Emmeline, the Orphan of the Castle. Charlotte Smith

raise her above her present lot of life, she thought that neither would reconcile her to the painful circumstance of carrying uneasiness and contention into his family; of being thrown from them with contempt, as the disgrace of their rank and the ruin of their hopes; and of living in perpetual apprehension lest the subsiding fondness of her husband should render her the object of his repentance and regret.

      The regard she was sensible of for Delamere did not make her blind to his faults; and she saw, with pain, that the ungovernable violence of his temper frequently obscured all his good qualities, and gave his character an appearance of ferocity, which offered no very flattering prospect to whosoever should be his wife.

      By thus reasoning with herself, she soon became more calm, and more reconciled to that destiny which seemed not to design her for Delamere.

      She met with no remarkable occurrence in her journey; and on the evening of the third day arrived in town; where the servant who attended her was ordered to dismiss the chaise, and to procure her an hackney coach, in which she proceeded to the house of Mrs. Ashwood.

      This residence, situated in a populous village three miles from London, bore the appearance of wealth and prosperity. The iron gate, which gave entrance into a large court, was opened by a servant in a laced livery, to whom Emmeline delivered the letter she had brought from Mrs. Stafford, and after a moment's waiting the lady herself came out to receive her.

      Emmeline, by the splendour of her dress, concluded she had left a large company: but being ushered into a parlour, found she had been drinking tea alone; of which, or of any other refreshment, Miss Mowbray was desired to partake.

      Her reception of her visitor was perfectly cordial; and Emmeline soon recovering her easy and composed manner, Mrs. Ashwood seemed very much pleased with her guest; for there was in her countenance a passport to all hearts.

      Mrs. Ashwood, tho' not in the bloom of life, and tho' she never had been handsome, was so unconscious of her personal disadvantages, that she imagined herself the object of admiration of one sex and of the imitation of the other. With the most perfect reliance on the graces of a figure which never struck any other person as being at all remarkable, she dressed with an exuberance of expence; and kept all the company her neighbourhood afforded.

      Where her ruling passions, (the love of admiration and excessive vanity) did not interfere, she was sometimes generous and sometimes friendly. But her ideas of her own perfections, both of person and mind, far exceeding the truth, she had often the mortification to find that others by no means thought of them as she did; and then her good humour was far from invincible.

      Though Emmeline soon found her conversation very inferior to what she had of late been accustomed to, she thought herself fortunate in having found an asylum, the mistress of which seemed desirous of making it agreeable; and to which she was introduced by the kindness of her beloved Mrs. Stafford.

      But while serenity was returning to the bosom of Emmeline, that of poor Delamere was torn with the cruellest tempest. The morning after Emmeline's departure, Delamere, who expected no such thing, arose at his usual hour and rode out alone, as he had frequently done. As he passed her window, he looked up to it, and seeing it open, concluded she was in her room.

      On his return, his father met him, and asked him to breakfast; but he designed to attend the tea-table of Mrs. Stafford, where he thought he should meet Emmeline, and therefore excused himself; and Lord Montreville, who wished the discovery to be delayed to as late an hour of the day as possible, let him go thither, where he breakfasted; and then proposed a walk to Mrs. Stafford, which he hoped would include a visit to Emmeline, or at least that Mrs. Stafford would not walk without her. She excused herself, however, on pretence of having letters to write; and Delamere went in search of Fitz-Edward, whom he could not find.

      It was now noon, and he grew impatient at not having had even a glimpse of Emmeline the whole morning, when he met Fitz-Edward's man, and asked him hastily where his master was?

      The man hesitated, and looked as if he had a secret which he contained with some uneasiness. 'Sir,' said he, 'have you seen Miss Mowbray to-day?'

      'No—why do you ask?'

      'Because, Sir,' said the fellow, 'I shrewdly suspect that she went away from here last night. I can't tell your Honour why I thinks so; but you may soon know the truth on't.'

      The ardent imagination of Delamere instantly caught fire. He took it for granted that Fitz-Edward had carried her off: and without staying to reflect a moment, he flew to the inn where his horses were, and ordered them to be saddled; then rushing into the room where his father and sister were sitting together, he exclaimed—'she is gone, Sir—Emmeline is gone!—but I will soon overtake her; and the infamous villain who has torn her from me!'

      Lord Montreville scorned to dissimulate. He answered, 'I know she is gone, and it was by my directions she went. You cannot overtake her; nor is it probable you will ever see her again. Endeavour therefore to recollect yourself, and do not forget what you owe to your family and yourself.'

      Delamere attended but little to this remonstrance; but still prepossessed with the idea of Fitz-Edward's being gone with her, he swore perpetual vengeance against him, and that he would pursue him through the world.

      With this resolution on his lips, and fury in his eyes, he quitted his father's apartment, and at the door met Fitz-Edward himself, coming to enquire after him.

      He was somewhat ashamed of the hasty conclusion he had made, and was therefore more disposed to hear what Fitz-Edward had to say, who presently convinced him that he was entirely ignorant of the flight of Emmeline.

      Delamere now insisted, that as a proof of his friendship he would instantly set out with him in pursuit of her.

      Fitz-Edward knew not what to do; but however seemed to consent; and saying he would order his servant to get his horse, left him, and went to Lord Montreville, to whom he represented the impracticability of stopping Delamere.

      His Lordship, almost certain that Emmeline was out of the possibility of his overtaking her, as she had now been gone thirteen hours, thought it better for Fitz-Edward, if he could not prevent his departure, to go with him: but he desired him to make as many artificial delays as possible.

      Delamere, in the mean time, had been to Mrs. Stafford, and tried to force from her the secret of Emmeline's route. But she was inexorable; and proof against his phrenzy as well as his persuasion. She held him, however, as long as she could, in discourse. But when he found she only tried to make him lose time, he left her, in an agony of passion, and mounting his horse, while his trembling servants were ordered to follow him on pain of instant dismission, he rode out of the town without seeing his father, leaving a message for Fitz-Edward that he had taken the London road, and expected he would come after him instantly.

      Lord Montreville intreated Fitz-Edward to lose not a moment; and bidding an hasty adieu to his Lordship, he ordered his horses to the door of Mrs. Stafford, where he took a formal leave of her and her husband, entreating permission to renew his acquaintance hereafter. Then getting on horseback, he made as much speed as possible after Delamere; whom with difficulty he overtook some miles forward on the London road.

      This way Delamere had taken on conjecture only; but after proceeding some time, he had met a waggoner, whom he questioned. The man told him of a post chaise he had met at four o'clock in the morning; and encouraged by that to proceed, he soon heard from others enough to make him believe he was right.

      The horses, however, at the end of forty miles, were too much fatigued to keep pace with Delamere's impatience. He was obliged to wait three hours before post horses could be found for himself and Fitz-Edward. His servants were obliged to remain yet longer; and the horses which were at length procured, were so lame and inadequate to the journey, that it was six hours before they reached the next stage; where the same difficulty occurred; and Delamere, between the fatigue of his body and anxiety of his mind, found himself compelled to take some rest.

      The next day he still traced Emmeline from stage to stage, and imagined himself very near her: but the miserable horse on which he rode, being unable to