It happened to be one of the few very hot summers we are occasionally blessed with in this country. So that though it was now the middle of September, the weather was still very sultry, and it was only late at night that there was any thing like a refreshing coolness in the air.

Lady Caroline Montague was still so unwell as to keep her room, so that neither her ladyship nor Lady Palliser were able to come out. This was a great disappointment to others besides Mrs. Dorothea; it was one, however, for which Willoughby was fully prepared; for though he had of course called every day to inquire for Lady Caroline, she had not been well enough to see even him. The ball was, nevertheless, going off with great spirit. Being a wedding party, in the first place, gave it éclat; and then Aunt Dorothea had insisted on its being opened by her favourite Madeline and that far-famed hereditary beau of her own, Mr. Cameron, whom she was so proud and so pleased to have handed down to her niece in such high preservation.

Fate, however, had ordained that Mrs. Dorothea Arden's ball should be marked by more than one memorable event.

Louisa, after dancing with Sir James, had also, as she generally did, danced with Henry Lindsey; who, instead of quitting England, had made his appearance at Mrs. Dorothea's with a flushed cheek, an angry eye, and a hurried, absent manner. When the quadrille had concluded, they were among the imprudent couples who ventured to promenade the illuminated walk. Henry seemed to think the affair of last night forgiven or forgotten, for he began in his usual passionate strain to talk of the fervour of his own attachment, and reproach Louisa with comparative coldness.

For the gratification of a culpable vanity, as well as from really feeling a secret preference for Henry, Louisa had so long listened to such language as this, and thus authorised him to believe himself beloved, that she now literally knew not how to pacify him; although she was far from having made up her mind to sacrifice, either to his feelings or her own, the title and brilliant establishment which still awaited her acceptance, if she could but bring herself to take the advice of her friends, and marry his brother.

Henry could not be blind to what were the wishes of Louisa's family; and he had of late had many reasons, besides the acceptance of the bracelet, to suspect that she herself hesitated. The idea drove him almost mad. The interview of last night, though it had convinced him of his power over Louisa when present, had by no means silenced his fears as to what she might be persuaded to do or to promise in his absence; he had determined, therefore, to bring matters to a crisis. He besought her, with all the eloquence of which he was master, to end his suspense, and pronounce his doom. She hesitated—she knew she should never be permitted to marry Henry; and thinking that she had already indulged too long in an idle flirtation, a foolish preference that must end in nothing, she confessed at last how much it was her mother's wish that she should marry Sir James. Henry lost all self-command; overwhelmed her with reproaches; raved at her perfidy, her cruelty; and after working himself up to a perfect phrenzy, threatened to put a period to his existence that very night—that very hour, and before her eyes.

As his agitation increased, his step quickened, till it was almost impossible for Louisa to keep pace with him; while, as the interest of the conversation deepened, he led her first as much apart from the other couples as possible, and finally, turning short round a corner, quitted the general promenade altogether. He then, with his really alarmed companion, entered a cross walk, which was shrouded in almost total obscurity, except that at the furthest point of its long and unfrequented vista, one solitary lamp glimmered, as if but to make the surrounding gloom more apparent.

Louisa's terror was now extreme: she felt certain that he had dragged her to this gloomy spot to witness, as he had declared she should, the horrible act of suicide he was about to commit.


CHAPTER XII.