MYSTERY AND CONFIDENCE:

A TALE.

BY A LADY.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT-STREET, HANOVER-SQUARE,
AND SOLD BY GEORGE GOLDIE, EDINBURGH,
AND JOHN CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1814.

B. Clarke, Printer, Well-Street, London.

CONTENTS

[CHAP. I.]
[CHAP. II.]
[CHAP. III.]
[CHAP. IV.]
[CHAP. V.]
[CHAP. VI.]
[CHAP. VII.]
[CHAP. VIII.]
[CHAP. IX.]

MYSTERY
AND
CONFIDENCE.

CHAP. I.

——Infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
——A great perturbation in nature,
To receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effect of watching.

Macbeth.

Laura, St. Aubyn, O'Brien, and Mordaunt, were seated on one side the fire, with the sandwich tray before them; on the other side, thrown on a sofa, Ellen saw a tall thin young man, who, deeply absorbed in thought, noticed not her entrance. One pale, sickly looking hand hung motionless by his side, the other shaded his eyes, and over his brow his black hair fell in disordered curls; his dress, though that of a gentleman, was evidently neglected, and his whole appearance was

"Drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn;
Or crazed by care, or cross'd by hopeless love!"

As Ellen entered, St. Aubyn rose, and with subdued emotion, said in a low tone:

"My love, we waited for you;" then somewhat louder;—"My Lord De Montfort, will you allow me to introduce you to...." he faltered, and looked as if he dreaded to pronounce the name ... "to my wife ... to ... Lady St. Aubyn?"

As he spoke, Lord De Montfort started from his reverie, shook back the curls which shaded his face, and shewed a fine, but pale and emaciated countenance. For an instant his bright black eyes flashed, and his cheeks crimsoned with a sudden emotion. He hastily took two or three steps forward, as if to greet some well-known friend; but seeing Ellen, who, half alarmed, leaned upon St. Aubyn, he gazed upon her for a moment with such an earnest yet melancholy expression as extremely affected her. She courtesied, and he bent his head with the air of a perfect gentleman, but spoke not, and then threw himself on his sofa again.

Ellen perceived that St. Aubyn's frame shook with subdued emotion, and her own trembled with an indefinable sensation.

"Come, Lady St. Aubyn," said Laura, "sit here by the fire; you look pale and cold; you should not indeed expose yourself to the night air in crossing the hall and staircase."

Ellen gladly sat down, and while they were taking their little meal, she glanced her eyes towards the youth, whose mysterious manner impressed her with feelings of no very pleasing import: she saw that under the shade of his bent brows he was attentively gazing upon her. The portentous gloom of his countenance seemed to her troubled imagination to forebode some direful event, and she grew so pale, that Laura perceiving it, put a glass of wine into her hand, and begged her to drink it. Before she would comply, St. Aubyn said:—

"Ellen, neither my entreaties, nor those of his former friend, Miss Cecil, can prevail on Lord De Montfort to take the slightest refreshment; try, my love, if you can induce him to take a glass of wine with you."

Ellen with sudden effort conquering the agitation of her spirits, said: "Indeed, my Lord, I shall be very happy if Lord De Montfort will do me that honour. May I, my Lord," speaking to him, "make it my request that you will do so?"

The soft persuasive tones of her voice seemed to touch him; he rose, and with a voice deep, melancholy, and impressive, said:

"At your request, Madam!"

He advanced, and took from Laura a glass of wine she offered to him; he bowed to Ellen, and lifted the glass to his lips, but instantly exclaimed, while his whole person shook with agitation:

"I cannot drink it! In this house! Oh, God!"

He let fall the glass, and covering his face with his hands, rushed out of the room.

O'Brien instantly followed him, while the little party which remained sat in silent dismay and astonishment. Yet St. Aubyn's emotion partook more of vexation than surprize: he paced the room with hasty strides for a few minutes, and then approaching Ellen, said, clasping her hand in his, which trembled with agitation—"This scene has been too much for you, my love: could I have imagined De Montfort's demeanor would have been so wild, I would not have brought him hither; yet let us make allowances for him—he doated on his sister." St. Aubyn's voice seemed elevated with deep contending passions: for a moment he paused, then added, "You had better go to your rest, my love, and you, Laura: I do not suppose this young man will return to-night."

He rung, and inquired of the servant in waiting where the two gentlemen then were. "They have been in the study, my Lord," said the man; "but are now gone to their chambers, which Mrs. Bayfield sent to say were ready for them."

The ladies rose to retire, just as Mr. O'Brien returned: he brought apologies from his pupil to Lady St. Aubyn, saying that Lord de Montfort regretted extremely his distress should have shewed itself so visibly, and doubtless alarmed her. "Forgive him, Madam," said O'Brien: "this is the first time he has been in this house, or even in England, since the death of Lady St. Aubyn: and recollections of the sister he lost so young, the sister he adored, have been too much for him."

"Surely," said Laura, "he must have been uncommonly attached to her, since six years have not effaced her from his memory." She sighed—the tear stood in her eye; for she thought—"It is scarcely as many months since I lost the sweetest sister in the world, yet she is comparatively forgotten."

"He cherishes every recollection of her," said O'Brien, "with officious care: he constantly wears her portrait next his heart. Before we left Spain, he insisted on visiting her grave, and was so deeply affected, I feared for his reason. To you, my Lord St. Aubyn, I ought to apologize for details which I see distress you, but I thought it was necessary to account for my pupil's strange deportment."

St. Aubyn bowed; but traces of vexation were legible in his expressive face. Mr. Mordaunt made some inquiries after the present state of Lord de Montfort, to which Mr. O'Brien replied he had left him in bed, and tolerably composed; that he had consented to breakfast with the family the next morning, when he hoped personally to apologize to the Countess for the alarm he had given her.

The ladles now retired, and each went to her respective apartment. Lady St. Aubyn passed through her own room into that where the infant lay: both the child and his nurse slept quietly. She knelt a moment by the bed-side, and offered a fervent prayer to heaven for the health and happiness of her infant, and for its father, who seemed menaced by some mysterious disturbance. The contrast presented by the soft sleep, the placid innocence of the baby's face, to the scene of anxiety and confusion she had left, deeply affected her. Tears stole down her cheeks, and wetted the little hands she held pressed to her lips. At length, rousing herself, she returned to her bed-chamber, where Jane waited to undress her: "Make haste, Jane," she said, "I am weary." Jane obeyed in silence; for her Lady's pensive looks had power to quiet even her loquacious propensities.

In a few minutes Ellen was laid on her pillow, and the tumultuous throbbing of her heart began to subside. In about half an hour she heard St. Aubyn go to the room he occupied at present, and fancied, after his valet left him, she could distinctly hear him pacing the apartment, and sighing heavily: but this perhaps was chiefly fancy; for the wind still howled and sobbed round the Castle, and through its large hall and long galleries. Sometimes it sounded like the low moans of one in grief or pain: then in shriller gusts it shook the lofty battlements, or swept over the tops of the high trees, which bent and rustled beneath its power.

Ellen, restless, uneasy, impressed with the melancholy countenance and strange conduct of their mysterious guest, vainly endeavoured to sleep, and turned from side to side, soothed only in the intervals of the storm by hearing the soft breathings of her infant, whose couch (the door being open between the rooms) was so near her, that she could accurately distinguish every breath he drew. Two or three times she was inclined to rise, and steal him from his nurse's side to partake her bed; for she felt how glad she should be in that unquiet hour to feel his little cheek pressing against hers, and hold him to her anxious heart; but fearing to disturb, or give him cold, she relinquished her purpose, and endeavoured to compose herself to rest.

At length, just after the Castle clock had struck two, she felt as if sleep were stealing over her fatigued senses; but starting from a momentary forgetfulness, she heard a light footstep, yet sounding as if the person walking wore no shoes, approaching her bed-room door. It was she knew unfastened; for lest the child should be ill, or want additional assistance, it was always left so. Starting, she listened: her breath grew short, and her heart beat audibly, as the steps approached nearer and nearer; yet not losing her presence of mind she drew aside her curtain, and fixing her eyes on the door, prepared to fly into the inner room, should, as she now began to expect, a midnight robber meet her view.

Slowly, slowly, opened the door, and a tall thin figure, wrapped in a loose night-gown, just appeared within it. "Sister! sister!" said a voice, low, tremulous, and impressive: "sister, are you awake? You bade me call you early."

The figure! the voice!—Oh, what became of Ellen, when in both she recognized the wild, the mysterious, De Montfort! In his pale hand he bore a lamp, the flashing light of which fell at intervals on his gloomy countenance: while his bright black eyes were indeed open, but, oh! "their sense was shut."

Again, as he advanced into the room, he repeated in the same low mournful tone, "Sister Rosolia! What, sleeping still? You said you would rise early, and walk with me." Then pausing, he seemed to stand as if listening for an answer; but suddenly, with a start of recollection and a heavy sigh, he exclaimed, "Oh yes, I remember! too well I remember! You cannot rise: you will never rise again!—You are dead! you are dead! you are dead!"

Again a solemn pause ensued, and sighs, which seemed to rend his bosom, alone broke the terrific silence of the moment.

Again he spoke with an energy of action, as if his sleeping agitations were breaking into frenzy, addressing himself as in answer to one who had spoken to him.

"But did he murder you? Was it St. Aubyn? Tell me, I conjure you, and answer truly. Condemn not your own soul, and O, Rosolia, involve not mine in condemnation by a lie!—A lie!—Can the dead lie?—And you are come to me here—aye, here, in this very chamber, where in our innocent school-days you used to sleep—to tell me the truth—the truth, Rosolia."

And now with quicker steps he paced the chamber, as if pursuing one who fled before him, yet, with that wonderful instinctive power which often attends the sleep-walker, avoiding every obstacle.

"Nay, fly me not!" he exclaimed: "deceive me not; for I have seen an angel in thy place to-night; and if thou art not a false and lying spirit, thou wilt not lead me to injure her." Then pausing again, as if listening to some one who spoke, he said, with quickness—

"I know it! I know it! That pistol—that ring! Yes, yes, yes, yes! Those indeed were direful evidences of his guilt!—Years, years, I have passed in thinking of them!—Yet he says, he swears, he is innocent—that it was De Sylva—that thou wert guilty! Oh, tell me, Rosolia, was it—was it so?—But I will pray for thy soul."

He knelt, and placing the lamp before him on the floor, its dismal light fell on his sad countenance, and shewed his eyes upturned, and his lips moving as in fervent prayer, while at intervals he crossed himself, and bowed his forehead to the earth. Then rising with a sudden start, he exclaimed—

"Hark, O'Brien calls! He will hear me—he shall not know my thoughts. It might not be St. Aubyn who shed thy blood: yet, oh, Rosolia—oh, my sister, it was thy blood I saw! And here is some of it on my hand."

He shook his hand violently, and appearing to look at it earnestly, he uttered a low, mournful, and distracted cry of terror, and rushed out of the room.

Alarm and horror had kept Ellen silent—she fainted not; yet scarcely could she be said to live. But as soon as his receding footsteps convinced her he was really gone, she hastily threw on some of her clothes, and flew, scarcely in her senses, to St. Aubyn's room. His door was fast, but with repeated knockings she aroused him, and great indeed was his consternation to see her so pale, so almost convulsed with fear and agitation.

"My dearest life!" he exclaimed: "what, for heaven's sake, is the matter with the child?"

"Oh! I have left him! I have forsaken him!" said she in terror, "all the doors open too, and that poor distracted youth may perhaps return, and who knows what injury he may do him! Oh! let us fly to the child," and she made some hasty steps towards the door.

"Recollect yourself, my Ellen," said the astonished St. Aubyn: "you are dreaming—sit down in this chair by the fire, and compose your spirits."

"Oh! no, it was no dream," said the shuddering Ellen, "I saw him as I see you now! he came to my room and said such dreadful things!"—

"Who came to your room?" exclaimed St. Aubyn: "who dared to intrude, to disturb and alarm you thus?"

"Oh! he was sleeping, I believe! but in his sleep—Oh heavens! he talked so dreadfully—of such horrid things—and called upon his sister in such tones! Oh! I never, never shall forget them!"

"Was it De Montfort?" asked the dismayed St. Aubyn.

"Oh yes, oh yes—De Montfort! Oh, his eyes, his face, his voice! I never, never, shall forget them!" she repeated with renewed agitation.

"Unhappy young man!" said St. Aubyn, with a sigh. "Would to God thou had'st never come hither! Affright not yourself, my Ellen, with his wild wanderings. By this time, I had hoped the wretch, who caused this dreadful mischief, might have been found, and all might have been cleared. Years have I sought in vain. Still, still, he evades my search—perhaps exists no longer.

"It is, however, time to reveal the past to you; but now you are too much alarmed to hear the long and melancholy tale: return to your bed, my Ellen; try to rest for my sake, for your babe's, who must suffer, should his tender nurse be ill: go to repose, and I will watch by you till morning; then, dear, and for ever dear creature, all shall be revealed; but remember your promise, in spite of all appearances—still to believe me innocent!"

Prevailed on at length to return to her own chamber, yet Ellen entreated St. Aubyn to examine the gallery, and see if De Montfort might not be again returned to visit the room he seemed to know so well; and even when assured he was not there, she still shuddered and turned pale, as fancy pictured him standing with his lamp in the door-way, or pacing with disordered steps the chamber floor.

After obtaining a few hours rest, which somewhat restored her, Ellen, by appointment, joined St. Aubyn in his study at a very early hour, where he had promised to explain, as far as he could, the strange and vexatious events which had so long involved him in the greatest uneasiness.

Sad was St. Aubyn's countenance, and the cheek of Ellen was yet pale from her recent agitation when they met. St. Aubyn, tenderly taking her hand, said, "I half regret, my Ellen, that my selfish love withdrew you from that sweet content and cheerfulness which surrounded your peaceful abode when first we met, to partake with me cares and alarms which otherwise you never would have known."

"My dear St. Aubyn, do not talk so," said Ellen, with a tender tear: "all the cares, all the alarms you speak of, were they ten times doubled, could not outweigh, in my estimation, the happiness of being one hour your wife. Oh believe, my beloved Lord, that fate I would have chosen, even though I had been sure the next would have brought my death."

"Matchless creature!" said St. Aubyn, clasping her to his bosom: "in such love, such tenderness, I am overpaid for all the griefs which former events have brought upon me, for all the anxiety with which the present hour surrounds me!—Repeat to me, dearest, as well as you can remember, what you heard from the unfortunate Edmund in his nocturnal visit to your apartment."

Ellen, while her cheek was blanched by the fearful recollection, and her whole frame trembled as she called to mind that terrific visit, endeavoured to obey, yet she feared to shock him, by repeating those words which seemed to connect his name with the idea of guilt and murder; but contrary to her expectation, he heard her without surprize, and with calm, though sorrowful composure: he sighed heavily indeed, but no alarm or perturbation appeared in either his countenance or gesture. As she ended, he said, "All this I knew; but too well knew what horrible suspicions this unhappy youth has formed, nay own he had great reason to conceive them. Poor Edmund! these dismal thoughts, working in his mind, and, as it appears, concealed from all others, have preyed upon it till reason seems shaken, and his troubled spirit wakes even while his bodily organs are locked in sleep! No wonder in this dreadful tumult of his imagination he came to your room, for that room used to be his sister's when she visited my mother before our unfortunate marriage was even thought of; and often, doubtless, in the days of his childhood, he has gone to her door to waken her at her request, and chid her for sleeping so late when he wanted her to walk with him: for dearly did he love her; and in those days she was innocent, and she was happy! Alas! poor Rosolia, whatever were thy faults, thy fate was dreadful!"

He sighed, and was a moment silent.

CHAP. II.

Such an act,
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue, hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And plants a blister there—makes marriage vows
As false as divers oaths.

Hamlet.

O ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife,
The secrets of my heart thy bosom shall partake.

Julius Cæsar.

"I need not," said St. Aubyn, "say much on the subject of my first acquaintance with Lady Rosolia de Montfort. You have heard, I believe, that her father was a near relation of mine, and that her mother was a Spanish Lady of a high noble family, and were Roman Catholics. The lady's friends were exceedingly averse to the match, and at length consented only on condition that the sons of the marriage should be bred Roman Catholics; and after the father's death, should he die during their minority, be placed under the care of the mother's relations. Rosolia would probably also have been a Catholic, but her mother died young, and she was placed in the care of my mother and Lady Juliana Mordaunt. In the vacations she was generally here, where my mother constantly, and my aunt frequently, resided; and here also Edmund almost always spent the time of his school recesses, though twice they went to Spain with their father, and spent a few months amongst their mother's connections.

"Rosolia grew up very handsome, but the character of her beauty was not such as suited my taste: there was too much hauteur in her countenance; too much pride in the mind which informed it to please me; yet from our early youth the friends on both sides were anxious to unite us. I had at that time no particular predilection for any of her sex, nor could I object any thing against her, though certainly not exactly the sort of woman I should have chosen; her partiality in my favour, however, appeared evident, and was too flattering to be resisted by a young man like me, from a young woman who had crowds of admirers, most of them my superiors in fortune and quality.

"We were married, therefore, when I was about five-and-twenty, and Rosolia six years my junior. For two years that my mother lived, we remained a great deal with her, and in the country, under her eye and that of Lady Juliana. Rosolia did not discover those unpleasant traits, which, though they lay dormant, were not conquered.

"On my mother's death, we removed for a time to London, and there Rosolia lay in of a son, the only child we ever had. But, ah! how different a mother was Rosolia from you, my Ellen! No care for her infant subdued the excessive vivacity she now began to display, no maternal tenderness subjugated, or even softened, the levity of conduct which now became manifest, and ultimately was her bane. The society of every idle coxcomb was preferred to mine: my remonstrances, and those of my respectable aunt, nay, even of her own father, were unheeded. My disposition, naturally inclined to jealousy, took fire at the lightness of her carriage; but she held me in contempt, often in derision; and as the tongue of slander had not yet fixed on the name of any particular person to connect with her, I was obliged to submit to see her flirting, as it is called, first with one admirer, then another, and the last fool as welcome as the former. My aunt, wearied and vexed at our domestic unhappiness, in a great measure forsook us, and contracted a dislike of Lady St. Aubyn, which, in some degree, extended to all her family. Edmund was still our frequent guest, but his partiality for his sister would not allow him to see a fault in her, and indeed his extreme youth made me conceal from him, as much as possible, the uneasy terms on which we lived together. We had been married about three years, and our little boy was six months old when Rosolia's father died: by his will, he appointed me the guardian of Edmund's estates, till he should attain the age of twenty-four, and requested that I would see him placed under the care of the Duke de Castel Nuovo, in agreement with the terms of his own marriage-contract with the daughter of that nobleman.

"This request I could not refuse, yet knew not how to leave my wife in England; for if her conduct were so reproachable while we were together, what had I to expect if I left her solely to her own guidance? Yet such was the perversity of her temper, I doubted whether she would accompany me abroad: to that, however, she consented, prompted, I believe, more by a wish to be as much as possible with her brother, than to oblige me. But nothing could induce her to leave the child behind, though my aunt offered to take it solely under her own care during our absence, although Rosolia herself never saw it, except for about five minutes, once or twice in the day.

"This singular obstinacy inspired my aunt with an idea (which I confess I partly shared) that Rosolia's intention was to leave the babe with her paternal relations; for though she called herself a protestant, she certainly had much inclination towards the ceremonies of the Catholic Church, and, I grieve to say, held all religious principles so lightly, that to distress me and vex my aunt, she was but too capable of placing her child in the hands of Catholics, that it might be bred up in a religion she knew my aunt abhorred, and I had no good opinion of. To counteract this, or any other scheme which might be formed to take the child from me, as well as to ensure its being well taken care of, Lady Juliana insisted that our good Bayfield should accompany us, and made her promise never to let the child be absent from her sight. But these precautions, in the event, proved useless; for the poor babe caught the small-pox soon after we landed at Cadiz, where we remained a short time, and died in my arms, attended with undeviating care by the worthy Bayfield: for, oh, my Ellen, your tender nature will recoil when I tell you its unfeeling mother refused to see it from the time the disorder came to its height, though she herself had had it, because its appearance was too shocking to her delicacy! Every care, however, that could be obtained, was lavished on it, but in vain.

"Poor Edmund grieved sincerely at this event, and shared my lonely and sorrowful hours; for he had been attached to the infant with excessive affection, and always felt for me the sincerest regard, while I considered him as my own brother, and thought no attention too much to serve or please him.

"Soon after the death of the child we proceeded to Seville, and, in the gaiety of that city, the attentions she received from her mother's relations, and the flattering compliments paid to her beauty by the crowds of gentlemen who now surrounded her, Rosolia soon lost whatever traces of sorrow remained for the loss of her infant. She was handsomer than ever, and shone in all the elegance of dress and the blaze of unnumbered jewels, with which my lavish fondness, in the early part of our marriage, and the liberality of her Spanish relations, had profusely supplied her. Her grandfather, the Duke de Castel Nuovo, at whose palace in Seville Edmund was to be placed, happened to be absent, having been suddenly called to Madrid on some important state business, and wrote to beg I would remain a month or two at his palace, when he hoped he should return thither to receive his grandson from my hands, to see his granddaughter, and thank me for the kindness with which I had taken so long a journey. Having nothing immediately to recall me to England, I was not sorry to see more of this interesting country; and hearing of a beautiful villa to be let on the bank of Guadalaxara, I removed thither with my family, preferring it to a residence in the Duke's palace.

"Nothing could exceed the beauty of our little domain, or the rich luxuriance of the country in which it stood. This villa was only two miles from Seville, where at that time several regiments were stationed, and all the officers of rank eagerly sought an introduction to me and the beautiful Rosolia. Amongst them was a man of the name of De Sylva."

At this name Ellen started, for she had heard it from Edmund, in his wild wanderings the night before; though, till that instant, she could not recollect it.

"Why do you start, my love?" said St. Aubyn; "does some intuitive emotion whisper to you that this was the wretch whose villainy involved me in so much misery?"

"It was the name," said Ellen, "which I could not recollect just now; the name I heard from Edmund."

"No doubt," replied St. Aubyn, "it dwelt upon his mind; for but last night I again endeavoured to convince him of that villain's guilt. But to proceed.

"This De Sylva was a young man of a very fine person and elegant manners; one, in short, exactly fitted to win the favour of any woman, who looked more to exterior appearance than intrinsic merit. He was, I afterwards learned, a determined gamester, of broken, if not ruined fortunes, without principles, and stained with many vices; yet this man I too soon perceived the light Rosolia had selected as her chief favourite. If she danced, he was her partner; and often was her lovely person exhibited in the fascinating but immoral dances of her country: an exhibition, oh, how unfit for an English matron!—how hateful to the delicacy of my sentiments. I am perhaps too fastidious; but I again repeat, such a display, even of grace and beauty, in a married woman, is displeasing, but carried to the excess Rosolia did, detestable. How can we wonder at the alarming strides vice has made in this country, when we see even wives and mothers, in the slightest drapery, and with an almost unlimited freedom of manners, courting the notice of men whom they know to be characters which neither honour, nor even the ties of friendship, can restrain from the gratification of their passions.

"Forgive, my Ellen, this digression, by you so little needed; but I linger and dwell on any subject which can a moment detain me from those dreadful scenes I must soon describe. I was speaking of the intimacy which now took place between this De Sylva and Lady St. Aubyn. In dancing, walking, or riding, he was her constant attendant; and in the last exercise she excited the admiration of all who beheld her. Her English side-saddle and riding-dress, and the ease with which she managed her spirited Arabian, drew the most flattering plaudits from the gay military admirers who constantly surrounded her; and most of all from De Sylva, whose manners at last became so particular and presuming, I could not avoid noticing it, and telling Rosolia if he altered not his conduct, I should be under the necessity of forbidding him my house.

"At first she only laughed at my threats, and turned every thing I said into ridicule, but still persisted in the same manner of living, till I perceived, that even in that gay country her conduct was disapproved by all who witnessed it, and who had not lost all sense of decorum; even two or three of the older officers, men of rank and consequence, began to look gravely upon her, and with a sort of displeasure at me, as if they thought me too supine in not more warmly asserting my own honour. I now determined, therefore, to remove her from the place where she had so many opportunities of meeting this young man, which, without an eclat I wished to avoid, I could not prevent, as I believed her innocent though imprudent, and to visit some of the most interesting scenes in that part of the country where we now were, hoping that a tour, which I knew she had never made, would give a new turn to the sentiments of Rosolia: we removed, therefore, with our suite, from the beautiful villa we had lately occupied, and travelled the first day to Cormona, where we visited its castle, of immense extent, but now wholly in ruins; from thence we went by excellent, but very ancient roads, to Cordova, where we also saw every thing worth notice, and spent a few days very agreeably; at least they would have been agreeable, had Rosolia seemed in the least inclined to enjoy the new scenes presented to her, or the civilities of the inhabitants of this ancient town, where our rank and relationship to the Duke de Castel Nuovo ensured us a hospitable reception from all the noble families whose manner of life is cheerful and pleasant.

"After leaving Cordova, we travelled through the delightful vale of the Guadalaxara, which runs between the ridges of hills embellished with hanging woods and olive-yards. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the scene through which we now for two days travelled. No mind, which had not entirely lost all power of enjoying the charms of nature, could have been dead to the enchanting scenes which the banks of the lovely Guadalaxara now presented in ever-varying succession. Extensive plains, beautifully tinted by rows of olive-trees, towers and ancient castles rising at intervals on the side of the stream, afforded a variety of charming and picturesque views, from which Edmund and myself derived the warmest pleasure. Alas! the heart of Rosolia was shut to them all. At length we reached a small but pretty villa at the foot of the Sierra Morena, which I had learned some time before was unoccupied, and had hired, and caused to be prepared for our reception. Edmund's health had appeared to be somewhat shaken by the very warm climate of our abode near Seville, and it was thought the cool air from those mountains would brace and invigorate his drooping frame. Here, then, we rested in this quiet retreat, whence I made occasional excursions, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, in the picturesque environs of our new abode. Sometimes I extended them to the northern side of the Sierra, and visited the romantic country of La Mancha, which Cervantes has immortalized.

"It is impossible to describe the various beauties these mountains present; the clear torrent of the Rio de las Pedras, falling over beds of rocks, through glens of beautiful woods; the wild and unfrequented solitudes, covered with a rich variety of flowering and sweet-scented shrubs, and the interesting new colony of La Corolina, of which I hope, some day, to give you a fuller account; all rendered these excursions delightful to me; the more so, as they occupied my thoughts, and carried me from a woman whose capricious humours and inconsistent conduct rendered my home irksome and distasteful.

"Rosolia, angry at being withdrawn from the society she so much prized, and still more so at being deprived of De Sylva's company, now assumed manners the most aggravating, and caprices the most extraordinary. Sometimes, for a day or two together, the sound of her voice never reached the ear of any human being; but sunk, in affected apathy, she pretended scarcely to see or hear any thing that was passing. Then she would suddenly assume the gayest air, and for hours would scarcely cease speaking; following me incessantly; never allowing me to read or reflect a moment; singing, playing on her harp, or with castenets in her hands, dancing with a gaiety that was as unpleasing as it appeared unnatural, till her forced spirits being quite exhausted, she would fall into violent hysterics, and be conveyed to bed, whence she would not rise again in many days.

"Think only, my dear Ellen, what a life this was for me. With no other companion (for Edmund was still a mere boy), and dreading every hour to what the caprices of the next might lead. At length, all at once, she affected a new humour, and was continually rambling alone, even so late in the evening, that in the neighbourhood of those wild mountains, I feared some evil would befall her; but vain were my representations, vain my entreaties. She told me, she thought it hard to be denied the only pleasure my jealous temper had left her, and that I had better revive the old Spanish customs of lattices and duennas, and lock her up altogether. These, and many such provoking speeches, silenced me; but I saw that our good Bayfield was suffering from some unknown cause. She was frequently in tears, and betrayed, at times, a degree of agitation which astonished me; for in general her composure was remarkable. I conjectured, that, dissatisfied with her lady, as indeed she had but too much reason to be, the worthy woman pined to revisit England; but on my pressing her on this subject, she assured me, that wherever I was, there she was best pleased to be; and only wished she knew how best to shew her devotion to my interests.

"These last words seemed spoken with particular meaning, but she evaded any explanation. A new vexation now assailed both her and me: several of Lady St. Aubyn's valuable jewels were from time to time missing, and vainly sought.

"Rosolia affected the most perfect indifference about them, saying, since she had no one to wear them, she cared nothing for jewels: but Bayfield, who was the only person, who, except her lady, had access to the place where the jewels were kept, was excessively disturbed at their frequent losses. At last, a very fine and remarkable ring of mine, composed of an antique cameo, set with brilliants of great value, was also gone. I began to suspect my valet of these repeated thefts, though I had obtained of him the most excellent character; and he had been three or four years in my service without the slightest suspicion of dishonesty in any respect.

"Determined, however, to watch this man, I said nothing of the loss of my ring, thinking if I appeared to have no suspicion I should the easier detect him.

"About a week after this circumstance, being restless, and unable to sleep, I rose from my bed at midnight, and sat for some time at my window, watching the bright moon, which in that clear climate gave a light scarcely inferior to that of day: but judge of my surprize, when I saw the figure of a man emerge slowly from a grove of cork trees, at some little distance; and after looking cautiously around, pass close under my windows, and approach those of Lady St. Aubyn's apartment. We had for some time inhabited separate rooms, as she complained of restless nights, and chose to have her chamber to herself. I fancied that I had now detected the robber, who, by some means, having gained access to those chambers, had, from time to time, stolen the jewels I mentioned; but in a moment I saw Rosolia's window open, and herself appear at it. She spoke a few words to this man, on whom the moonlight falling more clearly, I distinctly perceived the height, figure, and I fancied the features of De Sylva.

"Rosolia instantly threw down a light rope ladder, and the man, whoever he was, began to mount it; but on a sudden she turned from the window, as if disturbed by the entrance of some one to her room; and making a sign to him with a hurried air, he hastily descended: she immediately closed the window, and the man ran to the grove from which he had first appeared.

"All this scene passed so quickly, I had scarcely time to recollect myself, or determine what I ought to do—but hastily seizing my pistols, which lay always loaded in my room, I descended a private staircase leading to the garden, and with quicksteps, followed the man, who lay concealed in the grove. I walked with as little noise as I could, fearing, lest, if he heard me, he might make his escape, and I should be deprived of the satisfaction I expected, so that I was close to him before he perceived me, and seizing him with a powerful grasp, I dragged him into the moonlight, and there saw it was indeed De Sylva."

CHAP. III.

Ou suis-je? O Ciel ou suis je? ou porte je mes voeux?
Zayre, Nerestan—couple ingrat, couple affreux,
Traitres arracher moi ce jour que je respire,
Ce jour souillè par vous.
——Ah que vois-je? Ah ma soeur
Zayre!... Elle n'est plus.—Ah monstre ah jour horrible!

Zayre par Voltaire.

"Rage almost choked me as I exclaimed:—'Villain! you here, and lurking under my windows at this hour!' He shook with cowardly apprehension, and attempted some excuse, which, however, his terror rendered inarticulate: still the momentary pause gave me time for recollection, and disdaining to assault an unarmed man, I threw him one of my pistols, and bade him defend himself: again in faltering tones he murmured some assurances that he merely came to see Lady St. Aubyn's favourite servant, a Spanish girl named Theresa; but this hacknied excuse was too shallow to obtain a moment's credit, and I still pressed him to an instant decision of this affair. He now, somewhat more firmly, requested me to recollect, that if we fought, and he fell, what would be the appearance of a man found in my grounds murdered, as it would seem; and on the other hand he appealed to my generosity, what would be his situation should I be killed, and above all, what a slur would be cast on the reputation of Lady St. Aubyn by such a business. Calmed by these representations, which certainly had some justice in them, I finally consented to wait till the next evening: the time between, he told me, he should pass at a little Posada in the neighbourhood, where, he said, he had a friend waiting for him, who would come with him to a spot I mentioned near the mountains; and during the same space I said I would ride to Almana (the next small town), where a gentleman resided with whom I had some acquaintance, and on whom I would prevail to be my second in this affair: then bidding him retain the pistol, and bring it prepared, as I should do its fellow, to the place of meeting, I sternly told him, that should I see him again lurking beneath my walls, I would not wait the event of the next evening, but treat him as a midnight robber deserved to be treated. I then left him and returned to the house: a faint light yet gleamed from the windows of Rosolia's room, but the rope ladder was withdrawn, and the curtains closed, so that I concluded she had given up all expectation of seeing De Sylva again that night. I watched, however, till morning, but all was still, and I then threw myself on my bed to obtain one hour's repose; after which I rose, and spent some time in settling my affairs, and writing some letters, to be delivered in case I should fall in the duel with De Sylva.

"After this I went to Lady St. Aubyn's room: at the door I met Bayfield, who, pale, and with her eyes swollen with weeping, looked as if she had, like myself, watched all night.

"My good Bayfield,' said I, 'where is your Lady, and why do you look thus alarmed and haggard?'

"She answered me, but with some confusion, that her Lady was just dressed, and that she had been induced to watch in the chamber next Lady St. Aubyn's almost all night, having heard some noises which had induced her to rise at midnight, and go to her Lady's apartment, whom she found also much agitated, and therefore had remained there till morning. I made no doubt, and I afterwards found this conjecture was just, that my faithful old servant's suspicions having been excited, she had gone to her room, and by interrupting her, had caused the sudden dismissal of De Sylva, and had since passed the night in bewailing Rosolia's evil propensities. Without staying for any explanation, however, I left her, and passed into the Countess's apartment: she started at the sight of me, for of late we had seldom met but at meals, and her guilty conscience taught her to consider my visit as extraordinary. I told her sternly to be seated and hear me, and I then related to her the events of the preceding night: at first she trembled and turned pale, but soon recovering her effrontery, she attempted, as usual, to make a jest of what she affected to term my ridiculous jealousy.

"Mark me, Rosolia!" cried I rising, and eagerly grasping her arm, for, with affected scorn, she attempted to rush past me. 'Mark me! I am no longer thus to be deceived. This evening, this evening shall revenge my too long endured injuries—the wretch who has so deeply wronged me, this arm shall punish.'

"At that moment, while my angry looks were fixed upon her countenance, where rage and disdain contended with shame and fear, Edmund entered the room, and must, I knew, have heard the threats I uttered: he started and looked amazed, for frequent as were our altercations, they had never before risen to a height so alarming.

"I left them together, and taking my horse, rode to Almana, where, most unfortunately, I did not find my friend at home; and after waiting his return till I feared I should not arrive at my villa in time enough to keep my appointment, I left the place alone, and merely going into the house to take my pistol, I hastened to the appointed spot. There I waited, vainly waited, for nearly two hours: no De Sylva arrived; and concluding that he then meant not to keep his appointment, and some vague fears pressing on my mind that possibly Rosolia might be the partner of his flight, I hurried back to the villa. It was almost dark when I arrived, and just as I entered the hall, heated, disordered, not having changed my dress since the night before, and in the confusion of my thoughts not even concealing the pistol I had carried in my hand, I met Edmund, who eagerly asked me where his sister was.

"I know not,' said I; but a thousand suspicions darted into my bosom, and gave to my countenance and manner an agitation which must have appeared to him extraordinary. 'Is she not in her own apartment? I have been out all day and have not seen her since I left her with you this morning.'

"Nor I,' said Edmund, 'since half an hour before I saw you return on horseback; she then complained of a violent head-ache, and said she would try if the evening air would remove it: I offered to walk with her, but she said she would rather be alone, for she had enough to occupy her thoughts: she kissed me too,' added Edmund, 'and bade me farewell, sighing bitterly, and saying her heart was heavy and full of terror: why then,' said I, 'will you go alone, sister? why not let me walk with you? I really think there is danger in being out late so near the mountains.' She forced a smile, and replied, she feared nothing from the mountains: all her misery and terrors arose at home.'

"Ungrateful Rosolia,' I replied, as Edmund told me this; to which he answered:—

"Ah, my Lord, it grieves me to see you both so unhappy; I hope my grandfather's return will soon restore in some degree your domestic comfort; he will persuade Rosolia to be more accommodating to your wishes.'

"I sighed, and asked him which way his sister had gone.

"Through the cork grove,' he replied, 'and towards the Hermitage, which is I know her favourite retreat.'

"'Surely,' said I, 'she would not remain in that lonely place till this late hour; yet, so strange for sometime has been her conduct, I know not what to suppose: call the servants, my dear Edmund, to bring lights, for in that gloomy retreat it will be quite dark, and let us go in search of her.'

"We set out accordingly, attended by two men servants and my good Bayfield, who, fearing, as she said, her Lady might be ill, insisted on accompanying us. The place to which we directed our steps was a quarter of a mile from the villa, and, as I had said, by the time we had reached it the darkness of night had come on.

"This gloomy cell stood at the foot of a rock deep embowered in thick groves: a mountain stream fell from a considerable height near it, and the dash of its waters alone broke the silence of this secluded retreat, which was called the Hermitage, from the peculiar style in which it was fitted up. For some time before we reached it we made the surrounding thickets resound with Rosolia's name: but all was silent, save the murmuring breeze and the dashing of the waterfall. I concluded that my wife was gone off with the infamous De Sylva, and my whole frame shook with rage and agitation.

"Why do you tremble so, my Lord?' said the affrighted Edmund, who hung upon my arm: 'do you think any harm has happened to my sister?'

"I know not,' I replied, 'but I fear it, greatly fear it!'

"Just then we entered the gloomy Hermitage: all was dark and still; the echo of our steps alone broke the awful silence. The men who accompanied us lifted their torches to throw a fuller light into the cell; and—ah! my Ellen, I dread to shock your tender nature by describing the horrid scene which met our view.—Imagine our sensations when we saw the unfortunate Rosolia extended on the earth! her white garments dyed in blood! in that blood which some hand, either accidentally or by design, had shed! for on raising the body, by this time stiff and cold, a wound was discovered in the back of her head, which was evidently the effect of a pistol-ball, and had caused her death. You tremble and turn pale, my love: it grieves me to distress you, but think what was my distress, when Edmund, who, in frantic despair, had thrown himself by his murdered sister, found the fatal weapon which had done this deed of horror, and I saw at once it was the fellow pistol to that I had in my hand when he met me in the hall, remarkable for its peculiar construction and workmanship; the very one, in short, which I had given to De Sylva. Never, never shall I forget the glance of his dark eyes at that moment: I saw the direful suspicions he, at that instant, conceived, and which were still more fatally confirmed by what immediately followed.

"My poor Bayfield, full of grief and horror, was arranging, with all the care circumstances would admit, the removal of the body to the house, when seeing something glitter amidst the horrible darkness which surrounded us, and our fading torches scarcely broke, she stooped and picked up my ring, that well-known ring, which I indeed had lost, but had not said so; and which she, from some impulsive feeling, perhaps fearing the sight of it in that place might implicate me in the late sad event, attempted to conceal in her bosom.

"What is that?" exclaimed the half-frantic Edmund, darting towards her and seizing her hand. 'Your ring, my Lord, your ring! at this time—in this place. The pistol too—those dreadful threatenings of revenge.—Ah God! Ah God!—what horrible conviction flashes on me.—Rosolia! poor dear sister!—Ah, basely, basely murdered!' and he fell senseless on the ground.

"The domestics who attended us were Spaniards, and did not understand a word he said: but Bayfield stood the image of dismay.

"Ah, my Lord,' said she, 'fly, if indeed your hand by accident has done this deed, for think what will become of you amidst the bigotted Catholics, who will seek to revenge it.'

"Fly!' I repeated, 'my good old friend! Can you believe me guilty?'

"Oh no, my dear Lord,' she replied, never, never! but think what these unfortunate appearances will say against you to those who know you less than I do.'

"Whatever they say, I will brave,' I exclaimed: 'nor care I much after this dreadful moment what becomes of me; but never will I, by an ignominious flight, tacitly avow myself guilty, when I know and surely cannot fail to prove my innocence.'

"In a few minutes one of the men, who, on Edmund's falling into the deathlike trance from which we yet vainly sought to recover him, had fled towards the house for more assistance, returned with almost all the domestics, who eagerly crowded to satisfy their curiosity, and whose astonishment and impatient questions may be easily conceived. Between them they conveyed into the house their murdered mistress, and the still insensible Edmund, whose spirit we at one time imagined had really followed hers. To paint the confusion which ensued would be impossible: one express was instantly sent off to the Duke de Castel Nuovo, and several men I sent into the mountains and round the neighbourhood to seek for De Sylva, by whose hand I doubted not the fatal wound, either by accident or design, had been given. I described his person and appearance, saying that such a man had been seen lurking about the house the night before.

"Some of the servants having remarked the capricious character, and, of late, the melancholy manners of Rosolia, suggested an idea that she had destroyed herself; but the situation of the wound prevented such a possibility. Forgive me, my love, these shocking details: they are indeed unsuited to the tenderness of your nature; but without a very accurate account of this unfortunate event, it would be impossible for you to judge what evidences there were of my apparent guilt, or real innocence.

"Edmund slowly recovered from his deep swoon, but his reason for a time was flown, and all the skill of the medical people about us failed for weeks to recover it. Yet still he knew me—still with an expression of the most vindictive hatred his eyes pursued me. His words frequently pointed out the nature of his suspicions; but he raved so constantly, that they remained unnoticed, save by me and Bayfield: too fatally, alas! we understood them. To her I fully explained all that had passed, and she told me she had no hesitation in believing that De Sylva was the author of this direful tragedy. To find that villain appeared impossible: my servants returned, after a week's search in every direction, without having discovered the slightest trace of him. Indeed, to track a fugitive in that wild romantic country is extremely difficult: immense woods, deep caves, and the recesses of vast ruins, might easily shelter such a one from pursuit.

"To the servants I held out an idea that some banditti from the mountains had found their Lady in her lonely walk, as indeed they all knew I often had feared would be the case, and had murdered her for the sake of the money and jewels she had about her; and in truth many of them had seen her go out with some rich ornaments, which she generally wore, and which certainly were removed from the body.

"On searching the Hermitage the next morning, a parcel was found, containing a complete Spanish habit for a boy, and a letter—at least a part of one, for part was torn away, and the remainder contained only these words:

At the Hermitage this evening
we must fly directly
St. Aubyn will wait for
come alone

"I easily imagined this was part of a letter from De Sylva, appointing Rosolia to meet him at the Hermitage. 'St. Aubyn will wait for' evidently alluded to my waiting for him at the place he had appointed to meet me; yet even these words seemed fatally to implicate me in this horrid transaction: whereas, if the whole had been preserved, it would have entirely exculpated me from blame: so unfortunately did circumstances combine to throw the appearance of guilt upon me.

"When my messenger returned from Madrid, I learned that the venerable Duke de Castel Nuovo was too ill to travel: he left the whole management of this melancholy affair in my hands, expressing himself convinced that some of the banditti, who it was well known infested the Sierra Morena, had been the murderers of his granddaughter. He entreated me to take the greatest care of Edmund, and invited me, when he should be sufficiently recovered, to accompany him to Madrid, or if I could not make that convenient, to send him by some person in whom I could confide, and who would see him placed safely under his own care; and concluded by very kind expressions of regret that it had been so totally out of his power to pay me those personal attentions during my stay in Spain, which he had so anxiously wished to do.

"Thus then I found myself completely exonerated from all suspicion of having had any share of the late dreadful event, except in the mind of Edmund, who had by this time recovered his reason, and was by slow degrees regaining his health, yet still looked on me with horror and aversion, and was buried in the most profound and gloomy melancholy.

"Unable long to bear this state of estrangement and anxiety, I one day went to his room, and sitting down by the couch on which he lay, 'I see, Edmund,' said I, 'too plainly I see, the horrible suspicions you have formed, and the gloomy hatred so unnatural to your character, which preys upon your vitals. Neither can you long support a state so wretched. St. Aubyn was not born to be the object of suspicions so cruel, nor Edmund to endure them. Hear me then patiently; and though, in tenderness to the memory of the unfortunate Rosolia, I would, if possible, have concealed her misconduct from the whole world, and most of all from you, yet circumstances call on me so imperatively to disclose it, that I can no longer be silent.'

"I then, my Ellen, related to him every circumstance, as I have done to you; and though he evidently wavered, yet so strong was the prejudice he had conceived, that he was not wholly convinced.

"For the pistol," said he, 'you have in some measure accounted: it might, if this story be true, have been placed there by De Sylva: his accursed hand it might have been which shed that blood—that precious blood, which yet in imagination I see flowing at my feet! But ah! St. Aubyn, whence came that ring—that well known ring, which I so often have heard you declare you valued more than all the jewels in your possession?'

"Fully to account for that,' said I, 'is not in my power; but on my honour, I assure you, I had missed it several days, though, in hopes of discovering the thief, I did not mention it. You know several of Rosolia's jewels have lately been lost; and many times, since we have been here, she has asked me for sums of money, though here she could have had no use for them; but willing to gratify her in even her fancies, while they did not militate against my peace and honour, I never denied her, or desired any explanation; yet, in searching her escritoire and drawers, no money has been found. This leads me to believe, nay, to be sure, that either the wretch, De Sylva, stole this ring and the other valuable articles missing, or she gave them to him in the meetings which Bayfield now owns she is convinced they have of late frequently had.'

"Impossible, impossible!' cried the noble but prejudiced youth: 'Rosolia could not have condescended to favour, even with her friendship, so mean a wretch as one who would have received money or jewels at her hands. This story, my Lord, hangs ill together, and for it I have only your word—the word of one to whom it is of the utmost importance that I should believe it. But think, O think, what a chain of circumstances appear in proof against you!—The threats I heard you utter, that your own hand should that very evening revenge your injuries! My meeting you, heated and confused, after two hours absence, no one knew whither, with one pistol in your hand—the fellow pistol found discharged by the dear murdered Rosolia—and, more than all, your ring, which Bayfield, impressed no doubt by similar suspicions, strove to conceal! Place all these in array against you, and tell me, tell me yourself, what I must, what I ought to believe.'

"'It is enough,' I replied: 'I yield myself then to your will. Take me, if such is your desire, to a prison, to death: your evidence I well perceive will be sufficient to convict me—to rob me of my honour and my life. But do you reckon for nothing your former knowledge of my character and disposition? Am I a man likely to have committed such a deed?—to have invented such a tale to excuse it, if I had? I swear to you, Edmund, by all that is most sacred, I am innocent—I will swear it to the latest moment of my existence.'

"Moved by these words, by the remembrance of all my former friendship for him—permit me to say, by the remembrance of years which I had so spent as to impress him with a firm opinion of my virtue and veracity, the generous youth paused awhile, and at length said—

"Well then, my Lord, since in this contrariety of assertion and evidence it is impossible that I should know what to believe, I will for the present, at least, act as if I thought you innocent. Seek this De Sylva—seek him if you will throughout the world. I will breathe no word, hint no suspicion, that may impede you in the search. Should you be able to bring his confession in evidence of your integrity, I will then entreat your pardon for my disbelief. If, on the contrary, any new appearances of guilt arise against you—should any new discoveries inimical to your innocence be made, I shall still know how to reach you.

"Here let us part! As soon as my weak state will permit, I leave this fatal, this detested roof, and will join my grandfather at Madrid: from his letters I learn what you have led him to believe on this shocking subject. If, indeed, your tale be true, I ought most thankfully to acknowledge the lenient tenderness with which you have treated my poor sister's reputation.—But oh! could she, could she be so guilty?——At all events, it is well the Duke should credit your statement. At his age, the doubts which shake me thus would kill him!—Let us meet no more at present—Should De Sylva be found, write to me: write in English, and the people about me will not understand your letter. All farther search into this matter I must postpone till the commencement of my majority shall leave me my own master; then I must once more visit England, such is my father's will, to take possession of my estates in that country, and to receive the accounts from you. Then, my Lord, we will finally consider all the proofs which shall then have been obtained of your innocence or guilt; and I shall then either bewail the faults of Rosolia, or revenge her death, either by my sword or the hand of the law, as I may think most proper. I shall then be a man, and more able, both by improved judgment and bodily strength, to assert my own convictions. Most earnestly do I wish, long ere that period arrives, your character may be cleared: yet, ah! how can I wish it, if by that acquittal my poor Rosolia must be proved so guilty!'

"In a few days after this conversation, Edmund, under the care of a person in whom I could confide, set out for Madrid; and I soon after discharging all my servants, except Mrs. Bayfield and my valet, whom I sent to England, left also this fatal spot. I hired a mule, and alone passed through the Sierra into La Mancha; and at Civedad I engaged a servant, not choosing to take one with me who had known any thing of the late painful transactions. On mules we proceeded, making every inquiry for De Sylva. Not even my servant knew my real name and rank; as I thought by concealing these I might have a better chance of finding the villain I sought: but still my search was vain. From Toledo, where I rested a short time, I wrote to some of the officers of De Sylva's regiment at Seville, to know if he had returned thither, though it appeared most improbable he should have done so: but I was desirous of trying every chance by which he might be discovered. In answer, I learnt De Sylva had obtained leave of absence about two months before; but though it had been some time expired, he was not yet returned: so that the charge of desertion was now added to those others, which I doubted not induced him to keep himself concealed. I travelled through Spain, avoiding Madrid, where I knew my friend and correspondent, the Marquis of Northington, who was resident there in a diplomatic capacity, would make every search for De Sylva; and passing the Pyrenees, entered the frontier of France, though with great risk and hazard, had I been known to be English; but I passed everywhere for a Spaniard, speaking the language as a native, having from my childhood been accustomed to speak it with Rosolia and Edmund; and I fancied in those wild mountains I might meet with De Sylva, who was likely to assort with the desperate characters with which they at that time abounded. But vain was my search, and at length I returned to England; and thinking that in London, perhaps, I might find this wretch connected with gamesters, I sought him at every house where such persons are likely to be found; but still, still the search was fruitless.

"I then came hither for awhile, to rest my wearied spirits. Here, vanquished by the constant harassings I had so long undergone, I fell into a severe fit of illness, through which my good Bayfield nursed me with the tenderest care; and as she alone knew all the griefs which oppressed me, I could without restraint give vent to my sorrows in her presence.

"Immediately after my recovery I had a letter from my friend Lord Northington, who had at my request, by himself and his agents, made every possible inquiry for De Sylva. He informed me that a person of suspicious character had lately been arrested, and stood charged with various crimes; and amongst the rest, of desertion; that from my description of him, he fancied this man to be De Sylva. I instantly wrote to Edmund, that I hoped the object of my long search was found; that I should go to Spain immediately, and would see him as soon as any thing was ascertained: but alas! after all my trouble and fatigue this man proved to be totally unlike De Sylva, and in no way connected with him.

"Mortified and disappointed, I yet went to Seville, where Edmund then was. The Duke de Castel Nuovo had been dead a few months, and his grandson, under the care of Mr. O'Brien, and some other ecclesiastics, appointed by the Duke's will to be the guardians of his person and his Spanish estates during his minority. It was not without difficulty that I obtained a private conference with him; for these Catholics were jealous of my supposed influence over his mind.

"I found him greatly altered in person, and evidently a prey to gloomy and anxious thoughts, which the life he led amongst persons of severe and superstitious habits did not tend to dissipate. His prejudices I still found unconquerable, and that he was determined on coming to England, should I be unable clearly to substantiate my innocence, either to avenge his sister's death by the sword, or to impeach me as her murderer—a dreadful alternative, and one from which I knew not how to free myself: for to find De Sylva seemed impossible, and if found, I knew not how to bring him to confession; and even of his having been at my villa, near the Sierra Morena, I had no witness but Mrs. Bayfield, whose evidence in my favour might, and most probably would, be deemed partial.

"Thus, and with this shocking prospect constantly before me, the time has passed since the fatal day of Rosolia's death. Anxious for your peace and safety, I wrote to Edmund, who ought to have been here three months ago, and entreated him to delay coming hither till this time, stating my reasons, with which he complied, and arrived in England only a week since. Hither he was obliged to come, as Mordaunt had all the papers belonging to his estates in his possession. You know he has been too ill lately to go from home, and his signature was absolutely necessary.

"After O'Brien and Mordaunt went into the library last night, I again endeavoured to convince Edmund of my innocence; and although I think now his judgment is matured, and his passions have had time to cool, he is more inclined to believe me, and to let the matter rest where it is, I could by no means get him explicitly to acquit me; and this house reviving the memory of his sister, and all the past events so forcibly, no doubt was the cause of his nocturnal wandering.

"What will be the event of all this I know not; but if I find him still inexorable in a conference I mean this day to hold with him, I think appearances are so much against me, I must at least for a time withdraw with you and our boy to some safe retreat.

"I have wearied you, my Ellen, and am myself weary with speaking so long, on such an agitating subject: but tell me, my love, oh! tell me, that you at least think me guiltless of this direful act!"

"Guiltless!" cried Ellen (whose many tender exclamations and agitated interruptions had given frequent proof of the interest with which she had heard this melancholy narrative). "Oh, heavens! the evidence of my own senses would fail to make me think you otherwise. But in this case all appears to me so clear, so easy to be traced, that I am astonished the generous youth you have described can hesitate in his belief a moment.—Ah! my dear St. Aubyn, let me speak to him; let me tell him of your virtues, of your gentle nature, of your tender and affectionate disposition. Surely he will hear me: surely he must yield to the conviction these must give, that you were not, could not have been guilty of a deed so horrid!"

"Yes, my dearest, my beloved Ellen," replied St. Aubyn, "it shall be so. Your soft, your persuasive words and looks will, I am sure, impress him with conviction that the man you love cannot be a villain.

"Yet, Ellen, do not meanly compromise my honour or your own dignity; argue, and even, if you can, persuade him to believe me innocent: but if in this you fail, do not sue to him. I could not accept of life and honour merely from his forbearance; yet for your sake, and that of our child, I will in some measure set my proud spirit aside, and yield to terms I would otherwise disdain."

Here they parted, and Ellen retired to her dressing-room, to refresh her wearied spirits, to kiss and weep over her infant, and to offer up a fervent prayer for every grace of speech, which might subdue and convince the prejudiced but generous Edmund.

CHAP. IV.

We do not know
How he may soften at the sight o' the child.
The silence often of pure innocence
Persuades when speaking fails.

Winter's Tale.

With an air how different from the usual cheerful greetings of the morning at St. Aubyn Castle, did the party now there assemble in the breakfast-room.

The Earl and Countess, wearied with the alarm of the night and the late agitating conversation, scarcely could assume spirits to smile upon their guests and give them that hospitable reception which every one generally felt assured of from them. Lady Juliana, stiff and severe of countenance, scarcely deigned a bow to the salutations of Mr. O'Brien; and the pale melancholy Edmund, who, constraining his feelings, advanced towards Lady St. Aubyn, and attempted an apology for what had passed the evening before, for of his nocturnal wanderings, and her consequent alarm, he had not the least idea: from St. Aubyn he appeared to shrink with less aversion than usual, but when seated at the breakfast-table, his eyes and whole attention seemed fixed on Ellen, who, pale and mournful as were her looks, yet spoke with such gentle sweetness, as appeared instantly to attract him, while the soft and pensive character her beauty had assumed was precisely formed to sooth and tranquillize the too vehement emotions of this deeply feeling young man. Her power, indeed, over the heart, of which all who saw her were sensible, arose from the united charms of voice, person, and demeanor, all of which were so sweetly harmonized with each other as to form one charming and consistent whole, and that, so regulated by the most perfect purity of manners, the most refined delicacy of sentiment, and the most affectionate tenderness of heart, as ensured not only the admiration, but the respect and love of all who knew her; yet more, of all she sought to win or soften. No wonder then if the young and generous heart of Edmund leaned towards her, and felt before the breakfast hour was over that for worlds he could not have pained or wronged her.

Mr. Mordaunt had fixed one o'clock at noon to finish the settlement of all legal concerns between Lord St. Aubyn and Lord De Montfort, the weak state of his health not permitting him to come earlier to the Castle. As soon as breakfast was over, therefore, St. Aubyn invited his guests to walk or ride round the grounds. O'Brien gladly consented, and Laura said she should like to ride with them; but Edmund coldly refused, saying if he went out at all, he should merely stroll by himself a short distance, as he felt languid and unwell. "To you then, my Ellen," said St. Aubyn, "I recommend our noble guest. I need not I am sure request you to pay him every attention; if possible, prevail on him to stay and dine with us: he talks of going the instant his business is completed."

"I hope, my Lord," said Ellen to De Montfort, "you will not do so. The evenings now close in abruptly, and it will be late before you reach the end of the first stage from hence."

He bowed in silence.

The gentlemen and Miss Cecil went to prepare for their ride; and Ellen, ringing the bell, desired Jane to bring her netting-box thither, for she feared if she went as usual to the nursery, Edmund might escape her, and no other opportunity offer for the conference on which her heart was set.

Lady Juliana, as usual, went to her own room, where she always chose to spend two or three hours of her morning alone.

Edmund had, by the time Ellen was seated at her work, thrown himself in a meditating attitude on a sofa, and was apparently lost in a reverie; yet his eyes were frequently fixed on her, and his countenance seemed to soften as he gazed upon her. She soon saw the little party ride into the park, and then feeling herself secure from interruption, she considered how best to begin her intended conversation:—her heart fluttered, and her fingers entangled her work so completely, that it was impossible to proceed with it. Painful, indeed, was her situation; for to converse on topics so deeply interesting with a young man so very lately an entire stranger was indeed a severe task for the gentle, the timid Ellen. Rousing her spirits, however, for she felt that time fled swiftly, she with a tremulous voice said,

"My Lord, I fear you will think I take too great a liberty with one so lately a stranger, if I venture to enter on a subject of the most delicate nature, indeed; but one to me so deeply interesting, I cannot consent to let this opportunity pass, since it may be the last I shall ever have of speaking to your Lordship without witnesses."

From the moment she began to speak, De Montfort started from his reverie, and fixed on her an earnest attention, which had, however, so much softness in it, as emboldened her to proceed in a voice somewhat firmer and more assured.

"You may believe, my Lord," she said, "that Lord St. Aubyn has not withheld from me the real cause of the painful scene I last night witnessed, and a decree of agitation in you, not to be accounted for, but by a recital which out of tenderness he till this morning never ventured to make to me."

"Has he then," said Edmund (in that low, solemn, impressive tone which so deeply interested his hearers) "has he then ventured to reveal to you that horrid event, that deed of blood, the guilt of which he has never been able to throw from him?"

"He has, my Lord, explained to me the meaning of many painful hints; of much uneasiness which I have perceived in him from the first of our acquaintance: but ah! generous, though misled, Lord de Montfort, can you really believe him guilty? Can you doubt the innocence of a man whose life of virtue, whose tender affectionate nature, surely point him out as of all men the least likely to have committed an action so horrid! Surely he cannot have fully and clearly explained to you all the circumstances which preceded this sad event. May I, without too much wounding your feelings, venture to recapitulate what he has told me. Surely a story so clear, so consistent, must at once exonerate him from having had any part in that guilty, that horrid deed."

He bowed assent, and Ellen as succinctly, but as clearly as possible, brought into one point of view, all the circumstances which were favourable to St. Aubyn, yet veiling with the most touching delicacy and consideration those which bore hardest on the fame of Rosolia; affecting to believe that the wretch De Sylva (whom she asserted St. Aubyn and Mrs. Bayfield had certainly seen at her window the night before) had come without her knowledge, and that the same man, meeting her in the lonely hermitage, had committed the shocking deed for the sake of the valuables she wore.

It seemed as if Edmund had chiefly resisted the evidences in St. Aubyn's favour, lest by yielding to them, he must have pronounced his sister guilty: whether this being now less pressed upon him, or that Ellen herself, fully convinced of St. Aubyn's innocence, and perhaps less impassioned than he had been when stating the same story, had placed circumstances more clearly before him, he evidently gave greater credence to the tale than he had ever before done. Her sweetness of voice and manner, and the graceful tenderness with which she spoke of St. Aubyn's virtues; or his honourable and disinterested conduct to her, both before and since their marriage, and of the perfect love which bound them to each other, and wrapt her life in his; tears of tenderness and blushes of indignation marked the varying sensations which filled her bosom at the bare idea of his being suspected of such a crime, and animated her beauty with new graces, appeared to impress him deeply with sentiments of admiration and esteem. When she paused, he sighed and said:—

"Is it in nature to resist such a pleader, or to believe the man so loved by one so pure and spotless, can be himself capable of the blackest crimes? No, Lady St. Aubyn, were your natures so dissimilar it would be impossible that you could so love, so confide in him."

At that instant a soft plaintive voice was heard at the opening door, the voice of an infant. Edmund started, for he had forgotten Lady St. Aubyn had recently become a mother, and a painful recollection pressed on his heart of the infant so dearly loved, so deeply lamented, the child of his idolized Rosolia!

The nurse now appeared with the babe in her arms, for wondering at her Lady's usually lengthened absence from the nursery, she came to request some directions concerning the child: supposing all the gentlemen were gone out together, when she saw Lord de Montfort she would have retreated but Ellen advancing, took the infant in her arms and said:

"Give him to me, nurse; I will but shew him to Lord de Montfort, and bring him to the nursery myself:" then unfolding his mantle, she pressed him to her tender bosom: and when the nurse was gone, with light graceful steps advancing towards Edmund, (who rose from his seat to meet her) she said:

"See here, my Lord, a still more powerful pleader; one pure and spotless indeed, whose opening prospects must be clouded, whose innocent name must be blasted, if you persist in your intentions, if you seek his father's destruction. Look at this babe, and tell me if your gentle nature can doom him to such cruel misfortunes as your denunciation of his father must bring upon his guiltless head."

Edmund, the noble Edmund, stooped, and gazing on the child, was not ashamed to shed tears of tenderness and compassion on his sweet face. The lovely creature opened its eyes, and with the same soft look of confiding innocence which marked his mother's features, stretched out his little hands and smiled.

"Oh! this is too much! indeed too much!" exclaimed De Montfort. "I must not be a man to see this sweet, this lovely infant, and you, angelic woman, and dare to breathe one injurious wish against that man on whom the happiness of both depends! From henceforth I dismiss for ever all my revengeful, perhaps my ill-founded schemes: never shall word or look of mine attempt to injure the happy, the enviable St. Aubyn. Surely Heaven would not have favoured him with felicity so rare, had a deed so cruel as that of which I suspected him stained his soul! I will try to think, to believe so. Assure yourself, at least, loveliest of women, that from me he has nothing more to fear; and may Heaven's choicest blessings be showered on you, and on this sweet, this lovely infant!"

He bent one knee to the ground, and, with reverential awe, kissed Ellen's hand, lifting his expressive eyes towards that Heaven he was invoking in her favour: then rising, he took the babe from her arms, kissed its hands, its cheeks, its lips, and returning it to its mother, with hasty and agitated steps quitted the apartment: leaving her impressed with feelings of joy, gratitude, and the tenderest esteem for this noble, though somewhat eccentric being.

Folding her babe to her fond maternal heart, which seemed to feel even increased affection for it from the late trying scenes, she passed with it to the nursery, where Laura found her a few minutes after, and announced the return of the gentlemen from their ride.

"Where is St. Aubyn?" said Ellen, with a countenance where tears and smiles contended: "I must see him immediately."

"It is near the time appointed by Mr. Mordaunt to conclude Lord de Montfort's business," said Laura, "and I believe he is gone to his study: but what is the matter, Ellen, you look agitated yet joyful? I never saw you more radiant in beauty; something I am sure has happened to light up your face in this manner."

Ellen smiled, and said, "Oh, flatterer! but I cannot stay to tell you now; only I hope I have been fortunate enough to adjust a difference of long standing between Lord de Montfort and St. Aubyn, and I am impatient to tell my Lord the result of my morning's conversation with the former—here, take the babe, Laura, and keep him if you will till I come again, unless Lady Juliana comes, as usual, and snatches him away." She then hastened to St. Aubyn, whom she found alone, and had just time to tell him the result of the conference she had held with Edmund, but not the particulars, before Mr. Mordaunt and the other gentlemen assembled.

As De Montfort entered the study, Lady St. Aubyn was quitting it, but he stopped her one moment, and said in a low voice, "Stay, madam, and witness your power over me." Then advancing, he held out his hand to St. Aubyn, and said to him in Italian, which he knew O'Brien did not understand, "Be all our animosity banished for ever." Yet so strong had been, and perhaps still were his prejudices, that the hand he offered trembled, and he turned pale, when St. Aubyn took it.

"I never felt any, Edmund," said he. "I made large allowances for you, and felt towards you a brother's love: my friendship and best offices are your's at all times."

He then apologized to the gentlemen present for speaking a strange language, and accounted for this little scene, by saying, that an unhappy disagreement which had taken place long ago between himself and Lord de Montfort was now fortunately adjusted.

Ellen just staid long enough to congratulate St. Aubyn in a low voice on this happy termination of an affair which cost him so much uneasiness, and turning to Edmund, she said, "You dine with us, my Lord:" he bowed in silent acquiescence, and she retired, happiest at that moment of the happy.

Lord de Montfort and Mr. O'Brien remained that day at the Castle, and the former, though still at times sunk in reverie, yet was composed; and sometimes almost cheerful. A weight seemed removed from his mind, and though his manner to St. Aubyn was still constrained and distant, there were moments when he appeared with difficulty to prevent himself from appearing friendly and cordial.

Ellen saw, that were they often together, Edmund's long-rooted and cherished prejudices would insensibly wear away; and on that account regretted that he would not be prevailed on to stay longer than till the next morning.

That evening, Laura Cecil, who had been quite pleased to see De Montfort resuming in some degree the manners which in his boyhood made him so agreeable, returned to Rose Hill, where Sir Edward Leicester was soon expected, to whom, it was supposed, she would be married before Christmas.

Lord St. Aubyn willingly consented that Ellen should inform his faithful Bayfield of her knowledge of their transactions in Spain, and the happy reconciliation between her Lord and Lord de Montfort; and Bayfield, who almost idolized Ellen before, now considering her as the cause of an event so desirable, felt her love and veneration redoubled.

In the course of the evening, Lord St. Aubyn hinted to Mr. O'Brien, that some of his family had been disturbed by Lord de Montfort's having left his room while sleeping, and Mr. O'Brien said, that after any great emotion, his pupil sometimes did so, but that it rarely happened, frequently not for months together; in reality, no farther disturbance took place, and the two gentlemen departed the next morning, leaving the inhabitants of the Castle with very different sensations from those they had felt at their first arrival.

CHAP. V.

My noble gossips, you have been too liberal;
I thank you for it—so shall this child,
When he has so much English.

Henry VIII.

Lady St. Aubyn had received so little pleasure from visiting London the preceding winter, that she earnestly requested not to remove from the Castle till after Christmas, when Laura entreated her to spend a month or six weeks there after her marriage, and wished, as the Countess had not yet been presented, that ceremony might take place when she was herself introduced: Lord and Lady Delamore were also expected to be in London at that time, and Ellen promised herself great pleasure from becoming acquainted with her. It was therefore determined, that she should meet Sir Edward, and Laura (who would then be Lady Leicester), in town the beginning of February, and remain quietly in the country till that time, where she would have leisure to fulfil those maternal duties she had voluntarily taken upon herself, and from the due exercise of which her sweet child grew, and improved every day.

Before they left the Castle, the young heir was christened with all due splendor. Sir William Cecil and Sir Edward Leicester, Lady Juliana and Miss Cecil, were sponsors. The christening suit of fine Brussels lace for the infant, over white satin, and a similar dress for the fair mother, were the gift of Lady Juliana; the other sponsors were also very liberal in their presents to their godson.

The hilarity attending this ceremony was not confined within the walls of the Castle, where, however, all the genteeler part of the neighbourhood were elegantly entertained, while all the poorer sort were most hospitably regaled under some temporary buildings and marquees erected for the purpose in the park, where immense fires dispelled the coldness of winter, at the same time that they served to dress the provisions intended to regale the crowd assembled round them. Each family was also liberally supplied with bread, meat, clothing, and money, according to its numbers and their respective wants; and as Lady St. Aubyn and Miss Cecil, attended by Bayfield and Jane, did not themselves disdain to visit the cottages, and see what was really requisite for the comfort of their inhabitants, every thing was ordered with intelligence and regularity, and imposition almost totally prevented.

Mrs. Neville, the poor officer's widow mentioned before, had for some time been settled as manager of the Schools of Industry, and other useful institutions, which Lady St. Aubyn had set on foot during the summer: her eldest daughter was gone to "that bourne from which no traveller returns;" but the others, healthy and happy, were in training for such situations as they seemed calculated to fill. Mrs. Neville was also very useful in distributing the gifts to the poor, and the preparations for their entertainment.

A grand display of fireworks finished the amusements of the evening, for St. Aubyn observed that was the only species of mere entertainment which all ranks and ages could partake of; and in the present instance, he wished not only to benefit, but to gratify all his neighbours.

Miss Alton and Mrs. Dawkins were amongst the company received at the Castle, and so delighted were they with the young heir, so charmed with the splendour and elegance of the repast, that, contrary to usual custom, no lamentations or tender sympathetic sighs disturbed the gaiety of the day.

Soon after this grand fête, the whole family set out for London; and Lady St. Aubyn, not satisfied with any superintendent of her nursery but Mrs. Bayfield, begged she might go with them, and be removed entirely from the more fatiguing post she had hitherto filled.

Jane, now called Mrs. Williamson, having been for some time under Mrs. Bayfield's direction, was placed in her vacant department, and another, somewhat more fashionable, lady's woman engaged to attend the Countess.

In London they met the new married pair, and the bride's fair sister, Lady Delamore, whose extraordinary beauty excited Ellen's admiration, while her likeness to the sweet departed Juliet involuntarily claimed her affection.

With such very agreeable friends, and under the respectable protection of Lady Juliana, Lady St. Aubyn found London a very different scene from what it had appeared to her the year before: she now possessed also a greater degree of confidence in herself, and having no longer any thing to fear, the gloomy hints of St. Aubyn, and her consequent dread, being for ever explained and removed, she felt a more cheerful flow of spirits, and enjoyed the amusements which were so amply in her power: yet still those spirits were softened by the most retiring delicacy; and those amusements, partaken with moderation and decorum. Still her high character stood unblemished, and even elevated in the public opinion; and the splendour of her beauty, which every one thought but now come to its full perfection, attracted none but respectful admirers.

The St. Aubyns frequently saw Lord de Montfort, who had purchased a house in town, and was living in very high style, though still under the direction of Mr. O'Brien, but evidently choosing to be more his own master than he had been in Spain, to which country he seemed at present to have no thoughts of returning; his grandfather's will having left him free to choose his own residence, though he was under a necessity of visiting Spain at least once in two years.

To Lord St. Aubyn he was polite, though distant: strangers could not have perceived any thing in his manner indicative of dislike or resentment; but those who knew what had passed, could at times discover a particular cast of his eye, a certain tone in speaking to the Earl, which marked a recollection, at least, of former enmity, and were by St. Aubyn hardly to be endured.

To Ellen he at all times shewed an attention so devoted, and his expressive eyes displayed so much admiration, that some of those who witnessed them began to fancy they had discovered the cause of that gloom which still overshadowed him, and had, from the time of his first arrival, excited the remarks of every one, and made him the object of the insipid jests and witless railleries of those who could conceive no cause but love for the dejection of a young man who could scarcely count the thousands which swelled his rent-roll.

Love! ill-star'd passion! doom'd vain scorn to bear,
To meet the busy mocker's idle jest;
Nor then allow'd its misery to declare;
Nor then indulge the woe but half supprest.

For of the pure, though enthusiastic attachment he felt for Ellen, such minds could form no idea.

One evening, at the play, whither Lady St. Aubyn went with a large party, amongst whom were Lady Meredith and several gentlemen in her train, they saw in the box opposite to theirs Lord de Montfort leaning against the side of it, in his usual state of gloomy apathy—his eyes half closed, his fine hair disordered, and his whole person expressing a sort of desolation, which waked emotions of pity in Ellen's gentle heart: she could not see him without compassion, he appeared so completely an insulated being, and even in the very morning of life, so totally without any kind connection or affectionate friend to soothe his melancholy—that melancholy, of which she so well knew the original cause, that, as she looked towards him, she could not forbear a sigh; and the sorrow she really felt appeared in her expressive countenance.

Lady Meredith, who had been attentively watching her with a degree of malice, of which Ellen had not supposed her capable, now gently touched Lady St. Aubyn with her fan, and said—

"Upon my word, my dear, I could in pity to the love-sick woe-begone De Montfort have almost wished he could have seen that soft look, and heard that tender sigh: no doubt it would have gone a great way towards rendering him a more cheering object, and that I am sure we should all have rejoiced in, for at present he really casts a gloom over all our amusements."

"I do not understand you," said Ellen, with surprize.

"Indeed!" replied Lady Meredith: "I hardly supposed you would have carried affectation so far. Here, Hamilton," added she, laughing and turning to the gentleman next her, "Lady St. Aubyn cannot imagine why her pity and a very kind look should have any effect on Lord de Montfort."

"Pity and a gentle look from so much beauty," replied Sir James Hamilton, with affected gravity, "must certainly have a most powerful effect on the heart of any man—assuredly still more on that of one so devoted as De Montfort's appears to be."

"I know not, Sir," said Ellen, with modest grace, yet with spirit, "if I am to consider this as a specimen of that fashionable sort of wit which you call quizzing or hoaxing. Are not these the elegant terms of the day? But I am willing to think it no more, as I am convinced you cannot seriously lose sight of the respect you owe me as a married woman, so far as to imagine Lord de Montfort can feel, or I permit, a greater degree of attachment than his long connection with Lord St. Aubyn may well account for."

Then turning to St. Aubyn, she said in a gay tone—

"Help me, my Lord, to convince Lady Meredith that Lord de Montfort has really not fallen violently in love with me: how far he may entertain such a sentiment for her, I will not pretend to say."

St. Aubyn laughed, and said—

"For his own sake, Ellen, I hope he has not been so improvident as to dispose of his heart in your favour; though I should be happy to hear he had selected any fair one at liberty to reward his passion."

This well-timed appeal to her husband, and the unembarrassed manner with which both had spoken, effectually silenced those who hoped to have extracted much amusement from the confusion of the timid and delicate Ellen.

Presently afterwards, on meeting her eyes, De Montfort's seemed lighted up with pleasure, and quitting his box, he came to that where she sat. St. Aubyn seeing a little smile still playing on the countenances of Lady Meredith and some of her gay friends, determined to shew his perfect confidence in his wife, turned round to him, and said—

"De Montfort, how are you? I am quite glad you found us out, for nothing is more stupid than being at the play without a party. We have plenty of room: go and sit between Lady Meredith and Lady St. Aubyn; I am sure I shall make you happy by placing you there, they are both such favourites: we have just been disputing which of them you preferred."

"You did me great honour," replied Edmund, "in speaking of me at all."

"St. Aubyn only jests," said Ellen: "we were not, I assure you, debating on the subject."

"No, indeed," replied Lady Meredith, laughing, "that question may be easily settled: we were all unanimously agreed, I assure you, my Lord."

Edmund, not exactly liking the turn of her countenance, was going to reply with some warmth, and probably might, with that chivalric gallantry which marked his character, have openly avowed, what he undoubtedly thought, that Ellen was the first and most admirable of women, if she had not stopt him by saying—

"Oh, pray Lord De Montfort, let Lady Meredith enjoy the diversion she is seeking: she has been in a teasing humour the whole evening."

"Pray, Lady Meredith," said Lady Juliana, with a grave air, "let us have no more of this rattle: Lady St. Aubyn is not fashionable enough to wish to be the favourite of any man but her husband."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" cried Lady Meredith, "do not let us make a serious business of it. Be assured, my dear Lady St. Aubyn, I had no intention of getting you a grave lecture: though really," she added, in a low tone, "I was quite in hopes you were going to be a little like other people, and not be kept in awe any longer by that starched specimen of old maidenism. You cannot think, my dear, how much a little flirting would improve your beauty: then it gives an air of ease and fashion, which, entre nous, is the only thing you want to make you quite enchanting."

Ellen only smiled at this rattle, but with an air so little encouraging, she soon put an end to it; yet, to one less fixed in principle, Lady Meredith would have been a dangerous companion; and certain it is, more women are ruined by listening to precepts of this nature, half in earnest, half in jest, accompanied by a sort of persiflage which few can withstand, than even by the wiles of men: against these a woman of virtue is on her guard; but she listens without fear to a female older than herself, and whom she thinks better versed in the ways of the world, till insensibly she adopts the same sentiments, and acquires that hateful worldly tone which affects to laugh at every thing serious and praiseworthy.

Ellen, however, was not so easily misled: her natural penetration detected the fallacy; and all the shafts of Lady Meredith's ridicule fell, by her, unheeded.

On the way home, Lady Juliana inveighed bitterly against the flirting manners and ill-judged raillery of Lady Meredith, who, she said, instead of improving as she grew older, was every year worse and worse, and was enough to spoil the conduct of a whole nation of women.

"Pray, my dear," said she, "don't you be led by her nonsense: I hope she will not persuade you to follow her example. Indeed, nephew, I wondered at you for placing that odd, wild-looking young De Montfort next my niece: he does not please me at all."

In short, the old lady was so thoroughly out of humour, that they were very glad to set her down at her own house.

Two or three days after this, Lord de Montfort took leave of the St. Aubyns, before he left London, on his way with a party of young men to see Oxford and Cambridge, and afterwards to go to the Lakes, not meaning to be again in London till September. He carried with him the most exalted opinion of Lady St. Aubyn, but he thought of her rather as an angel than a woman, and was devoted to her with a purity of attachment inconceivable by the worldly-minded.

CHAP. VI.

She sees once more those lovely plains expand,
Where the first flow'ret lured her infant hand.
No where she thinks the sun so mildly gleams,
As on the banks where first she drank its beams:
So green no other mead, so smiles no other land!
Thou little spot, where first I suck'd the light,
Thou witness of my earliest smile and tear—
Loved haunt!

Sotheby's Oberon.

Nothing more of any moment occurred during the stay of Lord and Lady St. Aubyn in London, for De Montfort's departure, and the perfect attachment which subsisted between the noble pair, silenced those tongues, and stopped those remarks, which Edmund's too obvious admiration had prepared to annoy Lady St. Aubyn.

They left London early in April, and spent the month of May at St. Aubyn's, being old-fashioned and tasteless enough not to find any pleasure in broiling through the hot months in the metropolis, and leaving the

"Opening lawns, deep glooms, and airy summits,"

of their own domain untenanted in the most attractive season of the year.

From St. Aubyn's Castle, the long talked of journey into Wales was to commence. Ellen longed once more to revisit the haunts of her infancy, and to see her father and her early friends; and St. Aubyn willingly consented to gratify her.

The child was to travel with them, attended by the faithful Bayfield and his nurses: they waited till the end of May, knowing that the bad roads of North Wales would be hardly passable at an earlier period.

They went from St. Aubyn's to Shrewsbury, and from thence to Carnarvon, stopping on the way, as in their former journey, to see all that was worthy of observation; and as this route was entirely different from that they had before taken, many new objects presented themselves to their notice. Amongst other picturesque scenes, they passed the woody banks of the Dee, whence they obtained a striking view of the beautiful and romantic town of Llangollen, with its church, and elegant bridge, embosomed in trees.

At Llangollen they rested, and though it has in itself nothing particularly interesting, yet its environs afford much sublime and pleasing scenery: amongst these the Vale of Crucis is one of the most lovely secluded situations that fancy can portray; it is adorned by the fine remains of Valle Crucis Abbey, and its back-ground, formed by a lofty mountain, on whose summit stands the venerable ruin of Castle Dinas Bran.

After seeing all that was deserving observation in this charming spot, they proceeded through a fine romantic country to Carnarvon, and from thence to Llanwyllan.

The latter part of the roads were intolerably bad, and the English servants, who had never seen any thing like them, were in momentary expectation of having their necks broken; indeed, Lord Mordaunt's nurses walked several miles, fearing lest the baby should be injured; and in truth, even Ellen, though fearless for herself, felt a little uneasy for the infant.

All these perils and dangers, however, at length happily past, and Ellen's heart beat with ecstacy when she saw the white chimnies of Llanwyllan Farm peeping above the ancient oaks around it. The carriages stopt before the house, and in an instant Ellen was folded in the arms of her father: her fair face pressed tenderly to the rough cheek of the good old man, while the mingled drops of filial love and parental affection fell in showers from their eyes: repeatedly Powis clasped his lovely daughter to his heart, and felt enraptured, that though "so great a lady, his dear Ellen had not forgotten him:" at length he was at leisure to see and speak to his noble son-in-law, and the awkward air of respect he endeavoured to assume was soon changed to one of more cordial affection by the kind greeting Lord St. Aubyn gave him. In the meantime Ellen stept into the hall where the nurses and servants were waiting, and taking the infant from Mrs. Bayfield, returned with him into the parlour, and with delighted looks, placed him in her father's arms.

Oh, moment of exquisite bliss! moment which might have repaid the sorrows of many years! Can there be in this world an instant of such pure delight as the daughter feels when she places her first-born on the bosom of a venerable parent.

Some feelings are to mortals given
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek
It would not stain an angel's cheek;
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head.

Scott's Lady of the Lake.

Mrs. Ross's domestic talents had been exerted to the utmost to prepare Llanwyllan Farm in the best possible manner for its noble guests: she did not indeed quite understand all the various arrangements which are absolutely necessary for the tolerable comfort of such a family; but with the assistance of Dame Grey, who picqued herself on remembering how things used to be when she lived at 'Squire Davis's, and the ready aid of the active Joanna, every thing was far beyond Ellen's expectations; and as she encouraged no fine lady-like airs in her nursery attendants, nor even in her own woman, none of those vexatious murmurs disturbed her which servants often have the happy art of contriving where no real cause for complaint exists; and certainly the furniture for the nursery was not quite so rich as Lady Juliana had chosen for that at the Castle: the nurses found that the young Lord slept quite as well, and his cheeks bloomed quite as freshly beneath the clean white cotton hangings of this little couch as under the quilted satin cradle at St. Aubyn's.

The whole party was speedily arranged, for there was plenty of room and abundance of provisions.

The Earl and Countess had brought no more servants than were absolutely necessary; and Bayfield, highly as she was respected by her noble employers, was not above directing the management of their table, or any other domestic office which could make her useful, and though Powis, at first, thinking her a much greater lady than he had been accustomed to associate with, was very much disposed to treat her as his equal; she soon convinced him by her respectful conduct towards her lady's father that she considered herself as greatly his inferior.

As soon as Ellen had looked round the house, and seen the arrangements for her child's accommodation settled, she began to be anxious to see her good friends the Rosses; and finding from her father they talked of not coming till the next day, she begged him to give her his arm, and she would walk to the Parsonage: all fatigue, she said, had vanished from the moment she found herself beneath her father's roof.

"Come, my dear father," said she, "let us all go: the baby shall come too: the dear good people will be delighted to see us; they will give us some tea, and we can return here to eat our fruit supper: you know we never used to eat anything else at night, and I hope the cream is as good as it used to be when I managed the dairy."

Powis looked with delight on the sweet unaffected creature, who was, as he expressed himself afterwards to Mrs. Ross, "Not a bit set up by her high fortune, but just as she used to be when only Ellen Powis."

The infant now "awaking from his rosy nap," and arrayed with the nicest care, his lovely face shaded by a rich lace border to his cap, and his fine cambric robe cut to shew his fair bosom and dimpled arms, with his beautiful mother in a plain white gown and straw hat, attended by St. Aubyn and Powis, set out for the Parsonage.

On the way, Ellen spoke with the sweetest condescension to all she met, and many of the villagers who knew she was arrived contrived to throw themselves in her way.

Mrs. Howel, who used to do her many little services at the market-town, happened now to cross her path, and profoundly courtesying, would have passed on, but Ellen, saying—"Excuse me a moment, my dear St. Aubyn," turned and ran after her.

"How do you do, Mrs. Howel?" said she, holding out her hand, which the good woman hardly ventured to touch, again courtesying.

Ellen made kind inquiries for all her family by name; and seeing her old neighbour's eyes involuntarily wandering towards the child, as if she anxiously wished, but was ashamed to ask a nearer view of him, she beckoned the nurse to bring him towards her, and said:—

"Do look at my little boy, Mrs. Howel: is he not a fine fellow?"

"Ah, Madam," said the good woman, "he is the loveliest babe I ever saw, except your Ladyship, at the same age.—God bless him, and God bless you, Madam; for you deserve every kind of happiness."

"Thank you, thank you, my good neighbour. Come to the Farm and see us when it is convenient: at present, my Lord is waiting for me, so good-bye." And she lightly ran on, leaving the farmer's wife charmed and delighted by her sweetness and kind attention.

They soon reached the Parsonage, and were received with unaffected joy.

Great indeed, at first, was the bustle of poor Mrs. Ross, who, not hoping for such an honour, was not drest, nor her parlour, though always neat, in that high state of preparation it would have been had she expected them; but she was soon convinced that the string of apologies she meditated were totally unnecessary, by finding the warm-hearted Ellen first in her own arms, and leaving them to fly to those of Joanna, and then with sweet filial reverence bending to the kind parental embrace of the venerable Ross. St. Aubyn and the good Powis, in the meantime, stood gazing on her with rapturous emotion, and both thinking there never was so enchanting a creature. The babe was admired, caressed, and finally pronounced a prodigy of beauty and early apprehension, and his sweet good-humoured smiles were uninterrupted even by one frown, though handed from one to the other with raptures which would have made an infant of a less amiable disposition cross and fretful.

"Well, my excellent friend," said St. Aubyn, aside to Ross, "you see once more your lovely pupil, from whom you parted with so much regret, not, I hope, injured either in person or mind by her intercourse with the great world. Oh, my good Sir, how infinitely am I indebted to you for implanting principles in her youthful bosom which have stood the test of many trying scenes. You and I must have a great deal of conversation, and I know you will be charmed to hear how admirably she conducts herself on all occasions."

"I am charmed," said Ross, while an affectionate tear stood in his eye, "charmed with all I see and hear of both: indeed, my Lord, that lovely unaffected creature adorns the rank to which you have raised her: the choice you made reflects as much honour on your penetration as I hope it will ensure happiness to your future life; nor could any young person have better stood the trying test of sudden elevation, of that admiration which doubtless has surrounded her. Now see how sweetly she returns to us without one high air, one look of dissatisfaction at the inferiority of accommodations or manners she must see.

"Polite as all her life in courts had been,
Yet good as she the courts had never seen."

"You have, indeed," said St. Aubyn, "most happily characterized her; but you cannot think half so highly of her as I have reason to do."

By this time the tea was over; and Ellen, wrapping up her boy, sent him home; but instead of returning with him, she remained at the Parsonage all the evening, delighted herself, and delighting all around her.

"Well," said Mrs. Ross, after her visitors were departed, "well, I never saw any thing in my life so strange! Why, I thought to have seen a fine lady, all dressed in silks and jewels, and looking stiff and formal-like; and I thought to have said, my Lady Countess, and your Ladyship—and behold! here she comes in a plain white gown, but little better than one I scolded her for wearing once—you remember it, Joanna?—And flies to me, kisses me, and calls me dear mamma, as she used to do; and if I had been to have died for it, I could not call her any thing but Ellen, and child, the whole evening almost, except once or twice I recollected myself, and said my Lady, when we were at the window together, and she put her dear arms round my neck, and said dear mamma, I am your Ellen!—and then she is grown such a beauty!—to be sure, she always was as pretty a creature as could be I thought, but now she looks somehow so sensible, and so happy; and then her carriage is so easy, and yet so grand, that if I did not know to the contrary, I should think she was born a great princess.—And then the sweet baby—with his little laughing mouth, and pretty eyes!—And my Lord too, to be so kind—that I once as good as told I wished he would go away from Llanwyllan: and so I did wish it, for could I ever have thought it would come to such honour and happiness for Ellen!"

Ross and Joanna listened with smiles to this long harangue, and though not quite so fluent in their praises, were at least equally charmed and delighted with herself.

St. Aubyn and his Ellen remained thus beloved and happy at Llanwyllan for some time, during which Ellen visited with the utmost kindness every farmhouse of which she had formerly known the inhabitants, and gladdening every poor cottage not only with her smiles, but with more substantial marks of her favour and benevolence.

In the course of the first fortnight Ellen learned that there was a mutual attachment between her friend Joanna and a young clergyman, who did the duty of a parish not more than three miles from those filled by the worthy Ross, and learning from that good man that he had no objection to the match, for that Mr. Griffiths was a man of excellent character, and well suited to Joanna, both in age and temper, and that the only possible objection was the narrowness of his income, and there being no parsonage-house on the living he served, nor any house within many miles where they could reside, she consulted with her Lord, and the next opportunity said to Ross: