mults of a soul to whom his villainy was yet unknown, and whose affections his appearance of worth, of friendship, and nobleness of mind, had but too much entangled.

However imperfectly he had accounted for delaying a marriage, which he always professed his intention to perform, the delusion was kept up in the expectations of Harriet, till that period began to draw near, when it would be impossible any longer to conceal from the world the effects of their intimacy. Then, indeed, her uneasiness was not to be allayed by such excuses as Sindall had before relied on her artless confidence to believe. He wrote her, therefore, an answer to a letter full of the most earnest, as well as tender, expostulations, informing her, of his having determined to run any risk of inconvenience to himself, rather than suffer her to remain longer in a state, such as she had (pathetically indeed) described; that he was to set out in a few days for the country, to make himself indissolubly hers; but that it was absolutely necessary that she should allow him to conduct their marriage in a particular manner, which he would communicate to her on his arrival; and begged, as she valued his peace and her own, that the whole matter might still remain inviolably secret, as she had hitherto kept it.

In a few days after the receipt of this letter, she received a note from Camplin, importing his desire to have an interview with her on some particular business, which related equally to her and to Sir Thomas Sindall. The time appointed was early in the morning of the succeeding day; and the place, a little walk which the villagers used to frequent in holiday-times, at the back of her father's garden. This was delivered to her, in a secret manner, by a little boy, an attendant of that gentleman's, who was a frequent guest in Annesly's kitchen, from his talent at playing the flageolet, which he had acquired in the capacity of a drummer to the regiment to which his master belonged. Mysterious as the contents of this note were, the mind of Harriet easily suggested to her, that Camplin had been, in some respect at least, let into the confidence of Sir Thomas. She now felt the want of that dignity which innocence bestows; she blushed and trembled, even in the presence of this little boy, because he was Camplin's; and, with a shaking hand, scrawled a note in answer to that he had brought her, to let his master know, that she would meet him at the hour he had appointed.-She met him accordingly.

He began with making many protestations of his regard, both for Miss Annesly and the Baronet, which had induced him, he said, to dedicate himself to the service of both in this affair, though it was a matter of such delicacy as he would not otherwise have chosen to interfere in; and putting into her hand a letter

from Sindall, told her, he had taken measures for carrying into execution the purpose it contained.

It informed her, that Sir Thomas was in the house of an old domestic at some miles distance, where he waited to be made her's. That he had for this secrecy many reasons, with which he could not, by such a conveyance, make her acquainted, but which her own prudence would probably suggest. He concluded with recommending her to the care and protection of Camplin, whose honour he warmly extolled.

She paused a moment on the perusal of this billet. “Oh! heavens!" said she, “to what have I reduced myself!—Mr Camplin, what am I to do? Whither are you to carry me? Pardon my confusion-I scarce know what I say to you."

"

""

"I have a chaise and four ready," answered Camplin, " at the end of the lane, which in an hour or two, Madam, will convey you to Sir Thomas Sindall."-" But my father, good heaven! to leave my father!"" Consider," said he, " 'tis but for a little while: my boy shall carry a note to acquaint him, that you are gone on a visit, and will return in the evening.' "Return! Methinks I feel a foreboding, that I shall never return."-He put a piece of paper and a pencil into her hand; the note was written, and dispatched by the boy, to whom he beckoned at some distance where he had waited." Now, Madam," said he, "let me conduct you."- -Her knees knocked so against each other, that it was with difficulty she could walk, even with the support of his arm. They reached the chaise; a servant who stood by it, opened the door to admit her; she put her foot on the step, then drew it back again. "Be not afraid, Madam," said Camplin, "you go to be happy." She put her foot up again, and stood in that attitude a moment; she cast back a look to the little mansion of her father, whence the smoke was now rolling its volumes in the calm of a beautiful morning. A gush of tenderness swelled her heart at the sight-She burst into tears-But the crisis of her fate was come-and she entered the carriage, which drove off at a furious rate, Camplin commanding the postillion to make as much speed as was possible.

CHAP. XXVIII.

The effects which the Event contained in the pre

ceding Chapter had on Mr Annesiy.

THE receipt of that note which Harriet was persuaded by Camplin to write to her father, (intimating that she was gone upon a visit to a family in the neighbourhood, and not to return till the evening,) though her time of going abroad was somewhat unusual, did not create any surprise in the mind of Aunesly; but it

happened that Mrs Wistanly, who called in the afternoon to inquire after her young friend, had just left the very house where her message imported her visit to be made. This set her father on conjecturing, yet without much anxiety, and with no suspicion; but his fears were redoubled, when, having sat up till a very late hour, no tidings arrived of his daughter. He went to bed, however, though it could not afford him sleep; at every bark of the villagedogs his heart bounded with the hopes of her return; but the morning arose, and did not restore him his Harriet.

His uneasiness had been observed by his ser vants, to whom he was too indulgent a master to have his interests considered by them with less warmth than their own. Abraham, therefore, who was coeval with his master, and had served him ever since he was married, had sallied forth by day-break in search of intelligence. He was met accidentally by a huntsman of Sir Thomas Sindall's, who informed him, that as he crossed the lane at the back of the village the morning before, he saw Miss Annesly leaning on Captain Camplin's arm, and walking with him towards a chaise and four, which stood at the end of it. Abraham's cheeks grew pale at this intelligence; because he had a sort of instinctive terror for Camplin, who was in use to make his awkward simplicity a fund for many jests and tricks of mischief, during his visits to Annesly. He hastened home to communicate this discovery to his master, which he did with a faultering tongue, and many ejaculations of fear and surprise. Annesly received it with less emotion, though not without an increase of uneasiness. "Yonder," said Abraham, looking through the window, "is the captain's little boy ;" and he ran out of the room to bring him to an examination. The lad, upon being interrogated, confessed, that his master had sent him to hire a chaise, which was to be in waiting at the end of that lane I have formerly mentioned, at an early hour in the morning, and that he saw Miss Annesly go into it, attended by the captain, who had not, any more than Miss Harriet, been at home, or heard of since that time. This declaration deprived Annesly of utterance; but it only added to the warmth of Abraham's inquisition, who, now mingling threats with his questions, drew from the boy the secret of his having privately delivered a letter, from his master to Miss Annesly, the very night preceding the day of their departure; and that a man of his acquaintance, who had stopt, about mid-day, at the ale-house where he was quartered, told him, by way of conversation, that he had met his master with a lady, whom he supposed, jeeringly, he was running away with, driving at a great rate on the road towards London. Abraham made a sign to the boy to leave the room." My poor dear young lady!" said he, as he shut the door,

and the tears gushed from his eyes. His master's were turned upwards, to that Being to whom calamity ever directed them.-The maidservant now entered the room, uttering some broken exclamations of sorrow, which a violent sobbing rendered inarticulate.-Annesly had finished his account with heaven; and, addressing her with a degree of calmness, which the good man could derive only thence, asked her the cause of her being afflicted in so unusual a manner. Oh, sir!" said she, stifling her tears, "I have heard what the captain's boy has been telling; I fear it is but too true, and worse than you imagine! God forgive me, if I wrong Miss Harriet; but I suspect-I have suspected for some time"-she burst into tears again,— "that my young lady is with child.”—Annesly had stretched his fortitude to the utmost— this last blow overcame it, and he fell senseless on the floor. Abraham threw himself down by him, tearing his white locks, and acting all the frantic extravagancies of grief. But the maid was more useful to her master; and having raised him gently, and chafed his temples, he began to shew some signs of reviving; when Abraham recollected himself so far as to assist his fellow-servant in carrying him to his chamber, and laying him on his bed, where he recovered the powers of life, and the sense of his misfortune.

Their endeavours for his recovery were seconded by Mrs Wistanly, who had made this early visit to satisfy some doubts which she, as well as Annesly, had conceived, even from the information of the preceding day. When he first regained the use of speech, he complained of a violent shivering, for which this good lady, from the little skill she possessed in physic, prescribed some simple remedies, and at the same time dispatched Abraham for an apothecary in the neighbourhood, who commonly attended the family.

Before this gentleman arrived, Annesly had received so much temporary relief from Mrs Wistanly's prescriptions, as to be able to speak with more ease, than the incessant quivering of his lips had before allowed him to do. “Alas!” said he, "Mrs Wistanly, have you heard of my Harriet?"-" I have, sir," said she, “with equal astonishment and sorrow; yet let me entreat you not to abandon that hope which the present uncertainty may warrant. I cannot allow myself to think, that things are so ill as your servants have informed me."—" My foreboding heart," said he, " tells me they are. I remember many circumstances now, which all meet to confirm my fears. Oh! Mrs Wistanly, she was my darling, the idol of my heart! perhaps too much so the will of heaven be done!"

The apothecary now arrived, who, upon examining into the state of his patient, ordered some warm applications, to remove that uni

versal coldness he complained of; and left him with a promise of returning in a few hours, when he had finished some visits, which he was under a necessity of making in the village.

When he returned, he found Mr Annesly altered for the worse; the cold, which the latter felt before, having given place to a burning heat. He therefore told Mrs Wistanly, at going away, that in the evening he would bring a physician, with whom he had an appointment at a gentleman's not very distant, to see Mr Annesly, as his situation appeared to him to be at tended with some alarming circumstances.

His fears of danger were justified by the event. When these gentlemen saw Mr Annesly in the evening, his fever was increased. Next day, after a restless night, they found every bad symptom confirmed; they tried every method which medical skill could suggest for his relief, but, during four successive days, their endea vours proved ineffectual; and at the expiration of that time, they told his friend, Mrs Wistanly, who had enjoyed almost as little sleep as the sick man whom she watched, that unless some favourable crisis should happen soon, the worst consequences were much to be feared.

CHAP. XXVIII.

The arrival of Mr Rawlinson. Annesly's discourse with him. That Gentleman's account of his Friend's illness, and its consequences.

AT this melancholy period it happened that Mr Rawlinson arrived, in pursuance of that promise which Annesly had obtained from him, at the time of his departure for London.

There needed not that warmth of heart we have formerly described in this gentleman, to feel the accumulated distress to which his worthy friend was reduced. Nor was his astonishment at the account which he received of Harriet's elopement less, than his pity for the sufferings it had brought upon her father.

From the present situation of Annesly's family, he did not choose to incommode them with any trouble of provision for him. He took up his quarters, therefore, at the only inn, a paltry one indeed, which the village afforded, and resolved to remain there till he saw what issue his friend's present illness should have, and endeavour to administer some comfort, either to the last moments of his life, or to that affliction which his recovery could not remove. In the evening of the day on which he arrived, Annesly seemed to feel a sort of relief from the violence of his disease. He spoke with a degree of coolness which he had never before been able to command; and after having talked some little time with his physician, he told Abraham, who seldom quitted his bed-side, that he thought he had seen Mr Rawlinson en

ter the room in the morning, though he was in a confused slumber at the time, and might have mistaken a dream for the reality. Upon Abraham's informing him, that Mr Rawlinson had been there, that he had left the house but a moment before, and that he was to remain in the village for some time, he expressed the warmest satisfaction at the intelligence; and having made Abraham fetch him a paper which lay in his bureau sealed up in a particular manner, he dispatched him to the inn where his friend was with a message, importing an earnest desire to see him as soon as should be convenient.

Rawlinson had already returned to the house, and was by this time stealing up stairs, to watch the bed-side of his friend, for which task Mrs Wistanly's former unceasing solicitude had now rendered her unfit. He was met by Abraham with a gleam of joy on his countenance, from the happy change which he thought he observed in his master; and was conducted to the side of the bed by that faithful domestic, who placed him in a chair, which the doctor had just occupied by his patient.

Annesly stretched out his hands, and squeezed that of Rawlinson between them for some time without speaking a word. "I bless God," said he at last," that he has sent me a comforter, at a moment when I so much need one. must by this time have heard, my friend, of that latest and greatest of my family misfortunes, with which Providence has afflicted me.'

You

"

"You know, my dear sir," answered Rawlinson, "that no one would more sincerely feel for your sorrows than I; but at present it is a subject too tender for you.""Do not say so," replied his friend; "it will ease my labouring heart to speak of it to my Rawlinson; but, in the first place, I have a little business, which I will now dispatch. Here is a deed, making over all my effects to you, sir; and at your death, to any one you shall name your executor in that trust for my children-if I have any children remaining!-Into your hands I deliver it with a peculiar satisfaction, and I know there will not need the desire of a dying friend to add to your zeal for their service.Why should that word startle you? death is to me a messenger of consolation!" He paused.— Rawlinson put up the paper in silence; for his heart was too full to allow him the use of words for an answer.

"When I lost my son," continued Annesly, "I suffered in silence; and though it preyed on me in secret, I bore up against the weight of my sorrow, that I might not weaken in myself that stay which Heaven had provided for my Harriet. She was then my only remaining comfort, saved like some precious treasure from the shipwreck of my family; and I fondly hoped, that my age might go down smoothly to its rest, amidst the endearments of a father's care.

But Sir Thomas never entertained the most distant thought of that marriage, with the hopes of which he had deluded her. Yet, though he was not subject to the internal principles of honour or morality, he was man of the world enough to know their value in the estimation of others. The virtues of Annesly had so much en deared him to every one within their reach, that this outrage of Sindall's against him, under the disguise of sacred friendship and regard, would have given the interest and character of Sir Thomas such a blow, as he could not easily have recovered, nor conveniently borne. It is not therefore to be wondered at, that he wished for some expedient to conceal it from the eyes of the public.

For this purpose he had formed a scheme, which all the knowledge he had of the delicacy of Harriet's affection for him, did not prevent his thinking practicable, (for the female who once falls from innocence, is held to be sunk into perpetual debasement;) and that was, to provide a husband for her in the person of another. And for that husband he pitched on Camplin, with whose character he was too well acquainted, to doubt the bringing him over to any baseness which danger did not attend, and a liberal reward was to follow. Camplin, who at this time was in great want of money, and had always an appetite for those pleasures which money alone can purchase, agreed to his proposals; they settled the dowry of his future wife, and the scheme which he undertook to procure her. Part of its execution I have already related; I proceed to relate the rest.

When they had been driven with all the fury which Camplin had enjoined the postillions, for about eight or nine miles, they stopt at an inn, where they changed horses. Harriet expressed her surprise at their not having already reached the place where Sir Thomas waited them; on which Camplin told her, that it was not a great way off, but that the roads were very bad, and that he observed the horses to be exceedingly jaded.

After having proceeded some miles farther, on a road still more wild and less frequented, she repeated her wonder at the length of the way; on which Camplin, entreating her pardon for being concerned in any how deceiving her, confessed that Sir Thomas was at a place much farther from her father's than he had made her believe; which deceit he had begged of him (Camplin) to practise, that she might not be alarmed at the distance, which was necessary, he said, for that plan of secrecy Sir Thomas had formed for his marriage. Her fears were sufficiently roused at this intelligence, but it was now too late to retreat, however terrible it might be to go on.

Some time after, they stopt to breakfast, and changed horses again, Camplin informing her that it was the last time they should have occa

sion to do so. Accordingly, in little more than an hour, during which the speed of their progress was nowise abated, they halted at the door of a house, which Harriet, upon coming out of the chaise, immediately recollected to be that fatal one to which Sindall had before conveyed her. She felt, on entering it, a degree of horror, which the remembrance of that guilty night she had before passed under its roof, could not fail to suggest; and it was with difficulty she dragged her trembling steps to a room above stairs, whither the landlady, with a profusion of civility, conducted her.

"Where is Sir Thomas Sindall?" said she, looking about with terror on the well-remembered objects around her. Camplin, shutting the door of the chamber, told her, with a look of the utmost tenderness and respect, that Sir Thomas was not then in the house, but had desired him to deliver her a letter, which he now put into her hands for her perusal. It contained what follows:

"It is with inexpressible anguish I inform my ever-dearest Harriet, of my inability to perform engagements, of which I acknowledge the solemnity, and which necessity alone has power to cancel. The cruelty of my grandfather is deaf to all the remonstrances of my love; and having accidentally discovered my attachment for you, he insists upon my immediately setting out on my travels, a command, which, in my present situation, I find myself obliged to comply with. I feel, with the most poignant sorrow and remorse, for that condition to which our ill-fated love has reduced the loveliest of her sex. I would therefore endeavour, if possible, to conceal the shame which the world arbitrarily affixes to it. With this view I have laid aside all selfish considerations so much, as to yield to the suit of Mr Camplin that hand, which I had once the happiness of expecting for myself. This step the exigency of your present circumstances renders highly eligible, if your affections can bend themselves to a man, of whose honour and good qualities I have had the strongest proofs, and who has generosity enough to impute no crime to that ardency of the noblest passion of the mind, which has subjected you to the obloquy of the undiscerning multitude. As Mrs Camplin, you will possess the love and affection of that worthiest of my friends, together with the warmest esteem and regard of your unfortunate, but ever devoted, humble servant,

THOMAS SINDALL."

Camplin was about to offer his commentary upon this letter; but Harriet, whose spirits had just supported her to the end of it, lay now lifeless at his feet. After several successive faintings, from which Camplin, the landlady, and other assistants, with difficulty recovered her, a shower of tears came at last to her relief, and