FIRST LOVE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET.
1830.

GUNNELL AND SHEARMAN, SALISBURY SQUARE.

FIRST LOVE.

CHAPTER I.

“Then sweetly in seraphic strain returns,

From ev’ry farthest arch, and highest cell.”

During the day, Lord Borrowdale’s attentions to Julia were public and unremitting, while the infatuated, unhappy Edmund witnessed it all in growing sorrow of heart. Had he then, he asked himself, already yielded to a passion so irrational, so dishonourable?—No. He was not quite so mad—quite so base. Had he not always loved Julia? loved her when she was a child—when there could be nothing questionable in the nature of his attachment?—Certainly he had, sincerely, fondly loved her.

Julia, too, in the course of the day, felt a little uncomfortable; she thought that, notwithstanding the friendly conversation of the morning, Edmund, some how, did not seem satisfied. He was not cheerful, he was not frank and obliging as usual; he was not, in short, the least like himself! Could it be, that he fancied he had been but coolly received on his return? Frances and herself used always to make such rejoicing when he came home; but that was when they were children. And yesterday, there was such a hurry with company—yet, possibly, Edmund might have thought it proceeded from silly pride, because there were strangers by, or some such worthless feeling! She longed for an opportunity of speaking to him kindly on the subject, and doing away with such an idea, if indeed it existed. But he now rather seemed to avoid her, while Lady Susan always happened to be speaking to him just when she was intending to do so.

At dinner, Lord Borrowdale handed in Julia; for Lord Morven appeared to think it necessary to resign in his favour. Not so Henry, who not only secured the place on the other side of our heroine, but contrived to engross much of her conversation. This was but poor consolation to Edmund; it argued indifference to Lord Borrowdale, certainly; but then Henry, though without title, was at least nearly her equal in birth, being her own cousin. And it was possible—barely possible, that she might be attached to him: he had been at home once or twice when it had not been in Edmund’s power to return. His observations this morning might have been prompted by jealousy.

After dinner preparations were made for a sail on the lake. Edmund observed Lord Borrowdale, from the moment they left the house, eagerly secure to himself the care of Julia. He, however, walked on the other side. But Lady Susan, passing them as they arrived at the place of embarkation, ran on the gang-board alone; then, stopping half way in alarm, and balancing herself with difficulty, yet refusing the aid of the bargemen, she called on Captain Montgomery for his assistance, declaring he was the only person who understood boats, and that she should not consider herself safe in any other hands. The gallant Captain could not disobey the summons, nor, having obeyed it, avoid continuing his especial protection to the lady; while Henry coming up at the moment, drew Julia’s arm over his with all the freedom of cousinship. The boats, after crossing the lake, coasted along beneath the shade of trees, which hung from the steep rocks almost into the water, while the bare mountain tops, towering far above, were canopied by the heavens, and again reflected in the clear lake, where yet another sky appeared as far beneath.

“This—this is the spot!” exclaimed Mr. Jackson, “to try the effect of the echoes.” They had arrived, as he spoke, opposite the opening to a little valley. A chain of stupendous mountains arose on either side, and one of a conical form, partly shrouded in a white mist which had rolled up from the lake, terminated the far perspective.

The rowers lay on their oars, and the French-horns commenced an air. Immediately, a gigantic voice from within the steep side of the nearest mountain took it up; the next joined in, and the next; but each less loud, till the receding echoes, in journeying round the lake, reached rugged Borrowdale: there they seemed broken off for some seconds; but soon a distant clamour arose, as proceeding from the thousand mountain tops of that desolate region: the sounds were flung further and nearer, then succeeded each other more rapidly, then became slower in their repeats. At length they came forth again, and continued travelling round the lake on the opposite side; but now, increasing in loudness as they once more approached the boats, and loudest when they reached the mountain which formed the second portal to the little valley already described, and in front of the opening to which the boats still lay. Then fainter, and fainter notes proceeded up the vale, and, at length, at its furthest extremity, died away altogether.

After a pause of perfect silence, to ascertain that no return of the echoes could be expected, Julia was eagerly called upon to sing. She asked Edmund to join her in the echo duet, and smiled as she spoke to him. Half his unhappiness vanished in a moment, and the song commenced. The tones of Edmund’s voice were full and firm. His singing, however, derived its principal charm from his manner, which had in it so much of truth and nature, that you could almost fancy him one addressing you with no object but to persuade by the purport of his words; while the mere inflexions of the voice, in sympathising with that purport, unconsciously formed themselves into varied and melodious harmonies.

As for Julia’s voice, it chanced to be one of those wonders, rare as the blow of the aloe! Cultivation had, of course, not been spared; but it was its native power and unexampled compass which were so remarkable. Its variety of capabilities too delighted, for in soft or playful passages, its tones had, as we have somewhere remarked, an almost infantine sweetness. On the present occasion, the scenery, the music, the effect of the echoes, all were inspirations; and the notes which escaped from her lips, gradually arose, till imagination could fancy them travelling on above the clouds, and the listeners felt an involuntary impulse to look upwards, as in pursuit of them. Then, as the air varied, the voice would suddenly fall full and plump on the truest and richest harmonies below, while the higher tones were repeated far above by now receding, now approaching echoes. Soon did the whole wild region round about seem peopled by invisible beings; wandering voices called from every pointed crag of every mountain top; while the steep-sided rock, near which the boat still lay, appeared to contain some dark enchanter, who, all the time in hurried and mysterious accents, spoke from within. Even every little tufted island seemed to have its own, one, wild inhabitant; for each, from some projecting point or hidden bower, sent forth a voice, however faint in its tone or inarticulate in its utterance. Julia’s enthusiasm arose so high, that she not only exerted every power of her extraordinary voice, but, when she had concluded, forgetting how considerable a part she had borne in the general concert, she cried, “Beautiful! beautiful!” in absolute extacy at the echoes.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaimed Edmund at the same moment, meaning, probably, Julia’s singing, but certainly not his own.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” repeated the voice of thunder from within the adjacent perpendicular rock.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” ran along the invisible orchestra above. Frances could keep her countenance no longer at the self-gratulations of the performers, visible and invisible; she laughed out, and a merry peal from all the echoes followed immediately.

“This is too bad,” cried Mr. Jackson, starting, (to the great endangering of the boat,) from the attitude of delighted attention in which he had, since the commencement of the song, remained motionless, “this is too bad, to break up the delicious spell with such a farce as this!”

The sun was now near setting: a homeward course was therefore proposed; and the breeze being favourable, a sail was spread, which, not only greatly assisted the rowers, but added much to the picturesque appearance of the gay barge in which our party sat, as, quitting its coasting position, it dipped like a white winged sea-bird into the dark bosom of the lake, and crossed to the Keswick side.

When they were about to land, Edmund paused a moment to consider whether he ought not to leave Julia to the care of Lord Borrowdale; but she happened at the moment, to point out a well remembered landing-place, beneath an overhanging bower of branches, reminding him how often he had rowed Frances and herself to the spot, and remarking further, a little path, sometimes discernible, among the trees in which they used to walk. Such are the important events which change the resolves of lovers! He gave up all thoughts of the sacrifice he had meditated; hastened to assist her out of the boat; and, as she stepped on the beach, drew the hand he held over his arm, and walked on unconscious of an accident which followed immediately, and which we shall here describe. The hold of the boat-hook on the roots of a stump giving way, the boat was sent, for a few moments, a-drift; and not only was the bargeman, who stood with one foot on the edge of the boat and the other on a projecting piece of rock, precipitated into the water, but so also was Lord Borrowdale, who was, at the instant, in the very act of leaping ashore to join our heroine. This caused such immoderate laughing among the rest of the gentlemen, and so much pretty terror among the ladies, that Edmund and Julia were not missed till they became quite separated from the party. A most inviting path lay before them, which, after ascending for a time, descended a steep and wooded slope, to an overarched opening through the trees, just where a single plank crossed a little stream, at a considerable height from the water.

Arrived on this rustic bridge they stood, the beauty of the scene suspending the hand of Edmund, which he had laid on a little paling gate at its further extremity, with the purpose of opening it, as it formed the barrier between our wanderers and a fresh cut hay-field.

The sun was so low in the horizon that the little mounds of grass which every hand was hastily throwing up for the night at the far end of the meadow, cast their lengthened shadows across half its extent, while the setting beam was still bronzing their tops, together with the faces, garments, and implements of the rustic groups employed around them. At the same moment a full moon, just rising to view on the opposite verge of the heavens, was glittering through the branches of some dark firs that terminated the prospect in that direction.

Julia, who had several appropriate speeches ready, had been all day only waiting for an opportunity to say them; for she had reasoned herself into a belief that it would be dreadful to let Edmund think himself neglected for newer or gayer objects; but, some how, all this preparation had made a thing so simple in itself, as joking Edmund for being affronted, seem quite awful; and in consequence, her heart was beating so fast, that she was waiting for it to stop before she could begin to speak.

“Edmund,” she at length contrived to say, turning and offering her hand; but the foolish fluttering of her heart redoubled, and she stopped short. Edmund started, caught the offered hand, and, puzzled and delighted, pressed it to his lips. She laughed, blushed, and drew her hand away, saying—

“I see, Edmund, you are silly enough to be quite jealous.”

This was rather an unfortunate choice of expression; for Edmund, colouring to excess, began to stammer out—“I—me—oh—a, I have a—I—”

“I dare say you think,” continued Julia, who had no suspicion of the kind of jealousy, which on mention of the word, had presented itself to Edmund’s fancy—“I dare say you think we did not appear as glad to see you as usual, when you arrived so by surprise yesterday; but you came in in so hurried a manner—and—among so many strangers—that—that—”

“Indeed, Julia, I—you—” again stammered Edmund.

“I am sure none of us intended to be unkind,” continued Julia, “—or less glad, I mean, of your safe return.”

“You are too good to be unkind to any one, Julia,” said Edmund, with a sigh. Julia still fancying his manner seemed strangely dissatisfied, began to feel offended in her turn, and a rather awkward pause followed. At length, she compelled herself to make another effort, and said, with a reasoning tone—

“You cannot suppose, Edmund, that any of your friends at Lodore regard you less, merely from your having been a few years from home! Indeed, if you could know how highly, both grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always speak of you, you would not think so!” He made no reply; for it was neither grandmamma nor Mr. Jackson that he was thinking of.

“I believe,” she added, trying to laugh, “it really was all I had heard about ‘Captain Montgomery, the gallant Captain Montgomery!’ which made me find it so difficult to imagine Edmund, who used to play with Frances and myself here in these woods, and the said terrible Captain fighting the French and destroying the Turks on the high seas, one and the same person!”

“Ungentle employment, it must be confessed!” he replied, with a faint smile.

“Oh—I don’t mean that,” said Julia, “I—But really, Edmund, I think,” she added, gravely, “I have made you apologies enough to restore any reasonable being to good humour.”

“You make me apologies!” he commenced: but Julia, as she turned from him, with something of indignation at his supposed obstinacy, forgetting the narrow plank on which she stood, slipped her foot, and would certainly have fallen into the water had he not caught her in his arms, and lifted her to sure footing. Julia, partly from alarm, and partly from the previous exertion of her spirits in saying so much, was a good deal overcome, and even shed tears. The sight of these threw Edmund off his guard. “Would to heaven, Julia!” he exclaimed, “that I were indeed your brother! entitled to the happy privilege of guarding one more precious than life from every danger! of sheltering one dearer than happiness itself—from every sorrow!”

Thunderstruck at his own rashness, he ceased. A smile through her tears was Julia’s reply; for, as she was not expecting, or thinking of a love speech, she understood from what had been said, only that friendship and good humour were restored, and Edmund become more like himself. A long silence, however, followed: when Julia at last said, in rather a hesitating manner, and at the same time with an effort at playfulness, “Frances and I have always called you brother, you know, can you not fancy yourself such, and take as good care of us as if you were really our brother?”

This was a trying appeal; and the beating of Edmund’s heart, (closer to which he imperceptibly drew Julia’s arm as she spoke) shewed him that he must not trust himself with the use of language. Another silence, therefore, followed, and they walked slowly on. In a little time, Edmund, as if thinking aloud, gave, perhaps, unconscious utterance to what seemed to be the result of his meditations, saying: “No, no!—it cannot be required of me, to root out the permitted affections of childhood from my heart!—It were too impossible!—too unnatural!”

“And who wishes you to do so?” asked his companion, with a quickness that shewed how little she understood his feelings.

At this moment, the rest of the party came in sight at some distance; and Edmund, as if fearful of interruption, turned suddenly round, and, in hurried and agitated accents, said, “Julia! you permit me to feel for you the affection of a brother! you permit me, you say, to evince that feeling by care of your welfare, your safety, your happiness. Should I ever be so unfortunate as to extend to what may seem presumption on your goodness, the dear, the sacred privilege—check—but do not, do not utterly condemn me!”

He paused a moment for breath, then, with effort, recommenced thus: “Your family is the home of all my affections! Could it be—should it be otherwise? Yet, in cherishing those affections, so natural, in my circumstances, so inextinguishable, there may occur moments when I may be tempted to forget that I myself stand alone, must ever stand alone, an unconnected, a nameless stranger!”

Here the joining of the party as they came up, laughing and recounting Lord Borrowdale’s adventure, put an end to this dangerous conference. Its results, however, coloured the future destinies of both the young people. If Edmund had previously formed safer resolves, they were now lost in the belief that Julia was in no danger of discovering in him, or sharing herself any sentiments, exceeding the bounds of that friendship which it was, (under the circumstance,) but right and natural should subsist between them; while any deficiency (he argued with himself) in the manifestation of brotherly regard on his part, would require the very explanation it was his duty not to make. He must, therefore, shew her every silent, unpretending, affectionate attention; every mark of brotherly regard; while his own imprudent passion must lie for ever buried in his own bosom!

He must indeed correct its mad and wild intensity! The habit of being in her society, would, he hoped, assist him to do so! would moderate the extraordinary effect that society now had upon him! would enable him to sober down his feelings into those of a truly affectionate brother, really solicitous for the welfare of a sister he sincerely loves.

CHAPTER II.

“Sudden was the trembling joy

Of my soul, when mine eyes, lifted to seek

The bounding deer, have met thy secret gaze,

Mighty king, fairest among thy thousands!”

The interview described in the concluding pages of our last chapter, re-established, though certainly on very mistaken grounds, a kind of confidence between our hero and her who had ever been the darling of his childhood; banishing the momentary estrangement to which the first birth of a still fonder attachment had given rise.

It seemed to be now understood on both sides that they were to be quite brother and sister; and, accordingly, under the pleasing illusion, Edmund henceforward paid and Julia received every devotion that a growing and blinding passion could suggest, except open declaration: yet did confessions pass from heart to heart every time their eyes met, while their understandings pretended to know nothing about the matter; for each of them took care not to ask themselves any questions on the subject as long as they felt so perfectly happy as they now did in each other’s society. Even the attentions of Lord Borrowdale soon almost ceased to pain Edmund: he could distinctly see that they were, at least, indifferent, if not annoying to Julia; and, though he did not dare to ask himself why, the conviction was a source of infinite joy to him!

The gay mornings of the regatta, dinner company every day, and dancing every evening continued for some time, while the very public attentions of his said lordship towards our heroine; and the jest, or, as it is technically phrased, the quiz about our hero and Lady Susan, tended to blind every one to the growth of the deep rooted attachment which was thus hourly possessing itself of every feeling and faculty of heart and of soul in Julia and in Edmund. Yet still were they brother and sister; and, in their own opinion, behaving with the greatest prudence; for love was not once mentioned by Edmund, and, as to Julia, she never even thought of it, she only felt it!

“How good, how amiable it is of Julia,” thought Edmund, “to be so kind to a friendless stranger!”

“Who could be unkind to Edmund!” thought Julia. “The gentleness of his manners win upon one so; the expression of his countenance is so interesting; his very smile is so nearly allied to melancholy that any one, with the least feeling, must dread the idea of causing him a moment’s pain.”

He, for his part, could not long deceive himself as to the nature of his own sentiments; but he thought there was no harm in cherishing them, while he could flatter himself that because he was not declaring he was concealing them. Or, had he thought otherwise, the temptation was, perhaps, too strong to be resisted.

He could not be blind to the pleasure with which Julia received every little mark of silent attention from him, and the blissful sensation which glowed within his breast at such moments was not to be foregone at the faint instigations of a judgment bewildered by the influence of an absorbing passion. Yet he certainly fancied, that it was only his own futurity he was sacrificing for a dream of present felicity. Whatever he sometimes felt Julia’s feelings to be, he undoubtedly always thought them the generous friendship she had promised him should ever be his; and he thus reasoned with himself, that, as she had distinctly permitted him to feel and declare a brother’s affection for her, it was to be expected, that she would receive with complacency those unpretending marks of regard which belong peculiarly to friendship. And, as Frances was often even more openly kind in her manner to him, all was, of course, as it should be. As to himself—it was no matter about himself! he even felt a kind of satisfaction in thinking, that when he could no longer enjoy the delirium of happiness under the dominion of which he now existed—when the hour of separation must come—why, then his misery should be as wild, as unlimited as his felicity was now! still would he watch for the dangerous smile, and when its light began to dawn on the features of Julia, he would have opened his heart to its intoxicating influence, had instantaneous death been the immediate and foreseen consequence. She often observed a shade of melancholy on the brow of Edmund, but she also observed that it gave way to sunny joy when a look, a word, or a smile of hers was directed towards him. To possess the power of giving happiness in a manner so easy and so innocent, to one for whom she did not deny that she had, all her life, had a very tender sisterly affection; to possess such a power and not to use it was not in the affectionate nature of Julia. She did exert it every day, every hour, and when she saw Edmund’s countenance light up with a beam caught from her smile, she felt a degree of pleasure that sometimes startled her; but she never ventured to ask herself whether or not all this was to lead to any ultimate results. Sometimes indeed, she recollected, with a sensation of panic, that Edmund must again leave Lodore House, must again return to the sea, to hardships, to dangers; and then she would strive to banish the scaring thoughts that crowded in upon her, but the next time she addressed Edmund, there would be a tenderness in the accents of her voice, a something indefinable in the expression of her eyes, that would shake his whole soul to its foundation, bewilder his every thought, undo his every resolve, and place him, passive as it were, in the hands of a fate, at once too overwhelming and too delightful to be resisted.

Meanwhile, the whirl of gaiety, the noise of merriment, was still going on around them. Frances was the ringleader of the quizzers of Lady Susan, and her ladyship evidently liked being quizzed, so that Frances did not think mercy necessary. The subject did not amuse Julia near so much as it did her sister, but then, Julia was always of a graver cast. As for Edmund, he considered the whole business so complete a jest, that he took it very good humouredly, and received Lady Susan’s attentions with great politeness. He even found it necessary, not unfrequently, to dance with her ladyship, or hand her in or out of a room, a carriage, or a boat, when he saw that she had actually been left for him. Sometimes too, he coloured and looked, involuntarily, towards Julia, when pert young ladies told him, that they looked upon him as no better than a married man! He coloured too, and more deeply, when men told him that, faith, he might make his fortune if he were not the most egregious blockhead in existence. That Lady Susan had fifty thousand pounds, was one of the best connexions in the kingdom, and a very pretty young woman beside, a thing scarcely to be looked for where so many other advantages were combined. Even Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Jackson, agreed together, but privately, that Edmund was fortunate in the probability there was of his making so desirable a match.

They determined that it was best to let matters take their course, and not to say anything about it to Edmund. They also agreed that the subject was much too delicate to be mentioned to either Lord or Lady Arandale, who must themselves see what was going on. Lord and Lady Arandale, however, saw only that their daughter flirted a little, (a thing they were very well accustomed to see,) for the quizzing, which was the chief part of the business, was, of course, kept within decorous bounds in their presence. Julia, when the subject was long dwelt upon by others, sometimes felt not quite comfortable, (without, however, asking herself why,) and this uneasiness, slight as it was, vanished the moment she met the eye of Edmund, or that he spoke to her, on the most indifferent topic.

But to return to Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Jackson, they were so extravagantly partial to Edmund themselves, and had for so many years strengthened each other in the belief that there was no doubt of his being the son of a noble family; no doubt, in short, of the truth of the statements in the nurse’s letter; that they did not see the impropriety of a match between him and Lady Susan in the glaring light in which it would have been viewed by most others. They thought their inward conviction that his birth was equal to her ladyship’s, when joined with his own great merit, his amiability in private, and high standing character in public life, quite sufficient to outweigh the trifling circumstances of their never having been able to discover, exactly, who he was; and of his having no property but his captain’s pay, and his fifteen thousand pounds prize-money. What Mrs. Montgomery might have thought of all this, had the subject been brought nearer home by the knowledge that it was to Julia Edmund was attached, it is hard to say; for the best of us can seldom judge impartially when we ourselves, or those we love, are concerned. There are few mothers who do not expect their sons to marry such women as, were they their daughters, they would not give to such men as their sons. But Mrs. Montgomery was spared all alarm respecting the intimacy between her grand-daughters and adopted son, by Edmund’s supposed sudden admiration of Lady Susan, commencing on the very evening of his arrival; and the fuss, as we before observed, which every one had since made, about their mutual attachment.

There was also another blind to Mrs. Montgomery’s penetration, in the marked and troublesome attentions of Henry to his cousin Julia, beside whom he was generally to be seen, while Edmund, by the contrivance of others, was dancing with or handing about Lady Susan. Mrs. Montgomery, in short, was very uneasy about it, and even lectured her nephew on the subject: for she knew how disagreeable such a thing would be to Lord L⸺. Lord Borrowdale, too, who would have been a perfectly eligible match, was equally marked in his attentions; yet it was impossible to say, which Julia preferred: she generally smiled and looked happy, and this was all that could be ascertained. The lovers the while, strange to say, had taken no alarm, if we except Edmund’s first day or two of endless fears; since which, a tacit, and, to themselves, unacknowledged conviction of each other’s affection, had grown up in the heart of each, keeping peace within in spite of all outward occurrences. The miseries of doubt, the tortures of alternate hopes and fears, were, alas! reserved for a future stage of their attachment.

Edmund, indeed, was a little disturbed, one day, by Mrs. Montgomery’s asking him, which he thought Julia received with most favour, the attentions of Lord Borrowdale, or those of her cousin: adding, how much she disapproved of Henry’s conduct in the business; and requesting that Edmund, when they returned on board, would give him leave of absence as seldom as possible. “For,” continued the old lady, “I have heard many sensible people say, that the sympathy which cousins naturally feel towards each other as relatives, is very apt to become love, (or, what is just as mischievous in its consequences, to be mistaken for it,) if young persons are allowed to be too much together. Now Lord Borrowdale, though a match of which her father would perfectly approve, is not, you know, near so handsome as Henry; who certainly has,” she added, with a sigh, “a great look of poor Maria.” She next adverted, but slightly, (having determined not to discuss the point at present,) to Edmund’s own prospects with respect to Lady Susan. He had either fallen into a reverie, or he thought the subject too ridiculous to be treated seriously; for he merely said, with an air of great indifference, and in reply to more than one hitherto unanswered observation of Mrs. Montgomery’s, “Oh, ma’am, that, you know, can never be any thing but a jest.” Immediately after, however, changing his manner, he broke forth into an energetic, and almost passionate speech on the impossibility of one situated as he was, one who had no home, no country, no kindred; who knew not to what rank in society he belonged; who had not even a name, but by courtesy, and who, therefore, could not bestow one; ever thinking of marrying any being, however dearly, however fondly cherished their idea might be to the latest moment of existence!

All this was said with much feeling; for Julia was in every thought; while Mrs. Montgomery heard in it no denial of his attachment to Lady Susan; but, on the contrary, an implied confession of how much he regretted the obstacles which stood in the way of their union. She was beginning to say something, intended to raise her desponding favourite a little, in his own opinion, when the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Borrowdale.

Edmund left the room half awakened from his dream of bliss; and, therefore, far from happy. The uneasy feeling, however, lasted but till he had found Julia; met her eye, and seen her smile; and then vanished with a celerity, which none can understand but those who have felt the powerful, internal evidence, a look can convey.

CHAPTER III.

“What moves thy spirit thus?”

Julia often happened to walk out before breakfast. Sometimes Frances was with her, and sometimes not; but Edmund always happened to join her.

One morning the three were walking together; the sisters, with their usual friendly familiarity, leaning each on an arm of our hero, whom they always treated as a brother; when Frances began, in a laughing manner, to ask him how soon his marriage with Lady Susan was to take place. Edmund tried to smile, but sighed very heavily.

“No! so it is really serious!” cried Frances. Julia too, commenced a sort of sigh, but, as soon as she was aware that she had done so, she closed her lips, that the breath might descend without sound. Edmund, on whom, as we have just observed, she was leaning, felt the slight movement, and was strangely gratified; not that he presumed to assign any cause to the sigh.

“You know, Frances,” he said, in reply to the question about Lady Susan, “that business is completely a jest! I wonder, by the bye, her ladyship is not offended at being made the subject of a jest. But, were it otherwise,” he continued, with solemnity, “were she indeed the object of an overwhelming passion—were she indeed the being whose looks, whose words, whose smile gave value to each moment of existence—were she in short the object of a first love, which you know they say cannot be torn up without carrying with it the very fibres of the heart itself, and leaving it incapable of future energy; (I do not say that I should attempt to eradicate the sentiment, no, I should cherish its very miseries as preferable far to the barren waste, the joyless void of a heart weaned from love;) but such feelings, whatever it might cost me to suppress them, should never be permitted to pass my lips, while mystery hung over my birth.”

“But may you not be loved for your own sake, Edmund, whoever you are?” said Frances, “and for the sake of the high character you have established for yourself, as Mr. Jackson says? I am sure I could not love you better, nor grandmamma, nor Julia, nor Mr. Jackson, if you turned out to be the eldest son of his Majesty, and rightful heir to the throne of Great Britain!”

Edmund looked round involuntarily towards Julia, but her eyes were on the ground.

“I hope, Frances,” he said, in a mournful tone, “that I shall always possess the kind regard of the friends you have named. This hope, indeed, is and ever must be the only solace of my isolated, and, in all other respects, hopeless existence!”

“Don’t speak that way, Edmund, you make me quite melancholy!” said Frances, the tears starting into her eyes, as she held out her hand, which Edmund snatched and kissed.

“You hope!” said Julia, in a tremulous tone, in which was something of reproach. She looked up for a moment as she spoke, and Edmund saw the glistening of tears in her eyes also.

“I am sure,” he said, “of every thing that is noble, every thing that is generous, every thing that is kind.”—“That last word, Edmund,” said Julia, interrupting him, “is more like the language of the friend you ought to feel yourself among us.”

“Besides,” said Frances, continuing the former part of the subject, “grandmamma and Mr. Jackson, you know, think it quite certain that you are the son of a noble family.”

“Still, all is mystery!” he replied, mournfully, as his thoughts reverted to the disgraceful possibility which had of late haunted his imagination, that of his being yet proved the child of criminal, though, perhaps of titled parents. “In short,” he continued, “a being, such as I am, must drag out existence, a solitary wanderer, unconnected with any, but by the ties of charity, of compassion.” After a pause, which neither of the sisters had voice to interrupt, he re-commenced—

“Duty, Frances, must soon again call me from the too happy dream I have lately enjoyed. Sometimes, indeed, in an hour of peace, I may, I shall, return to happy, happy Lodore, the dear paradise of my childhood; and from the generous friendship there granted me, derive gleams of felicity! snatches of a joy that will render the rest of life, perhaps, more dark.” He was silent a few seconds, then added, “Yet so precious will such moments ever be to me, that I shall hold them cheaply purchased by the dreary wretchedness that must precede and follow them!” Julia’s tears flowed silently. Frances’s too, were again starting into her eyes. “Nay, Edmund,” said the latter, “there is something more than usual in the matter! this love, this First Love that you speak of so feelingly, I fear is a serious business after all! for you never were in love before, I suppose. But, indeed, you need not grieve so much; for I know—that is—at least—I have no right, perhaps, to betray such a trust—but still—I am perfectly certain that—that you will not be refused.”

“For heaven’s sake what are you talking of, Frances?” exclaimed Edmund, colouring excessively, while Julia turned deadly pale.

“I am saying,” replied Frances, “that I am sure, Lady Susan will not refuse you: she thinks you—so——”

“Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, in a voice of disappointment. “She certainly never will, Frances,” he added, “for I shall never have the folly, or the presumption, to put it in her power to do so. You know I have just explained to you that I can never marry—at least—But I may say never; for it would indeed be wildly romantic to hope that I ever shall be enabled, even to seek to do so, consistently with honour, and my own—wishes! the word is too inadequate. And were I, by the most unlooked-for circumstances, placed at liberty—am I to—to have—the vanity to—But you are leading me on to speak too much of myself, Frances; which is always, you know, a dangerous, as well as an unbecoming topic.” He ceased, and all three walked on for a time in silence. At length Julia said, in a low tone—

“Why should it grieve you so much, Edmund, not to—to marry? I don’t think there is any occasion for every one to be married! Now, I—for one—never intend to marry.” Edmund started, and looked round.

“You, Julia!” he said. “Yes,” she continued, dropping her eyelids, “I am very happy,” and here a sigh contradicted her assertion, “loving the friends I have loved all my life——” “All your long, long life!” ejaculated Edmund, with a smile and a sigh. “And I cannot imagine,” continued Julia, “beginning now to love a stranger; or suppose any thing so absurd as the possibility of setting up a new image in my heart, to be worshipped above all that have hitherto inhabited there! Oh no! that, indeed, can never be.”

“So,” interrupted Frances, laughing, “we are to understand that there is an old image set up there already! (a first love, I suppose, as Edmund calls it.) Is it then his lordship? or our amiable and interesting cousin? It would indeed be a charity to love him, for I am sure no one else does.”

“Oh! you know Frances, I—don’t mean—I mean, one’s own friends,” said Julia. “Now ask yourself: could you ever love a stranger, as you love those you have loved all your life? As you love me for instance?”

“A stranger,” said Frances, considering, “no, certainly, not while the stranger continued to be a stranger.”

“Well Henry, you know, is no stranger, so one of my guesses may be right, or perhaps you like Edmund better—I am sure I do.”

Edmund had remained perfectly silent; for a few seconds, he had actually been stunned by the extacy of an irresistible conviction that Julia was saying, as plainly as words could express it, that she loved him, and that she never would or could love any one else! But, on her appeal to Frances in reply to the interruption of the latter, his short lived transport faded. “She alludes to the gentle ties of relationship,” said he to himself, “and having known no feeling but that of calm and gradually formed affection, she cannot even imagine any other.” A momentary pang indeed shot across his heart, as Frances alluded to Henry; for Julia might have loved him all her life, if she loved him at all; but he was not, as Frances observed, a character very likely to inspire love. Then her manner, the expression of her eyes, the tones of her voice; how different, when she addressed himself, from what they were when addressing her cousin! This was, however, a subject not to be too closely examined, though it served for the present to banish all painful thoughts respecting Henry.

“They talk, you know,” said Frances, “of love at first sight!” “Oh!” replied Julia, “such people must either have no real friends, and therefore no real affections, or be, themselves, incapable of feeling a real attachment!”

“What do you call a real attachment?” asked Frances. “Why, one founded on—on—having all one’s life known, that the—friend—one loves unites every quality that is noble and estimable, not only in one’s own opinion,” replied Julia, blushing deeper and deeper at each word, “but in that of those, whose judgment one respects, with all that is gentle, kind, and amiable towards oneself!” Edmund felt an almost irresistible desire to press her hand as she said this, nor could he be quite certain that he did not do so. “It was Mr. Jackson,” she added, in a hurried manner, “that was explaining the subject the other day. He said, you know, Frances, that it was because we are formed to find perfect happiness hereafter in loving absolute perfection, that we experience so much delight in attaching ourselves, in this life, to what, on earth, comes nearest to perfection! And what can we know of the perfections of a stranger?”

“Why, not till we discover them,” replied Frances, “but then, should they prove greater than those of our older acquaintances, by your own argument of loving best what comes nearest to perfection, the stranger must deserve and obtain our preference.”

“Oh! impossible!” exclaimed Julia.

“What is impossible?” asked Frances. Julia made no answer, and Frances, after a moment or two of silence, enquired of Edmund, if the Lancer whom they had observed driving his curricle round the lake yesterday evening, were the same they had seen at the Regatta. Edmund looked in her face without meaning or reply. His thoughts had been too differently employed to be so easily brought to bear on the identity of a Lancer. “You see,” said Frances, “he is thinking of his First Love. We ought not to tease him with questions on less interesting subjects. I have been considering about it, Edmund,” she continued, “and I cannot see what harm it would be for you to be married to Lady Susan, when it would make you both happy.”

“Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, “I am not thinking about Lady Susan, I assure you, Frances!”

“Indeed!” said a soft voice from behind, followed by immoderate laughter from several persons. Our trio looked round, and beheld Lady Susan herself, accompanied by Lord Borrowdale, Lord Morven, and Henry. “We have caught the gallant Captain speaking of your Ladyship at least,” observed Lord Borrowdale.

“Which, in my opinion, argues thinking,” added Henry.

Edmund, not knowing well how to get out of the scrape, joined the laugh, and said, he believed he must plead guilty—of what, he left it to the imagination of his accusers to determine.

Lady Susan seemed to think it was of being in love, and that with herself; for she smiled, addressed our hero frequently, and was particularly obliging to him all the morning. Lord Morven, who did not seem much to relish the scene, asked, without addressing any one in particular, who that dashing fellow was who drove along the margin of the lake yesterday evening as they were boating. “The same,” answered Lord Borrowdale, “who made himself so conspicuous during the regatta, splashing through the crowd in his curricle.”

“I am aware of that,” rejoined Lord Morven, “but I mean to enquire if any one knows who the young man is?”

“That no one I believe can make out. The name is Beaumont; but he has not brought any introductions, and has, I understand, declined the acquaintance of some persons who, taking it for granted that he was of the noble family of that name, wished to call on him.”

“He is not then, it would seem, very consistent,” said Henry, “for he literally scraped an acquaintance the other day with such a fellow as Lawson, (my aunt’s man of business,) for the express purpose of asking to be introduced at Lodore House.”

“He shows his good taste,” said Lord Borrowdale, with an appropriate glance towards the group of ladies.

“He appears,” observed Lord Morven, “to have a tolerable taste in most things: his horses are beautiful animals, and his dogs the finest I have seen!”

“Is he not rather pleasing-looking himself too?” asked Frances; “I thought so, as well as one could see passing. Did not you think so, Lady Susan?”

“Indeed I did not look at him,” replied her ladyship, glancing at Edmund. “So,” said Henry, with a sneer, “the fellow drives about to some purpose it would seem.” “To a most enviable one, certainly!” remarked the compliment-loving Lord of Borrowdale.

“Pray, can any one tell what brought him into this neighbourhood?” asked Lord Morven. “They were obliged,” answered Lord Borrowdale, “to send from Whitehaven to Carlisle for military, to quell a very serious riot of colliers, headed too, it seems, by one of the fair sex, who, I understand, leads her party in fashion of an equestrian amazon, and who had, they say, proceeded in triumph through every street in Whitehaven, terrified the poor quiet magistrates, overturned the carts of potatoes going down to the shipping for exportation, and, in short, lorded it over the whole population till the arrival of the dragoons.”

“How very well he plays the flute!” said Frances.

“Yes,” said Henry, “and what good care he took to keep his boat within hearing of our party, these several evenings on the lake.”

“I dare say it was quite by accident,” rejoined Frances; “and how picturesque the effect was,” she continued, turning to Lady Susan, “of the little skiff with its one white sail, appearing and disappearing round points of rock; the one reclining figure playing on the flute, the two dogs seated, one on each side, listening with profound attention, till at some dying cadence, pointing their noses upward, they would utter a long and piteous wail! while the rapt musician himself seemed unconscious not only of their wild accompaniment, and that of all the echoes far and near, but even of his own performance.”

“He thought himself a perfect hero of romance, I have no doubt,” replied her ladyship.

“Well!” cried Frances, “I do not think there was any appearance of affectation about him.”

“Whoever he is,” rejoined Henry, “he had better not wander about these woods in his long feathers, or I shall be apt to shoot him in mistake for a pheasant.”

“Henry, you had better take care what you do!” said Frances. “You are much too fond, let me tell you, of killing of every kind.”

“Talking of shooting, what have you done with that fine setter of yours, St. Aubin?” asked Lord Morven.

“Shot him!”—“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“The rascal leaped up on me with his dirty feet, after I was dressed for dinner, the other day.” “Shame! shame! Henry!” exclaimed both the sisters, at the same moment. “Too bad, faith,” cried the gentlemen.

Frances began to tell Henry that nobody would ever love him, he was so wicked. He affected to laugh, and whispered Julia as he passed, loud enough, however, for Edmund, who was on the other side, to hear. “What do you say to that, Julia?” At the same time, accompanying his words with an insidious look of tender, confiding enquiry. She was astonished, but had not presence of mind to reply: and even Edmund, at the time, only thought Henry impertinent. The party had now arrived in front of the house.

CHAPTER IV.

“Here the bright diamond and the ruby take

The rose’s form; and the deep amethyst

The violet; while the modest pearl blends

Its moonlight lustre with the sunny gem.”

While all were taking their places at the breakfast table, Lady Susan was so obliging in making room for every one, that at last she found herself seated next to our hero. But, alas! Julia was on his other side. To do him justice, however, he helped her ladyship abundantly, too abundantly indeed to many things she did not want: he even had the unparalleled generosity to offer her, and that with a sudden start of recollection, his cup of tea when she had one of her own; he also turned and begged her pardon, more than once, when it was not to him she had addressed herself.

“You see,” whispered Lord Borrowdale, who, for lack of room near Julia, had seated himself on the other side of Lady Susan, “poor Montgomery is so bewildered by the radiance of your ladyship’s smiles, that he actually does not know what he is doing.”

Lady Susan sighed and smiled, and tried to be of his lordship’s opinion. The following plan, which had been in agitation ever since the arrival of the Arandales at Lodore House, was now finally arranged. In short, Mrs. Montgomery, after many objections, at length consented to her grand-daughters accompanying their uncle’s family, back to Ayrshire, for about a month. Captain Montgomery, and Mr. St. Aubin were invited to join the party. The Euphrasia being still in dock, our hero quickly assented to a proposal, by which he was to enjoy a continuance of Julia’s society.

“Julia!” exclaimed Frances, on receiving a message from a servant, “our poor little friend, Gotterimo! Oh, may we have him in, grandmamma? It will be so amusing!” “And I dare say every body will buy something from him,” added Julia.

“He is, I believe, a deserving poor creature,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “Shall we gratify the girls, and admit him?” she added, turning to Lady Arandale.

Lady Arandale, of course, assented, and orders were given accordingly. A young man, of a neat diminutive figure, now entered. His eyes sparkled with hope at the sight of so large a company; while, at the same time, a kind of bashfulness flushed his cheek and flurried his manner. The girls saw this, and felt for him.

“Here, will you open the boxes on this table, Mr. Gotterimo?” said Julia; and while he was doing so, she observed, that when the first flush, called up by his entrance, went down, the poor creature’s countenance assumed an anxious and saddened expression.

“I hope,” she added, “you had good success in Bath?” “Yes, madam,” he answered, with some hesitation; then added, “it was first year, madam—every ting must have begin, madam.” This led to further enquiries, and a dismal tale of having been robbed by his partner, of the savings of his whole life.

Our breakfast party felt much commiseration for poor Gotterimo; and commenced making purchases as a means of affording, at least, temporary assistance. The sale of his goods raised the spirits of our poor little friend, who soon became all activity in displaying, and eloquence in recommending each shining article in his sparkling collection. A chain was admired by Edmund for its resemblance to a cable, and was purchased by Julia. Lord Arandale’s eye accidentally fell on a musical box. Gotterimo set the air playing immediately.

“Is it not rather slow in the time?” said the Earl.

“Oh, de slow time, it do make listen!”

“I should prefer something less dismal,” said his lordship.

“So ’tis, sir! De quick time, it do make dance!” and, while he spoke, with nimble fingers he was winding up a curious seal which now began to execute a more lively air.

“That is pretty!” said the Earl. Gotterimo proffered the seal to his lordship.

“The articulation of the box is superior,” observed Lady Susan.

“Dis be more superior,” cried Gotterimo, presenting the box to her ladyship. “The seal is the prettier thing,” persisted Lord Arandale. “If you vil please, sir, bote be de best,” pursued Gotterimo, offering both. Here every one laughed. The little man looked round him enquiringly, then, rallying, said—“So ’tis, sir, de seal be de best beautiful! de box be de best music!” and he added, smiling sheepishly, “every ting be de best fen it bring Gotterimo de money!” This was logic not to be resisted, and the Earl took both, together with watches, seals, and chains, for three or four absent nephews; while Lady Arandale selected handsome presents for as many absent nieces. Thus went on a brisk sale of poor Gotterimo’s goods, when Mrs. Montgomery, happening to cast her eye over the contents of one of the jewel boxes, which lay open, her attention was fixed by a curious mosaic ring: she caught it up and examined it with a much deeper interest than it seemed to merit. Gotterimo, believing she was admiring the workmanship of the article, silently undid the clasps of a small morocco case, and placed it open before her. It contained the set of mosaics to which the ring belonged: her countenance changed; and Julia remarked that movement of her head which always indicated strong emotion. Mrs. Montgomery turned the centre medallion. On the back part of the gold rim was engraved Maria, her sister’s name, and the mark by which they used to distinguish between their necklaces. She turned deadly pale, and was only prevented sinking to the ground by the united support of Julia, Edmund, and Frances.

The moment Mrs. Montgomery recovered, she called for Gotterimo, and enquired, anxiously, where, when, and how those ornaments had come into his possession. “Dem be second hand, Madam,” he replied; “I have buy dem of a gentleman in London.” The name Gotterimo could not immediately call to mind. He had seen the person in question but once. In reply to the question of what sort of looking gentleman the person was, he said, “he vos tall and good look; look angry fen he no please, and have de loud voice.” Our little jeweller, however, offered to make “enquiry” of a friend of his, to whom, he said, “de same gentleman have sell de grand old plate, and de great many picture, and de big box of de old fassion moneys.” The purchase of the necklace had been lately made; but all that Gotterimo knew further of the person who had sold it to him was, “that he have rob and cheat so many tradge people; and have hire de big house in ⸺ Place, in London, to make dem tink him grand gentleman;” but that when he, Gotterimo, last left town, “de house vas empty, vid de bill ‘To Let, Furnish,’ on de vindow.” All now remembered to have read a recent account in the papers of the said swindler and his associates, with their assumed names.

The mosaics were purchased, and Gotterimo, after receiving considerable charitable donations, dismissed; while Mrs. Montgomery’s agitation of spirits was, at length, in some degree composed, by Mr. Jackson’s reminding her that the necklace must have been parted with many years ago, by those of whom she thought; and that, its having since passed into the hands of a knot of swindlers, was by no means a remarkable circumstance.

CHAPTER V.

… “On the shadowy margin

Of the lake, in a spot sequester’d.”

“Can that noise be the bagpipes?” said Frances to Julia, trying to look from an upper window in one of the turrets of Arandale Castle. But no object immediately near the building could be discerned from windows situated as were those of this apartment. The more removed prospect, however, was rich and magnificent. Woods, which seemed interminable, every where met the eye; with, here and there, an opening among their ranges, displaying a grassy avenue which ran along till lost again in the far perspective of grove meeting grove. In some of those avenues stood herds of deer, looking around them with an air of the most stately security; in others, even hares and rabbits were sometimes seen to venture from under cover, cross a path, and disappear again, whilst innumerable cawing rooks, continually passing and repassing each other’s heavy flight, hovered over all the summits of the trees; and in their branches sat gay plumed peacocks, uttering, from time to time, their wild cry. To complete the picture, one of the grassy avenues already described, terminated in a smooth, still sheet of water, an arm of which was crossed, at a considerable height, by a light bridge of iron work; while, on its glassy surface, sailed two snow white swans, the sole visible inhabitants of this their watery realm.

“It is the bagpipes, my Lady,” said Alice Smyth, “the housekeeper told me to tell your ladyships, that that was the way your ladyships would know when breakfast was ready. The old piper walks up and down under the windows, playing highland tunes all the time of breakfast, which my Lady Arandale makes herself every day at ten o’clock, and never waits for any body, but sends all away again at eleven, let who will or will not come down.”

“And does her ladyship make no allowance for the first morning after a long journey?” said Frances, (for they had all arrived at Arandale but the night before); “I declare my limbs are quite stiff. But we had better make haste, or, by Alice’s account, we shall have no breakfast,” she continued, taking her sister’s arm.

As they passed along the galleries above, and across the halls below, numerous domestics pointed out, in silence, the way to the breakfast room. On their entrance, a general move took place among the gentlemen, though only the family party, each offered or pointed out a seat or seats. It so happened, that Julia took one offered by Edmund, who seated himself beside her, and began silently placing within her reach, every thing she could possibly want.

Lady Arandale sat at the head, Lady Susan at the foot of a long table; the one filled tea, the other coffee; and, in the intermediate space appeared the usual hot rolls, toast, eggs, etc. of an English breakfast, reinforced by the Scottish addition of crisp leaves of oaten cake, thin as writing paper, together with comfits, marmalade, and all sorts of sweetmeats. Lord Morven presided at a side table, abundantly covered with savoury pies, cold meats, and dried fish; while Lord Arandale seemed to have the sole possession of a third and lesser one, where he alone was eating of a certain preparation of oatmeal, called in Scotland, porridge.

“You have quite forsaken your post, Captain Montgomery,” said Lady Susan. “I beg a thousand pardons,” exclaimed Edmund, starting up, “I thought I had filled all the cups.”

“Indeed!” replied her ladyship, in a tone of much pique, “Oh, pray be seated,” then, affecting a laugh, and closing her eyelids quickly once or twice to disperse a tear that might else have betrayed her mortification, she added, “you did not then, let me inform you, fill even one. Nay, do pray sit down!” she continued, as Edmund made another attempt to rise, “I have completed my task with very little fatigue, I assure you, though you were so much shocked at the idea of my undertaking it.” Lord Morven, a wing of pigeon suspended on his fork, looked round at his sister with a broad and silent stare. She blushed, and addressed, successively, Henry, Frances, and Colonel Morven, without waiting for an answer from any of them. Edmund coloured, and Julia, who had neither been addressed nor accused, but by her own conscience, coloured also.

Lord Arandale, having dispatched his first course, joined the general table to finish his repast with some of the good things it afforded. Plans of amusement for the day now became the general topic; Julia and Frances begged that they might be permitted to explore some of the beauties of the grounds, which, from their windows, promised so much. Lady Susan proposed a visit to her cottage; it was one of those imitations of a real rustic habitation, which, situated in some delightful retirement in the midst of extensive pleasure grounds, were the fashionable playthings of the great young ladies of the day. A spinning wheel was always a part of the furniture, and a proficiency in its use a necessary accomplishment to ladies possessing these rural boudoirs. Her ladyship’s proposition seemed agreeable to every one; particularly as the walk to the cottage led through much of what was most interesting in the grounds. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, the whole party assembled in front of the castle to commence their ramble.

Lord Arandale saying that he would show Julia the way, drew her arm over his; Lord Morven offered his to Frances; Henry joined Colonel Morven; Lady Susan walked alone; and Edmund, who on first setting out had intended to walk at the other side of Julia, felt himself obliged, in common politeness, to step forward and join the lady who had no companion. He did not, however, intend to offer his arm, as he meant to avail himself of the first favourable opportunity for desertion. But her ladyship struck her foot against the stump of a flower root, then limped a step or two, and next came in contact with a loose stone: in short he found it impossible to evince a suitable concern for such accidents, without saying something about an arm. Lady Susan accordingly took his arm; laughed at her own giddiness, confessed her want of a guide; “Though,” she added, “here I ought rather to be yours, instead of making myself so troublesome.” Edmund said, very coolly, as he thought, that he was happy in being useful; reproached her ladyship in due form for misnaming the pleasure of being so, a trouble; and proceeded to hope that she had not suffered materially from his negligence, in the first instance. There was something so soothing, so persuasive in Edmund’s manner and voice, at all times, that common politeness from him, possessed an almost dangerous charm; and her ladyship was willing to be deceived.

Such a manner must be the result of suppressed feeling, thought Lady Susan; but she remembered the coffee: yet, might not even that, she asked herself, be one of the strange inconsistencies of love. Her spirits began to rise; and her good humour, never long absent, returned. She introduced sentimental subjects, and frequently spoke in so low a tone, that Edmund was obliged to stoop towards her to gather the meaning of what she said; so that to those who walked behind them, they appeared to be engaged in very earnest, and very interesting conversation. They turned off into a narrower walk; and the next time Edmund looked over his shoulder, which he did rather oftener than Lady Susan liked, not one of the rest of the party was any where to be seen.

“Your ladyship should certainly know the way here,” said Edmund, hesitating, and slackening his pace; “but we have either left them all very far behind, or taken a wrong path.” “This is the prettiest way to my cottage,” said her ladyship, “to which they will all certainly bend their steps, by whatever walk they may have gone round.” Accordingly, our advance couple proceeded onward uninterrupted through delightful solitudes. Her ladyship grew more and more romantic; many of her opinions, many of her very expressions were in perfect unison with the secret sentiments of Edmund; though those sentiments had, it must be confessed another object; Edmund’s replies, therefore, were frequently bursts of feeling suddenly checked; he was often silent, and sometimes sighed.

Lady Susan no longer doubted. There was a struggle in her bosom between natural modesty and a generous wish to reward the attachment of one, who was kept silent by honourable and manly motives.

By this time they reached the cottage. It was all that was rural; thatched, of course, and overgrown with jessamine, honeysuckle, and ever blowing roses. Buried in the deep woods that surrounded the castle, it had a little paled in garden and a small space of green, clear in its front; and, at the foot of the green, ran a little rivulet with a plank thrown over it, to form a rustic bridge. Tamed pheasants strayed about instead of barn-door fowl, a kid was tied to the paling, and a sheep with two lambs fed on the little plot of grass before the door.

Her ladyship having, with Edmund’s assistance, crossed the plank, caressed each of her favourites as she passed them, and, leading the way through the little garden, opened the latch of the cottage. All within was perfect rusticity: the furniture consisted of a small dresser with a few delf plates, a corner cupboard with some common looking cups and saucers, a deal table, a few wooden chairs, a low three legged stool, a spinning wheel, a kettle and some dried herbs suspended from the ceiling, some bright tin utensils arranged on nails against the wall over the chimney-piece, and a small looking-glass hung at the side of the latticed window.

Lady Susan became silent and absent; went to various repositories of grain and fed each of her pets; Edmund, of course, assisting. When she had finished, she seated herself on the three-legged stool, and began to spin with great assiduity and quite a practised hand. Edmund, whom she had requested to take a chair beside her, sat for some time in silent admiration of her performance. Suddenly, she lifted the toe of the foot that had kept the wheel in motion, and suspended the little white hand over the fore finger, of which the thread had been passing. “This spot, you see, Captain Montgomery,” she said, “is my plaything; yet, how happy might people be whose all it was!”

“Certainly!” he replied with much energy, instantly making Julia in imagination its mistress, and himself her partner for life: “Here is all that unsophisticated nature calls for; and, in the society of an object beloved, how seldom would the outer world be remembered!”

Her ladyship blushed and sighed; but Edmund’s thoughts were full of another image, and the blush and the sigh, which else might have spoken volumes, were unnoticed by him. A considerable pause ensued. “It certainly is madness,” said Lady Susan at length in a low voice, and with some hesitation, “It certainly—is—madness, to sacrifice realities to opinions, and those opinions not our own!”

“Oh, most assuredly!” replied Edmund, “when such is the case; but when our own opinions, our own sense of all that is honourable, just, grateful, are in direct opposition to our own feelings of all that:”—he recollected himself, broke off suddenly, and coloured: not that he apprehended being misunderstood; he rather dreaded that he was too well understood, and conscious that he thought of Julia while he spoke, feared he had inadvertently betrayed sentiments it was so incumbent upon him to conceal. “Yet—yet—” said her ladyship, “if—if the object—of an attachment so tender, yet governed so entirely by honourable principles, is willing to wave imaginary, in favour of real superiority?”—and she held out her hand.

Edmund first stared at the hand; then, scarcely conscious of the mechanical movement, took it in his. “For heaven’s sake, what do you mean, Lady Susan?” he exclaimed, changing colour twenty times in a minute; for, still possessed with the one idea, and too little of a coxcomb to be ready to believe her ladyship seriously attached to him because idle people had jested on the subject, the thought crossed his mind in the confusion of the moment, that Lady Susan must be in the confidence of her cousin, and must be expressing her belief that Julia returned his attachment.

Lady Susan spoke again,—“It would be mere affectation in me, Captain Montgomery,” she said, “to pretend blindness to the state of your feelings, and I respect the motives that have prevented their open declaration—” Her ladyship looked down, paused, and trembled excessively. Voices were heard without. The party passed the paling gate, and moved along the little walk of the garden. Lady Susan looked in alarm towards the door, coloured very deeply, and said, in a hurried tone, and with a kind of smile that struggled with a few tears of mingled pleasure and shame, “It is rather hard, that I should have it to say, half unasked after all; yet, in favour of your motives, which I honour, I will say it—I am yours!” At this moment, the whole party flocked in, and filled up the little cottage room. Lady Susan snatched away her hand, which Edmund had been too much puzzled to resign, and resumed her spinning in a state of overwhelming confusion. Edmund stood rooted to the spot, looking and feeling, if possible, still more confounded; his colour mounting gradually as his perception of the truth cleared up, while his countenance became filled with expressions the most inexplicable!

Lord Arandale, fortunately for Lady Susan, was too busy speaking to Julia about some of the beauties of the grounds to observe his daughter. But he addressed an ear that heard little of what he said. Julia, during the walk, had been wishing that Edmund would join them. She had observed him when going on before the rest of the party with Lady Susan, and, seemingly engaged in a conversation so earnest; and she had, even then, felt a slight unacknowledged sensation of uneasiness.

On entering the cottage, the first object that met her eye was the eye of Edmund. For the first time its expression did not banish every shadow from her thoughts, did not bring sunshine to her heart. It had never before had a meaning that she had not felt, at least, (if not exactly understood,) and felt with a too dangerous consciousness of delight; now his eye wandered from hers without an answering look. Lady Susan, too, how extraordinary was her expression! Julia became in one moment, though she had no time to ask herself why, miserable! entirely miserable! It was a kind of wretchedness, too, that she had never before even imagined. It puzzled—it alarmed her. A hopelessness came over her heart, that in all her grievings over the thoughts of Edmund’s going away, she had never known. Though she had never formed any other plan but that Edmund was to be her friend, her brother, she his friend, his sister; this had all been, while the bare idea of ever being other than the first in his affections, had not once presented itself to her imagination as even possible; but now, unaccustomed as she was to analyze subjects of love and marriage, there was something in the circumstances of the two conscious beings before her, which seemed obviously to set up a living, breathing object between herself and Edmund. Why such should be any obstacle to brotherly and sisterly regard still subsisting between them, she did not particularly enquire; yet all the stores of love and happiness that she had been collecting from infancy, seemed now to have been swept away in one single moment. She continued, however, to hang on the arm of Lord Arandale, and to answer any direct questions put to her as well as she could. After examining and admiring the cottage and grounds, the party at length returned to the gravel-sweep before the castle.

A curricle, with a gentleman driving, and a lady seated beside him, was now seen approaching. “Here is Lady Morven at last,” said Lord Arandale, letting go Julia’s arm, and advancing towards the new arrival.

“Matilda, I declare!” cried Lady Susan, hastening forward with her brother, who, on their return from the cottage, had, in a very marked manner, insisted on her taking his second arm. Edmund, who had walked in silence on the other side of Julia, pondering partly on her altered manner, and partly on his own late adventure; when Lord Arandale withdrew his support, took up her hand, softly, and drew it over his arm; bending forward, at the same time, as if anxious to catch a view of her countenance. She kept her head, however, carefully turned in a contrary direction, and the moment they reached the steps, without speaking or looking round, withdrew her arm, glided away, and hurried up to her own room. Yet, such is the weakness of the heart that loves, that she had felt less unhappy during the few seconds her arm had rested on that of Edmund.

Julia’s conduct and feelings on this occasion, were certainly very foolish, but it must be remembered that she was scarcely eighteen; that she had been brought up in perfect seclusion, a seclusion too of sentiment, where, from five years old, she had never seen, or even heard any thing of life, but within the one domestic circle, in which all that was thought of, was tender mourning for the one that was lost, and tender cherishing of the few that were left. It is not then surprising that those few, and the first place in their hearts, should be romantically valued by one whose opening mind had thus, in every stage of its developement, been strongly impressed with the one idea, that all the rest of the world must be for ever strangers to her, in comparison of those who had, in this exclusive manner, possessed her earliest affections. And when, in addition to all this, the spell of a first love had fallen on a heart so prepared, could much philosophy be expected?

CHAPTER VI.

“Is this a madness that is upon me?”

The party we left at the door, reinforced by a number of newly arrived nephews and nieces of my lord’s and my lady’s, were by this time entering the great drawing-room, at the further end of which Lady Arandale was seated on a sofa, arranging, on a table before her, the presents she had brought for her nieces. From out of the entering group, one lady, whose precedence seemed to be undisputed, came forward towards Lady Arandale. It was Lady Morven. She was very tall, and very slight with long thin limbs, a small head, a little round face, deeply pockmarked, small grey eyes, scarcely any nose, and a small mouth without any lips. She was highly rouged, and dressed both fashionably and extravagantly; and her figure, though totally without form, had an air of grace as well as of elegance. The first salutation over, she flung herself on a sofa opposite to that occupied by Lady Arandale.

“And pray, Matilda, my dear,” said the last named lady, “why did you not come to Lodore after all?”

“La! ma’am, I had nobody to drive me.”

“Had na’ ye, yier coachman, my dear?”

“You know, I can’t bear any body’s driving but Graham’s; and the wretch thought fit to fall out of his curricle the very day he was coming over to take me: so there I have had him, with his arm in a sling, lounging about at Morven Hall, ever since: quite a bore, I assure you!”

“Your ladyship does me in-fi-nite honour!” faintly drawled out Mr. Graham, from the depths of a repose-chair, well furnished with down pillows, in which he had established himself. “Cruel—the distance,” he continued, letting fall word after word, “which divides me—from—so much goodness—Pray—Lady Morven—are the cushions—on that—sofa—mul-ti-tudinous?”

“Yes, there are a good many,” replied her ladyship, and as she spoke she made room for him, adding, “had you not better come over?”

“I am meditating the exertion of a removal shortly,” he rejoined, “but just—at present—it is quite—impossible: I am—absolutely in—elysium—enjoying—the very first sweets of an attitude—the most deliciously easy, in which—I had ever—the good fortune—to place myself.”

“And pray,” asked Lady Arandale, “was this nursing of Mr. Graham’s wounds, a tête-à-tête business?”

“Yes,” replied Lady Morven, “except a parcel of the girls, you know,” (the girls were all above twenty) “and that creature, Sir Archibald Oswald, harmless as usual, though more mad, I think, than ever!”

“Which is that, Graham or Lady Morven, who does Sir Archibald Oswald the honour of naming him?” demanded a voice, in the tones of which a slight tincture of affectation was blended with melancholy and melody. It arose from a yet unseen personage, of whose arrival no one seemed to be aware, and who, reclining on a chaise-longue in the recess of a distant window, was sheltered from observation by a large circular stand of exotics. Lady Morven started on her seat with a sort of rebound. The young people smiled, and tittered a little. Lord Arandale looked at them and frowned.

“Are you there, my good friend?” he said, going towards the reclining gentleman, who, at his approach, slowly and reluctantly arose.

“Ye may weel ask whilk it was that spack, Sir Archy,” observed Lady Arandale, who prided herself on speaking broad Scotch. “It is vara true, there is nae telling the voice o’ the one, fra that o’ the other.”

“Why,” drawled Lady Morven, “I quite admire Mr. Graham’s accent, and therefore I make it a point to speak like him.”

“Your ladyship is too good!” articulated the drowsy subject of this compliment. Sir Archibald by this time stood quite erect, answering some polite enquiries of Lord Arandale and Lord Morven, who seemed desirous to unite in shewing a peculiar degree of courtesy to this guest. Edmund stood alone, observing with much interest the appearance of Sir Archibald, the peculiar and melancholy melody of whose voice had first drawn his attention. His figure was tall, well proportioned, and had an air of dignity. He seemed little more than fifty; but very grey for that age. His hair was parted on the forehead, and fell on either side of the face so long, and with so little regard to present modes, as to resemble that of one of the ancient bards. His countenance, though its beauty was almost defaced by the deepest furrows of affliction and premature old age, still retained the outlines of fine features, to which the melancholy that predominated in its expression, gave much interest.

Lord Arandale summoned Edmund by a look, and presented him to Sir Archibald, saying, “This gentleman, Sir Archibald, can talk to you on your favourite subject, of naval affairs, better than most people.” Edmund now joined the group, and while taking a part in the very incoherent conversation that was going on, observed, with much compassion, that the fire which awakened animation from time to time, called into the eye of the evidently unfortunate being before him, varied from wild to gloomy, and from gloomy to wild, but never once expressed pleasure; indeed it was when he attempted to smile that the light was wildest: and how instantaneously, how darkly did the cloud that thus had opened but for a moment, close again!

“What a wreck is there!” said Lord Arandale to our hero, as Sir Archibald and Lord Morven left the room together. Edmund looked a sort of enquiry, which the Earl answered thus: “Gambling, gambling it was which ruined him, as it has done many others.—There is a man who, twenty-five years since, possessed a property of twelve thousand per annum, in this county, where he was well known and much respected by us all;—now he has not sixpence in the world. He lives in the Isle of Man; his poor wife is broken-hearted, they say; and his boy is bringing up without education or prospects. It was the birth of that child to an inheritance of ruin, which, I believe, unsettled poor Oswald’s mind. When he is sane he remains on the island in the strictest retirement; but, when he wanders in mind, he wanders in body also, and throwing himself into any fishing smack or boat that happens to be on the coast, wherever he may chance to be landed on the main land he makes his way to this neighbourhood, visits the houses of those with whom he used to associate in his days of prosperity, seems unconscious that any change has taken place, and wears, wherever he goes, such clothes as are left for him in his room. Sometimes he enters the house where he once was master, fancies it still his home, and acts the host with all the graceful politeness for which he was once remarkable, treating the family now residing there, and any company they happen to have with them, as his guests.”

“He looks to great advantage when he is here,” said Lady Morven, “Alfred’s clothes fit him so well.”

“Did your ladyship ever happen to see him at the Laird of Moorland’s?” enquired Mr. Graham, who had now got to the sofa on which Lady Morven lolled; “the laird, you know, is very short, and very fat, and you never saw such a figure as Sir Archibald makes in his clothes!”

“Misfortunes, even when they are, as in this instance, the results of the sufferer’s own imprudence, still are bad subjects for merriment,” mournfully observed Lord Arandale, to whom the attempt to cast ridicule on his unhappy friend seemed very unwelcome. “You see, Montgomery,” he continued, turning to Edmund and leading him apart, “what gambling will bring a man to! It was,” and he lowered his voice and looked towards Henry to see that he was not within hearing, “it was that horrible St. Aubin, (that young fellow’s father,) who ruined poor Oswald. I believe too,” he added, “that Oswald was very sincerely attached to poor Maria before she made the unfortunate choice she did; and that disappointment had its share in throwing him into bad habits.”

“What is the cause,” asked Edmund, “of the interest Sir Archibald seems to take in the Navy?”

“He did belong to the profession in very early life,” replied his lordship, “and was fond of it, I believe; but left it when his father and elder brother died. In his lucid intervals, I understand, he wishes very ardently to get his boy afloat; but no one, you see, likes to take charge of a lad so unfortunately situated. It would be attended, too, with some share of expense; for poor Oswald has not even the means of fitting him out; and Lady Oswald’s relatives, who are very powerful, have never pardoned her the misfortunes she has brought on herself; for Oswald was nearly a ruined man when the marriage took place; she, however, had been previously engaged and attached, and would not break it off.”

Edmund was so forcibly struck by this melancholy relation, that he made no immediate reply. He thought of what he himself had been when a boy; of what he might have been at this day had no benevolent hand been stretched forth in his behalf. His resolution was taken, but he made no allusion to it at the time, and retired to dress pondering the subject: for the half hour bell was ringing, and all the party dispersing on the same important errand. Frances and Lady Susan, who had all this time been busily engaged in a distant window in seemingly very confidential conversation, were the last to part.

CHAPTER VII.

… “The lovely light of Innisfail,

Hides within her shadiest bow’r and weeps.”

When Julia heard Frances approaching, she was, for the first time in her life, guilty of artifice; she snatched up a book, and appeared to be busily engaged reading. Frances rang the bell, then went towards a looking glass, and began to take pins out of her dress.

“Do you know, Julia,” she said, “I think that Edmund and Lady Susan will be married after all!” Julia pretended not to hear, and in reality did not see, (correctly at least) for the words on the open page before her seemed quitting their ranks, and mingling in one disorderly maze. This however was of little importance, as she had held the book upside down from the first.

“I can’t but think of all Edmund’s resolutions,” pursued Frances, laughing, and continuing the preparations for her toilet, without noticing the effect of her information upon Julia. The entrance of Alice here put an end to the subject.

“What shall we wear to day, love?” asked Frances.

“Wear——?” repeated her sister.

“Yes, what dress shall we wear?”

“Oh—whatever you like, love.”

“Bless me, my Lady!” cried Alice, “what do you want of your nightcap?” Julia snatched off the half-arranged cap, and flung it on a chair, colouring, and replying in evident confusion, “I declare I forgot, I thought we were going to bed.” Frances laughed so immoderately, that it gave Julia time to recover. She made a strong effort, aroused her faculties, and, to a certain degree, composed herself. The labours of the toilet completed, the sisters descended; Lady Arandale was seated on a sofa with Mrs. Morven, an elderly lady, the wife of a brother of my Lord. Lady Morven and Mr. Graham were lounging on an ottoman, talking about nothing, and apparently fearful of exhausting their slender stock of ideas by any extravagant expenditure, seemed trying which of them could articulate the slowest. Henry was standing in a window, flirting with no less than three of the Misses Morven. The fourth Miss Morven was seated on a sofa with a Mr. Gordon; Edmund and Lady Susan stood in a very distant window, in deep conversation; and, in another and nearer window, stood Lord Arandale, General Morven, a brother of his lordship, Lord Morven, Colonel Morven, and two Messrs. Morven, in conversation with Sir Archibald Oswald. Julia and Frances entered, and some family introductions were made, during which, Sir Archibald left the circle of gentlemen which had surrounded him, approached the sisters, and stood gazing at them.

“Poor Sir Archibald was always a great admirer of beauty,” observed Lord Arandale, aside to the General, “and still, I think, it seems to possess a sort of soothing power over his exasperated feelings.”

“Perhaps,” said the General, “(though I don’t think either of the girls like their aunt,) he may perceive that degree of family resemblance in Julia, which has, sometimes, so powerful an effect on the disordered imagination.”

“He was so young,” replied his lordship, “that I should think he could scarcely remember her.” “It was a boy’s love, certainly,” said the General, “but it was, I believe, a first love, which, they say, leaves an indelible impression.” “It is fortunate that he does not seem to perceive Henry’s terrific likeness to his father,” observed the Earl. By this time, Julia was seated, and Sir Archibald had taken a footstool, placed it at her feet, and seated himself upon it. He looked up mournfully in her face for a few seconds; and then, to the surprise of every one, commenced giving utterance to a low murmuring sound, which gradually swelled into the rich harmonies of a very old song, all the changes of which were performed with the most perfect melody of voice, and to which a pervading melancholy, diversified by occasional starts of wildness, gave indescribable interest. All became silent listeners: not a whisper broke the spell; till the growl of the gong was heard, then its roar, like that of beasts of prey.

Sir Archibald ceased, listened, arose; and without appearing aware of his own late performance, offered his arm to Julia: and all this with quite the air of a man of the world; his manners, at the moment, were even tinctured with that slight degree of affectation, which, once was one of his youthful foibles; while they bore no mark whatever of the deranged state of his mind.

Lord Arandale handed down Mrs. Morven; the General, Lady Arandale; Mr. Graham, Lady Morven; the Colonel, Frances; Henry took two Misses Morven; Mr. Gordon, the other two Misses Morven. Edmund next, led Lady Susan from the recess of the window. This last couple were first waited for at the drawing-room door, and then followed to the dining-room by Lord Morven, who seemed to view his sisters’ flirtation with much more severity of aspect, than he manifested towards his wife’s.

Lady Susan did not smile once, in the whole course of dinner; a thing never known before.

Edmund was silently and respectfully attentive to her ladyship, but also grave. Julia received, with absent passiveness, the politeness of Sir Archibald, wondering the while, why Lady Susan did not look happy! The rest of the party were very gay.

During the dessert, Sir Archibald asked Lord Arandale, in a careless manner, how the pretty Mrs. Miller did. The Earl was at a stand for a few moments; but, throwing his recollections back some five and twenty years, he answered: “well, I believe—a beautiful creature she was,” he added.—“Was!” repeated Sir Archibald; “no accident, I hope has befallen the lady?” “Not any, to my knowledge,” replied the Earl. Then addressing Mrs. Morven aside, he added, “only, that the suns of twenty or thirty summers have withered the fresh bloom, and the snows of as many winters, whitened the bright locks of pretty Mrs. Miller; but poor Oswald, I see, is thinking of our adventure with that fair dame, as of a business of yesterday. How mysterious is the power of association!” And the Earl smiled, though with a mixture of melancholy, at his own recollections. Mrs. Morven requested a translation of the smile. “Shall I tell that good story, Oswald?” said Lord Arandale. Sir Archibald had become absent again, and replied only by a bow. Much curiosity, however, being expressed by the ladies, to hear what had been announced as a good story, the Earl was prevailed on to commence the following relation.

“Oswald and myself were a pair of wild fellows, in those days,” he proceeded; “we happened to be riding together one fine morning, how long since I shall not say; when, passing through the village of Irvine, we saw seated in a window at work, but dressed gayly enough, a very beautiful young woman, no other than this said Mrs. Miller. We knew not, of course, who the lady might be, so went to a shop nearly opposite, to ask the question. Here we learned that the fair object of our enquiries, was the young wife of the old minister. We drew off, and put our horses’ heads together, to consult on the measures to be adopted next.

“Old Miller, said I, will esteem it not only a compliment, but an eternal obligation, if I call on him; and I can take any friend with me, you know, that I please. We rode to the door, sent in our names, and were admitted into a small, smoky, dirty parlour; the inside of which I shall never forget. The perfumes of a lately removed dinner, of which a certain fragrant vegetable, and a no less odoriferous liquid, had evidently formed component parts, were overpowering; especially to people who had been just galloping their horses over the fresh heath of the open moorlands. The old minister, in his worsted hose and red nightcap, (but I shall not attempt to paint him,) met us, boo, booing, and returning thanks to my lordship for the honour conferred on him and his peur hoose, by my lordship’s visit; and declaring, with another boo to Oswald, that ony friend o’ my lordship mon be welcome.”

Lord Arandale could imitate the Scotch accent very well, when giving humour to a droll story. “‘Your daughter, I suppose, Mr. Miller,’ I said, bowing to the lady. ‘My wife—Maistriss Miller—gin yier lordship has nay objection.’ ‘You are a fortunate man, Mr. Miller,’ I said; ‘such wives are not to be had every day,’ and I bowed again to the lady, who smiled. ‘Ye mauna pit nay sic notions intil woman’s heade, my Lord,’ said Miller; ‘Meg kens vara weel hersel, that she could niver heve evened hersel tle a Minister, gin he hed been a young calant, at hed time tle look about him for a mair befitting spoose.—Bit as a christian man, I ken ’at we awe come o’ Adam and Eve; and se, Meg, if she behave hersel, will di vara weel for me.’ Oswald, mean while, was making some pretty side speeches to Mrs. Miller; so that the old fellow, beginning to perceive that our visit was to his wife, not to himself, after fidgeting and looking foolish for a few minutes, seemed struck with a sudden thought, in pursuance of which he played us such a trick, as never was, I believe, practised before on two gay fellows like ourselves.

“‘My Lord,’ he said, with mock solemnity, ‘this is just oor hoor for femily preyer, whilk I niver defer for ony carnal interruption.—Yier lordship, hooiver, will heve nay objection, tle join yier voice tle oor devotions; as, truly, this visit, marking yier personal respeck for yier minister, hath proven.’ So saying, and without giving us time to take any measures of self-defence, he fell on his knees and began to pray aloud. The lady knelt down also, and, faith, we were taken so by surprise, that if we did not absolutely kneel, we stood with our faces in our hats, resolving not to call again at that hour. The prayer was unmercifully long; extemporary, of course, and consisting chiefly of earnest supplication for grace to withstand all temptation to such errors as he thought fit, in his christian charity, to suspect were, just then, the besetting sins of his congregation. What a cordial we found the air, even of the street, when at last we got into it; which we did the moment the amen had been pronounced. In a day or two, however, we called at quite a different hour; but had not been seated many seconds, when the old fellow told us, with a sly ironical smile, that we surely had the gift o’ prophecy, for that we were just in time again for his family prayer. Accordingly he was about to kneel as before, but this being rather too much of a good thing, we made our escape, and gave up the acquaintance both of Maistriss and Maister Miller. Take notice, however, young men,” continued the Earl, addressing himself particularly to his family circle, “I do not mean to offer this conduct of my own and my friends as an example for your imitation; it was highly improper, though in our own justification, I must add, that we had no worse intention than to frighten the old fellow a little, and excite the vanity of his wife; as, what we, in our wisdoms, considered a just penance for his having helped himself to one so much too young and too pretty for him.”

During the comments which followed, Sir Archibald caught the sound of Henry’s voice, which had the exact tone of his father’s, particularly in a laugh. He glanced his eye in that direction, and now seemed to see young St. Aubin for the first time, though he was seated exactly opposite to him. Clouds gathered on Oswald’s brow, and he directed across the table looks so fierce and so portentous, that the whole company became alarmed. The ladies rose to retire, and Lord Arandale, during the move which their exit occasioned, gave Henry a hint to keep as much as possible out of Sir Archibald’s view.

CHAPTER VIII.

“Yes, once did resolution fail.”

As it was still day-light some of the ladies walked to the gardens, others strolled about near the doors; Lady Susan disappeared without speaking to any one; Frances went to seek her; Julia flung herself on a sofa in the great drawing-room, which she found quite deserted. She lay so much absorbed by her own meditations, as to be unconscious of the lapse of time. It became quite dark. Every thing was still about her. At length she heard a very soft step approaching through the ante-room, and a figure in black appeared within the door, which was half open. It held in its hand a long white wand tipped with flame: it glided on with a step, now that it was on the deep Turkey carpet of the drawing-room, quite noiseless: it touched branches and candelabras with its magic wand, and left floods of light behind it: it proceeded through the glass doors of a green-house, at the further end of this spacious apartment, and continued crowning with radiance lustres that hung, at certain intervals, over the centre walk, till the whole long perspective became a dazzling maze of real and reflected illumination. Julia’s eyes admired and, mechanically, followed what they beheld long before her comprehension was aroused to any understanding of what was going forward: at length she smiled as she recollected that such had been her abstraction, that, for the first few moments after the entrance of the figure, she had viewed it and its operations with as much of almost superstitious astonishment as if she had never before seen a decent old butler, who was too well-bred to wear creaking shoes, light up a drawing-room.

She arose from the sofa, passed the man on his return through the great room, entered the greenhouse, proceeded along the centre walk between rows of orange trees, and in a blaze of light, till the white marble footway, branching off in two directions, led round on both sides towards a kind of arbour of sweets, which was screened from the entrance and principal walk by the intervention of an immense circular stand, crowded from the marble floor to the glazed roof with numberless exotics. Here she seated herself.

The artificial day that reigned around, the excess of brilliancy resembling enchantment, the very intensity of light, seemed, if not literally shelter, at least security from sudden intrusion, by giving proof at once that none were near, and certainty that none could approach unseen.

“I wonder,” mentally ejaculated Julia, who by this time had renewed her meditations, “why she did not look happy!” She paused, and a tear or two fell. “Is it possible that he can love a stranger better than those he has loved all his life?” she thought, and a feeling of something like reproach passed through her mind. Then came a series of kindly recollections, making it very difficult to believe that this could be the case. Then she called to mind, how Edmund always used to say, he never would marry; and how she, too, had determined never to marry. She reflected on this subject for some time; then asked herself a question, but very vaguely indeed; for she did not venture to give it the form of words, even in thought: the purport, however, was as follows:—if Edmund had ever said, that to be married to her was absolutely necessary to his happiness—what would have been her reply? A deep blush was all the answer she gave herself. She sat, unconscious of outward objects, till she felt her hand softly taken. She started, and looked up: Edmund stood before her. “Dearest Julia!” he said, “there has so evidently been some anxiety on your mind, some depression on your spirits, all this day, that I cannot resist taking, perhaps, an unwarrantable liberty, and entreating you to tell me what it is that thus distresses you?” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, and made no reply. “Did you not promise,” he continued, “to permit me to call myself your friend, your brother? and is not confidence the privilege of friendship?” And he seated himself beside her, still retaining the hand he had taken.

“I don’t wish, Edmund,” she said, her face averted, “to hear you talk like a stranger about taking the liberty, and all that kind of thing: it only makes me more unhappy.” “More unhappy!” he repeated.

“But, you know,” she continued, “when you wished so very much for my friendship, Edmund, it was when you first came home; now—you will probably—be—everyday—making so many new friends—that—perhaps—” “New friends!” cried Edmund.—Then, quite thrown off his guard, he added passionately; “what are all the new friends—nay, all the friends the world contains—what the whole world itself to me, in comparison of you, Julia! My earliest, my kindest friend?” he added hastily, fearful he had gone too far.

The assurance of a friendship so exclusive, so much in unison with her own ideas on the subject, and still more the tender and agitated tone in which words so kind were uttered, banished every thought of Lady Susan, and in one moment restored Julia to perfect happiness. For reply, she only lifted her eyes to his. Their expression seemed to him, at the moment, to justify him in pressing her hand to his lips, though afterwards he thought he had done very wrong. So much accustomed was Julia, however, to consider the establishment of perfect confidence between herself and Edmund, as quite necessary and right, that in all this she saw but the kind reconciliation of friends, and never dreamed of being surprised, as some more experienced ladies might have been, that no fuller or tenderer declaration followed, neither apology, for having approached so near to such.

She now felt quite certain that Edmund still loved her better than any one else in the world; and, therefore, she was happy. He thought his secret still safe, because he saw he had not given offence: indeed he saw more! Suspicions, delightful suspicions fluttered at his heart. He watched the brightening of her features: yes, he could not refuse to admit the flattering, the intoxicating conviction, that the more his love betrayed itself, the happier Julia evidently was! Thoughts like these ought to have filled him with sorrow and repentance; but they did not—they caused a joy that no words can paint! and this was not a moment to resist its influence. He was gazing upon the countenance of Julia, she had just looked up to express kindness and confidence, tears of pleasure had started into her eyes, and now she was looking down again perhaps to hide them; but they were stealing into view over cheeks that glowed with an animating, a beautifying confusion, which could not be termed a mere blush, for it visibly betrayed conscious happiness as well as bashfulness.

Words that, while possessed of reason, he had determined never to utter, literally trembled on his lips. But honour, gratitude, principle, flew to his aid, and rescued him from the eternal remorse, which, in a mind like his, must have followed an avowal of sentiments, it was so much his duty to conceal. He was enabled to be silent—but to withdraw his eyes from the contemplation of the lovely being before him, to close his heart against the dangerous bliss that contemplation afforded, was impossible!

Music now struck up in the great room; and at the same instant several persons entered the greenhouse. The next moment they were approaching along the centre walk, and calling Julia. Our heroine answered and made her appearance. Edmund, still trembling from the late agitation of his feelings, followed in silence. But when he saw the gay group gathering round Julia, he was struck with the sudden apprehension of her dancing with some one of them; and, at this time, he could not view such an event, without a degree of horror, very disproportionate to the importance of the subject. He hastened therefore to her side, offered her his arm, and whispered something, probably a request to dance with him, as they immediately accompanied those who had come in search of them, into the drawing-room, where quadrilles were forming.

Thus was Edmund preserved from further risk of an imprudence, which, in addition to the endless repentance it would have cost him, might have taught even the inexperienced Julia the necessity of treating him with more reserve. Hitherto, her affectionate heart, in its enthusiasm, had ever been ready to reproach her with estrangement and unkindness, when she experienced but the natural timidity inseparable from the feelings which were hourly growing upon her; so that the very parts of her conduct, which most strongly proved those feelings to be more than friendship, were by her, not unfrequently, considered as deficiencies in the frankness and confidence due to a friend, the companion of childhood; one, too, so delicately situated, who thought himself so much obliged; who might mistake a reserve, very proper towards strangers, (by whom Julia meant, all the world, except her grandmamma, Frances, Edmund, and Mr. Jackson,) for pride, for haughtiness, for a reminding him of his situation—No! that thought was not to be endured! At the present moment, however, her heart having been just lightened of an inexpressible load of sorrow; of the first doubt it had ever known of Edmund’s affection, she waited not to define its movements, but joined the dance, feeling as if she moved on air, though in an unusual flutter of spirits. Whilst he, as he led her to her place among those who stood in all the pride of rank and title, birth and fortune, felt his heart sink within him; and, as he gazed upon her thus removed, as it were, to an incalculable distance, from the nameless dependant on the bounty of her own very family, he wondered at the mad presumption that, but the moment before, had possessed him!

Yet as from time to time she smiled and spoke to him, joy stole again into his bosom, and he experienced an undefined species of happiness during the remainder of the quadrille. As soon as it was over, however, and before Julia had taken her partner’s arm to leave the set, Henry came up to her, and asked her to dance the next with him. She could not well refuse, and the moment she consented he drew her arm over his, and led her away to a vacant end of the room, where, as they walked up and down, he suddenly broke silence, saying, in a rude sort of half whisper, “You don’t suppose, Julia, that Lord L. will consent to your marrying this picked up fellow! this Edmund! and I can tell you, the manner in which you are behaving, will end in his being forbid my aunt’s house, and indeed the houses of all your friends and relatives.” If ever Julia’s colour mounted, now it flew to cheek and brow; yet, indignant as she felt, such was her terror lest Edmund should chance to hear one of those shocking words, that she caught Henry’s hand, and entreated him to lower his voice. At the same moment she looked involuntarily towards Edmund, and saw that he observed her; while Henry, grasping the hand that she herself had laid on his, carried it to his lips. She dreaded to provoke him by withdrawing it either as quickly or as angrily as she felt inclined to do; and he held it fast, with the most malicious satisfaction in her dilemma, which he perfectly understood; while, as if to mortify her the more, he kept up, by countenance and manner, a sort of dumb show of tender solicitude. She, however, forced back her presence of mind, and, in an under tone of suppressed vexation, trying at the same time to look dignified and as angry as her youth and natural gentleness would permit, said, “do not for a moment imagine, Henry, that I dread your rude, impertinent remarks on my own account, but take care you do not let one word be heard, which can wound the feelings of Edmund. As for the motive of my anxiety on this point, if you are not capable of understanding it, remain in ignorance of it, or judge it what you please! It is to my father, not to you, sir, that I shall give an account of my actions.”

“Mighty fine!” he replied; “but, Julia, if my anxiety for you proceeds from my own attachment, and, I suppose I may presume where Edmund does, you cannot be surprised that I should not wish to see you throw yourself away; but I believe,” he added, with a sneer, provoked at the evident scorn depicted on Julia’s countenance at the mention of his own attachment, “you are tolerably safe, as the gallant Captain Montgomery happens not to be at leisure to accept your ladyship’s proffered affections, being otherwise engaged.”

It is wonderful how many times in the course of the evening Julia repeated over to herself the two words, “otherwise engaged.”

“The world is come to a pretty pass,” continued Henry, “when two titled ladies are pulling caps for a fellow without a name!” Julia’s bosom was swelling with indignation, pride, and anger; she was dying to give them utterance, but she felt that, now, she dare not trust herself to speak, while her fingers, in despite of her utmost efforts, being still held, as in a vice, she could not disengage herself without a publicity she wished to avoid. Indeed, Henry seemed careless how roughly he treated the delicate little hand thus imprisoned in his; for now, as at all times, for reasons best known to himself, he was more intent on persuading others that he was well with his cousin, than on really making her believe that he loved her.

At this moment Sir Archibald, who had been standing with his arms folded at a little distance, came hastily forward, and seized Henry by the collar, crying out—“Villain! villain! villain! have I found you at last?” Henry disengaged himself, and turned on his assailant, with a look of pale rage so horrible that, had time and place agreed, no less than a mortal struggle seemed likely to ensue.

Julia uttered a scream of terror: all was in a moment confusion and consternation. Lord Arandale, however, interfered, and finally prevailed on his nephew to leave the room for the evening; explaining to him in hasty whispers, as he almost forcibly led him aside, that Sir Archibald, from the bewildered state of his mind, was evidently unconscious of the lapse of time, and must in consequence have mistaken him for his unfortunate father, against whom he had but too just cause of complaint, and to whose memory a discussion of the subject would be by no means creditable.

Julia stood trembling, and, for a moment, alone; the next, Edmund was at her side. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. He offered his arm to lead her to a seat. She took it with a heavy sigh, but avoided his look of enquiry. He felt much less happy than he had been. Why had she caught Henry’s hand? Why had she suffered him to press hers to his lips—and retain it, too, so long? Why had she looked so deeply interested in what he said? And what was the cause of her present emotion?

Every one had of course been much alarmed; several of the young ladies had fled into the greenhouse, whence they now peeped through the glass door. Lady Morven was near fainting, and Mr. Graham was unable to assist her.

Some one proposed music as the most likely thing to calm Sir Archibald’s excited nerves, he was so fond of it. One of the Miss Morvens was prevailed upon to return to the drawing-room and play an air on the pianoforte—it had no effect. Lady Arandale requested Julia to sing; she at first wished much to decline, but Lady Arandale pressed her request, and Julia felt that it was necessary to consent. Sir Archibald was still walking up and down with hasty and uneven strides, leaning on the arm of Lord Arandale; Julia’s song commenced. Sir Archibald’s violent gesticulations gradually became less frequent; his step, as she proceeded, became slower, his countenance less furiously agitated. By insensible degrees he approached, and, at length stood with folded arms, immediately before our heroine.

Julia exerted, on this occasion, but a small share of the power of voice which she possessed; yet, every one was delighted with the magical effect the then state of her own feelings gave to a pathetic air. By the time the song came to its conclusion, Sir Archibald was standing almost directly beneath the great centre lustre, just so far removed from its immediate perpendicular, as to admit of its strong flood of light streaming full on his face and figure. His attitude was still the fixed one in which he had hitherto listened, but now he seemed unconscious of the presence of any one. His perfectly white hair was made more remarkable by the brightness that shone upon it; his countenance was calm, every passion being stilled, every effort laid aside, while an expression of woe, of hopelessness, such as can proceed only from the utterly broken heart, had settled on every thus relaxed feature, and large tears, which glittered in the strong light, were silently rolling over his cheeks.

An absolute stillness reigned throughout the apartment for some moments, when, supper being announced, it was agreed, almost in whispers, that they should retire quietly to the eating room without disturbing Sir Archibald; leaving a servant at the drawing-room door to observe his movements.

CHAPTER IX.

“The hell informed passion, avarice.”

“Really,” said Lady Morven, as she lolled back in her seat at the supper table, after asking Mr. Graham to help her to some wine and water, “my nerves can’t stand such alarms! and I dare say you are quite ill too, Mr. Graham.”

“This is the first time Sir Archy has shewn symptoms of violence,” observed Lady Arandale, “hitherto he has been quite harmless, an object more of commiseration than of fear.”

“I must, I believe,” said Lord Arandale, “be under the necessity of requesting my nephew, Mr. St. Aubin, to take a few days sport with some of the neighbouring gentlemen, while Sir Archibald remains here; for never shall my door,” and he spoke with the honest energy of good feeling, “be closed against the shattered remnant, in mind and in body, which still exists of poor Oswald—the once gay companion of many a merry, many a thoughtless hour, spent, some of them beneath his own hospitable roof, where, even I, may have possibly, though innocently, contributed my share to his ultimate ruin!” Then, addressing our hero in particular, he continued, “At the age of fifteen he was his own master, and at that early period commenced the career of folly, dissipation, and gaming which led, finally, to his destruction. St. Aubin was one of the set,” he proceeded, lowering his tone; “it was he who drew him into high play, and who won from him the principal part of his estates, unfairly too it is generally believed. There was some agreement also, about the winner paying the loser’s then existing debts; but when St. Aubin got possession he sold the estates, or his interest in them, to Jews, and disappeared, leaving Oswald to answer his creditors as he might. There were informalities in the sale, it is thought; but however that is, or was, the Jews keep possession, and Oswald has not a title or paper of any kind to shew: St. Aubin, on various pretexts, had got all into his own hands. Poor Oswald’s state of mind, too, adds greatly to the difficulty of clearing up any part of the unfortunate business. In some of his ravings he declares vehemently that he staked but his own life use, and that, could he find the villain St. Aubin, and make him produce certain papers, his boy, (Oswald’s boy I mean,) would enjoy the whole property at his father’s death.”

CHAPTER X.

“And are ye gone indeed, ye happy hours,

When our course in the chace was one; when we

Changed the words of love beneath thy shadiest

Woods, Oh Cromla?”

Julia entered her room, arm and arm with Frances, pondering in what words she should ask a certain question, which she meant to put to her sister, as soon as Alice should retire; for Henry’s remarks had aroused again some of the painful suspicions, which Edmund’s soothing attentions had so lately laid asleep.

Frances made many droll critiques in French on Lady Morven, Mr. Graham, &c. &c. Forced, unmeaning smiles were Julia’s only replies.

At length, both the sisters’ heads were laid on their downy pillows, and Alice had left the room. Still Julia had not determined in what precise words to put her important question; besides, though the candles had been extinguished, there happened to be an impertinent bit of trundling coal among the embers of the fire, which sent from its side a bright flickering blaze, and caused a most obtrusive light to enter the bed, by means of a small, neglected opening between the foot curtains; and, until it should be quite dark, Julia did not wish to speak.

Frances put her arms about her sister’s neck, kissed her, and bade her good night. Julia returned the good night with equal kindness, as was their custom. She was again silent. At last the blaze went out, and the room became nearly dark.

“What—was that—you were saying—to me—when we were dressing for dinner, Frances—about—about Edmund, you know?”

“What!—What?”—said Frances, with a start, for she had just dropped asleep.

“What—was it you were saying—I say—before dinner, you know?”

“Saying! About what?”

“About—about Edmund, you know.”

“What about Edmund?”

“Oh, you know, about him and Lady Susan, you know.”

“Oh, about their going to be married!” said Frances, rousing herself to enter fully, as it were, into the amusing subject; then, with animation, and a voice of confidence, she continued, “I really think it will take place; and he is certainly very fortunate; for she has a cheerful, happy temper, and her affection for him is truly generous and disinterested!” The darkness covered Julia’s changing colour, and her starting tears, also, which she now gulped down, as she replied, “Her affection indeed! What can her affection be, in comparison of those who have loved him always!”

“Do you mean any one in particular?” asked Frances.