The hour of seven chimed; three hours more, and her fate was irrevocably sealed—the God of her youth profaned; for could she ever address Him again when the wife of Alphingham? from whose lips no word of religion ever came, whose most simple action had lately evinced contempt for its forms and restrictions. The beloved guardians of her infant years, the tender friends of her youth insulted, lowered by her conduct in the estimation of the world, liable to reproach; their very devotion for so many years to their children condemned, ridiculed. An inseparable bar placed between her and the hand-in-hand companions of her youth; never again should she kneel with them around their parents, and with them share the fond impressive blessing. Oakwood and its attendant innocence and joys, had they passed away for ever? She thought on the anguish that had been her mother's, when in her childhood she had sinned, and what was she now about to inflict? She saw her bowed down in the depth of misery; she heard her agonized prayer for mercy on her child.

"Saviour of my mother, for her sake, have mercy on her unworthy child! oh, save me from myself, restore me to my mother!" and sinking on her knees, the wretched girl buried her face in her hands, and minutes, which to her appeared like hours, rolled on in that wild burst of repentant and remorseful agony.



CHAPTER VII.

"Dearest mother, this is indeed like some of Oakwood's happy hours," exclaimed Emmeline, that same evening, as with childish glee she had placed herself at her mother's feet, and raised her laughing eyes to her face, with an expression of fond confiding love.

She and Ellen were sitting alone with Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Harcourt being engaged at a friend's, and Mr. Hamilton having been summoned after dinner to a private interview with his solicitor on the Myrvin affairs.

The lovely evening was slowly wearing on to twilight, and the sky, shadowed as it was by the towering mansions of Berkeley Square, yet bore all the rich hues which had attended the repose of a brilliant setting sun. The balcony of the drawing-room where they were sitting was filled with, flowers, and the window being thrown widely open, the gentle breeze of summer filled the room with their sweet fragrance. It was that hour of evening when even London is somewhat hushed. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had been more at home since Caroline's visit to Airslie, but yet not one evening had so vividly reminded Emmeline of her dear Oakwood as the present; it was thus in twilight she had often sought her mother, and given vent, by a thousand little innocent devices, to the warm emotions that filled her heart.

Ellen had been standing by the flowers, but on hearing her cousin's exclamation, she too had established herself on the couch by her aunt, and added—

"You are right, dear Emmeline; it is indeed."

There was an anxiety on Mrs. Hamilton's heart, which she could not define; but was yet unable to resist the innocent happiness of her young companions, and twining her arm playfully round Ellen, she abandoned her other hand to Emmeline, and answered—

"I am very glad, my dear children, that such a simple thing as my company can afford you so much pleasure."

"It is so very rare now to have you thus all alone, mamma, can it be otherwise than delight? I do not even want papa yet, we three make such a comfortable party."

"You are exceedingly polite to my uncle, Emmeline. I have a good mind to tell him when he rejoins us," said Ellen, laughing.

"Do so, my mischievous cousin, and I shall get a kiss for your pains. I know where mamma's thoughts are, though she is trying to be as merry as we are; she wants another to make this Oakwood hour complete."

"I ought not to wish for your sister, my love, she is happier where she is than she would be here, particularly to-night, for Lord D— gives a splendid fete at his beautiful villa, similar to that given by the Duchess ten days ago at which I should think Caroline must have been delighted, though she wrote but little of it."

"There is a tone in her letters, mamma, that tells me she will be as pleased as ourselves to be at Oakwood again, though, she may fancy fetes, assemblies, and a long list of et ceteras, are the most delightful things in existence; and do you know, mamma, I will not permit you to say you ought not to wish for her, because she is happier where she is than she would be here; it is high treason in my presence to say or even think so."

"I must plead guilty, then, my Emmeline, and place my case in Ellen's hands as counsel for the defendant, or throw myself on your mercy."

"In consideration of the peculiar happiness of this evening, I pronounce pardon," answered Emmeline, laughing, as she kissed her mother's hand.

"A letter we received this morning tells us of one who longs to behold us all again, spite of the many and varied pleasures of his exciting life, does it not, my dear aunt?"

"It does indeed, my love. Our Edward's letters have been, ever since he left us, sources of consolation and delight to me, though I do excite my Ellen's jealousy at the greater length of his letters to me than of those to her," she added, smiling.

"My brother knows if his letters to you impart pleasure and satisfaction, he cannot bestow greater happiness on me, however short mine may be," answered Ellen, earnestly; "and when he writes so fully to you and so fondly to me, I have every reason to be quite contented; his time is not so much at his own disposal as mine is."

"I wonder where he can find time to write such lengthy epistles to mamma," observed the smiling Emmeline. "I peeped over her shoulder this morning as she was reading, and was astounded to perceive it was written nearly as closely as mine would be. I wonder how he manages, sailors are said to be such bad correspondents."

"Have you forgotten what I used so repeatedly to say to you, when you were a lazy little girl, Emmeline, and were ever ready to escape disagreeable tasks, by saying you were quite sure you never could succeed—Where there's a will there's a way?'"

"Indeed, I have not forgotten it, dear mamma; it often comes across me now, when I am ready to despair; and so I shall just read it to Master Ned when he returns, as a lecture for not writing to me."

"Nay, Emmeline, that would be demanding too much from our young sailor; there is moderation in everything, you know."

"Not in me, mamma," answered Emmeline, laughing. "You know I am always in extremes, up in the skies one minute, and down, down on the lowest earth the next. I sometimes wish I was like Ellen, always unruffled, always calm and collected. You will go through the world better than I shall, my quiet cousin."

"Shall I?" replied Ellen, faintly smiling. But Mrs. Hamilton could perceive that which the thoughtless Emmeline regarded not, a deep crimson staining apparently with pain the pale fair cheek of her niece, and she thought not with her daughter.

"And how much longer does Ned intend being away from us?" demanded Emmeline, after a long pause.

"He cannot give us any idea yet," answered her mother; "perhaps some time next year. They were to cruise off the shores of South America these autumnal months, and winter, Edward thinks, off Buenos Ayres. He is pleased at this, as he will see so very much more of the New World than he expected, when he left us.'"

"What an entertaining companion he will be when he returns," exclaimed Emmeline.

"Or rather ought to be, Emmeline," remarked Ellen, quietly.

"Now, what an insinuation! Ellen, you are too bad to-night, and against your brother, of all persons in the world. It is just like the ill compliment you paid him on his gallantry in saving the Syren and all her crew—absolutely would not believe that your brother Edward and the young hero of my tale were one and the same person."

"I can forgive her scepticism then," said Mrs. Hamilton, affectionately. "The extraordinary efforts you described were indeed almost beyond credence, when known to have been those of a lad but just seventeen; but I hope my Ellen is no longer a sceptic as to the future fame and honour of her brother," she added, kindly addressing her niece.

"Oh, I dare not indulge in one half the bright visions, the fond hopes that will intrude themselves upon my mind for him," exclaimed Ellen, with involuntary energy.

"Why, Ellen, are you sometimes a victim to the freaks of imagination as well as myself?" asked her cousin, laughing.

"I have frequently compelled myself to seek active employment," answered Ellen, "lest those hopes should be indeed but fading visions, and my disappointment more painfully bitter."

"You do your brother injustice in even fancying disappointment," said her aunt, playfully, "and I must act as defendant for the absent. I believe, say, and protest my firm belief, that the name of Edward Fortescue will stand one of the highest in naval fame, both as a commander and a man. The naval honour of my family will, I feel assured, have a worthy representative in my noble nephew, and I will not have one word breathed in doubt or mistrust on the subject."

"If you think so, then I may hope indeed," Ellen said with earnestness. "And the recollection of the past"—

"Must heighten anticipations for the future, my dear girl, or I must sentence them to perpetual banishment. Condemn them never to be recalled," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, still more playfully, and then added—

"Emmeline, have you no wish to know how the object of your kind sympathy, poor Lilla, parted from her father and me to day?"

"I quite forgot all about it, mamma; this Oakwood hour has made me so selfish. I thought of no one but ourselves," replied Emmeline. "Gratify my curiosity now. Did Lady Helen evince any sorrow at the separation?"

"Not so much as, for Lilla's sake, I could have wished. She has been so unfortunately prejudiced against her both by Annie and Miss Malison, that although I am convinced she loves her child, she never will evince any proof of it; and Lilla's unhappy temperament has, of course, increased this prejudice, which I fear will require years to remove, unless Annie be soon married, and Miss Malison removed from Lady Helen's establishment. Then Lilla's really excellent qualities will quickly be made evident."

"Mr. Grahame is already convinced she is a very different girl to that she has been represented, is he not?" asked Ellen.

"He is; and I trust, from the awakened knowledge, happiness is dawning upon them both. I could not see unmoved his struggle to part with her to-day, brief as the separation will be—scarcely six short months."

"I was quite sure Mr. Grahame loved his children, though Annie and Cecil did say so much about his sternness," said Emmeline, somewhat triumphantly.

"Mr. Grahame's feelings are naturally the very wannest, but disappointment in some of his dearest hopes has, in some cases, unfortunately caused him to veil them; I regret this, both for Cecil and Lilla's sake, as I think, had he evinced greater interest and affection for them in their childish years, they might both have been different in character."

"But it is not too late now?"

"I trust not for Lilla, but I greatly fear, from all I have heard, that Cecil's character is already formed. Terrified at his father's harshness, he has always shrunk from the idea of making him his friend, and has associated only with the young men of his mother's family, who, some few years older than himself, and devoted to fashion, and gay amusements, are not the very best companions he could have selected, but whose near relationship seems to have prevented all interference on the part of Mr. Grahame. Cecil must now be sixteen, and I fear no alteration in his father's conduct will efface the impressions already received."

"But, changed as Mr. Grahame is towards Lilla, was it still necessary for her to go to Mrs. Douglas? Could not her reformation have been effected equally well at home?"

"No, my love; her father delighted at finding he had engaged her affections, and that some of the representations he had heard were false, would, in all probability, have gone to the contrary extreme, and indulged her as much, if not more, than he had previously neglected her. Lilla has very many faults, which require steady yet not harsh correction, and which from her earliest age demanded the greatest care; being neglected, they have strengthened with her years. The discipline she will now be under will at first be irksome, and perhaps Lilla may find all I have said in Mrs. Douglas's favour very contrary to reality; but I have such a good opinion of her docility, when reasoned with kindly, that I do not doubt all such impressions will be effaced when she visits us at Christmas."

"Well, however kind Mrs. Douglas may be, I should not like to be in Lilla's place," observed Emmeline, and then added, with her usual animation, "Ah, mamma, how can we ever be sufficiently grateful to you for never sending us from you? I might have loved you very dearly, but I could not have looked upon you as my best and dearest friend, as I do now."

"It is sufficient recompense for all my care that you do look on me thus, my sweet child," exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, with involuntary emotion, and she bent down to impress a kiss on Emmeline's forehead as she spoke, that she might conceal an unusual tear which had started to her eye, for the unrestrained confidence and unabated affection of her younger daughter, while it soothed, yet rendered the conduct of Caroline by its contrast more painful; and, almost unconsciously, she added—

"Oh, that this confidence and affection may never change, never be withdrawn."

"Change!" repeated Emmeline and Ellen at the same moment; but they checked themselves, for they knew where the thoughts of their much-loved relative had wandered, and they felt she had indeed sufficient cause for all her solicitude. Recovering herself almost instantly, Mrs. Hamilton resumed the conversation in a more cheerful tone, by demanding of Emmeline if her busy fancy had pictured how Oakwood was to look, on their return to it in a fortnight's time.

"She certainly must have done so," answered Ellen, laughing; "for she has had so many reveries over her drawing and work this week, that nothing less important could have occasioned them."

Emmeline shook her head archly, and answered gaily; and her dear old venerable home was the engrossing theme of conversation till the return of Mr. Hamilton, a short time afterwards.

"Congratulate me, all of you," he said, in a joyous tone; "my business is proceeding most favourably. Mr. Myrvin need know nothing about it till all is settled; the dishonourable conduct of his enemies brought to light, and himself reinstated in his little domain, once more the minister of Llangwillan. Thanks to the able conduct of Mr. Allan, all will soon be made clear. As soon as we are at Oakwood, Ellen, you shall write to Mr. Myrvin, and invite him to spend some little time with us; and when he leaves us, I trust it will be once more for Llangwillan and its own pretty vicarage."

"Dear, dear uncle!" exclaimed Ellen, starting up and clinging to his arm, "oh, how can I thank you for your interference in behalf of him who was the first friend I knew in England? the consoler of my mother—the"—

"The good man who first told us what a troublesome charge I should find in my niece," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, playfully.

"I have indeed been a trouble to you," replied Ellen, with a suppressed yet heavy sigh, and her uncle's hand dropped from her grasp.

"Ellen!" said Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton at the same instant, in an accent of reproach.

"Have I not?" she continued, with unusual impetuosity. "Did I not cause you misery, you, who from the first moment you knew me, loved mo more than I deserved? Did I not make both of you ill in health and wretched in mind, and yet your kindness now is greater than before? There is not a wish—not a desire I express, but is granted on the instant; and I—oh, I have no power to—to"—

"You will, at least, have the power of making me seriously displeased if you speak in this way again, and thus turn my sportive words to gloom," said Mrs. Hamilton, gravely, but gently drawing the agitated girl with tenderness to her. "Come, come, Ellen, I will not have Emmeline's happy Oakwood hour thus alloyed. You may reward me yet for all, and one day, perhaps, make me your debtor. That may appear very impossible now," she added, smiling, as Ellen raised her large eyes incredulously to her face; "but more improbable things have come to pass."

"And where is Arthur to be while his father is with us?" demanded Emmeline, joyously, of her father. "Not as a servitor at college, I hope."

"No; I anticipate the pleasure of welcoming the friend of Herbert as my guest as well as his father, and then we shall deliberate on Arthur's future life. I should like much to place him under Mr. Howard for a year, and then establish him in a living of Lord Malvern's, in which I have little doubt I could succeed."

"Well, my fancy then will indeed be gratified. I shall see this proud persecuted youth, and judge for myself if he be deserving or not of my brother's friendship. Do you remember him, Ellen?"

"Perfectly well; he was so very kind to me. I well recollect his grief when I left the village, to live, he said, in such a very different style, that it was not likely we should ever meet again."

"But yet, you see, improbable as it appeared, you will meet again," said Mrs. Hamilton in a marked tone, as she smiled.

"So you call this an Oakwood hour, Emmy, do you?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, after Arthur and his father had been duly discussed. "Suppose we make the resemblance even more complete by ringing for lights, and you and Ellen giving me some music. I have had no opportunities of hearing your improvement, which, I suppose, under such able professors, has been something extraordinary."

"Marvellous, most marvellous!" exclaimed Emmeline, laughing, as she flew to obey him by ringing the bell. "I had begun to fancy I was practising for nothing, and that my father would never do his child the honour of listening to her again, but I remembered the enchanted halls of Oakwood, and I thought there at least I might chain him to my side, and so I continued my labours."

"Let us fancy ourselves there," replied her father, smiling; and lights appearing, Emmeline and Ellen were speedily at the instruments, bestowing pleasure unalloyed by this domestic use of their talents to those dear ones who had so assiduously cultivated them. Their improvement, under the best professors in London, had been rapid; for, carefully prepared, no difficulties had to be overcome ere improvement commenced; and the approbation and evident pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton amply repaid those young and innocent beings for all the exertions they had made, particularly Emmeline, who, as we know, had determined, on her first arrival in London, to prove she would not learn, when all around her was so changed.

"Surely, surely, Caroline, surrounded by gaiety as she is, cannot be as happy as I am to-night," burst with wild glee from the lips of Emmeline, as at about half-past ten o'clock her father kissed her glowing cheek, and thanked her for the pleasing recreation she had given him. She had scarcely spoken, when a carriage was heard driving somewhat rapidly through the Square, then stopped, it appeared at their door, and a thundering and truly aristocratic rap resounded, startling not a little the inmates of that peaceful drawing-room.

"Who can it be at this hour?" demanded Emmeline, in an accent of bewilderment. "How very disagreeable. I did not wish any intrusion to-night. Mamma, dear mamma, you look terrified."

Mr. Hamilton had opened the drawing-room door, and was about to descend the stairs, for he too was startled at this unusual visit; but he turned at Emmeline's words, for his wife did not usually indulge in unfounded alarm or anticipated fears, but at that instant her wonted presence of mind appeared about to desert her; she was pale as marble, and had started up in an attitude of terror.

Voices were heard, and stops, well-known steps, ascending the stairs.

"It is the Duchess of Rothbury's voice and step—my child!" burst from her lips, in an accent that neither Emmeline nor Ellen ever could forget, and she sunk back almost fainting on her seat. Her children flew to her side in alarm, but ere a minute had passed away that wild anxiety was calmed, for Caroline herself entered with the Duchess, but her death-like cheek, blanched lip, and haggard eye told a tale of suffering which that mother could not mark unmoved. Vainly Mrs. Hamilton strove to rise and welcome the Duchess: she had no power to move from her chair.

"Caroline, my child!" were the only words her faltering tongue could utter; and that agonized voice thrilled through the heart of the now truly unhappy girl, and roused her from that trance of overwhelming emotion which bade her stand spell-bound at the threshold. She sprung forward, and sinking at her mother's feet, buried her face in her robe.

"Mother, my injured mother, oh, do not, do not hate me!" she murmured, in a voice almost inarticulate. "I deserve to be cast from your love, to lose your confidence for ever. I have deceived you—I—" Sobs choked her utterance, and the grieving mother could only throw her arms around her child, and press her convulsively to her heart. Anxiety, nearly equal to that of his wife, had been an inmate of Mr. Hamilton's bosom as the Duchess's voice reached his ear; but as he glanced on Caroline, a frown gathered on his brow. He trembled involuntarily, for he felt assured it was imprudence, to give it the mildest term, in her conduct that called for this untimely visit, this strange return to her home. Already he had been deceived; and while every softened feeling struggled for mastery in the mother's bosom, the father stood ready to judge and to condemn, fiercely conquering every rising emotion that swelled within. There was even more lofty majesty in the carriage of her Grace, as she carefully closed the drawing-room door behind her, and slowly advanced towards Mrs. Hamilton; a cold, severe, unbending expression in every feature, that struck terror to the hearts of both Emmeline and Ellen, whose innocent festivity was indeed now rudely checked.

"Mrs. Hamilton," the Duchess said, and the grave and sad accents of her voice caused the anxious mother hastily to raise her head, and gaze inquiringly in her face, "to my especial care you committed your child. I promised to guard her as my own, and on that condition alone you entrusted her to me; I alone, therefore, restore her to you, thank God, unscathed. I make no apology for this strange and apparently needless intrusion at this late hour; deceived as I have been, my house was no longer a fitting home for your daughter, and not another night could I retain her, when my judgment told me her father's watchful guardianship alone could protect her from the designing arts of one, of whom but very little is known, and that little not such as would recommend him to my favour. You, too, have been deceived, cruelly deceived, by that weak, infatuated girl. Had you been aware that Lord Alphingham was her secretly favoured lover, that the coldness with which she ever treated him in public, the encouragement of another, were but to conceal from you and her father her attachment to him, you would not have consented to her joining a party of which he was a member. At my house he has received increased encouragement. I marked them with a jealous eye, for I could not believe his attentions sanctioned either by you or Mr. Hamilton; but even my vigilance was at fault, for she had consented to sever every tie which bound her to her too indulgent parents, and fly with him to Scotland. This night would have seen the accomplishment of their design. Had one of my children behaved thus, it would have been less a matter of bewilderment to me than such conduct in a daughter of yours. I have neglected to seek their confidence, their affection. You have never rested in your endeavours to obtain both, and therefore, that such should be your recompense is sad indeed. I sympathise with you, my dearest friend," she continued, in a tone of much more feeling than she ever allowed to be visible. "In the tale of shame I am repeating, I am inflicting misery upon you, I feel I am; and yet, in resigning my charge, I must do my duty, and set you on your guard, and let this one reflection be your comfort, that it was the recollection of your untiring care, your constant affection, which checked this infatuated girl in her career of error, and bade her pause ere it was too late. For her sufferings I have little pity; she is no longer the character I believed her. Neither integrity, honour, nor candour can be any longer inmates of her heart; the confession I have heard this night has betrayed a lengthened scheme of deception, to which, had I heard it of her, I should have given no credence. Forgive me, my dear Emmeline, and look not on me so beseechingly; painful as it is, in the sincerest friendship alone I place before your too partial eyes the real character of your child. I have now done my duty, and will therefore leave you. God bless you, and grant you strength to bear this bitter trial." She turned to the unhappy father, who, as she spoke, had, overcome with uncontrollable agitation, sunk on a chair and covered his face with his hands, but with a strong effort he roused himself as she pronounced his name, and rose.

"Mr. Hamilton, to your wife, your inestimable wife, you owe the preservation of your child this night from sin. Let her not, I beseech you, afflict herself too deeply for those sufferings under which she may behold Caroline for a time the victim. She deserves them all—all; but she merits not one half that affection which her fond and loving mother would lavish on her. I leave you now, but, trust me, feeling deeply for you both."

"Nay, rest with us to night, at least," exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, conquering himself sufficiently to think of his friend's situation, alone, in London, at such a late hour, and endeavouring to persuade her to remain with them; but decidedly, yet kindly, she refused.

"I sleep at St. James's, and shall be back at Airslie to-morrow morning before my guests are recovered from the effects of to-night," she urged. "Your hospitality is kindly meant, Hamilton, but I cannot accept it; both Caroline and her mother can dispense with my company now."

"Then let me accompany you home?"

"I will not hear of it, my good friend. Good night, once more; God bless you!"

Mr. Hamilton knew the character of his noble friend too well to urge more, and therefore contented himself by accompanying her down stairs.

To describe Mrs. Hamilton's feelings, as she listened to the words of the Duchess, would be indeed a vain attempt. We know all the anguish she had suffered when Caroline's conduct had first caused her uneasiness, and now the heightened agony of her fond heart may be easily imagined. Almost unconsciously she had withdrawn her arm; but Caroline clung more convulsively to her robe, and her first wild words sounded again and again in her mother's ears, soothing while they inflicted pain.

"Can it be possible I have heard aright? Have I indeed been thus deceived?" she asked, struggling to speak calmly, when the Duchess and her husband had left the room; and she fixed her sad, searching glance upon Caroline, who for a moment raised her head.

"Mother, dearest mother, condemn me, despise me as you please; I deserve it all," she replied, in an accent of most piercing wretchedness. "Only say that I may in time regain your love, your confidence; that you will take me to your heart again. I have disregarded your affection; I have wilfully cast it from me. Yet—oh, if you knew all I have suffered. Mamma, mamma, oh, speak but one word more of kindness! I know I deserve it not, but my heart feels breaking. I have no other friend on earth but you; oh, call me but your child again, mother!"

Her voice utterly failed, a film suddenly obscured her sight, and a sense of suffocation rose in her throat; the misery of the last ten days, the wretchedness and excitement of that day had deprived her of more strength than she was at all aware of, and with one convulsive effort to clasp her mother's hand to her throbbing heart, she sunk exhausted at her feet. Emmeline would have flown for assistance, but a look from her mother bade her pause, and she remained with Ellen to seek those restoratives that were at hand. With a throbbing heart and trembling hand, Mrs. Hamilton raised her repentant child, and with the assistance of Emmeline placed her tenderly on the nearest couch, endeavouring, though for some few minutes in vain, to recall her scattered senses. Tears fell from that fond mother's eyes upon Caroline's deathlike features, and ere life returned she had been pressed again and again to her heart, and repeated kisses imprinted on her marble brow. It mattered not at that moment that she had been deceived, that Caroline had withdrawn alike her confidence and affection, that her conduct the last few months had been productive of bitter disappointment and extreme anguish, all, all was forgotten; the mother only knew her child was suffering—only felt she was restored to her arms; again and again she kissed her erring child, beseeching her with fond and gentle words to wake and know she was forgiven.

Slowly Caroline recovered consciousness, and unclosing her eyes, gazed wildly yet sadly on all by whom she was surrounded. All the father had struggled with Mr. Hamilton, as he stood by her side during the continuance of her swoon; but now sternness again darkened his brow, and he would have given vent to his wounded feelings in severe though just reproaches, but the beseeching glance, the agonized voice of his wife arrested him.

"Arthur, my husband, oh, for my sake, spare her now!" she passionately exclaimed, clasping his hand in hers, and looking up in his face with imploring earnestness. "Spare her, at least, till from her own lips we have heard all; she is in no state to bear anger now, however deserved. Arthur, dearest Arthur, oh, do not reproach her till we know what it is that has caused the wretchedness, the suffering we behold! For my sake, spare her now."

"Mother," murmured the unhappy girl, with a powerful effort rising from the couch, and flinging herself on Mrs. Hamilton's neck, "do not plead for me; I do not deserve it. My conduct to you the last few months would alone demand the severest reproaches papa could inflict; and that, oh, that is but little to the crime I should have committed, had not the remembrance of all your devotion rushed to my mind, and arrested me, but a few brief hours ere it would have been too late, and I should have sacrificed myself to a man I discovered I did not love, merely to prove I was not a slave to your dictates, that I had a will of my own, and with or without your consent would abide by it. I have been infatuated, blind—led on by artful persuasion, false representations, and weakly I have yielded. Do not weep for me, Emmeline, I am not worthy of your tears. You would have guided me aright; you would have warned me, advised me, but I rejected your counsel, spurned your affection; with contempt, aversion from all, from each, do I deserve to be regarded. Ellen, you may triumph now; I did all I could to prove how I hated and despised you some months ago, and now, oh, how much more I have fallen. Oh, why, why did I ever leave Oakwood?—why was I so eager to visit London?" Exhaustion choked her voice, the vehemence with which she had spoken overpowered her, and her mother was compelled to lead her to a couch, and force her to sit down beside her. Mr. Hamilton spoke not; for a few minutes he paced the room with agitated steps, and then hastily quitted it.

"It is so very late, you had better retire, my dear girls," Mrs. Hamilton said, after a brief pause, addressing Emmeline and Ellen, who yet lingered sorrowfully near her. They understood her hint, and instantly obeyed, both affectionately but silently embracing Caroline ere they departed; and it was a relief to Mrs. Hamilton's anxious bosom to find herself alone with her painfully repentant child. For some time did that interview continue; and when Caroline retired to rest, it was with a spirit lighter than it had been for many weeks, spite of the dark clouds she still felt were around her. All her strange wayward feelings had been confessed. She laid no stress on those continued letters she had received from Annie, which had from the first alienated her from her mother. Remorse was too busy within to bid her attempt to defend herself by inculpating others; but though she carefully avoided reference to her misleading friend, Mrs. Hamilton could easily, very easily, perceive from whose arts all her own misery and Caroline's present suffering originated; and bitterly in secret she reproached herself for ever permitting that intimacy to continue, and obtain the influence it had. To Lord St. Eval and her conduct to him the unhappy girl also referred. Pride was completely at an end; every question Mrs. Hamilton asked was answered with all that candour and integrity which had once characterised her most trifling words; and while her undisguised confession on many points occasioned the most poignant sorrow, yet still, as the mother listened, and gazed on those expressive features, something whispered within her that her child would be a blessing still. She owned that from the moment she had rejected Lord St. Eval, regret had become so unceasing, that to escape it she had listened to and encouraged Lord Alphingham more than she had done before; his professions of devoted love had appeared as balm, and deadened the reproaches of conscience. Why she had so carefully concealed from her parents that which she imagined was love for the Viscount she could not explain, unless it was her weakness in following the example of others, who, she had been told, shrunk from confessing love-stories to their mothers; or, and that Mrs. Hamilton believed much nearer the real reason, she did not love him sufficiently to implore their consent to his addresses. She acknowledged, when their prohibition to her acquaintance with him was given, she had longed to confess the truth, and implore them at least to say why she might no longer enjoy his society; but that she had felt too indignant at what she deemed the slavery in which she was held, and discontent and irritation then took possession of her, instead of willing obedience. She described her feelings when he appeared at Airslie, the many struggles she then had with herself; and, finally, her wretchedness from the moment she had consented to be his wife; her entreaties that he would permit her to implore her father's consent; her agony the same evening; her fervent prayer for forgiveness and guidance; and, at length, her determination to elude him by setting off for home the instant the Duchess and her party had left the villa, which intention she had endeavoured to put in force by imploring the assistance and secrecy of her Grace's own maid to procure her a safe carriage and fleet horses, as she was compelled to return home that same night; she would leave a note, she said, explaining her reason for her departure to her Grace. She fancied Allison must have betrayed her, as, when she was every minute expecting to hear the carriage was ready, the Duchess entered her room, and, after a brief but stern interview, ordered her own carriage, and had herself accompanied her to town.

Mrs. Hamilton listened to this long sad tale without interrupting it by a word of reproach. Not once did she speak aught that might tend to increase the anguish under which it was so evident Caroline was suffering. Soothingly she spoke, and that fond yet saddened tone caused the poor girl's bursting heart to find relief in a violent flood of tears. She clung, even as in childhood, to her mother's neck, and as she wept, felt yet more bitterly the infatuated folly of her conduct in having for a moment forsaken the guidance of her true and kindest friend, for the apparently more pleasing, because flattering, confidence of one whom she now knew to be false and utterly deceiving.

"But may he not still claim me?" she wildly exclaimed. "Will he not hold me up to the world as a faithless, capricious girl? I shall be the laughing-stock of all with whom we associate. Annie is not likely to keep my secret. Oh, why did I ever confide in her? Mother, I shall be despised, derided. I know I have brought it on myself, but oh, how can I bear it?"

"We leave London so very shortly, that I trust you will not be exposed to the derision you so much dread," replied Mrs. Hamilton, soothingly, "and by next season I hope all floating rumours that your conduct must occasion may have entirely passed away. You need not fear the scorn of the circle in which we principally mingle; and that of Annie's companions, if the dread of their laughter keep you from seeking, as you have done, their society, forgive me, my love, if I say I shall rejoice; for you will then no longer be exposed to example and precept contrary to those I have endeavoured to instil."

"But, Lord Alphingham, what will he say or do?" murmured Caroline, almost inaudibly.

"You must write to him, Caroline, dissolving your engagement; there is no other way."

"Write to him, mother, I—oh, no, no, I cannot."

"If you do not, you will still be exposed to constant annoyance; he may choose to believe that you were forced by compulsion to return to us. The circumstance of the Duchess herself accompanying you to town, he will consider as sufficient evidence. Acting on your promise, on your avowed preference, unless you write yourself, he will leave no means untried to succeed in his sinful schemes. Painful as is the task, or rather more disagreeable than painful if you do not love him, no one but yourself must write, and the sooner you do so the better."

"But if he really loves me? How can I—how dare I inflict more pain, more disappointment, than I have done already?"

"Loves you!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, and displeasure mingled in her saddened tone; "Caroline, do not permit yourself to be thus egregiously deceived. He may fancy that he does, but it is no true honourable love; if it were, would he thus bear you by stealth from the friend to whom you were intrusted? If his conscience were indeed free from all stain, would he have refused your entreaties that you might confess your love to us, and beseech our blessing on your union? Would he have shrunk from defending his conduct according to your advice? Nay, more; if this accusation, which he has traced by some means to Percy, were indeed unfounded and unjust, do you think he would have refrained one moment from coming forward and asserting, not only by word but by proof, his unblemished innocence? His silence is to me the clearest proof of conduct that will not bear investigation; and I tremble to think what miseries, what wretchedness might have been your portion, had you indeed consented to his unworthy proposal." Her voice faltered, and she drew the still weeping girl closer to her, as if her maternal love should protect her from every evil. Caroline answered not, and after a few minutes Mrs. Hamilton said, with tenderness—

"You do not repent your decision, my own child? You do not regret that you have returned to those who love and cherish you so fondly? Speak to me, love."

Convulsively Caroline's hand pressed her mother's as if that pressure should say nothing more should part them; then suddenly sinking on her knees before her, she forced back the choking sobs, and said, clearly and distinctly—-

"Mother, I dare no longer ask you to believe my simple word, as in former years you would have done, I have deceived you too long, too culpably for that; but now, on my knees, solemnly, sacredly I swear, I will never marry without papa's and your consent. I dare no longer trust myself; I have once been rendered blind by that sinful craving for freedom from all authority, for unchecked independence of thought and word and deed, and never, never more will I stand forth in my own weakness. My fate is in your hands, for never will I marry without your blessing; and may that vow be registered above as solemnly as it is now taken. Mother, you will not refuse to accept it," she added, laying her trembling hand on Mrs. Hamilton's, and gazing beseechingly in her face.

"I will not, my child!" and her mother struggled severely to conquer her emotion and speak calmly. "Tell me only it is in my affection you confide, that it is not under feelings of remorse alone you have made this solemn vow. Promise me you will no longer permit a doubt of my affection and interest in your happiness to enter your mind and poison your confidence in me, as it has done. From that doubt all the present misery has proceeded. You have imagined your parents harsh and cruel, while they have only thought of your welfare. Say only you will trust in our affection, my child, my own Caroline."

"Oh, that I had ever trusted in it. My blindness and folly concealed from me my misconduct, and bade me ascribe all my sufferings to you, on whom I have inflicted so much pain. Mother, oh, forgive me, plead for me to papa. I know he is seriously displeased, he has every right to be so; but he knows not all I have endured, the agony of the last week. I deserve his severest reproaches, but my heart feels as if it would break beneath his anger now," and she laid her aching head on her mother's lap, and wept.

"My forgiveness, my blessing, are both yours, my own. Do not weep thus," replied Mrs. Hamilton, imprinting a kiss on that burning forehead. "And your father too, when he has heard all, will not withhold his love."

"I will write to Lord Alphingham now, mother; it is useless to defer it, and my mind will not regain its peace till it is done," exclaimed Caroline, after a brief pause, which had followed her mother's words.

"Not now, my love, you are too agitated still," replied her mother, gazing anxiously on her flushed cheek; "wait till sleep shall have calmed this inward fever, and restored you to composure. I do not think you can write it now."

"I cannot sleep till I have, mamma, indeed I cannot. I ought to have left it for him before I quitted Airslie, but I could then think of nothing but the ardent longing to see you, to hear your voice again; let me write now."

And believing her words were true, that in all probability she would not sleep while that letter was on her mind, Mrs. Hamilton made no further objection, and rose to place the inkstand and portfolio on a table near her. Caroline remained still kneeling, and by her attitude Mrs. Hamilton fancied was engaged in secret prayer; her tears were checked as she rose, and it was with firmness she walked to the table and drew a seat beside it. Anxiously for a few minutes did her mother watch her as she wrote. At first her hand appeared to tremble, but a successful effort conquered that emotion, and the increasing flush upon her cheek alone proclaimed the agitation of her mind. So deeply was she engrossed in her painful task, that she did not observe her mother had left the room, and remained absent for a few minutes, returning, however, before she had finished her letter. Without looking up, she placed the paper in Mrs. Hamilton's hands, and, leaning her arms on the table, buried her face in her hands.

Mrs. Hamilton folded the letter in perfect silence; but then taking the hand of her daughter from her eyes, she pressed it in hers, and said, in a voice of deep emotion—

"I am satisfied, my child. Let this letter be directed and sealed with your own hand, and the name of Lord Alphingham shall never again pass my lips. It is enough that duty and affection have triumphed over his intentions. I know not all the evil that might have been yours had he succeeded, but you are restored to me, and may God forgive him as freely as I do."

With a steady hand Caroline directed and placed her own seal to the letter; and then, exhausted by the agitation of that evening, she leaned her throbbing head against her mother.

"Caroline, my child!" exclaimed a deep and saddened voice beside her. She started, and looking up, beheld her father, who had been gazing at her an unobserved spectator for the last half hour.

"Forgive me, dearest father. Oh, let me not sleep to-night without your forgiveness. Mamma will not cast me from her heart; she has blessed me, and I have injured her even more than you. Papa, dear papa, oh, speak to me but one word of fondness!" she entreated, as her father drew her to his bosom, and as she ceased, mingled his blessing and forgiveness in that warm embrace.

It was late, so late, that the early morn was beginning to gild the horizon before Mrs. Hamilton had seen her agitated child placed in bed, and persuaded her to compose her spirits and invite sleep. Fondly her mother watched beside her till the grey dawn had penetrated within the room; and then perceiving that calm, sleep had come at length, she retired to her own apartment. There sinking on her knees, her overcharged heart found blessed relief in pouring forth to Heaven its fervent thanksgiving for that great mercy vouchsafed her in the restoration of her child. The anguish of the past, the suffering of the present were alike forgotten, in the thought that Caroline's affection and confidence were again restored to her. The veil had at length been removed from her eyes. Annie's character was revealed before her and the sorrowful and repentant girl had once more sought for sympathy in the bosom of her mother. She now felt that mother was her truest friend, and a glow of sweet and soothing pleasure stole over Mrs. Hamilton's mind at this conviction. Caroline had said it was the recollection of her mother's care, devotion, and love that had stayed her, ere it was too late. She could not banish from her heart the duty therein so long and carefully implanted; the principles of religion, of virtue, shaken as they had been in that painful moment of indecision, had preserved her from misery. Often, very often, Mrs. Hamilton had felt disheartened, almost despairing in her task, during both the childhood and youth of Caroline, but now her recompense was apparent. Had she not persevered, had she been indolent or careless in the discharge of her duty, had she left the care of that child to strangers, who would never have thus studied or guided so difficult a disposition, there would have been naught to bid her pause. She would have done as others too often do, and fearful indeed would have been her chastisement. Now, what were all Mrs. Hamilton's self-conquering struggles, all the pain she had suffered, compared with the exquisite happiness of feeling that her care had preserved her child, and she knew not as yet from what depth of wretchedness? Fervent was the gratitude for that grace which had permitted her to guide her child aright; and as she recalled the heartfelt approbation of her conduct, which her beloved husband had gratefully expressed, happiness filled her heart, and many, very many might have envied that noble woman her feelings, as she laid her head on her pillow that night, when sleep only hushed the still lingering thanksgiving on her lips.

It may be well here briefly to relate all that had passed at Airslie, from the moment we left Caroline imploring pardon and guidance from Him, to whom she had never appealed in vain, to that when she so suddenly appeared in company with the Duchess in Berkeley Square. To accede to Lord Alphingham's wishes, she felt was no longer possible, but how to avoid him was a matter of still greater difficulty. To accompany the Duchess and thus elude him, she could not, for she felt neither her strength nor spirits could sustain her through the whole of that festive night. Each minute as it passed increased the fever of her brain, at length in despair she determined on the conduct with which we are already acquainted. As soon as the last carriage had rolled from the door she summoned Allison, the Duchess's own maid, and in accents that painfully betrayed the agitation within, implored her to procure her a carriage and fleet horses, as circumstances had occurred which obliged her instantly to return to town. She besought her neither to question her nor to speak of her sudden resolution to any one, as the note she would leave behind for her Grace would fully explain all. Allison remained for some few minutes gazing on the agitated girl, in motionless astonishment.

"Return to London at such a time of night, and alone," she rather allowed to drop from her lips than said, after a long pause.

"Oh, would to heaven some one would go with me! but I know none whom I can ask," Caroline replied, in a tone of anguish, and seizing Allison's hand, again and again implored her assistance. Briefly she promised to do all she could for her, and left her, not to do her bidding by seeking some conveyance, but to report the strange request and still more alarming manner of Caroline to her Grace; who, for some secret reason, which her daughters and friends in vain endeavoured to solve, had at the very last moment declared her intention of not accompanying them, and wishing them, with the utmost kindness, a pleasant evening, commissioned Lady Lucy and her eldest brother, who had lately joined them, to supply her place in their own party, and tender her excuses to the noble master of the fete. The simple truth was, that the penetration of the Duchess had observed and detected from the very first the manoeuvres of Lord Alphingham and Caroline.

The former, as may have already been discovered, was one of those against whom her prejudice was very strong. With her own free will, Lord Alphingham would never have visited at her house, although she was never heard to breathe one word to his disadvantage; especially invited he never was, and in heart she was much annoyed at her husband's marked preference and encouragement of his society. She had observed her friend Mrs. Hamilton's coldness towards him; and as much as she admired the conduct of the mother, so she sometimes found herself mistrusting the studied air and guarded reserve with which Caroline ever treated the Viscount. The sudden change in Mr. Hamilton's manner had also struck her, and therefore, when Alphingham joined her coterie, not once did she ever fail in the jealous watchfulness with which she regarded him and Caroline. Rendered suspicious by all that she had observed, Caroline's determination not to join the party that evening had increased her uneasiness to a degree that almost amounted to alarm, and that very instant her resolution was fixed to remain at Airslie. She desired Allison not to mention her intention of remaining to Miss Hamilton, but to inform her minutely of all that passed during the evening; and her astonishment was almost as great as her domestic's had been when Caroline's desire was related to her.

It wanted but one half hour to the time appointed by the Viscount, and Caroline still sat in a state of anxiety and suspense, which tortured her almost to frenzy. Unable to bear it longer, her hand was on the bell once more to summon Allison, when the lock of the door turned, and starting forwards, the words, "Is all ready—have you succeeded?" were arrested on her lips by the appearance of the Duchess herself, who, closing the door, stood gazing on the terrified girl with a glance of severity and command few could have met unmoved. Scarcely conscious of what she did, Caroline started back, and, sinking on a stool at the farthest end of the room, covered her face with her hands.

"May I know with what intent Miss Hamilton is about to withdraw herself from my roof and my protection?" she demanded, in those brief yet searching tones she ever used when displeased. "What reason she can allege for this unceremonious departure from a house where she has ever been regarded as one of its most favoured inmates? Your mother trusted you to my care, and on your duty to her I demand an answer." She continued, after a brief pause, in which Caroline neither moved nor spoke, "Where would you go at this unseasonable hour?"

"Home to my mother," murmured the unhappy girl, in a voice almost inarticulate.

"Home!" repeated her Grace, in a bitterly satirical tone. "Strange, that you should thus suddenly desire to return. Were you not the child of those to whom equivocation is unknown, I might well doubt that tale;—home, and wherefore?"

"To save myself from the effects of my own sinful folly—my own infatuated madness," replied Caroline, summoning with a strong effort all the energy of her character, and with a vehemence that flushed her pallid cheek with crimson. "In this at least I am sincere, though in all else I deserve no longer to be regarded as the child of such noble-minded beings as are my parents. Spurn me from you as you will, this is no moment for equivocation and delay. I have deceived your Grace. I was about to bring down shame upon your house, to cause your indignant displeasure, my parents anguish, myself but endless remorseful misery. To save all this, I would return home to implore the forgiveness, the protection of my parents; they alone can guard me from myself. Oh, if you ever loved my mother," she continued, starting up with agony, as the hour of nine chimed on her ear, "send some one with me, and let me go home. Half an hour more," and her voice grew almost inarticulate with suppressed emotion, "and it may be too late. Mother, mother, if I could but see you once again!"

"Before, as the wife or the victim of the Right Honourable Lord Alphingham, you fly from her for ever, and thus reward her cares, her love, her prayers, wretched and deceiving girl," sternly and slowly the Duchess said, as she rapidly yet with her usual majesty paced the room, and laid her hand heavily on Caroline's shoulder, as she sat bowed down with shame before her. "Deny it not; it was thus you would bring down shame on my home; thus create agony for your devoted parents; thus prove your gratitude, love, obedience, by wrenching every tie asunder. Oh, shame, shame! If this be the fruit of such tender cares, such careful training, oh, where shall we seek for honour and integrity—in what heart find virtue? And why not consummate your sin? why pause ere your noble and virtuous resolution was put in force? why hesitate in the accomplishment of your designs? Why not fly with your honourable lover, and thus wring the fond hearts of your parents at once to the utmost? Why retract now, when it will be only to delude again? Miserable and deluded girl, what new whim has caused this sudden change? Wherefore wait till it be too late to repent—to persuade us that you are an unwilling abettor and assistant in this man's schemes? Go, fly with him; it were better to reconcile your indulgent mother to an eternal separation, than that she should take you once more to her heart, and be again deceived. Go, your secret is safe. How dare you speak of inflicting misery on your parents? Must not hypocrisy lurk in every word, when wilfully, recklessly, you have already abused their confidence and insulted their love? much more you cannot do." She paused, as if in expectation of a reply, but none came. Caroline's breaking heart had lost that proud spirit which, a few days before, would have called a haughty answer from her lips. She writhed beneath those stern unpitying accents, which perhaps in such a moment of remorseful agony might have been spared, but she replied not; and, after a brief silence, the Duchess again spoke.

"Caroline, answer me. What has caused this sudden change in your intentions? What has chanced between you and Lord Alphingham to demand this sudden longing for home? What impulse bids you thus elude him?"

"The memory of my mother's love," and Caroline raised her head, and pushing back her disordered hair, gazed upon the face of the Duchess with an expression of suffering few could have looked upon unmoved. "You are right, I have deceived my too indulgent parents, I have abused their confidence, insulted their love; but I cannot, oh, I cannot still those principles within me which they have implanted. In my hours of maddening folly I remembered them not; I believed they had gone from me for ever, and I should be happy. They have returned to torture me, to tell me that as the wife of Lord Alphingham, without the blessing of my parents, I shall be wretched. I have brought down endless misery on myself—that matters not; but oh, I will not cause them further suffering. I will no longer wring the heart of my gentle mother, who has so often prayed for her erring child. Too late, perhaps, I have determined, but the wife of Lord Alphingham I will never be; but his character is still dear to me, and I entreat your Grace not to withdraw your favour from him. He alone is not to blame, I also am culpable, for I acknowledge the encouragement I have given him. My character for integrity is gone, but his is still unstained."

"Fear not for him, my favour he has never had; but my honour is too dear to me for such an affair as this to pass my lips. Let him continue the courted, the spoiled, the flattered child of fashion he has ever been. I regard him not. Let him run his course rejoicing, it matters not to me." She rang the bell as she spoke, and slowly and silently paced the room till Allison obeyed the summons. "Desire James to put four swift horses to the chariot. Important business calls me instantly to London; bid him use dispatch, every moment is precious."

Allison departed, and the Duchess continued pacing the apartment till she returned, announcing the carriage as ready. A very few minutes sufficed for their personal preparations, for the Duchess to give peremptory orders to her trusty Allison to keep her departure a profound secret, as she should return before her guests were stirring the next morning, and herself account for Miss Hamilton's sudden return home. Few words were sufficient for Allison, who was in all respects well fitted for the situation she held near a person of the Duchess of Rothbury's character; and the carriage rolled rapidly from Airslie.

Not another word passed between the travelling companions. In feverish agitation on the part of Caroline, in cold, unbending sternness on that of the Duchess, their journey passed. To the imagination of the former, the roll of the carriage-wheels was the sound of pursuing horses; in every turn of the road her fevered fancy beheld the figure of Lord Alphingham: at one time glaring on her in reproachful bitterness, at another, in mockery, derision, satire; and when she closed her eyes, those visions still tormented, nor did they depart till she felt her mother's arm around her, her gentle voice pronounce her name.

True to her determination, the Duchess left London as early as six the following day, and, as usual, was the first within the breakfast-room, and little could her friends imagine that since they had left her the preceding evening she had made a journey to London and back. Caroline's indisposition, which had been evident for several days, although she had not complained till the day before, easily accounted for her return home, although the exact time of her doing so was known to none save her Grace herself; and even if surprise had been created, it would speedily have passed away in the whirl of amusements which surrounded them. But the courted, the admired, the fascinating Viscount no longer joined the festive group. His friend Sir Walter Courtenay accounted for and excused his absence, by stating that Lord Alphingham had received a disagreeable letter from an agent of his in Scotland, which demanded his instant presence; that he intended passing through London, thence proceed to the North, where, in all probability, he should await the hunting season, being engaged to join a large circle of noble friends.

It would be useless to linger on the impotent fury of Lord Alphingham when he discovered his well-conceived plans were utterly frustrated, and that his intended victim had eluded him, under the stern guardianship of the Duchess of Rothbury. In the first bitter moment of disappointment, he refused to accuse Caroline of any share in it, but believed their plans had been, by some unforeseen circumstance, discovered, and she had been forced to return home. If such were the case, he vowed to withdraw her from such galling slavery; he swore by some means to make her his own. But when her letter reached him, when he had perused its contents, and marked that not one word gave evidence of agitation of mind or unsteadiness of purpose, the current of his feelings changed. He cursed his own mad folly for thus seeking one, in whom from the first he might have seen there was no spirit, no quality suited to be his partner in a fashionable world; he vowed to think no more of a weak, capricious fool, so he now termed the girl he had fancied that he loved. As may readily be imagined, he felt his self love very deeply wounded by the complete frustration of his intentions, and being incapable of appreciating the better principles which had fortunately actuated the resolve of Caroline, a spirit of revenge entered his heart. He crushed the letter in his hand, and paced the room in fury, and would have torn it to atoms, when the thought struck him, that by enclosing the letter to the confidant and adviser of his plans regarding Caroline, he might save himself the mortification of relating his defeat, and revenge himself effectually by exposing her to ridicule and contempt.

He wrote therefore a few concise lines, regretting, in a slightly satirical style, that Miss Grahame should have been so deceived with regard to the views and feelings of her friend Miss Hamilton, and referring her to the enclosed letter for all further explanation.

Annie received this packet at the time she was in daily expectation of the triumph of her schemes, the gratification of her dislike for the being whose gentle admonitions she so much resented, which had been dictated by Mrs. Hamilton's wish to increase the happiness of her parents and herself. Lord Alphingham had regularly informed her of all his intentions, and though Caroline had for some time entirely ceased to write, yet she suspected nothing like defeat. Already she secretly indulged in triumph, already anticipated the moment when every malignant wish would be fulfilled, and she should see the proud, cold, disdainful Mrs. Hamilton bowed down beneath the conduct of her child, humbled to the dust by the reflections which would be cast upon her when the elopement of Caroline should be made public; at that very time the letter of Lord Alphingham arrived, and told her of defeat, complete, irremediable. Scorn, bitter scorn curled her lip, as she glanced over Caroline's epistle, thus dishonourably transmitted for her perusal. Severe disappointment was for the time her portion, and yet, amid all these violent emotions, attendant on one of her disposition, there was one of a very different nature mingling with them, one that, while she resolved if she could not mortify Mrs. Hamilton as she had intended, she would yet do so by insinuations against Caroline's character, whenever she had an opportunity; would bid her rejoice, strangely rejoice, that she was not the wife of Lord Alphingham, that he was still free. While she looked forward to that letter announcing the union of the Viscount and Caroline, as placing the final seal on her triumphant schemes, we may well doubt if even that enjoyment, the exultations in the sufferings of another, would have stilled the anguish of her own heart, and permitted her to triumph as she intended to have done, when the man she loved was the husband of another. It was even so, though rendered by prejudice almost insensible to anything but her hatred of Mrs. Hamilton.

Annie had not associated so intimately with Lord Alphingham without feeling the effect of his many fascinations; and, therefore, though both provoked and disappointed at this unlooked-for failure of her schemes, she was better enabled to overcome them. Resolving to leave her designs against the peace of Caroline and her mother henceforth to chance, all her energies were now put in action for the attainment of one grand object, to so work upon the disappointed Viscount as herself to take the place in his favour which Caroline had occupied. Her reply to his letter, which he had earnestly requested might enclose Caroline's, and be forwarded to him in London, was guarded, but artfully tending to inflame his indignation against Caroline; suppressing her own opinion on the subject, and exciting admiration of herself, and perhaps gratitude for her untiring sympathy in his welfare, which she ably contrived should breathe despondingly throughout. As that important affair, she added, was thus unhappily over, their correspondence she felt ought to cease, and she begged Lord Alphingham would write to her no more. She had braved remark when the happiness of two in whom she was so deeply interested was at stake; but as in that she had been disappointed, pain as it was for her to be the one to check a correspondence which could not fail to give her pleasure, being with one so enlightened, and in every way so superior as Lord Alphingham, she insisted that no more letters should pass between them. She gained her point; the Viscount wondered how he could ever be so blind as to prefer Caroline to her, and her words added weight to his resolution, to annoy the former by devoted attentions to Miss Grahame, and, if it suited his interests, make the latter his wife.

The interviews Lord Alphingham contrived to have with Miss Grahame, before he retired to Scotland, which he did not do for a fortnight after his rejection, strengthened the intentions of both. The Viscount found new charms in the reserve and agitation which now marked Annie's behaviour, in the faint voice and well-concealed intelligence, that however she might sympathise in his vexation, for herself she could not regret his freedom. All this, though they were scarcely ever alone, formed a perfect understanding between them, and quickly banished the image of Caroline from the vain and fickle-minded Alphingham.

Wishing to keep up her pretended friendship for Caroline, that she might the more effectually wound her, and not believing the sentiments of the misguided girl were changed towards her also, Annie called at Berkeley Square a very few days after Caroline's return, and she had become acquainted with all that had passed. No one was visible in the drawing-room; the young men, she knew, had both arrived from college, but the house was destitute of that air of cheerfulness and glee which generally attended their return. Some little time she waited with impatient displeasure, which did not lessen when, on hearing the door open, she beheld, not Caroline but Mrs. Hamilton herself, her cheek pale, as if from some internal suffering, but with even more than her wonted dignity both in mien and step, and for a moment Annie struggled in vain to speak with the eagerness with which she intended to have inquired for Caroline; before the mild yet penetrating glance of Mrs. Hamilton even her self-possession appeared about to abandon her. She felt lowered, humbled in her presence, and it was this, perhaps, this very sense of inferiority, which had ever heightened dislike.

Mildly, yet coldly and briefly, Mrs. Hamilton answered Miss Grahame's torrent of questions and regrets which followed her information, that Caroline was not well enough to see any one but her own family, and that, as they left London some little time sooner than they had originally intended, she had begged her mother to tender her farewell. Annie expressed excessive sorrow, but no effort on either side was made to prolong this interview, and it was very quickly over. Annie returned home dissatisfied and angry, determining to make one attempt more; and if that failed, she thought she could as successfully wound by inuendoes and ridicule, should mere acquaintance take the place of intimate friendship.

Miss Grahame accordingly wrote in a truly heroic and highly-phrased style, regretting, sympathising, and encouraging; but the answer, though guardedly worded, told her too plainly all her influence was over.

"I am not strong enough," wrote Caroline, "yet to argue with you, or defend my conduct, as I feel sure I should be compelled to do, did we meet now. I find, too late, that on many points we differ so completely, that the confidential intercourse, which has hitherto been ours, must henceforth be at an end. Forgive me, dear Annie, if it grieves you to read these words; believe me, it is painful to me to write them. But now that my feelings on so many important subjects have been changed—now that the blinding film has been mercifully removed from my eyes, and I see the whole extent of my sinful folly, I cannot hope to find the same friend in you. Too late, for my peace, I have discovered that our principles of duty are directly opposite. I blame you not for what I am, for the suffering I am still enduring, no, for that I alone have caused; but your persuasions, your representations heightened the evil, strengthened me in my sinful course. You saw my folly, and worked on it, by sowing the seeds of mistrust and dislike towards my parents. I was a passive tool in your hands, and you endeavoured to mould me according to your notions of happiness. I thank you for all the interest you have thus endeavoured to prove for me. You cannot regret withdrawing it, now I have in your eyes proved myself so undeserving. This is the last confidential letter I shall ever write, save to her who is indeed my best, my truest, most indulgent friend on earth; but before I entirely conclude, the love, the friendship I have felt for you compels me to implore you to pause in your career. Oh, Annie, do not follow up those principles you would have instilled in me; do not, oh, as you value future innocence and peace, do not let them be your guide in life; you will find them hollow, vain, and false. Pause but for one moment, and reflect. Can there he happiness without virtue, peace without integrity? Is there pleasure without truth? Was deception productive of felicity to me? Oh, no, no. That visit to London, that introduction in the gay world to which I looked forward with so much joy, the retrospection of which I hoped would have enlivened Oakwood, oh, what does it present? A dreary waste of life, varied only by remorse. Had my career been yours, you would perhaps have looked on it differently; but I cannot. Oh, Annie, once more, I beseech, let not such principles actuate your future conduct; they are wrong, they will load to misery here, and what preparation are they for eternity?

"Farewell, and may God bless you! We shall not, perhaps, meet again till next season, and then it cannot be as we have parted. An interest in your welfare I shall ever feel, but intimacy must be at an end between us.

"CAROLINE."



CHAPTER VIII.

There was a dark lowering frown obscuring the noble and usually open brow of the young heir of Oakwood, and undisguised anger visible in every feature and every movement, as he paced the library with disordered steps, about ten days after the events we have recorded, and three since his return from college. He had crossed his arms on his chest, which was swelling with the emotion he was with difficulty repressing, and his tall, elegant figure appeared to increase in height beneath his indignant and, in this case, just displeasure.

Caroline's depression had not decreased since her brother's arrival. She felt she had been unjust to Percy, and a degree of coldness which had appeared at first in his conduct towards her, occasioned, though she knew it not, by her rejection of his friend St. Eval, which he believed was occasioned by her love of Alphingham, whom he fancied she still continued to regard with an eye of favour; both these causes created reserve and distance between the brother and sister, in lieu of that cordiality which had hitherto subsisted between them.

Percy had not been aware of all that had passed between the Viscount and Caroline till that morning, when Emmeline, hoping to soften his manner towards her sister, related, with all her natural eloquence, the Viscount's conduct, and the triumph of duty which Caroline had achieved. That he had even asked her of his father, Percy knew not till then, and it was this intelligence bursting on him at once which called forth such violent anger. Emmeline had been summoned away before she had time to note the startling effects of her words; but Herbert did, and though he was unacquainted with the secret cause of his brother's dislike towards Lord Alphingham, he endeavoured by gentle eloquence to pacify and turn him from his purpose, at which he trembled.

"The villain, the cold-blooded, despicable villain!" muttered Percy at intervals, as he continued his hurried pace, without heeding, perhaps not hearing, Herbert's persuasive accents. "To act thus foully—to play thus on the unguarded feelings of a weak, at least, unsophisticated, unsuspecting girl—to gain her love, to destine her to ruin and shame, the heartless miscreant! Oh, that my promise prevented not my exposing him to the whole world; but there is another way—the villain shall find such conduct passes not unheeded!"

"You are right, Percy," interposed Herbert, gently determining not to understand him. "If his conduct be indeed such as to call forth, with justice, this irritation on your part, his punishment will come at last."

"It shall come, ay, and by this baud!" exclaimed Percy, striking his clenched hand violently on the table; "if his conduct be such. You speak coolly, Herbert, but you know not all, therefore I forgive you: it is the conduct of a villain, ay, and he shall know it too. Before three suns have set again, he shall feel my sister has an avenger!"

"His schemes against the peace, the honour of the innocent are registered on high; be calm, be satisfied, Percy. His last hour will be chastisement enough."

"By heaven, it shall be!" retorted Percy, passion increasing, it appeared, at every gentle word his brother spoke, and irritating him beyond control. "Herbert, you will drive me mad with this mistimed calmness; you know not half the injury she has received."

"Whatever might have been his schemes, they have all failed, Percy, and therefore should we not rather feel thankful for Caroline's restoration to her home, to herself, than thus encourage fury against him from whose snares she has escaped?"

"Yes; and though his base plan, thanks to my sister's strength of mind, or, rather, my mother's enduring counsel, has not succeeded, am I to sit calmly by and see her health, spirits, alike sinking beneath that love which the deceiving villain knew so well how to call forth? am I to see this, to gaze on the suffering he has caused, unmoved, and permit him to pass unscathed, as if his victim had neither father nor brother to protect and avenge her injured honour?"

"Her honour is not injured. She is as innocent and as pure as before Lord Alphingham addressed her. Percy, you are increasing this just displeasure by imaginary causes. I do not believe it to be love for him that occasions her present suffering; I think, from the conversations we have had, it is much more like remorse for the past, and bitter grief that the confidence of our parents must, spite of their excessive kindness, be for a time entirely withdrawn, not any lingering affection for Alphingham."

"Whatever it be, he is the primary cause. Not injured! every word of love from his lips is pollution; his asking her of my father an atrocious insult; his endeavours to fly with her a deadly sin—an undying stain."

Herbert shuddered involuntarily.

"What would you say, or mean?" he exclaimed.

"What have you heard or known concerning him, that calls for words like these?"

"Ask me not, as you love me; it is enough I know he is a villain," and Percy continued his rapid walk. Herbert rose from his seat and approached him.

"Percy," he said, "my dear brother, tell me what is it you would do? to what would this unwonted passion lead? Oh, let it not gain too great a dominion, Percy. Dear Percy, what would you do?"

"I would seek him, Herbert," replied Percy, "where ever he is; by whom surrounded. I would taunt him as a deceiving, heartless villain, and if he demand satisfaction, by heaven, it would be joy for me to give it!"

"Has passion, then, indeed obtained so much ascendancy, it would be joy for you to meet him thus for blood?" demanded Herbert, fixing his large, melancholy eyes intently on Percy's face, on which the cloud was becoming darker, and his step even more rapid. "Would you seek him for the purpose of exciting anger like your own? is it thus you would avenge my sister?"

"Thus, and only thus," answered Percy, with ungoverned fury. "As others have done; man to man I would meet him, and villain as he is, I would have honourable vengeance for the insult, not only to my sister, but to us all. Why should I stay my hand?"

"Why? because on you more than on many others has the light of our blessed religion dawned," answered Herbert, calmly; "because you know what others think not of, that the law of our Master forbiddeth blood; that whosoever sheds it, on whatever plea, his shall be demanded in return; because you know, in seeking vengeance by blood, His law is disobeyed, and His vengeance you would call upon yourself. Percy, you will not, you dare not act as this overwhelming passion dictates."

"Dare not," repeated the young man, light flashing from his eye as if his spirit chafed at that word, even from his brother, "dare not; you mistake me, Herbert. I will not sit tamely down beneath an injury such as this. I will not see that villain triumph without one effort to prove to him that he is known, and make the whole world know him as he is."

"And would a hostile meeting accomplish this? Would that proclaim his villainy, of whatever nature it may be, to the world? Would they not rather side with him, their present minion, and even bring forward your unjustifiable conduct as a fresh proof in his favour? How would they give credit to the terms they may hear you apply to him, when even in your family you speak not of the true cause of this strange agitation and indignant anger."

Percy continued to pace the room for some minutes without answering.

"My honour has been insulted in the person of my sister," he muttered, at length, as if speaking more to himself than to his brother; "and am I to bear that calmly? Were the truth made known, would not the whole world look on me with scorn as a spiritless coward, to whom the law of honour was as nothing; who would see his sister suffering from the arts of a miscreant, without one effort to revenge her?"

"The law of honour," replied Herbert, bitterly; "it is the law of blood, of murder, of wilful, uncalled-for murder. Percy, my brother, banish these guilty thoughts. Do not be one of those misguided beings who, from that false deceiving plea, the law of honour, condemn whole families to misery, and themselves, without preparation, without prayer, nay, in the very act of disobeying a sacred commandment of their God, rush heedless into His presence, into awful eternity."

He paused, but not vainly had he spoken. Percy gazed on his brother's features with greater calmness, and more kindly, but still impetuously, said—

"Would you then have me stand calmly by and behold my sister a suffering victim to his arts, though actual sin, thank God, has been spared, and thus permit that villain Alphingham to continue his course triumphant?"

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it," answered Herbert, instantly, twining his arm within that of his brother, and looking up in his face with that beseeching glance of affection which was so peculiar to his features. "Dear brother, rest on those words and be contented. It is not for us to think of vengeance or to seek for retribution; justice is, indeed, ours to claim, but in this case, there is no point on which we can demand it. Let Alphingham, even granting you know him as he is, pursue his course in peace. Did you endeavour to inflict chastisement, is it not doubting the wisdom and justice of the Almighty? And suppose you fell instead of your adversary, in the meeting you would seek—what, think you, would be the emotions of all those who so dearly love you, when they gazed on your bleeding corse, and remembered you had sought death in defiance of every principle they had so carefully instilled? Think of my mother's silent agony; has not Caroline's conduct occasioned sufficient pain, and would you increase it? you, whose most trifling action is dictated by love for her; you, in whom she has every reason to look for so much virtue, honour, and self-control; whom she so dearly, so devotedly loves? Remember what she would feel; and, if no other consideration have effect, surely that will bid you pause."

Percy still paced the room, but his head was averted from his brother as he spoke, and his step bespoke contending and painful emotions. He did not answer when Herbert ceased to speak, but his brother knew him well, and remained silent.

"You have conquered, Herbert," he exclaimed at length, firmly clasping his brother's hand in his and raising his head; anger still lingered on his cheek, but his eye was softer. "I could not bear my mother's wretchedness; I could not thus repay her love, her cherished care. I will not seek this base and heartless man. I tremble for my present resolution, if he chance to cross my path; but, for her sake, I will avoid him; for her sake, his villainy shall be still concealed."

"Endeavour to think of him more charitably, my dear Percy, or forget him entirely, which you will."

"Think of him charitably; him—a fashionable, fawning, seducing hypocrite!" burst from Percy, in a tone of renewed passion. "No! the gall he has created within me cannot yet be turned to sweetness; forget him—that at least is impossible, when Caroline's coldness and reserve remind me disagreeably of him every day. It is plain she looks on me as the destroyer of her happiness; thinks, perhaps, had it not been for my letter my father would have given his consent, and she might have peacefully become the wife of Alphingham. It is hard to bear unkindness from one whom I have endeavoured to preserve from ruin."

"Nay, do not be unjust, Percy; are you not cool and reserved yourself? How do we know why Caroline is somewhat more so than usual? Poor girl, we may find excuses for her, but I know no reason why you should treat her as you do."

"Her whole conduct demands it. How did she use that noble fellow St. Eval; encourage him, so that their union was confidently asserted, and then reject him for no cause whatever; or, if she had a cause, for love of a villain, who, it appears, in secret, possessed all the favour she pretended to lavish on St. Eval,—both false and deceiving."