The Semi-Attached Couple.

"Not I, Mr. Douglas. How could I? They let me in, which was too unkind. I saw the whole family, father and mother, brother and sisters–the future bride and bridegroom. Such a tribe! and servants without end. How I detest walking up that great flight of steps at Eskdale Castle, with that regiment of footmen drawn up on each side of it; one looking more impertinent than the other!"

"There must be a frightful accumulation of impertinence before you reach the landing-place, my dear; for it is a long staircase."

"Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Douglas," said his wife, sharply. "I shan't go again in a hurry. That whole house is hateful to me: Lady Eskdale with her dawdling, languid manner, and her large shawl, and conceited cap; and that Lord Beaufort, with his black eyebrows and shining teeth. Lady Eskdale looked as old as the hills, with all that lace hanging about her face. She has grown excessively old, Mr. Douglas. I never saw anybody so altered."

"Did you think so, Anne? I thought her looking very handsome yesterday, when I met her in her pony carriage."

"Ah; that pony carriage; that is so like her nonsense. Pony carriages are the fashion, and she has taken to drive. I should not be the least surprised any day to hear that she had broken her neck. Why cannot she go out in her britzska, and be driven by her coachman? and as for looking handsome, it is not very likely that she should at her age. Lady Eskdale is as old as I am, Mr. Douglas."

"You don't say so," was again on the point of escaping Mr. Douglas's lips, and after a pause he bethought himself of the lovers as a safer topic than Lady Eskdale's beauty; he had tried that too often in his life. "Did you see Helen, my dear?"

"Oh! to be sure. She was sent for. 'Dear Love,' as Lady Eskdale drawled out, 'she is so happy; and you must see Teviot, he is such a darling; if he were my own son, I could not love him more.' So in they came, the dear love and the darling. You know how I hate those London sort of men, with their mustachios and chains and offensive waistcoats, and Lord Teviot is one of the worst specimens I ever saw of the kind–"

"And Helen?" again said Mr. Douglas.

"Oh, Helen!" said Mrs. Douglas, and then paused. She was in imminent peril of being forced to praise, but escaped with great adroitness. "Well, if Helen were not one of that family, I should not dislike her. She is civil enough, and promised to show the girls her trousseau; but she is altered too. I think her looking dreadfully old, Mr. Douglas."

"Old at eighteen, Anne! what wrinkled wretches we must be! Has Helen grown gray?"

"No; but you know what I mean: she looks so set-up, so fashioned. In short, it does not signify, but she is altered."

Mr. Douglas had his suspicions that Helen must have been looking beautiful, since even his wife could not detect, or at least specify, the faults that were to be found in her appearance. He had seldom seen her so much at fault for a criticism. Mrs. Douglas had never had the slightest pretensions to good looks; in fact, though it is wrong to say anything so ill-natured, she was excessively plain, always had been so, and had a soreness on the subject of beauty, that looked perhaps as like envy as any other quality.

As she had no hope of raising herself to the rank of a beauty, her only chance was bringing others down to her own level. "How old she is looking!"–"How she is altered!" were the expressions that invariably concluded Mrs. Douglas's comments on her acquaintances; and the prolonged absence of a friend was almost a pleasure to her, as it gave her the opportunity of saying after a first meeting, "How changed Mrs. So-and-so is! I should hardly have known her; but then, to be sure, I have not seen her for a year–or two years," etc.

People may go on talking for ever of the jealousies of pretty women; but for real genuine, hard-working envy there is nothing like an ugly woman with a taste for admiration. Her mortified vanity curdles into malevolence; and she calumniates where she cannot rival.

Mrs. Douglas had been an heiress, which perhaps accounted for Mr. Douglas having married her; but though no one could suppose that he married for love, he had been to her what is called a good husband. He let her have a reasonable share of her own way, and spend a reasonable portion of her own money; he abstained from all vivid admiration of beauty within her hearing; he had a great reliance on her judgment, and a high opinion of her talents; and though he was too good-hearted to hear without pain her sarcasms on almost all her acquaintance, he seldom irritated her by contradiction, but kept his own opinion with a quiet regret that his wife was so hard to please.

The Eskdales and Douglases had been near neighbours for many years, and had always been on sociable and sometimes intimate terms. Mrs. Douglas could almost have become attached to her neighbour, had it not been for the prolonged youthfulness of Lady Eskdale's appearance, and the uninterrupted and increasing prosperity of her family. The provocation grew too great for endurance. The ladies had become mothers at the same time, and the comparison of their babies, monthly nurses, and embroidered caps had been the commencement of their intimacy; then came the engagement of nursery governesses, and discussions on the comparative merits of Swiss bonnes, highly accomplished French governesses, poor clergyman's daughters, or respectable young, ignorant women. Then the respective right shoulders of Sophia Beaufort and Sarah Douglas took a fit of growing, without due regard to the stationary dispositions of the left.

There are two years in every woman's life in which the undue size of her right shoulder is the bane of her own life, and of everybody about her. Mrs. Douglas called constantly at Eskdale Castle to satisfy herself that Sophia was growing absolutely deformed; and Lady Eskdale owned she should fret dreadfully about her poor darling if she did not think Mrs. Douglas so much more to be pitied on her dear Sarah's account.

The girls grew up perfectly straight, of course.

This period of reclining boards and dumb-bells was the most flourishing age of the Eskdale and Douglas friendship. After that it gradually declined. There was a slight revival when the two ladies entered into a confederacy against an exorbitant drawing-master; but he was shortly reduced to terms; and when he had consented to walk fifteen miles, and give a lesson of two hours for fifteen shillings, instead of a guinea, all farther community of interests on the subject of accomplishments ceased. The Eskdales soon after received an accession of fortune, and passed a great part of each year in another county, and also in London. The Ladies Beaufort grew up, came out, were admired, and became what Mrs. Douglas called "disgustingly fine."

The Douglas family remained in the country, mixed more with their second grade of neighbours, in default of their great friends; and the Misses Douglas were, Lady Eskdale said, "the dearest, most amiable girls in the world"; she only wished they "dressed better, and that Lord Eskdale did not think them vulgar; but unfortunately their voices annoyed him, so that she could not ask them to dinner so often as she could like for dear Mrs. Douglas's sake."

Still a certain degree of intercourse was kept up. An occasional letter passed, and at last a dreadful blow fell on the unsuspecting Mrs. Douglas–an announcement from Lady Eskdale of the marriage of her eldest daughter. It began in the terms usually employed on such occasions,–"I cannot bear that my dear Mrs. Douglas should hear from anyone but myself, that my darling Sophia's fate is decided; and that in giving my precious child to Sir William Waldegrave, I feel no doubts," etc., etc. The remainder is easily imagined: high principles, good looks, long attachment–six weeks–worldly prosperity, mother's fears, these were the catchwords of the sentences. Mrs. Douglas wrote her congratulations, and kept her astonishment and comments for home consumption. Twelve months passed, and another letter arrived, but Mrs. Douglas was prepared for the worst this time, at least, she said she was; and that it would not surprise her at all if Amelia were going to be married. Again Lady Eskdale could not bear that Mrs. Douglas should hear from anybody but herself, that dearest Amelia was to marry Mr. Trevor; another delightful young man with still higher principles, more good looks, a still longer attachment–two months, at least–and the mother's fears, and the trousseau, and all the rest of it, followed in due order. The letter wound up with a gay assertion that little Eskdale Waldegrave was such a splendid child, that she forgave him for making her a grandmother at eight-and-thirty.

Mrs. Douglas read the communication in a tone expressive of extreme ill usage. Neither from herself nor from anyone else could Lady Eskdale hear that either of the Misses Douglas were about to be married. They had not even a disappointment to boast of, not a report about them to contradict, and Mrs. Douglas's chance of being a grandmother at all seemed hardly worth having. She began to rail against early marriages–hoped Mr. Trevor would help Amelia to play with her doll, and guessed that Sir William Waldegrave had repented long ago that he had not taken time to find out Sophia's temper before he married her.

There was only Helen left–Helen, so beautiful, so gentle, so light-hearted–the pride of her parents, the petted friend of her sisters, the idol of her brother, and loving as warmly as she was beloved. Yes, I knew Helen from her childhood, and had thought that such a gentle, gay creature could never be touched by the cares and griefs that fall on the common herd. "It was very much to the credit of my benevolence, though not of my judgment," as Sneer says. Why was she to escape? I do not wish to be cynical; but if a stone is thrown into our garden, is it not sure to knock off the head of our most valuable tulip? If a cup of coffee is to be spilled, does it not make a point of falling on our richest brocade gown? If we do lose our reticule, does not the misfortune occur on the only day on which we had left our purse in it? All these are well-known facts, and, by parity of reason, was it to be expected that anyone, so formed as Helen was to enjoy as well as to impart happiness, should escape the trials that ought to have fallen on the peevish and the disappointed–on me, for instance, or such as me?

Helen came out the year after her sister Amelia's marriage. "Lady Eskdale is so lucky–in fact, so clever–in marrying off her daughters, that it would not the least surprise me if she actually caught Lord Teviot for Lady Helen," was the spiteful prophecy of many who were trembling at the idea of its fulfillment. Their hopes and their fears were both confirmed. Lord Teviot, the great parti of the year, with five country houses–being four more than he could live in; with 120,000l. a year–being 30,000l. less than he could spend; with diamonds that had been collected by the ten last generations of Teviots, and a yacht that had been built by himself, with the rank of a marquess, and the good looks of the poorest of younger brothers–what could he want but a wife? Many people (himself among the rest) thought he was better without one; but he changed his mind the first time he saw Helen, and then it signified little whether other people changed theirs. He danced with her, evening after evening. He gave balls at Teviot House, breakfasts at Rose Bank, whitebait dinners on board the Sylph, and finally paid a morning visit at Lord Eskdale's at an unprecedentedly early hour. Mrs. Fitzroy Jones, who lived next door, and passed her life in an active supervision of all Eskdale proceedings, declared that his cabriolet waited two hours in the square, so she was sure he had proposed. Lady Bruce Gordon, who lived at the corner, asserted that she saw Lady Helen go out in the open carriage with her mother later in the afternoon, and that she looked as if she had cried her eyes quite out of her head (this was figurative); so she had no doubt that Lord Teviot had jilted her. But Mr. Elliot was looked upon as the highest authority, as he happened to be passing Lord Eskdale's door at half-past seven, and saw Lord Teviot go in, though he had ascertained that there was no other company expected. What did that mean?

The next day the marriage was declared. For the three following weeks Lord Eskdale's porter had a hard place of it. He said himself that it required two pair of hands to take in the notes and letters of congratulation, to say nothing of the interesting-looking parcels, wrapped in silver paper, that were sent by attached friends, and the boxes and baskets which arrived from distinguished milliners and jewellers.

At the end of the fourth week, Mrs. Fitzroy Jones and all the little Joneses, Lady B. Gordon and all the little Gordons, Mrs. Elliot and all the little Elliots, were drawn up at their respective windows, watching the packing of the huge waggons which were stationed at the Eskdale door, and reasoning themselves into a painful conviction of the melancholy fact that they were to be defrauded of a view of the wedding. Perhaps not, though. It may take place to-morrow. But, No! The next day brought the travelling carriages to the door. Mrs. Jones saw the family depart, then "turned with sickening soul within her gate," and said," I must say I think it very ill-natured not to have the wedding in town." Mrs. Douglas thought so too–or rather she thought it very ill-natured to have the wedding in her neighbourhood, not only forcing on her the sight of so much prosperity, but, by an unfortunate train of events, actually obliging her to form part of the show. Eliza Douglas was asked to be one of Lady Helen's bridesmaids.

CHAPTER II

HOWEVER, we have not come to the wedding-day yet. There was the usual difficulty about settlements which attends all marriages, whether there be any property to settle or not, and the delay gave the neighbourhood the full enjoyment of watching the Teviots in the interesting character of lovers; and nothing excites so much curiosity, or affords such a fine mark for criticism, as the conduct of any two individuals who are placed in that critical position. Mrs. Douglas, as we know, had given herself the advantage of a regular morning visit and a formal introduction to Lord Teviot, thereby acquiring a lawful right to make all her remarks by authority; and this visit was followed by an invitation from the Eskdales to dinner–the invitation including the two Misses Douglas as well as their father and mother. So the Douglases took very high ground on the great Teviot question.

The other neighbours had various degrees of good fortune. Mrs. Thompson, the curate's wife, had a very fair share of luck, considering, as she said, that she was sure to be looking the other way when anything worth seeing was going on. But she had just called in at South Lodge with a tract, when she saw several ladies and gentlemen riding up the avenue, and she understood the happy pair were of the party; so that though she could not distinguish who was who, yet she had a right to say she had seen "the marquess." She really thought those large parties must prevent young people from making acquaintance: they ought to be left more to themselves. Mrs. Birkett, the apothecary's wife, had had greater good fortune: she had crossed in her walk an open part of the pleasure-ground, and she had seen Lady Helen sketching, and a tall, dark-looking young gentleman standing by her. "A most noble-looking young man is the marquess–he reminds me of what Mr. Birkett's cousin Sir Simon was when he was young. I own I was a little surprised–I won't say shocked–to see his lordship and her ladyship without a chaperon, but in high life I fancy there is a great deal more ease than we should think right. But I can't say I approve of young engaged people being left so much to themselves. However, I am glad I have seen them; and I was much nearer to them than Mrs. Thompson was."

However fortunate these two ladies had been, Sunday was the day that was looked to for the general gratification of public curiosity, and the church had not been so well attended for months as it was on that particular day. It was obvious to the whole neighbourhood that the Eskdales wished to avoid observation by coming early to church, for they arrived before the end of the first lesson–a most unusual degree of punctuality; but this sign of timidity did not prevent the whole congregation from fixing their eyes intently on the tall young man who followed Lord Eskdale into church, and who took a seat opposite to Lady Helen in the pew. Never was the congregation so alert in standing up at the proper opportunities. Old Mr. Marlow, a martyr to rheumatic gout, and Mrs. Greenland, who had, for two years, made her stiff knee an excuse for sitting down during the whole of the service, were both on their legs before the psalm was given out. The clerk, who had a passion for his own singing, saw his advantages, and gave out five verses of a hymn, with repetition of the two last lines of each verse. Seven verses and a half! but nobody thought it a note too long. Moreover, Lady Helen dropped her prayer-book, and the tall young man picked it up for her. Such an incident! Mrs. Thompson, as usual, missed it, because she was unluckily tying her little girl's bonnet-strings. There was a rush into the churchyard the moment the sermon was over, to which nobody had attended, except those who were watching for "Lastly." And when Lady Helen came out, leaning on her father's arm, and Lady Eskdale followed, attended by the tall young man, and when they all bowed and curtsied, and got into the open carriage, the father and mother sitting forwards and the young people opposite to them, and when Lord Eskdale took off his black hat and bowed on one side, and the young man took off his gray hat and bowed on the other, nothing could exceed the gratification of the assembly. Lord Teviot was exactly what they expected, so very distinguished and so good-looking. Some thought him too attentive to his prayers for a man in love, and some thought him too attentive to Lady Helen for a man in church; but eventually the two factions joined, and thought him simply very attentive. They all saw that Lady Helen was very fond of him, and nobody could be surprised at that. It was a most satisfactory Sunday; and as most of them were addicted to the immoral practice of Sunday letter-writing, the observations of the morning were reduced to writing in the evening, and sent off to various parts of England on Monday morning. But hardly had the post gone out, when an alarming report arose that the real, genuine Lord Teviot had gone up to town on Saturday, and that the "observed of all observers" was an architect come down to complete the statue gallery. It was too true: the reaction was frightful, and, as usual in all cases of reaction, the odium fell on the wrong man. The architect, who was in fact an awkward, ungainly concern, remained in possession of distinguished looks, and with the glory of being very attentive to Lady Helen; and it was generally asserted that Lord Teviot kept out of the way–as he was quite aware of being ill-looking; that he was not attached in the smallest degree to Lady Helen, or he would not have gone to London; and that he was very unprincipled, not to say an atheist, or he would have gone to church.

CHAPTER III

THE day of the wedding drew near. The whole Eskdale family, with the exception of the Waldegraves, were assembled for the ceremony. Lady Amelia Trevor and Helen had always been friends as well as sisters. There was a difference of little more than a year in their ages, and on every point of amusement or interest–in their childish griefs, or in their youthful pleasures–their trust and confidence in each other had been unbounded. Amelia's marriage had made no difference in their relations to each other, for Helen liked Mr. Trevor, and he admired her with all Amelia's enthusiasm, and loved her with all Amelia's fondness.

Amelia was in ecstasies on her arrival at Eskdale. She thought Lord Teviot charming. Helen had never looked so beautiful. Everybody ought to marry–a married life was so happy; and then it was so lucky that she and Mr. Trevor had brought a set of emeralds for Helen, for the Waldegraves had sent a set of pearls, and she had once thought of pearls herself. Lord Teviot was quite as desperately in love as she had expected–just what he ought to be; in short, she worked herself up into such a state of prosperous cheerfulness, that when she went into Helen's room, three days before the appointed wedding, she was as childishly gay as when she had run into it five years before, with tidings of a whole holiday, or a child's ball, and now, to her utter discomfiture, she found Helen in tears.

"Helen, my darling, what is the matter? what is it, love? Are you tired with your long ride? I said you would be."

"No, Amy, I am not tired; we did not ride far," said Helen, trying to stifle her tears. "Have you and Alfred been out?"

"Yes–no. Oh! I do not know; never mind where we went, but tell me what is the matter. Do, dear Nell. Don't you remember how in former days I always used to tease you out of all your secrets? and you must not cry without telling me why."

"I do not know that I can tell you, dear; perhaps I do not know myself. I dare say I am tired, I often feel so now; and then I have so much to think of"; and she leant her head on her hand with a look of painful weariness.

"Yes, so you have, but they are happy thoughts too, Helen; in most respects. Oh, dear me! how well I remember the week before my marriage, going to my own room and sitting down comfortably in my arm-chair, just as you are now, and thinking I would be thoroughly unhappy about leaving dear papa and mamma, and you and Beaufort, and I meant to cry about it, and to make a complete victim of myself. And at the end of half an hour I found I had been thinking of nothing but dear Alfred, and wondering whether there ever had been in the world any creature so happy as I was–"

"And yet you were leaving home!"

"Yes, but not for ever," said Amelia, laughing; "only for three weeks, I knew I should come back, and bring dear Alfred with me; and so will you, and bring dear Teviot. Now, Helen, do not look so deplorable; nobody can possibly pity you, I assure you."

"No, I suppose not," said Helen, in a low tone.

"Alfred and I have settled to remain here till you come back from your great castle in the north," said Amelia, determined to talk away Helen's low spirits. "So you need not fret about mamma's loneliness; and besides, I never saw her so pleased with anything as she is with your marriage. I had a horrible fit of jealousy yesterday, thinking poor Alfred was neglected–I may say, quite cut out; but mamma has taken a little more notice of him to-day. Oh, dear! what fun it will be when we visit you in your own house! I hear it is an actual palace. Alfred went there once for some shooting when he was a boy; and then I have never told you that I like Lord Teviot so much."

Helen raised her head, but her lips quivered, and she leaned back again without speaking.

"I was so very anxious to see him, and to make acquaintance with him; because, you know, if I had not liked him, life would not have been worth having. You would have found it out, and would have thrown me off at once as your friend."

"Never, never!" said Helen; "I am sure I never should."

"Oh yes, you would, dear; and you ought. You will soon see how naturally one acquires a distaste for any ill-judging individual who presumes not to like one's husband. You would give us all up in a moment for Lord Teviot's sake, if we–"

"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Helen, clasping her hands; "I shall cling to you all more than ever, and none of you must give me up. Amelia, promise to be kind to me, to love me more than ever when I am married; indeed, indeed, I shall want your love"; and she threw her arms round Amelia's neck, and sobbed violently.

"Why now, darling, how silly this is! How can I love you more than I do? You are nervous and tired, and just see what a state you have put us into: only look at me, with my eyes as red as ferrets', and you know how I hate to cry. Now we must not have any more of this nonsense. There, you lie down on this sofa, and I will sit at this window, and pretend to read, while I cool my eyes. I won't speak another word; and if you fall asleep, so much the better, you will wake up quite in spirits again."

Helen threw her handkerchief over her eyes, and, leaning back on the sofa, seemed inclined to follow her sister's advice. Her sobs ceased; and Amelia sat quietly at the window, in the fond hope that her directions were all obeyed and that Helen was asleep.

In half an hour she saw Lord Teviot walking on the terrace below; he stopped under the window, and looked up at her.

"Is Helen there?" he said.

Amelia leaned forward, and, putting her finger to her lips, made signs to him to be silent.

"What is the matter? Is Helen not well, Lady Amelia?" he said, in a tone of vexation.

"Oh! bless the man," murmured Amelia, "why can't he hold his tongue? he will wake her. She's asleep–asleep, I tell you," putting her head quite out of the window, and speaking in a loud whisper.

"Who is it that you are talking to?" said Helen.

"There now, Lord Teviot, you have woke her. I told you how it would be, only nobody ever can be quiet. She was tired with that hot ride you took her."

"Well, ask her, Lady Amelia, if she will not come and sit in the shade a little while, she will find it much pleasanter than when we were riding."

"No; she says she is sorry, but she must keep quiet till dinner-time."

"Did you tell her it would be pleasanter?"

"Yes; but she don't seem to believe it."

"Ask her if I may come and visit her in her sitting-room."

"No; she says you are very good, but she does not with you to take that trouble. There, Helen, he is gone; but why would not you let him come here? I wish you had seen him, and then you could not have said no. I cannot imagine how you could have been so unkind to such a héros de roman looking man. Whether he is more like Lord Byron, or the superbe Orosmane, or Sir Philip Sydney, or Alcibiades, I cannot decide, never having seen any of them; but he certainly is the most distinguished-looking individual I ever saw. Oh! but Helen," she said as she passed the dressing-table, "who gave you this splendid brooch?"

"Lord Teviot; he gave it to me this morning."

"Well, I never saw such lovely rubies–no, never. And you would not even come to the window to look at the man who gave you such a brooch, and who is so extremely well worth looking at, as I tell you he is. What an unfeeling little wretch! Well, good-bye, darling, you are better now, so I will leave you."

"No, don't leave me; I am better now, as you say, and I should like to have a little talk. What was it, Amelia, that you were saying about mamma–that she is pleased with my marriage?"

"Oh! delighted with it; she said that she was the happiest mother in the world, and that she was sure it had made dear papa ten years younger."

"And yet, if they had been told only six weeks ago that I was to leave them–"

"Ah! but, my dear, if it is your happiness."

"Yes, if: what a frightful word that if is, Amelia!" said Helen, turning to the table so that her sister could not see her face. "Did it ever occur to you before your marriage, that if your engagement were broken off–"

"Oh no, dear, I never thought of such an impossibility. I should have died of it; besides, Alfred was naturally too much charmed with the precious treasure he had gained to think of throwing it away–he is much too sensible for that."

"Oh! I did not think of his changing his mind; but if you had found out that you did not love him as much as he expected–that he had some great fault, a bad temper, for instance, would you have broken off your engagement? Would you, Amelia?"

"No, decidedly not; I should have married him, bad temper and all, and have turned it into a good one; I could never have given him up. Fancy me going through life without Alfred. How can you put such shocking ideas into my head? Only think of the sin of breaking one's promise, and of the poor man's mortification, and of what papa and mamma would have said; and of the explanations and the disgrace of the whole business. I should have gone mad. I should have shut myself up in a nunnery, if I could have found one. I never could have shown my face again. My dear, what could have put such a notion into your head?"

"Oh, nothing," said Helen; "'it is talking for mere talking sake,' as our governess used to say."

"Helen," said Amelia, after a pause, "you have frightened me; but I see now how it is. I suspect that you and Lord Teviot have had some little quarrel to-day; indeed, I am sure of it. You were fretting about it when I came in, and he was evidently very anxious to make it up when he came under the window. Dearest Nell, a slight unmeaning quarrel may be an amusing little incident, but it should not last half an hour, and it should not happen more than once. Be kind to him, dear, when you come down to dinner. You have had your fit of dignity, and the pleasure of putting yourself rather in the wrong; and now make it up, and let it be peace and happiness for the rest of your life." She ran out of the room, thinking she had said enough, only adding as she placed the brooch in Helen's hands, "There, you ungracious little thing. Look and repent."

"Ay, repent indeed," said Helen, throwing it from her; "and unless I were as cold and as hard as those stones, how can I but repent? She will not understand me; she will not help me; and how can she unless I had courage to tell her all? Oh! but the disgrace would, as she says, be too great; and then papa and mamma, and the day fixed, and so near. Oh! what shall I do!

The dressing-bell rang, so it was clear that the first thing to be done was to dress for dinner; and happy for us is it that these ordinary domestic habits of life watch over its imaginative distresses with the sagacity and decision of sheep dogs, and bark and worry them till they fall into the proper path of the flock.

CHAPTER IV

THIS was the grand day of the Douglas dinner. They arrived. Mr. Douglas prepared to dine and to talk, and to be thankful if the cookery and conversation were good; Mrs. Douglas, perfectly ready and able to detect what might be amiss, and to say what would be disagreeable; and the girls, charmed with the new gowns that had been manufactured in honour of the occasion, and full of mysterious curiosity about Lord Teviot, and of real affectionate interest in Lady Helen.

Lord and Lady Eskdale and most of the guests were assembled. Amelia, for a wonder, was ready in good time; she was anxious to see her sister and Lord Teviot meet, and had taken her station near the door on purpose. Helen appeared soon after the arrival of the Douglas family, and received the friendly greeting of Mr. Douglas, and the meaning pressure of his daughters' hands, with the kindest cordiality. She looked flushed and excited when first she entered, but after a glance round the room her agitation subsided, and it was evidently a relief to her to see that Lord Teviot was not there. Dinner was announced, and he had not appeared.

"Are we to wait for him, Helen?" said Lord Eskdale, with a smile.

"Oh no, papa. Mr. Douglas, you must take pity on me. Do you remember the first day I dined down, how you protected me in to dinner?"

The whole party marshalled themselves, and went on to the dining-room.

"How disappointing!" whispered Sarah to Eliza; "I wanted to see them together."

Helen always sat on one side of her father, whatever guests there might be; and Amelia observed with pain the earnestness with which she tried to induce Mr. Douglas to take the chair next to her on the other side; but he laughed and left her, telling her he preferred going of his own accord to being sent away. Lord Teviot came in just as the soup and fish were taken away. He took his accustomed place, but without looking at Helen, and not till the second course came did any conversation pass between them, and then it seemed to be short and constrained; but she talked to her father in apparently good spirits. Sarah and Eliza looked at each other, and wondered whether that would be the right manner to adopt under similar circumstances. The ladies rose to retire. Helen had dropped her bracelet. Lord Teviot stooped for it, but with an air of such unwillingness that Helen said, "Pray do not give yourself so much trouble, I will send for it presently."

"As you please," he answered coldly, and stepped back to let her pass.

"Stay, Nell," said Trevor, "I will find it; Amelia has brought me into excellent training. I am quite in the habit of groping about under the table for all the things she drops. I am much more pliable than Teviot."

"That you are," said Helen; "thank you, dear Alfred"; and without another look at Lord Teviot she passed on.

Amelia did not at all like the aspect of affairs, but consoled herself with the hope that it was a mere lovers' quarrel, and would end in a burst of sentiment; and in the meantime she was glad to divert Mrs. Douglas's attention by showing her Helen's trousseau. It was indeed "showing her eyes to grieve her heart"; but if her saturnine dispositions could exhaust themselves on the senseless gowns and the poor dumb trinkets, it would be better than allowing her to make remarks on more sensitive victims. Sarah and Eliza were in good-natured rapture with the whole show–from the Brussels lace wedding-gown to the very last dozen of embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, and they were quite sorry when a summons to coffee took them back to the drawing-room.

"Thirty morning gowns!" whispered Sarah, as they went down stairs. "The idea of a new gown every day for a month. Now I call that real happiness."

"Not such real, lasting happiness," answered Eliza, half laughing, "as eighteen bracelets, and then those heaps of gloves and handkerchiefs. A quarter of them, Sarah, would free our miserable allowances from embarrassments for life."

"It must be very pleasant to be so rich–"

"And to be going to be married," said Eliza; and this sage conclusion brought them to the drawing-room door.

Helen would perhaps have given them a different opinion. She began to doubt much whether it were happiness, or anything like it, to be going to be married. She had accepted Lord Teviot on an acquaintance of very few weeks, and that carried on solely in a ball-room or at a breakfast. She knew that her sisters had married in the same way, and were very happy. No one, not even her mother, had seemed to doubt for a moment that Lord Teviot's proposal was to be accepted. And except some slight misgivings as to whether she liked him as much as Amelia had liked Mr. Trevor, she herself had had no distrust as to her future prospects till she came into the country. Then she found every day some fresh cause to doubt whether she were as happy, engaged to Lord Teviot, as she was before she had ever seen him. He was always quarrelling with her–at least, so she thought; but the real truth was, that he was desperately in love, and she was not; that he was a man of strong feelings and exacting habits, and with considerable knowledge of the world; and that she was timid and gentle, unused to any violence of manner or language, and unequal to cope with it. He alarmed her, first by the eagerness with which he poured out his affection, and then by the bitterness of his reproaches because, as he averred, it was not returned.

She tried to satisfy him; but when he had frightened away her playfulness, he had deprived her of her greatest charm, and she herself felt that her manner became daily colder and more repulsive. His prediction that she would be happier anywhere than with him seemed likely, by repetition, to insure its own fulfilment. Even their reconciliations–for what is the use of a quarrel but to bring on a reconciliation?–were unsatisfactory. She wished that he loved her less, or would say less about it; and he thought that the gentle willingness with which she met his excuses was only a fresh proof that his love or his anger were equally matters of indifference to her. No French actor with a broken voice, quivering hands, a stride, and a shrug, could have given half the emphasis to the sentiment, J' aimerais mieux être haï qu' aimé faiblement, than Lord Teviot did to the upbraidings with which he diversified the monotony of love-making. This very morning he had persuaded himself that Helen would have preferred riding with her brother. She found the sun hot, and proposed to return. This was a fresh offence, and he declared that it was only a desire to avoid him that made her wish to shorten their ride. Then he worked himself up by a repetition of his wrongs to a degree of violence that would have surprised himself at another moment. At first she laughed at his accusations, then she was shocked at his bitterness, and at last, gay and giddy as she was, her spirits gave way; and when he helped her to dismount from her horse, he saw that her cheeks were pale, and that big tears were rolling over them. To his entreaties that she would stay only five minutes more with him, she shook her head and said faintly, "No, I am too tired now, I can bear no more"; and as she left him the thought rushed into her mind, "Perhaps he is right. I do not love him as I ought; it is not yet too late."

It was in this mood that Amelia found her. One word of encouragement would have given her spirit to break off her marriage; but Amelia, who had been in love with Mr. Trevor from the first hour of their acquaintance down to the present speaking, could not realize her sister's feelings, and gave the only advice that she would herself have taken in Helen's position. Helen went down to dinner irresolute. Nothing in Lord Teviot's manner tended to reconcile her to him; and she thought that in the course of the evening she would bravely seek him to dissolve their engagement. But perhaps he saw something in her ease of manner that alarmed him: dinner, that useful counsellor, had smoothed his ruffled temper; perhaps the instinct that always leads a man to foresee when an impending explanation is not likely to end in his favour prompted him to divine that he should have the worse of this. And the result was, that when he came into the drawing-room, and saw Helen conversing gaily with Mrs. Douglas, he drew quietly towards her, and sat down, looking very penitent, on a wretched, hard, cane chair with a straight back, immediately behind her. Gradually he edged himself into the conversation, took an opportunity of throwing Helen's work on the floor, partly that he might stoop for it with all Trevor's pliability, and partly that in the course of that process he might contrive to touch with his lips Helen's hand, unperceived even by the sharp-eyed Mrs. Douglas; and that amende being made, he took his accustomed place on the sofa by her side, and was so gentle and so pleasant that her resentment faded gradually away, and all her magnanimous resolutions were forgotten. Her misgivings as to the degree of affection she felt for him remained; but she supposed Amelia was right: it would be shocking to break her promise. And, in short, she was too young to act for herself, and too much devoted to her parents to ask them to do for her what she knew would give them pain; and so the evening ended peacefully.

CHAPTER V

THE Douglases rolled home in their family coach.

"Pray, may I ask, Mr. Douglas, if you thought that a pleasant dinner?" said his wife in an insidious tone.

"Yes, my dear, I did indeed; good cookery, pleasant company, and very pretty women–I ask nothing more. Ought not I to have liked it?"

"Oh dear, yes! I am glad you did; easily pleased, that's all I can say. Perhaps, too, you thought your beauty, Lady Eskdale, looked well in that floppety cap?"

"I have not the good fortune to know what a floppety cap is, my dear; but I thought she looked very handsome, even by the side of those two pretty daughters of hers."

"Well, it is to me the strangest delusion of yours, that about the beauty of the Eskdales. Perhaps, too, in the extremity of your benevolence, you think Lord Teviot is very much in love with Helen?"

"Is not he? I took it for granted that he was, because, in the first place, most men who saw her would be; and in the next, because I presume he would not marry her if he were not."

"What his reasons may be for marrying her I do not know; but I never saw a more unpromising-looking business than that. He seems to me to be about the most ill-tempered, disagreeable, odious young man I ever saw; and he does not care two straws for Helen. Girls, I am sure you must have observed it: he never spoke to her at dinner, and I am convinced she is very unhappy."

"Oh, mamma, do you think so?" said Eliza. "I think Helen, when she is married, will be just like Lady Amelia; and I am sure she is happy enough."

"She carries it off very well," said Mrs. Douglas; "but in my humble opinion Mr. Trevor is rather a poor creature, and Amelia is sharp enough to find it out. After all the fuss that has been made about Lady Eskdale's luck in the marriage of her daughters, I see nothing in it. The Waldegraves are never here, to begin with."

"Oh, because he was obliged to go to Paris about that money of his uncle's."

"Ah! so they say; I never believe those stories of people going rambling about in search of their uncle's money. I suspect he is very unsteady, and Sophia's temper must be a trying one, I am sure; and probably they do not wish the Eskdales to see how unhappy they are. So much for one daughter. Then Amelia is married to a man who looks, I think, though nobody will agree with me, like a fool, and moreover his father is alive, and may live for ages, or marry again, and have heaps of children; so in a worldly point of view that is a deplorable marriage."

"My dear, how you do run on imagining grievances! The Trevors are very well off."

"How can you know, Mr. Douglas? Nobody who has a father alive ever is well off; and besides, they are very extravagant; you will see that they will get into difficulties; and then Helen, we were told that hers was to be a model marriage–the greatest piece of luck that ever was known. Now I am not easily taken in, but I really did expect to see a tolerable chance of happiness for that poor girl; and there she is going to be the wife of that horrid savage."

"Oh, mamma! he does not look like a savage."

"No, my dear, savages would not be so affected; but I was alluding to his temper, which is evidently a savage temper. I am sorry for it, for Helen is rather a favourite of mine, and I see she will lead a wretched life; and taking all these circumstances together, I cannot wonder that with all this care and anxiety on her mind Lady Eskdale looks as old and haggard as she does."

"Well, Anne, you have settled that family thoroughly," said Mr. Douglas; "nobody can accuse you of too much benevolence in your opinions."

"No, my dear, I don't set up for that sort of character, because I happen to see things as they really are, and I am never taken in by the cant of prosperity, and that sort of pretension. So really, without offence, I must be allowed to observe that I do not envy Lady Eskdale her sons-in-law; and that I hope we shall not be asked to dine there any more this year, that is all."

And on this conclusion the family rested till they arrived at home.

CHAPTER VI

"I WISH mamma did not hate dining at Eskdale Castle," said Eliza to her sister when they went to their own room; "and I wish they would ask us a little oftener; I think it is very good fun going there."

"Do you?" said Sarah, in an absent tone.

"Yes I like their large rooms, and the armchairs, and the sofas, and the sort of smell of wealth that there is about the house. And the dinner itself is so good. How lucky it is that mamma does not hear me! It is the sort of thing she would hate me to say; but the soup was perfectly delicious, so unlike our dull Scotch broth; only I wish it had not been spilt on my new gown, and on the front breadth too; just look, Sarah. What a pity! and it was all the fault of the servant. Those great tall footmen frighten me out of my senses, and I wish they would not go on offering one all the dishes, it is so tiresome; I go on saying 'No, no, no,' all dinner-time. Lord Beaufort said I ate nothing."

"Ah, by the by, miss," said Sarah, rousing up, "how came you to contrive to sit by Lord Beaufort? You are always taking the best places, and as I am the eldest, I ought to have my choice sometimes."

"Yes, but as I am the youngest, other people have their choice," said Eliza, laughing. "However, you need not mind it this time, Sarah. Lord Beaufort was obliged to take the only place that was vacant, because he did not come in, you know, till dinner was half over, and so that was the reason why he sat by me. He spoke to me three times, and asked me to have some wine. Did you observe his waistcoat, Sarah? 'such a love!' as Lady Eskdale would say."

"How you do run on, Eliza! I wish you would let me have the looking-glass for one minute, if you have looked at yourself enough."

"Law, my dear, you may have it for a week if you like. I was only taking a last fond look at this dear gown, before I take it off. I shan't have an opportunity, probably, of wearing it again for the next six months; not that I shall actually have any great pleasure in it again, because of those grease spots. I wish that servant had not done it. So awkward and provoking! However, I hope we shall dine there again some day or another."

"And I hope we never shall as long as we live," said Sarah, emphatically. She had taken one look at herself in the glass, and then threw herself into a chair with an air of deep despondency.

"Never dine there again as long as we live!" repeated Eliza. "Why, Sarah, what is the matter? You can't be well. What can have happened?"

"Something dreadful," said Sarah, in a deep tone.

"Why, what can it be? You have not greased your gown too?" said Eliza, starting up as if she had made a great discovery.

"No."

"What then? Have you lost anything? forgotten your fan? dropped your bracelet?"

"Oh, no; worse than all that; it is something dreadful that has been said of us."

"Good gracious! what? What can they find to say of us?"

"Something quite shocking!" and Sarah actually coloured at the mere thought of repeating it.

"Well, tell it, at all events; I should like to know the worst."

"It was just when you were sitting by the pianoforte, and I was behind the sofa, and Mr. Trevor came up to Lady Eskdale and said, looking at the flowers and the silver comb in your hair, 'Don't you think those silver épergnes full of flowers would look better on a dining-table than walking about a drawing-room? I know nothing of dress, but is not that a little in the May-day line–rather chimney-sweeperish?'"

"No, did he really say that?" and Eliza looked aghast. "What a horrid man!"

"Yes, but that is not the worst. Lady Eskdale said, 'Don't laugh at those poor girls, Alfred; they are dear good creatures, though they are vulgarly dressed.' There, Eliza, now is not that dreadful, and so hard too, when we took such pains about our dress, and thought it was so nice?" and Sarah's voice quivered with vexation.

"Oh, never mind, dear; don't fret about it, you did look very nice. I'm sure I thought so; and if we wore too many flowers to-day, next time we will wear none; and as for that Mr. Trevor, I dare say he knows nothing about dress."

"But I wish we were not like chimney-sweepers."

"I say, Sarah, it would be rather good fun to go to Eskdale Castle with our faces blackened, and we, covered with flowers and tinsel, dancing round Mr. Trevor, rattling our shovels."

"Don't talk nonsense, Eliza. I never thought we were vulgar."

"Nor I; but we cannot help it if we are. I think we are two very nice girls, and Helen does not despise us. Oh, Sarah, how beautiful she is, and how I should like to be going to be married to Lord Teviot! that is, I should not like it at all except I were Helen. I should be afraid of him as I am."

"Ah, she looked very pretty," said Sarah. "She had no flowers in her hair," and with a deep sigh, Sarah unpinned a gigantic bunch of camellias, "and her hair was braided quite smooth"; and Sarah gave a desperate tug at a highly frizzed set of bows which she had built up on the top of her head with some pride.

Eliza burst out laughing; Sarah's distress seemed to her to be out of all proportion to the calamity, and she was too merry and too light-hearted herself to be discomposed by such a trifle. "I hope they will ask us again," she murmured as she sank to sleep.

"What shall we wear if they do?" Sarah responded.

"Black jackets, tin foil, and calico roses, with shovels for fans," said Eliza, in a sleepy voice; and in another moment their troubles were forgotten.

CHAPTER VII

ELIZA'S wishes were more than fulfilled, for the following day she received a very kind note from Helen, asking her to be one of her bridesmaids, and this was accompanied by a very pretty dress, with Lady Eskdale's "kind love," and a note to invite Mrs. Douglas also to the wedding, and Mr. Douglas and Sarah to the breakfast that was to follow it.

Mrs. Douglas could hardly do less than make a very great grievance of what was intended as a kindness. She hated a wedding; it was just the sort of thing that the world chose to make a fuss about, but which she thought the most uninteresting ceremony on earth. She did not see why she was to dress herself out in satin and blonde just to go and hear two young people make foolish promises that they never could keep. What could be more absurd than to assemble a crowd to witness a man and woman promising to love each other for the rest of their lives, when we know what human creatures are,–men so thoroughly selfish and unprincipled, women so vain and frivolous? This wholesale way of dealing with her fellow-creatures was one of Mrs. Douglas's favourite methods of treating them. "I should like to go in my garden bonnet and coloured muslin gown, just to show how I despise their love of fashion," she said, as she sealed the note to her milliner, which was to order the well-chosen dress and bonnet on which she had determined for the occasion; for the energy with which she declaimed against dress did not at all interfere with her inclination to spend a great deal of money on it.

So to the wedding she went, and this is her description of it.

"MY DEAR SISTER,

"You will expect to have some account of the Eskdale wedding, so I may as well write to-night, though I am completely knocked up. You know what a wretched sleeper I am, and of course I could not close my eyes till five, from feeling that I was to be called an hour earlier than usual; and then, what with breakfasting in a hurry, and dressing, and fancying we were too late, I was quite ill by the time we arrived at the Castle. Eliza was to be one of the bridesmaids, and Lady Eskdale gave her her dress. I must own I thought it a shabby present; but as Eliza was pleased, of course I did not say so. When we arrived at the Castle, there was poor Lady Eskdale looking ninety at least, though Mr. Douglas will not see how old she is grown, and the tears rolling down her cheeks, while she kept saying, 'We are to have no crying, that is all settled, and no melancholy leave-takings on account of poor dear Helen; we are none of us to shed a tear.' I am the worst person in the world, you know, to enter into these prettinesses. I could only say, 'There was no use in crying,' or some platitude of that sort, for sentiment bores me. Lady Amelia stayed with Helen till almost the last moment, and then came and made the sort of fuss with her mother which all that family make with each other. Amelia's beauty is one of those delusions I have never given into. Large eyes and dark eyebrows, and a great display of hair-I presume it is all her own-and a way of playing her features about as if she were more intelligent than other people. It may be natural, but it looks like affectation. We all went in solemn procession to the chapel, through rows of servants. What the expense of that establishment must be I cannot imagine, nor how the Eskdales have gone on so long without coming to a stop. As soon as we were arranged in our places, Lord Eskdale and Helen came in at one door, and Lord Teviot and Lord Beaufort at another; and they all went straight to the altar, with a great tangle of bridesmaids behind them. I thought it all a most theatrical arrangement. Why could they not come like John and Jane Smith to be married, like other people, at the village church? Helen was so covered with Brussels lace that I cannot say how she looked; some of the company, of course, declared she looked beautiful. I saw nothing but a veil–a mere lace veil; and besides, I have always set my face against the absurd idea that all brides look pretty. She shook very much, and though I am the last person, from my friendship for the Eskdales, to hint at the real state of the case, I have a sad foreboding that Helen marries with the prospect of being one of the most unhappy women in England. And I do not wonder at it. Lord Teviot is one of the worst specimens of the class dandy I ever saw; and I am much mistaken if his temper will not be a sad trial to poor Helen. However, don't quote me. You never saw such a frightful effect as the coloured glass had on Lady Eskdale's looks; and I think Lord Eskdale's hair has grown suddenly gray. It may have been the reflection of the blue glass; but it gave me the impression of gray hair: and I suppose all his worries must tell upon him at last. The chapel was all dressed out with flowers; and I could hardly attend to the ceremony, because I was expecting every moment to feel faint with the smell of the lilies and heliotrope; and then I thought I should catch my death of cold by standing on the marble pavement. To be sure, the manners of the present day are very different from what even I can remember. I saw Lord Beaufort shuffling a cushion about with his feet, and thought that he was of course going to give it to me to stand on, when down he went on his knees, and began saying his prayers, without the least consideration for my chances of cramp. After the ceremony there was a long scene of congratulation, and we all embraced each other, without sparing age or sex. I had a narrow escape of a 'salute' from Robinson, the old tutor, and Lizzy was frightened out of her wits by a kiss from Lord Eskdale. There was a great breakfast immediately after the wedding, to which most of the neighbourhood were invited. Helen went to change her dress, and Lord Teviot stalked about amongst the company for a little while, looking bored and sullen. I always pity the bridegroom on these occasions. The bride is supported by her father, and attended by her bridesmaids, and everybody is or pretends to be in a fright, lest she should faint or cry; and she has all the protection of a veil in case she should be too shy, or not shy enough; and there is a general sympathy in her feelings. The poor man has to walk himself up alone to the altar, where he stands, looking uncommonly foolish, without even the protection of his hat. There is the mother sobbing at him for carrying off her child; the sisters scowling at him because he did not choose one of them; the clergyman frowning at him for not producing the ring at the right moment, or for neglecting the responses in their proper places; the brothers laugh at him; the bride turns from him; and the only person who pays him the slightest attention is the clerk, who tells him when he is to kneel, and when to stand, and which is his right hand, and which his left, and helps him to the discovery of his waistcoat pocket, in which the ring may or may not be. Lord Teviot is not a man to look foolish, but he decidedly looked cross.

"Two carriages-and-four were waiting at the door, and an immense crowd was assembled round them. We all went and stood on the marble terrace above, and in half an hour Lord Eskdale led Helen out from the cloister door, and handed her into the carriage. Lord Teviot stepped in, and they drove off, followed by the other carriage, in which all the dressing-boxes and the jewel-cases and the valet and the maid had been packed up for some time. You know that Lady Teviot's maid is that pert Nancy who originally waited in my school-room, and of course I am rather amazed at her presumption, calling herself Mrs. Tomkinson, and traveling in a carriage-and-four. Lady Eskdale came back to the company, still crying, and still declaring it was the gayest wedding she had ever seen, and that she was so glad there had been no tears. I was dead tired when I got home, and am very glad that the Eksdales have married all their daughters, and that we have no more weddings to do. Adieu, my dear sister. Is it true that your son has sold out of the 15th? If I were you, I would advise him to live less at clubs, and not to keep so many horses.

"Yours ever,
"A. DOUGLAS."

CHAPTER VIII

AND now, whatever might have been Helen's fears or hopes, her fate was sealed. She had turned to that page of life over which she had lingered with distressful doubt; and now it must read, though on herself partly must she depend for the interpretation of the characters it bore. St. Mary's Abbey, at which her honeymoon was to be passed, was the most magnificent of all Lord Teviot's residences. It almost calls for a formal description; but how can anyone be expected to write what no one ever reads when it is written? That pert Nancy, now by the grace of presumption styling herself Mrs. Tomkinson, addressed a letter to Mrs. Hervey, the housekeeper at Eskdale Castle, in which she gave her views of St. Mary's Abbey, and in her sketchy way she succeeds so well in the descriptive art, that it is impossible to join in the total contempt with which Mrs. Douglas looked down upon her from the marble terrace.

"DEAR MRS. HERVEY,

"I hope this will find you in good health and sperrits–not forgetting all other friends at the old house. Me and my lady are quite well, and have no reason to complain that we have changed our abode for the worst. We were very nervous that day what we left you, me, in particular, that had been sitting in the Bruche, baked to a jelly, and watching all those jewel-boxes while my lady was bidding good-bye, and with that great mob of people staring at me. But Mr. Phillips was very attentive, and helped me to bow to them as we driv off. He seems a superior young man, quite a London-bred servant, and quite confidential with my lord, which was the reason why he was left at St. Mary's during my lord's courtship because he knew all the plans about the furniture. We went at such a pace that I was quite giddy, but found great comfort in the sandwiches, and gingerbread, and chicken and buns you put into the carriage, which was a kind thought, for otherwise we should have gone the whole fifty miles without refreshment. When we had arrived all but a mile, my lord's tenants met us, and took the horses off from my lord and lady, and dragged them their own selves; and they came to drag us, but Mr. Phillips explained that we was only own man and lady's maid, and that our horses were to be let alone. So they hurraed and threw flowers, and it was very agitating. When we arrived, my lord made a speech, and my lady made a curtsey, and I got the imperials and boxes in as soon as I could. I was terrified lest any of our new troosso should be stole. Dear Mrs. Hervey, St. Mary's is a most beautiful place, and the great mirrors in the ball-room are alone worth coming to see, and I have not power to describe the scenery. There is a lake quite full of water, like the lakes abroad, and endless woods filled with the finest trees, that seem to run for miles and miles, and gardens that beat our gardens at the castle all to nothing. The furniture would please you in particular, chiefly silk and damask, but some rooms with velvet; and my lady's suite of rooms is what I can't describe–straw-coloured satin embroidered with real flowers–and such cabinets and china, and on the dressing-table a service of gold plate with my lady's name on it. Mrs. Nelson won't like to see it, she was so set up about her lady's. In every respect I feel satisfied with the accommodations for me and my lady, except that I was obleeged to ask for another wardrobe, and to tell Mrs. Stevens that I was accustomed to a larger looking-glass in my own room. Mrs. Stevens and me seem inclined to be very friendly; she is the very moral of a housekeeper in a romance, quite an old lady. We are a princely establishment, and sit down twelve in the Steward's room, with wine, and a man and boy to wait. Mrs. Stevens and me joke each other about our beaux, for there are ten gentlemen, and only us two ladies, and Mr. Phillips has, of course, the precedence. I hope to pick up a little French between the cook and the confectioner. I wish you would ask Mrs. Warren whether, when Lady Amelia married, she did not get all her lady-ship's shawls with the rest of the things. My lady kept her suit of Brussels, and I have nothing to say again that, for I believe Brussels lace is what every lady have a right to keep; but she also kept two shawls, which I believe are my perquisites, as my lady wore them before my lord proposed. I want to know if you and Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Nelson think that their being real Ingee makes a difference. My mind misgives me, it does. It is not for the lucre of gold I speak, nor that I would grudge my lady the shawls, nor the gown off my back if she wanted it, but I hate to see poor servants defrauded, and if the shawls is my due, I shall take the liberty of mentioning it. I had not time to tell you of the pride of that Mrs. Douglas, who met me on the wedding-day, and said 'Fine times for you, Nancy; your head will be turned.' I was mad with myself afterwards for having made her a curtesy, and said, 'Yes, indeed, ma'am,' when I might as well have said something sharp. If Lady Eskdale asks if you have heard from me, will you, please, make my duty, and say that my lady is quite well, and has had no cold or headache. Mrs. Stevens thinks her the beautifullest lady she ever saw, and compliments me high on my manner of hair-dressing.

"I remain, dear Mrs. Hervey,
"Your kind friend,
"ANN TOMKINSON."

CHAPTER IX

IT is not worth while to give any of Helen's letters to her family. Some years ago it was the fashion of all newly-married people to write word to their friends that they were the happiest of human creatures. Heaven alone knows if it were true, but so they always said. Now this romantic state of bliss has been laughed at in society, and sneered at in novels, till nobody dares say a word about it. It may be wiser, but it is not quite satisfactory. The domestic novels of the day have described with such accuracy, and with so much satire, all the little fidgety amiabilities of life, that a wife who is inclined to praise her husband checks herself, for fear she should be reckoned like Mrs. Major Waddell. An active mother has suspicion that she is laughed at as a Mrs. Fairbairn, and the kindly affections of the heart are now so carefully wrapped up and concealed, that it seems just possible that they may die altogether of suffocation.

Helen did not commit herself by any asseverations of extraordinary happiness, and made no mention of any fresh trait of perfection that every day must have revealed in Lord Teviot's character; but there was St. Mary's to describe, and the neighbourhood to explain, and all the various congratulatory letters she received were duly quoted, and her own regularly ended with "Teviot's love to all"; and Lady Eskdale was satisfied. Amelia read her sister's letters with greater distrust. She thought they were written in a constrained, guarded tone, and she remembered the week that preceded the wedding with pain and doubt. She hoped in another fortnight to see and judge for herself; but Mr. Trevor and she were summoned into Sussex by the sudden death of his father; and ten days after Helen's marriage Lord and Lady Eskdale sat down, for the first time during the last ten years, to a tête-à-tête dinner. Poor dear people, it fairly puzzled them. They were more attached to each other than many husbands and wives are after twenty-four years of married life; and they had been in the daily habit of taking a comfortable half-hour's talk in Lord Eskdale's library, uninterrupted by any of their children. But they had never contemplated the possibility of dining and passing the whole evening together, without a child to come in to dessert, or a daughter to look at and listen to. Then who was to make breakfast the next morning, and to answer notes, and to receive visitors? Lady Eskdale was quite posed. She actually ordered a riding-habit, and declared she would begin riding again with Lord Eskdale, who hated going out alone, and had always been accompanied by one of his children. Then she thought she could rub up music enough to play to him after dinner; but when the evening came she was fast asleep on the sofa, half dead with the fatigue of her morning ride, and she almost cried when a note was brought to her that required an answer–partly because, as she said and thought, she missed Helen so much, and partly because she was too indolent to sit up to write.

"I don't think I can ever exist in this way, Lord Eskdale," she said. "What is to be done? here is this note to be answered."

"Give it to me, Jane; I will be your secretary."

"Thank you, that is very good of you. It is a great relief for this once; but how am I to get on when you are out? To be sure, that poor dear Lord Walden might as well have put off dying just for a month, and then the Trevors could have stayed here. I am utterly lost without Amelia. There never was anything so unlucky. I wish Beaufort would marry. A daughter-in-law would be better than nothing; or if the Waldegraves would come back to England, Sophia might come here. It is really very hard to have no daughter at all, after all my trouble"; and Lady Eskdale's voice faltered.

"The schoolmistress, my lady," said the groom of the chambers, "is waiting for directions about the children's stuff books."

"There again, now! What am I to do? I have mislaid the patterns. Very well, tell her I will send to her. Now, Lord Eskdale, you know you cannot settle about the school-children's frocks; that was poor Helen's business. Dear child! I do trust she is happy, but it is sad work marrying off one's daughter; it makes me very low at times. Lord Eskdale, do you think if I were to ask Mrs. Douglas to let me have Eliza here, that it would bore me very much?"

"You must be the best judge of that, my dear Jane; at all events, take care to ask the right daughter, not the one with the voice."

"No, no; I mean Eliza, who was Helen's bridesmaid. You know you thought her very pretty that day. She plays very well on the pianoforte, and I could take care that she should be always well dressed; and she would write my notes, and see the school-mistress, and help to entertain the company. She is a good-humored, amiable girl, and I have always felt that I could be fond of her; and it would be such a thing for her, for the Douglases see so few people. I wish I could guess whether I should like this plan or not. I can ask her for a fortnight only at first, and if it does not do, then there would be an end of it."

"As you please, my love; it concerns you more than me."

"Yes, but I wish you would say what you think best; I am so little in the habit of making up my own mind. Helen always knew what I should like. I must say we have been unlucky in our daughters all marrying rich people. If any one of them had married a younger son without a shilling, they must have lived with us; but my girls had no time allowed them to look about them and choose for themselves; and so they have all married men with country-houses of their own, and I have lost them all."

And, roused by this overpowering calamity of wealthy sons-in-law, Lady Eskdale sat up to write her note to Mrs. Douglas.

CHAPTER X.

"MAMMA," said Eliza Douglas, as they were sitting working in the evening," did you know that the Trevors had left Eskdale Castle?"

"No, my love; how should I know anything about the Trevors? Lady Amelia never deigned to call here but once, and then at an hour when she knew I should be out."

"Yes, another time with Mr. Trevor, mamma. If you remember–"

"Well, Mr. Trevor wanted to see your father, and she was obliged to come with him; I do not call that a visit."

"And then on Sunday, mamma, after church?"

"My love, what is the use of contradicting me? If Lady Amelia did call then, she ought to be ashamed, with all her pretence of goodness, to pay visits at all on Sunday. And all these little trifling facts make no difference, in my opinion, that all these young women are much too fine to pay any attention to their mother's old friend. Who told you they were gone?"

"Mrs. Birkett told Sarah, and Betsy said, when she was dressing me, that she had seen Lady Eskdale's maid, who had mentioned it."

"Well, now, I should like to know what business Betsy had to be talking to Mrs. Nelson. It will not at all do for our servants to get a habit of gossiping at Eskdale Castle; not that I shall be at all sorry if it obliges me to speak out and to make a thorough reform in our household: I am always glad of an opportunity to tell servants what a thoroughly bad race I think they are."

"That must be encouraging to them," said Mr. Douglas, "and produce a great increase of attachment to yourself."

"Oh! my dear, that is one of the subjects you do not understand, and so you may as well not talk about it. If you would let me send away that old Thomas of yours, the house would go on much better. Mrs. Birkett, and Mrs. Dashwood, and everybody says I manage servants better than anybody; and I know I do, by never letting them have their own way on any one point; and as for attachment, you might as well expect it from this table."

"I should think so, under the circumstances," said Mr. Douglas; "but whatever you do, do not interfere with Thomas."

A silence followed while Mrs. Douglas was thinking what a clever manager she was, and how well she contrived to make her servants hate her; and then her thoughts recurred to the Eskdales.

"So Amelia is gone; I suppose to some gay party at a country-house. I must say, that after all the fuss that has been made about those girls, it is not much to their credit that they leave their parents quite to themselves in their old age, while they are flying about in search of amusement. I will answer for it Amelia went off because she thought it dull."

"Are you speaking of the Trevors?" said Mr. Douglas, who was reading the paper. "I see his father is dead, and they have been sent for into Sussex. Trevor is now Lord Walden."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Douglas; and there was another long silence.

"Well," she began again, "I do pity Lord Eskdale: I do not see what he is to do, after being accustomed to the society of his daughters, and used to having one of them always with him. Those die-away, languid airs of Lady Eskdale's must be rather trying. To be sure, she is not so young as she was, whatever you may say, Mr. Douglas; but she might exert herself to be a little more of a companion to him. She has none of my ideas that a wife is bound to exert herself for her husband's good."

"I met them riding together to-day," said Mr. Douglas.

"Riding, my dear!"

"Yes, riding, Anne."

"You must be dreaming, Mr. Douglas. Lady Eskdale on a horse!"

"No, my love, on a mare; the gray mare Helen used to ride."

"Impossible! How was she dressed, Mr. Douglas?"

"In a habit, my dear, and hat, with a veil. I can swear to the hat, for it became her particularly."

"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, with a scornful laugh, "I think this is by far the most amusing thing I ever heard. Lady Eskdale doing the youthful, galloping about the country flirting with her husband; I suppose she will begin dancing next. Lord Eskdale and she are probably at this moment practising the Gavotte de Vestris up and down the saloon. I don't know when I have been so diverted; but to a person of plain commonsense like myself, the tricks and ways of these London ladies are amazingly entertaining."

"However, you must allow, Anne, that this is not a die-away, languid air; and as you take such a kind interest in Lord Eskdale's fate, you will be happy to hear that he said he was quite delighted to have his wife riding with him again."

"Oh, my dear love! unless you mean to make me quite ill you must not offer me the mawkish idea of Lord Eskdale making pretty speeches to his wife; I really cannot stand that. And, pray, are this promising young couple likely to remain long in their solitary paradise? or are they going to St. Mary's? or is there any company coming to the castle?"

"I think they are expecting a large party at home. Lord Eskdale was beginning to say something about it, and then she gave him a look, and he stopped short."

"What! I suppose we are not to know, for fear we should expect to be asked. Why, it is just the very thing I would go miles out of the way to avoid, and the last society into which I should like to take my girls."

"Oh, mamma!" said Eliza, "I wish you would not say that; and I wish they would ask us constantly to their house. It is very odd, that though I feel afraid of everybody all the time, there is nothing I like so much as dining there. And I am sure, mamma, it would be very good for my manner, which you say is so unformed at home. Before I have crossed the hall at Eskdale Castle I feel quite refined," she said, laughing.

Mrs. Douglas laughed too, for though she rarely lost any opportunity of speaking malevolently of her neighbours' children, she was very much disposed to admire her own. And her own misanthropy found a pleasant relief in Eliza's enjoyable views of life.

CHAPTER XI.

LADY ESKDALE'S note of invitation arrived, worded in the most engaging manner. She begged Mrs. Douglas to consider her forlorn situation, and to lend dear, gay Lizzy to her for a few days–the few days not to be construed literally, but to extend to a fortnight if Eliza could bear to leave home for so long. She feared it would be very dull at first, but hoped that some friends who were expected would amuse that très amusable petite personne. If Mrs. Douglas consented to this plan, the carriage would come for Eliza and her maid the next day.

Mrs. Douglas was excessively surprised. It was unlucky that she had just said so much against the manners and customs of Eskdale Castle–protests made, too, in vain, for she had no hesitation in allowing Eliza to accept the invitation. The friends who were expected might include a second Lord Teviot. That horrid, rude Lord Beaufort might be at home, and she could magnanimously forgive his nefarious conduct at Helen's wedding, if there were any chance of her officiating at his own in the capacity of his mother-in-law. Visions of grandeur rose before her eyes; and when Mr. Douglas, in the consultation held between them on the subject, asked if she had not said that the society at Eskdale Castle was not what she would like for her daughters, she boldly took Falstaff's line of defence when accused by Justice Shallow of having broken into his park and stolen his deer. "I have, Mr. Justice, I have–and so I hope that's answered."

"Yes, my dear, I said so, but what of that? It is rather hard to be tried in the morning, for every little careless word spoken over-night; nothing provokes me so much as to be accused of inconsistency, when it does so happen that I am remarkably consistent. However, I am decidedly in favour of Lizzy's going, so it does not much matter what I said. We may as well tell her."

Eliza was in raptures. "A whole fortnight of visiting! and only think, mamma, of Lady Eskdale saying she would send for my maid. Why, I have none."

"You must take Betsy, I suppose, and my maid must dress Sarah. It will turn Betsy's head, and make her rather perter than she is; but it cannot be helped."

"What fun it will be! only what shall I do about going into the room alone? and I hope I shall not be sent out to ride with Lord Eskdale, for I do not know how to talk to him. And then about dress, mamma, what gowns am I to take? and then poor Sarah, left all alone, how unhappy she will be! Oh, no! she won't though, because of Mr. Wentworth's coming here; and besides, I shall write to her every day."

This hint of Mr. Wentworth was well thrown in. Sarah was just beginning to wonder whether she ought not to be affronted because Lady Eskdale had not invited her; but the handsome manner with which Mr. Wentworth was made over to her–he being the only semblance of a lover that had ever appeared at the house–quite appeased her, and her affection for her sister was always strong enough to conquer any little feelings of jealousy awakened by Eliza's superior popularity.

"Yes, you must certainly write every day," she said when they were alone, "and describe all your little difficulties. I think you will be very fond of Lady Eskdale."

"Yes, I am sure of it; she is 'such a dear,' as she would say herself. But Lord Eskdale, Sarah, is very alarming, is not he?"

"Rather so; but perhaps he will not take much notice of you. If I were you, Lizzy, I would read the newspaper more than you do; and then you can talk to him about trials, and murders, and politics, and accidents: I observe that those are the kind of topics he likes."

"Oh, goodness, Sarah! think of me talking politics to Lord Eskdale; a nice mess I should make of that. No, I had better not think about it. I must take some pretty work with me, something that will not annoy Lady Eskdale in the drawing-room; and then music is always a resource. And my daily letter to you; and, Sarah, mind you send me every particular of Mr. Wentworth's visit, and what he says, and looks, and thinks. Oh dear! if you should write me word he had proposed, what a state I should be in!"

"Oh, nonsense!" said Sarah, "there is no chance of that"; but the idea led her into a dream of happiness; and when Eliza and her Betsy, her embroidery and her best gowns were all carried off the following morning in Lady Eskdale's carriage, Sarah saw her depart without one twinge of envy, for Mr. Wentworth had sent word he should arrive in time for dinner.

CHAPTER XII.

THE Teviots had reached the end of the second week of their honeymoon undisturbed, except by the visits of two or three neighbours. It was almost time that there should be some change, at least Mrs. Tomkinson wished to goodness there might soon be what she called "a little staying company" in the house, if it were only that my lady might wear some of her bettermost gowns; and she also thought my lady seemed rather moped somehow. Mr. Phillips gave it as his humble opinion that "our folks had had enough of their own company for one while." It has never been definitely stated what period of time "one while" comprises, nor whether there is a plural to the substantive, and "two whiles" represent a certain number of days or weeks. However that may be, Phillips and Tomkinson had judged with their usual discrimination. That same day Lord Teviot went into Helen's boudoir with some letters in his hand.

"Helen, here is some company for you. Lady Portmore has offered herself for Friday."

"That is rather a short notice, is it not?"

"Yes–no; I do not think that signifies. We should be glad of her visit, either on a short notice or a long one. I shall be delighted to see her, and she must know she is welcome at St. Mary's–always has been, and always will be."

"Are you expecting any other friends?" said Helen, putting aside the question of the Portmore welcome.

"Yes, two or three men. Lady Portmore says she is sure we shall have been too much occupied with each other"–and he smiled rather scornfully–"to think of arranging a pleasant party, and that we shall be obliged to her for inviting a few people we all know."

"I am not sure that I am obliged to her just now," said Helen, hurrying on through her sentence. "My letters had given me the idea of a totally different plan. The Trevors have been obliged to go to Walden, and papa and mamma are left quite alone; and I thought we might surprise them with a visit now, instead of next month, when you promised to go to them. How I should like it! but, if we cannot put off Lady Portmore–"

"We neither can nor will," said Lord Teviot. "I am sorry you are already tired of your own home; but, such as it is, I am afraid I must trouble you to stay in it. And though my friends are not, of course, to be compared to yours, I cannot begin by affronting them all."

Helen made no answer, and after a moment's pause took up her work. Lord Teviot walked to the window, and began playing with the tame bullfinch that stood in it. The silence that ensued was long and awful, but was broken by him as he said, in a constrained voice, "Have you had no other letter but that from your mother?"

"None of any consequence."

"Did not Beaufort write? I thought I saw his hand."

"There is his letter; there are all my letters, if you like to see them," said Helen–a faint suspicion dawning on her mind that Lord Teviot was jealous of her family. He seemed to waver, but she placed them on the table, and, moving her work-frame nearer to the window, left the field open to him. He took up the letters with a slight sensation of shame. Lady Eskdale's was as usual affectionate and amiable; and though she expressed strongly her wish to see her daughter, she said she knew it was not likely Lord Teviot could leave his home again so soon; and she mentioned her invitation to Eliza Douglas, which she hoped would satisfy Helen's doubts of her comfort. "It is a sad change, my darling, but as it is for your happiness I cannot complain, and your letters are the greatest possible comfort to me. Do tell your idle husband to write to me." Lord Beaufort wrote from London, where he had seen the Portmores, and he said he should have joined their party to St. Mary's, but that he was seized with a fit of filial duty, and meant to run down to Eskdale Castle, to console his respected and deserted papa and mamma. "They fancy, poor deluded creatures, that they miss you dreadfully, and that no one can fill up your vacant place. Strange illusion! which my august presence will instantly dispel. After I have raised their spirits to their proper pitch, it is just possible that I may raise my own, by coming to see my little Nell; so tell Teviot to expect me, and to turn his attention towards partridges and pheasants." There was a third letter in a hand-writing Lord Teviot did not know. "Am I to read this, Helen?"

"If you like. It is from my friend Mary Forrester, of whom you may have heard me speak."

"Yes; I have seen her at the Portmores: a very handsome girl. Where is she now?"

"At Richmond, with her aunt."

She, like the other two, seemed full of deep interest in Helen, and it was with a strange mixture of pride in the affection she inspired, and jealousy of those who expressed it so warmly, that he perused these letters. He saw how tenderly Helen had always been treated; how dear she was to her family. He himself loved Lady Eskdale almost as a mother. Lord Beaufort was one of the young men of his own standing, whom he liked best; but when he looked upon them as his rivals in the heart of his wife, he could not bring himself to speak kindly of them, at least not to her. He hardly knew how to begin the conversation again. Helen seemed to have no curiosity about his guests; but he recollected a paragraph in Beaufort's letter that might help him.

"Did you observe that Beaufort says your cousin Ernest is coming here?"

"Yes, I supposed he was–at least, that he was asked; he is sure to be included in the Portmore list."

"That is a hit at Lady Portmore, I suppose," said Lord Teviot, again on the point of taking fire; but he checked himself. "It will be a great pleasure to you to see Ernest, I should think?"

"Yes," said Helen, faintly; "he is rather amusing."

"More than that, he is clever, and can be very pleasant when he chooses. I am going to answer Lady Portmore! Have you any message? She asks if she can bring anything from town for you?"

"Nothing whatever, thank you."

"Have you any letters for the post-bag?"

"I shall have one for papa."

"To your father?" said Lord Teviot; and suddenly the thought occurred to him that she was going to write to complain of her situation. She was silent. "Might I ask, without being considered impertinent, what is this sudden fancy for writing to Lord Eskdale, and when the idea entered your head?"

Helen stooped down, and, taking a letter from the workbasket that stood by her side, broke the seal. She pushed away her work-frame, and passing quickly by the table at which Lord Teviot sat–

"I must go and breathe the fresh air," she said, and her voice sounded low and dispirited. "There is my letter to my father; will you seal it and send it? If you like to write in this room, you will find pens and paper there, and you will not be disturbed, for I am going out." She went without waiting for an answer.

"So! I drive her out of her own room, if I come into it," thought Lord Teviot. "She thinks I am jealous, or curious, or she would not have shown me all these letters. She cannot say one kind word; she does not even look kindly at me, and she evidently thinks of nothing but her own family. I suppose she compares me with all these doting relations, and thinks me cold and hateful; and yet which of them can dote on her as I do if she would let me? She would actually have gone back to them without me, I believe. No, I remember she said we; but still she called Eskdale Castle her home. My house is clearly not her home; and she has not asked one of her friends to come and stay here. Does she think I should not like it, or is she afraid that they will see she is not happy? Not happy! Helen, my own Helen, whom I could have loved, whom I do love, as I never loved any human being. There are moments when I think she hates me. Now here is this letter to her father. How quick and angry she was about that! I did not ask to see it. I did not know she had written to him till she said so herself. I have a great mind to write to Lady Eskdale, and to ask her to come here. She and Lord Eskdale, and Beaufort, and that Miss Douglas, and the whole clan, and that will show Helen I am not jealous of them, and it is the best chance I have of pleasing her. I dare say, that because I ask them, she will not be glad to see them. Who's knocking there? Come in. Come in, I say. Good heavens, how I hate to be made to roar out 'Come in' ten times over!"

"It's only me, my lord," said Mrs. Tomkinson. "If you please, my lord, her ladyship has left her bonnet here."

"Very well, Mrs. Tomkins, look for it."

"Her ladyship will be ready in a moment, my lord," said Mrs. Tomkinson, who could not resist the chance of a little talk. She had an ambitious idea that she was diving into my lord's character.

"Very well; shut the door."

"Umph!" thought Mrs. Tomkinson, as she obeyed; "how very uncivil; and calling me Tomkins, too! I hate to be called out of my name. Now I should like to know what he's doing of with all those letters. I wonder whether my lady chooses for him to be ransacking her papers, and whether that's the right thing with married people. Here's your ladyship's bonnet. I could not lay my hand on it rightly, because of my lord's sitting so just at the writing-table."

"Is my lord writing?"

"His lordship seemed to be busy with some papers as was on the table," said Mrs. Tomkinson, guardedly, and with a look of curiosity to see if the hint told. The pause that ensued left her still in doubt. "Shall I step back and tell my lord your ladyship is ready?"

"No," said Helen, absently.

"I can easily go back on pretence to see for your ladyship's gloves"; and Tomkinson began to think the case was assuming great interest.

"No, no," said Lady Teviot, thoroughly roused; "don't disturb Lord Teviot; he was so good as to offer to finish and seal my letters; don't run in and out to disturb him."

"Law, my lady, how good his lordship is! It quite pleased me to see him sitting so comfortable and at home in your ladyship's beautiful boudoir. I wish Lord and Lady Eskdale were here to see how happy your ladyship is. There! there's my lady gone; I declare I think she looks very bad; not a hatom of colour compared to what she had. I ain't quite sure yet but what I think my lord a brute; at least, I shall make a point of thinking so if he plagues my lady. And calling me Tomkins, too–such an idea!"

CHAPTER XIII.

LORD TEVIOT wrote all his invitations; then he thought of showing them to Helen before he sent them; and then again, he felt some difficulty in renewing the conversation. The waywardness of his temper had so often displayed itself, that between him and Helen many of the commonest topics of conversation were attended with awkwardness; and he had discovered that she not only abstained from contradicting him on any point that had once inflamed his temper, but that she never even alluded to the disputed point again. Even this caution offended him. A bright thought now occurred to him; he would ask Lady Portmore to bring Miss Forrester with her. He knew they were acquainted with each other, and the arrival of Helen's favourite friend would reconcile her to the Portmore visitation, and to the consequent delay of her return to Eskdale Castle. And then if her family came, he did not see anything of which she could complain; he had done all he could to please her; she ought to make allowance for his manner, for he owned that it was at times rather taunting; but she ought to be above such trifles. It was a pity Lord Teviot had never read Hannah More. Her prose would have been of great use to him; but even her poetry would have taught him that

"Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from trifles springs–
Oh! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence
A small unkindness is a great offence."

And, consequently, a series of small unkindnesses is very offensive indeed, and it would not have been surprising if Helen were offended. But she was not; she was depressed, half frightened, and half unhappy. Lord Teviot's expressions of affection were almost as alarming as his anger; he was so energetic in all his professions, so violent, as it seemed to her who had been accustomed to the gentle love of her mother and the playful tenderness of her brother and sisters, that she did not know how to answer his vehement protestations and eager upbraidings. And then his sudden starts of temper puzzled her. In short, she did not understand him; and amidst all the grandeur that surrounded her, and the magnificent gifts which Lord Teviot heaped on her, she felt troubled. She longed to be at home again, and at her ease; but she was too gentle to be resentful.

When Lord Teviot had despatched his letters, he found her in her garden; not one of the old-fashioned gardens, full of roses and honeysuckles, and sweet peas, suggestive of the country, and redolent of sweetness–but in a first rate gardener's garden, every plant forming part of a group, and not to be picked or touched on any account; all of them forced into bloom at the wrong time of the year; and each bearing a name that it was difficult to pronounce, and impossible to remember. Helen was standing apparently absorbed in admiration of a Lancifolium Speciosum, which she had been assured by her gardener was "a better variety" of the Lancifolium Punctatum; but in reality she was thinking first of her mother, wondering when she should see her again; and next what she could find to say to Lord Teviot at dinner. She hoped he would not look for her before that; but just as she had devised an inoffensive remark, which might be hazarded before the servants, she saw him standing beside her, and the conversation had to begin forthwith. The flowers were a safe topic, Lilium Punctatum played its part; that led to admiration of the place. Then Lord Teviot, who, as well as Mrs. Tomkinson, perceived that "My lady had not a hatom of colour," offered her his arm, and, finding no signs of resentment, thought that it would be a greater support if he put it round her waist; and once established in that confidential and highly conjugal attitude, he felt he could explain away more easily the misunderstanding of the morning. And when he saw the delight with which Helen heard of the arrangements he had made, and the ecstasy with which she looked forward to the arrival of her family, his heart smote him for the pain he had inflicted on her. His kindness gave her courage and spirits.

"And so you have written yourself to Mary Forrester; how pleased she will be! Oh! I hope she will come. And you have really asked Eliza Douglas, your own particular guest? Mrs. Douglas will be enchanted, and of course say something bitter about it; but still she will think that 'that Lord Teviot has some good qualities at least, she tries to think so for poor Helen's sake; and, at all events, he is very civil to us.'"

"Poor Helen," repeated Lord Teviot, as he pressed her fondly to his heart; "and may I ask why you are poor Helen with Mrs. Douglas?"

"Oh! because everybody who is not a Douglas is poor something or somebody. She has for years pitied poor mamma, who has never known what grief is; and I heard of her saying that the high spirits of poor Lord Beaufort would end by wearing out himself and everybody belonging to him."

"And would she pity you now?"

"Not at this moment," said Helen, gaily and carelessly.

"And even a moment of happiness is to be prized," he answered, coldly; "happiness seldom lasts much longer. However, let us hope you may overtake it again on Thursday. I suppose you will have your family here then."

"Did you name Thursday?"

"I said the sooner the better–that you would be very uneasy till they came, and that I should hardly be able to persuade you to stay at St. Mary's much longer without them."

"It was only because mamma was alone that I wished to go to her now," said Helen, timidly, for she felt a change of tone in the conversation, "and I thought she would be unhappy."

"Oh! it requires no excuse; nothing can be more natural. It is only a matter of surprise to me, Helen, how you ever prevailed on yourself to leave her. I ought to be flattered that I had influence enough to persuade you to take such a step, though it is rather a check to my vanity to find I cannot prevent your regretting it."

"Dear Teviot, I have never expressed any regret, I am sure."

"No, you are much too guarded, too careful of giving offence, I mean; and besides, let us hope that even moments of happiness, since you can have no more–"

"Has that offended you? Oh, Teviot, how you will misunderstand me!"

"I am very unfortunate, certainly; my want of comprehension is most distressing. Perhaps if our feelings were more the same, my obtuseness would not be so great; but, as it is, I am not sufficiently cool and guarded to judge calmly. I hoped I had at last found a way to please you; however, it is of no consequence. I have intruded on your ladyship's horticultural pursuits, I fear," he said, with a bad imitation of playfulness; "you must have wished me away repeatedly, and as I have hardly time for a gallop before dinner, I have the honour to take my leave."

"I thought you meant to ride in the evening, but I can be ready in a moment."

"It is just possible that I may be able to ride twice in one day, and that for once I may choose to ride alone. I have been long enough in your way now, and so goodbye."

"Now, what can I have said that has annoyed him again?" thought Helen; "but so it always is; he never understands me. I wonder why he married me; and yet at first how different he was from what he is now! When we danced together in London, how pleasant he was–so gay, and so ready to talk and laugh and to be amused! but then I was different too, and more amusing, I should think, for I feel so grave and dull now; and whenever I try to be in spirits, I say something that vexes him. Well, papa and mamma will be here soon, that is one comfort, and dear Beaufort. Nothing ever puts him out of sorts; but I must not think of that."

Helen wandered home, absorbed in ruminations over her new position: and she was so absent that Mrs. Tomkinson's distrust of my lord was confirmed; and it seemed almost time to hint her very low opinion of him to Mr. Phillips.

The evening passed away better than Helen had expected. Lord Teviot's gallop had put him into better humour; and Helen's spirits rose when she was dressed for dinner. I have often observed that the petty vexations and worries of the early part of the day are taken off and folded neatly up with the morning gown; and a fresh fit of spirits and good-humour put on with the evening adornments. It is a change for the better, personally and mentally.

CHAPTER XIV.

THURSDAY came with its promise of guests. There was no answer from the Portmores; so, besides the interesting uncertainty of their arrival, it remained to be seen whether Mary Forrester would accompany them. Lady Eskdale had written one line of joyful acceptance, apologizing for bringing Eliza Douglas; but adding, that she was a dear good girl, and the idea of paying Helen a visit pleased her so much, that Lady Eskdale could not resist bringing her, if Mrs. Douglas gave the consent for which Eliza had written to ask.

As I consider the Douglas papers valuable, not only for their own merits, but as proofs of the exact truth of this history, I shall make use of some of Eliza's letters.

"DEAREST MOTHER,

"I do not know what you will say to it, but Lady Eskdale desires me to ask if you have any objection to my going to St. Mary's with her and Lord Eskdale to-morrow? I hope you will let me go. Lord Teviot asked me himself, for Lady Eskdale told me so; and besides, my name was in his letter, which was lying open on the breakfast table, so I could not help seeing it. I am very happy here, though rather sleepy in the evening, because they sit up so late. There never was anything like Lady Eskdale's kindness. She has given me two beautiful gowns and a bracelet,–two pomps and one vanity,–and she takes such care of me, that I am quite ashamed of never feeling ill; she is always asking how I am. I write in such haste, that I have not time for more than several very important questions which I want you to answer. What am I to give the housemaids here? and do you object to my reading novels, if Lady Eskdale says there is no harm in them? They look very tempting, particularly one called Pride and Prejudice. And when we go to St. Mary's, that is, if you let me go, ought not I to sit backwards in the carriage, though Lord Eskdale is so civil, he will be sure to say not? I play to him every evening; he is so fond of music, I am glad I can play. Every evening he says, 'Now, Miss Douglas, are we to have a little harmony?' May I sing to him? My love to papa, and I wish he would advance me my next quarter's allowance; and pray tell Sarah my work is turning out beautiful and that gowns are still worn without any trimming. I wish she would hear Susan Dawson her catechism while I am away, else she will be sure to forget that long answer to 'What is thy duty to thy neighbour?' And it has been such a trouble to teach it to her. It nearly wore your poor little Eliza quite out. Lord Beaufort came last night, and is also going to St. Mary's.

"Ever, dearest mother,
"Your dutiful and affectionate,
"ELIZA DOUGLAS.

"Please mention what papa's politics are. They talk a great deal about government and opposition, and I do not know which I am for."

Mrs. Douglas's answer was propitious; and she was so gratified by the prospect of her daughter's amusement, that she assured Mrs. Birkett, much to that worthy person's surprise, that Lady Eskdale was one of the most warm-hearted, amiable people she knew; not that she joined in the common cant about warm hearts and kind dispositions, because she happened to know what men and women really were; but still there were exceptions, and from long intimacy with the Eskdales, she was able to say, etc., etc. In short, she evinced a spirit of benevolence that took poor Mrs. Birkett quite by surprise, and spoiled her visit. She had come armed with some little anti-Eskdale anecdotes, and with a small supply of malevolence, which would, she had expected, make her visit unusually acceptable, and she was left without a word to say for herself.

CHAPTER XV.

ELIZA wrote to her sister immediately after her arrival at St. Mary's:–

"I begin my letter after I have come up to bed, dearest Sarah, for there is so much to say, that unless I write at night, I never shall have time to say it all. This is such a beautiful place; but you hate descriptions, and so do I. We arrived an hour before dinner, and met Lord and Lady Teviot at the first lodge, when Lady Eskdale got out, and walked home with them. I wish you could have seen how pretty and happy Helen looked. Lord Eskdale and Lord Beaufort arrived just after we did, and we had not been half an hour in the house before a number of other people came. A Colonel Beaufort, a horrid man, like that Mr. Brown we used to call Ape Brown–though Colonel Beaufort is very good-looking–but he is so grand and conceited. Then, there are two Mr. Sterlings and a Sir Charles de Vere, and one or two others, and at last there came Lord and Lady Portmore, and with them a Miss Forrester, a great friend of Helen's. Don't you remember how Mrs. Duncombe used to talk of her, and say how clever she was, and that she was going to be married to somebody, I forget who, who liked somebody else? I do not like Lady Portmore at all. She came in just as if she were mistress of the house, and as if it were her place, to receive the guests; and she called everybody by their names, and without their titles. 'Oh! Teviot, why did not you ask Melmoth to meet me? So, Beaufort, you are here, that is right. Ernest' (meaning Colonel Beaufort), 'you should have sent to my house before you set off; I wanted you to bespeak horses for me on the road. Well, now we must go and dress, it is almost time for dinner. I have my old room, I suppose, Teviot; so, dear Helen, you need not come with me, I am quite at home, so stay where you are. Who is that with your mother?' 'Miss Douglas,' Helen said. 'Oh, Miss Douglas, rather pretty, is not she?' Now you know, Sarah, that I am not vain, nor perhaps even rather pretty, but I longed to say 'Yes, quite beautiful,' just to quell Lady Portmore, who walked off, saying, 'Well, good people, will you all go and dress, I hate waiting for dinner.' I should have liked to put it off for half an hour, for the pleasure of thwarting her, though I was rather hungry myself. I have such a pretty room, with a dressing-room, and such looking-glasses and sofa and arm-chairs, mamma would be shocked. Lady Eskdale was so good as to send for me before she went downstairs, and Lord Beaufort took me in to dinner, so I was less frightened than might have been expected. He is so good-natured, I am not at all afraid of him. I wore my blue gown. This is such a magnificent house. How I should like to be married to a very rich man, with a very fine place!

"Your affectionate sister,
"E. DOUGLAS."

Helen was quite happy at dinner, with her father on one side of her, and Mary Forrester sitting next to him, and her mother nearly opposite to her. She had been all day preparing for the arrival of her family, surveying their rooms again and again, and adorning them with flowers. The books that she thought would amuse them were placed on their tables. The claret cup which Lord Eskdale drank after dinner had been ordered and tasted by herself; even the bill of fare, which was usually submitted only to Lord Teviot, was looked over by her, lest the boiled chicken for Lady Eskdale, and the potage which Beaufort liked so much, should have been omitted. And now they were all there, the guests and their comestibles, and she felt at home again. She had more questions to ask her father about Eskdale Castle than he could possibly answer during one dinner, for she was obliged to do the honours to the rest of the company; but that was no trouble to her. Her eye was bright, and her cheek flushed with happiness. She was willing to laugh at every joke, and to break through every silence, for there was a pleasant consciousness about her, not only that the good things of life were collected very handsomely and becomingly around her, but that those she loved best were with her to share them.

"Upon my word, Lady Teviot," said her father with a gratified smile, as the ladies rose to withdraw, "you seem to me to be a very finished specimen of the lady of the house; that little head will be turned, and my little Helen will be spoiled."

She kissed his hand as she moved on, but the gloomy look with which Lord Teviot regarded her as she passed him at the door might have satisfied Lord Eskdale that there was still a chance that his daughter would not be utterly spoiled by unqualified indulgence.

CHAPTER XVI.

IT was a beautiful August evening–a real summer's evening–and the ladies, instead of betaking themselves to the drawing-room, strolled out on the lawn. Helen, passing her arm through her mother's, contrived to draw her away, and turned into the shrubbery, having whispered to Miss Forrester to take charge of the others; and Lady Portmore, who hated walking, sat down on one of those wretched gridirons commonly called garden chairs, and desired Mary to take another. Eliza thought she should be in the way, and was quietly withdrawing, but Lady Portmore, who had seen Lord Beaufort talking and laughing with her, and had heard Lady Eskdale call her "Dear Liz," thought it would be the right thing to make much of her.

"My dear Miss Douglas, you must not leave us; I foresee that you and I shall be great friends. Pray sit down with Mary and me. Mary is one of my dearest friends; and you must not be afraid of her, though she is the cleverest creature in the world."

"There is one of the prettiest creatures in the world," said Mary, waving away the compliment to herself, and pointing to Lady Teviot's receding figure; "and there Miss Douglas will agree with me, I see."

"And I, I am sure," said Lady Portmore; "in fact, you could not speak to anyone who is such an authority on the subject of Helen's beauty as I am, for I was the very first person who discovered it. The night she came out at H. House, just as she entered the room, so that nobody else could have seen her, I said to the Duke, 'There is the prettiest girl that has appeared this year'; and I remember turning round and instantly saying to Count Czernischeffski, the man with the scar, you know–Princess Saldovitch's hero–Voilà, M. le Comte, une jolie débutante; and after that, all the world, English and foreign, raved about her beauty. I really set that fashion."

"I suppose," said Mary, "that when she appears next year as Lady Teviot–that is, if she does appear–"

"How do you mean, my love? What is to prevent her appearing?"

"Nothing but her own good will and pleasure," said Mary, laughing: "it is a foolish expression; but I meant to say that I hope Helen will not adopt the reigning fashion of young married women, and lead a life of balls and parties. I think she will be a stay-at-home wife."

"I don't understand," said Lady Portmore, fussily; "if she stays at home, what becomes of her position, and her rank, and Teviot House? And you forget her diamonds. But that is the way with you clever people; you so often overlook the important point which we silly ones remember. If she shuts herself up, what is the use of her having married Teviot?"

"But she liked him, did she not?" said Eliza, who looked aghast at Lady Portmore's reasoning–or rather calculation–for reasoning was not Lady Portmore's strong point. "I think if I were married to anybody I liked, I should prefer staying at home with him to going to a ball."

"You dear little romantic thing; now that is so like me! I foresaw we should suit each other exactly. There is nothing equal to the comfort of a long evening at home for the husband and wife; but then, you know, other people must be considered–the people who invite one to their houses–and one must go, for fear of not being asked again; and that is the rock on which my domestic happiness splits."

There was a pause while Lady Portmore mused sadly upon this shipwreck of her domestic felicity; and then the conversation began again with the Teviots.

"Did Helen's marriage take you by surprise, Mary?"

"I could not be surprised at any amount of admiration that Helen might excite; but I was in the country at the time, and I had heard very little of Lord Teviot. It was a short romance, you know?"

"My dear Mary, there is nobody who knows so much about it as I do. Miss Douglas will think me very vain, but as she does not know me, I must just let her a little into the secret of my character. She will say I am frank, too frank perhaps; but the fact is, as all the world knows, that before his marriage Teviot almost lived at my house. It was his home, literally his home. He is the most warm-hearted creature on earth, and chose to take a great fancy to me. Why, I am sure I can't guess; but he was on that footing at my house that my own brother might have been. It was the sort of thing that the world might have talked of; and I never know how I escaped all sorts of ill-natured remarks. In fact, but this is between ourselves, I did say to Lord Portmore, ' If you think Teviot had better not come so much to our house, only tell me so, and I will contrive that he shall not dine here so constantly–and yet there shall be no scene, no esclandre.' I thought this right; don't you agree with me?"

"And what did Lord Portmore say?" said Eliza, who was listening in breathless delight to what she thought a very odd and slightly improper story.

"Oh! it was a most gratifying answer to me. He said he had not the smallest objection to Teviot's dining with us as often as he liked, and that he saw no opening for any scene, and no necessity for any explanation; in short, he evidently placed the greatest confidence in me. This was in June, and there were constant fêtes at Teviot House and the Villa; and I was rather annoyed by the notion that the world would say they were given for me. And one day, I remember it as well as possible, it was at a breakfast at the Villa, I said to my friend Mrs. Hanbury, ' I charge you, Cecilia, if you hear any ill-natured comments made on my being at all these fêtes, that you will give me warning in time. I can tell Teviot they had better be given up.' And she said in her odd way, ' Why, my dear, what do you mean? Don't you know that he is desperately in love with Helen Beaufort? I believe he has proposed; if not, for mercy's sake say nothing to him, or you may do mischief.' I do mischief! I! who am the last person in the world to think of such a thing. I went to Teviot directly, and said, ' My dear Teviot, tell me the truth. The world says you are in love with Helen. Are you quite sure of your own feelings? Will she suit you? ' and so on, exactly what his own sister might have said to him. And I am as much convinced as if it were told me by an angel from heaven that I made that marriage, for he proposed the next day, the very next day. I suspect he had been a little piqued by my easy way of talking of it, for when he came to tell me it was settled, I never saw a creature in such a state of agitation. It was a very hot day, and he asked directly for a glass of iced water, which shows how nervous he was. I took my line at once, and wished him joy, and said that I would call on Helen, and that I was much flattered that he had put me in his confidence the day before; and then he grew calmer. But he laughed and talked a great deal, and was certainly very much excited, and hurried away again, so unlike him. After that I saw him but little; indeed, I kept out of his way, as I guessed the Eskdales would wish to keep him to themselves; but as soon as he was married, I was so anxious for his sake and Helen's that there should be no awkwardness, no coolness between us, that I offered to come here–actually offered myself–and you saw how well the meeting went off."

"Perfectly," said Mary; "nothing could be more commonplace–more easy, I mean."

Lady Portmore did not look as if she quite liked the answer, and was on the point of turning to Eliza to extract a more flattering opinion, when the gentlemen appeared, and her thoughts took a new direction.

Lord Teviot looked round as he came out on the lawn, and seemed to miss someone, though he asked no questions; but Lord Beaufort said immediately, "Where's Helen? Miss Douglas, have you a mind to come and look for her? I saw her and my mother go up that walk."

"I should like to go," said Eliza, "but–"

"Oh dear! yes, we want a chaperon, I forgot," said Lord Beaufort; "perhaps my respected father will have the kindness to act ruffian to us babes in the wood."

"Not I," said Lord Eskdale; "I can't stir a step without my coffee; but there are your mother and sister in sight, at the end of that avenue, so you may go in all propriety and join them."

"Will you come, Miss Forrester?" said Eliza.

"Now, Miss Douglas," said Lord Beaufort, "let us be off, or they will be here, and our excessive attention in going to look for them will not be appreciated. Don't ask that Miss Forrester to come," he added, as they walked away, "I can't abide her."

"Oh! why not, Lord Beaufort? I like her looks so much."

"Her looks then are deceitful above all things. I am not going to add that she is desperately wicked; but she affects to be desperately good, which is nearly as bad."

"I dare say it is not affectation. Why should she not be really good? Now, Lord Beaufort, what right have you to judge of either real or affected goodness?" she added, laughing.

"That right, Miss Douglas, which lookers-on assume of knowing most of the game; and as for Miss Forrester's game, I admire neither it nor the way in which she has played it. Neither do I admire her, and let me advise you not to be taken in by her, as Helen is."

"I am afraid your advice will be thrown away. I feel frightfully tempted to like her. I like everybody, except Lady Portmore, by the by. I am very willing to dislike her, if that will satisfy you."

"Ah! poor Lady Portmore, all women hate her. I wonder why? but we have not time to discuss her now. Well, Helen, my beauty, we are come to conduct you and our well-beloved mother to coffee. Have you finished your confidential communication? and can you listen to a few original remarks in the Repton line, which Miss Douglas and I are prepared to make on St. Mary's?"

"Is it not pretty, Eliza?"

"More than pretty–beautiful. Oh! Helen, how happy you must be here! "

"So I have been telling mamma," answered Helen, with a faint smile; "and she has been making me jealous of you. You are creeping into my place. She says you take such care of her."

"I should be very ungrateful if I did not," said Eliza, gliding round to Lady Eskdale's side, and pressing her hand.

"No sentiment, dear Liz," said Lady Eskdale, "for we must all put on our company faces and company manners now."

They joined the rest of the circle, and found Lady Portmore proving to Lord Eskdale that she had brought about most of the political changes of the past year: and that she knew beforehand all that were likely to take place in the ensuing one.

CHAPTER XVII.

"WHAT will you all like to do to-day?" said Helen one morning after breakfast, "drive? or ride? or stay at home? or go to Langley ruins? Lady Portmore, what is your good will and pleasure?"

"I hardly know," she said, with an air of mystery. "Let me have a little talk with you in your dressing-room; a real comfortable chat, before I decide."

"Good heavens, how inhuman!" said Ernest Beaufort, who was lolling on a sofa, supported by countless cushions, and reading the paper; "you are not going to make that guiltless Helen endure the agony of a regular talk at this early hour of this broiling day. Besides, what is there to talk about? "

"A thousand things. I have not seen Helen for ages; and we have so much to hear and to say."

"And are you, Lady Portmore," he said, giving the cushion that supported his back a languid push, "are you still going on with all that old humbug of being glad to see people, and of having something to say to them? Has not everything been said forty times over? and is not any one individual quite as good as another? "

"Now that is so like you, Ernest. How odd your theories are; and yet how true! I said myself the other day, that one never hears anything new till it is old; and Cracroft the poet, who was sitting with me, laughed very much at the originality of the idea. You and I think so exactly alike, Ernest."

"Perhaps then, Lady Portmore, you are thinking of picking up the supplement of the Times, which I have had the misfortune to drop. In the similarity of our dispositions we are probably of opinion that it ought to be picked up by one of us."

"Now that is too bad. Oh, Miss Douglas," she said, as Eliza stooped for it, "you are spoiling that wretch!"

"Miss Douglas, the wretch thanks you; your attentions to me in my old age do you infinite credit. When I was as young as you, a period which my enfeebled memory can scarcely recall, I doubt whether I was equally mindful of the infirmities of the old."

"And what may be your age?" said Lady Portmore.

"It is a painful subject. You have probably observed this morning that I am unusually grave and meditative. To-day is one of those eternal birthdays of mine which are always coming round, and with shame I avow that for six-and-twenty years I have now existed in this very tiresome world, bored and boring. Now don't all begin to wish me many happy birthdays. I am tired of good wishes. If you like to make me any presents, you may; but I am tired of things too–so do not give yourselves any trouble. I am twenty-six, and can't help myself."

"Oh! we must leave him, Helen, he is really too odd. Come and show me your boudoir."

"Directly," said Helen." Teviot, as you and Beaufort are going to the stables, will you order the open carriage for mamma? and the pony phaeton will be wanted. Shall I ride with you?" she said, timidly.

"Your attention, my dear, is most gratifying, but as you know that the Smiths, Beaufort, and I agreed to have our first shot at the partridges to-day, your obliging offer is made in all safety."

"I am glad you will be so well employed," answered Helen, speaking as unconcernedly as she could, for she saw Mary looking inquiringly at her. "Then I will make my own arrangements, as I am discarded by you. Mary, you have brought your habit, of course, and there is a charming horse which Teviot provided for me; but papa has given me my old favourite, so we will ride after luncheon. Now for Lady Portmore. Shall I get off under an hour of confidences? "

Mary shook her head, and the party dispersed in various directions.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE library at St. Mary's was of a high, old-fashioned form, and within it was a small flight of steps which led to a light gallery built round three sides of the room, giving thus an easy access to the higher shelves of books. The room itself was full of odd, deep recesses, and was altogether a dangerous style of apartment, for the occupants of the gallery were not necessarily visible to the occupants of the room, so that if any two conversable guests were inclined to discuss the character of a third, there was a very reasonable probability that their conversation might be overheard by the party most concerned. Mary Forrester had entered this gallery from a door above, and was standing in one of the recesses, with a book under her arm, which she meant to take to her room, and another in her hand, which she read as she stood. And while she was thus occupied, Lord Beaufort and his cousin came into the room below. "We can get out through that window," said Lord Beaufort.

"Oh! then I need not announce myself," thought Mary.

"Why, so we can; but won't it be a great deal of trouble? I wish, Beaufort, you would tell me why you hate her, before you drag me any further."

Again Miss Forrester was on the point of saying, "I am here," when a name that had the power to arrest her at any moment drove her back.

"Why, on that poor Reginald Stuart's account: she led that man on to attach himself to her in the days of his prosperity, and threw him over the moment his little money peccadillos came to light."

"That's bad," said Ernest; "but I dare say they were dead tired of each other. It is so difficult to go on liking the same person for ever and ever; and besides, as Reginald was ruined, they could not have lived on air."

"No, but she had had a large fortune left her, and jilted him just when she might have helped him; and that is what people call a saint. And there is that unfortunate Stuart getting into no end of scrapes, for he has become reckless, and will be thoroughly dished."

Mary could stay no longer. As quietly as she could, she glided to the gallery door, and, certain that she could not be recognised, allowed herself the natural solace of letting it fall with a slight tendency to a bang, and rushed along the passage to her own room. The sound of the closing door made the two gentlemen start. "Who's there?" said Lord Beaufort in a very guilty voice. "Is there anybody just come into that gallery?" he added, as the silence continued.

"Nobody just come in, but somebody just gone out," said Ernest, drily. "If it were Miss Forrester, you are about as much dished as Stuart. My chief merit happily is that I am a good listener "; and he sauntered on to the anteroom.

Lord Beaufort rushed up the steps, still with a vague hope of finding a deaf librarian, or a dusting housemaid; but no, there was nothing but a handkerchief, and on one of its corners an intricate arrangement of forget-me-nots and roses represented to an acute decipherer the word "Mary." Lord Beaufort laid