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It has been already mentioned, that the
health of Lady Pendennyss suffered a severe
shock, in giving birth to a daughter—change
of scene was prescribed as a remedy for her
disorder, and Denbigh and his wife were
on their return from a fruitless excursion
amongst the northern lakes, in pursuit of
amusement and relief for the latter, as they
were compelled to seek a shelter from the
fury of a sudden gust, in the first building
that offered; it was a farm house of the better
sort; and the attendants, carriages, and
appearance of their guests, caused no little
confusion to its simple inmates—a fire was
lighted in the best parlour, and every effort
made by the inhabitants to contribute to the
comforts of the travellers.

The Countess and her husband were
sitting, in that kind of listless melancholy,
which had been too much the companion
of their later hours, when in the interval
of the storm, a male voice in an adjoining
room commenced singing the following
ballad—the notes were low—monotonous,
but unusually sweet, and the enunciation
so distinct, as to render every syllable intelligible:

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The maidens employed around the person
of their comfortless mistress—the valet of
Denbigh engaged in arranging a dry coat for
his master—all suspended their employments
to listen in breathless silence, to the mournful
melody of the song.

But Denbigh, himself, had started from his
seat, as the first notes struck his ear, and
continued until the voice ceased, gazing in
vacant horror, in the direction of the sounds.
A door opened from the parlour to the room
of the musician—he rushed through it, and
there---in a kind of shed to the
building---which hardly sheltered him from the fury of
the tempest---clad in the garments of the

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extremest poverty—with an eye roving in madness,
and a body rocking to and fro, from
mental inquietude, he beheld, seated on a
stone, the remains of his long lost brother,
Francis.

The language of the song, was too plain
to be misunderstood. The truth glared
around George, with a violence that dazzled
his brains---but he saw it all---he felt it all---
and rushing to the feet of his brother, he exclaimed,
in horror, pressing his hands between
his own:

“Francis—my own brother—do you not
know me?”

The maniac regarded him with a vacant
gaze, but the voice and the person, recalled the
compositions of his more reasonable moments
to his recollection—pushing back the
hair of George, so as to expose his fine forehead
to his view, he contemplated him for a
few moments, and then continued to sing, in
a voice still rendered sweeter than before by
his faint impressions.

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On ending the last stanza, the maniac released
his brother, and broke into the wildest
laugh of madness.

“Francis!- -Oh! Francis, my brother”---
cried George, in bitterness of sorrow---
a piercing shriek drew his eye to the door
he had passed through---on its threshold lay
the senseless body of his wife—the distracted
husband forgot every thing, in the
situation of his Marian---and raising her in
his arms, he exclaimed,

“Marian---my Marian, revive---look up---
know me.”

Francis had followed him, and now
stood by his side---gazing intently on the
lifeless body---his looks became more soft---
his eye glanced less wildly---he cried,

“Marian---My Marian, too.”

There was a mighty effort---nature could
endure no more---he broke a blood-vessel,
and fell at the feet of George---they flew to
his assistance, giving the Countess to her
women---he was dead.

For seventeen years, Lady Pendennyss
survived the shock; but having reached her
own abode, during that long period, she
never left her room.

In the confidence of his reviving hopes,
Doctor Ives and his wife were made acquainted
with the real cause, of the grief of

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their friend—but the truth went no further.—
Denbigh was the guardian of his three young
cousins—The Duke, his sister, and young
George Denbigh; these, with his son, Lord
Lumley, and daughter, Lady Marian, were
removed from the melancholy of the Castle,
to scenes better adapted to their opening prospects
in life—yet Lumley was fond of the
society of his father, and finding him a
youth endowed beyond his years—the care
of his parent, was early turned to the most
important of his duties in that sacred office;
and when he yielded to his wishes to go
into the army—he knew he went a youth of
sixteen, possessed of principles and self-denial,
that would become a man of five and
twenty.

General Wilson completed the work, his
father had begun; and Lord Lumley formed
a singular exception to the character of his
companions.

At the close of the Spanish war, he returned
home, and was just in time to receive
the parting breath of his mother.

A few days before her death, the Countess
requested her children might be made acquainted
with her history and misconduct,
and she placed in the hands of her son, a letter,
with directions, for him to open it after
her decease—it was addressed to both children,
and after recapitulating generally, the
principal events of her life, continued:

“Thus, my children, you perceive the consequences
of indulgence and hardness of

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heart, which made me insensible to the sufferings
of others, and regardless of the plainest
dictates of justice—self, was my idol—the
love of admiration, which was natural to me,
was increased by the flatterers who surrounded
me—and had the customs of our
country, suffered royalty to descend in their
unions, to a grade in life below their own,
your uncle would have escaped the fangs
of my baneful coquetry.

“Oh! Marian, my child, never descend so
low as to practice those arts, which have degraded
your unhappy mother—I would impress
on you, as a memorial of my parting affection,
these simple truths—that coquetry,
stands next the want of chastity, in the scale
of female vices—it is in fact, a kind of mental
prostitution—it is ruinous to all that delicacy
of feeling, which gives added lustre to female
charms—it is almost destructive to modesty
itself—A woman who has been addicted to its
practice, may strive long, and in vain, to regain
that singleness of heart, which can
bind her up so closely in her husband and
children, as to make her a good wife, or a
mother; and if it should have degenerated
into habit, may lead to the awful result of
infidelity to her marriage vows.

“It is in vain for a coquette to pretend to religion—
its practice involves hypocrisy, falsehood,
and deception—every thing that is mean—
every thing that is debasing—in short, as it is
bottomed on selfishness and pride, where it has

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once possessed the mind, it will only yield
to the truth-displaying banners of the cross—
this, and this only, can remove the evil; for
without it, she, whom the charms of youth
and beauty, have enabled to act the coquette,
will descend into the vale of life, altered, it is
true, but not amended—as she will find
the world, with its allurements, cling around
her parting years, in vain regrets for days
that are flown, and mercenary views for her
descendants. Heaven bless you, my children—
console and esteem your inestimable
father, while he yet remains with you; and
place your reliance on that Heavenly Parent,
who will never desert those, who seek him in
sincerity and love.—

Your dying mother,
“M. Pendennyss.”

This letter, evidently written under the
excitement of deep remorse, for the errors of
the writer, made a great impression on both
her children; in Lady Marian it was pity,
regret, and abhorrence of the fault, which
had been the principal cause of the wreck
of her mother's peace of mind; but in her
brother, now Earl of Pendennyss, these feelings
were united with a jealous dread of his
own probable lot, in the chances of matrimony.

His uncle had been the supposed heir to
a more elevated title than his own, but he
was now the actual possessor of as honourable
a name, and much larger revenues. The
great wealth of his maternal grandfather,

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and considerable estate of his own father,
were, or would soon be, centered in himself;
and if a woman as amiable, as faultless, as
his affection had taught him to believe his
mother to be, could yield, in her situation, to
the lure of wordly honours—had he not great
reason to dread, a hand might be bestowed,
at some day, upon himself, when the heart
would point out some other destination, if
the real wishes of its owner were consulted.

Pendennyss was modest by nature, and
humble from principle—though by no means
distrustful; yet the shock of discovering his
mother's fault—the gloom of her death, and
his father's declining health, sometimes led
him into a train of reflections, which at
others, he would have fervently deprecated.

A short time after the decease of the
Countess, Mr. Denbigh, finding his constitution
bending fast, under the wasting of a decline
he had been in for a year, resolved to
finish his days in the abode of his Christian
friend, Doctor Ives. For several years they
had not met; increasing duties and infirmities
on both sides having interrupted their
visits.

By easy stages he left the residence of his
son in Wales, and accompanied by both his
children, he reached Lumley Castle much
exhausted; here he took a solemn and final
leave of Marian, unwilling she should so
soon witness again the death of another parent,

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and dismissing the Earl's equipage and attendants,
a short day's ride from B—, they proceeded
alone to the rectory.

A letter had been forwarded, acquainting
the Doctor of his approaching visit, wishing
it to be perfectly private, but not alluding to
its object, and fixing the day, a week later
than the one he arrived on; this he had altered,
on perceiving the torch of life more rapidly
approaching the socket, than he had at
first supposed. Their unexpected appearance
and reception are known. Denbigh's death
and the departure of his son followed. Francis
was his companion, to the tomb of his ancestors
in Westmoreland.

The Earl had a shrinking delicacy under
the knowledge of his family, history, that
made him anxious to draw all eyes from the
contemplation of his mother's conduct—how
far the knowledge of it, had extended in society,
he could not know, but he wished it
buried with her in the tomb. The peculiar
manner of his father's death would attract
notice, and might recall attention to the prime
cause of his disorder; they were unknown as
yet, and he wished the Doctor's family to let
them remain so; it was impossible the death
of a man of Mr. Denbigh's rank, should be
unnoticed in the prints, and the care of Francis,
dictated the simple truth, without comments,
as it appeared: what was more natural,
than that the son of Mr. Denbigh, should
also be Mr. Denbigh.

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In the presence of the Rector's family, no
allusions were made to their friends, and the
villagers and the neighbourhood spoke of them
as old and young Mr. Denbigh.

The name of Lord Lumley, now Earl of Pendennyss,
was known to the whole British nation;
but the long. retirement of his father and
mother, had driven them almost from the recollection
of their friends. Even Mrs. Wilson
supposed her favourite hero a Lumley. Pendennyss
castle had been for centuries the proud
residence of that family; and the change of
name in its possessor, was forgotten with the
circumstances that led to it. When, therefore,
Emily met the Earl so unexpectedly the second
time at the rectory, she, of course, with all her
companions, spoke of him as Mr. Denbigh.

Pendennyss had called in proper person,
in expectation of meeting his kinsman,
Lord Bolton; but, finding him absent, could
not resist his desire to visit the rectory---accordingly
he sent his carriage and servants on
to London, leaving them at a convenient spot,
and arrived on foot at the house of Dr. Ives.
From the same motives which had influenced
him before---a wish to indulge, undisturbed
by useless ceremony, his melancholy
reflections---he desired his name might not
be mentioned.

This was an easy task; both Doctor and
Mrs. Ives had called him when a child, George
or Lumley, and were unused to his new appellation,
of Pendennyss; indeed, it rather
recalled painful recollections to them all.

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