CHAPTER I.

In the summer of 1838, in the pleasant little county of Huntingdon, and under the shade of some noble elms which form the pride of Lipscombe Park, two young men might have been seen reclining. The thick, and towering, and far-spreading branches under which they lay, effectually protected them from a July sun, which threw its scorching brilliancy over the whole landscape before them. They seemed to enjoy to the full that delightful retired openness which an English park affords, and that easy effortless communion which only old companionship can give. They were, in fact, fellow collegians. The one, Reginald Darcy by name, was a ward of Mr Sherwood, the wealthy proprietor of Lipscombe Park; the other, his friend, Charles Griffith, was passing a few days with him in this agreeable retreat. They had spent the greater part of the morning strolling through the park, making short journeys from one clump of trees to another, and traversing just so much of the open sunny space which lay exposed to all the "bright severity of noon," as gave fresh value to the shade, and renewed the luxury of repose.

"Only observe," said Darcy, breaking silence, after a long pause, and without any apparent link of connexion between their last topic of conversation and the sage reflection he was about to launch—"only observe," and, as he raised himself upon his elbow, something very like a sigh escaped from him, "how complete, in our modern system of life, is the ascendency of woman over us! Every art is hers—is devoted to her service. Poetry, music, painting, sculpture—all seem to have no theme but woman. It is her loveliness, her power over us, that is paraded and chanted on every side. Poets have been always mad on the beauty of woman, but never so mad as now; we must not only submit to be sense-enthralled, the very innermost spirit of a man is to be deliberately resigned to the tyranny of a smooth brow and a soft eye. Music, which grows rampant with passion, speaks in all its tones of woman: as long as the strain lasts we are in a frenzy of love, though it is not very clear with whom, and happily the delirium ends the moment the strings of the violin have ceased to vibrate. What subject has the painter worth a rush but the beauty of woman? We gaze for ever on the charming face which smiles on us from his canvass; we may gaze with perfect license—that veil which has just been lifted to the brow, it will never be dropt again—but we do not gaze with perfect impunity; we turn from the lovely shadow with knees how prone to bend! And as to the sculptor, on condition that he hold to the pure colourless marble, is he not permitted to reveal the sacred charms of Venus herself? Every art is hers. Go to the theatre, and whether it be tragedy, or comedy, or opera, or dance, the attraction of woman is the very life of all that is transacted there. Shut yourself up at home with the poem or the novel, and lo! to love, and to be loved, by one fair creature, is all that the world has to dignify with the name of happiness. It is too much. The heart aches and sickens with an unclaimed affection, kindled to no purpose. Every where the eye, the ear, the imagination, is provoked, bewildered, haunted by the magic of this universal syren.

"And what is worse," continued our profound philosopher—and here he rose from his elbow, and supported himself at arm's length from the ground, one hand resting on the turf, the other at liberty, if required, for oratorical action—"what is worse, this place which woman occupies in art is but a fair reflection of that which she fills in real life. Just heavens! what a perpetual wonder it is, this living, breathing beauty! Throw all your metaphors to the winds—your poetic raptures—your ideals—your romance of position and of circumstance: look at a fair, amiable, cultivated woman, as you meet her in the actual, commonplace scenes of life: she is literally, prosaically speaking, the last consummate result of the creative power of nature, and the gathered refinements of centuries of human civilization. The world can show nothing comparable to that light, graceful figure of the girl just blooming into perfect womanhood. Imagination cannot go beyond it. There is all the marvel, if you think of it, in that slight figure, as she treads across the carpet of a modern drawing-room, that has ever been expressed in, or given origin to, the nymphs, goddesses, and angels that the fancy of man has teemed with. I declare that a pious heathen would as soon insult the august statue of Minerva herself, as would any civilized being treat that slender form with the least show of rudeness and indignity. A Chartist, indeed, or a Leveller, would do it; but it would pain him—he would be a martyr to his principles. Verily we are slaves to the fair miracle!"

"Well," said his companion, who had all this time been leisurely pulling to pieces some wild flowers he had gathered in the course of the morning's ramble, "what does it all end in? What, at last, but the old story—love and a marriage?"

"Love often where there is no possibility of marriage," replied Darcy, starting up altogether from his recumbent posture, and pacing to and fro under the shadow of the tree. "The full heart, how often does it swell only to feel the pressure of the iron bond of poverty! This very sentiment, which our cultivation refines, fosters, makes supreme, is encountered by that harsh and cruel evil which grows also with the growth of civilization—poverty—civilized poverty. Oh, 'tis a frightful thing, this well-born, well-bred poverty! There is a pauper state, which, loathsome as it is to look upon, yet brings with it a callousness to endure all inflictions, and a recklessness that can seize with avidity whatever coarse fragments of pleasure the day or the hour may afford. But this poverty applies itself to nerves strung for the subtlest happiness. No torpor here; no moments of rash and unscrupulous gratification—unreflected on, unrepented of—which being often repeated make, in the end, a large sum of human life; but the heart incessantly demands a genuine and enduring happiness, and is incessantly denied. It is a poverty which even helps to keep alive the susceptibility it tortures; for the man who has never loved, or been the object of affection, whose heart has been fed only by an untaught imagination, feels a passion—feels a regret—it may be far more than commensurate with that envied reality which life possesses and withholds from him. No! there is nothing in the circle of human existence more fearful to contemplate than this perpetual divorce—irrevocable, yet pronounced anew each instant of our lives—between the soul and its best affections. And—look you!--this misery passes along the world under the mask of easy indifference, and wears a smiling face, and submits to be rallied by the wit, and assumes itself the air of vulgar jocularity. Oh, this penury that goes well clad, and is warmly housed, and makes a mock of its own anguish—I'd rather die on the wheel, or be starved to death in a dungeon!

"My excellent friend!" cried Griffith, startled from his quiescent posture, and tranquil occupation, by the growing excitement of his companion, "what has possessed you? Is it the daughter of our worthy host—is it Emily Sherwood, the nymph who haunts these woods—who has given birth to this marvellous train of reflection? to this rhapsody on the omnipresence of woman, which I certainly had never discovered, and on the misery of a snug bachelor's income, which to me is still more incomprehensible? I confess, however, it would be difficult to find a better specimen of this fearfully fascinating sex."—

"Pshaw!" interrupted Darcy, "what is the heiress of Lipscombe Park to me?—a girl who might claim alliance with the wealthiest and noblest of the land—to me, who have just that rag of property, enough to keep from open shame one miserable biped? Can a man never make a general reflection upon one of the most general of all topics, without being met by a personal allusion? I thought you had been superior, Griffith, to this dull and hackneyed retort."

"Well, well; be not wroth"—

"But I am. There is something so odious in this trite and universal banter. Besides, to have it intimated, even in jest, that I would take advantage of my position in this family to pay my ridiculous addresses to Miss Sherwood—I do declare, Griffith, I never will again to you, or any other man, touch upon this subject, but in the same strain of unmeaning levity one is compelled to listen to, and imitate, in the society of coxcombs."

"At all events," said Griffith, "give me leave to say that I admire Miss Sherwood, and that I shall think it a crying shame if so beautiful and intelligent a girl is suffered to fall into the clutches of this stupid baronet who is laying siege to her—this pompous, empty-headed Sir Frederic Beaumantle."

"Sir Frederic Beaumantle," said Darcy, with some remains of humour, "may be all you describe him, but he is very rich, and, mark me, he will win the lady. Old Sherwood suspects him for a fool, but his extensive estates are unincumbered—he will approve his suit. His daughter makes him a constant laughing-stock, she is perpetually ridiculing his presumption and his vanity; but she will end by marrying the rich baronet. It will be in the usual course of things; society will expect it; and it is so safe, so prudent, to do what society expects. Let wealth wed with wealth. It is quite right. I would never advise any man to marry a woman much richer than himself, so as to be indebted to her for his position in society. It is useless to say, or to feel, that her wealth was not the object of your suit. You may carry it how you will—what says the song?

"But come, our host is punctual to his dinner hour, and if we journey back at the same pace we have travelled here, we shall not have much time upon our hands." And accordingly the two friends set themselves in motion to return to the house.

Our readers have, of course, discovered that, in spite of his disclaimer, Reginald Darcy was in love with Emily Sherwood. He was, indeed, very far gone, and had suffered great extremities; but his pride had kept pace with his passion. Left an orphan at an early age, and placed by the will of his father under the guardianship of Mr Sherwood, Darcy had found in the residence of that gentleman a home during the holidays when a schoolboy, and during the vacations when a collegian. Having lately taken his degree at Cambridge, with high honours, which had been strenuously contended for, and purchased by severe labour, he was now recruiting his health, and enjoying a season of well-earned leisure under his guardian's roof. As Mr Sherwood was old and gouty, and confined much to his room, it fell on him to escort Emily in her rides or walks. She whom he had known, and been so often delighted with, as his little playmate, had grown into the young and lovely woman. Briefly, our Darcy was a lost man—gone—head and heart. But then—she was the only daughter of Mr Sherwood, she was a wealthy heiress—he was comparatively poor. Her father had been to him the kindest of guardians: ought he to repay that kindness by destroying, perhaps, his proudest schemes? Ought he, a man of fitting and becoming pride, to put himself in the equivocal position which the poor suitor of a wealthy heiress must inevitably occupy? "He invites me," he would say to himself, "he presses me to stay here, week after week, and month after month, because the idea that I should seek to carry away his daughter never enters into his head. And she—she is so frank, so gay, so amiable, and almost fond, because she has never recognized, with the companion of her childhood, the possibility of such a thing as marriage. There is but one part for me—silence, strict, unbroken silence!"

Charles Griffith was not far from the truth, when he said that it would be difficult to find a better specimen of her fascinating sex than the daughter of their host. But it was not her beauty, remarkable as this was—it was not her brightest of blue eyes, nor her fairest of complexions, nor those rich luxuriant tresses—that formed the greatest charm in Emily Sherwood. It was the delightful combination she displayed of a cheerful vivacious temper with generous and ardent feelings. She was as light and playful as one of the fawns in her own park, but her heart responded also to every noble and disinterested sentiment; and the poet who sought a listener for some lofty or tender strain, would have found the spirit that he wanted in the gay and mirth-loving Emily Sherwood.

Poor Darcy! he would sit, or walk, by her side, talking of this or that, no matter what, always happy in her presence, passing the most delicious hours, but not venturing to betray, by word or look, how very content he was. For these hours of stolen happiness he knew how severe a penalty he must pay: he knew and braved it. And in our poor judgment he was right. Let the secret, stealthy, unrequited lover enjoy to the full the presence, the smiles, the bland and cheerful society of her whom his heart is silently worshipping. Even this shall in future hours be a sweet remembrance. By and by, it is true, there will come a season of poignant affliction. But better all this than one uniform, perpetual torpor. He will have felt that mortal man may breathe the air of happiness; he will have learned something of the human heart that lies within him.

But all this love—was it seen—was it returned—by her who had inspired it? Both, both. He thought, wise youth! that while he was swallowing draught after draught of this delicious poison, no one perceived the deep intoxication he was revelling in. Just as wisely some veritable toper, by putting on a grave and demure countenance, cheats himself into the belief that he conceals from every eye that delectable and irresistible confusion in which his brain is swimming. His love was seen. How could it be otherwise? That instantaneous, that complete delight which he felt when she joined him in his rambles, or came to sit with him in the library, could not be disguised nor mistaken. He was a scholar, a reader and lover of books, but let the book be what it might which he held in his hand, it was abandoned, closed, pitched aside, the moment she entered. There was no stolen glance at the page left still open; nor was the place kept marked by the tenacious finger and thumb. If her voice were heard on the terrace, or in the garden—if her laugh—so light, merry, and musical, reached his ear—there was no question or debate whether he should go or stay, but down the stairs, or through the avenues of the garden—he sprung—he ran;—only a little before he came in sight he would assume something of the gravity becoming in a senior wrangler, or try to look as if he came there by chance. His love was seen, and not with indifference. But what could the damsel do? How presume to know of an attachment until in due form certified thereof? If a youth will adhere to an obstinate silence, what, we repeat, can a damsel do but leave him to his fate, and listen to some other, who, if he loves less, at least knows how to avow his love?

CHAPTER II.

We left the two friends proceeding towards the mansion; we enter before them, and introduce our readers into the drawing-room. Here, in a spacious and shaded apartment, made cool, as well by the massive walls of the noble edifice as by the open and protected windows, whose broad balcony was blooming with the most beautiful and fragrant of plants, sat Emily Sherwood. She was not, however, alone. At the same round table, which was covered with vases of flowers, and with books as gay as flowers, was seated another young lady, Miss Julia Danvers, a friend who had arrived in the course of the morning on a visit to Lipscombe Park. The young ladies seemed to have been in deep consultation.

"I can never thank you sufficiently," said Miss Danvers, "for your kindness in this affair."

"Indeed but you can very soon thank me much more than sufficiently," replied her more lively companion, "for there are few things in the world I dislike so much as thanks. And yet there is one cause of thankfulness you have, and know not of. Here have I listened to your troubles, as you call them, for more than two hours, and never once told you any of my own. Troubles! you are, in my estimation, a very happy, enviable girl."

"Do you think it then so great a happiness to be obliged to take refuge from an absurd selfish stepmother, in order to get by stealth one's own lawful way?"

"One's own way is always lawful, my dear. No tautology. But you have it—while I"——

"Well, what is the matter?"

"Julia, dear—now do not laugh—I have a lover that won't speak. I have another, or one who calls himself such, who has spoken, or whose wealth, I fear, has spoken, to some purpose—to my father."

"And you would open the mouth of the dumb, and stop the mouth of the foolish?"

"Exactly."

"Who are they? And first, to proceed by due climax, who is he whose mouth is to be closed?"

"A baronet of these parts, Sir Frederic Beaumantle. A vain, vain, vain man. It would be a waste of good words to spend another epithet upon him, for he is all vanity. All his virtues, all his vices, all his actions, good, bad, and indifferent, are nothing but vanity. He praises you from vanity, abuses you from vanity, loves and hates you from vanity. He is vain of his person, of his wealth, of his birth, of his title, vain of all he has, and all he has not. He sets so great a value on his innumerable and superlative good qualities, that he really has not been able (until he met with your humble servant) to find any individual of our sex on whom he could, conscientiously, bestow so great a treasure as his own right hand must inevitably give away. This has been the only reason—he tells me so himself—why he has remained so long unmarried; for he has rounded the arch, and is going down the bridge. To take his own account of this delicate matter, he is fluctuating, with an uneasy motion, to and fro, between forty and forty-five."

"Old enough, I doubt not, to be your father. How can he venture on such a frolicsome young thing as you?"

"I asked him that question myself one day; and he told me, with a most complacent smile, that I should be the perfect compendium of matrimony—he should have wife and child in one."

"The old coxcomb! And yet there was a sort of providence in that.—Now, who is he whose mouth is to be opened?"

"Oh—he!--can't you guess?"

"Your cousin Reginald, as you used to call him—though cousin I believe he is none—this learned wrangler?"

"The same. Trust me, he loves me to the bottom of his heart; but because his little cousin is a great heiress, he thinks it fit to be very proud, and gives me over—many thanks to him—to this rich baronet. But here he comes."

As she spoke, Darcy and Griffith entered the room.

"We have been canvassing," said Emily, after the usual forms of introduction had been gone through, "the merits of our friend, Sir Frederic Beaumantle. By the way, Reginald, he dines here to-day, and so will another gentleman, whom I shall be happy to introduce to you, Captain Garland, an esteemed friend of mine and Miss Danvers'."

"Sir Frederic seems," said Griffith, by way merely of taking part in the conversation, "at all events, a very good-natured man. I have seen him but once, and he has already promised to use all his influence in my behalf, in whatever profession I may embark. If medicine, I am to have half-a-dozen dowagers, always ailing and never ill, put under my charge the moment I can add M.D. to my name; not to speak of certain mysterious hints of an introduction at court, and an appointment of physician extraordinary to Her Majesty. I suppose I may depend upon Sir Frederic's promises?"

"Oh, certainly," said Miss Sherwood, "you may depend upon Sir Frederic Beaumantle's promises; they will never fail; they are inexhaustible."

"The fool!" said Darcy with impatience, "I could forgive him any thing but that ridiculous ostentation he has of patronizing men, who, but they have more politeness than himself, would throw back his promises with open derision."

"Reginald," said Miss Sherwood, "is always forgiving Sir Frederic every fault but one. But then that one fault changes every day. Last time he would pardon him every thing except the fulsome eulogy he is in the habit of bestowing upon his friends, even to their faces. You must know, Mr Griffith, that Sir Frederic is a most liberal chapman in this commodity of praise: he will give any man a bushel-full of compliments who will send him back the measure only half filled. Nay, if there are but a few cherries clinging to the wicker-work he is not wholly dissatisfied."

"What he gives he knows is trash," said Darcy; "what he receives he always flatters himself to be true coin. But indeed Sir Frederic is somewhat more just in his dealings than you, perhaps, imagine. If he bestows excessive laudation on a friend in one company, he takes it all back again in the very next he enters."

"And still his amiability shines through all; for he abuses the absent friend only to gratify the self-love of those who are present."

The door opened as Miss Sherwood gave this coup-de-grace to the character of the baronet, and Sir Frederic Beaumantle was announced, and immediately afterwards, Captain Garland.

Miss Sherwood, somewhat to the surprise of Darcy, who was not aware that any such intimacy subsisted between them, received Captain Garland with all the cordiality of an old acquaintance. On the other hand she introduced the baronet to Miss Danvers with that slightly emphatic manner which intimates that the parties may entertain a "high consideration" for each other.

"You are too good a herald, Sir Frederic," she said, "not to know the Danverses of Dorsetshire."

"I shall be proud," replied the baronet, "to make the acquaintance of Miss Danvers."

"She has come to my poor castle," continued Miss Sherwood, "like the distressed princess in the Faery Queen, and I must look out for some red-cross knight to be her champion, and redress her wrongs."

"It is not the first time," said the lady thus introduced, "that I have heard of the name of Sir Frederic Beaumantle."

"I dare say not, I dare say not," answered the gratified baronet. "Mine, I may venture to say, is an historic name. Did you ever peruse, Miss Danvers, a work entitled 'The History of the County of Huntingdon?' You would find in it many curious particulars relating to the Beaumantles, and one anecdote especially, drawn, I may say, from the archives of our family, which throws a new light upon the reign and character of Charles II. It is a very able performance is this 'History of the County of Huntingdon;' it is written by a modest and ingenious person of my acquaintance, and I felt great pleasure in lending him my poor assistance in the compilation of it. My name is mentioned in the preface. Perhaps," he added with a significant smile, "it might have claimed a still more conspicuous place; but I hold it more becoming in persons of rank to be the patrons than the competitors of men of letters."

"I should think," said Miss Danvers very quietly, "it were the more prudent plan for them to adopt. But what is this anecdote you allude to?"

"An ancestor of mine—But I am afraid," said the baronet, casting a deprecatory look at Miss Sherwood, "that some here have read it, or heard me repeat it before."

"Oh, pray proceed," said the young lady appealed to.

"An ancestor of mine," resumed the baronet, "on being presented at the Court of Charles II., soon after the Restoration, attracted the attention of that merry monarch and his witty courtiers, by the antique fashion of his cloak. 'Beaumantle! Beaumantle!' said the king, 'who gave thee that name?' My ancestor, who was a grave man, and well brought up, answered, 'Sire, my godfathers and my godmothers at my baptism.' 'Well responded!' said the king with a smile; 'and they gave thee thy raiment also, as it seems.' These last words were added in a lower voice, and did not reach the ear of my ancestor, but they were reported to him immediately afterwards, and have been treasured up in our family ever since. I thought it my duty to make it known to the world as an historical fact, strikingly illustrative of a very important period in our annals."

"Why, your name," said Miss Danvers, "appears to be historical in more senses than one."

"I hope soon—but I would not wish this to go beyond the present company," said Sir Frederic, and he looked round the circle with a countenance of the most imposing solemnity—"I hope soon that you will hear of it being elevated to the peerage—that is, when Sir Robert Peel comes into power."

"You know Sir Robert, then?" said Griffith, with perfect simplicity.

"Public men," said Sir Frederic, "are sufficiently introduced by public report. Besides, Mr Griffith—we baronets!--we constitute a sort of brotherhood. I have employed all my influence in the county, and I may safely say it is not little, to raise the character and estimation of Sir Robert, and I have no doubt that he will gladly testify his acknowledgment of my services by this trifling return. And as it is well known that my estates"—

But the baronet was interrupted in mid career by the announcement of dinner.

Miss Sherwood took the arm of Captain Garland, and directed Sir Frederic to lead down Miss Danvers.

"You will excuse my father," she said, as they descended, "for not meeting us in the drawing-room. His gout makes him a lame pedestrian. We shall find him already seated at the table."

At the dinner-table the same arrangement was preserved. Miss Sherwood had placed Captain Garland by her side, and conversed almost exclusively with him; while the Baronet was kept in play by the sedulous flattery of Miss Danvers.

After a few days, it became evident to all the household at Lipscombe Park that a new claimant for the hand of Miss Sherwood had appeared in the person of Captain Garland. The captain did not reside in the house, but, on the pretence of a very strong passion for trout-fishing, he had taken up his quarters in apartments within a most convenient distance of the scene of operations. It was not forgotten that, at the very time he made his appearance, Miss Danvers also arrived at the Park, and between these parties there was suspected to be some secret understanding. It seemed as if our military suitor had resolved to assail the fort from within as well as from without, and therefore had brought down with him this fair ally. Nothing better than such a fair ally. She could not only chant his praises when absent, (and there is much in that,) but she could so manœuvre as to procure for the captain many a tête-à-tête, which otherwise would not fall to his share. Especially, (and this task she appeared to accomplish most adroitly,) she could engage to herself the attentions of his professed and redoubtable rival, Sir Frederic Beaumantle. In fifty ways she could assist in betraying the citadel from within, whilst he stood storming at the gates, in open and most magnanimous warfare. Darcy was not slower than others to suspect the stratagem, and he thought he saw symptoms of its success. His friend Griffith had now left him; he had no dispassionate observer to consult, and his own desponding passion led him to conclude whatever was most unfavourable to himself. Certainly there was a confidential manner between Miss Sherwood and these close allies, which seemed to justify the suspicion alluded to. More than once, when he had joined Miss Sherwood and the captain, the unpleasant discovery had been forced upon him, by the sudden pause in their conversation, that he was the one too many.

But jealousy? Oh, no! What had he to do with jealousy? For his part, he was quite delighted with this new attachment—quite delighted; it would set at rest for ever the painful controversy so often agitated in his own breast. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that he felt the rivalry of Captain Garland in a very different manner from that of Sir Frederic Beaumantle. The baronet, by virtue of his wealth alone, would obtain success; and he felt a sort of bitter satisfaction in yielding Emily to her opulent suitor. She might marry, but she could not love him; she might be thinking of another, perhaps of her cousin Reginald, even while she gave her hand to him at the altar. But if the gallant captain, whose handsome person, and frank and gentlemanly manners, formed his chief recommendation, were to be the happy man, then must her affections have been won, and Emily was lost to him utterly. And then—with the usual logic of the passions, and forgetting the part of silence and disguise that he had played—he taxed her with levity and unkindness in so soon preferring the captain to himself. That Emily should so soon have linked herself with a comparative stranger! It was not what he should have expected. "At all events," he would thus conclude his soliloquy, "I am henceforward free—free from her bondage and from all internal struggle. Yes! I am free!" he exclaimed, as he paced his room triumphantly. The light voice of Emily was heard calling on him to accompany her in a walk. He started, he flew. His freedom, we suppose, gave him wings, for he was at her side in a moment.

Reginald had intended, on the first opportunity, to rally his cousin upon her sudden attachment to the captain, but his tongue absolutely refused the office. He could not utter a word of banter on the subject. His heart was too full.

On this occasion, as they returned from their walk through the park, there happened one of those incidents which have so often, at least in novels and story-books, brought about the happiness of lovers, but which in the present instance served only to bring into play the most painful feelings of both parties.

A prize-fight had taken place in the neighbourhood, and one of the numerous visitors of that truly noble exhibition, who, in order to do honour to the day, had deprived Smithfield market of the light of his countenance, was returning across the park from the scene of combat, accompanied by his bull-dog. The dog, who doubtless knew that his master was a trespasser, and considered it the better policy to assume at once the offensive, flew at the party whom he saw approaching. Emily was a little in advance. Darcy rushed forward to plant himself between her and this ferocious assailant. He had no weapon of defence of any kind, and, to say truth, he had at that moment no idea of defending himself, or any distinct notion whatever of combating his antagonist. The only reflection that occurred to his mind was, that if the animal satiated its fury upon him, his companion would be safe. A strong leg and a stout boot might have done something; Darcy, stooping down, put the fleshy part of his own arm fairly into the bulldog's jaws; assured that, at all events, it could not bite two persons at the same time, and that, if its teeth were buried in his own arm, they could not be engaged in lacerating Emily Sherwood. It is the well-known nature of the bull-dog to fasten where it once bites, and the brute pinned Darcy to the ground, until its owner, arriving on the spot, extricated him from his very painful position.

In this encounter, our senior wrangler probably showed himself very unskilful and deficient in the combat with wild beasts, but no conduct could have displayed a more engrossing anxiety for the safety of his fair companion. Most men would have been willing to reap advantage from the grateful sentiment which such a conduct must inspire; Darcy, on the contrary, seemed to have no other wish than to disclaim all title to such a sentiment. He would not endure that the incident should be spoken of with the least gravity or seriousness.

"I pray you," said he, "do not mention this silly business again. What I did, every living man who had found himself by your side would have done, and most men in a far more dexterous manner. And, indeed, if instead of yourself, the merest stranger—the poorest creature in the parish, man, woman, or child, had been in your predicament, I think I should have done the same."

"I know you would, Reginald. I believe," said Emily, "that if the merest idiot had been threatened with the danger that threatened me, you would have interposed, and received the attack yourself. And it is because I believe this of you, Reginald"——

Something apparently impeded her utterance, for the sentence was left unfinished.

"For this wound," resumed Darcy, after a pause, and observing that Emily's eye was resting on his arm, "it is really nothing more than a just penalty for my own want of address in this notable combat. You should have had the captain with you," he added; "he would have defended you quite as zealously, and with ten times the skill."

Emily made no answer; and they walked on in silence till they entered the Hall. Reginald felt that he had been ungracious; but he knew not how to retrieve his position. Just before they parted, Emily resuming, in some measure, her natural and cheerful manner, turned to her companion, and said—"Years ago, when you were cousin Reginald, and condescended to be my playfellow, the greatest services you rendered were to throw me occasionally out of the swing, or frighten me till I screamed by putting my pony into a most unmerciful trot; but you were always so kind in the making up, that I liked you the better afterwards. Now, when you preserve me, at your own hazard, from a very serious injury—you do it in so surly a manner—I wish the dog had bitten me!" And with this she left him and tripped up stairs.

If Darcy could have followed her into her own room, he would have seen her throw herself into an armchair, and burst into a flood of tears.

CHAPTER III.