The sun rose in the full effulgence of a September morning, and all

seemed gay in the village of Overhurst: the children were all sporting

in and out of every cottage-door: the bells began to ring a merry peal

while the Fosters were yet at breakfast; and Betsey Smith, who was

Jane's particular friend, was seen by old Sarah, in her white gown and

her new shawl and ribands, carefully picking her way across the road,

as she came from her home, in the outskirts of the parish, to join the

rest of the party at the Dixons. Susan and her father did not see the

bridesmaid in her gala dress; but they heard the merry chimes of the

bells, and Susan with difficulty swallowed the cup of tea her mother

had prepared for her. The chime of church bells is of all sounds that

which conveys the most melancholy, or the most joyous impressions to

the heart, according to the circumstances under which it is heard, and

the associations with which it is connected. If the feelings are not

in accordance with their peal, there is no sound so unutterably, so

unaccountably sad as that of a merry chime. It may well be imagined

that to Susan, that morning, it was more sad than a funereal toll, and

it was a relief when the ringers relaxed from their exertions. Dame

Foster's eyes were frequently turned upon her daughter with increased

tenderness.

The countenances of the mother and of the daughter formed a singular

contrast. The old woman, who bore her bodily sufferings without

uttering a complaint,--who never allowed her voice to fall into a

cadence, which could express pain, or peevishness, or vexation,

lest she should grieve the two objects of her love,--had, from the

knowledge that they could not read her looks, allowed her features to

set themselves into a form expressive of intense agony, and constant

anxiety. Those of the daughter, on the contrary, who was aware that

her feelings might be the subject of observation to others if suffered

to show themselves on her face, seldom, if ever, varied in their

placidity. She knew not when her mother might be gazing upon her; and,

from the fear of grieving her, she had learned to wear a gentle smile,

whatever might be her mental sufferings.

The village noises gradually subsided. Susan felt that the wedding

had drawn off the idle children and the village loungers in another

direction. Neither Nicholas nor Sarah spoke. There was no sound except

the incessant and buzzing hum of the autumn flies in the sunny window.

"It is a beautiful day, is not it, mother?" at length inquired Susan.

"Yes, my dear; a beautiful sunshiny day," answered the dame, with a

deep-drawn sigh.

"I thought it was, for the flies buzz so. I am glad of it. It is a pity

when a wedding comes on a bad day. I hope 'tis a good omen for poor

George!"

"I have heard say, that the duller the day, the brighter the marriage;

not but what I wish well to George and his wife."

"It would be very wrong in us not to pray for his happiness, mother;

for I have not a word to say against his behaviour to me from first to

last."

"Jane Dixon is a lucky girl. He's sure to make a good husband, for he

has good principles."

"And he her first lover and all, too!" replied Susan. "She _is_ a lucky

girl! I used to feel sorry for her, when first George slighted her for

me; for I saw she did not laugh and joke with him as she did with the

other men. Now 'tis her turn to be sorry for me, and perhaps she is,

though she has given up calling to see me almost ever since I have been

afflicted. But it was not to be wondered at, when she began to think of

George again. That was one thing made me almost sure what would come to

pass at last."

"Why 'twas to be expected that things should fall out much as they

have done. But I do not know how it was, when I found George seem so

attentive and so constant for such a long time, I thought, mayhap,

he would always go on as he did then. I believe it is the way with

parents, they can't help fancying their own children something beyond

other people's; and so I began to count George would never be looking

out for any body else. However, 'tis my belief he will never love Jane

Dixon, as he has loved my Susan."

"If he does not yet, mother, he will soon. George will be sure to love

his wife, and he will grow to love her better and better every day,

and then he will quite forget me; but that is all as it should be. Do

you think, mother, I shall ever forget him? I mean to try hard to do

so; and I don't mean to talk over what has gone before, even with you,

mother; and then do you think at last, mother, I shall quite forget to

think of him, except as a friend?"

"I hope you may, my child; but it is always harder for a woman to

forget than it is for a man: and 'tis harder still for you, who have

nothing to draw off your mind. I have often heard old folks say, that

scarce anybody marries their first love; and, if that is true, many and

many must have got over such things. But I can't justly say myself, for

I never kept company with anybody but your father, and we have been

married so long that I can't frame to myself a notion of anything but

being his wife."

Susan sighed. "And that's just what I used to feel about George; and I

always thought he and I should be just such another couple as you and

father."

Susan had indulged herself in thinking and speaking of George as

her lover till the images of the past had usurped the place of the

realities of the present. The growing hum of voices struck her quick

ear. The village was all alive again. The shouts of children and the

steps of passers-by recalled her to herself, and painfully dispelled

the recollections which had taken possession of her mind. It was over,

and he was now the husband of another; and she felt wicked in having

given way to such thoughts.

"Mother, we must not say any more: the time is come when it is not

enough for me to put a guard upon my words and my actions; I must

now set a watch over my thoughts. I do not often talk as I have done

to-day; and I felt as if it would do me good to speak of him once

more:--but there's an end now."

Towards the afternoon the bridal party paraded the humble street,

as is the custom among the peasantry. The bride and bridegroom, and

the bride's-maids and bride's-men, dressed in their holiday apparel,

and paired for the day, perambulated the most frequented parts of

Overhurst; the laughing blushing bride received the hearty, if not

refined, congratulations of her neighbours; and, probably, among some

of the wedding guests the foundations were laid for another festival of

the same kind.

George had as much as possible curtailed the usual march of the little

procession, and had contrived that only once did they pass before

Master Foster's cottage. He was ashamed on his wedding-day to say he

wished to avoid that part of the village, and yet his heart sunk within

him as he approached it. He almost rejoiced for a moment that Susan

could not _see_ the merry troop; and, as he passed, he dared not raise

his eyes in that direction.

Many remarked that day, that Jane was all joy and smiles as would have

befitted the bridegroom, while George's down-cast looks would better

have suited the bride.

Dame Foster was at her window, and saw the party advancing. Susan

heard them almost before her mother perceived them, and inquired if

the wedding procession was not passing. Her mother answered in the

affirmative; and could not help adding, that she had not believed

George would have been so unfeeling.

"Do you see him, mother?"

"Yes, there he is, Susan, sure enough!"

"Oh, mother, how does he look? I gave him a handkerchief two years ago

last summer, and he said he should keep it for his wedding-day. He has

not got that on, sure?"

"'Tis a checked brown and yellow he wears round his neck."

"No! 'twas a spotted blue I gave him."

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the dame, in a more kindly tone; "he holds

down his head, and now he looks the other way,--quite away from his

bride, up the hill. Poor fellow! he can't bear to turn this way after

all. I'll be bound he does feel it!"

"Jane must know all that has been between him and me," said Susan with

some bitterness; "and I do think she need not have led him this way

neither! But I am glad you have seen him, mother. I like to know how he

looks; for I may still wish him well." Susan's fingers resumed their

knitting, and the dame proceeded with her darning.

George would have silenced their merriment had he had the presence of

mind to do so; but a peasant bridegroom is of all creatures the most

awkward, the most shame-faced: far from bearing himself as the man who

has won the prize he sought, he has the air of one who has been fairly

caught in the snare, and has no longer a chance of escape.

George, however, felt it impossible to again march, as it were in

triumph, by Susan's door; he led Jane the back way into the village: it

was nearly the same path he had taken the day he had told Susan of his

marriage: and it is to be feared that Jane did not find her George the

more gay or the more tender for being removed from the observation of

others. Presently the sounds of gay voices once more grew upon the ear

as the party returned on their steps.

Dame Foster again put down her spectacles, and gazed through the

window: "God bless him!" she exclaimed; "he could not stand it again,

and he is not with the rest."

"Not gone away and left Jane?" inquired Susan in a tone of

alarm,--"that would not be right."

"No, no, she's gone too. I warrant me, they've taken the back way round

to Master Dixon's, and I like him all the better." The dame felt more

in charity with him than she had done a few minutes before; and Susan

was gratified, and yet grieved, that George should not be thoroughly

happy. "He will be so soon!" she thought, however;--and so he was.

He enjoyed the comforts of a tidy home, a blazing fire, a warm supper,

and a smiling wife to greet him on his return from work. His days were

occupied in his accustomed labour; his after-hours were filled up by

cultivating his garden; and the helpmate who received him kindly, and

provided him with comforts, became daily more endeared to him. The

birth of a child gave him a fresh object of interest, and George was a

happy man.

Susan also was calm, if not happy. He was another woman's husband--he

was a married man--and all was over for her. The barrier was so

entirely insuperable that her feelings did change, that she did learn

to think of him, merely as of a kind friend, and that the past did at

length appear to her only as a dream.

CHAPTER X.

----And now, their wanderings o'er,

They, 'mid embowering trees, descry their home once more.

Home, thrilling sound! To the time-sobered breast,

Thronged with remembrances, not sweet alone

But sacred, and with sadder thoughts imprest

Of cherished sorrows, and dear hopes o'erthrown;

While to young hearts, that yet have only known

The hey-day joys, and buoyancy of spring,

It speaks of happiness again their own:

Of throbbing bosoms, bright eyes glistening,

And laughter's merry peal, that through the hall shall ring.

_Unpublished Poems._

Three years had elapsed since the Mowbrays had left Overhurst, and all

the parish was now joyfully expecting their return. Again the village

bells rang a joyful peal, again the village children shouted, and all

was animation in Overhurst and at the Park.

Susan was the first to hear the carriage-wheels. "Yes, sure enough,

here they are!" said her mother; "three carriages full: and such a

load, and the horses so jaded, poor things! And there's Mrs. Mowbray

nodding as she goes along; and there's Miss Fanny--no--why, I declare

if it is not Miss Emma, with her head quite out of the window. Well,

I'm glad enough to see them all come home again. And there's the

'squire on the box; he turns round to speak to Mrs. Mowbray; he looks

hearty still. And there is such a queer foreigner behind, with such

black whiskers. And sure that can never be Jenny Simpson? Her very face

seems Frenchified! I'll be bound her own mother will hardly know Jenny

when she sees her." Not long afterwards the dame's eyes were again

attracted to the window. "Why, sure, there can't be another carriage

full of them! Why, if it is not Captain and Mrs. Harcourt! And there

is the baby! May the Lord bless them all! It will be a happy evening

at Overhurst Park!" And Dame Foster sighed while she rejoiced in their

happiness.

And heart-felt joy and social gaiety did reign in Overhurst Park. The

delight of finding themselves again in Old England, the joy of meeting

after a long separation, the raptures of Mrs. Mowbray over her first

grandchild, the pleasure of visiting their old haunts, occupied the

ladies for the first day or two; but Mr. Mowbray had been looking

about him, and had made himself acquainted with all the village gossip.

On the third day after their return, he bustled into the drawing-room,

where his wife and daughters were eagerly displaying to Alice and

Captain Harcourt their relics from the various places they had visited

in their travels, and were explaining the exact point of view from

which such a drawing had been made, or directing their attention to

an invisible dot in a pencil sketch, which stood for 'imperial Rome'

in the distance, or helping out by descriptions _vivâ voce_ the tints

which did not express the roseate hues of evening upon the glaciers.

"I do not know what all the pretty women in the parish have been

thinking of while we have been away," interrupted Mr. Mowbray. "There's

poor Susan Foster! Have you heard, my dear, about poor Susan Foster?"

"No, indeed. I have been so occupied with Alice and her baby, and so

full of our own travels, I have not had time to go into the village.

What has happened? You quite alarm me."

"Why, I really am put out about it myself. She is gone blind! Pretty

Susan, with the bright eyes! I am quite vexed. If it had been any

other girl in the village, I should not have felt it so much. Those

soft brilliant eyes, that could sparkle so merrily too. And then, that

pretty Mrs. Otley! she is going into a consumption."

"Susan--Susan Foster blind!" exclaimed the ladies all together.

"Impossible!" cried Mrs. Harcourt; the hopeful, happy, Mrs. Harcourt.

"It is quite true, my dear Alice: she is blind! and what's more, George

Wells has jilted her, and has married Jane Dixon. The fellow has some

taste, I will say that for him. She was as fine a girl as ever I saw,

though hers is not such a high style of beauty as Susan Foster's. Susan

Foster, if she had been a lady, would have looked well anywhere; now,

Jane Dixon would never have told in a ball-room: and then, she is so

altered; she is grown coarse; and blue eyes soon lose their blueness

and turn grey, while black eyes retain their brilliancy----"

Mr. Mowbray might have proceeded at greater length in discussing the

comparative merits of black eyes and blue, but neither filial piety,

nor conjugal devotion, could enable the listeners to keep silence any

longer. "Oh, papa!" exclaimed Alice, "George Wells married to another

girl! and Susan Foster blind, and jilted! and I had fancied her so

happy in that cottage close to her parents! I remember begging you so

to let them have it, because I thought how I should have liked to live

close to you and mamma!"

"Yes, my dear Alice! I have seen Susan myself; and there she sits

knitting, by the side of her blind father. I declare it was almost too

much for me. I got away as quickly as I could, for I hate seeing sad

sights when one can do no good; I always make it a rule to get out of

the way."

"But do you think it impossible we should be able to do her any good?

Let us go and see them, mamma; perhaps we may think of something. I

always was so fond of Susan, and we were to have been married the same

month! Poor dear Susan!"

"Oh, yes!" cried Emma; "at all events it will please them. Old Nicholas

used to be so fond of me. How well I remember he used to put his hand

upon my head to feel how much I was grown! Do let us go directly, and

pay them a visit, dear mamma."

Mrs. Mowbray was shocked and grieved at Mr. Mowbray's intelligence, and

the whole party was soon in motion along the well-known paths.

"I wonder how Susan looks!" said Emma, in a low voice, while a

sensation of awe stole over her youthful mind at the prospect of an

interview with a person who had undergone a great misfortune since she

had seen her last.

Dame Foster soon recognised the visitors she had been watching for.

"Here they are!" she exclaimed; "I was sure Mrs. Mowbray would come

and ask after us before long. And there's Miss Alice--Mrs. Harcourt I

should say--looks prettier than ever;--and Miss Fanny! I'm sure she

does not seem as if anything had ever been the matter with her;--and

Miss Emma, why she is almost a woman now." Susan sighed, and thought

what sad changes had taken place in her fate since last they had

received a visit from the 'squire's family.

As they approached the little garden-gate, the bearing of all the party

became subdued and saddened; and they gently opened the door, and

followed each other quietly into the cottage. The dame and Susan both

rose, and Susan court'sied, but not exactly in the direction in which

Mrs. Mowbray stood. She soon made them resume their seats, and then

inquired after old Sarah's health.

"Thank you kindly, madam, I am still able to get about, though

sometimes I think my pains make me grow weaker; but I must try to the

last to do for these poor afflicted creatures, madam. You have heard, I

dare say, madam, of all our misfortunes. And there's my poor girl now,

no better off than her old father. But 'tis as pleases God, and it is

not for us to murmur."

The old dame had at once entered upon the subject in the plain, direct

manner usual to the poor, and the restraint which might have rendered

such a meeting distressing among the higher orders was soon dispelled.

"My poor Susan!" said Mrs. Mowbray, going up to Susan, and taking her

by the hand, "I have only this moment heard of your afflictions, or I

should have been here sooner. I wonder such sad news should not have

reached me abroad, but the death of poor Mr. Sandford has been a loss

to us all. He knew my village friends, and he would have told me about

you. And you, Nicholas, how are you? How do you bear up against these

trials?"

"Pretty middling, madam; pretty middling: I am quite used to my own,

and I don't think anything at all about them; but I can't say I have

rightly got over hearing my poor girl ask her mother whether 'tis a

fine day or not, or who it is going by the door, and whether her shawl

is pinned straight, or her cap as it should be. Them things go hard

with me. But, as my good woman says, 'tis as it pleases the Lord! Are

all the young ladies with you, madam?" he added, after a short pause.

"I warrant me they are grown very tall," and he stretched out his hand:

"I should like to put my hand on Miss Emma's head once more, bless her

heart!"

"You must put it a good deal higher," said Emma, as the old man was

feeling at the same height he had been used to feel, three years

before; and she took his brown withered hand and lifted it to the crown

of her head.

"Sure!" he exclaimed in almost childish wonderment.

Alice meanwhile had been talking to Susan, and had extracted from her

some account of the mode in which her eyes had been attacked, although

it was with pain she was brought to allude to anything connected with

Alice's wedding-day and the happiness which at that time was hers.

She could not help an inward shudder when she heard Captain Harcourt

address his wife: "Alice, my love, I think you should return home to

the baby; I would not have you out too late." The picture of home

happiness, wedded love, maternal affection, all the visions in which

she had indulged as almost realities on that day, rushed over her mind;

but she remembered that George was the husband of another, that another

was the mother of his child!

When they returned home, Alice eagerly recounted to Mr. Mowbray an

instance of a person, whose blindness had been described as somewhat

resembling Susan's, having been restored to sight by an oculist with

whom Captain Harcourt was acquainted. With the sanguine disposition of

youth, she felt convinced that something might be done; that Susan need

not be condemned to perpetual blindness.

The more sober part of the company did not enter quite so warmly into

Alice's hopes, but all were equally ardent in their wishes that Susan

might recover her sight. Captain Harcourt's friend had the care of an

eye-hospital; so that Alice declared it would be the easiest thing in

the world to secure Susan's admission, and the most certain thing in

the world that she would be immediately cured. The only difficulty that

remained was to get over the prejudice entertained by many of the poor

against hospitals in general, and the horror they had of parting from

their friends.

"But Dame Foster is so reasonable!" exclaimed Alice; "and Nicholas is

so quiet, he will never oppose it; and as for Susan, what would one not

do to recover one's sight? To be sure, her lover is married now, and

even the restoration of her sight cannot restore her to happiness, poor

thing! But still! think of the joy of seeing the blue heavens and the

green fields again!"

"Oh, yes, dear Alice," answered Mrs. Mowbray, "if we could indeed

restore to Susan her eye-sight, she might look forward to many happy

years. She is still young, and she is so pretty, that I dare say she

may yet marry comfortably."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Alice reproachfully.

"I am sorry to have shocked you, my love! and if you wish it so much,

we will suppose that Susan shall never marry."

"Mamma, you speak as if marrying was marrying, and as if it did not

signify whom one married."

"Not exactly, my dear! but I do imagine it just possible that after

a certain number of years have elapsed, a woman may be happy with a

man who was not her first love. But now we will not disturb ourselves

concerning the use Susan may make of her eyes when they are restored

to her. We will first adopt all possible means to accomplish this most

desirable, but, I fear, improbable event."

"She has had no advice yet but that ignorant man's at Turnholme.

Captain Harcourt shall write to-day, and the moment we get the answer,

I will undertake to persuade Susan and her parents to consent to our

proposal."

All prospered according to Alice's wishes. Her _protégée_ was to be

admitted into the hospital, where she was to meet with every kindness

and attention. Susan gladly agreed to any plan which might possibly

enable her to assist her parents more effectually than she could at

present; old Nicholas thought it so "against nature" that the young

should be afflicted like the old, that he was pleased and hopeful,

while Sarah assented, but assented despondingly.

"If it is God's will our poor child should be blind, why there is no

use in man's fighting against Providence. Howsoever, there's no saying

these may not be the means by which God has ordained she is to be

cured; so it is not for us poor mortals to say any thing against it: we

will try, and hope for the best; but it is an awful thing to have our

blind child go quite away from us to that great town."

"But we will send somebody with her, dame, who shall see her safe into

the hospital."

"Thank you, madam, you are very good; and let it turn out which way it

will, we shall always be grateful."

The evening before Susan's departure, Farmer Otley called: "I thought

I would just look in and wish you good luck, Susan; we shall all be

heartily glad to hear of your doing well, though my good woman will

miss your nice worsted-work. She would have come down to see you too,

but that she is not quite as she should be. She has got a nasty cough

that keeps plaguing her. I tell her 'tis because she will wear such

smart thin shawls, instead of a good warm cloak; but young women they

will have their own way: I dare say you have a way of your own too,

Susan, though I don't know what it is."

Susan smiled. "I believe I was as headstrong as other young folks once;

but a poor helpless creature like me, who is quite dependent upon

mother's goodness, has no business with any fancies now."

"Well, Susan, I hope you will come back with a will of your own, that's

all: and I dare say, dame, you won't mind."

"My poor Susan! I should be glad enough, indeed, to see her her

own sprightly self again; and 'tis our duty not to throw away any

opportunity that God puts in our way."

Susan was safely conveyed to the hospital, and from thence the

reports, which were received by Mrs. Harcourt, and duly transmitted to

Nicholas and Sarah Foster, were satisfactory. The hopeful Alice was

not disappointed in her eager desire to serve Susan; and before six

weeks had elapsed, she was able to run breathless to the cottage of

the Fosters, with the surgeon's letter in her hand, announcing that

Susan's sight was safe, and that in another month she might return to

her friends, in health and happiness.

Old Sarah clasped her hands in speechless joy; the tears rolled in

torrents unheeded down her face: her soul was absorbed in prayer. Old

Nicholas groped about till he found Mrs. Harcourt's hand; and seizing

it, the old man suddenly fell on his trembling knees before her.

"God bless you, my dear young lady, and God reward you! I know it

is to God we first owe our gratitude; but you have been the blessed

instrument in his hands. God bless you!" and the old man sobbed aloud.

Alice, inexpressibly distressed and affected, assisted him to rise,

replaced him in his seat, extricated her hand from his grasp, and

hastened away from a scene which, although delightful, was almost too

overcoming.

At length Susan herself wrote to them: it was the first act of her

restored sight: and the dame placed the letter before her on the deal

table, with her prayer-book and her spectacles, and every day did

she look at it, and every day did she read it over, word by word, to

Nicholas, and every day did Nicholas say "God bless Miss Alice that

was!"

CHAPTER XI.

Wise Nature is less partial in her love

Than ye do judge withal. When lavishly

She pours her gifts profuse, satiety

Doth blunt the sense: when sparingly dispensed,

A keener relish doth supply the measure;

And but to live and see the blessed skies

(A good unmarked, unheeded, till 'tis lost,)

Is rapture all too big for utterance

To one long shut from heaven's light.

_Unpublished Poems._

It was a joyful day in Overhurst when Susan Foster returned to her

home. The old man and his wife had toddled up to the village inn,

where the coach stopped; and there they stood, Sarah to catch the

first glimpse of her, Nicholas to hear the first sound of her voice.

Many a head was popped out of a casement window, and many a doorway

was thronged with its inhabitants, at the hour when the coach usually

arrived. George Wells was lingering in a field hard by, occasionally

looking over the stile. He had twice called upon the Fosters during

Susan's absence, and had inquired, in an awkward, hurried manner, how

she was. The inquiry was meant kindly, and it was taken kindly.

The coach drove up to the little inn, and out sprang Susan, blooming

and lovely as ever. The old woman nearly fainted; and the neighbours

assisted her and the trembling Nicholas into the little parlour of the

inn.

In about half an hour, Susan was seen supporting the feeble steps of

her mother on one side, and on the other those of her father, down the

village street, to her own dear home. George Wells had disappeared; and

the other neighbours did not intrude upon the sacred joy of that family

party.

"Oh, mother, did we ever expect to be so happy!" exclaimed Susan,

as they entered the little garden: "And there is my own moss-rose

blowing!"--a slight pang shot through her, for George had given her the

tree: but she was too happy, too grateful, to allow any but feelings of

thankfulness to find a place in her heart.

With what eagerness did Susan hasten to busy herself about the

household duties! with what pleasure did she resume her former

privilege of settling her father in his seat, of preparing the supper,

of assisting her father up stairs! She had thought the first sight of

the heavens glorious, she had gazed with rapture on the face of Nature,

she had recognised with tenderness each well-known spot of her youthful

home; but all these had been but lesser joys in comparison with that

of once more ministering to the comfort of her parents, after having

so long been a burthen to them. Never were prayers of more heart-felt

gratitude offered up to the throne of Grace than those of the Foster

family that night.

Early the next morning, Susan repaired to Overhurst Park, to make her

acknowledgments to her benefactors; and as she walked alone through

those paths where she had so often wandered with George, which she

had never beheld since she had seen them with him, did not the memory

of former days come over her with almost over-whelming power? She

thought of him certainly, but she thought of him as the contented

husband of another; and after having drunk so deeply of the bitter cup

of affliction, her present comparative happiness seemed as great as

mortals might dare to hope for in this world. She looked with kindly

feelings on all around her. There was no touch of bitterness in her

emotions.

Farmer Otley was one of the first to welcome Susan home again. He

told her his wife was still very poorly, "and that she would take it

very kind" if Susan would step up and pay her a visit some evening at

Holmy-bank.

"Well, Susan," he said, "I need not be fetching you any more worsted

from Turnholme now. You won't send me to market any more. Those eyes of

yours can see to take up your old trade again. I dare say my mistress

will have some needle-work for you, for she is a rare bad hand at

plain-work herself."

A few days after Susan's return, she was employed in tying up some

straggling flowers, and in winding the honeysuckle round the porch,

enjoying the long untasted pleasure of attending to her little garden,

when, on looking round, she saw George Wells loitering under the hedge

of the field which we have often described as being opposite Master

Foster's house.

Upon finding himself observed, George made a sudden effort, and leaping

the stile, he crossed the road, came straight up to Susan, and, before

she had time to collect herself, he had taken her hand, shaken it, and

had hastily uttered,--

"I just came to tell you I was heartily glad you had got your eye-sight

back again, Susan; and to wish you health and happiness, Susan: that's

all:" and he was gone.

Susan trembled all over; she tottered back into the cottage, and sat

down.

"I have just seen him, mother, for the first time these three years!

But it was not so much the seeing him, as the hearing his voice again.

It has put me quite in a tremble; but I shan't mind it another time. I

_must_ not mind it, you know, mother; and I am so happy, oh! so very

happy, to be able to do for you and father, that I do not feel as if I

had any thing left to wish for!"

In a few days Susan paid her promised visit to Mrs. Otley, and she

found her indeed sadly altered. She passed through the kitchen, where

all bore the marks of the mistress's eye being wanted: a servant-girl,

in greasy _papillotes_, the children in smart frocks, but with unwashed

faces; the copper vessels, instead of being the pride of the housewife

and of her assistants, all out of their places; the floor, as if it had

not been swept and sanded for a week. The slip-shod maid, with a dirty

apron, ushered Susan into the parlour within, where Mrs. Otley sat in

a shabby-genteel arm-chair, cowering over the fire, although it was in

June.

Her cheeks were sunk, and there was a hectic flush upon them which

alarmed Susan; her voice sounded hollow. The smart cap, of which we

have already made mention, had now fallen from being a "dress cap"

into being an "every-day cap," a purpose for which it was peculiarly

unfitted. Its weak wires, and its heavy ribands, shook in a most

unseemly manner as the sick woman restlessly moved her head. She laid

down the well-thumbed novel she was reading:--"I am glad to see you,

Susan," she said. "Why you look surprisingly well, as blooming as a

rose. Mr. Otley told me how well you were, and he said your eyes were

as black as sloes: I was quite curious to see you. Sit down, Susan,

and tell me all about it." But before Susan could begin to speak, Mrs.

Otley continued;--"I am such a poor creature--this cough fidgets me so;

but I am a great deal better, only the weather is so unseasonable, and

the cold winds always affect my nerves. Do you think I look ill?"

"You are something thinner than you were, ma'am," answered Susan; "but

it is three years since I saw you last, and three years is a long time."

"So it is a long time, Susan; but now tell me, what did they do to you

in London? I am so curious! Did you stay in the hospital all the time?"

"Yes, ma'am, I never left it, except to come home."

"What! did you not see any of the sights? Not the King's palace, nor

the theatres, nor anything?"

"No, ma'am, 'tis against the rules for people to go out visiting; and

sure, as soon as I was well, I wanted to see nothing so much as father,

and mother, and home. As soon as I was able, they set me to work,

cleaning the place, and helping to wait on other poor creatures who

were worse than myself."

"Poor girl, that was very hard!"

"Oh no, ma'am; I was very glad to be useful, and I was a deal happier

than being idle. I missed my worsted-work sadly at first; the time

seems so very long when one has nothing to do--nothing but to think,

think, think!"

Just then Farmer Otley entered.

"I say, Lizzy, where are the keys of the cellar? I want to get

something to drink for Mr. Hawkins, who is waiting at the door."

"Dear Mr. Otley, don't speak so quick; you hurry one. The keys are in

my reticule; it is up stairs. Tell Hetty to fetch it."

Mr. Otley went after Hetty, and Mrs. Otley remarked, "Poor dear Mr.

Otley! his manner is so abrupt! He is not used to an invalid!"

"Lizzy, I can't find your bag anywhere. The keys should be in your

pocket: feel for them there."

"Dear Mr. Otley, you know I do not wear pockets; a reticule is so much

more convenient."

"Well! but where are the keys? Mr. Hawkins will think I grudge him a

glass of ale."

"Oh! my love, be patient; you quite make me shake!" and she began in a

really nervous trepidation to hunt for the reticule, which was found in

her chair.

Mrs. Otley and Susan resumed their conversation, when presently the

farmer returned.

"Lizzy, you have not got a needle and thread handy, have you? I told

you I thought this button would soon be off, and so it is."

"Oh, dear Mr. Otley, I thought you had told Hetty to sew it on

yesterday. Do call her, and tell her to bring my work-box here." The

good-natured husband called Hetty, and after some time the needle and

thread were found.

"Come, look sharp; I must be at the Vestry at three o'clock; and I

don't like to be seen with my waistcoat all any how."

Mrs. Otley's fingers really trembled as she was sewing on the button.

"Why, Lizzy, I have hurried you! I am sorry for that. There, never

mind; don't fluster yourself."

"You never think of one's nerves, Mr. Otley."

"I'll tell you what, Lizzy, if you did not talk about them, or if you

did not call them nerves, I should think about them. I see you are

not well, and you have got a bad cough, and I must take care of you;

so don't fret yourself, but keep quiet. I'll try to see to the things

myself, though in-door matters are not in my way: but we must make a

shift."

"I am sure Mrs. Glover never did all the drudgery poor dear Mr. Otley

expects me to do," said Mrs. Otley, when her husband had left them: "I

do not think a wife is to be a servant," she continued, with a toss of

her head.

Susan thought that a wife ought to see that all was well regulated in

her household; but poor Mrs. Otley was evidently ill and suffering,

and she pitied her. As Susan went away, she saw the little girl crying

because the maid had slapped her, and the little boy slapping the

maid because she would not let him put his fingers into the pie she

was preparing. She retraced her steps to her humble home, in the full

persuasion that she was happier than any of the inmates of Holmy-bank

farm.

Poor Mrs. Otley became rapidly worse; and before many months had

elapsed, her troubles and her finery were alike brought to a final

close, and she was laid in the quiet grave.

Mr. Otley remained a widower with two young children. He was a

sincere mourner. The natural kindness of his heart had caused him to

become truly attached to the woman whose preference for him had at

first been her principal attraction; and her sufferings latterly had

still farther endeared her. But when the freshness of his grief had

subsided; when he found that a bustling old body, whom he took as

housekeeper, kept all things around him far more neat and trim than

they had formerly been; when he found his kitchen clean, his buttons

sewed on, his shirts mended; and, above all, when everything he asked

for was always forthcoming from that compendious receptacle, the old

woman's pockets,--his spirits gradually revived. His children were

less fretful, their faces were cleaner; and he only lamented that the

old woman could not read, and that he had not much leisure himself to

attend to their morals, or their education. By degrees he began to

think that a younger woman might perhaps attend to the dairy and to the

chickens as effectually as old Goody Thompson; that a younger woman

might make the new servant-girl (for Mrs. Thompson had dismissed the

slip-shod maiden) scour the pots and pans as perseveringly; and he also

began to think it would be more agreeable to have a younger face and a

brighter smile welcome him home, after his labours of the day. And whom

could he find who would be more active and useful than Susan Foster?

Who was calculated to train his children's minds to duty, submission,

and religious resignation, more practically than Susan Foster? And

where could he find a brighter smile, or more sparkling eyes, than

Susan Foster's.

CHAPTER XII.

Bairns, and their bairns, make sure a firmer tie

Than aught in love the like of us can spy.

See yon twa elms that grow up side by side:

Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom and bride;

Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed,

Till wide their spreading branches have increased.

This shields the other frae the eastlin blast,

That in return defends it frae the west.

Allan Ramsay.

Although Mr. Otley had no longer any commissions to perform at

Turnholme for Susan, her worsted-work having given place to her former

occupation of needle-work, still he found many an excuse for calling.

Sometimes he would send the old man a rabbit for his supper; sometimes

a cheese, the handy-work of Dame Thompson. At another time, he gave

Susan a hive of young bees which had just swarmed, as the dame had

said she was fond of honey. By degrees he greatly won upon the esteem

of Susan by his attentions to her parents. He was in a situation

comparatively so much superior to theirs, that he had the opportunity

of appearing to them almost in the light of a benefactor. Some time,

however, elapsed before he ventured to express his feelings in any

mode but by kindness to her parents. The sorrows she had known, the

trials she had gone through, and the composed resignation to which

she had trained her mind during her affliction, had left a sedate

self-possession in her cheerfulness. He was aware of her previous

attachment, and he did not feel sure whether an offer of marriage would

be received, in the manner probable, from the relative situation of the

parties.

At length his little presents became more pointedly addressed to her.

His basket of ripest gooseberries was given to her. He would invite

her to take a walk to look at his garden and gather herself a nosegay.

He sometimes lamented to her that his children were not sufficiently

attended to. "He did not wish to bring them up to over-gentility, but

he wished them to have a good plain education. He should like his girl

to be as good a scholar as Susan was; that would do for him: plain

useful learning, plain useful good sense, and plain useful work. He

wished Susan would step up and see how little Lizzy went on." But this

Susan did not like to do.

The neighbours already began to talk, and the old dame already began

to hope her girl was likely to be well settled in life; "and then,"

as she said to Nicholas one evening, when Susan was gone out to carry

home some work,--"and then, Nicholas, it does not signify how soon it

pleases the Lord to take us: then I may pray, as I used to do, that I

may never see another sun rise when once it has pleased God to call you

to himself."

Susan herself had no pride of romance about her. She esteemed Mr.

Otley, and she was aware that he became every day more particular in

his manner to her; she knew that the home he could offer her would be

comfortable beyond what she had any right to expect; his plain manners

appeared to her neither rough, nor homely, and she felt sorry for the

little children, who were deprived of a mother's tenderness. Such being

the state of mind of the parties in question, the sequel may easily

be guessed. Mr. Otley stopped one evening on his way from market, as

it was now grown his custom to do, and good-naturedly reproached Susan

for not having been to see his garden or his children. She was ashamed

to give the true reason, and said she had been very busy with a job of

needle-work.

"I don't like you to work so hard, Susan: it is not good for her, is

it, dame? Young folks should take a little pleasure sometimes. I know I

should like to see Susan in a home of her own, with a servant-girl to

do her work for her. She is too good by half to be always drudging."

"Thank you kindly for your good wishes, Master Otley," answered old

Nicholas. "I should like to know my poor girl had a good home over her

head when I am dead and gone."

"Ah! that's what a good father is sure to think of. You would

rest easier, Master Nicholas, if you knew Susan was mistress of a

comfortable place of her own, and was never likely to come to want as

long as she lived."

"Ah, sure! should I," replied the simple old man, who was in great

hopes Mr. Otley was coming straight to the point. And he wished no

better than to come to the point: but it is not easy to propose in

company; and, straightforward as Mr. Otley was, he began to feel as shy

as others do in this predicament.

"I should like to see Susan in a home of her own very much," repeated

Mr. Otley, slowly and awkwardly, and looking out of the window when he

had spoken.

The dame, who plainly perceived what was in the farmer's mind, thought

that if Susan was out of the way he might speak openly to them, or

if Susan was alone, he might find courage to declare himself to her.

She therefore, with feminine resource, told Susan to go to the shop

and buy her a pennyworth of ginger to put in her tea. Susan had left

the cottage in a moment, for she found herself becoming confused and

uncomfortable. Mr. Otley lingered a short time, and said nothing; but

when he left the cottage he watched for Susan's return, and their

conversation was prolonged till the dame began to doubt whether she

should ever have any ginger at all.

When Susan re-appeared, Mr. Otley was with her. She looked blushing,

but happy; the farmer confused, but glorious, as he told Nicholas

he "hoped he would rest soundly that night; that is, if he thought

Holmy-bank farm was a place where Susan might make herself comfortable,

and if he could trust to him to see she never wanted for anything as

long as he lived."

The old people did not attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and never

was son-in-law more cordially received.

We have already celebrated two weddings in this short tale, and it was

not long before a third took place in the village of Overhurst. Mr.

and Mrs. Otley ate their wedding-dinner in the Fosters' cottage; for

Mr. Otley had had enough of finery and fine folks, and he enjoyed the

heart-felt happiness of those whom he felt he rendered happy. When he

took his bride home in the evening, he left the old couple in a state

of blissful composure of mind which they had once thought could never

again be theirs on this side the grave; and when they retired to rest,

they returned their fervent thanks to Heaven for having been allowed to

see this day: and now they felt their task was ended, their duties were

fulfilled.

CHAPTER XIII.

Then be it still my nightly prayer

To live to close his sightless eyes,

For this my torturing pains to bear,

Then sink in death ere morning rise!

With steadfast hope, and faith serene,

The humble prayer of duteous love,

Pour'd ardent forth in anguish keen,

Was heard where mercy rules above!

_Unpublished Ballad from Nature._

Susan Foster's unexpected prosperity was not regarded without envy by

some of her neighbours; and old Nelly, her former mistress in the art

of knitting, whose temper had not grown more gentle with increasing

years and infirmities, failed not to remark to her grand-daughter that

"she could not see, for her part, what there was about Susan Foster

that people should always make such a fuss with her. Other poor souls

had their afflictions, but the gentlefolks did not send them to all the

great London doctors to be cured; other girls had had bad eyes before

now, but they did not get a good husband a bit the more. And if Susan

Foster was so lucky as to marry so much above her station, she thought

she ought to do something for her poor old father and mother, who had

taken care of her when she was blind. Folks might talk of Susan being

such a dutiful daughter, and all that; but for her part she did not see

what the old people were the better for having a farmer's wife for a

daughter."

"I am sure," answered Patty, "I cannot see anything particular about

Susan, grandmother; I think there are many girls in Overhurst who are

quite fit to be her match. And many a time since I have grown big,

I have wondered why I used to be so pleased when Susan Foster spoke

kindly to me, and told me I was a good girl. I think she took upon her

very much; for though she may be quite a great lady, and may ride in

her one-horse chay now, she was no better than myself then!"

"Ah, my dear Patty! 'tis the way of those people who seem to have

such a respect for themselves, to make themselves somehow respected

by others. However, Susan is but a labourer's daughter after all, and

I don't see why you should demean yourself to her: I have no patience

with your upstarts. A poor girl that could not have earned a farthing,

and must have gone into the workhouse, if I had not taught her how to

knit! and now she goes driving by with her husband, and has called

upon me but once, though she has been married a fortnight; and has

never sent me anything but a basket of apples out of her orchard, which

don't cost her a farthing." Just at this moment a boy knocked at the

door, and Patty lifted the latch to admit him. "Mrs. Otley's respects,

ma'am, and she sends you a goose, and a bottle of Farmer Otley's elder

wine, that you may drink her health on old Michaelmas day." Nelly was

a little at a loss what to reply; but after contemplating the present

with a satisfaction which she could not quite controul, she consoled

herself by saying to Patty as soon as the boy was gone: "Mrs. Otley's

respects, indeed! I think it would have been more respectful if Madam

Otley had called herself with her present, instead of sending it by a

scrubby boy."

It may well be imagined that if Susan did not forget old Nelly, she

took care that her parents should never want any comfort which her

affection could provide for them, and her kind-hearted husband seconded

her wishes to the uttermost. He would willingly have had them remove

to Holmy-bank; but the old man had learned to grope his way about his

own cottage, and he would have missed his accustomed walk to his own

stile, and they found it was kinder not to break in upon his habits.

Mrs. Thompson had resigned her charge to Susan; and Mr. Otley found

that not only were the dairy and poultry-yard as efficiently attended

to, but that his children became orderly and submissive, and that his

house soon acquired that air of home comfort, of tasteful neatness,

that a wife only can give it. In her dress Susan took old Mrs. Otley,

the mother, as her model, although she somewhat accommodated herself

to the fashion. She was a goodly sight to look upon as she sat by her

husband's side in the market-cart, once denominated a chaise, her black

hair parted on her white forehead, her smooth, rounded, blooming cheek

enclosed in her snowy cap, and black velvet bonnet, with her brilliant

eyes glancing gaily as she stopped at her father's door on her way to

market. More than a year had thus glided by in sober and respectable

happiness, when old Nicholas began to droop: he could no longer reach

his favourite stile. He was obliged to content himself with leaning in

his accustomed attitude over the wicket of his own little garden. After

a while he could do no more than take his seat at the cottage-door,

there to feel the rays of the setting sun. Susan now devoted herself

to her parents, and all other considerations sank before the paramount

duty she owed to them. One evening she had brought him his tea to the

door, where Mr. Otley had settled him on his own chair, and she asked

him if he felt the warmth of the sun. "I don't seem to have any warmth

in my bones," he said; "but I like to know the sun is shining upon me."

"Ah, the sun is a glorious thing," said Sarah, "as it sets there in

its golden bed; but when my poor Nicholas is at rest, I never wish to

see its bright face again. You have got a good husband, Susan, and a

comfortable home, and you will not want me now; my pains have almost

worn me out: there's no taking pleasure even in the works of God, when

one is so racked by pain."

"How well you do bear your sufferings, mother, 'tis very seldom you

make any complaints."

"There's no good murmuring, my dear Susan; and it is my duty to bear

what 'tis God's pleasure to send."

They looked round, and the old man's head had dropped back upon the

chair; they thought he was asleep; but he did not breathe: life was

extinct. His wife was the first to understand the truth. "My husband's

spirit has passed," she said. "My poor Nicholas is at rest,--he is in

heaven! He is happy! Look at that smile,--yes, he is happy. God's will

be done!" and she bowed her head.

In tears and trepidation Farmer Otley and Susan moved him within

doors. He carried the lifeless body, and laid it on the bed upstairs;

while Susan held her mother's hands, kissed them, and wept over them.

"He is gone, Susan! my poor husband is gone! He has left me--my poor

Nicholas!" and she rocked herself backwards and forwards, her hands

clasped upon her knee.

The neighbours soon assembled; the last sad duties were performed; and

the aged woman, whose melancholy province it was to lay out the dead,

and to keep her dreary vigil by the corpse, attended as usual. But

old Sarah would not allow her to remain. She said, "she had done for

Nicholas to the last while he was living, and she did not see what need

there was of any one else to tend him now. She thanked the neighbours

kindly, but she could watch by her husband now, as then; and she would

not trouble any of them." She settled herself in her chair at the head

of the bed, and sat there silent, meek, and patient.

Susan, who was a nurse, had her baby brought from the farm, and

established it in what had formerly been her own little bed-room. She

and her husband then took their station in the chamber of death, and

together looked upon the decent corpse of the old man.

The brilliant sunset had been followed by a stormy night. The wind

howled, and the rain beat against the casement. The rush-candle burned

fitfully, and shone with an uncertain light upon the sunk but placid

features of the old man. Susan could scarcely defend herself from

the vague and superstitious terrors which assail the uneducated on

such occasions. The furniture creaked; noises, which in the day are

unnoticed, sound startlingly acute in the stillness and darkness of the

night. Susan frequently crept into the adjoining apartment to see how

it fared with her baby; she bent over it as it slumbered, she listened

to its respiration till she fancied it drew its breath painfully. When

suffering under one calamity, the human heart is tremblingly alive to

the apprehension of others. She imagined the infant was pale; she stole

back to beckon her husband to look upon it with her. He attempted to

re-assure her; but Susan's heart was oppressed with the foreboding

of some fresh ill, and it required all Mr. Otley's patience and

good-nature to soothe fears which appeared so unreasonable.

It was an inexpressible relief when the grey dawn began to appear. The

rain all cleared away, and the sun shone forth in all its splendour;

every leaf was glittering in the sunshine, the rain-drops hung on every

spray, the birds sang as if to strain their little throats, the flowers

were beginning to expand to the welcome rays. Susan placed her baby in

her husband's arms while she returned to share her mother's melancholy

watch.

When she entered the low room, the sun almost dazzled her: its beams

streamed in upon the slanting, white-washed ceiling: they shone full

upon her mother's face, as she sat in the same attitude in which she

had left her,--her head supported by the high back of the upright

chair, her hands slightly clasped as they had fallen on her knee, and

her eyes closed.

Susan drew near; her mother spoke not, moved not: she knelt by her--she

listened in breathless agony--no sound, no sign of recognition. The

sunbeams glared upon her eyelids, but she heeded them not.

A nameless chill ran through poor Susan's frame. She dared not touch

her mother's hand. She rose from her knees, and tottered back to her

husband. "I wish you would come to mother," she said; "she is very

still. Mother is very still and very pale," she added, in a voice

scarcely audible. Susan's looks were ghastly. Mr. Otley hastily placed

the sleeping infant on the bed, and followed Susan. The truth was at

once evident! "Your mother's prayers have been heard, dear Susan; she

has not seen another sun rise, she has not seen the sun which now

shines upon her. Her troubles are over, and we should thank God for his

mercy to her!"

And the time did come when Susan was able thus to feel; when she was

able to rejoice that her mother's humble prayer had thus been granted;

when she learned to look upon its accomplishment as an earnest that

the spirits of her parents were enjoying the reward of their piety,

and their submission. But, at first, nature had its course, and she

could but weep for that dear mother who had supported her under her

heavy affliction, consoled her in her sorrows, tended her in her

helplessness. Nor did her husband oppose the grief which was so

natural: he wept with her; and she felt the holy tie which bound them

together for weal and for woe, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in

health, become more closely riveted as she clung to him for support, as

she turned to him as her only earthly comforter.

The neighbours again assembled. The two corpses were decently laid out

in the same chamber which for so many years they had inhabited; and all

who had known them in life, came to have one last sight of Nicholas and

Sarah Foster.

Susan was soothed by this mark of respect to those whom she had loved

so well; and she was gratified when, among the rest, George Wells

mounted the narrow stairs to look once more upon the well-known faces

of the departed. She wept when she heard him sob, as he came down

again, and when he wrung her hand as he hurried by through the little

kitchen where she sat in deep but gentle grief. She wished not that

he should cherish the recollection of herself; but any slight to the

memory of her parents would have been bitter, coming from him whom they

had once treated as a son.

One funeral service was performed over the venerable couple; one grave

received their mortal remains; one stone still marks the spot where

they repose; and together, we may well believe their spirits mounted to

those regions where suffering and sorrow are unknown.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

VOLUME THE THIRD.

BLANCHE.

CHAPTER I.

The hidden traynes I know, and secret snares of love;

How soon a look will prynte a thoughte, that never may remove.

Lord Surrey.

At the period when our story commences, Lord and Lady Westhope had

been married sixteen years. Theirs had been a love-match. The love had

lasted on the part of the lady at least seven years and three months;

but on that of her lord not quite seven months and three weeks, from

the wedding-day.

Lord Westhope had then been thrown with the handsome but designing Lady

Bassingham, who made an easy conquest of his heart; which conquest

she retained till the rustic bloom of Lucy Meadows, his wife's new

maid, eclipsed the somewhat faded charms of the lady of fashion. When

weary of Lucy Meadows, he became deeply smitten with the Honourable

Miss Asterby, the young beauty of the day, who indulged her vanity

in listening to the compliments of a married man, and allowed him to

monopolise more of her conversation than was either judicious, or

prudent.

To these succeeded another and another object, selected from every rank

and condition of life.

During the six years, seven months, and one week, which Lady Westhope's

love survived that of her husband, she had undergone tortures of

jealousy, anger, indignation, and mortification. At the end of this

time she made up her mind to her fate, and bore his infidelities

with tolerable composure. Henceforward their domestic life was very

peaceable. The wife no longer reproached and wept; and the husband was

exceedingly gay and good-humoured.

But now began trials of another sort to Lady Westhope. She was

extremely handsome: her beauty was of a sort to be more striking

at twenty-five, than at eighteen. Her husband was known to be

faithless--she was soon found to be indifferent. All vain and idle

young men consequently aspired to her favour. It need not be added,

that the number was prodigious!

But though she had been disappointed in her hopes of being loved, she

resolved to pass through life admired and respected. She would set

the world the example of a beautiful and neglected wife, defying the

breath of slander, repressing every sign of admiration, and pursuing

her course uncontaminated by the profligacy around her. A word, a look

of encouragement, would have brought any of these aspiring youths to

sigh at her feet; but on none did she deign to bestow a glance--firmly

and calmly did she check the first symptom of preference which might be

evinced towards her.

She was not blessed with children, but she had many female friends;

and to her cousin, Lady Blanche De Vaux, she was warmly attached. Lady

Blanche was fifteen years younger than herself, and her affection for

her young cousin combined something of a maternal character, with the

ease and companionship of two women who were both in the perfection of

womanhood; for Lady Westhope at thirty-four had scarcely lost any of

her beauty, and Lady Blanche at nineteen was in the fulness of hers.

The Westhopes were going to Paris; and Lady Westhope proposed to

Lord and Lady Falkingham, that their daughter, Lady Blanche, should

accompany them. Lady Falkingham had gone through the toilsome duties of

chaperonage for a series of years, during which she had successfully

disposed of her elder daughters in marriage. She was not sorry,

therefore, to repose from her labours, and to entrust the youngest to

the care of so unexceptionable a person as her niece, Lady Westhope.

To Paris went Lady Blanche, in all the buoyancy of youth; escaped

for the first time from the trammels of an education in which no

possible accomplishment had been neglected, and the vigilance of

the most correct of mothers. She was enchanted with the Louvre, full

of admiration at the beauties and grandeur of Paris; amused with the

theatres, the Champs Elysées, with Tivoli--with everything; and entered

with spirit and gaiety into the agreeable society which is nowhere to

be found in greater perfection than at Paris.

Lady Westhope was also amused and interested; and, for the sake of

Blanche, mixed more generally with the world than it was her custom to

do.

Lord Westhope also amused himself very much; but how, we do not exactly

know.

Independently of their rank and their situation, the beauty of our two

cousins would have rendered them no inconsiderable personages among

the English at Paris. Lady Westhope's skin was whiter than snow,--her

hair blacker than the raven's wing,--her form full and graceful,--her

manner calm and self-possessed: had she been unmarried, it might have

been thought cold, perhaps haughty;--as a matron, it was dignified.

Lady Blanche's clustering curls, and hazel eyes of the same rich dark

brown as her hair, the mantling glow of her blooming cheek, her slender

form and elastic step, possessed all the graces of youth, while her

countenance beamed with animation, joy, tenderness, and each emotion

that rapidly succeeded the other in her bosom.

Among the many slight preferences, incipient flirtations, and positive

love-makings, which took place in the set to which Lady Westhope

belonged, none was more decided than that between the beautiful Lady

Blanche and Captain De Molton. She was a romantic, enthusiastic girl,

peculiarly calculated to feel the attractions of a man who was formed

to figure as a _héros de roman_. He was very tall,--he was pale,--his

features were marked, but they bore an expression of melancholy and

of feeling. The qualities of his mind corresponded with his exterior.

Lofty, uncompromising rectitude, was combined with acute feelings,

which, as his appearance indicated, were more calculated to work him

woe than weal. A look of sentiment, though to the old and wary it may

portend no happiness either to the possessor or to those connected with

him, is often to the young and gay more attractive than the most joyous

liveliness.

Captain De Molton was in love--desperately in love with Lady Blanche.

But he knew he was poor: he knew that if he was to offer her all he

had--_i.e._ his whole undivided affections, Lord and Lady Falkingham

could not in conscience allow their daughter to accept him. He

therefore confined himself to watching her while she was talking to

others; he did not allow himself to occupy the seat by her side. If

by chance he was betrayed into any expression of his feelings, he

studiously avoided her for the next twenty-four hours; and, by so

doing, he flattered himself he was playing the part of a martyr. He

fancied he was only endangering his own peace of mind; he believed he

so completely concealed what was passing within, that hers could run no

risk. He had not the self-sufficiency to imagine he could win a heart

he did not attempt to gain. But these very starts of passion, these

inconsistencies, these uncertainties, the air of intense melancholy

which at times overspread his countenance, were more dangerous to a

person of Lady Blanche's disposition than the most open and decided

attentions.

She could not think he was indifferent towards her; yet she was piqued

by his occasional avoidance, touched by his air of intense melancholy,

delighted with the fire which gleamed from his eye when she addressed

him, and with the smile which, when it did light up his countenance,

was bright and dazzling as the sunbeam after a summer-storm.

In short, while intending to preserve her heart from the sentiment

which possessed his own, he unconsciously acted with the most

consummate coquetry--

"Piqued her and soothed by turns."

Things were in this state, when Captain De Molton's particular friend,

Lord Glenrith, arrived at Paris. He was immediately struck with Lady

Blanche's beauty, and fascinated by her manners. He was an eldest

son, and heir to a fine property. He was extremely good-looking--his

character was excellent--as a _parti_ he was unexceptionable.

De Molton, with a lover's quickness of perception, read Lord Glenrith's

feelings almost before he was aware of them himself; and he thought

it would be a crime to stand in the way of an union which would be

advantageous to Lady Blanche, and which must indeed make the happiness

of his best and earliest friend. Although it was almost agony to see

Glenrith constantly occupy at dinner the place he resolutely did not

take, and to see him whisper soft nothings into her ear, which it would

have been rapture to him to utter; though it was maddening to see

Glenrith act as her escort on all morning excursions, when he seldom

dared approach; still a sort of fascination bound him to the spot. It

was with trembling anxiety that he watched Lady Blanche's reception

of his friend's attentions, with pain which he could not control that

he marked anything which might be construed into encouragement on her

part; but it was with most unreasonable joy that he perceived her

listen to him with cold indifference, and sometimes that he caught her

eye glance towards himself while Lord Glenrith was by her side.

Any doubt he might entertain as to his friend's real intentions was

soon set at rest by his one day confiding to him that he was very much

attached to Lady Blanche, that his parents wished him to marry, and

that he had made up his mind to propose, as soon as he felt sure of the

lady.

This annunciation fell as a final death-blow on De Molton's hopes--if

hopes they might ever have been called. "Yet Glenrith spoke

doubtfully of her reception of his offer--and Glenrith is not usually

over-diffident of himself," thought De Molton in the midst of his

despair. Still he felt it would be folly, madness, to linger in the

society of Lady Blanche. In all probability she would soon be the

affianced wife of his friend. It would be base and treacherous in him

to attempt to circumvent that friend--cruel to sport with her feelings;

and now that Glenrith had spoken thus confidentially, there was nothing

left but to withdraw himself from witnessing the prosecution of a suit,

in the probable success of which he felt he ought to rejoice, while his

spirit recoiled from the bare anticipation of such a result.

Accordingly he told Lord Glenrith that he was suddenly recalled to

England on particular business. He seated himself in the cabriolet of

the Calais diligence, and took his weary way to his native land with

the most profound adoration of wealth--with the most ardent aspirations

for honour, rank, riches, and all the good things of this world--that

he might, without folly, or presumption, be entitled to throw himself

at the feet of Lady Blanche.

Lady Westhope's duty, as a wise chaperon, would have been to

discourage in every way the attentions of Captain De Molton, and to

foster those of Lord Glenrith. She meant to do so,--she thought she

did so. She constantly repeated to Blanche how impossible it was that

Captain De Molton should ever propose, how impossible that he should

be accepted, how totally impossible that they could ever marry--or

that, if married, they could have bread to eat; and she thought she

had done her duty. But the spectacle of a man, sincerely, ardently,

respectfully, and hopelessly in love, was to her feelings, naturally

warm, though she had encased them in an armour of coldness and reserve,

so interesting a sight, that she could not help treating him and

speaking of him as a person formed to win the heart of woman. All those

who had formerly seemed inclined to pay her attention, she had from

the very beginning treated with such repelling coldness, that she had

never been exposed to the trial of witnessing real and sincere emotions

strongly excited. In the desolation of her own secret soul, the sight

was tantalising and painful. She could not help envying Blanche the

power of calling them forth, nor could she help looking back with a

sigh upon the blank of her own loveless career. She would have given

anything for Aladdin's lamp, that she might have endowed young De

Molton with the worldly wealth which could have secured to them the

fate from which she was herself cut out.

The few months they passed at Paris had a sensible effect upon the

minds of both the cousins. Lady Blanche for the first time felt

love. She also felt keen mortification--for to nothing does love

more completely blind its victim than to the sensations experienced

by the object beloved. While Lady Westhope saw in Captain De Molton

an interesting and high-minded young man struggling with a hopeless

passion,--in short, while she accurately read, and was able to

appreciate, his feelings,--Lady Blanche thought him cold, indifferent,

capricious, and frequently doubted whether indeed he entertained any

preference at all for her.

In Lady Westhope's mind a great change also had taken place. Perhaps

the example of all around her (for, whatever the propriety of French

women under the new _régime_ may be, the conduct of English women, when

once they have crossed the Channel, is not such as to impress foreign

nations with a high idea of the morality for which we would fain be

thought remarkable), perhaps the more easy footing of society abroad,

combined to produce in her vague aspirations after an interchange

of sincere affection: visions of mutual love, devotion, attachment,

&c.--notions against which, for nine years, she had been shutting her

ears and barring her heart--again found entrance to her bosom.

CHAPTER II.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been long

The boast of mere pretenders to the name.

The innocent are gay. The lark is gay,

That dries his feathers saturate with dew

Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams

Of dayspring overshoot the humble nest.

Cowper.

The morning after De Molton's departure, our two cousins were prepared

for an excursion to Versailles, and were expecting the gentlemen who

were to accompany them, when Lord Glenrith entered. Lady Westhope

inquired what was become of Captain De Molton.

"Gone," he replied: "he set off for England yesterday;--called home on

some tiresome regimental business. But did you not see him? did you not

hear from him? Very uncivil, faith! not at all like De Molton."

"I wonder he did not call," said Lady Westhope: and she stole a look

towards Blanche, who was so busily employed in tying her bonnet

and putting on her shawl, with her back towards them, and her veil

half covering her face, that she could not detect how she took this

unexpected intelligence.

The carriages of the rest of the party drew up in the street. Lord

Glenrith ran down stairs to deliver a message to one of the Miss

Elwicks, offering her Captain De Molton's seat in the barouche; when

Lady Westhope remarked,

"How strange in Captain De Molton!"

"How mortifying!" replied Lady Blanche: "the idea of marrying may be

foolish and imprudent, as you say, but he might leave me to find it

out. I hate cold, calculating men, who do exactly what is right, and

discreet, and proper; whose conduct nobody can find the least fault

with. Such men may be esteemed, but they cannot expect to be loved. I

almost think I should prefer a warm-hearted, impetuous person, who was

generously wrong, to a wary, prudent one, who was coldly right. But

what am I saying? The simple fact is, that the poor man did not happen

to like me. I do not know why I should find fault with him because he

did not fall in love with me!" And she tried to smile, and to treat the

whole thing lightly.

Lady Westhope could not help adding, "that she had thought, and

indeed she did still think, that he was in love, notwithstanding his

prudence." Lady Blanche had just time to reply, half bitterly, half

jestingly, "that there could not be much love, if prudence could so

completely master it;" when Lord Glenrith returned to hand them from

their splendid apartments, down the dirty brick-stairs of a French

hotel.

The day was beautiful--the drive not long enough to be fatiguing--the

palace magnificent--the gardens noble--the whole replete with the most

interesting recollections. Lady Blanche had always been an enthusiast

about Madame de la Vallière, Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette. She had

anticipated the greatest delight in visiting the scenes of so many

events with which, from childhood, she had been familiar; but she

found herself listening with the most absent mind to the details given

by the guide, even though he pointed out the very balcony from which

he himself remembered having seen Marie Antoinette, with the dauphin

in her arms, addressing the people on that dreadful day when the

royal family were carried off by the mob to the Tuileries. She looked

round with vacant eyes at the white and gold apartments where Marie

Antoinette held her evening soirées; nor could she warm herself into a

proper emotion over the oratoire of the unfortunate king, nor even over

the narrow back passage by which he attempted to escape.

In the gardens, the statues which were pointed out as those of Madame

de Maintenon, Mademoiselle de Fontanges, and Madame de la Vallière

herself, failed to excite any interest. In her present state of mind

she thought it was all nonsense, and did not the least believe that

Diana was Madame de Maintenon, or Fidelity, with a dog at her feet, was

intended for Madame de la Vallière.

She became somewhat more interested at the Petit Trianon. The Swiss

cottage, the vacherie of poor Marie Antoinette touched her, and she

remarked to Lord Glenrith, on whose arm she leaned, how, in the midst

of all her splendours, the queen seemed to have preserved her taste

for nature, the country, freedom, and simplicity. "It shows, after

all, how insufficient are pomp and grandeur to happiness!" And she

thought of Captain De Molton, and that just such a cottage as the Swiss

farm, with him (supposing he had liked her, which he did not), would

be vastly preferable to Versailles itself with any one else. Lord

Glenrith thought, what a noble, high-minded girl! she will love me for

myself--she will not be influenced by my being a good match; and he

redoubled his attentions.

The party had obtained permission to have their collation laid out in

the marble gallery; and they sat down, a large and brilliant party--as

young, as beautiful, as had ever been the inmates of that palace,

consecrated to pleasure, and pleasure alone.

Lady Westhope was the eldest lady present. The two Miss Elwicks were

beauties--decided beauties, and in the first bloom of youth, with gay

and lively manners, high spirits, light hearts, and vanity enough to

thoroughly enjoy the admiration they were in the habit of exciting.

Mrs. Courtney Astwell was very pretty, and, being married, and a

coquette, of course commanded the attentions of the gentlemen still

more supereminently than any of the other ladies, whatever their

claims might be. Lady Westhope was, for the first time, quite in the

background--nearly on the shelf. Lord Glenrith was devoted to Lady

Blanche; Sir Charles Weyburn was decidedly struck with Miss Elwick;

Lord James Everdon and Miss Eliza Elwick were so merry, that another

joke succeeded, long before the laugh produced by the first had

subsided. Mr. Stapleford, the sharp, sarcastic, clever _diplomate_,

did Mrs. Courtney Astwell the honour of giving her his arm; while Lord

Faversham walked on the other side and joined in the conversation, and

the stripling Lord Elmington hovered on the flank or in the rear, as

opportunity might serve.

Mr. Wroxholme alone remained for Lady Westhope. He was a new addition

to the society whose claims to notice had not yet been ascertained. He

was in the law, and he looked clever. He might be nearly thirty, and he

was presentable in appearance and gentlemanlike in manners.

Notwithstanding the dignity and reserve of Lady Westhope's deportment,

she had never before found herself overlooked. Her rank, her

respectability, her beauty, in the usual routine of dinners, parties,

and balls, secured for her the attentions of some one of the first

persons in the company. She never before had found herself the most

_passée_ of a party--and on an occasion, too, when the usual forms of

precedence are not attended to. Though she had never sought or valued

attention, she did not half like the absence of it. She never wished

for it while she had to repel it,--it was not till it was withheld,

that she found she attached to it any value whatever.

Mr. Wroxholme, however, was well informed and agreeable. By degrees she

found he was acquainted with several acquaintances of hers, and the

scenes which they were viewing together afforded matter of conversation.

At the breakfast, or luncheon, or by whatever name the repast might be

designated, the pictures which adorned the walls of the gallery were

discussed. Among others, that of Madame de Maintenon, with Madame de la

Vallière's daughter at her knee. Lady Blanche exclaimed with energy,

"The only redeeming point about that hypocritical old woman is her

having been so good-natured to poor dear Madame de la Vallière's child!"

"And may I ask Lady Blanche why she so much prefers Madame de la

Vallière to Madame de Maintenon?" in the softest voice imaginable,

inquired Mr. Stapleford, who was rather fond of putting people out of

countenance. In this case he perfectly succeeded; for though it is true

that every one loves the erring Madame de la Vallière, and few have

any tenderness for the discreet Madame de Maintenon, it would not have

been so easy for a young lady to defend her feelings and opinions on

the subject, without entering into a discussion which might be rather

awkward.

This Lady Blanche felt, and replied scarcely knowing what she said.

"Everybody pities Madame de la Vallière, because she was so unhappy!"

"Then every one who suffers may hope to have someplace in your

affections," whispered Lord Glenrith.

Mr. Stapleford replied,--"As an approving conscience is universally

allowed to produce cheerfulness, I conclude the strictly virtuous have

no chance of finding favour in Lady Blanche's sight."

"Oh! Mr. Stapleford, how you misconstrue everything one says!" Blanche

blushed, half in confusion, half in anger. Mr. Stapleford enjoyed it;

he liked to make women blush;--many men do.

"I am sure every one present ought to be very much obliged to me for

what I have said, if it is only for having brought so beautiful a bloom

into Lady Blanche's cheeks."

All eyes turned towards Lady Blanche, who did indeed blush over

forehead, throat, and arms, till the tears were ready to start from her

eyes. Lord Glenrith uttered in a more severe tone than was usual to a

person renowned for his good-nature--

"One would think Stapleford had neither mother nor sisters of his own,

that he should find pleasure in causing a woman to blush." And at the

moment Lord Glenrith worshipped Lady Blanche as devoutly as he hated

Mr. Stapleford. Lady Blanche felt grateful to him for having defended

her, and for having given Mr. Stapleford a reproof.

"Is Mr. Stapleford a friend of yours?" said Mr. Wroxholme to Lady

Westhope.

"Not at all," she answered: "is he of yours?"

"I am happy to say he is a perfect stranger to me: that is a kind of

man I detest."

Lady Westhope liked her new acquaintance, for his warmth and his

openness.

The repast was over. The personages already mentioned sauntered

for a short time before their departure among the close walks and

the orange-trees. Lord James Everdon and Miss Eliza Elwick were

inseparable; not that they had the slightest preference for each

other--their whole bond of union consisted in the magnificent set of

teeth with which nature had favoured them both. They were not the least

aware of the reason they were pleased with each other; but it may be

remarked, that those who have bad teeth do not find themselves so

comfortable with a companion who makes them laugh, as with one whose

conversation is more serious; while a person with fine teeth discovers

a point in many a jest, which to one who is conscious of anything

defective in that respect would appear stale, flat, and unprofitable.

Many flirtations might be traced home to similarity of teeth, which

have passed for congeniality of disposition.

When they arrived at home, the two friends talked over the day. "Who

in the world is your Mr. Wroxholme?" said Lady Blanche.

"I assure you he is a very agreeable man," replied Lady Westhope,

anxious he should appear to have been her companion by choice, rather

than from necessity.

"What is he by birth and parentage?"

"I do not know, but he is acquainted with several people who are mutual

friends; I shall invite him to my parties next spring. I think he will

be a great acquisition."

"What an odious man Mr. Stapleford is! I always disliked his quiet

sarcastic manner of dropping out just the thing that is most

disagreeable; and I was so much obliged to the dear, good, honest Lord

Glenrith, for giving him a lecture, which ought to have made him look

foolish."

"How handsome Lord Glenrith is!" said Lady Westhope, curious to know

how Blanche felt towards him.

"Yes! he certainly is handsome; but he has too much colour, and he

looks so very healthy and robust! I do not think his countenance could

express unhappiness. I like a man to look serious and thoughtful, as if

he was full of feeling, and as if his gaiety was just a bright gleam of

sunshine, the more brilliant for the gloom which precedes and follows

it. Nothing is so beautiful as the smile of a countenance habitually

melancholy."

Lady Westhope perceived that, notwithstanding her pique, Blanche had

not forgotten De Molton.

They returned to England. The London season was nearly over;

Parliament did not sit late; there was no business which required Lord

Falkingham's presence, and Blanche joined her parents in the country,

where they had already established themselves; but, as she passed

through London, she went to the play with the Westhopes. They were

leaving the theatre, when they met Captain De Molton on the stairs.

He rushed to them with a face in which the much-admired smile usurped

the place of the melancholy which Lady Blanche also admired. He asked

her if she was staying in London: she replied she was going to Temple

Loseley the next day.

"Then I must esteem myself fortunate to have caught even this glimpse

of you."

"Oh, but I hope we shall see you in the country."

They were both thrown off their guard by the suddenness of the meeting,

and their looks and their manner proclaimed the state of their feelings

as much as it was possible for them to do so, in descending the last

ten steps of the private box entrance. But he had handed her into the

carriage--the door was closed--she was gone--before he had time to

answer the sort of half invitation contained in Lady Blanche's last

words.

Blanche had much to tell her mother; all she had heard--all she had

seen, but not all she had felt. Lady Falkingham was reserved with her

children; she was above all weaknesses herself, and never seemed to

contemplate the possibility that younger minds might not be so well

regulated, younger feelings might not be so sober and temperate, as her

own.

The summer passed quietly; Blanche rode with her father, gardened with

her mother, and tried to think no more of a person who felt nothing for

her. Had she not most unguardedly, most imprudently, almost invited

him to Temple Loseley? She forgot that, not being acquainted with her

parents, it was absolutely impossible he could act upon such a hint.

She only remembered that she had advanced a step which had not been

met by him, and she recalled what she had heard and read a thousand

times, that a lover can generally create an opportunity for seeing his

beloved; how much easier, then, to improve one that presents itself!

The only conclusion, therefore, to be drawn was, that she was an object

of perfect indifference to him.

In September a party was collected for shooting; and, among others,

Lord Glenrith accepted with joy and eagerness an invitation to Temple

Loseley.

Lord and Lady Falkingham rejoiced to see so fair a prospect opening

before Blanche. Lord Glenrith was particularly good-tempered; he was

heir to a fine property; there was not an objection to him. Lady

Falkingham, whose health was very delicate, was much relieved by the

idea that she need never again pass from twelve till four in the

morning, seated on the blue sofas at Almack's, her head nodding with

sleep under the plumes which she thought it her duty to place upon it.

Blanche could not fail to perceive that Lord Glenrith was serious in

his attentions: it was impossible to dislike him; he was an honest,

genuine creature; he loved her sincerely, admired her, and respected

her;--he was not wanting in sense or information. Had not her mind been

prepossessed, she would most likely have been in love with him; at

least, ninety-nine girls in a hundred would have been so, and ought to

have been so. He proposed: her parents were delighted; she was sorry,

although she preferred him to any one else, except Captain De Molton.

Yet, what nonsense to allow her imagination to dwell upon a person who

cared not for her! Should she refuse an excellent man who was sincerely

attached to her--a connection with whom would delight her own parents,

and his parents, and all their mutual connections, for the sake of a

penniless captain who cut her--positively cut her? It would be the

height of folly; there would be a want of pride in continuing to pine

for an indifferent swain. So, as she had no good reason to adduce

either to herself, or to others, for saying "No," she said "Yes," and

she was engaged.

This great event took place a few days before the Falkingham family

paid a long-promised visit to the Westhopes. Lord Glenrith was to have

joined the party at the end of the week; but, as the accepted lover, he

obtained leave to accompany them to Cransley.

His sterling worth gained upon Blanche every day; there was something

so English, so true, so generous about him. Her parents were quite

delighted with his sentiments upon all subjects connected with

settlements. She heard him praised from morning till night, and she was

beginning to persuade herself that she ought to be, and that she was,

exceedingly happy, when they arrived at Cransley.

The sight of Lady Westhope reminded her of Paris, and of all she had

felt when there; and she was shocked to find she still retained such

vivid recollections of incidents the most trivial in themselves. Mr.

Wroxholme had arrived the day before, and at dinner Lord Westhope

remarked, "We shall be quite the old Paris party on Friday, when De

Molton comes."

Lady Blanche was listening to Lord Glenrith's description of his

father's place, Wentnor Castle; but she was not so absorbed in the

subject, but that these words caught her ear. She gave an involuntary

start; she felt Lady Westhope look at her; she felt herself colour.

But her start and her blush were unobserved: Lord Glenrith was

completely occupied in explaining how the seclusion of the south and

west fronts of the castle, and of the broad terrace overlooking the

rapid stream of the Dwent, was preserved by the alteration in the road,

which now approached the gateway from the north-east, instead of the

north-west.

If Lord Glenrith had a fault, or rather a foible, it was his passion

for his native place, and an inclination to think everything belonging

to himself superior to that which belonged to another. He seldom sold

a horse; for when once he had possessed it, he became so alive to its

merits, that he always asked more for it than others, who were not so

clear-sighted, thought it was worth. This is a happy disposition for

the possessor, and for those connected with him. It is seldom that such

a person makes an unkind husband, or a tyrannical father, or a hard

master; but it is not a quality that interests a romantic girl. Lady

Blanche, however, thought "Captain De Molton shall see I am not pining;

he shall see that his friend can appreciate me, if he cannot."

Mr. Wroxholme proved, upon farther acquaintance, to be a very

agreeable addition to the society. He had read much, and was full of

information. Lord Falkingham pronounced him to be one of the most

rising young men of the day. Mr. Wroxholme, on his part, was delighted

with Lord Falkingham's political sentiments, with Lady Falkingham's

high-breeding, with Lady Westhope's gentleness, with Lord Westhope's

good-humour and ease in his own house, with Lord Glenrith's downright

happiness, with Lady Blanche's beauty, with the good shooting, and the

beautiful place, and he felt gratitude towards Lady Westhope for having

given him the opportunity of enjoying society so much to his taste.

He was a man of good birth; but though born and bred a gentleman,

he had not before mixed in the very first circles, and he was

flattered at being deemed worthy of admission into one of them. He

had discrimination enough to be pleased with the shade of superior

refinement which pervaded it, and tact enough instantly to acquire its

tone.

When Lady Westhope found herself alone with Lady Blanche, she never

alluded to Captain De Molton; she felt that the less that was said upon

the subject the better.

Blanche had treated his departure from Paris as wilful neglect of her,

and she had laughed at his indifference. Although in her heart Lady

Westhope believed she had felt it acutely, it was wiser to treat the

whole affair as a trifling flirtation which had left no trace behind.

She was sorry Lord Westhope had invited Captain De Molton at this

moment, but it was one of those things for which there was no remedy.

He and Lady Blanche must meet some time or another, and the sooner it

was over the better.

Lady Blanche, meantime, continued to receive Lord Glenrith's

attentions, and to find her imagination more and more inclined to

wander, and her mind less and less able to take in the relative

positions of the stables, the kitchen-garden, and the coach-houses of

Wentnor Castle.

CHAPTER III.

Dicen que amor ha vencido,

A los deydades mayores,

Y que de sus pasadores

Cielo y tierra està ofendido.

_Spanish Romance._

During the four months which intervened between Captain De Molton's

leaving Paris and his joining the party at Cransley, how had he passed

his time? He was a person of much determination of character, and

when once he had made up his mind what was right, he could, generally

speaking, carry his resolutions into effect; at least it was only when

his feelings, naturally strong, were immediately under excitement, that

he was betrayed into actions of which his judgment did not approve.

To Lord Glenrith he owed an early debt of gratitude: their friendship

dated from boyhood. At Eton they had been bathing together, when De

Molton was seized with the cramp, and must have perished, had it not

been for the exertions of his young schoolfellow. This and many other

acts of kindness which the rich heir of Wentnor Castle was naturally

enabled to show to the penniless seventh son, and thirteenth child

of the distressed Lord Cumberworth, made De Molton's friendship for

Glenrith partake in some measure of the nature of gratitude. He felt it

would be doubly base in him to attempt to gain the affections of the

girl to whom Lord Glenrith owned himself attached, even if, with regard

to Lady Blanche herself, it would not have been ungenerous to drag her

from her exalted sphere into poverty and destitution with him.

He went straight to his regiment, and devoted himself with particular

energy to teaching his men the new manœuvres recommended by the Horse

Guards. Never were men so well appointed, never was troop in such

order. But his fellow-officers at the mess found him somewhat moody

and silent; he was not a jolly companion; and although all respected

him,--yes, and loved him too, and would have applied to him for advice

and comfort in any distress,--he was not, in the common acceptation of

the word, a popular man. It was not De Molton who was asked to ride

this fellow's horse at the hack stakes got up in the regiment; or

De Molton, to whom another fellow proposed to gallop forty miles to

London to see the new actress, and down again at night,--or to jump

into a hack-chaise after dinner and drive off to the tradesmen's ball

at the county town: but if any dutiful son wished to prolong his visit

to his parents, or any pining lover had an opportunity of flying to

his mistress, he felt pretty sure that De Molton would take his duty

for him. His manners were a little stately, and a youngster was not

likely to choose De Molton as the confident of any foolish scrape; yet

no one was more ready to sympathize with, and to relieve, any case of

unmerited distress.

He chanced to be in London one of the days that Lady Blanche passed

there in her way from Paris; and he had been attending his mother, and

three of his six sisters, to the play on the night when he saw Lady

Blanche.

It was with an uncontrollable burst of joy that he rushed to hand her

down the steps; and this brief interview sufficed to unsettle in his

heart all the reasonable acquiescence in the disposition of their fates

which he had been striving to attain.

When he received Lord Westhope's invitation, he certainly did not

think it quite impossible he might meet Lady Blanche; but he persuaded

himself that he had in four months allowed his friend all proper time

for making himself acceptable, and that there was no necessity for his

refusing the accustomed invitation to a house to which he was in the

habit of paying an annual visit. At all events, he should learn from

Lady Westhope what was the state of the case: anything was better than

the uncertainty in which he lived.

Lady Blanche's manner, when he met her on the dimly lighted stairs

of the theatre, had made him vaguely hope--he knew not what; for,

supposing they did love each other, what then was to happen? He

repeatedly asked himself this question; but did any one ever wish that

the person beloved should not return his love? De Molton was a very

reasonable man--he kept his feelings under great controul, but they

were strong and ardent, and he could not reach that pitch of stoicism!

To Cransley he went, with a mind distracted by doubt, wonder, hope,

and fear. As he drove to the door, he saw Lord Falkingham dismounting

from his cob; so he knew that Lady Blanche was in the house. "How will

she meet me?" he thought; "how shall I find her? how shall I regulate

my own behaviour?" and he almost repented having wilfully run into

such danger; although, in truth, it was the hope of being placed in

that very danger which had made him so gladly accept Lord Westhope's

invitation.

He was giving his orders to his servant at the door, when he saw

Lord Glenrith approach the house in shooting costume, followed by

keepers and dogs. He could not mistake the bright, happy face of his

friend. His teeth gleamed as the setting sun shone on them; his cheek

was sun-burned, and ruddy with exercise; his kind eyes beamed with

honest joy to see De Molton. De Molton's heart sank within him as he

recognized his dear friend; and it was with an effort, which would have

been visible to any other eyes, that he returned his cordial greeting.

As they both entered the drawing-room, the pale countenance and

melancholy brow of De Molton would, in the opinion of many, have set

off to advantage the gay good-humour of Lord Glenrith.

The ladies were all there. Lady Blanche shook hands with Captain De

Molton as soon as he had paid his devoirs to Lady Westhope, and,

without having raised her eyes higher than to his chin, re-seated

herself to her embroidery frame.

Lord Glenrith approached her. De Molton's heart beat quick; he felt

almost giddy. Lord Glenrith's manner was gay and unembarrassed: he

held a parcel in his hand. Lady Falkingham drew near--there was a

great colloquy: De Molton heard the expressions "beautiful!"--"the

prettiest I ever saw!"--"they tell me it is the first that has been

made;"--"well, how lovely!" Lady Blanche seemed to be expressing her

thanks, but in so low a tone of voice he could not catch the words.

She looked blushingly beautiful! Lady Falkingham moved a little on one

side, and he saw Lord Glenrith in the act of fastening a bracelet on

her arm. Perhaps another lover might not have selected such a moment

for presenting his first love-token, but the parcel was only just

arrived. Lord Glenrith was pleased with his purchase; all around were

friends, and why should there be any mystery?

To De Molton's eyes all mystery was indeed dispelled. He felt

choking. He could not master his feelings sufficiently to preserve an

indifferent countenance, and he left the room under the pretence of

seeing after his postboy, or his portmanteau.

The rest of the company gathered round the bride elect, and admired

the beautiful ornament and discussed its peculiar fabric; while poor

Blanche sat frightened at the agitation which pervaded her whole frame

in consequence of having been for five minutes in the society of De

Molton.

However, when she retired to her own room before dinner, she satisfied

herself that what she had felt was merely a very natural awkwardness

at first meeting a person with whom she certainly had flirted a

little, and shyness at being seen by a young man acquaintance, in

the act of receiving her lover's first present. She could not help

secretly wishing Lord Glenrith had not given the bracelet before so

many witnesses, and she felt there was a want of delicacy in the

proceeding, even while she told herself it was in unison with his open,

unsuspicious character, which measured the kindliness of others by his

own good-natured heart.

At dinner De Molton placed himself at the farther end of the table, and

the épergne prevented his being able to perceive Lady Blanche's face.

However, he saw Lord Glenrith's; and never did an honest countenance

express more secure and undisturbed happiness. Poor De Molton! He had

quitted Paris on purpose not to stand in the way of that happiness

which his friend had obtained; and now, how painful was it to see the

object accomplished!

During the evening, Lady Westhope contrived, in as quiet a manner as

she could, to convey to De Molton the confirmation of a fact which was

already too evident to his eyes, and she appeared not to remark the

varying hues of his complexion, and the agitation of his manner, during

her communication.

Lady Blanche strove to be easy and unembarrassed; and she succeeded so

far as to make him believe her happy, and perfectly satisfied with the

prospect before her.

He resolved to plead particular and sudden business--a summons from

his father--a relation at the point of death--any excuse to depart the

following day. This torture was not to be endured. Yet he wished to

have an opportunity of speaking to her once, and of telling her how

ardently he prayed for her welfare.

He left his room very early the next morning, and he perambulated the

library, the saloon, the breakfast-room, the hall. He knew Lady Blanche

was an early riser; Cransley was renowned for the lateness of its

breakfast-hour; perhaps she would make her appearance before the other

guests. He was not wrong in his calculations. Lady Blanche came into

the drawing-room to look for her mother's work-basket, and was hastily

retiring with it, when De Molton arrested her steps by saying, "that as

he was obliged to depart in an hour, he was anxious to express to one,

for whom he felt such esteem and admiration, his earnest wishes--his

prayers for her happiness."

"You are not going to-day, surely, Captain De Molton?" answered Blanche

in a tremulous tone.

"I must," he said: "I could not, would not stay here another day, for

anything this world can now offer me."

"Lady Westhope will be quite disappointed. She hoped you were come for

ten days, or a fortnight."

"Such was my intention; but circumstances--imperative circumstances,

over which I have no controul, render my stay here----impossible."

"I hope no misfortune has occurred in your family?" inquired Lady

Blanche, thoroughly impressed with the idea of his indifference towards

herself, and, consequently, by no means attributing his visible

agitation to its true cause.

"No misfortune has occurred in my family," he resumed in a voice of

deep emotion--"but one to myself. No--no! it is not a misfortune: on

the contrary, it is the thing in the world I ought most to wish; it

is the union of the two beings I most value, most respect, most love

on earth! I ought to rejoice--I do rejoice. Believe me, Lady Blanche,

though my voice falters, and I am at this moment weak, I rejoice that

the friend to whom I am bound by every tie of gratitude and affection

has gained the heart of the most perfect of womankind; and that the

woman who alone in my eyes is perfect, is likely to be happy with a

man who is all honour, truth, and uprightness. May Heaven in its mercy

bless you both!"

The tears stood in De Molton's glistening eyes. They almost overflowed.

"I am a fool," he added; "I thought I had more command over myself;

I did not mean to torment you, to insult you, with an avowal of my

hopeless, my presumptuous love!"

Lady Blanche had stood transfixed in fear, amazement, joy;--yes, joy!

there are no circumstances under which it is not joy to find affection

is requited. "And do you indeed love me?" she said, scarcely conscious

of what she uttered.

"Do I love you! Lady Blanche, can you ask that question? In folly,

hopelessness, misery, I cannot--cannot quell my love!"

"Oh, why--why did not you tell me sooner?" she said, earnestly clasping

her hands.

"Tell you so? How could I venture, penniless as I am, without a home to

offer you,--how could I have the insane presumption to ask you to share

poverty--penury with me, when splendour, rank, wealth were courting

your acceptance?"

"Oh, I despise these things! I always did! I never could care for money

in all my life, and now!"--She stopped; her engagement rushed across

her mind. She felt guilty of perjury and infidelity.

De Molton, in his turn, stood confounded; he had done everything he

had especially resolved not to do, and, mingled with the delight he

could not help experiencing at the avowal which had almost escaped

Lady Blanche's lips, he felt humiliated by the base part he had acted

towards the friend to whom he had meant to devote himself. He struck

his forehead, and exclaimed, "Oh, Lady Blanche, I am a wretch not

worthy of a moment's regard! Do not waste a thought on me; forget me,

or at least only remember me to bestow a sigh of pity on one who has

been betrayed, by his love for you, into an act of ingratitude for

which he abhors himself. Glenrith is my best friend,--he is the soul of

honour, he--he is worthy of you!"

Lady Blanche was frightened at what she had said--frightened at

what she had listened to. Voices were heard approaching,--the door

opened,--Captain De Molton rushed into the adjoining library. Lady

Blanche seized her mother's basket, and left the room before she had

time to perceive who the intruders were. As she ran up stairs, she met

Lady Westhope. "What is the matter, Blanche?" exclaimed Lady Westhope,

as her friend darted past her.

"Mamma wants me," she hastily answered, as she took refuge in her

mother's room.

"Mamma! mamma!" she exclaimed, throwing herself breathless into a

chair; "I am wretched, guilty, and miserable! I am the most unfortunate

creature in the world!"

"What possesses you, child? what is the matter?" replied Lady

Falkingham, as she put down the untasted piece of toast she held in her

hand.

"Mamma! he loves me after all!"

"Who, my dear?--what! Lord Glenrith? To be sure he does. I never saw a

man more attached in my life!"

"Poor dear Lord Glenrith, so he is! Oh, how little I deserve that he

should be so! when I--oh, mamma, what will you think of me? I have

almost owned that my affections are--at least I implied--Oh, mamma!

what shall I do?" And poor Blanche wept bitterly.

"Certainly, my dear Blanche, I do not consider it modest and becoming

in any young woman to allow a man to perceive that he has acquired too

much power over her heart; yet, as you are on the point of marriage,

I think you need not blame yourself so very much. There should always

be a certain reserve of manner and expression; but anxious as I am

that women should preserve their dignity, and that no daughter of mine

should condescend----"

"Oh, mamma! you do not understand me: I never told Lord Glenrith I

loved him."

"What on earth do you mean then?--what are you talking about?" Lady

Falkingham's countenance assumed an expression of alarm, wonder, and

displeasure.

"Oh, how can I tell you?--you, mamma, who never did anything weak, or

foolish, in your life! Do not look at me, mamma, with those stern and

reproachful eyes, or I can never confess it."

"Blanche, you alarm me more than I can describe. Do you mean that

you love any one better than the man whom you have accepted as your

husband,--the excellent, amiable, high-minded Lord Glenrith, who is so

sincerely devoted to you?"

"Oh, mamma! I do value him, and I render him justice, indeed; and I

love him in a kind of way----"

Lady Blanche was each moment becoming more alive to the ingratitude,

the duplicity, with which she had acted towards Lord Glenrith, and

began to wish she had not opened the subject at all to her mother.

"Explain yourself, Blanche," repeated her mother: "whom are you talking

of? Is it Mr. Wroxholme, whom you met at Paris?"

"Oh dear, no, mamma. It is Captain De Molton!" And she no longer found

any difficulty in speaking his name. Mr. Wroxholme might be a very

good man, but, in her eyes, was immeasurably inferior to the object of

her preference. Those who are in love, always resent as an injury the

suspicion that they could find charms in any other than the one person

to whose merits they are alive.

"Captain De Molton!" exclaimed Lady Falkingham; "why, I scarcely ever

heard you mention him! You ought to have told me this before."

"I never knew till to-day what were his feelings towards me, mamma!"

"I must say your lover has chosen a good moment for avowing his

passion! It proves an honourable mind! And he wishes to induce you to

break off your marriage with a man in every way calculated to make you

happy? For what? He has scarcely bread to eat himself, and his father

has none to give him."

"He knows all that, mamma, and he is going away this moment. He does

not ask me to marry him. He says he is not worthy of me."

"Oh, Blanche! Blanche! and you allow this man, who tells you he

cannot marry, to make love to you, while you are the affianced wife

of his friend! I should never have thought a daughter of mine would

have acted in so improper, so unprincipled a manner. Heaven knows, I

cannot accuse myself of having neglected my children. You have all

had every attention paid to your minds and your morals. Each hour had

its avocation; you were never permitted to read a book which Miss

Strickland or myself had not previously perused; you were never allowed

to walk beyond the shrubberies and the park! If, like some mothers, I

had neglected the essentials for the sake of accomplishments----but the

religion-master always came three times a week! How on earth can such

low notions of moral rectitude ever have found entrance into your head,

or your heart?"

Lady Blanche was in despair at her mother's grief. She now viewed her

own conduct with horror; but how to meet Lord Glenrith, with this

weight of guilt upon her mind?

"Look here," continued Lady Falkingham; "read this letter; all kindness

and generosity--receiving you into the family with joy, treating you

already as if you were their daughter!" Lady Falkingham gave Blanche

the joint epistle she had just received from Lord and Lady Wentnor,

expressing every thing most gratifying concerning the choice their son

had made.

Each word she read was a dagger to Lady Blanche's heart. "I cannot

overthrow all the happiness of these worthy people," she mentally

revolved, "and that of my parents, and of poor Lord Glenrith. I must

quell this foolish inclination,--I must fight a good fight, and I shall

conquer, I dare say. But it is hard, when now, for the first time, I

know myself beloved."

After a pause, she told her mother she would try to compose herself:

she implored her not to mention the subject to her father; she strove

to persuade her mother, and herself, that it was only a passing

feeling, a momentary agitation which would soon subside; that it had

been pique, that it was now gratified vanity--any thing, in short,

except love. Her mother was only too glad to be deceived, and assisted

her in her self-deception.

Lady Falkingham would have been very sorry to lose so estimable and so

unexceptionable a husband for her daughter; but the disgraceful _éclat_

of breaking off an engagement openly entered into and acknowledged, was

still more appalling to a person who had a salutary horror of being

"talked of." She had herself passed through life with the highest

character as a wife and as a mother. Her elder daughters had married

at a proper age, and in a proper manner. She looked upon a young

lady's first love as a silly affair, which has more to do with the

imagination than the heart; and if any of her other daughters had ever

felt a preference which had not received their mother's sanction, they

would never have ventured to confess it with that frankness which, in

spite of the education just described by Lady Falkingham, was one of

Blanche's characteristics.

CHAPTER IV.

Now have I shewed you bothe, these whyche ye lyst,

Stately fortune, or humble povertee:

That is to say, now lyeth it in your fyst

To take here bondage, or free libertee.

Sir Thomas More.

Captain De Molton had sent his servant to the neighbouring town to

procure him a chaise, that with the least possible delay he might carry

his project of departure into execution.

When he had in some measure recovered his self-possession, he made

his appearance at the breakfast-table, and informed Lady Westhope

that he was unexpectedly obliged to return to London, to arrange with

his father some matters connected with his exchange from his present

regiment, which, as Lady Westhope knew, was under orders for India.

This was strictly true, for he had resolved to insist upon his

father's suspending the application he was on the point of making for

this exchange. He determined to proceed to India with his regiment.

The unhealthiness of the climate, which gave his relations so much

uneasiness, appeared to him, in his present frame of mind, a positive

recommendation.

The company expressed all due disappointment at his sudden

departure--all but Lady Blanche; she was not present. Lady Westhope

suspected something must have occurred, and when she bade De Molton

adieu, she pressed his hand with a mysterious kindliness, which she

meant should imply, "You are acting like a man of honour; I see you

suffer, and I pity you."

She was confirmed in this opinion, by Mr. Wroxholme telling her he

had found Captain De Molton in the library before breakfast, with his

head leaning against the marble chimney-piece, and his countenance so

pale and haggard, that he feared for a moment something dreadful must

have happened. Lady Westhope recollected Blanche's hurrying manner of

passing her on the stairs, and she pitied all parties.

Lady Falkingham's indisposition accounted for Lady Blanche's absence

till the hour of luncheon, when she came down stairs with a feeling of

kindness towards Lord Glenrith, awakened by the consciousness of having

injured him. She scarcely ventured to raise her eyes from the ground,

but her blushing manner passed for the modesty of a young girl on the

eve of marriage. Lord Glenrith pathetically lamented the absence of his

friend, and Lady Blanche quivered at the sound of his name, and then

reproached herself for doing so.

Lord Glenrith showed her the letters he had received from the different

members of his family. Blanche could not but feel flattered by the

manner in which she was spoken of; could not but think the better of

the son, and the brother, who was loved with such tender affection;

could not but own she ought to be happy with the prospect of possessing

such a father, mother, brothers, and sisters-in-law. Lord Glenrith in

his own happiness perceived nothing wanting in her manner, and laughed,

and talked, the gayest of the gay. His inward satisfaction did not

render him sentimental, but his buoyant spirits made him inclined to

be pleased with everybody and everything. He even forgot the dislike

he had imbibed for Mr. Stapleford; and when his arrival that day was

announced, he declared him to be a "devilish good fellow, though he was

a sarcastic dog."

His flow of spirits was almost oppressive to Lady Blanche, yet she

rejoiced he did not possess the sensitive tact which might have

rendered him alive to every look of hers.

At dinner, Lord Glenrith was telling Lord Falkingham he had a famous

brood-mare at Wentnor Castle, whose colt was likely to win the St.

Leger.

"Is your colt as clever as your old horse Perseus, Glenrith?" asked Mr.

Stapleford.

"Ah! Perseus! by Jove, that is a horse! Never was a thorough-bred one

so good for weight--and as active as a cat--such action! and such

pasterns! None of your short pasterns the grooms are so fond of--but

long enough to be elastic! He is a true Whalebone!"

"I am not sure, after all, I do not like Quirk still better,"

Stapleford dropped out quietly, while a sly smile lurked in the corner

of his lip.

"Quirk is a singularly good horse! He has such bone, and such a

constitution!"

"And that grey pony, Glenrith--you will never part with that pony?"

"Part with Yung-frau? not for three hundred guineas!"

"You are a fortunate man in your stud, Glenrith!" remarked Stapleford,

with a quiet, composed, and serious air, which to the unsuspicious

Lord Glenrith was perfectly satisfactory, while the rest of the party,

especially poor Blanche, were painfully aware he was playing on the one

weak point of the amiable young Benedick.

Nothing lowers a man in the eyes of a woman so much as being made a

butt, no matter whether the quizzer be a person for whose opinion she

entertains any respect or not. It was unlucky that, at the moment

the _héros de roman_ lover had departed in magnanimous despair, the

successful one should lay himself open to the quizzing of a dandy.

Lady Blanche felt miserable--more miserable than when she parted

from De Molton--more miserable than when she heard the jingle of his

hack-chaise as it drove from the door--more miserable than when her

mother's statement of the case made her awake to the enormity of her

misconduct--more miserable than when she resolved to drive her lover's

image for ever from her mind. Those distresses were at least elevated

ones--this bordered on the ridiculous.

In the course of the evening Mr. Stapleford found himself near Lady

Blanche. "I must offer you my congratulations, Lady Blanche, and

especially upon the good looks and the good spirits of the fortunate

Lord Glenrith. His beaming and ruddy appearance shows that you have not

been unnecessarily cruel, tormenting before you consented to make him

the happiest of men. It must give a person of your kindly feelings

great pleasure to behold a face so redolent with joyousness!"

Every word of this speech was disagreeable. Poor Blanche did not admire

a "ruddy" man--did not like an unsentimental lover; and, above all, she

did not like the implication that she had been

"Won unwooed, or slightly wooed at best."

Mr. Stapleford bore not the slightest ill-will either to Lady Blanche,

or to Lord Glenrith. He enjoyed saying the disagreeable thing in the

civilest manner possible; partly because it is almost the only exercise

of power which a person without house, or lands, or fortune, can

indulge in; partly because he liked to see what people really felt--and

he thus frequently discovered the true state of their minds; partly

because he happened to possess the species of tact which enabled him to

do it--and everybody derives pleasure from success of any kind.

The next day Blanche received a packet from Wentnor Castle. It

contained some beautiful ornaments--offerings from different members of

her future family, each accompanied by the prettiest note imaginable.

Congratulations showered in from every quarter. All the numerous

friends and relations of both sides wrote letters in which each party

was described as perfection, and each as having met with perfection.

It is astonishing that matrimony should ever fail to secure lasting

happiness, when (if we may believe the written testimony of those who

best know the contracting parties) none but paragons ever enter into

the holy state. But among all the happy unions that have been joyfully

anticipated, none ever gave more general satisfaction than the present.

The age, situation, rank--everything was suitable. Poor Lady Blanche

felt herself every moment more thoroughly hampered, entangled, and

pledged; and every moment her disinclination to the marriage increased.

It was an odd thing! but Mr. Stapleford's quiet manner of quizzing

Lord Glenrith, and his imperturbable good-humour under it,--or rather,

his perfect unconsciousness of what was happening,--hurt his cause

even more than her preference of De Molton. She would rather have

seen him angry and resentful; to persons with _la tête exaltée_, the

smallest shadow of ridicule irrecoverably destroys the halo of romance

they would fain throw around the object of their devotion. Blanche

might have turned from her hopeless and youthful dream of love, to

admiration, respect, obedience, and submission; but when her head, her

heart, and her imagination were possessed with the dignified brow, the

melancholy eyes, the mellow voice, the lofty air, the noble grief of

De Molton, to see the joyous, the "ruddy" Glenrith perfectly contented

under the quizzing of a Stapleford, prevented her being able to work

herself up to the feelings it was her duty to entertain towards him.

Mr. Wroxholme one day remarked to Lady Westhope, that Lady Blanche

appeared to be extremely out of spirits, and that he almost feared her

disposition and that of her future husband were not exactly suited.

"She seems to take no pleasure in his country pursuits--she listens

with an abstracted air while he continues to pour into her ear details

which he might perceive are not interesting to her; though I own I

sometimes wonder she should not be more curious about Wentnor Castle,

which, from the engravings, must be a magnificent and interesting

place."

Lady Westhope agreed with Mr. Wroxholme, and could not help half

confiding to him, that she feared Lady Blanche had some other

prepossession.

"Poor girl!" resumed Mr. Wroxholme; "but then it is a thousand pities

she should marry, if she cannot love, Lord Glenrith."

"He is such a good man!" answered Lady Westhope; "he has such excellent

principles--he is so sure to make a true and faithful husband, that in

the long-run I should hope no woman, who had herself good principles,

could fail to be happy with him."