"On the old subject: my madcap brother Louis and his sage tutor. By the bye, Emmy, I have never asked what you think of Myrvin's conduct in this affair; did he not behave admirably?"

"He did but his duty," replied Emmeline, firmly. "He acted but as every man of generous feelings would have done; it was his duty, for he had pledged himself to the care of his pupil, and could he have left him in his sickness? The dictates of common humanity, the social duties of life would have prevented him."

"What a pity Florence does not hear you, such calm reasoning would destroy all the glow of romance which she has thrown around these incidents. But indeed you do not give Myrvin his due, every man does not perform his duty."

"Every man ought, and when he does not, he is wrong; as when he does, he is right."

"But this is contrary to your own principle, Emmeline. What has become of the enthusiasm which once bade you condemn all such cold judgments, such scanty praise? Once upon a time, you would have looked on such conduct very differently."

Emmeline turned away, but St. Eval saw her eyes were swimming in tears. He continued, sportively—

"Be assured, I will tell Myrvin as soon as I see him."

"I beg you will not, my lord," Emmeline said, struggling to retain her calmness; but failing, she added, entreatingly, "dearest Eugene, if you have any regard for me, do not repeat my words; let them pass with the subject, it has engrossed us quite enough."

St. Eval shook his head in playful reproof. They sat apart from the dancers, and feeling neither her words nor any subsequent agitation could be remarked, she placed her trembling hand in St. Eval's, and said, almost inarticulately—

"Eugene, tell me, does Arthur—Mr. Myrvin accompany Lord Louis to-night? Do not deceive me."

"He does," he replied instantly, "and what detains them I cannot understand. But fear nothing, dearest Emmeline, I know all; you may trust me, fear nothing. And now your promise—the quadrille is formed, they only wait for us."

"I know all, fear nothing," Emmeline internally repeated, her whole frame trembling with agitation, as kindly and encouragingly St. Eval led her to the place assigned them. She forced herself to think only on the dance, on the amusing anecdotes he was telling her, on the light laugh, the ready jest that were sparkling around her. Her natural grace in dancing forsook her not, nor did she refuse her sister's request, when the quadrille was finished, that she would take out her harp. She seated herself at the instrument and commenced.

Music had not lost its charm, rapt in the exquisite air she was playing, it seemed to soothe her agitated feelings, and bid her forget her usual timidity. All were silent, for the air was so sweet, so plaintive, not a voice could have disturbed it; it changed to a quicker, more animated strain, and at that instant Emmeline beheld Edward and Ellen hastily rise to greet a young man, who noiselessly yet eagerly came forward to meet them: it was Lord Louis. Emmeline started, a strong effort alone enabled her to command herself sufficiently to continue playing, but her fingers now moved mechanically; every pulse throbbed so violently, and to her ear so loudly, that she no longer heard the notes she played. All was a mist before her eyes, and the animated plaudits that greeted her as she ceased, rung in her ears as unmeaning, unintelligible sounds. Lord Louis hastily advanced to lead her from the harp, and to tell her how very glad he was to see her again, though even his usually careless eye lost its mirthful expression, as he marked the alteration in his favourite companion. Emmeline tried to smile and answer him in his own strain, but her smile was sickly and faint, and her voice trembled audibly as she spoke. She looked round, fearing, yet longing to see another, but Lord Louis was alone. His preceptor was not near him, but Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, St. Eval and Herbert had also left the room. Some little time passed in animated conversation, still Myrvin did not appear.

"You are wanted in the library, dearest Emmeline," said the young Countess St. Eval.

"Come with me, Emmeline: foolish girl, 'fear nothing,'" said the Earl, joyously.

"Smile, gentle one," he whispered, as she turned her beseeching glance towards him, "do not greet the husband your parents have selected for you with a countenance such as this; nay, fear nothing," he repeated, as her steps faltered, and every limb trembled at his words. Again he smiled as he had once before during that evening, and for the first time a gleam of sudden light darted across the bewildered mind of the agitated girl, but so dazzling were the rays, so overpowering the brilliancy, from the contrast with the deep gloom which had been there before, that she could not believe it real; she deemed it some wild freak of fancy, that sportive fancy which had so long deserted her. St. Eval hurried on, supporting rather than leading his companion. They reached the library, and Emmeline's agitation increased almost to fainting; she leaned more heavily on St. Eval's arm; though her heart beat almost audibly, and her cheek vied in its paleness with a marble statue near her, not a word betrayed her emotion. There were many lights within the library, a group was gathered round the centre table, but to Emmeline all was indistinct, not one amongst them could she recognise. Her father hastened towards her, he took her trembling hand in his, and led her gently forward.

"Look up, my beloved," he said, tenderly, "we have sent for you to ratify the consent your mother and I have given, given on condition, that if yours be withheld, ours also is void. But will the long years of silent love and uncomplaining suffering for your sake, plead in vain to one so gentle as yourself? Look up, my Emmeline, and tell me, if the fond affection, the tender cares of him whom we have chosen, will not indeed prove the best restorative we can bestow?"

She did look up, and the quick gushing flow of blood dyed her pallid cheek with crimson, and lit up her soft eyes with their wonted lustre. There was one tall, manly form beside her, gazing on her with such devoted love, that she saw not how pale were those expressive features, what a deep impress of long suffering was on that high and noble brow. She heard naught but that deep rich voice pronounce her name, and call her "his own, own Emmeline," for she had sunk in his extended arms, she had hidden her face upon his shoulder and wept.

"Are we forgiven, Emmeline, dearest?" said Mrs. Hamilton, fondly, after a long pause, which many mingled feelings had occasioned. Her child withdrew for a moment from the arms of her betrothed, and flung herself upon her neck. "Your father bound me by a promise not to reveal his secret, and I kept it well till this evening; for did you not deserve some punishment, my child, for believing even for a single moment your parents would have rewarded your unwavering discharge of a most painful duty, your unhesitating submission to our will, by forcing you to bestow your hand upon another, when your heart was already engaged? No, my own Emmeline, we could not have been so cruel. Take her, my dear Arthur; freely, fearlessly I consign her happiness to your charge, for indeed you have well deserved her."

We need not lift the veil from the brief interview which the consideration of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton afforded to the lovers, it is enough that they were happy, happy in the consciousness not of present joy alone, but of duty unshrinkingly performed, of pain endured with unrepining fortitude; unalloyed in its purity indeed was their happiness, for it was the recompense of virtue.

When the tidings of what had passed were made known, there were few who did not feel as if some individual joy had been imparted. The universal sympathy occasioned by the happiness of a being so generally beloved as Emmeline shed new animation over the little party. And Ellen, the gentle affectionate Ellen, did not she rejoice? She did, unfeignedly, sincerely, but there was a pang of bitterness mingled with it which she vainly struggled to subdue.

"Can you consent to live in the humble vicarage of my estate, Emmeline?" whispered the young Earl in her ear, as she relinquished the arm of Arthur, whom Edward, Percy, and Ellen were eagerly surrounding. "You have often admired it. Will it serve you for a home, think you? if not, name what alterations you will like, and they shall be done, even as if Aladdin's wonderful genii had performed it."

"Dearest Eugene," said Emmeline, "I feel it is to you, to your generous pleadings in Arthur's favour, I greatly owe this happiness. Will you not let me thank you for that, instead of asking more?"

"No, little fairy, I will do no such thing, for I only spoke the truth, and that, Emmeline, 'was but my duty,' and demands no thanks or praise whatever; and as I have selected my friend Myrvin to supply the place of my late vicar, who was promoted last week to a better living, to see everything prepared for his comfort, and that of his wife, is also mine."

"Nay, spare me, dear St. Eval; I will plead guilty of not giving Arthur his due, if you will promise me not always to torment me with duty. I was unjust and unkind."

"No, dearest Emmy, you were neither unjust nor unkind; you only said one thing and meant another, and as I know why you did so, I forgive you."

Mrs. Cameron's family and the other guests having departed, and only Mr. Hamilton's own circle lingering in the drawing-room, some surprise was occasioned to all except Mrs. Hamilton and Percy, by Mr. Hamilton suddenly laying his hand gently on Herbert's shoulder, and saying earnestly, though somewhat playfully—

"One surprise and one cause for congratulation we might, I think, deem sufficient for one evening, but I intend being the happy messenger of another event, which may chance to be even more surprising, and certainly not less joyful. I beg you will all offer Mrs. Hamilton and myself your warmest congratulations, for the same day that gives us a new son will, I trust, bestow on us an other daughter. This quiet young man intends taking unto himself a wife; and as it may be some little time ere we can bring her home from France, the best thing we can do is to anticipate two marriages in one day."

"Herbert, my true English bred and English feeling cousin, marry a French woman, by my good sword, you shall not," said Edward, laughing, when the universal surprise and joy which this information had excited had somewhat subsided. The eager question who was Herbert's choice, was asked by Caroline and Emmeline together.

"Fear nothing, Master Lieutenant," St. Eval said, ere Herbert could reply; "my wits, though a landsman, are not quite so blunt as yours, and I guess better than you do. Is it possible no one here can tell? has my demure brother Herbert's secret never been suspected? Caroline, what has become of your penetration; and Emmeline, your romance? Ellen, cannot you guess?"

"Yes," she replied, instantly, though as she spoke a sudden crimson rose to her cheek, which, though unnoticed, had been, while Mr. Hamilton spoke, pale as death.

"May you, may you be happy, dearest Herbert," she added, calmly, as she extended her hand to him; "few are so fitted to make you so, few can so truly sympathise in your feelings as Mary Greville."

"You are right, you are right, Ellen," said Lady Emily Lyle, as Herbert warmly pressed his cousin's hand, and thanked her in that low thrilling voice so peculiarly his own; and then, with a countenance radiant with animated joy, turned towards the little group, and thanking them for the joy with which his Mary's name was universally greeted, turned to Edward and asked, with a smile, if Mary were not sufficiently English to content him.

"Quite, quite; I would even go over to France for the sake of bringing her to England in my gallant Gem," replied the young sailor. "She is the best wife you could have chosen, Herbert, for you were ever alongside, even in your boyish days; and it would have been a sin and shame for you to have married any one else. Percy, why do not you follow such an excellent example?"

"I—because a bachelor's life has not yet lost its charms for me, Edward! I like my own ease, my own pleasure best, and wish to be free a short time longer," replied the young man, stretching himself on a sofa, with a comic air of nonchalance and affectation; then starting up, he added, theatrically, "I am going to be a senator, a senator; and how in the world can I think of matrimony but as a state of felicity unsuited to such a hard-working fellow as I am, or rather mean to be."

"I commend you for the correction in your speech, Percy," said his mother, smiling. "Mean to be and am, are two very different things."

"But in me may chance so to amalgamate as to become the same. Mother, who would believe you could be so severe? But I forgive you; one of these days you will regret your injustice: that smile says I wish I may. Well, we shall see. And now, lords and ladies, to bed, to bed. I have swallowed such large draughts of surprise to-night, I can bear no more. A kind good night to all. Myrvin," he called out from the hall, "if you are as early to-morrow as you were at Oxford, we will be off to Trevilion and inspect your new vicarage before breakfast, and back by night."

"Not to-morrow, Arthur," entreated Emmeline, in a low voice, as he followed her from the room.

"Not to-morrow, dearest," he replied, tenderly, as he drew her to his bosom, and bade God bless her.

The other members of the family also separated, Ellen one of the last, for Lady Emily at first detained her in some trifling converse, and Mrs. Hamilton was telling her of something she wished her niece to do for her the next morning. Ellen was standing in the shade as her aunt spoke; all had left the room except Edward and themselves, and humming a lively air, the former was departing, when, turning round to wish his sister good night, the light flashed full upon her face, and there was something in its expression, in its almost unearthly paleness, that made him suddenly start and cease his song.

"Merciful heaven! Ellen, what is the matter? You look like a ghost."

"Do not be silly, Edward, there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only warm," she replied, struggling to smile, but her voice was so choked, her smile so unnatural, that not only her brother but her aunt was alarmed.

"You are deceiving us, my dear girl, you are not well. Are you in pain, dearest?" she said, hastening towards her.

Ellen had borne up well when unnoticed; but the voice of kindness, the fond caress her aunt bestowed completely overpowered her, and, sinking on a chair, she burst into tears.

"It is nothing, indeed it is nothing, my dear aunt," she said, with a strong effort checking the bursting sob. "I have felt the heat very oppressive all the evening, it is only that which makes me so foolish."

"I hope it is only the heat, my Ellen," replied Mrs. Hamilton, fondly, suspicion flashing across her mind, not indeed of the truth, but something near akin to it. For a few minutes Ellen leaned her head silently against her aunt, who continued bending over her, then returning her affectionate kiss, shook hands with her brother, assured him she was quite well, and quietly left the room.

"Now, then, I know indeed my fate," Ellen murmured internally, as her aching head rested on a sleepless pillow, and her clasped hands were pressed against her heart to stop its suffocating throbs. "Why am I thus overwhelmed, as if I had ever hoped, as if this were unexpected? Have I not known it, have I not felt that she would ever be his choice? that I was mad enough to love one, who from his boyhood loved another. Why has it fallen on me as a shock for which I was utterly unprepared? What has become of my many resolutions? Why should the task be more difficult now than it has been? I feel as if life were irksome to me, as if all I loved were turned to that bitterness of spirit against which I have striven, as if I could dash from my poor cousin's lips the cup of unexpected happiness she has only this evening tasted. Oh, merciful Father! forsake me not now, let me not feel thus, only fill my heart with love and charity, take from me this bitterness and envy. It is Thou that dispenseth this bitter cup. Father, I recognise Thy hand, and would indeed resign myself to Thee. Oh, enable me to do so; teach me to love Thee alone, to do Thy work, to subdue myself, and in thankfulness receive the many blessings still around me; let me but see them happy. Oh, my Father, let Thy choicest blessings be his lot, and for me" it was a bitter struggle, but ere the night had passed that young spirit had conquered, had uttered fervently, trustingly, heartfully,—"for me, oh, my Father, let Thy will be done." And Ellen joined the breakfast-table the following morning calm and cheerful; there was no trace of internal suffering, no sign to betray even to her aunt all that she endured. She entered cheerfully into all Emmeline's happiness, accompanied her and Arthur, with Lord and Lady St. Eval, to Trevilion, and entered into every suggested plan, as if indeed no other thoughts engrossed her. Arthur and Emmeline found in her an active and affectionate friend, and the respect and love with which she felt herself regarded seemed to soothe, while it urged her on to increased exertion. Mrs. Hamilton watched her anxiously; she had at first fancied Arthur was the object of her niece's regard, but this idea was not strengthened, and though she felt assured such was not the real cause of Ellen's agitation that eventful evening, she could not, and did not guess the truth.

The revealing a long-treasured secret, the laying bare feelings of the heart, which have so long been concealed, even to our dearest friends, does not always produce happiness; there is a blank within us, a yearning after something we know not what, and the spirit loses for a time its elasticity. It may be that the treasured secret has been so long enshrined in our innermost souls, we have felt it so long as only our own, that when we betray it to others, it is as if we parted from a friend; it is no longer our own, we can no longer hold sweet communion with it, for the voice of the world hath also reached it, and though at first its revealing is joy, it is followed by a sorrow. So Herbert felt, when the excitement of congratulation, of the warm sympathy of his friends had given place to solicitude and thought. Mary had been so long the shrine of his secret, fondest thoughts, he had so long indulged in delicious fancies, known to few others save himself, that now they had been intruded on even by the voice of gratulation, they would no longer throng around. It was strange that on this night, when his choice had been so warmly approved of by all his friends, when words of such heartfelt kindness had been lavished in his ear, that the same dull foreboding of future evil, of suffering, of death, pressed heavily on him, as in earlier years it had been so wont to do. He struggled against it; he would not listen to its voice, but it would have sway. Donned it was not indeed, but from its mystery more saddening. Herbert wrestled with himself in fervent prayer; that night was to him almost as sleepless as it was to his cousin Ellen, but the cause of her weary watching was, alas! too well defined. The bright sun, the joyous voices of his brother and cousin beneath his window, roused Herbert from these thoughts, and ere the day had passed, he had partly recovered the usual tenor of his mind, though its buoyancy was still subdued, and its secret temperament somewhat sad, but to his family he seemed as usual.



CHAPTER VI.

Some weeks passed, and Emmeline's health was rapidly returning; her spirits were more like those of her girlhood, subdued indeed by past suffering, but only so far subdued as to render her, if possible, still dearer to all those who loved her; and she, too, beheld with delight the colour returning to her Arthur's cheek, his step regaining its elasticity; and there was a manly dignity about him now which, when she first loved, she had not seen, but which she felt rendered him still dearer, for she could look up to him for support, she could feel dependence on his stronger and more decisive character.

Each week confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton in the wisdom of their decision, by revealing more clearly Myrvin's character. He was more devoted to the duties of his clerical profession; pride, haughtiness, that dislike to mingle with his parishioners, had all departed, and as they observed how warmly and delightedly their Emmeline entered into his many plans for doing good, for increasing the happiness of the villagers under his spiritual charge, they felt that her domestic virtues, her gentle disposition, were far more suited to the wife of a clergyman, than to that life of bustling gaiety which might perhaps, under other circumstances, have been her portion.

"Are there not responsibilities attached to a clergyman's wife?" she once asked her mother. "I feel as if so much depended upon me to render him respected and beloved, that I sometimes fear I may fail in my duty, and, through ignorance, not intentional, perhaps bring discredit on his name. Dearest mother, how can I prevent this?"

"These fears are natural to one of your character, my Emmeline, but they will quickly pass away. You would be more likely to fail in the duties of fashionable life, than in those which you will soon have to fulfil. Occupation which, had you been more fashionably educated, must have been irksome, will to you remain the pleasures they have ever been, heightened and encouraged by the sympathy of your husband. A wife to be truly happy and virtuous, must entirely forget self; a truth which the partner of a country clergyman should ever remember, as his family is larger, more constant in their calls upon her attention and sympathy, and sometimes her exertions are less productive of satisfaction and pleasure, than those of many other stations in life. Her own demeanour should be alike gentle, unassuming, persuasive, yet dignified, so that her actions may assist and uphold her husband's doctrines more than her language. You have but to follow the principles of Christianity and the dictates of your own heart, my Emmeline, and your duty will be done, almost unconsciously to yourself."

The only drawback to Emmeline's happiness was, that Lord and Lady St. Eval were obliged to leave England ere her marriage could be solemnized, the health of the latter prohibiting further delay. They did not expect to be absent much more than a twelvemonth, and the Earl, laughingly, told Emmeline, if she would defer her wedding till then, he would promise to be present; to that, however, none of the parties concerned seemed inclined to consent, and St. Eval owned he would much rather, on his return, see her comfortably settled at the Vicarage, where preparations were rapidly advancing. Percy, however, promised to defer his intended tour till his favourite sister should be Myrvin's bride, and Edward, on leaving to join his ship, declared, if wind and tide were not very contrary, he, too, would take a run down and dance at her wedding.

A short time after the departure of the Earl and Countess, and Edward, Ellen received from the hand of her cousin Herbert a letter, which for the moment caused her some emotion. She felt his eyes were fixed upon her with a peculiar expression, and shrinking from them, she was hastening to her own room to answer the letter there, when Herbert called after her—

"Do not run away from me, Nelly; whatever be your answer, I am to be the bearer."

Returning instantly, she asked, with cheek suddenly paled and lip compressed, "Are you then aware of the contents of this letter, Herbert; are you in Captain Cameron's confidence?"

"To both demands I am happy enough to answer, yes, Ellen," he replied, smiling archly. "Captain Cameron has made me his father confessor, and in return, I have promised to use all my influence in his favour, to tell you what his letter may perhaps have but incoherently expressed: that he loves you, Ellen, devotedly, faithfully; that he feels life without you, however brilliant in appearance, will be a blank. I promised him I would play the lover well, and indeed, my dear cousin, his affection and esteem for you do not admit a single doubt."

"I am sorry for it," said Ellen, calmly, "very sorry, as it is not in my power to return those feelings, and consequently I am compelled to give him pain. I am grateful, very grateful for the high opinion, the kind feelings, his letter expresses towards me. I shall never cease to respect and value him as a friend, but more I cannot give."

"Nay, Ellen, take time to consider of his offer; do not refuse him at once thus decidedly. You say you respect him. I know you admire his conduct, both as a son and brother, and as a man. What objections are there so great as to call for this decided and instant refusal?"

"Simply because, as a husband, I can never love him."

"Never is a long day, Ellen. You surely have not so much romance in your composition as to refuse a young man possessing every virtue which can make a woman happy, merely because he does not excite any very violent passion? Do you not know there are some dispositions which never love to the full extent of the word, and yet are perhaps happier in the marriage state than those who do? Now you may be one of these, Ellen."

"It may be so," she said, still calmly, though a deep flush stained her cheek. Herbert had spoken playfully, but there was that in his words which, to a heart seared as was hers, was productive of intense suffering.

"It may be so perhaps; I shall never meet one to love, as I believe a husband ought to be loved, yet that would not satisfy my conscience for accepting Walter. I trust I am not romantic, Herbert, but I will say, that the vow to love, honour, and obey, to think only of him, demands something more than the mere cold esteem which some may deem sufficient for happiness. Walter is an estimable young man, one who will make any woman happy, and deeply indeed I regret that he has chosen one who can only return his warm devoted affection with the comparatively chilling sentiments of friendship and esteem. I would not do his kind heart so much wrong as to accept him."

"But take time, Ellen, give him some hope. You can urge no objections against him, and his family are dear to you. He has told me that from his childhood he loved you, that your remembrance never left him, and when again he met you, his fanciful visions became a beautiful and palpable reality; give him, at least, some time for hope. It is impossible, with a heart disengaged as yours, to associate intimately with him and not love him."

"A heart disengaged as mine! how know you that, Herbert?" said his cousin, with a smile, which would have deceived the most penetrating eye. "Are you not presuming too far in your inspection of my heart, seeking in rather a roundabout way, to obtain my entire confidence?"

"No, dearest Ellen, I speak and feel in this business but as Edward would, were he in my place; your happiness is as dear to me as it is to him. We have for very many years been to each other as a brother and sister, and, believe me, in urging your acceptance of this good young man, I seek but your welfare alone."

"I believe you, my dear cousin," replied Ellen, frankly holding out her hand, which Herbert warmly pressed. "But indeed, in this instance, you are deceived. An union with Walter Cameron would not form my happiness, worthy as he is,—suitable as the world would deem such a match in all respects; and sorry as I am to inflict pain and disappointment on the companion of my childhood, as also, I fear, on his kind mother, I cannot be his wife."

"And if your affections be already engaged, far be it from me to urge you farther; but"—

"I said not that they were, Herbert," interrupted Ellen, steadily fixing, as she spoke, her large eyes unshrinkingly on her cousin's face. Herbert felt fairly puzzled, he could not read her heart; he would have asked her confidence, he would have promised to do all in his power to forward her happiness, but there was something around her that, while it called forth his almost unconscious respect, entirely checked all farther question. He did not fancy that she loved another, and yet why this determined rejection of a young man whom he knew she esteemed.

"I am only grieving you by continuing the subject," he said; "and therefore grant me your forgiveness, dearest Ellen, and your final answer to Cameron, and it shall be resumed no more."

"I have nothing to forgive, Herbert," replied Ellen, somewhat mournfully.

She sat a few minutes longer, in saddened thought, gazing on the open letter, and then quitted the room and sought her own. She softly closed the door, secured it, and then sinking on a low seat beside her couch, buried her pale face in her hands, and for a few minutes remained overwhelmed by that intensity of secret and tearless suffering. It was called forth afresh by this interview with her cousin: to hear his lips plead thus eloquently the cause of another; to hear him say that perhaps she was one of those who would never love to its full extent. When her young heart felt bursting beneath the load of deep affection pressing there, one sweet alone mingled in that cup of bitterness, Herbert guessed not, suspected not the truth. She had succeeded well in concealing the anguish called forth by unrequited love, and she would struggle on.

"Never, never shall it be known that I have given this rebellious heart to one who seeks it not. No, no, that tale shall live and die with me; no one shall know how low I have fallen. Poor Walter! he will think I cannot feel for his unreturned affection, when I know too well its pang; and why should I not be happy with him, why live on in lingering wretchedness, when, perhaps as a wife, new duties might rouse me from this lethargy? Away from Herbert I might forget—be reconciled; but swear to love Walter when I have no love to give—return his affection by indifference—oh, no, no, I will not be so guilty."

Ellen again hid her eyes in her hands, and thought long and painfully. Pride urged her to accept young Cameron, but every better feeling revolted from it. She started from that posture of despondency, and, with a bursting heart, answered Walter's eloquent appeal. Kindness breathed in every line she wrote—regard for his welfare—esteem for his character; but she calmly yet decidedly rejected his addresses. She was grieved, she said, most deeply grieved that anything in her manner towards him had encouraged his hopes. She had acted but as she felt, looking on the companion of her early childhood, the son of her father's and her own kind friend, as a brother and a friend, in which light she hoped he would ever permit her to regard him. Hope found no resting-place in her letter, but it breathed such true and gentle sympathy and kindness, that Walter could not but feel soothed, even in the midst of disappointment. Ellen paused ere she sealed her letter; she could not bear to act, even in this matter, without confiding in her aunt; that Captain Cameron had proposed and been rejected, she felt assured, report would soon convey to her ears. Why not then seek her herself? The task of writing had calmed her heart. Taking, therefore, Walter's letter and her own, she repaired to her aunt's dressing-room, and fortunately found her alone. Mrs. Hamilton looked earnestly at her as she entered, but she made no observation till, in compliance with Ellen's request, she perused the letters offered to her.

"Have you reflected sufficiently on your decision, my Ellen?" she said, after thanking her for the confidence she reposed in her. "Have you thought well on the estimable character of this young man? Far be it from me to urge or persuade you in such an important matter as marriage, but you have not, I trust, answered this letter on the impulse of the moment?"

"No, aunt, I have not indeed. Herbert has been most earnestly pleading Captain Cameron's cause, and I have thought on all he has said, and the little I can bring forward to combat it, but still I have refused him, because as a husband I can never love him. I honour all his good qualities. I cannot remember one fault or failing in his character, which might render a wife unhappy. I grieve for his disappointment, but I should not think I was doing either him or myself justice, to accept him merely on these considerations. Herbert, I know, considers me romantic, and perhaps unkind towards his friend; but painful as such an idea is, I cannot act otherwise than I have done."

"Do not let that idea, then, continue to give you pain, my dear girl; your manner towards Walter has never expressed more than kindness and friendly regard. If I had seen anything like encouragement to him on your part, do you not think I should have called you to account long ago?" she added, with a smile, as Ellen, much relieved, kissed her in silence. "Our young folks have, I know sometimes in sport, allied your name with his, but I have generally checked them. Walter I certainly did fancy admired you, but I did not imagine the feeling so decided as it has proved. I will not blame your decision, though perhaps it may not be a very wise one. Marriage is too serious a thing to be entered upon lightly, and if you cannot love Walter as a husband, why you are quite right not to accept him. I am not so eager to part with my Ellen as to advise her marrying, whether she likes it or not. I shall soon have only you to cheer my old age, you know. Do not look so pained and sad, love; it is not thus young ladies in general refuse an offer. Go and give your letter to Herbert, tell him it has my unqualified approval, and then return to me. I marked some beautiful passages in one of our favourite authors the other day and you shall read them to me. Now run away, and come back quickly."

Ellen obeyed gladly and gratefully, and was enabled playfully to return the smile with which Herbert received her letter and his mother's message. Mrs. Hamilton felt more and more convinced that her suspicions were correct, and that her niece's affections were unhappily engaged. She thought again and again who could be their object, and still she fancied it was Arthur Myrvin. She scarcely knew why herself, except from Ellen's agitation the night of his arrival at Oakwood, and engagement with Emmeline. That Herbert was the object was to her so improbable, that the idea never crossed her mind. They had lived so long as brother and sister, they had from their earliest childhood so intimately associated with each other, Ellen and Edward were to her so like her own children, that not once did she imagine Ellen loved her cousin. She watched her closely, and she was more and more convinced that she had something to conceal. She was certain her decided rejection of Walter proceeded from her affections being already engaged, which had also blinded her to his attentions; and she was convinced also that Ellen loved in vain, and therefore, though she longed to console and soothe her, she resolved not to speak to her on the subject, and wring from her a secret which, when once betrayed, though revealed to her alone, might be still more painful to endure. Mrs. Hamilton's manner was so kind, so soothing, so calculated to support and strengthen, that Ellen more than once wondered whether her aunt had indeed discovered her secret; but she could not speak of it. She could not even to the being she loved best on earth, with the exception of one, thus lay bare her aching heart. Often and often she longed to throw herself in the arms of her aunt and weep, but she controlled the impulse, and bore on in silence and outward cheerfulness; strengthened in her efforts by the conviction that Herbert knew not, imagined not the truth.

Young Cameron was grieved and disappointed, for his love for Ellen was indeed sincere, but he could not mistake her letter; he saw there was no hope, her expressions of friendship and kindness were soothing and gratifying, they prevented all bitterness of feeling, and he determined to preserve the friendship and brotherly regard which she so frankly proffered.

Mrs. Cameron was at first somewhat hurt at Ellen's decided rejection of her son, but she could not long retain any emotion of coolness towards her, she could not resist the affectionate manner of Ellen, and all was soon as usual between them. A visit with Percy to Castle Malvern, at Lord Louis's earnest entreaty, to Walter was an agreeable change, though it had at first been a struggle to rouse himself sufficiently. There the character and conversation of Lady Florence Lyle, to his excited fancy, so much resembled Ellen's, that unconsciously he felt soothed and happy. From Castle Malvern, he joined his regiment with Lord Louis, who had received a commission in the same troop, and by the time Captain Cameron returned to Oakwood, he could associate with Ellen as a friend and a brother. Above a year, it is true, elapsed before that time, and in that period events had occurred at Oakwood, as unexpected as they were mournful—but we will not anticipate.

Soon after Lord and Lady St. Eval's departure for Italy, Mr. Grahame, despite the entreaties of his friends, even the silent eloquence of Lilla's appealing eyes, put his resolution into force, and retired to Wales. He had paid to the last farthing all his misguided son's honourable and dishonourable debts; and this proceeding, as might be expected, left him so reduced in fortune as to demand the greatest economy to live with any comfort. To such an evil Grahame seemed insensible; his only wish was to escape from the eye and tongue of the world. A mistaken view with regard to his child also urged him on. Why should he expose her to the attentions of the young noblemen so constantly visiting at Mr. Hamilton's house, when, he felt assured, however eagerly his alliance would once have been courted, now not one would unite himself to the sister of a publicly disgraced and privately dishonoured man? No, it was better for her to be far away; and though her mild submission to his wishes, notwithstanding the pain he knew it was to part from her friends at Oakwood, rendered her dearer to him than ever, still he wavered not in his resolution. The entreaties of Arthur Myrvin, Emmeline, and Ellen did, however, succeed in persuading him to fix his place of retirement at Llangwillan, so that all connection would not be so completely broken between them, as were he to seek some more distant part of the country. Llangwillan, Arthur urged, was scarcely known to the world at large, but it was to them, and they might hope sometimes, to see them; for he, Emmeline, and Ellen would often visit his father. Grahame consented, to the great joy of his child, who felt more than himself the force of Myrvin's arguments.

"Mr. Myrvin is such a dear, good, old man, you cannot fail to love him, Lilla," Ellen said, soothingly, as the day of parting neared. "You must ask him to show you the little cottage where the first eight weeks of my residence in England were passed, and make friends with the old widow and her daughter for my sake; you will find them willing enough to talk about us and my poor mother, if you once speak on the subject. And my mother's grave, dear Lilla, you will visit that sometimes, will you not? and not permit a weed to mingle with the flowers Arthur planted around it after we left, to distinguish it, he said, from every other grave. It shall be your charge, dearest Lilla, and Edward and I will thank you for it; he never goes to Llangwillan without passing an hour of each day by that little humble mound."

"Edward, does he ever come to Llangwillan?" Lilla suddenly asked, her tears checked, and every feature expressive of such animated hope, that Ellen looked at her for a moment in astonishment, and then smilingly answered in the affirmative. Lilla clasped her hands in sudden joy, and then, as if ashamed, hid her face, burning with blushes, on Ellen's hand. Her companion stooped down to kiss her brow, and continued talking of her brother for some time longer.

From that day Ellen observed Lilla regained her usual animation, her eye sparkled, and her cheek often flushed, as if from some secret thought; her spirits only fell at the hour of parting, and Ellen felt assured they would quickly rise again, and the first packet she received from Llangwillan confirmed the supposition. Mrs. Hamilton was surprised, but Ellen was not.

Preparations were now actively making for Herbert's visit to France, thence to bring home his betrothed. His father and Percy had both resolved on accompanying him, and Mrs. Hamilton and Emmeline and Arthur anxiously anticipated the return of their long-absent friends.

A longer time than usual had elapsed between Mary's letters, and Herbert's anxiety was becoming more and more intense. Two or three of his letters had remained unanswered; there were no tidings of either herself or her mother. St. Eval had determined on not visiting Paris till his return from Switzerland, as his solicitude to arrive at his journey's end, and commence the prescribed remedies for Caroline would, he was quite sure, destroy all his pleasure. In vain his wife laughed at his hurry and his fears; much as he wished to see Mary, he was determined, and Caroline no farther opposed him. Through them, then, Herbert could receive no tidings; he had not heard since that event, which he believed would have been as much joy to Mary as to himself—his ordination. He struggled with his own anxiety that the intervening obstacles to his journey should not deprive him of serenity and trust, but the inward fever was ravaging within. Only one short week, and then he departed; ere, however, that time came, he received a letter, and with a sickening feeling of indefinable dread recognised the handwriting of his Mary. He left the breakfast-parlour to peruse it alone, and it was long before he returned to his family. They felt anxious, they knew not why; even Arthur and Emmeline were silent, and the ever-restless Percy remained leaning over a newspaper, as if determined not to move till his brother returned. A similar feeling appeared to detain his father, who did not seek the library as usual. Ellen appeared earnestly engaged in some communications from Lady Florence Lyle, and Mrs. Hamilton was perusing a letter from Caroline, which the same post had brought.

With a sudden spring Percy started from his seat, exclaiming, in a tone that betrayed unconsciously much internal anxiety—

"What in the world is Herbert about? He cannot have gone out without bringing us some intelligence. Robert, has Mr. Herbert gone out?" he called loudly to the servant, who was passing the open window.

"No, sir," was the reply; "he is still in his room."

"Then there will I seek him," he added, impetuously; but he was prevented by the entrance of Herbert himself, and Percy started from him in astonishment and alarm.

There was not a particle of colour on his cheek or lips; his eyes burned as with fever, and his lips quivered as in some unutterable anguish.

"Read," he said, in a voice so hoarse and unnatural, it startled even more than his appearance, and he placed the letter in his father's hand. "Father, read, and tell them all—I cannot. It is over!" he continued, sinking on a stool at his mother's feet, and laying his aching head on her lap. "My beautiful dream is over, and what is the waking? wretchedness, unutterable wretchedness! My God, my God, Thy hand is heavy upon me, yet I would submit." He clasped his mother's hands convulsively in his, he drooped his head upon them, and his slight frame shook beneath the agony, which for hours he had been struggling to subdue. Mrs. Hamilton clasped him to her bosom; she endeavoured to speak words of hope and comfort.

Silence deep and solemn fell over that little party; it was so fearful to see Herbert thus—the gentle, the self-controlled, the exalted Herbert thus bowed down even to the earth; he, whose mind ever seemed raised above this world; he, who to his family was ever a being of a brighter, holier sphere. If he bent thus beneath the pressure of earthly sorrow, what must that sorrow be? His family knew the depth of feeling existing in his breast, which the world around them never could suspect, and they looked on him and trembled. Myrvin raised him from the arms of his mother, and bore him to the nearest couch, and Mrs. Hamilton wiped from his damp brow the starting dew. Tears of alarm and sympathy were streaming from the eyes of Emmeline, and Myrvin resigned his post to Percy, to comfort her. But Ellen wept not; pale as Herbert, her features expressed suffering almost as keen as his, and yet she dared not do as her heart desired, fly to his side and speak the words that love dictated. What was her voice to him? she had no power to soothe.

Deep and varied emotions passed rapidly over Mr. Hamilton's countenance as he read the letter which had caused this misery. Percy could trace upon his features pity, sorrow, scorn, indignation, almost loathing, follow one another rapidly and powerfully, and even more violently did those emotions agitate him when the truth was known.

"It was an old tale, and often told, but that took not from its bitterness," Mary wrote, from a bed of suffering such as she had never before endured; for weeks she had been insensible to thought or action, but she had resolved no one but herself should inform her Herbert of all that had transpired, no hand but her own should trace her despairing words. They had lived, as we know, calmly at Paris, so peaceably, that Mrs. Greville had indulged in brighter hopes for the future than had ever before engrossed her. Mr. Greville spent much of his time from home, accompanying, however, his wife and daughter to their evening amusements, and always remained present when they received company in return. They lived in a style of more lavish expenditure than Mrs. Greville at all approved of. Her husband, however, only laughed good-humouredly whenever she ventured to remonstrate, and told her not to trouble herself or Mary about such things; they had enough, and he would take care that sufficiency should not fail. A dim foreboding crossed Mrs. Greville's mind at these words; but her husband's manner, though careless, preventing all further expostulation, she was compelled to suppress, if she could not conquer, her anxiety. At length, the storm that Mary had long felt was brooding in this unnatural calm, burst over her, and opened Mrs. Greville's eyes at once.

Among their most constant but least welcome visitors was a Monsieur Dupont, a man of polished manners certainly, the superficial polish of the Frenchman, but of no other attraction, and even in that there was something about him to Mary particularly repulsive. He had seen some threescore years; his countenance, in general inexpressive, at times betrayed that strong and evil passions were working at his heart. He was said to be very rich, though some reports had gone about that his fortune had all been amassed by gambling in no very honourable manner. With this man Mr. Greville was continually associated; they were seldom seen apart, and being thus the favourite of the master, he was constantly at the house. To Mrs. Greville as to Mary he was an object of indefinable yet strong aversion, and willingly would they have always denied themselves, and thus escaped his odious presence. Once they had done so, but the storm of fury that burst from Mr. Greville intimidated both; they felt some little concession on their parts was demanded to preserve peace, and Monsieur Dupont continued his visits.

To this man, publicly known as unprincipled, selfish, incapable of one exalted or generous feeling, Greville had sworn to give his gentle and unoffending child; this man he sternly commanded Mary to receive as her husband, and prepare herself for her marriage within a month.

As if a thunderbolt had fallen, Mary and her mother listened to these terrible words, and scarcely had the latter sufficient courage to inform her unpitying husband of their child's engagement with Herbert Hamilton. For Mary's sake, she struggled and spoke, but her fears were not without foundation. A horrid imprecation on Mr. Hamilton and his family burst instantly from the lips of the now infuriated Greville; he had chosen for many years to fancy himself deeply injured by that gentleman, and, with an oath too fearful to be written, he solemnly swore that Mary should never be the wife of Herbert; he would rather see her dead. Louder and louder grew his passion, but Mrs. Greville heard him not. Mary had dropped as if lifeless at his feet. She had sprung up as if to arrest the imprecation on her father's lips, but when his dreadful oath reached her ears, her senses happily forsook her, and it was long, very long before she woke to consciousness and thought. Mrs. Greville hung in agony over the couch of her unhappy child; scarcely could she pray or wish for her recovery, for she knew there was no hope. Her husband had let fall hints of being so deeply pledged to Dupont, that his liberty or perhaps his life depended on his union with Mary, and could she wish her child to live to be the wife of such a man, yet could she see her die? What pen can describe the anguish of that fond mother, as for weeks she watched and tended her senseless child, or the contending feelings that wrung her heart when Mary woke again to consciousness and misery, and asked her, in a voice almost inarticulate from weakness, what had happened—why she was thus? Truth gradually broke upon her mind, and Mary too soon remembered all. The physician said she was recovering, that she would quickly be enabled to leave her bed and go about as usual. Greville swore he would no longer be prevented seeing her, and Mary made no opposition to his entrance. Calmly and passively she heard all he had to say; what he told her then she did not repeat in writing to Herbert. She merely said that she had implored him to wait till her health was a little more restored; not to force her to become the wife of Dupont, till she could stand without support beside the altar, and he had consented.

"Be comforted, then, my beloved Herbert," she wrote, as she concluded this brief tale of suffering. "They buoy me up with hopes that in a very few months I shall be as well as ever I was. I smile, for I know the blight has fallen, and I shall never stand beside an earthly altar; all I pray is, that death may not linger till my father's patience be exhausted, and he vent on my poor mother all the reproaches which my lingering illness will, I know, call forth. Oh, my beloved Herbert, there are moments when I think the bitterness of death is passed, when I am so calm, so happy, I feel as if I had already reached the confines of my blissful, my eternal home; but this is not always granted me. There are times when I can think only on the happiness I had once hoped to share with you when heaven itself seemed dimmed by the blessedness I had anticipated on earth. Herbert, I shall never be another's wife, and it will not be misery to think of me in heaven. Oh, no, we shall meet there soon, very soon, never, never more to part. Why does my pen linger? Alas! it cannot trace the word farewell. Yet why does it so weakly shrink? 'tis but for a brief space, and we shall meet where that word is never heard, where sorrow and sighing shall be no more. Farewell, then, my beloved Herbert, beloved faithfully, unchangeably in death as you have been in life. I know my last prayer to you is granted ere even it is spoken: you will protect and think of my poor mother; you will not permit her to droop and die of a broken heart, with no kind voice to soothe and cheer. I feel she will in time be happy; and oh, the unutterable comfort of that confiding trust. Once more, and for the last time, farewell, my beloved; think only that your Mary is in heaven, that her spirit, redeemed and blessed, waits for thee near the Saviour's throne, and be comforted. We shall meet again."

No sound broke the stillness when that sad letter had been perused. Mr. Hamilton had bowed his head upon his hands, for he could not speak of comfort; the long years of domestic bliss which had been his portion, made him feel bitterly the trial which the heart of his son was doomed to endure. And how was he to aid? Could he seek Greville, and condescend to use persuasions, arguments to force from him his consent? With clenched hand and knitted brow Percy stood, his thoughts forcibly drawn from the sufferers by the bitter indignation he felt towards the heartless, cruel man who had occasioned all. Mrs. Hamilton could think only of her son, of Mary, whom she had so long loved as her own child, and the longing to behold her once again, to speak the words of soothing and of love, with which her heart felt bursting. Emmeline could only weep, that such should be the fate of one whom from her childhood she had loved, and whom she had lately anticipated with so much delight receiving as a sister. For some minutes Ellen sat in deep and painful thought, then starting up, she flew to the side of her uncle, and clasping his hand, entreated—

"Go to Paris, my dear uncle; go yourself, and see this relentless man; speak with him, know why he has commanded Mary to receive this Dupont as her husband; perhaps you may render Herbert's claims as valuable in his eyes. He has no cause of strife with you; he will hear you, I know he will; his fury was called forth because he thought Herbert stood in the way of his wishes. Prove to him the happiness, the life of his child, of yours, depend on their union. He cannot, he will not refuse to hear you. Oh, do not hesitate, go to him, my dear uncle; all may not be so desperate as at this distance we may fancy."

"My father may as well plead to the hard flint as to Alfred Greville's feelings," muttered Percy. "Ellen, you know not what you ask; would you have my father debase himself to a wretch like that?"

"'Tis Mr. Greville who will be debased, and not my uncle, Percy. The world might think him humbled to plead to such a man, but they would think falsely; he is raised above the cringing crowd, who from false pride would condemn the child of virtue to misery and death, because they would not bear with the vices of the parent. Were Mary, were Mrs. Greville in any point otherwise than they are, I would not thus plead, for there would be no necessity. She could not be so dear to Herbert. I do not ask my uncle to humble himself; I ask him but to reason with Mr. Greville, to convince him of his error."

"What says my Herbert?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, gazing with astonishment on his niece's animated features, and almost wondering at her unwonted eloquence.

"That she has spoken well, and may God in Heaven bless her for the thought!" exclaimed Herbert, who had roused himself to listen to her earnest words, and now, with sudden energy, sprung up. "Father, let us go. Ellen has spoken justly; he will listen to you, he will not hear my entreaties unmoved. I have never offended him; he is, indeed, a harsh and cruel man, one whom I would gladly shun, but the father of Mary. Oh, let us seek him, for her sake we will plead; he will wake from his dream, he will know he has been in error. Oh, my father, let us go. She may yet be saved to live and bless me."

He sunk back on the sofa, and burst into tears. Hope had suddenly sprung up from the dark void which had been in his heart. Mrs. Hamilton could not check that suddenly-excited hope, but she did not share it, for she felt it came but to deceive. She whispered gentle and consoling words, she spoke of comfort that she could not feel. But once his energies aroused, they did not fail him. To go instantly to Paris, to seek Mr. Greville, and plead his own cause, aided by his father's influence, acknowledge he had been wrong in not asking his consent before, such thoughts now alone occupied his mind, and Mr. Hamilton could not check them, though, even as his wife, he shared not his son's sanguine expectations. That he had once possessed more influence than any one else over Mr. Greville he well knew; but he thought with Percy, the dislike felt towards him originated from this, and that it was more than probable he would remain firm in his refusal to triumph over both himself and his son; yet he could not hesitate to comply with Herbert's wishes. Ellen's suggestion had roused him to exertion, and he should not be permitted to sink back into despondency, at least they should meet.

It would be difficult to define Ellen's feelings as she beheld her work, and marked the effect of her words upon her cousin. Not a particle of selfishness mingled in her feelings, but that deep pang was yet unconquered. Herbert's manner to her was even kinder, more affectionate than usual, during the few days that intervened ere they parted, as if he felt that she had drawn aside the dark veil of impenetrable gloom, and summoned hope to rise again; and could she see or feel this unmoved? Still was she calm and tranquil, and she would speak of Mary and of brighter hopes, and no emotion was betrayed in her pale cheek or in that tearless eye.

Percy accompanied his father and brother. They travelled rapidly, and a favourable voyage enabled them to reach Paris in a shorter time than usual. Mr. Hamilton had insisted on seeking Mr. Greville's mansion at first alone, and Percy controlled his own feelings. To calm the strong emotion, the deep anxiety, that now he was indeed in the same city as his Mary, almost overpowered Herbert; the struggle for composure, for resignation to whatever might be the will of his God, was too powerful for his exhausted strength. Sleep had only visited him by snatches, short and troubled, since he had received Mary's letter; the long interval which elapsed ere Mr. Hamilton returned was productive of even keener suffering than he had yet endured. Hope had sunk powerless before anxiety; the strength of mind which had borne him up so long was giving way beneath the exhaustion of bodily powers, which Percy saw with alarm and sorrow; his eyes had lost their lustre, and were becoming dim and haggard; more than once he observed a slight shudder pass through his frame, and felt his words of cheering and of comfort fell unheeded on his brother's ear. At length Mr. Hamilton returned.

"She lives, my son," were the first words he uttered, but his tone was not joyful; "our beloved and gentle Mary yet lives, and soon, very soon you shall meet, not to part on earth again."

Herbert gazed wildly in his face, he clasped his hands convulsively, and then he bowed his head in a deep and fervent burst of thanksgiving.

"And Greville," said Percy, impatiently, "has he so soon consented? father, you have not descended to entreaties, and to such a man?"

"Percy, peace," said his father, gravely. "With Mr. Greville I have enchanged no words. Thank God, I sought not his house with any hostile intention, with any irritation urging me against him. Percy, he is dead, and let his faults die with him."

"Dead!" repeated the young man, shocked and astonished, and Herbert started up. His lip quivered with the vain effort to ask an explanation.

It was even so, that very morning Greville had breathed his last, with all his sins upon his head, for no time had been allowed him either for repentance or atonement. A few days after Mary had written to Herbert, her father had been brought home senseless, and dreadfully injured, by a fall from his horse. His constitution, shattered by intemperance and continued dissipation, was not proof against the fever that ensued; delirium never left him. For five days Mrs. Greville and Mary watched over his couch. His ravings were dreadful; he would speak of Dupont, at one time, with imprecations; at others, as if imploring him to forbear. He would entreat his child to forgive him; and then, with fearful convulsions, appear struggling with the effort to drag her to the altar. Mary heard, and her slight frame shook and withered each day faster than the last, but she moved not from her father's side. In vain Mrs. Greville watched for some returning consciousness, for some sign to say he died in peace. Alas! there was none. He expired in convulsions; and scarcely had his wife and child recovered the awful scene, when the entrance of the hated Dupont roused them to exertion. He came to claim Mary as his promised wife, or send them forth as beggars. The house and all that it contained, even to their jewels, were his; for Greville had died, owing him debts to an amount which even the sale of all they possessed could not entirely repay. He had it in his power to arrest the burial of the scarcely cold corpse, to stain the name of the dead with undying infamy; and he vowed that he would use his power to its utmost extent, if Mary's consent were not instantly given. Four-and-twenty hours he gave her to decide, and departed, leaving inexpressible wretchedness behind him, on the part of Mrs. Greville, and the calm stupor of exhaustion and despair pervading Mary's every faculty.

"My child, my child, it shall not be; you shall not be that heartless villain's wife. I have health; I can work, teach, do anything to support us, and why, oh, why should you be thus sacrificed? Mary, Mary, you will live, my child, to bless your desolate and wretched mother. Oh, my God, my God, why hast thou thus forsaken me? I have trusted in thee, and wilt thou thus fail me? To whom can I appeal—what friend have I near me?"

"Mother, do not speak thus," exclaimed Mary, roused from the lethargy of exhaustion by her mother's despairing words, and she flung herself on her knees beside her, and threw her arms around her. "Mother, my own mother, the God of the widow and the fatherless is still our friend; He hath not forsaken us, though for a time His countenance is darkened towards us. Oh, he will have mercy; He will raise us up a friend—I feel, I know He will. He will relieve us. Let us but trust in Him, mother; let us not fail now. Oh, let us pray to Him, and He will answer."

The eyes of the good and gentle girl were lit up with sudden radiance. Her pallid cheek was faintly flushed; her whole countenance and tone expressed the enthusiasm, the holiness which had characterised her whole life. Mrs. Greville clasped her faded form convulsively to her aching bosom, and, drooping her head, wept long and freely.

"Father, I have sinned," she murmured; "oh, have mercy."

An hour passed, and neither Mary nor her mother moved from that posture of affliction, yet of prayer. They heard not the sound of many voices below, nor a rapid footstep on the stairs. The opening of the door aroused them, but Mary looked not up; she clung closer to her mother, for she feared to gaze again on Dupont. A wild exclamation of joy, of thanksgiving, bursting from Mrs. Greville's lips startled her; for a moment she trembled, yet she could not be mistaken, that tone was joy. Slowly she looked on the intruder. Wildly she sprung up—she clasped her hands together.

"My God, I thank thee, we are saved!" broke from her parched lips, and she sunk senseless at Mr. Hamilton's feet.

Emissaries of wickedness were not wanting to convey the intelligence very quickly to Dupont's ear, that Mrs. and Miss Greville had departed from the Rue Royale, under the protection of an English gentleman, who had stationed two of his servants at their house to protect Mr. Greville's body from insult, and give him information of all that took place during his absence. Furiously enraged, Dupont hastened to know the truth of these reports, and a scene of fierce altercation took place between him and Mr. Hamilton. The calm, steady firmness of his unexpected opponent daunted Dupont as much as his cool sarcastic bitterness galled him to the quick. The character of the man was known; he was convinced he dared not bring down shame on the memory of Greville, without inculpating himself, without irretrievably injuring his own character, and however he might use that threat as his weapon to compel Mary's submission, Mr. Hamilton was perfectly easy on that head. Dupont's cowardly nature very soon evinced itself. A few words from Mr. Hamilton convinced him that his true character had been penetrated, and dreading exposure, he changed his ground and his tone, acknowledged he had been too violent, but that his admiration for Miss Greville had been the sole cause; expressed deep sorrow for Mr. Greville's melancholy end, disavowed all intention of preventing the interment of the body, and finally consented to liquidate all debts, save those which the sale of the house and furniture might suffice to discharge.

Scarcely could Mr. Hamilton command his indignation during this interview, or listen to Dupont's professions, excuses, defences, and concessions, without losing temper. He would not consent to be under any obligation: if M. Dupont could prove that more was owing than that which he had consented to receive, it should be paid directly, but he should institute inquiries as to the legality of his claims, and carefully examine all the papers of the deceased.

"It was not at all necessary," Dupont replied. "The sum he demanded was due for debts of honour, which he had a slip of paper in Greville's own handwriting to prove."

Mr. Hamilton made no further reply, and they parted with nothing decided on either side, Dupont only repeating his extreme distress at having caused Miss Greville so much unnecessary pain; that had he known she was engaged to another, he would never have persisted in his suit, and deeply regretted he had been so deceived.

Mr. Hamilton heard him with an unchanging countenance, and gravely and formally bowed him out of the house. He then placed his seal on the lock of a small cabinet, which Mrs. Greville's one faithful English servant informed him contained all his master's private papers, dismissed the French domestics, and charging the Englishmen to be careful in their watch that no strangers should be admitted, he hastened to impart to his anxiously-expecting sons all the important business he had transacted.

Early the following morning Mr. Hamilton received intelligence which very much annoyed and startled him. Notwithstanding the vigilant watch of the three Englishmen stationed at Mr. Greville's house, the cabinet, which contained all his private papers, was gone. The men declared again and again, no one could have entered the house without their knowledge, or removed such a thing as that without some noise. Mr. Hamilton went instantly with them to the house; how it had been taken he could not discover, but it was so small that Mr. Hamilton felt it could easily have been removed; and he had no doubt that Dupont had bribed one of the dismissed servants, who was well acquainted with every secret of the house, to purloin it for him, and Dupont he instantly determined on charging with the atrocious theft. Dupont, however, had decamped, he was nowhere to be found; but he had desired an agent to receive from Mr. Hamilton's hands the payment of the debts he still claimed, and from this man it was endeavoured by many questions to discover some traces of his employer, but all in vain. M. Dupont had left Paris, he said, the previous evening.

Mr. Hamilton was not satisfied, and, consequently, seeking an able solicitor, put the affair into his hands, and desired that he would use every means in his power to obtain the restoration of the papers. That Dupont had it in his power farther to injure the widow and child of the deceased he did not believe; he rather thought that his extreme desire to obtain them proceeded from a consciousness that they betrayed some of his own evil deeds, yet he could not feel easy till they were either regained, or he knew that they were destroyed. Mrs. Greville earnestly wished their recovery, for she feared they might, through the similarity of names, bring some evil on her son, towards whom her fond heart yet painfully yearned, though years had passed since she had seen, and many weary months since she had heard of him. Her fears on this head rendered both Mr. Hamilton and Percy still more active in their proceedings, and both determined on remaining at Paris even after Herbert and Mrs. Greville, with Mary, had left for England.

And what did Herbert feel as he looked on the fearful change in her he loved? Not yet did he think that she must die; that beaming eye, that radiant cheek, that soft, sweet smile—oh, could such things tell of death to him who loved? He held her to his heart, and only knew that he was blessed.

And Mary, she was happy; the past seemed as a dim and troubled vision; the smile of him she loved was ever near her, his low sweet voice was sounding in her ear. A calm had stolen over her, a holy soothing calm. She did not speak her thoughts to Herbert, for she saw that he still hoped on; they were together, and the present was enough. But silently she prayed that his mind might be so prepared, so chastened, that when his eyes were opened, the truth might not be so terrible to bear.



CHAPTER VII.

It was indeed a day of happiness that beheld the arrival of Mrs. Greville and Mary at Oakwood, unalloyed to them, but not so, alas! to those who received them. Mrs. Hamilton pressed the faded form of Mary to her heart, she kissed her repeatedly, but it was long before she could speak the words of greeting; she looked on her and on her son, and tears rose so thick and fast, she was compelled to turn away to hide them. Ellen alone retained her calmness. In the fond embrace that had passed between her and Mary, it is true her lip had quivered and her cheek had paled, but her agitation passed unnoticed.

"It was her voice, my Mary, that roused me to exertion, it was her representations that bade me not despair," whispered Herbert, as he hung over Mary's couch that evening, and perceived Ellen busily employed in arranging her pillows. "When, overwhelmed by the deep misery occasioned by your letter, I had no power to act, it was her ready thought that dictated to my father the course he so successfully pursued." Mary pressed the hand of Ellen within both her own, and looked up gratefully in her face. A faint smile played round the orphan's lips, but she made no observation in reply.

A very few weeks elapsed before the dreaded truth forced itself upon the minds of all, even on her mother, that Mary was sinking, surely sinking, there was no longer hope. Devotedly as her friends loved her, they could not sorrow, before her they could not weep. She was spared all bodily suffering save that proceeding from debility, so extreme she could not walk across the room without assistance. No pain distorted the expression of her features, which, in this hour of approaching death, looked more lovely than they had ever seemed before; her soft blue eye beamed at times with a celestial light, and her fair hair shaded a brow and cheek so transparent, every blue vein could be clearly seen. One thought alone gave her pain, her Herbert she felt was still unprepared.

He was speaking one day of the future, anticipating the time when the Rectory would receive her as its gentle mistress, and of the many things which occupied his thoughts for the furtherance of her comfort, when Mary laid her hand gently on his arm, and, with a smile of peculiar sweetness, said—

"Do not think any more of such things, my beloved; the mansion which will behold our blessed union is already furnished and prepared; I may seek it first, but it will be but to render it even yet more desirable to you."

Herbert looked on her face to read the meaning of her words; he read them, alas! too plainly, but voice utterly failed.

"Look not on me thus," she continued, in that same pleading and soothing tone. "Our mansion is prepared for us above; below, my Herbert, oh, think not it will ever receive me. Why should I hesitate to speak the truth? The blessed Saviour, to whose arms I so soon shall go, will give you strength to bear this; He hath promised that He will, my own Herbert, my first, my only love. My Saviour calls me, and to Him, oh, can you not without tears resign me?"

"Mary," murmured the unhappy Herbert, "Mary, oh, do not, do not torture me. You will not die; you will not leave me desolate."

"I shall not die, but live, my beloved—live, oh, in such blessedness! 'tis but a brief, brief parting, Herbert, to meet and love eternally."

"You are ill, you are weak, my own Mary, and thus death is ever present to your mind; but you will recover, oh, I know, I feel you will. My God will hear my prayers."

"And He will grant them, Herbert—oh, doubt Him not, grant them, even in my removal. He takes me not from you, my Herbert, He but places me, where to seek me, you must look to and love but Him alone; and will you shrink from this? Will that spirit, vowed to His service from your earliest boyhood, now murmur at His will? Oh, no, no; my Herbert will yet support and strengthen his Mary, I know, I feel he will. Forgive me if I have pained you, my best love; but I could bear no other lips than mine to tell you, that on earth I may not live—but a brief space more, and I shall be called away. You must not mourn for me, my Herbert; I die so happy, oh, so very happy!"

Herbert had sunk on his knees beside her couch; he drooped his head upon his hands, and a strong convulsion shook his frame. He uttered no sound, he spoke no word, but Mary could read the overwhelming anguish that bowed his spirit to the earth. The words were spoken; he knew that she must die, and Mary raised her mild eyes to heaven, and clasped her hands in earnest prayer for him. "Forsake him not now, oh God; support him now; oh, give him strength to meet Thy will," was the import of her prayer. Long was that deep, deep stillness, but when Herbert looked up again he was calm.

"May God in heaven bless you, my beloved," he said, and imprinted a long fervent kiss upon her forehead. "You have taught me my Saviour's will, and I will meet it. May He forgive—" His words failed him; again he held her to his heart, and then he sat by her side and read from the Book of Life, of peace, of comfort, those passages which might calm this anguish and strengthen her; he read till sleep closed the eyes of his beloved. Yes, she was the idol of his young affections; he felt her words were true, and when she was gone there would be naught to bind his spirit to this world.

It would be needless to lift the veil from Herbert's moments of solitary prayer. Those who have followed him through his boyhood and traced his character need no description of his feelings. We know the intensity of his earthly affections, the strength and force of his every emotion, the depth and holiness of his spiritual sentiments, and vain then would be the attempt to portray his private moments in this dread trial: yet before his family he was calm, before his Mary cheerful. She felt her prayers were heard, he was, he would be yet more supported, and her last pang was soothed.

Mr. Hamilton had returned from France, unsuccessful, however, in his wish to obtain the restitution of Greville's papers. Dupont had concealed his measures so artfully, and with such efficacy, that no traces were discovered regarding him, and Mr. Hamilton felt it was no use to remain himself, confident in the integrity and abilities of the solicitor to whom he had intrusted the whole affair; he was unaccompanied, however, by Percy, who, as his sister's wedding was, from Mary's illness, postponed, determined on paying Lord and Lady St. Eval a visit at Geneva.

As Emmeline's engagement with Arthur very frequently engrossed her time, Ellen had devoted herself assiduously as Mary's constant nurse, and well and tenderly she performed her office. There was no selfishness in her feelings, deeply, unfeignedly she sorrowed, and willingly, gladly would she have laid down her life to preserve Mary's, that this fearful trial might be removed from Herbert. To spare him one pang, oh, what would she not have endured. Controlled and calm, who could have guessed the chaos of contending feeling that was passing within; who, that had seen the gentle smile with which she would receive Herbert's impassioned thanks for her care of his Mary, could have suspected the thrill, the pang those simple words occasioned. Mary alone of those around her, except Mrs. Hamilton, was not deceived. She loved Ellen, had long done so, and the affectionate attention she so constantly received from her had drawn the bonds of friendship closer. She felt convinced she was not happy, that there was something heavy on her mind, and the quick intellect of a vivid fancy and loving nature guessed the truth. Her wish to see her happy became so powerful, that she could not control it. She fancied that Ellen might be herself deceived, and that the object of her affections once known, all difficulties would be smoothed. The idea that her last act might be to secure the happiness of Ellen, was so soothing to her grateful and affectionate feelings, that, after dwelling on it some time, she took the first opportunity of being alone with her friend to seek her confidence.

"No, dearest, do not read to me," she said, one evening, in answer to Ellen's question. "I would rather talk with you; do not look anxious, I will not fatigue myself. Come, and sit by me, dear Ellen, it is of you that I would speak."

"Of me?" repeated Ellen, surprised. "Nay, dearest Mary, can you not find a more interesting subject?"

"No, love, for you are often in my thoughts; the approach of death has, I think, sharpened every faculty, for I see and read trifles clearer than I ever did before; and I can read through all that calm control and constant smile that you are not happy, my kind Ellen; and will you think me a rude intruder on your thoughts if I ask you why?"

"Do you not remember, Mary, I was ever unlike others?" replied Ellen, shrinking from her penetrating gaze. "I never knew what it was to be lively and joyous even as a child, and as years increase, is it likely that I should? I am contented with my lot, and with so many blessings around, should I not be ungrateful were I otherwise?"

"You evade my question, Ellen, and convince me more and more that I am right. Ah, you know not how my last hour would be soothed, could I feel that I had done aught to restore happiness to one who has been to me the blessing you have been, dear Ellen."

"Think not of it, dearest Mary," said Ellen. "I ought to be happy, very happy, and if I am not, it is my own wayward temper. You cannot give me happiness, Mary; do not let the thought of me disturb you, dearest, kind as is your wish, it is unavailing."

"Do not say so, Ellen; we are apt to look on sorrow, while it is confined to our own anxious breasts, as incurable and lasting; but when once it is confessed, how quickly do difficulties vanish, and the grief is often gone before we are aware it is departing. Do not, dearest, magnify it by the encouragement which solitary thought bestows."

"Are there not some sorrows, Mary, which are better ever concealed? Does not the opening of a wound often make it bleed afresh, whereas, hidden in our own heart, it remains closed till time has healed it."

"Some there are," said Mary, "which are indeed irremediable, but"—she paused a moment, then slightly raising herself on her couch, she threw her arm round Ellen's neck, and said, in a low yet deeply expressive voice—"is your love, indeed, so hopeless, my poor Ellen? Oh, no, it cannot be; surely, there is not one whom you have known sufficiently to give your precious love, can look on you and not return it."

Ellen started, a deep and painful flush rose for a moment to her cheek, she struggled to speak calmly, to deny the truth of Mary's suspicion, but she could not, the secret of her heart was too suddenly exposed before her, and she burst into tears. How quickly will a word, a tone destroy the well-maintained calmness of years; how strangely and suddenly will the voice of sympathy lift from the heart its veil.

"You have penetrated my secret," she said, and her voice faltered, "and I will not deny it; but oh, Mary, let us speak no more of it. When a woman is weak enough to bestow her affections on one who never sought, who will never seek them, surely the more darkly they are hidden, the better for her own peace as well as character. My love was not called for. I never had aught to hope; and if that unrequited affection be the destroyer of my happiness, it has sprung from my own weakness, and I alone have but to bear it."

"But is there no hope, Ellen—none? Do not think so, dearest. If his affections be still disengaged, is there not hope they may one day be yours?"

"No, Mary, none. I knew his affections were engaged; I knew he never could be mine, and yet I loved him. Oh, Mary, do not scorn my weakness; you have wrung my secret from me, do not, oh, do not betray me. There is no shame in loving one so good, so holy, and yet—and yet—Mary, dearest Mary, promise me you will not speak it—I cannot rest unless you do; let it pass your lips to none."

"It shall not, my Ellen; be calm, your secret shall die with me, dearest," replied Mary, earnestly, for Ellen's feelings completely overpowered her, and bursting sobs choked her utterance.

"For me there is no hope. Oh, could I but see him happy, I should ask no more; but, oh, to see him miserable, and feel I have no power to soothe—when—" She paused abruptly, again the burning blood dyed her cheeks, even her temples with crimson. Mary's eyes were fixed upon her in sympathy, in love; Ellen fancied in surprise, yet suspicion. With one powerful effort she conquered herself, she forced back the scalding tears, the convulsive sob, and bending over Mary, pressed her trembling lips upon her pale brow.

"Let us speak no more of this, dearest Mary," she said, in a low calm voice. "May God bless you for your intended kindness. It is over now. Forgive me, dearest Mary, I have agitated and disturbed you."

"Nay, forgive me, my sweet Ellen. It is I who have given you pain, and should ask your forgiveness. I thought not of such utter hopelessness. I had hoped that, ere I departed, I might have seen the dawn of happiness for you; but I see, I feel now that cannot be. My own Ellen, I need not tell you the comfort, the blessed comfort of prayer."

For a few minutes there was silence. Ellen had clasped the hand of Mary, and turned aside her head to conceal the tears that slowly stole down her cheek. The entrance of Emmeline was a relief to both, and Ellen left the room; and when she returned, even to Mary's awakened eyes, there were no traces of agitation. Each week produced a visible change in Mary; she became weaker and weaker, but her mind retained its energy, and often her sorrowing friends feared she would pass from the detaining grasp of love, ere they were aware of the actual moment of her departure. One evening she begged that all the family might assemble in her room; she felt stronger, and wished to see them altogether again. Her wish was complied with, and she joined so cheerfully in the conversation that passed around, that her mother and Herbert forgot anxiety. It was a soft and lovely evening; her couch, at her own request, had been drawn to the open window, and the dying girl looked forth on the beautiful scene beneath. The trees bore the rich full green of summer, save where the brilliantly setting sun tinged them with hues of gold and crimson. Part of the river was also discernible at this point, lying in the bosom of trees, as a small lake, on which the heavens were reflected in all their surpassing splendour. The sun, or rather its remaining beams, rested on the brow of a hill, which, lying in the deepest shadow, formed a superb contrast with the flood of liquid gold that bathed its brow. Clouds of purple, gold, crimson, in some parts fading into pink, floated slowly along the azure heavens, and the perfect stillness that reigned around completed the enchantment of the scene.

"Look up, my Mary, and mark those clouds of light," said Herbert. "See the splendour of their hues, the unstained blue beyond; beautiful as is earth, it shows not such exquisite beauty as yon heaven displays, even to our mortal sight, nor calls such feelings of adoration forth. What then will it be when that blue arch is rent asunder, and the effulgent glory of the Maker of that heaven burst upon our view?"

"Blessed, oh, how blessed are those who, conducted by the Lamb of God, can share that glory," answered Mary, with sudden energy. "Who can speak the unutterable love which, while the beauteous earth yet retains the traces of an awful curse, hath washed from man his sin, and takes from death its sting?"

"And is it this thought, this faith which supports you now, my Mary?" demanded Herbert, with that deep tenderness of one so peculiarly his own.

"It is, it is," she answered, fervently, "My sins are washed away; my prayers are heard, for my Saviour pleads, and my home is prepared on high amid the redeemed and the saved. Oh, blessed be the God of truth that hath granted me this faith"—she paused a minute, then added—"and heard my prayer, my beloved Herbert, and permitted me thus to die in my native land, surrounded by those I love!"

She leaned her head on Herbert's bosom, and for some time remained silent; then looking up, said cheerfully, "Do you remember, Emmeline, when we were together some few years ago, we always said such a scene and hour as this only wanted music to make it perfect? I feel as if all those fresh delightful feelings of girlhood had come over me again. Bring your harp and sing to me, dearest, those words you read to me the other day."

"Nay, Mary, will it not disturb you?" said Emmeline, kneeling by her couch, and kissing the thin hand extended to her.

"No, dearest, not your soft, sweet voice, it will soothe and give me pleasure. I feel stronger and better to-night than I have done for some time. Sing to me, but only those words, dear Emmy; all others would neither suit this scene nor my feelings."

For a moment Emmeline hesitated, and looked towards her mother and Mrs. Greville. Neither was inclined to make any objection to her request, and on the appearance of her harp, under the superintendence of Arthur, Emmeline prepared to comply. She placed the instrument at the further end of the apartment, that the notes might fall softer on Mary's ear, and sung, in a sweet and plaintive voice, the following words:—

"Remember me! ah, not with sorrow, 'Tis but sleep to wake in bliss. Life's gayest hours can seek to borrow Vainly such a dream as this.

Ah, see, 'tis heaven itself revealing To my dimmed and failing sight; And hark! 'tis angels' voices stealing Through the starry veil of night.

Come, brother, come; ah, quickly sever The cold links of earth's dull chain; Come to thy home, where thou wilt never Pain or sorrow feel again.

Come, brother, come; we spread before thee Visions of thy blissful home; Heed not, if Death's cold pang come o'er thee, It will but bid thee haste and come!

Ah, yes, I see bright forms are breaking Through the mist that veils mine eyes; Now gladly, gladly, earth forsaking, Take, oh, take me to the skies.

The mournful strain ceased, and there was silence. Emmeline had adapted the words to that beautiful air of Weber's, the last composition of his gifted mind. Mary's head still rested on the bosom of Herbert, her hand clasped his. Evening was darkening into twilight, or the expression of her countenance might have been remarked as changed—more spiritual, as if the earthly shell had shared the beatified glory of the departing spirit. She fixed her fading eyes on Ellen, who was kneeling by her couch, steadily and calmly, but Ellen saw her not, for in that hour her eyes were fixed, as in fascination on the form of Herbert, as he bent over his beloved. The dying girl saw that mournful glance, and a gleam of intelligence passed over her beautiful features. She extended one hand to Ellen, who clasped it fondly, and then she tried to draw it towards Herbert. She looked up in his face, as if to explain the meaning of the action, but voice and strength utterly failed, and Ellen's hand dropped from her grasp.