an examination. The lad, upon being interrogated,…

an examination. The lad, upon being interrogated, confessed {hat 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 hfa

y Google

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 155

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 t 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 maid-servant 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 extravagances

y Google

15(§ ?HE MAW OF THE WORLD.

of grief. But the maid was more useful to her master; and hating raised him gently, and chafed his temples, he began to show 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 t6 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 f said he, c Mrs Wistanly, have you heard of my Harriet ?'—' I have, Sir,' said she, * with equal astonishment and sorrow; yet let me intreat 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 mo they are; I remember many circumstances now, which all |nee^

y Google

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 f—

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

Vol.IL p

y Google

158 THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

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 tliis 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 chuse to incommode them with any trouble of provision for him. He took up his quarters, therefore, at the only inn, a pal* try 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 beep able to command; 'and after having

y Google

THE MAK OF THE WOR^D. 159

talked some little time with his physician, he told Abraham, who seldom quitted his bedside, that he thought he had seen Mr Rawlinson enter 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 at 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 that 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 heed one. YoU 02

y Google

160 THE MAHOV THE WOULD. '

must by this time have heard, my friend, of that latest and greatest of my family-misfortunes, with which Povidence has afflicted me/ ' 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/ re

Elied his friend; * it will ease my labouring eart to speak of it to my Rawlinson; but in the first place 1 have a little business which I will now dispatch. Here is a deed, making qver 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 i—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 f 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 J fondly hoped that ray age might go down smoothly to its rest, amidst the endearments of a fathers y Google

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 161

care.—I have now lived to see the last restingplace which my soul could find in this world, laid waste and desolate!—yet to that Being, whose goodness is infinite as his ways are inscrutable, let me bend in reverence! I bless his name that he has not yet taken from me that trust in him, which to lose is the only irremediable calamity. It is now indeed that I feel its efficacy most, when every ray of human comfort is extinguished. . As for me—my deliverance is at hand; I feel something here at xny heart that tells me 1 shall not have long to strive with insufferable affliction. My poor deluded daughter—-—I commit to thee, Father . of all! by whom the wanderings of thy unhappy children are seen with pity, and to whom their return cannot be too late to be accepted ! if my friend should live to see her look back with contrition towards that path from which she has strayed, I know his goodness will lead her steps to find it.—Show her her father's grave; yet spare her for his sake, who oannot then; comfort or- support her/

The rest of this narration I will give the - reader in Mr Rawlinson's own words, from a letter of his I have now lying before me, of which I will transcribe the latter part, beginning its recital at the close of this pathetic address of his friend.

As I had been to^d (says this gentleman)

that he had not enjoyed one sound sleep since his daughter went away, I left him now to

compose himself to rest, desiring his servant to

OS

3yGoogIe

163 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. .

call me instantly if he observed any thing particular about his roaster.

He whispered rae, 4 that when he sat up with him in the night be*

fore, he could overhear him at times talk wildly, and mutter to himself like one speaking in one's sleep; that then he would start, sigh deeply, and seem again to recollect himself.' I went back to his master's bedside, and begged hint to endeavour to calm his mind so much as not to prevent that repose which he stood so greatly in need of. * I have prevailed on my physician/ answered he, * to give me an opiate for that purpose, and I think I now feel drowsy from i£s effects.' 1 wished him good night— ' Good night,' said he,—' but give me your hand j it is perhaps the last time I shall ever clasp it!' He lifted up his eyes to heaven, folding my hand in his, then turned away his face, and laid his head upon his pillow,—I could not lay mine to rest* „ Alas! said I, that such should be the portion of virtue like Annesly's; ye$ to arraign the distribution of Providence, had been to forget that lesson which the best of men had just been teaching me ;— but the doubtings, the darkness of feeble man, still hung about my heart.

When I sent in the morning, t was told that he was still asleep, but that &s rest was ob» served to be frequently disturbed by groans and starlings, and that be breathed much thicker than he had ever hitherto done. I went myself to get more perfect intelligence; his faithful Abraham met me at the door.~

y Google

THE MAN OF THE WORU># 163

* Oh! Sir/ said he, ' my poor master f—*

* What is the matter?*—* I fear, Sir, he is not in his perfect senses; for he talks more wildly than ever, and yet he is broad awake.'—He led me into the room; I placed myself directly before him; but his eye though it was fixed on mine,- did not seem to acknowledge his object. There was a glazing on it that deadened its look.

He muttered something in a very low voice.

* How does my friend ?\ said L—He suffered me to take his hand, but answered nothing.—> After listening some time, I could here the name of Harriet. ' Do you want any thing, my dear Sir ?' He moved his lips but I heard not what he said.—I repeated my question; he looked up piteously in my/ace, then turned his eye round as if he missed some object on which it meant to rest.—-He shivered, and caught hold of Abraham's hand, who stood at the side of the bed opposite me. He looked round again, then uttered with a feeble and broken voice, « Where is my Harriet? lay your hand on my head—

this hand is not my Harriet's— she is dead, I know:—you will not speak—my poor child is dead I yet I dreamed she was alive, and had left me; left me to die alone I— I have seen her weep at the death of a linnet! poor soul! she was not made for thi& world— we shall meet in heaven!—Bless her I bless her! there! may you be as virtuous as your mother, and more fortunate than your father has been!—My head is strangely convulsed !—

y Google

but, tell me, when did she die ? you should have waked me that I might have prayed by her.—Sweet innocence she had no crimes to confess!—I can speak hut ill, for my tongue sticks to my mouth.—Yet

—oh !—Most Merciful, strengthen and support'—He shivered again

—* into thy hands!'—;—He groaned and died.

Sindall! and ye who like Sindall—but I cannot speak! speak for me their consciences!

CHAP. XXIX.

WHAT BEFEI, HARRIET ANNESLY ON HER LE-AVING HER

FATHER.

X am not in a disposition to stop in the midst of this part of my recital, solicitous to embeU lish, or studious to arrange it. My readers shall receive it simple, as becomes a tale of sorrow, and'I flatter myself, they are at this moment readier to feel than to judge it.

They have seen Harriet Annesly, by the ar* tifice of Sindall, and the agency of Camplin, tempted to leave the house of her father, in hopes of meeting the man who had betrayed her, and of receiving that only reparation for her injuries which it was now in his power to make.

But Sir Thomas never entertained the most distant thought of that marriage,' with the

y Google

Lopes of which he had deluded her. Yet, though he was not subject to the internal principles of honour or morality, he was man of (he world enough to know their value in the estimation of others. The virtues of Annesly bad so much endeared him to every one within their reach, that this outrage of SindalFs against turn, 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 fells 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 Complin, 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*

y Google

166 THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

When they had been driven with all the fury which Camplin had enjoined the postilions, for about eight or nine miles, they stopt at an irm, 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 roada 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 occasion 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

y Google

THJB MAN OF THB WORLD. 167

that fatal one to which Sindalt had before con* veyed 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 Veil-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 hand 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 tp it. With this view, I have y Google

168 tHE If AN 07 TRB WORLD.

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, pf 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 ypur unfortunate, but ever devoted, humble servant,

'Thoma? S«toal£* 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 tier, a shower of tears came at last to her relief, and she became able to articulate some short exclamations of horror and despair! Camplin threw himself on his knees before her.

He protested the roost sincere and disinterested paseipn ; and that, if sh£ would bless him with the possession of so many amiable qualities as she possessed, the uniform endeavour of his life Should be to promote her happiness.--' I think not of thee/ she exclaimed;

'Oh! Sindall!

y Google

THE KAK OF THB WORLD. 169

perfidious, cruel, deliberate villain f Complin again interrupted her, with protestations of hi* own affection and regard. 4 Away !' said she,

* add let me hear no more! Or, if thou wouldst show thy friendship, carry me to that father from whom thou stalest me.—You will not—

but if I can live so lbng, I will crawl to his feet, and expire before him.'

She was running towards the door; Camplin gently stopped her. * My dearest Miss An* nesly,' said he, ' recollect yourself but a moment ; let me conjure you to think of your own welfare, and of that father's whom you so justly love. For these alone could Sir Thomas Sindall have thought of the expedient which he proposes. Jf you will now become the wife of your adoring Camplin, the time of the celebra?

lion of our marriage need not be told to the* world: under the sanction of that holy tie, . every circumstance of detraction will be overlooked, and that life may be made long and happy, which your

unthinking rashness would put off from yourself and your father.'—

Harriet had listened little to this speech; but the swelling of her anger had subsided; she shrew herself into a chair; and burst again into tears. Camplin drew nearer, and pressed her hand in his: she drew it hastily from him: 'If yoq have any pity,' she cried, * I entreat you for Heaven's sake to leave me.' He bowed respectfully and retired, desiring the landlady to attend Miss Annesly, and endeavour to afford her some assistance and consolation. You II. P

y Google

170 ' THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

She bad, indeed, more occasion for her assistance then he was then aware of; the violent agitation of her spirits having had such an effect on her, that, though she wanted a month of her time, she was suddenly- seized with the pains of child birth; and they were but just able to procure a woman who acted as a midwife in the neighbourhood, when she was delivered of a girl. Distracted as her soul was, this new object drew forth its instinctive tenderness; she mingled tears with her # kisses on its cheeks, and forgot the shame attending its birth, in the natural meltings of a mother.

For about a week after her delivery she re* covered tolerably well, and indeed those about her spared no pains or attention to contribute towards her recovery; but, at the end of that period, an accident threw her into the most dangerous situation. She was lying in a slumber, with a nurse watching her* when a servant of Sir Thomas Sindall's, whom his master had employed very actively in the progress of his designs on Miss Annesly, entered the room with a look of the utmost consternation and horror; the nurse beckoned to him to make no noise, signifying, by her gestures, that the lady was asleep; but the opening of the door had already awakened her, and she lay listening, when he told the cause of his emotion. It was the intelligence which he had just accidentally received of Mr Annesly's death. The effect of this shock on his unfortunate daughter may be easily imagined; every fatal symptom, which

y Google

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 171

sudden terror or surprise causes in women at such a season of weakness, was the consequence, and next morning a delirium succeeded them.

She was not, however; without intervals of reason ; though these were but intervals of anguish much more exquisite. Yet she would sometimes express a sort of. calmness and submission to the will of Heaven, though it was always attended with the hopes of a speedy relief from the calamities of her existence.

In one of these hours, of recollection, she was asked by her attendants, whose pity was ,now moved at her condition, if she chose to have any friend sent for, who might tend to alleviate her distress; upon which she had command enough of herself to dictate a letter to Mrs Wistanly, reciting briefly the miseries she had endured, and asking with great diffidence, however, of obtaining, if she could pardon her offences so far, as to come and receive the parting breath of her once innocent and much-loved Harriet. This letter was accordingly dispatched; and she seemed to feel a relief from having accomplished it; but her reason had held out beyond its usual limits of exertion ; and immediately after she relapsed into her former unconnectedness.

Soon after the birth of her daughter, Camplin, according to his instructions, had proposed sending it away, under the charge of a nurse whom the landlady had procured, to a small hamlet, where she resided, at a little distance, P2

y Google

1*72 THE MAN Ot THE WORLD.

But this the mother opposed with such earnest* ness, that the purpose had been delayed till now, when it was given up io the care

of this woman, accompanied with a considerable sum of money to provide every necessary for its use; in the most ample and sumptuous manner. . When Mrs Wistantly received tfte letter we have mentioned above, she was not long in; doubt as to complying with its request. Her heart bled for the distresses of that once ami*

able friend, whom virtue might now blame, hat goodness could not forsake. She set out therefore immediately in a chaise, which Camplin had provided for her, and reached the house, to which it conveyed her on the morning of the following day, her impatience not suffering her to consider either the danger or inconvenience of travelling all night.—From her recital, I took down the account contained in the following chapter.

CHAP. XXX.

3*ilS WISTANLY*S RECITAL.— NC LUSION OF THE FIRST PART.

When I entered the house, and had got upon the stairs leading to the room in which Harriet lay, I heard a voice enchantingly sweet, but low, and sometimes broken, singing snatches of songs, varying from the sad to the gay, and

y Google^

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 173

from the gay to the sad: ft was she herself, sitting up in her bed, fingering her pillow as if it had been a harpsichord. It is not easy to con* ceive the horror I felt on seeing her in such a situation ! She seemed unconscious of my approach, though her eye was turned towards me as I entered; only that she stopt in the midst of a quick and lively movement she Had begun, and looking wistfully upon me, breathed such a note of sorrow, and dwelt on it with a cadence so mournful, that my heart lost all the firmness I had resolved to preserve, and I flung my arms round her neck, which I washed with my bursting tears!—The traces which her brain could now only recollect, were such as did not admit of any object long; I had passed over it in the moment of my entrance, and it how wandered

from the idea; she paid no regard to my caresses, but pushed me gently from her, gazing stedfastly in an opposite direction towards the door of the apartment. A servant entered with some medicine he had been sent to procure; she put it by when I offered it to her, and kept looking earnestly upon him ; she ceased her singing too, and seemed to articulate certain imperfect sounds. For some time I could not make them out into words, but at last she spoke more distinctly, and with a firmer

tone

' You saved my life once, Sir, and I could then thank you, because I wished to preserve it;—but now—no matter, he is happier than I would have him.~~I would have nursed the poor Digitized by G

I'M «*E MAS 0* THB WOBXIV

old man till he had seen some better days! bless his white beard!—

look there! I have heard how they grow in the grave 1—-poor old man!' ■■■ ■■

You weep, my dear Sir; but had you heard her speak these words! I can but coldly repeal them ^

All that day she continued in a state of de* lirium and insensibility to every object around her; towards evening she seemed exhausted with fatigue, and the tossing of her hands, which her frenzy had caused, grew languid, as of one breathless and worn out; about mid*

night she dropt asleep.

I sat with her during the night, and when she waked in the morning, she gave signs of having recovered her senses, by recollecting me, and calling me by my name. At first, in* deed, her questions were irregular and wild $ but in a short time she grew so distinct, as to ^

thank me for having complied with the request * of her letter t * Tis

an office of unmerited kind* ness, which,' said she, (and I could observe bet let fall a tear), ' wiH be the last your unwea* ried friendship for me will have to bestow.' I answered, that I hoped not. *

Ah! Mrs Wis* tanly,' she replied, * can you hope so? you ore not my friend if you do.' I wished to avoid a subject which her mind was little able to bear, and^ therefore made no other return than by kissing her hand, which she had streteaed out to me as she spoke. At that moment we heard 4o»e unusual stir

y Google

THE MAN 07 THE WORLD. 175

below stairs, and, as the door was thin and ill laid, the word child was very distinctly audible from every tongue. Upon .this she started up in her bed, and with a look piteous and wild beyond description, exclaimed,' Oh! my God i what of my child ?'—She had scarcely uttered the words, when the landlady entered the room, And showed sufficiently by her countenance that she had some dreadful tale to tell. By signs I begged her to be silent.—* What is become of my infant ?' cried Harriet,—* No ill, Madam, (answered the woman, faultering), is come to it, I hope.'-*-* Speak/ said she, ' I charge you for I will know the worst: speak, OS you would give peace to my departing soulf springing out of bed, and grasping the woman's hands with all her force.-.*—It was not easy to resist so solemn a charge, * Alas V said the landlady, ' I fear ehe is drowned; for the nurse's .cloak and the child's wrapper have been found in some ooze which the river had carried down below the ford.*—She let go the woman's hands, and wringing her own together, threw up her eyes to heaven, till their sight was lost in the sockets,—We were supporting her, each of us holding one of her arms* —♦She fell on her knees between us, and dropping her hands for a moment, then raising them again, uttered with a voice, that sounded hollow, as if sunk within her:

« Power Omnipotent! who wilt not lay on thy creatures calamity beyond their strength to bear! if thou hast not yet punished me enough.

y Google

176 TtfE MAN OF THE WORLD.

continue to pour out the phials of thy wrath upon me, and enable me to support what thou infl:ctest! But if my faults are expiated, suffer me to rest in peace, and graciously blot out the offences which thy judgments have punished here!—She continued in1 the same posture for a few moments; then, leaning on us as if she meant to rise, bent her head forward, and, drawing her breath strongly, expired in our arms.

Such was the conclusion of Mrs Wistanly's tale of woe!

Spirits of gentleness and peace! who look with such pity as angels feel, on the distresses of mortality ! often have ye seen me labouring under the afflictions which Providence had laid upon me. Ye have seen me in a strange land, without friend, and without comforter, poor, sick, and naked; ye have seen me shivering over the last faggot which my last fkrthing had purchased, moistening the crust that supported nature with the tears which her miseries shed on it!

yet have ye seen me look Inward* with a smilo, and overcome them.

—If such shall ever be my lot again, so let me alleviate its sorrows; let me creep to my bed of straw in peace, after Messing God that I am not a Man of the World,

EN0 OP PART FIRST.

y Google

Man of the World.

IN TWO PARTSi

VXrgMhu Pueritjae 'Cantab—-Hor.

p^flr in

Digitized by CjOOQlC

Digitized by CjOOQLC

I was bom to a life of wandering, yet my heart was ever at home!

though the country that gave me birth gave me but few friends, and of those few the greatest part were early lost, yet the remembrance of her was present with me in every clime to which my fate conducted me; and the idea of those, whose ashes reposed in that humble spot, where they had often been the companions of my infant sports, hallowed it in my imagination, with a sort of sacred enthusiasm.

I had not been many weeks an inhabitant of my native village, after that visit to the lady mentioned in the first part, which procured me the information I have there laid before my readers, till 1 found myself once more obliged to quit it for a foreign country. My parting with Mrs Wistanly was more solemn and affecting than common souls will easily imagine it could have been, upon an acquaintance, accidental in its beginning, and short in its duration ; but there was something tender and melancholy in the cause of it, which gave an impression to our thoughts of one another, more sympathetic, perhaps, than what a series of ( mutual obligations could have effected.

Before we parted, I could not help asking the reason of her {secrecy with regard to the

y Google

180 INTRODUCTION.

Story of A nnesly and his daughter. In answer to this, she informed me, that besides the danger to which she exposed herself by setting up in opposition to a man, in the midst or whose dependants she proposed ending her days, she was doubtful if her story would be of any service to the memory of her friend; that Camplin (as she supposed, by the direction of Sir Thomas Sindall, who wd$ ait that time abroad) had universally given out, that Miss Aimesly's elopement was with an intention to be married to him; on which

footing, though a false one, the character of that yoiing lady stood no worse than if the truth were divulged to those, most of whom wanted discernment, as well as candour, to make the distinctions which should enable them to do it justice.

Several years elapsed before I returned to that place, whence, it i$

probable, I shall mU j^rate no more. My friend Mrs Wistanly was one of the persons after whom I first inquired on my arrival. I found her subject to the common debility, but not to any of the acuter distresses Of age; with the same powers of reason, and the same complacency of temper, I had Seen her before enjoy. * These,' said she, * are the effects of temperapce without austerity, and ease without indolence; I have nothing now to do, but to live without the solicitude of life, atid to die without the fear of dying.'

At one of our first interviews, I found her accompanied by a young lady, who, besides * great share of what is universally allowed the y Google

INTRODUCTION. 181

name of beauty, bad something in her appearance lyhicty calls fprth tfye esteem of its beibolders, without their pausing to account for it. It has sometimes deceived me, yet I am resolved to trust it to the last hour of my life; at that time I gave it unlimited confidence, and I had spoken the young lady's euiogium before J had looked five minutes in her face.

Mrs Wistanly repeated it to me after she was gone. ' That is one of my children,' said she,

* fpr I adopt the children of virtue; and she calls me her mother, because I am old, and she can cherish me.'—* I could have sworn to her goodness,' I replied, * without any information besides what her countenance afforded me.?— 4 "Fis a lovely one,' said she, 'and her mind is not flattered in its portrait. Though she is a member of a

family with whom I have not much intercourse, yet she is a frequent visitor at my

little dwelling; her name is SindahY ' Sin dall f I exclaimed. * Yes,' said Mrs Wistanly,

* but she is not therefore the less amiable. Sir Thomas returned from abroad soon after you left this place ; but for several years he did not reside here, having made a purchase of another estate in a neighbouring county, qnd busied himself, during that time, in superintending the improvement of it. When he returned hither, Jie brought this young lady, then a child, along with him, who, it seems, was left to his care by her father, a friend of Sir Thomas's, who died abroad; and she has lived with his aunt, who. keeps house for him ever since that period.'

YouU. Q

y Google

182 INTRODUCTION,

The mention of Sir Thomas Sindall naturally recalled to my mind the fate of the worthy, but unfortunate Annesly. Mrs Wistanly told me, she had often been anxious in her inquiries about his son William, the only remaining branch of her friend's family; but that neither she, nor Mr Rawlinson, with whom she had corresponded on the subject, had been able to procure any accounts of him; whence they concluded, that he had died in the plantations to which he was transported in pursuance of his mitigated sentence.

She farther informed me, * that Sindall had shown some marks of contrition at the tragical issue of the scheme he had carried on against the daughter's innocence and the father's peace; and to make some small atonement to the dead for the injuries he had done to the living, had caused a monument to be erected over their graves in the village church-yard, with an inscription, setting forth the piety

of Annesly, and'the virtues and beauty of Harriet. But whatever he might have felt at the time/ continued she, ' 1 fear the impression was not lasting.'

From the following chapters, containing some farther particulars of that gentleman's life, which my residence in his neighbourhood, and my acquaintance with some of the persons immediately concerned in them, gave me an opportunity of learning, my readers will judge if Mrs Wistanly's conclusion was a just one.

y Google

THE

MAN OF THE WORLD.

PART II.

CHAP. I.

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PERSONS OF WHOM SIR THOMAS

SINDALL'S FAMILY CONSISTED.

JL he baronet's family consisted, at this time, of his aunt, and the young lady mentioned in the Introduction, together with a cousin of his, of the name of Bolton, who was considered as presumptive heir of the Sindall estate, and whose education had been superintended by Sir Thomas.

This young gentleman had lately returned from the university, to which his kinsman had sent him. The expectations of his acquaintance were, as is usually the case, sanguine in his favour; and, what is something less usual, they were not disappointed.

Beside the stock of learning which his studies had acquired him, he possessed an elegance of manner, and a winning softness of deportment, which a collegelife does not often bestow, but proceeded in him, from a cause the least variable of any, a Q2

y Google

184» THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

disposition instinctively benevolent, and an e±-. quisite sensibility of heart.

With all his virtues, however, he was a dependant on Sir Thomas Sindall; and their exercise could only be'indulged so far as his cousin gave them leave. Bokan's father, who had married a daughter of the Sindall family, had a considerable patrimony left him by a parent, who had acquired it in the sure and common course of mercantile application.

With this, and the dowry he received with his wife, he might have lived up to the limits of his utmost wish, if he had confined his wishes to what are commonly considered the blessings of life; but, though he was not extravagant to spend, he was ruined by an avidity to gam. In short, he was of that order of men, who are known by the name of projectors; and wasted the means of present enjoyment in the pursuit of luxury to come. To himself, indeed, the loss was but small; while his substance was mouldering away by degrees, its value was annihilated in his expectations of the future; and he died amidst the horrors of a prison, smiling at the prospect of ideal wealth and visionary grandeur.

But with his family it was otherwise. His . wife, who had often vainly endeavoured to prevent, by her advice, the destructive schemes of her husband, at last tamely yielded to her fate, and died soon after him of a broken heart, leaving an only son, the Bolton who is now introduced into my story*

y Google

THE MAN OF THE WORLB. 185

The distresses of his father had been always ridiculed by Sir Thomas Sindall, as proceeding from a degree of whim and madness, which it

would have been a weakness to pity : his aunt, ]VIrs Selwyn, joined in the sentiment; perhaps it was really her own, but, at any rate, she was apt to agree in opinion with her nephew Sir Thomas, and never bad much regard tor her sister Bolton, for some reasons no less just than common. In the first place, her sister was handsomer than she ; secondly, she was sooner married; and, thirdly, she had been blessed with this promising boy, while Mrs Selwyn became a widow without having had a child.

There appeared, then, but little prospect of protection to poor Bolton from this quarter; but, as he had no other relation in any degree of propinquity, a regard to decency prompted the baronet to admit the boy into his house. Jiis situation, indeed, was none o^ the most agreeable; but the happy dispositions which nature had given him, suited themselves to the harshness of his fortune ; and, in whatever society he was placed, he found himself surrounded with friends.

There was not a servant in the house, who would not risk the displeasure of their master or Mrs Selwyn, to do some forbidden act of kindness to their little favourite Harry Bolton.

Sir Thomas himself, from some concurring accidents, had his notice attracted by the good qualities of the boy; his indifference was conquered by degrees, and at last he beg&n to tak$ Q3

y Google

186 *HE MAN OF THE WORLD.

upon himself the charge of rearing him to manhood. There wanted only this to fix his attach-* ment; benefits to those whom we set apart for our own management and assistance, have something so particular in their nature, that there is scarce a selfish passion which their exercise does not gratify. Yet I mean not to rob- Sindall of the honour of his beneficence; it shall no more want my praise, than it did the gratitude of Bolton.

CHAP. II.

SOME FARTHER PARTICULARS OF THE PERSONS MENTIONED

J 4E FOREGOING

CHAPTER.

Holton, however, felt that uneasiness which will ever press upon an ingenuous mind along with the idea of dependence. He had therefore frequently hinted, though in terms of the utmost modesty, a desire to be put into some way of life that might give him an opportunity of launching forth into the world, and freeing his cousin from the incumbrance of a useless idler in his family.