Chapter VIII

A few days had only elapsed since the final arrangement of Anne’s marriage, when the anxiety and worry by which she was annoyed in not having explicitly told her future husband her brother’s history were terminated in a manner certainly neither expected nor anticipated by her.

It was evening when the doctor made his appearance at the Tusculum, evidently excited--that is to say, rather more animated than usual--full of something which he was anxious to impart, and still more desirous of imparting without flurrying his companions:--to use a homely phrase, he had a good deal to say, but did not know exactly how to begin.

The difficulty he felt, arose from two sources:--the first cause of his embarrassment was, the consciousness that what he had to communicate could not fail, with all his caution, to awaken a combination of feelings in the minds of his hearers, the physical effect of which upon the constitution of the elder one he anticipated with some apprehension; and the other originated in the feeling that he was about to avow himself fully acquainted with every particular concerning a member of the family to which he was about to ally himself, whose name had scarcely ever been mentioned, and whose history had never been touched on.

“I have news for you, ladies,” said Mead, after having talked upon some indifferent subjects, “which will surprise you; but I shall not tell you one word until you have promised me to behave calmly and temperately when I have told my story.”

“News for _us_!” said Mrs. Brown.

“News from afar,” said the doctor.

The blood rushed into Anne’s cheeks. She was assured whence, and whence only, news from afar could come to _them_--Mead had heard of her brother--of the brother of whose position in society she had avoided the mention--he knew it all--and not from her! She felt humiliated and abashed, and almost shuddered at the reflection that from mistaken pride,--unaccountable in a character like hers,--she had left the developement of the whole family history to chance, by which, Mead had become possessed of every particular, and was of course convinced that Anne, with all her good qualities, was not entirely ingenuous. As it happened, the circumstances of the case were such as not to give that colouring to her conduct; but, on the contrary, to lead the doctor to admire the diffidence and modesty of both mother and daughter in not having spoken much more of such a son and brother.

“Your son”--said Mead.

“I knew it must be poor George!” exclaimed Anne.

“Your son is expected home almost immediately,” said the doctor.

“Thank God!” said Mrs. Brown: “he is alive then and safe. Three years have passed since the date of his last letter.”

“Dear, dear George!” said Anne--her joy still clouded by her self-condemnation.

“When, my dear doctor,” said Mrs. Brown, “may we expect him?--and how have you heard this news?”

“Promise me, both of you,” said Mead, “to hear what I have to say calmly, and I will tell you all. You have no reason for agitation; the news I bring is good--excellent! Now, recollect--no agitation----he is in England!”

A flood of tears from the two listeners followed this announcement. I am not sure that the eyes of the narrator were quite dry.

“Heaven be praised!” sobbed Mrs. Brown; “I shall see my dear, dear boy once more!”

Anne remained mute, and motionless, and weeping.

“Nay, ladies,” continued Mead, “I have seen him--have conversed with him,--and only succeeded by pointing out the absolute necessity of forbearance, in hindering his coming with me:--to-morrow you will clasp him to your hearts.”

Had not the one reproach rankled in Anne’s mind, her happiness would have been as perfect as her mother’s: as it was, she felt she would give the world to enquire more about him--about his wife--his family--his circumstances; but she was tongue-tied.

“Is he well?” said his mother--“and is his wife with him?”

“She is,” said Mead--“I have seen _her_ too.”

Another pang thrilled through Anne’s heart:--that wife was the sister of the man to whom she had herself been betrothed! The mother and daughter exchanged a look;--it was full of meaning, but incomprehensible to Mead.

“I suppose she must be much altered,” said Mrs. Brown; “of that, however, _you_ can be no judge, not having known her before she went abroad.”

“She is a very lovely creature,” said Mead; and observing a sudden change in the expression of Anne’s countenance, he added--“not that I mean to make anybody jealous.”

Anne coloured: she felt that they were travelling over mined ground:--that the most natural thing in the world for George to have done when he found out the doctor, was to make some allusion to the brother of his wife with reference to his sister; and she began to worry herself into the belief that the whole history of the Brag affair had been detailed to her affianced lover, and that he was merely serpentining his way to the part of the details at which he might terminate his connexion with them altogether.

“I never saw a sweeter expression of countenance!” continued Mead. “Her manners are perfect: in fact, nothing but a constant intercourse with the best society can give that sort of unconscious ease and gracefulness which seem inherent, and whose greatest charm is the total absence of effort or affectation.”

Anne heard, and silently repeated to herself the words, “constant intercourse with the best society,” and her thoughts flew like lightning to the back parlour behind the shop, the dangling candles in front, the respectable Brag defunct, and his widow still extant; and the result of these hasty reminiscences was a confirmation of her belief that Mead was proceeding in an ironical strain, utterly at variance as it was with the general simplicity and amiability of his character, in order eventually to explode the whole affair, indignant at the treatment he had experienced, and disgusted with the connexion he had so nearly made.

“Why,” said Mrs. Brown--and Anne would have given worlds that she had said nothing,--“she was always a smart, clever girl, and, I suppose, time has improved her into what she is.”

“Her natural genius,” said Mead, “which, from some drawings I saw of hers, views of different parts of India, is evidently first-rate, has been--at least so your son told me--wonderfully improved by a residence in Italy, where art is so generally cultivated and understood; and her father, who, he says, was devoted to her, indulged her in a wish to reside upon the Continent for three years before his appointment.”

The mother and daughter again exchanged looks. It became a doubt in both their minds whether Dr. Mead was suddenly seized with madness, or whether their dear George had caught the infection from the Brag family, and had been imposing on him in the most outrageous manner.

“I never heard of my daughter-in-law’s having been abroad,” said Mrs. Brown.

“She never could have been,” said Anne.

“All I know is this,” said Mead:--“a gentleman called upon me about one o’clock to-day. He sent in his card, and, upon seeing his name, it struck me that it must be your George, whom I had heard you occasionally mention. I had remarked that you did not speak much of him, and, as there are secrets in all families, I apprehended, although you never hinted it, that there might exist some disagreement amongst you with which I could have no concern whatever; still the similarity of name excited the opinion that it might be _him_. I immediately received him in preference to my waiting patients. He told me that as soon as he and his wife arrived in town, he proceeded to Walworth, where the people of the house directed him to me, as knowing all about you. Our conversation grew more and more interesting; and having, evidently to his surprise, and, I flatter myself, not a disagreeable one, told him the nature of my engagement to dear Anne, he insisted on accompanying me hither to clasp you in his arms. I positively refused that, and, by way of an intermediate bargain, he begged me the moment I had despatched my professional business to call upon him and his wife at Mivart’s Hotel, where they have taken rooms. I did so, was introduced, and, as I have told you, am quite delighted with both of them.”

“Mivart’s Hotel!--taken rooms!”--another look was exchanged.

“Did he tell you,” said Mrs. Brown, “whether he had any family?”

“I think he said one boy,” replied Mead: “however, he will be here in the morning. I am not sure whether your daughter-in-law will come with him. She is in rather delicate health; and the journey from Falmouth, where they landed, coming immediately on a fortnight’s bad weather in the chops of the Channel, after a long voyage, is something formidable to a person who, like her, has been used to all the luxuries of life.”

Another look,--and an extra one from Anne, who looked at Mead to see whether there were any visible alteration in his countenance; for all he said was perfectly incomprehensible to her--if _he_ were sane and rational.

“Did she,” said Anne, particularly anxious to discover the extent of her communication as to her brother’s engagement, as it might be called, with herself--“did she say anything about her brother?”

“Brother!” said Mead; “no, my dear Anne; George, your brother, and my future brother-in-law, I hope,” (Anne blushed again,) “told me she was an only child.”

“Did he?” said Mrs. Brown.

“An only child!” said Anne--and they were both more mystified than ever. Anne, however, who was more feelingly alive to the actual position of her brother, ventured a little farther: “Has George,” said she, “obtained any promotion since we heard from him?”

“That,” said Mead, “is a question I cannot very satisfactorily answer. His card was a written one, and the name ‘Mr. Brown.’ As I before told you, my dear Anne, the name itself was enough for me.”

This little speech tended very considerably to calm poor Anne’s doubts and fears. Whatever had occurred, it was clear that neither George nor Kate had touched upon the subject of her former engagement, and she began to take courage and feel more at ease than she had been during the earlier part of the conversation.

Mrs. Brown’s delight at the prospect of again seeing her son was not a little qualified by the mystification which Mead’s account of him and his wife involved, and she longed for bed-time, in order to talk over the circumstances with her daughter. Her confidence in George’s veracity rendered her suspicious of the doctor’s accuracy; and out of both she established an idea that the Mr. Brown of whom they had been talking must be neither more nor less than some dashing swindler, who proposed to cheat the doctor, or somebody else, by pretending a relationship to the family with which he was about to connect himself.

Of course, so long as the conversation lasted, George and his wife were the leading subjects of it; not that the doubts and surmises of the ladies were at all calmed or diminished by hearing Mead detail the particulars of a visit paid to Mr. Brown, during the time he was at the hotel, by one of the most fashionable coachmakers in town, to receive Mrs. Brown’s orders with regard to a carriage which was to be put in hand immediately, and finished as soon as possible.

At last the trio separated for the night, the doctor well pleased to have found in his brother-in-law a gentleman so agreeable and highly respectable, but wondering more than ever that he should have suffered his mother and sister to exist in the manner they were living at Walworth, and where, had it not been for the accidental circumstance of Anne’s application to him, they would in all probability have been living still; and coupling these matters with the looks which he could not at length fail to see Mrs. Brown and her daughter interchange, he unsettled his mind into a belief that there must be some mystery in the affair, of which he should like to be master.

“My dear Anne,” said Mrs. Brown, as she threw herself into the armed chair in her bedchamber, “what on earth can all this mean? Delighted as I am at the prospect of so soon seeing my boy, I am astounded and astonished at what Mead tells us. What can have happened to George, to induce him to talk and act as he represents him to have done this morning?”

“I,” said Miss Brown, “cannot comprehend it. But I am even more surprised at what he has _not_ said to Robert, than at what he _has_. He may have made money; he may be able to live at an expensive hotel; and he may be able to let Kate have a carriage: but one would have thought one of his first enquiries would have been after his brother-in-law. Now, of Jack, it is clear he never spoke; for if he had, and before Robert had told him all, the chances are”--(here her voice faltered a little)--“_my_ name would have been mentioned too.”

“My dear child,” said Mrs. Brown, “how should George afford any of the luxuries of which Mead speaks?--besides, knowing, as I do, the tenderness of his affection, and the generosity of his heart, do you think, if he had acquired anything like the property which this person seems to possess, that we should have been forgotten? No, no!--rely upon it, there is some great mistake in the business somewhere. George would never have left his mother and sister to work for their bread, if he had had the means of putting them at their ease.”

“Besides,” said Anne, “when the whole of the conversation of _this_ Mr. Brown with Robert is put together, it does not appear to contain one word in allusion to our family concerns. It is true, Mr. Brown went to Walworth, and was referred to Robert by Mrs. Hutchins; but, except a simple enquiry after our health, he seems to have made no allusion whatever to anything that happened either before his departure or during his absence. My belief is, like yours, that it is somebody who for some purpose has thought fit to personate George, although, to be sure, it would be difficult to conjecture for what.”

“I would rather it were anything,” said Mrs. Brown, “than that my once honourable, high-minded boy should have endeavoured to impose upon Mead with such extraordinary falsehoods as those which it appears he must have told, if it be him.”

“Besides,” said Anne, who grew energetic and eloquent as she proceeded, “Kate never _could_ draw; the things she took home from school were all done by the drawing-master: and as for the Continent, she never was even as far as Calais.”

“It seems to me, Anne,” said the matron, “to be one tissue of falsehood and pretension from beginning to end.”

In this sort of condemnatory strain did Mrs. Brown and her daughter converse, till, twelve o’clock striking, they considered it proper to part for the night, in order to indulge themselves with a separate reconsideration of the whole affair.

The morning came--breakfast was eaten:--the doctor departed as usual for town, and the ladies began to count the minutes until George, or the person who had assumed his name, should make his appearance. At length the happy moment came; the old lady clasped her son to her heart, and the young one clung round the neck of her brother. George IT WAS--that was clear; and although his features had become somewhat sharpened by time, and his complexion was mellowed into a durable brown by the effects of the climate, he was not so much altered as might have been expected.

“Well, my dear mother,” said George, as soon as he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, “what gratitude do we not owe to Providence! As far as Anne is concerned, I am delighted with her choice: I wanted nothing but her comfortable establishment in life to make me perfectly happy.”

“And how is your wife, George?” said his mother; “our doctor says she is in delicate health.”

“She is, I am sorry to say, a sad invalid,” said George. “I hope, however, her native climate, unfavourable as it is to foreigners, may restore her. She was very anxious to come with me to-day, but she really is not strong enough to bear even so short an excursion.”

“We have seen scarcely anything of Brag since you went,” said Mrs. Brown, anxious as much as possible to soften down his infamous conduct, out of respect to the feelings of his blameless sister.

“I rejoice to hear it,” said George. “I trust I never may have the misfortune of seeing him again.”

“But I suppose,” said Anne, who was always for peace-making, “you _will_ see him for the sake of my sister-in-law?”

“I don’t imagine,” said Mr. Brown, “that your sister-in-law is very likely to see much of _him_. In fact,” continued he, “I think, when she gets strong enough, we shall in all probability go to the Continent, unless perhaps I should stop a month or two in England for a little shooting.”

Here the ladies exchanged looks of a similar character to those of the night before.

“To be sure,” continued he, “whatever miseries and unhappinesses I may have undergone since we parted, my career has been one of the most extraordinary, and most prosperous, that man ever ran. How I have deserved such blessings, I know not.”

“What rank have you now in the army, George?” said his mother.

“Army!” said her son; “you know I have left the army.”

“Left it!” exclaimed the old lady, more confirmed than ever in the suspicion that something was wrong somewhere and somehow:--“why then, how do you live?”

“How!--as a man of fortune should live,” said George,--“upon my property.”

“My dear George,” said Anne, “what _are_ you talking of?”

“Nothing but what you know of,” replied he.

“We know of nothing, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Brown, “but of your having been made clerk to Sir Cadwallader Adamthwaite’s secretary.”

“Why, my dear mother,” said George, “I never made a remittance to you without writing fully upon all my affairs.”

“Remittance!” said Mrs. Brown.

“Letters!” said Anne--“my dear brother, we have not received a line from you for upwards of three years; and, during all our distresses, your silence caused perhaps the keenest pang of all.”

“Distresses!” exclaimed George--“why this--what--three years!--there have been roguery and robbery here! From the moment my fortunes changed, I regularly remitted you as much as my means would afford; and although wondering never to have heard from you through the agent whom I directed to forward my letters to you, and to receive any you chose to trust to his care, I felt assured by his answers that your silence was a matter of choice; and, ascertaining through him that you were both well, contented myself with fulfilling my duty and gratifying my inclinations, without waiting for reply or acknowledgment. The truth will be easily discovered. This very agent, I find on my arrival here, has failed, and is recently dead; I have, of course, had no time to investigate his affairs, but I very much fear I shall be an eventual loser of four or five thousand pounds by him.”

Here the ladies looked at each other again. Anne had read in some book something about shaking the pagoda tree in India, but it seemed as if her brother must have picked it clean.

“Three years!” said George--“why then you know nothing of the leading events of my life--of the entire change in my circumstances.”

“I see you are in mourning, George,” said Anne, who did not know how to ask for whom?

“Yes,” said George, “I am sorry to say I am--for my father-in-law; a more generous-hearted, noble-minded man, never lived.”

“In mourning for poor Mr. Brag, now!” said his mother.

“Brag!” said George--“I sicken at the very name.”

“Oh, George,” said Anne, “consider Kate!”

“Kate!” exclaimed Brown, turning deadly pale--“Kate!--Oh! Anne, it must be more than three years since you got any of my letters.--Lost, wretched woman!”

“Lost!” said Anne--“why, is not she at the hotel?”

“In her grave!” said George, “a grave which closed upon a life of wantonness and disgrace.”

“Then you are married again?” said Anne.

In answer to this question, it seems better to adopt the narrative style, inasmuch as many circumstances had occurred during the period of George’s involuntary cessation of correspondence with his mother, which it would be difficult for him personally to describe or explain.

The reader has traced the career of Mr. George Brown up to the point of his becoming clerk to the military secretary of Sir Cadwallader Adamthwaite. His readiness, activity, and assiduity, were so remarkable, that the general, who was one of the kindest-hearted men upon the face of the earth, took the trouble to ascertain the particulars of his history; and finding him to be in every essential point a gentleman, resolved on procuring him a commission in the army, which he did; and when it was obtained, and George appointed, the clerk was dignified into assistant military secretary, and the assistant military secretary became one of the general’s family.

It was during a year or fourteen months of probation before the arrival of his commission, that Mrs. George Brown (_née_ Brag) began to evince very strong symptoms of a propensity, which even the thirst produced by a hot climate cannot justify in one of the “fair sex,” as her brother would call them; and upon more occasions than one, George, on his return from head-quarters, found her in a state which, as authors say who are not able to depict what they wish, “may be better imagined than described.” It rarely happens that when this vice exists in woman, it is the only one to which she sooner or later addicts herself. Grown reckless by habitual intemperance, her temper became violent; and impatient of rebuke, she taxed her husband with cruelty and inhumanity for merely remonstrating upon conduct so disgraceful to herself, and which must be so injurious to him. The most depraved women, however, find admirers, and Mrs. Brown, degraded as she was, found hers. The justification she attempted to plead for the irregularity of her life was, the delusion which had been practised upon her by George as to the place she was to occupy in the world; that her husband’s rank, of course, excluded her from good society, such as, she said, “she had always been used to:” and, in short, having awakened from a dream of girlish love, she bitterly repented of the step she had taken, and became careless of everything but the gratification of her worst propensities.

This career did not last long. It would be neither pleasant nor profitable to enter into the particulars of her unfortunate case; a few months’ intemperance brought her life to its close, and left George a widower, commiserated by his comrades rather for the sufferings he had undergone, than for the loss he had sustained. All these circumstances he had detailed in his missing letters to his mother, in one of which he had also communicated the intelligence of his wife’s death to her surviving parent; but, with great goodness of heart and tenderness of feeling, avoiding all mention of the unhappy circumstances in which she died.

If George and Kate had given themselves time to consider the step which they unfortunately took, and had not been blinded by youthful love, they could have anticipated nothing but evil from such a marriage. Kate was evidently labouring under the belief that George was an officer; and the question whether his rank would enable her to live with people such as she had been accustomed to visit and receive, never entered her mind. She first began to feel her difficulties when she embarked on board the ship which was to take them to India; but even _there_ the superiority of her manners induced a special attention to her, and infinitely better accommodation was contrived for her than she had any _right_ to: in short, from the moment they were fairly launched in the world, and she saw the path she had chosen, she became fretful and irritable, her pride wounded by finding herself unable to speak to, or associate with the wives of the officers with whom she was domesticated, and her vanity hurt by being permitted to stand in the verandah of the mess-room, _to look in and see_ the company dancing when the officers gave a ball.

That it _was_ humiliating and provoking nobody can deny, but she ought to have calculated upon such evils before she married; that is, if she knew enough of “the service” to enable her to appreciate the relative value of its different ranks: however, it is not my province to reason upon the wisdom or propriety of her early proceedings. Her ruin and fall may be fairly traced to her first great act of filial disobedience; and her fate adds another to the numerous instances already upon record, of the ill-success of runaway matches.

The day on which Ensign Brown made his first appearance in Sir Cadwallader Adamthwaite’s drawing-room, was a most important era of his life; and when he found himself warmly received by the general, and presented _pro formâ_ to his daughter, who, of course, knew him perfectly well by sight, he could not restrain a feeling of regret that his unfortunate wife had not so conducted herself through what he admitted to have been a trial, that she might have overcome all the hardships she had previously endured, and have enjoyed the satisfaction of finding herself placed by her husband’s promotion, in society from which her girlish thoughtlessness had excluded her.

Sir Cadwallader’s kind act of justice to the merits of Ensign Brown gave general satisfaction, and met with universal approbation; and he was welcomed to the mess of his regiment with the most unequivocal marks of friendship and esteem. His official avocations prevented his doing regimental duty, and his evenings were occupied in a participation in the pleasures of Sir Cadwallader’s hospitable mansion.

It might displease the reader if I were to doubt that he anticipates the result of this introduction of the ensign into the house of the general. He most probably guesses rightly; but as there _are_ circumstances which render the case somewhat dissimilar from most others, he must be told the particulars.

Ellen Adamthwaite, Sir Cadwallader’s daughter, was the beloved of his heart. Her mother had died young--a mother from whom Sir Cadwallader had received, besides the most endearing proofs of constancy and affection, the vast fortune which he possessed, and which enabled him to support _en prince_ the highest offices, to which his noble profession and his gallant conduct had led him. Upon Ellen--the dear, the gentle Ellen--the love, the devotion, which once was her mother’s due, devolved at her mother’s death: and although Ellen, who was everything father could desire, could not but feel conscious of her power over him, she was the least presuming of daughters, the most gentle, and most amiable of girls.

When Sir Cadwallader was offered the commandership-in-chief and second seat in council at the presidency to which he was attached, he accepted it, upon the chivalrous feeling of the greatest soldier, not only of the day, but of the land we live in--that he was the King’s servant, and equally bound to obey his commands in the highest and lowest of offices; and although possessed of wealth which rendered the appointment pecuniarily unimportant, he readily relinquished his domestic ease and comfort for the more _negatively_ active domination over an Oriental army.

While holding this appointment, his constant endeavour appeared to be, to make everybody happy around him. There was nothing in the state of the country which seemed to require any of the austerity of military discipline; and the routine duty, although comprehending an extensive range, was not that which required the vigilance and activity of war. He “took the thing easy” himself, and his greatest pleasure was to see everybody subordinate to himself do exactly the same. He never grumbled if he saw men in “mufti” or “white jackets;” desired every man to “make himself comfortable” when he came to dinner; and, in short, was about the best-natured being that ever melted under an Indian sun.

That he had taken a great fancy to Brown was clear. Major Mopes, whose death-like countenance never relaxed into a smile, but of whom Sir Cadwallader had the highest opinion, inasmuch as he saved His Excellency all the trouble, not only of writing but of thinking, had spoken very highly of George, and enlarged upon the meritorious course he had pursued in entering the army, as he had done, in order to relieve his mother, who _had been_ in such a different position in society, from all charge for his support. This recommendation led Sir Cadwallader to talk to him: he found him well-informed, well-read, intelligent, and, in fact, a gentleman. The prepossession thus created, and which went to the extent of procuring him the commission, extended further, and the only phrase--it is a simple one, and best suits the general’s feeling, is,--“he liked him.”

How often such prepossessions take hold of people, and how seldom are they erroneous!--how unaccountable are the sympathies by which such prepossessions are created! The moment Sir Cadwallader heard George’s story, and received the testimonials of his merit and ability, he resolved to serve him,--and, in fact, to restore him to his place in society as a gentleman, which he pronounced him to be to his daughter, while he was yet his secretary’s clerk, as he was sitting with her in the windward varhandah smoking his chilum.

Ellen Adamthwaite, who, of course, saw George almost every day, accidentally, or perhaps incidentally, could not help participating in the interest which her father took in his fate, especially as the history of his wife’s misconduct and death were matters of notoriety in the family, from Major Mopes’s frequent recurrence to the circumstance of their elopement from England,--and the commiserating “What a pity it is that nothing can be done to reclaim a person originally so respectable!” which was so often on his lips.

When George became by royal authority a gentleman, and Ellen found she might look at him, and even speak to him, without any indecorum, she certainly felt more than ever the hardship of his case while doing the duty which his filial affection had imposed upon him, even regretting, as he did himself, the cause which, no doubt, was truly assigned for his wife’s distressing dereliction from every religious, moral, and social duty.

Nothing more readily excites an interest in a woman’s heart than a bit of the romance of real life. George, selected by her kind-hearted father for favour and promotion, was brought into her society the son of a ruined merchant, who had received the education of a gentleman, and had been educated in the expectation of succeeding to his father’s wealth. He enters the army as a private soldier, to relieve his mother from the burthen of maintaining him, and he elopes with a girl who is desperately in love with him. In his past life, therefore, there appeared a combination of events, sufficiently romantic to awaken a particular feeling towards him; and it was not many days after his domestication at the general’s, before Ellen found her eyes resting upon his intelligent countenance much oftener than upon any other object in the room.

There was a manly modesty in George’s manner--a sort of consciousness of what he might have been, of what he had been, and yet, of what he _was_, which was peculiarly conciliating. Sir Cadwallader lost no opportunity of bringing him forward. It seemed, indeed, to be his study to make him appear to the best possible advantage in company, in order, as it might be thought, to justify the partiality he had evinced for him, and the good opinion he entertained of him.

In London the circle is so extensive, that although some hundred or two people whisper, and look wise, and nod and wink at each other when a flirtation becomes a little too evident, there are seven or eight hundred others to whom it is a matter of no interest; and, moreover, whatever people think, they keep their thoughts as far distant as possible from the flirters themselves. Within the confined ring-fence of an Indian presidency, the slightest movement of that nature at head-quarters creates a universal sensation; all the worst passions of mankind are concentered and pemmican’d in a little community of that sort; envy and jealousy assume the garb of friendship and esteem; and some miserable wretch, whose hatred towards one of the parties has been engendered or fostered by the remembrance of a slight or neglect, thinks it a duty he owes to so excellent a man as his Excellency the commander-in-chief, to mention to him what people say about his daughter and Mr. Somebody, whose society and conversation she happens to prefer to that of the considerate friend of her father.

Two months had not flown over George’s head in his new capacity before the whole tribe were in motion. “To be sure,” says one, “Sir Cadwallader is an extraordinary man:--he can’t but see it.” “Perhaps he does not object to it,” says another. “La!” cries a third: “what! let his daughter marry a man from the ranks!” “Hush!” says a fourth--“the less we say about _that_ the better: rose from the ranks himself.” “Flogged at Chatham for stealing a cock turkey,” says a fifth. “Hush!” says a sixth, “here comes his Excellency.” Out turns the guard--ruffle goes the drum--rattledum slap go the muskets--and his Excellency is immediately surrounded by the little group in the full exercise of Koo-too-ism, who, the moment before, were exercising their historical and biographical faculties in commenting upon the folly of his Excellency’s conduct, and in descanting upon the obscurity of his Excellency’s birth.

That Ellen and George were somehow more paired off together, than any other two of the party, is most certain. In her conversation with him she did not disguise her esteem and regard for his good qualities, which made themselves evident upon every possible occasion; while _he_, regarding her as a superior being, felt that sort of admiration which wise men say is not compatible with tenderness. The whole economy of love, however, is so intricate, so perplexing, so mysterious, and so perilous, that there exists no rule throughout the whole system without an exception.

George once or twice thought that Miss Adamthwaite looked more than she said; and though he had not sufficiently considered the matter even to assure himself that of all girls in the world she was the very last for whom he ought to encourage an affection, a word dropped by one of his friends on the staff, suddenly brought to his mind the real position in which he was placed. Then it was he taxed himself with selfishness in seeking her society; then it was he resolved to alienate himself from the delight which her conversation and accomplishments afforded him:--he would mix more generally in society; he would dine abroad whenever he could, and would go out immediately after his official business was over; he would not go to tiffin, nor walk for an hour or two with Ellen in the varhandah: in short, he would not endanger her peace or comfort by giving occasion for remarks, which although wholly without foundation, might wound her feelings or injure her reputation.

It was not till the moment he made these resolutions that the real state of his heart became known to himself. It was only _then_ he discovered that he could not act upon his own determination. When tiffin was announced the next day, Sir Cadwallader forced him to stay and partake of it--desired his daughter to lay _her_ commands upon him:--then, by his Excellency’s orders, they played chess together,--and then came in some visiters--George, of course, could not leave _them_:--and then--and then--in fact, the very first day after _that_ in which he had decided upon a total alteration in his proceedings, was passed precisely as the thirty or forty preceding days had been passed.

It is a generally admitted axiom, that “abstinence is less difficult than moderation;” and so it seems thought George: for failing in his project of philosophically decreasing his happiness gradually, he came to the resolution of abandoning it altogether.

The project George meditated to carry this “stern resolve” into execution, was one which did honour to his heart; but it required a confederate, and that very circumstance enhanced its difficulty. The moment he had ascertained the real state of his feelings, he more attentively--perhaps tenderly would be a better word--watched the dear girl to whom he was devoted. It was too true:--looks and actions which he had attributed to friendship, or even to a compliance with her father’s wishes, now that he had ventured to think of love, bore a totally different character. Whatever dress he had accidentally praised, Ellen more constantly wore; the flower he preferred was always in her bosom; the songs he loved to hear, she sang; and opinions which he had once expressed, she adopted for her own.

Oh! those who have never felt the tender, galling anxiety of a state like this, cannot appreciate George’s feelings during the week after he had made the discovery of his real position. What had he done?--gained the affections of his benefactor’s daughter! It was not vanity that suggested the truth: the word once spoken that gave _that_ turn to his thoughts, decided it. The fascination was over him--he was conscious that he was beloved. How he acted under this impression remains to be seen.