THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. (continued 3)

She was not blessed with children, but she had many female friends; and to her cousin, Lady Blanche De Vaux, she was warmly attached. Lady Blanche was fifteen years younger than herself, and her affection for her young cousin combined something of a maternal character, with the ease and companionship of two women who were both in the perfection of womanhood; for Lady Westhope at thirty-four had scarcely lost any of her beauty, and Lady Blanche at nineteen was in the fulness of hers.

The Westhopes were going to Paris; and Lady Westhope proposed to Lord and Lady Falkingham, that their daughter, Lady Blanche, should accompany them. Lady Falkingham had gone through the toilsome duties of chaperonage for a series of years, during which she had successfully disposed of her elder daughters in marriage. She was not sorry, therefore, to repose from her labours, and to entrust the youngest to the care of so unexceptionable a person as her niece, Lady Westhope.

To Paris went Lady Blanche, in all the buoyancy of youth; escaped for the first time from the trammels of an education in which no possible accomplishment had been neglected, and the vigilance of the most correct of mothers. She was enchanted with the Louvre, full of admiration at the beauties and grandeur of Paris; amused with the theatres, the Champs Elysées, with Tivoli—with everything; and entered with spirit and gaiety into the agreeable society which is nowhere to be found in greater perfection than at Paris.

Lady Westhope was also amused and interested; and, for the sake of Blanche, mixed more generally with the world than it was her custom to do.

Lord Westhope also amused himself very much; but how, we do not exactly know.

Independently of their rank and their situation, the beauty of our two cousins would have rendered them no inconsiderable personages among the English at Paris. Lady Westhope's skin was whiter than snow,—her hair blacker than the raven's wing,—her form full and graceful,—her manner calm and self-possessed: had she been unmarried, it might have been thought cold, perhaps haughty;—as a matron, it was dignified. Lady Blanche's clustering curls, and hazel eyes of the same rich dark brown as her hair, the mantling glow of her blooming cheek, her slender form and elastic step, possessed all the graces of youth, while her countenance beamed with animation, joy, tenderness, and each emotion that rapidly succeeded the other in her bosom.

Among the many slight preferences, incipient flirtations, and positive love-makings, which took place in the set to which Lady Westhope belonged, none was more decided than that between the beautiful Lady Blanche and Captain De Molton. She was a romantic, enthusiastic girl, peculiarly calculated to feel the attractions of a man who was formed to figure as a héros de roman. He was very tall,—he was pale,—his features were marked, but they bore an expression of melancholy and of feeling. The qualities of his mind corresponded with his exterior. Lofty, uncompromising rectitude, was combined with acute feelings, which, as his appearance indicated, were more calculated to work him woe than weal. A look of sentiment, though to the old and wary it may portend no happiness either to the possessor or to those connected with him, is often to the young and gay more attractive than the most joyous liveliness.

Captain De Molton was in love—desperately in love with Lady Blanche. But he knew he was poor: he knew that if he was to offer her all he had—i.e. his whole undivided affections, Lord and Lady Falkingham could not in conscience allow their daughter to accept him. He therefore confined himself to watching her while she was talking to others; he did not allow himself to occupy the seat by her side. If by chance he was betrayed into any expression of his feelings, he studiously avoided her for the next twenty-four hours; and, by so doing, he flattered himself he was playing the part of a martyr. He fancied he was only endangering his own peace of mind; he believed he so completely concealed what was passing within, that hers could run no risk. He had not the self-sufficiency to imagine he could win a heart he did not attempt to gain. But these very starts of passion, these inconsistencies, these uncertainties, the air of intense melancholy which at times overspread his countenance, were more dangerous to a person of Lady Blanche's disposition than the most open and decided attentions.

She could not think he was indifferent towards her; yet she was piqued by his occasional avoidance, touched by his air of intense melancholy, delighted with the fire which gleamed from his eye when she addressed him, and with the smile which, when it did light up his countenance, was bright and dazzling as the sunbeam after a summer-storm.

In short, while intending to preserve her heart from the sentiment which possessed his own, he unconsciously acted with the most consummate coquetry—

"Piqued her and soothed by turns."

Things were in this state, when Captain De Molton's particular friend, Lord Glenrith, arrived at Paris. He was immediately struck with Lady Blanche's beauty, and fascinated by her manners. He was an eldest son, and heir to a fine property. He was extremely good-looking—his character was excellent—as a parti he was unexceptionable.

De Molton, with a lover's quickness of perception, read Lord Glenrith's feelings almost before he was aware of them himself; and he thought it would be a crime to stand in the way of an union which would be advantageous to Lady Blanche, and which must indeed make the happiness of his best and earliest friend. Although it was almost agony to see Glenrith constantly occupy at dinner the place he resolutely did not take, and to see him whisper soft nothings into her ear, which it would have been rapture to him to utter; though it was maddening to see Glenrith act as her escort on all morning excursions, when he seldom dared approach; still a sort of fascination bound him to the spot. It was with trembling anxiety that he watched Lady Blanche's reception of his friend's attentions, with pain which he could not control that he marked anything which might be construed into encouragement on her part; but it was with most unreasonable joy that he perceived her listen to him with cold indifference, and sometimes that he caught her eye glance towards himself while Lord Glenrith was by her side.

Any doubt he might entertain as to his friend's real intentions was soon set at rest by his one day confiding to him that he was very much attached to Lady Blanche, that his parents wished him to marry, and that he had made up his mind to propose, as soon as he felt sure of the lady.

This annunciation fell as a final death-blow on De Molton's hopes—if hopes they might ever have been called. "Yet Glenrith spoke doubtfully of her reception of his offer—and Glenrith is not usually over-diffident of himself," thought De Molton in the midst of his despair. Still he felt it would be folly, madness, to linger in the society of Lady Blanche. In all probability she would soon be the affianced wife of his friend. It would be base and treacherous in him to attempt to circumvent that friend—cruel to sport with her feelings; and now that Glenrith had spoken thus confidentially, there was nothing left but to withdraw himself from witnessing the prosecution of a suit, in the probable success of which he felt he ought to rejoice, while his spirit recoiled from the bare anticipation of such a result.

Accordingly he told Lord Glenrith that he was suddenly recalled to England on particular business. He seated himself in the cabriolet of the Calais diligence, and took his weary way to his native land with the most profound adoration of wealth—with the most ardent aspirations for honour, rank, riches, and all the good things of this world—that he might, without folly, or presumption, be entitled to throw himself at the feet of Lady Blanche.

Lady Westhope's duty, as a wise chaperon, would have been to discourage in every way the attentions of Captain De Molton, and to foster those of Lord Glenrith. She meant to do so,—she thought she did so. She constantly repeated to Blanche how impossible it was that Captain De Molton should ever propose, how impossible that he should be accepted, how totally impossible that they could ever marry—or that, if married, they could have bread to eat; and she thought she had done her duty. But the spectacle of a man, sincerely, ardently, respectfully, and hopelessly in love, was to her feelings, naturally warm, though she had encased them in an armour of coldness and reserve, so interesting a sight, that she could not help treating him and speaking of him as a person formed to win the heart of woman. All those who had formerly seemed inclined to pay her attention, she had from the very beginning treated with such repelling coldness, that she had never been exposed to the trial of witnessing real and sincere emotions strongly excited. In the desolation of her own secret soul, the sight was tantalising and painful. She could not help envying Blanche the power of calling them forth, nor could she help looking back with a sigh upon the blank of her own loveless career. She would have given anything for Aladdin's lamp, that she might have endowed young De Molton with the worldly wealth which could have secured to them the fate from which she was herself cut out.

The few months they passed at Paris had a sensible effect upon the minds of both the cousins. Lady Blanche for the first time felt love. She also felt keen mortification—for to nothing does love more completely blind its victim than to the sensations experienced by the object beloved. While Lady Westhope saw in Captain De Molton an interesting and high-minded young man struggling with a hopeless passion,—in short, while she accurately read, and was able to appreciate, his feelings,—Lady Blanche thought him cold, indifferent, capricious, and frequently doubted whether indeed he entertained any preference at all for her.

In Lady Westhope's mind a great change also had taken place. Perhaps the example of all around her (for, whatever the propriety of French women under the new régime may be, the conduct of English women, when once they have crossed the Channel, is not such as to impress foreign nations with a high idea of the morality for which we would fain be thought remarkable), perhaps the more easy footing of society abroad, combined to produce in her vague aspirations after an interchange of sincere affection: visions of mutual love, devotion, attachment, &c.—notions against which, for nine years, she had been shutting her ears and barring her heart—again found entrance to her bosom.

CHAPTER II.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay. The lark is gay, That dries his feathers saturate with dew Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams Of dayspring overshoot the humble nest. Cowper.

The morning after De Molton's departure, our two cousins were prepared for an excursion to Versailles, and were expecting the gentlemen who were to accompany them, when Lord Glenrith entered. Lady Westhope inquired what was become of Captain De Molton.

"Gone," he replied: "he set off for England yesterday;—called home on some tiresome regimental business. But did you not see him? did you not hear from him? Very uncivil, faith! not at all like De Molton."

"I wonder he did not call," said Lady Westhope: and she stole a look towards Blanche, who was so busily employed in tying her bonnet and putting on her shawl, with her back towards them, and her veil half covering her face, that she could not detect how she took this unexpected intelligence.

The carriages of the rest of the party drew up in the street. Lord Glenrith ran down stairs to deliver a message to one of the Miss Elwicks, offering her Captain De Molton's seat in the barouche; when Lady Westhope remarked,

"How strange in Captain De Molton!"

"How mortifying!" replied Lady Blanche: "the idea of marrying may be foolish and imprudent, as you say, but he might leave me to find it out. I hate cold, calculating men, who do exactly what is right, and discreet, and proper; whose conduct nobody can find the least fault with. Such men may be esteemed, but they cannot expect to be loved. I almost think I should prefer a warm-hearted, impetuous person, who was generously wrong, to a wary, prudent one, who was coldly right. But what am I saying? The simple fact is, that the poor man did not happen to like me. I do not know why I should find fault with him because he did not fall in love with me!" And she tried to smile, and to treat the whole thing lightly.

Lady Westhope could not help adding, "that she had thought, and indeed she did still think, that he was in love, notwithstanding his prudence." Lady Blanche had just time to reply, half bitterly, half jestingly, "that there could not be much love, if prudence could so completely master it;" when Lord Glenrith returned to hand them from their splendid apartments, down the dirty brick-stairs of a French hotel.

The day was beautiful—the drive not long enough to be fatiguing—the palace magnificent—the gardens noble—the whole replete with the most interesting recollections. Lady Blanche had always been an enthusiast about Madame de la Vallière, Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette. She had anticipated the greatest delight in visiting the scenes of so many events with which, from childhood, she had been familiar; but she found herself listening with the most absent mind to the details given by the guide, even though he pointed out the very balcony from which he himself remembered having seen Marie Antoinette, with the dauphin in her arms, addressing the people on that dreadful day when the royal family were carried off by the mob to the Tuileries. She looked round with vacant eyes at the white and gold apartments where Marie Antoinette held her evening soirées; nor could she warm herself into a proper emotion over the oratoire of the unfortunate king, nor even over the narrow back passage by which he attempted to escape.

In the gardens, the statues which were pointed out as those of Madame de Maintenon, Mademoiselle de Fontanges, and Madame de la Vallière herself, failed to excite any interest. In her present state of mind she thought it was all nonsense, and did not the least believe that Diana was Madame de Maintenon, or Fidelity, with a dog at her feet, was intended for Madame de la Vallière.

She became somewhat more interested at the Petit Trianon. The Swiss cottage, the vacherie of poor Marie Antoinette touched her, and she remarked to Lord Glenrith, on whose arm she leaned, how, in the midst of all her splendours, the queen seemed to have preserved her taste for nature, the country, freedom, and simplicity. "It shows, after all, how insufficient are pomp and grandeur to happiness!" And she thought of Captain De Molton, and that just such a cottage as the Swiss farm, with him (supposing he had liked her, which he did not), would be vastly preferable to Versailles itself with any one else. Lord Glenrith thought, what a noble, high-minded girl! she will love me for myself—she will not be influenced by my being a good match; and he redoubled his attentions.

The party had obtained permission to have their collation laid out in the marble gallery; and they sat down, a large and brilliant party—as young, as beautiful, as had ever been the inmates of that palace, consecrated to pleasure, and pleasure alone.

Lady Westhope was the eldest lady present. The two Miss Elwicks were beauties—decided beauties, and in the first bloom of youth, with gay and lively manners, high spirits, light hearts, and vanity enough to thoroughly enjoy the admiration they were in the habit of exciting. Mrs. Courtney Astwell was very pretty, and, being married, and a coquette, of course commanded the attentions of the gentlemen still more supereminently than any of the other ladies, whatever their claims might be. Lady Westhope was, for the first time, quite in the background—nearly on the shelf. Lord Glenrith was devoted to Lady Blanche; Sir Charles Weyburn was decidedly struck with Miss Elwick; Lord James Everdon and Miss Eliza Elwick were so merry, that another joke succeeded, long before the laugh produced by the first had subsided. Mr. Stapleford, the sharp, sarcastic, clever diplomate, did Mrs. Courtney Astwell the honour of giving her his arm; while Lord Faversham walked on the other side and joined in the conversation, and the stripling Lord Elmington hovered on the flank or in the rear, as opportunity might serve.

Mr. Wroxholme alone remained for Lady Westhope. He was a new addition to the society whose claims to notice had not yet been ascertained. He was in the law, and he looked clever. He might be nearly thirty, and he was presentable in appearance and gentlemanlike in manners.

Notwithstanding the dignity and reserve of Lady Westhope's deportment, she had never before found herself overlooked. Her rank, her respectability, her beauty, in the usual routine of dinners, parties, and balls, secured for her the attentions of some one of the first persons in the company. She never before had found herself the most passée of a party—and on an occasion, too, when the usual forms of precedence are not attended to. Though she had never sought or valued attention, she did not half like the absence of it. She never wished for it while she had to repel it,—it was not till it was withheld, that she found she attached to it any value whatever.

Mr. Wroxholme, however, was well informed and agreeable. By degrees she found he was acquainted with several acquaintances of hers, and the scenes which they were viewing together afforded matter of conversation.

At the breakfast, or luncheon, or by whatever name the repast might be designated, the pictures which adorned the walls of the gallery were discussed. Among others, that of Madame de Maintenon, with Madame de la Vallière's daughter at her knee. Lady Blanche exclaimed with energy, "The only redeeming point about that hypocritical old woman is her having been so good-natured to poor dear Madame de la Vallière's child!"

"And may I ask Lady Blanche why she so much prefers Madame de la Vallière to Madame de Maintenon?" in the softest voice imaginable, inquired Mr. Stapleford, who was rather fond of putting people out of countenance. In this case he perfectly succeeded; for though it is true that every one loves the erring Madame de la Vallière, and few have any tenderness for the discreet Madame de Maintenon, it would not have been so easy for a young lady to defend her feelings and opinions on the subject, without entering into a discussion which might be rather awkward.

This Lady Blanche felt, and replied scarcely knowing what she said. "Everybody pities Madame de la Vallière, because she was so unhappy!"

"Then every one who suffers may hope to have someplace in your affections," whispered Lord Glenrith.

Mr. Stapleford replied,—"As an approving conscience is universally allowed to produce cheerfulness, I conclude the strictly virtuous have no chance of finding favour in Lady Blanche's sight."

"Oh! Mr. Stapleford, how you misconstrue everything one says!" Blanche blushed, half in confusion, half in anger. Mr. Stapleford enjoyed it; he liked to make women blush;—many men do.

"I am sure every one present ought to be very much obliged to me for what I have said, if it is only for having brought so beautiful a bloom into Lady Blanche's cheeks."

All eyes turned towards Lady Blanche, who did indeed blush over forehead, throat, and arms, till the tears were ready to start from her eyes. Lord Glenrith uttered in a more severe tone than was usual to a person renowned for his good-nature—

"One would think Stapleford had neither mother nor sisters of his own, that he should find pleasure in causing a woman to blush." And at the moment Lord Glenrith worshipped Lady Blanche as devoutly as he hated Mr. Stapleford. Lady Blanche felt grateful to him for having defended her, and for having given Mr. Stapleford a reproof.

"Is Mr. Stapleford a friend of yours?" said Mr. Wroxholme to Lady Westhope.

"Not at all," she answered: "is he of yours?"

"I am happy to say he is a perfect stranger to me: that is a kind of man I detest."

Lady Westhope liked her new acquaintance, for his warmth and his openness.

The repast was over. The personages already mentioned sauntered for a short time before their departure among the close walks and the orange-trees. Lord James Everdon and Miss Eliza Elwick were inseparable; not that they had the slightest preference for each other—their whole bond of union consisted in the magnificent set of teeth with which nature had favoured them both. They were not the least aware of the reason they were pleased with each other; but it may be remarked, that those who have bad teeth do not find themselves so comfortable with a companion who makes them laugh, as with one whose conversation is more serious; while a person with fine teeth discovers a point in many a jest, which to one who is conscious of anything defective in that respect would appear stale, flat, and unprofitable. Many flirtations might be traced home to similarity of teeth, which have passed for congeniality of disposition.

When they arrived at home, the two friends talked over the day. "Who in the world is your Mr. Wroxholme?" said Lady Blanche.

"I assure you he is a very agreeable man," replied Lady Westhope, anxious he should appear to have been her companion by choice, rather than from necessity.

"What is he by birth and parentage?"

"I do not know, but he is acquainted with several people who are mutual friends; I shall invite him to my parties next spring. I think he will be a great acquisition."

"What an odious man Mr. Stapleford is! I always disliked his quiet sarcastic manner of dropping out just the thing that is most disagreeable; and I was so much obliged to the dear, good, honest Lord Glenrith, for giving him a lecture, which ought to have made him look foolish."

"How handsome Lord Glenrith is!" said Lady Westhope, curious to know how Blanche felt towards him.

"Yes! he certainly is handsome; but he has too much colour, and he looks so very healthy and robust! I do not think his countenance could express unhappiness. I like a man to look serious and thoughtful, as if he was full of feeling, and as if his gaiety was just a bright gleam of sunshine, the more brilliant for the gloom which precedes and follows it. Nothing is so beautiful as the smile of a countenance habitually melancholy."

Lady Westhope perceived that, notwithstanding her pique, Blanche had not forgotten De Molton.

They returned to England. The London season was nearly over; Parliament did not sit late; there was no business which required Lord Falkingham's presence, and Blanche joined her parents in the country, where they had already established themselves; but, as she passed through London, she went to the play with the Westhopes. They were leaving the theatre, when they met Captain De Molton on the stairs. He rushed to them with a face in which the much-admired smile usurped the place of the melancholy which Lady Blanche also admired. He asked her if she was staying in London: she replied she was going to Temple Loseley the next day.

"Then I must esteem myself fortunate to have caught even this glimpse of you."

"Oh, but I hope we shall see you in the country."

They were both thrown off their guard by the suddenness of the meeting, and their looks and their manner proclaimed the state of their feelings as much as it was possible for them to do so, in descending the last ten steps of the private box entrance. But he had handed her into the carriage—the door was closed—she was gone—before he had time to answer the sort of half invitation contained in Lady Blanche's last words.

Blanche had much to tell her mother; all she had heard—all she had seen, but not all she had felt. Lady Falkingham was reserved with her children; she was above all weaknesses herself, and never seemed to contemplate the possibility that younger minds might not be so well regulated, younger feelings might not be so sober and temperate, as her own.

The summer passed quietly; Blanche rode with her father, gardened with her mother, and tried to think no more of a person who felt nothing for her. Had she not most unguardedly, most imprudently, almost invited him to Temple Loseley? She forgot that, not being acquainted with her parents, it was absolutely impossible he could act upon such a hint. She only remembered that she had advanced a step which had not been met by him, and she recalled what she had heard and read a thousand times, that a lover can generally create an opportunity for seeing his beloved; how much easier, then, to improve one that presents itself! The only conclusion, therefore, to be drawn was, that she was an object of perfect indifference to him.

In September a party was collected for shooting; and, among others, Lord Glenrith accepted with joy and eagerness an invitation to Temple Loseley.

Lord and Lady Falkingham rejoiced to see so fair a prospect opening before Blanche. Lord Glenrith was particularly good-tempered; he was heir to a fine property; there was not an objection to him. Lady Falkingham, whose health was very delicate, was much relieved by the idea that she need never again pass from twelve till four in the morning, seated on the blue sofas at Almack's, her head nodding with sleep under the plumes which she thought it her duty to place upon it.

Blanche could not fail to perceive that Lord Glenrith was serious in his attentions: it was impossible to dislike him; he was an honest, genuine creature; he loved her sincerely, admired her, and respected her;—he was not wanting in sense or information. Had not her mind been prepossessed, she would most likely have been in love with him; at least, ninety-nine girls in a hundred would have been so, and ought to have been so. He proposed: her parents were delighted; she was sorry, although she preferred him to any one else, except Captain De Molton. Yet, what nonsense to allow her imagination to dwell upon a person who cared not for her! Should she refuse an excellent man who was sincerely attached to her—a connection with whom would delight her own parents, and his parents, and all their mutual connections, for the sake of a penniless captain who cut her—positively cut her? It would be the height of folly; there would be a want of pride in continuing to pine for an indifferent swain. So, as she had no good reason to adduce either to herself, or to others, for saying "No," she said "Yes," and she was engaged.

This great event took place a few days before the Falkingham family paid a long-promised visit to the Westhopes. Lord Glenrith was to have joined the party at the end of the week; but, as the accepted lover, he obtained leave to accompany them to Cransley.

His sterling worth gained upon Blanche every day; there was something so English, so true, so generous about him. Her parents were quite delighted with his sentiments upon all subjects connected with settlements. She heard him praised from morning till night, and she was beginning to persuade herself that she ought to be, and that she was, exceedingly happy, when they arrived at Cransley.

The sight of Lady Westhope reminded her of Paris, and of all she had felt when there; and she was shocked to find she still retained such vivid recollections of incidents the most trivial in themselves. Mr. Wroxholme had arrived the day before, and at dinner Lord Westhope remarked, "We shall be quite the old Paris party on Friday, when De Molton comes."

Lady Blanche was listening to Lord Glenrith's description of his father's place, Wentnor Castle; but she was not so absorbed in the subject, but that these words caught her ear. She gave an involuntary start; she felt Lady Westhope look at her; she felt herself colour. But her start and her blush were unobserved: Lord Glenrith was completely occupied in explaining how the seclusion of the south and west fronts of the castle, and of the broad terrace overlooking the rapid stream of the Dwent, was preserved by the alteration in the road, which now approached the gateway from the north-east, instead of the north-west.

If Lord Glenrith had a fault, or rather a foible, it was his passion for his native place, and an inclination to think everything belonging to himself superior to that which belonged to another. He seldom sold a horse; for when once he had possessed it, he became so alive to its merits, that he always asked more for it than others, who were not so clear-sighted, thought it was worth. This is a happy disposition for the possessor, and for those connected with him. It is seldom that such a person makes an unkind husband, or a tyrannical father, or a hard master; but it is not a quality that interests a romantic girl. Lady Blanche, however, thought "Captain De Molton shall see I am not pining; he shall see that his friend can appreciate me, if he cannot."

Mr. Wroxholme proved, upon farther acquaintance, to be a very agreeable addition to the society. He had read much, and was full of information. Lord Falkingham pronounced him to be one of the most rising young men of the day. Mr. Wroxholme, on his part, was delighted with Lord Falkingham's political sentiments, with Lady Falkingham's high-breeding, with Lady Westhope's gentleness, with Lord Westhope's good-humour and ease in his own house, with Lord Glenrith's downright happiness, with Lady Blanche's beauty, with the good shooting, and the beautiful place, and he felt gratitude towards Lady Westhope for having given him the opportunity of enjoying society so much to his taste.

He was a man of good birth; but though born and bred a gentleman, he had not before mixed in the very first circles, and he was flattered at being deemed worthy of admission into one of them. He had discrimination enough to be pleased with the shade of superior refinement which pervaded it, and tact enough instantly to acquire its tone.

When Lady Westhope found herself alone with Lady Blanche, she never alluded to Captain De Molton; she felt that the less that was said upon the subject the better.

Blanche had treated his departure from Paris as wilful neglect of her, and she had laughed at his indifference. Although in her heart Lady Westhope believed she had felt it acutely, it was wiser to treat the whole affair as a trifling flirtation which had left no trace behind. She was sorry Lord Westhope had invited Captain De Molton at this moment, but it was one of those things for which there was no remedy. He and Lady Blanche must meet some time or another, and the sooner it was over the better.

Lady Blanche, meantime, continued to receive Lord Glenrith's attentions, and to find her imagination more and more inclined to wander, and her mind less and less able to take in the relative positions of the stables, the kitchen-garden, and the coach-houses of Wentnor Castle.

CHAPTER III.

Dicen que amor ha vencido, A los deydades mayores, Y que de sus pasadores Cielo y tierra està ofendido. Spanish Romance.

During the four months which intervened between Captain De Molton's leaving Paris and his joining the party at Cransley, how had he passed his time? He was a person of much determination of character, and when once he had made up his mind what was right, he could, generally speaking, carry his resolutions into effect; at least it was only when his feelings, naturally strong, were immediately under excitement, that he was betrayed into actions of which his judgment did not approve.

To Lord Glenrith he owed an early debt of gratitude: their friendship dated from boyhood. At Eton they had been bathing together, when De Molton was seized with the cramp, and must have perished, had it not been for the exertions of his young schoolfellow. This and many other acts of kindness which the rich heir of Wentnor Castle was naturally enabled to show to the penniless seventh son, and thirteenth child of the distressed Lord Cumberworth, made De Molton's friendship for Glenrith partake in some measure of the nature of gratitude. He felt it would be doubly base in him to attempt to gain the affections of the girl to whom Lord Glenrith owned himself attached, even if, with regard to Lady Blanche herself, it would not have been ungenerous to drag her from her exalted sphere into poverty and destitution with him.

He went straight to his regiment, and devoted himself with particular energy to teaching his men the new manœuvres recommended by the Horse Guards. Never were men so well appointed, never was troop in such order. But his fellow-officers at the mess found him somewhat moody and silent; he was not a jolly companion; and although all respected him,—yes, and loved him too, and would have applied to him for advice and comfort in any distress,—he was not, in the common acceptation of the word, a popular man. It was not De Molton who was asked to ride this fellow's horse at the hack stakes got up in the regiment; or De Molton, to whom another fellow proposed to gallop forty miles to London to see the new actress, and down again at night,—or to jump into a hack-chaise after dinner and drive off to the tradesmen's ball at the county town: but if any dutiful son wished to prolong his visit to his parents, or any pining lover had an opportunity of flying to his mistress, he felt pretty sure that De Molton would take his duty for him. His manners were a little stately, and a youngster was not likely to choose De Molton as the confident of any foolish scrape; yet no one was more ready to sympathize with, and to relieve, any case of unmerited distress.

He chanced to be in London one of the days that Lady Blanche passed there in her way from Paris; and he had been attending his mother, and three of his six sisters, to the play on the night when he saw Lady Blanche.

It was with an uncontrollable burst of joy that he rushed to hand her down the steps; and this brief interview sufficed to unsettle in his heart all the reasonable acquiescence in the disposition of their fates which he had been striving to attain.

When he received Lord Westhope's invitation, he certainly did not think it quite impossible he might meet Lady Blanche; but he persuaded himself that he had in four months allowed his friend all proper time for making himself acceptable, and that there was no necessity for his refusing the accustomed invitation to a house to which he was in the habit of paying an annual visit. At all events, he should learn from Lady Westhope what was the state of the case: anything was better than the uncertainty in which he lived.

Lady Blanche's manner, when he met her on the dimly lighted stairs of the theatre, had made him vaguely hope—he knew not what; for, supposing they did love each other, what then was to happen? He repeatedly asked himself this question; but did any one ever wish that the person beloved should not return his love? De Molton was a very reasonable man—he kept his feelings under great controul, but they were strong and ardent, and he could not reach that pitch of stoicism!

To Cransley he went, with a mind distracted by doubt, wonder, hope, and fear. As he drove to the door, he saw Lord Falkingham dismounting from his cob; so he knew that Lady Blanche was in the house. "How will she meet me?" he thought; "how shall I find her? how shall I regulate my own behaviour?" and he almost repented having wilfully run into such danger; although, in truth, it was the hope of being placed in that very danger which had made him so gladly accept Lord Westhope's invitation.

He was giving his orders to his servant at the door, when he saw Lord Glenrith approach the house in shooting costume, followed by keepers and dogs. He could not mistake the bright, happy face of his friend. His teeth gleamed as the setting sun shone on them; his cheek was sun-burned, and ruddy with exercise; his kind eyes beamed with honest joy to see De Molton. De Molton's heart sank within him as he recognized his dear friend; and it was with an effort, which would have been visible to any other eyes, that he returned his cordial greeting.

As they both entered the drawing-room, the pale countenance and melancholy brow of De Molton would, in the opinion of many, have set off to advantage the gay good-humour of Lord Glenrith.

The ladies were all there. Lady Blanche shook hands with Captain De Molton as soon as he had paid his devoirs to Lady Westhope, and, without having raised her eyes higher than to his chin, re-seated herself to her embroidery frame.

Lord Glenrith approached her. De Molton's heart beat quick; he felt almost giddy. Lord Glenrith's manner was gay and unembarrassed: he held a parcel in his hand. Lady Falkingham drew near—there was a great colloquy: De Molton heard the expressions "beautiful!"—"the prettiest I ever saw!"—"they tell me it is the first that has been made;"—"well, how lovely!" Lady Blanche seemed to be expressing her thanks, but in so low a tone of voice he could not catch the words. She looked blushingly beautiful! Lady Falkingham moved a little on one side, and he saw Lord Glenrith in the act of fastening a bracelet on her arm. Perhaps another lover might not have selected such a moment for presenting his first love-token, but the parcel was only just arrived. Lord Glenrith was pleased with his purchase; all around were friends, and why should there be any mystery?

To De Molton's eyes all mystery was indeed dispelled. He felt choking. He could not master his feelings sufficiently to preserve an indifferent countenance, and he left the room under the pretence of seeing after his postboy, or his portmanteau.

The rest of the company gathered round the bride elect, and admired the beautiful ornament and discussed its peculiar fabric; while poor Blanche sat frightened at the agitation which pervaded her whole frame in consequence of having been for five minutes in the society of De Molton.

However, when she retired to her own room before dinner, she satisfied herself that what she had felt was merely a very natural awkwardness at first meeting a person with whom she certainly had flirted a little, and shyness at being seen by a young man acquaintance, in the act of receiving her lover's first present. She could not help secretly wishing Lord Glenrith had not given the bracelet before so many witnesses, and she felt there was a want of delicacy in the proceeding, even while she told herself it was in unison with his open, unsuspicious character, which measured the kindliness of others by his own good-natured heart.

At dinner De Molton placed himself at the farther end of the table, and the épergne prevented his being able to perceive Lady Blanche's face. However, he saw Lord Glenrith's; and never did an honest countenance express more secure and undisturbed happiness. Poor De Molton! He had quitted Paris on purpose not to stand in the way of that happiness which his friend had obtained; and now, how painful was it to see the object accomplished!

During the evening, Lady Westhope contrived, in as quiet a manner as she could, to convey to De Molton the confirmation of a fact which was already too evident to his eyes, and she appeared not to remark the varying hues of his complexion, and the agitation of his manner, during her communication.

Lady Blanche strove to be easy and unembarrassed; and she succeeded so far as to make him believe her happy, and perfectly satisfied with the prospect before her.

He resolved to plead particular and sudden business—a summons from his father—a relation at the point of death—any excuse to depart the following day. This torture was not to be endured. Yet he wished to have an opportunity of speaking to her once, and of telling her how ardently he prayed for her welfare.

He left his room very early the next morning, and he perambulated the library, the saloon, the breakfast-room, the hall. He knew Lady Blanche was an early riser; Cransley was renowned for the lateness of its breakfast-hour; perhaps she would make her appearance before the other guests. He was not wrong in his calculations. Lady Blanche came into the drawing-room to look for her mother's work-basket, and was hastily retiring with it, when De Molton arrested her steps by saying, "that as he was obliged to depart in an hour, he was anxious to express to one, for whom he felt such esteem and admiration, his earnest wishes—his prayers for her happiness."

"You are not going to-day, surely, Captain De Molton?" answered Blanche in a tremulous tone.

"I must," he said: "I could not, would not stay here another day, for anything this world can now offer me."

"Lady Westhope will be quite disappointed. She hoped you were come for ten days, or a fortnight."

"Such was my intention; but circumstances—imperative circumstances, over which I have no controul, render my stay here——impossible."

"I hope no misfortune has occurred in your family?" inquired Lady Blanche, thoroughly impressed with the idea of his indifference towards herself, and, consequently, by no means attributing his visible agitation to its true cause.

"No misfortune has occurred in my family," he resumed in a voice of deep emotion—"but one to myself. No—no! it is not a misfortune: on the contrary, it is the thing in the world I ought most to wish; it is the union of the two beings I most value, most respect, most love on earth! I ought to rejoice—I do rejoice. Believe me, Lady Blanche, though my voice falters, and I am at this moment weak, I rejoice that the friend to whom I am bound by every tie of gratitude and affection has gained the heart of the most perfect of womankind; and that the woman who alone in my eyes is perfect, is likely to be happy with a man who is all honour, truth, and uprightness. May Heaven in its mercy bless you both!"

The tears stood in De Molton's glistening eyes. They almost overflowed. "I am a fool," he added; "I thought I had more command over myself; I did not mean to torment you, to insult you, with an avowal of my hopeless, my presumptuous love!"

Lady Blanche had stood transfixed in fear, amazement, joy;—yes, joy! there are no circumstances under which it is not joy to find affection is requited. "And do you indeed love me?" she said, scarcely conscious of what she uttered.

"Do I love you! Lady Blanche, can you ask that question? In folly, hopelessness, misery, I cannot—cannot quell my love!"

"Oh, why—why did not you tell me sooner?" she said, earnestly clasping her hands.

"Tell you so? How could I venture, penniless as I am, without a home to offer you,—how could I have the insane presumption to ask you to share poverty—penury with me, when splendour, rank, wealth were courting your acceptance?"

"Oh, I despise these things! I always did! I never could care for money in all my life, and now!"—She stopped; her engagement rushed across her mind. She felt guilty of perjury and infidelity.

De Molton, in his turn, stood confounded; he had done everything he had especially resolved not to do, and, mingled with the delight he could not help experiencing at the avowal which had almost escaped Lady Blanche's lips, he felt humiliated by the base part he had acted towards the friend to whom he had meant to devote himself. He struck his forehead, and exclaimed, "Oh, Lady Blanche, I am a wretch not worthy of a moment's regard! Do not waste a thought on me; forget me, or at least only remember me to bestow a sigh of pity on one who has been betrayed, by his love for you, into an act of ingratitude for which he abhors himself. Glenrith is my best friend,—he is the soul of honour, he—he is worthy of you!"

Lady Blanche was frightened at what she had said—frightened at what she had listened to. Voices were heard approaching,—the door opened,—Captain De Molton rushed into the adjoining library. Lady Blanche seized her mother's basket, and left the room before she had time to perceive who the intruders were. As she ran up stairs, she met Lady Westhope. "What is the matter, Blanche?" exclaimed Lady Westhope, as her friend darted past her.

"Mamma wants me," she hastily answered, as she took refuge in her mother's room.

"Mamma! mamma!" she exclaimed, throwing herself breathless into a chair; "I am wretched, guilty, and miserable! I am the most unfortunate creature in the world!"

"What possesses you, child? what is the matter?" replied Lady Falkingham, as she put down the untasted piece of toast she held in her hand.

"Mamma! he loves me after all!"

"Who, my dear?—what! Lord Glenrith? To be sure he does. I never saw a man more attached in my life!"

"Poor dear Lord Glenrith, so he is! Oh, how little I deserve that he should be so! when I—oh, mamma, what will you think of me? I have almost owned that my affections are—at least I implied—Oh, mamma! what shall I do?" And poor Blanche wept bitterly.

"Certainly, my dear Blanche, I do not consider it modest and becoming in any young woman to allow a man to perceive that he has acquired too much power over her heart; yet, as you are on the point of marriage, I think you need not blame yourself so very much. There should always be a certain reserve of manner and expression; but anxious as I am that women should preserve their dignity, and that no daughter of mine should condescend——"

"Oh, mamma! you do not understand me: I never told Lord Glenrith I loved him."

"What on earth do you mean then?—what are you talking about?" Lady Falkingham's countenance assumed an expression of alarm, wonder, and displeasure.

"Oh, how can I tell you?—you, mamma, who never did anything weak, or foolish, in your life! Do not look at me, mamma, with those stern and reproachful eyes, or I can never confess it."

"Blanche, you alarm me more than I can describe. Do you mean that you love any one better than the man whom you have accepted as your husband,—the excellent, amiable, high-minded Lord Glenrith, who is so sincerely devoted to you?"

"Oh, mamma! I do value him, and I render him justice, indeed; and I love him in a kind of way——"

Lady Blanche was each moment becoming more alive to the ingratitude, the duplicity, with which she had acted towards Lord Glenrith, and began to wish she had not opened the subject at all to her mother.

"Explain yourself, Blanche," repeated her mother: "whom are you talking of? Is it Mr. Wroxholme, whom you met at Paris?"

"Oh dear, no, mamma. It is Captain De Molton!" And she no longer found any difficulty in speaking his name. Mr. Wroxholme might be a very good man, but, in her eyes, was immeasurably inferior to the object of her preference. Those who are in love, always resent as an injury the suspicion that they could find charms in any other than the one person to whose merits they are alive.

"Captain De Molton!" exclaimed Lady Falkingham; "why, I scarcely ever heard you mention him! You ought to have told me this before."

"I never knew till to-day what were his feelings towards me, mamma!"

"I must say your lover has chosen a good moment for avowing his passion! It proves an honourable mind! And he wishes to induce you to break off your marriage with a man in every way calculated to make you happy? For what? He has scarcely bread to eat himself, and his father has none to give him."

"He knows all that, mamma, and he is going away this moment. He does not ask me to marry him. He says he is not worthy of me."

"Oh, Blanche! Blanche! and you allow this man, who tells you he cannot marry, to make love to you, while you are the affianced wife of his friend! I should never have thought a daughter of mine would have acted in so improper, so unprincipled a manner. Heaven knows, I cannot accuse myself of having neglected my children. You have all had every attention paid to your minds and your morals. Each hour had its avocation; you were never permitted to read a book which Miss Strickland or myself had not previously perused; you were never allowed to walk beyond the shrubberies and the park! If, like some mothers, I had neglected the essentials for the sake of accomplishments——but the religion-master always came three times a week! How on earth can such low notions of moral rectitude ever have found entrance into your head, or your heart?"

Lady Blanche was in despair at her mother's grief. She now viewed her own conduct with horror; but how to meet Lord Glenrith, with this weight of guilt upon her mind?

"Look here," continued Lady Falkingham; "read this letter; all kindness and generosity—receiving you into the family with joy, treating you already as if you were their daughter!" Lady Falkingham gave Blanche the joint epistle she had just received from Lord and Lady Wentnor, expressing every thing most gratifying concerning the choice their son had made.

Each word she read was a dagger to Lady Blanche's heart. "I cannot overthrow all the happiness of these worthy people," she mentally revolved, "and that of my parents, and of poor Lord Glenrith. I must quell this foolish inclination,—I must fight a good fight, and I shall conquer, I dare say. But it is hard, when now, for the first time, I know myself beloved."

After a pause, she told her mother she would try to compose herself: she implored her not to mention the subject to her father; she strove to persuade her mother, and herself, that it was only a passing feeling, a momentary agitation which would soon subside; that it had been pique, that it was now gratified vanity—any thing, in short, except love. Her mother was only too glad to be deceived, and assisted her in her self-deception.

Lady Falkingham would have been very sorry to lose so estimable and so unexceptionable a husband for her daughter; but the disgraceful éclat of breaking off an engagement openly entered into and acknowledged, was still more appalling to a person who had a salutary horror of being "talked of." She had herself passed through life with the highest character as a wife and as a mother. Her elder daughters had married at a proper age, and in a proper manner. She looked upon a young lady's first love as a silly affair, which has more to do with the imagination than the heart; and if any of her other daughters had ever felt a preference which had not received their mother's sanction, they would never have ventured to confess it with that frankness which, in spite of the education just described by Lady Falkingham, was one of Blanche's characteristics.

CHAPTER IV.

Now have I shewed you bothe, these whyche ye lyst, Stately fortune, or humble povertee: That is to say, now lyeth it in your fyst To take here bondage, or free libertee. Sir Thomas More.

Captain De Molton had sent his servant to the neighbouring town to procure him a chaise, that with the least possible delay he might carry his project of departure into execution.

When he had in some measure recovered his self-possession, he made his appearance at the breakfast-table, and informed Lady Westhope that he was unexpectedly obliged to return to London, to arrange with his father some matters connected with his exchange from his present regiment, which, as Lady Westhope knew, was under orders for India.

This was strictly true, for he had resolved to insist upon his father's suspending the application he was on the point of making for this exchange. He determined to proceed to India with his regiment. The unhealthiness of the climate, which gave his relations so much uneasiness, appeared to him, in his present frame of mind, a positive recommendation.

The company expressed all due disappointment at his sudden departure—all but Lady Blanche; she was not present. Lady Westhope suspected something must have occurred, and when she bade De Molton adieu, she pressed his hand with a mysterious kindliness, which she meant should imply, "You are acting like a man of honour; I see you suffer, and I pity you."

She was confirmed in this opinion, by Mr. Wroxholme telling her he had found Captain De Molton in the library before breakfast, with his head leaning against the marble chimney-piece, and his countenance so pale and haggard, that he feared for a moment something dreadful must have happened. Lady Westhope recollected Blanche's hurrying manner of passing her on the stairs, and she pitied all parties.

Lady Falkingham's indisposition accounted for Lady Blanche's absence till the hour of luncheon, when she came down stairs with a feeling of kindness towards Lord Glenrith, awakened by the consciousness of having injured him. She scarcely ventured to raise her eyes from the ground, but her blushing manner passed for the modesty of a young girl on the eve of marriage. Lord Glenrith pathetically lamented the absence of his friend, and Lady Blanche quivered at the sound of his name, and then reproached herself for doing so.

Lord Glenrith showed her the letters he had received from the different members of his family. Blanche could not but feel flattered by the manner in which she was spoken of; could not but think the better of the son, and the brother, who was loved with such tender affection; could not but own she ought to be happy with the prospect of possessing such a father, mother, brothers, and sisters-in-law. Lord Glenrith in his own happiness perceived nothing wanting in her manner, and laughed, and talked, the gayest of the gay. His inward satisfaction did not render him sentimental, but his buoyant spirits made him inclined to be pleased with everybody and everything. He even forgot the dislike he had imbibed for Mr. Stapleford; and when his arrival that day was announced, he declared him to be a "devilish good fellow, though he was a sarcastic dog."

His flow of spirits was almost oppressive to Lady Blanche, yet she rejoiced he did not possess the sensitive tact which might have rendered him alive to every look of hers.

At dinner, Lord Glenrith was telling Lord Falkingham he had a famous brood-mare at Wentnor Castle, whose colt was likely to win the St. Leger.

"Is your colt as clever as your old horse Perseus, Glenrith?" asked Mr. Stapleford.

"Ah! Perseus! by Jove, that is a horse! Never was a thorough-bred one so good for weight—and as active as a cat—such action! and such pasterns! None of your short pasterns the grooms are so fond of—but long enough to be elastic! He is a true Whalebone!"

"I am not sure, after all, I do not like Quirk still better," Stapleford dropped out quietly, while a sly smile lurked in the corner of his lip.

"Quirk is a singularly good horse! He has such bone, and such a constitution!"

"And that grey pony, Glenrith—you will never part with that pony?"

"Part with Yung-frau? not for three hundred guineas!"

"You are a fortunate man in your stud, Glenrith!" remarked Stapleford, with a quiet, composed, and serious air, which to the unsuspicious Lord Glenrith was perfectly satisfactory, while the rest of the party, especially poor Blanche, were painfully aware he was playing on the one weak point of the amiable young Benedick.

Nothing lowers a man in the eyes of a woman so much as being made a butt, no matter whether the quizzer be a person for whose opinion she entertains any respect or not. It was unlucky that, at the moment the héros de roman lover had departed in magnanimous despair, the successful one should lay himself open to the quizzing of a dandy. Lady Blanche felt miserable—more miserable than when she parted from De Molton—more miserable than when she heard the jingle of his hack-chaise as it drove from the door—more miserable than when her mother's statement of the case made her awake to the enormity of her misconduct—more miserable than when she resolved to drive her lover's image for ever from her mind. Those distresses were at least elevated ones—this bordered on the ridiculous.

In the course of the evening Mr. Stapleford found himself near Lady Blanche. "I must offer you my congratulations, Lady Blanche, and especially upon the good looks and the good spirits of the fortunate Lord Glenrith. His beaming and ruddy appearance shows that you have not been unnecessarily cruel, tormenting before you consented to make him the happiest of men. It must give a person of your kindly feelings great pleasure to behold a face so redolent with joyousness!"

Every word of this speech was disagreeable. Poor Blanche did not admire a "ruddy" man—did not like an unsentimental lover; and, above all, she did not like the implication that she had been

"Won unwooed, or slightly wooed at best."

Mr. Stapleford bore not the slightest ill-will either to Lady Blanche, or to Lord Glenrith. He enjoyed saying the disagreeable thing in the civilest manner possible; partly because it is almost the only exercise of power which a person without house, or lands, or fortune, can indulge in; partly because he liked to see what people really felt—and he thus frequently discovered the true state of their minds; partly because he happened to possess the species of tact which enabled him to do it—and everybody derives pleasure from success of any kind.

The next day Blanche received a packet from Wentnor Castle. It contained some beautiful ornaments—offerings from different members of her future family, each accompanied by the prettiest note imaginable. Congratulations showered in from every quarter. All the numerous friends and relations of both sides wrote letters in which each party was described as perfection, and each as having met with perfection. It is astonishing that matrimony should ever fail to secure lasting happiness, when (if we may believe the written testimony of those who best know the contracting parties) none but paragons ever enter into the holy state. But among all the happy unions that have been joyfully anticipated, none ever gave more general satisfaction than the present. The age, situation, rank—everything was suitable. Poor Lady Blanche felt herself every moment more thoroughly hampered, entangled, and pledged; and every moment her disinclination to the marriage increased.

It was an odd thing! but Mr. Stapleford's quiet manner of quizzing Lord Glenrith, and his imperturbable good-humour under it,—or rather, his perfect unconsciousness of what was happening,—hurt his cause even more than her preference of De Molton. She would rather have seen him angry and resentful; to persons with la tête exaltée, the smallest shadow of ridicule irrecoverably destroys the halo of romance they would fain throw around the object of their devotion. Blanche might have turned from her hopeless and youthful dream of love, to admiration, respect, obedience, and submission; but when her head, her heart, and her imagination were possessed with the dignified brow, the melancholy eyes, the mellow voice, the lofty air, the noble grief of De Molton, to see the joyous, the "ruddy" Glenrith perfectly contented under the quizzing of a Stapleford, prevented her being able to work herself up to the feelings it was her duty to entertain towards him.

Mr. Wroxholme one day remarked to Lady Westhope, that Lady Blanche appeared to be extremely out of spirits, and that he almost feared her disposition and that of her future husband were not exactly suited.

"She seems to take no pleasure in his country pursuits—she listens with an abstracted air while he continues to pour into her ear details which he might perceive are not interesting to her; though I own I sometimes wonder she should not be more curious about Wentnor Castle, which, from the engravings, must be a magnificent and interesting place."

Lady Westhope agreed with Mr. Wroxholme, and could not help half confiding to him, that she feared Lady Blanche had some other prepossession.

"Poor girl!" resumed Mr. Wroxholme; "but then it is a thousand pities she should marry, if she cannot love, Lord Glenrith."

"He is such a good man!" answered Lady Westhope; "he has such excellent principles—he is so sure to make a true and faithful husband, that in the long-run I should hope no woman, who had herself good principles, could fail to be happy with him."

Lady Westhope sighed, and Mr. Wroxholme, who had by this time heard and seen somewhat more of his host, felt that poor Lady Westhope spoke as one who had suffered from the absence of these qualities in her husband.

CHAPTER V.

Ever still must I adore thee: Though wide seas between us roll, Each fond thought shall hover o'er thee, And thine image fill my soul. Morning breaking o'er the ocean Will thine opening graces wear, And with evening's last devotion I will breathe thy name in prayer. Unpublished Poems.

Upon leaving Cransley, Captain De Molton had hastened to town. He there found his father, who having left the rest of the family at Brighton, had also repaired to London for the purpose of effecting the proposed exchange.

Lord Cumberworth was preparing to enter a hackney-coach, which waited to carry him to Brookes's, where he meant to dine and to solace himself with a quiet game at tolerably high whist, when he was startled at the unexpected appearance of his son.

"Why, Francis!" he exclaimed, "I thought you were gone to Cransley for a fortnight! What brings you here?"

"I wished to see you, father, and to talk to you seriously concerning my prospects in life. You are come up about my exchange, are you not?"

"Yes—and I hope I shall be able to settle it all comfortably. Your mother has been in one of her nervous ways at the bare thoughts of your going to India."

"I think I ought to go, father."

"Why! which way does the wind blow now? Why the d—l did you not tell me so sooner? They have all been pestering me to come to town, and to leave no stone unturned to save you from this banishment, as you all called it; and now I have taken the trouble of coming, you change your mind! Upon my word, this is very inconsiderate. But, after all, I myself do not like your going into such an unhealthy climate, and I would rather keep you at home if I could. If you are to go into danger, let it be where some honour and renown are to be obtained. There is no glory in dying of a liver complaint, as yellow as a guinea."

"I am very sorry, my dear father, to have given you so much unnecessary trouble, but I have fully made up my mind to sail with my regiment."

"And pray, Master Francis, what has worked this wondrous revolution in your mind?"

"Why, father, to tell you the truth, happiness is out of the question for me; and therefore I had rather do whatever will make me least burthensome to my family, and also take me out of the way for a time."

"And why do you want to lie perdue? You have not been running in debt, have you?"

"No, father; I am too well aware what are your circumstances."

"Not a scrape? eh, my boy!"—and Lord Cumberworth, whose morals were not puritanical, smiled. "It can't be Lady Westhope, she is such a prude. You have not been playing the fool, I hope?" continued Lord Cumberworth, putting more of parental gravity into his countenance.

"I have been guilty of nothing wrong in deed or thought," replied De Molton with seriousness.

"Egad! but there's a woman in question though," replied Lord Cumberworth. "You are not in any danger of marrying?" and his face really assumed an expression of sincere alarm.

"Not exactly, father; but I am unfortunately attached to a person who is on the eve of marriage with another."

"Thank heaven that is all!" exclaimed Lord Cumberworth. "Remember one thing, Frank—a man is never thoroughly undone till he is married."

De Molton remained silent. His father's tone of feeling was so little in unison with his own, that he wished to say no more upon the subject than was absolutely necessary.

"Does the girl like you, my boy?" added Lord Cumberworth.

De Molton was somewhat perplexed how to answer, but he said, "I told you, father, she was going to be married to another man."

"Ah! but women have married a rich man, when they have been in love with a poor man, before now. And you are a d——sh handsome fellow, and more like me than any of my children. Well, don't look so sheepish, like a bashful maiden yourself. Is the girl in love with you?"

"I conclude not," resolutely answered De Molton.

"Have you told her you are in love with her?"

"Why, yes, I have."

"And she was not angry, eh? Come, I suppose your nice sense of honour will allow you to say whether she is very much in love with her future husband or not?"

"I should say she esteemed him highly, but was not precisely in love with him," was De Molton's guarded reply.

"Wheugh—gh—gh!" with an elevation of the eye-brows, and a sound that ended in something like a whistle, was the response produced by this last communication of his son's. "You had better go, my boy. I see how it is: if you stay, we shall have the marriage broken off and the d—l to pay. Ah! well I am sorry to part with you, but you had better go—we will do no more about the exchange. But I am as hungry as a hound—I have eat nothing since I left Brighton. There is no dinner in the house—nothing in it but the old housemaid: we can't roast her—she would be tougher than Pedrillo. Let's be off to Brookes's. By the by, you don't belong to Brookes's: I remember you said it was too expensive, when George wanted to get you put up. Well, you can eat your dinner at your Junior United Service Club; and we will meet here, at home, at ten o'clock, and talk matters over quietly."

Lord Cumberworth got into his hackney-coach, and De Molton walked off to his club, to snatch a hasty morsel, and return to South Audley Street, there to ruminate sadly upon his future fate until his father should join him. There was much of bitterness in his reflections. He could not help repining at the unequal distribution of fortune, and thinking it hard that the happiness of two beings should be wrecked for lack of that contemptible thing, money. He almost doubted whether he was acting rightly by Lady Blanche in abandoning her when she had all but acknowledged her love for him. And yet, what could he do? His worldly pelf consisted but of his pay, and the very moderate allowance his father was able to make him. He had nothing to look to. His father's property was entailed upon the eldest son—his circumstances were embarrassed—he had been obliged to let Cumberworth Hall, and lived principally in London, making an occasional excursion to some watering-place: there was no chance of his saving money, and there were twelve of them to divide the fifty thousand pounds settled on younger children. Lady Blanche certainly had no dislike to Glenrith, or she would never have accepted him: and who could know Glenrith, and not learn to value and to love his kind feelings and singleness of heart? The more he reflected, the more strengthened he was in his purpose. When he was far away, she would assuredly forget the slight prepossession she had entertained for him, and she would soon give her whole heart to Glenrith. When he had brought his reasonings to this most desirable point, he found it infinitely more painful than any other view of the subject.

His father returned about ten o'clock, and after arranging to write immediately to the person with whom they had been in treaty for the exchange, and to lose no time in procuring the proper stock of articles necessary for the voyage, as there was a possibility of the regiment sailing within a fortnight, they agreed to leave London the following afternoon, and to join the rest of the family at Brighton.

"Well, cheer up, my boy!" said Lord Cumberworth, as he bade his son good night. "There is no use in fretting—there are more pretty girls than one in the world, and you are not the first sentimental young man who has been crossed in love. Il en faut passer par là. We have all been crossed in love in our time. I, myself, was very much smitten with another woman when I married your mother; but I saw that my marrying Helen was out of the question, and so I did what they all wished me to do, and it answered just as well. Your mother is a very good woman, Frank, and I am very fond of her. So cheer up, my boy—never be down-hearted! You will forget your Dulcinea long before you cross the line." He was closing the door, when he turned back again to say,—"Frank, you look for all the world as if you were younger brother to the knight of La Mancha—el cavaliere de la triste figura,—with your pale cheeks and your high forehead. I would not be a skill of wine or a windmill in your way for something!"

The good-humoured but unsentimental father chuckled at his own joke, and went off to bed so relieved that his son would be secured from the impending danger, that it quite reconciled him to his departure.

When they arrived at Brighton late the following evening, poor Lady Cumberworth was in despair at the prospect of her pet, her darling, the most affectionate, the most considerate, the most dutiful of all her children, running all the risks consequent upon a banishment to India; "not only," as she said, "braving perils by sea and perils by land, but those of climate and disease."

"There are worse perils in England, Mary," replied her husband with a knowing wink. "Perils by eyes are the most dangerous for handsome young fellows! Depend upon it, he is far safer in the other hemisphere; for peril by marriage is the worst of all—that is to say, when a man has nothing, and never can have anything as long as lives."

De Molton shrunk at hearing his attachment alluded to among all the family circle; though to his dear gentle mother he could have opened his whole heart, and to most of his sisters individually also. The eldest was grown a little starch, and the youngest was rather too young and giddy; but the four middle ones had plenty of romance in them, and would have listened to his tale with tears in their eyes. To any one of them in a tête-à-tête he might have spoken his feelings; but to have twelve curious, wondering, though kind eyes, turn upon him at once, was peculiarly unpleasant to a sensitive and reserved man.

Lady Cumberworth saw his distress, and hastened to say, "We were just going to bed when you arrived. I shall carry Frank off to have a quiet gossip with him; so good night, girls!"

De Molton followed his mother, and in her found a sympathizing listener—one who entered into all his difficulties, and who was ready to love poor Blanche for appreciating her own dear Frank as he deserved. But she saw that, deeply as his affections were engaged, their union was impracticable; and she was obliged, though most reluctantly, to confess that a temporary absence, and entire change of scene, were likely to spare his feelings and principles many a trial.

Lady Cumberworth entreated her husband not to annoy poor Frank by any allusion to his unfortunate attachment.

"Lord bless the fellow!" exclaimed Lord Cumberworth, "I never meant to annoy him! I know he is d—shly in love, and that is all I said! And I only said, he could not marry, and that he knows well enough!"

"He is unhappy, and we must refrain from remarks that wound his delicacy just now."

"Delicacy—fiddlestick! You always did spoil that boy—and you will make him as full of feelings, and nerves, and refinement, as the most fanciful woman of you all!"

The young ladies also met in a nocturnal synod. "What is this love of Frank's?" exclaimed Mary.

"How papa made him blush!" said Laura.

"And is he really going to India?" asked Charlotte.

"Who is the girl?" inquired Emily.

"And why could not mamma talk to him before us, I wonder?" added Katherine, the youngest, who was rather pert.

"When you are a little older, you will know that people do not like to discuss les affaires du cœur en pleine salle," answered Jane the eldest; and with a dignified air she retired to bed.

"I suppose Jane wishes to persuade us she has some love affairs of her own, though we know nothing about them," continued the merry Katherine: "she has preserved a most dignified mystery upon the subject, ever since I have been grown up."

After a few more questions which could elicit no answers, seeing that all parties were equally in the dark, the sisters separated for the night, and all found the repose they sought except Lady Cumberworth, who acutely felt the approaching separation from her son, and still more the pain that darling son was doomed to endure.

Lady Cumberworth was not one who considered the sufferings of lovers as matter for sport;—she had been fervently attached in her early youth, and the object of that attachment had been snatched from her by death. On her side, as well as on her husband's, their marriage had been one of reason and of expediency. But she had made him an excellent wife, had borne him a large family, and they had always been a happy and affectionate couple—happier, perhaps, than if one of the parties, and only one, had felt more warmly.

In a fortnight from the time De Molton joined his family at Brighton, he tore himself from the arms of his sisters, and, lastly, from the long, speechless, close embrace of his mother, to whose more sad and sacred affection all instinctively yielded the parting caress.

He sailed with his regiment, and we will leave him for a while, losing the sense of all his romantic and high-wrought sensibilities in the absorbing sufferings often endured in the Bay of Biscay.

CHAPTER VI.

No te falterà otra Dama Hermosa y de galan talle, Que te quiera, y tu la quieras Porque lo mereces Zayde. Spanish Romance.

The visit of the Falkinghams at Cransley had now lasted more than ten days. Blanche ardently wished to be at home again. She felt wretched, hypocritical, and guilty. She found herself so uncomfortable where she was, that she imagined any change must be for the better. When they left Cransley, Lord Glenrith was to pay his parents a visit of a few days, and then to join them at Temple Loseley; after which they were all to proceed to London for the purpose of procuring the wedding paraphernalia.

Lady Blanche's depression became so evident, that even Lord Glenrith, although not an acute observer, could not avoid perceiving it. He was exceedingly flattered, and attributed it all to his approaching absence. He kindly consoled her. "I shall soon be with you again, Blanche. I love my father and mother dearly; but just now I do not think even they can succeed in keeping me above three days away from you. I hate the thought of leaving you, but it will be such a pleasure to meet again!—will it not, dearest Blanche? I think it will almost make up for the pain of parting; and then I suppose, I need not leave you any more. So we have nothing but joy before us." And he wondered his betrothed did not appear to be more consoled by this prospect.

He has handed them all into their travelling barouche, and he has thrown himself into his britska, and they have left Cransley in opposite directions. All the rest of the party had previously dispersed—all but Mr. Wroxholme, and he was going to town the next day. As he and Lady Westhope stood upon the steps watching the receding vehicles, they could not help communicating to each other their fears concerning the approaching marriage. Lady Westhope was exceedingly out of spirits at poor Blanche's prospects, and Mr. Wroxholme entered into her feelings, with all the delicacy of a person with good heart and good taste.

As their barouche rolled smoothly along, Lord and Lady Falkingham fell into deep and earnest conversation: Blanche sat in the back seat, absorbed in her own meditations. The road lay through an open, hilly, and heathy country, watered by small rivulets, on the immediate banks of which were sometimes seen a solitary cottage, and, close around, a small patch of cultivated ground. It was a mild watery day, with little positive rain, but one in which the shifting lights and gleams of pale sunshine give a purple hue to the heathy hill-side, and a bright yellow to the green meadow, or the mossy swamp. Her eyes mechanically watched the varying hues, and at length fixed themselves upon a lonely turf-roofed hut in the valley below. "How peaceful must be existence in such a hut!" she thought within herself; "no worldly considerations, no aspirations after rank and situation, can there interfere with the affections. A strong arm and a willing mind are all that are required to authorize the peasant lover to seek the hand of his peasant mistress. Personal, individual qualities alone are considered,—not the adventitious recommendations of fortune. How much happier must be that rank of life, where love, and love alone, leads to an union which is to endure as long as life itself! Oh! if I could, in honour and in respectability, become the wife of De Molton, how willingly would I resign every luxury to which I have been born, and live in that very cottage, unnoticed and unknown! I think I could gladly perform even the household drudgery: I could feed the chickens and sweep the brick floor, and pile up the blazing faggots, and prepare my husband's evening meal—if that husband were De Molton!"

She gazed upon the cottage as long as it remained in sight, and almost felt as if she left a place that was endeared to her by habit, when a turn in the road concealed it from her view.

It may be much questioned whether Lady Blanche's view of the various conditions of life were a correct one, and whether there may not exist as much, or more, disinterested love in the higher orders than in the lower.

But her thoughts continued, "And feeling thus, shall I promise entire, undivided, eternal love to another man? Has not my life been an enacted lie for the last fortnight? Can I make up my mind to continue for years and years this unceasing duplicity? I thought De Molton's image would have faded from my mind—I thought I should each day have become more attached to Lord Glenrith. I hear of so many happy wives who did not marry for love! But is this the case? No! his image rises to my mind's eye more frequently than ever, and I find my soul recoil more, every day, from poor dear Lord Glenrith's tenderness. I shall behave ill to him in breaking off the marriage, and I shall be called a jilt; but shall I not behave more ill to him by marrying him, when I feel as I now do? I will tell him the whole truth myself! It is a horrid alternative, but I cannot—I cannot marry him!"

The day after their arrival at home Lady Blanche communicated to her mother the resolution she had formed. Lady Falkingham was thunderstruck. Blanche had continued for the last week to admit of Lord Glenrith's attentions, and had never again alluded to her attachment, so that Lady Falkingham had convinced herself the childish affair had passed from her mind. She was inexpressibly grieved at the information; but she was a woman of principle, and could not insist upon her daughter's marrying, while a passion, which would become criminal, retained full possession of her breast. Lord Falkingham, as might be expected, was very indignant—perhaps more so at first than his wife had been; but when the first ebullition of anger was past, he was sooner able to resume his usual bearing towards his daughter. The days are passed, when any measures, beyond argument and persuasion, can be put into practice to force an unwilling bride to the altar; and argument and persuasion were of no avail with one who unequivocally declared that she had tried in vain to subdue her love for De Molton—that her efforts to return Lord Glenrith's affection were totally unavailing, and that, if she found herself his wife, she should be utterly miserable.

Two days had elapsed from Lord Glenrith's departure for his father's. On the third he was expected at Temple Loseley. There was no cross post; there was no time to write; and, indeed, Blanche thought she had rather tell him the whole truth herself, as she could better exonerate his friend from any blame, by word of mouth, than by letter.

Never did three persons await the coming of a gay and gallant bridegroom with more uncomfortable feelings. At the appointed moment on the third day he arrived, beaming with honest joy. After the first greeting, he slipped upon the finger of his love, with an attempt at sentimental mystery, a ring containing his own hair. He also brought from his mother the family diamonds, which, she said, would infinitely better grace the blooming young bride than the sober matron. Lord Glenrith exhibited them with some pride and great delight;—pride at the family glories—delight at offering them to Blanche.

Never were diamonds received so awkwardly, and with so little apparent gratitude.

"Why, Blanche! you do not seem to care about the diamonds," he said, in rather a mortified tone.

"Indeed I am very, very grateful to Lady Wentnor for her constant, her unmerited kindness to me—so much more than I deserve!"

"You are very modest, my dear Blanche! Well! I hope it is that you are so glad to see me, you cannot think about the diamonds; and if that is the case I will forgive you, and so will my mother too, I dare say. I have been told many women love their diamonds better than their husbands: that will not be your case, I trust, or you will care very little for me." He hurried off to dress for dinner, a little put out by the reception he had met with.

The dinner was most distressing. Lord Glenrith began, in the innocence of his heart, to tell them everything he had done, every arrangement that had been made, and how Lord and Lady Wentnor meant to visit Leamington for a few weeks, and to relinquish Wentnor Castle to them for their honeymoon; but he found his audience so cold, that he in his turn became chilled and daunted.

As they left the dining-room, Lady Blanche summoned all her courage, and said, "I wish to speak to you presently in the breakfast-room."

The die was cast! She must now tell him all. She seized her mother's arm as they crossed the hall. "O, mamma! what a task I have to perform! How could I ever accept poor dear Lord Glenrith, and plunge myself into this dreadful difficulty?"

"My dear, say rather, 'How could I let myself fall in love with a man whom it is utterly impossible I should marry?'—that would be more to the purpose. But it is too late now: there is no use in retrospection!"

It was not many minutes before they heard the dining-room doors open. Lady Blanche rushed into the breakfast-room adjoining, and in two seconds Lord Glenrith followed her. He saw something unusual had occurred, and he felt uneasy, but his mind never glanced towards what awaited him. "Well, Blanche, what in the world have you to say to me?" and he seated himself on the sofa by her side. "How glad I am we are once more quietly here, and no longer surrounded by simpering, quizzing acquaintances!" And there seemed a considerable danger of his attempting to put his arm round her waist. If he did meditate such a thing, his intentions were by no means carried into effect, for she started up to take her reticule off the table, and re-seated herself at the opposite side of the fireplace in an arm-chair.

"Lord Glenrith," she said, "I have something upon my mind which has made me very miserable of late."

"Miserable!—you miserable, and I not know it! What can I do, dearest Blanche? You know I would go through fire and water to serve you."

"Do not speak so kindly to me,—you make what I have to say more painful, more difficult. I deserve nothing from you but hatred and contempt."

"What are you talking about? Are you in your right senses?"

"Scarcely, I believe; for any other woman would think herself the happiest and most fortunate of creatures in marrying you; and if I was to do so, I should be both wicked and wretched!"

"Not marry me, Blanche!—you are dreaming. What can all this mean? It is very unpleasant, though you cannot mean what you are now saying."

"Indeed I do mean what I say; and you cannot know how much I have suffered in coming to this conclusion."

"This is strange—this is unaccountable!" and he passed his hands over his eyes, as if to make sure he was awake. "Have I done anything to change your opinion of me? I am not aware of having been wanting in any way—and I am sure, Blanche, I have loved you truly and sincerely." A tear glistened in his eye. "Tell me what I have done, and I will correct my fault. You are only saying this to try me; and if so, let me tell you that it is a very foolish jest, and one entirely unworthy of you." The colour mounted into his face, and he looked for a moment extremely angry.

"No! Lord Glenrith, this is no jest! I am in sober, serious, most sad earnest. Your conduct towards me has been from the beginning ten thousand times better than I deserved; but I should be treating you shamefully if I were to marry you when my heart—is another's."

"Your heart another's! Did you say so? Your heart another's! Then why, on earth, did you accept me?"

"Well may you ask that question, and well may I blush to answer it! I thought my affection was unrequited, and I esteemed you. My parents thought more highly of you than of any one. I believed I should soon prefer you to the one person I had loved, as much as I already did to all common acquaintances; and it was not till I found my affection was not unrequited, that I became aware of the depth and strength of my own attachment. I have been miserable ever since, and all I can now do is to tell you the honest truth."

Lord Glenrith sat with his eyes fixed on the ground. "This is a cruel blow!" he said at last; "I have not deserved this from you, Lady Blanche. And who is the favoured object? By heaven, it must be De Molton! I remember his countenance at dinner the day he was at Cransley—how pale he looked, and how continually he strove to catch a view of you by the épergne; and every time he met my eye, he looked in another direction! I am born to be made a fool of—to be deceived by the friend I have loved from childhood, and by the woman to whom I would fain have devoted all the rest of my existence!" He hid his face in his hands.

"Blame me, Lord Glenrith, for I deserve your reproaches; but your friend has never deceived you: Captain De Molton has always considered you more than himself."

"Then it is De Molton! These are the actions dictated by his high-flown notions of honour! A plain, matter-of-fact man would never have proved such a shabby fellow!"

"Captain De Molton shabby!" The word "shabby" sounded strangely on her ear when coupled with the name of De Molton. She would have answered Lord Glenrith angrily, if the consciousness of how deeply she had wronged him had not checked her speech; but she could rather have forgiven his calling her lover a black-hearted villain, than a "shabby fellow."—"Lord Glenrith," she repeated, "you wrong your friend. He carefully concealed from me his feelings till—till——"

"Till you had promised to marry me!"

"Till he fancied the avowal of them could not endanger your happiness, or, as he imagined, mine. When he took leave of me at Cransley, he showed some emotion, which caused him to reproach himself for betraying feelings he had long concealed. Then first I learned he did experience any feelings which he wished to conceal, and this discovery produced a revolution in my mind which appalled me. I strove to blind myself as to the nature of my sentiments, I strove to conquer them,—in vain; and now, what can I do, but throw myself on your mercy, and implore you to forgive me for having ever accepted the devotion of an honest man, whose affection I could not requite as it deserved!" She held out her hand to him.

"Oh, Blanche! you break my heart!" and he kissed the hand which she did not withdraw: she felt a tear fall upon it. Her very soul seemed to melt towards the kind being to whom she was giving so much pain.

"Believe me, Lord Glenrith, when I tell you, that every sentiment of esteem, respect, and gratitude—every sentiment which my reason can command, is yours; and that I esteem and respect you too highly to wish you married to a wife who cannot give you her whole heart. In a short time you will forget a person who has caused you nothing but disappointment and annoyance; and you will find many, many girls who will esteem themselves fortunate in being allowed to devote to you their first affections. You will soon rejoice in the liberty I now restore to you. While I have nothing in store for me but contempt and ridicule, you will find, with some one far superior to me in all respects, happiness, which I must not hope for."

"Never, Blanche, never!—I shall never marry!" And Lord Glenrith conscientiously believed what he uttered.

"Before we part, tell me that you forgive Captain De Molton, and that you believe me when I assure you, that he never intended to interfere with your interests."

"Yes," he said, "I do believe you, and I will try to forgive De Molton."

Everything was said. Blanche felt that their return to the drawing-room was very awkward, but there was no other course to pursue. She led the way to the door—there was nothing left for Lord Glenrith but to follow after. He felt that something of ridicule always attached itself to his position; but at the same time he felt injured, and he tried to put a certain resolute and dignified air into his walk. He looked flushed and heated, his eye glanced suspiciously and uneasily from side to side, but he attempted to assume an unembarrassed deportment.

CHAPTER VII.

The smile that on thy lips erewhile So kindly wont to play— That could each idle care beguile Of Love's first golden day,— Now, when lone Fancy rules the hour, At evening's lingering close, Comes o'er my soul with mightier power, To soothe my real woes. Unpublished Poems.

Lord and Lady Falkingham were seated, one on each side of the fireplace, awaiting the result of the conference which was taking place in the apartment within. They had been pathetically lamenting the folly with which Blanche was resolved to throw away the most desirable establishment in the world; and they had been indulging in unpleasant anticipations of what the world would say when it was known that a daughter of theirs was an avowed jilt. The door of the breakfast-room opened, and Blanche entered: Lord Glenrith followed close behind. Lady Falkingham perceived, at a glance, that the unacknowledged hope, which she had still cherished, of Lord Glenrith's eloquence prevailing at the last, was doomed to annihilation!

During their absence the tea had been brought in, and the urn was smoking and boiling upon the table. Lady Blanche sat down before it, and rejoiced in her mother's old-fashioned fancy for having the tea made in the drawing-room.

Lady Falkingham and her daughter took the earliest opportunity of retiring for the night. Lord Glenrith lighted their candles, and opened the door for them. As they passed, Lady Falkingham pressed his hand with an expressive look of sorrow and of regret. Lady Blanche held out hers, and uttered in a low voice,—"We part friends!" He took her hand, and turned away.

When the door was closed, Lord Falkingham addressed him:—

"I am afraid, Glenrith, you have had a very unpleasant conversation with my daughter. I need not tell you how much my wife and myself regret the foolish fancy the girl has taken into her head. But what can we do? We cannot, in justice to you, urge her to fulfil her engagement."

"I should be the last man to wish Lady Blanche's affections to be controlled; and I hope I know sufficiently what is due to myself, not to wish any woman to be forced into a marriage with me."