
 But, my poor, tender child, what shall become of 
 thee ? What shall become of us all ? They 
 are spending our substance they have spent 
 much they will spend more all and then 
 this old place the patrimony of my ancestors 
 for six hundred years will go into the hands 
 of strangers, and my children will be beg- 
 gars !"
 
 228 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " Oh, no ! not so ! " said Grace Delmey, 
 alarmed, and yet striving to comfort him. " It 
 will not be so bad. They cannot they will not 
 be so bad as to do that. My brothers promise 
 me that all shall soon be right." 
 
 " They promise thee poor dear ! Oh ! thou 
 dost not know ! But I have striven, and en- 
 dured, and been buffeted and beaten down by 
 my own flesh and blood. It is too much too 
 much ! Those sons of mine are too strong for 
 me. There are too many banded against me ; 
 and I feel the spirit and strength fail within 
 me. Grace, dear, I shall not live a long life I 
 shall, perhaps, not see the worst ; but I feel it 
 already, like a knife at my vitals. It is here 
 here !" said Francis Delmey, laying his hands on 
 his heart and his forehead. 
 
 Grace wept vehemently now in her turn. 
 There was a prophetic tone in these sad words 
 that went like a knell through her sensitive 
 nature, and she seemed now to see what she 
 ought to have seen before that her father's 
 heart was gradually breaking sinking down 
 under ruined hopes, and blighted, contemned 
 affections. 
 
 " Ah ! what a noble heart lies here o'fcrthrown !" 
 she thought to herself, changing somewhat the
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 229 
 
 words of Shakespere, and inwardly resolved to 
 wrestle with her brothers and her mother to 
 avert the woe she began to start and tremble at, 
 and to redouble her efforts to breathe solace 
 into her dear father's bosom. 
 
 " But, Grace ! Grace ! Oh ! how foolish- 
 how wicked T am !" said her father, rising up, 
 " thus to distress thee ! Be cheerful be cheer- 
 ful ! Things may be better, as thou sayest : 
 there may be a change. God grant it ! But, 
 at all events, I will care for thee, Grace ; they 
 shall not rob not ruin thee. No ! I will see 
 to that." 
 
 "Never mind that, father," said Grace, 
 
 brushing away her tears with her handkerchief, 
 
 and smiling like the sun through a summer 
 
 shower. " I have no fear for myself and, for 
 
 the rest, how happy I am to have such a father ! 
 
 Oh ! let us remember what enjoyments we have 
 
 what a lovely world to live in what a world 
 
 to live for ! What sweet thoughts what poetry 
 
 and what dear, kind friends ! No ! we are 
 
 too faithless too ungrateful !" 
 
 The old man smiled, and, taking his daugh- 
 ter's arm in his, they set out homewards. 
 Grace had touched a pleasant string in her
 
 230 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 father's heart. She had reminded him of new 
 friends that he had found in Westwood, who 
 made, with Andrew Harrison, a little knot that 
 now threw a new gleam of sunshine on the dark 
 path of Francis Delmey, 
 
 These were the new Vicar, Mr. Jeremiah 
 Gould, and Mr. Greatorex, the warm-hearted 
 farmer. The old vicar, Mr. Parsons, had con- 
 tinued to a great age, years of which had been 
 passed in a second childhood, as it is called, 
 though nothing can be more unlike than buoy- 
 ant young life, and the heavy dream of helpless 
 senility. The one is the fresh youth of the 
 morning, the other is the dreariness of 
 night. The one an ascending sun, full of 
 life, and springing up amid glowing colours, 
 and its way paved with diamond-dews and 
 the crystal of waters, the other, the sun drop- 
 ping out of sight amid pale mists. The one 
 is a bundle of existence, bursting on all sides 
 with passions, hopes, curiosity, and enjoy- 
 ment ; the other a spent rocket, trailing its cum- 
 brous stick; a hollow reed, moved by the 
 wintry wind, having no sap left ; a form of life, 
 retaining only as its substance, heaviness and 
 deformity.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 231 
 
 Mr. Parsons had died out thus slowly, and 
 was hurled. Mr. Jeremiah Gould had offi- 
 ciated as curate for more than two years, and, as 
 the living was in the gift of a nobleman to whom 
 Mr. Delmey had rendered frequent services 
 during the county elections, he now lost no 
 time in soliciting this very moderately endowed 
 living for him and succeeded. By this means 
 a most excellent pastor was secured to the 
 parish, and a most congenial friend to him- 
 self. 
 
 Mr. Gould was a tall, grave young man, who 
 had known deep trouhle, with much of which 
 Mr. Delmey was acquainted, and who, therefore, 
 sincerely sympathized with him, A man of 
 more simple and retiring habits could not be 
 conceived. His music, his classics, his sermons 
 and visits to his parishioners, seemed to fill up 
 the whole desired compass of his life. Mr. 
 Delmey could not participate with him in his 
 enjoyment of his original Homer or Plato, but 
 he found a wide field of English mind in which 
 they could go hand in hand, and where, under 
 the guidance of Jeremiah Gould, he made dis- 
 coveries that gave him the most substantial 
 delight.
 
 232 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 About the same time came Mr. Greatorex to 
 the village. He was the nephew of an old 
 farmer that had farmed his own land, and led 
 a remarkably quiet life ; of late years moving 
 slowly about his farm-yard on his two sticks, and 
 often being seen looking out at his farm-yard 
 gate, as if desirous of seeing all the world which 
 passed that way, which, however, was none of 
 the most numerous or piquant. Such as it was, 
 nevertheless, the old man seemed to enjoy it in 
 quiet, making few remarks to anybody. At his 
 death, it was found that he had left his property, 
 consisting of his farm, and a great deal of 
 money, found in sundry drawers in layers of 
 guineas, with paper between them, as if to 
 prevent any discovery of them by their chink- 
 ing, to a nephew in Leicestershire. 
 
 This nephew, Mr. Greatorex, a young married 
 man, soon made his appearance, and settled 
 down on the farm very quietly. As, not only 
 as a neighbour, but as one whose lands adjoined 
 his own, Mr. Delmey soon called on Mr. 
 Greatorex, and found him a man after his own 
 heart. He was evidently a very scantily edu- 
 cated man, but he had a heart of the genuine 
 old English stamp large, generous, bold and
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 233 
 
 independent. He was of a large, powerful 
 frame, and gloried in doing feats of immense 
 work on his farm, as mowing half as much again 
 as any other man, reaping, ploughing, in the 
 same proportion. He boasted as much of a 
 clean, straight furrough, and a piece of prime 
 stock, as a lord of his pedigree. He cared little 
 for fine gentry, for he had lived little amongst 
 them ; and he hated an idle, hulking (lounging) 
 fellow, as he hated the devil. He interested 
 himself extremely in parish affairs, and his 
 constant cry to the paupers, was : 
 
 " Work, lads, work ! Work does nobody no 
 harm, but drat me, if idleness isn't regular 
 rust, that eats into the vitals." 
 
 He would have all kept at something doing 
 men, at out-door work women, at sewing, 
 knitting, and light jobs. He set these to gather 
 stones in spring on his grass lands, though he 
 would never let them weed his corn, for he 
 " could not abide to see 'em trashelling his 
 corn down with their petticoats." But by his 
 constant exertions here, Mr. Greatorex soon 
 cleared the workhouse of most of its inmates. 
 By well paying them at work, and scolding and 
 scorning at them in their idleness, they grew
 
 234 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 hastily ashamed of their old lazy habits, and 
 would rather face a mad bull than Mr. Greatorex, 
 if they were not doing something useful. There 
 were some, only a few, half-idiot people, and 
 a lot of orphan children in the workhouse, and 
 the latter he had a school-mistress found for, 
 and get them out into places as soon as he 
 could. Many a rough-headed, heavy-featured, 
 cadaverous little creature, was soon found scat- 
 tered over the parish at different farms, and 
 gradually growing into more human and healthy 
 shapes, as gate-watchers, cattle-watchers, plough- 
 boys, errand-boys, and the like. 
 
 It was the same at the church. Mr. Greatorex 
 was proud of being churchwarden, and having 
 bell-ringers, sextons, and the churchyard under 
 his care. The churchwardens before him had had 
 padlocks put on the gates of the churchyard, to 
 keep it neat. There was a deal of grumbling 
 that the people could not go to the graves of 
 their friends, nor sit under the trees, except on 
 Sundays, and that only for a short time. Mr. 
 Greatorex, without losing time to hear the 
 grumblers, became wonderfully popular by 
 marching up to the churchyard gate nearest 
 to his house, as a number of men were sitting
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 235 
 
 on that old instrument of moral reform the 
 stocks, and taking out a key, and opening and 
 flinging wide the gate, saying : 
 
 " Go in, lads go in don't sit there on that 
 shameful old piece of timber. While I live, 
 lads, we'll have egress and regress here. I 
 reckon it was so in your father's time, eh, 
 lads?" 
 
 " Yes Sir," said the astonished villagers. 
 
 " And it shall be so in ours, lads," said Mr. 
 Greatorex. " Mr. Gould is the last man to shut 
 out his parishioners from the graves of their 
 friends. Go in, lads go in. I'll ha' seats put 
 under th' two yews, and a little hand-gate at 
 each end, so as the folks can pass through with- 
 out th' great gates being open. And let th' 
 lads play at marbles in th' middle walk, an 
 they will I did so in my time, and no harm 
 came on it as I ever seed. Every man see 
 that th' t'other man, and every lad that th' 
 t'other lad does no mischief, and then there 
 will be none, and we shall a llbe free and easy, 
 every man under his own vine and his own 
 fig-tree." 
 
 " Not many vines or fig-trees, Sir, here 
 though," said a village wag.
 
 236 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " No, lad, no under his own seccomore and 
 yew then, eh ?'' 
 
 The villagers grinned a broad delight, and 
 from that hour Mr. Greatorex was set down 
 as a downright good 'un true to the back- 
 bone. 
 
 A wonderful " league of brotherhood" soon 
 sprang up between the parson, Mr. Delmey, 
 the jolly farmer Greatorex, and Andrew 
 Harrison, of Lerk. All admired the scholar- 
 ship of the Vicar, though Farmer Greatorex 
 said that out of his pulpit, and his books, and 
 his fiddle, and his flowers, and his fishing, he was 
 as innocent as a child, and the merest flat 
 might take him in. The farmer did not con- 
 sider what a list of accomplishments he allowed 
 to the Vicar, they were all Greek alike to him ; 
 but he never could be persuaded that they would 
 be very difficult to acquire if a man had a taste 
 that way, while such a simple, innocent soul 
 as Mr. Gould had mastered them all. But as 
 for fetching solemn sounds out o' that big fiddle 
 of hissen, or for a regular good heart, he'd 
 match Mr. Gould against all England. 
 
 " Lord bless me," he would sometimes say, 
 " why when I'm down in my crofts, ever so
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 237 
 
 early in a morning," his early was about four 
 o'clock in summer, " or if I go out to lean 
 over th' gate at bottom o' th' garden with my 
 pipe ever so late," the farmers latest was nine 
 o'clock, " I'm welly sure to hear th' Vicar 
 humming like a great bumble-bee on his 
 violent-sheller, as he calls it. Beleddy, I think 
 he mun make himself zounds malancholy, for 
 I know na how it is, but when I hear it, it 
 seems to hum, and hum, and hum me away, 
 right down into Leicestershire, and into the old 
 house, where I used to be a lad wi' my fayther 
 and mother ; and then into th' old churchyard, 
 where they lien, God bless 'em, and it makes 
 me zounds queer-like ; and more nor once I've 
 fun myself crying like a big baby, as I wor." 
 
 Farmer Greatorex, however, delighted amaz- 
 ingly to hear the Vicar play, declaring that 
 " upo' th' little fiddle he could play all the 
 country fiddlers to nought ; and drat it ! if it 
 warna for th' louk of th' thing, how he would 
 mak' th' lads and lasses leap at th' wakes, for he 
 seems as if he could make the very bricks i' th' 
 wa's leap out, he gives sich whews and merry- 
 go-do\vns to th' bit a' wood." He was as much 
 delighted, too, to hear him read Greek and
 
 238 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Latin, French and German, though he did not 
 understand a word of it. 
 
 " There was something so grand," he said, 
 " in Greek and Latin, he couldna tell how, but 
 it was like a great wind in a wood to him, and 
 made him see things in his mind, like great 
 men marching about, and armies fighting i' th' 
 clouds." 
 
 " Those Jarmans," he thought, must speak 
 very much in th' sides of their cheeks, for they 
 seemed allis to be saying " gush," and " mush," 
 and he was sure that he often heard English in 
 it as " man" and " twitchel," a midland county 
 word for a narrow road between two walls. 
 The Vicar told him he was right about the 
 English, for there was a deal of English in 
 it, or rather that our English had a deal of 
 German it ; that he was exactly right about 
 " man," and the word that seemed to him 
 twitchel, was "zwischen," between, and no 
 doubt originated the word he mistook it 
 for. In fact, our ancestors were Germans, and 
 we spoke yet a deal of their language. 
 
 "Bobs and sides !" exclaimed Farmer Great- 
 orex. " Then I can talk Jarmun, and niver 
 learnt it. What 'ull th' wife say to that, I
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 239 
 
 wonder ? But as to those French chaps that 
 caps me. They seem to trip their words off 
 their tongue ends like running watter. I can 
 make neither head nor tail on 'em." 
 
 The farmer would often ask the Vicar, when 
 he came in of an evening, as he sate enjoying his 
 pipe, if he had not an outlandish book in his 
 pocket, to read a bit, that Mrs. Greatorex might 
 hear it. A bit of something Greek, or a snak of 
 Jarmun, for he liked to listen for the English 
 words, and would cry out : " Ha ! hang me, if 
 there is not 'house' now, and ' hand,' and ' shoe,' 
 as plain as the parish church, and ' vile.' What 
 vile fellow are ya reading of, Vicar ?" 
 
 The Vicar would laugh at the farmer's 
 guesses, and Mrs. Greatorex wonder how he 
 could like to listen to such odd books, rather 
 than to some rational kind of language ; but 
 Greatorex, said it was " grand, though, though 
 it must ha' been a bit of a bother at Babel. " 
 
 The farmer retained his common sitting- 
 room just as his uncle left it, with the cool 
 brick floor, with a bit of mat in the middle ; 
 the old rush- bottomed chairs, and old-fashioned 
 weather-glass on the wall, and sate in a huge 
 chair with a circular back, and a corner coming 
 exactly in the middle of the front between his
 
 240 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 knees. The sons and daughters that we found 
 on our first visit to Mr. Greatorex's, were, at 
 the time we are now speaking of, only just 
 making their appearance, one after another, on 
 the scene, great chubby children, all limbs and 
 health, some of whom might be found rolling 
 on the floor at his feet, and one or more got 
 into his capacious chair behind him, where, on 
 one occasion, as Mr. Jeremiah Gould was read- 
 ing Homer with great energy, for the edification 
 of the farmer, his son George flourishing a long 
 switch, knocked the farmer's pipe from his 
 mouth, which fell in a dozen pieces on the 
 mat at his feet. 
 
 " Zounds, youngster !" cried the farmer, 
 " that's coming it sharpish, though !" and the 
 Vicar absorbed in his subject, replied : 
 
 " It is ; for you see, Hector being killed, the 
 Trojans are all making for the gates helter- 
 skelter." 
 
 " What's that ?" cried Greatorex in asto- 
 nishment. " Who's killed ? Who are flying 
 helter-skelter ?" 
 
 The Vicar roused, from his reverie, burst 
 into laughter, saying : 
 
 " I had forgot, you did not understand it." 
 
 " Gad ! I only wish I did," said Ben Great-
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 241 
 
 orex, "it must be very grand; but fetch me 
 another pipe, Dame, for th' lad has smashed 
 mine as small as chickens, and nearly switched 
 my nose off into th' bargain." 
 
 But in all that makes the man upright, 
 plain, sound, and genuine there was no finer 
 specimen of humanity than Mr. Ben Greatorex. 
 He was often pondering over his pipe on his 
 friend Delmey's " dome-stick" troubles, as he 
 called them ; and though he shook his head 
 over them, he still mused on to see whether 
 some help could not be found ; and there were 
 some things and persons connected with these 
 matters, that he said, " put his monkey up 
 above a bit." Amongst them was a Mr. Shell- 
 cross, who lived not far from him, in the very 
 house where Captain Panymore had since located 
 himself. 
 
 But more of these things in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 VOL. i.
 
 242 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Miss DELMEY, as I have stated, did not find 
 the society which frequented Fulbourne such 
 as accorded with her tastes. There was a 
 vulgar and unintellectual quality about it, that 
 repelled her. Her father avoided it as much 
 as possible, but she was obliged to be in the 
 midst of it to a certain extent. Her mother, 
 who appeared to think it the most agreeable 
 society on earth, compelled her to appear 
 amongst the guests, and, as she said, to make 
 herself useful. She even insisted that as a 
 farmer's daughter she should assist in cooking, 
 and doing many things about the house that an 
 upper sort of servant might do. Grace Delmey
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 243 
 
 was willing to make herself useful as the 
 daughter of the house, in arranging the embel- 
 lishments of the rooms, in preparing pastries, 
 and other light articles for the table, in looking 
 after the plants and flowers in pots, and in the 
 garden. In all these things, a sense of duty 
 and even her love of elegance went always with 
 her, and made them not unwelcome. But to 
 become a mere drudge, to do menials' work of 
 a dirty and laborious kind, she naturally ob- 
 jected to, and her father forbade. This was a 
 source of fresh bickering and of upbraiding on 
 the part of Mrs. Delmey, who declared that 
 Grace was never good for anything, and now 
 was spoiled by a fine finickin education for ever. 
 She did not refrain from even slapping her, 
 and pushing her to and fro, calling her a proud, 
 stuck-up boarding-school Miss, with not a par- 
 ticle of Hinchliffe blood in her. She would say 
 to people at the house, Grace was good for 
 nothing but to read stupid books like her father 
 her father had made a fine lady of her, and 
 now she thought herself too good for anybody's 
 company. 
 
 This was bad enough, but still worse was the 
 sort of company that she had to bear. What 
 was she to do with people whose talk was not 
 
 M 2
 
 244 MADAM DORR1NGTON. 
 
 so much of bullocks, as horses and racing, and 
 the like, mingled with jokes of the coarsest 
 kind, and language that made her crimson to 
 the very hair ? 
 
 Yet, amongst the young men who frequented 
 Fulbourne, notwithstanding Mrs. Delmey's 
 avowed contempt for her own daughter, there 
 were not a few who were wonderfully taken 
 with her beauty, and did not hesitate to make 
 it known to her. She now found herself per- 
 secuted by the addresses of men whose every 
 taste and word were abominations to her. For 
 a time, anxious to give no real cause of com- 
 plaint to her mother, or fresh cause of uneasiness 
 to her father, she bore it as weE as she could, 
 summoning her utmost spirit, and declining all 
 advances with a firm politeness that could leave 
 no mistake as to her real feelings. It was not 
 easy, however, to rid herself of the importunities 
 of fellows who were more accustomed to horses 
 and dogs, jockies and blacklegs, than refined 
 women ; and the worst of it was that their per- 
 secutions seemed to give the strangest delight 
 to her strange mother. She made these atten- 
 tions subjects of the coarsest and most open 
 banter: wondered what the young gentlemen 
 could see in such a pouting milksop, and rated
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 245 
 
 her stuck-up pride in thinking herself too good 
 for people whose shoes she was not fit to carry. 
 Her dreadful, wild laughter was sometimes 
 heard pouring ridicule on her own child in the 
 midst of these rude and repulsive words, and 
 compelling her to flee to her own room for 
 shelter from the indignities that pursued her. 
 
 But the most noxious and nauseous of these 
 country suitors was a man of the name of 
 Shellcross. John Shellcross, Esq., of Westwood 
 Hall, was a man of at least forty-five. He was 
 a thorough-bred brother of the turf. According 
 to his own account, a desire in some degree to 
 retire from public life had induced him to 
 withdraw from the neighbourhood of New- 
 market and Ascot to " these remote parts." 
 Here, however, he figured largely on all the race- 
 grounds of the midland counties. John Shell- 
 cross, Esq., or, as more familiarly styled by his 
 acquaintance, Jack Shellcross, had taken a large 
 old house recently vacated by the demise of old 
 Squire Unthank. Stables, paddocks, grounds, 
 all now exhibited signs of Squire Shellcross's 
 peculiar calling. There were numbers of brood- 
 mares, and foals ranging the paddocks ; numbers 
 of tall wooden fences to secure them, numbers 
 of sheds for shelter and feeding.
 
 246 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 The stables were occupied with other horses 
 of boasted breeds and pedigrees ; and attended 
 by a particular generation of fellows in close 
 sleeved- jackets with ample flaps, and very 
 baggy breeches, closely fitting at the knees, 
 with rows of buttons running down the very 
 front of the knees, where they met boots with 
 very white tops. There were little light men, 
 as if they had been dried in ovens into old- 
 looking boys again of a certain size and weight ; 
 and there were bigger men riding out, or lead- 
 ing out, horses better clothed than themselves. 
 
 Everything spoke of the race-course, and the 
 breeder for the race-course. Men of a raffish 
 stamp, resembling neither the gentlemen nor 
 common men of "those remote parts," were 
 coming and going, and in fact, John Shellcross, 
 Esq., had evidently a large acquaintance with 
 people, who, however they might differ in size, 
 height, whiskers, or complexion, had all a certain 
 characteristic likeness to himself. 
 
 The man and his animals, of one kind or 
 another, had turned all the heads of the young 
 gentleman and gentlemen farmers the whole 
 country round. They rode by his judgment, 
 bought and sold by it, and betted by it, as far 
 as they could come at it, though this was no
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 247 
 
 easy matter, Squire Shellcross being a good 
 hand at trotting men as well as horses, and 
 delighting to put the green ones on a false scent 
 to their cost. Yet nothing could cure the 
 mania that he had introduced. Some were 
 soon ruined, but it was only attributed to their 
 want of nous, and penetration ; other flies, who 
 thought themselves more knowing, rushed into 
 the flame. They bought John Shellcross's 
 stock as foals at huge prices ; they trained as 
 John Shellcross trained ; they ran and betted, 
 and were ruined in their turn. No matter, 
 they were only added to the list of shallow 
 ones, and the wise, in their own conceit, took 
 their places. 
 
 John Shellcross talked familiarly of His 
 Royal Highness of Cumberland, his Grace 
 of Leeds, my Lord Wharton, and the Dukes 
 of Queensborough and Dorset, the Hon. 
 Dick Vernon, and such men ; and his dupes 
 talked of them, too, and added John Shell- 
 cross, Esq., to the list of those magnates in 
 the moonshine of whose acquaintance they or 
 their chief imagined or pretended to live. 
 Shellcross, of course, was mightily sought after 
 by all this tribe of rural aspirants to race-course 
 renown, and lived in clover, or rather on roast-
 
 248 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 beef and good port at the houses of good 
 cheer far and wide in " these remote parts." 
 
 In these places he was an oracle, and eager 
 ears were opened wide for the profitable wisdom 
 that was expected to drop out of his mouth 
 in the genial hours of hospitality. He was a 
 tall well-built fellow, clad in a green coat, cut 
 very square in the collar, with large gilt buttons, 
 broad embroidered cuffs, a scarlet waistcoat, with 
 embroidered flaps and pockets, and a full ruffle 
 at his breast. He wore the softest and richest 
 of doe-skins, with light jack-boots just capping 
 the knees. A cocked hat, edged round with a 
 gold binding, at that day, the peculiar mark of a 
 brother of the turf, surmounted a head of hair, 
 tossed up high before, thickly powdered, and 
 queued behind. In his hand John Shellcross 
 always bore his stout whip. 
 
 This fellow, who was looked on as a perfect 
 pattern of a fine gentleman of the turf, the 
 fac-simile of dukes and marquises of his hand- 
 and-glove acquaintance, especially of Old Q y 
 as he called him, the Duke of Queensborough, 
 not only set the fashion amongst the young 
 men, but turned the heads, even at forty-five, of 
 numbers of the young ladies, who had never in 
 those days of dismal roads, slow coaches, no
 
 MADAM DORR1NGTON. 249 
 
 rails and plenty of highwaymen, been twenty 
 miles out of " those remote parts." His fresh 
 complexion, roguish eyes, and free language, 
 were all looked at, listened to, blushed and 
 tittered over, but inly pronounced to be quite 
 bewitching. The old hall of the late Squire 
 Unthank, and all its rich fields and fine 
 grounds, no doubt were not forgotten in the 
 catalogue of Squire Shellcross's fascinations. 
 
 This blade was an especial favourite of the 
 young Delmeys ; and as Fulbourne was so near, 
 not a week passed without his being found 
 there, talking with all his oracular authority, 
 and listened to with reverence by the young 
 men, and with admiration by Mrs. Delmey. 
 He was too much of the Jem Hattersley school 
 not to please her taste. She pronounced him a 
 perfect gentleman, and pointed him out as an 
 example for the young sparks of the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 John Shellcross was struck with astonishment 
 at the very first sight of Grace Delmey, and he 
 did not affect to conceal it. " What ! was it 
 possible," he exclaimed, " that these obscure, 
 remote parts could produce such a miracle as 
 that ? He could not have believed it, had he not 
 seen her mother. Gad !" said he, " that is a 
 
 M 3
 
 250 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 bit of breed, however ! What figure ! what 
 action ! what clearness of limb, and fire of 
 eye. Nay, all England could not beat that." 
 In short, Squire Shellcross exhausted all the 
 language of the turf to describe one of the most 
 delicate and refined of God's human handiworks. 
 
 Grace Delmey heard him with horror and 
 inexpressible disgust. Mrs. Delmey laughed 
 one of her wild laughs, and declared that if he 
 liked her he should have her with all her 
 heart. 
 
 " Done, Madam, by Jove !" said the centaur, 
 and slapped her extended hand with his huge 
 paw, giving her a shake fit for the fist of a 
 grazier. He considered the bargain really 
 made, and lost little time in accosting Grace on 
 the subject. 
 
 We need not record the language in which he 
 presented his addresses it was that of the 
 stable. Miss Delmey, though gentle, and 
 outwardly somewhat timid, had the spirit of 
 her mother under better guidance, and re- 
 pulsed the vulgar pretender with a disdain that 
 somewhat astonished, but did not deter him. 
 
 " Gad !" he declared " he liked the wench 
 for her spirit. It was a proof of blood. A 
 fig for a tame thing, dull as a cart-horse. No,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 251 
 
 he liked to see a filly that would not bear 
 handling all at once. But by-and-by, a 
 little coaxing, a little taste of the spur from 
 the mother, a little patting on the neck, and 
 they should see. All in good time," said he, 
 to Mrs. Delmey, " with your help, Madam, 
 we'll install Miss Delmey at the old hall up 
 there as queen of the stud never fear." 
 
 The young Delmeys, though they did not 
 press their sister on the point, yet were far from 
 averse to the match. They thought such an 
 establishment as Westwood Hall not to be 
 sneezed at. But as to Mr. Delmey, he was 
 almost frantic with indignation. " What he ! 
 that fellow half man, half horse that walking 
 composition of coarseness and swindling, he 
 presume to breathe a word, or cast a look on 
 Grace !" The old man declared to Mrs. Del- 
 mey, with more spirit than he had ever exhi- 
 bited on his own behalf, that if she dared to 
 encourage any such detestable design, he would 
 sooner sell Fulbourne, stick, stone, and sod, and 
 depart with Grace, leaving her and the lads to 
 take care of themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Delmey retorted with unbridled indigna- 
 tion, declaring that it was a match a thousand 
 times too good for the girl. " What, a fine
 
 252 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 handsome, man like Mr. Shellcross, with a plan 
 like Westward Hall, to have the nose of such a 
 plain, wishy-washy girl as Grace turned up at 
 them ? Who did she think would have her if 
 she missed this chance ?" 
 
 Mr. Delmey left her to talk, and sought Grace 
 to comfort and strengthen her. She had need of 
 it for every opportunity was afforded to Shell- 
 cross by this strange mother to prosecute his 
 suit, and Grace soon found that she was no- 
 where safe from his importunities. If she 
 walked out, he contrived to meet her; if she 
 rode, he joined her; if she stayed at home, he 
 came, and was admitted. It was with deep 
 sorrow that she began to reflect that to avoid 
 the pollution of his presence and his language, 
 she should be compelled to escape from Ful- 
 bourne, and leave her father to the wretchedness 
 which he suffered, to suffer it alone. The need 
 came without delay. 
 
 Grace Delmey was sitting in the parlour, on 
 a miserable wet evening in February, reading. 
 Her father was at Westwood. Neither Jere- 
 miah Gould, Farmer Greatorex, nor Andrew 
 Harrison, ever now entered the doors of Ful- 
 bourne. They all there joined with equal inten- 
 sity in disliking the society there too often
 
 MADAM DORRIKGTON. 253 
 
 found ; but Shellcross was especially an abhor- 
 rence to them. The Vicar regarded him as a 
 rural pestilence in the neighbourhood, and Ben 
 Greatorex did not disguise his contempt of 
 him and his stud. 
 
 " For my part," said Greatorex, " I like a 
 good horse as well as any man alive ; but then I 
 must have some bone as well as muscle. Of 
 what use are these slim, broom-tail, weak 
 things, that must always be clothed, and dandled, 
 and have a whole parish of fellows to attend them, 
 only to run a race now and then, and encourage 
 gambling ? Is that the use of horses ? Use of 
 broomsticks ! A hunter ! ay, that is an animal 
 now. There is some bone and substance, and 
 it can be turned to some good account. But 
 for these willow-wands of racers, with all the 
 blacklegged vermin at their heels, I wish to 
 Heaven the country was cleared of 'em. Not 
 a thing of that stamp shall darken my stable 
 door, nor eat a grain of my corn. And as for that 
 Shellcross, if you do not some of these days see 
 him off as fast as his fleetest horse can carry 
 him, then my name is not Ben Greatorex. I' 
 faith, but when he runs his last heat from ' these 
 remote parts/ as he calls them, he'll not carry 
 much weight, but he'll leave it behind. O laws !
 
 254 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 O laws ! what a smash and a crash there will 
 be one of these days. He may talk of his Grace 
 this, and my Lord that, and of an odd score 
 thousand or too, being quite enough for ' these 
 obscure shades,' but, bless me ! if I would give 
 a sucking-pig for the reversion of all he's 
 got. And the beggar dares to look at Grace 
 Delmey !" 
 
 The farmer clenched his fist, as Mr. Delmey 
 told him this last piece of news, and seemed to 
 long savagely to plant one blow on the powdered 
 crown of the horse-racer. But suddenly calming 
 himself, and putting his tankard toward Mr. 
 Delmey, as he rammed his tobacco into his 
 pipe: 
 
 " Well ! well ! Mr. Delmey, patience ; wait a 
 bit ! There's a God still for those that trust in 
 Him, and a devil to fetch his own." 
 
 At the moment that Francis Delmey was 
 listening to these ardent sentiments of Ben 
 Greatorex, Grace, as we have said, was sitting 
 reading by the light of the fire, in the parlour at 
 Fulbourne. The whole house seemed still. Her 
 brothers were out, and her mother often at this 
 hour was found seated in the kitchen, catechising 
 the farm men at their suppers over the work of 
 the day, and laying down the plans for the
 
 MADAM DORR1NGTON. 255 
 
 morrow. In the midst of the silence, the door 
 softly opened, and Shellcross entered. 
 
 Grace Delmey started to her feet at the hated 
 sight, and prepared to fly ; but the fellow, with 
 a grin of triumph, motioned her to remain 
 where she was, and turning the key of the door, 
 he bade her, in a suppressed voice, to command 
 herself, and listen. 
 
 " Don't frighten yourself, Miss Delmey," he 
 said ; "I mean to do you no harm, though the 
 coast is clear, and it's no use wincing or scream- 
 ing. Your mother is here, and your father is 
 out. Your brothers are away, and my lads, 
 true as steel, are standing sentinel all round the 
 house to keep off intruders. So now, I just 
 want a few sensible words with you ; and you 
 will find it best to listen, at all events." 
 
 " Speak, then !" said Grace Delmey, endea- 
 vouring to conceal her alarm under an appear- 
 ance of courage : " speak, and begone, for I 
 have nothing to answer to anything you have to 
 say." 
 
 "Not so, my pretty dear," said the fellow, 
 drawing nearer, and smiling hideously ; " not 
 so, sweet one. You have not heard yet what 
 1 am going now to tell you. You have a 
 deuced spirit of your own, like your worthy
 
 256 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 mother that I can see plain enough. But I've 
 got a spirit, too, Miss, and think I've danced 
 after your whims long enough. When I find a 
 filly wont take the bit and obey the hand, but 
 shows vice, and kicks like the devil, why I just put 
 the tackle tightly on her, and make her submit 
 to her master. Well, that's just the thing now, 
 Miss Delmey. You seem determined not to come 
 to by any fair means, so we mean to try ano- 
 ther fetch. Your mother is willing here is a 
 special licence a friend of mine, a parson, is 
 at hand and that's just what it is, my dear. 
 We shall be married at once, and on the spot ; 
 and so an end of all nonsense." 
 
 Grace, during this notable harangue, felt as 
 if ice were settling round her heart, and a palsy 
 seizing on all her limbs ; but thanks to the spirit 
 derived from her wicked mother to that spirit 
 in its purer strength, and as strong for truth 
 and justice she did not betray herself by 
 weakness. 
 
 She had cast a glance at the door and at the 
 windows, which Shellcross noticing, had nodded 
 and smiled at, as if to say : " All right there, 
 and there too ; all has been thought of." But 
 her eye had, in the search, fallen on an object 
 which the villain did not perceive. It was a
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 257 
 
 brace of horse-pistols, which hung on hooks by 
 the side of the chimney near her ; and without 
 saying a word, Grace Delmey took them down, 
 raised the pan of one, saw it was primed, and 
 her courage flushed into her face with a crimson 
 more brilliant than the blush which the loose 
 language of this man had ever called into her 
 cheek. 
 
 " Wretch !" she exclaimed, " is it thus you 
 dare to enter my father's house ? Is it thus 
 you dare to speak to me ? Remove from that 
 door remove to that end of the room, or 
 by the God I love and fear I will shoot you 
 dead !" 
 
 At this unexpected sight, and at the memory 
 of Grace's spirit, the villain cowed, as if already 
 struck a deadly blow, and followed the command 
 of the armed maiden. Grace occupied the spot 
 on which he had stood the moment he vacated 
 it, and, deliberately opening the door, beheld 
 her own mother standing before it. Startled 
 as she was at this spectacle, the guilty mother 
 was startled far more ; and Grace passing her, 
 at once issued from the front door, and sprung 
 into the darkness. 
 
 It was, fortunately for her, a night of the 
 intensest blackness ; but the rain was falling in
 
 258 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 torrents, and driving before a wind deadly cold. 
 But these were nothing to the dangers from 
 which she fled, and she flew on. With a 
 presence of mind, which she probably derived 
 again from that maternal source whence she had 
 derived so many ills, she threw a fold of her 
 gown over the pistols to keep the locks dry, and 
 ran for her life. 
 
 Every moment, as she passed the garden-gate, 
 which clapped behind her, and advanced over the 
 lawn in front, she expected a challenge from 
 some of the slaves of her persecutor ; but 
 whether he had only told her of their being 
 posted there to daunt her, or they had deserted 
 their posts on account of the storm, no such 
 sentinels were perceived. She knew 7 the way, 
 every inch of it, as if it were noon-day, and 
 she ran on, the rain drenching her dress and 
 pouring down her uncovered locks ; and, taking 
 gate after gate in the direction of Westwood, 
 but at some distance from the road, she found 
 herself in ten minutes, within the croft below 
 the garden of the Vicar, at whose house she 
 hoped to find her father. Here she paused a 
 moment for breath, and then climbing the wall, 
 hurried up the garden. Anon there was a 
 tremendous barking of dogs, which occupied
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 259 
 
 several kennels by the side of the house, and 
 out rushed Mr. Toby, demanding who was 
 there ? At the sound of Grace Delmey's voice, 
 the astonished man exclaimed : " Miss Del- 
 mey ! in such a night ! Good gracious ! 
 Madam, what can be amiss ?" 
 
 Grace, too much exhausted to answer except 
 by hastening forward, came now within Mr. 
 Toby's light ; the dogs who had also recognised 
 her were cowering and leaping about her. At 
 the sight of her wild look, her drenched dress, 
 and each hand bearing a huge horse-pistol, the 
 poor fellow staggered backwards, screaming 
 " Oh Lord ! oh, heavens ! Miss Delmey ! 
 Mrs. Toby ! Mrs. Toby '.help ! help ! Good 
 God above ! Oh " 
 
 In the midst of these outcries, Mrs. Toby 
 had appeared, and joined them with a fearful 
 screech ; ,and, Mr. Gould rushing from his room 
 in his long dressing-gown, caught Grace, who 
 sank into his arms all cold, wet, and wild with 
 terror, like some creature suddenly escaped from 
 drowning ! 
 
 Before any explanation could be afforded, 
 poor Grace had fainted, and was laid, uttering 
 several deep hysterical groans, on the Vicar's 
 sofa. This added extremely to the alarm of
 
 260 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 the good people, who knew only what they 
 saw, and imagined no other than that Miss 
 Delmey was dying. The agitated Jeremiah 
 Gould at once threw himself on his knees, and 
 wiping Grace's pale and rain-drenched face and 
 hair with his handkerchief, at the same time 
 prayed fervently to God to help and save the 
 dear maiden. Mrs. Toby stood wringing her 
 hands and crying excessively, and Mr. Toby, 
 wild with fright, trembled, and was dumb. 
 
 In another moment the Vicar started up, 
 crying : " What do we ? fly ! seek help ! No ! 
 I will go ;" and rushed towards the door. But 
 Mr. Toby, finding his voice, exclaimed : " No, 
 no, no ! stay here. I '11 run." Both were 
 hurrying off together, when Mrs. Toby shouted: 
 " Stop ! she is moving ! she is coming about !" 
 and the two men turned back, saw Miss Del- 
 mey had opened her eyes, was raising herself 
 on her elbow, and saying she was better. 
 The overjoyed Jeremiah Gould once more flung 
 himself down by her side, seized her hand, and 
 kissing it fervently, said : " God be praised ! 
 dear Grace, what is it ? but no, never mind ; 
 Mrs Toby, bring a glass of wine. There, dearest 
 child, calm yourself. There, there, rest against 
 the back of the sofa. But merciful Heaven !
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 261 
 
 how wet you are ! and your arm bleeds ! 
 Run, Toby, run for the doctor !" 
 
 Mr. Toby was bolting once more into the 
 doorway, when Grace called to him to stop 
 and the Vicar leapt up, and ran, and cried : 
 " Stop !" And Mr. Toby, who was already in 
 the very heart of a flower-border, in his haste 
 and distraction, came back, and asked : " What 
 next ? What he should do ?" 
 
 " I don't know yet," said the Vicar ; " let us 
 learn from Miss Delmey." And so once more 
 they came back to her side, and she told them 
 not to alarm themselves, as all was well now. 
 She would beg some dry clothes from Mrs. 
 Toby, or she would go to bed, and get rid of 
 her dripping garments. The active, though 
 stout Mrs. Toby soon had a warming-pan of 
 coals in her hand, and led the way to her own 
 room, where she said the bed was well-aired. 
 Here she put on clean sheets, while Miss Delmey 
 tore away her already torn and clinging dress, 
 and warming the bed, soon saw Miss Delmey 
 comfortably disposed. This done, Grace feeling 
 this to be an occasion on which ceremony must 
 be waived, bade her ask Mr. Gould to come to 
 her, and there related the occasion of her sudden 
 and extraordinary appearance.
 
 262 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 It would exceed any powers of language to 
 express the horror and indignation of the good 
 Vicar, or that of the incensed Mrs. Toby. The 
 Vicar wondered what would be the extent of 
 mischief which this bad man would be suffered 
 to perpetrate here. As for Mrs. Toby, she 
 rushed down stairs to communicate the atrocity 
 to her husband ; and the exclamations and 
 execrations of the worthy pair, at the audacious 
 wickedness of that pestilent fellow, Shellcross, 
 were enough to have shattered the house win- 
 dows, if any explosion of human indigna- 
 tion could effect such a thing. Mr. Gould, 
 however, came down, and sent Mr. Toby to see 
 whether Mr. Delmey was possibly at Mr. Great- 
 orex's, who forthwith speedily disappeared, and 
 returned with the equally astonished and alarmed 
 Mr. Delmey and Farmer Greatorex. 
 
 Of the meeting of the father and daughter 
 under these circumstances, and of the wrath 
 and vows of vengeance of Mr. Greatorex, and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Toby, and the sad sorrow of 
 Jeremiah Gould over this display of human 
 depravity, and this family severance of unity 
 and concord, we shall say little here. It was 
 now clearly seen and declared that Fulbourne 
 was no longer the place for Grace Delmey.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 263 
 
 The father and daughter, who felt keenly 
 the necessity of parting for a time, acknowledged 
 most fully the necessity of it. Grace wept 
 bitterly over the thought of leaving her father to 
 suffer the griefs and indignities which beset him 
 alone. But it was requisite that she should go ; 
 and it was resolved that she should forthwith 
 leave Westwood for London, to seek, under 
 the roof of her aunt, peace and protection for 
 the present.
 
 264 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE event which concluded the last chapter 
 created, as it may be supposed, no little sensation 
 so far as it became known ; but at present it 
 did not pass beyond the families of the Vicar 
 and Mr. Greatorex. It was considered of much 
 consequence to secure the departure of Grace 
 for London, before it became known even to 
 her mother or to Shellcross, where she had taken 
 refuge. It was, after discussion, concluded that 
 she should leave the county-town by the mail, 
 which passed through at twelve o'clock at night. 
 This would afford them the opportunity of 
 seeing her safe there, without observation and 
 without any one knowing of her exit, or the 
 direction she had taken.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 265 
 
 Andrew Harrison, whose. son John was now 
 settled and doing well in London, proffered to 
 accompany her. He wanted to see his son; 
 and the arrangement of Grace going under his 
 steady protection, was peculiarly acceptable both 
 to herself and her father. 
 
 It was apprehended that some difficulty might 
 arise in procuring Grace's clothes, but none was 
 met with. Mr. Greatorex accompanied Mr. Del- 
 mey down to Fulbourne, in a chaise from the 
 village inn. They drove up, at noon the next 
 day, to the door, which they found standing 
 open. A maid-servant made her appearance at 
 the sound of the wheels, but, on seeing Mr. 
 Delmey, again withdrew. No Mrs. Delmey 
 was visible ; and, furnished with Grace's keys, 
 and a paper of written directions, her father 
 drew forth and packed in a couple of trunks all 
 that she had noted down, and putting them 
 into the chaise, drove away. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Delmey was absent, or felt 
 some degree of shame at the part she had taken, 
 we have never heard; but she was nowhere 
 to be "seen. 
 
 The friends met in the evening at the Vicarage, 
 where they spent the last hours of Grace's stay 
 together, when they wished Grace much amuse- 
 
 VOL. i. N
 
 , 
 
 266 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 ment in London, and a speedy and happy return 
 to her native place. As the hour arrived for 
 setting out, poor Grace, with many tears, took 
 leave of the Vicar and Mr. and Mrs. Toby ; the 
 latter two, with endless bows and courtesies, and 
 eyes red with tears, accompanied her to the 
 garden gate, where the chaise stood. Here, 
 Mr. Greatorex driving, Andrew Harrison seated 
 beside him, wrapped jn his great-coat, with 
 many capes, and Grace and her father inside by 
 themselves, that they might have opportunity 
 to talk, the wheels rolled on, and Grace Delmey 
 was on her way to the great metropolis. 
 
 They passed as quietly as possible through 
 the village, that they might excite no attention, 
 and then Mr. Greatorex gave his horse the 
 whip. Through the dark night they drove on, 
 Mr. Greatorex giving Andrew a whole volume 
 of directions how to proceed on the journey, 
 in order to consult Grace's comfort and his 
 own. 
 
 " Thou art not much of a traveller, thou 
 seest, Andrew, and there are sharp fellows on 
 the road, as well as in London. See the poor 
 girl's luggage put safely into the boot with thy 
 own ; yes, man see it don't take any of 
 these fine gentlemen of guards' word for it.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 267 
 
 See it in, and then thou may see it come out 
 again which is ten to one if thou does, if 
 thou canst not say : 'I saw it put in myself.' 
 Give an eye, Andrew, too, when passengers are 
 going away at different times see that none of 
 them say, ' That's mine,' when thy trunk is 
 lugged out that is, Grace's. Mind them two 
 points, and then all's safe, as far as th' luggage 
 is consarned. But, at the same time, dunna 
 look suspicious, Andrew. Be chatty and so- 
 ciable like with the coachman and guard. You'll 
 be inside fares, and it doesn't answer for insides 
 to be stingy. There's no occasion for that, 
 Andrew thou's plenty, and thy son's plenty. 
 God bless me ! why, I reckon we shall hear of 
 his being Lord Mayor one of these days ; and, 
 drat me, lad, if it ever should be so, I'll go up 
 to Lunnun to see th' show. Well, thou's 
 plenty, and John's plenty, and our friend Delmey 
 has plenty ; or rather, I should say, would ha', 
 if it warna for that tarnation woman," here 
 he sunk his voice, and poked his nose close 
 into Andrew's huge neckerchief " and those 
 prodigal sons o' hissun. Well then, Andrew 
 my boy, remember and do the thing handsome. 
 Treat the coachman and guard to a glass of hot 
 brandy and water now and then. WTien the 
 
 N 2
 
 268 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 coach stops to change horses, just step out to 
 look at th' weather, and say : ' I think it's a 
 cold night, gentlemen ; would not you like a 
 glass of summut hot ?' Guy, lad ! thou'll find 
 it wunna be lost on 'em. It'll make all easy 
 it'll grease th' coach wheels, depend on it, An- 
 drew ; and thou'll find all thy traps safe at th' 
 journey's end ; though I should still keep an eye on 
 'em mysen, like a knowing and careful traveller. 
 " But above all, Andrew, look after poor 
 Grace. She's niver been from home, only to 
 school i'the next town, and that's only like 
 home ; and, poor thing, she'll be fretting about 
 leaving th' fayther, and th' owd haunts like, it's 
 natral. Drat it ! she canna fret much about 
 leaving th' mother, only for her unkindness ; 
 and so thou mun have a care and hold thy self 
 awake, Andrew, as much as thou can. Thou 
 hears, Andrew hold thyself awake, through 
 th' night like, to talk comfortably to th' poor 
 lass ; and tell her all the fine places, and things, 
 and fine folks, that she'll see in Lunnun 
 thou's bin there to John's wedding so as to 
 make her forget to sit samming over the fayther 
 and the old friends here, and th' mother's un- 
 kindness. Dost ta hear me, Andrew ? That's 
 just the point I'm afeerd on. Thou's bin
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 269 
 
 so regular in thy habits, going to bed so early, 
 and Lerk such a still place, that what I fear is 
 that thou'll be sleeping, and may happen snor- 
 ing ; and that wunna be good manners before a 
 young lady ; and the poor thing will be samming 
 to hersen and fretting, and thou never the 
 wiser. 
 
 "And just one word more, Andrew: when- 
 ever th' coach stops, be sure to see that th' 
 poor thing gets out, and stretches her legs a bit, 
 and goes into th' inn and has summut warm. 
 Remember that, Andrew. Dunna let th' poor 
 thing sit starving and cramping ith' corner o' 
 th' coach. I know these young things. They 
 dunna like to turn out when they're once fixed. 
 They dunna like to see onything strange, and 
 they have not courage to go and have any- 
 thing that they should have. Thou mun look 
 to it Andrew, eh ? Thou wilt ? And see that 
 she has always her dinner, and breakfast, and 
 tea ; and makes a good hearty job on it too, for 
 there's all th' same to pay. But here we are, 
 beleddy, at th' coach inn. Drat it, my mare 
 must ha' spanked away though. Remember, 
 Andrew, all I've told thee, or drat thee, lad ! if 
 I hear a poor account on thee, 111 scold thee 
 when thou comes back."
 
 270 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 Here they pulled up at the inn door, where 
 they had to wait for the mail ; and after sitting 
 round a blazing fire for some time, and taking 
 " summut warm," according to the farmer's 
 phrase, and the hearty farmer talking all he 
 could to keep their spirits up, the horn blew 
 there was a call, " The mail is going to start"- 
 and Grace and her father embracing, there was 
 a rapid shaking of hands, and " God bless you" 
 exchanged, and away rolled Andrew and his fair 
 charge. 
 
 Farmer Greatorex's instructions to Andrew 
 were of more importance than they would be 
 now-a-days, for they did not expect to reach 
 London till the morning of the second day. A 
 coach going thither then was a serious aifair, 
 and behoved a traveller to attend to his comforts, 
 especially in winter time, as this was. 
 
 We have been so much occupied by the main 
 events of our history, that we have let Andrew 
 Harrison's affairs drop somewhat out of sight. 
 We may therefore say here, that his business 
 affairs flourished ; his shop, his malting, and his 
 farming; and Andrew was a substantial man. 
 His son John had grown up staid and thriftily 
 inclined, and appearing likely to be another 
 Andrew, when Andrew was gone. Like his
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 271 
 
 father, he was a man of few words and quiet 
 habits, and seemed to look after all the concerns 
 as if they were a matter of taste, rather than 
 anything else. Everything appeared to indicate 
 that Andrew might soon retire from the care of 
 the business, and see it prospering in the hands 
 of the sole son, to whom it must descend, when 
 an unexpected event produced a very unexpected 
 result. John Harrison, as he approached man's 
 estate, quiet as he was, expressed a wish to go up 
 to London, and see the ways of business there. 
 
 Andrew and the mother were both surprised 
 and somewhat disconcerted at this proposal. 
 They said that, for aught they could see, John 
 knew everything that was necessary at Lerk ; 
 but John thought that in London he should 
 come at something like the roots of things. He 
 had a notion, that by purchasing their goods in 
 the county-town, they had to pay a much higher 
 rate, and probably for a much lower quality, 
 than they might be obtained for from the great 
 merchants direct. He reminded his father, that 
 now there were canals, and goods might be 
 brought down from London to within a couple 
 of miles of Lerk, at a reasonable rate ; and that 
 by opening up a connection with these first-rate 
 houses, they might secure to themselves much
 
 272 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 larger profits, and at the same time greatly 
 extend their business by the superiority and 
 variableness of their articles. 
 
 These ideas were so just, and denoted so 
 much sound sense and business-like capacity in 
 a young head, that while both parents felt a 
 great reluctance to part with their son so unex- 
 pectedly, and to intrust him amid the dangers 
 and temptations of the great metropolis, An- 
 drew could not but admit that it would be 
 wrong to throw any obstacle in the way of so 
 reasonable a proposal. He consulted his friend 
 Delmey upon it ; and he entered into it with 
 such cordiality, that he wrote at once to his 
 sister, Mrs. Van Orren, in London, requesting 
 her to procure a situation for the aspiring 
 young tradesman the most advantageous to his 
 views. 
 
 There could be possibly no better house for a 
 young man who wished to acquire a full know- 
 ledge of general trade than that in which Mrs. 
 Van Orren herself still retained an interest. 
 The great house of Van Orren and Khesteven, 
 which had for half a century or more carried on 
 an immense general business, including not 
 only the heavy articles of sugars and other 
 groceries, but a miscellaneous assemblage of
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 273 
 
 such as were wanted in the provincial towns, 
 and still more in the country supplied by these 
 towns; had also, from their Dutch origin, a 
 large traffic in toys, and had commissions for a 
 number of commodities which their travellers 
 could supply on the best terms all over the 
 kingdom. 
 
 The husband of Mrs. Van Orren, who had 
 now been deceased ten or twelve years, had 
 stood at the head of the firm for thirty 
 years after the death of his father. Having 
 never had any children himself, he had be- 
 queathed the bulk of his property to his three 
 nephews, who were partners and managers of the 
 Amsterdam branch of the business, leaving, 
 however, his widow a very handsome annuity 
 out of the profits of the trade, which was so 
 secured, that should this firm be dissolved, an 
 event, which was as likely as the fall of the Monu- 
 ment, the same income should still be paid to 
 her out of the real estate bequeathed to these 
 said nephews. 
 
 Madam Van Orren as she was called, from 
 her Anglo-Dutch connection, who was older 
 considerably than her only brother Francis 
 Delmey, was therefore in affluent circum- 
 stances. Drawing her wealth from the business, 
 
 N 3
 
 274 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 she still regarded herself as belonging to it 
 and lived on the most friendly terms with the 
 head of the English branch, Mr. Khesteven, 
 the partner of her late husband. It required, 
 therefore, only a word from her to install John 
 Harrison in the warehouse of Van Orren and 
 Khesteven, with the assurances of Mr. Khes- 
 teven , that if the young man showed a talent for 
 trade, and a sobriety and diligence, such as 
 would be expected from the son of a man 
 honoured by the friendship of Mr. Francis 
 Delmey, all the advantages of acquiring the 
 fullest knowledge of business should be thrown 
 open to him. 
 
 This intelligence coming down to Mr. Del- 
 mey, he hurried over to Lerk with it, and on the 
 letter being read, honest Andrew could not help 
 exclaiming : " There, by the mass, John, but 
 you have a fine opening for all that Lunnon can 
 teach you, however ! Mind, my lad, that it 
 does not turn your head." 
 
 John Harrison, who was then only about 
 twenty, could not help showing amid his 
 quiet manner a strong flush on his cheek, and 
 a twinkling brightness of the eye as he heard 
 these tidings. A few weeks saw him safely 
 transferred to town, and duly posted in the
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 275 
 
 extensive warehouses of Van Orren and Khes- 
 teven. Good and respectable lodgings, under 
 the eye of both Madam Van Orren and Mr, 
 Khesteven, had been provided for him, and a 
 new world was open to the quiet and sober 
 young man. This world was by no means the 
 outer world of wonderful London, for John 
 Harrison seldom indulged himself in any 
 wider perambulations through its crowded 
 streets, than business commissions led him on 
 week days, or church on Sundays. The w r orld 
 of real interest to him was the world of Van 
 Orren and Khesteven's warehouses, with all 
 the articles of commerce, bills of lading, cus- 
 toms' dues, tares, trets, discounts, and the like 
 belonging to them. 
 
 John Harrison found in these a world of 
 wonderful study, they were his college of 
 education. The qualities and prices of all 
 these various articles of merchandise ; the va~ 
 rious countries whence they came, and the 
 various packages in which they came, were 
 matters that deeply and most pleasurably oc- 
 cupied his mind. There were numbers of 
 features about many of these which might 
 have wafted a poetical imagination to many a
 
 276 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 country, scene, and people that might have 
 combined themselves into a romance of the 
 highest description. They might have pre- 
 sented the Indian in his tropical forests and 
 fields, cultivating the rice, or gathering gums 
 and incenses, the African pursuing the ele- 
 phant, or bleeding the palm. ,Tbey might 
 have whirled him to China or Japan, or set 
 him down amid the icebergs and sea monsters 
 of the Polar Regions Summer lands and 
 winter huntings, and scenes full of marvel- 
 lously beautiful islands, and tribes of gorgeous 
 marine flowers and creatures innumerable, would 
 have painted themselves on such a brain. 
 
 But John Harrison saw nothing of these, as 
 the huge tusk of the elephant lay on the ware- 
 house floor, the drums of figs, or the mats of 
 sugar that were piled upon it, or singular chests, 
 and more singular jars, arrested his attention. 
 He saw only things which cost so much in bond, 
 and were capable of fetching so much per cent., 
 when all expenses of warehousing, assorting, 
 packing, and sales by travellers in distant 
 markets were added. The eyes of Khesteven 
 and Co. were upon John Harrison, and they 
 soon perceived that he was one of the true sort 
 -"a genuine genius for business.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 2? 7 
 
 Twelve months' of most satisfactory duty in 
 the warehouse of Van Orren and Khesteven, had 
 not only made John Harrison rich in knowledge 
 such as never yet existed in Lerk, but it had 
 caused his regular Sunday invitation to tea at 
 Madam Von Orren's, to be broken in upon by at 
 least a monthly invitation on Sunday to tea from 
 at no less a person than Mr. Khesteven himself. 
 
 This was an honour which, as it was rarely 
 conferred on any one in the counting-house of 
 the firm, was almost overwhelming to John 
 Harrison. Mr. Khesteven lived in a large and 
 stately house, where the nicest order reigned, 
 and where a number of powdered and well- 
 appointed men-servants were in attendance. As 
 Mr. Khesteven's conversation at home with the 
 .young man, though not on such days permitted 
 to diverge into actual business, was yet generally 
 on topics of a kindred nature. John Harrison 
 confined his discourse principally to answers, 
 and without attempting to shine, was satisfied to 
 feel that he stood well with his principal, before 
 whom so many in their large concern were ready 
 to tremble. 
 
 How well he stood was, at the end of the 
 twelve months, made manifest to him by the 
 announcement that his conduct had given so
 
 278 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 much satisfaction that the firm requested his ac- 
 ceptance of a Christmas-box of a hundred pounds, 
 and the accompanying information that he was 
 thenceforth transferred to a stool in the counting- 
 house. Here for some time he seemed sta- 
 tionary ; but at length some troublesome com- 
 plication of accounts, occurring from the guilty 
 proceedings of another clerk, the talents of 
 John Harrison became so conspicuous in their 
 rectification, that he was at once presented to 
 the vacant place, far above his own. It was not 
 long after that Mr. Khesteven sent for him to 
 his house, and in a private interview, announced 
 to him that such was the impression which his 
 assiduity, probity, and evident taste for busi- 
 ness had made upon him, that he was now about 
 to confide a great trust in him. This was, to 
 proceed to Amsterdam, and there to go through 
 the books, and general state of the business, as 
 was the custom of one of the firm every two or 
 three years. This important commission was 
 so well executed by Mr. Harrison, that from that 
 time he found himself, to his surprise, in the act 
 of being consulted by Mr. Khesteven, on the 
 affairs of the firm, as a person on whose judg- 
 ment he evidently relied more than even on the 
 oldest servant of the house.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 279 
 
 Things grew to that pass, that the whole 
 establishment saw that Mr. John Harrison was 
 in future to hold the chief confidential position 
 in the house of Van Orren and Khesteven, and 
 he was treated with correspondent deference. 
 His salary was fixed by the firm at a handsome 
 income for a private gentleman of the time, and 
 Mr. Khesteven never let a week pass without 
 expecting him at dinner. 
 
 During a long attack of gout, the old 
 gentleman confided the chief management of 
 the affairs to his hands, and was in daily com- 
 munication and consultation with him. The 
 services of Mr. Harrison became to all appear- 
 ances indispensable to the firm, for whether Mr. 
 Khesteven was jealous of his own influence, or 
 whatever the cause, he had always resisted the 
 frequently suggested plan of one of the Messrs. 
 Van Orrens being transferred from Amsterdam 
 to London : and scarcely had the third year 
 passed over, when Mr. Khesteven made a second 
 proposal to Mr. Harrison which might well have 
 been expected to overwhelm him with astonish- 
 ment, when the first had well nigh done it. 
 
 It was on a Sunday that Mr. Khesteven had 
 asked Mr. Harrison to go home with him after 
 church, and taking him into his closet, told
 
 280 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 him that he had something to submit to his 
 consideration, which was of that serious and 
 weighty nature that he thought no day more 
 proper for it than that. He had, as Mr. Har- 
 rison was aware, long looked upon him as the 
 prop of the great house of Van Orren and 
 Khesteven, and he would now freely confess to 
 him that he looked upon it as an act of Pro- 
 vidence that he was sent into it. He had re- 
 garded him well, and every fresh trial had 
 convinced him that he was right in his judgment, 
 which was that Mr. Harrison was eminently 
 qualified for the conduct of a great and honour- 
 able business like theirs. He had therefore, 
 with the privity and approbation of his partners, 
 including Madam Van Orren, determined to offer 
 him a share in the business ; and besides this, to 
 lay before him a proposal which he wished him, 
 / when he had heard it, to weigh well, and without 
 returning any answer then, to let him know on 
 the morrow whether it appeared suitable and 
 altogether agreeable to him. If not, to let it 
 sleep in the sacred deposit of his heart as a 
 confidence of the highest kind that he could 
 confer on him, or any one. 
 
 Mr. Harrison, observed Mr. Khesteven, 
 was aware that he had an only child his
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 281 
 
 daughter. The hand of this dear child, he 
 might confide to him, had been sought by men 
 of title and large estate. But he had a wish, 
 which was precious to his heart, that his daughter 
 should still maintain her connection with the 
 city and the old house of business. He himself 
 wished, as his dearest wish, to retain her loving 
 company while he lived, and therefore he had 
 well weighed it. He would say at once, that if Mr. 
 Harrison could feel himself happy in the hand of 
 his daughter, it would have his sincerest appro- 
 bation, and he believed it would meet with no 
 opposition in the quarter most immediately 
 concerned. 
 
 If the earth had opened to receive the as- 
 tonished John Harrison, it could not more 
 violently have shaken him from head to foot 
 as with an electric stroke, than the opening of 
 the arms of the great house of Van Orren 
 and Khesteven to receive him, did. He was 
 confounded trembled attempted to say some- 
 thing, but did not succeed ; and the old gentle- 
 man, noticing his em barrassment, said : 
 
 " No, no, don't say anything now ; go home, 
 Mr. Harrison think seriously lay the matter 
 solemnly before God, and then, as I have said, 
 let me know to-morrow."
 
 282 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 He gave the amazed young man a cordial 
 squeeze of the hand and dismissed him. 
 
 There need be little doubt how the scale in- 
 clined in the cogitations of John Harrison. The 
 world seemed to be whirling round with him in 
 some new and wonderful way, setting him on 
 his head instead of his feet ; but on the morrow 
 his answer was duly sealed and sent ; and within 
 three months John Harrison was not merely the 
 partner of Khesteven, but of his daughter. 
 
 Is there a reader who regards this as too 
 romantic to be real ? It is not one-tenth so 
 wonderful as what takes place in London, that 
 most wonderful of cities, every year in the 
 century. There is no volume yet written so 
 marvellous, by a thousand times, as that which 
 might be written of the adventures and fortunes 
 of this marvellous metropolis. Who are the heads 
 of those great houses, monied or mercantile, which 
 spread their concerns over the globe farther than 
 any princely sceptre ever extended ? Who are. 
 in fact, the princes of princes the creditors of 
 emperors and empires ? Who furnish the mil- 
 lions for the works of peace, and the tens of 
 millions for the murderous waste of war? 
 Who are they ? 
 
 Men, many of them, whose fathers came up in
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 283 
 
 rags, and laid their heads on a door- step or an 
 alley pavement, for want of a bed ; men, who 
 themselves, dusty and footsore, have limped into 
 this huge and roaring sea of human life and 
 traffic; and in stead of being daunted by it, 
 have exclaimed, like a late great bibliopole, as 
 he thus stood one morning on London Bridge : 
 " What a place of capabilities !" Men, who 
 like him, have pulled an apron from their 
 pockets, and within half-an-hour have been 
 sweeping out a shop where there happened to 
 want a boy ; or have been going from door to 
 door asking for employment, and not cast down 
 by a thousand scorns and repulses. Men, who 
 with their threepence or their shilling in their 
 pockets, have never lost heart or hope; but 
 climbing doggedly the steps of fortune, have 
 at length looked down, as it were, from the top 
 of the St. Paul's of achievement, and seen the 
 world at their feet. 
 
 What a history would the lives of one gene- 
 ration of London adventurers be ! What a life 
 would be that of almost any chance man that 
 you might seize upon in the crowded, rushing 
 stream of life, and compel him, by some mighty 
 charm, to sit down and confess !
 
 284 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 What is the tale of Dick Whittington ? It 
 is but the tale of every century, of almost every 
 year. The Rothschilds, the Goldsmidts, the 
 Coutts', the Barings, the Huths, the Overstones 
 what are they but the larger growth amid 
 shoals of adventurers, whose successes are of 
 all degrees, from the wealth that founds a duke- 
 dom to that of him who was originally rich 
 with eightpence, and now thinks himself poor 
 amongst his fellows with his eighty-thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 The brilliant fortunes of John Harrison did 
 not burst on the seclusion of Lerk all at once. 
 They had been seen and duly noted in their 
 growth. John Harrison himself, in his quiet 
 and tradesman-like way, had from time to time 
 expressed to his parents in his letters his great 
 satisfaction in the knowledge of the wonderful 
 scene of business which London opened to him, 
 and his equally great satisfaction in the appro- 
 bation which his endeavours met with from the 
 heads of the firm. He had opened an account 
 for his father, by which all the articles in demand 
 at Lerk were duly sent down by boat, and were 
 found of such superior quality, and at such 
 reduced prices, as greatly extended the business
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. ^285 
 
 at Lerk. But when Andrew heard of John's 
 pleasure and success in London, he began to 
 say to Mrs. Harrison : 
 
 " I know not, wife, what will come of this. 
 John will have his mouth spoiled for Lerk by 
 all this fine London life. He'll despise such 
 an huckstering concern as this after the vast 
 affairs of Van Orren and Co. You must lay 
 your reckoning, my dear, with never seeing John 
 again here, at least to live." 
 
 This was terrible news to Mrs. Harrison, who 
 exclaimed : " How say you ? never come 
 again ? my John never come home to live ? 
 What's to become of all this business, then? 
 And what 's the use of letting the lad go to 
 such a place as Lunnun ?" 
 
 " Nay, my wench, it wasna my doing, it was 
 his own. Go he would ; and get him back again 
 as you can. For my part, I dunna believe a 
 waggon and horses would draw him out of 
 Lunnun again." 
 
 At this Mrs. Harrison would fall into great 
 lamentations wish they had never let John go 
 scold her husband for giving way to it, and 
 bidding him order John to come back : " Tell 
 him," said she, " what a fine business here is 
 now, and wants him to look after it."
 
 286 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " Business !" said Andrew ; " why after Lun- 
 nun, and Van Orren and Co.'s, this consarn of 
 ours, lass, is a mere candle-snuff. It is like a 
 flea in a coal-pit to Van Orren's. Good 
 gracious me ! why I verily believe they could 
 put all Lerk into their warehouses !" 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear !" poor Mrs. Harrison 
 would say, " then what 's the use o' th' business! 
 and what 's the use of a son at all ? One 
 might as well give up shop we 've enough 
 and might as well be without a son." 
 
 " Why as to that, wife, we are without him, 
 so far as I can see," was Andrew's reply ; " but 
 then, is'nt it summut to know the lad is well- 
 off, and in great esteem with people like the 
 Van Orrens?" 
 
 " And wouldn't he be well off here, prithee ?" 
 interrupted Mrs. Harrison ; " and wouldn't he 
 be in great esteem with his own parents, and 
 everybody ? How you talk, Andrew !" 
 
 Andrew could only smile in reply ; but when 
 a letter came from John, asking their consent 
 to marry Miss Khesteven, it seemed as if a 
 tremendous clap of thunder had just gone off 
 over their heads, and they felt as if half Lerk 
 had been whisked away in the shock. 
 
 " Nay, then ! " exclaimed Mrs. Harrison,
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 287 
 
 clasping her hands, and crying and smiling at 
 the same time ; " nay, then, we shall never get 
 John again, now, that 's sartain. Oh, my ! 
 oh, my ! That 's letting a fine young fellow 
 like that go to Lunnun !" 
 
 Andrew could not contain himself longer, 
 but at this burst into a hearty fit of laughter ; 
 and, carefully folding the letter, as he proceeded 
 to bestow it in a drawer of his desk, he turned 
 to his wife with an arch smile, and said : 
 
 " What say you, dame'? May be you '11 not 
 gi' your consent to this match ? It '11 keep John 
 in Lunnun to a sartainty. So now 's the time, 
 my wench, to speak, and forbid these banns in 
 this church and all others, or for ever after hold 
 your peace." 
 
 " What say you, Andrew ?" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Harrison, springing up. " Fie, man ! forbid 
 th' marriage ? And such a match ! fit for a 
 duke ! Nay, lad, nay ; the poor fellow mun 
 please himself in that matter of all others. 
 He 's my consent from the very roots of my 
 heart." 
 
 "Then remember," said Andrew, quietly 
 twankling the lock of his desk, and putting the 
 key in his breeches' pocket, " that it 's not me
 
 288 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 that keeps him in Lurmun. Burma scold me, 
 Sally, in future." 
 
 " Get out with you !" said Mrs. Harrison, 
 looking much more good-humoured than her 
 words do on paper ; and as Andrew walked out, 
 to think proudly over the great connection in 
 the quiet of his crofts, Mrs. Harrison sat down 
 to have a good hearty cry over it. 
 
 Here, indeed, was an end to all further hope 
 of seeing John succeed them in their business, 
 and personally in their property ; but there was 
 compensation in the parental pride over such 
 splendid success, and the wonder and consider- 
 ation for them which it raised through all the 
 country round. Andrew and Mr. Delmey had 
 gone up to the wedding, and brought down 
 marvellous accounts of the magnificence of the 
 marriage, and the display of carriages and of 
 household wealth on the occasion. It was now 
 some three or four years gone past, and already 
 two grandchildren were occupying the nursery 
 in London, when Andrew Harrison accompanied 
 Grace Delmey on her journey thither.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ANDREW HARRISON and his fair charge, 
 Grace Delmey, reached the " Bull and Mouth" 
 before the dawn of a February morning. An- 
 drew had exerted himself to follow, to the best 
 of his ability, the instructions of Farmer Greato- 
 rex ; and here they were, safe and sound, 
 though prodigiously weary, and feeling as if 
 they wanted a week's washing, a fortnight's 
 breakfasts, and a month's comfortable lying in 
 bed. Of all hours, none could be so calculated 
 to impress these sensations deeply as the one of 
 their arrival. But there was one great comfort 
 which immediately presented itself as the coach 
 stopped in the inner court of the hotel, and that 
 was the quiet and good-natured face of John 
 Harrison, greeting them from the inn-door. 
 
 VOL. i. o
 
 290 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 He had a coach in readiness, and made Grace 
 get into it, after a hearty shake of the hand, and 
 a warm welcome to London, while they saw the 
 luggage safely transferred to it, and then they 
 bowled away to the house of Mr. Khesteven, 
 which was also that of Mr. John Harrison, in 
 Bread Street. John Harrison said that it was 
 far too early for going to Madam Van Orren's, 
 and that Miss Delmey must refresh herself, and 
 get a good sleep before going to her aunt's. 
 
 So down this narrow street rumbled the coach, 
 considerably to the astonishment of Grace, who 
 could not imagine how people of the reputed 
 wealth of the Khestevens could bury themselves 
 in such a place. Soon, however, the coach 
 turned into an ample court, where Grace, by 
 the light of the lamps, caught sight of the front 
 of a stately-looking old house, whence speedily 
 issued two or three smart men-servants, to 
 hand her from the coach, and take charge of 
 the luggage. In another moment she was 
 ushered into a large and richly-furnished room, 
 where a great fire was blazing, a table standing 
 ready for breakfast, on which the silver urn, tea 
 and coffee pots, tall silver candlesticks, and 
 every other thing in accordance, announced at 
 once affluence and good cheer. 
 
 There was a young, modest, and pretty- 
 looking woman, ready to receive them, whom
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 291 
 
 John Harrison introduced to Grace as his wife, 
 and whom honest Andrew saluted in a most 
 cordial and paternal fashion. 
 
 There was something so peculiarly kind and 
 unassuming about Mrs. Harrison, or Hetty, as 
 John Harrison called her, that Grace felt an 
 instant liking for her, and only wondered to 
 find the immensely wealthy merchant's daugh- 
 ter as simple, and unassuming, in her person 
 and manners, as if she had been brought up 
 rather at Lerk than in the metropolis. But 
 amid this unostentatious manner and general 
 exterior, Grace soon perceived the genuine 
 breeding of the gentlewoman, and began to 
 admire the soft propriety of Mrs. Hetty Harri- 
 son's demeanour as much as the genial kindness 
 which showed itself in her whole air, and spoke 
 in her gentle, and to Grace, very pleasant voice. 
 Mrs. Harrison made Grace go and simply throw 
 off her travelling upper garments, and refresh 
 herself with a wash, but insisted that she should 
 do no more, but come and make a hearty break- 
 fast, and then sleep off her fatigue, and refresh 
 herself with washing and fresh clothes at leisure. 
 The good little soul sate at the head of the 
 table, and busied herself in the most zealous 
 manner to render every attention to the wants 
 of the hungry and weary travellers, expressing 
 her great delight at seeing Miss Delmey in 
 
 o 2
 
 292 MADAM DORRINGTON* 
 
 London for a long stay ; and talking of her 
 father, her children, and asking after Mrs. Har- 
 rison, and all things at Lerk, as if they had been 
 amongst the very grandest people and matters 
 of her acquaintance, as no doubt they were, for 
 her husband's sake, amongst the dearest. 
 
 Grace Delmey, who had felt no little anxiety 
 at the prospect of her reception and mode of 
 life amongst such very wealthy people in Lon- 
 don, suddenly felt unaccountably at ease, and 
 taken with a vehement desire to embrace Mrs. 
 Hetty Harrison, and tell her how much she 
 loved her. 
 
 No sooner was breakfast ended, than Mrs. 
 Harrison herself led the way to Grace's room, 
 and Grace could not avoid being again struck 
 with the spacious excellence of the house in 
 which she found herself. An ample entrance- 
 hall, hung round with paintings, and a broad 
 and fine staircase, with a heavy mahogany hand- 
 rail, terminating at the bottom with a richly- 
 carved scroll, led to apartments of which the 
 doors were also of massive mahogany, with 
 architraves and cornices of fine carving. There 
 was a stillness and order about the house that 
 were striking, and lamps of superb fashion cast 
 light through the ample landings. 
 
 Mrs. Harrison led the way, candle in hand, 
 to a room in which a large bed, with richest
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 293 
 
 silken hangings, the softest carpetting, and fur- 
 niture to match, with tall pier glasses, and a 
 quantity of magnificent pieces of china standing 
 on a tall mantle-piece, beneath which burnt a 
 cheering fire, presented an image of luxurious 
 comfort such as a queen might have found 
 delicious. 
 
 Grace could not avoid an exclamation of 
 delightful surprise at the sybaritic aspect of her 
 bed-room, at which Mrs. Hetty Harrison said, 
 with a quiet but heartfelt smile that she was 
 glad Miss Delmey liked the room, and hoped she 
 would occupy it many, many, many scores of 
 times, while she lived in London, " for to tell 
 you the truth, Miss Delmey," said she, " John 
 has told me so much of you and your father, 
 that I have long felt as if you were what I never 
 had a sister. You don't know," added she, 
 taking Grace's hand, " how much I have longed 
 to know you." 
 
 Grace could no longer repress the feeling 
 which had seized her at the breakfast table, but 
 threw her arms round her young hostess, and 
 kissing her fervently, said : 
 
 " Oh, my dear Mrs. Harrison, how happy you 
 make me ; I feel I shall love you dearly." 
 
 Mrs. Harrison returned her embrace with 
 warmth, kissed her again, and with eyes in which 
 a most amiable, loving soul beamed full of 
 brightness, said :
 
 294 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " But now, dear Miss Delmey, you must at 
 once to bed, and sleep till to-morrow morning, 
 if you can." 
 
 Grace Delmey awoke as a twilight dimly 
 illumined her chamber, with an uncertainty 
 whether it were evening or morning ; and with 
 a curious mixture of feeling of the strangeness 
 of London, and the affectionate reception that 
 she had found, and the sweet, loving looks of 
 Mrs. Harrison, coming back like a gleam of 
 warmest sunshine upon her, her thoughts flew 
 back to Fulbourne, and she longed to let her 
 father know what a dear and congenial friend 
 she had found in the huge solitude of strange 
 London, as she assured herself she had found in 
 Mrs. Hetty Harrison. Then she thought of the 
 want her father would feel of her, and she 
 longed that he could come and be with her in 
 London. Then came some verses which she 
 had taken up in her father's library, evidently 
 fresh from his pen, and had committed to 
 memory, which now haunted her till her very 
 heart was sore. They were these, which we 
 may give, as a specimen of, at least, the poetical 
 feeling of Francis Delmey : 
 
 THE PILGRIM IN QUEST OF PEACE. 
 
 Oh, Peace ! through life my quest is peace, 
 
 "And solitude lies around me still. 
 "Thou grey-haired man, thy seeking cease, 
 
 Or out of solitude take thy fill.
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 295 
 
 There are vales full, and dales full, 
 
 And forests vast and fair." 
 I have sought through those wilds so beautiful, 
 
 But the peace I would win me is not there. 
 
 Deep in the deep woods solitude lies, 
 
 Buried in leaves and freshest flowers ; 
 It floats through the noon as the midnight skies, 
 
 I have felt it in summer's brightest hours. 
 I thought in my youth 'twas a solemn joy, 
 
 But it haunts me now with a wasting tone, 
 And it fills my soul with a strange annoy, 
 
 And I start to be with it all alone. 
 
 The woodlark and the white throat sang, 
 
 The cuckoo shouted on the lea ; 
 And I saw the light bird's cherry hang 
 
 Its pendant flowers to the mountain bee. 
 And youth and hope within my breast 
 
 Sang too, and blossomed ; and I said, 
 I, too, will build me a woodland nest, 
 
 With the sky and the green boughs over head. 
 
 The voice in my soul said : " They have twined 
 
 Their nests those birds with twigs of love, 
 With willow-down they have them lined, 
 
 And canopied them with boughs above. 
 And I will build me a woodland nest, 
 
 With sky and green boughs over head ; 
 And Peace I will bid to be my guest, 
 
 And a dear gentleness I will wed. 
 
 And through spring, and summer, and winter weather, 
 We two will live in the shades of life, 
 
 Travelling on to that land together, 
 
 Where seraph and cherub are man and wife.
 
 296 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 And the great, wild world may keep its way, 
 With its wealth, its pride, its towns and towers ; 
 
 And we, through the woodlands green and gay, 
 With love, and a friend will follow ours. 
 
 So I built my nest, but it was not blest, 
 
 For, instead of the hallowed twigs of love, 
 I had twined it with darnel of unrest, 
 
 And the skreech-owl sate in the boughs above. 
 And the dear gentleness that I deemed 
 
 Should go step by step with me through time, 
 Grew like an Amazon bold, and streamed 
 
 Chill through my heart like wintry rime. 
 
 So my peace is gone, and I wander on, 
 
 And the solitude works me only woe : 
 For it whispers of all that is fair and gone, 
 
 And all that is fair and yet must go. 
 Oh, Peace ! still in quest of thee I am bound, 
 
 But unto my God thou must have flown ; 
 In life thou art nowhere to be found, 
 
 In death I will seek thee now alone. 
 
 Grace had made herself so unhappy by dwell- 
 ing on these verses, and on the addition to her 
 father's causes of sorrow, which her absence 
 made, that she found herself giving way to floods 
 of tears, and springing from bed, she determined 
 to get up and drive away such thoughts, if the 
 time were suitable. Her watch informed her 
 that it was about four o'clock : morning it could 
 not be, and therefore, must be the afternoon of 
 the day on which she had lain down. Her bell
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 297 
 
 quickly brought a maid, with a bountiful supply 
 of warm water, and offers of her services in 
 dressing ; but Grace, accustomed to perform her 
 own toilet, dismissed the damsel, and in due 
 time found her way down the broad and solidly 
 elegant staircase, up which she had ascended. 
 In the parlour she found Mrs. Harrison, and 
 an old gentleman seated in his easy chair, 
 with a couple of rosy children tumbling on 
 the hearth-rug at his feet. Mrs. Harrison 
 led Grace affectionately, and presented her to 
 her father, the polite-looking old gentleman, 
 who received her with a degree of courtesy, 
 mingled with a kind and fatherly manner, which 
 much delighted her. Mr. Khesteven inquired 
 after the health of Mr. Delmey, spoke of him 
 with the highest regard, and then pointing to 
 the two children which Mrs. Harrison had taken 
 up into her arms, asked if she liked such little 
 rogues as those. Grace declared herself a genu- 
 ine lover of them, and kissed the rosy little 
 creatures affectionately for their own and their 
 mother's sake. 
 
 Mrs. Harrison said that Madam Van Orren 
 had been in to welcome her niece, but as they 
 would not have her disturbed, they had agreed 
 to send for her when Grace was up. Grace 
 eagerly desired to go herself, and pay her respects 
 to her aunt, but Mr. Khesteven said :
 
 298 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 " No ! no ! all was settled : he wanted a little 
 of Madam Van Orren's company, and she would 
 be there in a few minutes." Tea was ordered in ; 
 a servant despatched for Madame Van Orren, 
 who only lived in Friday Street, and Grace was 
 informed that Mr. Andrew Harrison was gone 
 to the warehouse with Mr. John, and all would 
 be in to tea. 
 
 A short time brought Madam Van Orren, 
 of whom Grace had heard, of course, much talk 
 at Fulbourne, but had never seen. She knew 
 that she was a good deal older than her father ; 
 was a lady of somewhat precise and stately 
 manners, and exact religious habits, but had 
 never been found wanting in substantial regard 
 and kindness to her brother, Mr. Francis 
 Delmey. She had come to town at a still 
 earlier age than Grace, to live with her aunt, a 
 Mrs. Fludyer, and had never quitted it again. 
 She had become so thorough a London woman, 
 that she did not care to live out of it, except 
 during summer for her health, and for this pur- 
 pose kept her country-house at Hampstead, and 
 made occasional visits to Margate or Hastings. 
 During at least half the year however, she was 
 stationary at her rooms at the corner of Friday- 
 street, looking into Cheapside, where she could 
 enjoy the view, and what to her was almost as 
 pleasant from long habit, the hearing of the stir
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 299 
 
 and bustle of the great thoroughfare. Here, 
 too, she saw all sorts of public processions and 
 pageantries ; the Lord Mayor's show, and the 
 formal visits of the King and members of the 
 Royal family and the ministry to the city. Her 
 life, tastes and predilections were, from long habit, 
 all bound up with London, which she thought 
 the only real place on the face of the earth. 
 
 She read the poets and had been on terms of 
 intimacy with the most distinguished authors 
 of her time, amongst them, Goldsmith, John- 
 son, and Dr. Young ; but she liked the country 
 only in the writings of Goldy, as she called 
 him, in the familiar phrase of Dr. Johnson, 
 and had so little passion for it in itself 
 that on once making a visit to Fulbourne 
 to her brother, she felt actually alarmed at 
 the silence of the place, and its exposure on 
 all sides to robbers, if they chose to come- 
 which they never did having neither watch- 
 men, lamps, nor the like for light and protec- 
 tion. So little did she luxuriate in the pleasures 
 of the country, and so grievously did she suffer 
 from the jolting and tedium of so long a journey 
 that she had never repeated it. 
 
 The hour of tea brought in Andrew Harrison 
 and his son, the grave and quiet, but prosperous 
 merchant of this great city. Andrew was soon 
 in deep discourse with Mrs. Van Orren about
 
 300 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 the old neighbourhood, as she called it, and 
 Mr. Khesteven was full of inquiries from John 
 Harrison, as to important matters of business, 
 to which the young man gave grave but very 
 respectful answers in a somewhat concise style, 
 and in a rather low tone of voice, as if careful 
 not to attract too much attention, though only 
 in the presence of immediate relatives and friends. 
 Grace was left to enjoy the conversation for 
 some time of Mrs. < Harrison, which turned 
 alternately on the wonders to be seen in London, 
 and on her children. Yet amid this discourse, 
 and while gazing with affectionate admiration 
 on the face of Mrs. Hetty Harrison, so fall of 
 gentle and loving loveliness, Grace Delmey 
 could not help observing what was ^passing 
 around, and noticing the rueful shakes of the 
 head which Mrs. Van Orren gave in reply to 
 some of Andrew Harrison's information, which 
 Grace interpreting her own way, answered with 
 a sigh. 
 
 Nor was she less struck with the air of deep 
 deference with which John Harrison treated 
 his father-in-law, Mr. Khesteven. Presently, 
 however, the conversation became general, and 
 the old gentleman, throwing off all care about 
 business, began in an easy way to joke and 
 unbend in a manner that surprised and delighted 
 Grace. He put numbers of questions to her
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 301 
 
 about her life in the country ; told her she was 
 never meant to be buried there ; she was far 
 too handsome; that there was no place like 
 London ; promised her a thousand grand sights, 
 and prophesied that she would never leave it 
 again. / 
 
 " Will she ?" demanded he suddenly of 
 Madam Van Orren. 
 
 " Bless me !" said the old lady, " how can I 
 tell?" 
 
 " But not if she follows your sensible 
 example, Madam Van Orren," added the old 
 gentleman, gaily. " No ! no ! I take it our 
 London youngsters are too knowing for that ; 
 and, by my troth, if the young ones were so 
 deficient in taste, I should really myself set up 
 as the most devoted servant of Miss Delmey. 
 And, by the bye, let me see, there are some 
 things that I must really undertake to show our 
 fair friend ; yes, I shall make certain pilgrimages 
 with her to places where I can be of use to her, 
 if the young fellows don't forestall me, as I 
 expect they will." 
 
 " Bless me !" said Madam Van Orren, 
 " why Mr. Khesteven you are growing young 
 again all at once. I wonder you never took me 
 to those grand places." 
 
 " Oh !" returned the old gentleman, " why 
 
 VOL. i. P
 
 302 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 as to you, Madam Van Orren, you know every- 
 thing ; you know London from St. James's to 
 Wapping ; there would be no fun in escorting 
 you anywhere; but this charming, inexperienced, 
 uninstructed Grace. Why truly, the very idea 
 of telling her of this great thing, and showing 
 her that, is quite inspiring." 
 
 " It seems so," said Madam Van Orren, at 
 which all laughed ; and she added, " but at 
 least you'll allow me to take my niece myself 
 this evening and shew her something and that 
 is my house." 
 
 " Oh, certainly !" said Mr. Khesteven, rising 
 and bowing with a mock solemnity, but with a 
 pleasant smile on his face, as Madam Van Orren 
 and her niece rose. " As I know very well 
 where your house is, I am quite willing. We 
 shall meet again, my dear young lady," said he, 
 turning to Grace, and shaking her very kindly 
 by the hand. " Come here as often as you can. 
 You fill the old house, and the old man full of 
 youth. God bless you !" 
 
 " Ah ! see the difference, my friend Andrew," 
 said Madam Van Orren, with an affected gravity, 
 as Mrs. Hetty Harrison threw her cloak over 
 her shoulders. " Youth and age, sir youth 
 and age ! Mr. Khesteven never pays me such 
 compliments, though he has known me so many
 
 MADAM DORRINGTON. 303 
 
 years. These pretty young sluts run away with 
 all our old friends, and with but never mind 
 come along, niece." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " said the gay Mr. Khesteven, 
 tapping Madam Van Orren on the shoulder. 
 " I know what you would say. You mean with 
 the old men's wits. Ha, ha, ha ! very good 
 very good, and very true. Well, good night, 
 good night !" and amid merry laughter, Madam 
 Van Orren and her niece, wrapped in their 
 cloaks, preceded by a servant with a huge lan- 
 tern in his hand, and with Mr. John Harrison 
 between them, advanced up the dark street to 
 the old lady's house. 
 
 Here Grace found an elegant little supper set 
 out on a table near a bright fire, in a very hand- 
 some upper-room, and her aunt and she sate 
 for an hour talking over Fulbourne and West- 
 wood, and their affairs. But when the old lady 
 saw that this began to render Grace rather 
 sorrowful she suddenly broke off, saying : 
 
 " Well, we shall have plenty of time to talk 
 of those things. You hear, my dear niece, 
 that you are never to leave London, and so you 
 must begin to see something of it." And with 
 that Madam Van Orren began to run over a 
 number of its delights till she saw that Grace 
 was interested in them, when she lead her to 
 her bedroom, where also a cheerful fire was
 
 304 MADAM DORRINGTON. 
 
 burning, and wished her pleasant dr,eams. Grace, 
 left to herself, could not but thank God for the 
 kind welcome she had received in London, and 
 was soon wrapt in a pleasant unconsciousness, 
 where we leave her. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 000130061 5