The Old Manor House:


Mr. Somerive threw himself into a chair, and, clasping his hands eagerly together, exclaimed, Good God; what is to be done now?

Nothing, my dear Sir, replied Orlando, can or ought to be done, but for me to obey the orders I have received; and, I beseech you, do not suffer a 69 matter so much in course, or which might have been so easily foreseen, to make you unhappy!

What will become of me, cried Somerive wildly, when you, Orlando, are gone? And your brother, your unhappy brother! is a misery rather than a protection to your sisters, to your mother . . . . !

They will want no protector, Sir, said Orlando, much affected by his father’s distress, while you live—and . . . . . . !

That will be but a very little while, my son! the cruelty of your brother has broken my heart!—While you were all that could make me amends, the wound, however incurable, was not immediately mortal: but now——!

He put his hands to his heart, as if he really felt there the incurable wound he described bleed afresh. Orlando, concealing his own concern as well as he could, endeavoured to sooth his father, by representing to him that this was always likely to happen, and that probably a few months would restore him to his family. Somerive listened to nothing but his own overwhelming apprehensions, and cast his thoughts around to every remedy that might be applied to so great an evil. The assurance General Tracy had given him that there was no likelihood Orlando should be sent abroad, now appeared a cruel deception, which had betrayed him into such folly and rashness as sending into the army that son on whom rested all the dependence of his family. Bitterly repenting what he could not now recall, he caught at the hope that Mrs. Rayland might interpose to prevent her favourite’s being exposed to the dangers of an American campaign—You cannot go, cried Somerive, after a moment’s pause; Mrs. Rayland will never suffer it—it will be renouncing all the advantages she offers you.


I must then renounce them, Sir, said Orlando; because I must otherwise renounce my honour. What figure, I beseech you, would a man make, who having in December accepted a commission, should resign it in May because he is ordered abroad? My dear Sir, could you wish such an instance should happen in the person of your Orlando?

The unhappy father could not but acknowledge the truth of what Orlando said; but his heart, still unable to resist the pain inflicted by the idea of losing him, clung involuntarily to the hope that the attachment of Mrs. Rayland might furnish him with an excuse for withdrawing from the army, and the greatness of the object for which he staid, justify his doing so to the world. Orlando in vain contended that this could not be, and besought his father not to give to his mother any expectations that it could—Consider, Sir, said he, that my mother will suffer enough; and let us try rather to soften those sufferings than to aggravate them by suspense, and by those fallacious hopes which will serve only to irritate her concern: when my going to whither my duty calls me is known to be inevitable, my mother, with all her tenderness of heart, is too reasonable either fruitlessly to oppose or immeasurably to lament it—she would despise a young man who shrunk from his profession because there was danger in it; and I am sure, affectionate as she is, would rather see her son dead with honour, than living under the stigma of cowardice!

I believe you are right, Orlando, replied Somerive: and I will endeavour, my son, to conquer this selfish weakness. But Mrs. Rayland, it is necessary you immediately see her. I shall go thither to-night, Sir, said Orlando, that I may wait upon her early in the morning; but do not, I entreat you, 71 harbour an idea that Mrs. Rayland will even wish to prevent my departure.

Somerive now at the earnest entreaty of Orlando, promised to compose himself before he went to his wife and daughters, and not to encourage their want of fortitude, by shewing himself wholly deficient in it. He then wished him good night, saying that he would speak a few words to Captain Warwick, and then go to the Hall.

Somerive retired with an oppressed heart; and Orlando entreated Warwick to walk with him part of the way. He then heard that he must go to Portsmouth within two days; and Warwick, who spoke of it with all the indifference of a soldier long used to these sudden orders, proceeded to talk of other matters. Do you know, said he, that I am in love with all your sisters, my friend; but particularly with my future aunt? Orlando, I shall be a very loving nephew. What eyes the rogue has! Egad I shall be always commending the Portuguese fashion of marrying one’s aunt—that is, if our old boy should have the conscience to make an honourable retreat.

You are a happy man, Warwick, answered Orlando: How lightly you can talk of what would depress half the young fellows in England—the chance of losing such a fortune as the General’s marriage may deprive you of!

Oh, hang it! replied Warwick, ’tis not the fortune I mind, for I suppose I shall have some of it at last, unless some little cousins should have the ill-nature to appear against me; but I hate that such a lovely girl as this Isabella of yours should be sacrificed to my poor old uncle, whom, if you could see him in the morning, before he is, like Lord Ogleby, wound up for the day, you would vote to be much fitter for flannels and a good old nurse, 72 than for a husband to a girl of nineteen—and such a girl! upon my soul, she is a little divinity.

Not half so interesting in my mind, said Orlando, as the soft, sensible Selina.

You are no judge of your sisters—Selina, that is I suppose the second, is a beautiful Madonna; but Isabella, my most respectable aunt, is a Thalia, a Euphrosyne.—I have a great notion, Somerive, that she would prefer the nephew to the uncle—I have half a mind to try.

There is hardly time for the experiment, I fear, answered Orlando; who made an effort to be as unconcerned as his friend.

Not time! cried Warwick. Yes, there is time enough for a soldier accustomed to carry every point by a coup de main—I own, indeed, for an approach by sap I should be too much limited. Orlando, shall I try my military skill? have I your leave?—Or should you object to exchange the intended grave Governor for the Soldier of fortune?

Not I, indeed, answered Orlando; you have my permission, Warwick—and so now I will wish you good night; for, if I take you any farther, you will not find your way back.

Trust that to me, Orlando, answered his friend; I am used to reconnoiture in all lights, from the golden rays of Phœbus to the accommodating beams of the paper lantern of an apple-woman at the corner of a street in a country town.—But whither art going, my friend? for that is a question which I set forth without asking.

To the Hall, replied Orlando.

To the Hall!—and to the turret of that Hall!—Oh! you happy dog!—

“Monimia—my angel!—It was not kind

To leave me like a turtle here alone!”


Hah, my friend! has your sweet nymph of the enchanted tower no paranymph that you could introduce me to? It will be horribly flat for me to go back, to go to my solitary couch, and envy you here, and my prosperous uncle there—I shall hang myself before morning.

Orlando, hurt at this light way of naming Monimia, answered rather coldly, Your spirits are really enviable, Warwick! but do not let them hurry you into a persuasion that I am happy enough now to be amused with them, pleasant as they are!

Why, what the devil’s the matter with you? answered Warwick; you are not going to turn parson, I trow? But really so dolorous a tone is fit only for the pulpit of a methodist.—Why, what makes you unhappy, when such a girl as you describe Monimia——

Orlando interrupted him warmly—You are determined to mistake me, Captain Warwick! Whatever confidence I have reposed in you in regard to Monimia, surely I have never said any thing that should authorise you to speak thus lightly of her. It is true that I love her passionately, that her heart is mine! but if you suppose——

Pooh, pooh! I suppose nothing—Pr’ythee do not be so grave about your little Hero, my dear Leander!—Then assuming a more serious tone, he added: But, upon my soul, I mean nothing offensive, my friend; and rattled as much to disguise my own heaviness as to divert yours, for I have left people with whom I should much rather have remained a little longer, and that without having time to attempt consoling the gentle heart that is breaking for me. He then communicated to Orlando an intrigue in which he had engaged after he left him. Orlando represented to him all the cruelty and folly of his conduct.—Oh! yes, cried 74 Warwick; all that you say is very wise and very true, and it must be owned that it comes with peculiar propriety from you, my most sage friend!—Now that we are within sight of the Hall, for, if I mistake not, that great building which is before us is the abode of the sybil whose rent-roll exceeds in value the famous leaves of antiquity, and of the fair vestal, who——

Nay, nay! cried Orlando, you are beginning again; I will not stay to hear you.

Only let me go with you to the next rise, answered Warwick; only shew me the light from the turret, and I will be content:

“It is the East—and Juliet is the Sun!”

And then I will go back like a miserable wretch as I am, and try to dream of my future aunt.

Rather try not to dream of her said Orlando; upon my honour, Warwick, this gaieté de cœur of yours excites at once my envy and my fear.

Oh! a soldier, and afraid!—What, do you think I shall release the General’s fair prisoner, and, like an undutiful nephew, escape from the garrison with the old boy’s prize?

No, no, Warwick, I have no such apprehensions; but—But what? Egad, my friend, considered in a political light, it is clear to me that this is the very best thing I could do.—But behold the venerable towers of Rayland Hall!

“Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the woody glade,

Where fond Orlando still adores

The sweet imprison’d maid.”

Give me a moment’s time, added Warwick, pausing—but a moment, and I will make for you a parody on the whole*.

* Gray’s Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.


You are intolerable, Warwick, cried Orlando, and I positively will endure you no longer—Yes, a little longer, said Warwick; let me finish my parody; I tell you I am in a fortunate vein.—You, Orlando, who are yourself a poet, would you be tasteless enough to check a man inspired?—Listen, I am going on——

Nay, but this is sad trifling, my dear Warwick! and what is worse, you will really be heard from the house, which will not be a trifling inconvenience. Besides, upon my honour, your returning so late across the park is unsafe; for, when the old butler has no reasons of his own to have them kept up, there are three fierce blood hounds let loose to range over it all night, and they would not fail to seize any stranger.

D—n your blood-hounds!—Pr’ythee, Orlando, do you think I am not accustomed to guards of all sorts, and have encountered the mastiff dog, and the dragon aunt, in twenty scrambling adventures?

I do not doubt your prowess, replied Orlando; but here, as there is no reward, why should you exert it?

Mais seulement pour me tenir en haleine, mon ami, et pour passer le tems—But, however, if it is seriously inconvenient to you, I will go.—Come, now, to be serious—at what time to-morrow shall you be at your father’s?

Long before you are awake probably, for you know you never are very alert in a morning.

Not when I have nothing to do; but, pray, are your family early risers? At what hour may I ask, by anticipation, the blessing of my blooming aunt?

That you must discover, for it is very uncertain—and now, Warwick, once more good night!

Good night! O most fortunate and valorous Orlando of the enchanted castle!


Orlando then gave his light-hearted friend directions to find his way back, and when he left him, advanced slowly towards the house, from which he was not above three hundred yards distant.

His mind, which had been at first distracted by the distress of his father, and since harassed by the ill-timed raillery of his friend, now returned to those bitter reflections which arose from the certainty of his being immediately to take a long leave of Monimia, and under the cruel necessity of telling her so. But a few hours since he looked forward to the pleasure of meeting Monimia with only tidings of satisfaction and hope; now, he was to meet her, only to tell her that they were to part so soon, never perhaps to meet again!

He now entered his study (for one of the servants sat up to let him in,) and endeavoured to collect himself enough to communicate what he had to say to Monimia, without too much shocking her. But when he thought that their next meeting might be the last they should ever have, his own courage forsook him, and he dreaded lest he should be quite unable to sustain hers.

The hour soon came when he knew she expected him; and he trembled as he led her down the stairs. At length, since it was impossible to disguise from her those emotions which agitated his mind, he related to her all the occurrences of the eventful day, and the necessity there was for his preparing himself the next day, and taking leave of this part of the country the day following.

Monimia could not shed tears; her heart seemed petrified by the greatness and suddenness of the blow, which fell with more force, because their last interview had been so little embittered by fears or broken by alarms. When, however, Orlando explained to her, that his honour would be irreparably 77 injured if he even expressed any reluctance to enter on the active parts of the profession he had engaged in, and that to attempt disengaging himself now would be a blemish on his character from which he could never recover, her good sense, and her true tenderness for him, gave her some degree of composure, and even of resolution. As he declared that he felt nothing so severely as leaving her—leaving her unprotected, and almost alone in the world, she nobly struggled to conceal her own anguish, that she might not aggravate his; and, since his going was inevitable, endeavoured not to depress, by her fears, that spirit with which it was necessary for him to go.

Orlando, as much charmed by her sense as her affection, became ashamed of betraying less tender resolution than a timid uninformed girl. She taught him how to repress his concern: and this interview, instead of increasing his regret, fortified his mind against it. Monimia remained with him a less time than usual—with faltering lips he entreated her to meet him again the next night, because it would be the last. Monimia, unable to articulate, assented only by a broken sigh! and Orlando retired to his bed, where sleep absolutely refused to indulge him with a few hours of forgetfulness till towards morning.

When he had told Warwick that he should be at his father’s house early in the morning, he forgot that he should be detained by the necessity he was under to attend Mrs. Rayland. He sent up for permission to wait upon her at breakfast, which was immediately granted; and he opened to her as soon as he was admitted, the reason of this early visit, and the necessity he was under to take leave of her the next day to join his regiment in America.


Mrs. Rayland expressed more surprise than concern at this information: accustomed, from early impressions, to high ideas of the military glory of her ancestors, and considering the Americans as rebels and round-heads, to conquer them seemed to her to be not only a national cause, but one in which her family were particularly bound to engage.—She had contemplated only the honours, and thought little of the dangers of war. The trophies that surrounded the picture of her warlike grandfather Sir Orlando, and the honourable mention that was made of his prowess in the family annals, seemed to her ample compensation for a wound in his leg, which had made him a little lame for the rest of his life. Of Orlando’s personal danger, therefore, she had, as he expected, no apprehensions, and was rather desirous he should justify her partiality to him, by emulating the fame of the heroes of her family, than afraid of what might happen in the experiment.

Mrs. Rayland parted from him in high good humour, desired he would give her as much time as he could the next day, and set out from the Hall rather than from West Wolverton, when he went to Portsmouth; all which Orlando readily promised, and then, with a heavy heart, went to the house of his father.

That capricious fate which seemed to be weary of the favours she had long been accumulating on the head of General Tracy, appeared now determined to discard him, as she is often said to do her ancient favourites. A more malicious trick than that she now meditated, could hardly befal any of them—The General had long kept off, by art, an attack of the gout, a disease to which he did not allow himself to be supposed liable; but whether it was the long walk of the preceding evening, or the 79 tumult of his spirits on his approaching nuptials, or the sudden sight of his nephew, that occasioned an unlucky revolution, certain it is that, in the middle of the night, he was awakened by this most inexorable disease peremptorily telling him, in more than one of his joints, that the visit would be more oppressive by having been so long delayed. His valet de chambre was hastily summoned, with such applications as, however dangerous, had sometimes repelled its attacks; but it was to no purpose the unfortunate General would have risked his life to preserve his activity; the morning found him a cripple, compelled to yield, with whatever reluctance, to the old remedies of patience and flannel.

This circumstance, so very mal-apropos, appeared yet more terrible to the General, when he reflected that Warwick, the formidable handsome Warwick, had now an opportunity of entertaining Isabella: and the pain of his mind irritating and increasing his bodily sufferings, Mr. Somerive, instead of a man of the church, who was within three days to have attended on his guest, thought it more expedient to send for a physician.

Tracy, however, considered of nothing so earnestly as getting Warwick away—It was true, indeed, that he was to go the next day, or at farthest the day after that, which depended upon the letters he received from Portsmouth; but, that he should be almost four-and-twenty hours longer under the same roof with Isabella was not to be endured. After many plans, therefore, adopted and rejected, the General at last determined that he would make some pretence to send Warwick to London which he could not evade, and imagined that he should then be able to say,

“Being gone—I am myself again!”


For this purpose he ordered his nephew to be called to his bed-side; and when Orlando arrived at the house, they were in close conference.

The three girls were at work in the parlour when their brother entered it. He observed something very unusual in the manner of Isabella, who spoke little: while all his questions were answered by one of his youngest sisters. He inquired for Warwick: and, in a moment, heard him come down stairs. He went to him in the hall, and Warwick hastily said—Orlando, will you come out with me? I have something to say to you.

They went together into the avenue: Warwick walked fast, but appeared lost in thought; and Orlando, oppressed with his own sorrows, had no inclination to speak first.

At length Warwick, as if he had found the expedient he wanted, exclaimed suddenly—By Heaven it will do!—it must do!—it shall do!

Indeed! said Orlando; may I know what?

Tell me, my friend, cried Warwick, with vehement warmth—tell me if you love Monimia—if it is not death to part with her?

To what purpose is such a question? You know I exist but for her—you know I should prefer death to this separation, because my mind will be torn to pieces by anxiety for what may befal her in my absence!

Well, then, I may trust you—I may ask what you would do for that friend who should not only prevent your parting with her, but give you your Monimia for ever!

Do not trifle with me, Warwick, said Orlando mournfully, I cannot bear it!

By all that is sacred! replied Warwick, I never was more in earnest in my life; and, if you do not trifle with yourself, Monimia may be yours immediately, 81 and it will be beyond the power of fortune to divide you.

Explain yourself then—but it is impossible, and your wild imagination only—

Say rather, retorted Warwick, that your cold prudence will destroy what my imagination would realize.—I tell you, it is in your own power to be happy; but before I reveal how, swear to me, upon the honour of a soldier and a gentleman, that if you do not approve my plan you will not betray it.

Surely, there is little need, said Orlando, more and more amazed, of my giving you an oath that I will not betray my friend, especially when he meditates how to serve me.

Pardon me, cried Warwick; I desire, Orlando, to serve you, but I am not quite so disinterested as not to think a little of myself at the same time—

I may venture to swear, Warwick, that I will never betray you, said Orlando gravely; but put an end to these riddles.

You swear then, upon the honour of a soldier and a gentleman, that you will not mar my plan, if you will not make yourself a party in it—you have sworn.

I have, answered Orlando, sworn; but if it relates—At that moment an idea of the truth occurred to him.

If it relates to your sisters, you were going to say, the oath is not binding—Well it does relate to Isabella!

To Isabella?

Yes, to Isabella. It matters not, nor have I time to relate, how I have contrived, even in this short interval, to persuade your lovely sister that a young fellow of three-and-twenty, with only one thousand pounds in the world, and his commission, 82 is more to her taste than an old one of three-and sixty, who is a General, and worth about an hundred and fifty times that sum—I told you, I always carried my object by a coup de main.—To be brief, I am madly in love with Isabella, and she is as much in love with me as she dares own on so short an acquaintance.—My uncle is in love with her too; but she is not at all in love with him; and as she prefers the nephew with his knap-sack to the uncle with his money-sack, she shall not be sacrificed to him; but I will marry her, and take her with me to America.

Marry her! cried Orlando in extreme surprise.

Why you may well wonder, to be sure, because I believe she is the only girl in the world that could have made me take so extraordinary a resolution.

But how is it possible? How is there time to execute it?

Oh, my friend! it is a matter that takes up very little time when the parties are agreed.

But Isabella is not of age; she cannot be married here.

She may in Jersey, though.

In Jersey?

Yes; and it is very possible to go from Portsmouth to Jersey, and be back again time enough for the sailing of the squadron we must proceed with to America.

And has Isabella consented to all this?

No, because I have not directly proposed it to her; nor did I, till since the conversation I have had with my uncle, know that I should have the means of performing it, which (I thank him) his anticipating jealousy has put into my hands. Warwick then took out of his pocket-book a draft of the General’s to him for a thousand pounds, 83 payable at sight in London.—My grave old uncle, cried he, for whom I think fortune has interfered, to prevent his being ridiculous in his old age, is just now more miserable because I am in the house, than because the gout is in his toe; and he has found out, that instead of staying till to-morrow or next day to go to Portsmouth with you, it will be better for me to set out as soon as I can, to do some business for him in London, which though he never thought of it before, he now says admits of no delay; and that I may have no excuse to stay afterwards on my own business, or to return hither, he has given me a bank-note of an hundred for my immediate expenses, and this draft for a thousand—the douceur he promised me on his marriage.


Well! and so we shall not want money, which would have been an almost invincible impediment. I shall now, as soon as I have settled our proceedings with my angelic Isabel, which I have not the least doubt of doing, make the best of my way to London, execute the imaginary business which my most profoundly politic uncle has given me, and then——

I do not yet understand you, said Orlando; how is my sister to be of this party, or how.........

Nothing so easy, answered Warwick; I thought my friend, you were enough in love yourself to suppose every thing possible, and not to hesitate between quitting your mistress, perhaps for ever, and taking her with you as your wife.—I go from London to Portsmouth—Is there any difficulty in your meeting me there with my Isabella and your Monimia? You know there is not; and whatever scruples your sister may have, or as you perhaps think ought to have, to taking such a journey to me on the acquaintance of the day, will be obviated 84 by your going with her, and by her having a female companion.—My purse is yours, and its present condition will enable us to do well enough till something or other happens in our favour—I am determined, if Isabella consents, which I am now going to try; and so I leave you, Orlando, to consider of my proposal: you must, however, resolve quickly; for I shall set out almost as soon as dinner is over for London, as I have promised my uncle.

Warwick then walked away towards the house, leaving Orlando in a state of mind difficult to be conceived or described. To have the power of taking with him his adored Monimia, secure of a present support for her, and certain that with him she would be happy in any country, was a temptation it was almost impossible to resist: when he considered on the other hand, the pain of being separated from her, for a long, perhaps an eternal absence, and of leaving her to the mercy of such a woman as Mrs. Lennard, who might, either by withdrawing her protection, or rendering it an intolerable bondage, drive the lovely orphan alone and friendless into a cruel world; other means of saving her he had none, and neither the laws of God or man were against those which were now so unexpectedly offered him.

But his father, already broken-hearted by the desertion of one of his children, would be hurried to the grave by thus being deceived by two others. His mother would be rendered wretched, and he should perhaps accuse himself of being accessary to the death of both his parents:—the thought was not to be borne. He determined for a moment to renounce every happiness which must be purchased by their misery, and not only to fly himself from this almost irresistible temptation, but to prevent Isabella from yielding to it. But this resolution 85 was hardly formed, before the image of Monimia weeping in solitude her desolate fate, complaining to him, who was too far off to hear—ill-treated or abandoned by her aunt—exposed to the insults of the profligate, and the contempt of the fortunate—came with all its pathetic interest to win him from his duty; and then, the happiness of calling her his—of knowing that only death could divide them! the contest was dreadful; and he knew that when he saw Monimia it would be worse.—Once or twice he determined to put an end to it, by telling his father; but to this desperate expedient was opposed the honour he had given to Warwick not to betray, if he could not participate, the intended flight of his sister; nor did he imagine that her going off with Warwick would be a very distressing circumstance to his father.—However enraged the General might at first be, his pride would not suffer him finally to abandon his nephew. In every point but that of present fortune, Warwick must have the preference: and Orlando thought that he had often seen, by his father’s countenance as he looked at Isabella, that he regretted the sacrifice he was induced by his own circumstances to promote.—But with himself it was quite otherwise; and the rash step he was thus strongly tempted to take, would blast at once all those hopes his father now so fondly cherished in regard to the Rayland estate (for it was certain Mrs. Rayland would never forgive him;) and, by acceding to Warwick’s proposal, he must deeply aggravate every pang of that separation which his father seemed already unable to endure.

Notes and Corrections: Chapter XXXIV

as if he really felt there the incurable wound he described bleed afresh.
text has , for final .
[Corrected from 2nd edition.]

What figure, I beseech you, would a man make, who having in December accepted a commission, should resign it in May because he is ordered abroad?
[See The Four Feathers—book or movie—for an answer to this question.]

husband to a girl of nineteen
[A few chapters ago, Isabella’s age was given as 21. (She and Philippa are older than Orlando; Selina and Emma are younger.) Did the author forget, or has Isabella been lying about her age?]

Isabella . . . is a Thalia, a Euphrosyne
[Now, would that be Thalia, the muse of comedy and pastoral poetry, or would it instead be Thalia, one of the Graces, sister to Euphrosyne? And if the latter, what has he got against the third sister, Aglaia?]

It was not kind / To leave me like a turtle here alone!
[I think he means turtledove, as in “the voice of the turtle”. Even so, it is not difficult to under­stand why Otway’s The Orphan—the source of Monimia’s name—has seldom been performed in recent centuries.]

do not be so grave about your little Hero
text has you little

[Footnote] Gray’s Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College
[So it is, by gum. (But why does the author assume we wouldn’t know this? Sure, I didn’t know it—but I am not reading in 1793.) Opening lines:

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry’s holy Shade; ]

Mais seulement pour me tenir en haleine, mon ami, et pour passer le tems
[There may be a locus classicus for this utterance, or Warwick may just be showing off his French. The pour me tenir en haleine part means, loosely, “to keep in practice”; the tems spelling is unchanged from the 2nd edition.]

considering the Americans as rebels and round-heads
[Mrs. Rayland revealed the same sentiments back in Volume I, Chapter XV: “people whom she considers as the descendants of the Regicides”.]

the tumult of his spirits on his approaching nuptials
text has appoaching

Being gone—I am myself again
[Later writers were especially fond of using this line in reference to illnesses. The General could easily have applied it to his gout.]

an old one of three-and sixty
[Like Isabella, the General is getting younger. In Chapter I of this volume (Chapter XXIX as numbered continuously), he was sixty-five.]

Three happy days now passed rapidly away.

Torn by these distracting contests between love and duty

The Old Manor House:
Introduction and Contents


The original of this text is in the public domain—at least in the U.S.
My notes are copyright, as are all under-the-hood elements.
If in doubt, ask.