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“How the wind is rising!” said Rosamond.—“God help the poor people at sea to-night!”

Her brother Godfrey smiled.—“One would think,” said he, “that she had an argosy of lovers at sea, uninsured.”

“You gentlemen,” replied Rosamond, “imagine that ladies are always thinking of lovers.”

“Not always,” said Godfrey; “only when they show themselves particularly disposed to humanity.”

“My humanity, on the present occasion, cannot even be suspected,” said Rosamond; “for you know, alas! that I have no lover at sea or land.”

“But a shipwreck might bless the lucky shore with some rich waif,” said Godfrey.

“Waifs and strays belong to the lady of the manor,” said Rosamond; “and I have no claim to them.”

“My mother would, I dare say, make over her right to you,” said Godfrey.

“But that would do me no good,” said Rosamond; “for here is Caroline, with superior claims of every sort, and with that most undisputed of all the rights of woman—beauty.”

“True: but Caroline would never accept of stray hearts,” said Godfrey. “See how her lip curls with pride at the bare imagination!”

“Pride never curled Caroline’s lip,” cried Rosamond: “besides, pride is very becoming to a woman. No woman can be good for much without it, can she, mother?”

“Before you fly off, Rosamond, to my mother as to an ally, whom you are sure I cannot resist,” said Godfrey, “settle first whether you mean to defend Caroline upon the ground of her having or not having pride.”

A fresh gust of wind rose at this moment, and Rosamond listened to it anxiously.

“Seriously, Godfrey,” said she, “do you remember the ship-wrecks last winter?”

As she spoke, Rosamond went to one of the windows, and opened the shutter. Her sister Caroline followed, and they looked out in silence.

“I see a light to the left of the beacon,” said Caroline.—“I never saw a light there before—What can it mean?”

“Only some fishermen,” said Godfrey.

“But, brother, it is quite a storm,” persisted Rosamond.

“Only equinoctial gales, my dear.”

“Only equinoctial gales! But to drowning people it would be no comfort that they were shipwrecked only by equinoctial gales. There! there! what do you think of that blast?” cried Rosamond; “is not there some danger now?”

“Godfrey will not allow it,” said Mrs. Percy: “he is a soldier, and it is his trade not to know fear.”

“Show him a certain danger,” cried Mr. Percy, looking up from a letter he was writing,—“show him a certain danger, and he will feel fear as much as the greatest coward of you all. Ha! upon my word, it is an ugly night,” continued he, going to the window.

“Oh, my dear father!” cried Rosamond, “did you see that light—out at sea?—There! there!—to the left.”

“To the east—I see it.”

“Hark! did you hear?”

“Minute guns!” said Caroline.

There was a dead silence instantly.—Every body listened.—Guns were heard again.—The signal of some vessel in distress. The sound seemed near the shore.—Mr. Percy and Godfrey hastened immediately to the coast.—Their servants and some people from the neighbouring village, whom they summoned, quickly followed. They found that a vessel had struck upon a rock, and from the redoubled signals it appeared that the danger must be imminent.

The boatmen, who were just wakened, were surly, and swore that they would not stir; that whoever she was, she might weather out the night, for that, till daybreak, they couldn’t get alongside of her. Godfrey instantly jumped into a boat, declaring he would go out directly at all hazards.—Mr. Percy with as much intrepidity, but, as became his age, with more prudence, provided whatever assistance was necessary from the villagers, who declared they would go any where with him; the boatmen, then ashamed, or afraid of losing the offered reward, pushed aside the land lubbers, and were ready to put out to sea.

Out they rowed—and they were soon so near the vessel, that they could hear the cries and voices of the crew. The boats hailed her, and she answered that she was Dutch, homeward bound—had mistaken the lights upon the coast—had struck on a rock—was filling with water—and must go down in half an hour.

The moment the boats came alongside of her, the crew crowded into them so fast, and with such disorder and precipitation, that they were in great danger of being overset, which, Mr. Percy seeing, called out in a loud and commanding voice to stop several who were in the act of coming down the ship’s side, and promised to return for them if they would wait. But just as he gave the order for his boatmen to push off, a French voice called out “Monsieur!—Monsieur l’Anglois!—one moment.”

Mr. Percy looked back and saw, as the moon shone full upon the wreck, a figure standing at the poop, leaning over with out-stretched arms.

“I am Monsieur de Tourville, monsieur—a chargé d’affaires—with papers of the greatest importance—despatches.”

“I will return for you, sir—it is impossible for me to take you now—our boat is loaded as much as it can bear,” cried Mr. Percy; and he repeated his order to the boatmen to push off.

Whilst Godfrey and Mr. Percy were trimming the boat, M. de Tourville made an effort to jump into it.

“Oh! don’t do it, sir!” cried a woman with a child in her arms; “the gentleman will come back for us: for God’s sake, don’t jump into it!”

“Don’t attempt it, sir,” cried Mr. Percy, looking up, “or you’ll sink us all.”

M. de Tourville threw down the poor woman who tried to stop him, and he leaped from the side of the ship. At the same moment Mr. Percy, seizing an oar, pushed the boat off, and saved it from being overset, as it must have been if M. de Tourville had scrambled into it. He fell into the water. Mr. Percy, without waiting to see the event, went off as fast as possible, justly considering that the lives of the number he had under his protection, including his son’s and his own, were not to be sacrificed for one man, whatever his name or office might be, especially when that man had persisted against all warning in his rash selfishness.

At imminent danger to themselves, Mr. Percy and Godfrey, after landing those in the boat, returned once more to the wreck; and though they both declared that their consciences would be at ease even if they found that M. de Tourville was drowned, yet it was evident that they rejoiced to see him safe on board. This time the boat held him, and all the rest of his fellow sufferers; and Mr. Percy and his son had the satisfaction of bringing every soul safely to shore.—M. de Tourville, as soon as he found himself on terra firma, joined with all around him in warm thanks to Mr. Percy and his son, by whom their lives had been saved.—Godfrey undertook to find lodgings for some of the passengers and for the ship’s crew in the village, and Mr. Percy invited the captain, M. de Tourville, and the rest of the passengers, to Percy-hall, where Mrs. Percy and her daughters had prepared every thing for their hospitable reception. When they had warmed, dried, and refreshed themselves, they were left to enjoy what they wanted most—repose. The Percy family, nearly as much fatigued as their guests, were also glad to rest—all but Rosamond, who was wide awake, and so much excited by what had happened, that she continued talking to her sister, who slept in the same room with her, of every circumstance, and filling her imagination with all that might come to pass from the adventures of the night, whilst Caroline, too sleepy to be able to answer judiciously, or even plausibly, said, “Yes,” “No,” and “Very true,” in the wrong place; and at length, incapable of uttering even a monosyllable, was reduced to inarticulate sounds in sign of attention. These grew fainter and fainter, and after long intervals absolutely failing, Rosamond with some surprise and indignation, exclaimed, “I do believe, Caroline, you are asleep!” And, in despair, Rosamond, for want of an auditor, was compelled to compose herself to rest.

In the course of a few hours the storm abated, and in the morning, when the family and their shipwrecked guests assembled at breakfast, all was calm and serene. Much to Rosamond’s dissatisfaction, M. de Tourville did not make his appearance. Of the other strangers she had seen only a glimpse the preceding night, and had not settled her curiosity concerning what sort of beings they were. On a clear view by daylight of the personages who now sat at the breakfast-table, there did not appear much to interest her romantic imagination, or to excite her benevolent sympathy. They had the appearance of careful money-making men, thick, square-built Dutch merchants, who said little and eat much—butter especially. With one accord, as soon as they had breakfasted, they rose, and begged permission to go down to the wreck to look after their property. Mr. Percy and Godfrey offered immediately to accompany them to the coast.

Mr. Percy had taken the precaution to set guards to watch all night, from the time he left the vessel, that no depredations might be committed. They found that some of the cargo had been damaged by the sea-water, but excepting this loss there was no other of any consequence; the best part of the goods was perfectly safe. As it was found that it would take some time to repair the wreck, the Prussian and Hamburgh passengers determined to go on board a vessel which was to sail from a neighbouring port with the first fair wind. They came, previously to their departure, to thank the Percy family, and to assure them that their hospitality would never be forgotten.—Mr. Percy pressed them to stay at Percy-hall till the vessel should sail, and till the captain should send notice of the first change of wind.—This offer, however, was declined, and the Dutch merchants, with due acknowledgments, said, by their speaking partner, that “they considered it safest and best to go with the goods, and so wished Mr. Percy a good morning, and that he might prosper in all his dealings; and, sir,” concluded he, “in any of the changes of fortune, which happen to men by land as well as by sea, please to remember the names of Grinderweld, Groensvelt, and Slidderchild of Amsterdam, or our correspondents, Panton and Co., London.”

So having said, they walked away, keeping an eye upon the goods.

When Mr. Percy returned home it was near dinner-time, yet M. de Tourville had not made his appearance. He was all this while indulging in a comfortable sleep. He had no goods on board the wreck except his clothes, and as these were in certain trunks and portmanteaus in which Comtois, his valet, had a joint concern, M. de Tourville securely trusted that they would be obtained without his taking any trouble.

Comtois and the trunks again appeared, and a few minutes before dinner M. de Tourville made his entrance into the drawing-room, no longer in the plight of a shipwrecked mariner, but in gallant trim, wafting gales of momentary bliss as he went round the room paying his compliments to the ladies, bowing, smiling, apologizing,—the very pink of courtesy!—The gentlemen of the family, who had seen him the preceding night in his frightened, angry, drenched, and miserable state, could scarcely believe him to be the same person.

A Frenchman, it will be allowed, can contrive to say more, and to tell more of his private history in a given time, than could be accomplished by a person of any other nation. In the few minutes before dinner he found means to inform the company, that he was private secretary and favourite of the minister of a certain German court. To account for his having taken his passage in a Dutch merchant vessel, and for his appearing without a suitable suite, he whispered that he had been instructed to preserve a strict incognito, from which, indeed, nothing but the horrors of the preceding night could have drawn him.

Dinner was served, and at dinner M. de Tourville was seen, according to the polished forms of society, humbling himself in all the hypocrisy of politeness; with ascetic good-breeding, preferring every creature’s ease and convenience to his own, practising a continual system of self-denial, such as almost implied a total annihilation of self-interest and self-love. All this was strikingly contrasted with the selfishness which he had recently betrayed, when he was in personal danger. Yet the influence of polite manners prevailed so far as to make his former conduct be forgotten by most of the family.

After dinner, when the ladies retired, in the female privy council held to discuss the merits of the absent gentlemen, Rosamond spoke first, and during the course of five minutes pronounced as many contradictory opinions of M. de Tourville, as could well be enunciated in the same space of time.—At last she paused, and her mother smiled.

“I understand your smile, mother,” said Rosamond; “but the reason I appear a little to contradict myself sometimes in my judgment of character is, because I speak my thoughts just as they rise in my mind, while persons who have a character for judgment to support always keep the changes of their opinion snug to themselves, never showing the items of the account on either side, and let you see nothing but their balance.—This is very grand, and, if their balance be right, very glorious.—But ignominious as my mode of proceeding may seem, exposing me to the rebukes, derision, uplifted hands and eyes of my auditors, yet exactly because I am checked at every little mistake I make in my accounts, the chance is in my favour that my totals should at last be right, and my balance perfectly accurate.”

“Very true, my dear: as long as you choose for your auditors only your friends, you are wise; but you sometimes lay your accounts open to strangers; and as they see only your errors, without ever coming to your conclusion, they form no favourable opinion of your accuracy.”

“I don’t mind what strangers think of me—much,” said Rosamond.—“At least you will allow, mamma, that I have reason to be satisfied, if only those who do not know me should form an unfavourable opinion of my judgment—and, after all, ma’am, of the two classes of people, those who ‘never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one,’ and those who never did a foolish thing, and never said a wise one, would not you rather that I should belong to the latter class?”

“Certainly, if I were reduced to the cruel alternative: but is there an unavoidable necessity for your belonging to either class?”

“I will consider of it, ma’am,” said Rosamond: “in the meantime, Caroline, you will allow that M. de Tourville is very agreeable?”

“Agreeable!” repeated Caroline; “such a selfish being? Have you forgotten his attempting to jump into the boat, at the hazard of oversetting it, and of drowning my father and Godfrey, who went out to save him—and when my father warned him—and promised to return for him—selfish, cowardly creature!”

“Oh! poor man, he was so frightened, that he did not know what he was doing—he was not himself.”

“You mean he was himself,” said Caroline.

“You are very ungrateful, Caroline,” cried Rosamond; “for I am sure M. de Tourville admires you extremely—yes, in spite of that provoking, incredulous smile, I say he does admire you exceedingly.”

“And if he did,” replied Caroline, “that would make no difference in my opinion of him.”

“I doubt that,” said Rosamond: “I know a person’s admiring me would make a great difference in my opinion of his taste and judgment—and how much more if he had sense enough to admire you!”

Rosamond paused, and stood for some minutes silent in reverie.

“It will never do, my dear,” said Mrs. Percy, looking up at her; “trust me it will never do; turn him which way you will in your imagination, you will never make a hero of him—nor yet a brother-in-law.”

“My dear mother, how could you guess what I was thinking of?” said Rosamond, colouring a little, and laughing; “but I assure you—now let me explain to you, ma’am, in one word, what I think of M. de Tourville.”

“Hush! my dear, he is here.”

The gentlemen came into the room to tea.—M. de Tourville walked to the table at which Mrs. Percy was sitting; and, after various compliments on the beauty of the views from the windows, on the richness of the foliage in the park, and the superiority of English verdure, he next turned to look at the pictures in the saloon, distinguished a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, then passing to a table on which lay several books—“Is it permitted?” said he, taking up one of them—the Life of Lord Nelson.

M. de Tourville did not miss the opportunity of paying a just and what to English ears he knew must be a delightful, tribute of praise to our naval hero. Then opening several other books, he made a rash attempt to pronounce in English their titles, and with the happy facility of a Frenchman, he touched upon various subjects, dwelt upon none, but found means on all to say something to raise himself and his country in the opinion of the company, and at the same time to make all his auditors pleased with themselves. Presently, taking a seat between Rosamond and Caroline, he applied himself to draw out their talents for conversation. Nor did he labour in vain. They did not shut themselves up in stupid and provoking silence, nor did they make any ostentatious display of their knowledge or abilities.—M. de Tourville, as Rosamond had justly observed, seemed to be particularly struck with Miss Caroline Percy.—She was beautiful, and of an uncommon style of beauty. Ingenuous, unaffected, and with all the simplicity of youth, there was a certain dignity and graceful self-possession in her manner, which gave the idea of a superior character. She had, perhaps, less of what the French call esprit than M. de Tourville had been accustomed to meet with in young persons on the continent, but he was the more surprised by the strength and justness of thought which appeared in her plain replies to the finesse of some of his questions.

The morning of the second day that he was at Percy-hall, M. de Tourville was admiring the Miss Percys’ drawings, especially some miniatures of Caroline’s, and he produced his snuff-box, to show Mr. Percy a beautiful miniature on its lid.

It was exquisitely painted. M. de Tourville offered it to Caroline to copy, and Mrs. Percy urged her to make the attempt.

“It is the celebrated Euphrosyne,” said he, “who from the stage was very near mounting a throne.”

M. de Tourville left the miniature in the hands of the ladies to be admired, and, addressing himself to Mr. Percy, began to tell with much mystery the story of Euphrosyne. She was an actress of whom the prince, heir apparent at the German court where he resided, had become violently enamoured. One of the prince’s young confidants had assisted his royal highness in carrying on a secret correspondence with Euphrosyne, which she managed so artfully that the prince was on the point of giving her a written promise of marriage, when the intrigue was discovered, and prevented from proceeding farther, by a certain Count Albert Altenberg, a young nobleman who had till that moment been one of the prince’s favourites, but who by thus opposing his passion lost entirely his prince’s favour. The story was a common story of an intrigue, such as happens every day in every country where there is a young prince; but there was something uncommon in the conduct of Count Altenberg. Mr. Percy expressed his admiration of it; but M. de Tourville, though he acknowledged, as in morality bound, that the count’s conduct had been admirable, just what it ought to be upon this occasion, yet spoke of him altogether as une tête exaltée, a young man of a romantic Quixotic enthusiasm, to which he had sacrificed the interests of his family, and his own hopes of advancement at court. In support of this opinion, M. de Tourville related several anecdotes, and on each of these anecdotes Mr. Percy and M. de Tourville differed in opinion. All that was produced to prove that the young count had no judgment or discretion appeared to Mr. Percy proofs of his independence of character and greatness of soul. Mr. Percy repeated the anecdotes to Mrs. Percy and his daughters; and M. de Tourville, as soon as he saw that the ladies, and especially Caroline, differed from him, immediately endeavoured to slide round to their opinion, and assured Caroline, with many asseverations, and with his hand upon his heart, that he had merely been speaking of the light in which these things appeared to the generality of men of the world; that for his own particular feelings they were all in favour of the frankness and generosity of character evinced by these imprudences—he only lamented that certain qualities should expose their possessor to the censure and ridicule of those who were like half the world, incapable of being moved by any motive but interest, and unable to reach to the idea of the moral sublime.

The more M. de Tourville said upon the subject, and the more gesture and emphasis he used to impress the belief in his truth, the less Caroline believed him, and the more dislike and contempt she felt for the duplicity and pitiful meanness of a character, which was always endeavouring to seem, instead of to be.—He understood and felt the expression of her countenance, and mortified by that dignified silence, which said more than words could express, he turned away, and never afterwards addressed to her any of his confidential conversation.

From this moment Rosamond’s opinion of M. de Tourville changed. She gave him up altogether, and denied, or at least gave him grudgingly, that praise, which he eminently deserved for agreeable manners and conversational talents. Not a foible of his now escaped her quick observation and her lively perception of ridicule.

Whether from accident, or from some suspicion that he had lost ground with the ladies, M. de Tourville the next day directed the principal part of his conversation to the gentlemen of the family: comforting himself with the importance of his political and official character, he talked grandly of politics and diplomacy. Rosamond, who listened with an air of arch attention, from time to time, with a tone of ironical simplicity, asked explanations on certain points relative to the diplomatic code of morality, and professed herself much edified and enlightened by the answers she received.

She wished, as she told Caroline, that some one would write Advice to Diplomatists, in the manner of Swift’s advice to Servants; and she observed that M. de Tourville, chargé d’affaires, &c., might supply anecdotes illustrative, and might embellish the work with a portrait of a finished diplomatist. Unfortunately for the public, on the third morning of the diplomatist’s visit, a circumstance occurred, which prevented the farther development of his character, stopped his flow of anecdote, and snatched him from the company of his hospitable hosts. In looking over his papers, in order to show Mr. Percy a complimentary letter from some crowned head, M. de Tourville discovered that an important packet of papers belonging to his despatches was missing. He had in the moment of danger and terror stuffed all his despatches into his great-coat pocket; in getting out of the boat he had given his coat to Comtois to carry, and, strange to tell, this chargé d’affaires had taken it upon trust, from the assertion of his valet, that all his papers were safe. He once, indeed, had looked them over, but so carelessly that he never had missed the packet. His dismay was great when he discovered his loss. He repeated at least a thousand times that he was an undone man, unless the packet could be found.—Search was made for it, in the boat, on the shore, in every probable and improbable place—but all in vain; and in the midst of the search a messenger came to announce that the wind was fair, that the ship would sail in one hour, and that the captain could wait for no man. M. de Tourville was obliged to take his departure without this precious packet.

Mrs. Percy was the only person in the family who had the humanity to pity him. He was too little of a soldier for Godfrey’s taste, too much of a courtier for Mr. Percy, too frivolous for Caroline, and too little romantic for Rosamond.

“So,” said Rosamond, “here was a fine beginning of a romance with a shipwreck, that ends only in five square merchants, who do not lose even a guilder of their property, and a diplomatist, with whom we are sure of nothing but that he has lost a bundle of papers for which nobody cares!”

In a few days the remembrance of the whole adventure began to fade from her fancy. M. de Tourville, and his snuff-box, and his essences, and his flattery, and his diplomacy, and his lost packet, and all the circumstances of the shipwreck, would have appeared as a dream, if they had not been maintained in the rank of realities by the daily sight of the wreck, and by the actual presence of the Dutch sailors, who were repairing the vessel.