A WIFE'S DUTY, (continued 3)

This note Lord Charles playfully snatched from him, and would read aloud, much to Seymour's annoyance; as, though the language was elegant, there was not a word spelt right, and every rule of grammar was violated.

"The education of this well born lady was much neglected, I see," said Lord Charles: "would she could spell as well as she can flatter!"

He then read the concluding compliment aloud.

"C'est un peu fort," he observed, returning the note; which Seymour angrily observed he ought not to have allowed him to read.

"Well; but you obey the summons, I suppose?"

"Certainly."

"And when may we hope to see you again?"

"As soon as I can get away."

"That may not be till bed-time."

"Impossible! have I not promised to give you your revenge this evening?"

"Yes; but when a lady's in the case—"

"Nonsense! I shall return to dinner."

"And not before? How mortifying it is to me to see that you are not afraid of leaving me so many hours at liberty to pay court to your wife,—with whom, you know, I am desperately in love!"

"If my wife were not what she is, I should be so; and my confidence, I assure you, is not in you, but in her."

"Besides, we shall not be alone, my lord, for I am going to challenge you," said I, "to call on my mother."

"Agreed! And now I am flattered. Your lady, you see, thinks me a more formidable person than you do. Suppose, my dear lady, that we go off together, only to punish him for his weak confidence?"

"We will consider of it," said I, laughing; "and in the meanwhile we will visit my mother."

My husband then drove off and I prepared for my walk.—When I returned, I found Lord Charles walking up and down the room, and with a thoughtful disturbed countenance.

"Mrs. Pendarves," cried he, "I have no patience with that infatuated husband of yours! Here am I come on purpose to see him and for a short time only, and yet, at the call of this equivocal French peeress, he leaves me, and has the indecorum, too, to go away and leave me with his beautiful wife! Tell me, do you not believe in love-powders and philters? for surely some must have been administered to him."

"Not necessarily: my ill-health, the consequence of sorrow, and that sorrow itself made poor Seymour's home uncomfortable to him; he did not like to see me suffer, therefore he acquired a habit of seeking amusement elsewhere; and the flatteries and invitations of these gay and agreeable people have at last obtained a complete ascendency over him."

"That I see; and such people too! And to think of what the foolish man leaves! Mrs. Pendarves, I think that if I had had such a wife as his, I could not have left my home as he does."

"Lord Charles," replied I, "this is language which I will not listen to; but I laugh at your self-deception. The habits of all men of the world are similar, and alike powerful, and your wife would be left as I am: but I assure you that I am convinced my husband loves me tenderly notwithstanding; and I am trying, by conforming to his habits, to make myself as agreeable to him as others are."

Lord Charles seemed about to break into violent exclamations of some kind or other; but I stopped him, and begged to lead the way to my mother's. He bowed respectfully, and followed me: then taking his arm, I tried to begin the conversation I meditated; and luckily he made my task easy by saying, "I conclude Pendarves told you how completely he beat me at cards last night? But he has promised to give me my revenge to-night. The truth is, I have not played picquet these two years; but before I leave you, I expect to recover my knowledge, and to turn my visit to account: for I have been very unsuccessful at Brookes's lately."

I now stopped, and said, "Hear me, Lord Charles! I believe that you can be a kind and honourable man, and that you are really disposed to be a friend to me."

"To be sure—to be sure I am."

"I feel, I own, your power to be my foe in many essential points, but I am equally sure that you can be my friend if you choose; and I request you, if you value my peace of mind, not to tempt my husband to renew that habit and fondness for play, which he had lost, which he cannot afford to indulge, and which, I assure you, has impoverished and distressed us."

"You amaze me! Impoverished!"

"Yes; we have been forced to part with our horses and dismiss servants. Surely, therefore, it would not be the part of a friend to lure Pendarves to the risk of losing a hundred pounds a-night. My lord, I throw myself on your generosity, and say no more."

"You have said enough; and the admirable wife's prudence shall make amends for the rashness of her husband. Besides, I am so flattered by your confidence in me! At last to find you considering me as a friend, and asking assistance from me as a friend! I protest I am more flattered by your friendship than I should be by the love of twenty other women.—Take my revenge! No, indeed. He shall keep his hundred pounds: 'I will none of it.'"

"Hold; not so: play with him this evening; but whether you win or lose, declare you will play no more. I would rather you should win back the money, and even more; for it may be dangerous to Seymour to feel himself enriched by play, and he may go on, though not with you: but after this evening, forbear."

"Excellent! excellent! O that ever I should come hither! I shall be a lost man: for I shall fancy it so charming a thing to have a wife to take care of me, that I shall marry, and find too late there is only one Helen Pendarves!—But tell me, do you wish me to go away to-day, to-morrow, or when—in order to put you out of your pain?"

"By no means: I rely implicitly on your promise; and I owe it to you to assure you, Lord Charles, that your company is most welcome to me, and that I shall not forget your kindness."

I now took my departure, having some poor cottagers to visit. When I came back, I saw by the thoughtful brow and flushed cheek of both, that their conversation had been of a very interesting nature; and I also saw that there was an air of confiding intimacy between them, which I never expected to see between two persons so little accordant in habits and sentiments.

But every human being has a capacity for good as well as evil, and the great difference in us all results chiefly, I believe, from the favourable or unfavourable circumstances in which we are placed. Lord Charles had been so circumstanced, that his capacity for evil alone had been cultivated; and till he knew my mother and myself, he had never met in women any other description of companions than those whom he courted, conquered, and despised,—and those whose rigid morals and disagreeable manners threw him haughtily at a distance, and made him hate virtue for their sakes. But now, trusted, noticed, liked by women of a different kind, his good feelings were awakened; and while with us, he really was the amiable being which he might, differently situated, have always been.

"I love to be with you," said he to us: "your influence is so beneficial over me, and you wrap me in such a pleasing illusion! for while I am with you I fancy myself as good as you are: but when I go away, I shall be just as bad again.—Well; have you nothing to say in reply? How disappointed I am! for I thought you would in mercy have exclaimed, 'Then stay here for ever!' Would I could!"

And indeed, when he did go, I missed him.—But to return to the place whence I digressed. Pendarves came home time enough to take a ride with Lord Charles, but he took care to let him see that he expected more attention from him. That evening he challenged my husband to picquet; and having won back nearly the whole of what he had lost, positively declined playing any more: and, much to Seymour's vexation, he would not play again while he staid. The second night's performances at Oswald Lodge now took place; but though Lord Charles staid to be present at them, he could not help expressing his astonishment to me, when alone, that a modest, respectable gentlewoman like myself should ever have joined in them, and that my husband should have permitted it.

"It is very well for these fiddling, frolicking, fun-hunting Oswalds," said he, "to fill their house with persons and things of this sort, and rant and roar, and kick and jump, and make fools and tumblers of themselves and such of their guests as like it: but never did I expect to see the dignified and retiring Helen Pendarves exhibiting her person on a stage, and levelling herself to a Lady Martindale. As your friend, your adoring friend, I tell you, that such an exhibition degrades you."

"It would do so were it my choice, but it is my necessity; and the fulfilment of a painful duty exalts rather than degrades."

"Duty!"

"Yes; my husband required me to act, and I obeyed."

"I understand you. Oh! what a rash, ill-judging being he is! But I beg your pardon, and will say no more. Yet I must add, you are justified; but alas! what can justify him?"

This conversation did not give me any additional courage to undertake and execute my task; especially as I had no reputation as an actress to lose, and other circumstances increased my timidity.—Lady Martindale had purposely reserved all her powers for this evening, and, as she herself said, she was very glad to have her performance witnessed by such a judge as Lord Charles Belmour—a man whose opinion, she knew, was looked up to in all circles as decisive, with regard to beauty, grace, and talents. No wonder, therefore, that to throw her spells round him was become the object of her ambition. Hitherto he had avoided her, and she seemed conscious that he did not admire her. Her only hope was, I believe, therefore, to charm him at once by a coup de théâtre; and while she convinced Pendarves that for him alone she should exert her various powers, her fascinating graces were in reality aimed at Lord Charles: so I thought and suspected,—and though jealousy blinds, it also very often enlightens.

She was to begin the entertainments by acting a French proverb with a French gentleman, an emigré, who was staying at the house; and having no doubt of her transcendent powers, I felt very reluctant to enter into competition with her. Yet, was not the prize for which I strove my husband's admiration? But then was I not degrading myself from the dignity of a wife and a private gentlewoman, by putting myself into a competition like this? The question was difficult to answer, and while I was thus ruminating, the curtain drew up.

I shall not describe her performance: suffice, that the exhibition was perfect. The dialogue was epigrammatic, and the scenes too short to let the attention flag. Every word, every gesture, every look told; and the curtain dropped amidst the loudest applauses.

I could only see from the side-scene; but I saw enough to make me feel my own inferiority, and I went on for Letitia Hardy in a tremor of spirits of which I was quite ashamed; nor could the kindest of the audience applaud me, except from pity and the wish to encourage me; while I saw that Lord Charles could not even do that, and sat silent, and, I thought, uneasy. However, I recovered myself in the masquerade scene, though my voice when I sung still trembled with emotion; and now I was overwhelmed with plaudits, and even Lord Charles seemed pleased; for, as I was masked, I could examine the audience.

Still the play went off languidly after the lively petite piece, and I saw I had mortified my husband's vanity, which my first performance had gratified.

Much impatience was expressed for the next entertainment, which was Rouseau's Pygmalion. Pygmalion by the French Marquis; the Statue, by Lady Martindale. This was received with delight; and I saw that the beautiful statue, whose exquisite proportions were any thing but concealed by the dress she wore, absorbed completely the attention of Pendarves; and when she left the stage apparently exhausted, how different were the look and manner with which he led her to her dressing-room, to those with which he had so handed me!

"Why, why," said I to myself, "did I attempt a comparison, in which I was sure to fail?" But if I had erred, I had meant well, and my mother had approved my conduct, and that must console me under my want of success; for, instead of winning Seymour back, I now saw that, feeling my rival's superiority over me, he would be more her slave than ever.

The whole concluded with a ballet of action, a monodrame, by Lady Martindale, to which I was too uncomfortable to attend; but what I saw I thought admirable. She pretended to be overcome with fatigue when it was ended, and fell into my husband's arms, who in his alarm called me to her assistance. I went; but her lip retained its glowing hue, and I saw in her illness nothing but a new attitude, and that the statue was now recumbent. Having been long enough contemplated in this posture, she opened her eyes, fixed them with a dying look on Pendarves, and then desired him to lead her to her apartment: whence she returned attired in a splendid mantle, which seemed in modesty thrown over her statue dress, but which coquettishly displayed occasionally the form it seemed intended to hide.

I never saw Lord Charles so disconcerted as he was during the whole of the time. He could not bear to praise the heroine of the evening, yet he felt that praise was her due. Nor could he bear either to find fault with or to praise me. In this dilemma, he seemed to think it was best to be silent; and drawing himself up, he entrenched himself in the consciousness that he was Lord Charles Belmour. But while Lady Martindale leaned on Seymour on one side and I on the other, as we were awaiting the summons to supper, surrounded by our flatterers, one glance at my dejected countenance brought back his kinder feelings; and turning to my mother, who held his arm, he said, "Shall I tell your fair daughter how enchanted I was with the masquerade scene?"

"I assure you," said Seymour, "Helen did not do herself justice to-night: she did not act as well as she can act."

"I should have been very sorry, so much do I esteem her, to have seen her act better," was his cold reply. "Would you have your wife, Pendarves, perform as well as a professional person, and as if she had been brought up on the stage?"

"I would wish my wife to do well whatever she undertakes," replied Seymour.

"And so she does, and so she did; but if you do not love her the better (as I am sure you do) for the graceful timidity which she displayed, I could not esteem you."

Lady Martindale, who watched his very look, now bit her lip, and Seymour did not look pleased. My mother owned afterwards, that what with pinching Lord Charles's arm, to see how Lord and Lady Martindale both were confused by the first part of his speech, and squeezing it affectionately from delight at the last, she is very sure Lord Charles carried her marks with him to London. I too could scarcely keep the grateful tears from flowing down my cheeks, which his well timed kindness brought into my eyes: but I saw that my expression was not lost upon him.

Seymour led Lady Martindale to the head of the supper table, and Lord Charles on account of his rank was forced to sit next her.

"Painful pre-eminence!" he whispered to my mother, who, as I was one of the queens of the night, insisted on my taking her place on the other side. Lord Martindale seated himself next me; and Seymour took the seat vacant by Lady Martindale. As Lord Charles scarcely noticed her, except as far as civility commanded, Lady Martindale soon turned her back on him, and Seymour and she seemed to forget any one else was present.

Lord Charles endeavoured by the most unremitting attentions to conceal from me what must, he knew, distress me. But he could not do it: I heard every whisper of their softened voices, and I dare say my uneasy countenance was a complete and whimsical contrast to that of Lord Martindale, who seemed perfectly easy under circumstances which would have distressed most men, and talked and laughed with every one in his turn.

The Lord and Lady of the feast, who were never tired of exhibitions, now began their usual demands on the talents of their guests, and were importunate in soliciting several of them to sing, a custom which I usually think "more honoured in the breach than the observance;" but on this occasion it was welcome to me, especially as I knew that it must for a time interrupt Seymour's attention to Lady Martindale. But as the hypochondriac, when he reads a book on diseases, always finds his own symptoms in every case before him, so I in the then existing state of my feelings always brought home every thing I heard or read to my own heart; and two of the songs which were sung that night accorded so well with my own state of mind, that I felt the tears come into my eyes as I listened; and during the following one Pendarves sighed so audibly, that I imagined he felt great sympathy with the sentiments; and that idea increased my suffering:—

SONG.

O that I could recall the day

When all my hours to thee were given,

And, as I gazed my soul away,

Thou wert my treasure, world, and heaven!

Then time on noiseless pinions flew,

And life like one bright morning beam'd:

Then love around us roses threw,

Which ever fresh and fragrant seem'd.

And are these moments gone for ever?

And can they ne'er return? No never.

For oh! that cruel traitor Time,

Although he might unheeded move,

Bore off our youth's luxuriant prime,

And also stole the bloom of love.

Yet still the thought of raptures past

Shall gild life's dull remaining store,

As sinking suns a splendour cast

On scenes their presence lights no more.

But are those raptures gone for ever?

And will they ne'er return? No never.

The other song was only in unison with my feelings in the last lines of the last verse. Still, while my morbid fancy made me consider them as the expression of my own sentiments, I listened with such a tell-tale countenance, that my delicacy was wounded; for I saw that my emotion was visible to those who sat opposite to me.

The song was as follows:—

FAIREST, SWEETEST, DEAREST,

A SONG.

"Say, by what name can I impart

My sense, dear girl, of what thou art?

Nay, though to frown thou darest,

I'll say thou art of girls the pride:

And though that modest lip may chide,

Mary! I'll call thee 'fairest.'

"Yet no—that word can but express

The soft and winning loveliness

In which the sight thou meetest.

But not thy heart, thy temper too,

So good, so sweet—Ha! that will do!

Mary! I'll call thee 'sweetest.'

"But 'fairest, sweetest,' vain would be

To speak the love I feel for thee:

Why smilest thou as thou hearest?"

"Because," she cried, "one little name

Is all I wish from thee to claim—

That precious name is 'dearest.'"

You will not, I conclude, imagine that I remember these songs only from having heard them that night, especially as they have very little merit; but the truth is, I was so pleased with them, because I fancied them applicable to my own feelings, that I requested them of the gentlemen who sung, and they were given to me.

Lord Charles meanwhile listened to the singing with great impatience, as he had had enough of the company, which was very numerous, and by no means as select as it had been before. Indeed at one table were many persons in whom the observant eye of Lord Charles discovered associates whose evident vulgarity made him feel himself out of his place. However, he could not presume to break up the party; and as our indefatigable host and hostess still kept forcing the talents of their guests into their service, song succeeded to song, and duet to duet. From one of the latter, however, sung by a lady and gentleman, I at length derived a soothing feeling; and in one moment, an observation of Seymour's, with, as I fancied, a correspondent and intended expression of countenance, removed a load from my heart, and my clouded brow became consciously to myself unclouded again.

The words of this healing duet were as follows:—

DUET.

"Say, why art thou pensive, beloved of my heart?

Indeed I am happy wherever thou art:

My eyes I confess toward others may rove,

But never, believe me, with wishes of love.

And trust me, however my glances may roam,

Of them, and my heart, thou alone art the home!"

ANSWER.

"Perhaps I am wrong thus dejected to be;

But my faithful eyes never wander from thee.

On beauty and youth I unconsciously gaze,

No thought, no emotion in me they can raise;

And ah! if thine eyes get the habit to roam,

How can I be certain they'll ever come home?"

"Oh! trust thy own charms! See the bee as he flies,

And visits each blossom of exquisite dies;

There culls of their sweetness some store for his cell;

But short are his visits, and prompt his farewell;

For still he remembers, howe'er he may roam,

That hoard of delight which awaits him at home.

"Then trust me, however thy Henry may roam,

I feel my best pleasures await me at home."

"I'll try to believe, howsoever thou roam,

Thy heart's dearest pleasures await thee at home."

"That is a charming duet," cried Seymour when it was ended. Then leaning behind Lady Martindale and Lord Charles, and calling to me, he said, with a look from which my conscious eye shrunk, "Helen, I admire the sentiment of that duet. I think, my love, we will get it—we should sing it con amore, should we not?" I could not look at him as I replied, "I could, I am sure."

"Silly girl," he added in a low and kind tone, "and so, I am sure, could I."

I then ventured to raise my eyes to his; and his expression was such, that I felt quite a different creature, and was able to enjoy the rest of the evening.

But why do I enter into these minute and unimportant details? Let me efface them—but no, perhaps they may chance to meet the eyes of some whose hearts have felt the anxieties and the vicissitudes of mine, and to them they may be interesting.

Lord Martindale was now requested to favour the company with a song, and with great good nature he instantly complied;—while Lord Charles whispered across me to my mother, "What a disgrace that fellow is to the peerage!"

"By his vices I grant you," replied my mother, "but not by his obliging compliance."

Lord Charles shrugged up his shoulders and was about to reply, when Silence was vociferated rather angrily by the lady of the house, who had not been blind to the airs which, as she said, Lord Charles had given himself the whole evening. Lord Martindale, as may be supposed, was greatly applauded, on the same principle as that mentioned by the poet with regard to noble authors:

"For if a lord once own the happy lines,

How the wit brightens! how the taste refines!"

and the noisy expressions of admiration which rewarded a very mediocre performance did not increase the good humour of our noble guest, against whom I saw an attack preparing at the bottom of the table. At length a very pretty girl, and who had sung with considerable skill, tried to engage the attention of Lord Charles; and finding "Sir" was not sufficient, she added "Mr. Belmour, Sir!" But some one whispered, "He is a Lord;" on which she said, "Dear me! Well then, My lord, Lord Belmour;" and Lord Charles turned towards the pretty speaker, while a half-muttered. "Vulgar animal!" was audible to my mother and myself, and formed a ludicrous contrast to the affectedly respectful attention and bent head with which he listened to what she had to observe.

But when he found that the young lady was requesting him to sing, and that she declared she had a claim on him, his expression of mingled hauteur, astonishment, and indignation, was highly comic, and we who knew him were eagerly expecting his answer, when we heard him say, having bowed and smirked his hand affectedly to his heart at the same time, "with the greatest pleasure in life;—which wine, claret or Champagne?"

"Dear me," cried the young lady, "I did not ask you to drink, but to sing, my lord."

"Oh! Champagne; very good. Carry a glass to that young lady:" but she indignantly rejected it, and repeated her request.

"I beg pardon," replied the impracticable Lord Charles, "I thought you said Champagne: then take claret to the young lady," who in vain exerted her voice. He remained quite deaf, holding his ear like a deaf person, much to the amusement of the company and the confusion of the fair supplicant, who had been encouraged by the admiring glances which Lord Charles had till now bestowed on her, to think that any request from her would have been attended to.

Thus far Lord Charles's endangered dignity had come off with flying colours, as it was no great affront to be requested to sing by a pretty girl, even though she had told him that he had a singing face, and looked like a singer; for the turn which he had given to her application got the laugh on his side, and he was very sure that she would not so presume again. But he was not to be let off so easily; for Mr. Oswald, who, being almost "as drunk as a lord," felt himself quite as great as one, now came behind Lord Charles, and giving him a sounding blow across the back, exclaimed with an oath, "Come, now, Belmour, there is a good fellow, do sing, for I have heard you are a comical dog when you like."

If a look could have annihilated, that instant would the little fat man have disappeared from off the face of the earth. The glance of Lord Charles was powerless even to wound Mr. Oswald; and he was equally unmoved when, scorning even to answer his importunate host, our friend suddenly addressed my mother, saying, "I think, Mrs. Pendarves, you desired me to call your carriage?"

"You are mistaken, my lord," replied my mother, with a reproving look which he well understood; and his tormentor was going to assail him again, when Seymour, to relieve Lord Charles, drew him into conversation; and I had just advised his still irritated guest to remember that Oswald was intoxicated, when our attention was attracted to a conversation between Mrs. Oswald and another lady, of which Lord Charles was the subject; and it was evident that Mrs. Oswald spoke of him in no friendly tone.

"Yes, my lord," said she, "you may look; we were certainly talking of your lordship."

"You do me much honour, madam."

"That is as it may be, my lord; but I was trying to do you justice, for my friend said it was pride that prevented your singing; but I said—" (and here she raised her voice to a shriller and more ludicrous pitch than usual) "yes, I said, says I, 'That is impossible, my dear; it cannot be pride; for if a real peer of the realm,' says I, 'the real thing, condescends to sing and amuse the company, surely Lord Charles Belmour need not be above it, who is only a commonly called, you know.'"

Instantly, to my consternation, and afterwards to his own, Lord Charles, thrown off his guard by this sarcasm, echoed her last words, and gave her tone and manner so exactly, that the effect upon the company was irresistible, and a general laugh ensued; which, to do him justice, shocked more than it gratified the self-condemned mimic, who could only for a moment be provoked to violate the rules of good breeding; and he was completely subdued, when Mrs. Oswald, with a degree of forbearance and good-humour which exalted her in my esteem, observed, "Well, my lord, you have condescended to exert your talent of mimicry, though you would not sing; and though it was at my expense, I am grateful to you, as you have contributed to amuse my company."

"Admirably replied!" exclaimed my mother.

"Excellent, excellent, bravo!" cried Pendarves; while Lord Charles, admonished, penitent and ashamed, was not slow to redeem himself from the sort of disgrace which he had incurred. Rising gracefully and bowing his head on his clasped hands, he solicited her pardon for the liberty which her evident nature had emboldened him to take, declaring at the same time, that if she forgave him, it would be long before he should forgive himself.

Mrs. Oswald, who was really as kind-hearted as she seemed, readily granted the pardon which he asked, and he respectfully pressed her offered hand to his lips. He did more; for while the carriages were called, he suddenly disappeared, and in a moment we could have fancied ourselves at the door of Drury-lane or Covent-garden; for the offered services of link-boys, the cries of "Coach, coach," and "Here, your honour," with all the different sounds, were heard in the hall; and while the guests listened delighted to this new and unexpected entertainment, the Oswalds were, I saw, evidently gratified at finding that it proceeded from the talent of Lord Charles. O the unnecessary humiliation to which pride exposes itself! Had he civilly though firmly refused the young lady's and Mr. Oswald's request to sing, and not discovered in the evening his haughty contempt for the company and his host, or insulted his hostess, he needed not to have condescended to an expiatory exhibition from which under other circumstances his pride would have properly revolted.

Thus ended this to me disagreeable evening, which extended far into the morning. The drive home was pleasant; for Lord Charles, having reconciled himself to himself by his ample amende honorable, and by the generous candour with which he received our reproofs, thought he was privileged to indulge his less amiable feelings by turning some of the company into ridicule, and exhibiting them to the very life before us. I must own that I again felt an ungenerous pleasure in some part of the entertainment, namely his mimicry of Lady Martindale, which I vainly endeavoured to subdue, and I was glad that, as Pendarves rode on the box, he did not witness my degradation. I must add, that both my mother and myself were gratified to observe that Lord Charles forbore to mimic our kind but vulgar host and hostess; and my mother took care to let him know indirectly that his delicacy was not lost upon her.

Another performance was fixed for that day week; the original Letitia Hardy, however, was expected, and most gladly did I offer to resign my part to her. Still, I was mortified to see with how little concern Pendarves heard me offer my resignation, and saw it accepted. Alas! not even Lord Charles's and my mother's joy at my being removed from a situation which they thought unworthy of me, could reconcile me to his indifference on the subject.

The next day Lord Charles was to leave us; but I saw that his departure was more welcome to my husband than to my mother and myself. In the morning he had requested Pendarves to walk with him round the grounds, and they returned, I observed, with disturbed countenances.

Lord Charles then called, and sat some time with my mother. What passed between them I do not know; but their parting was even affectionate, and his with me was distinguished from all our other partings by a degree of emotion for which I could not account.

"How I shall miss you!" said I, softened by his dejection.

"Thank you! I can bear better to leave you now:" and springing into his carriage he drove off and I felt forlorn; for I felt that I had lost a friend: and I also felt that I wanted one who, like him, had some check over my husband.

What more shall I say of this painful period of my life, for which, however, painful as it was, I would gladly have exchanged that which soon followed? One day was a transcript of the other. Pendarves, ever good-natured and kind while he was at home, seemed to think that he was thereby justified in leaving me continually; but as I was not of that opinion, to use a French phrase, je dépérissois à vue d'œil; and though I affected to be cheerful, my mother saw that my feelings were undermining my existence. But not even to her would I complain of my husband and she respected my silence too much to wish me to break it. However she was with me,—she, I felt, never would forsake me, or love me less; and while I had her, I was far from being completely miserable. Alas! what was she not to me? friend, counsellor, comforter!

But the decree was gone forth, and even her I was doomed to resign!

Not long after Lord Charles had quitted us, I perceived a visible alteration in my mother's appearance. I saw that she ate little, that she was very soon fatigued, and that her fine spirits were gone. I had no doubt but that she fretted for my anxieties. I therefore laboured the more to convince her that I was not as uneasy as she thought me.

But how vainly did I try to veil my heart from her penetrating glance! if there be such a thing as the art of divination, it is possessed by the eagle eye of interested affection, and that was hers.

My mother saw all my secret struggles; she pitied, she resented their cause; and I have sometimes feared that she sunk under them.

One morning, Pendarves on his return from Oswald Lodge came in with a very animated countenance, and told us a new description of amusement was introduced there, namely, archery, and he must beg me to go with him the next day, and learn to be an archer. "Lady Martindale," cried he, "already shoots like Diana herself."

"The only resemblance, I should think," said my mother, "which she has to Diana. But what do you say to this proposal, Helen? I must take leave to say that, as your mother, you can never go to Oswald Lodge again with my consent on any terms: and to engage in this new competition, oh! never, never!"

"And why not, madam? There is nothing indelicate in such an exhibition; and I own my pride in Helen, as a husband, made me wish to see her fine form exhibited in the graceful action of shooting at a target. Besides, as I really wish if possible to associate her in all my amusements, I was delighted to think this new pursuit would have led her to join me in my visits to the Lodge, and I am really desirous to know on what grounds you object to her obliging me."

"On account of the company there. Mr. and Mrs. Oswald are weak, vain people, fond of courting persons of quality; and so as they can but be intimate with a Lord and Lady, they care not of what description they are. This Lord Martindale is, I find, a man not much noticed by his equals; and as to Lady Martindale, the woman who could so expose her person in the dress of a Statue is not a fit companion for my daughter, nor your wife."

"You are severe, madam; but what says Helen?"

"That my mother does not make sufficient allowances for the difference of manners and ideas between a French and an English woman; and that the dress which shocks us in the former does not necessarily prove incorrectness of conduct."

"Incorrectness of conduct! and can your mother suppose I would introduce my wife to a woman whom I knew to be incorrect in her conduct?"

"No, Seymour, no: I do you more justice. But it is my duty to inform you that it is suspected this person is Lord Martindale's mistress only, not his wife."

"Not his wife!" interrupted Seymour.

"No, so I am informed. As to him, you know his character is so infamous that one can wonder at nothing he does; and he has been suspected of being a spy for the French convention, as well as the lady."

"Madam," said Seymour, "I thought you had been above listening to tales like these, and I cannot think myself justified in acting upon them. On the contrary, by taking my wife to the Lodge, I think it right to show my disregard of them, especially as by staying away, and by her distant manner when there, Helen has already injured the character of Lady Martindale, and made even my attentions to her the source of calumny. This the afflicted lady told me with tears and lamentations, and Helen's renewed visits can alone repair the injury her absence has done."

"So, then, this is the real reason of your wishing to make Helen a sharer in your amusements, and to exhibit her fine form to advantage!" exclaimed my mother indignantly. "But, Mr. Pendarves, if your constant visits are injurious to the fame of this afflicted lady, you know your remedy—discontinue them; for never, with my consent, shall my virtuous daughter lend her assistance to shield any one from the infamy which they deserve."

"Deserve, madam!" cried Seymour, as indignant as she was: "repeat that, and, spite of the love and reverence I bear you, I shall exert a husband's lawful authority, and see who dares dispute it."

"Not I," she replied, folding her arms submissively on her breast, "and still less that poor trembling girl. No, Pendarves, my only resource now is supplication and entreaty: and I conjure you, by the dear name of your beloved mother, and by the memory of past fond and endearing circumstances, and hours, to grant the prayer of a dying woman, and not to force your wife to this abode of revelry and riot. I feel my days are already numbered; and when I am taken from you, bitter will be your recollections if you refuse, my son, and soothing if you grant my prayer. I know you, Seymour, and I know that you cannot do any great cruelty without great remorse."

It was some moments before Pendarves could speak; at length he said—"Your request alone would have been sufficient, without your calling up such agonizing ideas. Helen, my best love, tell your mother you shall never go to Oswald Lodge again." He then put his handkerchief to his eyes, and rushed out of the room.

"The foolish boy's heart is in the right place still," said my mother, giving way to tears, but smiling at the same time.

But I, alas! could neither smile nor speak. She had called herself a dying woman; and through the rest of the day I could do nothing but look at and watch her, and go out of the room to weep; and my night was passed in wretchedness and prayer.

The next day I found my husband cold and sullen in manner; and I suspected that, having engaged to bring me to Oswald Lodge, he was mortified and ashamed to go thither without me, and would, I doubted not, make some excuse for my staying away which was not strictly true.

No one could feel more strongly or more virtuously than Pendarves: but good feelings, unless they are under the guard of strict principles, are subject to run away when summoned by the voice of pleasure and of error: and before he set off for the archery ground, he told me he sincerely repented his promise to my mother.

I did not reply, but shook my head mournfully.

"Psha!" said he, "that ever a fine woman like you, Helen, should wish to appear in her husband's eyes little better than a constant memento mori! Helen, an arrow cannot fly as far in a wet as in a dry air; and a laughing eye hits where a tearful one fails. You see I already steal my metaphors from my new study. But, good bye, sweet Helen! and when I return let me find you a little less dismal."

This was not the way to make me so; nor were his daily visits at this seducing house, which began in the morning, and lasted till he came home to dress for dinner; he then returned thither to stay till evening. At last he chose to dress there, and he did not return till night; nor, perhaps, would he have done that, had there not been some house-breaking in our neighbourhood, and he was afraid of leaving the house so ill-defended. I think that pique and resentment had some share in making him thus increase in the length as well as constancy of his visits; for I saw but too clearly that he continued offended with my poor mother: and I doubted not but that he had owned she was the cause of my refusal to visit at the house, and that Lady Martindale had added full force to this bitter feeling.

But he soon lost all resentment against my beloved parent.—Not very long after his painful conversation with her I was summoned to her, as she was too ill to rise, and had sent for medical advice.

"Go for my husband instantly," cried I.

"My mistress forbade me go for him," replied her faithful Juan (one of my father's manumised slaves), "and I canno go."

"Then she does not think very ill of herself?" said I.

"No, but I think very bad indeed."

And when I saw her, my fears were as strongly excited.

"I am going, I am going fast, my child," said she: "but I do not wish to have Pendarves sent for yet: I wish to have you a little while without any divided feelings, and all my own once more; when he comes, the wife will seduce away the child."

"How can you think so?" said I, giving way to an agony of grief; "and how can you be so barbarous as to tell me you are dying?"

"My poor child! I wished long ago to prepare you, but you would not be prepared. For your sake I still wished to live. You would have better spared me years ago, Helen! but this is cruel; and I will try to behave better."

As soon as her physician arrived, and had felt her pulse, I saw by his countenance that he was considerably alarmed; and the first feeling of my heart was to send for my husband, for him on whom I had been accustomed to rely in the hour of affliction. But I dared not, after what had passed! and I tried to rally all the powers of my mind to meet the impending evil, while I raised my thoughts to Him who listens to the cry of the orphan.

The physician had promised to come again in the evening. He did so; and then I learnt that there was indeed no hope; and I also learnt, by the agony of that moment, that I had in reality hoped till then; and, more like an automaton then aught alive, I sat by the fast exhausting sufferer.

Pendarves returned at night, and heard with anguish uncontrollable, not only that my mother was dying, but had forbidden that he should be sent for; and he arrived at the house in a state little short of distraction, nor could he be kept from the chamber of death.

His countenance, as he stood at the foot of the bed, told all the agony of his mind. They tell me so, for I saw him not; I could only see that object whom I was soon to behold no more!

My mother knew him; read, no doubt, all his wild wan look expressed; and smiling kindly, held out her hand to him. He was instantly on his knees by her bed-side; and she seemed, from the look she gave him, to feel all the maternal love for him revive which she had experienced through life.

Your husband, my dear friend, now came to perform his interesting duty, and we left her alone with him.

Oh! what a night succeeded! But Pendarves felt more than I. My faculties were benumbed: I had made such unnatural efforts for some time past to appear cheerful, while my heart was breaking, that I was too much exhausted to be able to endure this new demand on my fortitude and my strength; therefore already was that merciful stupor coming over me, which saved, I firmly believe, both my life and my reason.

My mother frequently, during that night, joined my hand in that of Pendarves, grasped them thus united, while her eyes were raised to heaven in prayer, but spoke not. At length, however, just as the last moment was approaching, she faltered out—"Seymour, be kind, be very kind to my poor child; she has only you now."

He replied by clasping me to his breast; and in one moment more all was over!

You know what followed; you know that for many weeks I was blessedly unconscious of every thing, and that I lay between death and life under the dominion of fever. My first return of consciousness and of speech showed itself thus:—I heard voices below, and recognised them, no doubt, as female voices; for I drew back the curtain, and asked my mother's faithful Alice whose voice I heard. But the joy my speaking gave the poor creature was instantly damped, for I added—"But I conclude it is my mother's voice, and I dare say she will be here presently."

Alice, bursting into tears, replied—"Your blessed mother never come now."

"Oh, but by-and-by will do:" and I closed my eyes again.

Alice now ran down stairs to call my husband, and tell him what had passed. The voices I heard were those of Mrs. Oswald and Lady Martindale, who had called every day to inquire for me; and Pendarves had been this day prevailed upon to go down to them. But he bitterly repented his complaisance when he found I had heard them talking; though he rejoiced in my restored hearing, which had seemed quite gone. He hastily, therefore, dismissed his visitors, and resumed his station by my bed-side. I knew him, and spoke to him; but damped all his satisfaction by asking for my mother, and wondering where she was. He could not answer me, and was doubtful what he ought to reply when he recovered himself.

At this moment the physician entered; and hearing what had passed, declared that the sooner he could make me understand what had happened, and shed tears (for I had shed none yet), the sooner I should recover, and he advised his beginning to do it directly.

Accordingly, when I again asked for her he said—"Do you not see my black coat, Helen? and do you not remember our loss?"

"O, yes; but I thought our mourning for the dear child was over."

"You see!" said Pendarves mournfully.

The physician replied—"Till her memory is restored, though her life is spared, a cure is far distant; but persevere."

In a fortnight I was able to take air; but I still wondered where my mother was, though I soon forgot her again.

But one day Pendarves asked me if I would go and visit the grave of my child, which I had not visited for some time. I thankfully complied, and he dragged me in a garden chair to the church door.

It was not without considerable emotion that he supported me to that marble slab which now covered my mother as well as my child, and I caught some of his trembling agitation.

"Look there, my poor Helen!" said he.

I did look, and read the name of my child.

"Look lower yet."

I did so, and the words 'Julia Pendarves;' with the sad et cetera, met my view, and seemed to restore my shattered comprehension.

In a moment the whole agonizing truth rushed upon my mind; and throwing myself on the cold stone, I called upon my departed parent, and wept till I was deluged in tears, and had sobbed myself into the stillness of exhaustion.

"Thank God! thou art restored, my beloved, and all will yet, I trust, be well," said my husband as he bore me away.

From that time my memory returned, and with it so acute a feeling of what I had lost, that I fear I was ungrateful enough to regret my imbecility.

I now insisted on hearing details of all that had occurred since my illness; and I found that my uncle and aunt had come down to attend the funeral of my mother, and that Lord Charles had attended uninvited to pay her that tribute of respect, nor had he returned to London till my life was declared out of danger. How deeply I felt this attention! I also heard that the ladies at the Lodge pestered my husband with letters, to prevail on him to spare his sensibility the pain of following my lost parent to the grave: but that, however he shrunk from the task, he had treated their request with the utmost disregard, saying, that if he had no other motive, the certainty that he was doing what I should have wished, was sufficient.

When I was quite restored to strength, both of mind and body, Pendarves gave me the key of my mother's papers, which he had carefully sealed up. My mother left no will, as she wished me to inherit every thing; but in a little paper directed to Pendarves she desired that an income might be settled on Juan and Alice, which would make them comfortable and independent for life; that her friends the De Waldens might have some memorial of her given to them; and that Lord Charles might have her travelling writing-desk.

Oh! what overwhelming feelings I endured while looking over her papers, containing a sketch of her life, her reflections and prayers when I married Pendarves, a character of Lady Helen, of her husband and of my father, and many fragments, all indicative of a mother's love and a mother's anxiety! But tender sorrow was suspended by curiosity, when I found one letter from Ferdinand de Walden! It was evidently written in answer to one from her, in which she had described me as suffering deeply, but, on principle, trying to appear cheerful, and for her sake dutifully trying to conceal from her the agony of my heart. What else she had said, was very evident from the part of the letter which I transcribe, translating it from the French.

"Yes! you only, I believe, do me justice. I should have been a more devoted husband than Pendarves; having my affections built, I trust, on a firmer foundation than his, viz. a purifying faith, and its result, pure habits. Still, I know not how to excuse his conduct towards such an angel! for oh! that faded cheek, and that shrunk form, that dejection of spirits from a mother's sorrows which seem to have alienated him, would have endeared her to me still more fondly—"

I had resolution enough, my dear friend, to pause here, and read no more: nay, distrusting my own strength, I had the courage to commit the dangerous letter to the flames, and that was indeed an exertion of duty.

I shall pass lightly and rapidly over the next few months.—My husband gradually resumed his intercourse at the Lodge; while I, to conceal as much as possible his neglect, paid and received visits; and Mrs. Ridley and my aunt were by turns my guests, for I had now lost my dread of the latter. She had nothing to tell but what I knew already, except that she believed my husband more criminal than I did or could think him, and that I positively forbade her ever to name him to me again. I also visited you, and did all I could to fly from that feeling of conscious desolation which was ever present to me since I lost my mother. In all other afflictions I had her to rely upon; I had her to sooth and to comfort me: but who had I to console me for the loss of her? on whose never-to-be-abated tenderness could I rely? Other ties, if destroyed, may be formed again; but we can have parents only once; and I had lost my mother, my sole surviving parent, at a moment when I wanted her most. Still, I roused myself from my lethargy of grief, and 'sorrowed' not like 'one without hope.' But the misery of disappointed and wounded affections preyed on me while tenderer woes slumbered, and my health continued to fade, my youth to decay.

My kind aunt and Mrs. Ridley were both just come on a visit to me, when Pendarves signified his intention of accompanying his friends on a tour to the Lakes. He said his health had suffered much from his anxiety during my illness, and he thought the journey would do him good.

"Then take your wife a journey," cried my aunt bluntly: "she wants it more than you do."

"She will not accompany my friends," replied he; "and my word is pledged to go with them."

"Is a pledge given to friends more sacred than duty to a wife, Mr. Seymour Pendarves?"

"Is it a husband's duty never to stir without his wife, madam?"

"My dear aunt, you forget," said I, "how unfit I am to travel: quiet and home suit me best."

"It is well they do," said my aunt; and Seymour left the room.

I will pass over the time that intervened before Seymour's departure: suffice that I tried to attribute his still frequent absences from home to his dislike of his aunt's society; and in the meanwhile I masked an aching heart in smiles, that no one might have the authority of my dejected spirits to found an accusation of my husband upon.

At length the day of Seymour's departure arrived, and we had an affectionate and on my side a tearful parting: but I recovered myself soon; and though I deeply felt the unkindness of his leaving me after my recent affliction, I declared it the wisest thing he could do, and that I hoped he would find me fat and cheerful at his return. But I saw I did not convert my auditors; and that Lord Charles Belmour, who called to inquire after my health, absolutely started when he found that Seymour was gone away on a journey. I could not bear this, but left the room; for I could not, would not, either by word or look, blame my husband; and I could not bear to observe that he was blamed by others.

At the end of three weeks my uncle came down to fetch his wife; and I heard, with a satisfaction which I could not conceal, that my uncle hoped he should be able to prove that Lady Martindale, as she was called, was a spy of the Convention, and that he could get her sent out of the country on the Alien Bill; for that she was undoubtedly the mistress, not the wife, of Lord Martindale. I also learnt that Lord Charles had been indefatigable in using his exertions and his interest to effect this purpose, in hopes, as my aunt said, of opening my husband's eyes; and she thought, when he saw that his uncle and his friend were thus active and watchful to save him from perdition, that he could not refuse to be convinced and saved.

Alas! we none of us as yet knew Pendarves. We did not know that in proportion to conscious strength of mind is the capacity of conviction—and that no one is so jealous of interference, and so averse to being proved in the wrong, as those who are most prone to err and most conscious of weakness. My uncle and aunt went away in high spirits at the idea of the good which was going to accrue to me from their exertions, and left me much cheered in my prospects, little thinking of the blow which these exertions were ensuring to me.

My husband wrote to me on his journey about twice a week; but as he rarely did so till the post was just going out, or the horses were waiting, I was convinced, either that he had lost all remains of tenderness for me, or that, conscious of acting ill, he could not bear to write.

When he had been gone two months, I was expecting his arrival in London every day, and with no small anxiety; for my uncle had written me word, that as soon as Annette Beauvais (for that was her real name) arrived in town, she would be seized by the officers employed by Government, and be shipped off directly for Altona—whither Lord Martindale, who was reckoned a dangerous disloyal subject, would be advised to accompany her.

But while I was pleasing myself with the idea that Pendarves, when convinced of the real character of those with whom he associated so intimately, would return to me thankful for the discovery, and that in the detected courtesan and spy he would forget the fascinating companion, a very different end was preparing for the well-intentioned plans of our friend and relation.

Pendarves, not choosing to fail in respect to his uncle, and resolved to consider himself as on good terms with him, called at his house in Stratford Place; but unfortunately found only Mrs. Pendarves. The consequence you may easily foresee. She reproached him with his cruel neglect of his wife, and then triumphed in the approaching discomfiture of that wicked woman who had lured him from her; informing him with great exultation, that his uncle had procured her arrestation; that she would be taken up directly, and sent abroad; and that his angel-wife was expecting his return to her with eager and affectionate love.

"And was my wife privy to this injustice and this outrage?" asked Pendarves, with a faltering voice and a flashing eye.

"To be sure she was."

"Then she may expect me, madam, but I will never return!" Having said this, he rushed from the house, and hurried back to the lodgings. He found Lady Martindale, as she still persisted in calling herself, in fits, and Lord Martindale threatening, but in vain. The warrant was executed, and the lady forced to set off, her lord having a hint given him, which made his retreat advisable also.

"You shall not go alone, my friends," said Pendarves, as soon as he saw that their banishment was certain; "and as my family have presumed to procure your exile, they shall find that they have exiled me too."

So saying, he left the house, gained a passport as an American, which you know he was, as well as myself, by birth, and soon overtaking them, he travelled with them, and embarked with them for Altona.

He wrote to me from the port whence they embarked, and such a letter! I thought I should never have held up my head after it. He reproached me for joining the mean cabal against an injured and innocent woman, and declared that as I and his uncle had caused her exile, he felt it his duty to sooth and to share it.

In a postscript he told me he had drawn for all the money that was in his banker's hands, before he set out on his journey: that he wished me to let our house, and remove into my mother's, which was still empty; that he trusted I would not let him want in a foreign land; for in some respects he knew I could be generous; but that he feared the income of his fortune must be appropriated to the payment of his debts, which were so many, he feared he could not return, even if he wished it, except at the danger of losing his personal liberty. He trusted therefore that I would join my uncle in settling his affairs; and if he wanted money to support him, he knew I would spare him some out of the fortune which came to me on the death of my mother, the income of which I, and I alone, could receive.

In the midst of the wretchedness inflicted by this letter—for it was my nature to cling to hope, I eagerly caught at the high idea of my conjugal virtues which this cruel letter implied; and I trusted that, when intimate association had completely unmasked this Syren and her paramour, he would prize me the more from contrast, and hasten home to receive my eagerly-bestowed forgiveness. But the order to let the house was so indicative of a separation meant to be long, if not eternal, that again and again I went from hope to despair. But there was one sorrow converted into rejoicing. Till now I had grieved that my mother was no more: but now I rejoiced to think that this last terrible blow was spared her; that she did not live to witness the grief of her worse than widowed daughter, nor to see the degradation of the beloved son of her idolized Lady Helen. Degradation did I say? Yes: but I still persisted to excuse my husband, and would not own even to myself that he was without excuse for his conduct. I thought it was generous in him not to forsake his friends in their distress, nor would I allow any one to hint at the probability that his female companion was his mistress.

I also resolved to justify his reliance on my exertions and my generosity. I wrote to my uncle, I made myself acquainted with all his embarrassments, I dismissed every servant but Alice and Juan, and I set apart two-thirds of my income also for payment of the debts.

My uncle would fain have interfered, and advanced me the money; but I had a pride in making sacrifices for my husband's sake, and I wished Mr. Pendarves to leave him money in his will, as a resource for him when he should return to England, and I should be no more; for I fancied that I was far gone in a rapid decline. But I mistook nervous symptoms, the result of a distressed mind, for consumptive ones; and to my great surprise, when I had arranged my husband's affairs, and had, while so employed, been forced to visit London once or twice, and associate with the friends who loved and honoured me, my pain of the side decreased, my pulse became slower, my appetite returned, and I recovered something of my former appearance. But it was now the end of the winter of 1793, and the reign of terror had long been begun in France, while we heard from every quarter that the English there were in the utmost danger, on account of the unpopularity of the English Government; that all were leaving France who could get away; and Pendarves was gone to Paris! But then he was an American. Still, I could not divest myself of fears for his life; and the horrible idea of his pining in a foreign land, in a prison and in poverty, (for, though he had written to say he was arrived in Paris, he had not drawn for money, nor given his address,) haunted me continually. To be brief: you know how the idea of my husband's danger took entire possession of my imagination, till I conceived it to be my duty to set off for Paris.

You remember, that you and your husband both dissuaded me from the rash and hazardous undertaking; and that I replied, "I have now but one object of interest in the world, the husband of my love! True, a romantic generosity, and what he calls just resentment, have led him for the present to forsake his country and me; but that is no reason why I should forsake him; and who knows but that the result of my self-devotion may restore him to me more attached than ever?" You know that you listened, admired, and almost encouraged me; and that you have always considered this determination, as the crown of my conjugal glory, and held it up as a bright example of a wife's duty. But, my dear friend, my own sobered judgement and the lessons of experience, together with reproof from lips that never can deceive, and a judgement that can rarely err, have convinced me that I rather violated than performed a wife's duty when I set off on this romantic expedition to France.

No: if ever I deserved the character of a good wife, it was from the passive fortitude and the patient spirit with which I bore up against neglect, wounded affections, and slighted tenderness. It was the sense of duty which led me to throw a veil over my husband's faults, which held him up when his own errors had cast him down, and which led me still, in strict compliance with my marriage vows, to obey and honour him by all a wife's attentions, even when I feared that he deserved not my esteem.

But to go on with my narrative. My uncle and aunt came down to reason me out of my folly, as they called it; and my uncle thought he held a very persuasive argument, for he told me he felt it indelicate for me to intrude myself and my fondness on a husband who had showed he did not value it, and had chosen to escape from me.

"But I do not mean to intrude upon him," I replied; "I mean to be concealed in Paris, and with Alice and Juan to attend me; I fear nothing for myself, nor need you fear for me."

"What!" cried my aunt, "be in Paris, and not let the vile man know you are there? I should discover myself, if it were only for the sake of reproaching him; for I should treat him very differently, I assure you. I should show him

'Earth has a rage with love to hatred turned,

And love has fury by a woman spurned.'"

"But you are not Helen, my dear," said my uncle, meekly sighing as he always did over her misquotations; and still he argued, and I resisted, when I obtained an unexpected assistant in our kind physician.

"My dear sir," said he, "if your niece remains here in compliance with your wishes, I well know that her mind and her feelings will prey upon her life, and ultimately destroy it, if they do not unsettle her reason. But if she is allowed to be active and to indulge at whatever risk her devoted affection to her husband, depend on it she will be well and comparatively happy: nor do I see that she runs any great risk. She is an American; her two servants are the same, and are most devotedly attached to her: and I give my opinion, both as a physician and a friend, that she had better go."

Oh, how I loved the good old man for what he said! and my uncle and aunt were now contented to yield the point; but my uncle insisted on defraying all my expenses.

"They will be trifling," said I; "for I shall not choose to travel as a lady, but to dress as plainly, travel as cheaply, and attract as little attention as I can."

This he approved; but, in case I should want money to purchase services either for myself or my husband, he insisted on my sewing into my stays ten bank notes of a hundred pounds each, and I accepted them in case of emergencies, as I thought I had no right to refuse what might be of service to my husband.

"Would I were not an old man!" said my uncle; "then you should not go alone, Helen." But I convinced him that any English friend would only be a detriment to me.

Lord Charles Belmour, on hearing of my design, left London, and the career of dissipation in which he was ever engaged, to argue with me, to expostulate with me, to entreat that I would not go, and risk my precious life, which no man living was worthy to have sacrificed for him, and then burst into tears of genuine feeling when he bade me adieu, wishing that "Heaven had made him such a woman;" and, while envying the husband of a virtuous wife, went back to a new mistress, and renewed his course of error.

At length the day of my departure arrived; and plainly attired, I set off for the port of Great Yarmouth, attended by my two faithful servants.

Juan and Alice were both slaves on part of our American property; but they were born on the estate of a French proprietor, therefore French was their native tongue, which was a fortunate circumstance. As soon as my father was their master he made them free, and they became man and wife. They had lived with my mother ever since. She, as I before said, had desired they should be made independent for life. It is no wonder, therefore, the faithful creatures were devoted to the daughter of their benefactress, and I had the most cheering confidence in the tried sagacity as well as integrity of both. Their colour, you know, was what is called mulatto, and their appearance was less distinguished by ugliness than is usually the case with such persons.

I thought it necessary to give this little history of two beings whom I learnt to love even in childhood, and who in the season of my affliction added to that love the feeling of interminable gratitude.

Well, behold us landed at Altona, and designated in our passports as Mrs. Helen Pendarves, and Juan and Alice Duval, Americans. After a tedious journey in the carts of the country, and sometimes in its horrible waggons, behold me also arrived in the metropolis of blood, passports examined and approved, and all my greatest difficulties at an end. So relieved was my mind, when every thing was arranged and I had hitherto gotten on so well, that my affectionate companions observed with delighted wonder, that my cheek glowed and my eyes sparkled once more: but cautious Juan advised me to hide my face as much as possible, for there were no such faces in Paris, he believed.

When however I found myself in Paris, when I knew that the being I loved best was there, and yet I dared not seek him, sorrow destroyed my recovered bloom again, and tears dimmed my eyes. Yet still I felt a strange overpowering satisfaction in knowing that I was near him; and when we had found out his abode, I thought that I could perhaps contrive to see him, myself unseen. But I found a letter addressed to me poste restante, which not only dimmed the brightness of my prospects, but damped much of my enthusiastic ardour in the task which I had undertaken, and even abated some of my tenderness for Pendarves: for I could no longer shut my eyes to the nature of his attachment to Annette Beauvais.

My uncle told me in his letter that Lord Martindale was returned to London, but could not stay there, and was on his way to America; that he had met him in a shop, that on hearing his name, Lord Martindale had the effrontery to introduce himself and thanked him for having enabled him so easily to get rid of a mistress of whom he was tired.

"Indeed," said he, "I am much obliged to the family of Pendarves; for the uncle forces my mistress to go back to her native place, and the nephew takes her off my hands, and under his own protection.

"And I have the honour to assure you, sir," said he, "that if you visit Paris, and the Rue Rivoli, numero 22, you will there find your nephew romantically happy with a most fascinating chere amie who had once the honour of bearing my name."

"I turned from him," adds my uncle, "with disgust, as you, I hope, will turn from your unworthy husband, and come back, my dearest niece, to your affectionate and anxious uncle."

For one moment I felt inclined to obey his wishes—my husband really living with an abandoned woman, as her avowed protector! wife, country, reputation, sacrificed for her sake!

Horrible and disgusting it was indeed! but I soon recollected, that if it was really a duty in me to come to Paris for his sake at all, it was equally a duty now, for his criminality could not destroy his claims on my duty; nor could his breach of duty excuse the neglect of mine. In short, whether love or conscience influenced me, I know not, but I resolved to stay where I was. And so he was in the Rue Rivoli! I was glad to know where he was, but I did not as before wish to see him, and even to gaze on him unseen. No: I felt him degraded, and I thought that I should now turn away if I met him.

We took a pleasant and retired lodging on the Italian Boulevards; but I soon found that in this situation we were not likely to learn any tidings of Pendarves; and by the time we had been ten days at Paris, Juan and I resolved, having first felt our way, to put a plan which we had formed into execution.

It was absolutely necessary that we should have opportunities of knowing what was going forward in public affairs, in order to learn the degree of safety or of danger in which Pendarves was; and if Madame Beauvais had really been a spy in London for the Convention, she must be connected with the governing persons in Paris.

Accordingly, we hired a small house which had stood empty some time in a street through which most of the members of the National Convention were likely to pass in their way to and fro. The street door opened into a front parlour, and that into a second parlour: of this with a kitchen and two chambers consisted the whole of the house. Humble as it was, I assure you it was on the plan of one which Robespierre occupied in the zenith of his power.

The windows of the front parlour Juan converted into a sort of shop window; and as he and his wife were both good bakers, they filled it with a variety of cakes, which they called gateaux républicains; and it was not long before, to our great joy, they obtained an excellent sale for their commodity. This emboldened us to launch out still more; and in hopes that our shop might become a sort of resting and lounging place to the men in power as they passed, Juan put a coat of paint on the outside of the house, converted the parlour into a complete shop, and at length put a notice over the door in large tricolour letters, importing that at such hours every day plum and plain pudding à l'Américaine was to be had hot, as well as gateaux républicains.

If this affiche succeeded, there was a chance of Juan's hearing something relative to the objects of our anxiety from the members of the Convention, while I myself, hidden behind the glass door of the back parlour, might also overhear some to me important conversation. At any rate, it was worth the trial; and experience proved that the scheme was not as visionary as it at first appeared.

It was not without considerable emotion that I saw our shop opened, and business prospering. Never, surely, was there a more curious and singular situation than mine. Think of me, the daughter of an American Loyalist, living an unprotected woman in the metropolis of republican France, and helping to make puddings and cakes for the members of the National Convention!

Though I have never paused in my narrative to mention politics, still you cannot suppose that I was ignorant of what was passing on the great theatre of the Continent, nor that the names of the chief actors in it were unknown to me. On the contrary, I often beguiled my lonely hours with reading the accounts of the proceedings at Paris; had mourned not only over the fate of the royal family, but had deplored the death of those highly gifted men, and that great though mistaken woman (Madame Roland) in whom I fancied that I perceived some of the republican virtue to which others only pretended; and though far from being a Republican myself, I could not but respect those who, having adopted a principle however erroneous, acted upon it consistently. But with Brissot and his party ended all my interest in the public men of France, though their names were familiar to me, and aversion and dread were the only feelings which they excited.

Therefore, when on the 1st of February, 1794, we opened a shop for puddings and cakes, and I through the curtain of a glass-door saw it thronged with customers, some of whom I concluded were regicides and murderers, my heart died within me. I felt as if I stood in the den of wild beasts, and I wished myself again in safe and happy England.

Juan was frequently asked a number of questions by his customers; such as who he was, and whence he came, and how long he had been there; and his answer was, that he was born in America, and born a slave, and so was his little wife, but a good master made him free.

"Bravo! and Vive la liberté! and you are like us; we were slaves, now we are free," always shouted the deluded people to whom he thus talked.

Juan used to go on to say that he had heard his master was in France, and poor, and so they left America and came to work for him (applauses again); but that he found he was dead. "And so," said he, "as I liked Paris, we resolved to stay here, and make nice things for the republicans in Europe."

This tale had its effect; Juan was hailed as bon citoyen Duval, and promised custom and protection.

"Oh! dear Miss Helen," cried Juan, (as he usually called me) "what bloody dogs some of them look! No doubt some of them were members of parliament. They govern a nation indeed, who were such fools as to be so easily taken in by my story! Psha! I should make a better parliament man myself."

At length, we saw some of the distinguished men.

Juan heard one of the party call two of the others Hébert and Danton; and he made an excuse to come in and tell me which was which. I looked at them, and was mortified to find that Danton was so pleasant-looking.

When they went away, which they did not do till they had eaten largely, and commended what they ate, a wild, singularly-looking man entered the shop, in all the dirty and negligent attire of a sans culotte, and desired a plum pudding à l'Américaine to be set before him; declaring that had it been à l'Anglaise he could not have eaten it, as it would have tasted of the slavery of that wretched grovelling country England. When the pudding was served, he talked more than he ate, and made minute inquiries into the history of Alice and Juan; but when he heard who and what they were, he ran to them, and insisted on giving each the fraternal embrace—"for I," said he, "am Anacharsis Cloots! the orator of the human race; and dear to my heart is the injured being who was born in servitude. Blessed be the memory of the master who broke your chains!"

He then resumed his questions, and, to my great alarm, desired to know if they lived alone in the house. Juan, off his guard, replied,

"No; we have a lodger."

"Indeed! let me see him."

"Him! 'tis a woman."

"Better and better still! Let me see her then. Is she young and handsome?"

And Juan told him that I was the relation of his benefactor; that I was in reduced circumstances, having had a bad husband; and that he and his wife had taken me to live with them, and never would desert me.

"O les braves gens!" exclaimed he.—But what an agony I endured all this time! Afraid that this mad-headed enthusiast would really insist on paying me a visit, I ran up stairs, put on my green spectacles which Juan insisted on my buying (for he really thought me a perfect beauty, and that all who looked must love); then tied up my face in a handkerchief, pulled over it a slouch cap, and lay down on the bed, drawing the curtains round. But Alice came up to tell me the strange man was gone. He declared, however, that the next time he came he would see la pauvre malade.

But fortunately we never saw him again, except when he stopped in company with others, and was too much taken up in laying down the law for the benefit of the human race, to remember an individual.

You will not be surprised when I tell you, that slight as was my knowledge of the persons of Hébert and Anacharsis Cloots, and little as I had heard of their voices, still the circumstance of having seen their faces and heard them speak made all the difference between rejoicing at their deserved fate and regretting it. They were guillotined during the course of the next month; and I shuddered when I heard they were no more, catching myself saying, "Poor men!" very frequently during the rest of the day.

I could give you some interesting details of many events that now happened in affecting succession; but they have been painted by abler hands than mine: I shall only say further concerning our shop-visitors, that more than once the great Dictator himself took shelter there from a shower of rain, and ate a gateau républicain. When he first came, Juan, who had seen him often before, sent Alice to tell me who he was; and I cannot describe the sensation of horror with which he inspired me; for nature there had made the outside equally ugly with the inside. He asked many questions of Juan relative to who he was, and whence and why he came; and I saw his quick and restless eye looking suspiciously round, as if he feared an unseen dagger on every side: and so watchful and observant was his glance, that I retreated from the curtain lest he should see me. I was also terrified to perceive that my poor Juan was not so much at his ease with him, and did not tell his story with so steady a voice as usual. But perhaps like Louis the XIVth, Robespierre was flattered with the consciousness of inspiring awe. Juan was, however, a little relieved by the entrance of Danton, who spoke to him as an old acquaintance; on which Robespierre turned to Danton and said, "Then you know these people?"

"Yes; and their puddings too. Do I not, citizen?" he good naturedly replied; and soon after, Robespierre and he departed together.

Certain it is that I breathed more freely after they were gone.

Was Pendarves acquainted with this unfortunate man? We could not tell; but certain it was, that the awful lips which mentioned the one had named the other.

In another month Danton and Camille des Moulins were no more! and fell with many others who were obnoxious to the tyrant; and again I wished that I had not seen or heard them.

As I never went out till it was quite dark, the great seclusion in which I lived injured my health. Since the death of Hébert, indeed, I was not so cautious, as I could wear a hat; but while he lived, he had decreed that every head-dress was aristocrat, except the peasants' cap.

Juan went therefore to find a lodging for me for a week or two near or in the Champs Elysées, and in so retired a spot, that with my green spectacles, and otherwise a little disguised, my guardian declared he allowed me to walk even in a morning.

Alice accompanied me, and Juan promised to come and tell us every evening what was going forward. During my abode in this pretty place Juan arrived one evening a good deal agitated, and I found that he had seen Pendarves.

"Did he see you?"

"Oh! no: he saw no one but—"

"His companion, I suppose?—Was Madame Beauvais with him?"

"She was, and her little dog; and the beast would not come at her call; and then she was uneasy, and so he took up the nasty animal and carried it in his arm. I could have wrung its neck."

"It is a nice clean animal," replied I, trying to speak cheerfully. "But how did he look, Juan?"

"Well, madam—too well!" said the faithful creature, turning away in agony to think he could look well under his circumstances.

"You see he is not yet arrested," said I; "and for that I am thankful."

One night, the night before we were to return to our house, Juan disappointed us and did not come at all. You, who have always lived in dear and quiet Britain, cannot form to yourself an idea of the agitation into which this little circumstance threw us. We could not fancy he was ill: that was too common-place and too natural a circumstance to occur to the heated imaginations of women accustomed as we were to tales of terror and blood; and we thought no less than that he had been suspected, denounced, arrested, and would be jugé à mort. What a night of misery was ours! Early in the morning, however, Alice set off for Paris, conjuring me on her knees not to come with her, as Juan thought it unsafe for me to walk in the street unprotected; and promising to come back directly if any thing alarming had happened. I therefore allowed her to depart without me; but though her not returning was a proof that all was right, according to our agreement, I was half distracted when hour succeeded to hour and she did not return; till, at last, unable to bear my suspense any longer, I set off for Paris, and reached the Place de la Revolution (as it was then called) just as an immense crowd was thronging from all parts and around me, to a spot already filled with an incalculable number of persons. In one instant I recollected that what I beheld in the midst must be the guillotine, and I tried to turn back, but it was impossible. I was hurried forward with the exulting multitude; and just as the horrible snap of the murderous engine met my now tingling ears, I heard from the shouts of the mob, that the victim was the Princess Elizabeth ! ! !—Self-preservation instinctively prompted me to catch hold of the person next me to save myself from falling, which would have been instant death; and the aid I sought was yielded to me: and while a noise of thunder was in my ears, and my eyes were utterly blinded with horror and agonizing emotion, a kind but unknown voice said in French, "Poor child! I see you are indeed a stranger here. We natives are used to these sights now;" and he sighed, as if use had not however entirely blunted his feelings.

"But why did you come to see such a sight?"

"Oh! I knew nothing of it, and was going home."

"Poor thing! Well; but shall I see you home—if you can walk?"

I now looked up, and saw that my kind friend was only a lowly citizen, and wore a Jacobin cap; and I was still shrinking from allowing of his further attendance, though I trembled in every limb, and felt sick unto death: when, as the crowd dispersed, I saw Juan and Alice coming towards me; in another moment I was in her arms, where I nearly fainted away.

"This is unfortunate," said the citoyen; "her illness may be observed upon, as it was a Bourbon who died, and she may be fancied no friend to the republic. What is best to be done?"

While he said this I recovered, and begged to go home directly; but I could not walk without the aid of my Jacobin friend; who insisted on seeing me safe home, and we thought it the best way to consent.

"Oh! that is the case, is it?" said he, surveying me with a most scrutinizing glance. "It is well for her I find her in such good company, Benoit."

He then departed, and we recovered our recollection.

He was no sooner gone, than, to my great surprise, I saw Juan seize our companion's hand, while he exclaimed, "You! are you Benoit?"

"To be sure; what then?"

"Why then, you God for ever bless that's all! For many poor wretch bless you; and now, but for you, what might have become of her?"

"How!" cried Alice; "is this the kind jailor of Luxembourg? Oh dear! how glad I am to see you?"

It was indeed Benoit; who, at a period when to be cruel seemed the only means to be safe, lightened the fetters which he could not remove, and soothed to the best of his power the horrors of a prison and of death.

A feeling which he could not help, but certainly not one of joyful anticipation, led him to witness the death of the royal victim; and my evident horror instantly interested and attached him to my side. This good man attended us home, and we had great pleasure in setting before him our little stores: but he could not eat then, he said; and as he spoke, he sighed deeply. However, he assured us he would come and eat with us some other day: then desiring us to take heed and not go to see sights again, he ran off, saying he had been absent too long.

What a mercy it was that Benoit was with us when we met the tyrant! We also rejoiced that he did not see or did not recognise Juan and Alice: but after this unfortunate rencontre we did not feel ourselves as safe as we did before, and dreaded every day to see him enter the shop.

I now desired to know the reason of Juan's not coming to us, and I found that his too great care had exposed me to even a far worse agony than that from which he wished to preserve me. The truth was, he heard that poor Madame Elizabeth was to be executed the next day: fearing, therefore, that he should be betrayed into saying so, and wishing me not to know of it till all was over, as he knew how interested I was in her fate, he resolved to stay away, not supposing we should be alarmed; and he and Alice could not return to me sooner, as the way led over the very spot which they wished to avoid. Besides, Alice had told me her not returning was a good sign. Well! this agony was past; but I had seen and met the suspicious eye of the tyrant, and it haunted me wherever I went. For my own life, indeed, I had no fear; and imprisonment, I thought, was all I had to dread, though poor Juan insisted on it that the wretch saw, spite of my dowdy appearance, that I was a handsome woman; and he thanked Heaven at the close of every day, that no Robespierre had visited us. Another evening Juan returned in much agitation from his walk, but I saw it was of an opposite nature to that which he experienced at sight of Pendarves; and on inquiry I found that he had, as he said, met that good young man, Count De Walden.

"Indeed!" exclaimed I; "and did he see you? and does he know I am in Paris?"

"No, he did not see me; and without your leave, I dared not tell you were here: so I thought it best not to speak to him."

I felt excessively disappointed; but after some moments of reflection I recollected that it would be cruel and selfish to force myself, in a situation so interesting and so anxious, on one who on principle had so recently left the place in which I was; and I told Juan he had done quite right.

"However," said I, "it is a comfort to me to know that I have a protector near."

"Aye; but not for long!"

"No! But what could bring a man like him to this den of wickedness and horrors? Some good purpose no doubt."

"I suspect so; for I saw him in close conversation with Barrère and others, and I overheard him say, 'But can you give me no hope? I want excessively to return home: still, while there is a chance of Colonel Newton's being saved, I will stay.' Barrère, I believe, said all hope was over; for the Count cast up his eyes mournfully to heaven, and retired."

Till I heard this, I was inclined to suspect that my uncle had written to say I was here, and that he came on my account.

I shall now relate the motive of his journey: the object of it was connected with the fate of my husband.

A man of the name of Beauvais was executed with Danton and other supposed conspirators in the preceding April. This man was the father of Annette Beauvais; and she would have been denounced and executed with her father, had not one of Robespierre's tools become exceedingly enamoured of her, and for his sake she was spared. But Colonel Newton having been known to be rather intimate with Beauvais, and having also dared, like a free-born Englishman and a man of independent feelings, to reproach the tyrant with his cruelty, he was accused, imprisoned, and condemned to death. It was on his account that De Walden came to Paris. By some means or other Newton informed him of his situation; and as he had known him in Switzerland, and greatly esteemed him, he hastened to try whether by solicitation, interest, or money, he could procure his acquittal or escape: but he tried in vain. As vain also were the efforts made,—to do her justice,—by Madame Beauvais herself. The wretch to whom she applied was made jealous of Newton by her earnest entreaties for his life; and his doom was consequently rendered only more certain. He also tauntingly bade her take care of her own life and that of her American Englishman, assuring her she would not find it an easy matter to do that long. Nor did he threaten in vain; for, though she admitted his addresses and received his splendid presents, she still persisted in living with the infatuated Pendarves, who believed her constancy equal to her pretended love. The consequence was, that an accusation was brought against my husband for getting to Paris on false pretences, and as being a dangerous person: for, though he was born in America, his father was a loyalist, not a republican, and had fought, they found, against the republican arms; and his mother was that offensive thing a woman of quality and a nobleman's daughter. There were other charges equally strong; and even in the presence of his vile companion, Pendarves was arrested, and condemned for the present to be confined au secret in the Luxembourg.