FIRST LOVE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET.
1830.

FIRST LOVE.

CHAPTER I.

We left our party concluding breakfast on the morning after the masquerade. The ladies shortly after repaired to the great room, whither they were soon followed by some of the gentlemen, among others the Marquis of H. The scene afforded a striking contrast to that of the evening before: Sir Archibald’s mysterious death, together with the atrocious attempt on the life of Captain Montgomery, seemed to have given a shock to the gay spirits of all. Those who spoke at all, spoke almost in whispers, their themes murders, mysteries, and sudden deaths.

Mr. Graham, reclining on a chaise longue, was very nearly asleep, and Lady Morven was already yawning. Julia happened to enter the green-house, and was immediately followed thither by the Marquis. Wise looks were interchanged by the rest of the company. Half an hour, an hour, nay, a quarter more elapsed, but neither Julia nor the Marquis re-appeared. At length Frances entered the green-house. Lo, the birds had flown! Julia was found in her own room writing to her grandmamma.

But the Marquis’s seat at the dinner table was vacant. The servants could give no account of his lordship; but, that he had left the castle on horse-back some hours since. Julia was observed to colour a little, when the Marquis’s absence was noticed.

Lord Fitz-Ullin was again at sea; and our hero had again sailed with him. A new harvest of glory was being reaped by both. Almost every column of every newspaper was filled with the movements of the fleet under the command of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin; and in every account did the name of Captain Montgomery stand pre-eminent in the ranks of glory. No wonder then if that name often fixed the eye of Julia.

Indeed, the moment she took up a paper, it was the first word she saw! It seemed written in talismanic characters! It stood out from the page, and offered itself to her view, ere, at least, she was conscious of having sought for it. Yet there were those (and among them Lord Arandale,) who suspected that Henry was the object of her thoughts, when her face and neck became suffused with blushes on her being found with a newspaper in her hand.

At length, Lord Fitz-Ullin lost his life in the achievement of one of the most brilliant of his victories. The whole nation mourned in the midst of triumph!

The papers in which, so lately, the heart-stirring deeds of the living hero followed each other in rapid succession, were now, with a mournful sameness, as chilling to the excited imagination as the still scene they represented, filled, from end to end, with the solemn lying in state of the unconscious corse, the funeral lighting of the chamber of death, the silent mourners, who watched with the dead night and day, the sombre splendours of the body’s last receptacle. The numerous banners waving their shattered remnants over it; the noiseless steps of the spectators, as they approached, gazed, and passed, treading a flooring that returned no echo to their footfalls; the firing of minute guns by the forts, the lowering of their colours half mast high, by all the vessels at the Nore, and in the harbour; the muffled peal of the bells; in short, every demonstration of what was the feeling of all, in which a nation could unite its myriad tongues in one voice of woe.

In addition to the numerous attendance, professional and official, which was almost a matter of course, the mortal remains of the hero were to be followed to the grave by many of the princes of the blood, and all the principal nobility of the kingdom. Among the latter, Lord Arandale intended to take his place; and Mrs. Montgomery consented, by letter, to her grand-daughters accompanying their aunt and uncle to town on the occasion.

CHAPTER II.

Our party completed their journey to town late the day before the internment was to take place. Arrangements previously made by Lord Arandale, had secured for them places in the cathedral. The pomps attendant on the funerals of officers of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s rank, being too well known to require description, we shall only slightly remark the impressions made on the mind of our heroine, who, for Edmund’s sake, was more than commonly interested in the solemn scene.

The procession having entered, the service commenced; the effect of the sublime parts of which, on the feelings of Julia, were such, together with the all-pervading grandeur of the music; the slow, but constant movement of the passing figures; and the still solemnity of all things else, that, yielding to the one absorbing sense of admiring awe, she seemed wrapped in a species of trance, while, from time to time, a single voice in the choir, separating itself from among the body of sound, would reach her ear, pronouncing, with peculiar distinctness, some impressive sentence.

Pious enthusiasm stole over her heart, as, with thrilling sweetness, a youthful voice sang, “And now, Lord, what is my hope? truly my hope is even in thee!” Again, when the voice proclaimed, “Man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain!” how contemptible seemed the struggles of worldly ambition for the precedence of an hour! And now the voice pronounced, “In the midst of life, we are in death!” And poor Julia thought of Edmund, and of the dangers of the sea; and her heart died within her. It so happened that the countenances most immediately in the view of our heroine, were those of a number of the oldest naval officers, who were of course, in general, the oldest men, as the grey hair, thinly scattered on the brow of many told.

At the moment Julia first remarked this, voices in the choir were singing the verse, “Though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their strength but labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it away, and we are gone.” No eye wandered, no limb was restless, while the very stillness of each motionless figure possessed expression. It was not repose; it was not listlessness; it was the fixedness of serious attention.

Many of the countenances bore the traces, not of age only, but also of hardships. Hardships endured. Wherefore? To render home a sanctuary! A sanctuary to infirmity, to infancy, to those of her own sex, to all, in short, who were unable to defend themselves! Julia’s enthusiasm arose: How beautifying, she thought, is every furrow so produced.

She pictured to herself each individual now so quiescent in form; so still in feature; on the deck of his floating citadel, surmounting a tempest, or conquering an enemy.

Midnight, winter, every adventitious circumstance, crowded on her poetic imagining, of what though she had never seen, yet she had so often studied in description, that, of all subjects, it was the one most familiar to her fancy. Ship after ship arose before her mind’s eye; till, gradually, they formed themselves into an invincible bulwark around our happy isles, establishing them the throne of peace; while wild warfare desolated the outer world! “Yes,” thought Julia, “even our foes find refuge here, when oppression hunts them from their homes!” And her heart swelled with pride, that she was the native of such a land! The gradations of rank faded before this grand distinction; to be a Briton, seemed exaltation sufficient! She paused a moment—“How proud a thing then to be one of those who have made Britain what she is,” whispered a small voice within the heart of Julia. At the moment her eye was fixed in a certain direction, by the moving a little forward of a figure, hitherto intercepted by an opposite pillar—it was Edmund! Her heart ceased beating, fluttered, ceased again, then beat so rapidly as to impede her breathing.

Edmund leaned against the pillar, and seemed listening attentively to the music; he had not yet perceived Julia. Her eyes dwelt on the serious and mournful expression of his noble features, with feelings, where tenderness seemed to excuse admiration, and admiration to justify tenderness. His head turned, in a degree scarcely perceptible. Their eyes met: a sudden glow covered the face of Edmund, and faded instantly; a look passed, understood by both to be one of recognition, tho’ expressed only by the standing still of the eye. The time, the circumstances, were too solemn for more. A voice in the choir pronouncing, “Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,” seemed to Julia a reproach, for the mingling of earthly feelings, which had already found a place in her bosom.

During the performance of the service, evening approached, and lights became necessary. The coffin had been placed on a platform in the centre of the church; the canopy had been removed, the pall taken off; the solemn scene, situated thus, immediately beneath the principal source of light, while all things else remained in comparative obscurity, had an effect, imposing in the highest degree. The numerous assembly of spectators, imperfectly seen,—the occasional gleaming of the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers,—the shadowy perspective of the aisles,—all became tributary circumstances, lending additional impressiveness to the principal object.

There was at this time a total silence throughout the church. After some moments, the voice of the officiating clergyman was heard, singly, and solemnly, pronouncing the concluding sentences. And now, the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” fell on the senses with that chill, that shuddering, involuntary sympathy with the unconscious tenant of the grave, which instinct grants, while reason would withhold. The startling sounds from without, of the discharge, by signal, of artillery, were heard at the moment, and Julia was aroused from meditation on the sleep of the grave, by the awful thought of the last trumpet awaking the dead to judgment.

When the firing ceased, the leading voice of the choir again arose, and floating over the solemn scene like some invisible dweller in its hallowed light, sang the inspired and inspiring words, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord! even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours.”

The organ pealed, and now a voice more solemn than the last, sang, or rather seemed to say, “His body is buried in peace!” An hundred voices at once broke forth in reply, triumphantly proclaiming, “But his name liveth evermore! his name liveth evermore!”

CHAPTER III.

As Lord Arandale’s carriage returned that evening from the cathedral to Hanover-square, it was overtaken by a chariot and four, driving at the utmost speed that could be attempted in the streets of London. Some communication passed between the servants, and both equipages drew up. It being lamp light only, and Lady Arandale’s shoulder and hat, while her Ladyship shook hands with, and spoke to some invisible inmate of the other carriage, effectually blocking up the window on that side, Julia could not see any thing; but she heard the voice of Arthur, crying, “Good bye! Good bye!” And that Of Lady Arandale saying, “But shall we not see you? Shall we not see you?”

The carriage, then, must be our hero’s, and he must, by a look or shake of the head, have implied a negative; for Lady Arandale spoke again, saying, “Oh, I am sorry for that! Farewell, then! farewell! You’re a good lad: Heaven bless you! Good bye, Arthur, my dear,” she added, in a more careless tone. A hand, meanwhile, was stretched past Lady Arandale to offer the farewell grasp to those within the carriage. Julia gave hers when it came to her turn; and certainly, whether the invisible person was aware whose it was or not, it was held longer, and with a tenderer pressure than any other. The moment after it had been released, she at last heard the well-known voice of Edmund, though scarcely audible from suppressed emotion: it said only, “Go on.” And immediately the chariot drove away.

There was surely nothing affecting or tender in those two little words; yet, they smote on the heart of Julia like an electric shock. They were, at once, the first she had heard from Edmund’s lips for many weeks, and the signal for his present departure, it might be for years, it might be for ever!

The long-cherished feelings of tender affection for the dear speaker, vibrated to the tones of that loved voice; and long after they had passed away, did they seem to linger on the sense of hearing, like the faint notes of receding music: How often had those very tones been heard addressed to herself, and saying the kindest things! Her eyes overflowed with irrepressible tears. She could have envied, at the moment, the very postillions. Yet it could not have been because those words had been addressed to them; perhaps it was, because they were going with Edmund. He must, she knew, be hastening to join his ship. He was hastening, then, to danger, possibly to death—for when we have just witnessed any impressive instance of mortality, how fragile, how precarious, seems the hold on life, of those whose lives are precious to us!

As Julia leaned back in the farther corner of the carriage, and, sheltered by the darkness, indulged in continued weeping, she thought of the devotion of Marmion’s page with an admiration and a sympathy she had never felt before: not that she meditated following that page’s example.

When Lord Arandale joined the family party at their very late dinner, he told them that Captain Montgomery had mentioned to him his having made an attempt to see them that morning, knowing that after the funeral he should not have one moment at his own disposal; but that, not being aware that they would go to the cathedral so early, he had missed them. Captain Montgomery had also explained to him (his Lordship said) that his young friend Ormond (now Fitz-Ullin) was so overwhelmed by grief for the sudden loss of his father, that he was quite unfit for any exertion (he was, in fact, so ill as to be confined to his bed); and that he had, therefore, particularly requested that Captain Montgomery would, during the solemnization of the funeral, represent him, by taking throughout the various parts of the public ceremonials, the place which properly belonged to the son of the late Earl. Captain Montgomery had not, consequently, been able to command a moment of his own time, while in town; and the necessity for joining the fleet with the utmost speed, was such, that a chariot and four had been in waiting for him at one of the doors of the cathedral, during all the latter part of the service.

CHAPTER IV.

The sisters had returned to Lodore, and passed some quiet months in its peaceful seclusion, when one morning Mrs. Montgomery, handing an open letter to her grand-daughter across the breakfast-table, said, “It is from your father: we may expect to see him every day.”

Both daughters expressed pleasure and surprise; but Frances’s hand was the first extended. Julia had opened a newspaper. Her eye was glancing over its columns, and had just encountered the words, “Euphrasia frigate, Captain Montgomery.” Lord L.’s letter was read, and discussed; and during the moments of suspense thus occasioned, Julia felt her trepidation increase to a degree that warned her how little she could trust herself to peruse a paragraph containing such magical words before witnesses. She, therefore, stole from the room, carrying the paper with her. Julia was not at first missed. But when a considerable time had elapsed without her being seen, and that Mr. Jackson, who came in shortly, began to inquire for the newspaper; Frances, not without feelings of alarm, which had something very near the truth for their object, sought her sister. The door was locked. Frances called softly on Julia’s name. There was no reply! She called louder still. All continued silent within! She made hasty and repeated efforts to gain admittance. At length, in accents of terror, she alarmed the house. The door was forced open, and Julia found insensible on the floor, with the newspaper lying beside her.

The paragraph she had evidently been reading, ran as follows:—

“A report has just reached us from the fleet off * * * *, that the Hurricane, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and the Euphrasia, Captain Montgomery; being detached from the squadron, fell in with a number of armed vessels of the enemy. That, the result was, as usual, brilliant; but, we regret to add, that the glory obtained on this occasion, has been dearly purchased; the gallant Captain Montgomery having lost his life in the engagement. The private letter, from which our account is taken, states distinctly, that a cannon ball was seen to sweep him from the deck of his ship, at the very moment when the last of the French vessels lowered her colours. In our next, we shall be able to give the public, a detailed and official account of this affair.”

That evening, a few hurried lines arrived from Henry, written on board the tender of the Euphrasia, of which he had the command, and which was conveying the same intelligence to the fleet. They confirmed the newspaper report of Edmund’s death by a cannon-ball, at the moment when the last of the enemy’s ships struck her colours. He had been standing for some time, in a very conspicuous situation; and Henry had seen the ball sweep him from the spot! Henry wrote in this haste, he said, that his aunt might not see it first in the papers. With great affectation of consideration, he requested Julia, (to whom the letter was addressed,) to take her own opportunity of breaking it properly to her grandmother; and then went on to observe, (by way of consolation,) that Edmund could not have suffered much, as he was shattered into a thousand atoms in less than two seconds!! Indeed, must have been, from the amazing height, that he, Henry, had himself seen the ball fling him into the air. Henry had been, at the time, he added, alongside in the Tender, waiting, as he had said, to convey the account of the capture of the enemy to the fleet. He had been so near, therefore, that he had seen the whole transaction, as distinctly as if he had been on board the Euphrasia.

The same post brought a supplement to the paper of the morning, giving a detailed account of the engagement, and of the manner of Captain Montgomery’s death.

Of course, neither letter nor paper were mentioned to Julia.

While Mr. Jackson is opening the newspaper, and putting on his spectacles, to read it aloud to Mrs. Montgomery and Frances, in an adjoining room, and Mrs. Smyth sits at Julia’s bedside, we shall lay before our readers the circumstances, or rather private feelings, which probably led to the present rash, though brilliant affair.

At the time of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin’s death, Edmund had found the task of consoling his young friend Ormond (now Fitz-Ullin) difficult indeed. Not only was the grief of Fitz-Ullin overwhelming, but his self-reproaches were heart-rending. “He had never,” he vehemently exclaimed, “been what his father wished him to be!” He had disappointed all the hopes of the kindest, the best, the most indulgent of parents! That parent had died without the consolation of leaving behind him a son worthy of perpetuating his glorious name. How could he be careless of the wishes of such a parent! Yet he had always intended to exert himself, and become all that his father could wish; and now—now he could never do so. Edmund should have been his son: Edmund of whom he would have been so proud! Our hero, after trying calmer and more religious consolations in vain, endeavoured to arouse his friend by suggesting, that the most acceptable offering he could make to the memory of his father, was to strike at once into the brilliant path his father had quitted. Fitz-Ullin’s spirit, gentle and indolent as it was in general, in its present state of excitation, took fire at the thought; but, alas! he had neither talent nor steadiness to sustain him in the high resolves which such feelings suggested. The insufficient impulse carried him into the midst of daring undertakings, and there left him, astounded at his own boldness, and pausing whether he should proceed or return. Thus, dangers were incurred, and yet, results not reached.

The business now before the public, and which took place a few months after Fitz-Ullin’s going to sea in the same fleet with Edmund, affords a striking illustration of the fatal consequences of adventitious excitement, thus operating on a naturally weak character. The particulars were now read by Mr. Jackson; the sum of them was as follows:

The Hurricane, a large frigate, commanded by Lord Fitz-Ullin, being detached from the fleet off * * * *, was cruising along the coast. It was after midnight, and excessively dark, when the signals of enemies’ ships were seen in shore; but of what description the vessels were, or in what numbers, could not be even guessed. At length, the first breaking of dawn beginning to render objects a little more definable, they perceived the enemy consisted of no less a number than seven large, armed vessels.

“The young Earl, who seems,” said the papers, “to inherit the high daring of his noble father,” gave immediate orders to clear for action. In the mean time, he bore down upon the enemy, and took up, unfortunately, a far from favourable position. It was one, however, in which he could bring a broadside to bear on some of the French vessels. In endeavouring to get the Hurricane into a better chosen situation, Fitz-Ullin, from the ignorance consequent on his former neglect of the service, committed so many blunders, that by the time she was anchored, it was found that she had actually got her stern to the enemy in such a position, that for some time she was exposed to their fire, while but one of her guns could bear on them.

Fitz-Ullin suddenly walked up to the officer of the marines, who was overseeing his men, as they manned the guns of the quarter-deck: “Why, you are doing nothing here, Sir,” he exclaimed.

“Nothing can be done, my Lord,” said the officer, “while the ship remains in this position.”

Fitz-Ullin turned away without reply; but, a moment after, ordered the cable to be cut, and stood out to sea. The enemy, who lay close under the protection of some of their own batteries on the shore, continued stationary.

Fitz-Ullin dispatched a cutter to the squadron, desiring that the aid of a frigate might be sent him, to capture some ships of the enemy: but without mentioning their number, or the batteries by which they were protected. To his public demand he added a private letter, requesting that the vessel sent might be the Euphrasia, Captain Montgomery. The Admiral, an old friend of his father’s, issued orders accordingly.

Fitz-Ullin, when he saw the frigate coming towards him, under a press of sail, and remembered that she was commanded by the steady friend, to whose talents he so much looked up, felt his spirit strengthened, and sent an officer on board, requesting, that as he had first descried the enemy, his ship might be permitted to move foremost to the attack. This was granted, of course, and he led in, in great style, the Euphrasia following. When, suddenly, and to the utter astonishment of all, Fitz-Ullin called out, “Man the cluelines! Shorten sail!” The order being obeyed, the Euphrasia, of course, passed them, envied by every officer, aye, and every sailor too, on board the Hurricane: and no wonder, for at the moment it was really a magnificent sight, to behold her advancing boldly in the very front of peril on seven of the enemy, supported by batteries on shore, now opening their fire. But in consequence of the late shifting of a sand-bank, of which the pilots were not aware, the Euphrasia, while still rapidly advancing, unfortunately ran aground; and thus rooted, as it were, to one spot, became the very target at which every gun from ship or battery was instantly levelled.

Fitz-Ullin, whose wavering mind seized on the one idea of the danger he saw the leading vessel in the very act of incurring, called, “Let go the anchor!”

“Not here, for heaven’s sake!” cried the first lieutenant, running up to him, and pointing to the enemy’s ships on one side, and the Euphrasia on the other; thus indicating that their own vessel must, in her actual situation, receive the fire of both, and prevent that of their consort reaching the enemy. While this was passing, the sailors at the anchor involuntarily suspended their hands for a moment, during which, the vessel, as she was moving with some velocity through the water, shot a few lengths further ahead. The command, “Let go the anchor,” was reiterated by Fitz-Ullin. The anchor now fell, and fixed them in a position which, though less dreadful than that they had just passed, was still one of more peril, and less efficiency, than might have been chosen. Such as it was, however, it was bravely maintained; for not even the contradictory orders of this, unhappily, so ill-qualified commander, could, once fighting commenced, keep British officers and British sailors from doing their duty.

The Euphrasia, in her terrible, but fortunately, very effective situation, was behaving most gallantly. She was the central object, necessarily alone, and involved in a cloud of smoke, through which the silent flashes of her guns were still seen, preceding by an awful second the loud thunders of destruction, issuing peal after peal from both her sides.

Fitz-Ullin, as the wreaths of smoke from time to time blew aside on her deck, could discern the figure of Edmund, now here, now there, busily engaged, encouraging and directing his men in all quarters.

Gun after gun, from the batteries was silenced; ship after ship, of the enemy struck; and the contest seemed nearly concluded. The Euphrasia was at length seen to pour a formidable broadside into the last remaining vessel which still displayed French colours. The fire was not answered.

Fitz-Ullin kept his eyes anxiously fixed on the moving wreaths of smoke, in which the frigate’s own guns had now again enveloped her. When these began to disperse a little, he beheld, emerging from the white vapour, at an unusual elevation, the figure of his friend; at first but faintly seen, afterwards more distinctly, but still, for some seconds, itself the only palpable object. Gradually it became evident, that Edmund stood out on one of the flukes of the anchor, now partly visible, and which was made fast to the bows. He seemed endeavouring to look through the thickened atmosphere towards the enemy’s colours, as if to ascertain whether they were about to be lowered, ere he should again fire. The enemy were also partly shrouded; but her rigging and masts appeared, and shortly her colours were seen descending. At the same moment, the last gun, which was still effective, fired from the batteries.

Fitz-Ullin saw the ball enter the cloud of smoke, and, a second after, carry with it the form of Edmund! He could actually descry his friend’s feet lifted from the spot whereon they had stood. He clasped his hands over his eyes, but too late—the fearful sight had been seen—it continued to float before their closed vision. He groaned with agony of mind. When he again looked, the deck of the Euphrasia, from which the smoke was fast clearing, had become a scene of evident hustle and confusion.

He saw, with breathless impatience, every moving figure collecting to a central point. He called for his boat four or five times in one minute. It came—he leaped into it—it remained without motion, for no order had been given. He pointed to the frigate, and his men pulled towards her.

While crossing the open space between the ships, the Euphrasia’s Tender passed them. A person on its deck, in a loud and distinct voice, said, “Captain Montgomery is killed!”

Fitz-Ullin shuddered. His nerves recoiled from the sounds. He had himself seen his friend fall; yet the admission of the fact through the medium of a new sense, seemed capable of inflicting a new pang.

CHAPTER V.

The grief of all at Lodore was so great, that Julia’s overwhelming share of it did not cause any suspicion as to the nature of her sentiments. The feeling of every one, down to the lowest servant in the house, was the same, as if Edmund had really been the son or grandson of Mrs. Montgomery. Every one’s heart was full, no one had time to be sagacious.

Frances alone, though without any formal confidence, had for some time understood the secret of her sister’s heart. As soon, therefore, as Mr. Jackson had gone, and Mrs. Montgomery retired, she dismissed all attendants, and through a long and dreadful night continued to whisper to an ear, which yet seemed not to hear: “The account is not official, Julia, and Mr. Jackson does not believe it. Julia! Julia! Mr. Jackson does not believe it.” This, however, was a sort of pious fraud; for Frances, who had seen Henry’s letter, and the supplement to the paper, had herself no such hope, as her words were meant to inspire. Julia did not speak in reply; but, from time to time, by a scarcely perceptible pressure of her sister’s hand, she showed there was a consciousness of the kindly efforts to offer comfort. After the lapse of some hours spent thus, she betrayed, by a slight movement, that she was watching for the day-light. As soon as it dawned, she quietly and silently left her bed. Frances, without asking any questions, folded a wrapper carefully round her sister. Julia seated herself, and became again motionless. Frances knelt beside her, put her arms about her, and watched her countenance. For a long time all was still; nothing was heard but Julia’s heavy sighs, following each other at regular intervals, and the gentle, and but occasional soothings of Frances’ voice.

At length the servants began to move about. At each slightest noise, Julia started, listened, and the throbbing of her heart became audible, increased till it shook her frame, and then, as the sounds that had caused it, died away, subsided gradually, till a footstep, or an opening door, being again heard; it would again leap up, and run on with a tumultuous rapidity that scarcely left her power to breathe. This fearful state lasted some hours, when, at length, the postman’s well known knock on a door already open, was heard. Julia had disappeared before Frances had time to comprehend the nature of the sudden movement with which she had started from her seat. Frances followed, and found her in the hall, endeavouring, with fingers as powerless as those of a new born babe, to open a letter. Frances assisted to break the seal. It was from Edmund himself, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery. He was alive! He was well! When Julia, by Frances’s good management and a few hours passed quietly in her own apartment, was enabled to assume something like self command, the joyful tidings were spread throughout the house. The letter, and a paper which came by the same post, were then read with eager delight by all.

Edmund, in his letter, expressed a hope of seeing them soon, if it were but for an hour; and much kind solicitude respecting their feelings, should the false report of his death reach them before this precautionary epistle. The sum of the contents of the paper, which accompanied this letter, was as follows:—

The last statement, it may be remembered, left Fitz-Ullin crossing the space between the two ships. While getting on board the Euphrasia he beheld the figure of an officer, who was busily engaged on the quarter deck, and whose proportions and air instantly riveted his whole attention. The officer turned round; the countenance was Edmund’s. He was giving hasty orders for taking advantage of the tide, which was now beginning to flow. Occasionally he passed his hand across his forehead, or held it a moment before his eyes, while his officers were collected round him, earnestly recommending a few moments repose.

“I am quite well now,” he replied, “if we do not get her off this tide she will go to pieces before the next. When there is time to think of it, I shall lose a little blood,” he added, in answer to a strong remonstrance from the surgeon.

Fitz-Ullin, at the moment, rushed through the circle into the arms of his friend.

“The exertions of Captain Montgomery,” continued the paper, “to get his ship afloat, were ably seconded by Lord Fitz-Ullin and the officers and crews of both vessels, and finally crowned with success.”

After which, the next object became to secure the numerous captures made in the course of that brilliant day. This was effected with much labour, by literally towing them out from under their own silenced batteries.

And when, at length, the two detached ships were seen returning from their victorious expedition, and approaching the fleet with their little squadron of prizes in tow, the hearty and general cheering with which they were received was such as baffles all description; still less would it be possible to convey any adequate idea of the enthusiasm with which that cheering was doubled and redoubled, when Captain Montgomery, who, from the accounts brought to the fleet by the cutter, was believed to have fallen, was discerned standing on his quarter deck, waving his hat, and bowing, in return for the congratulations of all.

On joining the fleet, our hero learnt, for the first time, the report which had prevailed of his death, and that it had been carried to England. In consequence, he dispatched the letter to Mrs. Montgomery, which we have seen Julia and Frances, as soon as they perceived Edmund’s writing on the cover, so unceremoniously tearing open.

The paper, as might be expected, expatiated at great length on the gratified feelings with which they found themselves enabled to contradict the report of Captain Montgomery’s death. The subject, in short, engrossed every column of every public print of the day. There was scarcely room for an advertisement! Wherever you cast your eye, Captain Montgomery, in large letters, appeared before you. Every figure of newspaper rhetoric was set forth: the pathetic, the heroic, the sublime, but above all, the triumphant.

CHAPTER VI.

Julia, supported and advised by Frances, made great exertions to seem to partake, with a natural share of interest, in the general joy, without betraying her own peculiar emotions.

In the evening, for the sake of appearances, she ventured to leave her room. She had just taken her place at the tea-table, when a hasty step was heard without.

The door flew open, and Edmund entered! Mrs. Montgomery threw over her footstool and little table, and dropped her spectacles, in hastening to meet him. She clasped him to her heart and wept! Frances, without one thought of reserve, flew into his arms, and clung round his neck, as she was wont to do when a child, exclaiming, “Dear, dear Edmund, you are safe!” And Julia trembled and turned pale, as, emboldened by the reception her sister had given him, yet colouring excessively, he approached and folded her also for one moment to his breast; for by an effort she had risen, and stood upright before her chair, though literally unable to move from it. She sunk on her seat again, but kindly smiled as she looked up through tears of joy, and Edmund still retaining her hand, she returned the pressure of his, more than once, as a sort of apology, each time, for her utter failure in an attempt to speak.

“And were you not even wounded, my dear boy?” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Nothing more than slight contusions, ma’am,” he replied; “the ball struck one fluke of the anchor, and the shock which I experienced, as I stood on the other, was more like electricity than any thing else.”

“But tell me how you came to stand on the anchor?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, “I could not comprehend one half of what the papers said about it.”

“I thought the anchor was always in the bottom of the sea!” said Frances.

“Why,” replied Edmund, to Mrs. Montgomery, after answering Frances’ interruption with an amused smile, “the enemy had ceased firing, so that I thought it probable they were about to strike; and, in that case, you know, it would not have been desirable to have fired into them again, as we might have sacrificed lives unnecessarily, so that I merely ran forward to the forecastle, and jumped from thence on the fluke of the anchor, which was made fast to the bows, and where I stood waiting for the dispersion of the smoke of our own guns, to ascertain the point, of whether the last of the enemy had hauled down her colours or not.”

“Why, my dear, you are as bad as the papers!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I hardly know what you are talking about!” Edmund laughed, and declared he did not know how to explain himself more clearly. He tried, however, practical methods; cups, saucers, snuffer-stand, sugar-tongs, &c., were all put in requisition. At length, by means of the latter implement, the ladies were made to comprehend, that when the ball struck one fluke of the anchor, the shock was communicated to our hero as he stood on the other.

Here he made his meaning still more obvious, by causing the bit of biscuit, which, perched on one end of the sugar-tongs, had hitherto personated himself, to spring off with a sudden jerk. It flew—where?—in Julia’s face! and thence fell on her bosom, where it concealed itself behind the neatly plaited cambrick tucker, of a certain snowy inner garment of fine linen, and became the companion of a small gold heart containing otto of rose, and appended to a thread-like gold chain, which, any one who cared to notice such trifles might observe, Julia never went without.

This chain, if truth must be told, was, in fact, one of Edmund’s boyish keepsakes; when, out of the first prize money he ever received, he brought one home to each of his little sisters. It would be a sad betraying of secrets, however, to mention how often, on subsequent returns, the course of that small shining line had been traced by the adventurous eyes of our hero, till its further wanderings were lost to view; or, how often, latterly, its trembling movement, had betrayed to his eye only, the sigh which was inaudible to all, and to all but Edmund imperceptible.

But to return, our hero made a thousand apologies for the first piece of impertinence committed by his representative. Whether its further intrusion had been observed by any one but Julia herself, we are not aware. But what will sensible people say, when we confess that our heroine actually preserved this strange likeness of a lover, and even took a sly opportunity of slipping it into the interior of the said golden heart.

“And you may judge,” continued Edmund, when, after concluding reiterated apologies, he resumed his account of himself, “you may judge what force there must have been in the impetus given by the shock I received, when it flung me in on the forecastle, to all appearance lifeless.”

“And how long did you remain insensible?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, taking his hand kindly, and looking in his face, with the greatest anxiety.

“I was myself again in a few minutes,” he replied, “it was the people on the forecastle, who, when they saw me actually lifted from among them, and borne through the air over their heads, very naturally supposed I had been shot away, the same mistake it seems was made by the crew of our Tender, which was at the time under orders to sail for the fleet, with intelligence of the capture of the enemy’s ships, as soon as the last should be seen to strike. But I really had not time to recollect the possibility of such an occurrence, there was so much promptitude and exertion necessary from the moment I was again on my feet, in getting the ship afloat during the flood tide.”

“You must have had a great superiority of numbers to contend with;” said Mrs. Montgomery, “the public prints describe your prizes as forming quite a little squadron in themselves, as you led them towards the fleet.”

“How much better those cakes are than our sea biscuits,” said Edmund, offering the plate to both the sisters. “It was rather a rash business!” he added, in a grave tone, turning again to Mrs. Montgomery. Then, with an effort at gaiety, he continued, “such as it was, however, I owe to it my present happiness; for had not my ship suffered so severely, as to render refitting indispensable, I should, at this moment, have been with the fleet off * * * *. Fitz-Ullin too was obliged to come into port to repair.” And Edmund here entered on the praises of his friend’s good and amiable qualities with great warmth.

He was soon, however, interrupted, by the entrance of Mr. Jackson, whom the joyful tidings of his arrival had summoned. Our hero had but one day to remain at Lodore.

CHAPTER VII.