"Percy, you are determined to be angry with everybody to-day. I flattered myself my influence had allayed your passion, and behold, it is only withdrawn from one object to be hurled upon another. Can you not find some good cause now to turn it from Caroline on me? Is it nothing that I should dare face the tempest of your wrath, and tell my impetuous and headstrong brother exactly what I thought—nothing, that I should have ventured to say there was a thing on earth you dared not do?"

Percy turned sharply towards him, as if in that moment he could be angry even with him; but Herbert met his fierce glance with a smile so full of affectionate interest, that all Percy's displeasure and irritation seemed at once removed.

"Displeased with you!" exclaimed Percy, when involuntary admiration had taken the place of anger, and unconsciously the noble serenity of Herbert's temper appeared to soothe the more irritable nature of his own. "Ay, Herbert, when we two have exchanged characters, such may be, till then I am contented to love and reverence the virtue, the gentleness I cannot make my own."

"We are better thus, my brother," replied Herbert, feelingly; "were we the same, could I have been the happy being you have made me at college? Much, very much happiness do I owe to your high spirit, Percy. Without your support, my life, spite of the charms of study, would have been a painful void at college; and though I feel, you know not perhaps how often and how bitterly, that in many things I cannot hope to be your companion, yet to think my affection may sometimes check the violence that would lead you wrong, oh, that is all I can hope for or desire."

"Have you not my love, my confidence, my fondest, warmest esteem?" exclaimed Percy, impetuously, and twining his arm, as in fondness he often did, around his brother's neck. "Is there one among my gay companions I love as you, though I appear to seek their society more?"

Herbert was silent.

"You do not doubt me, Herbert?"

"Percy—no!" exclaimed the youth, with unwonted ardour. To speak more at that moment he could not, and ere words came at his command, the library door slowly opened, and Caroline languidly entered.

Herbert somewhat hurriedly left the room, to conceal the agitation the interview with Percy had occasioned him.

For some little time Caroline remained in the library, seeking, it appeared, a book, without a word passing between her and Percy. Both evidently wished to speak, but neither liked to begin; at length Caroline approached him.

"Percy," she began, and her voice trembled sufficiently to prevent more. Percy was softened.

"Well, dear Caroline, am I so very terrible you cannot speak to me? I have been angry and unjust, and you, perhaps, a little too reserved; so now let us forgive and forget, as we did when we were children, and be friends for the future."

He spoke with all his natural frankness, and extended his hand towards her. Caroline's spirits were so depressed, that the least word or token of kindness overcame her, and pressing her brother's hand in both hers, she turned away her head to conceal the quickly-starting tears, and Percy continued, trying to smile—

"Well, Caroline, will you not tell me what you were going to say? I cannot quite penetrate your thoughts."

Again Caroline hesitated, but then with an effort she said, fixing her heavy eyes on her brother's face—

"Percy, had you a real cause for writing to my father as you did some few weeks ago, or was it rumour alone which actuated your doing so? I implore you to answer me truly."

"I had all-sufficient cause," he answered, instantly. "It was from no rumour. Do you think that, without good reason, I would have endeavoured to traduce the character of any man?"

"And what was that cause? Why did you implore my father, as he valued my future peace, not to expose me to his fascinations?"

Caroline spoke slowly and deliberately, as if every word were weighed ere it was uttered, but with an expression on her features, as if life and peace depended on his answer.

Percy looked earnestly at her.

"Why should you ask this question, my dear sister?" he said. "If I answer it, what good will it do? Why should I solve a mystery, that, if you love this Alphingham, as this extreme depression bids me believe, must bring but increase of pain?"

"Percy," replied Caroline, raising her head, and standing with returning dignity before him, "Percy, do not let the idea of my love bid you hesitate. Increase of pain I do not think is possible; but yet, do not mistake me, that pain does not spring from disappointed affection. Percy, I do not love Lord Alphingham; I have been fascinated, and the remembrance of the past still clings to me with remorse and suffering; but I never loved him as, had I not been infatuated and blind, had I not rejected the counsels and confidence of my mother, I might have loved another. You know not how I have been led on, how I have permitted myself to be but a tool in the hands of those whose independence I admired, and aided them by my own reckless folly—the wish to prove, however differently I was educated, still I could act with equal spirit. Had it not been for that self-will, that perverse spirit, I might now have been a happy and a virtuous wife, loving and esteeming that superior being, whose affections I wilfully cast away; but that matters not now," she added, hurriedly. "My mother was right, I was unworthy to share his lot; but of this rest assured, I do not love, I never have loved, for I cannot esteem Lord Alphingham."

"But why then wish to know more concerning him?" Percy said, much relieved by his sister's words, and more pleased than he chose to appear by her allusion to St. Eval. "Is it not enough your connection with him is entirely broken off?"

"No, Percy; I have rejected him, dissolved our engagement, I scarcely know wherefore, except that I felt I could not be his without my father's consent; but there are times I feel as if I had treated him unjustly, that I have had no cause to think ill of him; my conduct had encouraged him. To me he has been devoted and respectful, and though I could not, would not be his wife, yet these thoughts linger on my mind, and add most painfully to the chaos already there."

Twice Percy slowly traversed the room, with a countenance on which anxious thought was deeply imprinted. He paused opposite to Caroline, took both her hands in his, and spoke in a voice which, though low, was so solemn that it thrilled to her inmost soul.

"Caroline, I had hoped the fatal secret made known to me would never have passed my lips, but for the restoration of your peace it shall be divulged, nor will the injured one who first intrusted it to me, to preserve you from ruin, believe I have betrayed her trust. You have not suspected the whole extent of evil that would have been yours, had you indeed fled with that hypocritical villain. Caroline, Lord Alphingham is a married man—his wife still lives!"

Had a thunderbolt fallen at her feet, or the earth yawned beneath her, not more pale or transfixed would Caroline have stood than she did as those unexpected words fell clear and shrill as a trumpet-blast upon her tortured ear. Amid all her conjectures as to the meaning of Percy's words, this idea had never crossed her mind; that Alphingham could thus have deliberately been seeking her ruin, under the guise of love and honour, was a stretch of villainy that entered not into her conception. Now that the truth was known, she stood as if suddenly turned to marble, her cheek, her very lips bearing the colour of death. Then came the thoughts of the past; had it not been for those recollections of her childhood, her mother's love, devotion, what would she now have been? In vain she struggled to bear up against that rushing torrent of thought; every limb was seized with violent trembling, her brain reeled, and she would have sunk to the ground, had not Percy, alarmed at the effect of his words, led her tenderly to a seat, and kneeling by her side, threw his arms around her. Her head sunk on his shoulder, and she clung to him as if evil and guilt and wretchedness still hovered like fiends around her, and he would protect her from them all. Fire again flashed from the eyes of the young man as he thought on Alphingham, but for her sake he restrained himself, and endeavoured by a few soothing words to calm her.

"Tell me all—all you know, I can bear it," she said at length, almost inaudibly, and looking up with features as deathlike as before. Percy complied with her request, and briefly related as follows:

He had become acquainted during his college life, he told her, with a widow and her daughter, who lived about four or five miles from Oxford. Some service he had rendered them, of sufficient importance as to make him an ever welcome and acceptable guest within the precincts of that cottage, which proclaimed a refined and elevated taste, although its inmates were not of the highest class. Both Percy fancied were widows, although he scarcely knew the foundation of that fancy, except the circumstance of their living together, and the husband of the younger lady never appearing; nor was his name ever mentioned in the confidential conversations he sometimes had with them, which the service he had had in his power to do demanded. Mrs. Amesfort, the daughter, still possessed great beauty, which a shade of pensive thought, sometimes amounting to deep melancholy, rendered even more lovely. Her age might have been six or seven and twenty, she could not have been more. At an earlier age, there was still evidence that she had been a sparkling, lively girl, and her mother would frequently relate to the young man the change that sorrow—and sorrow, she hinted, of a peculiarly painful nature—had made in one who, ten years previous, had been so full of life and glee. Decline, slow but sure, it seemed even to Percy's inexperienced eye, was marked on her pale features; and at those times when bodily suffering was greatest, her spirit would resume a portion of its former lightness, as if it rejoiced in the anticipated release. There was a deep thrilling melody in her voice, whether in speaking or, when strength allowed, in warbling forth the pathetic airs of her native land; for Agnes Amesfort was a child of Erin, once enthusiastic, warm, devoted, as were her countrywomen—possessing feelings that even beneath that pale, calm exterior would sometimes burst forth and tinge her cheek, and light up her soul-speaking eye with momentary but brilliant radiance, and whispered too clearly what she had once been, and what was now the wreck.

The gaiety, the frankness, and unassuming manner of Percy rendered him a most acceptable visitant at Isis Lodge, so the cottage was called; he was ever ready with some joyous tale, either of Oxford or of the metropolis, to bring a smile even to the lips of Mrs. Amesfort. It was not likely that he should so frequently visit the cottage without exciting the curiosity and risibility of his college companions; but he was enabled cheerfully and with temper to withstand it all, feeling secure in his own integrity, and confident that the situation in which he stood relative to the inmates of that cottage was mutually understood. Several inquiries Percy made concerning these interesting females; but no intelligence of their former lives could he obtain; they had only settled in the cottage a few months previous to the period of his first acquaintance with them; and whence they came, and who they were, no one knew nor cared to know. It was enough for the poor for many miles round, that the assistance of the strangers was extended towards them, with kind words and consolation in their troubles; and for the Oxonians, that though they received with extreme and even grateful politeness the visits made them, they were never returned.

One little member of this small family Percy had not mentioned, a little girl, who might have been about eight or nine years old, an interesting child, whom Percy had saved from a watery grave in the rapid Isis, which rolled at the base of the grounds; a child, in whom the affections of her widowed mother were centred with a force and intensity, that it appeared death itself could but divide; and she was, indeed, one to love—affectionate, and full of glee; yet the least sign of increased suffering on the part of her mother would check the wild exuberance of childish spirits, without diminishing in the least her cheerfulness, and she would throw her arms around her neck, and fondly ask, if she might by kisses while away the pain. Many a game of play did she have with her preserver, whose extreme kindness and excessive liveliness excited the affections of the child, and increased and preserved the gratitude his courageous conduct had occasioned in the bosom of that young devoted mother, whose every earthly joy was centred in her fatherless child.

It happened that in speaking one day of London society, and of the reigning belles and beaux of the season, that Percy casually mentioned the name of Lord Alphingham, whom he declared was by all accounts so overwhelmed with attentions and flatteries, since his return from a nine years' residence on the Continent, that there was every chance of his being thoroughly spoiled, if he were not so already, and losing every grain of sense, if he had any to lose. He was surprised, as he spoke, at the very visible agitation of the elder lady, whose colour went and came so rapidly, that involuntarily he turned towards her daughter, wondering if any such emotion were visible in her; and though she did not appear paler than usual, nor was any outward emotion visible, save that her arm was somewhat tightly bound round the tiny figure of the little Agnes, he almost started, as he met those large soft eyes fixed full upon him, as if they would penetrate his soul; and though her voice was calm, unhesitating, and firm, as she asked him if he were acquainted with Lord Alphingham, yet its tones sounded even more thrilling, more sadly than usual. He answered truly in the negative, adding, he was not ambitious of his acquaintance; as a man, he was not one to suit his fancy. Many questions did Mrs. Amesfort ask relative to this nobleman, and still unconsciously her arm held her child more closely to her side. The elder lady's looks were bent on them both, expressive, it seemed to Percy, of fondness for those two beloved objects, and struggling with indignation towards another. Percy returned to college that evening unusually thoughtful. What could Lord Alphingham have to do with the inhabitants of that simple cottage? Incoherent fancies occupied his mind, but from all which presented themselves as solutions to the mystery his pure mind revolted; and, compelled by an impulse he could not resist, he continued to speak of Alphingham every time he visited the cottage. Mrs. Amesfort, it appeared to him, rather encouraging than checking his conversation on that subject, by introducing it herself, and demanding if his name were still mentioned in Percy's letters from town. Mrs. Morley, her mother, ever looked anxiously at her, as if she could have wished the subject unnamed; but still Alphingham continued to be the theme so constantly discussed at Isis Lodge, that Percy felt no repugnance in mentioning those reports which allied his sister's name with that of the Viscount. Again were the eyes of Mrs. Amesfort fixed intently on his face, and she spoke but little more during that evening's visit. Percy left her, unable to account for the deep and serious thought imprinted on her features, nor the look with which she bade him seek her the following day at an appointed hour, as she earnestly wished to speak with him alone. The day passed heavily till he was again with her. She was alone; and steady determination more than ever marked on her clear and polished brow. She spoke, and Percy listened, absorbed; she alluded to his preservation of her child, and, in that moment of reawakened gratitude, all the enthusiasm of her country spoke in her eyes and voice; and then a moment she paused, and a bright and apparently painful flush mounted to those cheeks which Percy had ever seen so pale. She implored his forbearance with her; his pardon, at what might appear an unwarrantable interference on her part in the affairs of his family; but his many and eloquent descriptions of them, particularly of his mother, had caused an interest that compelled her to reveal a fatal secret which, she had hoped, would never have passed her lips. Was it a mere rumour, or were Lord Alphingham's attentions marked and decided towards his sister? Percy believed there was very good foundation for the rumours he had heard.

Did his parents approve of it? she again asked, and the flush of excitement faded. Percy was not quite sure; he rather thought by his mother's letters she did not, though Caroline was universally envied as an object of such profound attention from one so courted and admired. Did his sister love him?—the words appeared wrung with a violent effort from Mrs. Amesfort's lips.

He did not fancy she did as yet; but he doubted not the power of Lord Alphingham's many fascinations and exclusive devotion to herself, on one naturally rather susceptible to vanity as was Caroline.

"Oh, if you love your sister, save her ere it be too late, ere her affections are engaged," was Mrs. Amesfort's reply, with a burst of emotion, the more terrible, from its contrast with her general calm and unmoved demeanour. "Expose her not to those fascinations which I know no heart can resist. Let her not associate with him—with my husband; he is not free to love—I am his lawful wife; and the child you saved is his—his own—the offspring of lawfully-hallowed wedlock; though he has cast me off, though his eyes have never gazed upon my child, yet, yet we are his. No cruel words of separation has the law of England spoken. But do not, oh! if you have any regard for me," she continued, wildly seizing both Percy's hands, as she marked the dark blood of passion kindling on the young man's brow, "do not betray him; do not let him know that his wife—his injured wife—has risen to cry shame upon him, and banish him from those circles wherein he is formed to mingle. Promise me faithfully, solemnly, you will not betray my secret more than is necessary to preserve your sister from misery and ruin. I thought even for her I could not have spoken thus, but I gazed on my child, and remembered she too has a mother, whose happiness is centred in her as mine is in my Agnes, and I could hesitate no more. Promise me you will not abuse my confidence, Mr. Hamilton, promise me; let me not have the misery of reproaches from him to whom my fond heart still clings, as it did at first. Yes; though for nine long weary years I have never seen his face nor heard his voice, still he knows not, guesses not how his image dwells within, how faithfully, how fervidly he is still beloved. Promise me my existence shall not be suspected, that neither he nor any one shall know the secret of my existence. It is enough for me he lives, is happy. My child! could I but see her in the station her rank demands,—but, oh, I would not force her on her father."

She would still have spoken, still have entreated, but this unwonted emotion had exhausted her feeble strength. Greatly moved by this extraordinary disclosure, and struck with that deep devotedness, that undying love, Percy solemnly pledged his word to preserve her secret.

"My course will soon be over, my sand run out," she said, after energetically thanking him for his soothing and relieving words, and in a tone of such sad, resigned hopelessness, that, irritated as he felt towards Alphingham, his eye glistened and his lips quivered. "And wherefore should I dash down his present enjoyment by standing forward and proclaiming myself his wife? Why should I expose my secret sorrows, my breaking heart to the inspection of a cold and heartless world, and draw down on my dying moments his wrath, for the poor satisfaction of beholding myself recognised as Viscountess Alphingham? Would worldly honours supply the place of his affection? Oh, no, no! I am better as I am. The tears of maternal and filial love will hallow my grave; and he, too, when he knows for his sake, to save him a pang, I have suffered my heart to break in uncomplaining silence, oh, he too may shed one tear, bestow a thought on one who loved him to the last!"

"But your child!" exclaimed Percy, almost involuntarily.

"Will be happier here, under my mother's care, unconscious of her birth, than mingling in a dangerous world, without a mother to cherish and protect her. Her father might neglect, despise her; she might be a bar to a second and a happier union, and oh, I could not die in peace did I expose her thus."

Percy was silent, and when the interview had closed, he bade that devoted woman farewell, with a saddened and deeply thoughtful brow.

Lord Alphingham had been a student in Dublin, in the environs of which city dwelt Mrs. Morley, a widow, and this her only child. At their cottage he became a constant and devoted guest, and as might have been expected, his impetuous and headstrong nature became desperately enamoured of the beautiful and innocent Agnes, then only seventeen. Spite of his youth, being barely twenty, neither mother nor daughter could withstand his eloquent solicitations, and a private but sacred marriage was performed. He quitted college, but still lingered in Ireland, till a peremptory letter from his father summoned him to England, to celebrate his coming of age. He left his bride, and the anguish of parting was certainly at that time mutual. Some few months Agnes hoped for and looked to his return. Alphingham, then Lord Amesfort, on his part, was restrained only by the fear of the inveteracy of his father's disposition from confessing his marriage, and sending for his wife. Another bride, of rank and wealth, was proposed to him, and then he confessed the truth. The fury of the old man knew no bounds, and he swore to disinherit his son, if he did not promise never to return to his ignoble wife, whom he vowed he never would acknowledge. Amesfort promised submission, fully intending to remain constant till his father's death, which failing health proclaimed was not far distant, and then seek his gentle wife, and introduce her in her proper sphere. He wrote to this effect, and the boding heart of Agnes sunk at once; in vain her mother strove to rouse her energies, by alluding to the strain of his letter, the passionate affection breathing in every line, the sacred nature of his promise. She felt her doom, and ere her child was six months old, her feelings, ominous of evil, were fully verified.

Lord Alphingham lingered some time, and his son found in the society in which the Viscount took good care he should continually mingle, attractions weighty enough to banish from his fickle heart all love, and nearly all recollection of his wife. He found matrimony would be very inconvenient in the gay circle of which he was a member. All the better feelings and qualities of his youth fled; beneath the influence of example and bad companionship his evil ones were called forth and fostered, and speedily he became the heartless libertine we have seen him. His letters to the unfortunate Agnes were less and less frequent, and at length ceased altogether, and the sum transmitted for her use every year was soon the only proof that he still lived. His residence in foreign lands, the various names he assumed, baffled all her efforts at receiving the most distant intelligence concerning him, and Agnes still lingered in hopeless resignation—"The heart will break, but brokenly live on;" and thus it was she lived, existing for her child alone. Nine years they had been parted, and Agnes had ever shrunk in evident pain from quitting her native land, and the cottage which had been the scene of her brief months of happiness; but when change of air was pleaded in behalf of her child, then suffering from lingering fever, when change of climate was strongly recommended by the physicians, in secret for herself equally with that of her little girl, she hesitated no longer, and a throb of mingled pain and pleasure swelled her too fond heart as her foot pressed the native land of her husband. Some friends of her mother, unacquainted with her sad story, resided near Oxford, and thither they bent their steps, and finally fixed their residence, where Mrs. Amesfort soon had the happiness of beholding her child restored to perfect health and radiant in beauty; perhaps the faint hope that Alphingham might one day unconsciously behold his daughter, reconciled her to this residence in England. She was in his own land; she might hear of him, of his happiness; and, deeply injured as she was, that knowledge, to her too warm, too devoted heart was all-sufficient.

Such were the particulars of the story which Percy concisely yet fully related in confidence to his sister. Caroline neither moved nor spoke during his recital; her features still retained their deadly paleness, and her brother almost involuntarily felt alarmed. A few words she said, as he ceased, in commentary on his tale, and her voice was calm. Nor did her step falter as she quitted the library, and returned to her own room, when, carefully closing the door, she sunk on the nearest seat, and covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out all outward objects, gave unchecked dominion to the incongruous thoughts occasioned by Percy's tale. She could not define or banish them; a sudden oppression appeared cast upon her brain, deadening its powers, and preventing all relief from tears. The ruin, the wretchedness from which she had been mercifully preserved stood foremost in her mind, all else appeared a strange and frightful dream. The wife and child of Alphingham flitted like mocking phantoms before her eyes, and the countenance of Alphingham himself glared at her, and his gibing laugh seemed to scream in her ears, and transform him into a malignant fiend revelling in the misery he had created. She strove to pray but vainly; no words of such soothing and consoling import rose to her lips. How long she remained in this state of wretchedness she knew not, but it was the mild accents of her mother's voice that roused her from her trance.

"Are you not well, Caroline? What is the matter, love?" Mrs. Hamilton asked, alarmed at the icy coldness of her daughter's hand, and kissing, as she spoke, her pallid cheek.

Caroline threw her arms round her, and a violent flood of tears relieved the misery from which she was suffering so painfully.

"Do not ask me to reveal the cause of this weakness, my dearest mother," she said, when voice returned. "I shall be better now, and never, never again shall recollections of the past, by afflicting me, cause you solicitude. Do not fancy this apparent grief has anything to do with regret at my late decision, or for still lingering affection; oh, no, no. Do not look at me so anxiously, mother; I have had a long, long conversation with Percy, and that has caused the weakness you perceive; but it will soon pass away, and I shall be your own happy Caroline again."

Tears were still stealing from those bloodshot eyes; but she looked up in Mrs. Hamilton's face with an expression of such confiding affection, that her mother's anxious fears were calmed. She would not inquire more, nor question Percy, when he sought her in her boudoir before dinner, to request that no notice might be taken, if his sister's manner were that evening less calm than usual. Mrs. Hamilton felt thankful that an understanding had taken place between her children, whose estrangement had been a source of severe pain, and she waited trustingly and calmly for time to do its work on the torn heart and agitated nerves of Caroline. To Emmeline's extreme delight, preparations for their departure from London and return to Oakwood were now proceeding in good earnest. Never did that fair and innocent face look more joyous and animated, and never had her laugh been more glad and ringing than when the carriage rolled away from Berkeley Square. Every circumstance of their journey increased her childlike glee, every town they passed through an object of interest, and even the pensive features of her cousin Ellen reflected her unchecked joyousness. They seldom travelled more than forty miles a day, and consequently it was not till the evening of the fourth they neared the village, whose inhabitants, clad in holiday attire, stood at the doors of their houses to receive them, with silent and respectful yet very evident tokens of joy. The evening was most lovely; the sun had lost the splendour of its beams, though clouds of every brilliant hue proclaimed the increased glory which attended its hour of rest, at times lost behind a richly glowing cloud, and then bursting forth again and dyeing all nature with a flood of gold. The river lay calmly sleeping before them, while on its glassy bosom the heavens cast their radiance, relieved by the shade of the mighty trees that stood to guard its banks; the rich foliage of the trees, the superb green of the fields, in some of which the ripening corn was beginning to stud with gold, the varied flowers gemming the fertile hedge, the holy calmness of this summer eve, all called forth the best feelings of the human heart. For a few minutes even Emmeline was silent, and then her clear silvery voice was heard chanting, as if by an irresistible impulse, the beautiful hymn of the Tyrolese, so peculiarly appropriate to the scene. On, on they went, the white walls of the church peeping through clustering ivy, the old and venerable rectory next came in sight; a few minutes more, and the heavy gates of Oakwood were thrown wide to receive them, and the carriages swept along the well-known entrance. Every tree and shrub, and even flower, were now looked on by Emmeline and Percy with increased and somewhat boisterous expressions of delight.

"Try if you cannot be still a very short time longer, dear Emmeline," whispered the more restrained Ellen, whose eye had caught a glimpse of Caroline's countenance, and who perceived in an instant her feelings were not in unison with Emmeline's. She was right; Caroline could not feel as did her sister. She was not the same light-hearted, innocent being she had been when she quitted Oakwood; the appearance of the home of her childhood vividly recalled all that had occurred since she had mingled in the world, that world of which she had indulged so many brilliant visions; and while Entmeline's laugh conveyed gladness in that hour to all who heard it, Caroline leaned forward to conceal from her companions the tears that stole silently down her cheek.

A shout from Percy proclaimed the old hall in sight. A group of domestics stood on the steps, and the setting sun threw its brilliant hues on the mansion, as if with increased and unusual lustre that venerable spot should welcome the return of the Hamilton family within its sheltering walls.



CHAPTER IX.

"There wants but the guardian spirit of yon old Manor to render this scene as perfect as her society would bid the present hours roll on in unalloyed felicity to me," was Herbert Hamilton's observation some little time after their return to Oakwood, as he stood, arm in arm with his friend Arthur Myrvin, on the brow of a hill which overlooked, among other beautiful objects, Greville Manor, now inhabited by strangers.

Young Myrvin smiled archly, but ere their walk that evening was concluded, he too had become interested in the being so dear to his friend; for Herbert spoke in perfect confidence, secure of friendly sympathy. Oakwood was to him as dear, perhaps even dearer than to Emmeline, for his nature and tastes were not such as any amusement in London could gratify. His recreation from the grave studies necessary for the profession which he had chosen, was to wander forth with a congenial spirit, and marking Nature in all her varied robes, adore his Creator in His works as well as in His word. In London his ever active mind longed intensely to do good, and his benevolent exertions frequently exceeded his strength; it was his chief delight to seek the dwellings of the poor, to relieve distress, alleviate affliction. The prisoner in his cell, the bold and wilful transgressor of the laws of God, these would he teach, and by gentle admonitions bring nearer to the Throne of Grace. Yet notwithstanding the gratification which the pursuits of Herbert gave to his parents, they often felt considerable anxiety lest his health should suffer from his unceasing efforts, and they rejoiced on that account when their removal to Oakwood afforded their son a quieter and more healthful field of occupation. For miles around Oakwood the name of Herbert Hamilton was never spoken without a blessing. There he could do good; there he could speak of God, and behold the fruits of his pious labours; there was Mr. Howard ever ready to guide and to sympathise, and there was the field of Nature spread before him to fill his heart with increased and glowing adoration and reverential love.

It was well for Herbert his parents were such as could understand and sympathise in these exalted feelings; had harshness, or even neglect, been extended over his childhood and his opening youth, happiness, such as had gilded his life, would never have been his.

As Emmeline had rejoiced, so also might have Herbert, as they neared the gates of his home, had there not been one recollection to dim his happiness. She who had shared in all his pleasures, who had shed a charm over that spot, a charm which he had never felt so keenly as when he looked for it, and found it not; the favourite playfellow of his infancy, the companion of his youth, his plighted bride, she was in far distant lands, and vainly on his first return home did Herbert struggle to remove the weight of loneliness resting on his heart; he never permitted it to be apparent, for to his family he was the same devoted son and affectionate brother he had ever been, but painfully he felt it. Mr. Myrvin and his son were now both inmates of Mr. Hamilton's family. The illegality of the proceedings against the former, in expelling him from his ministry of Llangwillan, had now been clearly proved, for the earnestness of Mr. Hamilton permitted no delay; and tears of pious gratitude chased down the cheeks of the injured man, as he recognised in the person of his benefactor the brother of the suffering woman whom he had sheltered, and whose bed of death he had deprived of its sting. The persuasions of Mr. Hamilton succeeded in conquering his objections to the plan, and he consented to make Oakwood his home for a short time, ere he once more settled in his long-loved rectory.

With Arthur, Ellen speedily resumed her place; the remembrance of that neglected little girl had never left Mr. Myrvin's mind, and when, radiant in animation and returning health and happiness, she hastily, almost impetuously, advanced to meet him, he pressed her to his bosom with the affection of a father; and even as a daughter Ellen devoted herself to him during his residence at Oakwood. He had been the first in England to treat her with kindness; he had soothed her childish sorrow, and cheered her painful duties; he had been the first since her father's death to evince interest for her, and though so many years had passed, that the little girl was fast verging into womanhood, yet such things were not forgotten, and Ellen endeavoured to prove the gratitude which time had not effaced.

Ellen was happy, her health almost entirely restored; but it was scarcely possible for any observant person to live with her for any time, without noticing the expression of pensive melancholy, of subdued spirit, unnatural in one still so very young, that, unless animated by any casual circumstances, ever rested on her features. Mr. Myrvin soon noticed this, and rather wondered such should still be, when surrounded by so much kindness and affection. Her gentleness and controlled temper, her respectful devotion to her aunt and uncle, were such as to awaken his warmest regard, and cause him to regret that shade of remaining sadness so foreign to her age. Traces of emotion were so visible on her cheeks one day, returning from a walk with Mr. Myrvin, that Mrs. Hamilton felt convinced the tale of the past had been told, and fearing her niece had done herself injustice, she scrupled no longer in alluding to it herself. Mr. Myrvin was deeply affected at the tale, and much relieved when the whole was known; for when he had praised her general conduct, and approved of so many feelings and sentiments she had acknowledged, and then tenderly demanded the cause of that depression he sometimes witnessed, Ellen had given vent to a violent burst of emotion, and spoken of a sin, a fearful sin, which long years of probation alone could wash away. Her strong, her terrible temptation, her extreme wretchedness and dreadful sufferings she had not mentioned, and, consequently, when known, an air of even more gentle and more affectionate interest pervaded Mr. Myrvin's manner towards her. Hearing her one day express an ardent desire once more to visit Llangwillan, to see again her mother's grave, he earnestly entreated Mrs. Hamilton's permission for her to visit him for a few weeks: her company would, he said, indeed shed joy over his home, and afford much pleasure to a widowed sister who resided with him. Mrs. Hamilton smilingly consented, and a flush of animated pleasure dyed Ellen's cheeks at the proposal. For about a quarter of an hour she was all delight and animation, when suddenly a thought entered her mind, banishing her unusual mirth, and filling her eyes with tears. Her voice faltered audibly, as she warmly thanked Mr. Myrvin and her aunt for their wish to increase her happiness, but she would rather not leave home that year. The change was so sudden, her manner so contradictory to her words, that Mrs. Hamilton, believing some fanciful reason existed, would have insisted on her compliance, and playfully accused her of unfounded caprice. There was, however, a degree of earnest entreaty in her manner, that Mr. Myrvin would not combat, and he expressed himself contented with her promise for the following year. Mrs. Hamilton was not, however, quite so easily satisfied. Ellen had been latterly so open with her, that anything like concealment in her conduct gave her some little uneasiness; but she could not withstand the imploring look of her niece, as she entreated her not to think her capricious and wilful; she was sure Mrs. Hamilton would approve of her reason, did she confess it.

"I am not quite so sure of that," was her aunt's smiling reply; "but, however, I will trust you, though I do not like mysteries," and the subject was dismissed.

The manners and conversation of Arthur Myrvin were such as to prepossess both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton very much in his favour, and strengthened the opinion they had already formed concerning him, on the word of their son. The respectful deference with which he ever treated Caroline and Emmeline often caused a laugh at his expense from Percy, but gratified Mrs. Hamilton; Percy declared he stood as much in awe of his sisters as if they were the highest ladies in the land. Arthur bore his raillery with unruffled temper, but he felt the distance that fortune placed between him and those fair girls, and he hoped, by reserve, to lessen the danger that might in their society attack his peace. Emmeline mistook this cautious reserve for coldness and distaste towards women, and, with the arts of a playful child, she frequently endeavoured to draw him from his abstraction, and render him a more agreeable companion.

There was still so very much of the child in Emmeline, though now rapidly approaching her eighteenth birthday, she was still so very young in manners and appearance, that the penetration of Mrs. Hamilton must not be too severely criticised, if it failed in discovering that intimately mingled with this childlike manner—the warm enthusiasm of a kind nature—was a fund of deep reflection, and feelings quite equal to her age. Mrs. Hamilton fancied the realities of life were still to her a dream. Had any one spoken to her of the marriage of Emmeline as soon taking place, she would have started at the idea, as a thing for some years impossible; and that her affections might become engaged—that the childlike, innocent, joyous Emmeline, whose gayest pleasures still consisted in chasing with wild glee the butterflies as they sported on the summer flowers, or tying garlands of the fairest buds to adorn her own or her sister's hair, or plucking the apples from the trees and throwing them to the village children as they sauntered at the orchard gate—whose graver joys consisted in revelling in every poet that her mother permitted her to read, or making her harp resound with wild, sweet melody—whose laugh was still so unchecked and gay—that such a being could think of love, of that fervid and engrossing passion, which can turn the playful girl into a thinking woman, Mrs. Hamilton may be pardoned if she deemed it as yet a thing that could not be; and she, too, smiled at the playful mischief with which Emmeline would sometimes claim the attention of young Myrvin, engage him in conversation, and then, with good-humoured wit and repartee, disagree in all he said, and compel him to defend his opinions with all the eloquence he possessed.

With Ellen, young Myrvin was more at his ease; he recalled the days that were past, and never felt with her the barrier which his sensitive delicacy had placed between himself and her cousins. Arthur was proud, more so than he was aware of himself. He would have considered himself more humbled to love and sue for one raised by fortune or rank above him, than in uniting with one, who in both these essentials was his inferior. He was ambitious, but for honours and station obtained by his own endeavours not conferred by another. From his earliest youth he had grown up with so strong an impression that he was intended for the Church, that he considered it impossible any other profession could suit him better. When he mingled intimately at college with young men of higher rank and higher hopes, he discovered too late that a clergyman's life was not such as to render him most happy; but he could not draw back, he would not so disappoint his father. He felt and knew, to obtain the summit of his desires, to be placed in a public situation, where his ambition would have full scope, required a much larger fortune than his father possessed. He clothed himself in what he believed to be resignation and contentment, but which was in truth a morbid sensitiveness to his lot in life, which he imagined poverty would separate from every other. Association with Herbert Hamilton, to whom in frankness he confided these secret feelings, did much towards removing their bitterness; and the admiration which he felt for Herbert, whose unaffected piety and devotion to the Church he could not fail to appreciate, partially reconciled his ambitious spirit to his station. Yet the exalted ideas of Herbert were not entirely shared by Arthur, whose thoughts were centred in a more stirring field of usefulness than it would in all probability be his to fill. Herbert combated these objections with so much eloquence, he pointed with such ardent zeal to the crown eternal that would be his, when divine love had triumphed over all earthly ambition, and his duties were done for love of Him, who had ordained them, that when the time of his ordination came (which it did very shortly after the commencement of this chapter), he would not have drawn back, even had a more attractive profession been offered for his acceptance. The friendship and countenance of Mr. Hamilton did much to reconcile him to his lot. Mr. Howard's curate died suddenly, at the very time that Mr. Hamilton was writing to the Marquis of Malvern, in Arthur's favour, for a vacant living then at his disposal. Both now were offered to the young man's choice, and Percy, even Mr. Hamilton himself, were somewhat surprised that, without a moment's hesitation, he accepted that under Mr. Howard, in the gift of Mr. Hamilton, inferior as it was in point of worldly prospects to Lord Malvern's. His two parishes were situated about nine or ten miles from Oakwood, and seven or eight from Mr. Howard's rectory, and ere Mr. Myrvin returned to Llangwillan, he had the satisfaction of seeing his son settled comfortably in his curacy, performing his duties to the approval of his rector, and gaining by his manner the affection of his parishioners.

Herbert alone knew to its full extent the conquest his friend had achieved over himself. His inclination led him to ambitious paths, where he might in time obtain the notice of and mingle in the highest ranks; but when the innate nobleness of his mind showed him where his duty lay, when conscience loudly whispered now was the time to redeem the errors of his college life, to prove his reverence for his father, to preserve the kindness of those friends, exalted alike by rank and virtue, with whom he still might mingle, with a strong effort he banished all ambitious wishes, and devoted himself heart and soul to his ministerial duties.

Herbert would speak of his friend at home, of his self-conquering struggles, till all would sympathise in the interest he so warmly displayed, particularly Emmeline, with whom, sportive as she was, Herbert from his childhood had had more thoughts and feelings in common than he ever had with Caroline; and now, whether he spoke of Mary Greville or Arthur Myrvin, in her he ever found a willing and attentive auditor. Whenever he had ridden over to Hawthorndell, which he frequently did, Emmeline would always in their next walk playfully draw from him every particular of the "Lone Hermit," as in true poetic style she termed Arthur. But there was no seriousness in her converse either of or to young Myrvin. There was always mischief lurking in her laughter-loving eye; always some wild joke betrayed in the arch smiles ever lingering round her mouth; but mischief as it was, apparently the mere wantonness of childhood, or very early youth, something in that glance or smile ever bade young Myrvin's heart beat quicker than before, and every pulse throb with what at first he deemed was pain. It was relief to him to seek the quiet, gentle Ellen, and speak to her even as he would to a sister, of all that had occurred to him since last they met, so secure was he of sympathy in his future prospects, his present cares and joys. But still that strange feeling lingered within his bosom in his solitary hours, and he dwelt on it much more than on the gentle accents of that fair girl whom in his boyhood he had termed his wife; and stranger still, if it were pain, that it should urge him on to seek it, that he could not rest till the glance of that eye, the tone of that voice, had once more been seen and heard, till fresh excitement had been given to thoughts and emotions which were unconsciously becoming the mainsprings of his life.

The undisturbed and happy calmness of Oakwood removed in a great measure Caroline's painful feelings; all thoughts of Lord Alphingham were gradually banished. The question how she could ever have been so blind as to imagine that he had gained her affections, that she loved him, returned more frequently than she could answer.

But another vision stood forth to confront the darkened one of the Viscount, and the contrast heightened the lustre of the former. Why had she been so mad, so infatuated, as to reject with scorn and pride the hand and heart of one so noble, so fond, so superior as Eugene St. Eval? Now that the film had been removed from her eyes, that all the past appeared in its true colours, that self-will and love of independence had departed from her, the startling truth burst upon her mind, that she had loved, truly loved, the very man who of all others would have been the choice of both her parents—loved, and as his wife, might have been one of the happiest, the most envied of her sex, had not that indomitable spirit of coquetry urged her on, and lowered her to become a very tool in the hands of the artful and designing Annie Grahame.

Caroline loved; had she doubted the existence of that passion, every letter from Mary Greville would have confirmed it; for we will not say it was jealousy she felt, it was more self-condemnation and regret, heightened at times almost into wretchedness. That St. Eval should so soon forget her, that he should love again ere six months had passed, could not fail to be a subject of bitter mortification to one in whose bosom pride still rested. She would not have thus tormented herself with turning and twisting Mary's information into such ideas, had she not felt assured that he had penetrated her weakness, and despised her. Fickleness was no part of St. Eval's character, of that she was convinced; but it was natural he should cease to love, when he had ceased to esteem, and in the society and charms of Louisa Manvers endeavour to forget his disappointment.

Through Emmeline's introductory letter, Lord St. Eval had become sufficiently intimate with Mrs. Greville and Mary as to succeed in his persuasions for them to leave their present residence, and occupy a vacant villa on Lago Guardia, within a brief walk of Lord Delmont's, feeling sure that an intimacy between Mrs. Manvers's family and that of Mrs. Greville would be mutually pleasurable and beneficial; his friendly wishes succeeded. Mrs. Greville found an able and sympathising companion in the goodhearted, homely mother of the elegant and accomplished Lord Delmont, and Mary's sadness was at once soothed and cheered by the more animated Louisa, whose lot in life had never known those murky clouds of sorrow and anxiety which had so often dimmed the youth of Mary. The brother of Louisa had been all in all to her. She felt as if life could not have another charm, as if not another joy was wanting to render her lot perfect, until that other charm appeared, and her ardent fancy quickly knew to its full extent the delights of female companionship and sympathy. Their very dissimilitude of disposition rendered dearer the ties of youthful friendship, and Emmeline sometimes felt a pang of jealousy, as she read in the letters of her friend the constant praises of Louisa Manvers, not that any diminution of early affection breathed in them. Mary ever wrote so as to satisfy the most exacting disposition; but it required all Mrs. Hamilton's eloquence to persuade Emmeline she should rather rejoice than grieve that Mary had found some one to supply her place. But vainly Emmeline tried in playfulness to infect her brother Herbert with a portion of her jealousy, for she knew not the contents of those letters Mary ever wrote to Herbert, or she would not for one moment have imagined that either Lord Delmont or St. Eval would usurp her brother's place.

"Few things would give me greater pleasure," one of Mary's letters said, "than to see the union of Lord St. Eval and my fair friend. It appears to me strange that each, with affections disengaged, can remain blind to the fascination of the other. They are well suited in every respect, and I should fancy their union would certainly be a fair promise of happiness. I live in hope, though as yet, I must confess, hope has but very little to feed on."

St. Eval still lingered at Monte Rosa, and it was well for the inhabitants he did, for an event occurred which plunged that happy valley from joy and gaiety into wailing and affliction, and even for a brief interval infected the inhabitants of Oakwood with its gloom. Death came, and tore away as his victim the widow's son, the orphan's brother. The title of Delmont became extinct, for the last scion of that ancient race had gone to his last home. He had gone with St. Eval and some other young men on a fishing expedition, at some distance; a sudden squall had arisen, and dispersing with much damage the little flotilla, compelled the crews of each to seek their own safety. The sails of St. Eval's boat were not furled quickly enough to escape the danger; it upset, and though, after much buffeting and struggling with the angry waters, St. Eval succeeded in bearing his insensible friend to land, his constitution had received too great a shock, and he lingered but a few brief weeks ere he was released from suffering. He had been thrown with violence against a rock, producing a concussion of the brain, which, combined with the length of time he was under water, produced fever, and finally death.

On the agony of the bereaved mother and sister it would be useless to linger. St. Eval forgot his individual sorrows, and devoted himself, heart and soul, in relieving those helpless sufferers, in which painful task he was ably seconded by Mary and her mother, whose letters to their friends at Oakwood, in that season of affliction, spoke of him in a manner that, unconsciously to themselves, confirmed every miserable suspicion in Caroline's mind, and even excited some such feeling in her parents, whose disappointment was thus vividly recalled. That he should ever seek their child again they deemed impossible, as did Caroline herself; but still it was in vain they endeavoured to look with any degree of pleasure to his union with another.

Mr. Hamilton's family mourned Lord Delmont's early fate with sincere regret, though they had known but little of him; but about this time the thoughts of Mrs. Hamilton were turned in another direction, by a circumstance which caused unaffected sorrow in her daughter and niece; nor were she and her husband exempt. Lucy Harcourt had been so many years a member of the family, she had been so associated from their infancy in the affections of her pupils, that to part from her was the bitterest pang of sorrow that Emmeline had yet known, and it was long before Mrs. Hamilton herself could be reconciled to the idea of separation; she had ever regarded and treated Miss Harcourt as a sister, and intended that even when her family were settled, she should never want another home. It was not only her own virtues that had endeared her to Mrs. Hamilton; the services she had rendered her children, her active and judicious share in the arduous task of education, demanded and received from both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton the meed of gratitude and esteem, and never once, in the seventeen years of Miss Harcourt's residence amongst them, had they regretted the impulse which had offered her a sheltering home and sympathising friends.

Emmeline and Ellen were still her pupils, and Mrs. Hamilton intended them to remain so for two or three years longer, even after they were introduced, and it was on that account Miss Harcourt hesitated in complying with the earnest entreaty of him whose happy home in her early youth she had so nobly quitted, preferring to live by her own exertions than to share the home of the man she loved, when he was married to another.

It had been very, very long ere disappointed affection had permitted her to be cheerful. Her cousin, while rejoicing in the happy home she had found, while congratulating her with fraternal interest on the kind friends her mother's virtues had procured her, imagined not the agony she was striving to conquer, the devoted love for him which disturbed the peace around her, which otherwise she might have enjoyed to its full extent; but she did conquer at length. That complete separation from him did much towards restoring peace although perhaps love might still have lingered; for what absence, what distance can change a woman's heart? Yet it interfered no longer with happiness, and she answered Seymour's constant and affectionate letters in his own style, as a sister would have done.

Sixteen years had passed, and not once had the cousins met. Womanhood in its maturity was now Lucy's; every girlish feeling had fled, and she perhaps thought young affections had gone also, but her cheek flushed and every pulse throbbed, when she opened a long, long expected letter, and found her cousin was a widower in declining health, which precluded him from attending to his two motherless girls, imploring her, as her duties in Mrs. Hamilton's family were nearly over, to leave England and be the guardian spirit of his home, to comfort his affliction, to soothe his bodily suffering, and learn to know and love his children, ere they were fatherless as well as motherless, and deprived of every friend save the aunt Lucy they had been taught to love, although to them unknown. The spirit of deep melancholy breathing through this epistle called forth for a few minutes a burst of tears from her who for so many years had checked all selfish grief.

"If I can comfort him, teach his children to love me, and be their mother now they are orphans, oh, I shall not have lived in vain." Such were the words that escaped her lips as she ceased to weep, and sat a few minutes in thought, then sought Mrs. Hamilton and imparted all to her. Mrs. Hamilton hesitated not a moment in her decision. Her own regret at parting with her friend interfered not an instant with the measure she believed would so greatly tend to the happiness of Miss Harcourt. Mr. Hamilton seconded her; but the sorrow at separation, which was very visible in the midst of their exertions for her welfare, both gratified and affected Lucy. Never had she imagined how dear she was to her pupils till the time of separation came; and when she quitted England, it was with a heart swelling with interest and affection for those she had left, and the fervent prayer that they might meet again.

Mr. Seymour had said, were it not for his declining health, which forbade the exertion of travelling, he would have come for her himself; but if she would only consent to his proposal, if she could resign such kind friends to devote herself to an irritable and ailing man, he would send one under whose escort she might safely travel. Miss Harcourt declined that offer, for Mr. Hamilton and Percy had both declared their intention of accompanying her as far as Paris, and thence to Geneva, where Mr. Seymour resided.

It was long ere Mr. Hamilton's family became reconciled to this change; Oakwood appeared so strange without the kind, the gentle Miss Harcourt, whose steady yet mild firmness had so ably assisted Mrs. Hamilton in the rearing of her now blooming and virtuous family. It required some exertion, not only in Emmeline but in Ellen, to pursue their studies with any perseverance, now that the dear friend who had directed and encouraged them had departed. Ellen's grateful affection had the last few years been returned with equal warmth; that prejudice which had at first characterised Miss Harcourt's feelings towards her had entirely vanished during her sufferings, and a few days before her departure, Lucy with much feeling had admitted the uncalled for harshness with which she too had treated her in her months of misery, and playfully yet earnestly asked her forgiveness. They were alone, and Ellen's only answer had been to throw herself on her friend's neck and weep.

Before Christmas came, however, these painful feelings had been conquered. Pleasing letters from Miss Harcourt arrived by almost every post for one or other of the inmates of Oakwood, and their contents breathing her own happiness, and the warmest, most affectionate interest in the dear ones she had left, satisfied even Emmeline, from whom a fortnight's visit from the Earl and Countess of Elmore had banished all remaining trace of sadness. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had welcomed but very few resident visitors to Oakwood during the early years of their children, but now it was with pleasure they exercised the hospitality so naturally their own, and received in their own domains the visits of their most intimate friends of London; but these visits afford us no matter of entertainment, nor enter much into the purpose of this history. A large party was never collected within the walls of Oakwood; the intimate friends of Mr. Hamilton were but few, for it was only those who thought on the essentials of life as himself with whom he mingled in the familiar position of host. The Marquis of Malvern's family alone remained to spend Christmas with them, and added much to the enjoyment of that domestic circle. Their feelings and pursuits were in common, for the Marchioness of Malvern was a mother after Mrs. Hamilton's own stamp, and her children had benefited by similar principles; the same confidence existed between them. The Marchioness had contrived to win both the reverence and affection of her large family, though circumstances had prevented her devoting as much of her own time and care on their education as had Mrs. Hamilton. Her eldest daughter was married; her second, some few years older than Caroline, was then staying with her, and only one of the three who accompanied her to Oakwood was as yet introduced. Lady Florence was to make her debut the following season, with Emmeline Hamilton; and Lady Emily was still, when at home, under the superintendence of a governess and masters. Lord Louis, the Marchioness's youngest child, a fine lad of sixteen, with his tutor, by Mr. Hamilton's earnest desire, also joined their happy party, and by his light-hearted humour and fun, added not a little to the amusements of the evening. But it was Lady Gertrude, the eldest of the three sisters then at Oakwood, that Mrs. Hamilton earnestly hoped might take the place Annie Grahame had once occupied in Caroline's affections. Hers was a character much resembling her brother's St. Eval, to whom her features also bore a striking resemblance. She might, at a first introduction, have been pronounced proud, but, as is often the case, reserve was mistaken for pride. Yet in her domestic circle she was ever the gayest, and the first to contribute to general amusement. In childhood she had stood in a degree alone, for her elder sisters were four or five years older than herself, and Florence and Emily four and five years younger. She had learned from the first to seek no sympathy, and her strong feeling might perhaps by being constantly smothered, at length have perished within her, and left her the cold unloving character she appeared to the world, had it not been for the devoted affection of her brother Eugene, in whom she soon learned to confide every emotion as it rose, at that age when girls first become sensible that they are thinking and feeling beings. They quickly became sensible that in almost every point they were kindred souls, and the name of Eugene and Gertrude were ever heard together in their family. Their affection was at length a proverb among their brothers and sisters, and perhaps it was this great similarity of disposition and the regard felt for her noble brother, that first endeared Gertrude to Mrs. Hamilton, whose wishes with regard to her and Caroline promised fulfilment. Some chord of sympathy had been struck within them, and they were very soon attached companions, although at first Lady Gertrude had hesitated, for she could not forget the tale of scornfully-rejected love imparted to her by her brother. She had marked the conduct of Caroline from the beginning. She too had hoped that in her she might have welcomed a sister, although her observant eye had marked some defects in her character which the ardent St. Eval had not perceived. Coolness during the past season had subsisted between them, for Caroline had taken no trouble to conquer Lady Gertrude's reserve, and the latter was too proud to make advances. In vain Lord St. Eval had wished a better understanding should exist between them, while Caroline was under the influence of Miss Grahame, it was impossible for her to associate in sympathy with Lady Gertrude Lyle; yet now that they mingled in the intimacy of home, now the true character of Caroline was apparent, that Lady Gertrude had time and opportunity to remark her devotion to her parents, more particularly to her mother, her affectionate kindness to her brothers and Emmeline and Ellen, her very many sterling virtues, which had previously been concealed, but which were discovered by the tributes of grateful affection constantly offered to her by the inhabitants of the village, by the testimony of Mr. Howard, the self-conquests of temper and inclination for the sake of others, which the penetrating eye of Lady Gertrude discovered, and, above all, the spirit of piety and meekness which now characterised her actions, all bade the sister of St. Eval reproach herself for condemning without sufficient evidence. For her conduct to her brother there was indeed no excuse, and on that subject alone, with regard to Caroline, Lady Gertrude felt bewildered, and utterly unable to comprehend her. It was a subject on which neither chose to speak, for it was a point of delicacy to both. Had Lady Gertrude been excluded from her brother's confidence, she too might have spoken as carelessly and admiringly of him as his sisters constantly did; but she could not so address the girl who had rejected him, it would be pleading his cause, from which she revolted with a repugnance natural to her high-minded character.

"If he still love her, as his letters would betray, let him come and plead his own cause; never will I say anything that can make Caroline believe I am in secret negotiating for him." Such was the thought that ever checked her, when about to speak of him in the common course of conversation, and baffled all Caroline's secret wishes that she would speak in his praise as her sisters and Lord Louis so constantly did.

But even as delicacy prevented all allusion to him from the lips of Lady Gertrude, so it actuated Caroline with perhaps even greater force. Would she betray herself, and confess that she repented her rejection of St. Eval? would she by word or deed betray that, would he return to her, she would be his own, and feel blessed in his affections? She shrunk almost in horror from doing so, and roused her every energy to conceal and subdue every emotion, till she could hear his name with composure. Yet more than once had Lady Gertrude, as she silently watched her countenance, fancied she perceived sufficient evidence to bid her wonder what could have induced Caroline's past conduct, to imagine that if St. Eval could forget that, he might be happy yet; and for his sake, conquering her scruples, once she spoke openly of him, when she and Caroline were visiting some poor cottagers alone. She spoke of his character, many points of which, though she admired, she regretted, as rendering him less susceptible of happiness than many who were less gifted. "Unless he find a wife to love him as he loves—one who will devote herself to him alone, regardless of rank or fortune, Eugene never can be happy; and if he pass through life, unblest by the dearest and nearest ties, he will be miserable." So much she did say, and added her earnest wishes for his welfare, in a tone that caused the tears to spring to the eyes of her companion, who permitted her to speak for some time without in any way replying.

"What a pity you are his sister," she replied, rallying all her energies to speak frankly and somewhat sportively; "a woman like yourself is alone worthy of Lord St. Eval."

"You are wrong," replied Lady Gertrude, sadly; "I am much too cold and reserved to form, as a wife, the happiness of such a character as my brother's. We have grown together from childhood, we have associated more intimately and affectionately with each other than with any other members of our family, and therefore Eugene knows and loves me. The wife of St. Eval should be of a disposition as ingenuous and open as his is reserved; her affection, her sympathy, must make his felicity. He is grave—too grave; she should be playful, but not childish. Even if she have some faults, with the love for which my brother pines, the ingenuousness unsullied by the most trifling artifice, her very faults would bind her more closely to him."

Caroline was silent, and Lady Gertrude soon after changed the subject. Had she heard no reports of Caroline's preference of Lord Alphingham, of the affair which had somewhat hurried Mr. Hamilton's departure from London, that conversation would have confirmed her suspicions, that her brother was no subject of indifference to Caroline. She longed for her to be candid with her, to hear the whole truth from her own lips. The happiness of the young Earl was so dear to her, that she would have done much, very much to secure it; yet so far she could not force herself to go, particularly as he had given her no charge to do so. She little knew that Caroline would have given worlds, had they been at her disposal, to have confided all to her: her repentance, her folly, her earnest prayers for amendment, to become at length worthy of St. Eval. Caroline loved, truly loved, because she esteemed, Lady Gertrude; her friendship for her differed as much from that she believed she had felt for Annie Grahame, as her regard for St. Eval was unlike that which Lord Alphingham had originated. Once, the superiority of Lady Gertrude's character would have rendered her an object of almost dislike to Caroline, as possessing virtues she admired but would not imitate. Now those virtues were appreciated, her own inferiority was felt more painfully; and while associating with her, the recollections of the past returned more than ever, embittered by remorse. Sir George Wilmot and Lilla Grahame were also guests at Oakwood. The former declared he had seldom anchored in moorings so congenial to his taste. In Lilla the effects of happiness and judicious treatment were already distinctly visible. The young men spent the Christmas recess at home, and added much to the hilarity of their domestic circle; nor must we forget Arthur Myrvin, who spent as much of his time at Oakwood, as his duties permitted; the friendship of Herbert Hamilton doing much to remove the bitter feelings which often still possessed him. He would at first have shunned the invitation, but vainly he strove to do so; for there was one fair object there who held him with an iron chain, which excited while bound him. He could not break it asunder, though peace he felt was flying from his grasp.



CHAPTER X.

"Gertrude's letters this morning have brought her some extraordinarily agreeable tidings," exclaimed Lady Florence Lyle, gaily, as her sister entered the breakfast-room, rather later than usual.

"On my honour, her countenance is rather a clearer index than usual to-day," observed the Marquis, laughing. "Well, Gertrude, what is it?"

"News from Eugene," exclaimed Lady Emily and Lord Louis in a breath; "he is going to be married. Either Miss Manvers or Miss Greville have consented to take him for better or worse," added Lord Louis, laughing. "Gertrude, allow me to congratulate you on the gift of a new sister, who, as the wife of my right honourable brother the Earl of St. Eval, will be dearer to you than any other bearing the same relationship."

"Reserve your congratulations, Louis, till they are needed," replied Lady Gertrude, fixing her eyes steadily on Caroline's face, which was rapidly changing from pale to crimson.

"I have no such exciting news to communicate," she added, very quietly. "Eugene is in England, and alone."

"In England!" repeated Percy, starting up; "I am delighted to hear it. I just know enough of him to wish most ardently to know more. Will he not join us? He surely will not winter at Castle Malvern alone, like a hermit, surrounded by snows; if he do, he is a bachelor confirmed: not a hope for his restoration to the congenial warmth of life."

"He has no such intention," replied Lady Gertrude, smiling; "our present happy circle has too many attractions to permit his resting quietly in solitude, and, with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's kind permission, will join us here by Christmas Eve."

"There are few whom we shall be so pleased to welcome as my noble young friend St. Eval," answered Mr. Hamilton, instantly; "few whose society I so much prize, both for myself and my sons."

"And the minstrel's harp shall sleep no more, but wake her boldest chords to welcome such a guest to Oakwood's aged walls," exclaimed Emmeline, gaily.

"Thus I give you leave to welcome him, but if he take my place with you in our evening walks, I shall wish him back again at Monte Rosa in a twinkling," observed Lord Louis, in the same gay tone, and looking archly at his fair companion; "when Eugene appears my reign is always over."

"Louis, I shall put you under the command of Sir George Wilmot," said his father, laughing, however, with the rest of the circle.

"Ay, ay, do; the sea is just the berth for such youngsters as these," remarked the old Admiral, clapping his hand kindly on the lad's shoulder.

While such badinage was passing, serious thoughts were occupying the minds of more than one individual of that circle. It would be difficult to define the feelings of Caroline as she heard that St. Eval was in England, and coming to Oakwood. Had he so soon conquered his affections, that he could associate with lier on terms of friendly intimacy? She longed to confess to her mother her many conflicting feelings; she felt that her earnest prayers were her own, but shame prevented all disclosure. She could not admit she now loved that very man whom she had once treated with such contempt and scorn, rejected with proud indifference. Even her mother, her fond mother, would say her present feelings were a just punishment for the past; and that she could not bear. Inwardly she resolved that not a word should pass her lips; she would suffer unshrinkingly, and in silence.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and the Marquis and Marchioness of Malvern also became engrossed with the same subject; the latter had seen and highly approved of their son's attentions to Caroline, and appeared gratified by the manner in which she accepted them. Disappointment and indignation for a time succeeded the young Earl's departure for the Continent, but the friendship so long subsisting between the families prevented all unpleasant feeling, except, perhaps, a little towards Caroline herself. They gladly welcomed the intelligence that St. Eval was in England, and wished to join them at Oakwood, for they hailed it as a sign that his fancy had been but fleeting, and was now entirely conquered. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton thought the same, though to them it was far more a matter of disappointment than rejoicing; but hope mingled almost unconsciously with regret, and they too were pleased that he was about to become their guest.

Lady Gertrude's eyes were more than once during that morning fixed on Caroline, as the subject of St. Eval's travels and residence abroad were discussed, but she was silent; whatever were her secret reflections, they were confined within the recesses of her own heart.

Lord St. Eval came, and with him fresh enjoyment for Percy and Herbert; and even for young Myrvin, who found nothing in the society of the young nobleman to wound his pride by recalling to his mind his own inferior rank. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton fancied they had read his character before; but their previous intimacy had not discovered those many pleasing qualifications which domestic amusements and occupations betrayed. Much of his reserve was now banished; his manners were as easy and as free from pride or hauteur as his conversation, though chaste and intellectual, was from pedantry. To all the individuals of that happy circle he was the same; as kind and as gay to Emmeline and Ellen as to his own sisters; there might, perhaps, have been a degree of reserve in his demeanour towards Caroline, but that, except to those principally concerned, might not have been remarked, for his intercourse with her was even more general than with others. Emmeline and Ellen, or even Lilla, was often his selected companion for a walk, but such an invitation never extended to Caroline, and yet he could never be said either to neglect or shun her; and she shrinking from attracting his notice as much as she had once before courted it, an impassable yet invisible barrier seemed to exist between them. In St. Eval's manner, his mother and Lady Gertrude read that his feelings were not conquered; that he was struggling to subdue them, and putting their subjection to the proof; but Caroline and her parents imagined, and with bitter pain, that much as he had once esteemed and loved her, a feeling of indifference now possessed him.

Herbert found pleasure in the society of the young Earl, for St. Eval had penetrated the secret of his and Mary's love; though with innate delicacy he refrained from noticing it farther than constantly to make Mary his theme during his walks with Herbert, and speaking of her continually to the family, warming the heart of Emmeline yet more in his favour, by his sincere admiration of her friend. He gave an excellent account of her health, which she had desired him to assure her friends the air of Italy had quite restored. He spoke in warm admiration of her enthusiasm, her love of nature, of all which called forth the more exalting feelings; of her unaffected goodness, which had rendered her a favourite, spite of her being a foreigner and a Protestant, throughout the whole hamlet of Monte Rosa, and as he thus spoke, the anxious eye of Mrs. Hamilton ever rested on her Herbert, who could read in that glance how true and fond was the sympathy, which not once since he had confided in her his happiness, had he regretted that he had sought.

The remaining period of the Marquis of Malvern's sojourn at Oakwood passed rapidly away without any event of sufficient importance to find a place in these pages. They left Oakwood at the latter end of January for St. Eval's beautiful estate in Cornwall, where they intended to remain a month ere they went to London, about the same time as Mr. Hamilton's family. That month was a quiet one at Oakwood; all their guests had departed, and, except occasional visits from Arthur Myrvin and St. Eval, their solitude was uninterrupted.

St. Eval's estate was situated a few miles inland from the banks of the Tamar, one of the most beautiful spots bordering that most beautiful river. He was wont leisurely to sail down the stream to Plymouth, and thence to Oakwood, declaring the distance was a mere trifle; but nevertheless it was sufficiently long for Mr. Hamilton sometimes to marvel at the taste of his noble friend, which led him often twice and regularly once a week to spend a few hours, never more, at Oakwood, when he knew they should so soon meet in London. St. Eval did not solve the mystery, but continued his visits, bringing cheerfulness and pleasure whenever he appeared, and bidding hope glow unconsciously in each parent's heart, though had they looked for its foundation, they would have found nothing in the young Earl's manner to justify its encouragement.

In March Mr. Hamilton's family once more sought their residence in Berkeley Square, about a week after the Marquis of Malvern's arrival; and this season, the feelings of the sisters, relative to the gaieties in which they were now both to mingle, were more equal. The bright hues with which Caroline had before regarded them had faded—too soon and too painfully, indeed.

She had been deceived, and in that word, when applied to a young, aspiring, trusting mind, what anguish does it not comprise. True, she deserved her chastisement, not only that she had acted the part of a deceiver to one who trusted her far more than she had done Lord Alphingham, but wilfully she had blinded herself to her own feelings, that she might prove her independence; yet these facts lessened not the bitterness of feeling which was now often hers. But she did not relinquish society; the dread of encountering Lord Alphingham was not strong enough to overcome her secret wish that, by her conduct in society, she might prove to St. Eval that, although unworthy to be selected as his wife, she would yet endeavour to regain his esteem. She had resolved to think less of herself and more of others, and thus become more amiable in their sight, and not feel so many mortifications, as by her constant desire for universal homage, she had previously endured. She knew the task was difficult so to conquer herself, and doubting her own strength, was led to seek it where alone it could be found. To none did she confess these secret feelings and determination; calmly and steadily she looked forward, and so successfully had she schooled herself to submission, that no word or sign as yet betrayed to her parents the real state of her affections.

Emmeline's dislike to London had abated as much as had her sister's glowing anticipations. They were now only to be four months in the metropolis; the strict routine of masters, etc., was at an end, and she was to accompany Mrs. Hamilton whenever she went out. She left Oakwood with regret, and the society and conversation of Arthur Myrvin were missed more often in London than she chose to confess, but enjoyment was ever found for Emmeline—life was still a romance to her. In the society of London, as in the cottages of Oakwood, she was beloved, and she was happy; but those of the opposite sex, much as they thronged around her, had no more thought of demanding such a being in marriage, than she had of what is termed making conquests. It was therefore with feelings of much less anxiety Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton mingled in society this season, for the conduct of both their daughters was such as to afford them satisfaction.

Some changes had taken place in many of the personages with whom we are acquainted, since the last time we beheld them. Short and evanescent is fashionable popularity. Lord Alphingham's reign might be, in a degree, considered over. Some rumours had been floating over the town at that time of the year when, in all probability, he thought himself most secure, that is, when London society is dispersed; rumours which had the effect of excluding him from most of those circles in which Mr. Hamilton's family mingled, and withdrawing from him in a great measure the friendship of Montrose Grahame, who, the soul of honour himself, shrunk from any connection with one whose reputation the faintest breath had stained. Yet still there were many who regarded these rumours as the mere whisperings of envy, and with them he was as much a favourite as ever. Amongst these was Annie Grahame, whose marked preference more than atoned to the Viscount for her father's coldness. In vain Grahame commanded that his daughter should change her manner towards him. She, who had prevailed on a daughter to disobey this very mandate from the lips of an indulgent parent, was not likely to regard that of the father whose sternness and often uncalled-for severity had completely alienated her affections, and Lord Alphingham had now another urgent reason to flatter Annie's vanity and make her his own.

A distant relation and godmother of Lady Helen Grahame had, most unexpectedly, left her at her death sole heiress to a handsome fortune, which was to descend undivided to her elder daughter, and thus to Annie's other attractions was now added that all-omnipotent charm, the knowledge that she was an heiress, not perhaps to any very large property, but quite sufficient to most agreeably enlarge the fortune of any gentleman who would venture to take her for better or worse. One would have supposed that now every wish of this aspiring young lady was gratified; but no. It mattered not, though crowds were at her feet, that when they met, which was very seldom, even Caroline was no longer her rival, all the affection she possessed was lavished without scruple on Lord Alphingham, and every thought was turned, every effort directed towards the accomplishment of that one design. So deeply engrossed was she in this resolution, that she had no time nor thought to annoy Caroline, as she had intended, except in exercising to its full extent her power over Lord Alphingham whenever she was present, in which the Viscount's own irritated feelings towards her ably assisted. Caroline felt the truth of her mother's words, that Lord Alphingham, indeed, had never honourably loved her; that Annie's conduct justified Mrs. Hamilton's prejudice, and as her heart shrunk in sadness from the retrospection of these, truths, it swelled in yet warmer affection, not only towards her fond and watchful mother, but towards the friends that mother's judicious choice selected and approved.

Cecil Grahame had been continually in the habit of drawing upon his mother's cash for the indulgence of his extravagant pleasures, and Lady Helen had thoughtlessly satisfied all his wishes, without being in the least aware of the evil propensities she was thus encouraging. It was not till Cecil was about to leave Eton for the University, that she was at all startled at the amount of his debts, and then her principal alarm arose more from the dread of her husband's anger towards her son, if he discovered the fact, than from any maternal anxiety for Cecil's unsteady principles. Her only wish was to pay off these numerous debts, without disclosing them to the husband she so weakly dreaded. How could she obtain so large a sum, even from her own banker, and thus apply it, without his knowledge and assistance? The very anticipation of so much trouble terrified her almost into a fit of illness; and rather than exert her energies or expose her son to his father's wrath, she would descend to deceit, and implore his assistance in obtaining the whole amount, on pretence that she required it for the payment of her own expenses and debts of honour. She imagined that she had sunk too low in her husband's esteem to sink much lower; and therefore, if her requiring money to discharge debts of honour exposed her yet more to his contempt, it was not of much consequence; besides if it were, she could not help it, a phrase with which Lady Helen ever contrived to silence the rebukes of conscience when they troubled her, which, however, was not often.

She acted accordingly; but as she met the glance of her husband, a glance in which sadness triumphed over severity, she was tempted to throw herself at his feet, and beseech him not to imagine her the dissipated woman her words betrayed, for Lady Helen loved her husband as much as such a nature could love; but, of all things, she hated a scene, and though every limb trembled with emotion, she permitted him to leave her, stung almost to madness by the disclosure her request implied. Did she play? was that fatal propensity added to her numerous other errors? and yet never had anything fallen under his eye to prove that she did. And what debts had she contracted to demand such a sum? Grahame felt she had deceived him; that the money had never been expended on herself; but he would not torture himself by demanding a true and full disclosure. The conduct of his children had ever grieved him, and fearing too justly the request of his wife related to them, madly and despairingly he closed his eyes and his lips, thus probably encouraging an evil which he might have prevented. He delivered the stated sum, and that same day made over to his wife's own unchecked disposal the whole of that fortune which, when first inherited, she had voluntarily placed in his hands as trustee for herself and for her daughter, to whom it would descend. Briefly he resigned the office she had entreated him to take, sternly observing, that Annie had better moderate her expectations, as, did Lady Helen frequently incur such heavy debts, not much was likely to descend to her daughter. It was a great deal too much trouble for Lady Helen to expostulate, and if any feeling predominated to conquer the pang occasioned by Grahame's determination, it was relief, that she might now assist Cecil, if he should require it, without applying to his father.