CHAPTER XXIII

On my arrival at Mr Morton's, the porter informed me, he was ordered by his lady, to deny my entrance. My swelling heart!--a sentiment of indignation distended it almost to suffocation.--At this moment, Anne tripped lightly through the court-yard, and, seeing me, ran to embrace me. I returned her caresses with warmth.

'Ah!' said she, 'you are not, you cannot be, guilty. I have been longing to see you, and to hear all that has happened, but it was not permitted me.' She added, in a whisper, 'I cannot love my mother, for she torments and restrains me--my desire of liberty is stronger than my duty--but I shall one day be able to outwit her.'

'Will not your father, my love, allow me to speak with him? I have a right to be heard, and I demand his attention.'

'He is in his dressing-room,' said Ann, 'I will slide softly, to him, and tell him you are here.'

Away she flew, and one of the footmen presently returned, to conduct me to his master. I found him alone, he received me with a grave and severe aspect. I related to him, circumstantially, the occurrences which had taken place during his absence. My words, my voice, my manner, were emphatic--animated with the energy of truth--they extorted, they commanded, they, irresistibly, compelled assent. His features softened, his eyes glistened, he held out his hand, he was about to speak--he hesitated a moment, and sighed. At this instant, Mrs Morton burst into the room, with the aspect of a fury--her bloated countenance yet more swelled and hideous--I shrunk back involuntarily--she poured forth a torrent of abuse and invective. A momentary recollection reassured me--waiting till she had exhausted her breath, I turned from her, and to her husband, with calm dignity--

'I thank you, Sir, for all the kindness I have received from you--I am convinced you do me justice--_for this I do not thank you_, it was a duty to which I had a claim, and which you owed, not only to me, but, to yourself. My longer continuance in this house, I feel, would be improper. For the present, I return to Mrs Harley's, where I shall respectfully receive, and maturely weigh, any counsels with which you may in future think proper to favour me.'

Mr Morton bowed his head; poor man! his mild spirit was overborne, he dared not assert the dictates of his own reason. I hurried out of the apartment, and hastily embracing Ann, who awaited me in the hall, charging myself with a hundred kisses for Mrs Harley, I took the way to the hospitable mansion of my friend.

I had proceeded about half a mile, when I beheld Augustus, advancing towards me; he observed my tremulous emotions, and pallid countenance; he took my hand, holding it with a gentle pressure, and, throwing his other arm round me, supported my faultering steps. His voice was the voice of kindness--his words spake assurance, and breathed hope--_fallacious hope!_--My heart melted within me--my tremor encreased--I dissolved into tears.

'A deserted outcast from society--a desolate orphan--what was to become of me--to whom could I fly?'

'Unjust girl! have I then forfeited all your confidence--have you not a mother and a friend, who love you--' he stopped--paused--and added 'with maternal, with _fraternal_, tenderness? to whom would you go?--remain with us, your society will cheer my mother's declining years'--again he hesitated,--'I am about to return to town, assure me, that you will continue with Mrs Harley--it will soften the pain of separation.'

I struggled for more fortitude--hinted at the narrowness of my fortune--at my wish to exert my talents in some way, that should procure me a less dependent situation--spoke of my active spirit--of my abhorrence of a life of indolence and vacuity.

He insisted on my waving these subjects for the present. 'There would be time enough, in future, for their consideration. In the mean while, I might go on improving myself, and whether present or absent, might depend upon him, for every assistance in his power.'

His soothing kindness, aided by the affectionate attentions of my friend, gradually, lulled my mind into tranquillity. My bosom was agitated, only, by a slight and sweet emotion--like the gentle undulations of the ocean, when the winds, that swept over its ruffled surface, are hushed into repose.