Montrose Grahame was naturally not only an excellent but a judicious man; but to a great extent, his judgment had deserted him when he selected Lady Helen as his wife. Had he been united to a woman in whose judgment and firmness he could confide, he would have been quite as much respected and beloved in his family as were Mr. Hamilton and the Marquis of Malvern in theirs; but now neither respect nor affection was extended towards him, except, perhaps, by Lilla, and unconsciously by Lady Helen. Severity constantly indulged, was degenerating into moroseness; and feelings continually controlled, giving place to coldness and distrust. It was fortunate for Lilla's happiness and, as it afterwards proved, for her father's, that she was now under the kindly care of Mrs. Douglas, for constantly irritated with his elder girl, who, it must be owned, gave him abundant cause, that irritation and suspicion would undoubtedly have extended towards his younger, and at once have destroyed the gentleness and amiability which Mrs. Douglas was so carefully and tenderly fostering. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton saw this change, and regretted it; but their influence, powerful as it was, could be of no avail in counteracting the effect of domestic annoyances, paternal anxiety, and constantly aroused irritation. Of all the evils in life, domestic discord is one of the greatest, one under which the heart bleeds the most; want of sympathy always prevents or banishes affection. Had Grahame been a careless, selfish man, he might possibly have been happier; his very sensitiveness was his bane. The silly weaknesses of his wife might partially have lessened his love for her, but his children, with all their faults, were dear to their father; they knew not, guessed not, how much his happiness was centred in theirs; how his heart was rent with anguish every time that duty, as he imagined, called on him to be severe. Had he followed the dictates of his nature, he would rather have ruined his children by over-indulgence than severity; but the hope of counteracting the effect of their mother's weakness had guided his mistaken treatment. Could his inmost soul have been read by those who condemned his harshness, they would have sincerely pitied the keen and agonized sensitiveness with which he felt the alienation of their affections. Much as he saw to blame in Annie, had she ever given him one proof of filial love, all would have been forgiven, and the blessing of a parent been her own in all she did or wished. Had Cecil confessed those errors of which he was conscious that he was guilty to his father, he would have found a true and tender friend, who would have led his naturally good, though too yielding, character aright, and misery to both might have been spared, but such was not to be; and in the fates of Alfred Greville and Cecil Grahame we may chance to perceive that, whatever may be the difficulties surrounding her, however blighted may appear the produce of her anxious labours, yet reward will attend the firm, religious mother, however difficult may be the actual fulfilment of her duties; while that mother who, surrounded by luxury and prosperity, believes, by unqualified indulgence, she is firmly binding her offspring in the observance of love and duty, will reap but too bitter fruit.

It was when in the presence of the Duchess of Rothbury Caroline felt most uncomfortable. The family were as cordial as ever, but there was somewhat in the cold, penetrating eye of her Grace, that bade her almost unconsciously shrink from meeting its glance. In the previous season the Duchess had ever singled Caroline out as an object of her especial regard, a circumstance so unusual in one of her character, that it rendered her present haughty coldness more difficult to bear. Caroline would have borne it in silence had it only extended towards herself, but it appeared as if both Emmeline and Ellen shared the contempt she perhaps had justly called forth on herself, as the Duchess, tenacious of her penetrative powers, feared to honour either of them with her favour, lest she should be again deceived. Caroline longed to undeceive her on this point, to give her a just estimate of both her sister and cousin's character, acknowledge how far superior in filial respect and affection, as well as in innate integrity and uprightness, they were to herself; but her mother entreated her to let time do its work, and wait till the Duchess herself discovered they were not what she either believed they were or might be, and she checked her wish.

We will here mention a circumstance which occurred in Mr. Hamilton's family soon after their arrival in town, which occasioned Mrs. Hamilton some uneasiness. Ellen's health was now perfectly re-established, and on Miss Harcourt's unexpected departure, Mrs. Hamilton had determined on introducing her niece with Emmeline in the present season. If Lucy had remained in her family, Ellen would not have made her debut till the following year, not that her age was any obstacle, for there were only eight months difference between her and Emmeline, but her retiring disposition and delicacy of constitution caused Mrs. Hamilton to think this plan the most advisable. When, however, there was no longer any excuse with regard to failing health, and no Miss Harcourt with whom her evenings at home might be more agreeably spent, Mrs. Hamilton, by the advice of her husband, changed her intention; and Emmeline even made a joke with Ellen on the admirable fun they should have together, rejoicing that such an important event in the lives of each should take place on the same day. It so happened that Ellen never appeared to enter into her cousin's everlasting merriment on this subject; still she said nothing for or against till the day all-important with the ordering their elegant dresses for the occasion. Timidly and hesitatingly she then ventured to entreat her aunt still to adhere to her first plan, and allow her to remain quietly at home, under the care of Ellis, till the following year. Mrs. Hamilton and her cousins looked at her with astonishment; but the former smilingly replied she could not indulge her niece in what appeared an unfounded fancy. The dress she should order, for she hoped Ellen would change her mind before the day arrived, as, unless a very good reason were given, she could not grant her request. Ellen appeared distressed; but the conversation changed, and the subject was not resumed till the day actually arrived, in the evening of which she was to accompany her aunt to a ball at the Marchioness of Malvern's, and two days after they were all engaged at a dinner-party at the Earl of Elmore's.

Summoning all her courage, Ellen entered her aunt's boudoir in the morning, and again made her request with an earnestness that almost startled Mrs. Hamilton, particularly as it was accompanied by a depression of manner, which she now did not very often permit to obtain ascendency. With affectionate persuasiveness she demanded the reason of this extraordinary resolution, and surprise gave way to some displeasure, when she found Ellen had really none to give. Her only entreaty was that she might not be desired to go out till the next year.

"But why, my dear Ellen? You must have some reason for this intended seclusion. Last year I fancied you wished much to accompany us, and I ever regretted your delicate health prevented it. What has made you change your mind so completely? Have you any distaste for the society in which I mingle?"

Falteringly, and almost inaudibly, Ellen answered, "None."

"Is it a religious motive? Do your principles revolt from the amusements which are now before you? Tell me candidly, Ellen. You know nothing displeases me so much as mystery? I can forgive everything else, for then I know our relative positions, and am satisfied you are not going far wrong; but when every reason is studiously concealed, I cannot guess the truth, and I must fancy it is, at least, a mistaken notion blinding your better judgment. I did not expect a second mystery from you, Ellen."

Mrs. Hamilton's expressive voice clearly denoted she was displeased, and her niece, after two or three ineffectual efforts to prevent it, finally burst into tears.

"I do not wish to be harsh with you, or accuse you unjustly," continued her aunt, softened at the unaffected grief she beheld, "but if your reason be a good one, why do you so carefully conceal it? You have been lately so very open with me, and appeared to regard me so truly as your friend, that your present conduct is to me not only a riddle, but a painful reflection. Is it because your conscience forbids? Perhaps in your solitary moments you have fancied that worldly amusements, even in the moderate way in which we regard them, unfits us for more serious considerations, and you fear perhaps to confess that such is your reason, because it will seem a reproach to me. If such really be your motive, do not fear to confess it, my dear girl; I should be the very last to urge you to do anything that is against your idea of what is right. To prove the fallacy of such reasoning, to show you that you may be truly religions without eccentricity, I certainly should endeavour to do, but I would not force you to go out with me till my arguments had convinced you. I fancy, by your blushing cheek, that I have really guessed the cause of your extraordinary resolution, and sorry as I shall be if I have, yet any reason, however mistaken, is better than a continued mystery."

"Indeed, indeed, I am not so good as you believe me," replied Ellen, with much emotion. "It is not the religious motive you imagine that urges me to act contrary to your wishes. Did you know my reason, I am sure you would not blame me; but do not, pray do not command me to tell you. I must obey, if you do, and then"—

"And then, if I approve of your reason, as you say I shall, what is it that you fear? Why, if your conscience does not reproach you, do you still hide it from me?"

Ellen was painfully silent. Mrs. Hamilton continued, in a tone of marked displeasure, "I fear I am to find myself again deceived in you, Ellen, though in what manner as yet I know not. I will not do such extreme violence to your inclinations as to command you to yield to my wishes. If you desire so much to remain at home, do so; but I cannot engage to make any excuse for you. Neither failing health nor being too young, can I now bring forward; I must answer all inquiries for you with the truth, that your own wishes, which I could not by persuasion overcome, alone keep you at, home. My conscience will still be clear from the reproaches so plentifully showered on me by the world last season, that I feared to bring forward my orphan niece with my daughters, lest her charms should rival theirs."

"Did the ill-natured and ignorant dare to say such a thing of you?" demanded Ellen, startled at this remark.

"They knew not the cause of your never appearing in public, and therefore, as appearances were against me, scrupled not to condemn."

"And do you heed them? Do these remarks affect you?" exclaimed Ellen, earnestly.

"No, Ellen. I have done my duty; I will still do it, undisturbed by such idle calumnies, even should they now be believed by those whose opinions I value, who, from your seclusion, may imagine they have good reason. In my conduct towards you the last two years I have nothing to reproach myself."

"The last two years. Oh, never, never, from the first moment I was under your care, never can your conduct to me have given you cause for self-reproach, dearest aunt. Oh, do not say that the gratification of my wishes will give rise to a suspicion so unjust, so unfounded," entreated Ellen, seizing with impetuosity the hand of her aunt.

"In all probability it will; but do not speak in this strain now, Ellen, it accords not well with the mystery of your words," and Mrs. Hamilton coldly withdrew her hand. There was a moment's silence, for Ellen had turned away, pained to her heart's core, and soon after she quitted the room to seek her own, where, throwing herself on a low seat by the side of her couch, she gave way to an unrestrained and violent flow of tears. Mrs. Hamilton little knew the internal struggle her niece was enduring, the cause of her seclusion; that the term of her self-condemned probation was not fulfilled, that the long, tedious task was not accomplished; that it was for this purpose she so earnestly desired that her time might not be occupied by amusement, till her task was done, the errors of her earlier years atoned. Mrs. Hamilton had seldom felt more thoroughly displeased and hurt with her niece than at the present moment. Gentle, and invulnerable as she ever seemed to irritation, open as the day herself, she had ever endeavoured to frame her children's characters in the like manner; ingenuousness always obtained forgiveness, whatever might have been the mistake or fault. Ellen had always been a subject of anxiety and watchfulness; but the last two years her reserve had so entirely given place to candour, that solicitude had much decreased, till recalled by the resolution we have recorded. Had Ellen alleged any reason whatever, all would have been well; Mrs. Hamilton would not have thought on the subject so seriously. A mystery in her conduct had once before been so productive of anguish, that Mrs. Hamilton could not think with her usual calmness and temper on the circumstance.

It was so long before Ellen regained her composure that traces of tears were visible even when she joined the family at dinner, and were remarked by her uncle, who jestingly demanded what could occasion signs of grief at such an important era in her life. Vainly Ellen hoped her aunt would spare her the pain of answering by even expressing her displeasure at her resolution, but she waited in vain, and she was compelled to own that the era of her life, to which her uncle so playfully referred, was postponed by her own earnest desire till the next season.

Mr. Hamilton put down his knife and fork in unfeigned astonishment. "Why, what is the meaning of this sudden change?" he exclaimed. "You were not wont to be capricious, Ellen. Will your aunt explain this marvellous mystery?"

"I am sorry I cannot," Mrs. Hamilton replied, in a tone that plainly betrayed to the quick ears of her husband that she was more than usually disturbed. "I am not in Ellen's confidence; her resolution is as extraordinary to me as to you, for she has given me no reason." Mr. Hamilton said no more, but he looked vexed, and Ellen did not feel more comfortable. He detained her as she was about to leave the room, and briefly demanded in what manner she intended to employ the many hours, which now that Miss Harcourt was away she would have to herself. A crimson flush mounted to Ellen's temples as she spoke, a flush that, combined with the hesitating tone in which she answered, "to read and work," might well justify the sternness of tone and manner with which her uncle replied.

"Ellen, had you never deceived us, I might trust you, spite of that flushed cheek and hesitating tone; as it is, your conduct the last two years urges me to do so, notwithstanding appearances, and all I say is, beware how you deceive me a second time."

Ellen's cheek lost its colour, and became for the space of a minute pale as death, so much so, that Mrs. Hamilton regretted her husband should have spoken so severely. Rallying her energies, Ellen replied, in a steady but very low voice—

"My conduct, uncle, during my aunt's and your absence from home, has been and shall ever be open to the inspection of all your household. I am too well aware that I am undeserving of your confidence, but I appeal to Ellis, on whose fidelity I know you rely, to prove to you in this case you suspect me unjustly." The last word was audible, but that was all, and, deeply pained, Ellen retired to her own room, which she did not quit, even to see her favourite cousin decked for the ball. Emmeline sought her, however, and tried by kisses to recall the truant rose, the banished smile, but Mrs. Hamilton did not come to wish her good night, and Ellen's heart was heavy.

Some few days passed, and Mrs. Hamilton accepted three several invitations without again expressing her wishes, but though the subject was not resumed, equal perplexity existed in the minds of both aunt and niece. Ellen did not accuse Mrs. Hamilton of unkindness, but she could not fail to perceive that she no longer retained her confidence, and that knowledge painfully distressed the orphan's easily excited feelings. Another circumstance gave additional pain; her strange and apparently capricious behaviour had been casually mentioned to Herbert, and he, aware that his advice was always acceptable to Ellen, ventured to remonstrate with her, and playfully to reason her out of what he termed her extraordinary fancy for seclusion. Some indefinable sensation ever prevented Ellen from speaking or writing to Herbert as she would have done to any other member of the family, but she answered him, acknowledging she deserved his hinted reproach, but owning that she could not change her conduct, even in compliance with his request; nevertheless, it grieved her much to know that he, whose approbation she unconsciously but ardently wished to gain, should believe her the capricious, unaccountable being it was evident he did: still she persevered. These, and whatever more she might have to endure, were but petty trials, to which her secretly chastened mind might bend but should not weakly bow. She knew, if her aunt were conscious of her attention, much as perhaps she might approve of the motive, she would deem it a needless sacrifice, and probably prohibit its continuance; or, if she permitted and encouraged it, the merit of her action would no longer exist, nor could she indeed, while in the enjoyment of praise, have finished a task, commenced and carried on purely for the sake of duty, and as an atonement for the past, by the sacrifice of inclination, make peace with the gracious God she had offended. Petty trials were welcome then, for if she met them with a Christian temper, a Christian spirit, she might hope that, whatever she might endure, she was progressing in His paths, "whose ways are pleasantness, and whose paths are peace;" could she but remove the lingering displeasure and distrust of her aunt and uncle, she would be quite happy.

It so happened that Emmeline's next engagement was to the Opera, which was always Ellen's greatest conquest of inclination. She had amused herself by superintending her cousin's dressing, and a sigh so audibly escaped, that Emmeline instantly exclaimed—

"Ellen, you know you would like to go with us. In the name of all that is incomprehensible, why do you stay at home?"

"Because, much as I own I should like to go with you, I like better to stay at home."

"You really are the spirit of contradiction, Ellen. What did you sigh for?"

"Not for the Opera, Emmeline."

"Then why?"

"Because I cannot bear to feel my aunt has lost all her confidence in me."

"You are marvellously silly, Ellen; mamma is just the same to you as usual, I have observed no difference."

"Dear Emmeline, coldness is not seen, it is felt, and as you have been so happy as never to have felt it, you cannot understand what I mean."

"Nor do I ever wish to feel it. But do not look so sorrowful, dear Ellen; mamma's coldness is an awful thing to encounter, I own."

"If you have never felt it, how can you judge?" said a playful voice beside them, for Emmeline had been too deeply engrossed in arranging and disarranging a wreath of roses in her hair, and Ellen too much engaged in her own thoughts, to notice the entrance of Mrs. Hamilton.

"Is it possible you are not yet ready, Emmeline? what have you been about?"

"Teasing Ellen, mamma; besides Fanny was engaged, and I could not please myself."

"Or rather you were disinclined for exertion. I have been watching you the last few moments, and you have played with that pretty wreath till it is nearly spoiled."

"I plead guilty, dear mamma, but let Fanny come, and I will be ready in a second," answered Emmeline, looking archly and caressingly in her mother's face. Mrs. Hamilton smiled, and turned as if to speak to her niece, but Ellen was gone. She was sitting in her own room a few minutes afterwards, endeavouring to collect her thoughts sufficiently to understand the book of the new opera which her cousin had lent her, when she was interrupted by a hand gently placed upon the leaves.

"So coldness is felt, not seen, is it, my dear Ellen? well, then, let that kiss banish it for ever," exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, encircling the delicate form of her niece with her arm. "I have been more distant and unkind perhaps than was necessary, but your mysterious resolution irritated me beyond forbearance, and I have been very unjust and very cruel, have I not? will you forgive me?"

Ellen looked up in her face, and, unable to control her feelings, threw her arms around her and burst into tears.

"Nay, dearest, do not let me leave you in tears. I am satisfied you have some good reason for your conduct, though my usual penetration is entirely at fault. Will you quite content me by looking steadily in my face, and assuring me that your conscience never reproaches your conduct. I shall not have one lingering doubt then."

Ellen smiled through her tears, as she tried to obey, but her lip so quivered as she answered, that Mrs. Hamilton laughingly added, "That would never do in a court of justice, my silly little girl, no one would pronounce you innocent if thus tearfully affirmed; but as you generally compel me to regret severity, when I do venture to use it, I must be content to let you follow your own inclinations this year at least. Next season, I give you no such licences, nolens volens, as Percy would say, I must take you out with me, you shall not hide yourself in solitude; but I do not fancy your resolution will hold good, even the remainder of this season," she added, smilingly.

"Do not, pray do not try to turn me from it, my dear, kind aunt," said Ellen, earnestly; "I do not deserve this indulgence from you, for I know how much you dislike concealment, but indeed, indeed, you shall never regret your kindness. I do not, I will not abuse it, it is only because, because—" She hesitated.

"Do not excite my curiosity too painfully, Ellen, in return for my indulgence," said Mrs. Hamilton, sportively.

"No, dear aunt, I only wish to finish a task I have set myself, and my various avocations during the day prevent my having any time, unless I take it from such amusements," said Ellen, blushing as she spoke; "indeed, that is my real and only reason."

Mrs. Hamilton fixed an anxious glance upon her, but though she really felt satisfied at this avowal, the actual truth never entered her mind.

"You have quite satisfied me, my dear girl! I will not ask more, and you may stay at home as often as you please. Your uncle and I have both been very unjust and very severe upon our little Ellen, but you have quite disarmed us; so you shall neither feel nor fancy my coldness any more. There is Emmeline calling as loudly for me as if I were after my time. Good night, love. God bless you! do not sit up too late, and be as happy as you can."

"I am quite happy now," exclaimed Ellen, returning, with delighted eagerness, Mrs. Hamilton's fond embrace, and she was happy. For a moment she felt lonely, as the door closed on her aunt's retreating form, but as she roused herself to seek her work, that feeling fled. When the nature of her work was sufficiently simple to require but little thought, Ellen was accustomed to improve herself by committing to memory many parts of the Bible suited for prayer, confession, or praise, so that her thoughts might riot wander during those solitary hours in the paths of folly or of sin, but once centred on serious things, her mind might thence become strengthened and her judgment ripened.

These lonely hours did much towards the formation of the orphan's character. Accustomed thus to commune with her Creator, to gather strength in the solitude of her chamber, she was enabled, when her trial came, to meet it with a spirit most acceptable to Him who had ordained it.



CHAPTER XI.

Lord Malvern's family and Mr. Hamilton's were still in town, though the younger members of each were longing for the fresh air of the country.

One afternoon, hot and dusty from rapid riding, the young Earl St. Eval hastily, and somewhat discomposedly, entered his sister Lady Gertrude's private room.

"Thank heaven, you are alone!" was his exclamation, as he entered; but throwing himself moodily on a couch, he did not seem inclined to say more.

"What is the matter, dear Eugene? Something has disturbed you," said Lady Gertrude, soothingly, and in a tone tending rather to allay his irritation than express her own desire to know what had happened.

"Something—yes, Gertrude, enough to bid me forswear England again, and bury myself in a desert, where a sigh from your sex could never reach me more."

"Not even mine, Eugene?" exclaimed his sister, laying down her work, and seating herself on a stool at his feet, while she looked up in his excited features with an expression of fondness on her placid countenance. "Would you indeed forbid my company, if I implored to share your solitude?"

"My sister, my own kind sister, would I, could I deprive myself of the blessing, the comfort your presence ever brings?" replied St. Eval, earnestly. "No, dearest Gertrude, I could not refuse you, whatever you might ask."

"Then tell me now what it is that has disturbed you thus. With what new fancy are you tormenting yourself?"

"Nay, this is no fancy, Gertrude. You are, you have been wrong from the first, and I am too painfully right Caroline does not and never will love me."

Lady Gertrude started.

"Have you been again rejected?" she demanded, a dark flush of indignant pride suffusing her cheek.

Lord St. Eval mournfully smiled.

"You are as summary in your conclusions as you say I am sometimes. No, Gertrude, I have not; I feel as if I could not undergo the torture I once experienced in saying those words which I hoped would seal my happiness."

"Nay, then, I must say them for you," said Lady Gertrude, smiling. "I have watched Caroline narrowly, and I feel so confident she loves you, that I would, without the slightest doubt or fear, consign your happiness, precious as it is to me, to her disposal."

"Forbear, Gertrude, for pity!" exclaimed Lord St. Eval, starting up and pacing the room. "You saw not what I saw last night, nor heard the cold, malicious words warning me against her; that even when she had accepted, she was false; or, if she were not false, that she still loved another. I saw it in her varying cheek, her confused manner; I heard it in her hurried accents, and this morning has confirmed all—all. Gertrude, I ever told you, my lot was not happiness; that as the fate of some men is all bright, so that of others is all gloom, and such is mine."

"Eugene, how often must I entreat you not to speak thus. Man's happiness or misery, in a great measure, depends upon himself. You have often said that when with me, you reason more calmly than when you think alone; only tell me coherently what has chanced, and all may not be so gloomy as you believe."

St. Eval suffered himself to be persuaded, and seating himself beside his sister, he complied with her request.

The fact was simply this. He had returned to England, at the entreaty of his sister, determined to discover if indeed there existed any hope of his at length obtaining Caroline's affections. Lady Gertrude's letter to him purposely portrayed the many amiable qualities existing in Caroline's character, and the general tenour of her words had led him to resolve that if he could indeed make so favourable an impression on her heart as to teach her to forget the past, he too would banish pride, and secure his happiness, and he hoped hers, by a second offer of his hand. Her conduct, guarded as it was, had unconsciously strengthened his hopes, and the last few weeks he had relaxed so much in his reserve, as to excite in the mind of Caroline the hope, almost the certainty, that he no longer despised her, and created for himself many truly delightful hours. It so happened that, on the evening to which he referred, Caroline had gone to a large party, under the protection of the Countess of Elmore, who at the entreaty of the lady of the house, had obtained the permission of Mrs. Hamilton to introduce her. The young Earl had devoted himself to her the greater part of the evening, to the satisfaction of both, when his pleasure was suddenly and painfully alloyed by her visible confusion at the unexpected entrance, and still more unexpected salutation, of Lord Alphingham. Caroline had so seldom met the Viscount during the season, that she was not yet enabled to conquer her agitation whenever she beheld him. She ever dreaded his addressing her; ever felt that somewhat lurked in his insinuating voice, that would in the end lead to evil; besides which, her abhorrence towards him whenever Percy's tale flashed across her mind, which it never failed to do when he appeared, always prevented her retaining her calmness undisturbed. Lord St. Eval had left England with the impression that Alphingham was his favoured rival, and his imagination instantly attributed Caroline's emotion at his entrance into a preference for the Viscount. His earnest manner suddenly became chilled, his eloquence checked. Intuitively Caroline penetrated his suspicions; the wish to prove they were mistaken and unjust increased her confusion, and instead of lessening, confirmed them. St. Eval said little more to her during the evening; but he watched her. He saw Lord Alphingham whisperingly address her. She appeared to become more painfully confused, and St. Eval could scarcely restrain himself from hurrying from her sight for ever; but he did restrain himself, only to be more tortured.

The Viscount now believed the hour of his vengeance was at hand, when, without the slightest exertion, he might disturb not only St. Eval's peace, but that of Caroline.

If St. Eval had but heard the few words he said to her, jealousy would have been instantly banished, but for that he was not sufficiently near; he could only mark the earnest and insinuating manner which the Viscount knew so well how to assume, and notice her confusion, and the shade of melancholy expressed on her features, which was in fact occasioned by Lord St. Eval's sudden desertion, and her annoyance at the cause. His quick imagination attributed all to the effect of Lord Alphingham's tender words. The Viscount was well known, to him, and near the end of the evening approached and remained in conversation by his side, spite of the haughty reserve maintained by the young Earl, which said so plainly, "your presence is unwelcome," that it would speedily have dismissed any one less determined; but Lord Alphingham spoke admiringly and enthusiastically of Caroline. Lord St. Eval listened, as if fascinated by the very torture he endured. They were quite alone, and after a few such observations, the Viscount lowered his voice to a confidential tone, and said, triumphantly—

"Will you envy me, St. Eval, if I confess that I, more than any other man, am privileged to speak in Miss Hamilton's praise, having once had the honour of being her accepted lover, and had not cruel parents interfered, might now have claimed that lovely creature as my own? but still I do not despair, for the affections of a being so superior once given to me, as they have been, I am convinced they will never be another's. I am treating you as a friend, St. Eval, you will not betray me?"

"You may trust me, sir," replied the young Earl, coldly. "Your confidence has been given unasked, but you need not fear its betrayal."

"Thank you, my kind friend;" and the wily villain continued his deceiving tale, with an eloquence we will not trouble ourselves to repeat. It is enough to know its effect on St. Eval was to turn him from the room, his sensitive feelings wrought almost to madness by malignant bitterness. Lord Alphingham looked after him, and then turned his glance on Caroline, and an acute physiognomist might easily have read his inward thoughts—"My vengeance is complete."

Alphingham had more than once mentioned the name of the Duchess of Rothbury; but in such a manner, that though it sounded well enough in his tale, yet when afterwards recalled by the young Earl, he could not understand in what position she stood towards them. Lord Alphingham knew well her Grace's character; he wished St. Eval to seek her, for he felt assured what she would say would confirm his tale, and render the barrier between him and Caroline more impassable. His plan succeeded admirably: St. Eval gallopped off to Airslie early the next morning. The Duchess welcomed him with the greatest cordiality, for he was a favourite; but the moment he spoke of Caroline her manner changed. She became as reserved as she had previously been warm; and when the young Earl frankly asked her if the refusal of her parents had been the only bar to her union with the Viscount, she referred him to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. That she was aware of something to Caroline's disadvantage appeared very evident, and that she was not the favourite she had been last year equally so. St. Eval left her more disturbed than ever, and it was on returning from his long yet hurried ride he had sought his sister in the mood we have described.

Lady Gertrude listened with earnest attention. The tale startled her, but she disliked the very sight of Lord Alphingham; she believed him to be a bad, designing man. She felt convinced Caroline did love her brother, much as appearances were against her; and both these feelings urged her to sift the whole matter carefully, and not permit the happiness of two individuals to be sacrificed to what might be but the idle invention or exaggerations of a bad man. Her ready mind instantly formed its plan, which calmly but earnestly she imparted to her brother, and implored his consent to act upon it. Startled and disturbed, St. Eval at first peremptorily refused; but his sisters's eloquence at length succeeded.

Early in the morning of the succeeding day Caroline Hamilton received the following brief note:

"Will you, my dear Caroline, receive me half an hour this afternoon? I have something important to say; I have vanity enough to believe as it concerns me it will interest you. We shall be more alone at your house than mine, or I might ask you to come to me.

"Yours affectionately,

"GERTRUDE LYLE."

Completely at a loss to understand the meaning of this little note, Caroline merely wrote a line to say she should be quite at Lady Gertrude's service at the appointed time; and so deeply was she engrossed in the sad tenour of her own thoughts, that all curiosity as to this important communication was dismissed.

Three o'clock came and so did Lady Gertrude, whose first exclamation was to notice Caroline's unusual paleness.

"Do not heed my looks, dear Gertrude, I am perfectly well; and now that you are before me, overwhelmed with curiosity as to your intelligence," said Caroline, whose heavy eyes belied her assurance that she was quite well.

"Dearest Caroline," said Lady Gertrude, in a tone of feeling, "I am so interested in your welfare, that I cannot bear to see the change so evident in you; something has disturbed you. Show me you consider me your friend, and tell me what it is."

"Not to you, oh, not to you; I cannot, I dare not!" burst involuntarily from the lips of the poor girl, in a tone of such deep distress, that Lady Gertrude felt pained. "Gertrude, do not ask me; I own I am unhappy, very, very unhappy, but I deserve to be so. Oh, I would give worlds that I might speak it, and to you; but I cannot—will not! But do not refuse me the confidence you offered," she added, again endeavouring to smile, "I can sympathise in your happiness, though I refuse yours in my sadness."

"I am not quite sure whether I have sorrow or joy to impart," said Lady Gertrude, still feelingly; for she guessed why Caroline believed she dare not confide in her, and she hailed it as proof that she was right in her surmise, that her brother's honourable love would not be again rejected.

"Eugene seems bent on again quitting England, and I fear if he do, he will not return home again. On one little circumstance depends his final determination; my persuasions to the contrary have entirely failed."

The cheek of her companion blanched even paler than before, two or three large tears gathered in her eyes, then slowly fell, one by one, upon her tightly-clasped hands.

"And if you have failed, who will succeed?" she asked, with a strong effort.

"The chosen one, whose power over the heart of St. Eval is even greater than mine," said Lady Gertrude, steadily. "Ah, Caroline, when a man has learned to love, the affection of a sister is of little weight."

"He does love, then," thought Caroline, and her heart swelled even to bursting, and he goes to seek her. "And will not the being Lord St. Eval has honoured with his love second your efforts? if she be in England, can she wish him to quit it?" she said aloud, in answer to her friend.

"If she love him, she will not," said Lady Gertrude; "but St. Eval fears to ask the question that decides his fate. Strange and wayward as he is, he would rather create certain misery for himself, than undergo the torture of being again refused."

For a few minutes Caroline answered not; then, with a sudden effort, rallying her energies, she exclaimed, as if in jest—

"Why, then, does he not make you his messenger; the affection you bear for him would endow you with an eloquence, I doubt much whether his own would surpass."

She would have spoken more in the same strain, but the effort failed; and turning away from Lady Gertrude's penetrating glance, which she felt was fixed upon her, though she could not meet it, she burst into tears.

More than ever convinced of the truth of her suspicions, Lady Gertrude's noble mind found it impossible to continue this mode of discovery any longer. She saw that Caroline imagined not she was the being alluded to; that not even the phrase "again refused" had startled her into consciousness, and she felt it was unkind to distress her more.

"I knew it was false," she exclaimed, as the Viscount's tale flashed across her mind; then, checking herself, she took Caroline's cold and half-reluctant hand, and added, in a voice of extreme feeling, "Caroline, dearest Caroline, forgive my having penetrated your secret; fear me not, dear girl, I honour too much the feeling which dictates your conduct. You have learned to love St. Eval; you have repented the wilful and capricious treatment he once received from you. Deny it not, nay, do not shrink from me, and think, because I appear so calm, I cannot feel for those who are dear to me, and even sympathise in their love. I do not, I will not condemn the past; I did once, I own, but since I have known you, I have forgiven the mistaken wilfulness of a misguided girl. You love him—confess that I am right, dearest."

Caroline's face was concealed within her hand, and almost agonized was its expression as she looked up.

"Gertrude," she said, in a low, suffocated voice, "is it well, is it kind in you thus to speak, to lead me to avow a love for one who, your own words inform me, will soon be the husband of another?"

"I said not of another, my dear girl; forgive me this stratagem to penetrate your well-preserved secret. My brother's happiness is so dear to me, I could not trust it to one of whose affection I was not certain. I am not aware I said he would soon be the husband of another; since, if he be again refused, that he never will be. Simply, then, for I have been quite tormenting enough, Eugene has striven long with himself to conquer his love, to be happy as your friend; associating with you as he does with Emmeline, but he cannot. He still loves you, Caroline, as devotedly, as faithfully—perhaps more so than when he first offered you his hand; he dares not renew that offer himself, for he feels a second refusal from your lips would wound him too deeply. Your voice may chain him to England, an altered and a happier man, or send him from its shores a misanthrope and wretched: it is for you to decide, Caroline, dearest. Must I plead with that eloquence, which you said would surpass even his own, or will the pleadings of your own kind heart suffice?"

She paused, in evident emotion, for with a faint cry Caroline had thrown herself on her neck, and buried her cheek upon her shoulder. Every limb trembled with agitation; the ecstatic delight of that one moment—doubt was, indeed, at an end. He loved her, and in spite of her faults he would cherish her with tenderness; he had chosen her as his wife—chosen her, though she had rejected, injured him, in preference to the very many she felt so much more worthy than herself; but unalloyed happiness was hers only for a few fleeting minutes, he knew not the extent of her imprudence—how strangely and deeply she had been fascinated by the arts of Lord Alphingham. Could he love, respect her as the partner of his life, did he know that? and for a moment painfully did she long to conceal it from him, to prevent his ever knowing it; but no, her innate nobility and ingenuousness of character would not be thus trampled on. She wept, and Lady Gertrude was startled, for those bitter tears were not the signs of joy.

"Do not condemn my weakness, dearest Gertrude," she said at length, struggling for composure. "You do not know why I weep; you cannot guess the cause of tears at such a moment. Yes, you are right; I do love your brother with an affection equal to his own, but I thought it would never pass my lips; for wilfully, blindly I had rejected the affection of his good and noble heart; I had intentionally caused him pain, banished him from his country and his friends, and my punishment was just. I thought he would forget one so utterly unworthy, and the thought was agony. But, oh, Gertrude, I shall never regain his love: when he knows all, he will cease to trust me; his esteem I have lost for ever! Gertrude, bear with me; you cannot know the wretchedness it is to feel he knows not all my folly. The girl who could wilfully cast aside duty and obedience to a parent, listen to forbidden vows, weakly place her honour in the power of one against whom she had been warned—oh, Gertrude, Gertrude, when St. Eval learns this tale, he will spurn me from his heart! and yet I will not deceive him, he shall know all, and be free to act as he will—his proposals shall be no tie."

The flush of firm yet painful resolution dyed her cheek as she spoke, and checked her tears. Alarmed as she was by the incoherence yet connection of her words when attached to Lord Alphingham's hints, which still lingered on her mind, yet the high-minded Lady Gertrude felt as if Caroline's honourable determination had struck a new chord of sympathy within her heart. Integrity itself was hers, and truth in others was ever to her their most attractive quality.

"St. Eval's doubts and fears have been already painfully aroused," she said, gently; "an open explanation from you is more likely to make him happy than produce the effect you so much, though so naturally, dread: fear not to impart it. In the relation you now stand to each other, the avowal of past errors will increase rather than lessen affection, by the integrity it will display; but leave it till years have passed, and if, instead of being known now, it is then discovered, then, indeed, might you fear, with some show of justice, the loss of his esteem. Such will not be now; but tell him yourself, dear Caroline, the truth or falsehood of the scandalous tale he heard a night or two ago."

"What did he hear? if you know, for pity's sake, do not conceal it from me, dearest Gertrude!" entreated Caroline, almost gasping for breath; and Lady Gertrude, without hesitation or abbreviation, related the whole tale her brother had imparted to her, dwelling on the suffering he endured, as he fancied Caroline's conduct confirmed the words he heard.

"Then is it, indeed, time for me to speak, though my tale be one of shame," she exclaimed, as Lady Gertrude paused, and indignation restored her usual energy. "Never were attentions so revolting to me as were those of Lord Alphingham that night. He knew he had no right to address me, and therefore did he ever refrain when mamma was present. Gertrude, solemnly, sacredly, I protest he has no hold on my affections—he dare not say he has—nor ever again venture to demand my hand; it has been irrevocably refused. Not only would my own will prevent my ever becoming his, but I have—" she paused a moment, for Percy's fatal secret was on the point of escaping from her lips, but checking herself, she added, "I am not at liberty to say why, but an inseparable barrier is placed between us. Listen to me, Gertrude, you will condemn me, be it so; but I implore, I beseech you to believe me true." Then, without further hesitation, Caroline briefly yet circumstantially related all those events in her life with which our readers are so well acquainted. She did not suppress one point, or endeavour in the least to excuse herself, and Lady Gertrude, as she listened to that unvarnished tale of youthful error, felt her heart glow more warmly towards her companion, and her eye glisten in sympathy for the pain she felt Caroline was inflicting on herself. Lady Gertrude could feel for others; twice had her carriage been announced, but she heeded not the summons; a third came just as Caroline had ceased to speak, and silently she rose to depart. She met the imploring look of her young friend, and folding her to her heart, she said, in a low and gentle voice—

"Ask not me, my dearest girl; St. Eval shall come and speak for himself." She kissed her affectionately, and was gone.

Caroline seated herself on a low couch, and closing her eyes on every outward object, she gave herself up to thought. Might she indeed be happy—were the errors of her former years so forgiven, that she would indeed be blessed with the husband of her choice? Had St. Eval so conquered pride as again to seek her love—would the blessing of her parents now sanctify her marriage? it could not be, it was too much bliss—happiness of which she was utterly unworthy. Time rolled by unheeded in these meditations; she was quite unconscious that nearly half an hour had elapsed since Lady Gertrude had left her; scarcely did it appear five minutes, and yet it must have been more, for it was the voice of St. Eval himself that roused her, that addressed her as his own bride. St. Eval himself, who clasped her impetuously to his beating heart, imprinted one long, lingering kiss upon her cheek and murmured blessings on her head. He had waited for the return of his sister to the carriage, in a state of impatience little to be envied, flung himself in after her, and in a very brief space had heard and heard again every particular of her interview with Caroline. His doubts wore satisfied, not a lingering fear remained.

"Gertrude told me, you said not to her the magic word that will seal my happiness, though she wrung from you that precious secret of your love," said the young Lord, after many very fond words had been exchanged between them, and nearly an hour had passed away in that unrestrained confidence; "nor have I heard it pass your lips. You have told me that you love me, Caroline; will you not promise that but a very short time shall pass, ere you will indeed be mine; that you will not sentence me to a long probation ere that happy day is fixed?"

"It is not in my power to answer you, St. Eval," and though her tone was sportive, her words startled him. "I cannot even promise to be yours; my fate is not in my own hands."

"Caroline!" exclaimed the alarmed young man, "what can you mean?"

"Simply, that I have vowed solemnly and sacredly never to many without the consent and blessing of my parents. I have given you all I can, to them I refer you for the rest."

"Then I am satisfied," replied St. Eval, the flush of joyous excitement staining his cheek, and rendering his expressive countenance more than usually handsome, by the animation it produced.

Mrs. Hamilton, with Emmeline and Ellen, had returned from their ride rather later than usual, for they had gone to see a friend some few miles out of town, and finding it near the hour of dinner, they had dispersed to their dressing-rooms instead of entering the drawing-room as usual. On inquiring for Caroline, if she had been out with Lady Gertrude, or was still at home, she heard, to her extreme astonishment, that Miss Hamilton had not gone out, but that Lord St. Eval had been with her above an hour, nor had she left him to obey the summons of the dressing-bell, as usual. A throb of pleasure shot through the heart of Mrs. Hamilton, she scarcely knew wherefore, for it was no uncommon thing for Lord St. Eval to spend an hour at her house, but it was that he should thus have sought the society of Caroline alone.

"Had either of her sons been with him?" she asked, and the answer was in the negative.

Martyn silently concluded her task, for she saw deep thought was on her lady's brow, which she was too respectful to disturb; an earnest thought it was, it might have been that silent prayer had mingled with it. Still was that wish uppermost in Mrs. Hamilton's mind, that she might one day see her Caroline the happy wife of Lord St. Eval; but when she entered the drawing-room, words were not needed to explain the scene before her. Mr. Hamilton had drawn his daughter to him, and was pressing the young Earl's hand in his with a grasp that spoke volumes.

"St. Eval, you have been too long the son of my affections, for one instant to doubt my consent," Mrs. Hamilton heard her husband say, as she entered; "it is yours, freely, gladly. Speak not of fortune, I would give my child to you, had you but yourself to offer. But I am but a secondary personage in this business," he added, playfully; "there is the enchantress who holds the fate of my Caroline more firmly than I do. Away with you, St. Eval, plead your cause to her."

"Caroline, my own, does your happiness depend on my consent, or have you done this merely for my sake?" murmured Mrs. Hamilton, as her child clung in silence to her neck, and Lord St. Eval seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, as if eloquent silence should tell his tale, too, better than words. Mrs. Hamilton spoke in a voice so low, as to be heard only by Caroline.

"Speak to me, love; tell me that St. Eval will be the husband of your free, unbiased choice, and my fondest blessing shall be yours." Caroline's answer was inaudible to all, save to the ear of maternal affection, to her mother it was enough.

"Take her, St. Eval; my consent, my earnest wish to behold you united has long been yours; may God in heaven bless you, my children, and make you happy in each other!"

Solemnly she spoke; her earnestness was affecting, it struck to their hearts; for a moment there was silence, which Mrs. Hamilton was the first to break.

"Does my Caroline intend appearing at dinner in this costume?" she asked, playfully, alluding to her daughter's morning dress. Startled and blushing, Caroline, for the first time, perceived her mother was dressed for dinner, and her father, determining to banish all appearance of gravity, held up his watch, which pointed to some few minutes after the usual dinner-hour. Glad to escape for a few minutes to the solitude of her own room, Caroline hastily withdrew her hand from St. Eval's detaining grasp, and smiling a brief farewell, brushed by Emmeline and Ellen, who were that instant entering, without speaking indeed, but with very evident marks of confusion, which Mr. Hamilton very quickly explained to the extreme satisfaction of all parties.

Caroline was not long before she returned. Happiness had caused her eyes to sparkle with a radiance her parents had not seen for many a long day; and they felt as they gazed on her, now indeed was she worthy to be the honoured wife of St. Eval, and their thoughts were raised in silent unison to heaven for the blessing thus vouchsafed to them. And scarcely could Mr. Hamilton restrain the emotion which swelled his bosom, as he thought, had it not been for the untiring care, the bright example of that mother, his child, instead of being a happy bride, might now have been—he shuddered as he thought, and the inward words were checked, he could not give them vent, they were hidden in the silent recesses of his own breast; and did not that same thought dwell in the mind of his wife, when she contrasted the present with the past? It did, but she looked not on herself as the cause of her child's escape from wretchedness and sin. Her efforts she knew would have been as naught, without the blessing of Him whose aid she had ever sought; and if indeed the thought of her had arrested Caroline on the brink of ruin, it was His work, and Him alone she praised. She looked on the glowing countenance of her daughter; she marked the modest gentleness of her demeanour, the retiring dignity with which she checked the effusions of her own fond affection, and received the attentions of her devoted lover, and she felt sure those few moments of solitude had been passed in thanksgiving and prayer to Him who had pardoned the errors of the past, and granted such unlooked-for joy. And she guessed aright, for the mind of Caroline had not been entirely engrossed by the bright and glowing visions which anticipation in such a moment of our lives is apt to place before us. Her thoughts during the last year had been secretly under the guidance of the most rigid self-control, and thus permitted her to raise them from the happiness of earth to blessedness yet more exalted. Oh! who can say that religion is the heavy chain that fetters us to gloom and everlasting sadness; that in chastening the pleasures of earth, it offers no substantial good in return? True piety, open the heart by its sweet, refreshing influence, causes us to enjoy every earthly blessing with a zest the heart in which the love of God is not an inmate will seek in vain to know. It is piety that strengthens, purifies affection. Piety, that looks on happiness vouch us here, as harbingers of a state where felicity will be eternal. Piety that, in lifting up the grateful soul to God, heightens our joys, and renders that pure and lasting which would otherwise be evanescent and fleeting. Piety, whose soft and mildly-burning torch continues to enlighten life, long, long after the lustre of worldly pleasures has passed away. It was this blessed feeling, kindled in earliest infancy by the fostering hand of parental love, which now characterised and composed every emotion of Caroline's swelling bosom, which bade her feel that this indeed was happiness. With blushing modesty she received the eagerly-offered congratulations of her affectionate family; the delighted embrace which Percy in the enthusiasm of his joy found himself compelled to give her.

"Now, indeed, may I hope the past will never again cross my mind to torment me," he whispered to his sister, and wrung St. Eval's hand with a violence that forced that young man laughingly to cry for mercy. There had been a shade of unusual gloom shrouding the open countenance and usually frank demeanour of Percy since his return from Oxford, for which his parents and sisters could not account, but as he seemed to shrink from all observation on the subject, they did not ask the cause; but this unexpected happiness seemed to make him for a few following days as usual the gayest, merriest member of his amiable family.

Often in these days of happiness did Caroline think on the qualities which Lady Gertrude had once said should adorn the wife of her brother. Faults he could pardon, if they were redeemed by affection, and ingenuousness unsullied by the slightest artifice. Affection she well knew she possessed; but she also knew that, to be as unreserved as would form the happiness of her husband, she must effectually banish that pride, which she knew still lurked within. Often would she converse on these things when alone with her mother, and implore her advice as to the best method of securing not only the love but the esteem of St. Eval. "Gertrude was quite right in the estimate of her brother's character," Mrs. Hamilton would at such times observe, her fond heart fully repaid for past anxiety and disappointment by this confidence in her child; "and so too are you, dearest, in your idea that not the faintest sign of pride must mark your intercourse with him. Perhaps he is more reserved than proud; indeed, in his case, I cannot call it pride, but it is that kind of reserve which would jar most painfully did it come in contact with anything resembling pride. Had you grown up such as you were in childhood, your union with St. Eval, much as you might think you loved each other, would not have been productive of lasting happiness to either. Let him see dependence is not merely a profession which your every action would contradict; from independence spring so many evils, that I feel sure you will avoid it. It is, I regret to say, a prevailing error in those circles wherein your rank will entitle you to mingle; an error that must ever endanger conjugal happiness. When a woman marries, the world, except as the arbiter of propriety, ought to be forgotten; all her endeavours to please, to soothe, to cheer, must still be exerted even more than before marriage, but exerted only for her husband; not one little pleasing art, not one accomplishment should be given up, but used as affection dictates, to enhance her value in the eyes of him whose felicity it should be her principal aim to increase. You will be placed in an exalted station in the opinion of the world, my beloved child, a station of temptation, flattery, danger, more so than has over yet been yours; but I do not tremble now as I did, too forebodingly, when the world was first opened to your view. You have learned to mistrust your own strength, to seek it where alone it can be found, to examine your every action by the Word of God, and with these feelings you are safe. My Caroline will not fail in duty to her husband or herself."

"Nor to you, my mother, my devoted mother!" exclaimed Caroline, as she fondly kissed her. "It is to you, next to my God, I owe this blessing; and oh, if it be my lot to be a mother, may I be to my children, as far, at least, as one so much inferior in piety and virtue can be, what you have been to me. Oh, might I but resemble you, as my full heart has so lately longed, St. Eval might be happy!"

At the earnest entreaty of St. Eval and Caroline, both families consented that the ceremonial of their marriage should take place in the same venerable church where the first childish prayers of Caroline had ascended from a house of God, and the service be performed by the revered and pious rector of Oakwood, the clergyman who, from her earliest childhood, she had been taught to respect and love, as the humble representative of Him whose truths he so ably taught. Caroline had consented to name the second week of September as the period of her espousals. The few chosen friends of both families who were to be invited to the ceremony were to assemble in the hospitable halls of Oakwood, and earnestly did every member of Mr. Hamilton's family hope that the long-absent sailor, Edward Fortescue, who was soon expected home, might arrive in time to be present at the marriage of his cousin. How the young heart of his orphan sister fluttered with delight at the thought of beholding him again we will not attempt to describe, but it was shared with almost equal warmth by Mrs. Hamilton, whose desire was so great that her gallant nephew, the brave preserver of her husband, might be present at the approaching joyful event, that she laughingly told Ellen she certainly would postpone the ceremony till Edward arrived, whatever opposition she might have to encounter.

The engagement of the Eight Honourable Earl St. Eval, the heir to the marquisate of Malvern, embracing such rich possessions, with a plain gentleman's daughter was a matter of mingled wonder, scorn, admiration, and applause to the fashionable world; but these opinions and emotions were little regarded, save as a matter of continual jest to Percy, who amused himself by collecting all the reports he could, and repeating them at home, warning them against a marriage which caused such an universal sensation. It might be supposed this sensation would have been felt in various ways in the family of Montrose Grahame; but it happened that Annie was so engrossed with her own plans, her mind so occupied by one interesting subject, that she and Lord Alphingham had but little time to think of anything but each other. Annoyed they were indeed, for all their designs were foiled; St. Eval and Caroline were happy, spite of their efforts to the contrary. Lady Helen was really so delighted at the prospects of Caroline, who had ever been a favourite with her, that she actually exerted herself so much as to call in person to offer her best wishes, and promise that she would spend the whole winter at Moorlands, to be present at the ceremony. Lilla was overjoyed, for Mrs. Hamilton promised she should be among the guests at Oakwood. Mr. Grahame, whose friendship with Mr. Hamilton would have and did render him most interested in the event, was at Paris when their engagement was first published, but his warmly-written letters to his friend proclaimed his intention of very soon returning to England, but till then entreating the young couple to accept his sincerest prayers and best wishes for their happiness, and warmly congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton on the prospects of their child; but there was a sadness pervading his letters which gave them pain to note, for they knew too well the cause.

The letters of Mary Greville, too, added pleasure to the betrothed. Informed by Herbert of both past and present events, St. Eval's long affection for Caroline, which he playfully hoped would solve the mystery of his not gratifying her wishes, and falling in love with Miss Manvers, Mary wrote with equal sportiveness, that she was quite satisfied with his choice, and pleased that his residence at Lago Guardia had enabled her to become so well acquainted with one about to be so nearly connected with her Herbert.

About a week or fortnight before Mr. Hamilton's intended return to Oakwood, Percy one morning received a letter which appeared to produce excessive agitation. But as he evidently did not wish it remarked, no notice was taken, except by Herbert, to whom alone he had shown the letter, and who seemed equally interested, though not so much agitated by its contents. To the anxious inquiries of his parents, if individual embarrassment or distress occasioned Percy's uneasiness, Herbert answered readily in the negative; that the letter informed them of the death of an unfortunate individual in whose fate both he and Percy had been most deeply interested. Trusting in the well-known integrity of their sons, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton inquired no farther, and dismissed the subject; but Percy did not rouse himself from his gloomy abstraction till startled by intelligence, which regard for his father's friend Grahame could not permit him to hear with calmness.

Two mornings after the receipt of that letter, as the family, which the addition of St. Eval, were sitting together after breakfast, ere they separated to the various avocations of the day, Lord Henry D'Este bustled in with a countenance expressive of something extraordinary.

"Have you heard the news?" was his first eager exclamation.

"If we had, it would be no news," replied Emmeline, archly; "but we have heard nothing. Papa has something else to do than to seek out news for me, ditto the Right Honourable Lord St. Eval. Percy has been suddenly converted into the spirit of gloom, and to Herbert it is in vain to look for gossip, so, for pity's sake, satisfy my curiosity."

"Perhaps you will say I have been exciting it unnecessarily," he answered. "An elopement is too common a thing now to cause much astonishment."

"It depends on the parties," observed Mr. Hamilton. "Who are they?"

"Those, or rather one of them, I fear, for her father's sake, in whom you will be too deeply interested,—Lord Alphingham and Miss Grahame."

"Annie!" burst from Caroline's lips, in an accent of distress that struck all, and fell somewhat, painfully on Lord St. Eval's ear, when starting from the seat she had occupied near him, she sprung forward, and wildly continued, "when—when? Lord Henry, for pity's sake, tell me! is there no time? Can they not be overtaken? When did they go?"

Bewildered at the wild earnestness of her manner, at the muttered execration of Percy, Lord Henry was for a moment silent; but, on the repeated entreaty of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, he said that the particulars were not yet all known, except that she had been staying with her friend, that same lady of rank in whose family Miss Malison had been installed; that from her house the elopement had taken place, when, he did not exactly know, the report had only that morning gained credit. Lady Helen was not in the least aware of what had passed, nor would she, in all probability, till Annie's own letter announced it, as she turned a careless ear to all that her friends had hinted. He greatly feared, however, that it was useless to think of overtaking them; they had been seen and recognised, on the road between York and Berwick, by a friend of his, three days previous. He had at first regarded his friend's letter as a mere jest, but finding he had written the same to many others, and that the report was gaining ground, he felt sufficient interest in Mr. Grahame to discover the truth, that he might be informed of it, and take measures accordingly, and as Grahame was from home, he thought the best thing he could do was to tell the whole story to Mr. Hamilton.

"And is there indeed no hope? Can they not be overtaken?" again demanded Caroline, almost choked with an agitation for which even her parents could not account.

Lord Henry did not think there was the slightest possibility, and unable to control her emotion, for she could not forget the long years she had regarded Annie as her friend, the favourite companion of her childhood, Caroline sunk, pale as death, on the nearest seat. Her mother and St. Eval approached her in some alarm, the former to demand the cause of this agitation, and implore her to be calm; the latter to connect, with a swelling heart and trembling frame, this deep emotion with the words of Lord Alphingham, which he vainly endeavoured to forget; but Percy alone had power to restore her to any degree of composure, taking her trembling hand in his, he whispered a few words, and their effect was instantaneous.

"Thank God, she will be at least his wife!" escaped Caroline's quivering lips, and then burst into tears.

"Mother, do not ask more now. St. Eval, do not doubt my sister, her agitation arose for Miss Grahame alone, not for the villain, the cold-hearted villain, Alphingham!" exclaimed Percy, in a low but impressive voice, as he alternately addressed his mother and the Earl, and then, as if fearing their further questions, he hastily turned away to join his father in demanding every possible information from Lord Henry; and perceiving that Caroline was becoming calm, and also that St. Eval looked somewhat disturbed, Mrs. Hamilton followed her son to the other end of the room. Still St. Eval spoke not, and Caroline, as she read the reproach, the doubt expressed upon his features, for a moment felt her natural pride swelling high within her, that he could for one minute permit a doubt of her truth to enter his mind; but her resolution, her mother's advice, the observation of Lady Gertrude, all rose to combat with returning pride, and they conquered.

"Eugene, dearest Eugene," she said, as she extended her hand towards him, "you have, indeed, every reason to look disturbed. In my deep anxiety for her whom I so long loved as my friend, I forgot that my agitation might indeed confirm the unworthy tale you heard. Forgive me, Eugene; I know that I have pained you, but, indeed, I meant it not. If Lord Alphingham did cross my mind, it was in detestation, in abhorrence, that he should thus have acted. I trembled for Annie, for her alone, for the fearful fate that, when Lord Henry first spoke, I believed must be her lot. Were I at liberty to disclose all, you would not wonder such should have been my feelings, Eugene," she added, in an accent of gentle reproach. "Must I indeed solemnly and sacredly assure you, that my agitation was occasioned by no lingering affection for Lord Alphingham? will nothing else satisfy you? Is it kind, is it generous thus to doubt me?"

Softened at once, ashamed of his own jealous tendency, the young Earl could only implore her forgiveness, assure her he had not the faintest doubt remaining; and suggesting, air would revive her sooner than anything, he drew her to the open window of the adjoining room, which looked out on the little garden, and there they remained in apparently earnest conversation, till Caroline, to her extreme astonishment, was summoned by her cousin to luncheon, and Lord St. Eval suddenly discovered he had permitted the whole morning to slip away in idleness, when he imagined he had so very much to do.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were more grieved than surprised at the intelligence they had heard; but in what manner to act, what measures to take they knew not. Grahame was expected to arrive in England on the morrow or the next day at the farthest, and his agony they dreaded to witness; they feared lest reports should reach him ere he was in any way prepared, and Mr. Hamilton determined on travelling instantly to Dover, that he might be there ready to receive him, and console to the best of his ability this mistaken but truly affectionate father. Percy, rousing himself, entered with activity into all his father's plans; but Mrs. Hamilton fancied that he too had some plan to follow up, which his absence two or three days from home confirmed. Nor was it idle sympathy she felt; that same day she sought the residence of Lady Helen.

Scarcely ever did she enter that house without being struck by the melancholy pervading it. Wrapped in her own pleasures, her own desires and amusements, Annie never cast one thought on her mother, whose declining health it would have been her duty to tend and soothe; indeed she scarcely ever entered her room, and believing her parent's ailments were all fancy, made it a rule to take no notice of them. Cecil liked not gloom and quiet, and his fashionable cousins occupied almost all his time. He could not comprehend, much less return the deep affection his mother felt for him; and Lilla, whose naturally warm heart and right principles would have made her an affectionate attendant on her mother's couch, was seldom at home to perform her part. But already had Lady Helen felt the difference a year's residence with Mrs. Douglas had made in her younger girl; already her indolent nature felt the comfort of her presence, and bitterly regretted when her short vacations were at an end, for then she was indeed alone.

On being admitted, Mrs. Hamilton fancied somewhat eagerly, the first person she encountered at Lady Helen's was her young friend, clad, it seemed, for walking, with traces of anxiety and sorrow written on her countenance.

"The very person I was about to seek," she exclaimed, in a voice of intense relief, springing down the stairs to reach her friend. "Dearest Mrs. Hamilton, mamma—Annie—" The words choked her, and she burst into tears.

"Compose yourself, love, I know all; only tell me how your mother bears the shock," whispered Mrs. Hamilton, instantly penetrating at once the truth, that either the report had reached Lady Helen, or she had received the intelligence direct from her daughter; and anxious to escape the curious eyes of the domestics, who were in the hall, she hastily yet kindly drew the weeping Lilla to the nearest parlour, and, closing the door, succeeded in hearing all she desired. Lilla said, her mother, only an hour before, had received a letter from Annie, briefly announcing her marriage, and informing her they intended very shortly to embark for the Netherlands from Leith, thence to make a tour in Germany and Italy, which would prevent their returning to England for some time, when she hoped all present irritation at her conduct would have subsided; that her father's severity had tended to this step. Had he been kind, and like other fathers, she would have sacrificed her own desires, conscious that his reason for prohibiting her union with Alphingham was good, however it might be secret; but when from her childhood her every wish had been unreasonably thwarted, she was compelled to choose in such a case for herself. She should be sorry to live in enmity with her father, but even if she did, she never could regret the step she had taken. To her mother she wrote as if assured of her forgiveness, or rather her continued favour; forgiveness she did not seem to think it at all necessary to ask, saying, she was sure her kind and indulgent mother would not regret her union with Lord Alphingham, when she solemnly declared it had made her happier than she had ever been before. Such Lilla said were the contents of her letter; but the warm-hearted girl could not refer without indignation to the utter want of affection which breathed throughout. Her mother, Lilla continued to say, had been in a most alarming state from the time she received the letter, but she fancied occasioned more by the dread of what her father would say on his return, than from Annie's conduct.

When Mrs. Hamilton saw Lady Helen, she felt that Lilla was right. The unhappy mother reproached her own carelessness, indolence, and Annie's ingratitude, but it was evident the dread of her husband was uppermost in her mind—a dread which made her so extremely ill, from a succession of violent and uncontrolled hysterics, that Mrs. Hamilton did not leave her the whole of that day; nor would she permit the unhappy father to enter his wife's apartment on his return, till she had exacted from him a promise to forbear all reproaches towards his suffering wife, all allusions to the past.

With the stern brevity of the injured, Grahame addressed his disobedient child. His forgiveness and his blessing he sent, though he said she had asked for neither; that he bore no enmity to her, he wrote; his home and his heart were ever open to receive her, should she again require the protection of the one, the affection of the other. She had chosen for herself; linked her fate with one against whom many tongues had spoken, and he could only pray that her present happiness might never change. Lord Alphingham he did not name. Lady Helen's letter was a curious mixture of reproach and affection, complaint and congratulation; and Annie might have found it difficult to discover in what manner she was affected towards the Viscount, or with regard to the elopement itself. Perhaps of all the letters she received from home, Lilla's was the most irritating to her, for it was written in all the bitter indignation, the unchecked reproaches of a young and ardent spirit, in whose eyes the heartlessness of her letter was inexcusable, and she wrote as she thought. Annie, as might have been expected, deigned her no reply. A few languidly written letters her mother received from her during her tour; but the chief of her correspondence was reserved for Miss Malison and the lady who had so ably assisted their secret plans. The friendly influence of Mr. Hamilton succeeded, after a few days, in restoring his friend to comparative outward composure, although the wound within, he too sadly felt, was beyond his power to heal.

A few days passed in peace. Mrs. Hamilton and her family were anticipating with pleasure the quiet happiness of Oakwood, and the event then to take place. Scarcely a week intervened before their departure, when they were one afternoon startled by the appearance of Grahame, whose countenance bore the pallid hue of death, and every action denoted the most fearful agitation. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, Caroline and St. Eval, were alone present, and they gazed on him in unfeigned alarm.

"Hamilton, I start for Brussels to-night," was his salutation, as he entered.

"Brussels!" repeated Mr. Hamilton. "Grahame, you are beside yourself. What affairs can call you to Brussels so suddenly?"

"Affairs—business; aye, of such weight, I cannot rest till they are attended to. Hamilton, you are astonished; you think me mad; oh, would to God I were!" and striking his forehead with his clenched hand, he paced the room in agony.

Ere his friend could approach or address him, he suddenly paused before Caroline, who was watching him in alarm and commiseration, and grasping her arm, with a pressure that pained her, he said, in a voice which blanched her cheek with horror—

"Hamilton, look on this girl, and, as you love me, answer me. Could you be a Roman father, did you see her dishonoured,—the victim, the wilful victim of a base, a treacherous, miserable villain?—say, could you wash away the blackening stain with blood—with her blood—or his, or both? Speak to me—counsel me. My child, my child!" he groaned aloud.

"Grahame, you are ill; my dear friend, you know not what you say," exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, terrified both at his wildness and his words. "Come with me till this strange mood has passed; I entreat it as a favour—come."

"Passed—till this mood has passed! Hamilton, it will never pass till the grave has closed over Annie and myself. Oh, Hamilton, my friend, I had reconciled myself to this marriage; taught myself to believe that, as his wife, she might be happy; and—oh, God! can I say the words?—she is not his wife—he is already married." His trembling limbs refused support, and he sunk, overcome by his emotion, on a chair. Without a minute's pause, a moment's hesitation, and ere her father could find words to reply, Caroline sprung forward, and kneeling beside the wretched father, she seized his hand—

"Be calm, be comforted, dearest Mr. Grahame," she exclaimed, in a voice that caused him to gaze at her with astonishment. "It is a mistaken tale you have heard; a cruel falsehood, to disturb your peace. Lord Alphingham was married, but Annie is now his lawful wedded wife; the partner of his youth, the devoted woman whom for eight years he deserted, is no more. She died the day preceding that which united Lord Alphingham to your child. I speak truth, Mr. Grahame; solemnly, sacredly, I affirm it. Percy will tell you more; I was pledged to secrecy. On her deathbed she demanded a solemn promise from all who knew her tale, never to divulge it, lest it should prove to the discredit of her cruel husband, whom her last accents blessed. I promised Percy it should be sacred, unless an emergency demanded it. Be comforted, Mr. Grahame, indeed, I speak the truth. Lord Alphingham was free, restrained by no tie, when he was united to your child." Rapidly, hurriedly, she had spoken, for she trembled at the wild gaze Grahame had fixed upon her. Caroline's voice rung clear and distinct upon his ear, and every word brought comfort, still he spoke not; but when she ceased, when slowly, more impressively her last words were spoken, he uttered a faint cry, and folding her slight form convulsively to his heart, sobbed like an infant on her shoulder. Thoughts unutterable thronged the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton as they too listened with fascinated eagerness to Caroline's words; thoughts, not only of the present but the past, rushed quickly to their minds. A year previous Lord Alphingham's wife still lived; though he, villain as he was, had heeded not the sacred tie. Well could they enter into the blessed relief her words had brought to the distracted father. Mr. Hamilton permitted some minutes to elapse in silence, and then gently withdrawing Caroline from Grahame's still convulsive hold, said a few words, in a voice which, though low, expressed that kindly sympathy which seldom fails to reach the inmost soul; and finally succeeded in passing his arm through that of his friend, and leading him to an adjoining room, where, after a time, Grahame conquered his agitation sufficiently to give a connected account of the means through which he had learned the information which had so distracted him. Caroline's words and the influence of his friend restored him to comparative composure; but all was not at peace within until Percy had obeyed the summons of his father, and the information of his sister was confirmed in every point by him. He related the tale of Mrs. Amesfort, with which our readers are already well acquainted, with the addition of her death, of which the letter he received a few days previous had informed him. Many affecting interviews he had had with her, in which she spoke, of her husband, her mother, her child, so fondly, that the tears often started to the eyes of Percy, though her own were dry. In parting from him, she had again implored him not to divulge her secret, unless the interest of her child demanded it, or he saw urgent occasion.

"Let not the breath of calumny sully the name of my child," she said, grasping his hand with a painful effort. "Let her not be looked on as a child of shame, when her birth is as pure and noble as any in the land. If her birth be questioned, let the whole world know she is the daughter of Lord Alphingham. In my mother's care is the certificate of my marriage, also of the christening of my Agnes. But if nothing be demanded, if her lot be happy, it is better both for father and daughter that they remain unknown to each other."

Percy had made the solemn promise she demanded, but the remembrance of her pale features, her drooping form, had haunted him on his return home, and caused that deep gloom his family had remarked. It was more than a week after Mrs. Amesfort's death, before her afflicted mother could write the tidings to the young man, who, on hearing of Annie's conduct, had instantly and actively set about obtaining the exact date of the unfortunate lady's death, and also that of the Viscount's hasty marriage in Scotland. The result was most satisfactory; rather more than a week had elapsed between the two events, and his marriage with Annie was, consequently, sacred and binding. Percy also said, Mrs. Morley had mentioned her intention of instantly returning to Ireland with the little Agnes, from whom she fervently prayed she might never be compelled to part.

Believed, and truly thankful, Grahame consulted with his friends on the best plan to pursue to silence the rumours which, having overheard in a public coffeehouse, would, he had no doubt, be immediately circulated over the town. Mrs. Morley said, she had written to inform Lord Alphingham of the death of his broken-hearted wife, enclosing one from the ill-fated Agnes herself. He was, therefore, perfectly aware of the validity of his second marriage, for Percy had inquired and found the letter had been forwarded; there was no need of communication with him on that point. Grahame's first care was to travel to Scotland, and obtain the registry of their marriage; his next, to proceed to Brussels, with Mr. Hamilton, and coolly and decisively inform Lord Alphingham that, unless the ceremony was publicly solemnized a second time, in his presence, and before proper witnesses, other proceedings would be entered upon against him. Astonished and somewhat alarmed as Lord and Lady Alphingham were at his unexpected appearance, the former had too many sins on his conscience to submit to a public expose, which he might justly fear was intended in this threat, and, with great apparent willingness, he consented. The ceremony was again performed; Grahame possessed himself of the certificate, and left Brussels, with the half-formed resolution that, while Lord Alphingham lived, he would never see his child again. The death of the Right Honourable Viscountess Alphingham, and the subsequent marriage in Scotland of the Eight Honourable Lord Viscount Alphingham with Miss Grahame, appeared in all the newspapers. The splendour of the second solemnization of their nuptials in Brussels was the next theme of wonder and gossip, and by the time that subject was exhausted, London had become deserted, and Lord and Lady Alphingham might probably have returned to the metropolis without question or remark; but such was not Lord Alphingham's intention. He feared that probably were his history publicly known he might be shunned for the deceit he had displayed; and he easily obtained Annie's glad consent to fix their residence for a few years in Paris. Irritated as in all probability he was, when he found himself again fettered, yet he so ably concealed this irritation, that his wife suspected it not, and for a time she was happy.

THE END