Title: The Manoeuvring Mother - Vol. III.
Author: Bury, Charlotte Campbell, Lady
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Manoeuvring Mother - Vol. III." ***


produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)



  THE
  MANŒUVRING MOTHER.


  BY THE AUTHOR OF
  "THE HISTORY OF A FLIRT."


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.



  LONDON:
  HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
  GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

  1842.



  LONDON:
  F. SHOBERL, JUN., 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET,
  PRINTER TO H. R. H. PRINCE ALBERT.



THE MANŒUVRING MOTHER.



CHAPTER XXII.


Four years passed rapidly and tranquilly at Fairlee. The waters of
Lochleven flowed at the foot of its undulating grounds, and the
mountains of Glencoe terminated the grandly-beautiful and distant
prospect which Christobelle gazed upon with untired delight, from the
different points where she loved to sit in meditation, or employed
herself in painting its glowing and ever-changing tints. Often did the
forms of Anna Maria and Isabel appear before her, as she lingered upon
the mountain-tops which overhung the lake, and watched the golden sun
sink below the horizon.

Often did the woods and smiling lands of Wetheral appear to her mental
view; and though its scenery, so flatly tame, sank into insignificance
before the cloud-capped Cona, and the hills of many names which
surrounded the rich and beautiful Lochleven--still, _there_ was the
remembrance of her first attachments; there were the forms she loved,
and the hearts which loved her, fondly. There was the scene of her
infancy, and there she had parted from her kind companion and friend,
Sir John Spottiswoode.

Anna Maria's heart and eyes were given exclusively to her excellent
husband, and Isabel was devoted to her child; but Sir John Spottiswoode
had been for weeks her instructor, her only attendant, and the
depository of her thoughts. She felt the loss of his society for
months; and when she gazed upon the calm lake, or mused upon the rocky
heights, each and all threw back her thoughts to Sir John Spottiswoode.
Oh! what would he, the travelled one, the lover of grand scenery--what
would _he_ say to the bold and graceful scenery? What would he say to
the combination of wood, and rock, and pleasant glens; the mountains,
the water, and all the glorious views which decorated Lochleven? Surely
he would love its repose, its agitations, its sublimity; surely he
would love its groves, its islands, and its storms. He would roam
with her through the lovely glens; they would together visit the falls
of Kinlochmore: they would meditate together on Eilan na Corak, and
climb the highest points to watch the setting sun, and think upon
absent ones. Why had she not a brother to accompany her in her pleasant
rambles, and why was he not Sir John Spottiswoode?

Lady Wetheral's health did not recover the shock of Lady Kerrison's
death. She sank gradually into an invalid: and, though she rarely
visited the beauteous scenes around her, and never admired their
grandeur, yet her thoughts rested no longer upon England. She was
content to remain at Fairlee, exhausted in body, and depressed in
mind. Her temper lost every trace of its former playfulness, and she
dwelt constantly and bitterly upon the idea of Clara's ingratitude in
not seeing her at the time of her decease. She told Christobelle the
voice of Clara came to her in the dead of the night, and thundered
in the wind which roared from the mountains. She saw Clara in her
dreams ever pointing towards her, and exclaiming, "Oh! hard-hearted
mother!" She declared to Christobelle that if her death should prove
the consequence of such distressing visitations, she died by the hand
of Lady Kerrison, and her ungrateful conduct would have been the means
of destroying the author of her existence, and the contriver of her
high and enviable establishment. She had indeed heard of ungrateful
children; but little could she imagine she was herself to fall a victim
to the daughters whom she had reared so carefully. Clara had died, and
she expected Julia would be equally undutiful. Not once had she been
invited to Bedinfield, nor was she even apprized of their flight abroad!

Such were Lady Wetheral's feelings; and her irritable and disappointed
mind vented its bitterness upon the innocent Christobelle. The
leading thought of her heart and the aim of her actions had ever been
the establishment of her children, and upon her youngest daughter,
now in the midst of suffering and solitude, did her anxiety rest.
Christobelle was to beware of the sun and of the dew. It was ruinous to
the complexion to sit staring for hours in a hot sun upon nonsensical
views, and still worse, to roam about with a plaid round her shoulders,
and a hat swinging to her arm, like a low-lived Scotch girl. Lochleven
produced much gaiety in the autumn, as many families thronged to
visit lake scenery; she would therefore feel obliged by Miss Chrystal
paying a little more attention to her person, that she might not be
recognized as Lady Wetheral's very vulgar daughter, or give occasion of
remark to General Ponsonby's family. General Ponsonby, as a man of high
connections, might probably have people staying at Clanmoray of some
consideration; and she insisted upon her careful attention to dress and
manners. She might meet gentlemen unexpectedly, and a young lady should
be upon her guard. No man could be struck with a girl whose tanned
complexion gave her the appearance of having tended sheep and goats
upon the hill-tops.

In spite of Lady Wetheral's precautions, Christobelle met no gentleman
"unexpectedly," nor were her studies interrupted by any people of
consideration from Clanmoray. Letters from England told of Mrs. Tom
Pynsent's increasing family; and Isabel's visit was deferred, year
after year, by the expected death of Miss Tabitha, whose illness had
proved long and suffering. She could not bear to hear or think of her
brother's departure from Shropshire while she still lingered, and
Mr. Boscawen had promised to close her eyes ere he quitted Brierly.
Isabel's visit, therefore, must remain uncertain: she was the mother
of three children, and her anxiety was very great to exhibit them all
at Fairlee, and listen to the roar of the cataracts with Christobelle.

There was also news of Julia. The party had returned to Bedinfield, and
Colonel Neville was still in the suite of the Countess-dowager; but few
ever penetrated into the mysteries of Bedinfield. The Ennismores saw
little company, and it was reported the establishment consisted chiefly
of foreigners selected by the Countess mother. Colonel Neville remained
desperately attached to Julia, and Lord Ennismore rarely quitted his
apartments; his lordship was becoming extremely invalided, and Dr.
Anstruther was superseded by a Florence physician.

Mrs. Pynsent wrote frequently to Christobelle, and from her chatty
pen, Miss Wetheral received the home news of the south. "Every one,"
she wrote, "was pretty well except 'Bobby,' who looked very like a
turkey with the pip, for his head was sinking between his shoulders,
and his poor back got round. However, he played with the eldest boy,
and left every thing to Tom, who--God bless him!--grew handsomer every
day, and rattled over business much better than his poor moonshine
father. Sally Hancock sat with him now and then, and her company was
getting rather amusing to him: altogether, they were tolerably well at
Hatton. Sophy Spottiswoode was married, and they talked of visiting
Scotland with Sir John Spottiswoode; perhaps they would visit Lochleven
and Fairlee, and see what was acting there and thereabouts. Sir Jacky
seemed to wish to peep about Lochleven, for reasons best known to
himself." Mrs. Pynsent ended by hoping Christobelle was not obliged to
be in love with some red-headed Scotchman, because he was rich.

Sir John Wetheral twice visited Shropshire during his seclusion at
Fairlee, but his daughter could not accompany him. Lady Wetheral's
health detained her; and, during his absence, the magnificence of the
country, its quiet grandeur, and its beautiful variety, could not
recompense her for the misery she endured under continual and unabated
reproaches, or the language of useless complaint, unceasingly uttered
in doleful tones. Her ladyship considered her daughter's singlehood at
seventeen years of age a severe blow upon her matronly cares. Up to the
moment of her seventeenth birthday, Christobelle had never received an
offer of marriage, or heard a comment upon her beauty, save in the
somewhat coarse approbation which was bestowed by Mrs. Pynsent upon her
growth at Hatton.

Christobelle had never listened to adulation, nor had she ever, in
her walks, met a look or observation which could be construed into
admiration, or even commendation. She bounded in health and freedom of
heart over the mountains, and sailed on the lake with her attendant
Janet, without a thought of care, or a wish to shine as her sisters had
done, before her entrance into society. She wished her father alone to
share in her rambles; if her fancy ever strayed beyond his presence, it
was in a sigh to think how greatly she should enjoy the surprise and
pleasure which Sir John Spottiswoode must feel, if he ever beheld the
scenery of Lochleven. But it was not so with Lady Wetheral.

Every year brought newly-awakened annoyance to Christobelle, in the
ironical tone of her mother's birthday congratulation: and it brought
equal affliction to her ladyship, that she must still endure the
society of a daughter unsought, and very probably destined to remain
single. Her father was in England when she received congratulations
upon attaining her seventeenth year. Sir John promised to reach
Fairlee, if possible, in time to spend that day with his daughter at
the falls of Kinlochmore; but it was not to be so, and she entered
the breakfast-room that morning depressed and without appetite. Lady
Wetheral commenced her attack.

"I believe, Bell, you are now seventeen. I beg to offer my
congratulations upon the effect you have created at Lochleven. Clara
and Isabel were married at your age, and I am expecting every day to
be consulted upon some affair of your own. You appear to have made no
impression upon young Ponsonby, after all your walks and sails upon the
water."

"Young Ponsonby, mamma!"

"Some people never care to understand what they do not wish to know,"
replied her mother. "In the precincts of Lochleven your want of power
to please may pass unobserved, but I should have been pointed at in
England, as a mother hopeless of her daughter's establishment."

"But young Ponsonby never walks and sails with _me_, mamma. I am only
accompanied by Janet."

"I am perfectly aware that Janet is your only companion," replied her
mother, drily.

"I never wished to be with Mr. Ponsonby, mamma. I declined Miss
Ponsonby's invitation to join her party at Ballahuish."

"You did very unwisely. I wish you to join the Ponsonby parties. Have I
not told you repeatedly that wish?"

"I thought you would be alone, mamma."

"I should be much obliged by your thinking to more purpose, Bell. I
never wish to interfere with your engagements, when they tend to a
proper end."

"But what end could be answered at Ballahuish, mamma?"

"You are growing extremely disagreeable and argumentative, Miss
Wetheral. I will trouble you to withhold your rather imperious
questionings, if you please."

Christobelle was silent, and Lady Wetheral proceeded with her
breakfast; but nothing met her approbation. The coffee was cold,
the eggs were not fresh, and the rolls were burnt. Every thing was
most uncomfortable since she had quitted England--particularly
uncomfortable, since no one was near her to make her wants a matter of
the least consideration.

Christobelle offered to ring for hot coffee.

"I shall be obliged by your remaining where you are, if you please.
Ingratitude is nothing new to me: Clara taught me _that_ parental
misery--I can bear it now with patience. Clara has ruined my health
by her ungrateful conduct. I, who sought her advancement in life,
and who almost made the offer to establish her at Ripley, deserved a
better fate than to be spurned from her dying bed, and see Mrs. Pynsent
preferred before me. I cannot understand a coarse personage like Mrs.
Pynsent being a proper attendant upon a deathbed. Her loud voice would
disturb the dead."

"But she was so gentle and kind to Clara! She was so attentive, papa
said!"

"I shall never believe it."

"But you remember how very kindly she assisted me, and how tenderly she
nursed you, mamma."

"I was not on my deathbed. Close that window, Bell, the wind is rising;
and do shut out the sound of those French horns."

Christobelle rose to obey. Two small vessels were traversing the loch,
containing a party of pleasure, apparently intending to pass the
morning in the island which was once the prison-house of Mary. A band
of French horns woke the echoes as they rowed along, and the air of
"Auld lang syne," delightfully played in parts, riveted her attention.
For a few moments she paused to listen, but the sounds affected Lady
Wetheral beyond endurance: she trembled and wept. Christobelle closed
the window.

"I cannot bear those sounds," she cried, clasping her hands. "I
hear Clara's voice, and she persists in calling me her hard-hearted
mother. Her voice is in every sound, and that tone kills me. I am not
hard-hearted--I am an injured mother, worn down by that ungrateful
voice. I hear it in the winds at night, and the breeze of the lake
whispers it. I cannot bear to hear Clara's voice."

Christobelle endeavoured to calm her mother's nerves, but repeated
attacks had destroyed their tone, and she could not rally at pleasure.
Mrs. Bevan was summoned to attend her lady, and she was laid upon her
bed to receive the usual remedies. Her ladyship was then left in quiet
and in darkness for some hours. This scene was but the recurrence of
a now constantly repeated attack of the nerves upon every sound which
reached her ear from without. The storm, the breeze, the sighing of the
winds, the soft and delicious music which occasionally rose on the air,
all created the same terror--it was Clara reproaching her for youth
and happiness blasted, and constantly exclaiming, "Oh, hard-hearted
mother!"

Time increased the disorder. Four years' residence in Scotland, far
from the scene of Clara's tragic departure, and removed beyond all
allusion to the events which had occurred, did not soften by distance
the regrets of Lady Wetheral's heart. Year after year brought increased
nervousness; and Sir John had endeavoured to lead his lady's thoughts
again towards Wetheral, but in vain. "She had resolved never again to
visit a country which had brought her so much disquietude. Clara was
gone--gone from her for ever, tainted with bitter ingratitude, and the
grandeur of Lady Ennismore's establishment was to her a blank--she
had never witnessed it. All that she had most anxiously desired had
become a source of misery to her feelings, and she only desired now
to live far away from painful associations." Sir John pointed out the
near neighbourhood of her two happily-married daughters, Pynsent and
Boscawen; but it failed to create pleasing thoughts.

"No, I have no wish to see those objects which will remind me of
Julia's banishment and Clara's death. If they are happy, why was
not Julia to be with me, and why was Clara ungrateful? Why was _I_
to be defeated in my views? Why was Julia carried abroad without
one interview with the mother who endured so much to secure her
establishment, without even writing to me? No; I am miserable, but let
me alone, and let me die here!"

Lady Wetheral would at such moments turn to Miss Wetheral with looks of
reproach, and inveigh against her unattractive appearance or manner.

"If you wished to give me pleasure, Bell, you would not fly in my
face, as Clara did. If you attended to your person, I might yet be
gratified by hearing praises of your beauty, and receive pleasure in
contemplating your future establishment; but I have no hopes for you.
I have no inducement to quit this dreary Lochleven. I will not carry
forth a daughter who is blind to her own advancement, or subject myself
to ridicule, by the constant appendage of a young woman who is likely
to pass single to her grave. If I could rouse you to exertion, I might
rally too; but this determined indifference to future distinction
destroys me. I am doomed to suffer every gradation of parental
disappointment."

What hand could pluck from her ladyship's memory "this rooted sorrow?"
What hand could cleanse her bosom of this "perilous stuff?" Haman knew
no peace while Mordecai sat at the king's gate, and Lady Wetheral
would not be comforted, because the eye of admiration had not yet
glanced upon Christobelle, or opened a channel for her energies to rise
again under the exciting employment of speculating upon her future
establishment. What a life was this! After Lady Wetheral's departure
to her room, under the nervous effect produced by the lake music,
Christobelle strolled along its banks, accompanied by Janet. The little
band still poured their sounds upon the breeze, as they sat listening
to the sprightly notes of "Will ye gang to the bourne, my Marion:" and
at its conclusion Christobelle's eager fancy suggested the idea of
sailing towards the Isle, to enjoy the softly-swelling sounds which now
but faintly stole upon the ear. The boatmen were quickly summoned to
their oars, and Christobelle ordered them to stretch and lie to, under
the Isle, where the party were seated beneath the trees, which once
afforded shade to the royal Mary in her captivity.

A boat put out from the land as they approached, and Christobelle saw
the figures of Miss Ponsonby and her brother Charles seated in its
stern. Miss Ponsonby waved her hand as the boat glided to her side,
and hailed her "prisoner." A large party from Clanmoray were regaling
in the "Douglas Isle," and her movements had been watched through many
telescopes. Miss Wetheral had declined her party to Ballahuish; but her
captivity was now as sure as that of the unfortunate Queen of Scots,
unless a Douglas again rose to the rescue.

"It was a party," Miss Ponsonby said, "in honour of her eldest
brother, who had left Ireland on a long furlough, and who had arrived
at Clanmoray, after an absence of six years. She would allow no
excuses to prevail. Miss Wetheral must and should do honour also to
Edward's arrival." Christobelle was loth to obey the mandate: she
was quite unprepared for the little incident, and felt alarmed at
the idea of encountering a large company almost unknown to her. Miss
Ponsonby, however, ordered the boats towards the landing-place, and the
party disembarked. The Ponsonby family came forward to welcome Miss
Wetheral's arrival, and they introduced her to the assembled group.

The Duke of Forfar, lately raised to the dukedom by the death of his
aged father, was present; and there was also young Lord Farnborough,
once the Selgrave, whose name she trembled to hear from her mother's
lips, when she spoke of him as a future suitor. Christobelle saw also
Lady Anna Herbert, the imagined rival of Mrs. Charles Spottiswoode in
her days of coquetry; and her mind glanced back to the time when she
heard so much and so often of the Farnborough Stacy family. Lady Anna
Herbert was still unmarried, and she could perceive the same lively
manners, the same coquettish look, which had so formidably alarmed the
fears of Miss Wycherly.

His Grace politely acknowledged his intimate acquaintance with her
family, and his pleasure at being able to renew it with a daughter of
Sir John Wetheral upon the distant Lochleven. He had no remembrance of
Miss Wetheral, but young people sprung up around him into life. His
Grace had heard of a beauteous scion, unseen at Wetheral Castle, but
it was reserved to him to meet her for the first time, on poetical
and historical ground--on the very spot where the beautiful Mary of
Scotland landed in misfortune, a captive beauty, such as the vision
which now met his eye.

"Well done, papa!" cried Lady Anna, "your imagination is awakened by
this scene, and Miss Wetheral has fortunately appeared to keep up the
illusion. Miss Wetheral, you should reply in character, and papa will
be charmed."

"If Miss Wetheral will personate the afflicted queen," said Lord
Farnborough, "I must beg to enact the faithful Douglas, and aid her
escape."

"Very good, let it be so," replied his Grace of Forfar: "this is the
very spot to renew our recollections. Who will be the warder, Lady
Douglas?"

"If I can in any way represent the character, I shall be happy to look
the grim gaoler," answered Lady Anna Herbert.

Christobelle stood confused and blushing, amid the group of strangers
who gathered round her. Among the gaily-apparelled females, she alone
appeared rudely clad in the costume of the country; she alone wore the
plaid and bonnet which decorated the humble inhabitants of Kinross, and
the hamlets around Lochleven. She felt for the moment distressed at her
appearance, so distinct from the party with whom she was destined to
mix. Her confusion was apparent to the polite Miss Ponsonby. She took
her hand.

"Miss Wetheral is all good-nature to obey my bidding, and we are happy
in having _one_ of our number, at least, attired in proper costume.
Lady Anna, how came we to plan our day's amusement, and yet forget the
most material subject of dress?"

"You have ruined the effect of our _tout-ensemble_ by your sudden
appearance, Miss Wetheral," observed Lord Farnborough; "we thought
ourselves unique, and you only exhibit our deficiencies. You are often
here, I presume."

"It has been a favourite spot of mine these four years," replied
Christobelle, slightly confused.

"You are then the genius of the place, Miss Wetheral. Will you point
out to me the favourite haunts of your long seclusion, and do the
honours of Lochleven to a stranger?"

Christobelle was very willing to be the stranger's guide; and she found
herself shortly after her arrival in "the Douglas Isle," seated between
Miss Ponsonby and Lord Farnborough, pointing out the beauties of the
lake scenery. Miss Ponsonby smiled at her enthusiastic descriptions.

"After this specimen of your powers, Miss Wetheral, do not hope to
escape me in future. You would have graced our quiet bivouac at
Ballahuish. No one spoke a word, or commented upon the luxuriant lake,
there. No one possessed your happy taste for the romantic; or they kept
it all to themselves at Ballahuish. To be sure, Lord Farnborough was
not with us."

"Are you so fond of scenery, my lord?" asked Christobelle, turning
towards her other companion.

"Yes, his lordship is a poet and a painter," replied Miss Ponsonby; "he
must, therefore, necessarily love the stupendous and the beautiful,
such as now lies before us. His lordship muses at the view of Ossian's
'Cona,' and writes verses upon Ballahuish ferry."

"Miss Ponsonby is pleased to be merry at my expense," said Lord
Farnborough; "nevertheless, I worship Nature's beautiful productions."

"Then you must visit the falls of Kinlochmore, my lord; and if you are
poetical, muse over those mountain-tops, and visit the little ruin of
St. Mungo's Isle, to hear the breeze murmur of the clans of Glencoe and
Lochaber."

"Will you, the presiding spirit, attend me there?" asked Lord
Farnborough.

"We will _all_ attend you," cried Miss Ponsonby. "The more spirits the
better, my lord, upon such a mission. Miss Wetheral, you will promise
to attend my summons to St. Mungo's Isle."

"If I can quit Fairlee for a whole day, I shall be happy to attend you."

"But mind, Miss Wetheral, I insist upon your costume; you look now like
the ghost of Scotland flitting among the barbarians who have ravaged
her soil, and changed her customs."

Christobelle continued some time in the island with Miss Ponsonby
and Lord Farnborough, as the party formed in little groups under the
trees, to gaze upon the calm lake and its beautiful shores, and they
wandered round the tower and its precincts, which once held a queen of
Scotland in durance. Christobelle thought Lord Farnborough spoke with
feeling upon the events of Lochleven Castle; and she contemplated his
intelligent countenance with an interest remote from the fear which
took possession of her mind, when her lady mother first urged her
intention that she should marry Lord Selgrave.

They were soon deeply engaged in Scottish history, following the
current of events which closed the reign and life of Mary; and though
Miss Ponsonby contended that her existence proved a course of wicked
efforts to gain the English crown, and raise rebellion in her cousin's
dominions, Christobelle defended the beautiful captive, with all the
rhetoric of youthful enthusiasm. It was, however, time to return to
Fairlee, and Christobelle could no longer linger with her friends in
the Douglas Isle. General Ponsonby and Lord Farnborough gallantly
escorted her into the little vessel which had awaited her commands,
and where Janet still sat in expectation of her return. Mr. Ponsonby
returned to the company with his father, as the boatmen pushed from the
shore, but Lord Farnborough bounded into the vessel, and took his seat
by the side of Christobelle, ere it drove from its mooring. He meant,
he said, to see her land safely on the grounds of Fairlee, and it was
useless to deny him the pleasure, or, he might say, the propriety of
accompanying her across the lake.

The vessel at that moment left the shore, and the little horn
band almost instantly played with great taste, "My heart's in the
Highlands." Christobelle turned her head towards the shore, and gazed
upon the gay groups preparing for an early meal. Their forms gradually
receded from view, and were lost in the distance; but the music
continued its dying strains, and fell fainter and fainter upon the
breeze. The silence was unbroken for some time, as they crossed the
slumbering lake; but Lord Farnborough, at last, broke the stillness of
the scene by asking Christobelle if she amused herself in sketching the
lovely views on either side Lochleven. From this question, answered
in the affirmative, they entered upon the subject of painting, which
gradually led to its sister art--poetry; and Christobelle was delighted
to know that when they visited St. Mungo's Isle, she would judge of
his progress in both departments. They were both to go provided with
drawing materials; and, if Christobelle insisted upon it, his lordship
would submit a few poetic inspirations to her "better judgment," upon a
rock overhanging the lake, even before the party took place.

It was not to be supposed that their acquaintance would end here, after
the pleasures of the morning. His lordship entreated permission to wait
upon Miss Wetheral at Fairlee, and he hoped to renew the happiness of
the last two hours in many agreeable walks and drives in the splendid
scenes of Lochleven. Christobelle trusted Lord Farnborough's polite
wishes might indeed be fulfilled; she was quite willing to be pleased
by the society of a pleasant young man, whose conversation was so
entertaining, and who appeared to be so gifted in the arts of music,
painting, and poetry--arts so admired and valued by her taste. She told
his lordship she was sure her mother would receive his visits with
pleasure. "But will _you_ receive them with pleasure?" he asked, as the
little vessel glided into the cove from which it embarked; "will _you_,
Miss Wetheral, admit my visits with pleasure, and allow me sometimes to
join you in your walks and musings?"

How could Christobelle object? yet she made no reply, or even answered
his appealing look. The young lord's countenance fell.

"You will not speak to me, Miss Wetheral; you will not say I am welcome
at Fairlee sometimes."

"My mother will be glad to see you, I am sure, Lord Farnborough," she
replied, confusedly, a second time.

"My wish is to join you occasionally in your rides, Miss Wetheral, and
_you_ must assure me I shall not be considered an intruder."

Christobelle's confusion increased at this speech, and at the earnest
look which Lord Farnborough cast upon her. She could only stammer forth
an assurance that she must be very happy also to see his lordship
whenever he paid a visit to Fairlee; and that assurance gave her
companion confidence to urge the necessity of escorting her to the very
door of her home. This Christobelle declined, with a seriousness which
forbade remonstrance; she had Janet with her, and Fairlee lay too near
the lake to allow of any fears for her safety. She, therefore, took
leave of his lordship, as he assisted her to quit the little vessel
which belonged to the Cove of Fairlee, and which her father dedicated
to her exclusive use. Lord Farnborough lingered a few moments.

"Miss Wetheral, we shall meet again before the party to St. Mungo's
Isle takes place."

"When may we expect you at Fairlee, my lord?"

"To-morrow. Promise me you will not go out till I come."

"I seldom leave the grounds before two o'clock. Remember the effusions
you promised I should see."

"Will you read them, and judge a poor poet mercifully?"

"I shall say exactly what I think, my lord."

"Then I stand condemned at once."

"Perhaps not; adieu, my lord!"

"But one moment, Miss Wetheral. How anxious you are to escape!"

"I have left my mother some hours alone. I must return to her, and
account for my absence, Lord Farnborough."

"It is not anxiety then to leave me, to get rid of me, Miss Wetheral?"

"No, indeed!"

"Then farewell for many dull hours. The Douglas Isle will have no
charms for me, since the genius of Lochleven is withdrawn."

Lord Farnborough respectfully bowed, and re-entered the boat.
Christobelle went forwards with Janet, but curiosity induced her to
look back upon the lake, as they gained a rising ground about five
hundred yards from the shore. The vessel was again traversing the
water, and Lord Farnborough was watching their receding steps, as he
stood with folded arms in the stern of the mimic sloop. He waved his
handkerchief as Christobelle stood for a moment to contemplate the
scene; she waved her plaid in answer to the signal. Twice were the
signals exchanged, at separate intervals, till a grove of firs closed
the lake from her view; and then she walked on, slowly and silently to
the house.

She did not utter a word to her companion and attendant, the patient
Janet; her mind was revolving the events of the day, and it dwelt with
peculiar interest upon the unexpected appearance of Lord Farnborough
and his family, on a solitary island of Lochleven. It was most
extraordinary that her introduction to Lord Farnborough should take
place then and there--that her first interview with the Selgrave of
former days, whose very name brought tears into her eyes, should be one
of extreme interest--nay, of growing intimacy; that she was now to be
accompanied in her rides and walks by this once hated lord; and that,
without an effort on her mother's part, they had themselves agreed to
draw, to sing, to become companions together, in the wild mountains of
Scotland, when none were near to urge the introduction, or plan the
scheme of their amusements.

While her mother lay in darkness, dwelling upon the evil destiny of
Clara, ignorant even of her amusements, she had become known to the
Selgrave of her former speculation; and without her knowledge and
concurrence, his lordship was engaged to visit Fairlee! How wonderfully
did events arrange themselves without human interference, and how
foolishly did she, in younger days, reject the idea of becoming
acquainted with a young man whom she had never seen, and could not
justly deprecate! How could she ever attach a feeling of dislike to a
creature so intelligent, so agreeable, so very attentively polite! How
rash to judge of any human being, unknown and unseen!

Whatever her youthful fancy conjured up to deform the image of
"Lord Selgrave" in her mental reveries, not a feeling separate from
admiration and pleased remembrance hovered round her meditations upon
Lord Farnborough, at this period of time. Christobelle was deeply
engaged with her own thoughts when she entered the hall at Fairlee.
Silence reigned in its precincts, and she looked forward to hours of
irritable conference with her mother, ere she could press her silent
pillow, and think unrestrainedly of all that had passed. Yet, she heard
voices in the sitting-room; and, above all, she heard her mother's
voice in its long-lost tones of playfulness, addressing a stranger. She
heard two voices reply. One she recognized to be her father's beloved
tones. He was then arrived: he had fulfilled his word of promise to
be with her on her birthday at last! Christobelle entered the room in
haste, and flew into his arms.

"I thought you could not return so soon, papa; I had quite given up
the idea of seeing you till June: how good this is of you, my own dear
papa!"

"I have kept my word, Chrystal, to salute you upon your birthday. I
made great efforts to achieve the journey in time, and I have brought
another friend to congratulate you upon your looks and studies."
Christobelle turned towards the stranger, and a cry of pleasure
burst from her lips; it was Sir John Spottiswoode. The sight of her
instructor, her companion, her kindest friend, at once obliterated all
other thoughts, and she caught his offered hand with feelings of most
enviable enjoyment. She had now again a companion to ramble with, to
talk with. She would no more mourn under her mother's petulance, or
roam the borders of Lochleven unattended. Christobelle did say to him
at that joyful moment--and she said it in sincerity--"Oh! now I _shall_
be happy--now I _shall_ have you always with me again!"

Sir John Spottiswoode expressed his equal pleasure at the meeting, and
he complimented Christobelle upon her appearance of perfect health.
It was a grateful satisfaction to find she had not forgotten him. He
remembered, with interest, their former studies, and he expected to
be astonished by her rapid progress in every pursuit, during the long
interregnum of four years. Christobelle assured him of his mistake.

"I have been a wild creature for years, and, except in drawing and
music, I have not done credit to your instructions. You will be obliged
to begin my education again, Sir John."

"Bell is a dear, flighty girl," said Lady Wetheral, in affectionate
accents, which had never yet gladdened her daughter's heart at
Fairlee--"Bell is wild as the curlews upon the lake. She requires your
society to tame her flights. She has been absent now three long hours."

"I have seen extraordinary things, and extraordinary people,"
Christobelle exclaimed, as she doffed her mountain-cap, and took Sir
John Spottiswoode's offered seat.

"In that dress, my love?--surely not in that dress, Bell?"

"I have been among the high ones of the land," continued Christobelle,
in high spirits, delighted at being with her father, and near Sir John
Spottiswoode. "I have been among the gay Southrons in Douglas Isle,
and a peer of the realm has escorted me across the lake."

Lady Wetheral looked incredulous, and somewhat offended. Christobelle
was obliged to detail the events of the morning, to mitigate the
rising storm; and what a change came over her ladyship's countenance,
as her daughter mentioned the attention and intended visit of Lord
Farnborough!--joy sparkled in her eyes, and excitement drew her form to
its utmost height. She did not answer--words were too feeble to express
her deep gratification.

"What sort of a looking person is Lord Farnborough, now?" asked Sir
John Spottiswoode.

"Most intelligent, most agreeable," she replied, "but not handsome. I
do not consider him handsome."

"Are they here for any length of time?"

"I cannot tell; they attend a party to St. Mungo's Isle soon, which I
am engaged to join. But _you_ will go with me now: I shall delight in
shewing you the lions of Lochleven. Shall we take a walk after dinner?
I long to shew you the beauteous spots, where I have sat so often and
so long, thinking of England, and wishing you were here to enjoy it
with me."

"I am ready to attend you over hill and dale," replied Sir John
Spottiswoode--"over mountain, and through glen."

"That is delightful. After dinner, then, we will set forth."

Christobelle had a packet of letters to read from Shropshire, entrusted
to her father's care; and, till the dressing-bell sounded, she was
engaged in devouring their contents. All were well in England.
Isabel wrote only of her children, and she wished to exhibit them at
Fairlee, if Miss Tabitha's health would only allow the visit--but she
would neither die nor get well. Anna Maria detailed the delights of
the winter's sport in Shropshire, and triumphed in the glory of her
husband. They had thirty-seven "brushes" of the last season, which the
children played with in the hall, and Tom had been in at the death
of each. The eldest boy, Tom, could roar "Tally-ho" as loud as the
whipper-in, and the girl climbed trees like a squirrel. Mrs. Pynsent
added a short postscript of one line, "Take care of Sir Jacky, Miss
Bell."

Christobelle involuntarily raised her eyes towards Sir John
Spottiswoode, as she smiled at the concise charge. He was gazing
earnestly upon her; her eye sank under the expression of his fixed
attention, and she resumed her reading; but a deep blush painfully
suffused her cheek. She had met no closely-fixed observation till this
moment, and she knew Sir John Spottiswoode's eye was still upon her.
She did not dare meet his glance again.



CHAPTER XXIII.


"And you really have wished to lead me through these romantic scenes?"
said Sir John Spottiswoode, as Christobelle leaned upon his arm, on
the very spot where she parted with Lord Farnborough in the morning;
"you have seriously thought of your old friend during his absence, and
wished him with you?"

"Yes; every storm which disturbed the lake, and every sunny gleam which
gilded its tranquillity, made me think of you, and wish you by my side
to enjoy it."

"Perhaps I was equally anxious to find myself strolling with you on
these magnificent shores."

"You were otherwise engaged," she replied, quickly; "you had affairs to
arrange, and property to amuse and interest your thoughts; but I have
had no companion for years, to enliven my hours of solitary walks. I
thought of you, when you were too busy to consider me."

"My thoughts were not always employed in Worcestershire, Miss Wetheral;
but take me to your haunts, and let me see the views you have so long
contemplated."

Christobelle led her companion to the cliff, where she usually passed
her morning hours in alternate reading and meditation, and they seated
themselves in a natural, rocky seat, which had been worn by time into
something like a shapely kind of arbour, for the rock arched over
their heads sufficiently deep to afford shelter against heat and
showers; and under its rudely constructed roof Christobelle had passed
many hours of each successive day, when the weather permitted her to
escape from Fairlee. She pointed the attention of her friend to the
grandly-indented cliffs which guarded Lochleven--the islets which
appeared to slumber on its bosom--the plain of Kinross--its humble
abodes--its little church, and the solitary magnificence of the whole
scene. "Confess," she said, "that this is a scene worthy to compete
with the boasted views abroad. Confess that Lochleven is matchless in
its golden sunset, its bracing air, and calmly-beautiful waters. Does
not this glowing scene fill your mind with wonder and praise? does it
not give soothing thoughts of a great and wonderful Providence, who has
created such scenes for his creatures?"

Sir John Spottiswoode stood some time in contemplation, and he was
silent during his companion's enthusiastic descriptions: at last, he
turned towards her with a smile.

"I have seen many lakes--beautiful lakes, Miss Wetheral, but I cannot
say I ever looked upon their scenery with the feelings I now enjoy, in
gazing upon Lochleven."

"You will admire every bend of this graceful water," she replied,
pleased with his admiring gaze, as he fixed his eyes upon Lochleven;
"I must shew you every lovely appendage by degrees. To-morrow we will
visit the ferry of Ballahuish--no, not to-morrow...."

"And why not to-morrow?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode.

Christobelle could not tell why she coloured at the question, or why
she turned her face from the speaker towards the Douglas Isle. Sir John
Spottiswoode repeated his question.

"But why not to-morrow, Miss Wetheral? Why cannot we begin our tour
to-morrow?"

"I believe the Duke of Forfar calls at Fairlee to-morrow," she replied.

"Will that detain _you_?" said her companion, looking at her with a
smile.

"Not altogether--no. Lord Farnborough said something about coming too;
and, as he named the time, I think perhaps I ought to remain at home."

"I do not know the nature of the understanding implied by the mention
of the intended visit to you," observed Sir John Spottiswoode,
"therefore I cannot offer an opinion."

"Oh! there was nothing implied--no absolute--I made no promise of any
kind."

"You did not engage to remain at Fairlee?"

"Certainly not--no, I may say, certainly not."

"Then let us proceed on our little tour to-morrow."

Christobelle was caught in her own mesh. She had assuredly made no
engagement--no actual engagement; but there was an implied consent on
her part to Lord Farnborough's hope of finding her at home. She had
not courage to confess this to Sir John Spottiswoode--and why was she
guilty of evasion? She must now relinquish all thought of meeting Lord
Farnborough at Fairlee. Christobelle sat meditating her disappointment
for some moments.

"Miss Wetheral," said her companion, after a short silence, "did you
ever see Lord Farnborough before the meeting of this morning?"

Christobelle started at the sound of Lord Farnborough's name, but she
answered truly, "Never."

"Are you acquainted with his lordship's character?"

"No, indeed; my only knowledge of Lord Farnborough began, and may
perhaps end, in this morning's interview."

"Lord Farnborough's character at college was designated as fair and
false," observed Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Was it!"

"A fellow-collegian of his lordship's, Beverly, resides near Alverton.
He gave me the character I now describe to you."

Christobelle felt uncomfortable at Sir John Spottiswoode's information.
It is always painful to hear depreciating accounts of those we admire,
or from whom we have received kindness. She knew nothing of Lord
Farnborough--his lordship was nothing to her; but she regretted so
agreeable a person should prove otherwise than estimable. Could Mr.
Beverly's testimony be depended upon? Character should not be lightly
treated: if Lord Farnborough's character was at the mercy of Mr.
Beverly, it was but fair to ascertain Mr. Beverly's claims to belief.
Under this impression, Christobelle hastily uttered her thoughts, after
a second pause.

"Pray, Sir John, who is Mr. Beverly?"

"A neighbour in Worcestershire, and one of the best fellows in England.
Why do you ask?"

"Because I think your friend is ungenerous, in speaking harshly of Lord
Farnborough, who perhaps never offended him."

"Beverly was once deeply offended by Lord Farnborough," replied Sir
John Spottiswoode.

"Therefore, your friend is revengeful," she answered, quickly.

"Beverly has borne his injuries like a man, and like a Christian,"
returned Sir John. "All injuries should be forgiven; but some cannot be
forgotten till memory fails."

Again the little band of French horns swelled upon the still air, and
the two vessels, which had sailed to the Douglas Isle, emerged from its
deep shadow. Christobelle started up.

"They are returning to Clanmoray so late! Oh! listen to that sweet,
soft air."

The simple strain of "Farewell to Lochaber" stole softly on their
ear, and they sat silently gazing upon the little vessels, as they
neared the cliff. Suddenly the music broke off, as if an accident had
occurred; but the pause was of short duration--it was again broken by
the lively and stirring notes of "My love she's but a lassie yet." The
blood mounted to Christobelle's forehead with undisguised pleasure and
surprise. She was discovered in her retreat by the party below, and an
indescribable feeling shot across her heart, as it grasped at the idea
that Lord Farnborough had chosen the air, and that he had commanded its
execution, as the vessel passed the cliff. She leaned over the rocks,
which formed a barricade before the rural seat, and in fancy she could
distinguish the tall, slight figure of his lordship, standing in the
stern, with folded arms, as he stood when she waved her plaid in the
morning. Christobelle watched the vessel with intense attention, as it
glided on, and exclaimed, with eager satisfaction,

"I see him!--I could point him out among a hundred!"

"Whom do you see?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode, as he rose and
advanced to her side--"Whom are you noting?"

Christobelle did not immediately reply. She continued gazing upon the
lake, and several of the party were also observing them through their
telescopes from below.

"But, tell me, Miss Wetheral, whom you note among a hundred, in that
party," repeated Sir John Spottiswoode.

"He is standing with--no, he is sitting--that very large personage, the
Duke of Forfar--you know the Duke of Forfar?"

"Oh yes, I see. How gratified his Grace would be at the knowledge of
having attracted your observation! I think I see Lord Farnborough."

"Whom do you see?--I fancy I recognise Lady Anna Herbert's feather; and
there is kind Miss Ponsonby," replied Christobelle, colouring.

"Lord Farnborough is standing in the stern of the vessel, Miss
Wetheral: he is waving something--his handkerchief. Who is he waving
to?"

A little conscious feeling prevented Christobelle from returning the
salutation. She feared Sir John Spottiswoode would observe and smile
at her action. She wished he had not told her Lord Farnborough was
considered "fair and false." She had no belief in the insinuation,
but it caused a very unpleasant restraint. The vessel passed under the
jutting rocks immediately below them, and it was obscured for a time:
when it reappeared, the distance did not allow them to distinguish the
party. They heard the full notes of the French horns, however, till a
headland concealed the vessels from sight; and, ere the last faint note
died away, the sun was considerably below the horizon. Christobelle
and her companion returned to Fairlee at the moment the servants were
passing through the hall with coffee.

The evening passed in conversation upon the past and present, and Sir
John Spottiswoode's society made Christobelle speedily forget the
attentions of Lord Farnborough. The compliments of an attractive and
agreeable person, for a few hours, could not compete with the presence
of a dear friend, whose taste had led her own in many instances, and
who had devoted so much time to accomplish her talents for music and
painting. That friend had been remembered during an absence of four
years; he had been often apostrophized in solitary walks, and she had
wished in silence and sincerity to renew their pleasant intercourse.
That boon was now granted. Sir John Spottiswoode was again her
companion, and what desire of her heart remained ungratified?

Christobelle laid her head upon her pillow, that night, in peaceful
thoughts; and if Lord Farnborough occasionally flitted before her
eyes--if the air of "My love is but a lassie yet" lingered upon her
ear--yet Sir John Spottiswoode filled her mind. His dark hair, curling
in rich profusion over his brow--his manly expression--that benevolent
dark blue eye--who was equal to him in excellence?--nay, who was
superior, even in those evanescent gifts which captivate the eye of
woman? Whom did she love and venerate equal to Sir John Spottiswoode?

The following morning produced a long and perplexing conversation
between the mother and daughter, which extinguished all Christobelle's
happy feelings. No two beings could possibly be more opposed in
feeling, in sentiment, and in action; and never yet did a colloquy
take place, without heart-burning arising on one side, and distressed
feelings on the other part, to sever the ties between parent and child.
In this morning's conference their opinions jarred more painfully
than ever; for they were now in actual collision upon points which
must materially affect Christobelle's happiness, and her future
respectability of conduct. It took place after breakfast, while the
gentlemen were perambulating the terrace, and ordering the horses
for an intended ride. Lady Wetheral commenced her attack with that
flattering address which gains so much influence over poor human nature.

"My dear Bell, the arrival of your old friend has produced wonderful
effects. I am gratified at seeing your eyes sparkle, and your
expression of countenance become animated. I may confess I am pleased
at beholding my quiet daughter transformed into a beauty, by the mere
play of pretty coquetry which Sir John Spottiswoode's arrival has
called forth."

"I detest coquettes and coquetry," answered Christobelle, seriously,
though she was not insensible to the agreeable intimation of her
suddenly acquired beauty.

"Nonsense, Bell; it is a woman's most potent argument--it is her most
powerful weapon--it is her most precious gift--because it is her
greatest attraction: do not undervalue it."

"I have not been many hours in Sir John Spottiswoode's company, mamma.
If I felt inclined to coquet, I have had no opportunity."

"A mother's eyes are open, when the daughter's eyes are closed,"
replied Lady Wetheral, with her most winning smile. "I dare say
you were not aware how prettily your eyes sought, and fell beneath
Sir John's glances, last night, and at this morning's breakfast. I
congratulate you, Bell, upon a gift which will create more decided
effects from your ignorance of possessing it. But I wish to call your
attention to my anxious wishes--I wish you to attend to my counsel, and
I wish you to act by my advice."

"What is your counsel, mamma?"

"I have never yet failed in establishing my daughters," her ladyship
continued, "because they acted upon my advice, without arguing its
propriety. Julia and Clara acted solely by my wishes, and they won
their high establishment."

"Poor Clara!" exclaimed Christobelle, involuntarily.

"It is useless to pity those who would not conform to the proprieties
of life," replied Lady Wetheral. "I gave Clara to Sir Foster, with long
and serious entreaties to avoid all public scenes and altercations with
her husband. I never countenanced opposition in a wife. I implored
Clara to be obedient in appearance--so much can be done by prudent
management! I never contradicted her father in my life. I effected
all my plans without a single quarrel. There is no occasion to quarrel
in matrimony. A woman's influence is and must be felt; but it ends the
instant you appear to contend. Clara was ungrateful to reproach me as
the cause--the idea always makes me nervous."

Her ladyship applied lavender-water to her forehead and handkerchief,
and then proceeded.

"Sir John Spottiswoode will propose to you before he quits Fairlee, but
I should wish"--

"Sir John Spottiswoode propose to _me_!" exclaimed Christobelle, in the
utmost astonishment.

"All that surprise is foolish, Bell. You are now old enough to command
those starts and blushes which look so very fresh, so very girlish.
I am certain Sir John Spottiswoode will propose, and it rests with
yourself to attract Lord Farnborough."

The blood rushed with impetuous pulsation into the face of
Christobelle, and it overspread her forehead, neck, and even her hands:
if Lady Wetheral observed the suffusion her words had produced, she
affected not to perceive it.

"I should advise you to be very cautious in your conduct to both
gentlemen, my dear Bell. Do not be seen too exclusively with Sir John
Spottiswoode, to attract attention; and yet, do not check hope on his
part. If Lord Farnborough quits Clanmoray without intending any thing,
or merely flirts with you, then, let Sir John propose. Alverton is an
excellent _au pis aller_, but I would rather my dear Bell could be
saluted Duchess of Forfar."

It was some moments before Christobelle could rally her thoughts
and spirits, after the mention of Lord Farnborough, in the light of
a future suitor. For one instant, only, the idea of his lordship's
affection shot a gleam of ambition into her mind, but the paltry
feeling was soon extinguished for ever, and her heart flew back to the
remembered excellence of her former instructor and friend. Her mother
watched the workings of her spirit.

"If Lord Farnborough calls to-day, my love, I shall invite him to
dinner."

"His lordship is a guest at Clanmoray," observed Christobelle, hastily.

"He will be a guest at Fairlee soon," answered my mother, gaily. "I
could fancy myself quite well again, my dear child; quite alert, as I
used to be; your little '_minauderies_' will raise me into new life and
spirits. I am sure Lord Farnborough is handsome and of high bearing. I
am sure he is clever and agreeable; your little coquetries will divert
me into health again."

"But, mamma--"

"No 'ifs' and 'buts,' my dear Bell. I have every dependence upon your
attractions. Sir John Spottiswoode is astonished at your improved
appearance."

"Listen to me, if you please, mamma. I am no coquette; and I would
rather die than be considered a character so repugnant to all that is
holy and upright."

"My dear girl, forbear sentiment. A little sentiment, if you please, to
Lord Farnborough, but not to me."

"I have no wish to marry, mamma," pleaded Christobelle, with earnest
seriousness. "I have no wish to leave papa, and--I have no wish
to marry Sir John Spottiswoode, and I cannot try to attract any
body. Pray, do not advise me to avoid Sir John, or to think of any
establishment. Don't let me endure the fate of Clara, or Julia's long
banishment."

Lady Wetheral's hands began to tremble, and her features became
agitated as she spoke.

"I am well used to disobedience, and this only adds to my accumulation
of vexations. Every thing has conspired to make me miserable, and I
have one child left to reproach me with bitterness. How could I expect
obedience from a headstrong girl, whose masculine education defies
restraint!"

"Indeed, mamma, I am anxious to do right. Indeed, my wish is to please
every one; but I cannot think it right to treat Sir John Spottiswoode
ill."

"Who enjoins you to do so?" said her ladyship, in a querulous tone.

"I cannot--indeed, I cannot trifle with two gentlemen, till I ascertain
the intentions of one of them. Do not ask me to do so, I beseech you,
for it goes against every feeling of my heart." Christobelle burst into
tears.

"I detest such stupid folly! Pray, don't imagine that your frowns will
destroy the peace of either gentlemen. Men do not now suffer more than
an hour's annoyance; a new flame soon lights the expiring embers of an
old _penchant_."

"I am very glad to hear it, mamma."

"I only counsel you to mete out your attentions to each gentleman
alike, Bell, and to distinguish neither at present. I imagine nothing
unholy in a line of conduct which preserves a proper and just decorum
in your manners."

"I will do any thing you please, mamma; only do not ask me to trifle
with Sir John Spottiswoode."

"You will do every thing which pleases yourself, and nothing which
pleases me. I perfectly understand your meaning; but allow me also to
observe, that I will hold no intercourse with a daughter who presumes
to lecture her parent. I will have no communication with a young woman
who insolently defies her mother, and insists upon acting according to
her own weak judgment."

"Do not suppose me defying you, mamma. There is nothing I would not do
to give you pleasure--nothing I would not do to increase your comforts;
only I beseech you not to compel me into a conduct my heart disowns as
ungenerous and wicked."

"Of course, a parent is wrong--of course, a mother is not a proper
judge, compared with a child's greater wisdom, in any affair connected
with that child's welfare. I am aware of your high opinion of yourself.
I have long known your freedom, from every proper feeling which
softens and decorates a woman's mind. Remain single, Bell, and be the
prototype of your great aunt, Miss Christobelle Wetheral; sink like
her into insignificant old maidism. But don't let my eyes contemplate
you, an excrescence in your family--an incubus upon its glory. All my
daughters have married splendidly, and I cannot be encumbered by a
stupid daughter, who throws every advantage from her, and considers an
admirer an unholy appendage."

Tears flowed silently down her daughter's cheeks. Christobelle could
hold no dialogue with a mother, whose ironical manner and determinedly
opposed views distressed her, and darkened the prospect of her life.
Her silence became a matter of offence.

"If weeping is to accompany your talent for continual and insolent
opposition, Miss Wetheral, I will request you to leave me: my own
nerves are sufficiently shattered."

Christobelle rose, and quitted the room; Sir John Spottiswoode
came towards her from the hall, as she closed the door of the
breakfast-room. He did not notice her emotion; he did not even speak,
but he gently drew her arm within his own, and led her upon the terrace
which commanded the view of the lake. They took one turn in silence,
and then Sir John Spottiswoode spoke of his admiration of Lochleven,
and gradually drew Christobelle into cheerful conversation. He asked
her opinion concerning the morning's plan of amusement. "If she did not
prefer riding, he should feel inclined to consider the day just the
very thing for a water excursion." Christobelle was very willing to
resign herself into Sir John's hands. The conversation of the morning
had damped the glow of pleasure, and given a melancholy tinge to her
thoughts, which could not be immediately shaken off. She therefore
answered slowly--"Yes, any thing; let us go upon the water, if you wish
it."

Sir John Spottiswoode pressed her arm to his side so slightly, that she
could scarcely write it down a pressure, as he replied:

"I will have nothing done without your full concurrence. If you do not
feel inclined to go on the water, let the original plan be adopted."

"I believe my tones are rather dismal this morning," she replied, with
more cheerfulness; "but I quite approve of your idea. We will certainly
row to the Douglas Isle."

Sir John Wetheral accompanied them in their little excursion; and as
they glided towards the Isle, the fresh air, the light dip of the oars,
and the conversation of her two companions, restored Christobelle's
spirit to its usual buoyancy. Sir John Spottiswoode watched the ebb
and flow of her countenance, and bent towards her. "This is perfect
enchantment. Tell me now why you were so melancholy."

Christobelle shook her head smilingly. "Do not put me in mind of it,
but sing me a Swiss air; that air I loved to hear at Wetheral."

"You have remembered it, even among these distant scenes?"

"It has never faded from my recollection. On the contrary, these rocks
and mountains brought it still more freshly to memory."

Sir John Spottiswoode instantly sang the Swiss air with spirit, and
his voice sounded melodiously on the water, which lay so calmly,
so beautifully still: not a breath of air curled a ripple upon its
surface. Again and again the song recommenced, and all Christobelle's
troubles were forgotten in the delicious harmony. She did not know
she sat gazing upon the singer, till Sir John Spottiswoode suddenly
paused, and their eyes met: Christobelle was not aware her attention
was so exclusively bestowed upon him, till the expression of his glance
recalled her thoughts. She turned from him in confusion, and fixed
her contemplation upon the mountains which rose gradually above each
other, till their heads were lost in clouds. She looked no more towards
Sir John Spottiswoode.

The little party sat conversing some hours on a small pile of stones
raised under a tree, which, in former days, constituted the _plaisance_
of Lochleven Castle. This spot commanded the rich plain of Kinross, the
rocky hills which swelled on either side, and the houses which dotted
the plain, and gleamed in the sunshine. They thought of the sufferings
of Mary, when she inhabited the now-ruined building under which they
reposed, not as a restless Queen of Scots, but as a captive woman,
banished to an isle where her eye could only rest upon rocks and water,
far from her home and friends.

Sir John Spottiswoode also told of foreign scenes, and compared the
beauties of Lochleven with the gigantic lakes of the south. They could
not bear comparison; yet Lochleven possessed, in its diminutiveness,
every requisite for poetic beauty. It was Lochleven; and Lochleven
contained a succession of captivating scenery, delighting to the eye
and mind. Many might prefer the imposing immensity of Geneva, of
Constance, or of Zurich; but all must admire Lochleven. He did not see
the chamois bounding from cliff to cliff; but the mind loved to repose
on the bold yet tranquil scene which he contemplated. He did not dread
the avalanche; but the softer landscape pleased an eye, sated with
precipices, glaziers, torrents, and cataracts. It was delightful to sit
by the side of friends, in the midst of scenery so beautiful, and yet
be able to say, "It is in our own land."

Christobelle listened, and forgot Lord Farnborough. Far more attractive
to her mind was the manly conversation of Sir John Spottiswoode,
than the empty compliments of a new acquaintance. How could she, for
an instant, feel disappointment at the thought of being absent from
Fairlee when his lordship called?

Their return to the mainland was late; it was later still when they
reached Fairlee. They had lingered by the way, and every turn presented
new objects to admire, and fresh subjects for discussion. The half-hour
bell was pealing its tones, and the echo reverberated from rock to
rock, as they gained the terrace. This incident produced another
pause: Sir John described the effect of the echo among the mountains
of Switzerland, and the wild cry of the Switzers. Christobelle had
scarcely time to hurry into her room, and change her dress, before
they were summoned into the dining-room. Lady Wetheral did not address
her daughter during dinner. She directed her discourse exclusively to
her husband, when any subject was intended particularly to attract
Christobelle's attention; otherwise, her manners were captivating as
ever, when she played the hospitable and agreeable hostess, at the head
of her table.

"My dear John, the Duke of Forfar called this morning." Christobelle's
colour rose, and her quick eye detected the little emotion. "I was
gratified by the call: his Grace looked remarkably well, and Lady Anna
Herbert as sprightly as usual. Four years have rolled by, and left
their 'flowing hair' unthinned. Lady Anna looks quite as youthful as
she did when a '_belle confessed_,' at your mother's balls, Sir John
Spottiswoode."

"She was a very fine girl, and an excellent flirt," remarked Sir John.
"Charles and Lady Anna were great friends some years ago."

"I was very much pleased with Lord Farnborough," continued Lady
Wetheral, addressing her husband, and passing her eyes slightly over
Christobelle. "Lord Farnborough accompanied his party, and I have not
seen such a finished gentleman many years."

Sir John Spottiswoode made no remark; and Christobelle was silent. Sir
John Wetheral asked if the great boy had grown into a fine-looking
youth?

"I set Lord Farnborough down as decidedly handsome at the first glance,
my love; but I forgot his beauty in his very finished manners."

Sir John made no further remark, and there was a short pause, till Lady
Wetheral resumed--

"Lord Farnborough spoke with polite pleasure of his introduction to
my daughter yesterday; and he brought a note from Miss Ponsonby,
requesting us to join a party next Tuesday to St. Mungo's Isle. You
were included, Sir John, when our friends learned you were at Fairlee."

Sir John Spottiswoode bowed.

"It is to be an early party, and there were sundry messages delivered
which my poor head could not contain; but Lord Farnborough will call
again with more ample instructions. I told him it was cruel to load my
memory with such matter."

"Do the Forfar party continue long at Clanmoray," said Sir John
Spottiswoode, some moments after the subject had dropped.

"I believe so," was Lady Wetheral's reply; "indeed, Lord Farnborough
mentioned his own protracted stay, when the rest left for Farnborough
Stacy. I forget when _they_ depart."

"Perhaps there is attractive metal in Miss Fanny Ponsonby," observed
Sir John Wetheral.

"There is attraction somewhere," replied his lady, "for there was a
lover's touch in his description of Lochleven, and in his anxiety for
the party to St. Mungo's Isle."

"Allow me the pleasure of taking wine with you, Miss Wetheral," said
Sir John Spottiswoode, bending forward. The subject again dropped.

The half hour's interregnum after dinner, was passed in lectures on
Lady Wetheral's part. The ladies had scarcely entered the drawing-room,
when Christobelle's attention was again required upon the subject so
painfully argued in the morning.

"I wish to try your narrow capacity once more, Bell, and to ascertain
whether you really possess one spark of that wholesome ambition which
dignifies a woman of birth."

"Indeed, mamma, I hope so. I would not for worlds stoop to commit a
mean action, or indulge a mean thought. My very greatest ambition is to
act like a lady, and, by so doing, meet every one's respect."

"That is all very well, Bell, but that is not exactly my meaning. To
be respectable, you must soar. It is vain to content one's-self with
grovelling just above the heads of the canaille. The proper ambition is
to grasp at high things, and possess them."

"I have no wish for high things, mamma."

"Because your nature is common-place, Bell, because your mind is low
set. However you may pique yourself upon your accomplished education,
that very education has crippled my hopes, and your own prospects. You
will live and die, satisfied with mediocrity."

"But, mamma, what do you mean, and what am I to do to give you
satisfaction? I cannot understand you."

"I will explain myself, Bell. Are you a girl of such a mean spirit,
as to accept a baronet, when a duke's son enters the list of suitors?
Answer me--are you so mean-spirited, so mediocre in your wishes, as to
content yourself with a man who cannot raise you above your fellows?"

"Certainly not, mamma, if I did not love him."

"Love him! Could you love a man--would you dare to plead attachment
to a man, as an excuse for lowering yourself in marriage below your
sisters' fortunes? Would _you_ meanly creep, while _their_ flight has
carried them to this world's pinnacle? I hope, I trust, you would not
do so, Bell!"

"Whom can you allude to?" exclaimed Christobelle, distressed beyond
measure at her mother's words; "tell me at once, I beseech you, what
you mean. Do not speak to me in parables."

Lady Wetheral became extremely agitated. She walked to the window,
threw open the sash, and closed it again, as she spoke.

"I have said enough to waken your understanding. Any one might
comprehend my meaning--any one would know I detested the idea of your
marrying Sir John Spottiswoode."

Christobelle looked up in her mother's face with astonishment. She
continued with increased nervousness.

"You cannot deceive _me_, Bell. You cannot deny your predilection for
that man, which will at once decide the intentions, and end all hopes
of Lord Farnborough. You are determined to pursue your will, and I will
act upon my own resolution. The very hour in which you accept Sir John
Spottiswoode, shall be the last of your residence with me."

"Good heavens, mamma, I have not a thought of Sir John Spottiswoode, or
Sir John Spottiswoode of me! What can have caused such a supposition in
your mind?"

"You do not care for him--you _will_ not care for him--is that your
meaning, Bell?"

"I do not care for any one, half so much as for my own papa, and I hope
I shall always prefer him," she exclaimed, energetically.

"Folly, and nonsense!--girl's folly," resumed Lady Wetheral, "by your
blushes I might have given you credit for ambition; but your walks and
sailing with Sir John Spottiswoode, inclines me to fear you will give
yourself to a poor baronet."

"I did not know he was poor, mamma."

"Comparatively speaking with Sir Foster Kerrison, he _is_ poor. What
is a paltry income of three thousand pounds, compared with the wealthy
dukedom of Forfar?"

"Am I to marry the Duke of Forfar?" exclaimed Christobelle, starting
from her chair in horror.

"Not the present duke, Bell, though he is a remarkably fine man, and
not more than sixty years of age. Many young ladies might approve the
Duke of Forfar; but I allude to his very handsome, very accomplished
mannered son."

Christobelle could have listened to her mother's eulogium with infinite
pleasure at an earlier period, and before she had deprecated Sir John
Spottiswoode. But her soul rose against persecution. She could not
endure to hear her friend lowered, or to be at once commanded not to
like a man whom she loved in innocence, and without a thought of future
connexion. From that moment, Sir John Spottiswoode became a martyr in
her eyes, and Lord Farnborough sank into a secondary personage. Lady
Wetheral awaited her daughter's reply some moments, but her mind was
too busily employed deciding her feelings.

"You are very thoughtful, Bell. Think well upon my words, and act with
becoming spirit."

"I have thought, and I have decided," replied Christobelle, firmly.

"But do not look so ashy pale, my dear Bell; these little struggles
are trifles, compared with a long existence of nonentity. I gave up a
very powerful attachment, to please my wise and reflecting mother. I
relinquished Captain Blennerhasset for your father, and I found her
remarks perfectly just, by the course of events. She implored me to
forbear marrying an Irish officer, with little more than his pay, when
a prospect arose before me of becoming mistress of Wetheral Castle.
She assured my romantic fancy, that Love could not survive the attacks
of poverty, and she warned me to avoid the miseries of following my
husband into disagreeable quarters, where I must sink into a captain's
lady, a title of far less importance than the general's mistress. I
followed my dear mother's prudent advice, and broke off my engagement
with Blennerhasset."

Christobelle was interested in the fate of her mother's unfortunate
lover, and she asked what had become of Captain Blennerhasset?

"He married somebody of distinction," she replied, "and fell at
Badajos. His widow and four children are now living upon the bounty
of their friends. My mother's counsel was wise, and I was fortunately
prevailed upon to act with propriety."

"Poor Captain Blennerhasset!"

"Poverty is always pitiable," resumed Lady Wetheral. "I consider
people equally poor, whose income will not allow them to compete with
their neighbours. I should say poor Lady Spottiswoode, if you were the
wife of our excellent guest,..."

"Alverton is a handsome estate," remarked Christobelle.

"Very well for a nobody," replied Lady Wetheral, haughtily, "but a
wretched pittance for a Miss Wetheral, who has attracted the notice of
Lord Farnborough. I saw his watchful looks towards the door, Bell. I
marked his lordship's glances towards the lake, when he heard of your
visit to the island; every thing is in your power, if you will but
listen to your mother's counsel."

"Do not talk to me of marriage, mamma, I implore you," cried
Christobelle, as the gentlemen entered from the dining-room. Sir John
Spottiswoode took his seat near her as usual; she thought he looked
more benevolent, more interesting than ever. Matrimony never coupled
itself with her admiration of Sir John, but to be commanded to approve
him less than Lord Farnborough--to consider _him_ poor and undesirable,
who had improved her better tastes, and increased her store of good!
No, that should never be. Christobelle was too young to wish to marry,
too happy and free to think of fetters: but her right hand would forget
its cunning, ere she ceased to esteem Sir John Spottiswoode beyond
every human being.

"Shall we walk this evening?" he asked, as thoughts passed too rapidly
through her mind to allow of speech. Christobelle coloured, and turned
mechanically towards her mother. Lady Wetheral saw her emotion.

"My dear child looks fatigued, Sir John. Shall we advise her to be
quiet this evening? A long morning upon the water has lessened her
bloom."

"One little turn upon the terrace only, Miss Wetheral." Sir John
offered his arm.

"My dear Bell, even the terrace will fatigue you," observed her
ladyship, with anxiety.

"One turn to watch that sunset, Lady Wetheral! I will bring Miss
Wetheral back before fatigue attacks her."

"My dear Bell!..."

"I will not detain her many minutes--_one_ turn, my pupil."

Christobelle could not resist that title. She rose, and accompanied
Sir John Spottiswoode upon the terrace. One turn was taken, and they
paused to watch the golden beams sink behind the mountains. Another and
another was agreed upon, just to watch the pale gleams departing. Was
it, indeed, her mother's prohibition which gave so much interest to her
companion's remarks? Was it her prohibition which threw a charm over
his conversation, and caused Christobelle to linger in his society? She
knew not--but it was dark when they returned into the drawing-room, and
the coffee had been forgotten. Lady Wetheral's eyes turned upon her
daughter with an offended expression, but Christobelle forgot their
glance in pleasing retrospections that night. Christobelle dreamed of
Sir John Spottiswoode, and their early first days of acquaintance, when
Lady Wetheral approved and sought his intimacy, and she had enjoyed it
undisturbed, without a reference to Lord Farnborough.



CHAPTER XXIV.


Lady Wetheral complained the following morning of her nerves. She
assured Sir John Spottiswoode her alarms about her daughter's health
induced the attacks, and she hoped Christobelle would not think of
quitting Fairlee grounds that day. When that dear girl was long absent,
her fears became overpowering, and a frequent recurrence of such
disquietude might bring on a serious illness. She hoped Bell would find
amusement in the house, and be prevailed upon to forego her long walks.
Sir John Spottiswoode should not suffer by her nervous feelings. She
was aware her husband admired and sought out points of scenery almost
as enthusiastically as Bell, and he would be delighted to attend him in
his rides.

Sir John Spottiswoode smiled. "I will also decline leaving the house,
if you please. Since my pupil has suffered by my selfish pleasures, I
will dedicate myself to her entertainment--we will sketch the lake from
the terrace."

"That would be most pleasant; but I fear my poor nerves are in the way
again, my dear Sir John. I do not like to see my daughter bending over
her drawing."

"Miss Wetheral shall not bend over her drawing: I will read to you
both; I will read the 'Lady of the Lake.'"

"That will be most agreeable--most entertaining," observed her
ladyship. "My dear Bell, you are so partial to Sir Walter Scott's
poems!"

Yes, Christobelle was a warm admirer of Sir Walter's poetry; but she
thought still more of the pleasure she should experience in hearing it
read aloud by Sir John Spottiswoode. Christobelle acknowledged "how
gratified she would feel, by hearing the 'Lady of the Lake'--that she
preferred '_la lecture_' even to a sketch of the bright Lochleven.
She would bring her netting, and her father should sit by her in his
comfortable chair."

Every thing was arranged, shortly after the conclusion of breakfast,
for the reading; but, ere the gentlemen returned from their morning
visit to the stables and gardens, Lady Wetheral expressed her
satisfaction at the arrangement.

"I have managed to withdraw you from a walk, Bell. I dislike those
walks. Your name would soon become coupled with Sir John Spottiswoode,
which I will not allow. If Lord Farnborough calls to-day, every thing
is in its proper order. Place a chair for the reader, between your
father and myself, my love: our ears are older than your youthful
members."

"I thought the Clanmoray party called yesterday, mamma?"

"They did so--and yet I have a presentiment that Lord Farnborough will
appear again to-day. Remember, Bell, I do not extend my prohibition to
Lord Farnborough. You may walk with Lord Farnborough."

"That would give offence to Sir John Spottiswoode, mamma."

"Leave _me_ to manage Sir John Spottiswoode, my love."

"I shall not wish to walk; I shall remain at home to-day, if you
please, mamma."

"I do not prescribe your hours, my dear Bell. Walk when and where you
like, so you are not conspicuous with Sir John Spottiswoode. I warn you
in time, that I will listen to no proposal which does not emanate from
Lord Farnborough; and no plea from yourself, which has reference to our
present guest. You are warned in time, remember!"

"I should never think of, or hope to attach, Sir John Spottiswoode,"
Christobelle replied, calmly; "I only wish to be allowed free liberty
to enjoy his conversation."

"There is a very homely adage, Bell, which says, 'Prevention is better
than a cure.' Lay its meaning to your heart."

Christobelle did not continue the dialogue. She gave her whole
attention to her netting, till the gentlemen returned, and till Sir
John Spottiswoode commenced his reading: her whole soul was then
engrossed in the fate of the fair and gentle Ellen. Gradually her hands
relaxed their grasp, as the story proceeded--gradually her eyes turned
upon the reader, and her netting fell disregarded upon the carpet. She
was listening to the scene where Malcolm hears the praises of Ellen
from the lips of Douglas:

    "If a father's partial thought
    O'erweighed her worth and beauty aught--
    Well might the lover's judgment fail
    To balance with a juster scale;
    For with each secret glance he stole,
    The fond enthusiast sent his soul."

The eyes of Sir John Spottiswoode rested upon Christobelle as he spoke
these lines, and she felt a pain at her heart before unknown, and now
indescribable. Lady Wetheral caught the mutual expression, and was
struck by the sudden paleness of her daughter's countenance. She turned
to Sir John Spottiswoode.

"You will smile at a lady's nerves, and decide us to be
incomprehensible beings; but the continual flow of your voice vibrates
upon my nerves in a peculiar manner. I _must_ feel unwell, since a
voice like your own creates nervousness. I will retire, for a short
period, to appeal once more to camphor-julep. My dear Bell will give me
her arm."

Sir John Spottiswoode rose in alarm.

"My dear sir, these trifling attacks are becoming less and less
frequent. My daughter and myself will leave you and Sir John together.
I trust these attacks are not to be often repeated; but we shall meet
at luncheon, I hope, quite recovered."

The mother and daughter quitted the sitting-room; but, as they
passed through the door, held open by Sir John Spottiswoode, he took
Christobelle's hand, and kindly hoped she would not be too ill to enjoy
a breeze upon the terrace. "Oh! yes, this evening I shall truly enjoy
the pure air," she replied, withdrawing her hand as they passed on.

"If there is any thing most displeasing to me," observed Lady Wetheral,
as they entered her dressing-room, "it is comprised in that familiar
action of shaking hands upon every occasion. I beg you will avoid it in
future."

"It was merely to express a kind wish, _en passant_," Christobelle
remarked, "that Sir John Spottiswoode just touched my hand."

"Familiarity which begins _en passant_, ends in contempt _pour
toujours_, Miss Wetheral."

"Would you wish to lie down, mamma, or shall I ring for Mrs. Bevan?"
asked her daughter, willing to change the subject.

"Neither, Miss Wetheral. I wish simply to remain here, and, if you
please, you shall read to me."

Christobelle continued reading to her mother, who sat reclining in a
lounging-chair, till a tap at the door announced Mrs. Bevan in waiting.
Her ladyship touched a little silver hand-bell by her side, to indicate
to Mrs. Bevan that she might enter. She brought a summons from her
master, to beg the ladies would make their appearance.

"Tell Frederick, Mrs. Bevan, to inform your master we will descend when
the luncheon is announced: I am very nervous and unwell."

"My lady, I believe my Lord Farnborough is in the drawing-room."

"Oh! very well, Mrs. Bevan, we are coming immediately." Mrs. Bevan
vanished. "My dear love, just draw out your beautiful curls; and if you
could pass a narrow blue ribbon negligently through your hair, it would
give great effect to its jetty abundance. A little more animation in
your manner, Bell, and a little less paleness, is to be desired. Yes,
that blush has had great effect--now let us proceed, ere it vanishes."

They entered the drawing-room, and Christobelle's eyes first sought
Sir John Spottiswoode. He was standing at the window, but he turned
towards the ladies, as the little bustle of their entrance reached his
ear, and advanced with alacrity. Lady Wetheral held out her hand. "I
am much better, my dear Sir John--your countenance asks the question.
I have had repose--perfect repose--and I am better. My daughter is
my medicine." Her ladyship still held Christobelle's arm, and moved
gracefully forward. "My lord, you are the bearer of Miss Ponsonby's
wishes. My poor memory had parted with the recollection of your message
yesterday, before my daughter's return."

Christobelle bowed to Lord Farnborough, and would have apologized for
her absence the preceding day, by stating Sir John Spottiswoode's
arrival, had not the attention of the latter been fixed upon her.
She could perceive that he watched her narrowly, and that knowledge
imparted an awkwardness to her manner which she could not shake
off. Christobelle stopped abruptly in her speech, and hesitated.
Lord Farnborough had greatly the advantage in perfect ease of
manner. Christobelle felt her insufficiency, and it caused greater
agitation--for what would Sir John Spottiswoode think of her folly?

Lord Farnborough entered gaily into conversation, and he did not allude
to his disappointment, or recur to the events which had passed. He was
charged with Miss Ponsonby's complimentary fears lest Christobelle
should become a defaulter to St. Mungo's Isle, and her hopes that the
party would assemble at Clanmoray, before the aquatic expedition took
place. It was hoped that Lady Wetheral would accompany the Fairlee
party, and forget her fears of the water.

"You will be under my guidance, Lady Wetheral," continued Lord
Farnborough, "and I am an experienced sailor. Ponsonby heads a
detachment also, but I particularly request your daughter and yourself
will place yourselves under my care."

"We will certainly enlist under your banners, Lord Farnborough; we
prefer the sailor to the soldier, upon the water," said Lady Wetheral,
her countenance lighted up with pleasure, and all her ailments
forgotten. "I shall accept, with pleasure, Miss Ponsonby's invitation,
and I will _try_ to forget my fears."

"I shall ride over on Tuesday, to escort you," resumed Lord
Farnborough. "Since you consider yourselves my peculiar care, I
shall certainly take charge of you from your own door. Miss Ponsonby
declares, if I monopolize the ladies, she will insist upon being
attended by the gentlemen. She therefore appropriates Sir John Wetheral
and your guest."

"A charmingly novel arrangement," exclaimed Lady Wetheral, delighted
to believe that Sir John Spottiswoode would not enter her appointed
vessel. "I am amused by the peculiar novelty. Tell me who form your
exclusive party?"

"Oh! I have secured Lady Anna and Fanny Ponsonby--Mrs. Ponsonby has
declared off altogether--the Greys, and the two Quintens."

"The handsome Quintens?"

"Yes, the handsome, tall Quintens--second only to the incomparable
Fanny Ponsonby."

Christobelle thought Lord Farnborough handsome--very handsome, that
morning. If Sir John Spottiswoode had not arrived at Fairlee--if Lady
Wetheral had not tortured her heart, by _compelling_ its obedience--by
endeavouring to lower her opinion of the friend she esteemed--if,
a thousand ifs--Christobelle had perhaps admired his lordship, and
fallen a victim to her mother's wishes. But, now!--a thousand Lord
Farnboroughs could not fill up the sum of her preference to the society
of Sir John Spottiswoode. Love was a deity unknown, unwished for. She
only prayed to pass her existence with her father, and to see sometimes
the friend she so greatly venerated.

Lord Farnborough remained some hours at Fairlee; and when
Christobelle's confusion, which arose at Sir John Spottiswoode's
scrutiny, had subsided, she could also join in the passing
conversation. Many complimentary nothings fell from Lord Farnborough's
lips, to which she replied with a banter which arose from the
collision of their wits--not from a heart gratified by empty verbiage.
Christobelle was at rest from reproach; and her spirits rose from their
contact with lively observations and sprightly repartee.

Sir John Spottiswoode did not join in the wordy war, but her father
smiled in pleased approbation, and often rescued his daughter from the
horns of a dilemma. Lady Wetheral's satisfaction lay deep in her heart,
but she sat composedly silent, as the brilliant scintillations of wit
played round her. It was after the departure of Lord Farnborough, that
she spoke her feelings in one concise, but too dangerous, sentence.

"Bell, walk _now_ when and where you please, with Sir John
Spottiswoode."

Christobelle was again at liberty to walk by the side of her
friend--again free to claim his society, without reproachful looks and
unkind expressions! How joyfully did she avail herself of the blessed
privilege! Her mother smiled at their repeated absence, and expressed
no curiosity to learn their subjects of conversation. Christobelle
drew fearlessly to the side of Sir John Spottiswoode, or leaned upon
his arm with confidence, as they watched the sun's decline from the
terrace. She was the happiest creature breathing, till the day of their
engagement to Clanmoray.

And yet Christobelle fancied there were symptoms of reserve on the part
of her companion. Conversation became, she thought, less gaily free,
less continuous. There were repeated and long pauses, which she could
not break, and Sir John Spottiswoode appeared to covet. They sat one
morning in their rocky seat, without exchanging a single word, till Sir
John suddenly exclaimed,--

"This is, indeed, perfect happiness."

Christobelle smiled.

"We are _silent_ adorers of Nature; but our feelings are not the less
sincere."

"Powerful admiration is in the heart, not upon the lips," replied her
companion, sighing.

"Yet we admired the scene as fervently when we chatted and sang upon
the lake," observed Christobelle.

"That was eye-service, Miss Wetheral. The glorious scenery _then_
delighted my eye, but had not reached my heart; its effects now are
very soothing, yet melancholy."

"Don't let me interrupt your meditations, then," Christobelle replied,
with a little feeling of offended pride, which had never risen in
her bosom till that moment. She was ashamed of its existence, but it
_would_ display itself.

"I have not the sprightly and winning tongue of Lord Farnborough, Miss
Wetheral. I cannot be witty and yet feel deeply."

"Lord Farnborough," replied Christobelle, colouring, "was not in my
thoughts."

"I spoke unadvisedly, my dear pupil: forgive the stern schoolmaster."

Sir John Spottiswoode held out his hand, and when did Christobelle
resist that affectionate title, which recalled his instructions, and
their happy days at Wetheral? She gave her own hand with the delight
of heart which every one experiences who renews a happy intercourse
with half displeased friends. Sir John Spottiswoode held it for some
moments; and when it was withdrawn gently from his grasp, they again
relapsed into silence. The dressing-bell startled them from their long
reverie.

"Oh, that tiresome bell!" exclaimed Christobelle, "how dismally and
faithfully it summons one from mental enjoyment to the creature
comforts!"

"It is wisely ordered!" replied Sir John Spottiswoode, placing her
arm within his own. "I will tell you why I judge it so, as we climb
this steep. We enjoy all things by comparison, and in their variety.
Mental pleasures depend upon calm bodily tranquillity; and where the
constitution suffers, there is little leisure for the mind to absorb
itself in its own reveries. There! you have slipped, and hurt your
foot!"

"But the dressing-bell--you have not yet illustrated your position!"
exclaimed Christobelle, in some confusion, as her companion caught her
fall, by throwing his arm round her waist, though it was instantly
withdrawn.

"I was going to enter upon it as you fell, my argumentative pupil. A
calm mind depends upon bodily repose, which demands support, which
is effected by food, which is denoted by the dressing-bell to be
preparing. Have I not stated it truly and concisely."

"Yes; a perfect 'House that Jack built,' in its tripping measure. You
will rival Lord Farnborough."

"What is the meaning of this extraordinary arrangement, that all the
ladies are to sail in one vessel, Miss Wetheral?"

"Miss Ponsonby's whim, I believe. I look forward with pleasure to our
party to-morrow."

"Do you?"

"Yes: I feel light as the heather-bell, and quite ready to aim poisoned
arrows at Lord Farnborough. Will it amuse you?"

"Not particularly."

"You do not like Lord Farnborough?"

"I have no reason to feel entertainment in his lordship's society. I am
not an admirer of his conversation."

Christobelle thought Sir John Spottiswoode spoke a little bitterly
of poor Lord Farnborough, but it did not surprise her. Doubtless,
Mr. Beverly's supposed injury had taken effect upon his friend's
mind, and prejudiced him against his lordship. Christobelle did not,
however, continue a subject in itself uninteresting. Lord Farnborough
had no charm for her; she only felt amused by his sprightly powers.
While her father and Sir John Spottiswoode were near, Christobelle's
spirits ever rose into gaiety: she would be gaiety itself during
the water excursion, and Sir John would be gay too, only he spoke
so deprecatingly of the affair. They did not linger on the terrace.
Christobelle had only time to promise her companion that the evening
should be devoted to music, and she hurried to her room. The second
bell sounded ere she could reach the drawing-room.

The following morning rose in sunny smiles. A mist had cleared away,
leaving the sparkling waters of the lake bright and clear; and
Christobelle's spirits were unusually high at the prospect of her
happy day of pleasurable anticipation. She spoke in metaphor, and
thought in rhyme; but her astonishment was great, in beholding the
coolness of Sir John Spottiswoode's manner, and viewing the gravity
of his countenance at breakfast. Christobelle's most lively sallies
passed perfectly unnoticed and unheeded. She could not win one smile,
or obtain one remark from her friend. His eye appeared heavy, and
Christobelle fancied he must suffer from concealed illness, otherwise
he would have caught the infection of her spirits. The thought of Sir
John Spottiswoode suffering sobered her vivacity. She became grave, and
gradually even sad, to witness his dejection. Christobelle approached
him when they rose from the breakfast-table; her mother had quitted the
breakfast-room, and she feared no misconstruction of her anxiety.

"I know you are ill. I am sure you are unfit to join a party full of
mirth."

"I believe I am unequal to this morning's gaiety; certainly quite
unfitted for mirth," was the dejected answer.

"How very annoying that it should take place to-day; or how provoking
that you should ever be ill! Did you rise unwell?"

"No; I was perfectly well when I entered the breakfast-room; but a
few turns on the terrace with Lady Wetheral, before you appeared, has
caused a head and heart ache. I cannot remain at Fairlee solitary, but
I am too ill to mix in a party of pleasure."

"I wish we were both going in our own boat, to our own island, to be
quiet," Christobelle exclaimed. "I do not enjoy large parties when my
friends are ill."

"You will not observe my sickness of heart, Miss Wetheral. You will be
gaily engaged."

"Not if you are ill."

Christobelle was not aware of the compliment conveyed in her
observation. She spoke from her heart simply and sincerely, without
considering its flattering tendency. Sir John Spottiswoode caught her
hand, and released it again suddenly. He turned abruptly away.

"Do not speak so recklessly, so heartlessly, I beseech you!"

"I never was suspected of heartlessness, Sir John Spottiswoode!"

Christobelle also turned away, for proud tears rose at the unexpected
attack. She was quitting the room.

"Stay one moment, and say you forgive me," he cried with energy.
"Forgive me, Miss Wetheral--forgive me, my generous pupil!"

Christobelle turned at the last expression, and her emotion was
apparent, for he caught her in his arms.

"I cannot support this sight! What right had I to presume to give pain!
What right had I to breathe a harsh expression towards a creature all
heart, and all nobleness!"

"I am not angry," she replied, withdrawing from his embrace--"I am not
angry, Sir John Spottiswoode; only I do not deserve the appellation of
heartless. I spoke in sincerity and truth."

"I know you did. I was wrong to speak as I did--forgive me!"

"I do forgive you," she answered, smiling, and another long pressure of
the hand attested their reconciliation.

"Calm a penitent spirit by a stroll on the terrace, and talk to me,
that I may forget my fault and its cause. Let me hear your voice
again, and let me hear it till Lord Farnborough arrives."

The friends walked nearly an hour together. Christobelle's spirits
were again elevated, and she chatted with renewed vivacity. Sir
John Spottiswoode walked smilingly by her side, listening to her
anticipations of his illness dispersing in the fresh air of Lochleven;
but he was not himself. He replied to her remarks, and lent his powers
in playful conversation; but they were not _given_. He often sighed,
and repeatedly compelled his companion to bespeak his attention.

"You tell me to chat, and your mind is far away," she said, at last,
weary with receiving no reply.

"But I have not lost a word. I hear you with the most vivid attention,
because you will not long honour me."

"Why so, I pray you, gentle coz?"

"You will be engrossed by Lord Farnborough!"

"That, then, will be your own fault!"

He looked earnestly in Christobelle's face, and shook his head.

"Say it once more, my pupil."

"It will be your own fault, if _any one_ engrosses my attention. Why
should I be inattentive to my naughty schoolmaster?"

Lord Farnborough bounded from the drawing-room window upon the terrace,
and advanced towards them. Christobelle felt her companion's arm relax;
she looked reproachingly towards him.

"You wish already to get rid of your poor pupil?"

"Never, never!" was the subdued reply; but Lord Farnborough stood
before them.

"You are ready, I see. Is not this a glorious day? Clanmoray is in a
proper bustle, and the lake never looked so beautiful. Miss Ponsonby
declares she will be the 'Lady of the Lake,' and dress in costume as
you do, Miss Wetheral. She hopes some 'Malcolm' of Lochleven will
start forth and woo her, but she rather despairs of such good fortune.
Malcolm will be attracted elsewhere."

A low bow from his lordship pointed the compliment, and Christobelle
curtseyed to its meaning. Sir John Spottiswoode would not enter into
the unmeaning dialogue which succeeded: he pertinaciously avoided
even lending a smile to Lord Farnborough. How deeply he resented, in
Christobelle's eyes, the offence offered to his friend Beverly!

It was a beautiful drive to Clanmoray. Lady Wetheral, forgetful of her
long confinement--her nervous feelings--and the painful remembrance
of Clara's death, chatted through the carriage-window with Lord
Farnborough, as gaily and as sportively as ever. Christobelle amused
herself with rallying Sir John Spottiswoode upon his illness, which
she assured him was affected, to try the sympathy of his friends. He
rebutted the idea with excellent good humour, and they entered the
grounds of General Ponsonby in most merry mood.

Two or three groupes were seated in picturesque attitudes, listening to
Captain Ponsonby, who struck a guitar with great spirit, and amused the
company with Spanish Boleros and Moorish songs. The Wetherals' arrival
was the signal to embark; and, in the confusion of introductions,
reception, compliments, decisions upon the fit and unfit, and Miss
Ponsonby's determination to be the Lady of the Lake, Christobelle found
herself descending the wooded hill which sloped to the waters' edge,
escorted by Lord Farnborough and Mr. Ponsonby. Lady Wetheral followed
closely upon her daughter's steps, leaning upon the arm of the Duke of
Forfar. Christobelle cast lingering looks at the groupe which dotted
the pathway, but she could not distinguish the figure of Sir John
Spottiswoode.

"Well, we look neat, however," said Mr. Ponsonby, cracking a whip,
which never departed from his right hand.

"Is my father near, Mr. Ponsonby?" Christobelle asked, anxiously. She
was sure Sir John Spottiswoode would be near _him_, and her heart
wished to ascertain his movements. She dared not appear interested in
the whereabout of her "tutor," to attract notice. Mr. Ponsonby cracked
his whip, and looked behind him.

"Sir John Wetheral and your friend are escorting my sisters. Do observe
the pretty effect of the groupe descending the glen."

They turned to admire the picturesque figures which adorned the woody
scene. Lady Wetheral also lingered with his Grace of Forfar, to gaze
upon their effect.

"These scenes are not to be found in Shropshire," observed his Grace.
"The Wrekin lying upon the plain, like a whale in a dish, will be tame
work when we can remember Lochleven."

"And yet I sometimes sigh for the scenes I have quitted," said her
ladyship. "I confess I love the busy hum of man, and Lochleven is
dreary in the winter months. I wish I could persuade my daughter she is
dull at Fairlee."

"Miss Wetheral loves the grand seclusion of Lochleven, because her
taste has not been vitiated by society."

"My daughter is wedded to calm life, and loves no agitation beyond the
ruffled lake. I believe her spirit would pine in the gay world."

"So much the better, my good lady; her young mind is uncontaminated by
the arts of a worldly life."

"My endeavour is to preserve its purity, and watch over its happiness,"
replied her ladyship, sighing.

At this moment the whole party became united again. Sir John
Spottiswoode quitted Miss Fanny Ponsonby, and approached Christobelle.
Lady Wetheral perceived the movement, and she turned hastily round.

"My dear child, you are tired, you look pale. My lord, you have
outwalked even your 'genius of the Lake.'"

Lord Farnborough offered his arm, with many polite regrets.
Christobelle declined it, courteously. She was quite equal to the
walk;--she felt no fatigues.

"Oblige me, my dear child," said Lady Wetheral, anxiously; "I cannot
be satisfied unless you accept his lordship's assistance. My dear girl,
make me happy."

Christobelle could hesitate no longer. All eyes were upon her; she was
actually in the way, and a remark from his Grace confused her.

"My dear young lady, you stand there, turning all the young men's
heads. Harry, take away your prize, for we are at fault till you
proceed."

Christobelle was led away, accordingly; and she saw no more of Sir
John Spottiswoode, till they gained the shore of the lake. He was
walking still with Miss Fanny Ponsonby, when she beheld him again.
He was apparently explaining something to her comprehension, for she
was leaning upon his arm, and he was pointing to the peak of Cona.
Was he quoting Ossian to the beautiful Fanny Ponsonby, regardless
of the party, and of the friend who would have listened so gladly?
Did he mean to become the partner of Fanny Ponsonby, when he told
her, in their early walk, that he should hear her own voice only on
the terrace?--when he told her, _she_ would be appropriated by Lord
Farnborough? A pang of jealousy pierced her heart at the moment,
indescribably bitter; it was a pang so sudden, so tinctured with
despair, that she closed her eyes, and pressed her hand tightly upon
her heart. The movement attracted the notice of Lord Farnborough.

"I fear you are ill, indeed, Miss Wetheral. I am sure you have found
the descent very fatiguing."

"I _am_ rather ill," exclaimed Christobelle, still keeping her eyes
closed. She could not endure the light, or the figures which flitted
before her. She felt extremely giddy; so much so, she was apprehensive
of falling. An exclamation from her companion caught the ear of Lady
Wetheral, who was immediately at her daughter's side. Christobelle was
placed upon a bank, and she leaned against her mother's shoulder. She
waved away the gentlemen.

"Let no one come near me, mamma. Let no one speak to me, just now."

The duke and his lordship politely retreated. Lady Wetheral bestowed
her sweetest smile upon her daughter, but it was not seen; and it would
have added only to Christobelle's disquiet, if it had met her eye. Her
ladyship was very soothing.

"No one shall distress you, Bell; but if, as I suspect, Lord
Farnborough has spoken to you rather warmly, you must accustom
yourself to this sort of thing. Only silly girls are overpowered by a
love-speech or two;--do collect yourself, my love, and avoid attracting
notice. This is all as it should be, but collect yourself."

"Lord Farnborough has not--" Christobelle could not proceed: she felt
gasping for breath.

"Of course not, my dear Bell. A symphony precedes an air--every thing
will steal on in proper order. Rouse yourself. Your father is coming to
us--do not appear girlish."

Her father's presence and touch revived the spirit of Christobelle.
She rose, and leaned upon his arm; she felt better when her father was
near her. She entreated to be allowed to walk with _him_--to be with
him on the water and on land. She should be quite well and happy, quite
composed, if she walked only with _him_--with her father.

"My dear Bell, do not shock me by any display of folly. Lord
Farnborough is lingering near us--resume his assistance, and let us
rejoin the company. We are detaining them on the shore." Lady Wetheral
rose, as she spoke, with great composure, but a smile of pleasure
lurked beneath her grave and calm expression of countenance. How
greatly was she mistaken in the cause of her daughter's emotion!

"You shall be my companion, Chrystal," said her father, drawing his
daughter's arm within his, "and I will take charge of you. We will not
delay the party."

This was not quite in the fitness of things. Her ladyship was
discomposed.

"But, my love, Lord Farnborough will have every reason to feel
offended: it wears a very extraordinary appearance that his lordship
should be so suddenly deserted. My dear Bell, you cannot altogether
desert your companion."

"A father's care will not give umbrage to any gentleman, Gertrude. I
will attend to my daughter, since she requests it. No one will plead
desertion when I am in question."

This step discomposed her ladyship's "arrangements," but impediments
only roused her mind, and found employment for her energies. All the
resources of her genius were brought into full operation by this
unfortunate occurrence; and never, in Christobelle's earliest days, did
she remember her mother more present to herself--more fitted to contend
with the exigencies of the moment. Lord Farnborough joined them as they
proceeded towards the lake. Miss Ponsonby flew towards Christobelle, at
the same moment.

"My dear, I would not intrude while you were under such proper
protection, but I hope you are recovered. What was it?--a little
megrim?"

"We have forgotten its proper designation, and even its existence,"
replied Lady Wetheral, smilingly; "I am only anxious my daughter should
not undertake too much fatigue. I fear her efforts in trying to promote
amusement for our guest, Sir John Spottiswoode, have overcome her
strength."

"Miss Wetheral shall not suffer from efforts of any kind this morning.
My lord, take possession of your fair cargo, but reserve the seat of
honour for our young friend."

Christobelle clung to her father's arm, but Miss Ponsonby did not
observe the movement.

"Sir John Wetheral, you are my property; you must relinquish your fair
daughter."

"Are we not admissable together, Miss Ponsonby?"

"I will have no rival--yes, I change my mind; I will have Miss Wetheral
for my Eucharis, and be myself Calypso, instead of Ellen Douglas. Where
shall I find a Telemachus?"

"Sir John Spottiswoode," answered Lord Farnborough.

"No, I hate a flirting Telemachus--he is saying sugared sentences to
Fanny."

"Mortimer Grey," rejoined his lordship.

"Nonsense, Telemachus with a hare-lip?--now, out upon you! Miss
Wetheral, you are mine, and you are Eucharis. I steal you from my lord."

"I cannot resign my fair assignment--racks and tortures shall not
extort my consent," replied Lord Farnborough.

Captain Ponsonby came up.

"What are we waiting for? Your boat is filling, Mary--we must not
delay. Miss Wetheral, are you of our party? allow me to lead you to the
boat."

"Miss Wetheral is mine," cried Lord Farnborough, "and I give her to no
mortal."

"It is a freight worth contending for, Farnborough: state your claims."

"The lady's own fair word, Ponsonby."

"I will hear it from her own lips. Miss Wetheral, Genius of the Lake,
as they truly style you...."

"I dispute the title," exclaimed Miss Ponsonby. "I have also adopted
the costume, and I choose to share the distinction."

"Unfortunate Mary!--name fatal to peace upon Lochleven, be still. Does
Miss Wetheral consign herself wholly and solely to Lord Farnborough?"

"I wish to go with my father," eagerly replied Christobelle.

Lord Farnborough bowed proudly and coldly. Captain Ponsonby waved his
hat in the air.

"Hurrah for Miss Wetheral and independence! For once, my lord, you are
refused--checked in your high careering. Miss Wetheral, will you give
your fair hand to a portionless son?"

Captain Ponsonby held out his arm to escort her to his vessel, but
Christobelle's hand was taken gently yet firmly by her mother.

"My dear daughter thanks you, gentlemen, for your polite and
amusingly-agreeable knight-errantry. Captain Ponsonby, however, is only
unsuccessful from being too late. I believe honour is a treasure too
delicate to endure a breath of reproach, and we are pledged to my Lord
Farnborough."

"Then, 'soft ideas fly,'" said Captain Ponsonby, laying his hand upon
his heart.

"'See our oars with feathered spray,'" exclaimed Miss Ponsonby. "We
must stay here no longer. I must not be Calypso--fair Eucharis is taken
from me. I believe I had better remain only Mary Ponsonby."

"Your sound judgment soon crushes imagination," cried her brother.
"As Mary Ponsonby, you are a good-tempered, noisy kind of girl--but
Calypso, or Ellen Douglas, would prove a failure."

"No lack of mentor, however," observed Miss Ponsonby, as she nodded
her adieus, and took possession of Sir John Wetheral's arm. Captain
Ponsonby called after her.

"Mary, I am going to take charge of Lady Wetheral. Tell Mortimer Grey,
to take my place."

"But your party will lose such a dominant spirit, my dear Captain
Ponsonby," said her ladyship, as Miss Ponsonby waved her hand, in token
of assent.

"Disappointment is the lot of mortality," replied Captain Ponsonby,
gaily--"I cannot divide myself into two, and my heart is with _you_."

The party was soon launched upon the lake. Captain Ponsonby insisted
upon taking his station between Lady Wetheral and her daughter, and
his gay spirits almost whiled Christobelle into cheerfulness. She saw
Sir John Spottiswoode enter the first boat with Miss Fanny Ponsonby,
but he never turned to cast a glance towards Christobelle--never once
came forward to say he hoped she was well and happy. Her heart swelled
with sorrow so poignant, that she heeded not Lord Farnborough's anxious
arrangements to make her comfortable--his efforts to secure her from
the breeze which rose upon the water. She heeded nothing--cared for
nothing. Miss Fanny Ponsonby might consider the excursion a party
of deep delight, and Lochleven might be to her a remembrance of
pleasurable things--but Christobelle felt the whole affair a mockery.
Her mother endeavoured to arouse her faculties.

"My love, Lord Farnborough has spoken twice--his lordship hopes you
feel no inconvenience from the sun?"

"Thank you, I am very comfortable."

"My dear Bell, you are not aware Lord Farnborough has placed his cloak
under your feet."

"Thank you, my lord."

"For Heaven's sake," whispered her ladyship, "throw off the girl, and
be a woman of dignified, composed manners."

"I wish I was any thing but what I am, mamma."

"Nonsense; not one of your sisters acted so girlishly. I beg you will
consider my shocked feelings."

Christobelle did make an effort to shake off the bonds which seemed to
bind her spirits with links of iron. She turned from the contemplation
of Sir John Spottiswoode and Fanny Ponsonby, but they rose before
her like the undying Hydra. She saw them, in imagination, engaged in
agreeable conversation--the beautiful eyes of Fanny Ponsonby fixed
upon her companion's face, and her mind informed by his remarks.
Christobelle saw him, in fancy, fascinated by her loveliness--eager to
please--absorbed--forgetful of their own pleasant walks together--their
readings--their long and happy pauses on the terrace, watching the last
beams of the summer sun. She started with terror.

"My dear Bell, you are not alarmed?" exclaimed her mother. "Lord
Farnborough is kind enough to take the helm."

Captain Ponsonby smiled. "What! the Genius of the Lake alarmed upon her
own element? Forbid it, storms and clouds!"

"Miss Wetheral, you would feel more undisturbed if you were at my
_left_ hand," whispered Lord Farnborough.

"Indeed, Miss Wetheral would deceive herself, if she looked for rest
near _you_, Farnborough: I will not part with my supporters. Miss
Wetheral, do not be inveigled away from me. No whispering, unless it is
allowed to all, if you please."

"You were pointing north this morning, Ponsonby; and now the wind sits
easterly."

    "East, west--alas! I care not whither,
    So thou art safe, and I with thee!"

exclaimed Captain Ponsonby, turning towards Christobelle, with a smile.

Lord Farnborough became silent and sullen. A deep gloom spread over
his handsome face, and its bland expression faded. Lord Farnborough
wore a countenance, which Christobelle could never have recognised as
the agreeable set of features which first pleased her at Lochleven.
His lordship turned with indignant pride from his friend, and gave his
attention to the Miss Quintins.

"Bell!" whispered Lady Wetheral, as Captain Ponsonby again stooped
forward, to adjust his cloak, "you will lose him."

"Lose him!" thought Christobelle--"yes, I have lost him--for is he
not uttering 'sugared sentences' to Fanny Ponsonby?--and is he not
regardless of his old acquaintance? How easy it is to sit in happy,
careless tranquillity, when no cloud veils our hopes! How happy was
I, till the Clanmoray party broke through the seclusion of Fairlee,
and brought a Fanny Ponsonby between me and my peace! How happy was
I in my freedom, roving amid the groves of Fairlee, before Sir John
Spottiswoode arrived, to teach me the glow of friendship, and then to
withdraw its light!" Ill, unhappy, and indifferent to the scenery,
which was her former object of devotion, Christobelle heeded not the
sullen silence of Lord Farnborough, or the fears of her mother. The
little attention she could spare from the conjurations of her wretched
fancy, Christobelle gave to the gay and kind-hearted Ponsonby.



CHAPTER XXV.


"Miss Wetheral," said Captain Ponsonby, "when I quitted Clanmoray, six
years ago, I never dreamed of a fair neighbour at Fairlee."

"Six years ago I was nursing a doll, Captain Ponsonby."

"Even so. You tease your dolls in youth, and tease our hearts in age.
Like a falling star, you have shot from your sphere, upon the banks of
this lake, and where shall you make your rest?"

"You have been some time in Ireland, Captain Ponsonby, and have caught
the true hyperbole."

"I had no practice there, Miss Wetheral. If I told a lady she was
charming, it was 'ah now, you're joking'--and if I advanced with
classical allusions, or sparkling metaphor, it was 'ah now, Captain
Ponsonby, you're so droll!'"

"The Irish ladies possibly guessed your character, Captain Ponsonby, as
it appears to have been a general answer. They knew you were either in
jest, or sarcastic."

"Upon my honour, you are wrong. I am sincere in word and deed. I am
neither fair nor false, the motto of some of my neighbours. Don't look
this way, Farnborough."

"Miss Wetheral," said his lordship, "do not believe half you hear from
Ponsonby's lips."

"It hit my lord hard, you perceive, Miss Wetheral."

"My friend Ponsonby is a rover--sans eyes, sans heart, sans every
thing, Miss Wetheral."

"Excellent--ha, ha!" laughed Captain Ponsonby. "I can disprove the
charge, Miss Wetheral. I was in love three whole days, once, at
Castlebar."

"And why so speedy a cure?" Christobelle demanded.

"The lady kept silence three days," he replied, "but, on the fourth
morning, the charm dissolved, for she spoke."

"What could she have spoken, to break a spell so powerful, Captain
Ponsonby?"

"I met the lady in a pouring rain, and, though I had not been
introduced to her, we had met often, and were acquainted by name and
sight. I offered her my escort and my umbrella. 'Ah, now, Captain
Ponsonby, there's rason in what you say, and I'll be obleeged to
you'--was her good-humoured reply. I could bear the brogue tolerably,
Miss Wetheral, for six months' residence had enured me to its twang;
but I could not away with the perfect nonchalance with which she
exhibited a pair of enormous ancles, and appealed to me upon their use.
'Ah now, Captain Ponsonby, if I've got no understanding above, there's
plenty below, and I'll be charged for two pair of legs through the
penny turnpikes.' Farewell the glowing complexion and bright eyes of my
love!--I never more gazed upon Miss M'Nab."

"Was that your _only_ enlargement of heart, Captain Ponsonby?"

"Some few relapses there might have been, but none of any
consideration. Miss M'Nab was the most serious love."

"You are difficult to please."

"No, I think not; but I desire to find a sufficiently lovely woman,
with sweetness of temper, and delicacy of manners, to love with
constancy. If I ever love sincerely, it will be my life-strings--the
very breath of my life."

"Then be very cautious, Captain Ponsonby," said Christobelle, with
a feeling of painful interest. She felt how sorrowful were the
disappointments of friendship. What would the pangs of unrequited
affection be?

"Will you be my guardian angel, and watch over me, Miss Wetheral?"

"I cannot undertake such a momentous charge," she replied. Lord
Farnborough watched the conversation in gloomy silence, and conversed
no more with Miss Quintin. Lady Wetheral was gratified by the
expression of jealousy which darkened his lordship's fine face, for,
during the little bustle of debarkation, she smiled, and hastily
whispered--"Christobelle, very well managed, my love; a little jealousy
is useful, but beware of giving _offence_."

"Mamma, you are quite mistaken, indeed you are."

"Nonsense, Bell; I am keenly watching and deciding." Lord Farnborough
offered his hand to assist her transit at that moment, and the subject
was of course dropped. Captain Ponsonby offered his hand to Miss
Wetheral, and they followed in succession: he placed her arm within his
own, as they touched the shore of the little island. "Mind, you belong
to me, Miss Wetheral; I shall not relinquish you now."

Lord Farnborough consigned Lady Wetheral to his father's care, and
immediately returned. His lordship appeared offended at the disposition
of things.

"Miss Wetheral, I am deputed by Lady Wetheral to bring you to her:
allow me--" Lord Farnborough put forth his arm. Captain Ponsonby
interfered.

"No one takes my guardian angel from me. I will take charge of Miss
Wetheral with equal care. Miss Wetheral is mine."

"My claim began earlier, Ponsonby," remarked his lordship, with a look
of fierceness.

"I will fight for every inch of mine. My good fellow, the Quintins are
unattended."

"My delegated place is by the side of Miss Wetheral." Lord Farnborough
threw a look of defiance at her companion, which terrified
Christobelle. "Oh, pray take me to my father, Captain Ponsonby," she
cried; "pray let me walk with my father."

"You shall be obeyed." Captain Ponsonby drew her among the group, who
were deciding the plan of refreshment, or arranging their dress, and
gave her into her father's care; but Christobelle still dreaded the
looks of Lord Farnborough. She did not withdraw her arm from Captain
Ponsonby's support: he smiled.

"You _are_ my guardian angel, after all. I see your fears, and, while
they operate to my advantage, I hope they will continue. How delightful
it is to be the object of a woman's tender care! every thing is so
kindly and silently done."

"I do not like Lord Farnborough's looks, Captain Ponsonby."

"Nor I, at all. I am very much alarmed, and I beg you will keep near
me." Christobelle laughed.

"What are you laughing at?"

Lady Wetheral approached, leaning on the arm of his Grace; and Lord
Farnborough also came up. Captain Ponsonby affected to tremble, and
assured Christobelle, if she quitted his protection, he should be a
lifeless corpse. He could not bear the lightning of Lord Farnborough's
eye, or the thunder of his angry voice, at being deprived of his prey.
He thought they had better contemplate the ruins of the little chapel,
while the party were quarrelling about the dinner-tables. Sir John
Wetheral was willing to move, and Christobelle also was anxious to
leave the spot where Sir John Spottiswoode stood pertinaciously by the
side of Fanny Ponsonby. Sickness of heart came over her, and she turned
from the scene.

Lochleven crowded all its beauties into the panorama viewed from St.
Mungo's Isle, but Christobelle gazed upon them with vacancy: her eye
could not distinguish, and her mind would not relish them. She sat upon
a low, ruined wall, in utter listlessness; and, in silence, listened
to Captain Ponsonby's statement of the scenes which had taken place on
the spot where they rested, when it had been the sepulchre of the clans
of Glencoe and Lochaber. Christobelle's adoration of ancient legends
was sunk in apathy. She dared not turn her head, lest the fearful forms
of Fanny Ponsonby and her companion should startle her sight. She
gazed on the heights, without perceiving their beautiful outline. She
listened to Captain Ponsonby, without the power of retaining his words.
A summons to the rural dinner alone roused her spirits and energy.

"Bell, my love, I have preserved a seat for you, near _me_," said Lady
Wetheral, holding out her hand--"Come to me, my love; you have played
truant."

Captain Ponsonby seated Christobelle, and prepared to take possession
of an empty chair on her left hand, but Lady Wetheral smilingly
interfered--

"My dear Captain Ponsonby, I believe your seat belongs to another, but
probably we can make room for you. Ah! the benches interfere so; but
where will you find a seat? Spottiswoode, is there not a vacant seat
near you?"

"Do not disturb yourself, Lady Wetheral. I am perfectly satisfied with
my present quarters; and when a turn out is beaten, I shall take a
sentinel's place."

Captain Ponsonby accordingly seated himself, and devoted his time and
attention to the wants of Christobelle, till Lord Farnborough joined
them, with a cold fowl upon his silver fork.

"I have been my rounds for a supply, and can only gain one recruit,
Lady Wetheral, a fowl screened from observation by a bed of parsley.
Ponsonby, you'll excuse my resumption of a seat which is mine by right
of conquest."

"I only held it in fear and trembling, Farnborough. I relinquish my
seat with regret; but if I must, I must. Miss Wetheral, pity my sorrow,
and admire my resolution." Captain Ponsonby rose, and stationed
himself behind her chair.

"My dear fellow, there are two seats at the bottom of the table for
you," said Lord Farnborough.

"I am very happy in my present situation," replied Captain Ponsonby; "I
am attending upon Miss Wetheral."

"But the Greys are quite by themselves, Ponsonby; do go down, and offer
your services there."

"Miss Wetheral, you are wishing for a slice of cold turkey; I saw you
contemplating it," observed Captain Ponsonby, who took no notice of his
friend's speech. "I fly for it."

"I wish Ponsonby would attend to the Greys," said his lordship, as
Captain Ponsonby quitted his station. "I shall be most happy to attend
upon you and Miss Quintin."

The eyes of Christobelle were riveted in the direction of the turkey,
as Captain Ponsonby remarked; for there sat Sir John Spottiswoode, and
Fanny Ponsonby was at his side: she tried to withdraw her eyes, but
they were fixed by leaden weights, and she gazed on. She saw Sir John
Spottiswoode turn to ask Captain Ponsonby whom he should assist to a
slice of the breast; and when Miss Wetheral's name was mentioned,
he did not look towards her; he turned and spoke to Fanny Ponsonby.
Christobelle would not allow the tears to rush from their fountains,
or a sigh to escape from her heart, however pained were her feelings.
She only resolved never again to walk as she had done with Sir John
Spottiswoode, never again to feel for him those kind and friendly
sentiments which he knew not how to appreciate. Captain Ponsonby
returned laughing from his mission.

"I wish you could hear Fanny and your handsome friend, Miss Wetheral.
They are trying which shall make the most glaring compliment to each
other. I left your friend talking about the heart of a lover, which
made Fanny grave. Do look at her, now." Christobelle glanced towards
his sister; her sprightly countenance had faded into deep attention,
as Sir John Spottiswoode spoke earnestly; her glowing complexion had
changed its bloom, and was become pale. Christobelle would have given
worlds to have been acquainted with their subject.

"Ponsonby, you are devilish rude; no one has taken wine with the
Greys," exclaimed Lord Farnborough, as his friend resumed his station
behind the chair of Christobelle.

"Ponsonby," cried Mr. Grey, "are you under orders there, that you stand
sentinel over Miss Wetheral?"

"I wish the guard was relieved, Grey," said Lord Farnborough. "Beg your
sisters to send a deputation to Ponsonby."

"They would prefer your lordship," answered Mr. Grey. "I speak in their
names, because they decline the publicity of confession."

Lord Farnborough's countenance again became gloomy, but he made no
reply to Mr. Grey. His lordship turned to Christobelle.

"Miss Wetheral, allow me the pleasure of drinking wine with you."

Christobelle was happy to do so, and by that action she gratified
her mother, who sat by her, proudly happy to witness his lordship's
vexation at the conduct of Captain Ponsonby. Every one appeared happy
but Christobelle: she saw every face decked with smiles, and each
person appeared contented with the merriment of the scene. She alone
sat ill at ease, and received no satisfaction in the attentions of
Lord Farnborough and his friend. She wished to be silent and alone:
she wished to think over the events of the morning, and reckon
with her heart. She wished to ascertain if her disquietude arose
from unrequited friendship, or whether she indeed loved Sir John
Spottiswoode. The noble friendships which Christobelle had contemplated
in history, teemed with grand and inspiring actions, but she read not
of eyes turned away from the object, or misery created through jealous
misgivings. If she loved Sir John Spottiswoode, what would become of
her, should another engross his attention and his heart? While she
was lingering with him among the cliffs of the Lochleven, all was so
tranquil, so happy, so calmly and fearlessly happy! Why was it not so
with her in this gay group?

Christobelle was lost to all sound, till a general move was made. The
tables were abandoned to the attendants, and the party retired to the
extremity of the little island, to amuse themselves till the boats were
again loaded with the spoil of the entertainment. Christobelle was
attended by Lord Farnborough and Captain Ponsonby, who appeared tacitly
determined to struggle for her attention, and annoy each other.

"Miss Wetheral," said his lordship, "you will honour me by accepting my
arm _now_."

"Miss Wetheral cannot desert her old companion," remarked Captain
Ponsonby, again stepping forward and taking her hand; but Christobelle
withdrew it.

"I should like to understand your claims to Miss Wetheral's notice,
Ponsonby."

"Never mind, my good fellow. A lady possesses her own right to select
and approve."

"Am I to understand, Miss Wetheral, that Captain Ponsonby is selected
by you?"

Lord Farnborough spoke with a bitter sneer, and stood before
Christobelle with a raised complexion, awaiting her answer. She was
fearful of unpleasant scenes; she wished to avoid notice: she could
only decide not to receive assistance from either gentlemen. They
however walked on either side of her, and the trio silently mixed
among the retiring group. Sir John Wetheral relieved his daughter's
perilous situation by his approach. Lord Farnborough might conceal
much beneath the restraint of polished society; but his temper was
strongly irritable; it glistened in his eye, and fired his countenance,
whenever Captain Ponsonby addressed Christobelle. The company formed
into little parties, on a green bank which swelled towards the water's
edge; and, by some unseen chance, Christobelle was grouped in the
little knot which contained Sir John Spottiswoode. Their eyes had not
met since they quitted Clanmoray. Captain Ponsonby and his guest were
crouched at her feet, her father sat beside her, and Mr. Grey, with
the Miss Ponsonbys, completed the number. The rest of the party sat
only a few paces apart, but they were engaged in different subjects of
conversation, and did not unite with them.

Captain Ponsonby requested his sister Fanny to enlighten the company
upon the interesting conversation which had taken place between herself
and her companion at dinner.

"It is vain to say," he continued, "that the subject is forgotten, for
I left you discoursing upon a lover's heart; and your face, Fanny,
was so full of interest, I was obliged to bespeak Miss Wetheral's
attention."

Fanny Ponsonby coloured, but disclaimed any peculiar interest in the
subject. Her eyes sought the ground, and Christobelle fancied they
filled with tears. Her sister begged to be heard a few moments upon
the subject. She was rather inspired by the dinner, the party, and the
beautiful scenery, and she ventured to think she could define a lover's
heart, if her audience were inclined to listen.

"Silence in the court!" exclaimed Lord Farnborough. "The deponent
speaks."

"A lover's heart," resumed Miss Ponsonby, waving her hand, "is ennobled
by affection, grand in its conceptions--"

"There you are out, Mary," cried her brother; "on the very threshold
you have stumbled. What is a more jealous, narrowed, dull, complaining
concern than love, and a lover's heart? Can any thing be more
disturbing, distrustful, and moody, or more capricious?"

"Speak on, Arthur; I know very little about the matter, I believe,
while your long absence has doubtless taught you knowledge," cried Miss
Ponsonby.

"Does not love create suspicion?"--Christobelle cast her eyes
involuntarily towards Sir John Spottiswoode, and met his fixed,
melancholy look. His eye was instantly withdrawn.

"Does not love create melancholy?" continued Captain Ponsonby, turning
to Christobelle, "does it not produce the desire to please, while it
restrains the ability, Farnborough? Does it not bow down the head, and
make pale the cheek, Fanny?"

Fanny Ponsonby started at her brother's address, but she smiled
good-humouredly at the question. Her head had bent forward, and
her attention was earnestly given to the definition of the lover's
heart. Her attitude had attracted the notice of her lively brother,
and drawn down his remark, but its purport was received as gently, as
its intention to give offence was innocent. Not so Lord Farnborough.
He rose proudly from the humble position he had assumed, and retired
to the group detached from his party. Captain Ponsonby continued his
remarks, while a satisfied smile played on his lips.

"Altogether, love deforms and beautifies; it makes the humble and
silent man talkative; and it causes the violent man to throw off the
mask which veils his fiery spirit. The less we know of the subtle
deity, the happier we are in freedom of heart and spirit; but once
receive him to your bosom, and adieu for ever to the calm pleasures of
life."

"I thought, Arthur, 'love was heaven, and heaven was love;' at least,
that is my idea of the passion."

"Mary!" exclaimed her brother, "presume not to touch upon ground where
your foot has never yet trod. Be wise, and remain in your ignorance,
uninteresting, and uninformed. There can be no heaven in the dire
suspense, the conscious feeling, the fear of scorn, the unrequited
pang, the jealous agony of heart, the sighs of uncertainty."

Fanny Ponsonby rose hastily from her verdant seat, and Sir John
Spottiswoode accompanied her, but they moved in different directions,
when they reached the site of the chapel which once stood in this
island, a place of worship for the living, and an asylum for the dead.
Fanny Ponsonby appeared to seek refuge in solitary contemplation; for
she sought the most distant spot, and stood gazing upon the lake. Sir
John Spottiswoode remained among the relics of the dead, and seated
himself on the low wall where Christobelle had listened to Captain
Ponsonby's legendary tales in listless indifference.

"In general," said Captain Ponsonby, "an orator draws an audience by
his powers of speaking, but I have chased mine into every corner of
this little earth. Either I have said too little or too much. Mary and
Mortimer are my best supporters. Sir John Wetheral, you are considered
a veteran. Come, Miss Wetheral, let us follow the multitude; it is vain
to waste my talent in empty space, so I dissolve the meeting."

Captain Ponsonby sprang to his feet, and the little group gradually
dispersed. Miss Ponsonby declared her brother should have been educated
for the bar in lieu of the army, he held forth so fluently upon
unintelligible subjects; and she challenged Mortimer Grey to assist her
in discovering the lost victims to Arthur's oratory. They set forth in
the direction of the spot where Fanny Ponsonby still stood absorbed,
and alone. Captain Ponsonby walked chatting by Christobelle, who leaned
upon her father's arm, and all bent their steps towards the little
ruined chapel.

"Who would have supposed so many graves, heraldic devices, and rude
sculpture, to lie forgotten and deserted here?" said Captain Ponsonby,
pointing to the various relics of other times which lay half buried in
the earth around. "How many stirring events have filled this soil with
mouldering bones, and caused the tears to flow from maidens' eyes!"

"How many fearful feuds have made these mountains echo with shouts and
cries of blood!" remarked Sir John Wetheral.

"Ay, but picture to your mind's eye the funereal procession of the
clans, slowly winding down those bold cliffs in silent sorrow, while
the pibroch screamed its wild notes to wail the dead." Captain
Ponsonby's countenance assumed a graver expression as he spoke, and
Christobelle thought it infinitely became the cast of his features. It
passed away quickly, as they advanced towards Sir John Spottiswoode,
and he resumed his playful mood.

"Sir John Spottiswoode, Miss Wetheral likens you to a lover bewailing
his mistress."

"Pray, Captain Ponsonby, do not say so," exclaimed Christobelle, in
alarm.

"You looked as if you thought so, Miss Wetheral. Why is your eye so
expressive?"

Christobelle felt distressed beyond measure at Captain Ponsonby's
thoughtless speech, which elicited a cold smile from Sir John
Spottiswoode. How could he smile so coldly upon her?

Christobelle had no spirits to reply to the cheerful remarks of Captain
Ponsonby, who continued chatting with enviable ease of heart, upon
every subject which offered itself to his notice. She was listening
to a conversation infinitely more attractive between her father and
Sir John Spottiswoode; but Captain Ponsonby's vivacity perpetually
interrupted her attention, and called forth an unwilling and absent
reply. There is no annoyance so galling as the society of the happy,
when a heart is struggling with grief, which seeks silence and solitude.

"Miss Wetheral, I bespeak your attention to those masses of clouds
rising in the west; are they not beautiful? Did you ever fancy forms
in the clouds? I do, often. See, Miss Wetheral, I can outline a lion
rampant perfectly in that fleecy cloud--can you see it?"

Christobelle was disturbed: Sir John Spottiswoode had spoken about
Alverton, and she wished to catch his words as they became indistinct.
She answered Captain Ponsonby hastily, "No, indeed."

"I will point it out more distinctly. Fix your eye upon the third dark
cloud, and by the side of that cloud stands the lion rampant. Now do
you see what I mean?"

"Yes," replied Christobelle, almost peevishly, "I think I see what you
mean." She trusted the subject was now ended.

"Well, can you distinguish a chariot and pair, Miss Wetheral? I see
them distinctly, and in excellent proportions."

"It pains my sight, Captain Ponsonby, to fix my eyes upon the heavens."

"I will shade the light with my hat," said Captain Ponsonby; "there,
now your eyes are safe: the sun is behind my hat."

Christobelle was obliged to give her attention to the indefatigable
Captain Ponsonby, and she lost all hope of Sir John Spottiswoode's
remarks. Her spirits were powerfully depressed; happily, as the morning
had opened upon her cheerful expectations, every pleasant prospect
was clouded now. Sir John Spottiswoode had been gay and playful in
conversation, till they alighted at Clanmoray, and from that moment
her evil genius had pursued her. Why was the companion of her walks so
changed, and why was he so cold and silent to his friend?

It appeared to Christobelle that Sir John Spottiswoode suffered under
an equally potent spell. The tone of his voice as he spoke to her
father was low and melancholy, and there was an expression in his
withdrawn eyes, which particularly affected her. It was not of anger,
he was too kind to feel angry; it was not of irritability, such as
she had seen flashing and dull by turns, in her mother's countenance.
There was an expression, touching and attractive in his disquietude,
which went at once to her heart, and occupied its thoughts. She could
ill endure the rapid remarks and conversation of Captain Ponsonby:
how she wished to be again at Fairlee, free from observation, and
at liberty to think upon all that had occurred, in the solitude of
her own apartment! Oh, that she had never seen Fanny Ponsonby! It was
Fanny Ponsonby who pointed the arrow of jealousy at her heart, and
tore the veil from her eyes. It was Fanny Ponsonby who taught her that
friendship was but a cloak for deeper feelings, and that the pain she
inflicted betrayed a heart prostrate before that Deity whose arrows,
under a borrowed name, enter unsuspiciously into the soul of his victim.

"But, Miss Wetheral, you are meditating too gravely," resumed Captain
Ponsonby, after a pause of some minutes, "the tombs of a thousand souls
cause your eye to grow heavy. Let us sing away care upon these swelling
earths. Where are the mirthful ones, and where are the singing-men, and
the singing-women? The Greys are all musical."

The vivacious Captain Ponsonby called the party round him, and they
seated themselves on the mounds which were scattered thickly round
the chapel. The Greys formed the centre of the groupe, and their
full voices wafted along the waters that beautiful glee of Calcot's,
"Desolate is the dwelling of Morna." The effect was truly delicious.
Desolate, indeed, was the ground upon which they sat; and silent,
indeed, were the sounds which in former times burst from the shores of
Lochleven. The harmony and its wildly poetic words accorded well with
the scene before and around them. "Yet, a few years, and the blast of
the desert comes," fell upon Christobelle's ear, and roused a thousand
emotions.

It seemed to describe in one short sentence the tale of life; and it
too truly illustrated her own wretched position. She could not repress
the tears which flowed at the thought, that even in her early youth,
care was beginning to do its work. She turned involuntarily to look
upon Fanny Ponsonby, the author of her wretchedness. She was seated
a little apart, and her head had sunk upon her breast, as though the
harmonious sounds had lulled her into deep repose; but Christobelle saw
the heavings of her bosom, and knew she wept.

The Greys concluded their song, and Captain Ponsonby was called upon to
lend his talents towards the harmony of the scene. The young officer
was nothing loth: with inexpressible softness, and in excellent taste,
he sung:

    "There's something in that bonny face,
      I never saw before, lassie;
    Your actions a' have sic a grace,
      I gaze and I adore, lassie."

Captain Ponsonby turned towards Christobelle, as he concluded the last
line of the first stanza, and he pressed his hand gallantly upon his
heart, as he gave the last verses:

    "Sweet is the spring, and sweet the rose,
      When moistened by the shower, lassie;
    Bright on the thorn the dew-drop glows,
      At morns refulgent hour, lassie:
    But brighter, purer far than these
      Thou art, and charm'st me more, lassie,
    Than tongue can tell; I wondering gaze,
      I gaze and I adore, lassie."

Christobelle blushed deeply at the general notice which Captain
Ponsonby's manner attracted towards her, and Lady Wetheral thought it
prudent to break up the party, lest the offended countenance of Lord
Farnborough should deepen, and produce results in his conduct, which
would overthrow her dearest plans. She turned to Miss Ponsonby.

"My dear Miss Ponsonby, are not those clouds threatening? I have
observed them some minutes with fearful forebodings: my dear Bell, fold
your plaid round you, the air is becoming fresh."

The attention of the party was turned anxiously to the west, and
General Ponsonby advised an immediate return to the opposite shore.
Captain Ponsonby went forward to order the boatmen to their oars, and
Lord Farnborough took his vacant place by the side of Christobelle. His
lordship spoke with much vehemence of manner.

"You have been bored with your neighbour, Miss Wetheral, yet you have
preferred him to me."

"Captain Ponsonby did not weary me, my lord."

"I hate those talking fellows, yet ladies love to be attended by them.
I can't think why all ladies like Ponsonby to run after them."

Christobelle was offended by Lord Farnborough's expressions. When his
lordship attended her from Lochleven Castle to Fairlee Cove, all was
courtesy and gallant bearing--but his lordship had become overbearing,
and, if she might so express it, he was actually offensive in St.
Mungo's Isle. She made no reply.

"Allow me to take charge of you to the shore, Miss Wetheral," continued
his lordship.

Christobelle hesitated. "Captain Ponsonby, I believe--I rather
think...."

"Of course I must give way," replied his lordship, drily, "of course
every thing must give way to Captain Ponsonby."

Captain Ponsonby came up, to announce all was in readiness; and the
party rose to prepare for departure. Lady Wetheral approached her
daughter.

"Bell, you are devoting yourself very publicly to Captain Ponsonby.
I intreat you to be cautious, and accept Lord Farnborough's offer of
attendance."

"Mamma, I am offended with Lord Farnborough."

"Do not be silly, Miss Wetheral; this is not the moment to exhibit
offended feelings. I wish you to walk with my lord, and return under
his charge."

Lady Anna Herbert passed, leaning on Mr. Grey's arm. "Be quick, fair
ladies, for there is every chance of rain," she exclaimed; "the boatmen
prognosticate weather before we reach the main land."

There was much bustle in hurrying into the boats, and the wind rose
suddenly, sweeping in gusts over the lake, ere the party left the
island. Christobelle was hurried rapidly into the little vessel,
between Lord Farnborough and Captain Ponsonby, and the rain began to
descend in torrents, as they placed her, in the confusion, between Sir
John Spottiswoode and Fanny Ponsonby.

"On, on, for your lives!" cried Captain Ponsonby, addressing the
boatmen, and the party were launched upon the waters of Lochleven.

Christobelle was by the side of Sir John Spottiswoode, and her mind
was tranquil as they rowed rapidly towards Clanmoray. He held an
umbrella over her head; and endeavoured to guard her from the storm, by
spreading his cloak round her feet and knees. She felt distressed and
uncomfortable at the thought of his own exposure to the rain and wind.
She intreated him to suffer her to return the cloak, without which he
must be cold and comfortless.

"No," he replied gravely, "I do not consider my own feelings, I wish to
secure your comfort."

"But I have _no_ comfort in depriving you of warmth and shelter: you
will catch a severe cold."

"Never mind, Miss Wetheral; my mother and Sophia will nurse me well at
Alverton."

"At Alverton!" exclaimed Christobelle, in astonishment, "at Alverton!"

"Why not, Miss Wetheral?" he asked in low tones, and his fine dark
eyes were fixed upon her with such deep expression!

"Oh, no, if you are ill, I will nurse you; and Fairlee shall be
your----."

Christobelle stopped: her heart beat thickly--she could not speak
the conclusion of her sentence--a weight, as of iron, bore down her
eyelids, and she remained silent.

"You have been happy to-day, my pupil?" said Sir John Spottiswoode,
after a moment's pause.

Christobelle waved her hand silently. She could not trust her voice;
but Fanny Ponsonby was talking to Lord Farnborough, and she was
wretched at the allusion to Alverton. Curiosity, anxiety, and the
horrors of suspense, gave her courage to address her companion again;
and she asked, in the recklessness of despair, why he contemplated
returning so soon into Shropshire.

"Because," he said, "Lochleven is now a fever spot upon my heart."

Christobelle wept silently. Captain Ponsonby sat in the stern of
the boat without speaking, as though even his gay spirit could not
resist the heavy rain, and every one appeared to be cold, weary, and
dispirited. Except Fanny Ponsonby's voice, which sung, in low tones,
a plaintive air, not a sound escaped the party till they reached the
shore; and then commenced another disagreeable contention between Lord
Farnborough and Captain Ponsonby.

"Miss Wetheral, I claim you _this_ time," said his lordship, hastily
passing Fanny Ponsonby, and offering his hand.

"My good fellow," cried Captain Ponsonby, "I am before you half a
minute, and have won the prize."

"I cannot understand why you persevere so pertinaciously in
appropriating Miss Wetheral, Ponsonby."

"Can you, indeed, be ignorant upon such a point, Farnborough? Take
care, Miss Wetheral--step firmly, and hold my hand."

"I must observe that you are needlessly officious, Ponsonby."

"Tell me so elsewhere, Farnborough; at present, I am attending upon
Miss Wetheral."

Christobelle looked imploringly at Sir John Spottiswoode, but he was
uncloaking Fanny Ponsonby, and she had taken his arm, to share with him
the shelter of his umbrella. Christobelle cared not, then, who became
her escort. Captain Ponsonby would not understand Lord Farnborough's
anger, or reply to his observations; he chatted gaily, as he unclasped
the heavy boat-cloak, which shrouded and encumbered Miss Wetheral's
figure.

"In spite of the storm, Miss Wetheral, you spring brightly from your
nest, untouched by the raindrops; how do you manage to be so unlike
the rest of the world? We will not wait for the other boat, which
would detain us some time. Let me get you safely to Clanmoray. Take
my arm fearlessly, and I will guide and support you up the pathway.
Farnborough will be kind enough to escort the Miss Greys."

Lord Farnborough threw a haughty look at Captain Ponsonby, but he made
no answer. His lordship folded his cloak round his tall, slight figure,
and ascended the pathway in silence, and without a companion. The Miss
Greys remained unattended on the shore of Lochleven.

"Farnborough is offended in earnest," observed Captain Ponsonby, "and
the gentle syrens are to suffer. Miss Wetheral, you have put a feud
between me and my noble guest."

"I am sorry, Captain Ponsonby, if any thing unpleasant should arise
between you and my lord. It is altogether innocently done on my part."

"Oh! yes, you look so dove-like and so guileless, and yet you wield
such warfare."

"Lord Farnborough appears easily irritated."

"Farnborough has been used to such easy conquests, that he resents
the appearance of indifference. You have piqued him, Miss Wetheral;
nevertheless, I am concerned to see the Miss Greys climbing the path
alone in this rain. This is an unexpected termination to our agreeable
day. It has been a really delightful day to me."

"Lochleven can never disappoint its visitors, Captain Ponsonby; even in
this rain how beautiful it is!"

"Lochleven would, though, if certain persons and things did not combine
to please me. I have enjoyed myself to-day--but you were my companion;
I was with you at dinner--on the wall of the ruin--every where; and
I have spent an extremely captivating day. I wonder what kind of day
Farnborough will represent it?"

"As very agreeable, no doubt."

"I differ with you, Miss Wetheral. Fanny and your friend have
seven league boots on, I fancy--how they are bounding on! I admire
your friend, Miss Wetheral--fine, handsome fellow, only he looks
melancholy."

"Does he?"

"Yes; his eyes were fixed upon your hand a full half hour at dinner--an
hour, as we sat talking, and all the voyage; yet, like Lady Macbeth,
his eyes were open, but their sense was closed. He has a lady-love in
the south."

Christobelle started at Captain Ponsonby's suggestion. Impossible! she
would not believe it! She never heard such a thing alluded to. If Sir
John Spottiswoode loved in the south, Mrs. Pynsent would have named it.
How came Captain Ponsonby to imagine such folly! The very supposition
of Sir John's attachment, however, created pain, and chilled her into
silence. Captain Ponsonby's conversation soon became wearisome, and she
was glad when they reached Clanmoray.

It was a relief to find Lord Farnborough absent, and still more a
relief to perceive the second party approaching in the distance. She
wanted to be at Fairlee, to enjoy rest, and silence, and free communion
with her thoughts. Captain Ponsonby's spirits were oppressive, and his
polite anxiety amounted to absolute annoyance. Christobelle was ill,
and restless, and eager to return home.

The carriage was ordered as soon as Lady Wetheral arrived, and
the Fairlee party were supplied by Miss Ponsonby with comfortable
refreshment in the article of stockings and shoes. Every other apparel
had been spared, by the thoughtful cares of Mrs. Ponsonby, who had
wisely ordered a _depôt_ of cloaks and umbrellas on board. Lord
Farnborough did not appear during their short rest at Clanmoray, and
Captain Ponsonby led Christobelle to the carriage, after the ceremonies
of leave-taking had concluded. Miss Ponsonby hoped to enjoy Miss
Wetheral's society a little more exclusively at a future time; but she
seemed to be the entire property of Arthur and Lord Farnborough at
St. Mungo's Isle. There was policy in allowing novelty to exhaust its
powers of pleasing; and she would reserve her society till it would
fill up a chasm, formed by the secession of an admirer. "Depend upon
it, all this cannot last, fair Christobelle, and, like me, you will
some day search in vain for a Télémaque."

"_I_ shall not live to see the day, Miss Wetheral," said her brother,
as he led Christobelle forward.

"Don't attach the smallest credit to Arthur's compliments," cried Miss
Ponsonby, kissing her hand.

"Mary is very incorrect in her statements, Miss Wetheral," said Captain
Ponsonby, as they passed through the hall. "You will receive me with a
smile, if I call at Fairlee to-morrow?"

"With many smiles, Captain Ponsonby."

"No, one little particular welcome smile is my hope--give your many
smiles to Farnborough. Fare you well!"

Christobelle entered the carriage, and Sir John Spottiswoode followed;
but he seated himself by Lady Wetheral's side. Captain Ponsonby waved
his hand, and stood in the rain, till the trees concealed him from
sight.



CHAPTER XXVI.


Lady Wetheral spoke of the morning's entertainment with perfect
approbation, as they drove home. "Every thing was so agreeably
arranged--every body was so inclined to be amused, which constituted
the charm of a party _al fresco_. Lord Farnborough, perhaps, was less
disposed to consider himself at ease than the rest of the group; but
circumstances did go a little '_à tort et à travers_' with poor Lord
Farnborough. Some people were in the wrong place, assuredly, which
might create a little uneasiness; but, considering the difficulty of
selecting and arranging a large morning party, it had been admirably
conducted. There was a little too much vivacity in Captain Ponsonby's
manner: he was rather too _empressé_--but Lord Farnborough displayed
the man of fashion in every movement." Christobelle did not argue
against her mother's opinions, and Sir John Spottiswoode sat,
determined to be silent.

"Lord Farnborough," continued Lady Wetheral, "tells me he intends
wandering round Lochleven some weeks longer."

"At Clanmoray?" asked Christobelle.

"No, my love, he thinks of building at Kinross." Christobelle sank back
into her former position, quite indifferent to the whereabout of Lord
Farnborough. Her ladyship resumed:--"Sir John, what a lovely creature
is Fanny Ponsonby! I think I never beheld more beautiful eyes!"

"Miss Ponsonby is a beautiful woman!" replied Sir John Spottiswoode.

"I mean Fanny Ponsonby, the lady you monopolized, my dear Spottiswoode."

"I mean the same lady; but I was guilty of no monopoly, Lady Wetheral."

"She is most lovely indeed. My dear Bell, what an agreeable companion
Miss Fanny Ponsonby would be to share in your lake diversions!"

"No, mamma, pray don't ask Fanny Ponsonby--pray think of no companion
for me. I am a solitary being. I love to be alone."

"My dear girl, you are jealous!"

"I am not jealous of any one, I hope. I admire Miss Fanny Ponsonby--I
think her very lovely--but I require no companion."

"Would you live quite alone, my love? It is not the wish of a young
lady in general."

"When I feel particularly dull, mamma, I will ask for Miss Fanny
Ponsonby."

Christobelle could not clearly define her fear of Miss Fanny Ponsonby's
society, but her name would evermore be coupled with painful feelings.
The first emotion of jealousy towards another had been elicited by her,
and perhaps the recollection of that suffering inclined her to shun the
innocent cause of the subtle intruder. Christobelle became restless at
the mention of such a visitor at Fairlee; and though she endeavoured to
reason away her alarm, the internal struggle increased. What could her
mother mean?

The clouds broke away towards the evening, and the rain ceased; the
terrace was soon dry, though the raindrops hung upon every leaf, and
the bright lake lay tranquil after the storm. Lochleven was beautiful
in its freshness, and the green tints of its wooded sides stood out in
deeper and brighter light and shade from the heavy showers. Yet Sir
John Spottiswoode did not ask Christobelle to walk with him; he did
not ask her to admire with him the setting sun, or to look with him
upon the deepening shades of evening. He sat profoundly attentive over
"Bacon's Essays," and not once did his eye or lip address her. She
also endeavoured to read, but her thoughts wandered over the incidents
of the morning. Her eyes fixed themselves upon the lake, and not upon
the page of history, as she considered the disappointments of the day,
and mused upon the changed manner of Sir John Spottiswoode. She wished
they had never joined the party to St. Mungo's Isle--she wished she had
persevered in her solitary habits, and never accepted the invitation to
Clanmoray.

Captain Ponsonby had wearied her, and Lord Farnborough's manner had
offended her. Were these things an equivalent to the estranged manner
of her friend? She wished she had been Fanny Ponsonby, for then Sir
John Spottiswoode would have sought her. She wished she had been Fanny
Ponsonby, for then the gentlemen would have avoided her. She had no
pleasure in being so publicly attended by Captain Ponsonby and his
guest. She would have given worlds to have been silent and free from
remark.

Lady Wetheral took her seat by Christobelle's side, as she gazed
vacantly upon the sparkling waters.

"Your thoughts are far away, my love, and yet I can guess their flight.
They are at this moment at Clanmoray, and you are thinking of Fanny
Ponsonby."

The truth of the remark startled Christobelle. It brought the colour
into her face and forehead.

"Never mind Fanny Ponsonby, Bell. You have no rival there!"

"Do you think so, mamma?" she exclaimed. "How can you possibly tell his
feelings?"

"His attention was exclusively given to you, Bell, though I confess you
coquetted rather rashly."

"With whom did I coquette, mamma? I cannot endure that expression, it
sounds so frivolous and vain."

"My love, strangers would remark you flirted too much with Captain
Ponsonby, though _I_ could comprehend your intentions, and I was amused
with your little _tracasseries_."

"But how can you judge of his feelings towards Miss Fanny Ponsonby,
mamma?"

"Because her attachment to him could not be concealed; it was apparent
in her looks, and in the pain she discovered during his attentions to
you."

"We hardly exchanged words, mamma," remarked Christobelle, in great
surprise; "and then only in the boat returning from the island."

"I am ignorant of what took place during your return, my love; but I
saw enough to convince me that Lord Farnborough does not return the
love of poor Fanny Ponsonby."

Lord Farnborough!--and her thoughts were with Sir John Spottiswoode!
Her eyes fell upon the Lake in bitter disappointment. "I thought _he_
had watched me--I thought _he_ had not cared for Fanny Ponsonby!" were
her silent reflections.

"I see," continued Lady Wetheral, in tones of triumph, "his lordship is
jealous of Captain Ponsonby; and there you acted with great tact. I am
sure it will lead to a proposal. He will be afraid of Arthur Ponsonby,
and it will lead him to take a hasty step, but that step will exalt
you into the future Duchess of Forfar. I fancied his Grace asthmatic
this morning; he certainly wheezed very painfully as we walked up the
pathway. This will raise you far above your sisters, my love; far more
exalted than Julia. Lord Farnborough has proved my physician; he has
entirely chased away my nervous complaints."

Christobelle could not answer. She quitted the room in haste, and took
shelter in her own apartments. There she prostrated herself, and prayed
for a tranquil spirit. She knew her mother's temper, and was aware of
her ambitious spirit; but she did not like Lord Farnborough, and never
would she sell herself to be his wife. She would not confess that she
loved Sir John Spottiswoode, or that she had given her affections to
one who did not value the gift; but she would surely and perseveringly
decline Lord Farnborough, if indeed that hasty step was ever taken
which was to proceed from anger towards his friend, Captain Ponsonby.

Christobelle had witnessed Clara's misery, and suspected that Julia was
not happy in her grandeur, therefore, she would not become the third
prey to her mother's overweening ambition. She might suffer reproaches
and harsh conduct, but she would not marry for wealth, and pine away in
silent misery, a beacon to the thoughtless and the avaricious. If Sir
John Spottiswoode quitted Fairlee, and if Lochleven was a fever-spot
upon his heart, Christobelle felt she must endure sorrow: it could not
be more despairing than the feelings of Fanny Ponsonby, to whom her
heart now clung in sympathy, and without pain. Fanny Ponsonby would
be now a companion most grateful to her taste; all jealous fears were
ended, and they could walk and weep together in fellowship. Poor Fanny
Ponsonby! Christobelle wept for her and for herself. She remembered her
abstracted look, and the haste with which she fled from her brother's
remarks upon love. She remembered the downcast eye when Sir John
Spottiswoode addressed her upon the subject of a lover's heart, and she
saw her weep during the singing of "Desolate is the dwelling of Morna."
How her heart yearned now to be near her!

Christobelle felt too unwell to return again into the drawing-room. The
struggle of her thoughts brought on severe headache, and she tried to
forget her disquietude in sleep. Lady Wetheral visited her daughter,
before she retired for the night, and smiled as she spoke of her hasty
retreat.

"Did Sir John Spottiswoode miss me?" Christobelle asked in some
perturbation, as she rose from an unrefreshing doze, to listen to her
remarks.

"No, my love, I believe not. He expressed very polite regrets at your
indisposition, but he has been reading the whole evening. He mentioned
his return into Shropshire the end of this week."

Christobelle sank back in silence upon her pillow.

"Good night, my love, I will not keep you awake; but I trust
your headache will be slept away. Take sal-volatile, and those
nervous-drops, they always did me good, and we shall see what to-morrow
will bring forth."

"So soon does he go, mamma?"

"Yes, my love. I think it would be advisable to ask Lord Farnborough to
Fairlee, to superintend his intended little sporting-box at Kinross. I
shall sound your father. Good night Bell."

Lady Wetheral retired, and left Christobelle again in silence and in
darkness. She could not sleep. The night passed _so_ slowly, as she lay
revolving all these things in her mind! When she was happy, her nights
flew by, and she rose refreshed; but now the hours lagged heavily, and
her waking thoughts were upon the departure of Sir John Spottiswoode,
and the introduction of Lord Farnborough in his place. She did not
rise refreshed. She was tired and unhappy when she descended into
the breakfast-room. Sir John Spottiswoode was there alone; and, as he
paid the compliments of the morning, his voice was thick, and sounded
hoarse. Christobelle was sure he had caught cold upon the water, and
it was to protect her that he exposed himself to wet, and had thrown
off his cloak. She was overcome by the recollection, and, though she
approached him timidly, she was in anxious fear lest he should suffer
by his attention. His hand was heated as it touched hers in salutation,
and she held it in alarm.

"Oh, you are feverish and ill, and you have caught cold by giving me
your cloak! What can I do for you?"

"I have a little headache and sore throat," he replied, smiling; "but
it will pass away, I hope, in the course of the day."

"It was that cloak," replied Christobelle, quite absorbed with fear,
and totally forgetful that her hand was still held by him--"it was that
cloak which you took off so suddenly, against my wishes. I was sure you
would be ill!"

"I am not ill," he answered, feelingly: "your kind sympathy has cured
me; but let me observe _your_ pale cheeks in return, and let me mourn
over _them_." Sir John Spottiswoode led her to the window, and looked
so kindly at her, that tears sprang into her eyes. "Here are tokens of
a restless night," he said--"here are signs of sleepless hours, and
heavy thoughts, my dear pupil. Would I could calm your gentle heart!"

"Then stay at Fairlee!" she exclaimed, as she wept without control,
and cared not for the consequences of her indiscreet words--"stay at
Fairlee, and be as kind as you used to be!" Christobelle felt the arm
of her companion drawn round her, and she was pressed to his heart, as
he replied.--

"I _will_ remain, dearest pupil, I _will_ remain at Fairlee, whatever
pain it may cost me! I will do whatever you bid me do, to give you
pleasure. God forbid _I_ should ever give you a moment's sorrow! I
would sooner suffer a thousand pangs, than see you weep one moment. Why
do you weep, and distress my heart?"

Christobelle could not help it. Was it, indeed, painful to remain at
Fairlee? Captain Ponsonby was right, then, in his suggestion--there
_was_ a lady in the south! She could not reply; a suffocating sensation
precluded all speech.

"Why are you here so early?" continued Sir John Spottiswoode, in
gentle accents, as Christobelle still leaned against him; "and why
are your spirits so agitated, and your rest broken? If such is your
present state, what will your affectionate heart endure hereafter? Your
delicate frame is unequal to contend with such deep emotions!"

Christobelle made a strong effort to check her weeping fit, and she
became more tranquil. Sir John Spottiswoode's arm still surrounded
and supported her; but she felt that, when its dear support should be
withdrawn, she would be cast upon the wide world for ever.

"Your friends are round you," resumed her companion, "and you shall
be the arbitress of _my_ movements. I will not quit Lochleven while I
can be of use to its dear inmate. Oh, my dear Christobelle! how the
schoolmaster will guard his pupil! But when," he added, hesitatingly,
drawing her closer to him, and even clasping her to his heart--"when
will he be here again?"

"Whom do you speak of? Captain Ponsonby?" she exclaimed; "he wearies
me, and every body wearies me!"

"I do not speak of him. I do not speak of Captain Ponsonby," replied
Sir John Spottiswoode, withdrawing his arm hastily, and moving a few
paces. "I mean another and happier man. You know whom I would name." He
advanced again to the window, where Christobelle remained rooted. "You
know whom I allude to, Miss Wetheral."

"Lord Farnborough?" she articulated, with difficulty.

Sir John would not meet her eye.

"I did mean that person. Will he not visit Fairlee, Miss Wetheral?
Will he not? no, he is not worthy of such a heart--of such powerful
affection!" He walked from the window to the door, and again he turned,
and approached Christobelle. "It is a severe trial to have waited
and loved as I have done, and yet suffer disappointment. It was a
strange fancy--was it not, my pupil?--to wait so long, and hope so
perseveringly? But I will not quit Fairlee, since you bid me not."

Christobelle could not comprehend Sir John Spottiswoode's emotion. She
could not divine his allusions; she only grasped at his promise to
remain, and even that was balm to her heart.

"Oh, yes," she repeated, "stay, and take my part, for I know I shall
appeal to papa and you, if I am reproached."

"Who dares presume to reproach you? Who dares to offer a harsh word to
you? By the heavens above, if I heard his false lips utter one syllable
of unkindness to a creature too gentle and excellent for his worthless
mind, I would strike him dead!" Sir John Spottiswoode's eyes struck
fire, and his tall figure became still more erect.

"Of whom are you talking?--whose lips are false?" asked Christobelle,
in stupid amazement.

"I know him!" continued Sir John Spottiswoode, kindling as he spoke;
"but I will follow him through the world, if he gives one pang to such
a heart as your's, dearest and loveliest pupil, creature of my fancy
and my heart! He is not worthy of you, Christobelle." He stopped, and
fixed his eyes upon her with an expression so wretched, that she took
his hand in terror: he snatched it from her.

"Do not break my heart, Christobelle; and do not touch me, if you have
mercy. Withdraw your wish, and let me quit Fairlee for ever!"

"Oh, no, no," she cried, clasping her hands, and sinking into a chair;
"if you go, who will stand between me and my mother?"

"Your mother!" Sir John Spottiswoode gazed upon Christobelle with
astonishment. "Your mother!" he repeated.

"I cannot, will not marry Lord Farnborough," exclaimed Christobelle,
almost bending in agonized feelings; "and who will save me from her
anger!"

"Christobelle!" burst from her companion. She heeded not.

"I will not be driven into misery to minister to ambition. It is so
cruel--so very cruel."

"Christobelle!" again ejaculated Sir John Spottiswoode, "look at me!"

Christobelle could not look up--she could not shake off her weight of
misery. She sat with her hands pressed tightly upon her heart. "If you
leave me, who will assist my father in warding off my reproaches? Who
will soften her heart, and soothe my poor spirit? Who will plead for
me, and save me?"

Sir John Spottiswoode knelt by her side, and took her cold hands in
his. "Christobelle," he said, "I will plead for you, and save you.
Will you recompense me in return? Will _you_ love and cherish the
heart which adores and blesses you?--which would suffer all evils, all
indignities, for your dear sake?"

Christobelle sat transfixed. She dared not breathe, lest the vision
should vanish from her sight.

"Shall I tell you, Christobelle, how I have waited for you, and lived
upon the hope of making you love me, when I was far away? Shall I tell
you how I watched over you, and lingered till I could ask for you?"

Christobelle could only smile a reply to her lover's questions, and she
was again folded in his arms. Oh, happy, thrice happy moment!

"Shall I tell you," demanded her companion, "how your mother deceived
me, yesterday morning, when I spoke of you upon the terrace? No, I will
not allude to it now, since all my horrible fears are ended."

"Tell me nothing now," she replied, "but let me return to my room, to
think--to assure myself this is not a vision--to consider all things
over." Miss Wetheral rose.

"Will you go with me to our rocky seat, after breakfast," he asked,
"if I resign you now? I am loth to lose you from my sight; stay a few
moments longer, dearest."

"Not now; but I will walk with you to our old place of refuge. The bell
will ring, and I am too agitated to meet my mother. I could meet no one
at this moment."

"But, my Chrystal, one--one more embrace!" and Christobelle was
encircled again in the arms of the best and dearest of human beings.
She flew from his embrace to the sanctuary of her own apartment, and
her first movement was prayer. She prayed for humility; she prayed for
strength to bear her load of happiness; and she prayed that she might
not love the creature beyond the Creator. When Christobelle rose from
her knees, she sat down to think upon all these things.

Sir John and Lady Wetheral were at the breakfast-table, when
Christobelle descended the second time. She did not once meet her
lover's eye, for she could not endure its brightness; but her bosom had
cast its load of sorrow, and her thoughts danced in the beams of a new
happiness. Lady Wetheral was pleased by her appearance.

"My dear Bell, that little headache was a _tour de jongle_ to get rid
of us all. Your dreams were pleasant, for your eyes sparkle, and you
look most amusingly demure."

Christobelle cast her eyes upon the ground; a deep and most distressing
suffusion crimsoned her face.

"Perhaps," continued her ladyship, "your gay dreams may have
prognosticated good. I have also my dream. I am dreaming that friends
from Clanmoray will call to-day."

Christobelle was silent. She knew her mother dreamt not of the
blow which awaited her. She knew her ladyship did not dream of her
attachment to Sir John Spottiswoode. She could not awaken her at that
moment to the fallacy of her hopes, neither could she lend herself to
deception. She was aware her mother's ambitious wishes believed her
young heart unable to contend against a dukedom, and that her fear of
Sir John Spottiswoode had ceased from the morning of Lord Farnborough's
visit. She had then chatted to his lordship, in the full flow of happy
spirits, and her mother's ambition had "o'ertopped" its meaning. She
could not lead her into deeper error.

Christobelle's appetite was gone, and she scarcely touched the small
French roll which lay upon her plate. She had eaten and drank in
sorrow, though the meal did not afford nourishment; but, in joy, the
very sight of food became loathsome. It appeared to Christobelle's
mind, that Sir John Spottiswoode's love--his expressed love--was
intellectual food, sufficient for many days; that her spirit would
renew under its blessed influence, and that creature-comforts suited
only the labourer and the hireling. It was impossible to remain long at
the breakfast-table. She felt the triumphant glance of her lover was
upon her, and her heart longed for solitude, to question itself again
upon its sudden happiness. She wanted to ask herself, over and over,
if it was really true that she was loved by Sir John Spottiswoode--if
it was really true that her affections were returned, and that she was
happy?

Christobelle quitted the breakfast-room as early as politeness would
admit, for the desultory conversation of her companions was painful to
her thoughts, and disturbed her train of mental reasonings. Sir John
Spottiswoode watched her retreat, but she could not meet his imploring
look. She knew its purport, and she would surely keep her promise of
walking with him to the rocky seat; but she _must_ be alone for some
time. She required a short season of solitude, to task her thoughts and
collect her scattered energies; and, above all, she wished to see her
father. Before Christobelle could surrender herself to the floating
visions of joy which crowded on her brain, she must see her father!

Christobelle remained an hour walking up and down her dressing-room,
ere she could quell the emotions of her soul, and then she descended
into her father's study. He was reading; and, for some moments, an
indefinable sensation of shame kept her silent. At last, Christobelle
gained courage to address her kind and indulgent parent. "Papa, if you
are not engaged, I wish to speak to you, if you please."

Sir John Wetheral laid down his book, and assured his child his
attention was ever alive to his Chrystal's summons: but she became
agitated and confused as she approached the subject. "Papa," she
stammered forth, "I came to say something, and I don't know how to say
it."

Sir John Wetheral smiled, and drew her to him. "Well, my love, which
is it--my Lord Farnborough, or the humble Captain? It must be a novel
subject which confuses my poor little companion, and it _must_ be a
love affair. Which of them is intending to deprive me of your society,
Chrystal?"

"Neither, papa." Christobelle became still more distressed and confused
at his mistake.

"Well, then, it must be the old duke, or that young man with the whip.
I cannot approve of either, my love."

Christobelle threw her arms round his neck. "No, no, papa; think again."

"Ah, I have it, Chrystal. It is that young wanderer upon the
terrace, who is watching the windows of your apartments so eagerly."
Christobelle's head fell upon his shoulder. "Be not alarmed, my child.
If there is a heart as kind as Boscawen's, and as affectionate as
Pynsent's, it is the heart of Spottiswoode. Now go, and tell him what I
say."

Christobelle was too confused and too joyful to speak her gratitude,
but her heart was known to the parent who had loved and watched over
her from the hour of her birth. He led her to the door. "Go, my best
love, and tell your friend, and my friend, that he has set at rest all
my hopes and fears for your welfare. Tell him it is only into his hands
I would relinquish my child. There, fly to the poor puzzled youth, for
he is lingering under your windows." Sir John Wetheral closed the door,
and his daughter was alone in the hall, almost stunned by the rapidity
of the morning's eventful incidents. She would have proceeded to the
terrace, but her mother's voice called her to the sitting-room.

"Bell, is that you?"

Christobelle found her ladyship seated in a lounging chair, employed
with her knotting. She looked up.

"I thought I recognized your step, my love; the fairy step, as Lord
Farnborough calls it. I wish you to remain entirely in the grounds,
Bell; indeed, I wish you not to quit the house this morning. Stay with
me, and wind these silks; they plague and impede my work."

"I am only going to the cliff, mamma: if any body comes, you will be so
good as to send for me, perhaps."

"My love, I cannot send the whole establishment in different directions
for you, upon all occasions. Your walks become a serious evil."

"I will remain on the terrace, then, mamma: I have promised to join Sir
John Spottiswoode."

"I do not approve of such daily walks, Bell--such wild roaming over
the hills. I wish you to wind these obdurate skeins for me: you forget
caution and propriety. I insist upon your avoidance of Sir John
Spottiswoode this morning. Lord Farnborough must not always find you
appropriated."

Sir John Spottiswoode appeared at the window which opened upon the
terrace at this moment. Lady Wetheral kissed her hand to him, and he
entered.

"My dear Spottiswoode, assist me to persuade my restive daughter that
so much exercise is hurtful. I wish her to remain with me this morning."

"The day is so beautiful, Lady Wetheral, and the air so reviving!" he
observed. "I am sure this fresh breeze will exhilarate her, and bring
the roses into her cheeks."

Her ladyship raised her glass to her eye, and slightly examined her
daughter's countenance.

"Bell, my love, your bloom is less vivid, but I think I prefer the
delicacy of its present tone. I have very essential reasons for wishing
you to remain with me this morning. I feel languid and unwell--very
languid after the fatigues of yesterday." Lady Wetheral's voice grew
fainter as she uttered the last sentence: and she sank back in her
chair, in an attitude of languor. "My love, pray wind those skeins for
me. I am a poor creature, you see."

It was useless to contend: Christobelle's destined walk must give
way to her mother's quiet determination that she should not become
conspicuous with Sir John Spottiswoode, and it was her duty to yield
to her wishes. Christobelle relinquished, therefore, all hopes of a
_tête-à-tête_ with her lover, and prepared to obey her commands, by
occupying herself with the silks. She had not courage to meet the
disappointed eye of her companion, nor indeed did she wish him to
discover, by the expression of her own orbs, how severely she suffered
by her obedience.

Sir John Spottiswoode was silent under the existing order of things,
and forbore to offer an opinion upon its unfitness; but he quietly
assisted Christobelle's operations, and held the skeins for her better
convenience in winding them. The whole affair arranged itself in such
perfect pantomime, that she could not resist a smile and glance at
her assistant, which amply repaid her self-control. An expression of
gratified happiness played upon his manly countenance, and lighted up
his eyes, which communicated itself to Christobelle's heart, and caused
intense gratitude for the blessing conferred upon her in the gift of
his affections. She felt that she could meet her mother's opposition,
her irony, her bitterness, with patience, since she had won all that
seemed valuable upon earth--all that was excellent, and affectionate,
and kind--the heart of Sir John Spottiswoode. She had received
the blessing too, at the very moment when her fears believed him
indifferent to her love: and when she suffered the pangs of jealousy,
elicited by Fanny Ponsonby, and continued by the surmise of Captain
Ponsonby; yet it was a change so suddenly effected, that she could
scarcely believe in its reality. Her lover knelt before her, holding
the extended skein, yet she could not place faith in the certainty that
all was not a dream: she heard her mother speak, and yet it appeared a
vision, from which, she trusted, she might never wake.

"My dear Spottiswoode, you are Hercules with the distaff."

"I have made my choice too, like Hercules, Lady Wetheral. I have
selected virtue, and I find I have also gained pleasure, for they are
seldom separate, after all. Pleasure does not include virtue always:
but virtue rarely moves without pleasure; I find it so now. I am
virtuously employed, and it is my greatest pleasure. I have great
pleasure in assisting your labours, Lady Wetheral."

"You appear to great advantage, Spottiswoode; but I hope you are not
making a pain of pleasure. Bell has already broken her thread twice."

"Miss Wetheral is all kindness; she bears with my awkward attempts
to be useful. I know I am very trying to her patience. Another thread
broken! My dear Miss Wetheral, be calm."

"I believe I must relinquish it, for a few moments," Christobelle
observed; "my hands are so tremulous."

"I am going to lecture you, Miss Wetheral, to spare your mamma the
trouble of pronouncing an exhortation in her languid state. Pray,
make another trial, and hold your hand steadily--_so_." Sir John
Spottiswoode pressed her hand affectionately, and held it as he
continued--"Now, my dear pupil, you must try to feel tranquil, and be
assured all efforts succeed, if they are made with perseverance."

"Very well," said Christobelle, laughingly; "my next effort shall be
boldly made."

"But, stay," he added, detaining the hand she would have withdrawn,
"stay one moment, while I examine this entanglement." Sir John
Spottiswoode bent forward to conceal his movement and Christobelle's
confusion from Lady Wetheral's notice. "This is rather a puzzling
affair at this moment, Miss Wetheral, but we must succeed in time by
mutual perseverance--if you are calm, and I am near you, to offer
counsel. Do you perfectly understand me?"

"I believe I do. I am to be calm, and try to unravel this puzzling work
in patience. I quite understand you, and I will try to do so."

"When did my pupil ever misunderstand my words?" he replied, with
energy; and, forgetful of his own cautions and Lady Wetheral's
presence, he caught Christobelle's hand to his lips. She was terrified
at the action, but her mother had little time to express her
indignation, for the door was suddenly thrown open, and the servant
announced Lord Farnborough.

His lordship entered with a heated and raised complexion, and he
attentively surveyed the apartment, as he spoke.

"So I am before him at last. I thought I should find the fox in his
earth, for he was off an hour ago: this is capital."

"My dear lord, you are most welcome. This is really a neighbourly
action." Lady Wetheral rose promptly from her languid repose, and
received her visitor with bright smiles of pleasure. Lord Farnborough
recollected himself, and recovered his self-possession, as he paid his
_devoirs_ to the party.

"I fear I came in rather hastily, Lady Wetheral; but you will excuse
my eager manner, when you learn its motive. I thought Ponsonby had been
before me. We have had a race for it, I assure you."

"Captain Ponsonby has not called, I believe," replied Lady Wetheral,
in tones of mingled triumph and hope, "unless he is closeted with my
husband."

"Ha!" exclaimed his lordship, "then he has preceded me? Lady Wetheral,
allow me an immediate conference, if you please."

"Certainly, my lord; we will retire into my own sitting-room."

"Here, if you please, for time is very precious. Will you allow me
to lead you upon the terrace, Lady Wetheral? You must excuse my
impetuosity."

Lady Wetheral accepted Lord Farnborough's offered arm, and she was
hurried upon the terrace; but not a glance or movement on her part
betokened fatigue, or a remnant of her past languor. Her step was firm,
and her eyes beamed with expected triumph.

"Chrystal, my own Chrystal," cried Sir John Spottiswoode, as the
receding figures were lost to sight, "if ever I loved and admired you
more truly and fondly than I fancied I could do, it was at the moment
you renounced your plans to obey a parent, with a smile on your lip,
and regret in your dear heart."

"But my real misery is yet to come," exclaimed Christobelle, though
she felt herself pressed to the warm heart of her lover, and there was
blessedness in the pressure.

"But why so?" he asked tenderly; "what has Chrystal to fear?"

"Lord Farnborough's visit is connected with _myself_; I know it as
surely as if I heard the words spoken. I know I have so much to endure
from my mother!"

"But you are mine, Chrystal; and who can take you from me now? Are you
not my own, my very own?"

"I know it: I feel secure of _you_; but my mother will say such harsh
things!"

"Fear not, my beloved. If we are true to each other, surely we can
endure a little trial of patience."

Yes, he spoke truly. Christobelle could endure a long, long trial
for _his_ love. She could suffer a protracted misery, to deserve a
heart so excellent. She had, too, a dear hope to sustain her, for her
father approved her sentiments, and he would shelter her from the
harsh reproaches of her mother's ambitious spirits: she could meet
her lover's entreaty to be patient with smiles. She told him she would
endure all things with firmness--that she would not anticipate evil.
She called upon him to rejoice with her in her father's approval, and
she told him of her interview and confession. How swiftly did their
short _tête-à-tête_ glide by! and how delightedly did Christobelle
listen to his fears respecting Lord Farnborough!

"But why did you not tell _me_ all this? Why did you suppose such
incredible things in silence--to leave me in such cruel and useless
suspense? Oh, Spottiswoode, _one_ word yesterday morning, and all this
had been spared us!"

"No, I was silenced by your mother for ever, in our morning lounge
upon the terrace. Had you not disclaimed all idea of Lord Farnborough
this morning, and had not hope rushed into my heart unbidden, by the
confession of your misery, I had never dared to breathe a word of my
sentiments. I believed you loved Lord Farnborough."

"She could not tell you _that_! Surely my mother did not tell you
so--oh! she never told you I cared for _him_!" Christobelle shuddered
at the thought; but the encircling arms of her lover restrained the
movement which impelled her to start from her chair.

"I was assured your heart was on the point of acknowledging Lord
Farnborough's power, Chrystal--and your mother spoke in terms of proud
approval."

"Oh, my mother, my mother!" exclaimed Christobelle, weeping at the
thought of her cruel policy; "I might have been sacrificed for ever to
your ambitious wishes! I should have been given in utter wretchedness
to a man I did not love, and consigned to hopeless misery!"

"Weep not, dearest," said her companion, "and I will tell you how your
presence shall brighten and bless the scenes of my solitary wanderings
at Alverton--how it shall illumine my future life, and reward me for my
patient waiting. Did you but know, my love, how I feared you would be
appropriated, ere I could claim an interest in your heart, and, yet,
how firmly I resolved to leave you to the working of its own resolves,
you would pity and love me for my resolution."

"I _do_ love you!" Christobelle concealed her face upon his shoulder.
They were silent for some moments, but his lips were pressed upon
her forehead, and she was in his arms--both too engrossed, with
the certainty of being at last happy, to break the deep silence.
Christobelle forgot her mother--she forgot Lord Farnborough; she
thought not of his errand, or her future anger. She was in a
trance:--she thought all reproach--all suffering--all unkindness, had
no further power to wound, for she belonged to her lover, and he would
shelter her, as he did at that moment, in his beloved embrace. The
world without might struggle with deep and mighty commotion--it might
drink deeply of the elements of strife, and do battle with the stirring
natures of mortality--but _she_ was safe from strife and suffering now.
She had given herself, heart and soul, to the man she loved dearer than
herself, or aught in creation besides. She was the promised bride of
Sir John Spottiswoode!



CHAPTER XXVII.


Lord Farnborough's mission was speedily developed to Lady Wetheral,
as they paced the terrace together. His lordship at once opened the
subject, which lay so closely upon his mind's peace, and at once laid
his dukedom at Christobelle's feet.

"Upon my honour, Lady Wetheral, my respect for your daughter is
excessive, and I wish to make known my sentiments at such an early
period, because I see I have rivals. Ponsonby is over head and ears
in love, and there's no knowing how many more will become so; for
her beauty is really something extraordinary. Miss Wetheral is the
loveliest creature I have ever seen."

"My daughter is flattered by such remarks, my dear lord, and her mother
feels proud of such an encomium. She is a treasure to me, in every
sense of the word, as she will prove to the man who wins her."

"I can offer much more than Ponsonby," continued Lord Farnborough;
"and I think, at this very early stage of our acquaintance, an earl's
coronet in possession, and a duke's strawberry-leaves in prospect, may
perhaps entitle me to her notice beyond the claims of humbler men."

"Lord Farnborough may claim a lady's preference upon still higher
grounds than mere rank or fortune," said her ladyship, with smiling
approbation, and gently pressing his lordship's arm. Lord Farnborough
was gratified by the compliment.

"It is very soothing, Lady Wetheral, to my feelings, to be assured that
my suit is not displeasing to her parents. May I hope Miss Wetheral's
affections are disengaged?"

"I can answer for my daughter's free heart, my lord. I am sure--indeed,
I know her affections are untouched."

"You think Ponsonby has not got before me into her good opinion?"

"I have authority to say, Captain Ponsonby has not _yet_ succeeded, my
dear lord."

"Ponsonby has been very successful with the female heart, and I know
he was attentive yesterday--but he has nothing to offer. I think Sir
John Spottiswoode fluttered round Fanny Ponsonby--nothing _there_, you
think, Lady Wetheral?"

"My daughter's affections are not so lightly won, my lord; and my
interest is not with Sir John Spottiswoode."

"It would be a great feather in my cap, to win Miss Wetheral from all
competitors. She would be a star in town, and cause a great sensation.
She shall be the best-dressed woman in St. James's, if she appears
there as Lady Farnborough. She would have the most splendid jewels in
the drawing-room."

"My dear child's tastes are simple and unexpensive, Lord Farnborough.
She does not court notoriety. Her heart is happiest in her own home."

"That is a lady's throne," observed his lordship, "and man is happy,
who marries a creature devoted to his comforts."

"Is the duke aware of your present application, my lord?"

"I believe he surmises what I am about, Lady Wetheral, for your
daughter's charms almost led to a quarrel this morning with Ponsonby.
It decided me at once to announce my wishes here, or he would be
laying siege to Miss Wetheral. I saw that pretty clearly. However, if
you stand my friend, Lady Wetheral, I am safe."

"My lord, I _think_ my wishes will point my daughter's affections;
I believe I possess her entire confidence, and the control of her
judgment; and the very proper way in which you announce your wish of
an alliance with our family, prompts me to exert my influence in your
favour. I admire your high-spirited address, my lord, in consulting
_me_ before you applied to the lady."

"I wish to do every thing in order," replied his lordship, "and I know
Ponsonby has serious intentions, which gave me some alarm. When may I
pay my respects to Miss Wetheral? Will she allow me an interview soon,
Lady Wetheral? You may conceive my impatience to be received as one of
your family."

"I will summon my daughter, my lord, and leave you together: I am sure
of my child's ingenuous heart; and she will scorn to allow any man to
remain in suspense, when his full intentions and hopes are disclosed."

Lady Wetheral's appearance at the sitting-room window unfolded her
thoughts and expectations to Christobelle's mind in one glance. The
subdued look of triumph, the forced calmness of manner, contrasted
with the glowing expression of every feature, left her daughter not an
instant in ignorance of what had taken place. She felt that her hour
of trial was already arrived--that she must collect her thoughts, and
meet, with patient firmness, all the crosses in her path--that she must
redeem her promise of patience to her lover. Christobelle had little
leisure for mental reflection, for Lady Wetheral entered the room, and
compelled attention.

"My dear love, Lord Farnborough requests the honour of your attention
for a few moments: I have promised that you will join his lordship
on the terrace. Your instant acquiescence will oblige me, Bell." Sir
John Spottiswoode quitted the room. She continued--"It is a relief to
lose sight of one's friends for a few minutes; I wish Spottiswoode had
found amusement elsewhere. Hasten, my dear girl, and meet me after your
little consultation in my room. I won't say a word till you rejoin me;
but, my dear child, this is the very happiest hour in my existence--a
happier hour than when my Julia told me she had won Ennismore. My wish,
Bell, has been gloriously fulfilled; every thing has crowned that
wish, without an effort. I am a proud and happy mother!"

"Oh, mamma," cried Christobelle, kneeling before her, "do not
misunderstand me, and do not hope against hope. I cannot marry Lord
Farnborough!"

"Do not rouse me into anger, Bell, as you hope for peace in this world;
and do not let me find you a mean-minded creature, content to live in
insignificance. Go instantly, and meet Lord Farnborough."

"I cannot go, mamma; I have no affections to bestow upon Lord
Farnborough--do not let me meet him! Tell him, I deplore his
disappointment, if it proves such--but I cannot see him!"

Lady Wetheral's face turned pale as marble, as she caught
Christobelle's hand, and dragged her forward.

"Tell me only that you are thinking of Captain Ponsonby, to break my
heart at once, Bell!"

"Oh, no, not Ponsonby--I care not for Captain Ponsonby, mamma: but do
not look so pale and angry--you terrify me!"

"So you have led me into error--deceived my hopes--and destroyed me,
while you sought the love of Spottiswoode! Is that truly so? Is it
Spottiswoode you love?"

Christobelle shrank from her grasp in terror. Lady Wetheral's face and
manner became fearfully changed; she caught the back of a chair to
support herself.

"Bell, I have answered for your dutiful submission to my wishes. I have
promised for you--I have told Lord Farnborough you are free. Go to him,
and say that I spoke in truth. A dukedom, Bell!--a dukedom!--my last,
my only child, a dukedom is offered you!"

Christobelle sat in terrified silence: she could not endure to see
her mother suffer, but she had no consolation to offer. Lady Wetheral
approached her, and took her cold hands in hers.

"Bell, a child never yet prospered that gave pain to her parent, and
now you can raise me into happiness by your obedience. To see my
daughter a duchess--a duchess, moving in stately magnificence, is the
dearest wish of my heart. It has been my hope, ever since your first
introduction to Lord Farnborough--my dearest project by day and by
night, my earthly contemplation for many days! Go to him, Bell, for I
have answered for you, and you _will_ go; think better of it, think of
your future regrets, when repentance will come too late! Go to Lord
Farnborough, I command you, Bell."

A mother's commands had never been disputed by Christobelle, and it
was, perhaps, better to meet his lordship. By an open declaration of
engaged affection, which would end all further hopes on his side,
Christobelle's disquietudes would cease; and her mother would reconcile
herself to a step which must be unavoidable, by every honourable and
upright principle of justice. Christobelle had no doubts to solve, no
inquiries to make with her own heart. Every feeling of her soul was
given to Sir John Spottiswoode, and Lord Farnborough had not deserved
to endure suspense. She obeyed her mother's command, therefore, to meet
his lordship upon the terrace. Her steps were slow, and her mind was
torn with contending feelings, but she went forward.

"Bell," said Lady Wetheral, as she passed through the open window, "do
not be rash."

Lord Farnborough approached with respectful pleasure. Christobelle
returned his greeting with a silent bow, but she could not command
words, and she stood in silence before him. His lordship hesitated.

"Miss Wetheral is aware, I presume, of my errand here--of my anxious
wish--of my hopes?"

"My mother has informed me, my lord, of your wishes--of the honour done
me, but...."

"Will you do me the honour to walk up the terrace, Miss Wetheral, while
I explain my feelings and motives." His lordship offered his arm;
Christobelle declined it silently. "I trust you will not misinterpret
my action, Miss Wetheral. I am not a confident man, or one who presumes
upon a parent's interest in my behalf--it was done in all respect, Miss
Wetheral."

"I am sure it was so, my lord--my only motive for declining your
assistance, is the fear of giving a hope, where none is intended."

His lordship appeared startled and annoyed.

"When I have explained my wishes, Miss Wetheral, to you, and when I
state my hope that you will allow me to visit you at present, simply as
a friend, till you can give me a dearer title, I trust you will listen
calmly to what I am further anxious to say."

"Lord Farnborough," replied Christobelle, with trepidation of voice and
manner, "I will not deceive you for one moment. Pray do not think of
me, for it is useless. I--I--cannot love you, or even give you hope
that I ever shall love you. Pray do not think of me."

Lord Farnborough bowed with great stiffness. "I beg your pardon, Miss
Wetheral, for this annoyance, but, allow me to say, I was assured you
were disengaged."

"My lord, I was----, I am----." The words died upon Christobelle's
tongue; she could not utter them.

"Ponsonby has made an impression upon your heart, Miss Wetheral! I
thought--I was _sure_ of it yesterday! That fellow is born to be my
misery."

Christobelle laid her hand upon his lordship's arm, and endeavoured to
speak distinctly, but she could only articulate, "No, no, no!"

"Do not fear me, Miss Wetheral," replied his lordship, with offensive
hauteur, "I am not intending to wreak vengeance upon a man you approve,
but this is the second time he has traversed me!"

"Captain Ponsonby is nothing to _me_, my lord; Captain Ponsonby can
never be any thing to me!" Christobelle exclaimed, "but pray excuse me
if I drop the subject for ever. I am honoured--I am flattered--but it
never can be, Lord Farnborough."

His lordship gazed eagerly in her face. "Repeat those words again, Miss
Wetheral! Assure me again that Ponsonby is, and will be, nothing to
you!"

"I do repeat it, my lord."

"Then, Miss Wetheral, I am content. I will believe your assertion, and
it gives me hope. Do not be in haste to reply. Allow me your attention
for a few moments."

"I cannot listen, my lord. I have spoken the truth, and I beg to be
allowed to say this subject must end for ever. I have no affections to
bestow upon yourself, or upon Captain Ponsonby."

"I beseech you to listen one moment--one moment, Miss Wetheral! I do
not ask for your affections yet. I could not presume to hope even for a
preference, upon our short acquaintance. I only pray for leave to visit
you--to try and interest your heart, by my attentions and my love. Lady
Wetheral gives me hope, Christobelle!"

"No one can give hope for another, my lord."

"Lady Wetheral assures me your heart is free."

Christobelle hesitated. Why did she feel ashamed to utter the truth,
and end at once the displeasing subject? Why hesitate? She suffered
many struggles between shame and timidity, but at last the victory was
gained, and she spoke with resolution.

"My lord, I love another--I have given my affections to another
person--excuse me."

His lordship bowed low, with peculiar frigidity of manner. "I wish you
good morning, Miss Wetheral. I regret my intrusion: I am answered."

Christobelle curtseyed with equal hauteur.

"I am sorry my words have produced dissatisfaction, my lord. It was
but just that my sentiments should not be misunderstood, and I do not
reproach myself for having withheld an ungenerous and delusive hope.
Good morning, my lord."

They parted with a second silent and distant salutation, and Lord
Farnborough quitted the terrace.

Christobelle stood some moments, vainly endeavouring to gain fortitude
to meet her mother--but now the deed was done, and his lordship had
departed, the terror of Lady Wetheral's anger fell upon her heart, and
she flew to her father for protection. Sir John Wetheral was in his
study conversing with Spottiswoode, when Christobelle appeared, and
both gentlemen rose, smiling at her entrance; but she threw herself
into her father's arms with hurried steps, and besought him to save
her from her mother's reproaches. She felt it was impossible to meet
her alone, or bear the indignant flashes of her eye. She implored her
father to be the bearer of her refusal, and to endeavour to soften her
mother's anger, when she learned that Lord Farnborough was returning to
Clanmoray, a rejected and offended suitor.

Sir John Wetheral soothed his daughter's fears with kind approval of
her conduct. He spoke affectionately of her attachment to his friend,
and commended the propriety of her sincere avowal to Lord Farnborough.
He would leave her now under the soothing care of Spottiswoode, who
was destined, he hoped, to be her future guide through life. He would
give his Christobelle to his care, to listen to his reasonings and his
affection, while he himself sought the presence of his lady. He bade
his daughter fear nothing. He would shield her from all the storms of
life, till he relinquished her into a husband's care. And, while she
continued to act with honourable and high principles, untouched by
sordid temptations, and the miseries of an insatiable ambition, she
must be free from self-reproach, and would be patient under trials
which could not greatly affect her peace of mind. Sir John Wetheral
then placed his daughter's hand within the warm grasp of Spottiswoode,
and left them together.

Lovers' happiness is composed of a million nothings, and every
indescribable rapture, which in after days provoke the laughter and
ridicule of its votaries. All those who have loved understand it
well--and to those who have never known a sincere attachment, it is
a sealed book. Christobelle utterly forgot all mundane concerns, as
she listened to the fond effusions of her lover's heart, and owned an
affection deep and imperious as his own. Christobelle almost forgot
there was a drop of bitter yet left, in her cup of joy.

Sir John Wetheral passed on to his lady's apartment, little aware of
the scene which awaited his peaceful nature, produced by defeated
ambition, in an ardent spirit. Lady Wetheral was suffering severe
nervous excitation as he entered her sitting-room, for Christobelle's
protracted absence boded evil to her hopes. She looked earnestly in
her husband's face, to read its import.

"You have seen Bell, you have seen Bell--tell me at once, if I am to be
the mother of Lady Farnborough."

"Gertrude," replied her husband, calmly, "do not destroy your health by
these nervous excitements."

"Sir John, my nerves are excited by the conduct of my children. Am I
the mother of the future Duchess of Forfar? Am I to be the proud mother
of a child raised to the very pinnacle of worldly grandeur?"

"You will be the mother of a child truly happy in her worldly
prospects, if your mind will but look rationally upon its promises, my
dear Gertrude."

"Am I to be the mother of Lady Farnborough?" repeated the excited
parent.

"Our daughter has not committed the base folly of accepting one man,
when her heart belonged to another, Gertrude."

"Did _I_ not do so before her, Sir John? I never repented _my_
marriage!"

"It might be so, my love, but Chrystal never possessed your ambition,
to soar over affection and honour, through its cold dictates."

"Am I to understand Bell has refused Lord Farnborough, Sir John? Is
that the reading of your words? Pray speak it in intelligible words."

"Christobelle has declined his lordship, Gertrude. Her heart preferred
Spottiswoode, and my concurrence went with it."

"Perhaps you will convey a message from me to the future Lady
Spottiswoode of Alverton, among the flat meadows of Worcestershire, Sir
John," replied his lady, in the calm tones of suppressed anger. "Tell
my Lady Spottiswoode it is my request she never presumes to appear
before me during the days of her singlehood."

"Gertrude, Gertrude," exclaimed her husband, "is this request a fit
message from a mother to her child?"

"I had always a dislike to scenes," observed her ladyship, "therefore,
I shall not reproach Miss Wetheral with her deceptive conduct in
allowing attentions from a quarter which I never countenanced, and
after my express commands to avoid them. I ever deprecated scenes
before Lady Kerrison--but her violent spirit scorned restraint. She
gave me deep pain; and Lady Ennismore's banishment has caused me
pain--but this stroke lies far deeper in my heart!"

Lady Wetheral became all nerve: her whole person was in a nervous
trembling. Her husband failed in every effort to tranquillize her
spirit.

"You may dilate upon the supreme excellence of your favourite
Spottiswoode, my love, and you may assure me your daughter is an
enviable and a happy being; but I know she has cast aside a ducal
coronet, to wed the poor baronet of Alverton! I will see her no more. I
will never see her again."

"My dear Gertrude, be tranquil, and be rational." Sir John Wetheral
never could be persuaded to lose his temper.

"I am perfectly tranquil and calm, Sir John. I am perfectly tranquil,
and very rational in my commands, when I persist in banishing my
unnatural child from my sight. Miss Wetheral has taken her measures,
and I assert mine. We do not meet again."

"This is wrong, a wicked wrong, towards an innocent child, Gertrude!"

"She is very innocent," retorted Lady Wetheral, with bitterness. "Her
innocence has caused her to oppose my wishes, and to dare that which
her sisters never presumed to do. They never contravened my views, nor
thwarted my wishes in their establishment, and they married well!"

"Was it _well_ with Clara?" demanded her husband, with earnestness
of manner as startling as it was novel--"was it _well_ with Clara?
Did she not quit her home clandestinely, to become the wife of
Kerrison?--miserable in her short career, and sudden in her death, was
she happy? Is Clara to be held forth as an evidence of maternal care,
in such a momentous concern?"

"Forbear, Sir John, forbear!" cried his lady.

"Nay, but Gertrude, has it been well with Julia, whom you taught to fly
at quarry so distasteful? Wedded to imbecility--banished from her home
and country, unseen and unheard of--is she, too, an evidence of your
talent in contriving establishments?"

"I tell you," exclaimed her ladyship, "Julia is an earl's wife; and
Clara's position was high and grandly placed, but her own hand plucked
her down. Who can reproach _me_?"

"I will not reproach you, Gertrude, but I counsel you to spare this
last poor child. Remember only your fatal mistakes, and do not add a
third victim. I will not allow Christobelle to be sacrificed to your
ambition."

"Ring for Bevan, I am very ill--ring for Bevan, but let no one else
come near me. I am _not_ hard-hearted! Clara called me hard-hearted:
I am not hard-hearted! I am a disappointed, deceived mother. Where is
Bevan?"

Mrs. Bevan appeared with the remedies, which time had taught her to
dispense as judiciously as her predecessor, Mrs. Daniel Higgins, had
done; but Lady Wetheral's attack threatened a longer continuance than
usual. She would fain have retired to her own room, but Sir John
perceived her inability to move without assistance: her ladyship
trembled excessively. He bore her in his arms to her bed-side, and
Mrs. Bevan, after assisting her lady to repose, proceeded to close the
shutters, and exclude the bright sunbeams. Lady Wetheral became still
more nervous.

"Bevan, let me have light--let me have light! If I cannot see the sun,
it will be darkness of body and mind. Don't leave me, Bevan. Sir John,
where are you?"

Sir John stood near, in a state of offended alarm: his mind was
discomposed--it never became angry.

"Sir John, I cannot remain at Fairlee: take me back to Wetheral. Bell
has destroyed my health. I was quite well till this wretched match,
which has destroyed all my plans, and thrown down all my hopes! It has
made me ill--worse than ever!"

It was not in the power of reason, much less in Sir John Wetheral's
power, to check the indignant feelings which affected his lady's
mind upon the subject of Lord Farnborough's refusal. Each attempt to
argue away their violence did but increase the evil. Nothing could
induce her ladyship to receive Christobelle at her bed-side, or hear
a word pleaded in her defence. Christobelle's attachment to Sir John
Spottiswoode, and her subsequent refusal to accept Lord Farnborough's
proposal, appeared to destroy the ties of affection which had never
been closely woven together, for his ladyship declared her daughter's
presence would kill her upon the spot. The sad event which occasioned
her flight from England, faded under the shock of Lord Farnborough's
dismissal. Scotland would be to her sickened heart a remembrance of
misery. Either Christobelle or herself must quit the shores of the now
desolate and cold Lochleven, upon whose bosom she had once enjoyed
such bright anticipations. All was ended, and joy had closed her
brilliant wings for ever. This was an irrecoverable stroke.

Sir John Wetheral did not conceal from Christobelle the mandate which
banished her from her mother's presence; and the consolation of
Spottiswoode's presence was indeed necessary to soothe her distress of
heart. Christobelle would cheerfully have contributed to her parent's
comfort, had her wishes extended to less than the sacrifice of all
happiness; but surely it was not reprehensible to withhold a shadow
of hope, when her heart was not with Lord Farnborough! Surely it was
not right to turn from the man she loved, when her affections were
his beyond the power of recal, and when the voice of ambition alone
demanded it! True, Julia and Clara's views were moulded by her mother's
spirit, but then their hearts were untouched, and their unshackled
affections might submit to her dictation. Ambition also impelled them
to meet her wishes, and no private feeling struggled within their soul
to deaden its influence; but Christobelle was another's!--she might
suffer, but she could not change!

Sir John Spottiswoode believed that time would soften Lady Wetheral's
displeasure, but Christobelle knew too well the bitterness of the
disappointment, to lay such unction to her soul. Had she ever been a
favourite with her ladyship--had her youth been pleasant in her sight,
she might have hoped to obtain an influence through the operation of
time, sufficient to effect a reconciliation in favour of her present
attachment. But that had never been the case. Her birth was considered
out of time--her sex displeased her--her education was uninteresting
to her mother's mind. It was only at intervals, and under particular
circumstances, that Christobelle received any commendation, and it
expired with the cause which elicited its birth. Christobelle felt
assured her mother would never forgive the wound inflicted upon her
ambition. She felt assured her mother would never forgive the dismissal
of Lord Farnborough.

Sir John Wetheral decided upon quitting Fairlee as soon as his lady
felt equal to undertake the fatigue of a journey; and he also expressed
a wish that a twelvemonth should elapse ere Christobelle became the
wife of Spottiswoode. "His daughter," he said, "was young, and a
twelvemonth might effect a change in her mother's feelings. It was
Christobelle's duty to make some concessions to an offended parent,
and twelvemonths would operate as a fair trial of the constancy of her
own nature."

Christobelle submitted most willingly to this arrangement. The
least wish of her father had ever been her rule of conduct, and his
indulgence would have won obedience, had his wishes extended the period
of the engagement. But Sir John required no painful sacrifices, no
useless trials. Spottiswoode might visit Christobelle whenever his
avocations enabled him to become a guest at Lidham, and he trusted time
would soften Lady Wetheral's disappointed views. He dared not pronounce
upon its certainty, but they had a right to hope the best.

The continued mortification which embittered Christobelle's repose, by
Lady Wetheral's harsh mandate, at last induced Sir John to resolve upon
his daughter quitting Fairlee. It was a painful and perpetual grievance
to Christobelle, to know that her mother was ill, and confined to
her apartments, yet that _she_ was not suffered to alleviate her
confinement, or attend her. It was a grief which the affectionate
attentions of her lover could not control, and which her father's
soothing presence did not lessen. Her appetite declined and her spirits
fled. Spottiswoode also became dispirited and uneasy in witnessing her
regrets, and Sir John Wetheral, alarmed at his daughter's increasing
depression, wrote to Mr. Boscawen to meet them at Edinburgh, and
conduct Christobelle to his own home for a season.

It was judged, that absence from a scene so painful, and the society of
Isabel, would cheer her spirits, and soften her present sorrow; while,
under the protection of Mr. Boscawen, she might receive the visits
of Sir John Spottiswoode, and move among the friends she loved, and
whom she had not seen for some years. Spottiswoode would remain some
time longer at Fairlee, and it might be, that his lengthened sojourn
in the north would produce a favourable effect upon the invalid's
mind. It might be, that the knowledge of her daughter's withdrawal
would rouse her, and if any human being could amuse and soften a harsh
determination in Lady Wetheral's soul, that being was the good and kind
Spottiswoode.

Christobelle wandered each day with her lover through the scenes of
their early walks, and if the exercise failed to bring the bloom into
her cheek, yet she was happy while leaning on his arm, and listening
to his hopes. They spoke of Alverton in the rocky bower which she was
so soon to quit. Christobelle looked upon the water, and she thought
of the years of careless freedom in which she had wandered among those
beautiful scenes with Janet for her sole companion. She thought of the
Douglas Isle, where she had first seen Lord Farnborough, and the spot
from whence she had waved her plaid at their parting. Christobelle
thought of her gradually increasing passion for Spottiswoode--the hopes
and fears of St. Mungo's Isle--the pangs of jealous feelings which
she endured when Fanny Ponsonby engrossed the attention of him she
loved:--she thought, too, of her present situation, the betrothed of
Spottiswoode, yet the banished one from her mother's side. Would that
mother, indeed, continue to drive her child from her presence, or might
she yet receive her smile and hear her welcome? Should she be indeed
the happy wife of Spottiswoode, and become, as he fondly styled her,
the bright star of Alverton? Christobelle wept. Spottiswoode pressed
her to his heart.

"My own Chrystal, this silent grief destroys me, for it is through me
you suffer. Would to Heaven you were safe at Brierly with your friends,
and that I was with you! I shall soon follow you, for here I cannot
remain without you. I should hear you sigh, and see your weeping figure
in every spot where we have been together. I shall look like the ghost
of departed Pleasure. You will leave me on Friday, my Chrystal."

"For a few days only, Spottiswoode."

"I shall know you are in kind protection, dearest. You will be with the
best of men in Boscawen's company, and you love him as well as Isabel.
Her children will amuse you. You will see the Pynsents. You will hardly
have time to think of _me_, Chrystal."

"I will try to forget you sometimes; I wonder if I shall succeed."

"You have nephews and nieces to engross your attention; you will be
joked by Mrs. Pynsent, Chrystal, for fancying your poor lover. Every
body will crowd round you, to admire your loveliness, and wonder at
your graceful figure; and yet I must not be there to witness it. What
shall _I_ do without you?"

The tears sprung to Chrystal's eyes; she endeavoured to disperse them,
but they fell unbidden. Her mind was weakened by recent events. She
clasped her hands, and exclaimed,--

"Oh, do not say you will suffer, Spottiswoode, by my absence."

"No, no, my love," he replied, with fond endearments, "I will not think
of our little trial. You will go from me on Friday; but are you not my
own betrothed bride, and are we not one in heart and hand? You will
rejoice your friends, and be rejoiced in meeting them. I shall also
rejoice, in the knowledge of your happiness. Our thoughts will meet
often and often in our absence; and then, my Chrystal, we shall meet
again in peace. I cannot and will not remain a week absent from you."

Christobelle smiled again to think their separation was not eternal.
How many attached hearts had been torn asunder, while they were
mourning over the parting of a few short days! How many hearts had bid
a long farewell, while they should meet again and be in peace! Again
she leaned against her lover's shoulder, and her thoughts were of
grateful thanks. She was not called to severe affliction--she was not
beloved by a man whose birth or character was repugnant to her friends,
and to whom her happiness was a source of discomfort and disgust.
Even her mother had not deprecated Spottiswoode: his offence in her
eyes arose from having won her daughter from Lord Farnborough. Her
father loved him, and approved her attachment. Yes, Christobelle had
reason to be thankful to the hand which ministered so wisely for her
happiness. Her mother would not always be harsh; surely she might in
time be summoned into her presence! She would never be forgiven; she
never _had_ been loved; and the slight cord of affection was broken for
ever between them: but they might meet without pain, she hoped, on her
mother's part; and she herself would exert unceasing efforts to win her
into complacency. Her mother _must_ love Spottiswoode, when time should
soften her remembrance of Lord Farnborough's attentions.

Christobelle spoke of Fanny Ponsonby to her companion, now that her
heart was at rest; and alluded to her emotions in St. Mungo's Isle.
Spottiswoode had, from the first hour of their introduction, discovered
her predilection for Lord Farnborough.

"I could trace it, Chrystal, in the agitated and close attention
she bestowed upon yourself, and in her anxiety to remove from your
vicinity. I saw the distressed feelings of her heart, as she watched
the engrossed attention of Farnborough at dinner: and I felt for her
sufferings during the singing. I felt for her and for myself at that
moment, Chrystal, for I also fancied you approved his lordship."

"How could you think so, Spottiswoode?"

"Lady Wetheral's words were in my ears, Chrystal, and I had
relinquished all hope for myself."

"What a day of misery it was to me!" Christobelle exclaimed, as she
thought of all she had endured. "Fanny Ponsonby's feelings were all
echoed by my own."

"It was a painful day to many, Chrystal; but to us it has proved a
blessing, for it confessed our sentiments at once, and prepared the
way for our mutual understanding. Had you not expressed disapprobation
of Lord Farnborough, I had not dared to tell my feelings. Was it not a
blessing, my love?"

"But poor Fanny Ponsonby, what will be _her_ destiny?" Christobelle
asked, as she returned the pressure of Spottiswoode's hand. "What will
be her fate in her attachment?"

"Miss Ponsonby has sown her seed among thorns," he replied, with
feeling, "and her heart must wrestle with its feelings, unless she
becomes his wife. Lord Farnborough may turn to Miss Ponsonby, since you
have rejected him, and she may become the envied Lady Farnborough; but
she will only sink into a neglected wife. He cannot make a woman happy."

"Oh! if I had seen him with my mother's eyes, and fallen a sacrifice!"
observed Christobelle, with a shudder.

"I should have quitted England, Chrystal. I would not have witnessed
your misery, or remained within hearing of your gradual decay. You
could not long live under his harsh treatment, and I could not have
borne to hear the world remark upon your pale cheek and faded form."

"How grateful I am! how happy I ought to be, Spottiswoode! When you
come to see me at Brierly, and I do not suffer daily under my mother's
angry prohibition, you will find me so changed and happy! When I think
of Lord Farnborough, I turn to you with such grateful delight! Yes,
Spottiswoode, I _will_ be happy!"

And Christobelle exerted herself to be happy, even the few days which
intervened between her expressed gratitude and her long farewell to
Fairlee. She sat hour after hour upon the terrace, with her father
and Spottiswoode, looking with deep interest upon the lake, the scene
of all her pleasures, while she was happy in ignorance of a deep
affection, and the scene of suffering during the stirring incidents
which had awakened her heart to the strife of worldly sorrow. Lochleven
was endeared to Christobelle by a thousand recollections, by the
enjoyments of her young age, and by the happy hours passed by the side
of Spottiswoode. She was going to the south, to a new scene that would
be changed in its aspect; gayer, full of friends, and still blest by
the society of him she loved. But would it be to her like the grand
Lochleven?--that shelter from the world's cares? that spot where she
had enjoyed such long tranquillity? Adieu for a long, long time, the
cloud-capped mountains, the heather hills, the placid waters! farewell
the islands on its bosom--the groves, the far Cona! Farewell the
stirring breeze, the lonely Eilan na Corak--the repose, the grandeur of
the shores of Lochleven!

Christobelle endured much, ere she set forth with her father from
Fairlee. She bore her parting interview with Spottiswoode with great
intrepidity; but she wept at her mother's obdurate determination not to
see her before she quitted the parental roof. Sir John Wetheral soothed
her as she gazed upon the lake, till it vanished from her aching sight:
and he prophesied that her trial would not be lengthened beyond her
power to endure it. He spoke kindly and well to her overpowered spirit,
of the sorrows which must accompany a progress through life, and of
the consolation which attended a patient and praying spirit. He did
not consider it right to allow Spottiswoode to accompany them, as her
mother evinced such decided repugnance to the match; but at Brierly,
Christobelle might enjoy her lover's society in peace; and he would
accompany his lady to Wetheral as soon as she expressed a wish to set
forth on the long journey. New scenes, new faces, and a new set of
ideas would, he hoped, drive gloomy fancies from her mind, and bring
comfort to all parties. She was on her road to Isabel, and with her and
Boscawen she must enjoy the calm pleasures of domestic happiness. They
would lead her to agreeable thoughts, and Spottiswoode would speedily
add his society to the enjoyments of Brierly.

Such was Sir John Wetheral's reasoning, and its effects were apparent
upon Christobelle's spirits. She gradually recovered cheerfulness
under his indulgent soothings, and she could even admire the changing
scenery which varied their route to Edinburgh. Mr. Boscawen was true to
his appointment; they found him at the place of rendezvous, ready to
conduct Christobelle to the county of her birth, and induct her once
more into the domicile which had sheltered her so kindly years before.

Mr. Boscawen was surprised at her growth, and wondered at the girl who
had glided into womanhood so rapidly. He thought her features bore a
strong resemblance to her unfortunate sister Clara; but he politely
assured her, her manner was entirely her own. She was no longer, he
said, "the gay little half-grown girl, who had delighted to nurse her
nephew under the mulberry tree at Brierly. She must be looked upon in a
very different phase; and he feared the quiet haunts of Brierly would
ring with the charms of the beautiful Miss Wetheral. He was pleased to
think she possessed a protector whose claims would at once put an end
to the fearful contention of furious rivals." Christobelle's blushes
were the only answers she could give to the agreeable remarks of Mr.
Boscawen.

Sir John Wetheral's absence would not be of long continuance, therefore
Christobelle did not sorrow much as she bade him adieu. She prayed him
to speak of her to her mother, and to express her deepest regret at
having incurred her displeasure. She prayed for her pardon, and that
they might meet again in reconciliation. She looked to her forgiveness
with anxious desire, with a fervent and unceasing hope. She embraced
her dear father, and bade him remember her kindly, affectionately, to
the friend she had left at Fairlee, and then she gave her hand to Mr.
Boscawen.



CHAPTER XXVIII.


How delightedly did the eye of Christobelle rest upon the matronly form
of Isabel! She was clasped in her arms, as she descended the steps of
the chaise at Brierly.

"Well, I never saw such a beautiful creature in my life! My dear
Christobelle, who would have thought you would turn out so very pretty?
My dear Mr. Boscawen, were you not surprised at Christobelle's beauty,
when you first saw her?"

"I was not so overcome at your sister's handsome face, as I am
astonished at Isabel's neglect of her long-absent husband," replied Mr.
Boscawen, smiling. Isabel flew towards him.

"I can't think how I came to be so wicked; but, indeed, it was the
sight of my sister's face. My dear Boscawen, I have so longed for your
return, and so have the children! I was obliged to tell the dear things
papa was gone a long way off, for some cakes and their pretty aunt, or
they would not have been comforted. I did not know what hour you would
arrive, therefore I was wise enough not to say a word to them about it."

"They shall be summoned after dinner, Isabel. We are hungry travellers
now, and a meal will be most gratefully welcomed."

"My love, ring the bell, and order it in now, if you please, while I
escort my sister to her room. Follow me, dear Christobelle. Well, I
declare I never saw such a change in a human being! You are tall and
handsome, and have such beautiful ringlets! I shall certainly have
ringlets too. I can't fancy you are the little, jumping Chrystal, who
was dressed out so fine at my wedding, five or six years ago. Well--and
don't you think _I_ am changed?"

Isabel was changed. Her sylph-like figure had swelled into a stout
form: her waist had increased materially in breadth, and her dress was
rather disordered.

"The children are so playful, Chrystal, that my collars have always
a ragged appearance; and corsets of any kind are so very painful,
because I am getting large, that I never wear them. Boscawen, though,
does not mind my appearance: he is not particular. He allows me to do
just what I like, and I am so happy! Ah! do you remember my geography
days, Chrystal? How I detested that dreadful map of the world! I am
determined my little Bell shall be happy and ignorant, as I was before
her. She is called Bell after you, dear--not your long name, but simply
Bell. I hope she will be as pretty as you; but what does it signify?
Who can be happier than I am, with my broad waist and rumpled collars?"

The moment the servants had withdrawn, after dessert was placed upon
the table, Isabel continued her happy prattle.

"I have so much to tell you, of one kind or the other, dear Bell, that
I don't know where to begin. What shall I tell first, my dear Boscawen?
Oh! Bell, such things are whispered of Julia!--I don't believe a word
of them--not one word. However, you will find Anna Maria more French
than ever, for the Count de Nolis has been staying every Christmas at
Hatton, and Félicé does lay on the rouge terribly. It's quite amusing
to hear Tom Pynsent boast of his wife's bloom, when it's rouge all the
time. I think I wrote you word, that odd Mrs. Hancock had a paralytic
stroke some time ago?"

"No, indeed, Isabel, I never heard of it."

"Didn't you? Oh! it's the case, I assure you--her mouth is all on one
side. Poor Miss Tabitha is not dead yet, Bell: I don't think she means
to die at all; and Mrs. Ward writes word, she finds fault with every
thing, poor soul, that is said or done. Shall I ring for the darlings,
my dear Boscawen? I am sure Chrystal is dying to see her little boy,
whom she nursed so carefully. Ring the bell twice, my love, and the
little wild things will soon rush in."

"Do not give Tom wine, Isabel; I have a dislike to children taking wine
so early in life."

"No, my dear Boscawen, certainly not. I think, with you, that wine is
very improper for children--but little Tom has such a winning way of
coaxing his poor mother!"

The children soon burst into the room, and ran bounding round the
table. Isabel was all triumphant pleasure. "Now, Charles--my dear
Charles, go quietly to papa, and ask him how he does, and whether the
cakes are come from merry Scotland. Ah, ha, Charley goes for his cakes.
Tom, my beauty, come to mamma; and Bell, go to your aunt--your new
aunt, and admire her pretty hair."

Christobelle endeavoured to attract her little fat niece to her side,
but she hid her face in Isabel's lap.

"Oh, Bell, I'm ashamed of you!--your pretty aunt, too--oh, fie! My dear
Tommy, don't touch mamma's glass. No, no wine, Tommy--papa says no. A
few strawberries, my dear little boy, and a biscuit, but no wine."

Tommy, however, advanced his mother's wineglass to his lips, watching
her countenance with a cunning glance.

"Now, my little, good Tommy, mamma will be angry, very angry, if you do
what she tells you not to do. Bell, my love, go to your aunt, like a
good girl."

Isabel took some pains to persuade her little girl to raise her head,
but her appeals were useless. In the mean time, Tommy had silently
quaffed the remainder of the contents of her glass. Mr. Boscawen rose,
and took him from Isabel's knee.

"My dear Boscawen, what are you going to do with Tommy? he is very good
with me, my love."

"I am going to banish him, Isabel, for disobedience."

"Oh, my dear Boscawen, it was the least little drop of wine in the
world! it was scarcely a teaspoonful--pray don't punish Tommy for that
little drop, my love."

"The disobedience was the same in the action, Isabel. I shall send him
into the nursery. I shall take him there myself."

Isabel's eyes suffused, as Mr. Boscawen left the dining-room with the
crying recreant Tommy. She turned to her sister.

"Oh! Chrystal, was it not severe to carry away that dear child, for one
drop of wine only?"

"Boscawen was quite right, my dear Isabel."

"Do you really think so? Do you really think he was right to banish the
darling child, when it was such a pretty, coaxing trick? Did you see
his little, cunning, dear eyes?"

"Boscawen justly thinks, Isabel, that cunning habits and disobedience
will increase, if it is not checked."

"Oh! I hope it won't increase--dear child--I should be sorry to see him
grow sly." Mr. Boscawen returned. "My love, did Tommy cry? Was he very
much hurt--poor dear? Did you leave him crying?"

"My dear Isabel, you have brought this upon him, by not checking
disobedience in the first instance. You have allowed the child twice to
steal your wine."

"My dear Boscawen--steal! indeed, that sounds dreadful! I hope my
children will never steal! It was indeed my fault! Poor, dear
child!--I dare say he is crying dreadfully now. Let me beg for my
child, Boscawen."

"Let him remain where he is, Isabel: he has been very naughty."

"But I have taught him to steal, and I ought to suffer for him, dear
Boscawen. Let me go to my child, my love!" The tears stood in Isabel's
eyes, and Boscawen was still under their influence. He soothed his lady
as fondly as when in earlier days she wept for the drooping ostrich
feather.

"My dear Isabel, when we retire into the drawing-room, your child shall
come down again. Don't weep, my love. I cannot wonder at your fondness,
but he was very naughty. Wait a few moments, Isabel, and the child
shall join us in the drawing-room. Don't let me see you weep--stay, I
will bring him down to you."

Isabel smiled, and little Tommy was restored to her arms, as he entered
the drawing-room. Mr. Boscawen felt he had acted unwisely by his child;
but how could he resist Isabel in tears? Things were totally changed at
Brierly. A tear from the bright blue eye of Isabel melted Boscawen's
best resolves, and operated against the excellence of his own system
of education. Isabel held the reins of government in her hands. She
never argued with her husband--she never offered a word of opposition
to his wishes--but she ruled by submission, and won his acquiescence
by her tears and gentle self-upbraidings. Fortunately, her children
possessed her own sweet disposition, which defied indulgence, or they
might have suffered through Isabel's inability to check their budding
faults. As it was, they loved her too well to persist in offending a
parent so devoted; and it must have proved a very serious offence, ere
the light-hearted Isabel could lament conduct which was ever palliated
by her affectionate heart. She was indeed the happiest of wives and
mothers.

Mr. Boscawen and Christobelle resumed their occupations instinctively,
as if years had not intervened since they last walked and read together
at Brierly. Isabel was delighted.

"Ah, there you go again!--read, read, talk, talk, all day long. I
like to hear you argue, when I have time to devote to you both; but
the children require so much attention, and the dear little things
love to be with me so often, that dear Boscawen has been a great deal
alone, haven't you, Boscawen? It is such a pleasure to have you here,
Chrystal--my poor, dear husband won't have to endure my ignorance."

"Who says my Isabel is ignorant?" said Mr. Boscawen, patting his lady's
shoulder affectionately.

"Yes, dear Boscawen, I am very ignorant, and very unfit for you; but
I do very well to play with the darlings, and superintend every thing
but their education--_that_ you will do, except for poor little Bell:
let her be happy and ignorant, Boscawen. If she is half as happy as her
mother, she will not require knowledge--only her husband and children.
I never wish for any thing beyond you and them." Isabel cast an upward
and affectionate look at Boscawen, who bent his long figure to kiss his
laughing wife.

Mr. Boscawen told Christobelle he had engaged to take her for a day
or two to Hatton. The Pynsents were very anxious to see her, and
Mrs. Pynsent had made it a point with him to bring the "tall, gawky,
good-looking girl" to her, as soon as she had rested a few days at
Brierly. The Charles Spottiswoodes, also, were wishing to see her
again, to contemplate the improvement which five years must have
effected in her appearance. The name of Spottiswoode brought blushes
into the face of Christobelle.

"My dear Bell," exclaimed Isabel, with laughing delight, "how droll
it is to think you have a lover; when I saw you last, you were such
a bit of a girl! Sir John Spottiswoode is just the man I would have
chosen for you--just the very person I should have singled out--is he
not, Boscawen?--just the sort of man, with curling dark hair and high
forehead, that you ought to like, dear Chrystal!"

"_I_ had not dark curling hair, Isabel?" said Boscawen, smiling--"I had
not a high forehead, had I?"

"My dear Boscawen, your hair was always dreadfully wiry, and I thought
you very plain, but I liked you for all that, you know."

"Then why _ought_ Chrystal to choose and love such things, my Isabel?"

"Ah! I dare say I am talking nonsense again," cried the humble Isabel,
"for I should really recommend no one who does not resemble you, dear
Boscawen. I should advise every woman to wait till they could find a
kind, dear man, like yourself, and then they would not care about wiry
hair, or...." Isabel hesitated and coloured.

"Say on, Isabel." Mr. Boscawen looked amused.

"I was going to say, they would not mind great long legs. Don't be
angry, my love, with me."

Mr. Boscawen laughed. "You see, Isabel, the triumph of good sense over
mere personal advantages. You cannot be ignorant, since you chose me
in spite of my deficiencies. I hope all your young acquaintance may
exhibit your indifference to mere good looks. Miss Wetheral, when shall
we visit Hatton? Isabel, will you join the party?"

"I wish I could drive over with you, my love; but Charly is cutting
a double-tooth, and I think little Bell is not quite well. I think I
cannot leave my little ones two days, Boscawen!"

"Then Chrystal and myself will depart to-morrow for Hatton," said
Boscawen, smiling, with gratified feelings, at his wife's love of her
home and her little ones.

"Yes, Bell will amuse you, dear Boscawen, and you will not miss _me_.
You can talk away upon history and the arts and sciences, and enjoy
the novelty of a clever companion, for once. I am only fit to nurse my
children."

"You are only fit to be a very excellent creature, and to be my dear
little roundabout wife," exclaimed Boscawen; and Isabel looked so
happy! It was delightful to witness the joyous expression which
revelled in her looks, whenever she spoke with her husband and
children. It was such a contrast to the Isabel whom Christobelle
remembered, low-spirited, in her dressing-room at Wetheral, pining
over "Burnet's Reformation!" It was such a contrast to the Isabel who
watched in alarm the fond, but searching, glance of her excellent,
elderly husband!--Christobelle told her so, when they were alone. She
laughed.

"I remember, Bell, how frightened I used to be, and there was no cause
for it! Boscawen was always kind, only I was so unwilling to receive
improvement, and then I fancied his anxiety was annoying. When Miss
Tabitha left Brierly, every thing was comfortable to me; for then, you
know, there was no one to point out my faults. But, Chrystal, tell me
now all about John Spottiswoode. Boscawen told me not to be curious,
but I am _very_ curious. I want to know how it all began, and why mamma
is so foolish about Lord Farnborough."

Christobelle recapitulated her story to Isabel, who wondered, and
was pleased, and wept, by turns, as her sister recounted all her
sufferings. She clasped her arms round Christobelle.

"Never mind, Chrystal, never mind; and every thing will end as
it should do. Every body knows mamma's matches have turned out
shockingly; and John Spottiswoode is so loved by all his relations, so
good to his mother and sister, that you are fortunate in attracting
him; but you are so very handsome, dear Chrystal, you would attract
every one, high and low. People are now scandalizing poor Julia, and
pointing at her and Colonel Neville; but I will never believe that
Julia would do wrong, though I dare say she is very unhappy, poor dear
girl."

"What does Boscawen think, Isabel?"

"Oh, Boscawen never thought _that_ match would answer. He did not like
the Dowager's manners and character; and he said to me, at Julia's
wedding, that if my sister fell from her high estate, the two mothers
would answer for it hereafter. He said, too, that Julia was the victim
of two machinating Machiavels. Of course, he meant mamma and the
Dowager. Lord Selgrave was always disliked as a cruel, disagreeable
boy, I hear; so he would have made you a sad husband, in spite of being
Earl of Farnborough, and a trumpery Duke in expectancy."

Isabel's remarks only corroborated the observations of Spottiswoode,
and Christobelle believed herself indeed saved from ruin, though she
paid a severe penalty for her escape, in the angry prohibition of
her mother's disappointed views. Her present pain, she felt assured,
was far more bearable than the misery of an unhappy matrimony; and
she was grateful beyond expression to know that she was given to a
man, so loved and so well appreciated as Spottiswoode was, among her
nearest friends. Their approbation must be balm to her heart; and,
when her mother heard how all lips concurred to praise him, would she
continue her ungenerous dislike to her presence? Would she persist in
holding back her consent, and still pertinaciously revenge upon her
head her dismissal of a man so little respected as Lord Farnborough?
Christobelle hoped not in fear and trembling; she _would_ hope. As her
dear father observed, she had a right to hope that her prayers would be
heard and answered, if she persevered in the path of principle.

Christobelle's spirits were considerably improved, by viewing the happy
lot of Isabel, in the enjoyment of those tranquil domestic scenes which
were so adapted to her taste and nature. In Mr. Boscawen, she met the
highly-informed mind which imparted knowledge with a flow so gentle,
that it did not startle or confound the listening neophite. His was a
mind which fertilized as it stole along, improving all, and delighting
every ear, but the ear of Isabel. To her the stream of his intellect
flowed by, without a wish to understand, or kindle under its influence,
one spark of sympathetic fire. Yet she gloried in her husband, and
their life was peaceful and happy.

It is temper which creates the bliss of home, or disturbs its comfort.
It is not in the collision of intellect, that domestic peace loves
to nestle. Her home is in the forbearing nature--in the yielding
spirit--in the calm pleasures of a mild disposition, anxious to give
and receive happiness. In the sweet humility of Isabel, and in the
indulgent forbearance of Boscawen, peace dwelt undisturbed by rival
animosity; and she did not suffer those alarms which chase her timid
presence from the hearth of the contentious, and from the bosom of the
envious. Such was the blessed comfort and true charm of Brierly.

Isabel was all bustle and kindness, as her husband and sister
prepared to depart for Hatton. "Had dear Boscawen forgotten his
shaving-apparatus?--his tooth-brush? Was he sure he had his eye-glass?
She hoped they would return very soon; but, at any rate, till they made
their appearance again, she should live in the nursery. Dear Boscawen
was to be sure and remember every thing that was said of Chrystal, for
she was sure every one would admire her pretty face; and Chrystal was
particularly to be amused with Tom Pynsent's remarks upon Anna Maria's
borrowed bloom. Where was Charly and Bell? They had begged to ride as
far as the Lodges, and she would put on her hat and meet them."

Isabel ran off to the nursery, and returned with her three children.
Tommy was a soldier, and a drum was appended to his neck. Charly had
a new fiddle in his hand, and little Bell was sorted with a trumpet,
that she might approach as nearly as possible to her brother's style of
amusements. Isabel placed them in the carriage. "Now, Charly and Tommy,
don't make a great noise; and don't snatch your sister's trumpet from
her, my loves. Papa will put you out at the Lodge, and mamma will be
ready to take you. Charly, don't squeeze your aunt's pretty dress; and,
Bell, my love, don't push back your bonnet--I don't like to see little
girls push back their bonnet. Chrystal, give my love to every body, and
say I could not leave the little ones; I should have done nothing but
think of them. My dear Boscawen, come back very soon; and, Chrystal,
don't stay long."

"Any thing more, Isabel?" demanded Boscawen. "Any thing about curled
heads and high foreheads?"

"Ah, you are laughing at me, now, wicked man! I believe I talk a
great deal of nonsense, but little Bell will not have her mother's
infirmities, I hope."

"I hope she will possess all of them," replied Boscawen, "and only
inherit half her mother's sweet temper. She will then have enough to
raise my pride."

Isabel laughed gaily, and blushed at her husband's energetic speech;
but she kissed her hand, with such a happy expression of countenance,
as they drove from the door! How pleasing was the sight, and how it
tended to raise the spirits of Christobelle!

The children did not make more noise than usual, as they drove to the
Lodge; and little Bell only lost her trumpet and her temper once,
during the transit. They were then deposited with the Lodge-keeper
till their mamma should join them, and Mr. Boscawen proceeded on his
journey. They stopped to change horses at Bridgnorth, and, as they
remained some minutes at the Crown, Christobelle remembered the
appearance of Thompson, at her first visit there, and the cause of
her sudden recal home. It was after the luckless elopement of Clara,
that she was hurried to Wetheral, to be the companion of her mother,
under circumstances most annoying to herself, connected with the very
marriage she had promoted so anxiously. Christobelle was now herself
the object of her anger, for declining to enter into an engagement,
hateful to her heart and principles! How and when would her mother's
soul be divested of its ambitious worldly anxieties?

Christobelle's reception at Hatton was gratifying to her feelings in
the highest degree. She was surrounded by affectionate greetings and
congratulations. Mrs. Pynsent wrung her hand with kind violence.

"Hollo, Miss Bell, so we have got you back again, and I won't ask where
Sir Jacky is, because and because. Got your blushes still, Miss Bell!
So much the better--and I'll be bound you have brought back your good
heart. No, not your heart, but your good temper. Here, Bobby, come and
look at our new beauty. I tell you what, Miss Bell, you are a finer
girl than any of your sisters; not even that unfortunate, poor Lady
Kerrison came up to you in good looks."

"Come, come, I'll match my little wife with the best of you," exclaimed
Tom, more good-humoured, more red-faced than ever. "I'll match my
little wife's bloom even against the handsome 'Bell.' Bell's fine
colour comes and fades away again in an instant; but Anna Maria's
cherry cheeks are everlasting. Look at them!" Tom Pynsent dragged his
laughing wife before Christobelle.

"Ay, ay," replied Mrs. Pynsent, winking her eye, "we know Anna Maria's
bloom is the right sort--renewable at pleasure. Look at Bobby, screwing
up his eyes.--What's the matter, Bobby?"

Mr. Pynsent never did, and never could appear to advantage, under the
ridicule which his lady's address always threw around him; but he
did not observe the _de haut en bas_ manner, or else long custom had
taken away all feeling upon the extraordinary nature of her remarks.
Probably he had long felt assured the evil was irremediable. His own
manner was very courteous, but Mr. Pynsent was not a man of many words.
He surrendered all speech quietly into the hands of his lady, and
contented himself with silently listening to the remarks of others,
without adventuring his own. Mr. Pynsent took no notice of her question.

"What's the matter, Bobby?" repeated Mrs. Pynsent. "Can't you admire
Miss Bell, without screwing up your poor old pair of greys? It's a fair
face to look upon, isn't it, after gazing upon poor Sal. Miss Bell,
poor Sally Hancock is in a precious pickle."

"I heard of it from Isabel."

"You never saw such a poor thing!--all over with Sal, Miss Bell; but
the poor creature is so cast down! She has a room here now, to be
amused by the children, and watch their antics; and, luckily, you know,
she can't speak plain, to put bad words in their mouths. Poor Sally! I
could not let her remain at Lea, in that state; and I think she is very
comfortable here with the children and Bobby."

"Where are the children? Where is Tom, and where is Moll and Bab?"
asked Tom Pynsent. "Bell must see the children--Bell will want to see
the children--I thought I heard them screaming just now, somewhere."

"They were fighting over a brush just now in the second hall," replied
his mother, "and they nearly killed the baby. I expected the poor
little thing would have got a broken head in the scuffle, but he fought
like a fury, and sent his fist into Moll's eye."

"They do fight dreadfully," observed Anna Maria.

"Let them alone, I won't have them checked," cried their grandmother;
"when they have had thumps enough, they will be quiet. Moll is worse
than the baby; but their spirits are so high, I won't have them cowed."

"Bell," said Tom Pynsent, with a tone and look of honest pride, "you
have pretty scamps for your relations. Tom rides a Shetland after the
hounds, and Moll runs up a tree like a young squirrel. Bab and the baby
are improving, too, by their example. Tally ho! I hear them!" he ran
to the door, and opened it. "Tally ho, there! Tom and Moll, bring the
litter this way!"

The four children burst into the drawing-room like a pack of hounds,
and the baby, a stout child of a year old toddling in, he fell down,
and the others ran over him. Tom Pynsent caught up the sturdy boy.

"Don't give tongue, you young rascal, but fight 'em, Bill--here, double
your fists at them all."

The child mechanically closed his little fists, and his father placed
him before Miss Bab.

"Battle her well, Bill, rattle her."

The child, who had not yet cast his cap, dealt a blow at his sister,
which Miss Bab returned by knocking him down. The child did not attempt
to cry at the blow, but, rising from the floor, he again doubled his
infantine fists for the battle. Tom Pynsent was delighted.

"Well done, Bill, well done, my sharp lad! Come, that's enough at a
time! Live to fight another day, Bill!"

"Come to your granny, my sharpshooter," cried Mrs. Pynsent; "I have
something in my pocket for stout-hearted men!"

Billy toddled to his grandmother, who drew a box of sugarplums from
her capacious pocket, and rewarded his prowess by a shower of sweets.
Tom and Moll were likewise engaged in a controversy, which threatened
to end in an engagement. They were quarrelling over Christobelle's
parasol, Moll demanding it to walk with, and be a lady, like aunt Bell,
while Tom insisted upon shouldering it like a bayonet, as the Count de
Nolis had taught him. The dispute ran very high.

"Tom, dear, don't let the children fight," said Anna Maria, as she
examined the make and material of her sister's silk pelisse, "they have
been fighting all day."

"Aunt Bell, mayn't I have it?" screamed little Moll, as she struggled
with her brother for the possession of the parasol.

"I will have it first!" roared Tom, dragging the handle from her grasp.

Mr. Boscawen extricated the parasol from their hands, and kept
possession of it during their stay in the drawing-room, but no one else
attempted to release Christobelle's property from the struggle. Tom
Pynsent called their attention from their defeat.

"Now, Tom, catch papa if you can, and show your aunt whether your legs
are as stout as your lungs. Moll! Bab! Bill! now for it!"

The drawing-room became a scene of dreadful confusion. Tom Pynsent,
delighted to show off his children, and always the foremost to give
them pleasure, threaded the mazes of the tables and chairs, while the
little ones raced screaming and hallooing after him. Mr. Boscawen
sought a retreat from their deafening shouts by quitting the room,
and even Anna Maria half closed her eyes, as she assured her sister
they made really more noise that day than ever, in compliment, she
supposed, to her arrival. Mrs. Pynsent sat with the box of sugarplums
on her lap, enjoying the din of voices, and inciting them forward,
by clapping her hands and exclaiming:--"Hurrah, my lads and lasses,
catch him! Round the chair, Bill!--down you go--up again--well done,
my hearty! Halloo there, Moll! Bab, you be hanged!" Mr. Pynsent looked
overpowered, but he said nothing.

Such were the sports of Hatton. The commotion continued till both
parties, the chaser and the chased, became wearied with their
exertions, and then the children wished to go and ride their
rocking-horses. Mrs. Pynsent loaded them with sweetmeats and good
advice, as she dismissed each from her presence.

"I say, you young Tommy, don't suck your fingers, but look to that poor
morsel of a Bill, and don't run over him. If he falls, pick him up, and
wipe his nose, like a little gentleman. Here, my Moll in the wad, look
at your torn frock, and don't thump Bab upon the back so hard. Never
mind, Bab, here's six sugarplums for that thump, and you must give it
Moll well, to-morrow. What, Bill, old boy! you must have sugarplums,
too, must you? There then, and toddle after them, my sharpshooter. Go
all of you to old aunt Hancock."

When the children were gone, Christobelle had time to give her
attention to Anna Maria. The elegance of Miss Wetheral had in a
great degree lost its tone, but Mrs. Tom Pynsent was fashionably
French still in her dress and appearance. Rouging very highly gave an
unnatural brilliance to her eyes, and her figure had become enlarged,
though not in the same proportion with Isabel: Christobelle thought
her handsome and striking, but she was not the pale, still, and
interestingly elegant woman, who had volunteered her affections to the
stout, good-looking, red-faced Tom Pynsent. Many might have considered
Anna Maria improved by the change which had gradually taken place in
her appearance; but Christobelle had admired her so greatly in her
more youthful days, that her eye could not reconcile itself to her
present style. There was, she thought, something too garish in the
deeply-rouged cheek and glittering eye of her sister.

Her affection for her husband was quite unchanged: she still spoke of
him with powerful affection, and dilated upon his unvaried kindness and
good temper with vivacity. During Christobelle's long absence, Tom
had never changed towards her in indulgence and interest. Mrs. Pynsent
was all that could be desired in a mother-in-law, for her warm heart
never fancied she could do enough for those she loved; and poor Mr.
Pynsent was in nobody's way. Anna Maria doted upon her children, and
she confessed herself to be "the happiest woman in the world, when the
children did not fight, but they certainly did fight furiously, and Tom
and his mother encouraged it."

Christobelle asked after the health of Félicé.

"Oh, Félicé is very well, but she cannot comprehend a word of English,
stupid girl, and I am losing my French. Every body borrows Félicé, and
she travels all round the county before any public meeting takes place.
Félicé is always borrowed by Pen Spottiswoode before the races, and,
when she appears, you would declare her clothes were cut out by the
Lidham cook, instead of Félicé. Pen never dressed well, you know, Bell."

"Miss Bell," cried Mrs. Pynsent, from a distant corner of the
drawing-room, "have you heard any tidings from Bedinfield? because
there is a rod in pickle for somebody in that quarter. Your poor sister
has made a sorry concern of that grand match, which was to her so
desirable. Not much better a business than Lady Kerrison's! Report is
saying the deuce and all of poor Miss Julia and that colonel. That
dowager never was liked by any one, for her acquaintance was always a
blight upon the poor soul who made it."

Christobelle asked if her sister had been in Shropshire, since their
removal into Scotland.

"No, my dear; Lady Ennismore has never suffered her son to bring your
sister into Shropshire, since her return to England. She has her own
reasons for it. I know what I could call her, only I have promised
Sally Hancock never to use large words, now her own mouth is stopped,
poor thing! If your sister elopes with that moustache fellow, it will
be the fault of those who married her to such a poor creature as my
lord."

"Have you heard any thing in _particular_ about Julia, my dear Anna
Maria?" asked Christobelle, in a low voice.

"Reports only," was her reply, "but they begin to assume a form. There
are very strange reports about Colonel Neville, but we do not hear from
Julia; she has never written to me since I went to the altar with her,
and I was tired with writing unanswered letters. Papa told us when he
returned with you from Bedinfield, that it was vain to hope she would
ever be withdrawn from the dowager; and if she did discover treachery,
it would only make her wretched, without a hope of escape. Lord
Ennismore is devoted to his mother, and Julia would suffer, he thought,
by any complaints on her side. We hear Lord Ennismore is in a poor way,
but we know nothing: Julia might as well be in another hemisphere,
since we neither meet nor correspond. How miserably Clara and Julia
have been in their choice, Bell! I cannot be too thankful I won my dear
Tom at last."

"I say, Miss Bell," cried Mrs. Pynsent from her corner, where she sat
knitting, "I say, Miss Bell, when does Sir Jacky return to us?" Anna
Maria smiled at her sister's confusion. Christobelle hesitated for a
moment to reply.

"Miss Bell, Sir Jacky is a great favourite of mine, and I want to hear
a little about him. Come here, Miss Bell, come nearer to me, I want to
ask a question."

Christobelle approached Mrs. Pynsent, amused at the idea of her
intended jokes, which could not offend, since only Anna Maria was
now present. The two gentlemen had sought for Mr. Boscawen when the
children dispersed. She, therefore, seated herself near her.

"What have you to say to me, Mrs. Pynsent, that is not kind and
pleasant at all times?"

"I have this to say," she replied, with a seriousness foreign to her
usual manner, "I have to say, that, much as I liked you as a girl, I
love you far better than ever, _now_, because you had the sense to
refuse a young coroneted rascal some time ago, and choose a man who
will be a jewel to you. You showed sense and spirit in refusing to be
manœuvred into wickedness, to lead the abominable life which two of
your sisters have been doomed to suffer; and you showed a right woman's
warm heart, in taking a man whom I like and respect next to my own Tom
for comeliness and godliness. When a young woman marries such a tight
lad as Jacky Spottiswoode, she knows she will be happy to the day of
her death, and be respected among her friends. Now, Miss Bell, what do
you say to that?"

Christobelle said nothing. Tears filled her eyes, and spoke volumes
for her. She was affected with the idea that all her friends, except
_one_, approved the connexion she was about to form. Mrs. Pynsent's
remarks affected her still more, because they were spoken with unusual
quietness of manner and phrase, and her words ever came from the
fountain of her heart in all truth and sincerity. She spoke, too, the
sentiments of those around her; Christobelle judged so, by Mrs. Pynsent
assuring her of the respect of her friends. It was a deep gratification
to think her attachment was sanctioned by those she loved and honoured;
and it was a grateful pride to feel assured the finger of scorn or
ridicule had never pointed observations offensive to the high character
of her beloved Spottiswoode. Was it to be wondered at that she sat
silent by the side of Mrs. Pynsent, enjoying feelings too blessed for
utterance? She saw her agitation, and forbore to notice it; but Mrs.
Pynsent was not wanting in real delicacy to those who did not offend
her notions of right; and to Christobelle she had ever shown peculiar
kindness. She addressed her daughter.

"I say, Anna Maria, we'll have old Sally Hancock to spend the evening
with us, to compliment Miss Bell. It's all over with Sal now, so she
won't shock the company. You need not be afraid of Sally Hancock any
more, for she can't speak, if she was dying for it. I can see her poor
eyes glare up sometimes; you won't mind Sally Hancock. She likes to
watch the children, and when they don't pull her crutch from her, they
are great friends. Moll and Bab often imitate her walk, but Sally
Hancock only laughs at them."

"I wish the children would not fight so much," remarked Anna Maria.

"Fiddle diddle! my Tom fought Pen Spottiswoode like a dragon when he
was their age, and he is all the better for it. I don't like to keep
down their spirits. How would our little Moll climb the sycamore,
if she hadn't a fearless spirit? Well, look at Bobby, between those
two great monsters upon the lawn! Boscawen looks such a long animal,
compared with Bobby. Don't you think Bobby is worn into half a goose,
Miss Bell? He looks trussed for the spit."

"I think Mr. Pynsent looking very well--better than your letters
insinuated, Mrs. Pynsent."

"Poor Bobby! no, he's nothing better than half a goose now; but Sally
Hancock and myself remember him a smart lad. There goes the half-hour
bell!"

"Come, then, Bell, we will depart, for my toilette is a long affair,"
said her sister, rising.

"I say," called Mrs. Pynsent, as they left the room, "I say, Anna
Maria, don't let Bell into the secrets of the prison-house."

"Oh! Bell knows all about _that_!" replied the laughing Anna Maria.
"Tom is the only person who does not know my secret. Every body knows I
only rouge to please Tom."



CHAPTER XXIX.


Hatton was by no means so agreeable a _séjour_ to Christobelle as in
former days. The Pynsents were never happy without the four unruly
children constantly in their sight; and their amusements were the chief
subjects under consideration. The children scrambled over the table to
snatch at the dessert; they were admitted in the drawing-room at all
hours, and in every phase of dirt and fighting; they were to drag heavy
weights round the room at pleasure, and every one made themselves a
party in their quarrels.

Mrs. Pynsent generally advocated the part of the baby, whom she
designated "that proper divil of a Bill," with a hearty vehemence which
increased the uproar and confusion; while her son, with stentorian
voice, argued in favour of the girls. Anna Maria rarely interfered
in the alarum which occurred. She sat smiling at the fray, only her
distress was occasionally awakened by the length and frequency of the
battles, and her taste was offended at intervals, by the disagreeable
abbreviation of their names. She "wished her Mary could be called by
her right name, and not Moll. She would give any thing they would call
the baby Willy, instead of that horrid 'Bill;' and as to Bab, it was a
shocking word; but Bab she would be called for ever. Barbara was too
long a word for her mother and Tom to pronounce. Sometimes she fancied
their noise must be disagreeable to their guests, but Tom loved to have
the little things round him."

The Pynsents were, therefore, the happiest people possible in
themselves; but it was extremely disagreeable. Every body must think
Hatton a very disagreeable place to stay at now; and Christobelle was
glad to escape with Mr. Boscawen the following day to Lidham. She
had little difficulty in privately persuading him to curtail their
intended stay at Hatton, and proceed to the Spottiswoodes. He, as well
as Christobelle, felt the utter hopelessness of procuring a peaceful
moment, where every thought and feeling was absorbed in four remarkably
noisy children. How very different to the Hatton of other days, when
she enjoyed the society of her sister undisturbed, and spent there such
happy hours of her life! It was there, too, she met first the man whom
she hoped to make happy for long years of futurity.

Christobelle thought they should never be allowed to enter the carriage
when it drew up to the door. The children were delighted to get in and
out, and Tom particularly amused himself with putting up the steps and
throwing them down again with as much noise as the leather would allow.
Tom Pynsent detained Christobelle in the hall, to enable her to enjoy
a scene which he considered most delectable; and Mrs. Pynsent uttered
exclamations of delight, as she watched the baby trying with all its
might to imitate his companions.

"I say, Tom, do look at that divil of a Bill, trying to clamber into
the carriage; did you ever see such a young dog? Moll, put Bill into
the carriage. Let my sharpshooter take his turn. Moll, you'll break his
leg!"

The "sharpshooter" was handed into the carriage by the butler, for
"Moll" could not lift the scrambling child, and they all began jumping
upon the seat till a battle commenced, through the instrumentality of
Bab, who had pulled Tom's hair rather too roughly. The screams of Tom
were echoed by the baby; and Bab cried violently at her own ferocity.
Tom Pynsent and their grandmother both spoke at once, in their loudest
key.

"Halloo there, you young ones. Bill, what are you at, all of you? Hand
out that young dog," cried Mrs. Pynsent.

"What the devil are you all roaring at? Moll, what's the matter?"
called out Tom Pynsent.

"Pa, Bab pulled Tom's hair!" screamed Miss Mary, alias Moll; Mrs.
Pynsent's words now became confounded with those of her son.

"What the devil!--don't fight there, you rascals!--Hand out Bill,
James; they'll kill that poor Bill.--Here, Tom, never mind your hair:
bring some cakes here, Dick, to stop this row.--Hand out that Bill
thing, Thomas, he's on his head.--They're murdering Bill!"

"I declare my children will fight themselves to death," said Anna
Maria, who took no part in the affair, "I am sure they will kill each
other. Tom, dear, don't let the children fight so."

Mr. Boscawen took advantage of the moment when the carriage was emptied
of its noisy contents, and hurried Christobelle into it. She was too
willing to quit the uproar of Hatton not to rejoice at his polite
movement, and both were glad to remain silent for some time after they
had quitted its grounds.

"I fancied," said Mr. Boscawen, after a long pause, "that Isabel
spoiled her children, till I have now compared them with their cousins.
I shall remain satisfied in future that they are not more vivacious
than healthy children should be."

"It is altogether a different form of government at Brierly. You are
monarch, though an indulgent one; but it is a frightful democracy at
Hatton."

"I shall keep my young ones out of the infection," he observed; "for
though Mary and Barbara may have hearts as kindly affectioned as their
grandmother, those manners are deplorable. I should be sorry to see my
little Bell become coarse and loud in her way of speaking."

"What could be the cause of the Miss Wycherlys imbibing such manners,
in the first instance?" asked Christobelle.

"Old Wycherly was a broker," replied Boscawen; "and he retired to
Lidham with an immense fortune, and a young wife whose connections
were far superior to his own. Mrs. Wycherly did not live many years,
and the daughters were allowed to educate themselves, and to act, in
every respect, as seemed good in their own eyes. They were always the
subject of conversation; and, though they never were suspected of any
thing more reprehensible than extreme wildness, their conduct subjected
them to many extraordinary scenes, and much objectionable remark.
Captain Hancock drank, I believe, to drown care, and Mrs. Hancock was
infinitely the worst of the two. How the young ladies learned their
swearing propensities, I cannot tell; but I have heard that their
brother Wycherly led them into very exceptionable society in his
youthful days. They were an extraordinary trio. No one, however, spoke
ill of them."

"They had great good nature, I suppose."

"They had great wealth, Bell, or they never could have held any
position in society. Four hundred thousand pounds drew the first
gentlemen in the county to Lidham."

Christobelle chatted till the Lidham woods rose in sight, and then she
became silent. Every thing connected with the name of Spottiswoode held
a powerful interest in her heart, and concentrated her thoughts upon
himself. She had heard from him once since her arrival at Brierly, and
then he spoke so cheerlessly of her mother's spirits, that he lingered
to assist and console her father. He knew, he said, that he was giving
her pleasure by attending upon her father, and he hoped so much from
his assiduities! Dear Spottiswoode, how much more sanguinely than
herself did he expect a change in her mother's sentiments!

As the carriage drove through the lodges, a gentleman on horseback
galloped towards them. "Here comes Charles full of news," said
Boscawen; "and he is riding fast, I suppose, to carry it fresh into
Shrewsbury. A little news is a passport among one's neighbours."

Christobelle bent forward to observe Charles Spottiswoode; but no, it
was _not_ Charles Spottiswoode. Her heart beat thickly, and her eyes
strained to gaze. She knew the horseman from afar: she knew the air,
the figure, and the style of riding, well. Was her lover winging his
way to her?--was he thinking of Brierly, and one there who loved him
better than herself? Christobelle caught her brother's hand. "Boscawen,
it is not him, it is _John_ Spottiswoode! what brings him so soon from
Fairlee?"

"God bless me!" cried Boscawen, "it is indeed our friend from the
north, and I must stop him, or he will never condescend to look at
us." He put his head out of the carriage-window, and waved his hand:
Sir John Spottiswoode heeded not the movement. He was riding rapidly
by, and would have passed with a slight inclination of the head, had
not Christobelle caught his eye. His handsome face glowed with surprise
and delight, while her own feelings, so very suddenly called into
action, completely took away her powers of speech. She could only hold
out her hand, as he checked his horse, and wheeled round to the window,
but it was pressed _so_ fondly--and he looked _so_ bright and happy!

"Why, Spottiswoode, what fair lady are you scampering after, that you
nearly passed by _us_?" exclaimed Boscawen, shaking him by the hand.

"Never mind, I am going to turn back with you. Indeed, I was galloping
to Shrewsbury, to get upon the coach for Brierly. I only arrived this
morning."

"My _mother_, Spottiswoode," uttered Christobelle, in alarm--"how is my
mother?"

"On her road to Wetheral, by short stages; I am but their _avant
courier_, Chrystal. I have brought a letter for you. You will now,
perhaps, offer me a seat in your carriage to Brierly, when you return.
My brother said nothing about your visit--do they expect you?"

"No, I am making a tour with my young sister--but let us reach Lidham
before we enter into particulars."

The carriage moved on, and Spottiswoode rode by its side. How
unexpected was this meeting, and how busy were Christobelle's thoughts,
conjecturing upon the motive of her mother's early journey! If it had
but a happy reference towards herself, how would her cup of joy be
filled! but, no, her mother never forgave an offence like hers!

Christobelle was prepared to meet astonishment at Lidham, as she had
found it every where else, since her return into Shropshire, and she
was not deceived. Mrs. Charles Spottiswoode held her from her at arm's
length, as she examined her person and growth.

"My dear little Bell, is this really and truly yourself? I have heard
of you from persons whom I did not consider altogether unprejudiced in
their accounts; but, indeed, I now see it with my own eyes! John, you
have not said half enough of this creature. I recognise her eyes--those
large eyes--but these ringlets--that figure--no, John, upon my honour,
you did not do her justice!"

Spottiswoode stood by Christobelle, and his eyes flashed a proud
satisfaction at the remarks of his sister-in-law.

"But, Charles, Charles," she continued, "tell me if _you_ could
recognise Bell Wetheral in this grand creature! tell me if it is not a
vision, for I cannot think I really see the prim little Bell, always
poring over books, and diving out of her father's study with a little
shock head, like my terrier Tarter!"

"Yes, I recognise Miss Wetheral," answered Mr. Spottiswoode, "for I
see the same expression of good-humour, and the same fine outline,
which gave such promise of what we behold. Miss Wetheral, you are most
welcome to Lidham."

"By the Lord Harry!" cried Mr. Wycherly, emerging from his own room in
spectacles, "here's a _posse comitatus_! Well, I'm come to welcome the
new filly myself. How d'ye do, Miss Wetheral?--how d'ye do, ma'am? God
help us, how the young people grow! They run us down, Mr. Boscawen! You
are come to stay a week--a month with us, I hope? Come in, come in,
all of you!" They entered the sitting-room, and the conversation was
general for a short time, till Mrs. Spottiswoode suddenly turned to
Christobelle.

"My dear Bell, I know what your anxiety must be, to hear of those whom
John has left behind. I see, by the expression of those large eyes,
that you are longing to hear news of Fairlee. Come with me, and I give
John alone leave to follow us. We will adjourn into the library. I
can quite understand your feelings. John, you may follow us with your
letters."

Mrs. Spottiswoode led Christobelle into the library, and there she
again embraced her. The first reception, she said, belonged to Miss
Wetheral, but now she embraced her future relation--the bride of her
excellent John--the brother beloved by all! She was embracing now
the future Lady Spottiswoode. Christobelle returned her embrace with
fervent pleasure. She said her heart rejoiced in the congratulations
of her friends, and in the language of praise which always accompanied
the mention of Spottiswoode's name. She only hoped--and she expressed
the hope with tears--that her mother would in time see Spottiswoode
with the eyes of all who knew his great worth; that she would in time
receive him as a dear son, and remove the only impediment to her
happiness, by extending the hand of friendship towards him, and her
pardon towards herself. Mrs. Spottiswoode hoped all things.

"My dear Chrystal--which, by the by, is a prettier designation than
Bell--there is bitter in every cup. Rest happy in the knowledge that
Lady Wetheral's offended feelings proceed from disappointed views,
and not from unworthiness in the object. It must always be painful to
displease a parent, but it cannot, in this particular case, strike
deep into your happiness. Your excellent father long wished for the
match--he confessed it to John. Come in!" A gentle tap at the door was
heard, and Spottiswoode entered.

"You allowed me to follow you--am I welcome now?"

"Ever welcome, wherever you appear, John; and most welcome to Chrystal
and myself," said Mrs. Spottiswoode; "I will leave you while you read
your letters together. I shall allow you a quarter of an hour, to
acquaint yourself with their contents, Chrystal."

"One hour, Pen--only one little sixty-five minutes!" cried
Spottiswoode, beseechingly.

"Indeed, you shall not monopolize my guest an hour, John. Do as you
please at Brierly--but I will only relinquish Chrystal a quarter of an
hour from this moment."

"Chrystal!" said Spottiswoode, as the door closed upon his
sister--"Chrystal!"

Christobelle beheld her lover's arms extended. Away with every feeling
but unfeigned joy to behold him again. She flew towards him, to be
clasped to his dear, warm heart! "And now," she said, when their
spirits had become somewhat tranquil, "tell me of my father, and tell
me of my mother. Are they on the road?"

She listened with trembling eagerness to his reply. Spottiswoode had
not seen Lady Wetheral since Christobelle quitted Fairlee. She could
not be persuaded to leave her room, or resume the direction of the
establishment. Sir John Wetheral suffered greatly from her determined
resolution to avoid the man on whom he had bestowed his daughter;
and he felt deeply, also, the privation of domestic comfort. It was
that privation which kept Spottiswoode at Fairlee--he was anxious to
be useful to the father who mourned her daughter's absence, and felt
alone, in his own house.

Spottiswoode knew Christobelle would wish him to stay and solace her
father--and he did stay; but his thoughts were chained to Brierly,
while he lingered at Lochleven. He had never trusted himself to visit
places where they had roamed together. He had not once dared to seat
himself on the rocky bench, or walk the terrace by moonlight. He had
sat constantly reading in the window which witnessed their first
confession of attachment, and he numbered the days which lagged heavily
between him and his rest. He had been three weeks absent from all he
loved.

How Christobelle dwelt upon the words which fell from Spottiswoode's
lips! She could not sorrow for her mother's harshness while he was
near her. She only felt the calm of his presence, and the absence of
every regret. But she should weep when she was alone again! She should
suffer when she had time to reflect upon every thing--but not at _that_
moment, for the arm of Spottiswoode encircled her, and she was too
happy to reflect.

Christobelle received no letter from Lady Wetheral, but her father
wrote to her of all he suffered; and he said, his happiest moments were
passed in contemplating her prospects. His Chrystal was given to a man
who would value the blessing conferred upon him. She would be the wife
of a good man--a wife as happy as Isabel, or as Anna Maria proved to
be--a wife whose hopes were anchored upon high principle and religious
feeling, and who, therefore, would not be called upon to endure the
undying torments of self-reproach.

He could not allow himself to think upon Clara--but she had been
removed early from her strife. What Julia's destiny would be, he could
not venture to assert. She was a banished child to him. They were to
begin their journey the day after Spottiswoode quitted Fairlee, but
the passage would be very slowly made, as her mother could not endure
travelling long--her nerves were worse than ever. Her father urged her
to be at Wetheral to receive them. If her other parent would not see
her, Wetheral was large enough to contain them apart, but _he_ could
not live without her, and she must not disappoint him of her presence.
Her father concluded his epistle with a thousand parental blessings and
cares for her future comforts.

Spottiswoode watched Christobelle as she read. "Is it a letter of
comfort, my Chrystal?" he asked, as she finished its perusal. "Yes, I
think so, by those large eyes, as Pen calls them. It _is_ a letter of
comfort, is it not, dearest Chrystal?"

Christobelle placed it silently into his hands, and she now watched
Spottiswoode as he read. She saw the deepened red upon his cheek, as
he lingered over her father's commendation, and his eye met her own.

"Every word of it is true, Spottiswoode," she observed.

"You are a partial, dear creature, Chrystal; but I will try to deserve
his opinion so kindly expressed."

Mrs. Spottiswoode entered. "Three minutes past the quarter, John,
and every one is impatient to see Chrystal again. Papa says she is
as beautiful as his celebrated colt, which is the height of his
commendation. I am jealous, too, myself of your society. You must
return with me, good people." She led them forth.

Christobelle conferred with Boscawen upon the contents of her father's
letter. Since he wished her to be at Wetheral when he arrived, she
thought she had better not return to Brierly. They might travel more
rapidly than was anticipated. Lady Wetheral might feel more equal to
the journey than she imagined, and Christobelle might be at Brierly the
moment they reached Wetheral. She felt she would prefer returning to
Wetheral from Lidham; and Isabel would understand the circumstances,
which left her no power to act otherwise. She would return to Brierly
at a future time.

"Do as you please, my dear Chrystal: I think you are right in your
decision. Your trunks shall be forwarded to Wetheral, and I will see
you safely there to-morrow."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" said Mrs. Spottiswoode. "Mr. Boscawen, you
are an excellent guardian, but I cannot think your scheme a good one.
Leave Chrystal with us: we are only three miles from Wetheral, and
I will drive her over every day, to make preparations. If Sir John
Wetheral should arrive unexpectedly, she will be there in twenty
minutes--Chrystal shall not remain alone in that enormous place!"

Much consultation took place, and it was decided, at last, that
Christobelle should accept Mrs. Spottiswoode's invitation, and remain
at Lidham: Mr. Boscawen consequently changed his own plans, and
determined to return immediately to Brierly. The horses were yet at
Lidham, and they should take him back to Shrewsbury.

"Now what extreme folly, my dear Mr. Boscawen! You intended to stay
here with Chrystal: why not allow us still the pleasure of your
company?" Mrs. Spottiswoode would not hear of his departure. "Charles,
persuade Mr. Boscawen to remain at Lidham!"

But Mr. Boscawen was resolved to return to Isabel: "he was in
attendance upon Christobelle when he left his home; and now that charge
was removed, he must return to Brierly and Isabel. He should acquaint
her with Christobelle's movements, and he felt obliged by their wish to
detain him, but he never left Isabel unless a momentous care devolved
upon him, such as watching over the personal safety of his attractive
sister Bell, or a child's tooth to be extracted. He should return _now_
in time for Isabel's tea."

Excellent Boscawen! How fortunate was Isabel in securing a man so
devoted to her comforts, and so loth to be absent from her. Her father
was indeed right when he said Boscawen's age was the only objection he
could urge against him.

And Christobelle was left at Lidham with the Spottiswoodes--the Miss
Wycherly of other days, when Julia was her bosom-friend, and the
Charles Spottiswoode with whom she suffered so long and despairingly,
till Julia's bold confession ended the painful suspense on both sides!
She was also wedded in heart to the elder brother, and their renewed
acquaintance sprung at once into friendship at the very moment of its
renewal.

But where was Julia, who used to gladden her friends' heart so often?
Where was the confidante of Penelope Wycherly, who used to fly to
Lidham, to console and assist her friend in adversity, caused by her
own transgressions? Where was that sprightly, affectionate creature?
Alas! she was lost to her friends, and her voice had ceased to be heard
among them! More than five years had elapsed since Julia's marriage,
and from that hour she had never seen Lidham, or its inmates; she had
not even noticed the nuptials of its mistress. What a change must have
come over Julia!

It was a day of exquisite enjoyment at Lidham. Mrs. Spottiswoode
loved to look at Christobelle, for she said she was strangely like
Julia, and her heart bounded towards her as to an old and dear friend.
Spottiswoode was also at her side, and there were no noisy children
to break the tranquillity of her enjoyment by their unwelcome mirth.
How could she be otherwise than most happy? What evil could reach her,
while those she loved were near, and she could listen to the voice of
her beloved one? None!

Mrs. Spottiswoode engaged the following morning to drive Christobelle
to Wetheral, and the ladies agreed to remain quietly in the house with
their work, till the hour arrived for their airing. It was then that
Mrs. Spottiswoode opened her heart, and told Christobelle all her fears
respecting Julia's happiness. She heard only reports like the rest of
the world; but they were reports which filled her with uneasiness and
apprehension. She felt assured her friend had been sacrificed, and she
was equally certain the Dowager-countess had been the mental vampire
which clung to Julia, and destroyed her peace, by interfering with and
withholding her correspondence. Sir John Wetheral had suspected as much
at Bedinfield himself--she knew it was not Julia's nature to forget her
friends--she would never credit the assertion, let who would insinuate
it.

Reports breathed suspicion on her fame, with regard to Colonel Neville;
but she would stake her existence that, however Julia's taste must have
turned disgusted from her wretched lord, she was pure as unsunned snow.
Any one who dared to question her friend's purity of mind before her,
would rouse the blood of all the Wycherlys in her veins. Charles did
not like the subject ever brought forward in her presence, because
she felt keenly every remark which touched upon her friend's miserable
fate; but now the gentlemen were out of the way, she could unfold her
fears to Christobelle.

"If ever there was a wretch in the form of mortal, Chrystal," she
continued, "it is that wicked dowager; and we shall live to see it
confirmed in the case of my poor Julia, the friend of my youth, whom I
loved so dearly. I told Charles she was going to woe, when she was led
like a lamb to the slaughter! Oh, Julia should _not_ have married Lord
Ennismore, Chrystal!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode became affected as she dwelt upon the scenes of the
past; and she detailed to Christobelle many incidents which had escaped
her young observation. It was delightful to Christobelle to hear her
talk of Julia, and her eyes often bore testimony to the sympathy she
felt in the narration of their long friendship, and the events of
their earliest days. The hall-door bell pealed its sounds as they wept
and talked. Mrs. Spottiswoode was surprised and annoyed; she breathed
hastily upon her hands, and applied them to her eyes.

"How very disagreeably early some people are calling; and our eyes,
Chrystal, are quite unfit to be seen! I must draw down the blinds. I
really cannot receive any one with such a pair of eyes and such a heavy
heart, comfortably."

The door was thrown open, but no name was announced. A female figure,
however, appeared, and approached slowly and unsteadily towards Mrs.
Spottiswoode. She spoke in tones which startled her ear and heart.

"I am come to try my friend's truth; for she told me that in evil
report, or in good report, in weal or woe, _here_ I should find rest!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode stood motionless.

"Julia!" she faintly uttered--"is this Julia's voice!"

"It is Julia, Penelope! I am come to seek my promised home, for
elsewhere there is none!"

"Welcome, a thousand welcomes!" cried Mrs. Spottiswoode, springing
towards Lady Ennismore, and clasping her to her heart with a straining
pressure--"oh! welcome, whatever event may have brought my lost Julia
home!"

"Home!" replied Lady Ennismore--"home! Have I been obliged to return
from whence I came, to find a home!" Lady Ennismore shuddered as she
spoke, and fell senseless in the still close embrace of her friend.

"Chrystal!" cried Mrs. Spottiswoode, "bolt the door: let no one enter
this room!"

Miss Wetheral obeyed in silence, and she then assisted Mrs.
Spottiswoode in conveying her sister to the sofa, where she remained
extended till her consciousness gradually returned. Mrs. Spottiswoode
trembled, but her powers of thought were clear and undisturbed. She
spoke low, as Lady Ennismore lay in blessed forgetfulness of present
sufferings.

"Chrystal, we will carry Julia into your room when she recovers, and
here my angel friend will be tranquil. I will trust--I _know_ she is
blameless! but a thousand errors would not change my love, or the
devotion with which I will watch over her for ever. If all the world
deserted her, she would be _my_ own dear friend; but for her fame's
sake, I hope--no, it is _not_ so--it is _not_ so!"

Christobelle gazed in astonishment at her sister's extended form. She
mechanically obeyed Mrs. Spottiswoode's directions, but her mind was
a chaos. She heard her remarks, though she did not reply to them; she
could not withdraw her eyes from the object which absorbed all her
wonder.

"Chrystal," continued Mrs. Spottiswoode, as she chafed Julia's temples
with eau de Cologne, "there has been dreadful work to bring my blessed
friend to this! Her spirit has been dealt with beyond her powers of
endurance, to urge this step; but I, Penelope, am with her, and she
is again at Lidham. I bless the events which have brought her from
banishment, and given her again to her friends!"

A slight pressure from the hand which was clasped by Mrs. Spottiswoode,
attested returning animation in Lady Ennismore, and proved that she
heard and understood her friends' words. Mrs. Spottiswoode proceeded
with deep feeling.

"Julia, you hear me--you hear your friend declare, that she cannot
mourn the cause which has given her back the companion of her early
days. We were ever together, Julia, and together we enjoyed our first
step upon the gay stage of our pleasures. We will also walk together
through the waters of adversity, and our sorrows shall be, as our joys
have been, borne in fellowship. I am Penelope Wycherly in _heart_, and
you are Julia Wetheral. We will part no more, my own dear, ill-used
friend!"

Lady Ennismore raised her head from its pillow with effort.

"I have been hardly dealt with, I have been cruelly treated, Penelope!
I must have been very treacherously used, since I believed in the
desertion of all my friends!"

"I see it all; I have long seen and feared all this, Julia! I know
the snares which have been set to wreck your happiness, and throw you
from your husband's heart! I know the influence which was feared and
counteracted by that vile woman, with all the energy of vileness!"

A fit of trembling attacked Lady Ennismore, and cold perspiration
bedewed her face and hands.

"If _you_ have seen it, or can understand it, Penelope," she exclaimed,
"how must _I_ have felt it!" Lady Ennismore sunk back with the effort
of speaking.

"Chrystal," said Mrs. Spottiswoode, "let us support Lady Ennismore
to your room at once. There alone will be security and quiet. The
gentlemen may be returning."

"What gentlemen?" exclaimed Lady Ennismore, hastily. "Don't allow
Neville to come near me. I will never see him again."

"No one is coming, my own Julia, but Charles Spottiswoode. You remember
Charles Spottiswoode--your friend and mine, and now my husband?"

"Yes, I remember him, but I never heard of your nuptials; every body
was so silent, every thing was kept from me!"

"Did Colonel Neville never inform you of Shropshire events, through the
medium of the papers, dearest?"

The name of Neville pronounced by other lips produced extreme terror.
Lady Ennismore started up, and seized Mrs. Spottiswoode's hands.

"Don't believe a word of it, Penelope!--don't credit that horrible
assertion! it is untrue! As I am looking for the peace which can only
reach me beyond the grave, I never lost my own respect, or forgot I was
a wife!"

"I knew it--I knew it!--I never would believe a word of their vile
reports!" exclaimed Mrs. Spottiswoode, bursting into tears: "but oh,
Julia, your words are balm to my heart!"

"I have flown from treachery, Penelope; and if you receive me, so will
my father. Oh, my father!--my poor father!--you told me your heart was
not in my marriage! I heeded you not! I clung to my mother's prophecies
that I should be great and happy!"

Lady Ennismore's emotion became alarming; and it was with some
difficulty she was conveyed into her sister's apartment. She leaned
upon her friend, and Christobelle assisted in supporting her trembling
form. Christobelle marked her sister's emotion, and heard her deep
suppressed sobs. The last time she beheld Julia Wetheral she was led in
the pomp and circumstance of bridal glory, anticipating the excellent
things which wealth and station are supposed to command.

Lady Ennismore was laid upon the bed, and it was hoped repose would
give comparative tranquillity, but Julia's disease was of the heart:
she could not rest.

"Penelope," she said, as her pale cheek grew hectic in its deep glow,
"I have flown _from_ Neville!--I have not flown _with_ him! The world
may say my flight was wrong, but they cannot say it was infamous!"

"Heed them not who dare say so, Julia. We are together, and my love
shall be your shield from the world's remarks--but it will soon
distinguish your innocence--it will not lay the burthen on the innocent
long. You will be justified in your action, my own dear friend!"

"I hope so--I hope so! I fled from my own heart, too, Penelope; I
might have fallen like others, but I fled from my own heart, and
from persecution. Oh! don't let any one come near me but yourself,
Penelope. That young lady is very kind. I told Neville to follow me no
more. Do not persecute me, Neville--let me alone to grieve silently. I
am unhappy, but I am yet a guiltless wife. I will go to Penelope...."

Lady Ennismore's spirit wandered: fever was upon her cheek, and she
ceased to remember her own friend.

"I will go to Penelope--she always loved me, and she will save her poor
friend. I wish I could get to Lidham! A chaise, Conynham--a chaise to
the lake-house! If I could only get in--but my foot will not move. Lift
me in, Conynham, if you would save me from the Countess!"

A slight shriek broke from Julia's lips, as if in her vision she had
encountered her mother-in-law. Mrs. Spottiswoode sent instantly for
advice, and she summoned her husband, to consult with him upon the
extraordinary arrival of Lady Ennismore. While the short interview took
place in her dressing-room, Christobelle sat by the bed-side of the
invalid, who had relapsed into total forgetfulness of her situation;
and she could gather from her wanderings the nature of her sufferings,
and the reason of her flight from Bedinfield. It broke Christobelle's
heart, to hear her mournful voice in its ravings.

"Let me attend my lord, I beseech you. If he is ill, who dare close
the doors of his apartments upon his wife? It is my duty to wait upon
my lord--no, I will not be left whole hours and days with Neville. I
know his kindness and his love for me. Where is my father? Will any one
seek my father?--no, Neville, never--I am a wife--a guiltless wife--do
not persecute me. I will go to Penelope, for she never ceased to love
me--they are dead, I think--all that belong to me are dead!"

Low moanings succeeded, till again Julia burst forth in complaint, as
her ideas dwelt upon the painful scenes of Bedinfield. All her anxiety
manifested itself in reproaches to Colonel Neville, and in fancied
inability to enter her lord's chamber. Not one self-reproach mingled
among her moving cries--all was purity of thought, as Mrs. Spottiswoode
had unceasingly believed and maintained, in her remarks upon Julia's
conduct.

Charles Spottiswoode heard her complaints, as she rambled in alarm
lest the Countess should intercept her flight to Penelope, and he
could not endure the sound of her voice in sorrow: he quitted the
dressing-room in distress almost as poignant as that which agonized the
heart of his lady, who sat in silence and in tears, hoping fervently
that the step of the physician would soon be heard. It was vain to
soothe her complaints; she did not hear the voice of consolation. She
was conversing with herself upon circumstances which absorbed her
attention, and her mind was evidently in the home she had quitted
so eagerly. He came at last. The voice of Dr. Darwin sounded in the
gallery, and there was hope and comfort in the knowledge that all would
be done which science and kindness could effect. This was the second
member of the Wetheral family whom he had attended under circumstances
peculiarly painful.

Dr. Darwin at once discovered the secret of Lady Ennismore's state, and
applied himself to give temporary tranquillity to her disordered mind.
It could be, he said, but temporary rest: he could not make her forget
the sorrow which raged within, or mitigate her waking grief--_that_
must be effected by other hands--but anodynes would lull its fury,
and bestow rest upon the frame. Since Lady Ennismore spoke fondly
of her father and Mrs. Spottiswoode, they must be near her; and, if
possible, they should be present whenever she woke from her unnatural
rest. The sight of esteemed objects was grateful, and would prevent the
immediate recurrence of painful thoughts. It was very fortunate Sir
John Wetheral was expected shortly, and he would advise the constant
attendance at present of Mrs. Spottiswoode alone.

Mrs. Spottiswoode remarked that Lady Ennismore had not recognised
Christobelle during the whole scene. She thought it a remarkable
instance of forgetfulness in a person so nearly connected. Dr. Darwin
considered it only a proof of the depth of her suffering, which fed
exclusively upon itself. Till the recognition took place, he prohibited
Christobelle's return into her room, but the sooner it was named to her
ladyship the better--it would rouse her attention from more afflicting
thoughts.

Dr. Darwin remained at Lidham till the medicine took effect upon
Julia's nerves, and she sank into sleep. Mrs. Spottiswoode and
Christobelle then sat in the dressing-room, with its door half closed,
and pondered over the event of the morning. It was too evident that
the Dowager had thrown Colonel Neville constantly into the society
of Julia, and that she had been debarred all communication with Lord
Ennismore.

What could be the reason which prompted the Dowager to poison the
fountain of their domestic peace? It was that insatiable love of
power, which thirsted for entire dominion over the imbecile mind of
her son, and for which every tie, moral and religious, must be torn
asunder. It was that devouring passion for domination, which swallowed
up every kindly feeling, and bore down all impediments to its terrific
strides. It had sacrificed the happiness of Julia, the best and
gentlest of created beings--it had aimed at her reputation; and, to
sever Julia's influence from her son at one fell swoop, the Countess
had endeavoured to make her a prey to infamy. She had endeavoured to
cause an eternal separation between two unoffending beings, that her
reign at Bedinfield might be perpetual! She had succeeded only in
driving Julia from her husband's house. Oh, Power! how gradually and
wickedly do its votaries consume every right principle, to feed its
fiercely-burning fires!

Christobelle saw Spottiswoode but once after her sister's mournful
entrance into Lidham, and she was too much overpowered with regret
to enjoy his society. She could not recall her thoughts from Julia,
to concentrate them even upon him--but he was also in low spirits.
His feeling heart sympathised in the general sorrow, and they mourned
together over the fallen hopes and the short career of Julia's
brilliant prospects. Like a shooting star, she had fallen from the
altitudes of a princely marriage, to the cold, dark nothingness of
disappointed earthly pleasures. How Christobelle mourned over her
brightly gay sister, whom she remembered so lovely and so loved! She
did not remain long with Spottiswoode. She left him, to pass the
evening and night in her dressing-room, to assist Mrs. Spottiswoode in
her cares, and to think of Julia.



CHAPTER XXX.


Lady Ennismore's illness was long in its continuance and severe in
its effects. Mrs. Spottiswoode watched over her with unceasing and
affecting attention; and it was often painful to witness her agonized
fears, lest her friend should sink beneath the combined attacks of
mental and bodily suffering. It was sad to look upon a creature so
changed as Julia, and hear her touching exclamations under the effects
of almost constant delirium. It was heart-rending to hear her call upon
Lady Ennismore with passionate entreaties, demanding admittance to her
lord, and imploring her to save her from Neville--it was still more
touching to hear her imprecate sorrow upon the head of those who could
lure a desolate wife to her destruction.

The sight of Dr. Darwin terrified the invalid for many days. She
addressed him as Colonel Neville, and her wandering fancy conceived
that Colonel Neville was seeking an interview. She waved him from the
room with an impetuous movement, and implored him to leave an unhappy
wife in peace. She said he knew she loved him--he knew she loved the
friend who was kind to her when all others had deserted her, but she
commanded him to fly from her!--she was the wife of Lord Ennismore, and
no power on earth should induce her to listen to him. "If her father
was alive to protect her," she said, "he would shelter her from woe and
treachery--but all were gone who ever loved her, and she would go to
her long lost friend Penelope."

It was evident Lady Ennismore had flown from Bedinfield to escape
from her own heart, as she avowed to Mrs. Spottiswoode. It was
evident, also, that the Dowager-countess had acted an unholy part by
her daughter, in throwing her constantly into the society of Colonel
Neville, and barring her entrance into the apartments of her sickly
and weak-minded husband. Such cruelty towards an innocent and trusting
creature affected the heart of Mrs. Spottiswoode almost to illness: her
mind dwelt long and strongly upon the distress of heart, which must
have been endured by her friend before she could have fled from her
husband's house; and Mr. Spottiswoode became alarmed lest his wife's
health should fall a sacrifice to her devoted attachment to the friend
of her early days.

In this time of severe trial to all parties, Sir John Spottiswoode
acted with the kindest consideration; and he undertook to meet Sir John
Wetheral upon his arrival, and break to him the mournful intelligence
of Lady Ennismore's situation. Before his arrival, however, her
ladyship had regained her consciousness of all that was passing
round her, and the parched fever, which consumed her animal powers,
yielded to the judicious treatment of her medical adviser. Julia
again recognized her friend, and again received pleasure in feeling
herself watched over and protected by those she loved. Her weakness was
excessive, and her mind still dwelt upon the sorrow which oppressed
her; but it was no longer accompanied by that fearful aberration of
intellect, which wasted her strength, and tore the hearts of those who
witnessed its effects. Mrs. Spottiswoode passed her waking hours at
her friend's side, for it was a cordial to Julia's spirit to see her
near, and to know Penelope was watching over her; but Christobelle was
deputed to guard her short and uneasy slumbers. It was a period of
deep and trembling anxiety.

Sir John Wetheral's cares were crowding upon him. He had been destined
for some years to witness the shattered nerves and depressed spirits
of his lady, and he was now called upon to witness the sufferings of
Julia, and to support her through the difficulties of her situation. It
was a severe trial to his feelings; but he met the intelligence with
fortitude. His unworldly actions caused no self-reproach, and he had
never sacrificed his sense of right to the idols of a vain imagination,
therefore his regrets, however bitter, were untinged by the gloomy
reflection that his own hand had barbed the arrow which struck his
heart.

Not so Lady Wetheral. The intelligence of Julia's flight to Lidham
prostrated her to the earth, and bowed down all her hopes. She confined
herself to her own room, and talked incessantly to Mrs. Bevan of the
misery which overpowered her. "She had done such things for Clara and
Julia!--she had formed, and prosecuted, and brought into effect, plans
for their advancement, which should have raised them far above their
companions; yet they were dashed to the ground, after such anxieties
and fears! The daughters whom she peculiarly considered under her own
rule had proved themselves unequal to enjoy the exalted situations she
had marked out for them; and Bell, a perfect child, fostered among the
wild hills of Lochleven, had presumed to refuse a dukedom, in order to
follow her mean affections, and content herself with a small estate
in Worcestershire! What was Julia, now? A truant wife--a woman, so
lost to propriety, that her future position in people's minds must be
equivocal--a creature who would in future be gazed upon as a deserter
from Bedinfield. Such was the fate of those who created scenes!--a
world's wonder, and a thing of nought!" A period of silence would
ensue, subsequent to each irritable complaint; and Lady Wetheral would
sink into deep fits of despondency, followed by sudden reaction, which
threatened to undermine her constitution.

When Julia became sufficiently calm to bear the sight of a third person
without alarm, Christobelle was silently admitted to her presence, and
was recognized immediately with a joy which gave unfeigned satisfaction
to Mrs. Spottiswoode. It seemed as if Lady Ennismore's spirit was
not dead to emotions which must eventually lure her thoughts from
melancholy images, and reconcile her to life. Lady Ennismore fixed
her eyes upon her sister with a momentary expression of delight, which
gradually changed into sadness, and the tears stole down her cheeks.
She pressed her hand to her heart. "Chrystal," she said, "when I saw
you last, I was not as I am now!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode embraced her, and bade her think of happier times.
Julia looked at her with eyes swimming in tears.

"Penelope, it soothes me to talk of the past, for my sorrow has
been confined too painfully to my own bosom. Let me tell Chrystal
how useless were the aids of grandeur and gratified ambition to
give comfort to a breaking heart. It may make her less careful
of the follies of worldly gifts--less ambitious than I was. Yet,
I loved him; I loved Ennismore, once; but what heart will love
through coldness--through indifference, and separation? Who can
love, when kindly affections are thrown aside, or made the sport of
unfeeling ridicule? Chrystal, marry not, unless you are sure you are
valued--unless you love a man for the goodness of his nature, and not
for his earthly possessions."

Christobelle bent forward, and pressed her lips upon Julia's hand, as
it lay upon her own. She could not speak.

"If they tell you, Chrystal, that life has no blessings beyond high
station and the luxuries of wealth, look at me, and believe them not.
It is false to say so. My father told me it was false, and I did not
heed him. I smiled at his anxiety, and thought him prejudiced. Where is
my father?--Where is my dear father? Is he alive, Penelope? Oh, do not
say that good father is gone, who mourned so, after my hapless choice
was made--who looked so calm and so sad at Bedinfield!"

Christobelle assured her every member of the family still lived, and
then she repeated to her the message which her father had charged her
to deliver when Julia's returning reason could bear its import. It was
a message of kindness: they were words of indulgent goodness, for none
other ever passed _his_ lips. "Tell my poor Julia," he said, "that her
father's eyes long to behold her, and his arms are open to embrace her,
when she can bear the meeting. There is a home at Wetheral, to shelter
her; and his fond affections are anxious to make her forget she ever
left its protection." Julia wept abundantly.

"Yes, we resist advice, and defy the truths which tell us how weak
and insufficient we are to reason upon things which concern our peace
hereafter. I believed my mother-in-law was all truth--all sincerity.
I felt for Lord Ennismore's ailments. I did not know how deeply those
ailments affect the temper and weaken the mind. I was ambitious--I was
resolved to soar: and see, Chrystal, how I have fallen! Thank Heaven,
I am guiltless!--thank Heaven, I can return to my father's house,
untainted by crime! I shall never more be happy, but I can demand
respect, and bow submissively to a just punishment for my sordid views.
I fancied I could command all, as the wife of Ennismore! but I came
to Penelope's house--a poor, solitary, wretched wife--a fugitive from
Bedinfield--flying, above all, from myself. Oh, my friend, my dear
Penelope, save me from myself!"

"Fear not," replied Mrs. Spottiswoode, kneeling by her bed-side, and
clasping Julia's hands in her own, "fear not, my companion and friend!
I will be with you, and my counsel and affection shall support you.
Think no more of the past, but hope every thing from the future: forget
all that has occurred, and look around you, upon the friends of your
youth, all prepared to welcome and cherish you, dearest Julia."

"I wish I _could_ forget--I wish I could struggle, and burst the bonds
which destroy my tranquillity, Penelope! I wish I could wipe away
remembrances which will embitter my existence, and which have shortened
the days of my youth, and multiplied my sorrows--how I wish I _could_
forget!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode signed to Christobelle to withdraw, and she retired
into the dressing-room. Penelope continued kneeling, and embracing the
hands of her complaining friend.

"Julia, open your heart to your old favourite, and remember there was a
time when we never concealed a thought from each other's knowledge."

Julia gasped and trembled.

"Julia, your friend has guessed the struggles you have endured, and
your flight has increased her love and high respect, if it could allow
an increase. It is not every ill-used wife--it is not every desolate
heart--that could have flown from Neville." Julia's hands became cold
as marble in Mrs. Spottiswoode's grasp, and she turned her face from
her friend's gaze in terror.

"Julia," continued Mrs. Spottiswoode, "by every recollection of our
childhood passed together--by the tenderness which ever existed
between us, and by our attachment, which has survived absence and
silence, open your heart to your poor Penelope! It is only known to
Chrystal and myself, that your temptations have been severe, and your
virtue severer still. It is to our bosoms alone that your confessions
have been made, Julia; and we love, with a deeper feeling of esteem,
the virtues we could not emulate under the same trial. Do not speak in
humility to _us_--do not fear to boast of the victory over your own
heart!"

"Have I then been delirious, Penelope? Have I spoken of him in
bitterness? Have I said any thing of Ennismore in anger? I have no
anger towards him. He was but weak and devoted to his mother. My father
cautioned me! I have no excuse, Penelope. How anxiously my father
cautioned me, and how stupidly I rejected the caution!"

"You were young, Julia; you could not suspect an artful and
cold-hearted woman!"

"So we say, when a parent's anxiety has been scoffed at, and we are
crushed by a dreadful experience. I knew my father's indulgence--I knew
his fears for my happiness--yet I turned to listen to the dictates of a
wretched ambition. Oh, my mother, my mother, _you_ sacrificed me!"

Julia sank upon the pillow from which she had risen with a strong
effort, and continued, in faltering accents--"Penelope, did I mention
another name? If I did, have mercy on me, and forbear to judge your
friend! You do not know how I have striven to do right!"

"I do know it, my beloved, I do know it--" exclaimed Mrs. Spottiswoode,
"and I guessed it, before your overcharged heart declared it in
delirium. I, your friend, know it; and may those who have shadowed your
days with evil, drink deep of the cup they prepared for you, Julia!"

"Oh, my mother, my mother!" cried Julia, "how could you guide me into
misery! How could I think you were preparing sorrow for the child who
loved and believed in your words!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode wept over the friend who lay prostrate, in body and
mind, before her. Julia essayed to rise, but her exhaustion was too
great; she could only press the hand of her faithful friend.

"Penelope, as you love me, never name even to myself the horrible
secret of my soul. Let it be for ever forgotten between us, and
strengthen me by your wise counsel and friendship, my own blessed
companion of once happy days!"

"Rest, rest, Julia," said Mrs. Spottiswoode, "and do not exert your
failing strength. I understand you. We will in future only speak of
calm days, and look forward to the sober pleasures of friendship. Among
your friends, the friends of your youth, Julia, there will be peace."

Lady Ennismore shook her head, and the tears which trickled through her
closed eyelids evinced her hopelessness of future tranquillity, but she
remained silent. Mrs. Spottiswoode kissed her pale cheek.

"Exert yourself no more, dearest Julia. I know all that is passing in
your heart, and its struggles for oblivion upon the past. Weep not,
my ill-used friend--my heart shall comfort you, and my love shall
heal the wounds of betrayed affection. You do not know the hearts
which are rallying round you, and are only waiting your convalescence
to declare themselves your sympathising and devoted friends. Be at
rest, my dearest Julia--I fear for the consequences of this weakening
conversation. Try to be composed and sleep, to quiet your poor friend's
alarms."

But the conversation had not weakened Lady Ennismore. Her spirit was
lightened by the knowledge that her secret was discovered, and that her
friend still loved and honoured her with unabated affection. It was a
relief to her heart, to feel assured that her friend did not judge her
severely; but that, with true friendship, she had poured balm upon her
broken hopes, and sympathised in her sufferings. The load of care which
pressed upon her mind and strength was cast upon the confiding friend
of her youth, whose consolations soothed and tranquillized the sorrow
which had consumed her. The husband, for whom she had quitted her home
and friends, had caused many miseries; but the hand of friendship had
supported her. What woe is not assuaged by that gentle and cheering
consolation!--that gift accorded by Providence to soften the ills of a
patient and submissive spirit!

Lady Ennismore wept silently for some time, but she did not weep with
the bitterness which destroys rest. Doubtless, her tears fell with
mingled feelings of joy and grief; doubtless, her heart was filled with
grateful thanks, that her destiny was yet cheered by the consolations
of tender and affectionate friends; doubtless, she wept to feel the
tears of Penelope upon her cheek; that Penelope Wycherly, whom _she_
had befriended in her hour of affliction, and who had shared with her
the joys and fears of childhood. No wonder Lady Ennismore wept! though
her emotion ceased to be of that distressing nature which gave her
friends so much pain to witness. It was weeping which relieved her
heart, and produced favourable results; for she became gradually more
tranquil, and her pale thin hand relaxing in its grasp, gave happy
assurance to Mrs. Spottiswoode that her unhappy friend slumbered.

When Dr. Darwin called again at Lidham, Lady Ennismore still slept
and lay composed. From that moment Julia's most distressing symptoms
disappeared, but she suffered from a languor which was oppressive;
a languor which pervaded mind and body to such a powerful degree,
that she scarcely seemed to exist. It had one excellent result. Lady
Ennismore ceased to suffer pain: it was a state apparently of perfect
torpor, caused by intense distress, and its tranquillity must be to her
enjoyment. She ceased to feel the extent of her misery.

Sir John Wetheral's visits to Lidham were of daily occurrence; he
longed to clasp his poor fugitive to his heart; but Lady Ennismore's
present situation required care, and all agitating interviews were
prohibited. It was only when the torpor which had seized upon her
became alarming by its continuance, that her father's presence was
advised, to try its effect upon her mind. If that interview did not
awaken her powers, it was feared that nothing henceforth would rouse
her from the stillness of death, till she forgot for ever the cares
which had disturbed her short pilgrimage. Mrs. Spottiswoode urged the
interview with anxious hope: she knew Julia's strong affections, and
she felt firmly convinced that if any earthly object _could_ rouse her,
it would be the sight of her indulgent parent. Sir John Wetheral was
accordingly summoned to appear unexpectedly before Lady Ennismore.

Julia was seated in her arm-chair, with her eyes fixed on the ground,
when Christobelle entered her chamber in the evening; but, as usual,
no sign of recognition took place. Miss Wetheral advanced towards her
sister, and offered her arm. "Julia, let us take one turn round the
room."

Lady Ennismore rose without speaking, and mechanically took the arm of
Christobelle, but she did not raise her eyes. Miss Wetheral spoke again.

"Julia, look there!"

Lady Ennismore's eye slowly followed the direction of her sister's
hand, which pointed towards the door. A scream burst from her lips, as
she beheld her father standing before her, and she flew into his arms.
The sight of her father _did_ rouse every recollection!

It is needless to dwell upon a scene so fraught with distress, or to
describe the affecting interview. It would be painful to repeat Lady
Ennismore's self-upbraidings, or to recount her father's soothing,
and most parental words of comfort. He welcomed his Julia to his
heart and home, with endearments which went deep into her grateful
heart, and spoke peace to her broken spirit. It was a scene which Mrs.
Spottiswoode and Christobelle never forgot. The tears they shed that
evening bore testimony to their deep emotion.

When Sir John Wetheral and his daughter became more tranquil, Mrs.
Spottiswoode would have terminated the interview, but Julia clung
to her father's arm, and would not be separated from him. She would
now, she said, open her heart to those so dear to her, that the work
of a long absence might be confided to her parent's breast, and he
should judge if her flight was rashly done. Mrs. Spottiswoode feared a
relapse; but Julia would not hear of rest. "Let me speak now, Penelope,
while my spirit is equal to the task. I may be ill, but my story must
be told; my father must be told; it will be a relief to know I need
recur to the past no more. Let me speak _now_, Penelope."

Lady Ennismore recapitulated the events which had taken place since her
father's visit to Bedinfield, and described her distress at finding
he had departed without bidding her farewell. "Her mother-in-law had
assured her so calmly that they _would_ depart, and declined remaining
another day to ascertain my lord's sudden attack, that she could not
disbelieve the assertion, and the thought had given her severe pain.
Profound silence, too, rested upon the transactions at Wetheral; not
once had she received a letter from the home which professed to love
her so tenderly. Not once did they acknowledge the numberless letters
she had written, to entreat their consideration, and to implore them to
answer her anxieties.

"After her father's departure from Bedinfield, as she thought, so
coldly, so unkindly! her heart sank, and she became gloomy. Her lord
received her as a stranger into his apartments during an illness of
long continuance, while the Dowager remained stationed by his side,
and her spirits could not endure the insulting banishment. She prayed
to visit her home, to see again her friend Miss Wycherly, to ask the
reason of their silence, and demand their withdrawn affection. Her
request was refused; but it was done so gently, so persuasively by her
mother-in-law, that she could only weep while she acquiesced in their
wishes to remain at Bedinfield.

"She began to fear Lord Ennismore did not love her; she began to
suspect the politeness of his mother, whose manners had so long blinded
her reason by their soft fascinations, but who had never, in a single
instance, yielded to her wishes, or considered her rights as the
real mistress of Bedinfield. That unchangingly-polite and flattering
suavity had proved the firmest bar to her happiness; for it had left
her without the power of complaint, while her heart was wrung with
disappointed feelings. They had carried her almost broken-hearted to
Florence."

Julia stopped; deep sighs burst from her bosom, and her head fell
upon the shoulder of Mrs. Spottiswoode: her father became powerfully
agitated; and Christobelle wept, without the power of controlling her
tears. Lady Ennismore proceeded:--

"At Florence, a complete separation was silently effected between Lord
Ennismore and herself. His lordship confined himself entirely to his
suite of apartments, and months often elapsed without an interview.
Sometimes he accompanied them into public, but he would retire
complaining from the exertion; and, though her own spirits demanded
retirement, and even solitude, his lordship's commands were imperative
upon her to appear with his mother at all the diversions where English
families attended.

"She became at length a mere machine in the hands of the Dowager
Countess. Without one friend to consult--absent from her nearest
relations--unable to speak the language of the country--melancholy and
careless of existence, she followed her mother-in-law into society
without enjoyment, and retired from it without satisfaction. Her days
became a blank, and she passed hours in silent weeping. At length
an Englishman was introduced to her by the Dowager, who pitied her
situation, and sought to amuse her heavy hours with news of her native
land. He told her he had seen her sister Clara's marriage with Sir
Foster Kerrison in the papers, and he had also seen the mention of
her death. By this statement alone she knew that Clara was no more.
No letter from England announced it, no intimation from her family
informed her of a sister's loss. She stood alone in the midst of her
greatness. There were none to do her a kindness, or to offer her the
consolation which was tendered to the humblest individual; none save
that Englishman spoke to her of home; none save him came forth from the
crowd, to speak of her country and her friends."

Julia's emotion increased, and she was nearly fainting, but she waved
away all assistance. "Let me say what I have to communicate, my dear
friends, and then I will be silent for ever on all that is past. Ah!
my dear papa, you told me I was signing your misery, when I would not
listen to your words. You told me you would rather follow my silent
remains to the grave than see me the wife of Ennismore. Would to Heaven
I _had_ died! I should now be at rest."

Sir John Wetheral pressed his unhappy daughter to his bosom, and
promised her rest under his own protection, and in the society of
her friends. He wished her to defer her hapless story till time had
somewhat recruited her strength; she was too weak to proceed in
detailing miseries which must distress and exhaust her powers. He
entreated her, for his sake and her own, to recur no more to the past.

"Let me proceed," cried Lady Ennismore, "and judge me not hardly; judge
me as Penelope judged me, kindly and graciously. I saw little of my
husband--never, in private. Lady Ennismore could have effected any
thing with her son, but she smiled at my repinings, and did not comfort
me. She urged me to be gay, to shake off gloomy thoughts in wild
amusement, and smile as others smiled. She sought Colonel Neville's
society, and domesticated him in our palace. Wherever we went, he went
also; and our home was the home of Neville."

Lady Ennismore sunk upon her knees before her father, and clasped his
hands.

"As I live to breathe again my native air, and see the forms I love,
I do believe she wished me to become the prey of evil passions, and
fall a victim to her arts! I do believe she trusted I might be thrust
for ever from her sight, and become the vile thing which would banish
me eternally from a husband's presence. But I was enabled to withstand
temptation. I prayed for strength to endure my destiny: and, when I
dared not confide in my own efforts--when my heart was distracted, and
my principles tottered, then I knew I should find help at Lidham; for
Penelope told me, in sickness or in sorrow, her home should be my home;
and I have flown to her for safety."

Poor suffering Julia! How she trembled as her father raised her from
her suppliant attitude, and called her his long-suffering, virtuous
child! How gratefully she raised her eyes in silent prayer, when her
father gloried in her principles, and said he loved her with a parent's
deepest affection and pride, for the danger she had so religiously
withstood. Yes, he blessed her for the firmness she had evinced, for
the virtuous conduct which had not deserted her, and for the prayerful
spirit which had led her to seek refuge in her God, instead of throwing
herself into the arms of man. How did a father's blessing soothe the
lacerated heart of the ill-used Julia!

From the hour of her confession, Lady Ennismore became more tranquil;
and, though her constitution had received a powerful shock, it was
hoped that time would bring back some portion of her once excellent
health. Sir John Wetheral resolved to escort his daughters to their
home as soon as Lady Ennismore could endure a removal; and, under
the shelter of the parental roof, Julia would feel protected from
the sorrows which had darkened her married life. There she would be
surrounded by her friends, and in its sanctuary she would feel no
more the slights and insults which had pressed so heavily upon her
affectionate heart. Mrs. Spottiswoode's near neighbourhood, and the
friendship which had formed so conspicuous a part of her character,
would throw a halo of consolation round the futurity of Julia; and when
her father and her friends congregated round her, the breath of public
opinion dared not whisper a thought injurious to her honour.

As Lady Ennismore slowly recovered the tone of her mind, her anxiety
to hear of her family increased, and she was gradually informed of the
changes which had taken place. Her ladyship had greatly wondered at
Lady Wetheral's absence from her room, and she mourned sincerely to
hear her mother's shattered health kept her closely confined at the
castle. Clara's death was also detailed to her, and Lady Ennismore wept
to hear that her sister had striven with evil days. She dwelt with
constant and painful interest upon her short career.

It seemed that Clara and herself had been doomed to woe; and, though
she smiled to think of Isabel's happiness, and loved to hear of the
contentment of Hatton, her ladyship's thoughts flew back to the direful
scenes at Ripley, and sorrowed for the early death of Lady Kerrison.
The remembrance of Clara drew Julia's contemplations from her own
exclusive situation; and her tears would flow, to think of the sister
whose temper could not brook the calls upon its patience. How different
had been their fate, yet how alike in misery! She herself had borne
daily and hourly provocations with unfailing submission, while Clara
had spurned to tax her patience under trials, and died beneath her
roused disgusts. Both had suffered--both had fallen; but Clara had
burst the bonds which fettered her happiness, and she was resting in
her early grave; while _she_ was doomed to exist a widowed wife, and
struggle under contumely!

When Lady Ennismore heard of Christobelle's engagement, she threw her
arms around her youthful sister, and pressed her to her bosom, but she
could not wish her joy.

"Chrystal," she said, with a look of sadness, "I can wish no one joy
when they quit their home, for I was congratulated by all my friends,
yet my portion was the cup of bitterness! I know Sir John Spottiswoode
is worthy--at least, it is reported so--but it is all uncertainty.
When we quit our father's house, we know not what we do!"

"But I am not marrying for wealth or title, Julia; I am engaged to a
man whose claims to my affection is his worth and excellence!"

Christobelle stood in distress at her inadvertent speech; for worlds
she would not have bruised a broken reed; for worlds she would not
wound the heart of her suffering sister. But Lady Ennismore was too
high-minded to believe a blow was aimed at her own conduct.

"It is true, Chrystal, you say it truly. You _have_ chosen a good
and kind-hearted man, and your fate will not be like mine. I _can_,
therefore, wish you joy. May you know only indulgence, and be as Isabel
and Anna Maria are! I can wish you no higher felicity. But I have
caused much trouble, for you have devoted your time to a poor creature
who feels deeply the kindness of her friends, and who grieves to
separate the happy. Where is Sir John Spottiswoode?"

Sir John Spottiswoode was at Alverton. He devoted the period of
Christobelle's constant attendance upon Lady Ennismore, to the
arrangement of his affairs in Worcestershire; and when Julia's health
released her sister from the cares of a sick room, Christobelle was to
recal him. Miss Wetheral was easier also when she knew her lover was
not near her. She could give undivided attention to her poor Julia,
when she did not hear his step lingering in the gallery, or distinguish
his voice under the windows, in conversation with his brother. On both
sides it was a relief to part at once, till they could meet in peace.
Their mutual comfort was destroyed by the knowledge that, though under
the same roof, they could only meet in short and hurried interviews;
and Christobelle rejoiced when her friend summoned resolution to visit
Alverton.

Charles Spottiswoode also departed with his brother for a short season,
and Lidham was the scene of perfect tranquillity during the distressing
illness of Lady Ennismore. For the sake of Mr. Spottiswoode, who so
generously relinquished his lady's society to her unfortunate friend,
Sir John Wetheral hastened to withdraw with his daughters from Lidham,
and Lady Ennismore sighed to see again the home of her early happiness,
and to find repose in the once gay halls of Wetheral. Christobelle was,
therefore, deputed to recal Sir John Spottiswoode, and she was charged
also to summon him to Wetheral Castle. Ere he could arrive, Julia would
be re-established in her father's house, and the painful events which
had taken place would, it was hoped, become softened by time, and the
society of her early friends.

Lady Ennismore could not be expected to forget that "such things were;"
but there was blessedness in feeling that her youthful error had not
been accompanied by guilt, and that her sorrows could not be past hope,
since she was free from self-reproach. She had endeavoured to perform
the duties of a wife--she had keenly felt the influence which separated
her from her husband's love--and every art had failed to render her
faithless to her vows. In all these reflections there was consolation,
and Julia's reward was in the love and esteem of her numerous and
attached friends.

Sir John Wetheral wrote a calm and powerful appeal to the heart
of the feeble-minded Lord Ennismore. He spoke of "his daughter's
sufferings--her forbearance--and her return to the protection denied
by her husband. He informed him of his resolution to protect that
daughter whose fame must suffer by his barbarous treatment; and never
more would he allow her to return to the man who had so deeply injured
her feelings, and her spotless reputation. He begged to say all future
intercourse must end for ever between the families of Ennismore and
Wetheral."

In due time a note was received, in the handwriting of the
Dowager-countess, bearing these concise sentences:--

 "The Dowager-countess of Ennismore regrets that the increased disorder
 of her son, Lord Ennismore, must compel her to become his amanuensis.
 The flight of Lady Ennismore is best known to herself; and the flight
 of Colonel Neville, at the same period, is also best understood by her
 ladyship. Lord Ennismore is content to remain deserted by his lady,
 and his mother will endeavour to supply her place by devoted attention
 to his offended and outraged feelings. Lady Ennismore is happy, if
 not respectable, in being upheld by her friends. The families of
 Bedinfield and Wetheral will meet no more."

This note was dated from Florence, and its contents were withheld from
Julia. It would have caused the wounds of her heart to bleed afresh. It
was better for her peace of mind, to remain in ignorance of Neville's
flight, and to be unconscious of the remark which pointed at her fame.

Julia declined seeing even Mrs. Pynsent, till her nerves had recovered
their tone by long quiet, and till she had seen her mother. It would be
a painful meeting with Anna Maria, because their last interview was at
the altar, and that event had sealed their lives to prospects strangely
opposed to each other. Anna Maria had given her vows to the man whom
Julia rejected, and her lot was cast in a goodly heritage. She was a
happy wife--a happy mother--and her children were growing up round her,
under happy auspices: but Julia had returned home, to be protected
from those who had vowed to love and honour her. It would be a very
overpowering and painful meeting; it would force recollections upon her
mind, fatal to her tranquillity; and the first sight of Anna Maria's
happy face would, for some time, overthrow the placidity which she had
acquired under the gentle soothings and support of Mrs. Spottiswoode.
Julia contemplated the meeting with alarm, and in tears.

Mrs. Spottiswoode accompanied Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle, as
they escorted Lady Ennismore to the home of her singlehood. Julia did
not speak during the little journey; but her eyes filled with tears,
as they rested on each well-known object in her route. Her emotion
was excessive as the carriage entered the Lodges of Wetheral, and the
avenue produced a thousand reminiscences of the past, which occasioned
a strong hysteric. But there were those near her who tempered the blow
to the sufferer, and softened her regrets by kind commiseration. Her
father's voice alone appeared to fail in bringing calm to her heart.

"Let me not hear that voice!" she exclaimed, "for it brings to my
mind how mournfully it implored me to avoid repentance! Every thing
I see remains unchanged; it is only Clara and myself who were doomed
to sink into death and wretchedness! My mother--cruel mother!--it is
all my mother!" Oppressed with grief, Julia sank into silence, and she
suffered herself to be carried into the rooms which once constituted
the sleeping apartments and dressing-room of herself and Anna Maria.
Julia placed her hand upon her heart, but she did not give utterance
to her thoughts, as she glanced round upon well-remembered furniture,
and fixed her eyes upon the large mirror which had reflected her gay
appearance upon her bridal-morn. Mrs. Spottiswoode, her bridesmaid,
stood by her; and her father held her hand, as he had affectionately
held it when she kneeled to receive his blessing as Julia Ennismore.

This powerful picture of the past affected her heart. She threw herself
at her father's feet.

"Forgive me!--forgive my obstinate presumption, papa! I feel how
truly you spoke! how blindly I followed my own judgment! This is a
bitter stroke to me! All are here who did not advocate my ambitious
choice!--but where are they who told me I should be greatly envied?
Where is my mother, who prophecied worldly happiness, and told me I was
right to persevere? Who assured me of bright realities, and years of
happy freedom?"

Julia rose from her kneeling attitude, and the expression of her eyes
was fearfully wild, as she held out her hands to her father.

"Why did she tell me my father loved lowly things, and could not
comprehend a woman's heart? Why did she tell me Ennismore was easily
influenced, and that a wife's word would supersede a mother's
management? Has it been so? Have I not suffered scorn, and ridicule,
and banishment, in silence? Have I not endured a thousand regrets--a
thousand struggles--a thousand insults?"

Julia paused as her eye again wandered over the mirror, and she saw
the reflection of her own wasted figure and pale countenance. For one
moment her whole attention was engrossed by the change which had taken
place in her person. She gazed at her thin form, and raised her hands
to examine the wasted fingers which had lost their once plump roundness
and extreme beauty. She then fled from the apartment.



CHAPTER XXXI.


Sorrows, renewed by the associations which pressed upon her mind,
impelled Lady Ennismore to seek her mother's apartments. Mrs. Bevan was
attending her mistress, and Julia's noiseless step glided across the
carpeted floor of the dressing-room, where Lady Wetheral lay extended
on the sofa, complaining to her attendant of her own wretched feelings.

"Bevan, I am very ill to-day: I cannot see Mrs. Tom Pynsent, or admit
any one. My nerves become worse and worse, and I am in a dreadful state
of tremour at this moment. I cannot hold my salts bottle, it falls out
of my poor nervous fingers--I am very ill to-day."

Mrs. Bevan spoke pleasing words of comfort, but her ladyship rejected
them.

"Don't talk nonsense, Bevan. I hate to hear people say things which are
not likely to occur. How can I expect to be well, when Miss Wetheral
obstinately defies my wishes, and all my children are determined to
fly in my face? I had a dream, too, last night, which increases my
disorder; I dreamt I saw Lady Ennismore brilliantly dressed, walking in
a procession; and she walked so stately in jewels, and her rank placed
her so high among the great ones, that I was proud of my daughter, and
I smiled to see her in grandeur. Poor Julia, where is she _now_!"

"She is here," exclaimed Lady Ennismore, standing before her mother,
with her thin hands crossed upon her bosom; "here is the envied
Countess of Ennismore!"

Lady Wetheral gazed upon the vision in dumb amazement.

"Look at me," continued Julia, "look at my figure, and tell me if you
believed all this would come to pass? When you assured me that wealth
and rank was happiness and virtue, did you think I should return a
fugitive, to seek shelter at your hands?"

"Julia!" gasped Lady Wetheral, "Julia! go! who are _you_?"

"Go?" exclaimed Lady Ennismore, "where shall I go? To Clara? Shall I
rest with poor Clara? Must I be laid by poor Clara, to find peace
after my sacrifice, my absence, and my griefs?"

The tremour which attacked Lady Wetheral's frame was alarming. It
precluded speech: she hid her face with her hands, as Lady Ennismore
proceeded.

"For quitting a husband's home, I may be censured and avoided by the
world, for it may never know my provocations and my struggles, but
I should not be turned from my mother's presence! I should not be
banished by the author of all my misery, as if she had no part in the
misery which I endure!"

"Do not say so--oh, do not say so! Do not blame me, as Clara did!" Lady
Wetheral sobbed aloud.

"I reproach no one," answered Lady Ennismore, mournfully. "I reproach
no one, though I was promised happiness as the wife of Ennismore. Where
is that happiness? You foretold it, mother. You said I should for ever
enjoy wealth and station, and become the envied gaze of thousands!
Where is it all?"

"Cease, cease!" cried Lady Wetheral, wrung by feelings of alarm and
self-reproach. "I wished you to marry Pynsent, Julia!"

"Cruel mother," exclaimed Lady Ennismore, as she caught her hand, and
looked earnestly in her face, "do not say so, to drive me wilder than
my poor brain feels now! Did you not hold up Ennismore to my view, as a
creature to worship? Did you not tell me his coronet was worth a daring
grasp, if I could gain the courtly bauble? Oh, you bid me secure the
lofty establishment, and I did so, and have suffered! I wish I was with
poor dead Clara! We both turned from our father, and would not heed
his mild precepts. We listened to projects which suited our ambitious
nature, though he deprecated the unholy passion. Oh, mother, you
fostered the wild and dangerous feeling! I wish I was laid by the side
of Clara! I wish I was at rest, like her!"

"Bevan, Bevan," ejaculated Lady Wetheral, "where are you?"

Mrs. Bevan curtseyed as she stood in mute astonishment behind her
lady's sofa. She was unable to speak: her eyes were riveted upon Lady
Ennismore, who still grasped her mother's hand, and still continued her
wild address.

"This has been a fearful affair! Two of us have fallen--one into the
grave, and one into living sorrow--self-banished from a heartless
home. Is it not a fearful thing?"

"Do not blame me, as Clara did--do not blame me for your flight,
Julia," said Lady Wetheral, endeavouring to withdraw her hand, but Lady
Ennismore clasped it more closely.

"I blame no one--but two of us are lost for ever. I blame no one!"

"I detested scenes--I ever detested scenes, Julia!" Lady Wetheral rose
into a sitting posture as she spoke. "I warned you from the beginning,
all of you, never to offend me by violent measures, which draw down
ridicule and disgust. Clara and yourself were married greatly, Julia!"

"Where has been our greatness?" said Lady Ennismore, despondingly.

"You were both placed in affluence," retorted her mother, with
nervous trepidation, "and your high positions were exalted above your
companions. You were greatly married--that was _my_ doing: but you have
thrown yourselves from the pinnacle of earthly honours--and that was
_your_ doing!"

"Mother, I have been betrayed, banished from my husband's
presence--unhappy, and uncared for," said Lady Ennismore, releasing
her hand, and sinking upon the floor in despair.

"I told you," continued Lady Wetheral, becoming almost vehement in her
manner, "I told you many things might occur to distress your heart, but
nothing could arise to make you an object of ridicule to the world,
except your own folly. You have flown from Lord Ennismore's house--who
will receive you? who receives a truant wife?"

"I was miserable," said the prostrate Julia.

"How few are otherwise," returned her mother, "if all secrets were
disclosed? Happiness is a nonsensical word--a rock to shipwreck
romantic hopes. We may not command happiness, but we _can_ command
external blessings. With every luxury that reflected honour upon human
beings, what right had you and Clara to be otherwise than content?"

"How cold--how cruel to speak so harshly!" ejaculated Lady Ennismore.

"Had you not rank?" continued Lady Wetheral--"had you not a princely
home--an earl's coronet? Had you not all the world can bestow, when you
fled from your husband's protection?"

"I fled from treachery and from infamy!"

"Infamy! Who dares report of infamy?" Lady Wetheral started to her
feet, and supported herself by grasping the back of a chair. "Has my
daughter, Lady Ennismore, allowed herself to become--? has the breath
of suspicion breathed upon a Wetheral!--has _one_ suspicion glanced
upon you, Julia?"

"I have flown to my father, to avoid my own reproach," cried Julia; "I
care not for the world--I have flown to escape the reproaches of my own
heart."

"Folly--madness!" observed her mother--"flown from your heart! What
heart had you which was not wedded to your station--to the eminence in
life upon which you were called to stand above your companions? Are you
not wedded to the title of Ennismore? Are you not the proud wife of a
British peer?--an earl's wife? Is not your heart hid behind the folds
of your ermine, and buried in the magnificence of your lot?"

"No, no--it is not there!" cried Julia, clasping her hands--"it
is not there! My heart was given to kindness. I would have loved
him faithfully, but I was banished from his presence--second to
his artful mother in his thoughts--betrayed by the person I most
trusted--proscribed as the mistress of his house. Many women would
have resented the indignities I have borne--but I have flown from the
temptations which surrounded me, and my father has given me shelter.
Oh! you have sacrificed me, but do not upbraid me--I have done no
wrong to any one. Why should _you_ look hardly upon me, who promised
me happiness, and have broken its fulfilment? Poor Clara! how we have
suffered for our fault. My father warned me of my wickedness!"

"Did _I_ not warn you, Lady Ennismore?" asked Lady Wetheral, with a
raised complexion, as she beheld, unmoved, poor Julia's suppliant
attitude. "Did _I_ not say, I scorned a woman who was mean enough to
seek the world's upbraiding by her conduct? You were the Countess of
Ennismore--your flight has brought down obloquy upon the name. Who will
believe the statement of a runaway? Who will believe the fugitive Lady
Ennismore has been unaccompanied in her flight? The voice of the world
will be loud in censure upon the step you have taken."

"Oh, my father, my father! save me from the world--save me from
reproaches like these!" exclaimed Julia, rising from her prostrate
attitude, and endeavouring to quit the room; but her mother caught her
dress, and detained her. There was something awful in the expression of
her countenance, as she addressed Lady Ennismore.

"If a mother sacrifices her time and endeavours to form a child's
happiness, has she not a right to expect its completion? Did I not act
for you--think for you--and labour for you? Did I not place you in
affluence and grandeur? Are you not the Countess of Ennismore? Tell me,
are you not Countess of Ennismore, the mistress of princely Bedinfield?"

"I am the unfortunate and unhappy wife of Lord Ennismore," answered
Julia, "the nominal mistress of Bedinfield, but the real proprietor of
only sorrow and degradation."

"Away with such folly!" cried Lady Wetheral, with vehemence; "let me
not hear such mad complaints, such horrible madness! Have you not
all that is coveted by human beings?--state, high rank, wealth, and
influence? What does your arrogant heart covet _now_? What do you
presume to wish, beyond the splendid lot you have obtained?"

"Happiness--I ask for happiness! I ask for my husband's heart--I ask
for domestic peace," replied Julia, pressing her forehead with her
trembling hands. "I ask for the simple pleasures of domestic peace. I
will not accept grandeur without them!"

"You have brought public remark upon the name of Wetheral," resumed her
mother, her eyes darting fire. "You have betrayed the confidence of
your mother, who hoped to see her daughter an envied creature! You have
thrown away the jewels of life, to grasp at shadows. Happiness!--_who_
is happy?--not those who are born to stand apart in grandeur--not those
upon whom the eyes of the multitude gaze in admiration. It may be a
word bandied by the humble, to balance the evils of poverty, and give
a zest to lowly destinies--but the great ones heed it not. _They_ live
in a sphere set apart from grovelling notions--they spurn the folly
of romantic, sickly fancy, to hold on their course like meteors! I am
a parent most miserable. I am deprived of all I laboured to advance.
My heart was anchored upon the glorious destiny of three children,
who have betrayed their high calling--but Bell has done the worst. A
dukedom was offered her!--a dukedom was tendered to her, I say! and the
puny coward struck it from her!--oh, that hour to a mother's heart!..."

Lady Wetheral's vehemence overpowered her strength. The sudden
and unaccountable appearance of her daughter, without any previous
warning, almost led her to suppose a spirit from the dead had risen
to taunt her with her deep disappointments. It seemed as if a spirit
from another world had sought her, to jeer and mock at her misery as
a defeated mother, and that form assumed the likeness of her banished
Julia. What! had she heard the word "infamy" spoken?--did she hear
that Lady Ennismore had flown from her husband? Was this to be added
to Clara's death, and Christobelle's ingratitude? Was she indeed to
endure this accumulated burthen of crushed hopes?--to see _all_ her
long years of anxious efforts destroyed, and behold the very beings
she had raised so high, turn to rend her? What spirit could bend under
such fearful ingratitude, that possessed one spark of _her_ indomitable
determinations?

A deep pause succeeded. Julia still listened, with her face buried in
her hands, and her dress was yet in the grasp of her mother's hand,
when a cry from Mrs. Bevan startled her. Lady Ennismore looked up in
terror. She beheld her incensed parent standing before her, in the
attitude of reproach, but her eyes were dull, and her form had become
rigid: contending passions were warring with terrible violence in her
heart.

It was a fearful and affecting scene to witness, but it could not
long last. Lady Ennismore's terror at her unfortunate mother's state
obliterated for the moment her own sorrows, and she flew to assist Mrs.
Bevan in her cares. Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle were instantly
summoned, and the Castle became a scene of alarm and confusion. Mrs.
Spottiswoode was again a true-hearted and valuable friend in their
affliction.

Lady Wetheral sunk into a long illness. Her strife of heart--the strife
of a high and determined spirit contending with bitter mortifications
in all those things which she had so fondly cherished--had nearly
proved fatal to her frame, and she was long vibrating between life
and death. But her naturally good constitution, and the unremitting
attentions of her daughters, overcame the attacks of a dangerous
malady, and gradually Lady Wetheral became again convalescent. The
body slowly acquired some portion of renewed health, but the mind was
fixed in gloomy irritability. Nothing could exceed her ladyship's
unbearable tyranny to those gentle beings who strove to soothe her
long confinement. The victims of her ambitious projects were now the
objects of constant petty and vexatious attacks. Christobelle had one
near her who could lure her disquiets into happy tranquillity--but Lady
Ennismore almost sunk under their distressing influence.

Sir John Wetheral bore all his trials with the resignation of a man
who received good and evil things from his Maker's hands, and accepted
them as means of evidencing his patience and resignation. He endured
his lady's most disagreeable taunts with the fortitude belonging to
his estimable character: he only appeared to suffer when those taunts
were levelled at the heartbroken, gentle Julia. Lady Wetheral's
tyrannical temper seemed irrecoverable even by the operation of time,
or gentle forbearance. Mrs. Bevan remarked "that her lady's eyes
and manner were peculiarly vehement in their expression, during her
reproaches addressed to Lady Ennismore." It _must_ have been a powerful
feeling which could produce such a change of manner in one whose whole
existence had been devoted to the exercise of self-command, and who had
ever deprecated the bad taste and uselessness of "scenes;" it must have
been an overwhelming feeling of ambition trampled to the earth, which
bore down a mind so keenly alive, so restless in its purposes, and so
successful in its schemes.

Christobelle had the blessing of Sir John Spottiswoode's society,
to balance her many hours of disquietude. She could turn to him for
happiness, when her spirit was sad, and, under his soothings, her
mother's harsh remarks were forgotten. Every disagreeable feeling
passed away in the sunshine of his presence. She only bent, in grateful
acknowledgment, to the Being who had committed her infancy to her
father's care, to receive his wise admonitions, and be cautioned to
renounce the fearful dictates of ambition. Christobelle saw how it had
lured its victims to woe. She knew it had destroyed the happiness of
Julia--that it had aimed the death-blow to Clara--that it had worked
desolation upon her mother. Every one who drank of the cup which a
reckless ambition presented to their lips had tasted a deadly poison,
which slowly and surely produced desolation of heart. Christobelle felt
she had been spared. She had not been overwhelmed by its cold precepts:
she had received strength to endure oppression, and had not bartered
peace of mind for the empty glare of worldly distinction. Christobelle
was indeed grateful, as she pondered these things in her mind.

Lady Ennismore was called to a less fortunate destiny. Her spirits
were broken by the continual and ruthless observations which were
showered upon her by her irritable parent, under the pressure of time
unemployed, and the total failure of resource. Lady Wetheral's mind
turned to the past, for materials to employ her weakened energies;
and the past could only give back harassing recollections. Such
recollections produced a constant state of irritation, which was
hurtful to herself, and intolerable to those around her. Wetheral
Castle appeared the grave of every hope, and the "_oubliette_" to
rational, tranquil comfort. The heart of Lady Ennismore was depressed
beyond recall, by continued and unsuccessful efforts to appear cheerful
under accumulated suffering. It was impossible to give satisfaction to
an exacting and imperious mother. She could only weep in privacy, and
pray to be "laid by Clara."

Mrs. Spottiswoode was unwearied in her kind visits during Lady
Wetheral's illness. The Penelope of former days was the same attached
friend at the present hour; and Lady Ennismore felt how blessed was the
possession of a gentle heart, which had clung to her through good and
evil report--which never exacted selfish sacrifices, or shrunk from the
task of enduring much, to soften the distresses of an uncomplaining
spirit. Mrs. Spottiswoode bore the petulant remarks of Lady Wetheral
with patient good-humour. If the "blood of the Wycherlys" rose
occasionally into her cheeks, and latent fires sparkled in her eye,
the door of her lips were hermetically sealed, and she never resented
the offensive petulance of a defeated and angry manœuvrer. Her only
desire aimed at warding off for a few hours the painful observations
which must otherwise have been levelled at two unoffending objects.

Lady Wetheral did not object to receive Mrs. Spottiswoode. However
strongly her character approximated to that of her aunt Pynsent in its
outline, her manners were less abrupt, and her temper more yielding.
Mrs. Spottiswoode had also "crept in" so silently and regularly, that
a visit every other day was considered a thing of course; and if Lady
Wetheral had any thing particularly disagreeable or offensive to say,
she contrived to say it to Mrs. Spottiswoode. Mrs. Spottiswoode bore
every thing with smiles: she knew it spared the feelings of her own
friend--the suffering, the injured, and dependent Julia.

Lady Wetheral confined herself entirely to her apartments, and
declined all society. She derived no satisfaction from the visits of
friends, whom she was sure came on purpose to deride her sorrows. She
particularly commanded to be denied to Mrs. Pynsent. She told Mrs.
Spottiswoode it was unpleasant to be restricted from communion with her
neighbours, but she must be aware her aunt Pynsent was inadmissable
from her loud tone of voice, and uncouth way of blurting out offensive
remarks. Her aunt was a misery in a sick room, and she only wondered
how Clara could endure it, to the exclusion of the mother who had
promoted her marriage, and endured so much to effect it.

Lady Wetheral also confided to Mrs. Spottiswoode her opinions upon
Christobelle's folly.

"Your brother, Mrs. Spottiswoode, is a very gentlemanly man, but a poor
baronet is a sad match for Bell--I will never lend myself to it. I know
Sir John allows him to visit here, and Bell is engaged to him in some
way or other, I dare say. Perhaps they are waiting for my death? Bell
refused a dukedom, and is content to accept a Worcestershire baronet!
Can you believe any thing so degrading?--and waiting, too, for her
poor mother's death! This is very dreadful! How can I look any of my
neighbours in the face? I am told Lord Farnborough is going to marry
Fanny Ponsonby: it serves Bell quite right, and I hope she will feel
it severely. A pleasant sight it will be to see the Forfar equipage
dashing by, while Bell is only a poor baronet's wife in a britzska. I
cannot endure such thoughts. Bevan, where are my salts?"

"But, my dear Lady Wetheral, if my brother makes Christobelle happy,
and if he indulges her with all the comforts of life, what more can a
human being require?"

Lady Wetheral shuddered.

"The comforts of life! Bread and cheese to eat, and a stuff gown and
straw bonnet to wear--is this the vulgar and popular idea of existence?
You, Penelope, have married into the family, and are justified in
upholding it, but I will never see Bell, if she can endure degradation!
My health is sacrificed to outraged feelings! Lady Ennismore, if it
is not too much trouble, will you be so considerate as to move this
cushion a little higher. Your ladyship has had little practice, I
fancy, in the nursing department: it never occurs to you how much I am
suffering."

Lady Ennismore silently adjusted the cushion, but the allusion to
her banishment from her lord's sick room, renewed the grief of her
heart: tears sprang to her patient, expressive eyes. This could not be
overlooked by Penelope Spottiswoode.

"Lady Wetheral, I demand, and insist upon the necessity of Lady
Ennismore's removal for a few days to Lidham. I must not allow you
all to waste away in witnessing each other's depression. Christobelle
and Sir John will take Julia's place, while I run away with my friend
this very morning. I shall not return to Lidham till you are ready to
accompany me, Julia."

There was "a Pynsent tone" in Mrs. Spottiswoode's speech, which Lady
Wetheral felt unable to contend against: her ladyship detested that
_Hatton_ expression of voice. She replied languidly, with an injured
and offended air,

"Pray do as you please, Mrs. Spottiswoode. Every one has done, and, I
suppose, _will_ do, as they please with me. I am too feeble to resist
violent resolutions. I beg to decline having any one forced upon me.
Lady Ennismore has renounced control of any kind, and, of course,
she will continue to act as she thinks proper, without consulting
her mother. Sir John and Christobelle, I suppose, will visit me,
without being 'offered.' I conclude my family will relieve my solitude
voluntarily, though I am considered of secondary importance. Bevan,
where is my pocket-handkerchief?"

"In your hand, my lady."

"Oh, very well. I wish I was equally blind to more distressing
annoyances. I wish I could lose sight as easily of other things."

Mrs. Spottiswoode turned a resolutely deaf ear to all covert attacks.
It was imperative, in her opinion, to withdraw Lady Ennismore to
Lidham, and the harsh conduct of Lady Wetheral only riveted her
resolution. Sir John concurred in her views. He was aware his daughter
endured much, and he wished her to be removed altogether from a scene
so destructive to her peace. It was impossible to hope Julia could ever
regain tranquillity, when the wounds of her heart were torn open by
daily and hourly invective. Christobelle and himself would attend the
querulous invalid, in patient hope that time would soften the asperity
proceeding from a diseased mind, but he saw the absolute necessity of
withdrawing Lady Ennismore from her attendance. Sir John Wetheral
hoped she would remain a long season in the society and hospitality of
Lidham.

Yet Julia quitted her father with great reluctance. She knew her
sister was happy, and supported by the occasional visits of Sir John
Spottiswoode. Her heart was occupied by a powerful attachment, and
sorrow had not thrown a mantle of gloom over _her_ young visions yet.
Her affection was blessed by a father's approval, and the smiles of
rejoicing friends; yes, Christobelle could contemplate her futurity
fearlessly--but who would, or could, pour balm upon her father's
solitary hours? His study was still a sanctuary, but he carried into
its precincts a disturbed and heavy spirit. Julia could not bear the
idea of quitting her father.

Mrs. Spottiswoode smoothed every thought which could ruffle her
friend's equanimity, and planed away all difficulties. She unburdened
her mind to the four friends who surrounded her, as she hastily partook
of sandwiches.

"My dear Sir John, I have achieved a scheme, which will set my
Julia's heart at rest, and yours, too. I counsel you to keep the
'poor Worcestershire baronet' at Wetheral, till happier times arrive.
Why should not he bear some share of the evil, when the good is
before him? and by his sparkling eyes, and intelligent glances at
Christobelle, I judge he is willing to undertake the task. This is
my advice, as far as concerns _yourself_; now for my brother-in-law:
listen, young man, and be guided! I counsel you to be gentle mannered,
and prompt in action, as I have been. _Creep in_, as I have done;
and bear all irritating remarks, as I have borne them. Learn to be
enduring, patient, and silent, and I will undertake to promise you
sufficient success. Who undertakes to refute my words?"

Mrs. Spottiswoode looked round at her auditors, but there was no
refutation. Sir John Spottiswoode alone replied, and he only spoke his
eager wishes to assist in tranquillizing Lady Wetheral's objections
to his suit. He would wait in patience and persevering attentions, to
attain that blessed reward of his labours, if it was required, even for
years.

"Six months will do, John, if you are politic. Sir John Wetheral, pray
lead Lady Ennismore to my carriage, and I will follow, after a few
words in a corner with my brother."

Sir John led out his daughter, while Christobelle clung to her sister's
hand. She was going to lose her for an indefinite period, and she
should miss her gentle voice and affectionate smile. Spottiswoode would
be with her, and she could not but own his society was a charm to
balance a thousand ills. Nevertheless, she must miss Julia every hour.
She would have the satisfaction, however, of knowing how much she would
be prized by Mr. and Mrs. Spottiswoode.

Mrs. Spottiswoode did not long detain her friends. Her words were few,
and decisive.

"John, that unhappy woman is as mad as a March hare. I never can
believe her sane, therefore, I bear with her. Let her abuse you and
your friends; and allow her to speak whatever she thinks of aunty
Pynsent, and I am sure you will become necessary to her. Her manners
are so completely changed, that I am confident she is deranged, and it
is no use quarrelling with mad people."

"It is an extraordinary method of making oneself acceptable, Penelope.
I am not sure I can endure to hear my friends abused, but I will
endeavour to be pleasing, and you may be sure I shall 'creep in' after
Christobelle. Once fairly admitted into the invalid's room, you need
not fear my second dismissal."

"Very well, I have no more to say, then. I will not relinquish Julia,
as long as I can prevail upon her to remain at Lidham. She is enduring
too much for human nature to bear. Farewell." Mrs. Spottiswoode then
joined her friends.

Sir John Wetheral pressed Mrs. Spottiswoode's hand, as he assisted her
into the carriage. "Accept," he said, "the grateful thanks of a father
for this kind and thoughtful step. May _you_ never be called to sorrows
which your warm heart is seeking to alleviate in your friends!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode returned the pressure.

"I do not ask you to come to us very often, because I know you cannot
exist long from Julia; but be sure you always bring good news with you
from Wetheral. God bless you all!"



CHAPTER XXXII.


Lady Ennismore recovered some degree of tranquillity under the soothing
influences of her friends, who congregated round her at Lidham, but
her spirits never recovered their tone of elasticity. She met the
Pynsents with severe distress, and struggled visibly for fortitude,
as recollections of the past crowded to memory; but when that fearful
interview was once effected, Anna Maria's society was productive of
much good. Tom Pynsent was unchanged; he was the same excellent and
honourable creature: he was an affectionate and valued husband; they
appeared to be, and were, the happiest couple in the world. No wonder
Anna Maria looked younger and handsomer than ever. Her heart was at
rest. How warmly had her father spoken of Tom Pynsent's good qualities.
Alas! _she_ had preferred splendid misery, and was now reaping a
harvest of woe. She would not, dared not, think too deeply.

Lady Ennismore could contemplate Mrs. Boscawen with unmixed
satisfaction. She was changed in person, and improved in manner. Mr.
Boscawen was proud of his lady; and how could he help it, since he was,
in her eyes, the best and handsomest of created beings? It must be a
new and delightful existence to the once alarming, grim-looking, though
excellent, Mr. Boscawen.

The sight and sounds of those she loved was of important benefit to
Lady Ennismore. The accents of affection, the voice of mirth, the forms
of her long banished friends gliding before her, roused her dormant
energies, and awakened her to the joys of life. She paid short visits
to Hatton and Brierly, to see her nephews and nieces; and, though her
lips never uttered a remark, Mrs. Spottiswoode fancied her more languid
and pale after her brief absence. Doubtless, the "rural sports" at both
places were too powerful for her weakened frame and shattered nerves.

Lady Ennismore continued three months with Mrs. Spottiswoode. Sir
John Wetheral brought a bulletin daily of his ladies' health, and
each account was less favourable in its purport. Christobelle wrote
despondingly upon the subject to her sister. She regretted to say
her poor Spottiswoode failed in all his patient exertions to win her
mother's approbation. She was happy to think there was no cause of
complaint against him of any serious nature. His crime consisted in
having stepped in between her poor mother's ambition and a dukedom; and
this would ever be unpardonable in her eyes. Her mother was relentless
towards Spottiswoode. She would not pronounce his name, or receive a
message from him. She only alluded to him as the "poor baronet," or
"the man whom Sir John upheld." It was vain to hope against hope. Her
mother's dislike grew more powerful as her strength declined, and it
would end only in the grave. Her mother received no one; she appeared
to have renounced society, and her movements were exclusively confined
to her own range of apartments. Mrs. Daniel Higgins was admitted
frequently, because she had been the depository of her lady's secrets
in days of yore, and was now a patient listener to her regrets; but,
beyond that, all was silent at Wetheral. Christobelle considered her
father in much better spirits. He had become apparently reconciled to
her mother's change of habits; and he was more cheerful, more called
forth, she thought, than when her mother was the dominant spirit. It
might be that his mind was at rest concerning his children; that he was
no longer dreading plots and systems, and was gratified by the constant
society of Spottiswoode, who was so attentive and companionable to
him. She could not tell, but so it was. She was distressed to think
they were so happy together, when her poor mother's situation was so
cheerless, and her health so visibly declining!

Such was the tenor of Christobelle's communications to Lidham, and they
renewed Lady Ennismore's anxiety to return to Wetheral. She longed to
relieve Christobelle from some portion of her fatigues; and, above
all, her spirit flew back to her father. She could never sufficiently
value his parental anxieties, or the protection he was affording her
sorrow. A father's presence was a shield from every worldly blast; and
the perfect seclusion of Wetheral Castle suited best with her present
state. Lidham was almost too gay, though she only met looks and words
of kindness and approbation. It was time that Christobelle should
also enjoy a period of happy communion with Sir John Spottiswoode;
and that period could not arrive, unless some one assumed the reins
in her place, and bore the disagreeables of the nursing department.
Mrs. Spottiswoode's good sense acquiesced entirely in Lady Ennismore's
reasonings.

"My dear friend, _you_ are perfectly right, and _I_ am only perfectly
sorry to lose you. I anticipate much comfort in the present state of
things, however dismally Christobelle represents them. You will all be
happier at Wetheral, and I shall see your face beaming with smiles, in
spite of Lady Wetheral's monastic retirement. Don't look distressed,
Julia; I am going to explain myself."

"My mother has received an incurable wound, Penelope!"

"I know that. Lady Wetheral has received an incurable wound in her
ambition, and that has closed her hopes and pleasures on this side the
grave. She has no child to plan for--not one now to sacrifice. All is
ended which employed her mind, and fed the craving passion of her soul.
Her resources are cut off, and she will never more resume her position
in society. Is it not wisely ordered? If Lady Wetheral recovered her
health, would she not be scheming for her grandchildren, and pouring
her besetting foible into their innocent minds? My dear Julia, enough
misery has been originated. Let it end here. Let us not wish it
otherwise."

Lady Ennismore could not refute her friend's argument. Mrs.
Spottiswoode continued.

"Wetheral Castle will never, perhaps, resume its festive scenes, for
there has been too much of evil connected with their remembrance;
but you will enjoy profound peace of heart, and receive your friends
without alarm. If Lady Wetheral remains secluded in her apartments,
there is no reason why the rest of the family should not enjoy
themselves: forgive me if I say it will prove _true_ enjoyment."

Mrs. Spottiswoode spoke truly. Wetheral Castle did become a home
of domestic peace, because its restless mistress no longer wielded
the sceptre of power, to transform the elements of good into the
instruments of evil. Lady Wetheral sunk into ill health and apathy,
irrecoverable. Her mind and body seemed stunned into torpor, by two
events which she had not foreseen, and could not parry--the refusal of
a dukedom by Christobelle, and the flight of Lady Ennismore from her
home. These two events were ever upon her thoughts, and in her speech,
because "she had particularly arranged each splendid match, and was
doomed to be foiled by her own children in their accomplishment. She
knew her energies were worn down, and her strength exhausted. She
could not walk three steps from her sofa without fatigue, and the
least noise produced severe nervous attacks. She was a pretty specimen
of maternal cares! She advised all parents to allow their headstrong
daughters to marry whoever would encumber themselves with them; for
marry they would, and it was hopeless to endeavour to lead their tastes
in a proper channel. She expected Mrs. Higgins would let _her_ little
girl grow up in insubordination, and the child would most likely marry
a bricklayer, instead of looking up to a man in a well established
grocery-business. She detested mean minds."

Lord Ennismore and his mother, the Dowager-countess, appeared again
at Bedinfield. Her ladyship's point was gained. She had recovered
entire control over the destinies of Bedinfield, freed from continual
alarms, lest her son should escape her powerful influence, and become
infatuated by the loveliness and yielding disposition of his gentle
wife. But she did not long enjoy the fruits of her unnatural conduct.
Ere a year had elapsed after the separation recorded, Lord Ennismore
sank into the family vault at Bedinfield, unwept and unhonoured, save
by the generous-hearted creature whom he had not the capacity to
appreciate.

When Lady Ennismore received the information of her unfortunate lord's
decease, she wept to think how desolate had been the existence of
a human being, born to become the tool and victim of his mother's
insatiable love of power; and she wept to remember he had died without
the consolation of being watched over by a wife, who would have acted
honourably and faithfully in her duties.

Sir John Wetheral also suffered. He felt a conviction that his own want
of firmness had fostered his lady's ambitious turn of mind; and he
dwelt upon the melancholy idea that his own hand had bestowed, however
unwillingly--that his consent had been extorted, however painful to
himself--to give a beloved child to the imbecile Lord Ennismore. It
was a thought he never could banish from his memory, and it pained him
most when Julia's society became his greatest comfort. It was, however,
vain to regret the past. Sir John's mild nature was unequal to contend
with the persevering system adopted by his lady, and he could never
comprehend or combat effectually her unceasing efforts to forward
her views upon the minds of her children. The Gertrude of his early
affections was now severed from his companionship, and he turned to
Julia, to receive from her hands the care and attention necessary to
his future comfort.

Lady Ennismore fully requited her parent's hope. She sought no society
beyond her own family, and the little circle of friends who had ever
valued her affectionate heart. Mrs. Spottiswoode, the friend and
beloved companion--that solace to earthly tribulations--that gift
tendered to few--was near her. Hatton was a home of affection, and
Brierly threw open its portals with triumph at her approach. All
had respected and honoured the hapless wife, and all surrounded the
released widow in silent gratulation. Mrs. Pynsent publicly declared
"It was a deep trick of that woman Ennismore, whom she never could
endure; and if the poor young Julia Wetheral had not fallen into
the hands of two she-Philistines, she never would have married that
sickly little chap, whom the mother led about by the nose. Some things
which should be nameless were already come to pass, and she hoped Old
Nick would fly away with all manœuvring mothers. A certain lady
was shorn of her beams, who expected to command the world; and after
brandishing her arms, and catching all the prime matches up, she was
cut down into a mighty small space, with an evil conscience to chat
with. If Lady Ennismore would be advised, she should counsel her to
change her name and title, by marrying a comfortable Shropshire lad.
There were plenty unprovided for."

But Lady Ennismore declined all thoughts of marriage, and devoted
herself to the comforts of her parents. Colonel Neville wrote, at
the expiration of her mourning, and he laid claim to her compassion,
in consideration of the patience and constancy which had accompanied
his involuntary and fervent attachment. He had condemned himself to a
perpetual banishment, even from the country which she inhabited. But
now that the bar was withdrawn, the hour of disclosure was arrived,
and Julia must have respected the love which consumed him. She could
bear witness that he had never breathed an unhallowed sentiment, or
endeavoured to take advantage of her situation, during their long and
constant association in Florence.

Julia sighed as she read the declaration of Neville, but her heart
renounced a second engagement. "No," she wrote in reply to her lover's
epistle--"no, my heart has suffered too much disquietude to enter upon
fresh ties. I feel a calmness and consolation in watching over my
father's comfort, and taking charge of my stricken mother, which my
married life denied me. That portion of my existence was a period of
deep misery, and it has broken down my hopes and my spirits. Be happy,
Neville, with a woman who has not been called to suffering, and forget
one who will never more trust in man, or in herself. I will not give
hope, for you do not deserve to be treated lightly, and I cannot now
meet your wishes. May I soon hear you have met with a woman deserving
your esteem, and that your days are devoted to her happiness. My own
days are consecrated to the father whose counsel I would not heed, and
who has suffered so much through my obstinate folly."

And what shall be said of Christobelle? Her portion was not the cup
of bitterness, though her patience was severely tested. Lady Wetheral
became indifferent to all passing events so gradually, and her mind
dwelt so little upon any thing unconnected with her own ease and
immediate gratification, that Mrs. Daniel Higgins adventured to touch
lightly upon the subject, during one of her visits.

"I am happy, my lady, to be hearing of Miss Chrystal's likelihood, at
last, to marry Sir John Spottiswoode. Higgins thinks it a very pretty
match, and he has visited Alverton more than once, and admires the
place extremely. For ever and a day!--to think of Miss Chrystal's turn
being come!"

"I know nothing about it, Thompson, and I don't care. The
Worcestershire man shall never enter _my_ room, though he is quite good
enough for a young lady who refused a dukedom. If Julia would attract
the old Duke of Forfar, now she is at liberty, I should still recover
my health; but I am laid on the shelf. No one cares about my health.
Lady Ennismore might easily win his Grace; only, I dare say, she would
run away from him, as she did from Lord Ennismore."

Christobelle married Sir John Spottiswoode soon after Lady Wetheral's
assurance to Mrs. Higgins that she "did not care" about the affair, and
no one apprised her ladyship of the actual solemnization. She never
asked who was the "Lady Spottiswoode" whom people talked so much
about, and always addressed her by the title of Miss Wetheral.

Did Christobelle ever repent her refusal of a dukedom, or experience
a repentant feeling that she had given her whole heart to the husband
of her choice? No. Life brings too many cares to allow of perfect
enjoyment upon earth, but Christobelle never regretted the vows she
paid at the altar: she never regretted the hour when she became the
bride of Spottiswoode, and exchanged Wetheral Castle for the tranquil
groves of Alverton.


  THE END.


  LONDON:
  F. SHOBERL, JUN., 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET.
  PRINTER TO H.R.H. PRINCE ALBERT.



  LATELY PUBLISHED
  BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE MANŒUVRING MOTHER,"
  THE HISTORY OF A FLIRT,
  RELATED BY HERSELF.
  THE SECOND EDITION, IN THREE VOLS.

 "Among the best novels of its kind for many years given to the world
 by the English press."--_Athenæum_.

 "A capital novel."--_Weekly Chronicle_.

 "An admirable novel."--_Dispatch_.

 "No thoughtless or giddy woman can rise from the perusal of this
 useful and agreeable work, without feeling that it must be her own
 fault if the lesson it inculcates is thrown away."--_Morning Post_.


  ALSO, NOW READY,

  LADY ANNE GRANARD;
  OR,
  KEEPING UP APPEARANCES.

  A NOVEL.

  By L. E. L.,

  Authoress of "Ethel Churchill," "The Improvisatrice," &c.
  3 vols.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Manoeuvring Mother - Vol. III." ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.