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Buckhurst Falconer returned to Percy-hall.

He came provided with something like an excuse—he had business—his father had desired him to ask Mr. Percy to take charge of a box of family papers for him, as he apprehended that, when he was absent from the country, his steward had not been as careful of them as he ought to have been.

Mr. Percy willingly consented to take charge of the papers, but he desired that, before they were left with him, Buckhurst should take a list of them.

Buckhurst was unprepared for this task.

His head was intent on a ball and on Caroline. However, he was obliged to undergo this labour; and when he had finished it, Mr. Percy, who happened to be preparing some new leases of considerable farms, was so busy, in the midst of his papers, that there was no such thing as touching upon the subject of the ball. At length the ladies of the family appeared, and all the parchments were at last out of the way—Buckhurst began upon his real business, and said he meant to delay going to town a few days longer, because there was to be a ball early in the ensuing week.—“Nothing more natural,” said Mr. Percy, “than to wish to go to a ball; yet,” added he, gravely, “when a man of honour gives his promise that nothing shall prevent him from commencing his studies immediately, I did not expect that the first temptation—”

“Oh! my dear Mr. Percy,” said Buckhurst, endeavouring to laugh away the displeasure, or rather the disappointment which he saw in Mr. Percy’s countenance, “a few days can make no difference.”

“Only the difference of a term,” said Mr. Percy; “and the difference between promising and performing. You thought me unjust yesterday, when I told you that I feared you would prefer present amusement to future happiness.”

“Amusement!” exclaimed Buckhurst, turning suddenly towards Caroline; “do you imagine that is my object?” Then approaching her, he said in a low voice, “It is a natural mistake for you to make, Miss Caroline Percy—for you—who know nothing of love. Amusement! It is not amusement that detains me—can you think I would stay for a ball, unless I expected to meet you there?”

“Then I will not go,” said Caroline: “it would be coquetry to meet you there, when, as I thought, I had distinctly explained to you yesterday—”

“Oh! don’t repeat that,” interrupted Buckhurst: “a lady is never bound to remember what she said yesterday—especially if it were a cruel sentence; I hope hereafter you will change your mind—let me live upon hope.”

“I will never give any false hopes,” said Caroline; “and since I cannot add to your happiness, I will take care not to diminish it. I will not be the cause of your breaking your promise to my father: I will not be the means of tempting you to lower yourself in his opinion—I will not go to this ball.”

Buckhurst smiled, went on with some commonplace raillery about cruelty, and took his leave, fancying that Caroline could not be in earnest in her threat, as he called it.—As his disobedience would have the excuse of love, he thought he might venture to transgress the letter of the promise.

When the time came, he went to the ball, almost certain that Caroline would break her resolution, as he knew that she had never yet been at a public assembly, and it was natural that one so sure of being admired would be anxious to be seen. His surprise and disappointment were great when no Caroline appeared.

He asked Rosamond if her sister was not well?

“Perfectly well.”

“Then why is not she here?”

“Don’t you recollect her telling you that she would not come?”

“Yes: but I did not think she was in earnest.”

“How little you know of Caroline,” replied Rosamond, “if you imagine that either in trifles, or in matters of consequence, she would say one thing and do another.”

“I feel,” said Buckhurst, colouring, “what that emphasis on she means. But I did not think you would have reproached me so severely. I thought my cousin Rosamond was my friend.”

“So I am—but not a friend to your faults.”

“Surely it is no great crime in a young man to like going to a ball better than going to the Temple! But I am really concerned,” continued Buckhurst, “that I have deprived Miss Caroline Percy of the pleasure of being here to-night—and this was to have been her first appearance in public—I am quite sorry.”

“Caroline is not at all impatient to appear in public; and as to the pleasure of being at a ball, it costs her little to sacrifice that, or any pleasure of her own, for the advantage of others.”

“When Miss Caroline Percy said something about my falling in her father’s opinion for such a trifle, I could not guess that she was serious.”

“She does not,” replied Rosamond, “think it a trifle to break a promise.”

Buckhurst looked at his watch. “The mail-coach will pass through this town in an hour. It shall take me to London—Good bye—I will not stay another moment—I am gone. I wish I had gone yesterday—pray, my dear, good Rosamond, say so for me to Caroline.”

At this moment a beautiful young lady, attended by a large party, entered the ball-room. Buckhurst stopped to inquire who she was.

“Did you never see my sister before?” replied Colonel Hauton—“Oh! I must introduce you, and you shall dance with her.”

“You do me a great deal of honour—I shall be very happy—that is, I should be extremely happy—only unfortunately I am under a necessity of setting off immediately for London—I’m afraid I shall be late for the mail—Good night.”

Buckhurst made an effort, as he spoke, to pass on; but Colonel Hauton bursting into one of his horse laughs, held him fast by the arm, swore he must be drunk, for that he did not know what he was saying or doing.

Commissioner Falconer, who now came up, whispered to Buckhurst, “Are you mad? You can’t refuse—you’ll affront for ever!”

“I can’t help it,” said Buckhurst: “I’m sorry for it—I cannot help it.”

He still kept on his way towards the door.

“But,” expostulated the commissioner, following him out, “you can surely stay, be introduced, and pay your compliments to the young lady—you are time enough for the mail. Don’t affront people for nothing, who may be of the greatest use to you.”

“But, my dear father, I don’t want people to be of use to me.”

“Well, at any rate turn back just to see what a charming creature Miss Hauton is. Such an entrée! So much the air of a woman of fashion! every eye riveted—the whole room in admiration of her!”

“I did not see any thing remarkable about her,” said Buckhurst, turning back to look at her again. “If you think I should affront—I would not really affront Hauton, who has always been so civil to me—I’ll go and be introduced and pay my compliments, since you say it is necessary; but I shall not stay five minutes.”

Buckhurst returned to be introduced to Miss Hauton. This young lady was so beautiful that she would, in all probability, have attracted general attention, even if she had not been the sister of a man of Colonel Hauton’s fortune, and the niece of a nobleman of Lord Oldborough’s political consequence; but undoubtedly these circumstances much increased the power of her charms over the imaginations of her admirers. All the gentlemen at this hall were unanimous in declaring that she was a most fascinating creature. Buckhurst Falconer and Godfrey Percy were introduced to her nearly at the same time. Godfrey asked her to dance—and Buckhurst could not help staying to see her. She danced so gracefully, that while he thought he had stayed only five minutes, he delayed a quarter of an hour. Many gentlemen were ambitious of the honour of Miss Hauton’s hand; but, to their disappointment, she declined dancing any more; and though Buckhurst Falconer had determined not to have stayed, nor to dance with her, yet an undefinable perverse curiosity induced him to delay a few minutes to determine whether she conversed as well as she danced. The sound of her voice was sweet and soft, and there was an air of languor in her whole person and manner, with an apparent indifference to general admiration, which charmed Godfrey Percy, especially as he perceived, that she could be animated by his conversation. To Buckhurst’s wit she listened with politeness, but obviously without interest. Buckhurst looked at his watch again—but it was now too late for the mail. Rosamond was surprised to see him still in the ball-room. He laid all the blame on his father, and pleaded that he was detained by parental orders which he could not disobey. He sat beside Rosamond at supper, and used much eloquence to convince her that he had obeyed against his will.

In the mean time Godfrey, seated next to his fair partner, became every moment more and more sensible of the advantages of his situation. Towards the end of supper, when the buzz of general conversation increased, it happened that somebody near Miss Hauton spoke of a marriage that was likely to take place in the fashionable world, and all who thought themselves, or who wished to be thought good authorities, began to settle how it would be, and when it would be: but a gentleman of Godfrey’s acquaintance, who sat next to him, said, in a low voice, “It will never be.”—“Why?” said Godfrey.—The gentleman answered in a whisper, “There is an insuperable objection: the mother—don’t you recollect?—the mother was a divorcée; and no man of sense would venture to marry the daughter—”

“No, certainly,” said Godfrey; “I did not know the fact.”

He turned, as he finished speaking, to ask Miss Hauton if she would permit him to help her to something that stood before him; but to his surprise and alarm he perceived that she was pale, trembling, and scarcely able to support herself.—He, for the first moment, thought only that she was taken suddenly ill, and he was going to call Lady Oldborough’s attention to her indisposition—but Miss Hauton stopped him, and said in a low, tremulous voice—“Take no notice.” He then poured out a glass of water, put it within her reach, turned away in obedience to her wishes, and sat in such a manner as to screen her from observation. A confused recollection now came across his mind of his having heard many years ago, when he was a child, of the divorce of some Lady Anne Hauton, and the truth occurred to him, that this was Miss Hauton’s mother, and that Miss Hauton had overheard the whisper.

In a few moments, anxious to see whether she had recovered, and yet afraid to distress her by his attention, he half turned his head, and looking down at her plate, asked if she was better.

“Quite well, thank you.”

He then raised his eyes, and looking as unconcernedly as he could, resumed his former attitude, and began some trifling conversation; but whatever effort he made to appear the same as before, there was some constraint, or some difference in his voice and manner, which the young lady perceived—her voice immediately changed and faltered—he spoke quickly—both spoke at the same time, without knowing what either said or what they said themselves—their eyes met, and both were silent—Miss Hauton blushed deeply. He saw that his conjecture was right, and she saw, by Godfrey’s countenance, that her secret was discovered: her eyes fell, she grew pale, and instantly fainted. Lady Oldborough came to her assistance, but she was too helpless a fine lady to be of the least use: she could only say that it must be the heat of the room, and that she should faint herself in another moment.

Godfrey whispered to his mother—and Miss Hauton was carried into the open air. Lady Oldborough and her smelling-bottle followed. Godfrey, leaving the young lady with them, returned quickly to the supper-room, to prevent any one from intruding upon her. He met Buckhurst Falconer and Colonel Hauton at the door, and stopped them with assurances that Miss Hauton had all the assistance she could want.

“I’ll tell you what she wants,” cried the Colonel to Buckhurst; “a jaunt to Cheltenham, which would do her and me, too, a d—d deal of good; for now the races are over, what the devil shall we do with ourselves here? I’ll rattle Maria off the day after to-morrow in my phaeton. No—Buckhurst, my good fellow, I’ll drive you in the phaeton, and I’ll make Lady Oldborough take Maria in the coach.”

Godfrey Percy, who, as he passed, could not avoid hearing this invitation, did not stay to learn Buckhurst’s answer, but went instantly into the room. No one, not even the gentleman whose whisper had occasioned it, had the least suspicion of the real cause of Miss Hauton’s indisposition. Lady Oldborough had assigned as the occasion of the young lady’s illness “the heat of the room,” and an old medical dowager was eager to establish that “it was owing to some strawberry ice, as, to her certain knowledge, ice, in some shape or other, was the cause of most of the mischief in the world.”

Whilst the partizans of heat and ice were still battling, and whilst the dancers had quite forgotten Miss Hauton, and every thing but themselves, the young lady returned to the room. Godfrey went to order Mrs. Percy’s carriage, and the Percy family left the ball.

When Godfrey found himself in the carriage with his own family, he began eagerly to talk of Miss Hauton; he was anxious to know what all and each thought of her, in general, and in particular: he talked so much of her, and seemed so much surprised that any body could wish to talk or think of any thing else, that Mrs. Percy could not help smiling. Mr. Percy, leaning back in the carriage, said that he felt inclined to sleep.

“To sleep!” repeated Godfrey: “is it possible that you can be sleepy, sir?”

“Very possible, my dear son—it is past four o’clock, I believe.”

Godfrey was silent for some minutes, and he began to think over every word and look that had passed between him and Miss Hauton. He had been only amused with her conversation, and charmed by her grace and beauty in the beginning of the evening; but the sensibility she had afterwards shown had touched him so much, that he was extremely anxious to interest his father in her favour. He explained the cause of her fainting, and asked whether she was not much to be pitied. All pitied her—and Godfrey, encouraged by this pity, went on to prove that she ought not to be blamed for her mother’s faults; that nothing could be more unjust and cruel than to think ill of the innocent daughter, because her mother had been imprudent.

“But, Godfrey,” said Rosamond, “you seem to be answering some one who has attacked Miss Hauton—whom are you contending with?”

“With himself,” said Mr. Percy. “His prudence tells him that the gentleman was quite right in saying that no man of sense would marry the daughter of a woman who had conducted herself ill, and yet he wishes to make an exception to the general rule in favour of pretty Miss Hauton.”

“Pretty! My dear father, she is a great deal more than pretty: if she were only pretty, I should not be so much interested about her. But putting her quite out of the question, I do not agree with the general principle that a man should not marry the daughter of a woman who has conducted herself ill.”

“I think you did agree with it till you knew that it applied to Miss Hauton’s case,” said Mr. Percy: “as well as I remember, Godfrey, I heard you once answer on a similar occasion, ‘No, no—I will have nothing to do with any of the daughters of that mother—black cats have black kittens’—or ‘black dogs have black puppies’—I forget which you said.”

“Whichever it was, I am ashamed of having quoted such a vulgar proverb,” said Godfrey.

“It may be a vulgar proverb, but I doubt whether it be a vulgar error,” said Mr. Percy: “I have great faith in the wisdom of nations. So much so in the present instance, that I own I would rather a son of mine were to marry a well-conducted farmer’s daughter of honest parentage, than the daughter of an ill-conducted lady of rank or fashion. The farmer’s daughter might be trained into a gentlewoman, and might make my son at least a faithful wife, which is more than he could expect, or than I should expect, from the young lady, who had early seen the example of what was bad, and whose predispositions would be provided with the excuse of the old song.”

Godfrey took fire at this, and exclaimed against the injustice of a doctrine which would render wretched for life many young women who might possess every amiable and estimable quality, and who could never remedy the misfortune of their birth. Godfrey urged, that whilst this would render the good miserable, it would be the most probable means of driving the weak from despair into vice.

Rosamond eagerly joined her brother’s side of the question. Mr. Percy, though he knew, he said, that he must appear one of the “fathers with flinty hearts,” protested that he felt great compassion for the unfortunate individuals, as much as a man who was not in love with any of them could reasonably be expected to feel.

“But now,” continued he, “granting that all the consequences which Godfrey has predicted were to follow from my doctrine, yet I am inclined to believe that society would, upon the whole, be the gainer by such severity, or, as I am willing to allow it to be, such apparent injustice. The adherence to this principle would be the misery, perhaps the ruin, of a few; but would, I think, tend to the safety and happiness of so many, that the evil would be nothing in comparison to the good. The certainty of shame descending to the daughters would be a powerful means of deterring mothers from ill-conduct; and might probably operate more effectually to restrain licentiousness in high life than heavy damages, or the now transient disgrace of public trial and divorce. As to the apparent injustice of punishing children for the faults of their parents, it should be considered that in most other cases children suffer discredit more or less for the faults of their parents of whatever kind; and that, on the other hand, they enjoy the advantage of the good characters which their parents establish. This must be so from the necessary effect of experience, and from the nature of human belief, except in cases where passion operates to destroy or suspend the power of reason—”

“That is not my case, I assure you, sir,” interrupted Godfrey.

Mr. Percy smiled, and continued:—“It appears to me highly advantageous, that character, in general, should descend to posterity as well as riches or honours, which are, in fact, often the representations, or consequences, in other forms, of different parts of character—industry, talents, courage. For instance, in the lower ranks of life, it is a common saying, that a good name is the richest legacy a woman can leave her daughter. This idea should be impressed more fully than it is upon the higher classes. At present, money too frequently forms a compensation for every thing in high life. It is not uncommon to see the natural daughters of men of rank, or of large fortune, portioned so magnificently, either with solid gold, or promised family protection, that their origin by the mother’s side, and the character of the mother, are quite forgotten. Can this be advantageous to good morals? Surely a mother living in open defiance of the virtue of her sex should not see her illegitimate offspring, instead of being her shame, become her glory.—On the contrary, nothing could tend more to prevent the ill conduct of women in high life than the certainty that men who, from their fortune, birth, and character, might be deemed the most desirable matches, would shun alliances with the daughters of women of tainted reputation.”

Godfrey eagerly declared his contempt for those men who married for money or ambition either illegitimate or legitimate daughters. He should be sorry, he said, to do any thing that would countenance vice, which ought to be put out of countenance by all means—if possible. But he was not the guardian of public morals; and even if he were, he should still think it unjust that the innocent should suffer for the guilty. That for his own part, if he could put his father’s disapprobation out of the question, he should easily settle his mind, and overcome all objections in a prudential point of view to marrying an amiable woman who had had the misfortune to have a worthless mother.

Mrs. Percy had not yet given her opinion—all eyes turned towards her. As usual, she spoke with persuasive gentleness and good sense; she marked where each had, in the warmth of argument, said more than they intended, and she seized the just medium by which all might be conciliated. She said that she thought the important point to be considered was, what the education of the daughter had been; on this a prudent man would form his opinion, not on the mere accident of her birth. He would inquire whether the girl had lived with the ill-conducted mother—had been in situations to be influenced by her example, or by that of the company which she kept. If such had been the case, Mrs. Percy declared she thought it would be imprudent and wrong to marry the daughter. But if the daughter had been separated in early childhood from the mother, had never been exposed to the influence of her example, had, on the contrary, been educated carefully in strict moral and religious principles, it would be cruel, because unnecessary, to object to an alliance with such a woman. The objection would appear inconsistent, as well as unjust, if made by, those who professed to believe in the unlimited power of education.

Godfrey rubbed his hands with delight—Mr. Percy smiled, and acknowledged that he was compelled to admit the truth and justice of this statement.

“Pray do you know, Godfrey,” said Rosamond, “whether Miss Hauton lived with her mother, or was educated by her?”

“I cannot tell,” said Godfrey; “but I will make it my business to find out. At all events, my dear mother,” continued he, “a child cannot decide by whom she will be educated. It is not her fault if her childhood be passed with a mother who is no fit guardian for her.”

“I acknowledge,” said Mrs. Percy, “that is her misfortune.”

“And would you make it an irreparable misfortune?” said Godfrey, in an expostulatory tone: “my dear mother—only consider.”

“My dear son, I do consider,” said Mrs. Percy; “but I cannot give up the point of education. I should be very sorry to see a son of mine married to a woman who had been in this unfortunate predicament. But,” added Mrs. Percy, after a few minutes’ silence, “if from the time her own will and judgment could be supposed to act, she had chosen for her companions respectable and amiable persons, and had conducted herself with uniform propriety and discretion, I think I might be brought to allow of an exception to my general principle.” She looked at Mr. Percy.

“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Percy; “exceptions must not merely be allowed, but will force themselves in favour of superior merit, of extraordinary excellence, which will rise above every unfavourable circumstance in any class, in any condition of life in which it may exist, which will throw off any stigma, however disgraceful, counteract all prepossessions, however potent, rise against all power of depression—redeem a family—redeem a race.”

“Now, father, you speak like yourself!” cried Godfrey: “this is all I ask—all I wish.”

“And here,” continued Mr. Percy, “is an adequate motive for a good and great mind—yes, great—for I believe there are great minds in the female as well as in the male part of the creation; I say, here is an adequate motive to excite a woman of a good and great mind to exert herself to struggle against the misfortunes of her birth.”

“For instance,” said Rosamond, “my sister Caroline is just the kind of woman, who, if she had been one of these unfortunate daughters, would have made herself an exception.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Percy, laughing; “but why you should go so far out of your way to make an unfortunate daughter of poor Caroline, and why you should picture to yourself, as Dr. Johnson would say, what would be probable in an impossible situation, I cannot conceive, except for the pleasure of exercising, as you do upon most occasions, a fine romantic imagination.”

“At all events I am perfectly satisfied,” said Godfrey. “Since you admit of exceptions, sir, I agree with you entirely.”

“No, not entirely. I am sure you cannot agree with me entirely, until I admit Miss Hauton to be one of my exceptions.”

“That will come in time, if she deserve it,” said Mrs. Percy.

Godfrey thanked his mother with great warmth, and observed, that she was always the most indulgent of friends.

“But remember my if,” said Mrs. Percy: “I know nothing of Miss Hauton at present, except that she is very pretty, and that she has engaging manners—Do you, my dear Godfrey?”

“Yes, indeed, ma’am, I know a great deal more of her.”

“Did you ever see her before this night?”

“Never,” said Godfrey.

“And at a ball!” said Mrs. Percy: “you must have wonderful penetration into character.—But Cupid, though blindfold, can see more at a single glance than a philosophic eye can discover with the most minute examination.”

“But, Cupid out of the question, let me ask you, mother,” said Godfrey, “whether you do not think Miss Hauton has a great deal of sensibility? You saw that there was no affectation in her fainting.”

“None, none,” said Mrs. Percy.

“There, father!” cried Godfrey, in an exulting tone; “and sensibility is the foundation of every thing that is most amiable and charming, of every grace, of every virtue in woman.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “and perhaps of some of their errors and vices. It depends upon how it is governed, whether sensibility be a curse or a blessing to its possessor, and to society.”

“A curse!” cried Godfrey; “yes, if a woman be doomed—”

“Come, come, my dear Godfrey,” interrupted Mr. Percy, “do not let us talk any more upon the subject just now, because you are too much interested to reason coolly.”

Rosamond then took her turn to talk of what was uppermost in her thoughts—Buckhurst Falconer, whom she alternately blamed and pitied, accused and defended; sometimes rejoicing that Caroline had rejected his suit, sometimes pitying him for his disappointment, and repeating that with such talents, frankness, and generosity of disposition, it was much to be regretted that he had not that rectitude of principle, and steadiness of character, which alone could render him worthy of Caroline. Then passing from compassion for the son to indignation against the father, she observed, “that Commissioner Falconer seemed determined to counteract all that was good in his son’s disposition, that he actually did every thing in his power to encourage Buckhurst in a taste for dissipation, as it seemed on purpose to keep him in a state of dependence, and to enslave him to the great.

“I hope, with all my heart, I hope,” continued Rosamond, “that Buckhurst will have sense and steadiness enough to refuse; but I heard his father supporting that foolish Colonel Hauton’s persuasions, and urging his poor son to go with those people to Cheltenham. Now, if once he gets into that extravagant, dissipated set, he will be ruined for ever!—Adieu to all hopes of him. He will no more go to the bar than I shall—he will think of nothing but pleasure; he will run in debt again, and then farewell principle, and with principle, farewell all hopes of him. But I think he will have sense and steadiness enough to resist his father, and to refuse to accompany this profligate patron, Colonel Hauton.—Godfrey, what is your opinion? Do you think Buckhurst will go?”

“I do not know,” replied Godfrey: “in his place I should find it very easy, but in my own case, I confess, I should feel it difficult, to refuse, if I were pressed to join a party of pleasure with Miss Hauton.”