THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. (continued 4)

After a few more words of regret and kindness on the part of Lord Falkingham, they also parted for the night.

The next morning all the jewels and trinkets which he had presented to Blanche were restored to him, and before the family were assembled round the breakfast-table he was several miles on his road to Wentnor Castle.

Lord Glenrith felt his disappointment keenly, for he loved Blanche. He felt his mortification keenly; for although not vain (if by vanity we understand a desire to show off in the eyes of others), still he entertained no mean opinion of himself. He had never in his life before met with anything but success. He had been accustomed to the admiring affection of his parents, the devotion of his dependants, the good-fellowship of his equals, the attention of his inferiors; and he had been early warned by his mother to be guarded in his manner towards young ladies, lest he should excite hopes which he could not realise—hopes which he found them, generally speaking, only too ready to entertain. Astonishment, therefore, almost equalled the other emotions to which we have alluded. He turned and turned in his head how he should break to his parents the result of the preceding evening's conversation, and he felt that he equally dreaded their pity, and their indignation.

By degrees, as he got farther from Temple Loseley and nearer to Wentnor Castle, he found his love and his grief diminish, and his mortification and disappointment increase, till, by the time he reached the lodge, he thought he could have endured the latter, provided the publicity of his engagement had not exposed him, while writhing under the former, to the pity, the stare, and the jest, of great and small, rich and poor, old and young.

Blanche's first sensation, upon retiring to her room, was that of relief and freedom. She felt as though a weight of guilt and deceit was removed from her bosom, and she resolved she would now indulge herself in thinking of De Molton as much as she pleased. But the mortified expression of Lord Glenrith's countenance would rise up to her mind's eye; and she found herself more occupied with him, and less with the image of De Molton, than at any other moment since their meeting at Cransley. She scarcely knew, whether satisfaction at having now done that which was decidedly honest, sincere, and unworldly, or self-reproach for having so wronged Lord Glenrith by ever entering into an engagement with him, ought to preponderate,—and, upon the whole, she found herself less happy than she expected.

The ensuing weeks passed drearily enough. Lady Falkingham was under the necessity of announcing to her friends and relations that her daughter's marriage was broken off; an occupation which did not raise her spirits, or smooth her temper. Of course the true reason could not be openly divulged, or all hope must be relinquished of Blanche's ever forming any other alliance. It is strange, but it is an undoubted fact, that a girl loses half her attraction if her maiden affections are supposed to have been in any degree touched; while there is a peculiar charm attached to the idea of a widow, although it may be presumed she has known what it is to inspire, and to experience, all the emotions attendant upon love.

Blanche herself wrote to her sisters; and as she felt that her rejection of Lord Glenrith bound her fate in some measure to that of Captain De Molton, she made no mystery of the prepossession which had rendered her incapable of doing justice to Lord Glenrith's good qualities.

She had scarcely despatched these letters, when she read in the newspapers the departure of De Molton with his regiment for the East Indies. He had sailed the very day of her final interview with Lord Glenrith. She experienced a blank sensation nearly allied to mortification; forgetting what were the motives which induced him to seek safety and repose in another hemisphere.

Still, when she rejected Lord Glenrith, she did not quite anticipate that there was to be an end of everything. She had not precisely looked forward to sitting down quietly in deep retirement with her father and mother, till the arrival of another spring should summon them to London, there to be dragged the weary round of insipid entertainments, without the hope or the possibility of seeing the only face she wished to see. Her home was no longer what it had been. Lord Falkingham's vanity was mortified in the daughter of whom he had hitherto been exceedingly proud. Lady Falkingham, although not absolutely unkind, was cold and reserved, and never encouraged her to speak of feelings, which she always treated as a silly, unreasonable, youthful whim. On all occasions, the attachments of young people were spoken of in a slighting and contemptuous manner, which confirmed Blanche in her resolution to prove, that hers was not a passing fancy—but a real, sincere, and respectable attachment.

Captain De Molton, after a prosperous voyage, had arrived at Calcutta just about the time when the meeting of parliament called Lord Falkingham to London; and Blanche with pain and disgust saw the bracelets, the trinkets, the jewels, which her various friends had given her upon her expected nuptials, packed up to adorn her person during the ensuing season. She felt she never could bring herself to wear these tokens; for although it had been impossible to return any, except those which had been presented by Lord Glenrith's family, it seemed to her as if they had all been obtained under false pretences.

De Molton had struggled hard to bring his mind to a state of calm acquiescence in his fate. He had tried to accustom himself to the idea of Lady Blanche as the wife of Lord Glenrith; he had used all possible means to divert his thoughts from his unfortunate passion; he had occupied himself during his voyage with studying some of the Eastern languages, with learning everything connected with Eastern warfare; and although the renown to be gained in India at the expense of health, if not of life, falls far short of that gained in an European campaign, still he resolved that Fame should now become his mistress.

He had not been more than three weeks at Calcutta, when a letter reached him from his mother, which overturned all the good resolutions he had formed, and rendered him almost incapable of profiting by the opportunities which now offered themselves of perfecting his knowledge of Hindostanee or Sanscrit, or of putting in practice the tactics he had studied.

His mother informed him that the marriage between Lord Glenrith and Lady Blanche de Vaux was suddenly broken off, and that no cause was assigned for the event except that the lady "had changed her mind." She tried to persuade him that the case was as hopeless as ever for himself, and she resisted the temptation of telling him it was whispered that a preference for himself was the true cause of the rupture. Although she longed to communicate what she knew must give him pleasure, even she was aware that it would be weakness and folly to keep alive a passion to which no prosperous termination could be anticipated.

Her intelligence, however, was sufficient to inspire De Molton with an ardent desire to return to England. Lady Blanche was free: honour no longer called upon him to avoid her; on the contrary, honour seemed to demand that he should now profess his anxiety to devote himself to her for life; and he bitterly lamented having so rashly banished himself from his native land. Yet, upon his first arrival in India, he could not in decency apply for leave of absence. He suffered tortures of perplexity, doubt, and anxiety. At one time, he thought he would write to Lady Blanche, and regularly make her an offer of himself and of his fortunes. Then he shrank from doing so; for what were the fortunes he was able to offer her? and, moreover, such a proceeding would be assuming that it was for his sake she had broken off her marriage with Lord Glenrith,—a conclusion he had in fact no right to draw.

The news contained in his mother's letter was already six months old. Before his answer could reach England, another six months must have elapsed. What events might not have taken place in that time! Lady Blanche would have passed through another season in London: with her beauty, she must have been surrounded by admirers. It was possible, nay probable, that his letter might find her married, or on the eve of marriage with some one else. How ridiculous then would his conceited assumption appear in her eyes! No—he would wait, at all events, for further information; at the same time fully resolved to let slip no opportunity of returning home, when he might easily judge for himself whether an offer on his part would or would not be esteemed presumption.—Then again he thought, if for his sake Glenrith had indeed been rejected, how cold and how ungrateful must he appear, not instantly to avail himself of the chance afforded him.—Fortunately for him, his thoughts were necessarily in some measure withdrawn from his own annoyances, by his regiment being marched up the country, and by being engaged in some slight but animating skirmishes with the Pindarries.

The prospect of active service rendered his applying for leave of absence absolutely out of the question. All doubt upon that subject was thereby set at rest. It also seemed to set at rest the question whether he should or should not address Lady Blanche herself:—it was impossible to hint at her plighting her troth to him in a foreign land, from which he might never return, or of her keeping herself disengaged in the hope, at some future indefinite period, of following the drum with him from country quarter to country quarter.

He relieved his mind by writing to his mother a full statement of his perplexed feelings, and by imploring her, if possible, to convey them to Lady Blanche; and having done so, he resolutely bent all his energies to the discharge of his professional duties; while his heart beat high with the cheering hope of returning to her feet, his name coupled with deeds of valour, and illustrated by feats of military prowess.

CHAPTER VIII.

The soote season that bud and bloom forth brings With greene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the dale; The nightingall with feathers new she sings, The turtle to her mate hath told the tale. Lord Surrey.

The "soote season" had arrived, and the Falkingham family were in London. Lady Blanche's heart sank within her at the prospect of the wearisome pleasures in which she would be forced to join. She shrank also from the idea of being looked upon in the light of a jilt.

Though Lady Falkingham, by her system of education, had not been able to subdue the natural warmth of Lady Blanche's feelings, or her somewhat head-long indulgence of them, she had succeeded in inspiring her with her own horror of being subject to the animadversions or the ridicule of the world, and Lady Blanche felt, more keenly than most girls, what is considered as a disgrace by all who have been well brought up.

She thought that the only mode of redeeming herself in the estimation of others was to adopt manners the most reserved; and to justify, by her scrupulous fidelity to the object for whom it was now pretty generally understood she had rejected Lord Glenrith, the inconsistency from which she could not clear herself.

Lady Falkingham, whose most ardent wish was to see her daughter settled, was in a continual state of vexation at the distant and chilling manner with which Blanche received the most common attentions. There was truth in the charge her mother brought against her, of being on the defensive, even before she was attacked: and though there is nothing more attractive than the reserve which springs from innate modesty, Lady Falkingham knew full well, that few things more offend the self-love of men, and render them proof against the charms a woman may really possess, than the reserve which seems to proceed from contempt, or from a pre-determination to check their advances.

Blanche would gladly have passed her days in retirement, but her parents believed that the only mode of effacing the impression made by Captain De Molton was to place her in the society of others. Moreover, to seclude herself entirely from the world, would be a tacit acknowledgment of deserving blame. At all the usual places of amusement they were consequently seen. But the calm brow of Lady Falkingham had acquired a careful and discontented expression; and the bright glances and glowing smile of Lady Blanche had given place to a cold and stately pensiveness. She danced occasionally, but partners no longer disputed the honour of her hand. She sometimes received compliments; nor did she dislike them, for as she felt an internal dissatisfaction, she would have enjoyed anything which tended to reconcile her to herself; but she was so afraid of appearing to enjoy them, that she assumed a disdainful manner which effectually prevented any recurrence of what appeared to give offence.

With Lady Westhope alone did she find any comfort. To her she opened her whole heart—with her she talked over each trifling incident which had occurred during their visit to Paris—to her she repeated every word De Molton had said—to her she dwelt on his looks, his manner, his expression, in their last interview at Cransley. Lady Falkingham little guessed that the cold, the discreet, the immaculate Lady Westhope, could be a companion so little calculated to lead her daughter to a reasonable and worldly view of her own prospects;—Lady Westhope, who, unknown to herself, was every day acquiring a more thorough conviction, that in mutual affection alone can a married woman expect to find happiness. Blanche's conversations with Lady Westhope tended not only to keep alive the impression produced at Paris; they also made her feel still more pledged to adhere to the attachment which she professed.

It was about the middle of the season when Lord Glenrith arrived in London. He and Lady Blanche occasionally met at public places, in large and mixed society. Their first meeting was inexpressibly awkward. By some untoward accident, they found themselves vis-à-vis of each other in a quadrille. Although good breeding might prompt the fourteen or eighteen other people in the quadrille to withdraw their eyes from the pair who had once been lovers, their attention could not fail to be riveted upon them. They were to meet as friends; consequently, they bowed when first they caught each other's eye; and both blushed equally crimson. The rest of the time, they advanced and retreated, performed their queues de chat and their dos-à-dos, without raising their eyes from the floor; but when poor Lord Glenrith was obliged in the pastorelle to figure before Lady Blanche as cavalier seul, she felt ready to sink into the earth with distress on his account as well as on her own. The effect which this position had upon Lord Glenrith, and the degree to which his pride and his self-love suffered under the gaze of others, may be deduced from the circumstance of his having that night resolved he would not long be seen in the light of a discarded lover, and of his having the very next day begun a series of devoted attentions to the lovely daughter of the Duke of L——. Before the London season drew to a close, the magnificent trousseau of the future Lady Glenrith was the general subject of conversation among young ladies; and the beautiful horses and equipages of Lord Glenrith that among young gentlemen.

Then came the morning when the narrow entrance to St. George's Church was crammed with lovely bride's-maids, and weeping, smiling relations; and the afternoon, when half the coachmen and footmen in the Park appeared with gorgeous favours in their hats; and the evening, when little morsels of tinsel ensconced in white satin ribbon were seen pinned to the side, or stuck in the button-hole, of all the most distinguished personages of both sexes.

Blanche and her affairs were utterly forgotten, and she heard on all sides descriptions of the loveliness of the bride and the happiness of the bridegroom.

In sober earnest, Blanche rejoiced that her anticipations with regard to Lord Glenrith had been so soon realised; and if she could have seen De Molton—if she could have heard him speak,—if she could have received any communication from him,—if she could have indulged any hope of ever herself knowing the happiness of reciprocal affection, she would have utterly despised the frivolous grandeurs which excited such a sensation in the London world.

But with her all seemed a blank. She had wished her story should be forgotten,—and it was forgotten. No one seemed to remember that she might have been in Lady Mary L.'s situation. She wished people to be aware that, though she had jilted Lord Glenrith, she was no flirt;—and she had succeeded! No one attempted to make love to her.

She was sitting with Lady Westhope, when Mr. Wroxholme, who had also been paying a morning visit, took his leave. "I have just heard what is to me a very melancholy piece of intelligence," said Lady Blanche. "Mr. Wroxholme tells me Parliament will sit three weeks longer. I feel so weary and so jaded with the joyless entertainments to which mamma thinks it her duty to take me! She fancies I may thus forget; but she is mistaken. My thoughts only recur the oftener to him from whom she hopes to wean them. I think, when among a number of indifferent people, one feels the want of the person with whom one would fain interchange thoughts and feelings, even more acutely than in the retirement of one's own home."

"That is only too true," answered Lady Westhope, with a sigh.

"This is to be alone—this, this is solitude."

"I like Mr. Wroxholme," rejoined Lady Blanche. "He looks as if he could understand one. I always feel at my ease with him."

"I told you you would like him! For my part I think he is quite an acquisition. I know no one who is d'un plus doux commerce. He has so much tact, and he is particularly obliging! One has but to express before him a wish for anything, and one is sure to find one's wish gratified."

"And then he has another great merit in my eyes: he cannot endure Mr. Stapleford."

"And I know of one more merit still," added Lady Westhope with a smile—"he likes Captain De Molton. They were school-fellows, you know."

Mr. Wroxholme had been always interested for Lady Blanche and her lover, and, with the tact for which he was supposed to be remarkable, had from the first read her feelings. When her marriage had been broken off, Lady Westhope had not scrupled to speak confidentially to a person who had shown so much sympathy and kindness concerning her friend. Mr. Wroxholme had warmly approved of Lady Blanche's disinterestedness, and, naturally enough, had spoken his sentiments on the subject of worldly marriages.

He seemed to consider congeniality of tempers, tastes, and opinions, as the only objects to be sought in such a connexion; and there was something to Lady Westhope's feelings singularly soothing and agreeable in hearing such sentiments so warmly expressed, especially as her strict notions of propriety could not take the alarm at a disprejudiced observer merely giving an opinion upon the affairs of a third person.

All he said breathed a tone of high respect for the sex in general—a generous horror of seeing a woman thrown away upon a man who was not worthy of her, or who did not sufficiently value her, which could not fail to be gratifying to a person who felt such to be her own case.

The indignation he felt at Lord Westhope's neglect of his wife, and the pleasure she took in finding herself appreciated, might gradually and unconsciously have led them both to entertain sentiments for which both would have reproached themselves, had nothing occurred to arouse them to a sense of their danger. An incident did however occur, which, though trifling in itself, served to open the eyes of one who had no wish to keep them wilfully closed.

CHAPTER IX.

Gentil parlar, in cui chiaro refulse Con somma cortesia, somma onestate; Fior di virtù; fontana di beltate; Ch' ogni basso pensier del cor m'avulse. Petrarca.

Lady Westhope's praises of Mr. Wroxholme, and her intimation of his early intimacy with Captain De Molton, led Lady Blanche to talk to him with more satisfaction than to any one else. When in conversation with him, her countenance resumed some of its former animation; and they frequently met, and always met with pleasure.

One evening Mr. Wroxholme had been recounting to Lady Blanche some boyish prank at school, in which he had contrived to let her know that De Molton had been engaged; she had been listening with an expression of amusement, which had been succeeded by a look, half confusion, half tenderness, on the incidental mention of De Molton's name, when Mr. Stapleford remarked to Lady Westhope, "I think the conversation in that recess seems to justify the report I heard yesterday."

"What report?" inquired Lady Westhope.

"Why, that Wroxholme might succeed in consoling Lady Blanche for the loss of her penniless, as well as of her wealthy, lover."

"Oh, what an idea!" exclaimed Lady Westhope.

"I assure you the report is very general, and I think there can be no doubt but that Wroxholme is very much in love."

"There never was so unfounded a notion! What could put it into anybody's head?"

"Though no blue-stocking, I presume Lady Westhope knows enough of optics to be aware that the rays of light reflected from objects actually before us, passing through the different lenses of the eye, are impressed upon the retina, and are, by some process beyond the comprehension of us poor mortals, thence communicated to the brain: in plain English, Lady Westhope has heard the old adage, that seeing is believing."

His eyes, when he began to speak, were fixed upon Lady Blanche, who was diligently picking to pieces the bouquet she held in her hand; (Mr. Wroxholme was telling her what a good-hearted fellow Frank De Molton was at school, and how kind he had been to a poor boy who had been run over by a cart;) but as he finished his sentence, he withdrew his most penetrating and disagreeable eyes from the couple, whose feelings he, for once, misinterpreted, and let them fall gently and fixedly on Lady Westhope.

"I can assure you, you are perfectly mistaken in this instance," Lady Westhope replied with some quickness. "Lady Blanche is only likely to be perseveringly, foolishly, constant; and as to Mr. Wroxholme's being in love with her, it is quite out of the question."

"Why out of the question?" asked Mr. Stapleford, with the most provoking matter-of-fact coolness.

Lady Westhope did not very well know why it was so; but she answered—

"Oh, he is not the sort of man to fall in love with Blanche."

"He is an odd sort of man, then, if it is out of the question for him to fall in love with one of the handsomest girls in London, who plucks off every leaf of a beautiful camellia while he is talking to her! A prepossession in another quarter might steel a man's heart even against such attractions as those I have alluded to; and I have no doubt Lady Westhope is better versed in the mysterious workings of the human heart than I can pretend to be. I must bow therefore to her superior knowledge of the state of Mr. Wroxholme's affections;"—and, with a supercilious bow, he joined a knot of politicians.

Lady Westhope felt prodigiously annoyed. She could not tell why she disliked so much to hear that Mr. Wroxholme was in love with Lady Blanche. There was no harm in it if he was. She looked upon him as a man with whom a woman might be very happy; and, although not rich, he had a competency. Why was she so certain he entertained no particular preference for her friend? and why did she feel aggrieved at the suspicion? It could not be that, at her age, after having passed unscathed through all the trials of her youth, her own heart was in any danger? What a humiliating, what a degrading surmise! She felt almost ashamed of suspecting herself of such a weakness; one that she would always have thought criminal, but that now would be ridiculous as well as criminal. It was evident, however, that Mr. Stapleford did suspect her of harbouring so ridiculous a prepossession, and she scrutinized her own feelings with resolute accuracy.

The truth was, that she had been accustomed for some months to feel herself the first object with Mr. Wroxholme; and although no words ever passed which expressed, or implied, that such might be the case, it was that consciousness which made her find his society so agreeable. She had felt so secure that she was past the age when she need guard her heart from tender impressions, that she had relaxed in her former watchfulness; she had felt so strong in her virtue, that she had not taken heed lest she might fall; and it was with a sense of deep humiliation and self-abasement that she awoke to a conviction of her weakness. She thenceforth resolved to keep strict watch and ward over her inward feelings, as well as over her outward actions.

These resolutions were more easily taken than carried into effect: she had no right to assume coldness towards a person who had never given her the slightest cause of offence, who had never presumed upon the intimate footing to which he had been admitted in the house.

How difficult is it, with the very best intentions, for a woman who lives in the world to steer entirely clear of suspicion, or misinterpretation, unless there exists between her and her husband a frank and cordial understanding! If, with all her knowledge of the world, Lady Westhope did not find it easy to shape her conduct so as to be discreet without prudery, and cool without unkindness, it is not surprising that the inexperienced should, without really deserving it, occasionally lay themselves open to blame.

The subject of love is one which young ladies are not allowed to discuss; at least, not with their elders. But how much have parents to answer for, who, by their avoidance of the subject, leave the responsibility of forming their daughters' minds on a point of such vital importance, to the man whom they may chance to marry! How much has the husband to answer for, who, by his neglect, his sternness, or his profligate notions, fails to become the guardian of the virtue he is bound to protect! Yet, by light conversation, by reporting gossiping anecdotes, and witty though immoral jokes, how frequently does he treat with levity, and make the subject of mirth and ridicule, errors, nay crimes, which hitherto the girlish matron has scarcely ventured to contemplate! Is it wonderful that the young mind should sometimes, when it fancies it only throws off the shackles of old-fashioned prejudice, discard at the same time the restraint of rigid principle? And the husband who has thus contaminated the fountain whence the actions flow, is surprised and indignant that the purity he once admired should have given place to notions more resembling his own! Is it surprising that a young creature, whose mind is thus deprived of ballast and of rudder, should in the voyage of life fail to steer clear of shoals and hidden reefs?

Fortunately, Lady Westhope had withstood the first trial,—that of being early united to an unprincipled man; and she had now acquired knowledge of the world, which enabled her to meet her present difficulty.

She debated within herself whether talking to him freely concerning marriage, and advising one, who appeared to entertain such exalted notions of the happiness to be found in the wedded state, to enter into it himself, might not be a good mode of proving how completely she considered herself in the light of a friend, though of a kind friend deeply interested in his welfare; but, upon the whole, she decided that it was entering upon a dangerous topic. It might be construed into the common artifice of coquettes to pique, or to lead to sentimental conversation; and if, unknown to himself, he did entertain for her the feelings she more than suspected, it might open his eyes to the true nature of them, as Mr. Stapleford's insinuations had opened hers.

In her early youth she had made to herself a rule never to admit male visitors in the morning: but, since she had approached the middle age, she had gradually relaxed in the strictness of her prohibition; and gentlemen now lounged on her sofas, and whipped their boots before her fire, as freely as in any other house in London; and no one more frequently than Mr. Wroxholme. These visits, in the first place, she resolved to check; but she knew that an explanation was always a thing to be most scrupulously avoided. By remaining late in her boudoir, and denying herself to all persons equally, on the plea of not being dressed; by seizing every opportunity of taking an early drive into the country; she for some time succeeded in her object, without wounding one whose only fault consisted in regarding her with respectful partiality. When he did find her at home, she received him cordially, and he was for the moment re-assured that she had not intentionally avoided his society. When they met in public, though she spoke to him but little, she carefully preserved the tone of friendliness and intimacy.

Still, in the long run, gently and gradually as the change was made, Mr. Wroxholme perceived that there was a change. He could not but become aware that he was less frequently invited to dinner; and when invited, that it was to large set parties, and not to the hasty repast before the play, the friendly gathering of a few intimates; and he could not but be struck with the numerous avocations and engagements which so often prevented his finding Lady Westhope at home of a morning.

In the course of time, he became hurt and half angry. He had always heard that fine ladies were apt to be capricious, and his pride was wounded: he was a gentleman in mind, in manners, and in birth; and his spirit rose at the bare suspicion of having been so sported with. He, in his turn, avoided Lady Westhope, and this was the severest trial she had yet met with.

They still, however, occasionally met; for both parties wished to preserve the same demeanour towards the other. Mr. Wroxholme took an opportunity of expatiating upon the meanness of those men who could condescend to be toad-eaters and hangers-on of the great: "He had no notion how any one with the feelings of a gentleman could endure being take up, and set down, at pleasure;" and asserted, "that a man who could submit to such treatment, amply deserved to meet with it!" There was a tone of asperity in his mode of speaking which proved that his was not a general observation on men and manners, but that he spoke from personal feeling. She was inexpressibly hurt, and she determined she would, by some means, let him know she was not one of the heartless fine ladies to whom he alluded.

The evening before their departure for the country, she invited a few friends to meet at her house; and, among others, Mr. Wroxholme. She had formed no distinct plan; and yet she vaguely hoped she should be able to undeceive him, and to correct the impression he had so erroneously received of her late conduct.

Notwithstanding his wounded pride, he could not resist the temptation to pass one more evening in her society.

The party was small, the conversation general: subjects of literature were discussed; the novels of the day were naturally mentioned. From them she easily led the discourse to the French novels of the day that is passed, and she took the opportunity of remarking how just were the little observations and reflections with which they were often interspersed. Mr. Wroxholme added, that in knowledge of the smaller workings of the human heart, he thought Madame de Genlis was scarcely inferior to Madame de Staël.

"But none of Madame de Genlis's are equal in power to Delphine," replied Lady Westhope.

"Are you a great admirer of Delphine?" inquired some one.

"A great admirer of the eloquence and fire with which it is written; and if the motto at the beginning is borne in mind, the truth of which is forcibly exemplified by the fate of both the hero and heroine, I think a great moral truth may be extracted from it; though I grant that the charm thrown around immoral feelings might render it a dangerous book for the young."

"And what is the motto?"

"'Que l'homme doit braver l'opinion, la femme s'y soumettre.' All the miseries of Leonce and Delphine arise from their neither of them following the maxim contained in the motto. How fortunate it is for us women, that the opinion of the world, and virtue, always prescribe the same line of conduct! There are many occasions in which it is praise-worthy, nay, admirable, in a man to risk the censure of his fellows; many in which he may act ill without risking it. But with us it is quite different: it is seldom that we incur the condemnation of our own consciences, or the disapprobation of others, if we avoid not only what is really wrong, but that which may bear the semblance of wrong."

"Well," interrupted a young man present, "I think it is enough for man, or woman, to do what is right, and to leave appearances to take care of themselves."

"I am glad it is a man, not a woman, who says so," resumed Lady Westhope, smiling. "I am always grieved and alarmed when I hear a woman speak with contempt of the opinion of the world: it argues in her neither good feeling, cleverness, nor true courage. True courage (in woman) consists in at once giving up what may be agreeable and innocent in itself, rather than risk having one's good name called in question."

Mr. Wroxholme had listened with interest, for his attention had been arrested by the earnestness with which Lady Westhope spoke. He suddenly understood all that had previously puzzled him in her conduct. He admired and respected her; and his wounded pride, his offended vanity, were soothed.

When she bade him adieu, she expressed a hope that he would join their Christmas party at Cransley; she did not invite him for partridge-shooting in September, as she had done the previous year. He felt that she meant to be kind, yet firm; and although the intervening six months appeared to him immeasurably long in perspective, he had too much principle himself to blame her, or to repine.

There was a cordiality in the respectful devotion with which Mr. Wroxholme took his leave, which convinced Lady Westhope that he no longer looked upon her as a capricious fine lady, but as a woman of rigid, uncompromising virtue.

She felt, however, lowered in her own estimation when she could not disguise from herself how great an effort it cost her to exercise this same virtue; and she was indignant, almost disgusted, with herself when she found her home cheerless, and her time unoccupied, upon her arrival in the country. This very feeling roused her to shake off the disgraceful weakness; and she resumed her wonted employments, and strove to make to herself new ones.

CHAPTER X.

And words of small import, but tinged with gall, Jar on the sense by their unkindly tone. The morning greeting may sound harsh withal, The evening benison a curse may own; While oft a smile—a kindly look alone— Born of compunction, falls right soothingly On the sick heart, the past offence t' atone, Ere word be spoke at all. As violets shy, By their sweet breath betray where they are lurking nigh. Unpublished Poems.

The events of the last few weeks in London had also awakened Mr. Wroxholme to the state of his own affections; and he no sooner admitted to himself that he had been in danger of liking Lady Westhope too well, than he rejoiced in the prudence and discretion with which she had checked his growing preference, and felt grateful that he had been preserved from the danger which beset him.

During the period when London is nearly deserted, and that the few who are still detained in its dreary and dirty streets are naturally drawn into habits of closer intimacy, he was much thrown with the daughter of an eminent lawyer, with whom he often had professional intercourse.

He fancied a considerable resemblance to Lady Westhope's in the profile of her nose: her complexion was of the same tone; and he perceived a decided likeness in the setting on of the head.

When Christmas arrived Mr. Wroxholme wrote an excuse to the Westhopes, informing them that he was on the eve of marriage with the daughter of Sir H. B——, and that the arrangements attending this happy event must detain him in London. He told Lady Westhope that his future bride bore a strong resemblance to herself in outward appearance, and that he only hoped she might take her as a pattern in more essential qualifications.

How did Lady Westhope feel upon the reception of this letter? She felt exceedingly surprised, for experience only can teach woman how short a time love can survive hope in the heart of man; but she felt satisfied, nay relieved. She had for six months devoted herself to the performance of her duties,—she had repelled every weak emotion. She rejoiced that Mr. Wroxholme should be happy, she rejoiced that she would no longer be called upon to keep strict watch and ward over her own heart, and she was gratified by the manner in which he spoke of herself. The likeness which he professed to discover in Miss B. was a balm to her vanity, and prevented its obscuring her reason. She was therefore able to rejoice, as her principles pointed out she ought to do, that they had escaped all further trial.

While Lady Westhope was thus regaining tranquillity and self-esteem, Blanche toiled through a long summer of very fine weather and the usual country occupations,—through a long autumn and its shooting-parties. She had to listen to the number of head of game killed at battues, or to the merits of the young hounds or of the new huntsman; and she conscientiously danced through the winter balls at the county town.

In some respects she gave great satisfaction to the neighbours. No one could accuse her of showing the slightest preference for the most distinguished young heir apparent over the most Tony Lumpkin-like son of the most humble country 'squire, or the most penniless young curate, who might summon courage to ask Lady Blanche De Vaux to dance. Indeed, the more out-of-the-question the partner, the more gracious was Blanche; so that the popularity of the house of Falkingham was greatly on the increase. Unfortunately there was no son, or his chance of being returned for the county would have been considerably augmented: Lord Falkingham's family consisted only of daughters, among whom his personal property would be divided; while his whole landed estate would descend, with the title, to a nephew.

A second spring arrived. To London they went again. The brilliancy of Lady Blanche's complexion was gone; her step had lost its elasticity, her figure something of its roundness. The last month or two had been to her a period of much uneasiness, much mortification.

She had calculated that the intelligence of her marriage having been broken off, must have reached De Molton, and by this time she might have received from him a passionate expression of his joy and his devotion. Day after day elapsed and no letter arrived. It is impossible to say whether, suffering the pangs of (as she imagined) unrequited affection, she might not have found a remedy, as it were, in the very excess of the disease, had not a circumstance occurred which again excited hope.

Even in woman, love can seldom exist if completely deprived of aliment, though it thrives upon the very smallest portion of sustenance imaginable.

Blanche frequently met Lady Cumberworth and her daughters in society: the very sight of De Molton's mother caused a tremor and an agitation which roused her from the state of apathy into which she had fallen. Moreover, she often perceived Lady Cumberworth's eyes fixed upon her with a kind and motherly expression; and she even fancied she looked as if she longed to speak to her, although they had never been regularly introduced. Lady Falkingham watched with a jealous eye every symptom of intercourse with Lady Cumberworth; and if they found themselves within speaking distance of De Molton's mother, never failed to move to the other side of the room.

One morning Lady Falkingham complained of a cold, and promulgated at breakfast that she should not go to Mrs. Baltimore's party that evening. Now Mrs. Baltimore was a relation and a particular friend of Lady Cumberworth's. Blanche quickly replied, "Oh, do not run any risk on my account, dear mamma! You know Lady Westhope can chaperon me."

"Bless me, Blanche!" exclaimed her father; "you, wishing to go out, and your mother to stay at home! I am delighted to find young and old are resuming their natural characteristics."

"Really, Blanche," said Lady Falkingham, "I think you are the most perverse girl I ever knew. Every evening I am obliged to urge you to go and dress, to drive you by force to the best parties in London; and the one only night I would rather stay at home, you are seized with such a fury of dissipation, that you wish to send all over the town to find a chaperon! Nothing I dislike so much as that a girl should be hawked about, one night with one person, and the next night with another!"

"But surely, mamma, sending to Lady Westhope is not sending all over the town; and I was so long with her at Paris, that it is not like going out with a stranger."

"Don't talk to me of Paris, Blanche, if you wish me to be able to eat any breakfast; the sample she gave of her chaperonage there, is not calculated to make me anxious to entrust you to her again!"

"Really, my dear, I think it is you who are rather perverse: you often find fault with Blanche for wishing to shut herself up, and for not exerting herself to recover her spirits, and now you check her when she attempts to do what you so often urge. I have some business with Lord Westhope this morning, and if I find Lady Westhope at home, I cannot see any objection to my asking her to take Blanche to-night."

Lady Falkingham could say no more: she could not, before Blanche, explain her objections to Mrs. Baltimore's party. She resolved, however, to risk a fit of rheumatism, rather than allow her daughter to elude her vigilant eye.

Lord Falkingham quickly settled the evening arrangements with Lady Westhope, and as quickly took his leave, to avoid the formality of a wedding visit from Mr. and Mrs. Wroxholme, who had just returned from passing their honeymoon in the country.

Lady Westhope was exceedingly surprised to find Mrs. Wroxholme small and slender, whereas she herself was tall, and was altogether a fine woman rather than a pretty one. She was also surprised to find that her mouth was wide, (though her teeth were so bright, and her smile so sunny, that no one who spoke to her would be disposed to criticise it too severely,) whereas Lady Westhope's was peculiarly small, and classical in its form. The setting on of the head was concealed by the winter apparel; and Lady Westhope was not sufficiently well acquainted with her own profile, to be struck with any resemblance in Mrs. Wroxholme's. She scarcely knew whether or not to be flattered at Mr. Wroxholme's having fancied a likeness where so little existed; and yet it proved that she had been present to his thoughts, and that he could not admire any one without trying to discover in her a resemblance to the person he had fixed upon as the type of female perfection.

Mr. Wroxholme looked the happiest of the happy. Mrs. Wroxholme was modest without being awkward, and did not seem to be indisposed towards her husband's friend, as is so frequently the case when the husband has injudiciously praised, or the woman has a narrow mind or a jealous disposition. On the contrary, she seemed disposed to take it upon trust, that the person of whom her husband approved must be deserving of esteem.

Lady Westhope was much pleased with all she saw of the bride in this morning visit; and she was gratified by her evident inclination to like, and her desire to be liked. When they were taking leave, she took an opportunity of expressing to Mr. Wroxholme, how much she was flattered at his having found any resemblance between so charming a person as his young wife, and herself. Mr. Wroxholme looked surprised, and wholly unconscious to what she could allude; then suddenly recollecting himself—"Oh yes, so I did! I thought Emma very like you when first I knew her; but I have not been so much struck with the likeness of late."

The truth was, that since he had become so exceedingly in love with his wife, as he now was, he had utterly forgotten what had at first been to him her greatest attraction. With the generality of men, love, when once over, leaves not a trace behind. With women, on the contrary, a person whom they have once loved, or even one by whom they once believed themselves to be sincerely loved, remains to them an object of interest, though the sentiment itself may long have ceased to exist.

Lady Westhope felt almost abashed when she replied in an explanatory tone—"I should not have had the vanity to make such a remark, if, in announcing your marriage, you had not yourself mentioned the resemblance."

Mrs. Wroxholme, who caught what was passing, said with such an air of honesty, that she was "really distressed at hearing the comparison made," and looked as if she sincerely thought Lady Westhope so much handsomer than herself, that Lady Westhope felt gratitude towards the wife, mixed with a momentary (it was but a momentary) emotion of pique towards the husband.

To Lady Falkingham's infinite annoyance, her cold increased towards the evening—she was threatened with the tooth-ache—the night was extremely cold; she could not, without openly saying she would not trust her daughter out of her sight, insist upon accompanying her to Mrs. Baltimore's; neither was her illness such that she could make it a pretext for keeping Blanche at home.

Meanwhile Blanche looked unusually animated at dinner, and her father rejoiced exultingly to see her dark hazel eyes sparkle once more with the rich lustre which was natural to them. Lady Falkingham, on the contrary, was suffering, and uncomfortable, both in body and mind. Her tone was querulous; and she found it impossible to agree either with her husband or daughter upon any subject, whether of literature, society, or politics. She felt provoked and oppressed by the unaccountable spirits of both father and daughter.

Lord Falkingham had been trying to talk his wife into good-humour, and, nothing daunted by the ill success which had as yet attended his efforts, he proceeded: "I find Mapleton is quite sure of the county if he stands next election."

"That is very odd!" said Lady Falkingham: "Mr. Evans told me that Mr. Talpoys had eight hundred votes to spare."

"Well! Mapleton himself told me he had more than fifteen hundred to spare."

"I do not believe Mr. Mapleton knows anything at all about the matter. He believes what his agents tell him; and they wish him to persist in his opposition to Mr. Talpoys, that they may make their own perquisites."

"Mapleton must be a great fool if he is so taken in."

"I never heard he was clever," answered Lady Falkingham, with a sarcastic smile.

"How pretty the new lamps look!" remarked Lady Blanche, who knew that her father had a regard for Mr. Mapleton, and did not like to hear him spoken of slightingly. "I think they give a most agreeable, soft light,—do not you, mamma?"

"I cannot say I agree with you, my dear. To my mind, they are not near so pretty as the old ones."

Lord Falkingham, who always felt a vague uneasiness whenever he saw his wife look out of spirits, as he amiably termed and thought what others might have deemed being out of humour, made another attempt to say something agreeable.

"Is that pretty cap the handiwork of your new maid, my dear? If it is, I think she is likely to suit you."

"My dear Lord Falkingham, you mean to be very complimentary, I dare say; but it would be infinitely more complimentary if you had recognised the old friend you have seen me wear half the winter at Temple Loseley."

This was another failure; but he laughed at his own mistake, said he evidently was not born to be a milliner, and remarked what a good vol-au-vent he was eating.

"I am glad you like it. I thought it very bad, I must confess, and had meant to speak to the cook about it; but I will tell him you approve."

Lord Falkingham was provoked at last. He piqued himself upon his taste in gastronomy, and did not at all like any one presuming to have a more refined palate than his own. Little more was said.

Blanche counted the moments till Lady Westhope called for her, with something of the same eagerness she would have done had it been De Molton, instead of De Molton's mother, whom she expected to meet.

To her great joy, the first person she saw on entering the room was Lady Cumberworth; and she felt, she knew not wherefore, that this evening was big with events of the utmost importance.

CHAPTER XI.

So, bounding o'er the billows, ride our fleets, To reach the land that owns the sacred name Of home; and high among the shrouds brave hearts Beat towards that home with strong tumultuous joy. Unpublished Poems.

Lady Blanche and Lady Cumberworth were at opposite ends of the room. They were not acquainted with each other. Rubber after rubber was played by the elder people; some of the younger won and lost considerable sums at écarté. The evening wore away; Blanche's high-wrought expectations seemed likely to end in nothing. "After all," she thought, "what did I expect? What was to happen? How foolish I have been! Lady Cumberworth does not even turn her head my way." She might have seen that a very charming young man was in deep conversation with the fourth Miss De Molton; and Lady Cumberworth would not have moved an inch, or even looked as if she could ever wish to move, as long as this conversation lasted. When the charming young man had, however, taken his leave to grace some more splendid assembly with his presence, Lady Cumberworth changed her position, and crossed to the side of the room where Lady Blanche stood. She was slightly acquainted with Lady Westhope, and seated herself by her. Blanche's heart beat quick—something would surely occur now.

Presently Lady Cumberworth begged Lady Westhope to introduce her to her cousin, Lady Blanche; which common-place ceremony was performed in the most common-place manner: but Lady Blanche's eyes were full of tears, and she blushed to her very temples. Lady Cumberworth saw that her darling son was as truly loved as ever, and, though she knew it would be reckoned imprudent, she could not help ardently wishing to let her know that De Molton was neither faithless nor indifferent. "After all," thought she, in the good-natured weakness of her heart, "it is evident they are both so deeply attached, that they never can be happy if they are separated. Lord Falkingham is rich—he has no son; if he chose to provide for Lady Blanche, he could make them tolerably comfortable. I must give the poor girl pleasure by letting her know what are Frank's feelings; and then he will be so very happy if I tell him I have seen his Blanche, and that she is constant!" She took the opportunity of Lady Westhope's changing her position to draw nearer to Lady Blanche. "Now," thought Blanche, "something is coming; Lady Cumberworth looks as if she did not wish my cousin to hear."

Lady Cumberworth asked her "if she had been at the last ball at M. House." Lady Blanche answered "Yes," and felt disappointed at so unmeaning a question.

Lady Cumberworth did not know how to open the subject. "Were you much amused?" she inquired.

"No! I did not think it was very gay," was Blanche's reply.

"I had a letter from my son in India the other day," continued Lady Cumberworth, while Lady Blanche's heart seemed almost to stop its pulsations from excess of emotion, "and he tells me the society of Calcutta is very dull. He is gone up the country now, on an expedition against some native chiefs."

Lady Blanche changed colour, and her eyes turned fearfully and inquiringly on Lady Cumberworth, who proceeded:—"He soothes my maternal fears by telling me that it is not a service of much danger; but he adds, that while there is any active service to be expected, he cannot, in honour, follow his own inclination, which would be to return to England instantly. He seems very much to regret having gone to India at all."

This was enough. Hope again danced in the heart of Lady Blanche; but she dared not raise her eyes from the ground; she did not utter—she could not think of anything which would not too openly commit her to a person who was, in fact, a stranger. But Lady Cumberworth saw enough to convince her that Frank's devotion was amply requited, and she absolutely loved Lady Blanche. She was a kind, nay, a tender-hearted woman. She never could resist doing the thing which she saw wished by others, and many a lecture had she received from more sage and worldly matrons for allowing her daughters to flirt uselessly, and for permitting herself to be completely managed by them upon most subjects. Several very imprudent marriages had been in question for the girls, and had from her met with little discouragement. Fortunately Lord Cumberworth's heart was not so soft, while his head was somewhat harder.

From this time, whenever Lady Blanche and Lady Cumberworth met, a few words of cordial recognition passed between them. Lady Falkingham, to avoid the necessity of being introduced, was either affectedly engaged in earnest conversation with some one else, or statelily reared herself to her full height, her eyes looking over, or beyond, Lady Cumberworth. The greetings, consequently, became each evening shorter and more constrained; but still they were sufficient to keep Blanche's mind engaged with the idea of De Molton.

The letter which his mother wrote to him immediately after her conversation with Lady Blanche, found him one sultry day lying in his bungalow, exhausted both in body and mind. The expedition against the Pindarries was over. He had distinguished himself by his eager and ardent courage, and his previous study of the history and nature of the country had enabled him to be of essential service to his commanding officer. The novelty and excitement of this desultory warfare had assisted to divert his thoughts from dwelling exclusively on the subject of his unfortunate attachment; but that excitement was over. The regiment was at present established in bungalows, near the borders of the British possessions, and removed to a great distance from any European society.

The weather was so oppressively hot, that, except for some hours about sunrise, and for a few more in the evening, it was impossible that even any military duty could take place.

The intervening space of time was generally passed by the officers languidly stretched on mats, and gasping for breath. They were cut off from all communication with any of their countrymen, and the unhealthiness of the climate had wofully thinned the number of those who had originally formed their small society. The few books possessed by the party had been read and re-read a hundred times. An occasional tiger-hunt before daybreak,—the exhilarating intelligence of a crocodile having been seen on the bank of a neighbouring tank,—the punishment of some native discovered in one of the thefts, which were so often perpetrated and so seldom detected, or the death of another comrade,—were the only events which occurred to vary the monotony of De Molton's existence.

In the vacuity of such a life, the image of Blanche would rise before his mind, more beautiful, more fascinating than ever; and he would pass whole hours with his eyes fixed upon the blinds which the natives were constantly watering to preserve some freshness in the atmosphere, while his thoughts wandered far away from the melancholy and uninteresting sights around him, to the festive and brilliant saloons of Paris, or to the dimly-lighted stairs of the private-box entrance of Covent-Garden, or to the long dinner-table at Cransley, with the épergne and its projecting flowers,—or, dearer than all, to the library where he last beheld her,—where he caught the expression of her countenance when she said, "And do you then love me?"—to the library where she had uttered the few words which had changed the whole tenour of both their fates—"Why did you not tell me this sooner?"

He was feasting his memory on these precious recollections; he was wondering whether she still remembered him, whether he should ever return to England, whether he should find her free from any other engagement—whether there was a possibility that she might ever become his, or whether he was not flattering and deceiving himself in attaching so much importance to these few words;—when he was roused from his reveries by the arrival of despatches from Calcutta with English letters, and his eyes were greeted by the sight of many a well-known handwriting.

It is only those who have been in distant lands, far from all most dear to them, who can judge of the mingled emotions of joy and fear with which letters from home are received by the exile. The magic contained in that word Home!—the thousand tender, delightful, and painful feelings that crowd upon the soul! The anxiety with which the letters are hastily examined to see that they are not sealed with black,—the eagerness with which the one from the person nearest and dearest to the heart is selected from all the rest,—the sickening agitation with which it is torn open, and the nervous haste with which the eye glances to the top of the page to look for the accustomed "All well," and the glow of delight with which the comfortable words are hailed!

De Molton seized his mother's letter,—perused the assurances of the welfare of his father, his brothers, his sisters, his uncles, his aunts, his first cousins, and his second cousins! Nothing could be more satisfactory than the report his mother gave of every branch of the family, and yet he was not satisfied.

At length came the postscript; and there he found the name he had been longing to see. There he found that Blanche was still free and unfettered, that Blanche did not enjoy society, that Blanche still blushed when she heard his name.

His impatience to return home now exceeded all bounds. Two years had elapsed since he left England; there seemed little chance of any war in which his services would be useful to his country, or in which he could himself acquire fame.

He lost no time in negotiating his exchange into a regiment which was shortly to sail for his native land; and towards the end of the third spring from the time of his departure, he once more set foot on English ground, and hastened to his father's house, with all the trepidation and anxiety experienced by any one who arrives at a home from which the last intelligence is nearly a year old.

CHAPTER XII.

Love mocks all sorrows but his own, And damps each joy he does not yield. Unpublished Poems.

De Molton had the happiness of finding no chasm in the dear and well-known family circle. He could look round and meet the beaming, tearful, tender glance of his doting mother, the gay but kindly smile of his father, the affectionate countenances of his sisters; and he felt that the joy of reunion almost compensates for the pain of separation, when the return is not embittered by the absence of any familiar face.

Three years, however, had worked some changes in those around him. His mother was thinner, her eyes were dimmer, her nose appeared sharper, and she was altogether a smaller person than he had left her. His father was fatter, and his head more bald. His elder sister had acquired an air which bespoke the spinster of a certain age. His youngest sister was wonderfully improved: but it was Charlotte, the fourth, in whom he perceived the greatest alteration.

The very charming young man whose conversation Lady Cumberworth had been so unwilling to interrupt, had at length made his proposals; and Charlotte, whom her brother Frank remembered pale, and thin, and shy, and dull, was grown rosy and blooming, with a peculiarly expressive countenance, and singularly speaking eyes.

The moment De Molton could draw his mother aside, he questioned her concerning Lady Blanche; and from her he learned that the Falkinghams were still in London, that Lady Blanche was still unmarried, and that she was supposed to have lately refused a most excellent and worthy man.

De Molton's heart throbbed with joy which he did not attempt to conceal from his mother; but the very hope, to which, in her tenderness, she had not been able to resist ministering, alarmed her, now she witnessed its excess, and she began to remind her son how impossible it was that he should ever marry Lady Blanche, how improbable that the Falkinghams should ever consent to such an union, and, even should they not oppose it as strenuously as she anticipated, how impossible it was that he should by any means muster an income sufficient to provide against real, actual poverty.

But Lady Cumberworth's prudential reasonings came too late. Her son had made up his mind that honour and gratitude now demanded the same line of conduct as that prompted by inclination, and he resolved if, upon the first interview which he could obtain with Lady Blanche, he had reason to believe he still held the same place in her affections, that he would brave all the frowns of fortune, and gladly, gaily, gallantly encounter any degree of poverty, provided she were willing to share it with him: if she were not willing to do so, she could but refuse him.

In vain did Lady Cumberworth use every argument she might have recollected before she imprudently revived the hopes he had been attempting to crush. De Molton, when once he had taken a resolution, was immovable; and his mother, although frightened at what she had assisted to bring about, could not help loving him the better for his ardour, and her heart went with him, while she dreaded the reproaches of others for having fomented what she ought to have repressed.

De Molton left a card at Lord Falkingham's the day after his arrival. On returning from the morning drive, Blanche found it upon the table, and she could not entirely check a faint exclamation. Her mother looked at her with a stern and reproachful, but melancholy glance, which suddenly drove back the colour already mounting to her cheeks. She felt ready to faint; but she was ashamed to show such emotion before one whose feelings were so little in unison with her own, and by a strong effort she mastered herself. She would have given the world had Lady Falkingham spoken, even to reproach her. This chilling silence was more awful, more subduing, than any words which could be uttered.

She gladly seized the first excuse to retire to her own room, and there to enjoy the delight of finding that her lover was in England, safe, and faithful;—for she felt convinced he was faithful. She had seen Lady Cumberworth only two days before. He was not then arrived. His calling the very day after his return, before he had any printed cards (for his name was only written, and, as she thought, written with an unsteady hand), spoke volumes to her hopeful heart.

They dined out on that day; and, after their dinner, were to proceed to a party at which Blanche thought it possible she might meet the Cumberworths, and, consequently, De Molton.

If Lady Blanche's reputation for good manners had depended upon her conduct on that memorable day, she would certainly have been reckoned the least well-bred young lady who ever sat at "good men's feasts." Three times did the master of the house ask her to drink wine before she took any notice whatever of his request, and then she answered, "Mutton, if you please." The servants were repeatedly obliged to touch her sleeve with the silver dishes containing the entrées, before they could induce her to turn round; and her next neighbour gave up the point of leading her into anything like connected conversation; not, however, till he had made many fruitless attempts to do so; for there was an animation in her countenance, there was a fire in her eye, and a blushing consciousness pervading her whole demeanour, which convinced him it was not because she was either dull, or shy, or stupid, that it was impossible to excite or to interest her.

It was with infinite vexation that Lady Falkingham remarked all these symptoms. Not a word was spoken during their drive from the dinner to the party. She knew Blanche's frank nature, and she knew, if once the ice was broken, she would speak boldly and strongly all that Lady Falkingham least wished to hear.

When they entered the assembly, the room was not full, and Blanche at once saw that none of the Cumberworth family were there. Though she ardently desired to see De Molton, yet she almost dreaded it. So many eyes would be upon her, that she would willingly have postponed the long-wished-for moment of meeting.

The rooms began to fill. She fancied a likeness in the hair of this man, in the forehead of another: but no; when the crowd allowed her to see the rest of the face, it was not De Molton.

At length the door opened wide, and she heard announced in a loud voice, "Lady Cumberworth, the Miss De Moltons, and Captain De Molton."

Every thing swam before her eyes: she could scarcely distinguish Lady Cumberworth's delicate and fragile, though faded beauty, as she entered the apartment followed by three fine handsome girls, all taller and larger than their mother. Behind them all, she at length perceived the stately figure of De Molton; his face bronzed,—yes, and oldened too,—but there was the same look of feeling and of dignity, although he seemed to wish to glide unperceived into the room till his eager and inquiring glance had ascertained whether his long-loved Lady Blanche was present.

Their eyes met, and as instantly fell; but that one glance revealed to each that, although so long separated, time had worked no change in their feelings. In one second he was by her side—the crowd had again closed in—Lady Blanche was seated while most of those around were standing, and their meeting was more private than in many a less crowded apartment.

But Lady Falkingham was by her daughter's side; both felt her cold and searching eyes upon them, and both were unable to utter. Lady Falkingham, after a somewhat lofty recognition of De Molton, made nor sign nor movement which could encourage him to seat himself; and he stood before them, growing every moment more and more shy, and feeling himself more inconveniently tall than ever he did before.

Blanche, in a trembling voice, had asked him when he landed, and inquired whether his voyage had been prosperous, to which questions he had made some indistinct answers; when Lady Falkingham's attention being for a moment withdrawn by some one on the other side, he asked in a low voice whether he should find Lady Blanche at home the next morning? She answered "she hoped so."

"I must see you," he added; "but not here—not thus!" Lady Falkingham turned round, and he hurried away, leaving Blanche in a confused state of perfect happiness.

He mingled among the crowd, and was soon overpowered with greetings from numerous old acquaintances, and friendly congratulations upon his safe return; but Lady Blanche was aware that his eye still turned towards her, and that she was still in his thoughts.

She was romantic; her heart was formed for love; while, for nearly three years, her taste for the romantic, and the warmth of her attachment, had been nearly deprived of aliment. Since her last definitive conversation with Lord Glenrith, she had had no delicate distresses, no interesting persecutions, no occurrences of any kind. This very blank had, to a person of her disposition, been a greater trial than any more active trial would have been. Perhaps it was one which her constancy might not have stood, if her rejection of Lord Glenrith had not caused her pride, as well as her feelings, to be engaged in preserving an undeviating fidelity to her absent lover. Be that as it may, the pleasure of again knowing herself beloved, of again meeting eyes which beamed softly upon hers, of being once more engaged in all the pleasing agitations of a love-affair, was inexpressibly delightful.

De Molton, on his part, returned home intoxicated with the rapturous conviction that the beautiful, the admired Lady Blanche had for his sake rejected many of the best matches in England; that among all the temptations of the London world, and in spite of all the opposition of her parents, she had enshrined his image in her heart of hearts. The result was, that they were both desperately in love; and they both wondered how they had endured existence during their long and hopeless separation.

The next morning, De Molton called at an unusually early hour; but Lady Falkingham, as a measure of precaution, had ordered the servants to say—'not at home,' and he was refused admittance. He bit his lips, and retired from the door with a flushed brow, but a more lofty bearing even than usual. He returned home to indite a long and passionate epistle to Lady Blanche, as passionate as might be expected from a man who had loved long, fervently and hopelessly; who felt himself presumptuous in offering himself, yet was conscious that his effusions would not meet a cold and disdainful eye, but that they were addressed to one who fully returned his affection.

At the same time he wrote to Lord Falkingham, giving a true and undisguised account of his present situation and of his future prospects; both of which were, it must be confessed, as unpromising as can well be imagined. Yet, while he honestly detailed his own unworthiness to match with such a person as Lady Blanche, there was a proud humility pervading every line he wrote, which proved that, although on the score of fortune he owned himself her inferior, he felt conscious of being an honourable and high-minded man, her equal in birth and situation, and one who would not brook being treated with any want of consideration or respect.

Blanche received his letter with unalloyed delight. She read over and over again the glowing expressions of devotion it contained, and resolved that nothing short of the positive commands of both parents should prevent her returning such an answer as might reward De Molton for all he had suffered on her account.

With his letter in her hand, she hastened to her father's study, in order to open the subject to him before her mother had had an opportunity of influencing him against her wishes.

"Papa," she said, "I have had a letter!"

"So have I, my dear!" answered Lord Falkingham, who was sitting in his leathern arm-chair, one foot on the fender, the other on a bar of the grate, with one hand holding the open letter, with the other stroking his eye-brows, as he often did when thinking deeply and unpleasantly.

"Papa, mine is from Captain De Molton," and she coloured a little,—but it was only a little; for she was resolved, and not trembling. She knew her father was aware of her attachment; and she did not experience the confusion attendant on the first confession of a budding preference.

"So is mine," rejoined Lord Falkingham, "and very distressing it is. Take it and read it, my dear Blanche, and you will perceive that, knowing as I do how completely you return Captain De Molton's affection, it is a communication which must exceedingly distress a father's feelings!"

Blanche's countenance fell: she seized the letter; she fancied there must be some difficulty, some objection on his part, to which he had not alluded in his letter to her, and she devoured each line with her eyes, dwelling with delight upon the expressions of devotion to herself, on the impossibility he had experienced to drive her from his mind; she admired the noble pride which pervaded the whole; she fully appreciated the candour with which he entered upon the subject of his poverty; and quickly glancing over the sums specified as his younger brother's fortune, the amount of his pay, &c., as topics in which she had no interest, and which were "papa's affair," she returned the letter to her father with a pleased and animated countenance. "What a beautiful letter, papa! There is nobody the least like him; nobody so noble, so true, so constant!" and she clasped her hands earnestly; "and I know, papa, you value such qualities a thousand times more than riches!"

"Yes, my child, more than riches; but they will not do instead of a competency. You have been brought up in luxury, and you are very little calculated to make a poor man's wife."

"Oh, papa! you know that Lord Glenrith's splendour did not gratify me the least. You know how indifferent I was to the diamonds; that I never felt the least wish for his wife's beautiful trousseau, which all the world was admiring; nor for the long-tailed roan horses; nor for anything of the sort. I could be happy without those things; but, papa, I could not—no, I could not live with a husband I did not love:" she spoke with strong emotion: "and I never shall love any one except Captain De Molton. So, if you forbid me to think of him, you may rest assured I shall never marry as long as I live. I have proved this is not a girlish fancy. It may be a first love; but it is not the contemptible first love of every young lady which you and mamma despise so much."

"Would to Heaven it were!" exclaimed Lord Falkingham. "Blanche, you make me very unhappy, for I see nothing before you but a choice of evils; no happiness, or much unhappiness."

"No, papa! not unhappiness. People cannot be unhappy when they are truly attached, and when they are together. And indeed ours is a true attachment. It has stood the test of time and of absence. It has conquered all difficulties. If it was the passing fancy people can be laughed out of, I should have been cured long ago. If I could not forget Captain De Molton when I was uncertain whether he remembered me or not, shall I forget him now, when I find that, among strangers, in foreign lands, in another hemisphere, he has thought of me, and me only; when, added to my admiration of his character, I must feel gratitude for his constancy?"

"This is very perplexing," rejoined Lord Falkingham; "I wish the fellow was not so very poor. He is an honest, straightforward gentleman, though: he has no humbug about him: he does not try to make the best of himself."

Blanche smiled through her tears, and looked up at her father with such a proud exulting tenderness at hearing him speak in these terms of De Molton, that his heart was touched, and, kissing her forehead, he said, "Well, my child, I will do my best. If he can get his father to assist him, and if we can make up anything like an income——"

"Remember, I despise riches, dear papa; I hate the very name of money."

"Yes, my love, yes; and so do a great many other people, who want the things which cannot be got without money, as much as their neighbours do. Well! I will see De Molton; I will talk to him."

At this moment Lady Falkingham entered. Blanche felt a little alarmed at having first flown to her father in the tumult of her joy; but still she was glad her father was not to receive his first impressions upon the subject from her mother. Lady Falkingham looked surprised at finding father and daughter together, with evident traces of agitation visible on both their countenances. Lord Falkingham began:—

"My dear, I have just received this letter, and I have been talking to Blanche very seriously upon the subject."

Lady Blanche was grateful to her father for so wording his sentence that it might almost seem as if he had sent for her; for she now felt that Lady Falkingham might be hurt, and perhaps with some reason, at her first impulse having brought her to her father, rather than to her mother, upon such an occasion. Lord Falkingham dwelt upon the serious manner in which he had spoken to his daughter; for he knew his wife would disapprove of his having allowed her to hope there was any chance of his ultimate approbation.

Lady Falkingham took the letter, and after having perused its contents with an unmoved countenance, she returned it, merely saying,—

"I think Captain De Molton is as presumptuous a young man as I ever heard of. He cannot surely expect that Lady Blanche De Vaux is to follow him in the baggage-waggon."

The colour forsook Blanche's cheek, but the next moment it rushed again to her face, and her eyes flashed at hearing De Molton thus spoken of. The few words her father had said in approbation of his conduct had justified and sanctioned to her own mind her resolution to abide by him through all opposition. Her father thought him noble in soul, and worthy in character; he found no objection to him but the want of contemptible worldly advantages; and she felt it was both generous and consistent to persevere in her devotion.

Lord Falkingham, having once said he admired the manly candour of De Molton's letter, was not disposed to agree with his wife; and the severity of her remark made him adopt the side of the lovers more decidedly than he might otherwise have done. "Nay, my dear," he answered, "there is nothing presumptuous in the manner in which he offers himself. He speaks most humbly of his own situation."

"It is the pride that apes humility. The very fact of proposing, is presumption in itself."

"It might be, if he did not know that Blanche was in love with him; but as he cannot doubt that fact, I must say I think the young man has acted very properly in offering himself. We should think him cold and calculating if he did otherwise."

"Certainly, if a girl throws herself at a man's head, proclaiming her attachment to the sound of the trumpet, and making her belle passion the talk of the town, it alters the case. I once thought it impossible a daughter of mine should ever so degrade herself. But Blanche has long been beyond my control."

Blanche was so indignant for De Molton, that, although deeply hurt at what her mother said, she was not softened, and did not weep, as she would otherwise have done. She had always fancied that if Lady Falkingham had known more of De Molton, she would have perceived his superiority to the rest of mankind; that, like Lady Westhope, she would have admitted that he was formed to captivate the heart of woman, even while she condemned the marriage as imprudent: but now that her mother had read this touching and manly effusion, this epistle breathing the very soul of honour and of loyalty to the lady of his love, she was indeed astonished, disappointed, and mortified, at finding her still unmoved; and for a time her heart shut itself up from one parent, while it opened to the other.

"I think the best thing I can do," resumed Lord Falkingham, "is to have some conversation with Lord Cumberworth, and see whether it is possible to arrange anything."

"It is utterly impossible Lord Cumberworth can ever make Captain De Molton a fit match for Blanche."

"But the girl says she can never marry anybody she does not love, and that she can never love anybody except Captain De Molton."

"She has never tried," rejoined Lady Falkingham: "from the moment she so foolishly rejected Lord Glenrith she has wilfully fostered her silly predilection for this interesting penniless captain, though she has seen how miserable her infatuation has made me. If she had not nurtured it by every means in her power, it would have died away like other young ladies' first loves."

There was a contemptuous expression thrown into these last words, which roused all the heroine in Blanche.

"Mamma," she said, "I am very sorry I have made you unhappy; I am very sorry to have given my father any uneasiness; but it is not in my power to command my feelings. I can tell Captain De Molton that I will never marry him without your consent; but I can never cease to love him, nor can I ever love another. How can you say I have not tried to please you, and to obey you! Did I not accept Lord Glenrith, and have I ever ceased to repent having done so? If you command it, I will now refuse Captain De Molton; but when I do so, I cannot attempt to conceal from him that my affections are wholly his, that they have been his during three years of absence, and that they will be his as long as I live."

"You see, my dear, that you will not manage Blanche in this way. The truth is, the girl is desperately in love, and we must try to make the best of it."

Blanche was glad that her father at length treated her attachment with some respect, but she would greatly have preferred the phrase 'irrevocably attached,' to 'desperately in love.'

"Indeed, Lord Falkingham, if you encourage your daughter in these high-flown notions, there is no use in my interfering, and I must make up my mind to seeing her a beggar, and an unhappy beggar; for Blanche is not formed to struggle with poverty; she has been accustomed to every indulgence; every wish, every fancy has hitherto been gratified. No young lady thinks it more indispensable to be perfectly well dressed, no one is more alive to any want of refinement in those with whom she lives. I know my own child; she will never be happy in the style, and among the associates to whom she wilfully dooms herself."

Lady Falkingham wept, but her tears were not all tenderness; some anger, some mortification were mixed with the feeling which prompted them to flow.

Blanche felt all this, without knowing that she felt it, and was somewhat shocked at her own want of filial piety in not being more touched by the tears her mother shed over her.

This most unpleasant family colloquy ended by Lord Falkingham's writing to Lord Cumberworth to request an interview, and by the mother and daughter returning to the drawing-room, with less cordiality between them than is usual in modern days, when mothers are oftener over indulgent, than over severe.

CHAPTER XIII.

Je demeurai étourdie, muette, et confuse; ce qui étiat signe que j'étais charmée. Marivaux.

Blanche's life had not of late been a happy one, and in addition to the natural wish of being united to the object of her love, she experienced considerable anxiety to change her present mode of existence; and having candidly avowed to her parents that she would not attempt to conceal the state of her affections from De Molton, and having received from them no prohibition to answer his letter, she retired to her own room to indite a suitable reply.

She longed to be alone, and at length to communicate freely with the person who had so long been master of her affections. She spread the paper before her, she dipped the pen in the ink; and when she had thus prepared herself, she found herself totally at a loss what to say. She was going to write a love-letter:—how ought she to begin? She had written, "Dear Captain De Molton:" she thought it looked very common-place and cold; and she did not know how to proceed. It was true they had been long and faithfully attached, but they had seen very little of each other. Not more than half a dozen words of love had ever passed between them, and those had passed three years before, so that there were no habits of intimacy; and now it came to the point, she felt inexpressibly shy at the thoughts of confessing her love in words addressed to the object of it.

If a man is doubtful of the success of his suit, he should never propose by letter. It is very easy to write the kindest, the civilest, the prettiest, refusal in the world; whereas a gentle and good-natured, or a timid person, finds it always difficult to utter, in plain distinct words, to a man's face, "I do not like you; you are disagreeable to me." The hesitation produced by the difficulty of couching such sentiments in pretty language may be construed into encouragement: silence is proverbially consent; and a woman may easily become entangled, in cases where the feeling on her part does not amount to positive dislike.

Blanche's epistle would, to the eyes of the indifferent, have appeared a very stupid, ill-written letter. It was formal at first: as it proceeded it almost too plainly expressed the warmth of her attachment; she then professed her determination to abide by the decision of her parents. In short it was not consistent,—it was not in keeping; but De Molton thought it perfect. He perceived ardent feelings struggling with maiden modesty and filial obedience, and he thought the eloquence displayed in it might render it worthy a place among the effusions of a Sappho or an Heloise.

The next morning Lord Cumberworth waited upon Lord Falkingham. He did not like the idea of the marriage, for he feared he should be expected to make some sacrifices for his son's happiness, and he was not a man who was fond of making sacrifices. He had, however, an unfailing and excellent excuse for never doing anything he disliked, in the number of other sons and daughters who had an equal claim upon his parental care and tenderness,—a tenderness which consisted in imperturbable good humour, and in allowing them all the run of the house.

The two fathers were slightly acquainted; and Lord Cumberworth, seating himself with an easy air by the fire, rubbed his hands several times up and down his shins, and at length said with a half smile and a shake of the head, "My dear Lord, this is a sad business of my son's and your daughter's; I am very sorry for it, upon my soul!"

Lord Falkingham felt that he had more reason to regret it than Lord Cumberworth, inasmuch as Blanche would have twelve thousand pounds at his death, and De Molton would only come in for the eleventh part of fifty thousand pounds at his father's death; inasmuch as Lord Falkingham was an earl, and Lord Cumberworth only a baron. He looked a little awful, and replied,

"Your Lordship cannot regret the circumstance more than I do."

"I have done my utmost to prevent it; I have told him from his boyhood that a man is never undone till he is married. Just before he sailed, I said, 'Frank, my boy, remember peril by marriage is the worst peril a man can fall into.' But, as they say, every one must buy his own experience; and when young people have taken a fancy into their heads, we cannot preach them out of it. We cannot put old heads on young shoulders, as you have found with your daughter, my Lord."

Lord Falkingham did not half like hearing Lord Cumberworth speak as if Blanche was as resolute in her predilection as her lover was in his, though it might be perfectly true that she was so.

"My daughter places herself in my hands, and has no idea of disobeying my commands." Lord Cumberworth slightly elevated his eye-brows, and the expression of his countenance did not betoken that he participated in Lord Falkingham's reliance on his daughter's submission. "But as I know her happiness is deeply concerned in this affair, I am anxious to do every thing in my power to forward hers and Captain De Molton's wishes."

Lord Cumberworth's countenance brightened: he did not exactly know how strictly Lord Falkingham's property was entailed upon his nephew, and he drew his chair nearer to Lord Falkingham, hoping that his son was going to make a better match than he had been aware of.

"That is exactly what I say; as their happiness is concerned, poor young things, parents should strain a point, rather than see their children pine, and pine, as poor Lady Blanche has done."

This was unpleasant to Lord Falkingham's pride and his delicacy: he instinctively pushed his chair back as many inches as Lord Cumberworth had advanced his. The good-humoured, but unrefined father of De Molton was totally unsuspicious that he had at all offended, but on the contrary flattered himself he was cleverly pushing his son's interests. "After all, what do any of us wish but to see our children happy? I am sure there is nothing I would not do that was compatible with my means."

"You are aware," resumed Lord Falkingham, "that my estates are all entailed upon my nephew; but my personal property will be equally divided among my four daughters, so that I shall be able to leave to each twelve thousand pounds at my death. This sum I will give to Blanche upon her marriage; and if you will make up Captain De Molton's income equal to the interest of her fortune, I will consent to their union, although by so doing I believe I am acting the part of a weakly indulgent, rather than of a truly kind father."

Lord Cumberworth's countenance fell. He had imagined—he scarcely knew what; and although nothing could be more fair than Lord Falkingham's proposal, it fell infinitely short of what he had expected, and he found himself not only unwilling, but unable, to do what was required of him.

De Molton had hitherto lived upon his pay and an additional 100l. per annum from his father. Lord Cumberworth was very little prepared to make such an addition to the 100l. per annum, and replied evasively, "that he would do all in his power,—but that he had duties towards his other children,—that he could not exactly say,—that he would communicate with his man of business,—that his daughter Charlotte's marriage, and the expenses attendant upon it, did not render him just then very flush of money, &c. &c." In short, he took his leave, somewhat disappointed with Lord Falkingham, while the impression he left upon Lord Falkingham's mind was by no means a favourable one.

Meanwhile, Lady Cumberworth, who could not endure to witness the state of nervous excitement and agitation in which her darling Frank paced the floor of her boudoir, resolved she would herself seek Lady Falkingham. She felt sure she could so work upon her womanly and maternal feelings as to win her over to the side of the lovers. She accordingly ordered her carriage, and soon after Lord Cumberworth's return from his momentous interview with Lord Falkingham, she found herself at the same door.

She did not inquire if Lady Falkingham was at home, but sending in her card, she desired the servant to take it at once to his lady, and to ask if she could see her for a few minutes.

By this means she effected her entrance; but Lady Falkingham was exceedingly annoyed at what she deemed an unwarrantable intrusion, and was disposed to think Lady Cumberworth, who was the most humble and the meekest of her sex, a pushing, obtrusive person.

Lady Cumberworth was somewhat abashed when she entered; for although she had worked up her courage to take this step by reminding herself that Lady Falkingham was universally allowed to be a most exemplary mother, and that therefore she must surely understand, and sympathize with the maternal feelings of another, she could not quite shake off the impression produced by Lady Falkingham's constant avoidance of herself.

Lady Falkingham was alone, and received her with the most awful perfection of good-breeding. The gentle, the kind, the unsuspicious Lady Cumberworth felt chilled; but she thought of her son's care-worn face, and she found resolution to open the subject. "She was sure that Lady Falkingham's own tenderness for her daughter would plead her excuse for intruding upon her: that her son's peace of mind was so completely involved in the event which was then pending, that she could not withstand the temptation of seeking Lady Falkingham, and of pleading his cause. She was fully aware that her Frank was by no means worthy in point of fortune and situation to match with Lady Blanche; but that still, in point of character and disposition, he was so perfect, so kind—so dutiful a son! so affectionate a brother! so excellent in all the relationships of life!—that if personal qualities could make up for the absence of worldly advantages, he was not unworthy of any good fortune."

Lady Falkingham listened with stately politeness, and when Lady Cumberworth paused, she answered: "that she had no doubt his mother's account of his moral perfections was perfectly just, but she feared these qualities would not provide the conveniences of life. She regretted, as much as Lady Cumberworth herself could do, the necessity of attending to such paltry considerations; yet, as the world was now constituted, it was impossible to disregard them."