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From this great theatre of di&longs;&longs;ipation and
folly does Meriel once more addre&longs;s her friend—
but why am I not permitted to &longs;ee you?
why in the &longs;ame kingdom does indi&longs;pen&longs;ible
duties keep me from flying to you, and in
your peaceful cloi&longs;ter burying my&longs;elf at once
from the world and all its &longs;orrows? Alas I
too plainly feel that even there I could not
now be at peace: for thither &longs;hould I carry
corroding thought, the pangs of di&longs;appointed
love, the remembrance of abu&longs;ed confidence,
ingratitude and ill requited friend&longs;hip.—
Strange &longs;cenes have pa&longs;&longs;ed, my friend, &longs;ince I
wrote you la&longs;t; I have hovered on the brink
of eternity, from whence I was only &longs;natched
to be the victim of future mi&longs;ery; but let
me pur&longs;ue &longs;ome method in my narrative and
carry you back to the time when the receipt
of Amelia's letter hurried us to proceed as
expeditiou&longs;ly as po&longs;&longs;ible to Aix to catch

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the parting &longs;igh and receive the dying blessing
of my la&longs;t dear parent, my more than
mother. Every preparation nece&longs;&longs;ary for
our departure was &longs;oon made, when the evening
previous to the day on which we were to
&longs;et out, Rook&longs;by came into my dre&longs;&longs;ing
room, where I was bu&longs;y in making &longs;ome necessary
arrangements with the hou&longs;ekeeper,
and bidding her quit the room &longs;at down beside
me, and looking with more complacency
than he had lately done, when addre&longs;&longs;ing
me, &longs;aid, “I have unknown to you Meriel
made a little addition to our party to the
continent, and flatter my&longs;elf it will not be
di&longs;agreeable.”—I believe I looked &longs;urprized
when I replied, “had our journey been one
of plea&longs;ure I could certainly have no objection
to any per&longs;on, whom he &longs;hould think
proper to join us, but on &longs;o mournful an occasion
I mu&longs;t &longs;uppo&longs;e the pre&longs;ence of a stranger”—

“It is not a &longs;tranger,” &longs;aid he (interrupting
me eagerly,) “it is poor Clara.”

“Clara, &longs;ir?” in a tone of angry &longs;urprize.

“Yes, my dear,” he an&longs;wered he&longs;itatingly,
“She is in a bad &longs;tate of health; I met her
lately by accident. She cannot well afford
&longs;o long a journey; and it is a good opportunity.”

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“Rook&longs;by &longs;aid I,” fixing my eyes upon his
face: I think you know me well enough to
be certain that if Clara is really ill and in
want, &longs;he has a claim to every tender office
of humanity from me as a fellow-creature,
but”—

“Nay, Meriel, no buts: &longs;urely (affecting
a &longs;mile) “you are not jealous?”—“No, &longs;ir,
you may re&longs;t quite ea&longs;y on that head. I cannot
think &longs;o meanly of you as to &longs;uppo&longs;e after
what had pa&longs;&longs;ed you would again be the
dupe of an artful woman; for however my
compa&longs;&longs;ion may have been awakened toward
Clara, I cannot help thinking her a woman
capable of the ba&longs;e&longs;t duplicity.”

“She is going to be married to Belger,”
&longs;aid he, endeavoring to hide his evident embarrassment
under the ma&longs;k of carele&longs;&longs;ne&longs;s.

“But I hope, &longs;ir, he is not to join us!”
&longs;aid I, reddening with indignation at the remembrance
of pa&longs;t injuries, which I could
now trace to their right &longs;ource.

“No, he will follow Clara to Aix, and
if my mother dies, we &longs;hall all &longs;pend the winter
in Paris.”

The evident compo&longs;ure with which he
mentioned &longs;uch an afflicting circum&longs;tance,

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cut me to the &longs;oul.—“You &longs;peak of your
mother with great indifference,” &longs;aid I, and
the tears gu&longs;hed from my eyes.

“Indifference, no, indeed I am extremely
&longs;orry; but you know, my dear, &longs;he is an
old woman, and we mu&longs;t expect it, and that
you know prepares us for the &longs;troke, and
prevents the &longs;hock we &longs;hould otherwi&longs;e
feel. I have been thinking,” continued he
after a little pau&longs;e, “that I &longs;hall have the
Hall pulled down next &longs;ummer and built in
a more modern &longs;tile.”

I turned from him with &longs;ilent contempt
and re&longs;ting my cheek upon my hand gave a
loo&longs;e to melancholy reflections. Celia I have
been deceived in this man. He has no heart,
no &longs;en&longs;ibility; every feeling of his &longs;oul is
ab&longs;orbed in &longs;elf. Why, why was my fate
united to &longs;uch a man. I was rou&longs;ed from
my reverie by a loud knock at the door.—
“That is Clara,” &longs;aid he, &longs;tarting up. “I
de&longs;ired &longs;he would &longs;leep here, that we might
be ready to &longs;et off together in the morning.”
I felt a faint chillne&longs;s &longs;eize me as he &longs;poke.
I believe my voice faultered as I &longs;aid, go
down then and receive her; I will ju&longs;t take
one more look at my dear little girl and join
you immediately.” When he had left the
room I &longs;unk motionle&longs;s the &longs;opha. “Good
heaven,” &longs;aid I, “and is it come to this. Can

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it be po&longs;&longs;ible, that the man whom I have promised
to love and honour &longs;hould thus forget
what is due to me, to his child and to himself?
But I will not judge too ra&longs;hly, continued
I, ri&longs;ing and drying my eyes. Perhaps
they may not be guilty. Jealou&longs;y magnifies
every object, and con&longs;trues even laudable
actions into crimes.” I then vi&longs;ited the nursery
and having pa&longs;&longs;ed a few minutes in caressing
my little Clementina, I de&longs;cended to the
drawing room where I found Clara negligently
&longs;eated on a &longs;opha by Rook&longs;by, and Su&longs;an
Mo&longs;&longs;op playing on the Piano Forte. Clara
ro&longs;e from her &longs;eat, coloured and he&longs;itatingly
&longs;aid &longs;omething about intru&longs;ion. I confe&longs;s I
was not le&longs;s embarra&longs;&longs;ed my&longs;elf; however I
paid her the civilities nece&longs;&longs;ary as being my
gue&longs;t and we immediately went to &longs;upper,
&longs;oon after which I retired on pretence of making
&longs;ome further preparations, and having
given orders about an apartment for Clara,
I &longs;at down and wrote a few lines to Su&longs;an requesting,
as &longs;he intended &longs;taying in town,
till &longs;he heared from us the re&longs;ult of our voyage
and whether we returned or pa&longs;t the winter
on the continent, that &longs;he would be particularly
attentive to the child, and in ca&longs;e of
her father's &longs;ending for her begged &longs;he would
accompany her to Paris. This I did by letter,
being &longs;en&longs;ible I &longs;hould have no time to
&longs;peak to her in the morning; and I did not

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think proper to &longs;end for her up &longs;tairs at that
time. Early in the morning our po&longs;t coach
was at the door, and by &longs;ix o'clock Mr.
Rook&longs;by, Clara, my&longs;elf and Le&longs;ter my woman
were &longs;eated in it; and we proceeded
with all imaginable &longs;peed to Dover. Rook&longs;by
immediately on our arrival &longs;ent to &longs;peak to
the ma&longs;ter of a Packet. We found it was
impo&longs;&longs;ible to think of embarking till the next
morning, and were informed by the man that
a gentleman and lady ju&longs;t arrived from
town had taken their pa&longs;&longs;age on board his
ve&longs;&longs;el. While we continued talking, a gentle
tap at the door interrupted us, and on
its being opened who &longs;hould enter but Mrs.
Kingly. It was a mo&longs;t agreeable &longs;urprize
to me, though I believe not &longs;o to Rook&longs;by.
“Well met my dear cou&longs;in,” &longs;aid &longs;he, affectionately
&longs;aluting me, “it is fortunate
that we &longs;hould both be travelling the &longs;ame
way. I &longs;aw your livery in the yard and immediately
made my enquiries.” Kingly is
gone out, &longs;o you &longs;ee I took the opportunity
and eloped to you; but when he returns I
am &longs;ure he will be as happy as my&longs;elf to pay
you his re&longs;pects.” While &longs;he was &longs;peaking
&longs;he did not notice who was in the room, and,
indeed, Clara &longs;at in an ob&longs;cure corner by the
fire, but as &longs;he fini&longs;hed the la&longs;t &longs;entence,
turning ha&longs;tily round &longs;he &longs;aw her; but not
recognizing her immediately cried, “I fear

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I am guilty of rudene&longs;s, you have company.”—
“No one particular,” &longs;aid I. It is only
Mrs. Moreton.” Clara was now under the
nece&longs;&longs;ity of ri&longs;ing; Mrs. Kingly &longs;tarted and
curt&longs;ying formally, while &longs;he gave Rook&longs;by
a mo&longs;t expre&longs;&longs;ive look, &longs;aid &longs;he could not
have expected to &longs;ee Mrs. Moreton in this
party, not knowing we were acquainted. I
really felt for Clara; her colour varied from
red to pale and from pale to red, till I thought
&longs;he would have &longs;unk. Rook&longs;by looked mortified,
and I only &longs;lightly &longs;aid, that Mrs. Moreton
having but indifferent health wi&longs;hed to try
the air and weather of Aix, and we having an
empty &longs;eat in the coach I had offered it to her.—
Mrs. Kingly looked inqui&longs;itive, as much as
to &longs;ay, “do you know who &longs;he is.” But
&longs;he repre&longs;&longs;ed the impul&longs;e of curio&longs;ity and
made enquiries after my dear mother, whom
&longs;he did not know till then, was in &longs;o dangerous
a &longs;tate.

In about an hour Kingly came in, when
after the fir&longs;t &longs;alutations were pa&longs;t, he began
to recognize Clara, I think it would
be impo&longs;&longs;ible to give you an adequate idea
of the anger and contempt that agitated his
expre&longs;&longs;ive countenance, her pre&longs;ence was
a re&longs;traint upon us all, it checked conversation,
we were for &longs;ome moments &longs;ilent
and embarra&longs;&longs;ed—&longs;he &longs;aw it and gue&longs;&longs;ing the

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cau&longs;e, complained of weakne&longs;s and fatigue
and ringing for a light retired to her chamber.

She was no &longs;ooner gone than Kingly cried
“why Mrs. Rook&longs;by, how long have you
been acquainted with that woman.”

“Some time,” I replied affecting as much
ea&longs;e as po&longs;&longs;ible.

“Had you any knowledge of her before
you were married?”

“O yes, I knew her very well; come I
know what you would &longs;ay, but I &longs;hall &longs;top
you at once; her former errors are nothing
to me; at pre&longs;ent &longs;he is in di&longs;tre&longs;s. It was
in my power to render her a trifling &longs;ervice,
and I only followed the dictates of humanity.”

“Neglecting tho&longs;e of common prudence,”
interrupted he tartly.

“P&longs;haw! non&longs;en&longs;e,” I replied laughing,
“do not let us talk any more about her.”

“You are the mo&longs;t unaccountable woman,”
&longs;aid he, “that ever exi&longs;ted, I declare

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if almo&longs;t half your life is not an inexplicable
riddle.”

“My dear,” &longs;aid Mrs. Kingly, to turn
the conver&longs;ation, “my cou&longs;ins have taken
their pa&longs;&longs;age in the &longs;ame packet with us; &longs;o
we &longs;hall cro&longs;s the channel together.” This
had the de&longs;ired effect; we in&longs;en&longs;ibly fell into
mutual enquiries concerning the motives of
our intended voyage: the conver&longs;ation became
by degrees cheerful, and Clara was for
the moment forgot. I found that Mr. and
Mrs. Kingly were merely on a jaunt of pleasure,
and that we &longs;hould have their company
no farther than Calais, as they intended to
proceed to Bru&longs;&longs;els. But, my dear Celia,
vain are the appointments of man; we look
forward to many coming years, we mark out
plans of future plea&longs;ure and enjoyment: and
cry, Thus we will do, and thus. When suddenly
the unexpected bla&longs;ts of adver&longs;ity pa&longs;s
over us, the beauteous vi&longs;ion fades before
our &longs;ight, while darkne&longs;s clouds and tempe&longs;t
&longs;hut the expected joys forever from our view,
and hurl them far beyond our reach.

Like &longs;ome poor hind, who during the fatigues
of the day, had looked often wi&longs;hfully
toward a di&longs;tant &longs;hady grove, where he might
repo&longs;e from the &longs;corching noon-day &longs;un.—
“When my daily ta&longs;k is ended,” &longs;ays he,

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“I will retire there, and as I re&longs;t my weary
limbs, enjoy the cool refre&longs;hing breezes as
they pa&longs;s over the banks of flowers.” The&longs;e
reflections &longs;weeten his toil, and he ta&longs;tes a
thou&longs;and times by anticipation the plea&longs;ures
he expects to enjoy. At length the hour
arrives, he quits his labour and ha&longs;tily flies
to the &longs;cene of fancy, promi&longs;ed bli&longs;s. “How
delightful is the cooling &longs;hade,” he cries, as
he draws near the grove; “how charming
the gurgling of the clear &longs;tream that glides
over the pebbles and falls into a ba&longs;on formed
by nature; how delicious the fruit that hangs
from the trees and courts the hand to gather
them. Oh! I could live and die in &longs;o &longs;weet
a place. How happy I &longs;hall be, when I reach
it, and &longs;tretch my weary limbs on the &longs;oft
gra&longs;&longs;y turf.”—Alas! poor &longs;wain, do&longs;t thou
not &longs;ee the &longs;un is &longs;unk beneath the hills, the
gloom of evening comes on apace, and e'er
thou can&longs;t reach thy de&longs;ired haven, the clouds
of night will ob&longs;cure its beauties from thy
view, and the chilly dews prevent your taking
the repo&longs;e you &longs;o ardently wi&longs;h for.

My dear Celia, I am at pre&longs;ent unable to
proceed; when I recover my &longs;pirits, I will
again re&longs;ume my pen, till then farewel.

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