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                        MYSTERY AND CONFIDENCE:

                              _A TALE._

                        BY ELIZABETH PINCHARD.

                          IN THREE VOLUMES.

                               VOL. I.


    LONDON:
    PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
    PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT-STREET, HANOVER-SQUARE,
    AND SOLD BY GEORGE GOLDIE, EDINBURGH,
    AND JOHN CUMMING, DUBLIN.

    1814.

    B. CLARKE, Printer, Well-Street, London.




ADVERTISEMENT.


It having been suggested to the Author of the following Tale, that its
principal event may perhaps be thought somewhat too romantic and
improbable, she begs to observe, that it is founded upon a fact well
known, and not so long past as not to be in the recollection of many
persons now alive, and particularly those in the higher circles.




MYSTERY

AND

CONFIDENCE.




CHAP. I.

    Due westward, fronting to the green,
    A rural portico was seen,
    Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine
    The ivy and Idean vine;
    The clematis, the favor'd flow'r,
    Which boasts the name of virgin's bow'r.

    LADY OF THE LAKE.


At the foot of one of the most romantic mountains in North Wales, about
a mile from the coast of Carnarvonshire, stands the little village of
Llanwyllan: there, amongst trees which seemed coeval with the dwelling,
was a very large farm-house, the residence of Farmer Powis. Its high
chimneys, and neatly white-washed walls, rendered it a pleasing object
to those who travelled on the high-road, about a mile off, which led to
the next market-town, if high-road that might be called which merely
served to facilitate the journies of the neighbouring farmers' wives to
market and back again, or those of the curate, who served the churches
in the immediate vicinity. The hand of native taste had removed a few
branches from the immense trees which shaded this rural dwelling, and by
that means afforded to the inhabitants a view of the road, the spire of
the village church, and two or three natural rills of water, which,
falling from the adjacent hills, increased the beauty of the scene. At
this dwelling a traveller arrived on the evening of a day which had been
intensely hot, in the summer of 18--: the dust which covered his shoes,
and almost concealed the colour of his coat, declared him a pedestrian;
probably, therefore, of inferior rank; yet, under the shade which
fatigue had thrown over his features, might be discerned a fine and
interesting countenance; and when at the door of the farm-house, where
Powis sat inhaling the mixed fumes of his evening pipe, and the
fragrance of a fine honeysuckle which entwined around the porch, he
inquired the nearest way to----, the tones of his voice, and the
fineness of his accent, would, to a practised ear, have proclaimed a man
who had mixed with the higher orders of society: to Powis, however, they
conveyed no idea but that the traveller was weary and spoke with
civility; and either would have demanded from him civility, nay,
kindness in return: he rose therefore from his seat, and pushing aside
his little table, made room for the stranger, and requested him to be
seated. The stranger thankfully complied, and taking off his hat, wiped
the dust from his face, and shewed a fine forehead and eyes, whose
brilliant rays seemed more obscured by sorrow than by time, though he
appeared to be about five-and-thirty. While the farmer went into the
house to order some refreshment for his weary guest, the stranger turned
his eyes, and saw with surprise that every thing about him bore the
marks of taste; of taste not indeed highly refined, but simple, natural,
and delicate: every tree round the spot on which he sat was intertwined
with woodbines, clematis, and the wild hop; and the long shoots of all
were carried from tree to tree, forming festoons of exquisite grace and
be