iend,
almost without an acquaintance, Montacute sought refuge in love. She who
shed over his mournful life the divine ray of feminine sympathy was
his cousin, the daughter of his mother's brother, an English peer, but
resident in the north of Ireland, where he had vast possessions. It was
a family otherwise little calculated to dissipate the reserve and gloom
of a depressed and melancholy youth; puritanical, severe and formal in
their manners, their relaxations a Bible Society, or a meeting for the
conversion of the Jews. But Lady Katherine was beautiful, and all were
kind to one to whom kindness was strange, and the soft pathos of whose
solitary spirit demanded affection.

Montacute requested his father's permission to marry his cousin, and was
immediately refused. The duke particularly disliked his wife's family;
but the fact is, he had no wish that his son should ever marry. He meant
to perpetuate his race himself, and was at this moment, in the midst of
his orgies, meditating a second alliance, which should compensate him
for his boyish blunder. In this state of affairs, Montacute, at length
stung to resistance, inspired by the most powerful of passions, and
acted upon by a stronger volition than his own, was planning a marriage
in spite of his father (love, a cottage by an Irish lake, and seven
hundred a-year) when intelligence arrived that his father, whose
powerful frame and vigorous health seemed to menace a patriarchal term,
was dead.

The new Duke of Bellamont had no experience of the world; but, though
long cowed by his father, he had a strong character. Though the circle
of his ideas was necessarily contracted, they were all clear and firm.
In his moody youth he had imbibed certain impressions and arrived at
certain conclusions, and they never quitted him. His mother was his
model of feminine perfection, and he had loved his cousin because she
bore a remarkable resemblance to her aunt. Again, he was of opinion
that the tie between the father and the son ought to be one of intimate
confidence and refined tenderness, and he resolved that, if Providence
favoured him with offspring, his child should ever find in him absolute
devotion of thought and feeling.

A variety of causes and circumstances had impressed him with a
conviction that what is called fashionable life was a compound of
frivolity and fraud, of folly and vice; and he resolved never to enter
it. To this he was, perhaps, in some degree unconscious