CHAPTER XXXI.

PIETY OF MR. HASTINGS, AND ITS IMPORTANT CONSEQUENCES TO ME.

And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek. It seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion, who, most rebel like,

Sought to be king o'er her.

You have seen

Sunshine and rain at once.

Those happy smiles

That played on her ripe lip seem'd not to know

What guests were in her eyes.

DURING all this time I have said nothing of the feelings called up by the arrival of this amiable being to the aid of her sinking parent. That she was only more attractive than ever under such a character may be imagined. In truth, she so absorbed us all by the presentation it made us of female merit in perhaps the loveliest character it exhibits, filial tenderness and duty, that, keen as were my sensations on my own account, their interest sank to nothing, even with my

self, in comparison with that of the scene I have described. For not even as a wife does a woman shew better, or perhaps so well, as when fulfilling the tender duties of love and reverence due to the author of her being. How does not such a picture enhance and heighten even the loveliest beauty!

Safely may I say that this was so with Bertha. The deep mourning she wore only the more set off the delicacy of her complexion; but joined to the sentiment inspired by her whole demeanour in this affecting scene, all I ever felt for her was augmented ten thousand fold.

I watched to observe whether she recognised me; but she was too completely absorbed by her father to give any sign of it. On our return to the room it was different.

We found Mr. Hastings much restored as to sense and animation, though greatly enfeebled as to strength. His daughter was on her knees before him, chafing his hands, which, however, ever and anon, he disengaged from hers, placing them upon her head, and blessing her. On our entrance she arose, and exhibited in her .countenance such a mixture of joy and anxiety (though of anxiety relieved), as would have been irresistible in the plainest female so employed; what in her?

With the self-possession which never abandoned her, she thanked Mr. Sandford for sending for her. "It would have broke my heart," said she, "had I been left in ignorance, and not have been allowed to But, thank God, he is quite well now."

come.

Sandford smiled, and observed, "Not quite yet; but will be, I trust:" and Mr. Hastings, having gathered strength, said, "How can I ever thank these friends enough? Bertha must do it for me."

He then asked her if she had seen her old friend, (meaning me), adding, "He has been very good in coming so far for our sakes, and did not, I see, abandon me under this last visitation. You must thank him for me.'

The frank girl immediately stretched out her hand, and said, in her sweetest accents, “O! I do indeed thank Mr. De Clifford for more than this—his kindness to-

But here a faltering voice, and tears, which indeed had never been thoroughly suppressed amid all her joy at having recovered her father, prevented further utterance. Words, however, were not necessary to create in me a bliss I had not for a long time known, not merely because I was allowed to press her offered hand, in token of the thanks which her father himself, to my surprise, quite as much as my pleasure, had commissioned her to express. What joy was in that moment!

But now, Mr. Sandford resuming the command, "It is repose," advised the patient's retiring to bed. said he, "after most sad agitation, that he chiefly wants, and if he can get sleep, to which I would add any mild sustenance he may fancy, he will do very well. I will look in at midnight to see that every thing is right, and meantime, request of you, my excellent young lady, neither to alarm nor exhaust your

self in watching. The paroxysm over, I have no fears for his bodily health. For mental comfort (the best of all), I can only recommend you to a higher

Power."

Mr. Hastings was too weak to answer, but shewed by an inclination of his head, and a deep sigh, that he fully agreed with what Sandford had said; and Bertha, on the latter taking leave, gave him a look of mournful gratitude; and then, wishing Granville and me good night, the door closed upon what seemed to me all the interests I had in the world.

As Granville and I lodged in the same inn, we passed the evening together, and had much talk. "This sad event," said he, " mournful as it is, will perhaps eventually be better for my uncle's happiness. It was plain to me that poor Foljambe's irreclaimable violence of spirit would have ruined his father's peaceful habits of retired self-consequence. In this he had wrapt himself up for some years, and hence, seldom stirring from his domain, where he was the deity of the place, 'sole monarch of all he surveyed,' he allowed the world to pass as it listed, provided it gave him no disturbance. He lived indeed in that easy negligence which, as Johnson says of Sir Roger de Coverley, solitary grandeur naturally generates. This, however, was not wholesome as a cure for his family pride, which grew upon him the more for living alone, and being free from the rivalry of upstarts, whom he could not bear. He preferred, indeed, a man who derived from the times of the Plantagenets, though with

scarce bread to eat, to a millionaire who sprang from a South Sea bubble. Hence, I verily believe," added Granville, "his condescensions to you; so don't flatter yourself that it is your own individual merit that has obtained them. There is, however, another reason, quite as powerful, in his strong religious feeling, which, you must have observed, has actuated him throughout this severe trial."

"But how can that," asked I, interested by these observations, "influence his condescensions to me?"

"Why, see you not that his deep sense of Christian duty, always warring with his pride, perpetually fills him with remorse and humility; and when this is the case, he considers it a bounden duty to make amends twentyfold to all those whom he, or even his son, may have slighted, for what, unlike a real proud man, he considers a sin requiring punishment. That punishment he thinks has now deservedly fallen upon him by the death (made more miserable for the manner of it) of the only heir of his name, to whom, with all his faults, he was tenderly attached. He is alive to all his son's wrongs to you, the greater because of your fidelity to him; and in his sincere submission to what he feels the justice of heaven, it consoles him in his grief to make up to you the kindness in which Foljambe was so deficient. In this, and only for the same reasons, I have no doubt he is seconded by his daughter; and I tell you this to guard you from those selfflatteries which might otherwise, with all your fine resolutions, assail you."

"I thank you," said I (I am afraid, rather drily),