Dynevor Terrace (Vol. I) by Charlotte M Yonge (page 4)

A HALTING PROPOSAL.

Shallow. Will you upon good dowry, marry her? Slender. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request. Merry Wives of Windsor.

The first thing that Louis did appear to care for was a letter that arrived about three days previous to their departure, addressed to ‘Lord Fitsgosling, Hawmsfield Park, Northwold.’ Rather too personal, as he observed, he must tell his correspondent that it hurt his feelings. The correspondent was Tom Madison, whose orthography lagged behind his other attainments, if his account might be trusted of ‘they lectures on Kemistry.’ His penmanship was much improved, and he was prospering, with hopes of promotion and higher wages, when he should have learnt to keep accounts. He liked Mr. Dobbs and the chaplain, and wished to know how to send a crown per post to ‘old granfer up at Marksedge; because he is too ignorant to get a border sinned. Please, my lord, give my duty to him and all enquiring friends, and to Schirlt, up at the Teras.’

Highly amused, Louis lay on the uppermost step from the library window, in the cool summer evening, laughing over the letter. ‘There, Aunt Kitty, he said, ‘I commit that tender greeting to your charge,’ and as she looked doubtful, ‘Yes, do, there’s a good aunt and mistress.’

‘I am afraid I should not be a good mistress; I ought not to sanction it.’

‘Better sanction it above board than let it go on by stealth,’ said Louis. ‘You are her natural protector.’

‘So much the more reason against it! I ought to wish her to forget this poor boy of yours.’

‘Ay, and light Hymen’s torch with some thriving tallow chandler, who would marry a domestic slave as a good speculation, without one spark of the respectful chivalrous love that–‘

‘Hush! you absurd boy.’

‘Well, then, if you won’t, I shall go to Jane. The young ladies are all too cold and too prudent, but Jane has a soft spot in her heart, and will not think true love is confined within the rank that keeps a gig. I did think Aunt Kitty had been above vulgar prejudices.’

‘Not above being coaxed by you, you gosling, you,’ said Aunt Kitty; ‘only you must come out of the dew, the sun is quite gone.’

‘Presently,’ said Louis, as she retreated by the window.

‘I would not have been too cold or too prudent!’ said Clara.

‘I well believe it!’

‘You will be one if you are not the other,’ said Mary, gathering her work up, with the dread of one used to tropical dews. ‘Are not you coming in?’

‘When I can persuade myself to write a letter of good advice, a thing I hate.’

‘Which,’ asked Mary; ‘giving or receiving it?’

‘Receiving, of course.’–‘Giving, of course,’ said Clara and Louis at the same instant.

‘Take mine, then,’ said Mary, ‘and come out of the damp.’

‘Mary is so tiresome about these things!’ cried Clara, as their cousin retreated. ‘Such fidgetting nonsense.’

‘I once argued it with her,’ said Louis, without stirring; ‘and she had the right side, that it is often more self-denying to take care of one’s health, than to risk it for mere pleasure or heedlessness.’

‘There’s no dew!’ said Clara; ‘and if there was, it would not hurt, and if it did, I should be too glad to catch a cold, or something to keep me at home. Oh, if I could only get into a nice precarious state of health!’

‘You would soon wish yourself at school, or anywhere else, so that you could feel some life in your limbs,’ half sighed Louis.

‘I’ve more than enough! Oh! how my feet ache to run! and my throat feels stifled for want of making a noise, and the hatefulness of always sitting upright, with my shoulders even! Come, you might pity me a little this one night, Louis: I know you do, for Jem is always telling me not to let you set me against it.’

‘No, I don’t pity you. Pity is next akin to contempt.’

‘Nonsense, Louis. Do be in earnest.’

‘I have seldom seen the human being whom I could presume to pity: certainly not you, bravely resisting folly and temptation, and with so dear and noble a cause for working.’

‘You mean, the hope of helping to maintain grandmamma.’

‘Which you will never be able to do, unless you pass through this ordeal, and qualify yourself for skilled labour.’

‘I know that,’ said Clara; ‘but the atmosphere there seems to poison, and take the vigour out of all they teach. Oh, so different from granny teaching me my notes, or Jem teaching me French–‘

‘Growling at you–‘

‘He never growled half as much as, I deserved. I cared to learn of him; but I don’t care for anything now,–no, not for drawing, which you taught me! There’s no heart in it! The whole purpose is to get amazing numbers of marks and pass each other. All dates and words, and gabble gabble!’

‘Ay! there’s an epitome of the whole world: all ambition, and vanity, and gabble gabble,’ said Louis, sadly. ‘And what is a gosling, that he should complain?’

‘You don’t mean that in reality. You are always merry.

‘Some mirth is because one does not always think, Clara; and when one does think deeply enough, there is better cheerfulness.’

‘Deeply enough,’ said Clara. ‘Ah! I see. Knowing that the world of gabble is not what we belong to, only a preparation? Is that it!’

‘It is what I meant.’

‘Ah I but how to make that knowledge help us.’

‘There’s the point. Now and then, I think I see; but then I go off on a wrong tack: I get a silly fit, and a hopeless one, and lose my clue. And yet, after all, there is a highway; and wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein,’ murmured Louis, as he gazed on the first star of evening.

‘Oh! tell me how to see my highway at school!’

‘If I only kept my own at home, I might. But you have the advantage- -you have a fixed duty, and you always have kept hold of your purposes much better than I.’

‘My purpose!’ said Clara. ‘I suppose that is to learn as fast as I can, that I may get away from that place, and not be a burthen to granny and Jem. Perhaps Jem will marry and be poor, and then I shall send his sons to school and college.’

‘And pray what are your social duties till that time comes?’

‘That’s plain enough,’ said Clara: ‘to keep my tone from being deteriorated by these girls. Why, Louis, what’s that for?’ as, with a bow and air of alarm, he hastily moved aside from her.

‘If you are so much afraid of being deteriorated–‘

‘Nonsense! If you only once saw their trumpery cabals, and vanities, and mean equivocations, you would understand that the only thing to be done is to keep clear of them; take the learning I am sent for, but avoid them!’

‘And where is the golden rule all this time?’ said Louis, very low.

‘But ought not one to keep out of what is wrong?’

‘Yes, but not to stand aloof from what is not wrong. Look out, not for what is inferior to yourself, but what is superior. Ah! you despair; but, my Giraffe, will you promise me this? Tell me, next Christmas, a good quality for every bad one you have found in them. You shake your head. Nay, you must, for the credit of your sex. I never found the man in whom there was not something to admire, and I had rather not suppose that women are not better than men. Will you promise?’

‘I’ll try, but–‘

‘But, mind, it takes kind offices to bring the blossoms out. There- that’s pretty well, considering our mutual sentiments as to good advice.’

‘Have you been giving me good advice?’

‘Not bad, I hope.’

‘I thought only people like–like Mary–could give advice.’

‘Ah! your blindness about Mary invalidates your opinion of your schoolfellows. It shows that you do not deserve a good friend.’

‘I’ve got you; I want no other.’

‘Quite wrong. Not only is she full of clear, kind, solid sense, like a pillar to lean on, but she could go into detail with you in your troubles. You have thrown away a great opportunity, and I am afraid I helped you. I shall hold you in some esteem when you are–to conclude sententiously–worthy of her friendship.’

Clara’s laugh was loud enough to bring out the Earl, to summon them authoritatively out of the dew. Louis sat apart, writing his letter; Clara, now and then, hovering near, curious to hear how he had corrected Tom’s spelling. He had not finished, when the ladies bade him good-night; and, as he proceeded with it, his father said, ‘What is that engrossing correspondence, Louis?’

‘Such a sensible letter, that I am quite ashamed of it,’ said Louis.

‘I wonder at the time you chose for writing, when you are so soon to part with our guests.’

‘I have no excuse, if you think it uncivil. I never have spirit to set about anything till the sun is down.’

His father began at once to speak softly: ‘No, I intended no blame; I only cannot but wonder to see you so much engrossed with Clara Dynevor.’

‘Poor child! she wants some compensation.’

‘I have no doubt of your kind intentions; but it would be safer to consider what construction may be placed on attentions so exclusive.’

Louis looked up in blank, incredulous amazement, and then almost laughingly exclaimed, ‘Is that what you mean? Why, she is an infant, a baby–‘

‘Not in appearance–‘

‘You don’t know her, father,’ said Louis. ‘I love her with all my heart, and could not do more. Why, she is, and always has been, my she-younger-brother!’

‘I am aware,’ said the Earl, without acknowledging this peculiar relationship, ‘that this may appear very ridiculous, but experience has shown the need of caution. I should be concerned that your heedless good-nature should be misconstrued, so as to cause pain and disappointment to her, or to lead you to neglect one who has every claim to your esteem and gratitude.’

Louis was bewildered. ‘I have been a wretch lately,’ he said, ‘but I did not know I had been a bear.’

‘I did not mean that you could be deficient in ordinary courtesy; but I had hoped for more than mere indifferent civility towards one eminently calculated–‘ Lord Ormersfield for once failed in his period.

‘Are we talking at cross purposes?’ exclaimed Fitzjocelyn. ‘What have I been doing, or not doing?’

‘If my meaning require explanation, it is needless to attempt any.- Is your ankle painful to-night?’

Not a word more, except about his health, could Louis extract, and he went to his room in extreme perplexity. Again and again did he revolve those words. Quick as were his perceptions on most points, they were slow where self-consciousness or personal vanity might have sharpened them; and it was new light to him that he had come to a time of life that could attach meaning to his attentions.

Whom had he been neglecting? What had his father been hoping? Who was eminently calculated, and for what?

It flashed upon him all at once. ‘I see! I see!’ he cried, and burst into a laugh.

Then came consternation, or something very like it. He did not want to feel embarked in manhood. And then his far-away dream of a lady- love had been so transcendently fair, so unequalled in grace, so perfect in accomplishments, so enthusiastic in self-devoted charity, all undefined, floating on his imagination in misty tints of glory! That all this should be suddenly brought down from cloudland, to sink into Mary Ponsonby, with the honest face and downright manner for whom romance and rapture would be positively ridiculous!

Yet the notion would not be at once dismissed. His declaration that he would do anything to gratify his father had been too sincere for him lightly to turn from his suggestion, especially at a moment when he was full of shame at his own folly, and eagerness to retain the ground he had lost in his father’s opinion, and, above all, to make him happy. His heart thrilled and glowed as he thought of giving his father real joy, and permanently brightening and enlivening that lonely, solitary life. Besides, who could so well keep the peace between him and his father, and save him by hints and by helpfulness from giving annoyance? He had already learnt to depend on her; she entered into all his interests, and was a most pleasant companion–so wise and good, that the most satisfactory days of his life had been passed under her management, and he had only broken from it to ‘play the fool.’ He was sick of his own volatile Quixotism, and could believe it a relief to be kept in order without trusting to his own judgment. She had every right to his esteem and affection, and the warm feeling he had for her could only be strengthened by closer ties. The unworldliness of the project likewise weighed with him. Had she been a millionaire or a Duke’s daughter, he would not have spent one thought on the matter; but he was touched by seeing how his father’s better feelings had conquered all desire for fortune or connexion.

And then Mary could always find everything he wanted!

‘I will do it!’ he determined. ‘Never was son more bound to consider his father. Of course, she will make a much better wife than I deserve. Most likely, my fancies would never have been fulfilled. She will save me from my own foolishness. What ought a man to wish for more than a person sure to make him good? And–well, after all, it cannot be for a long time. They must write to Lima. Perhaps they will wait till her father’s return, or at least till I have taken my degree.’

This last encouraging reflection always wound up the series that perpetually recurred throughout that night of broken sleep; and when he rose in the morning, he felt as if each waking had added a year to his life, and looked at the glass to see whether he had not grown quite elderly.

‘No, indeed! I am ridiculously youthful, especially since I shaved off my moustache in my rage at the Yeomanry mania! I must systematically burn my cheeks, to look anything near her age!’ And he laughed at himself, but ended with a long-drawn sigh.

He was in no state of mind to pause: he was tired of self-debate, and was in haste to render the step irrevocable, and then fit himself to it; and he betook himself at once to the study, where he astonished his father by his commencement, with crimson cheeks–‘I wished to speak to you. Last night I did not catch your meaning at once.’

‘We will say no more about it,’ was the kind answer. ‘If you cannot turn your thoughts in that direction, there is an end of the matter.’

‘I think,’ said Louis, ‘that I could.’

‘My dear boy,’ said the Earl, with more eagerness than he could quite control, ‘you must not imagine that I wish to influence your inclinations unduly; but I must confess that what I have seen for the last few months, has convinced me that nothing could better secure your happiness.’

‘I believe so,’ said Louis, gazing from the window.

‘Right,’ cried the Earl, with more gladness and warmth than his son had ever seen in him; ‘I am delighted that you appreciate such sterling excellence! Yes, Louis,’ and his voice grew thick, ‘there is nothing else to trust to.’

‘I know it,’ said Louis. ‘She is very good. She made me very happy when I was ill.’

‘You have seen her under the most favourable circumstances. It is the only sort of acquaintance to be relied on. You have consulted your own happiness far more than if you had allowed yourself to be attracted by mere showy gifts.’

‘I am sure she will do me a great deal of good,’ said Louis, still keeping his eyes fixed on the evergreens.

‘You could have done nothing to give me more pleasure!’ said the Earl, with heartfelt earnestness. ‘I know what she is, and what her mother has been to me. That aunt of hers is a stiff, wrongheaded person, but she has brought her up well–very well, and her mother has done the rest. As to her father, that is a disadvantage; but, from what I hear, he is never likely to come home; and that is not to be weighed against what she is herself. Poor Mary! how rejoiced she will be, that her daughter at least should no longer be under that man’s power! It is well you have not been extravagant, like some young men, Louis. If you had been running into debt, I should not have been able to gratify your wishes now; but the property is so nearly disencumbered, that you can perfectly afford to marry her, with the very fair fortune she must have, unless her father should gamble it away in Peru.’

This was for Lord Ormersfield the incoherency of joy, and Louis was quite carried along by his delight. The breakfast-bell rang, and the Earl rising and drawing his son’s arm within his own, pressed it, saying, ‘Bless you, Louis!’ It was extreme surprise and pleasure to Fitzjocelyn, and yet the next moment he recollected that he stood committed.

How silent he was–how unusually gentle and gracious his father to the whole party! quite affectionate to Mary, and not awful even to Clara. There was far too much meaning in it, and Louis feared Mrs. Ponsonby was seeing through all.

‘A morning of Greek would be insupportable,’ thought he; and yet he felt as if the fetters of fate were being fast bound around him, when he heard his father inviting James to ride with him.

He wandered and he watched, he spoke absently to Clara, but felt as if robbed of a protector, when she was summoned up-stairs to attend to her packing, and Mary remained alone, writing one of her long letters to Lima.

‘Now or never,’ thought he, ‘before my courage cools. I never saw my father in such spirits!’

He sat down on an ottoman opposite to her, and turned over some newspapers with a restless rustling.

‘Can I fetch anything for you?’ asked Mary, looking up.

‘No, thank you. You are a great deal too good to me, Mary.’

‘I am glad,’ said Mary, absently, anxious to go on with her letter; but, looking up again at him–‘I am sure you want something.’

‘No–nothing–but that you should be still more good to me.’

‘What is the matter?’ said Mary, suspecting that he was beginning to repent of his lazy fit, and wanted her to hear his confession.

‘I mean, Mary,’ said he, rising, and speaking faster, ‘if you–if you would take charge of me altogether. If you would have me, I would do all I could to make you happy, and it would be such joy to my father, and–‘(rather like an after-thought)’to me.’

Her clear, sensible eyes were raised, and her colour deepened, but the confusion was on the gentleman’s side–she was too much amazed to feel embarrassment, and there was a pause, till he added, ‘I know better than to think myself worthy of you; but you will take me in hand–and, indeed, Mary, there is no one whom I like half so well.’

Poor Louis! was this his romantic and poetical wooing!

‘Stop, if you please, Louis!’ exclaimed Mary. ‘This is so very strange!’ And she seemed ready to laugh.

‘And–what do you say, Mary?’

‘I do not know. I cannot tell what I ought to say,’ she returned, rising. ‘Will you let me go to mamma?’

She went; and Louis roamed about restlessly, till, on the stairs, he encountered Mrs. Frost, who instantly exclaimed, ‘Why, my dear, what is the matter with you?’

‘I have been proposing to Mary,’ said he, in a very low murmur, his eyes downcast, but raised the next moment, to see the effect, as if it had been a piece of mischief.

‘Well–proposing what?’

‘Myself;’ most innocently whispered.

‘You!–you!–Mary!–And–‘ Aunt Catharine was scarcely able to speak, in the extremity of her astonishment. ‘You are not in earnest!’

‘She is gone to her mother,’ said Louis, hanging over the baluster, so as to look straight down into the hall; and both were silent, till Mrs. Frost exclaimed, ‘My dear, dear child, it is an excellent choice! You must be very happy with her!’

‘Yes, I found my father was bent on it.’

‘That was clear enough,’ said his aunt, laughing, but resuming a tone of some perplexity. ‘Yet it takes me by surprise: I had not guessed that you were so much attracted.’

‘I do like her better than any one. No one is so thoroughly good, no one is likely to make me so good, nor my father so happy.’

There was some misgiving in Mrs. Frost’s tone, as she said, ‘Dear Louis, you are acting on the best of motives, but–‘

‘Don’t, pray don’t, Aunt Kitty,’ cried Louis, rearing himself for an instant to look her in the face, but again throwing half his body over the rail, and speaking low. ‘I could not meet any one half so good, or whom I know as well. I look up to her, and–yes–I do love her heartily–I would not have done it otherwise. I don’t care for beauty and trash, and my father has set his heart on it.’

‘Yes, but–‘ she hesitated. ‘My dear, I don’t think it safe to marry, because one’s father has set his heart on it.’

‘Indeed,’ said Louis, straightening himself, ‘I do think I am giving myself the best chance of being made rational and consistent. I never did so well as when I was under her.’

‘N–n–no–but–‘

‘And think how my father will unbend in a homelike home, where all should be made up to him,’ he continued, deep emotion swelling his voice.

‘My dear boy! And you are sure of your own feeling?’

‘Quite sure. Why, I never saw any one,’ said he, smiling–‘I never cared for any one half so much, except you, Aunt Kitty, no, I didn’t. Won’t that do?’

‘I know I should not have liked your grandpapa–your uncle, I mean- to make such comparisons.’

‘Perhaps he had not got an Aunt Kitty,’ said Louis.

‘No, no! I can’t have you so like a novel. No, don’t be anxious. It can’t be for ever so long, and, of course, the more I am with her, the better I must like her. It will be all right.’

‘I don’t think you know anything about it,’ said Mrs. Frost, ‘but there, that’s the last I shall say. You’ll forgive your old aunt.’

He smiled, and playfully pressed her hand, adding, ‘But we don’t know whether she will have me.’

Mary had meantime entered her mother’s room, with a look that revealed the whole to Mrs. Ponsonby, who had already been somewhat startled by the demeanour of the father and son at breakfast.

‘Oh, mamma, what is to be done?’

‘What do you wish, my child?’ asked her mother, putting her arm round her waist.

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Mary. ‘It is so odd!’ And the disposition to laugh returned for a moment.

‘You were not at all prepared.’

‘Oh no! He seems so young. And,’ she added, blushing, ‘I cannot tell, but I should not have thought his ways were like the kind of thing.’

‘Nor I, and the less since Clara has been here.’

‘Oh,’ said Mary, without a shade on her calm, sincere brow, ‘he has Clara so much with him because he is her only friend.’

The total absence of jealousy convinced Mrs. Ponsonby that the heart could hardly have been deeply touched, but Mary continued, in a slightly trembling voice, ‘I do not see why he should have done this, unless–‘

‘Unless that his father wished it.’

‘Oh,’ said Mary, somewhat disappointed, ‘but how could Lord Ormersfield possibly–‘

‘He has an exceeding dread of Louis’s making as great a mistake as he did,’ said Mrs. Ponsonby; ‘and perhaps he thinks you the best security.’

‘And you think Louis only meant to please him?’

‘My dear, I am afraid it may be so. Louis is very fond of him, and easily led by a strong character.’

She pressed her daughter closer, and felt rather than heard a little sigh; but all that Mary said was, ‘Then I had better not think about it.’

‘Nay, my dear, tell me first what you think of his manner.’

‘It was strange, and a little debonnaire, I think,’ said Mary, smiling, but tears gathering in her eyes. ‘He said I was too good for him. He said he would make me happy, and that he and his father would be very happy.’ A great tear fell. ‘Something about not being worthy.’ Mary shed a few more tears, while her mother silently caressed her; and, recovering her composure, she firmly said, ‘Yes, mamma, I see it is not the real thing. It will be kinder to him to tell him to put it out of his head.’

‘And you, my dear?’

‘Oh, mamma, you know you could not spare me.’

‘If this were the real thing, dearest–‘

‘No,’ whispered Mary, ‘I could not leave you alone with papa.’

Mrs. Ponsonby went on as if she had not heard: ‘As it is, I own I am relieved that you should not wish to accept him. I cannot be sure it would be for your happiness.’

‘I do not think it would be right,’ said Mary, as if that were her strength.

‘He is a dear, noble fellow, and has the highest, purest principles and feelings. I can’t but love him almost as if he were my own child: I never saw so much sweetness and prettiness about any one, except his mother; and, oh! how far superior he is to her! But then, he is boyish, he is weak–I am afraid he is changeable.’

‘Not in his affections,’ said Mary, reproachfully.

‘No, but in purposes. An impulse leads him he does not know where, and now, I think, he is acting on excellent motives, without knowing what he is doing. There’s no security that he might not meet the person who–‘

‘Oh, mamma!’

‘He would strive against temptation, but we have no right to expose him to it. To accept him now, it seems to me, would be taking too much advantage of his having been left so long to our mercy, and it might be, that he would become restless and discontented, find out that he had not chosen for himself–regret–and have his tone of mind lowered–‘

‘Oh, stop, mamma, I would not let it be, on any account.’

‘No, my dear, I could not part with you where we were not sure the ‘real thing’ was felt for you. If he had been strongly bent on it, he would have conducted matters differently; but he knows no better.’

‘You and I don’t part,’ said Mary.

Neither spoke till she renewed her first question,

‘What is to be done?’

‘Shall I go and speak to him, my dear?’

‘Perhaps I had better, if you will come with me.’

Then, hesitating–‘I will go to my room for a moment, and then I shall be able to do it more steadily.’

Mrs. Ponsonby’s thoughts were anxious during the five minutes of Mary’s absence; but she returned composed, according to her promise, whatever might be the throbbings beneath. As Mrs. Ponsonby opened the door, she saw Louis and his aunt together, and was almost amused at their conscious start, the youthful speed with which the one darted into the further end of the corridor, and the undignified haste with which the other hopped down stairs.

By the time they reached the drawing-room, he had recovered himself so as to come forward in a very suitable, simple manner, and Mary said, at once, ‘Louis, thank you; but we think it would be better not–‘

‘Not!’ exclaimed Fitzjocelyn.

‘Not,’ repeated Mary; ‘I do not think there is that between us which would make it right.’

‘There would be!’ cried Louis, gaining ardour by the difficulty, ‘if you would only try. Mrs. Ponsonby, tell her we would make her happy.’

‘You would try,’ said Mrs. Ponsonby, kindly; ‘but I think she is right. Indeed, Louis, you must forgive me for saying that you are hardly old enough to make up your mind–‘

‘Madison is younger,’ said Louis, boyishly enough to make her smile, but earnestly proceeding, ‘Won’t you try me? Will you not say that if I can be steady and persevering–‘

‘No,’ said Mrs. Ponsonby; ‘it would not be fair towards either of you to make any conditions.’

‘But if without them, I should do better–Mary, will you say nothing?’

‘We had better not think of it,’ said Mary, her eyes on the ground.

‘Why? is it that I am too foolish, too unworthy?’

She made a great effort. ‘Not that, Louis. Do not ask any more; it is better not; you have done as your father wished–now let us be as we were before.’

‘My father will be very much disappointed,’ said Louis, with chagrin.

‘I will take care of your father,’ said Mrs. Ponsonby, and as Mary took the moment for escaping, she proceeded to say some affectionate words of her own tender feeling towards Louis; to which he only replied by saying, sadly, and with some mortification, ‘Never mind; I know it is quite right. I am not worthy of her.’

‘That is not the point; but I do not think you understand your own feelings, or how far you were actuated by the wish to gratify your father.’

‘I assure you,’ cried Louis, ‘you do not guess how I look up to Mary; her unfailing kindness, her entering into all my nonsense–her firm, sound judgment, that would keep me right–and all she did for me when I was laid up. Oh! why cannot you believe how dear she is to me?’

‘_How dear_ is just what I do believe; but still this is not enough.’

‘Just what Aunt Kitty says,’ said Louis, perplexed, yet amused at his own perplexity.

‘You will know better by-and-by,’ she answered, smiling: ‘in the meantime, believe that you are our very dear cousin, as ever.’ And she shook hands with him, detecting in his answering smile a little relief, although a great deal of disappointment.

Mary had taken refuge in her room, where a great shower of tears would have their course, though she scolded herself all the time. ‘Have done! have done! It is best as it is. He does not really wish it, and I could not leave mamma. We will never think of it again, and we will be as happy as we were before.’

Her mother, meanwhile, was waiting below-stairs, thinking that she should spare Louis something, by taking the initiative in speaking to his father; and she was sorry to see the alacrity with which the Earl came up to her, with a congratulatory ‘Well, Mary!’ She could hardly make him comprehend the real state of the case; and then his resignation was far more trying than that of the party chiefly concerned. Her praise of Fitzjocelyn had little power to comfort. ‘I see how it is,’ he said, calmly: ‘do not try to explain it away; I acquiesce–I have no doubt you acted wisely for your daughter.’

‘Nothing would have delighted me more, if he were but a few years older.’

‘You need not tell me the poor boy’s failings,’ said his father, sadly.

‘It is on account of no failing; but would it not be a great mistake to risk their happiness to fulfil our own scheme?’

‘I hoped to secure their happiness.’

‘Ay, but is there not something too capricious to find happiness without its own free will and choice? Did you never hear of the heart?’

‘Oh! if she be attached elsewhere’–and he seemed so much relieved, that Mrs. Ponsonby was sorry to be obliged to contradict him in haste, and explain that she did not believe Fitzjocelyn’s heart to be yet developed; whereupon he was again greatly vexed. ‘So he has offered himself without attachment. I beg your pardon, Mary; I am sorry your daughter should have been so treated.’

‘Do not misunderstand me. He is strangely youthful and simple, bent on pleasing you, and fancying his warm, brotherly feeling to be what you desire.’

‘It would be the safest foundation.’

‘Yes, if he were ten years older, and had seen the world; but in these things he is like a child, and it would be dangerous to influence him. Do not take it to heart; you ought to be contented, for I saw nothing so plainly as that he loves nobody half so well as you. Only be patient with him.’

‘You are the same Mary as ever,’ he said, softened; and she left him, hoping that she had secured a favourable audience for his son, who soon appeared at the window, somewhat like a culprit.

‘I could not help it!’ he said.

‘No; but you may set a noble aim before you–you may render yourself worthy of her esteem and confidence, and in so doing you will fulfil my fondest hopes.’

‘I asked her to try me, but they would make no conditions. I am sorry this could not be, since you wished it.’

‘If you are not sorry on your own account, there are no regrets to be wasted on mine.’

‘Candidly, father,’ said Louis, ‘much as I like her, I cannot be sorry to keep my youth and liberty a little longer.’

‘Then you should never have entered on the subject at all,’ said Lord Ormersfield, beginning to write a letter; and poor Louis, in his praiseworthy effort not to be reserved with him, found he had been confessing that he had not only been again making a fool of himself, but, what was less frequent and less pardonable, of his father likewise. He limped out at the window, and was presently found by his great-aunt, reading what he called a raving novel, to see how he ought to have done it. She shook her head at him, and told him that he was not even decently concerned.

‘Indeed I am,’ he replied. ‘I wished my father to have had some peace of mind about me, and it does not flatter one’s vanity.’

Dear, soft-hearted Aunt Kitty, with all her stores of comfort ready prepared, and unable to forgive, or even credit, the rejection of her Louis, without a prior attachment, gave a hint that this might be his consolation. He caught eagerly at the idea. ‘I had never once thought of that! It can’t be any Spaniard out in Peru–she has too much sense. What are you looking so funny about? What! is it nearer home? That’s it, then! Famous! It would be a capital arrangement, if that terrible old father is conformable. What an escape I have had of him! I am sure it is a most natural and proper preference–‘

‘Stop! stop, Louis, you are going too fast. I know nothing. Don’t say a word to Jem, on any account: indeed, you must not. It is all going on very well now; but the least notion that he was observed, or that it was his Uncle Oliver’s particular wish, and there would be an end of it.’

She was just wise enough to keep back the wishes of the other vizier, but she had said enough to set Louis quite at his ease, and put him in the highest spirits. He seemed to have taken out a new lease of boyishness, and, though constrained before Mary, laughed, talked, and played pranks, so as unconsciously to fret his father exceedingly.

Clara’s alert wits perceived that so many private interviews had some signification; and Mrs. Frost found her talking it over with her brother, and conjecturing so much, that granny thought it best to supply the key, thinking, perhaps, that a little jealousy would do Jem no harm. But the effect on him was to produce a fit of hearty laughter, as he remembered poor Lord Ormersfield’s unaccountable urbanity and suppressed exultation in the morning’s ride. ‘I honour the Ponsonbys,’ he said, ‘for not choosing to second his lordship’s endeavours to tyrannize over that poor fellow, body and soul. Poor Louis! he is fabulously dutiful.’

But Clara, recovering from her first stupor of wonder, began scolding him for presuming to laugh at anything so cruel to Louis. It was not the part of a friend! And with tears of indignation and sympathy starting from her eyes, she was pathetically certain that, though granny and Jem were so unfeeling as to laugh, his high spirits were only assumed to hide his suffering. ‘Poor Louis! what had he not said to her about Mary last night! Now she knew what he meant! And as to Mary, she was glad she had never liked her, she had no patience with her: of course, she was far too prosy and stupid to care for anything like Louis, it was a great escape for him. It would serve her right to marry a horrid little crooked clerk in her father’s office; and poor dear, dear Louis must get over it, and have the most beautiful wife in the world. Don’t you remember, Jem, the lady with the splendid dark eyes on the platform at Euston Square, when you so nearly made us miss the train, with the brow that you said–‘

‘Hush, Clara, don’t talk nonsense.’

CHAPTER XII.

CHILDE ROLAND.

A house there is, and that’s enough, From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues. The heroines undertook the task;
Thro’ lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventured,- Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask,
But bounce into the parlour entered. Gray’s Long Story.

‘No carmine? Nor scarlet lake in powder?’

‘Could procure some, my Lord.’

‘Thank you, the actinia would not live. I must take what I can find. A lump of gamboge–‘

‘If you stay much longer, he will not retain his senses,’ muttered James Frost, who was leaning backwards against the counter, where the bewildered bookseller of the little coast-town of Bickleypool was bustling, in the vain endeavour to understand and fulfil the demands of that perplexing customer, Lord Fitzjocelyn.

‘Some drawing-paper. This is hardly absorbent enough. If you have any block sketch-books?–‘

‘Could procure some, my Lord.’

James looked at his watch, while the man dived into his innermost recesses. ‘The tide!’ he said.

‘Never mind, we shall only stick in the mud.’

‘How could you expect to find anything here? A half-crown paint-box is their wildest dream.’

‘Keep quiet, Jem, go and look out some of those library books, like a wise man.’

‘A wise man would be at a loss here,’ said James, casting his eye along the battered purple backs of the circulating-library books.

‘Wisdom won’t condescend! Ah! thank you, this will do nicely. Those colours–yes; and the Seaside Book. I’ll choose one or two. What is most popular here?’

James began to whistle; but Louis, taking up a volume, became engrossed beyond the power of hints, and hardly stepped aside to make way for some ladies who entered the shop. A peremptory touch of the arm at length roused him, and holding up the book to the shopman, he put it into his pocket, seized his ash-stick, put his arm into his cousin’s, and hastened into the street.

‘Did you ever see–‘ began Jem.

‘Most striking. I did not know you had met with her. What an idea– the false self conjuring up phantoms–‘

‘What are you talking of? Did you not see her?’

‘Elizabeth Barrett. Was she there?’

‘Is that her name? Do you know her?’

‘I had heard of her, but never–‘

‘How?–where? Who is she?’

‘I only saw her name in the title-page.’

‘What’s all this? You did not see her?’

‘Who? Did not some ladies come into the shop?’

‘Some ladies! Is it possible? Why, I touched you to make you look.’

‘I thought it was your frenzy about the tide. What now?–‘

James made a gesture of despair. ‘The loveliest creature I ever saw. You may see her yet, as she comes out. Come back!’

‘Don’t be so absurd,’ said Fitzjocelyn, laughing, and, with instinctive dislike of staring, resisting his cousin’s effort to wheel him round. ‘What, you will?’ withdrawing his arm. ‘I shall put off without you, if you don’t take care.’

And, laughing, he watched Jem hurry up the sloping street and turn the corner, then turned to pursue his own way, his steps much less lame and his looks far more healthful than they had been a month before. He reached the quay–narrow, slippery, and fishy, but not without beauty, as the green water lapped against the hewn stones, and rocked the little boats moored in the wide bay, sheltered by a richly-wooded promontory. ‘Jem in a fit of romance! Well, whose fault will it be if we miss the tide? I’ll sit in the boat, and read that poem again.– Oh! here he comes, out of breath. Well, Jem, did the heroine drop glove or handkerchief? Or, on a second view, was she minus an eye?’

‘You were,’ said James, hurrying breathlessly to unmoor the boat.

‘Let me row,’ said Louis; ‘your breath and senses are both lost in the fair vision.’

‘It is of no use to talk to you–‘

‘I shall ask no questions till we are out of the harbour, or you will be running foul of one of those colliers–a tribute with which the Fair Unknown may dispense.’

The numerous black colliers and lighters showed that precautions were needful till they had pushed out far enough to make the little fishy town look graceful and romantic; and the tide was ebbing so fast, that Louis deemed it prudent to spend his strength on rowing rather than on talking.

James first broke silence by exclaiming–‘Do you know where Beauchastel is?’

‘On the other side of the promontory. Don’t you remember the spire rising among the trees, as we see it from the water?’

‘That church must be worth seeing. I declare I’ll go there next Sunday.’

Another silence, and Louis said–‘I am curious to know whether you saw her.’

‘She was getting into the carriage as I turned the corner; so I went back and asked Bull who they were.’

‘I hope she was the greengrocer’s third cousin.’

‘Pshaw! I tell you it was Mrs. Mansell and her visitors.’

‘Oho! No wonder Beauchastel architecture is so grand. What an impudent fellow you are, Jem!’

‘The odd thing is,’ said James, a little ashamed of Louis having put Mansell and Beauchastel together, as he had not intended, ‘that it seems they asked Bull who we were. I thought one old lady was staring hard at you, as if she meant to claim acquaintance, but you shot out of the shop like a sky-rocket.’

‘Luckily there’s no danger of that. No one will come to molest us here.’

‘Depend on it, they are meditating a descent on his lordship.’

‘You shall appear in my name, then.’

‘Too like a bad novel: besides, you don’t look respectable enough for my tutor. And, now I think of it, no doubt she was asking Bull how he came to let such a disreputable old shooting-jacket into his shop.’

The young men worked up an absurd romance between them, as merrily they crossed the estuary, and rowed up a narrow creek, with a whitewashed village on one side, and on the other a solitary house, the garden sloping to the water, and very nautical–the vane, a union-jack waved by a brilliant little sailor on the top of a mast, and the arbour, half a boat set on end; whence, as James steered up to the stone steps that were one by one appearing, there emerged an old, grizzly, weather-beaten sailor, who took his pipe from his mouth, and caught hold of the boat.

‘Thank you, Captain!’ cried Fitzjocelyn. ‘I’ve brought home the boat safe, you see, by my own superhuman exertions–no thanks to Mr. Frost, there!’

‘That’s his way, Captain,’ retorted Jem, leaping out, and helping his cousin: ‘you may thank me for getting him home at all! But for me, he would have his back against the counter, and his head in a book, this very moment.’

‘Ask him what he was after,’ returned Louis.

‘Which of us d’ye think most likely to lag, Captain Hannaford?’ cried Jem, preventing the question.

‘Which would you choose to have on board?’

‘Ye’d both of ye make more mischief than work,’ said the old seaman, who had been looking from one to the other of the young men, as if they were performing a comedy for his special diversion.

‘So you would not enter us on board the Eliza Priscilla?’ cried Louis.

‘No, no,’ said the old man, shrewdly, and with an air of holding something back; whereupon they both pressed him, and obtained for answer, ‘No, no, I wouldn’t sail with you’–signing towards Fitzjocelyn–‘in my crew: ye’d be more trouble than ye’re worth. And as to you, sir, if I wouldn’t sail with ye, I’d like still less to sail under you.’

He finished with a droll, deprecating glance, and Louis laughed heartily; but James was silent, and as soon as they had entered the little parlour, declared that it would not do to encourage that old skipper–he was waylaying them like the Ancient Mariner, and was actually growing impudent.

‘An old man’s opinion of two youngsters is not what I call impudence,’ began Louis, with an emphasis that made Jem divert his attack.

Those two cousins had never spent a happier month than in these small lodgings, built by the old retired merchant-seaman evidently on the model of that pride of his heart, the Eliza Priscilla, his little coasting trader, now the charge of his only surviving son; for this was a family where drowning was like a natural death, and old Captain Hannaford looked on the probability of sleeping in Ebbscreek churchyard, much as Bayard did at the prospect of dying in his bed. His old deaf wife kept the little cabin-like rooms most exquisitely neat; and the twelve-years-old Priscilla, the orphan of one of the lost sons, waited on the gentlemen with an old-fashioned, womanly deportment and staid countenance that, in the absence of all other grounds of distress, Louis declared was quite a pain to him.

The novelty of the place, the absence of restraint, the easy life, and, above all, the freshness of returning health, rendered his spirits exceedingly high, and he had never been more light-hearted and full of mirth. James, elated at his rapid improvement, was scarcely less full of liveliness and frolic, enjoying to the utmost the holiday, which perhaps both secretly felt might be the farewell to the perfect carelessness of boyish relaxation. Bathing, boating, fishing, dabbling, were the order of the day, and withal just enough quarrelling and teasing to add a little spice to their pleasures. Louis was over head and ears in maritime natural history; but Jem, backed by Mrs. Hannaford, prohibited his ‘messes’ from making a permanent settlement in the parlour; though festoons of seaweed trellised the porch, ammonites heaped the grass-plat, tubs of sea- water flanked the approach to the front door; and more than one bowl, with inmates of a suspicious nature, was often deposited even on the parlour table.

On the afternoon following the expedition to Bickleypool, Louis was seated, with an earthenware pan before him, coaxing an actinia with raw beef to expand her blossom, to be copied for Miss Faithfull. Another bowl stood near, containing some feathery serpulas; and the weeds were heaped on the locker of the window behind him, and on the back of the chair which supported his lame foot. The third and only remaining chair accommodated James, with a book placed on the table; and a semicircle swept round it, within which nothing marine might extend.

Louis was by turns drawing, enticing his refractory sitter, exhorting her to bloom, and complimenting her delicate beauty, until James, with a groan, exclaimed, ‘Is silence impossible to you, Fitzjocelyn? I would go into the garden, but that I should be beset by the intolerable old skipper!’

‘I beg your pardon–I thought you never heard nor heeded me.’

‘I don’t in general, but this requires attention; and it is past all bearing to hear how you go on to that Jelly!’

‘Read aloud, then: it will answer two purposes.

‘This is Divinity–Hooker,’ said James, sighing wearily.

‘So much the better. I read some once; I wish I had been obliged to go on.’

‘You are the oddest fellow!–After all, I believe you have a craving after my profession.’

‘Is that a discovery?’ said Louis, washing the colour out of his brush. ‘The only person I envy is a country curate–except a town one.’

‘Don’t talk like affectation!’ growled James.

‘Do you know, Jem,’ said Louis, leaning back, and drawing the brush between his lips, ‘I am persuaded that something will turn up to prevent it from being your profession.’

‘Your persuasions are wrong, then!’

‘That fabulous uncle in the Indies–‘

‘You know I am determined to accept nothing from my uncle, were he to lay it at my feet–which he never will.’

‘Literally or metaphorically?’ asked Louis, softly.

‘Pshaw!’

‘You Dynevors don’t resemble my sea-pink. See how she stretches her elegant fringes for this very unpleasant bit of meat! There! I won’t torment you any more; read, and stop my mouth!’

‘You are in earnest?’

‘You seem to think that if a man cannot be a clergyman, he is not to be a Christian.’

‘Then don’t break in with your actinias and stuff!’

‘Certainly not,’ said Louis, gravely.

The first interruption came from James himself. Leaping to his feet with a sudden bound, he exclaimed, ‘There they are!’ and stood transfixed in a gaze of ecstasy.

‘You have made me smudge my lake,’ said Louis, in the mild tone of ‘Diamond, Diamond!’

‘I tell you, there they are!’ cried James, rushing into wild activity.

‘One would think it the Fair Unknown,’ said Louis, not troubling himself to look round, nor desisting from washing out his smudge.

‘It is! it is!–it is all of them! Here they come, I tell you, and the place is a very merman’s cave!’

‘Take care–the serpula–don’t!’ as James hurriedly opened the door leading to the stairs–disposed of the raw meat on one step and the serpulas on another, and hurled after them the heap of seaweed, all but one trailing festoon of ‘Luckie Minnie’s lines,’ which, while his back was turned, Louis by one dexterous motion wreathed round the crown of his straw hat; otherwise never stirring, but washing quietly on, until he rose as little Priscilla opened the door, and stood aside, mutely overawed at the stream of flounced ladies that flowed past, and seemed to fill up the entire room. It was almost a surprise to find that, after all, there were only three of them!

‘I knew I was not mistaken,’ said a very engaging, affectionate voice. ‘It is quite shocking to have to introduce myself to you– Lady Conway–‘

‘My aunt!’ cried Louis, with eager delight–‘and my cousin!’ he added, turning with a slight blush towards the maiden, whom he felt, rather than saw, to be the worthy object of yesterday’s rapture.

‘Not quite,’ she answered, not avoiding the grasp of his hand, but returning it with calm, distant politeness.

‘Not quite,’ repeated Lady Conway. ‘Your real cousins are no farther off than Beauchastel–‘

‘Where you must come and see them,’ added the third lady–a portly, cordial, goodnatured dame, whom Lady Conway introduced as Mrs. Mansell, who had known his mother well; and Louis making a kind of presentation of his cousin James, the two elder ladies were located on two of the chairs: the younger one, as if trying to be out of the way, placed herself on the locker. Jem stood leaning on the back of the other chair; and Louis stood over his aunt, in an ecstasy at the meeting–at the kind, warm manner and pleasant face of his aunt–and above all, at the indescribable pleasure imparted by the mere presence of the beautiful girl, though he hardly dared even to look at her; and she was the only person whose voice was silent in the chorus of congratulation, on the wonderful chance that had brought the aunt and nephew together. The one had been a fortnight at Beauchastel, the other a month at Ebbscreek, without guessing at each other’s neighbourhood, until Lady Conway’s attention had been attracted at the library by Louis’s remarkable resemblance to her sister, and making inquiries, she had learnt that he was no other than Lord Fitzjocelyn. She was enchanted with the likeness, declaring that all she wished was to see him look less delicate, and adding her entreaties to those of Mrs. Mansell, that the two young men would come at once to Beauchastel.

Louis looked with wistful doubt at James, who, he knew, could not brook going to fine places in the character of tutor; but, to his surprise and pleasure, James was willing and eager, and made no demur, except that Fitzjocelyn could not walk so far, and the boat was gone out. Mrs. Mansell then proposed the ensuing Monday, when, she said, she and Mr. Mansell should be delighted to have them to meet a party of shooting gentlemen–of course they were sportsmen. Louis answered at once for James; but for himself, he could not walk, nor even ride the offered shooting-pony; and thereupon ensued more minute questions whether his ankle were still painful.

‘Not more than so as to be a useful barometer. I have been testing it by the sea-weeds. If I am good for nothing else, I shall be a walking weather-glass, as well as a standing warning against man- traps.’

‘You don’t mean that you fell into a man-trap!’ exclaimed Mrs. Mansell, in horror. ‘That will be a warning for Mr. Mansell! I have such a dread of the frightful things!’

‘A trap ingeniously set by myself,’ said Louis. ‘I was only too glad no poor poacher fell into it.’

‘Your father told me that it was a fall down a steep bank,’ exclaimed Lady Conway.

‘Exactly so; but I suppose he thought it for my credit to conceal that my trap consisted of a flight of stone stops, very solid and permanent, with the trifling exception of cement.’

‘If the truth were known,’ said James, ‘I believe that a certain scamp of a boy was at the bottom of those steps.’

‘I’m the last person to deny it,’ said Louis, quietly, though not without rising colour, ‘there was a scamp of a boy at the bottom of the steps, and very unpleasant he found it–though not without the best consequences, and among them the present–‘ And he turned to Lady Conway with a pretty mixture of gracefulness and affection, enough to win the heart of any aunt.

Mrs. Mansell presently fell into raptures at the sight of the drawing materials, which must, she was sure, delight Isabel, but she was rather discomfited by the sight of the ‘subject,’–called it an odious creature, then good-humouredly laughed at herself, but would not sit down again, evidently wishing to escape from close quarters with such monsters. Lady Conway likewise rose, and looked into the basin, exclaiming, in her turn, ‘Ah! I see you understand these things! Yes, they are very interesting! Virginia will be delighted; she has been begging me for an aquarium wherever we go. You must tell her how to manage it. Look, Isabel, would not she be in ecstasies?’

Miss Conway looked, but did not seem to partake in the admiration. ‘I am perverse enough never to like what is the fashion,’ she said.

‘I tried to disgust Fitzjocelyn with his pets on that very ground,’ said James; ‘but their charms were too strong for him.’

‘Fashion is the very testimony to them,’ said Louis. ‘I think I could convince you.’

He would perhaps have produced his lovely serpula blossoms, but he was forced to pass on to his aunt and Mrs. Mansell, who had found something safer for their admiration, in the shape of a great Cornu ammonis in the garden.

‘He can throw himself into any pursuit,’ said James, as he paused at the door with Miss Conway; but suddenly becoming aware of the slimy entanglement round his hat, he exclaimed, ‘Absurd fellow!’ and pulled it off rather petulantly, adding, with a little constraint, ‘Recovery does put people into mad spirits! I fancy the honest folks here look on in amaze.’

Miss Conway gave a very pretty smile of sympathy and consolation, that shone like a sunbeam on her beautiful pensive features and dark, soft eyes. Then she began to admire the view, as they stood on the turf, beside Captain Hannaford’s two small cannon, overlooking the water towards Bickleypool, with a purple hill rising behind it. A yacht was sailing into the harbour, and James ran indoors to fetch a spy-glass, while Lady Conway seized the occasion of asking her nephew his tutor’s name.

Louis, who had fancied she must necessarily understand all his kindred, was glad to guard against shocks to Jem’s sensitive pride, and eagerly explained the disproportion between his birth and fortune, and his gallant efforts to relieve his grandmother from her burthens. He was pleased to find that he had touched all his auditors, and to hear kind-hearted Mrs. Mansell repeat her special invitation to Mr. Frost Dynevor with double cordiality.

‘If you must play practical jokes,’ said James, as they watched the carriage drive off, ‘I wish you would choose better moments for them.’

‘I thought you would be more in character as a merman brave,’ said Louis.

‘I wonder what character you thought you appeared in?’

‘I never meant you to discover it while they were here, nor would you, if you were not so careful of your complexion. Come, throw it at my head now, as you would have done naturally, and we shall have fair weather again!’

‘I am only concerned at the impression you have made.’

‘Too late now, is it? You don’t mean to be bad company for the rest of the day. It is too bad, after such a presence as has been here. She is a poem in herself. It is like a vision to see her move in that calm, gliding way. Such eyes, so deep, so tranquil, revealing the sphere apart where she dwells! An ideal! How can you be savage after sitting in the same room, and hearing that sweet, low voice?’

Meantime the young lady sat back in the carriage, dreamily hearing, and sometimes answering, the conversation of her two elders, as they returned through pretty forest-drives into the park of Beauchastel, and up to the handsome, well-kept house; where, after a few words from Mrs. Mansell, she ascended the stairs.

‘Isabel!’ cried a bright voice, and a girl of fourteen came skating along the polished oak corridor. ‘Come and have some tea in the school-room, and tell us your adventures!’ And so saying, she dragged the dignified Isabel into an old-fashioned sitting-room, where a little pale child, two years younger, sprang up, and, with a cry of joy, clung round the elder sister.

‘My white bind-weed,’ said Isabel, fondly caressing her, ‘have you been out on the pony?’

‘Oh I yes, we wanted only you. Sit down there.’

And as Isabel obeyed, the little Louisa placed herself on her lap, with one arm round her neck, and looked with proud glee at the kind, sensible-faced governess who was pouring out the tea.

‘The reconnoitring party!’ eagerly cried Virginia.

‘Did you find the cousin?’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘Oh! Then what is he like?’

‘You will see when he comes on Monday.’

‘Coming–oh! And is he so very handsome?’

‘I can see how pretty a woman your Aunt Louisa must have been.’

‘News!’ laughed Virginia; ‘when mamma is always preaching to me to be like her!’

‘Is he goodnatured?’ asked Louisa.

‘I had not full means of judging,’ said Isabel, more thoughtfully than seemed justified by the childish question. ‘His cousin is coming too,’ she added; ‘Mr. Frost Dynevor.’

‘Another cousin!’ exclaimed Virginia.

‘No; a relation of Lord Ormersfield–a person to be much respected. He is heir to a lost estate, and of a very grand old family. Lord Fitzjocelyn says that he is exerting himself to the very utmost for his grandmother and orphan sister; denying himself everything. He is to be a clergyman. There was a book of divinity open on the table.’

‘He must be very good!’ said Louisa, in a low, impressed voice, and fondling her sister’s hand. ‘Will he be as good as Sir Roland?’

‘Oh! I am glad he is coming!’ cried Virginia. ‘We have so wished to see somebody very good!’

A bell rang–a signal that Lady Conway would be in her room, where she liked her two girls to come to her while she was dressing. Louisa reluctantly detached herself from her sister, and Virginia lingered to say, ‘Dress quickly, please, please, Isabel. I know there is a new bit of Sir Roland done! Oh! I hope Mr. Dynevor is like him!’

‘Not quite,’ said Isabel, smiling as they ran away. ‘Poor children, I am afraid they will be disappointed; but long may their craving be to see ‘somebody very good!’

‘I am very glad they should meet any one answering the description,’ said the governess. ‘I don’t gather that you are much delighted with the object of the expedition.’

‘A pretty boy–very pretty. It quite explains all I have ever heard of his mother.’

‘As you told the children.’

‘More than I told the children. Their aunt never by description seemed to me my ideal, as you know. I would rather have seen a likeness to Lord Ormersfield, who–though I don’t like him–has something striking in the curt, dry, melancholy dignity of his manner.’

‘And how has Lord Fitzjocelyn displeased you?’

‘Perhaps there is no harm in him–he may not have character enough for that; but talk, attitudes, everything betrays that he is used to be worshipped–takes it as a matter of course, and believes nothing so interesting as himself.’

‘Don’t you think you may have gone with your mind made up?’

‘If you mean that I thought myself uncalled for, and heartily detested the expedition, you are right; but I saw what I did not expect.’

‘Was it very bad?’

‘A very idle practical joke, such as I dislike particularly. A quantity of wet sea-weed wound round Mr. Dynevor’s hat.’

Miss King laughed. ‘Really, my dear, I don’t think you know what young men like from each other.’

‘Mr. Dynevor did not like it,’ said Isabel, ‘though he tried to pass it off lightly as the spirits of recovery. Those spirits–I am afraid he has too much to suffer from them. There is something so ungenerous in practical wit, especially from a prosperous man to one unprosperous!’

‘Well, Isabel, I won’t contradict, but I should imagine that such things often showed people to be on the best of terms.’

Isabel shook her head, and left the room, to have her dark hair braided, with little heed from herself, as she sat dreamily over a book. Before the last bracelet was clasped, she was claimed by her two little sisters, who gave her no peace till her desk was opened, and a manuscript drawn forth, that they might hear the two new pages of her morning’s work. It was a Fouque-like tale, relieving and giving expression to the yearnings for holiness and loftiness that had grown up within Isabel Conway in the cramped round of her existence. The story went back to the troubadour days of Provence, where a knight, the heir of a line of shattered fortunes, was betrothed to the heiress of the oppressors, that thus all wrongs might be redressed. They had learnt to love, when Sir Roland discovered that the lands in dispute had been won by sacrilege. He met Adeline at a chapel in a little valley, to tell the whole. They agreed to sacrifice themselves, that restitution should be made; the knight to go as a crusader to the Holy Land; the lady, after waiting awhile to tend her aged father, to enter a convent, and restore her dower to the church. Twice had Isabel written that parting, pouring out her heart in the high-souled tender devotion of Roland and his Adeline; and both feeling and description were beautiful and poetical, though unequal. Louisa used to cry whenever she heard it, yet only wished to hear it again and again, and when Virginia insisted on reading it to Miss King, tears had actually been surprised in the governess’s eyes. Yet she liked still better Adeline’s meek and patient temper, where breathed the feeling Isabel herself would fain cherish–the deep, earnest, spiritual life and high consecrated purpose that were with the Provencal maiden through all her enforced round of gay festivals, light minstrelsy, tourneys, and Courts of Love. Thus far had the story gone. Isabel had been writing a wild, mysterious ballad, reverting to that higher love and the true spirit of self-sacrifice, which was to thrill strangely on the ears of the thoughtless at a contention for the Golden Violet, and which she had adapted to a favourite air, to the extreme delight of the two girls. To them the Chapel in the valley, Roland and his Adeline, were very nearly real, and were the hidden joy of their hearts,–all the more because their existence was a precious secret between the three sisters and Miss King, who viewed it as such an influence on the young ones, that, with more meaning than she could have explained, she called it their Telemaque. The following-up of the teaching of Isabel and Miss King might lead to results as little suspected by Lady Conway as Fenelon’s philosophy was by Louis XIV.

Lady Conway was several years older than her beautiful sister, and had married much later. Perhaps she had aimed too high, and had met with disappointments unavowed; for she had finally contented herself with becoming the second wife of Sir Walter Conway, and was now his serene, goodnatured, prosperous widow. Disliking his estate and neighbourhood, and thinking the daughters wanted London society and London masters, she shut up the house until her son should be of age, and spent the season in Lowndes-square, the autumn either abroad, in visits, or at watering-places.

Beauchastel was an annual resort of the family. Isabel was more slenderly portioned than her half-sisters; and she was one of the nearest surviving relations of her mother’s cousin, Mr. Mansell, whose large comfortable house was always hospitable; and whose wife, a great dealer in goodnatured confidential gossip, used to throw out hints to her great friend Lady Conway, that much depended on Isabel’s marriage–that Mr. Mansell had been annoyed at connexions formed by others of his relations–but though he had decided on nothing, the dear girl’s choice might make a great difference.

Nothing could be more passive than Miss Conway. She could not remember her mother, but her childhood had been passed under an admirable governess; and though her own Miss Longman had left her, Miss King, the successor, was a person worthy of her chief confidence. At two-and-twenty, the school-room was still the home of her affections, and her ardent love was lavished on her little sisters and her brother Walter.

Going out with Lady Conway was mere matter of duty and submission. She had not such high animal spirits as to find enjoyment in her gaieties, and her grave, pensive character only attained to walking through her part; she had seen little but the more frivolous samples of society, scorned and disliked all that was worldly and manoeuvring, and hung back from levity and coquetry with utter distaste. Removed from her natural home, where she would have found duties and seen various aspects of life, she had little to interest or occupy her in her unsettled wanderings; and to her the sap of life was in books, in dreams, in the love of her brother and sisters, and in discussions with Miss King; her favourite vision for the future, the going to live with Walter at Thornton Conway when he should be of age. But Walter was younger than Louisa, and it was a very distant prospect.

Her characteristic was a calm, serene indifference, in which her stepmother acquiesced, as lovers of peace do in what they cannot help; and the more willingly, that her tranquil dignity and pensive grace exactly suited the style of her tall queenly figure, delicate features, dark soft languid eyes, and clear olive complexion, just tinged with rosebud pink.

What Louis said of her to his tutor on the Monday night of their arrival was beyond the bounds of all reason; and it was even more memorable that Jem was neither satirical nor disputatious, assented to all, and if he sighed, it was after his door was shut.

A felicitous day ensued, spent by James in shooting, by Fitzjocelyn, in the drawing-room; whither Mrs. Mansell had requested Isabel’s presence, as a favour to herself. The young lady sat at work, seldom raising her eyes, but this was enough for him; his intense admiration and pleasure in her presence so exhilarated him, that he rattled away to the utmost. Louisa was at first the excuse. In no further doubt of his good-nature, she spent an hour in the morning in giving him anagrams to guess; and after she had repaired to the schoolroom, he went on inventing fresh ones, and transposing the ivory letters, rambling on in his usual style of pensive drollery. Happiness never set him off to advantage, and either there was more froth than ordinary, or it appeared unusually ridiculous to an audience who did not detect the under-current of reflection. His father would have been in despair, Mrs. Ponsonby or Mary would have interposed; but the ladies of Beauchastel laughed and encouraged him,–all but Isabel, who sat in the window, and thought of Adeline, ‘spighted and angered both,’ by a Navarrese coxcomb, with sleeves down to his heels, and shoes turned up to his knees. She gave herself great credit for having already created him a Viscount.

In the afternoon, Louis drove out lionizing with his aunt; but though the ponies stopped of themselves at all the notable views; sea, hill, and river were lost on him. Lady Conway could have drawn out a far less accessible person, and her outpouring of his own sentiments made him regard her as perfect.

She consulted him about her winter’s resort. Louisa required peculiar care, and she had thought of trying mineral baths–what was thought of Northwold? what kind of houses were there? The Northwold faculty themselves might have taken a lesson from Fitzjocelyn’s eloquent analysis of the chemical properties of the waters, and all old Mr. Frost’s spirit would seem to have descended on him when he dilated on the House Beautiful. Lodgers for Miss Faithfull! what jubilee they would cause! And such lodgers! No wonder he was in ecstasy. All the evening the sound of his low, deliberate voice was unceasing, and his calm announcements to his two little cousins were each one more startling than the last; while James, to whom it was likewise all sunshine, was full of vivacity, and a shrewd piquancy of manner that gave zest to all he said, and wonderfully enlivened the often rather dull circle at Beauchastel.

Morning came; and when the ladies descended to breakfast, it was found that Lord Fitzjocelyn had gone out with the sportsmen. The children lamented, and their elders pronounced a young gentleman’s passion for shooting to be quite incalculable. When, late in the day, the party returned, it was reported that he did not appear to care much for the sport; but had walked beside Mr. Mansell’s shooting-pony, and had finally gone with him to see his model farm. This was a sure road to the old squire’s heart, and no one was more delighted with the guest. For Aunt Catharine’s sake, Louis was always attracted by old age, and his attentive manners had won Mr. Mansell’s heart, even before his inquiries about his hobby had completed the charm. To expound and to listen to histories of agricultural experiments that really answered, was highly satisfactory to both, and all the evening they were eager over the great account-book which was the pride of the squire’s heart; while Virginia and Louisa grumbled or looked imploring, and Isabel marvelled at there being any interest for any one in old Mr. Mansell’s conversation.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked James, as they went up stairs.

Louis shrugged like a Frenchman, looked debonnaire, and said ‘Good- night.’

Again he came down; prepared for shooting, though both pale and lame; but he quietly put aside all expostulations, walking on until, about fifty yards from the house, a pebble, turning under the injured foot, caused such severe pain that he could but just stagger to a tree and sit down.

There was much battling before Mr. Mansell would consent to leave him, or he to allow James to help him back to the house, before going on to overtake the party.

Very irate was Jem, at folly that seemed to have undone the benefits of the last month, and at changeableness that was a desertion of the queen to whom all homage was due. He was astonished that Louis turned into the study, a room little inhabited in general, and said, ‘Make haste–you will catch the others; don’t fall in with the ladies.’

‘I mean to send your aunt to you.’

‘Pray don’t. Can’t you suppose that peace is grateful after having counted every mortal hour last night?’

‘Was that the reason you were going to walk ten miles without a leg to stand upon? Fitzjocelyn! is this systematic?’

‘What is?’ said Louis, wearily.

‘Your treatment of–your aunt.’

‘On what system should aunts be treated?’

‘Of all moments to choose for caprice! Exactly when I thought even you were fixed!’

‘Pur troppo,’ sighed Louis.

‘Ha!’ cried Jem, ‘you have not gone and precipitated matters! I thought you could never amaze me again; but even you might have felt she was a being to merit rather more time and respect!’

‘Even I am not devoid of the organ of veneration.’

His meek tone was a further provocation; and with uplifted chin, hair ruffled like the crest of a Shetland pony, flashing eyes, and distinct enunciation, James exclaimed, ‘You will excuse me for not understanding you. You come here; you devote yourself to your aunt and cousins–you seem strongly attracted; then, all on a sudden, you rush out shooting–an exercise for which you don’t care, and when you can’t walk: you show the most pointed neglect. And after being done- up yesterday, you repeat the experiment to-day, as if for the mere object of laming yourself for life. I could understand pique or temper, but you have not the–‘

‘The sense,’ said Louis; ‘no, nor anything to be piqued at.’

‘If there be a motive,’ said James, ‘I have a right to demand not to be trifled with any longer.’

‘I wish you could be content to shoot your birds, and leave me in peace: you will only have your fun spoilt, like mine, and go into a fury. The fact is, that my father writes in a state of perturbation. He says, I might have understood, from the tenor of his conduct, that he did not wish me to be intimate with my aunt’s family! He cannot know anything about them, for it is all one warning against fashion and frivolity. He does not blame us–especially not you.’

‘I wish he did.’

‘But he desires that our intercourse should be no more than propriety demands, and plunges into a discourse against first impressions, beauty, and the like.’

‘So that’s the counterblast!’

‘You ought to help me, Jem,’ said Louis, dejectedly.

‘I’ll help you with all my heart to combat your father’s prejudices.’

‘An hour’s unrestrained intercourse with these people would best destroy them,’ said Louis; ‘but, in the mean time–I wonder what he means.’

‘He means that he is in terror for his darling scheme.’

‘Mrs. Ponsonby was very right,’ sighed Louis.

‘Ay! A pretty condition you would be in, if she had not had too much principle to let you be a victim to submission. That’s what you’ll come to, though! You will never know the meaning of passion; you will escape something by it, though you will be twisted round his lordship’s finger, and marry his choice. I hope she will have red hair!’

‘Negative and positive obedience stand on different grounds,’ said Louis, with such calmness as often fretted James, but saved their friendship. ‘Besides, till I had this letter, I had no notion of any such thing.’

James’s indignation resulted in fierce stammering; while Louis deliberately continued a viva voce self-examination, with his own quaint naivete, betraying emotion only by the burning colour of cheek and brow.

‘No; I had no such notion. I only felt that her presence had the gladdening, inspiriting, calming effect of moonlight or starlight. I reverenced her as a dream of poetry walking the earth. Ha! now one hears the sound of it–that is like it! I did not think it was such a confirmed case. I should have gone on in peace but for this letter, and never thought about it at all.’

‘So much the better for you!’

‘My father is too just and candid not to own his error, and be thankful.’

‘And you expect her to bear with your alternations in the mean time?’

‘Towards her I have not alternated. When I have made giggle with Clara under the influence of the starry sky, did you suppose me giggling with Lyra or the Pleiades! I should dread to see the statue descend; it seemed irreverence even to gaze. The lofty serenity keeps me aloof. I like to believe in a creature too bright and good for human nature’s daily food. Our profane squinting through telescopes at the Lady Moon reveals nothing but worn-out volcanoes and dry oceans, black gulfs and scorched desolation; but verily that may not be Lady Moon’s fault–only that of our base inventions. So I would be content to mark her–Isabel, I mean–queenly, moonlike name!–walk in beauty and tranquillity unruffled, without distorting my vision by personal aims at bringing her down to my level. There- don’t laugh at me, Jem.’

‘No, I am too sorry for you.’

‘Why!’ be exclaimed, impatient of compassion; ‘do you think it desperate?’

‘I see your affection given to a most worthy object, and I know what your notions of submission will end in.’

‘Once for all, Jem,’ said Fitzjocelyn, ‘do you know how you are using my father? No; Isabel Conway may be the happiness or the disappointment of my life–I cannot tell. I am sure my father is mistaken, and I believe he may be convinced; but I am bound not to fly in the face of his direct commands, and, till we can come to an understanding, I must do the best I can, and trust to–‘

The last word was lost, as he turned to nurse his ankle, and presently to entreat James to join the sportsmen; but Jem was in a mood to do nothing pleasing to himself nor to any one else. A sacrifice is usually irritating to the spectators, who remonstrate rather than listen to self-reproach; and Louis had been guilty of three great offences–being in the right, making himself ridiculous, and submitting tamely–besides the high-treason to Isabel’s beauty. It was well that the Earl was safe out of the way of the son of the Pendragons!

Fitzjocelyn was in pain and discomfort enough to make James unwilling to leave him; though his good-will did not prevent him from keeping up such a stream of earplugs and sinister auguries, that it was almost the climax of good-temper that enabled Louis to lie still, trying to read a great quarto Park’s Travels, and abstaining from any reply that could aggravate matters. As the one would not go to luncheon, the other would not; and after watching the sound of the ladies’ setting out for their drive, Louis said that he would go and lie on the turf; but at that moment the door was thrown open, and in ran Virginia. Explanations were quickly exchanged–how she had come to find Vertot’s Malta for Isabel, and how he had been sent in by hurting his foot.

‘Were you going to stay in all day?’ said Virginia. ‘Oh, come with us! We have the pony-carriage; and we are going to a dear old ruin, walking and driving by turns. Do, pray, come; there’s plenty of room.’

There could be no objection to the school-room party, and it was no small relief to escape from James and hope he was amused; so Fitzjocelyn allowed himself to be dragged off in triumph, and James was acceding to his entreaty that he would go in search of the shooting-party, when, as they reached the hall-door, they beheld Miss Conway waiting on the steps.

There was no receding for her any more than for Louis, so she could only make a private resolution against the pony-carriage, and dedicate herself to the unexceptionable company of little sister, governess and tutor; for James had resigned the shooting, and attached himself to the expedition. It was an excellent opportunity of smoothing his cousin’s way, and showing that all was not caprice that might so appear: so he began to tell of his most advantageous traits of character, and to explain away his whimsical conduct, with great ardour and ingenuity. He thought he should be perfectly satisfied if he could win but one smile of approbation from that gravely beautiful mouth; and it came at last, when he told of Fitzjocelyn’s devoted affection to Mrs. Frost and his unceasing kindness to the old ladies of Dynevor Terrace. Thus gratified, he let himself be led into abstract questions of principle,–a style of discussion frequent between Miss King and Isabel, but on which the latter had never seen the light of a man’s mind thrown except through books. The gentlemen whom she had met were seldom either deep or earnest, except those too much beyond her reach; and she had avoided anything like confidence or intimacy: but Mr. Dynevor could enlighten and vivify her perplexed reflections, answer her inquiries, confirm her opinion of books, and enter into all that she ventured with diffidence to express. He was enchanted to find that no closer approach could dim the lustre of Louis’s moon, and honoured her doubly for what she had made herself in frivolous society. He felt sure that his testimony would gain credit where Fitzjocelyn’s would be regarded as love-blinded, and already beheld himself forcing full proof of her merits on the reluctant Earl, beholding Louis happy, and Isabel emancipated from constraint.

A five miles’ walk gave full time for such blissful discoveries; for Miss Conway was resolute against entering the pony-carriage, and walked on, protesting against ever being fatigued; while Louis was obliged to occupy his seat in the carriage, with a constant change of companions.

‘I think, my dear,’ said Miss King, when the younger girls had gone to their mother’s toilette, ‘that you will have to forgive me.’

‘Meaning,’ said Isabel, ‘that you are bitten too! Ah! Miss King, you could not withstand the smile with which he handed you in!’

‘Could you withstand such an affectionate account of your cruel, tyrannical practical joker?’

‘Facts are stubborn things. Do you know what Mr. Dynevor is doing at this moment? I met him in the gallery, hurrying off to Ebbscreek for some lotion for Lord Fitzjocelyn’s ankle. I begged him to let Mrs. Mansell send; but no-no one but himself could find it, and his cousin could not bear strangers to disarrange his room. If anything were wanting, it would be enough to see how simply and earnestly such a man has been brought to pamper–nay, to justify, almost to adore, the whims and follies of this youth.’

‘If anything were wanting to what? To your dislike.’

‘It would not be so active as dislike, unless–‘ Isabel spoke with drooping head, and Miss King did not ask her to finish, but said, ‘He has not given you much cause for alarm.’

‘So; he is at least a thorough gentleman. It may be conceit, or wrong self-consciousness, but from the moment the poor boy was spied in the shop, I had a perception that mamma and Mrs. Mansell marked him down. Personally he would be innocent, but, through all his chatter, I cannot shake off the fancy that I am watched, or that decided indifference is not needed to keep him at a distance.’

‘I wish you could have seen him without knowing him!’

‘In vain, dear Miss King! I can’t bear handsome men. I see his frivolity and shallowness; and for amiability, what do you think of keeping his cousin all the morning from shooting for such a mere nothing, and then sending him off for a ten miles’ walk?

‘For my part, I confess that I was struck with the good sense and kindness he showed in our tete-a-tete–I thought it justified Mr. Dynevor’s description.’

‘Yes, I have no doubt that there is some good in him. He might have done very well, if he had not always been an idol.’

Isabel was the more provoked with Lord Fitzjocelyn, when, by-and-by, he appeared in the drawing-room, and related the result of his cousin’s mission. Jem, who would know better than himself where to find his property, had not chosen to believe his description of the spot where he had left the lotion, and, in the twilight, Louis had found his foot coiled about by the feelers and claws of a formidable monster–no other than a bottled scorpion, a recent present from Captain Hannaford. He did not say how emblematic the scorpion lotion was of that which Jem had been administering to his wounded spirit all the morning, but he put the story in so ludicrous a light that Isabel decided that Mr. Dynevor was ungenerously and ungratefully treated as a butt; and she turned away in displeasure from the group whom the recital was amusing, to offer her sympathy to the tutor, and renew the morning’s conversation.

CHAPTER XIII.

FROSTY, BUT KINDLY.

Go not eastward, go not westward,
For a stranger whom we know not.
Like a fire upon the hearthstone,
Is a neighbour’s homely daughter;
Like the moonlight or the starlight, Is the handsomest of strangers.
Legend of Hiawatha.

‘What a laboured production had the letter been! How many copies had the statesman written! how late had he sat over it at night! how much more consideration had he spent on it than on papers involving the success of his life! A word too much or too little might precipitate the catastrophe, and the bare notion of his son’s marriage with a pupil of Lady Conway renewed and gave fresh poignancy to the past.

At first his anxieties were past mention; but he grew restless under them, and the instinct of going to Mrs. Ponsonby prevailed. At least, she would know what had transpired from James, or from Fitzjocelyn to Mrs. Frost.

She had heard of ecstatic letters from both the cousins, and Mary had been delighted to identify Miss Conway with the Isabel of whom one of her school friends spoke rapturously, but the last letter had beenfrom James to his grandmother, declaring that Lord Ormersfield was destroying the happiness of the most dutiful of sons, who was obedient even to tameness, and so absurd that there was no bearing him. His lordship must hear reason, and learn that he was rejecting the most admirable creature in existence, her superiority of mind exceeding even her loveliness of person. He had better beware of tyranny; it was possible to abuse submission, and who could answer for the consequences of thwarting strong affections? All the ground Fitzjocelyn had gained in the last six weeks had been lost; and for the future, James would not predict.

‘An uncomfortable matter,’ said Mrs. Ponsonby, chiefly for the sake of reading her daughter’s feelings. ‘If it were not in poor Louis’s mind already, his father and James would plant it there by their contrary efforts.’

‘Oh! I hope it will come right,’ said Mary. ‘Louis is too good, and his father too kind, for it not to end well. And then, mamma, he will be able to prove, what nobody will believe–that he is constant.’

‘You think so, do you?’ said her mother, smiling.

Mary blushed, but answered, ‘where he really cared, he would be constant. His fancy might be taken, and he might rave, but he would never really like what was not good.–If he does think about Miss Conway, we may trust she is worthy of him. Oh! I should like to see her!’

Mary’s eyes lighted up with an enthusiasm that used to be a stranger to them. It was not the over-acted indifference nor the tender generosity of disappointment: it seemed more to partake of the fond, unselfish, elder-sisterly affection that she had always shown towards Louis, and it set her mother quite at ease.

Seeing Lord Ormersfield riding into the terrace, Mary set out for a walk, that he might have his tete-a-tete freely with her mother. On coming home, she met him on the stairs; and he spoke with a sad softness and tone of pardon that alarmed her so much, that she hastened to ask her mother whether Louis had really avowed an attachment.

‘Oh no,’ said Mrs. Ponsonby; ‘he has written a very right-minded letter, on the whole, poor boy! though he is sure the Conways have only to be known to be appreciated. Rather too true! It is in his Miss Fanny hand, stiff and dispirited; and his father has worked himself into such a state of uneasiness, that I think it will end in his going to Ebbscreek at once.’

‘O mamma, you won’t let him go and torment Louis?’

‘Why, Mary, have you been learning of James? Perhaps he would torment him more from a distance; and besides, I doubt what sort of counsellor James is likely to make in his present mood.’

‘I never could see that James made any difference to Louis,’ said Mary. ‘I know people think he does, because Louis gives up wishes and plans to him; but he is not led in opinions or principles, as far as I can see.’

‘Not unless his own wishes went the same way.’

‘At least, Lord Ormersfield will see Miss Conway!’

‘I am afraid that will do no good. It will not be for the first time. Lady Conway has been his dread from the time of his own marriage; and if she should come to Northwold, he will be in despair. I do think he must be right; she must be making a dead set at Louis.’

‘Not Miss Conway,’ said Mary. ‘I know she must be good, or he would not endure her for a moment.’

‘Mary, you do not know the power of beauty.’

‘I have heard of it,’ said Mary; ‘I have seen how Dona Guadalupe was followed. But those people were not like Louis. No, mamma; I think James might be taken in, I don’t think Louis could be–unless he had a very grand dream of his own before his eyes; and then it would be his own dream, not the lady that he saw; and by-and-by he would find it out, and be so vexed!’

‘And, I trust, before he had committed himself!’

‘Mamma, I won’t have you think Miss Conway anything but up to his dreams! I know she is. Only think what Jane Drummond says of her!’

When the idea of going to see how matters stood had once occurred to the Earl, he could not stay at home: the ankle and the affections preyed on him by turns, and he wrote to Sir Miles Oakstead to fix an earlier day for the promised visit, as well as to his son, to announce his speedy arrival. Then he forgot the tardiness of cross- country posts, and outran his letter, so that he found no one to meet him at Bickleypool; and on driving up to the gate at Ebbscreek, found all looking deserted. After much knocking, Priscilla appeared, round-eyed and gasping, and verified his worst fears with ‘Gone to Bochattle.’ However, she explained that only one gentleman was gone to dine there; the other was rowing him round the point, with grandfather;–they would soon be back–indeed they ought, for the tide was so low, they would have to land down by the shingle bar.

She pointed out where the boat must come in; and thither the Earl directed his steps, feeling as if he were going to place himself