CHAPTER XLI.

“Lovely pass’d the light of joy o’er thy face,Comala! But there—like the faint beam ofThe show’r, ’tis fled!”

“Lovely pass’d the light of joy o’er thy face,

Comala! But there—like the faint beam of

The show’r, ’tis fled!”

Withan almost involuntary movement he put an arm out the window, opened the door himself, kicked the steps half down, leaped over them, and, either without waiting for, or without remembering Arthur, crossed the lawn on foot and alone; while the carriage, its door flapping, its steps hanging, and its master missing, took the usual course, and drove up to the principal entrance.

No sooner had our hero passed the threshold of the half-open glass door, which had thus attracted him, than he beheld Julia. She wasalone, dressed, of course, in mourning, and seated at a table over which she stooped, in the act of writing or drawing. He stood; she looked up. An expression of pleasure sparkled for a moment in her eyes.

Julia, in the hurry of the moment, pronounced the name of Edmund. She had not seen Fitz-Ullin at Lodore since other names and titles had been added to that which was associated in her feelings, with the scenes and remembrances of childhood. He too pronounced her name, as, with visible agitation, he took the hand of welcome she held out. After thus naming each other, however, neither spoke again; while he examined her countenance with an earnestness, which at first pained, and at last offended her.

“Julia! Julia!” he at length said. Then burying his face in both his hands, against the arm of a sofa on which he flung himself, he added: “we are alone?” After a considerablepause he looked up; Julia, to hide the confusion occasioned by so strange an address, was stooping to caress a dog of Fitz-Ullin’s, which, since its first entrance, had been importuning for notice. Our hero, with a bitter smile, arose and walked towards a window.

“Surely” he murmured to himself, “I need not wish—I need not desire—yet—nothing—nothing short of infatuation could extenuate—”

The entrance of Lord L⸺, followed shortly by Frances, and soon after by Lady Oswald, who was now on a visit at Lodore, put an end to this strange interview. The dreadful occurrence of the murder was fresh in the minds of all. The subject was entered upon immediately: they spoke of how severely Mrs. Montgomery had felt the shock. Particulars were minutely enquired into by Lord L⸺, and many comments made by each in turn. Julia, indeed, said the least; for she found that, whenever shespoke, Fitz-Ullin watched every word that fell from her lips, with a kind of attention which was distressing, as well as embarrassing, and she shortly therefore quitted the room. Frances, who had done so before, now returned with a message from her grandmamma, requesting that Fitz-Ullin would go to her, as she was unable to leave her own apartment.

On obeying the summons he had received, Fitz-Ullin found his kind old friend sitting up in her bed, and Mr. Jackson and Julia with her, endeavouring to compose her spirits.

She was greatly affected on seeing Fitz-Ullin, and shed tears, which she had not before done; for there was, she said, a horror mingled with her sorrow for Henry, which would not suffer her to weep. She feared that he had died without a just sense of religion. Fitz-Ullin said, with some hesitation, that he had latterly possessed much of Henry’s confidence, and that he had reason to believe thathe had fixed his hopes of happiness, (in this life at least,) where no ungentle feeling could find a place—where, indeed, scarcely a temptation to err could have reached him, and where the purest Christian principles would have been daily cultivated by the hand of domestic affection; and that such ties, he should hope, no man would voluntarily seek while he continued to be the sport of unfixed opinions, or the slave of irregular habits. Julia and Fitz-Ullin left Mrs. Montgomery’s room together. As soon as he had closed the door, he stopped short, took one of her hands in both of his, and looked full in her face with an expression of tender, or rather kindly enquiry, for there was no presumption in his manner. He pronounced her name, then paused. She met his scrutinizing gaze with a countenance, first of surprise, and, finally, displeasure, withdrew her hand, and, without speaking, preceded him to the drawing-room.

… “Thou standest charg’dWith murder, monstrous and deliberate!”

… “Thou standest charg’d

With murder, monstrous and deliberate!”

Thenext day the papers were filled with an account of the trial of the murderers of Mr. Henry St. Aubin. The murder was proved; yet, strange to say, the murderers were acquitted.

The Captain of the privateer spoke his own defence. He was, he said, a Frenchman fighting for his country. He was not, even by the laws of war, a prisoner; for he had not lowered his colours. He had as good a right to recover possession of his ship as the English had in the first instance to capture her; and if lives were lost in the struggle, it was but the fate of war.

This defence was admitted, and the midnight murderer of his own son acquitted by the blindness of mortal judgment.

The papers proceeded to state that the murderers having been remanded for a fresh trial on fresh charges, the principal was found the next morning alone in the prison with his brains beat out. The black had made his escape. The particulars were supposed to be as follows: The villains had first, it would appear, by their united strength, forced a bar of their window. From the bloody appearance at one end of the heavy iron weapon thus obtained, and the battered state of the head of the privateer captain, it was quite evident that the black had used the bar to knock down and murder his master; whom, as the wretch was his inferior in strength, he must have taken unawares. A large wound on the back of the head of the deceased, strengthened this opinion. It was supposed that the black’s motive for committingthis crime, must have been his knowledge of where to lay his hands on the ill-gotten wealth of his master, of which he hoped thus to obtain undisturbed possession. The papers further stated, as the reason why the prisoners had been remanded, that the magistrates had had information respecting the privateer captain having been largely concerned both with pirates and smugglers on various parts of the coast. One very suspicious circumstance was, they ascertained, clearly proved, namely, his identity as the individual who had for so many years imposed on the inhabitants of Whitehaven and its vicinity, by passing for a madman, and calling himself Sir Sydney Smyth. The very nature of the derangement he thus feigned afforded a pretext for lounging about the quays and the coast at all hours. On reading this paragraph, Lord L⸺ and Mr. Jackson exchanged looks.

“Near some fen shall my nameless tomb be seen:It shall arise without song. My lone spirit,Wrapped in mist, shall sail o’er the reedy pool,And never on their clouds with heroes join.”

“Near some fen shall my nameless tomb be seen:

It shall arise without song. My lone spirit,

Wrapped in mist, shall sail o’er the reedy pool,

And never on their clouds with heroes join.”

Thebody of Henry arrived. The day of the funeral came, and passed. Still the silence of Fitz-Ullin towards Julia continued, and her’s towards him was equally remarkable. Not that he now avoided her, as he had done on board the Euphrasia; on the contrary, he rather sought to be near her; but his close attention to all she said or did, seemed a sort of scrutiny, and gave her more pain than pleasure. He now indeed appeared even to court occasions of being alone with her; yet, when such did occur, he spoke little, and on indifferentsubjects, and maintained the air of one who expected some communication to be made to him. While Julia met his strange manner with a studied coldness of deportment, which seemed to forbid all recurrence to the past, the ungenerous determination he appeared to have formed of reading her heart, whilst he refrained from entitling himself to do so, at length aroused her to self-defence at least, if not to indignation. She was weary of the inward humiliation of feeling, that her heart beat responsive to every alternation of his manner; that the tone of his voice, the turn of his eye, could make her happy or miserable. Yet, was she still weak enough to be less positively wretched than she would else have been, from the idea that, unworthy and impertinent as his conduct appeared, she could not be quite an object of indifference to him, or he would not study her as he did. He did not watch every look, every word when Frances spoke,or was spoken to. The subject, however, was one on which she now shrank from speaking, even to Frances; and one on which that kind and considerate sister felt that, it would be as indelicate as useless to speak to her. Frances did certainly more than once observe, with a warmth which Julia but too well understood, how disagreeable rank and fortune had made Edmund; with his Lady Julia L⸺, and Lady Frances L⸺, adding, “I declare I am sometimes going to laugh, only I am so angry I could almost cry; it does seem so ridiculous!”

While Julia’s manners were such as we have described, in those of Lord L⸺ there was a daily increasing haughtiness, and in his politeness an attention to forms, calculated to remind a guest that he was not at home. Frances, too, though still friendly, was less a sister than formerly. Fitz-Ullin seemed to feel all this, for he began to talk of leaving Lodore,though the Euphrasia was not ready for sea, Mrs. Montgomery, indeed, was still kind, and, while he sat at her bed-side, she would still call him Edmund, look anxiously in his face, shake her head, and tell him he was not happy. She would then rally him about Lady Susan; calling the affair his boyish disappointment. Then she would wish he could make a second choice, and give her the joy of seeing him happy before she died.

A secret association of ideas in the good old lady’s mind, would lead her to talk, very soon after, of Julia.

On such occasions Fitz-Ullin’s colour would come and go; yet, even with this affectionate friend, he continued silent. At length his spirits becoming evidently more depressed, he announced his determination of taking his departure immediately, as he wished, he said, to visit Ayrshire before the Euphrasia was ready for sea, that he might make onemore effort on behalf of Arthur, though with scarcely a hope of success; Lady Oswald having already made every exertion. But, young Oswald having no title to show, it was found impossible to disturb the present possessors. If, however, the title-deeds could be found, it was the opinion of counsel, that there would be no difficulty in recovering the property, as the papers themselves would shew (what was well known, though it could not be legally proved,) that Sir Archibald had no power to dispose of more than his life interest in the estates.

“When the will’s at enmity with the task before us, we love to dally in performance.”

Fitz-Ullinwas now on the point of quitting Lodore. Yet he lingered. There seemed to be something that he wished to say, or do, before he went; still he did nothing, and said little. At length, finding Julia one morning alone in the library, he took a seat beside her. She trembled visibly; yet were her feelings not altogether painful: there was a strange mixture of hope. He remained for a long time silent, either mastering some emotion, or considering how to commence. “Julia,” he at last said, for, in his agitation, he forgot the title; “do not mistake me! do not suppose that I meanto speak of myself, or of my own feelings; I am too well aware what yours have been, to be guilty of conduct so indelicate. Have been, did I say? rather, what I must suppose they still are, though you have, Julia, so well, so wonderfully maintained the struggle, so successfully concealed every emotion. But surely, those sentiments, however tenderly cherished their secret remembrance may be, and I confess, though such a declaration from me may seem strange, I confess that, even I, who have had so much cause to mourn that ever they found a place in your bosom, even I should not like to see you capable of the levity, of casting them thence in a moment. But, as I was about to say, surely they need not deprive me of that sisterly regard, that calm, unimpassioned friendship, which is all I ask; and which you have even so often promised me should be mine for ever. If I, too, must resign every warmer feeling, need I be deprived, also,of this sweet solace, without which the burden of existence is intolerable! Julia, you look shocked, you look offended. I had not dared to have entered on such a topic—but—but—your surprising self-command deceived me: I thought you could have borne it better. And—and—I did suppose, that the bitterness of my own disappointed hopes might have been some apology; that—I might have been heard, with pity, at least.”

“Is he mad?” thought Julia. “Does he deem it necessary to apologize to me, because his lingering love for another will not suffer him to offer me more than friendship? And does he, can he mean to tell me to my face, that he has long seen my weak, wretched, mean devotion to himself, yet cannot return it? And, therefore, he would school me into moderating my attachment for him—rendering it of a calmer—nay—a less impassioned nature! Good heavens, is it come to this?”

With these thoughts passing rapidly through her mind, she had risen from her seat while he was yet speaking. She now stood, for a few moments, motionless, and covered with burning blushes; then, clasping her hands and lifting her eyes to heaven, but without suffering them, for an instant, to meet Fitz-Ullin’s, she turned, and fled the room.

Arrived in her own, she sat down, unable even to think! A summons to dinner was the first thing that aroused her, (though two full hours had elapsed). It found her cold, and pale; while her eyes were so disfigured by the traces of tears, she had been long unconsciously shedding, that she was obliged to excuse herself from appearing at dinner.

When she was next in company with Fitz-Ullin, which was, of necessity, that evening, she carefully avoided meeting his eyes, keeping her own always on the ground. She never addressed him; when he addressed her, sheanswered, without looking up, and by monosyllables pronounced in a voice scarcely audible, and immediately spoke to some one else. Fitz-Ullin seemed conscious that he had committed some error; for more than once in the course of the evening, he found an opportunity when none were near, to entreat her pardon in a low, hurried tone. He received neither word nor look in reply.

… “How thy cheekDoth vary! But now, with feverish glowIt burnt, kindling as thou spakest, and nowWhite, and cold, it glistens in thy damp tears,Like the pale lily in the morning dew.Oh! shake not thus my soul, Comala!”“Tomorrow, at sunrise! so soon, so soon?”

… “How thy cheek

Doth vary! But now, with feverish glow

It burnt, kindling as thou spakest, and now

White, and cold, it glistens in thy damp tears,

Like the pale lily in the morning dew.

Oh! shake not thus my soul, Comala!”

“Tomorrow, at sunrise! so soon, so soon?”

Thenext day Fitz-Ullin found it impossible to be a moment alone with Julia. She fled all such occasions, with a species of terror, which astonished him. In the evening he met her suddenly in the shrubbery.

“What can I have done, Julia?” he said, snatching the tremulous hand with which she was hastily endeavouring to open a little paling gate for the purpose of turning into anotherwalk, evidently to avoid him. “Am I no longer that Edmund whom you have honoured with the name of brother, since—since before you could pronounce the word distinctly? Or can I be expected to forget, entirely, that you are still the same Julia, the same dearest, best beloved object of my earliest, and fondest affections!—” He stopped short suddenly, as though he had been betrayed into expressions he had not meant to use. Julia’s lip trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and every feature convulsed by efforts to restrain her tears.

“I see I am but adding to my offence,” he recommenced, “I but seem to you to insult feelings which ought now to be sacred; with which, you think, and justly, I ought not, on the strength of my knowledge of them, to trifle: nor do I, heaven knows, entertain such a thought! But, what have I done? why must I be denied your friendship? the continuation of your confidence? Do not mistake me!Mine, Julia, mine are, I repeat it, but the claims of a brother.”

Julia’s colour rose. “For heaven’s sake, what do you mean? what do you dare to mean?” she exclaimed, and wrenching her hand from him, without waiting his reply, she hastened to the house. He attempted to follow; but she waved to him, to remain where he was. That evening, Julia avoided him more than ever; and with an expression, too, on her countenance, of less gentle displeasure than she had ever before evinced. When she was leaving the supper room, he added to his good night, “I am going to-morrow; early, very early;” extending, at the same time, a hand to each of the sisters.

These words arrested the step of Julia for a moment. She yielded a trembling hand, and attempted to utter a good night.

“A moment the sun stood on the mountains;The mists of the night he roll’d from their sides,Blaz’d, and ascended the heavens.”“Yes—yes—It is the form of Fingall!—NowThe blast rolls it together—gradualVanish his stately limbs, and mingle withThe mountain mist.”

“A moment the sun stood on the mountains;The mists of the night he roll’d from their sides,Blaz’d, and ascended the heavens.”

“A moment the sun stood on the mountains;

The mists of the night he roll’d from their sides,

Blaz’d, and ascended the heavens.”

“Yes—yes—It is the form of Fingall!—NowThe blast rolls it together—gradualVanish his stately limbs, and mingle withThe mountain mist.”

“Yes—yes—It is the form of Fingall!—Now

The blast rolls it together—gradual

Vanish his stately limbs, and mingle with

The mountain mist.”

Inthe morning Julia stole from the side of Frances, at a very early hour, and seated herself near a window. For a time all was still. At length she heard a step in the hall, then a gentle tap at a, not very distant, room door; then, the well known voice of Fitz-Ullin answering from within with that urbanity of tone for which he was so remarkable, the servant who had told him the hour. This wasfollowed by various slight noises; then the wheels of a carriage on the gravel beneath her window; then Fitz-Ullin’s step, quitting his apartment, and crossing the hall; then the clap of the carriage-door, followed immediately by the sound of the wheels again, but in quicker motion than before. She now saw Fitz-Ullin’s travelling carriage drive away. As it turned, in doing so, she caught, through a screen of jessamine, which, overgrowing her window, concealed her, one momentary view of the countenance of our hero. It was very pale, and he was looking towards the very window so screened, with a settled melancholy of expression, which seemed to convey to Julia’s heart a presentiment that they should never meet again.

She had maintained all this time an unnatural degree of composure; a passion of tears now came to her relief. Till being reminded by a slight movement of Frances, that, should her sister awake and speak toher, all reserve must, she felt, henceforward be at an end, and a contemptible weakness, for which she heartily despised herself, be thus exposed, she determined to steal out softly to the breakfast room, where, throwing herself on a sofa, she lay in all the listlessness of despondency for an hour and half, at the end of which time she was aroused by the sound of a carriage driving up to the door. Her heart palpitated violently. “What can have brought him back?” she thought. She heard a bustle in the hall, and one of the men servants’ voices calling to Alice, and enquiring if Lady Julia was up yet. Shortly after, steps approached the door of the breakfast room, it opened.

… “Her moist eye turned towardsLena’s heath: She listen’d to the rustling blastFor the tread of Fingall. She heard my stepsApproaching; joy arose in her face;But sorrow returned like a vapoury cloudSpread o’er the moon, when we see it’s form still,But without its brightness.”

… “Her moist eye turned towards

Lena’s heath: She listen’d to the rustling blast

For the tread of Fingall. She heard my steps

Approaching; joy arose in her face;

But sorrow returned like a vapoury cloud

Spread o’er the moon, when we see it’s form still,

But without its brightness.”

Gotterimo, carrying a small box and parcel, was ushered in by Alice. Never did our old acquaintance meet with a reception so little cordial from Julia. She had fully expected to see Fitz-Ullin enter, and, possessed with that idea, had sprung from the sofa, placed herself at a table, flung open a large volume before her, and arranged the expression of her countenance, for the purpose of meetinghim with proper dignity. The bows and smiles, therefore, of the little pedlar but poorly compensated for her disappointment.

Unwelcomed, he approached and laid down the box and parcel. The latter, on having the silk handkerchief in which it was tied, removed, and coming in contact with the table, resolved itself into numerous loose letters, which, escaping from the piece of red tape that once had confined them, spread themselves before the eyes of our heroine. They were evidently old ones, many of them being much discoloured and abused, and the seals, seemingly, of all broken.

Gotterimo, with an air of mingled mystery and self-gratulation, said, “Dis be your ladyship box of de fine ting. I have show it to de captain, (nice gentleman is de captain!) I vos bring it to your ladyship vid dese letters, for dis reason, dat von of dem be direct to you ladyship. So I have told him, but he nolook. He desire me no show dem to him, nor odder person but you ladyship, because de be vid you ladyship box, and so de must belong you ladyship.”

Julia saw, by a single glance at the box, that it was that which had contained her jewels, and which had been taken out of her room on the memorable evening that she had been carried away from Lodore House. “It is certainly my box,” she said, “but where in the world did you find it, Mr. Gotterimo?”

“I have got all dese tings, madam, in a vey dat be var strange. I vil just take to mineself de liberty to tell you ladyship, if it be not von great trouble, fen you listen.”

“Oh no,” said Julia, “pray, how was it?”

“You see, madam,” he commenced, “I am now, tank to you ladyship and you good family, do var vell in de vorld. I have got, you see, de big shop dat be de broker shop, so velas mine pretty little shop for de fine ting. So, fen de prize agent people be selling de property out of de big privateer ship, I did go to buy de bargain. And so I do buy, vid odder tings, de von big chest, var cheep; and I vos tink, von day, to make mine chest var clean, and I jump in mineself, and up jump de von bottom, and in between de two bottom vos dis little box. So, fen I did open de little box, I see in it all de fine ting belong you ladyship. Oh, de did look so pretty, all in dere own place shining! de make me tink (do not be angry, madam; I shake mine head, so dat de tought might not come; but de tought vos coming vidout my leave) how much money de vould sell for. But I say to myself, no, Gotterimo, de be de fine ting of de lady dat be so goot to me; so I vill take dem to her myself. She have pay for dem before, and she sall have dem now for nottin.”

Julia’s hand, meantime, had passed lightlyover the loose heap of letters that lay on the table before her. As they slid aside at her touch, her eye had been caught by the hand-writing in which one, addressed to herself, was directed. Her colour had fled, and returned of a deeper dye, in almost the same moment.

“Is this soft hand thy answer? or that look,Which, though so soon withdrawn, too gentle seem’dFor harsh denial’s herald; or that blushWhich now, o’er thy snowy beauty spreading,Heightens all thy loveliness!”“And when those gentle eyes, thus rais’d to mine,Melt in my ardent gaze; yet willing notWith haste ungracious to reprove my love,A moment tremble ere they fall again;Oh, ’tis a feeling not of earth! ’tis oneWhich man’s experience hath not taught him howTo shape in words.”

“Is this soft hand thy answer? or that look,

Which, though so soon withdrawn, too gentle seem’d

For harsh denial’s herald; or that blush

Which now, o’er thy snowy beauty spreading,

Heightens all thy loveliness!”

“And when those gentle eyes, thus rais’d to mine,Melt in my ardent gaze; yet willing notWith haste ungracious to reprove my love,A moment tremble ere they fall again;Oh, ’tis a feeling not of earth! ’tis oneWhich man’s experience hath not taught him howTo shape in words.”

“And when those gentle eyes, thus rais’d to mine,

Melt in my ardent gaze; yet willing not

With haste ungracious to reprove my love,

A moment tremble ere they fall again;

Oh, ’tis a feeling not of earth! ’tis one

Which man’s experience hath not taught him how

To shape in words.”

Shehad opened the letter, was reading, and had become so much absorbed, that she had not only ceased to hear what Gotterimo said, but was no longer conscious even of his presence. He began to perceive this, and with instinctivepoliteness, though with a feeling of much disappointment, first became silent, and then, fearing he might be troublesome, after fidgeting a little, and coughing once or twice, left the room.

Julia, without perceiving his departure, continued reading till she had twice begun and twice finished the letter. Then, laying it open on her bosom, and crossing her hands upon it, she raised her streaming eyes to heaven. The door from the library opened: she withdrew her eyes from their upward gaze, and they rested on Fitz-Ullin. “Oh, Edmund!” she exclaimed, and hastily presenting the letter to him, she covered her face with both her hands, and leaned on the table. Fitz-Ullin glanced at the open letter, and found it to be one which he himself had written to our heroine above a year before.

“Why, Julia,” he said, “should this letter, which you have replied to so fully, so decidedly,and so long since, now seem to surprise or agitate you?”

“I never replied to it! I never received it! I never saw it till this moment!” said Julia.

“What, Julia!” exclaimed Fitz-Ullin, sinking on one knee beside her, and drawing both her hands, from before her face, “do you indeed tell me that you have not, in reply to that letter, rejected the heart and hand it offers?—rejected them, too, on the plea of a prior and long cherished attachment to another, that other—the unfortunate Henry St. Aubin?”

“Oh, never! never!” exclaimed Julia, with a fervour of manner, tone of voice, and expression of countenance, which carried at once conviction and happiness to the heart of Edmund. That look, that manner, not only said, “I have not rejected,” they also said, “I will accept!” Fitz-Ullin gazed upon her for some moments in the silence of powerful emotion.“Julia,” he said, at length, in a voice scarcely audible, “what a load of misery you have removed from my heart!”

She returned the pressure of his hand without affectation of reserve; but without the power to speak. “Heavens,” he continued, after a short pause, “that horrible certainty in which every sense has been spell-bound for the last twelve months of wretchedness, was then but a dream! Oh, Julia, how gladly do I awake from it!” Their eyes met as he spoke; nor were hers immediately withdrawn, though their lids trembled beneath the ardour of his gaze. The Julia and Edmund of former days seemed suddenly restored to each other after a long, long separation: each seemed to read the heart of the other, each wondered that they could have doubted the truth of the other. Both had been silent for some time. “Julia,” said Fitz-Ullin, at length, in a low,entreating voice, recollecting, though it must be confessed, without much alarm, that Julia, though she had denied having rejected him, had not yet said one word about accepting him, “how can I trust to the presumptuous hopes with which my heart now throbs—how can I dare to be thus happy till you have pronounced my fate, till you have actually said that you will be mine!” Julia replied only by a look. “I may then,” said Fitz-Ullin, in a low whisper, “speak to Lord L⸺, as authorised by you?”

Julia breathed a very inaudible sort of a yes; and Fitz-Ullin, who, to hear the important monosyllable, had been obliged to venture his face into a very dangerous neighbourhood, expressed his delighted gratitude by as many demonstrations of the feelings that said little word of mighty consequences had inspired, as he dare well evince; but, as to what exactlyhe said or did on the occasion, it is by no means necessary to the development of our narrative to record.

Julia no longer venturing to look up, her eyes rested, as a sort of excuse for looking down, on the open letter, which, having escaped from Fitz-Ullin’s hand, now lay on her knee. As she dwelt on the expressions it contained of passionate tenderness dictated by the pure enthusiasm of a First Love, the harrowing descriptions of poor Edmund’s struggles with his own heart, while he had believed himself an obscure and nameless being altogether unworthy of her, her tears flowed silently, except that such was the stillness of all else, that the fall of each on the paper might be distinctly heard. Fitz-Ullin watched her with inexpressible delight, fearing to breathe, lest he should interrupt her. At length, tempted by the tear, or the smile, or both, to seewhat parts of his letter so much affected her, he approached his face nearer the paper, (for he was still kneeling,) and read with her, adding emphasis to each tender expression by a gentle pressure of one, or both the hands he still held.

“When did you write this letter, Edmund?” she at length asked.

“On the very day,” he replied, “on which I became acquainted with my birth, when poor Ormond’s rash attempt to put an end to his existence prevented my setting out instantly for Lodore, which I was, indeed, as the letter mentions, in the very act of doing when the alarm was given; for I had long enough vainly struggled with my feelings, while duty and honour forbade me to declare them; another moment of suspense, therefore, when those obstacles were removed, seemed not to be endured!”

“And did you say, then, that you received a letter in reply purporting to be from me?” asked Julia, “and——”

“I did,” answered Fitz-Ullin, “written in your name, and to all appearance your hand, and even style. I have preserved it, and can shew it you. It contains a gentle, very kindly worded, but, as I mentioned, decided rejection of the proposals made in my letter; and states, as the reason of that rejection, a secret, long cherished attachment, and engagement to Henry, to whom it declares you betrothed. It then reminds me, in the most seemingly artless and confiding manner, of many little circumstances I must myself have observed; and entreats me to keep inviolable the secret thus entrusted to me, either till you should obtain Lord L⸺’s consent, or, when of age, have taken some decided step. It farther requests me, not to make known to any of your family my wishes, lest they should urge youracceptance of my hand. And, finally, it commands me on pain of forfeiting your friendship for ever, no more to renew the subject to yourself, by the slightest allusion to it; even in any private interview that might occur.

“On receiving this letter, I passed some days in a species of delirium; I scarcely knew what happened, but that I still continued apparently in attendance on the sick bed of Ormond; while horrible visions haunted me of every circumstance which had at any time raised for a moment suspicions of a secret understanding subsisting between you and your cousin. These were now received as fatal proofs, which long before ought to have opened my eyes. The past, with all its blissful, though presumptuous hopes, was changed in a moment into a wilderness on which I dared not look back! I know I wrote to Mrs. Montgomery, and endeavoured to observe your supposed injunction of secrecy; but, of what I said, I have scarcelyan idea. My letter must have been wildly and strangely worded.”

“That letter,” said Julia, and she smiled archly, though blushingly, “we all thought was written, in consequence of your disappointment, (as we believed) about Lady Susan. Her marriage, you know, took place just at that time. And that unfortunate being, Henry too,” she added, “confirmed this opinion, by declaring that he was in your confidence; and saying, that you had also written to him on the subject, quite in despair!”

Fitz-Ullin could not help smiling in his turn, at the idea of his being in despair about Lady Susan.

“On me too,” he rejoined, “Henry forced, what he termed confidence. He has even given me to read, on our last voyage, passages, purporting to be from your correspondence with himself, and containing messages to me, reiterating your injunctions of secrecy. And once,he showed me a picture, which he said you had given him, asking if I thought it like. It was like, really like. Judge with what feelings I must have seen him approach it to his lips, and replace it in his bosom! A heart-sickening sensation followed, and my selfish regrets were, for a time, lost in the certainty that you had cast away the inestimable treasure of your affections on a man who did not truly love you; for, I felt that one who did, had been incapable of the indelicate display I had just witnessed.” Here Fitz-Ullin unconsciously sighed, as though the sense of present felicity had been overborne by the painful recollections which pressed upon him, then added: “After this, every circumstance, and when we met again, Julia, every look and word was misconstrued by me into confirmations of that fatal belief, which, from the moment it took possession of me, poisoned my very existence, and benumbed every faculty but that of suffering! Why, Julia,in that agonizing interview in the refreshment room at Lord L⸺’s, such was the infatuation of my despair, that I believed we fully understood each other. You seemed to me to acknowledge, that you had received my proposals; for you even said that my letter had given you much pain; I thought of course, you spoke of this letter.”

“I meant,” interrupted Julia, “the then last one to grandmamma, which gave us all pain, it was written in so desponding a manner. But,” she continued, colouring a little, “you spoke, just now, of—of—circumstances, which had raised momentary suspicions.” This opening led to a conversation, in which the fears for our hero’s safety which had so long influenced the conduct of Julia towards her cousin, were confessed; and the system of terror practised by Henry, developed. A burst of fond and grateful emotion on the part of Fitz-Ullin followed, by which Julia was so much affected, thatwhen she tried to speak, her lip trembled, and she was unable to articulate. She tried to smile, but the struggle was too much for her: she wept and laughed alternately, till she alarmed Fitz-Ullin so much, that he would have been almost tempted to have called for assistance, could he well have withdrawn his own support. Before Julia had half recovered, Frances entered. She was tripping lightly towards the bell, to ring for breakfast; when, perceiving her sister and our hero, she stopped in the middle of the room, the very statue of surprise! Julia disengaged herself, hastily; discovering, just at this moment, that the assistance which had hitherto been so indispensable as to render it quite proper, had now ceased to be necessary. Fitz-Ullin started up, and, flying towards Frances, seemed to meditate a rather familiar species of salutation. But she stepped back. She had, by this time, made a choice of her own, and was not disposedto be embraced, as formerly, only for her sister’s sake. She extended her hand, however, which he took and kissed, as with an expression of delight on his countenance which she had not seen it wear for a long period, and which looked like the sunshine of the first bright day after a dreary winter, he exclaimed, “Frances, I am now indeed your brother!”

Frances approached her sister, who threw herself into her arms, and hid her face in her bosom, whispering: “Oh, Frances, how happy I am. You were quite right, Edmund never loved any one but me!” Frances smiled archly, and looking in her sister’s face, whispered, “First Love!Julia.”

Lord L⸺ entered the room at this moment; and Fitz-Ullin, seeing the sisters thus engaged with each other, heroically resolved on the mighty sacrifice, of tearing himself a moment from Julia’s presence, for the purposeof confirming his happiness. He hastened forward, therefore, and meeting Lord L⸺, requested a few minutes private conversation with him. His lordship bowed assent. They retired. Fitz-Ullin, on entering the library, grasped Lord L⸺’s hand, and named Julia. Lord L⸺ looked dignified, and at a loss.

“I have loved her,” said Fitz-Ullin, “from the days of childhood to the present hour!”

“What, then, could have induced you to keep your sentiments so long a secret?” said Lord L⸺. “But, I will confess, Fitz-Ullin——” Here the gentlemen proceeded with mutual confessions; till, being quite satisfied with the knowledge thus obtained of each other’s private opinions, they re-entered the breakfast-room, with countenances of the most perfect good humour. Lord L⸺ sought the eye of Julia; and when he caught it for a moment, smiled with a look, which added yet a tinge to the blush that already dyed her cheek.She stood in the recess of a glass-door, apart. Fitz-Ullin was soon at her side. In a low whisper, and without looking up, she said, “I should like to speak to grandmamma before we sit down to breakfast, and you may follow me.” Both glided out unperceived.

“Ye shall part no more.”

Ourhero and heroine re-entered the house by a similar glass-door, leading into Mrs. Montgomery’s dressing-room, and were soon hand in hand at her bed-side.

“My children,” said the good old lady, looking kindly at them, “how happy you both look this morning.”

“I, ma’am,” said Fitz-Ullin, “am the happiest of all mortal beings! Julia—my own Julia, whom I have loved from the moment when you first placed her, not an hour old, in my arms, that Julia—that cherished object of my earliest and fondest affections—of myFirst Love, and of the only love my heartever knew, or ever can know, is now mine for ever; by her own and by Lord L⸺’s consent—mine for ever!”

Mrs. Montgomery looked at Julia, whose blushes, as she embraced her grandmamma, confirmed what Fitz-Ullin had said. “Kneel, my children,” said the old lady, in a faltering tone. “It is as it should be!” and she rose in her bed as she spoke, and blessed them tenderly and solemnly, uniting their hands; while Mr. Jackson entering, a species of explanation was given, in which, however, the name of Henry was not mentioned. Mrs. Montgomery, detaining Julia, dismissed both the gentlemen. They, before their return to the breakfast-room, took a short walk on the lawn, during which Fitz-Ullin made Mr. Jackson acquainted with those particulars respecting the conduct of Henry, which it had been necessary to conceal from Mrs. Montgomery. Thus satisfyinghis kind preceptor of his reasons for not only concealing his attachment to Julia, but suffering every one to believe him lost to his friends and to society, from the effects of a disappointment in another quarter.

“Keep still in fortune’s way, her unmeant giftsAre oft the best!”

“Keep still in fortune’s way, her unmeant gifts

Are oft the best!”

Onentering the breakfast-room, they found that Lady Oswald had by this time joined the party there.

Her ladyship contrived by looks, a kind pressure of the hand, and a well-timed whisper, to shew her nephew that she was fully prepared to congratulate him on his new found happiness.

Frances had, at length, completed her journey to the bell, and by agitating it, had occasioned, though at a later hour than usual, the appearance of a steaming tea-urn, hot rolls, &c. &c. She now began to dispense the goodthings over which she presided, and had just requested Fitz-Ullin to ring the bell for Alice to take her grandmamma’s breakfast, when the door opened, and, supported on one side by our old friend, Mrs. Smyth, and on the other by Julia, Mrs. Montgomery herself appeared. Whether it was the extreme contrast between the figures of the very old and the very young lady, or the amiable light in which youth always appears, while rendering support to the infirmities of age, or whether Julia might, for any reasons best known to herself, be really looking more blooming or more happy than usual, or whether there was any thing in Fitz-Ullin’s own thoughts which diffused a peculiar lustre over the charms of her he now viewed, almost for the first time as his own, or, whether all these causes operated together; certain it is, he found one moment to think her more lovely, more irresistibly attractive than ever, before the bustle immediately occasioned by Mrs.Montgomery’s entrance, commenced. It was the first time that lady, so deservedly the object of the love and veneration of all, had left her room since she had heard of Henry’s death. Every one rose to meet her—every one hailed her approach with a joyful welcome—and even Fitz-Ullin himself, in all the hurry of his spirits, had the presence of mind to remember the great chair in which she usually sat, and to place it for her. He also succeeded in finding the foot-stool, after twice stumbling over it in the course of his researches; and was, at length, amply rewarded by perceiving, at the conclusion of his labours, that the seat next to Julia had, by general consent, been left for him.

Though the breakfast was rather a late one, seldom has there been a meal at which all who sat down to it were so truly happy. Those most interested, indeed, were almost too much so for enjoyment. The heart scarcely knowshow, thus quickly, to appropriate so much new found felicity: at one moment it doubts the reality of the very bliss it feels, and the next trembles at being the repository of so great a treasure.

The breakfast was ended, but no one moved; all seemed unwilling to break up so happy an assembly. Meanwhile, ungrateful world, the author, or at least the importer of so much joy, was, in the very intensity of that joy, totally forgotten, till an exclamation from Arthur, of “Oh, how beautiful!” drew pretty general attention towards the small table, on which the restored jewel box still stood open.

“That’s true!” said our heroine: “where is poor Gotterimo? I have not thanked him for his honesty in bringing back these things. I forget, too, where it was he said he found them.”

“Oh, Lady Oswald!” exclaimed Fitz-Ullin, “I forgot to mention it before, but—” and,making two strides into the library, and one back, carrying a pile of parchment, he continued—“Here are the title-deeds of Arthur’s estates.” Lady Oswald was near fainting. Frances was obliged to assist in supporting her.

“Why, Fitz-Ullin! where, in the name of all that is marvellous, did these come from?” said Lord L⸺, eagerly examining the parchments.

“I had them of the honest fellow who brought back Lady Julia’s diamonds,” answered Fitz-Ullin.

“But where?” “And when?” “And how?” vociferated many voices.

“I met with the poor man this morning,” replied our hero, “tumbled out of a gig on the high road, a few miles from hence. A couple of fellows were about to rob, and, I suppose, murder him—” Here numerous exclamations of horror and surprise interrupted the speaker.At length he was permitted to proceed. “The villains fled,” he continued, “at the first sound of my carriage-wheels; but, on driving up to the spot, I perceived a person lying on the side of the road, and desired my servants to stop and give any assistance in their power. While they did so, having ascertained that the man was not hurt, I leaned from the window, enjoying the freshness of the morning air, and began, I suppose, to think of something else; for I found, in a short time after, that the poor fellow had been throwing away many of his best bows, and repeating frequently, ‘How you do, sir?’ just under me, before I observed him. When I returned his salutation, he said, that he remembered me very well; for that he had seen me at the house of the good family, and that I was the nice Captain who had advised the lady to buy the chain. He then told me a very long story about a sea-chest, and about a box of jewels, that he knew to be the property of Lady Julia L⸺.”

“Yes,” interrupted Frances, “for the box is one which Julia happened to employ Gotterimo to purchase for her in town; he could have no doubt, therefore, to whom it belonged.”

“So he said,” rejoined our hero; “and that finding these parchments lying near the box, and with them some letters, one of which, he said, was directed to Lady Julia L⸺, he thought it most prudent to bring all to this house. On glancing at the parchments,” continued Fitz-Ullin, “which, as the little man concluded his recital, he produced and offered to me, and which bore their titles, in large characters, on their outsides, I perceived immediately their nature and importance; and decided on returning to Lodore, for the purpose of assisting Lady Oswald to establish the rights of Arthur, rendered, by the recovery of these documents, indisputable. As for the letters, I should have considered it an unwarrantable liberty in me to have examined eventheir outsides; I therefore recommended it to Gotterimo to deliver them himself, with the box, into Lady Julia’s own hands. This arrangement made, I returned as quickly as possible, and—”

“And, on your arrival,” interrupted Lady Oswald, who was now a little recovered, “forgot the very existence of Lady Oswald, title-deeds, pedlar and all! This account of the transaction, oh learned judges, wants that consistency which is characteristic of the simple truth,” added her ladyship, much amused.

Fitz-Ullin, who was saying something aside to Julia, coloured, laughed, and replied, “I read the deeds over very attentively, I assure you, ma’am, in the library, on my first getting out of the carriage, before I came into the breakfast-room.”

“Oh then, it was in the breakfast-room you happened to forget me and my parchments,” said Lady Oswald, with a significant look.

“What have we got here?” exclaimed Lord L⸺, examining a packet of the parchments, which proved to be distinct from the rest, though contained within the same outer envelope of grey linen, “why, here are the title-deeds of the Craigs!”

“Indeed! indeed!” cried various voices.

Gotterimo was now called for. “He was very useful in the recovery of the pictures and plate,” observed Lord L⸺. “By the bye, Fitz-Ullin,” he added, turning to our hero, “did you ever hear us mention that daring robbery at the Craigs?”

“Oh, yes,” replied our hero, “I was one of the luncheon party there the day it was discovered.” As he concluded, he looked at Julia, who looked again and smiled. What multitudes of thoughts, on both sides, crowded into that moment. “Well,” said Lord L⸺, “it was chiefly through the means of this Gotterimo, that the things have been recovered.He found out for us the persons to whom the swindler had pawned the articles, and though at the expense certainly of some of the savings of minority, we have succeeded in getting almost every thing into its place again.”

Gotterimo, who had been sent for, was now ushered in. Every one welcomed and thanked him, and commendations of his honourable and upright conduct, accompanied by assurances that his services should be handsomely rewarded, were poured upon him on all sides. The little English he possessed, was banished from his memory, bows and blushes were all the replies he could offer. The gentlemen then proceeded to question him respecting the mode of discovering the parchments, letters, &c. He could give little more information than had already been collected. After the particulars, therefore, were all recapitulated by him connectedly and at fulllength, he was dismissed, and commended to the care of Mrs. Smyth, a destination to which he had no objection, for poor Gotterimo had lately begun to have some hopes of rendering himself agreeable in the eyes of Alice Smyth, who was already very agreeable in his eyes.

Lord L⸺ requested Mr. Jackson to adjourn with him to the library, for the purpose of examining the packet of letters, which, having been found with the parchments, might possibly throw some light on the late mysterious business. His lordship had also the cruelty to ask Fitz-Ullin to assist them with his judgment. Our hero had just whispered a request to Julia to take a walk in the shrubbery, and had just received a smile in assent. What a disappointment!

Back to Index Next