"No, no—it is not there!" cried Julia, clasping her hands—"it is not there! My heart was given to kindness. I would have loved him faithfully, but I was banished from his presence—second to his artful mother in his thoughts—betrayed by the person I most trusted—proscribed as the mistress of his house. Many women would have resented the indignities I have borne—but I have flown from the temptations which surrounded me, and my father has given me shelter. Oh! you have sacrificed me, but do not upbraid me—I have done no wrong to any one. Why should you look hardly upon me, who promised me happiness, and have broken its fulfilment? Poor Clara! how we have suffered for our fault. My father warned me of my wickedness!"
"Did I not warn you, Lady Ennismore?" asked Lady Wetheral, with a raised complexion, as she beheld, unmoved, poor Julia's suppliant attitude. "Did I not say, I scorned a woman who was mean enough to seek the world's upbraiding by her conduct? You were the Countess of Ennismore—your flight has brought down obloquy upon the name. Who will believe the statement of a runaway? Who will believe the fugitive Lady Ennismore has been unaccompanied in her flight? The voice of the world will be loud in censure upon the step you have taken."
"Oh, my father, my father! save me from the world—save me from reproaches like these!" exclaimed Julia, rising from her prostrate attitude, and endeavouring to quit the room; but her mother caught her dress, and detained her. There was something awful in the expression of her countenance, as she addressed Lady Ennismore.
"If a mother sacrifices her time and endeavours to form a child's happiness, has she not a right to expect its completion? Did I not act for you—think for you—and labour for you? Did I not place you in affluence and grandeur? Are you not the Countess of Ennismore? Tell me, are you not Countess of Ennismore, the mistress of princely Bedinfield?"
"I am the unfortunate and unhappy wife of Lord Ennismore," answered Julia, "the nominal mistress of Bedinfield, but the real proprietor of only sorrow and degradation."
"Away with such folly!" cried Lady Wetheral, with vehemence; "let me not hear such mad complaints, such horrible madness! Have you not all that is coveted by human beings?—state, high rank, wealth, and influence? What does your arrogant heart covet now? What do you presume to wish, beyond the splendid lot you have obtained?"
"Happiness—I ask for happiness! I ask for my husband's heart—I ask for domestic peace," replied Julia, pressing her forehead with her trembling hands. "I ask for the simple pleasures of domestic peace. I will not accept grandeur without them!"
"You have brought public remark upon the name of Wetheral," resumed her mother, her eyes darting fire. "You have betrayed the confidence of your mother, who hoped to see her daughter an envied creature! You have thrown away the jewels of life, to grasp at shadows. Happiness!—who is happy?—not those who are born to stand apart in grandeur—not those upon whom the eyes of the multitude gaze in admiration. It may be a word bandied by the humble, to balance the evils of poverty, and give a zest to lowly destinies—but the great ones heed it not. They live in a sphere set apart from grovelling notions—they spurn the folly of romantic, sickly fancy, to hold on their course like meteors! I am a parent most miserable. I am deprived of all I laboured to advance. My heart was anchored upon the glorious destiny of three children, who have betrayed their high calling—but Bell has done the worst. A dukedom was offered her!—a dukedom was tendered to her, I say! and the puny coward struck it from her!—oh, that hour to a mother's heart!..."
Lady Wetheral's vehemence overpowered her strength. The sudden and unaccountable appearance of her daughter, without any previous warning, almost led her to suppose a spirit from the dead had risen to taunt her with her deep disappointments. It seemed as if a spirit from another world had sought her, to jeer and mock at her misery as a defeated mother, and that form assumed the likeness of her banished Julia. What! had she heard the word "infamy" spoken?—did she hear that Lady Ennismore had flown from her husband? Was this to be added to Clara's death, and Christobelle's ingratitude? Was she indeed to endure this accumulated burthen of crushed hopes?—to see all her long years of anxious efforts destroyed, and behold the very beings she had raised so high, turn to rend her? What spirit could bend under such fearful ingratitude, that possessed one spark of her indomitable determinations?
A deep pause succeeded. Julia still listened, with her face buried in her hands, and her dress was yet in the grasp of her mother's hand, when a cry from Mrs. Bevan startled her. Lady Ennismore looked up in terror. She beheld her incensed parent standing before her, in the attitude of reproach, but her eyes were dull, and her form had become rigid: contending passions were warring with terrible violence in her heart.