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  THE
  MANŒUVRING MOTHER.


  BY THE AUTHOR OF
  "THE HISTORY OF A FLIRT."


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. II.



  LONDON:
  HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
  GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

  1842.




  LONDON:
  F. SHOBERL, JUN., 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET,
  PRINTER TO H. R. H. PRINCE ALBERT.




THE MANŒUVRING MOTHER.




CHAPTER XII.


Sir Foster Kerrison's entrance into the great drawing-room at Wetheral
was an epoch in its annals. It was the precursor of stirring matter.
Lady Wetheral received him with great amenity of manner; and any other
gentleman might have perceived a look of anxious care in her eyes.
Sir Foster, however, saw nothing; he did not even observe that her
ladyship was alone. Habit directed him to a seat in the direction of
the lounging-chair, which stood in the boudoir, and when his hat was
placed upon a table, there was nothing to interfere with his _dolce far
niente_. Sir Foster sat down, tapping his boot and winking his eye, in
happy ignorance of coming events.

Lady Wetheral allowed some little time to elapse in silence, ere she
commenced proceedings; but, when Sir Foster had taken root, and looked
steadily deposited for three hours at least, the case was gently
opened. Lady Wetheral drew near, and seated herself opposite her
neighbour.

"Sir Foster Kerrison, I beg your attention for a few moments."

Sir Foster made no reply, but a rather quickened tapping of the boot
assured her she was heard. Miss Kerrison had innocently enough supplied
the key to her father's meaning, and movements.

"Perhaps, my dear Sir Foster, you are somewhat surprised at the absence
of Lucy and Clara."

Sir Foster looked round the room, and smiled.

"Clara is not allowed to return again to your society, my dear Sir
Foster, for very essential and painful reasons." Lady Wetheral paused,
but she might have continued _ad libitum_ for hours: Sir Foster neither
perceived the absence of his daughter and Clara, nor understood the
drift of her remarks. Lady Wetheral's quickness detected at once the
obtuseness of her companion; she perceived the uselessness of hints
and sighs, and broken sentences, in the present instance. Tom Pynsent
yielded at once to their influence, but Sir Foster required a _coup de
main_ to rouse his feelings and attention. Another line of conduct was
therefore chosen.

"Sir Foster Kerrison, you have behaved very ill to my daughter!"

"God bless me!" cried Sir Foster, almost starting. "Eh! what?"

"If your intentions are not honourable, Sir Foster Kerrison, I, as a
mother, demand a change of conduct on your part."

"Lucy ill, or any thing?" demanded Sir Foster, in surprise.

"_Miss Kerrison_ is well," replied Lady Wetheral, with emphasis.

"Oh, umph!"

Sir Foster sank again comfortably into the arm-chair.

Provoking man! Was there no way of chaining such a creature? Her
ladyship's patience was inexhaustible. Perhaps a still more decided
manner might effect the purpose. Lady Wetheral took a high tone.

"Sir Foster Kerrison, the neighbourhood have reported you are
addressing my daughter. I wish to know if you are aware of this
report: Miss Wetheral shall not be trifled with, Sir Foster!"

The tapping increased in velocity, and Sir Foster's eye winked with
prodigious rapidity. Her ladyship became gradually more resolute and
parental.

"If my child is to be made wretched, Sir Foster Kerrison, a mother's
offended heart will urge its claims to be heard, and her lips will
express its horror at such baseness. She will tell you how detestably
wicked it is to come, day after day, and sit hours, with an innocent,
trusting girl, who fondly believes there is truth and honour in your
soul. No parent can mistake the aim of your visits, Sir Foster, but I
will know if it is meant in honour. I will hear no base apologies, no
wicked evasions--is my daughter to be Lady Kerrison, or is she to pine
away in solitary, unrequited attachment? Is Miss Wetheral to become
pointed at as a refused and melancholy picture of disappointed love;
or is my lovely Clara to be your happy, affectionate wife, Sir Foster
Kerrison?" The lady's voice sounded agitated and heart-broken at the
conclusion of her speech.

Sir Foster looked bewildered. He heard the epithets "base" and
"wicked," without comprehending their purport, or having a connecting
idea of the sentences which fell from Lady Wetheral's lips with such
voluble earnestness. He only heard distinctly the concluding words, "Is
my lovely Clara to be your happy, affectionate wife, Sir Foster?" and
he replied with quiet nonchalance,

"If you please--oh yes--eh, what?"

Lady Wetheral smiled very complacently as she rose from her seat.

"You have made me very happy, by proposing for my Clara, dear Sir
Foster, and we will now return into the boudoir."

Lady Wetheral talked all the way from the drawing-room into her
boudoir, while Sir Foster followed, humming and staring, perfectly
aware something had happened, yet not quite awake to its nature.

"I am delighted our little society is not to be broken up, my dear Sir
Foster: _now_, you know, every thing will continue in its own charming
routine--you will be in your arm-chair now every day, as a thing of
course. Sit down, dear Sir Foster; I will open this window; the spring
flowers are early and delicious this season. I perceive Lucy and Clara
walking in the garden. Ah, I see you have taken possession of your old
seat, dear Sir Foster."

Miss Kerrison and Clara were quickly at the door of the boudoir. Clara
had seen the signal; the window was at last thrown open.

"Lucy, Lucy, your father is come; let us return to the house," she
cried, hastily retracing her steps. Lucy followed instinctively.

"Lucy Kerrison," said Lady Wetheral, taking her hand the moment she
appeared, "I have very extraordinary news for you! how are you inclined
to receive a mother-in-law, my dear love!"

"Are _you_ going to marry papa?" asked Lucy Kerrison, in extremity of
surprise.

"No, my love; Sir John is in excellent health in his study," replied
her ladyship, smiling.

"Oh yes, how foolish! I forgot; but I fancied you in earnest, and I
could only think of yourself, Lady Wetheral. Papa, are you going to be
married? Oh, don't marry! pray, don't marry, papa, and I will return
to Ripley with you: but it's only a joke, is it papa?" and poor Lucy
Kerrison became very pale.

"My dear love, you really tremble; but I assure you there is no need
of any alarm. You will not fear Clara as a new relation: you will lead
a very easy life with Clara, my dear Lucy! Your papa has proposed for
Clara, my dear young friend. Are you sorry?"

Lucy Kerrison seated herself in perfect silence and astonishment. Lady
Wetheral resumed.

"Clara, my love, Sir Foster has decided upon taking away my companion:
he has asked for you to ornament and enliven Ripley, my love. How can I
refuse Sir Foster Kerrison; and yet how can I part with my only child,
my only companion, since the marriage of Mrs. Tom Pynsent and Lady
Ennismore!"

Miss Kerrison fixed her gaze upon Clara and her father alternately, but
she did not speak: her ideas were too confused to admit of speech, and
she watched in stupid amazement the scene that was passing before her.
Lady Wetheral approached Sir Foster, leading Clara.

"Rise, man of happy fortunes, and receive the boon I tender to you
according to your wishes. Make my child happy, and I must reluctantly
consider myself fortunate in giving her to a good, indulgent man, such
as Sir Foster Kerrison."

Sir Foster was noted for taciturnity, and inveterate absence of mind,
in society; but he was not an absolute fool, and he was a great
admirer of beauty. He had a strong suspicion in his mind that a
young lady was on the point of being forced upon him; but he hated
altercation, and the lady was young and particularly handsome; besides,
Lady Wetheral was insisting upon it, he had made proposals, and it
was useless to contend. Sir Foster therefore rose and bowed very
gallantly--considering it was Sir Foster; and that bow recognised
and authorised the whole affair. Lady Wetheral's care was ended upon
Clara's matrimonial prospects.

Miss Kerrison at length found words to express her deep surprise, and
indeed pleasure, considering her father really meant to marry; but she
confessed the thing was a mystery to her; she had seen no attention on
her father's part to Clara--never! As to his sitting three hours every
day at Wetheral, that was nothing--he did so at many places. She never
saw any liking on Clara's part either--altogether, it was the oddest
piece of courtship she had ever seen or read of.

Sir Foster having bowed and reseated himself, heard all his daughter's
remarks in silence. He smiled and tapped his boot fast, which always
denoted concurrence, or was a symptom of pleasure as far as it went;
therefore, Miss Kerrison continued.

"I am sure, papa, you only visit here as you did at Hatton and Lidham,
and in Shrewsbury; you never made love to Miss Wycherly or Miss
Spottiswoode; did you? And you never spoke to, or looked at Clara that
I could see? I cannot make it all out! I am sure, Clara, you would have
mentioned it to me if you had liked papa, or if you thought papa liked
you. I never shall understand it. Are you going to marry soon, papa?"

"All in good time, my dear Lucy," replied Lady Wetheral, pleased with
the admirable issue of her scheme; "there are many little things to be
done before Clara can be given up to you. You, my dear Lucy, must be my
daughter when Clara goes to Ripley; you must stay with me then, at poor
lonely Wetheral."

"My dear Lady Wetheral, I will often come to see you, but I am sure
Clara will require my assistance some time at Ripley. You don't know
how particular papa is in eating! Clara will be some time finding out
what papa likes, and till then!--oh, Clara, till then!" Miss Kerrison
lifted up her hands and eyes. Sir Foster only smiled at his daughter's
insinuation; he never offered to excuse or remove the implied hint from
the minds of his fair one, or her mother. Miss Kerrison proceeded with
lively energy,--

"Oh, Clara, I am very glad you mean to marry papa, though I never shall
understand how it was brought about. I shall be released from managing
the establishment, which I do not like. I hope you will get money from
papa for every thing; I can assure you I had dreadful work to squeeze
out a few pounds, and the fishmonger is my abhorrence: papa and the
fishmonger have pretty scenes together!"

Sir Foster Kerrison chuckled, and winked his eye with nervous rapidity.

"Yes, papa, you may laugh, but the fishmonger did not. Do you know,
Clara, papa kicked the man and his basket of soles and salmon out of
the kitchen, and down the drive at Ripley."

Another chuckle betrayed the delight Sir Foster felt at the
recollection of his prowess. Lady Wetheral however thought it politic
to close the subject.

"Tradespeople are very tiresome, my dear Lucy, and it requires a
particular degree of patience to deal with itinerant fish-people. I
don't wonder at your poor father losing temper. One moment, my love, if
you please."

She rose and quitted the boudoir, followed by Miss Kerrison, who
accompanied her to the breakfast-room. Her ladyship then expressed and
explained her wishes.

"My dear Lucy, it was time to have mercy upon your father and his
bride elect, therefore I begged you to withdraw. They must have a
_tête-à-tête_, poor things, to explain their feelings and inquire into
each other's habits and tastes. And now, my love, since events have
unfolded themselves so rapidly this morning, I must counsel and advise
with you. I think it prudent that you should return to Ripley this
morning, Lucy; therefore the carriage shall be at your service in two
hours." Tears rushed into Lucy Kerrison's eyes.

"You know, my dear love, a separation _now_ is merely a few hours'
absence; something more to smile at than weep over--perhaps a day or
two, not more. You are aware of your good father's infirmity, Lucy; and
I trust to your good sense and kindness to remind him occasionally of
his engagement; you understand me, my love."

"Yes, but papa forgets so sadly. After all, he may go off, and sit
three hours at Lidham again; and how can I detain him, Lady Wetheral?"

"Circumstances are very different, my love! Yet I do not say Sir Foster
may not require a little prompting _sometimes_; his absence of mind is
certainly a disease: perhaps, if you withheld his cane, or concealed
his coat--Pelham, you know, might be let into the secret, to watch his
master; or, if you sent a message by him, to freshen his recollection;
but you will do every thing well, I am sure, my love;--no one more _au
fait_ and clever than Lucy Kerrison."

Thus flattered and counselled, Miss Kerrison undertook to watch her
father's whereabouts, and Pelham was to be instructed to turn his
master's thoughts every morning to his regular ride towards Wetheral.
With these "advices" upon her mind, poor Lucy was consigned to the
carriage, bearing with her many delightful compliments and invitations
to consider Wetheral her second home--many pleasing anticipations of
the future--and much triumph that another was going to undertake the
management of Ripley, her father's violence, and the frightful contests
between himself and the fishmonger.

Clara assured her mother, when Sir Foster had departed, "that though
the _tête-à-tête_ had not been a chatty affair, yet such taciturnity
proved a very quiet, mild character, which would suit her own warmth
of temper. She was very content to be Lady Kerrison, and have Lucy for
a companion. Sir Foster loved quiet, therefore he would not interfere
with her tastes, or quarrel with her actions. She and Lucy would enjoy
themselves, and perhaps be a great deal from home." Lady Wetheral quite
acquiesced in Clara's prognostics; there was only one little affair to
get over, and _that_ would soften by time and reason, she trusted.

"I mean your father's objection, my love; I dare say he will be
horrified at first, because he fancies Sir Foster a little warm in his
temper."

"I don't believe he is warm-tempered," replied Clara, haughtily. "If I
don't complain, no one need make any objection."

"Exactly so, my love; who can possibly judge of another's tastes?
What I consider impetuous, another person may think simply vivacious,
and so on. I think, my love, we will not say any thing to your father
just now; suppose we allow the subject to remain in abeyance for a few
days? Sir John has such very narrow views of worldly advantages; such
peculiarly contracted notions upon the luxuries of life."

Clara differed from Lady Wetheral. She considered it better sense to
state the circumstance at once to her father, since he must become a
principal in the affair sooner or later. She would herself inform him
of Sir Foster's proposal, and if his objections were not to be reasoned
with, she must act for herself.

Such was Clara's determination, and such the intrepidity of her temper
at sixteen years of age. Ungovernable in feeling, and haughty in
disposition, she held powerful sway over her mother's mind; but it was
yet to be proved whether her father also would yield to her domineering
and intractable spirit. Lady Wetheral shrunk from the combat which must
ensue between parental authority and filial disobedience; it would be
a combat far surpassing the skirmish which preceded Lady Ennismore's
engagement, for her husband had seen the error of his frequent
compliance with her wishes, and his commands had been peremptory in the
matter of Sir Foster Kerrison.

Clara's high spirit would not stoop to commit her mother, by
acknowledging her active management in procuring the proposal, but it
might transpire that she had a deep share in its contrivance; and she
dreaded the calm bitterness of her husband's reproaches. Clara's temper
was equal to a thousand storms, and a thousand untoward events: "Clara
therefore must fight her own battle; she was fully equipped for the
war of words which must ensue, and her lofty spirit scorned the alarms
which subjugated meaner and more timid minds." Clara only smiled in
contempt at her mother's reasoning.

Sir John inquired at dinner what had become of his young and agreeable
friend Miss Kerrison, who had so suddenly disappeared. His lady's reply
was perfectly satisfactory, and precluded all further remark: "Miss
Kerrison had been summoned home by Sir Foster." The dinner passed in
harmony, and on Sir John's part, with more than his usual vivacity. He
seemed to feel relieved by the absence of all associations connected
with Ripley. How little did he anticipate the blow which awaited the
withdrawal of the servants, to fall heavily upon his heart!

Clara opened her subject with the indifference of a person who
had quite made up their mind to all consequences, and dared every
opposition; she raised her wine-glass to sip its contents with
consummate nonchalance, and coolly commenced her disclosure.

"Papa, I think it right to inform you of any material step which I may
take, therefore I beg to tell you I have accepted Sir Foster Kerrison."

Sir John appeared for a moment stunned. Clara resumed--

"Sir Foster Kerrison pleases me; and, though my tastes may clash with
others, I alone am judge of what will make me happy; therefore, I have
resolved to marry Sir Foster, papa."

Sir John's eyes were fixed upon his lady's face in silence. She read
their expression, and shrunk under its deep meaning. A flood of tears
fortunately relieved the painful sense of self-upbraiding, and proved
a fruitful theme by which to evade the subject so galling to her
husband's mind.

"Really, Sir John, I am so enfeebled by constant flurry of mind, and my
poor dear girls' marriages, that a word or a look throws me into fits
of nervousness. I cannot imagine why you should stare at me in that
odd way, when I never could endure a fixed gaze; particularly when my
spirits are low, and my nerves so shaken."

"Clara," said her father, calmly, "what events have led to your
acceptance of Sir Foster? when did you accept him, and where have you
met him since your sisters' nuptials? Tell me candidly how all this has
happened."

"Oh! yes, certainly, papa. Sir Foster has been visiting me here some
time."

"I never saw him, or heard of the visit, Clara," replied Sir John,
mildly.

"You are always in your study, papa. People seldom ask for you
now," was Clara's observation, as she helped herself to preserved
strawberries with perfect coolness of manner.

"Gertrude," said Sir John, "you have concealed all this from me, and
disobeyed my strong injunctions to allow no intimacy with Sir Foster
Kerrison. Since my wife persists in opposing me, I cannot be surprised
at a child defying me."

"I never asked Sir Foster to Wetheral," faltered the lady; "his
visits were not the consequences of any invitation from me; you have
never seen him here, my love: I never ventured to ask him to dinner:
I never held out an inducement to attract him here. It has been Sir
Foster's own act and deed to propose to my daughter; and his calling
occasionally was very natural, while Lucy staid with us. You brought
him in yourself one day; but really all this violent altercation
destroys my nerves, and undermines my health." Lady Wetheral sunk back
in her chair, closed her eyes, and applied her vinaigrette.

Sir John was silent for some moments, as if his thoughts and feelings
were too powerful to produce utterance. Clara did not, or would not,
perceive his emotion; she continued eating her biscuit and strawberries
with calm unconcern, not at all disconcerted by the deep silence which
followed her mother's speech. Sir John at length rose, and, with great
solemnity of tone and manner, addressed his youngest daughter, who was
seated a silent spectator of the whole scene.

"Chrystal, it is time for me to take some steps towards removing
you from such examples. I shall accompany you to Brierly to-morrow,
and place you, for the present, under Boscawen's care. He will take
charge of you till I can claim you in peace. When I have deposited
you in safety, I shall remove from Wetheral for ever. Your mother and
sister will accompany me into Scotland, as I shall reside in future at
Fairlee."

Nothing could exceed Lady Wetheral's terror at these words, spoken so
calmly and so decidedly. She rushed towards her husband, and seized his
arm with nervous trepidation.

"Don't go into Scotland, John! oh, don't go there, to horrid Fairlee!
I shall die there--no, no; say you will not take me from Wetheral,
and I will promise any thing, John!" Her ladyship's alarm became very
powerful, and she sank to the ground. Christobelle would have flown
to the bell to summon Thompson, but her father forbade the action; he
begged that such scenes might never be disclosed to the eyes of the
household. He raised her, and laid her on a sofa, but it was some time
ere her senses returned. She wandered evidently for some hours in her
conversation, and was at length placed in bed, under the influence of a
powerful narcotic. Christobelle watched by her as she slept.

Sir John Wetheral felt all this most painfully; but he was now awake
to the weakness of his conduct in placing such implicit confidence in
his lady's system of education; he felt too late how indolently he had
succumbed to her tears and reproaches against his own better judgment,
even to the sacrifice of Julia; and now he was resolved to save Clara,
at the risk of sacrificing for ever all future hopes of domestic
felicity. Her ladyship's fearful apprehensions of Fairlee threatened an
illness: but Sir John was firmly resolved to quit Shropshire; to leave
at once the scene of deception which irritated his mind; to save, if
possible, the fate which awaited Clara, should her evil genius give her
into the power of Sir Foster Kerrison.

Christobelle was still watching in her mother's room, when she opened
her eyes, and faintly called for Thompson. Christobelle did not reply,
but walked softly to the side of her bed, to inquire how she felt after
her long sleep. Her eyes were heavy, for she closed them as she spoke.

"Is that you, Thompson? I have had such horrible dreams: your master is
going into Scotland, and poor Miss Clara will be taken away from Sir
Foster, after all my trouble."

"It is me, mamma," whispered Christobelle.

"Well, well," replied her mother, petulantly, "never mind who it
is, you are equally included in this dreadful Fairlee business. I
shall never live to reach Scotland: the dullness of the place--no
neighbourhood--all old married men--not a match there fit for
Clara--altogether it will kill me."

A silence of some moments ensued, and she spoke again in low
complaining tones.

"Your poor father's violence has made me seriously ill, Bell, and he
must lay my death at his own door. Sir Foster has been extremely ill
used, and all the neighbourhood will think so, after his proposal being
accepted, and his attachment made so public! My poor child Clara! it is
very cruel by her, and the affair has broken my heart."

There was again a pause, so continued, that Christobelle believed her
mother slept; at last she heard her name pronounced.

"Bell."

"Yes, mamma, I am close to you."

"Perhaps, Bell, as you have influence with your father, you can find
out his intentions with respect to Sir Foster. I can't think he would
break off such a match, but I am too unwell to enter upon the subject
with him now. Go down, Bell, and manage your father, as I used to do,
only bring me some intelligence."

"Shall I ask the question for you, mamma?"

"Don't be stupid, Bell; ask questions? Nonsense! You will never get
the truth from man by a direct question, foolish child. You know what
I mean; now go and glean his intentions with cleverness; it will be
practice for you; there, no reply, Bell; no sentimentality; I detest
it!"

Christobelle left the room, not quite comprehending her mother's
words. She could not understand the "gleaning," neither did she know
the meaning of the word "sentimentality," but she went to her father's
study, and found him in his arm-chair, the candles standing before him
unsnuffed. It was nearly twelve o'clock when she entered. Her father
held out his hand, and drew her to him.

"You are still up, my child, and it is very late."

She told him her mother had slept long, and was very anxious to know
whether he really intended to quit Wetheral.

"Your mamma sent you to inquire, my love?"

She hesitated. "No, papa, not to inquire; mamma forbade my asking
questions."

"What _were_ you to do, then, Chrystal, since your mother wished to
know my sentiments?"

Christobelle hesitated again. She was not prepared for this close
investigation.

"Chrystal, whenever you speak, let it be strictly in truth, and with
open-heartedness; God and your father, my child, hate insincerity, and
untrue lips; speak without fear, and without evasion. What is this all
about?"

Christobelle became alarmed at her father's grave observation, and lost
all presence of mind; she repeated at once her mother's injunction.

"Papa, I was told to glean your intentions, without sentimentality,
that was all; only I don't know what 'glean' means."

"Go to bed, now, my dear child, and I will visit your mother," said her
father, in a melancholy tone of voice, which surprised her. "You and
I have a journey before us, Chrystal; the day after to-morrow we shall
set out for Brierly; you will be useful to Isabel, and improved by
Boscawen's society and tastes. Good night, and go to your bed, my love."

She went to her room, and slept soundly, innocent of wrong, and
ignorant of the scene which took place in her mother's room, in
consequence of her unfortunate disclosure. Christobelle was summoned to
Lady Wetheral's bed-side after breakfast; Clara was seated reading near
the window, and a small table covered with essence-bottles told her at
a glance there had been strife. Christobelle was accosted with much
irony.

"Peacemakers are desirable people, Bell, and, doubtless, your heart is
enjoying the harmony you have created; pray advance, and behold your
delightful work. Am I quite as miserable as you wish, Christobelle? or
have you any little poisoned arrow to apply, by way of completing my
distress? Pray do me the honour to inform me what my next annoyance
shall be!"

Christobelle stood in astonishment; her mother was very seldom bitter
in her remarks.

"I suppose you are not aware you have procured the dismissal of Sir
Foster Kerrison, and may, probably, be the cause of your sister taking
strong steps to assert herself. I suppose you are not aware you have
made her and myself wretched, by your stupid matter of fact!"

Lady Wetheral laid down her salts bottle, and took up the vinaigrette;
Christobelle could only weep, and plead ignorance of all intention of
offending.

"Well, there's no help, now," continued her mother, changing her tone,
and resuming the language of complaint. "You have done mischief, and
you must endeavour to repair it. Your father intends to see Sir Foster
to-day, and I am too ill to interfere; he will be violent, I dare say,
for he has quite changed his nature, and his violence to me lately
has been extraordinary; I know he will forget himself, and offend Sir
Foster. Now, Bell, you must manage to place a slip of paper in Sir
Foster's hand as he leaves the room, and do not make such mistakes as
you generally contrive to do with your horrible matter of fact ways."

"There is no occasion for any slip of paper," observed Clara, without
raising her eyes from the book she held before her.

"My dear Clara, yes!" said her mother, in an earnest tone.

"I choose to manage my own affairs," was Clara's quiet reply.

"But, my love, my dear Clara, remember Sir Foster's wretched memory! he
requires some management!"

"I shall attend to all that is necessary," replied Clara.

"Well, my love, I ask no questions; indeed, I have no wish to
interfere; I have done all _I_ could do, in bringing Sir Foster to
propose, and you must guard your own property now. I ask no questions;
we will ask no questions, Bell; we will not be curious. I have neither
eyes nor ears, Clara; I have only sunny thoughts, bright visions of
Lady Kerrison presiding at Ripley, in spite of appearances; but, Bell,
you must be blind: with all your might, remember; no more mistakes,
if you please, and you may be of some use; you are too old to affect
ignorance now, and I cannot excuse it."

Christobelle was in a tremor; for the sentences which flowed in such
profusion from her mother's lips, conveyed no meaning to her mind;
she was anxious to do right, but no distinct line of conduct had been
pointed out; she told her mother steadily, yet in considerable alarm,
that she did not know what was meant.

"I dare say not, Bell; your ideas are as limited as your poor
father's, and I can imagine your influence over his mind must be very
extensive--the confluence of dullness and stupidity. However, Bell, you
can, probably, comprehend what I mean, when I command you to keep all
you see and hear to yourself."

"Yes, mamma, I can do that."

"Very well. If you find Sir Foster Kerrison at any time about the
premises, don't see him; and, whatever may take place around you, be
ignorant of all things. Can you do this?"

"I will not say any thing to papa, unless he asks a question," replied
Christobelle, quite assured in mind that she was giving satisfaction at
last; her mother did not join her in opinion.

"Nonsense, folly! you have not common sense to guide you through life,
child. Thank Heaven, the burden of procuring _you_ an establishment
will not be upon my shoulders! Your father must manage that affair as
he pleases; he takes the whole management of you upon himself. Your
wretched matter-of-fact ways would traverse all my plans for your
benefit."

Christobelle was wrong again! She never could understand her mother's
innuendoes, and she told her so, though she trembled as the words
fell hesitating from her lips. She told her, also, that she could not
comprehend the epithet "matter-of-fact," which she continually used
with reference to her conduct. Alas! the explanation was to the artless
girl equally unintelligible.

"You have no capacity, Bell, or you would understand the meaning of
that expression. Your sisters were not matter-of-fact, unless, perhaps,
Mrs. Tom Pynsent might be considered so; but time would have improved
her; _you_ are past hope. Nothing is so matter-of-fact, as believing
every thing you hear, and answering questions point-blank. Nothing can
be so cruelly matter-of-fact, as telling people exactly what you think,
and making remarks upon people's movements. I believe matter-of-fact
is born with you, and I can perceive no intuition, no tact in your
manners, by which to imagine a germ might be fostered by practice. You
will be very like your grand aunt, Bell, and like her, too, you will
live single. I have no hopes from such mental poverty."

Clara appeared absorbed in her book, for she never raised her eyes,
or joined in the conversation which related to her sister. After her
haughtily expressed determination to be guided by her own judgment,
she remained silent, nor did she apparently hear a word that passed
between her mother and Christobelle. Time was, certainly, fostering the
"germ" of resolution in Clara's breast; and now that circumstances and
events developed her character, it was easy to see she had shaken off
all restraints, and intended to hold the reins in her own youthful and
inexperienced hands. Lady Wetheral felt her power was no more, if it
had ever existed, over Clara's opinions and conduct; and she detained
her youngest daughter to listen to her grievances.

"Altogether, Bell, what with your dullness, and Clara's temper, I
have never been happy since your sisters married. I have endured a
great deal from your father's violence, too, lately; last night he was
indescribably violent, and I am sinking into ill-health. He is resolved
Clara shall not be Lady Kerrison, and he has ordered the poor dear man
to be shown into the study when he calls to-day. Do be there, Bell, and
report the whole affair; you surely have just capacity for that?"

"Report _nothing_," said Clara, without raising her eyes from her book.

"My dear Clara, you really shock me!" Her mother laid down her
vinaigrette, and took up the eau-de-luce. "My dear girl, you frighten
me with such abrupt and alarming sentences. Do you not intend to marry
Sir Foster Kerrison?"

"Of course I do," replied Clara, haughtily.

"Then, my love, why do you forbid Bell reporting his interview with
your father?"

"I hate all that nonsense and tale-bearing; let Bell alone; why is she
to be taught eavesdropping?"

"Really, Clara, you are becoming quite harsh. I certainly never taught
any of you to do wrong, unless procuring the best alliances for you all
is considered an injury. I cannot approve your remark, my dear love, at
all."

Miss Wetheral did not reply.

"I cannot make out Clara's temper, Bell," whispered her mother, "there
is nothing to be _got at_ in her; I never can have any influence, when
I particularly wish to point her attention to circumstances; however,
I must let her take her own way, for she means to marry Sir Foster, I
see, and my mind is fixed upon that match. Well, I shall rise, now, but
I am seriously ill from your father's imperious conduct last night."

"I am very sorry, mamma."

"Sorry! Yes, it was your stupid folly which caused such an unprovoked
attack. When Clara marries, I shall visit my dear Julia: her situation,
so exalted, and the novelty of a new neighbourhood, will amuse me. You
can take care of Sir John while I am absent. Perhaps, Bell, I may see
some young man who may do for you some six years hence."

"No, I thank you, mamma."

"Oh, do not be alarmed," exclaimed Lady Wetheral, a little indignantly,
"I am not going to trouble myself about your fortunes. You can return
to the study: don't tumble over the chairs, Bell. You are at that
awkward, ugly age, all legs and wings--there, get you gone."

Christobelle was very well pleased to escape, for she ever dreaded
a summons to her mother's apartments. She might be awkward, and
her countenance might be displeasing, but her father never alluded
to personal appearance. His voice breathed accents of kindness and
affection, and he only taught her to be good and dutiful. To his study
she retired, as to the home of her happiness, and she was there when
Sir Foster Kerrison was announced, according to Sir John's orders. Lucy
Kerrison had kept her word--she had indeed reminded her father of his
_devoir_ at Wetheral Castle.

Sir Foster stood somewhat bewildered, at his entrance: he had been
marshalled to the right instead of the left, upon alighting, and
he was now ushered into a large room filled with books, instead of
work-baskets and ladies. Altogether, without the trouble of reasoning
upon the matter, or exactly perceiving how things were, Sir Foster
felt something was different from what it had been: the chain of daily
events at Wetheral was broken; he had got into a different line of
action, without knowing why, or how it had been effected. Sir Foster's
embarrassment, however, was only perceived in the nervous motion of
his eye, and the tapping of his boot; for, in despite of the unhappy
absence of mind, which indolence had nurtured, and which ever produced
ridicule, his manners were those of an eccentric but polite man.

Sir John Wetheral received him with gravity, but with kindness, and,
after a few observations had passed upon the state of crops and the
weather, he commenced the subject near his heart. Sir Foster sat in
silent reverie while Sir John poured forth his regret at an engagement
having been entered into with his daughter without his concurrence;
he spoke feelingly upon the deception which had surrounded that
engagement, and expressed his entire disapproval of the match. Sir
Foster smiled and winked, as allusion was made to the known violence of
his temper; and he tapped his boot with rapid strokes, when Sir John
professed his more powerful objections arose from his constant absence
at the house of prayer.--"If," he said, "a man cared not to pray to his
Maker, he would never heed the happiness of a creature committed to
his care; and he would rather follow his child to the grave, than give
her to a man who had no respect to earthly or heavenly things--whose
passions were violent, and whose faith was unsettled."

Sir Foster had nothing to say in extenuation, if he really understood
the purport of the address; but he looked perfectly innocent of all
charges, or of having attached any meaning to the sounds which reached
his ear. Sir John remembered Sir Foster's besetting sin, and accosted
him again with decision, as Lady Wetheral had done in a similar
situation, though upon a different subject.

"Sir Foster, I forbid your visits to my daughter Clara."

Sir Foster raised his eyebrows, but he understood the sentence: it was
clear and concise.

"Eh?--yes, certainly, if Lady Wetheral does not mind."

"I am afraid, sir, Lady Wetheral has given you encouragement in this
affair."

"Umph!--ah!--yes; something of that sort."

"I must insist upon ending the engagement, Sir Foster."

"Eh!--what? Yes, if you like."

There was a silence for some moments; it was broken by Sir Foster, in
apparently complete forgetfulness of the preceding subject.

"Boscawen keep his blood mare?"

Sir John smiled, as he replied in the affirmative. Sir Foster began to
wink his eye violently.

"Give him two hundred for her."

Sir John mentioned his intended visit to Brierly, and offered to be the
bearer of his message or intentions.

"Go with you."

"Ripley does not lie far out of our way; shall I call for you, Sir
Foster? We shall be happy to offer you a seat in or outside the
carriage, which you please."

Sir Foster smiled and hummed, which, according to Lucy Kerrison's
reading, implied consent; they were therefore to have the pleasure of
his company on their journey. Sir John would not feel annoyed by the
accession of a taciturn companion; Sir Foster would, at least, be out
of Clara's neighbourhood, and, what was more satisfactory, he would be
beyond the reach of his lady's machinations.

After this arrangement, Sir Foster remained two hours, silently smiling
in his chair, without changing his position, or appearing to feel the
absence of his so lately affianced bride. Once initiated in another
suite of apartments, it was more than likely he would, in future, seek
the study as naturally as he had made his _sederunt_ in the boudoir;
but the proposed journey must interfere with his plans, and force them
into other channels. Brierly and the blood-mare had present possession
of his memory, and, unless they sank into the oblivious depths of his
lethargic mind, Sir Foster was destined to become a millstone round
the energies of Mr. Boscawen, and Clara must relinquish all hope of
securing her fleeting lover.

Sir John was aware of his companion's eccentric habits, therefore his
studies were quietly resumed, and Sir Foster was allowed to smile
and doze out his allotted time in his own peculiar way. Happiness is
very differently defined by individuals: Sir Foster considered it
enjoyed in a long course of half-dreamy nothingness, seated in a soft
arm-chair, tapping his boot, and not bored by questions or remarks:
Mrs. Hancock and Mrs. Pynsent loved locomotion, and considered life
given as a means of enjoyment in talking, walking, driving, laughing,
and "fun:" Sir John Wetheral loved retirement with books: his lady
confessed she delighted in matchmaking, and visiting different
watering-places: yet do we know and feel happiness is not of this
world; and our enjoyments prove, in the end, the highway to trials and
cares.

Sir Foster Kerrison, at length, awoke from his long calm, and put on
his hat. Christobelle was reading aloud to her father, but she became
silent at this moment, which denoted preparation for departure. Sir
Foster did not observe this; probably he did not see them, for he
rose humming an air, and, winking very nervously, looked attentively
at a portrait of "Eclipse," and walked deliberately out of the study.
This was Sir Foster's "odd way," and no one ever took offence at any
thing Sir Foster did or said. Sir John only remarked, in his gentle
way, "Clara's idea of Sir Foster's temper may not coincide with
mine--a young girl cannot understand how deeply her husband's temper
may implicate her happiness--but I am astonished at her taste, in
selecting a man whose manners must disgust a delicate woman, and
who has already forgotten his dismissal, in anxiety to purchase a
blood-mare at Brierly. I fear Clara is dazzled by motives which blind
her to truth. I will take you to Brierly, my love, to-morrow: I long to
get you away from this place."

When Christobelle passed through the chapel to reach her own room, she
saw Clara and Sir Foster Kerrison walking in the avenue: she could not
be mistaken; the chapel-window commanded the avenue, and Clara was
seen distinctly. She appeared in very earnest conversation: Sir Foster
led his horse by the bridle-rein, and Christobelle thought one arm was
round Clara's waist. She remembered her mother's injunction "not to
see" Sir Foster if she met him upon the premises; and she obeyed the
spirit of her meaning, for she made no observation respecting what she
had seen. Clara appeared at dinner perfectly calm and collected, and
her spirits were higher than usual: she had not the pale cheek, or
monumental look, which Shakespeare describes so pathetically--there was
no sign that

    "He she loved proved false, and did forsake her."

All was tranquil health and untamed spirits in Clara's beautiful face.
Christobelle persuaded herself she could _not_ have seen her sister in
the avenue, and that she was yet ignorant of Sir Foster's intention
to accompany them to Brierly, and bid high for the blood-mare. When
the family separated for the night, Lady Wetheral coolly wished her
youngest daughter a happy meeting with her friends at Brierly: she
should not be up, and begged Christobelle would not rattle at her door
with her awkward fingers, under pretence of leave-taking. She was to
give her love to Mrs. Boscawen, and bid her remember the baize-door for
the nursery.

Clara advanced and kissed her sister: she spoke laughingly.

"You need not visit my room, Bell, to-morrow, because I shall be very
busy; but I wish you lots of happiness, if there is such material at
Brierly. How long do you remain?"

"Papa says, till you are all at Fairlee."

"Oh, well, a happy meeting to us all at Fairlee; but, Bell, before we
meet again,

    "'I'm o'er the border, and awa'
      Wi' Jock o' Hasledean!'

"You don't understand me? Never mind--I don't think I shall like
Fairlee. How you stare, Miss Bell!"

Christobelle did look surprised: she could not understand Clara's
gaiety upon her lover's dismissal. She retired to her room, however,
and lost all recollections, in deep and sweet slumber, both of the past
and present.




CHAPTER XIII.


Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle were speedily on their road to
Ripley. The morning air was fresh and delicious, for May was on its
threshold, and April had passed in smiles. The father's countenance
beamed with pleasure, for he was conferring happiness--and his daughter
was revelling in delight, because she was rolling towards Isabel,
and should enjoy hours of amusement with the kind and patient Mr.
Boscawen. All nature smiled under her eager eye, and she fancied the
woods of Ripley even more beautiful than the grounds of Wetheral. They
turned from the high road, through the great gates of Ripley Park, and
wound for nearly two miles by the side of a lake, magnificent in her
estimation at that time, and lovely in its stillness, now. The grey
towers of Ripley burst upon the sight, as they turned rapidly from the
beautiful sheet of water to enter the deep shrubbery which led to its
entrance, and Christobelle could not help exclaiming--"Oh, papa, how
beautiful this is!"

"Yes, Christobelle, it is lovely; and all, save the spirit of man, is
divine," replied her father, patting her shoulder.

"That was a quotation, papa, from Lord Byron, which you read to me
yesterday. Oh, see what a collection of beautiful plants are ranged in
the conservatory!"

Christobelle was engrossed with the sight of the numerous flowering
shrubs, when the carriage stopped, and four servants advanced to the
hall-door. Sir John inquired if their master was at home.

Sir Foster had been from home since half-past five o'clock that morning.

"When was he expected to return?"

Sir Foster had left no orders or directions.

"Surely," said Sir John, "Sir Foster has forgotten our engagement, and
has set off to Brierly alone. Is Miss Kerrison at home?"

Miss Kerrison was walking in the park--should they send her information
of Sir John Wetheral's arrival?

"By no means. Sir Foster is probably gone to Brierly; but, if your
master returns from elsewhere, inform him I am on the road to
Bridgnorth." Sir John ordered the postillions to proceed.

They drove back, towards the park gates, and met Miss Kerrison, at the
head of her little troop of brothers and sisters. The carriage stopped
at their approach, and Lucy Kerrison's eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Are you come for _me_, Sir John? Has Lady Wetheral sent for _me_, by
your early visit?"

The expression of her face clouded over, when she learned their
destination; but she could not enlighten her friends upon Sir Foster's
flight. Lucy said, "her father did such odd things, that no one at
Ripley ever knew where he was. Sometimes he was here, and sometimes
he was there--he had left the house very early, which was rather an
event of novelty, as he seldom rose before eleven; but she was sure
her father did not know himself where he was going, and no one else
could guess." With this unsatisfactory intelligence, Sir John and
Christobelle were obliged to take leave of Miss Kerrison, and pursue
their route. Sir John persisted in supposing Sir Foster far on his way
towards Brierly. Christobelle, on the other hand, felt an undefinable
assurance that he was gone to visit Clara. The subject, however, faded
soon from the mind of each; and Sir John cheered the remainder of the
drive, by pleasant tales, and affectionate questionings upon subjects
they had read together.

Isabel screamed with joy at her father and sister's arrival. She was
walking up and down before their door, holding her husband's arm, when
the carriage suddenly appeared before them. She rushed to the door, ere
the servant could open it, and threw herself into her father's arms.

"Oh, papa, what a blessing this is! What made you think of coming to
see us so soon? and pray let Chrystal remain with me for some months,
now she is here. Oh, papa, this is such a happiness! such a comfort!"
Isabel threw her arms round her sister's neck, and wept.

"Well, Chrystal, you see I am crying; but it's for joy to see you both
at Brierly. I hope you will stay a long time! My dear papa, come in,
and refresh yourself before dinner;--and, Chrystal, you will be such a
dear companion to me!"

Mr. Boscawen waited till the raptures were ended, and then he welcomed
them to Brierly, with the kindness which ever made him agreeable to
those he esteemed. The meeting on all sides was most delightful in
feeling, and they entered the house, full of smiles and mutual content.
Isabel stood for a moment in the hall, and looked at her husband.

"Mr. Boscawen, I am going to take my sister up stairs, into my room--is
that right?"

"Certainly, my love, do so; the half-hour bell will ring in a few
minutes."

Isabel seated herself, when they had gained her dressing-room, and drew
a chair for her sister.

"Now, Chrystal, just take off your hat and shake your curls."
Christobelle did so.

"Very well; now you are ready for dinner, so let us chat out the time
till the bell rings, and tell me all about Wetheral. Poor Wetheral!--I
often wish I was there again. Oh, Chrystal, perhaps now you are
arrived, I shall not be so much with Miss Tabitha, work, work, work,
all day long!--but what brought you here, without any notice? I hope
every body is well?"

Christobelle gave her sister all the Wetheral news, and detailed the
affairs of Clara as clearly as her young judgment would allow. Isabel
was charmed.

"Well, papa was so good to prevent Clara marrying that old Sir Foster!
I assure you, Chrystal, it would have been a foolish affair. How would
poor Clara have endured reading four or five hours every day, per
force, with her warm temper?"

"Sir Foster never reads, Isabel."

"Ah, but he would have compelled her to read; for old men are all
alike, Chrystal. You may depend upon it, Clara would have been
miserable. Is Sir Foster very unhappy about it?"

Christobelle told her in confidence what she had seen as she passed
through the chapel, and how cheerful Clara appeared afterwards at
dinner. Isabel looked serious.

"What could that mean? I was very unhappy, I know, till papa said I
should marry Mr. Boscawen. I was very silly, then; but Clara was not
Lady Kerrison, therefore she did not know how very soon those things
are got over, and I am surprised she was cheerful just at that time. I
wonder any body marries so young, when they can do as they please at
home. Don't marry, Chrystal, till you are thirty."

The great gong sounded at this moment, and Isabel rose to make a change
in her dress: but she continued talking.

"I don't mind that horrible gong, to-day, because you and papa are
here; but it is always a signal to me of misery. After the gong sounds,
I am sure to pass the remainder of the day with Miss Tabitha, and I am
tired to death with teaching. In the morning I am learning geography
and history, and the evening brings tent-stitch and lectures. I hope I
shan't be obliged to learn tent-stitch while you are here."

Isabel's maid appeared, to assist her mistress.

"Oh, is that you, Mrs. Anson? Do you know if Mr. Boscawen has ordered
any change in the dinner? I am sure I forgot all about it. Dear me,
Anson, how hot your hands are! Well, if ever I felt such hands! Mr.
Boscawen's hands are cold as ice. Just scratch out my hair, Anson. I
don't care how it looks; no more will Clara, if she marries Sir....
There is Mr. Boscawen's tap against the wall; don't you hear it? Now
that tap always means that he is ready to go down, and I must hold my
tongue and make haste. I am always chatting to Mrs. Anson, when you are
not here, Chrystal. Come, I am ready now."

They left the dressing-room, and Mr. Boscawen appeared immediately
at his door. He offered an arm to each, and they descended to the
drawing-room, where Sir John was seated in company with Miss Boscawen,
who was diligently plying at a large worstedwork frame, dressed in
dove-coloured silk, the whitest muslin handkerchief, and the most
delicate net-cap which had ever gladdened the eye: she was indeed
the _beau ideal_ of an old maid. Christobelle looked with pleased
astonishment at the delicate cleanliness of her person; the band of
brown hair, intermingled with grey, which peeped beneath her cap--the
tightly-fitting dress--her white silk mittens--the repose of her
countenance, which looked smilingly upon her--all inclined Christobelle
to admire and gaze upon Miss Tabitha Boscawen. Surely, this could not
be the original of Isabel's gloomy description!

Christobelle's admiration amused and pleased Miss Boscawen: she rose,
and held out her hand. "You are welcome," she said, "to Brierly, Miss
Wetheral. Our dear Isabel will be delighted to have a companion in her
work and studies."

Christobelle was charmed by the reception, and stood near Miss
Boscawen, examining her work, and watching its progress. She was
pleased by her young acquaintance's curiosity, for she performed
her stitches very slowly, to allow time for observation. She asked
Christobelle if she loved work: Christobelle told her she should like
to learn to work well, but that she was very fond of reading. She
smiled.

"I shall be happy to teach you every kind of stitch, Miss Wetheral,
when you are tired with books. I like to see young people employed.
Every hour is valuable, and idleness is the mother of mischief, as you
may remember writing in your copybook. I hope you are never idle, Miss
Wetheral?"

Isabel answered for her sister.

"Oh, dear Tabitha, Chrystal is always reading history and poetry: I am
astonished at her learning, for I never could bear reading or writing:
I liked my doll best, and dancing with Tom Pynsent."

"We shall like one another, Miss Wetheral, I foresee," said Miss
Boscawen, taking no notice of the latter part of Isabel's speech.

At dinner, Isabel sat silent. She took her seat at the head of the
table, it is true; but her eyes were constantly referring to her
husband, and sundry whispers from Miss Boscawen, who sat at her right
hand, increased her alarm and confusion. There were some attractive
glasses of raspberry-cream upon the table at the second course, to
which Isabel "did seriously incline," and she accordingly had one
placed before her. Miss Boscawen was distressed.

"Oh! sister, that is the worst thing you could eat at this time! Pray
send away that cream! John, take away that cream!"

Isabel's eyes overflowed, as the cream vanished from her sight: Mr.
Boscawen saw her disappointment with pity, and endeavoured to mitigate
the sentence.

"Tabitha, _half_ a cream will not hurt Isabel: let her try half a
cream."

"Oh, brother, the very worst thing my sister could take! No, don't eat
a cream, sister."

"I think," said Sir John, "as the parent of five children, I will
undertake to answer for the innocence of the cream. Lady Wetheral
fancied many extraordinary things, and did not suffer from their
effects. I should be inclined to give Isabel that cream, Boscawen."

Mr. Boscawen appeared pleased by an opinion of some weight and
experience, which coincided with his own wish to gratify his young
wife: he accordingly ordered the cream to be reinstated on her plate.
Isabel ate of it greedily.

"Oh, brother!" exclaimed Miss Boscawen, "sister will be so ill!"

Mr. Boscawen, however, enjoyed the eagerness and satisfaction with
which Isabel devoured her cream. "Poor thing, poor thing!" he uttered,
in a low tone, as Isabel laid down her spoon, and exclaimed, "How
excellently good that was!"

"It will do you no harm, my love," said her father, as he watched
her with great interest; "I will answer for your not suffering any
unpleasant effects."

"Oh! Sir John," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, "creams are such very
indigestible things! I am sure sister will be very poorly; indeed,
brother, sister will be ill."

Christobelle now understood the meaning of poor Isabel's distress, when
she complained at Wetheral, that only Miss Tabitha was to preside over
her confinement. Miss Boscawen did indeed watch over her with jealous
care, and, like Don Pedro Snatchaway in Sancho's suite, she allowed
her victim neither to eat nor drink in peace. When the ladies retired
from the dining-room, Miss Boscawen fidgeted about Isabel's seat. She
was not to sit near the window--it was cold; she was not to sit near
the fire--it was hot: the sofa was not quite the thing, and the chairs
might make her uncomfortable. Poor Isabel looked at her sister in
despair.

Miss Boscawen was equally alarmed when Isabel offered to walk round the
flower-garden with Christobelle.

"Oh! sister, the sun is setting, and you will take such a cold! you
have eaten a cream; pray don't take cold upon it."

The walk was given up; Isabel would chat about Wetheral.

"Now, sister, don't talk much just after your dinner; nothing does so
much harm to the constitution, and so completely prevents digestion."

Well, then, they would all take a little nap.

"Won't you get very fat, sister?" asked Miss Boscawen, as she saw
Isabel preparing to lie down upon the sofa; "sleep fattens very much."

Isabel, however, made her preparations, and composed herself to sleep.
Christobelle sat by her with a book which she had taken from one of
the tables. Miss Boscawen sat down to her worsted frame, and rang
for candles. They were some time silent, when Isabel started up and
exclaimed she was extremely unwell. Miss Boscawen looked horrified.

"Oh! sister, that cream! I knew you would be ill."

"I cannot tell the reason, but I am very ill. Send for Mr. Boscawen,
Chrystal." Isabel looked very pale, and was unable to rise from the
sofa.

"Oh! sister, don't send for my brother; let me assist you to your room;
the cream has made you sick."

"Send for Mr. Boscawen," repeated Isabel, her face becoming flushed
with pain.

Mr. Boscawen was summoned, and he carried Isabel to her bed. The
surprise and joy of receiving her family unexpectedly, had brought on a
rather premature confinement. The medical man was sent for, the nurse
was summoned in haste; all the household were in commotion. The medical
attendant gave it as his opinion some surprise or alarm had hastened
Mrs. Boscawen's accouchement. Miss Boscawen was convinced it was the
raspberry-cream.

Sir John decided to remain at Brierly, till Isabel should be considered
out of all danger, and till the little stranger should receive
his blessing. All that night passed in eager hope and watching.
Christobelle could not sleep; she could not rest in her bed, but
remained at Isabel's door, listening to every sound and footfall till
the morning dawned; and then Miss Boscawen insisted upon her going to
rest again. "Isabel was doing very well, considering she had hastened
every thing by eating the cream so pertinaciously, against her own
better judgment; she never could digest cream herself at any period of
her life; how could her sister expect to do so, when she was so near
her confinement?"

Under many promises on Miss Boscawen's part not to forget her in the
general confusion, Christobelle retired to her room, and slept long
and soundly; when she woke again, Isabel was in safety, and the house
of Boscawen rejoiced in a son and heir to succeed to its honours. Miss
Boscawen brought the blessed intelligence herself, and redeemed her
promise by so doing. Christobelle wanted to fly that instant to her
sister, but Miss Boscawen objected. "She was too young to judge of
consequences," she remarked; "she would talk too much, or laugh too
loud for Isabel's nerves. She should visit her in proper time, and at
proper seasons; she had just seen her father, and he had taken Master
Boscawen in his arms, and pronounced him a very fine child. Isabel was
now, she hoped, asleep."

Christobelle said she would rise immediately, as she wanted very
much to see her father; she was surprised to learn he had quitted
Brierly soon after his interview with Isabel. He would not allow
Christobelle to be called, because her rest had been broken; he left
his affectionate love, and his wishes that his child would write
often, and attend to Miss Boscawen's directions in her conduct. He had
returned to Wetheral rather earlier than he intended, but business of
importance called him away. This was Christobelle's first separation
from her father. She learned afterwards Mr. Boscawen's perfect
approbation of his scheme to spend some months in Scotland; and by so
doing, putting it out of Clara's power to renew her engagement with Sir
Foster, induced Sir John to hurry away to its fulfilment. It was his
intention to leave Wetheral in the course of a fortnight with the whole
establishment, and pass the summer at Fairlee. Christobelle was to be
Mr. Boscawen's care till her father recalled her.

Isabel was delighted with that part of the plan which decided her
sister a guest at Brierly for an indefinite period. The satisfaction
of her mind gave her strength and spirits to delight in her little
one, and to bear with unparalleled sweetness of temper the tiresome
attentions and fears of Miss Boscawen. Nothing was quite right with the
old lady which did not emanate from herself. The child was too upright,
or it was too long in a horizontal posture. Its food was acid, or too
sweet; it was too tight in its clothes, or the poor little thing was
hardly kept together in its covering. Isabel tied and untied, as the
complaint dictated; but some new fault was ever arising to rouse the
alarms of Miss Boscawen. One morning, Isabel amused herself by dressing
her babe with her own hands, a pleasure she had not enjoyed since its
birth. The nurse sat by her mistress's bed-side, watching and directing
the operation, while Christobelle gazed delightedly at the little thing
as it crowed and stretched its limbs. The sisters were most pleasingly
occupied when Miss Boscawen entered. Her alarms were roused immediately.

"Oh! sister, how can you sit up there, dressing the child? Nurse, take
away the infant, your mistress will be so fatigued! you must lie down
again, sister."

"Sister," however, was for once resolved to persist; she could not
relinquish the delightful amusement.

"Tabitha, I have not washed my child; I am only putting on his dear
little clothes."

"Oh! sister, you are very wrong; you suffered by that cream which I
begged you not to touch, and now I must insist upon your lying down;
what will my brother say?"

"Mr. Boscawen will not object to seeing me dress my little boy,"
replied Isabel.

"Oh! sister, he will indeed. My brother is not aware how you fatigue
yourself. Nurse, pray take the infant from your mistress."

Isabel became nervous, and the baby began to cry with all its might.
Miss Boscawen was certain he was nearly strangled by tight strings.

"There, sister, you have hurt him; the tapes are tied too tightly, I
dare say. How can you dress a babe, sister, when you never had one
before? Nurse, take the poor infant."

A passion of tears weakened Isabel beyond all that the mere dressing of
her babe could produce. Miss Boscawen became alarmed, and she ceased
all further expostulation. Mr. Boscawen, who never remained long absent
from his wife and child, at this moment entered the room. Isabel sobbed
out:

"Mr. Boscawen!"

"Here I am, my love. What has discomposed you? I am afraid you are
feverish." Mr. Boscawen seated himself in the nurse's chair, and felt
Isabel's pulse; he looked very grave. "My dear Isabel, this pulse won't
do. Nurse, what has caused this fever?"

"Tabitha won't let me dress my child, Mr. Boscawen," sobbed Isabel,
clasping her hands, and looking heart-broken.

"Give your mistress her child, nurse. My dear Isabel, you shall dress
it whenever you please. Dress it now, my love, and let me see how
maternally you can handle your infant." Mr. Boscawen took his boy
from the nurse, and placed it in Isabel's arms. Delighted with the
action, and feeling the kindness of her husband's manner, Isabel almost
involuntarily kissed Mr. Boscawen's hand.

"Oh! brother, you are very wrong," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, looking
anxiously at Isabel, whose delight was unbounded.

"A mother is performing a laudable and pleasing duty, Tabitha, when she
nurses and fondles her child."

"Ah! but, brother, you are very wrong. Sister will be quite low and ill
this evening. I foretold that cream business, brother."

What could Miss Boscawen do? Isabel continued to play with her child,
and her brother authorised the deed; nay, he was watching his wife's
movements with earnest and pleased attention. Her authority was of no
avail, since her brother sanctioned such very improper exertions; she
could only sigh, and resign herself to her own duties--the worsted
frame, and ordering dinner.

Miss Boscawen had a kind heart; her own dictations were prompted by
good-will to others, and a desire to give pleasure, but then those
pleasures must proceed from herself. She loved Isabel, and watched
carefully over her health; but Isabel must not think for herself;
every idea must originate from Miss Boscawen, otherwise it could not
be wisely carried into effect; it could not even be wisely planned,
if Miss Boscawen had not been a party in its formation. This was
irritating and vexatious. Christobelle was under many obligations to
Miss Boscawen, and loved her, when circumstances did not bring her
into contact with Isabel. She very patiently undertook to teach her
all kinds and varieties of work. She learned all the worsted stitches,
and could assist her in sorting colours very ably. Miss Boscawen
protested always against idleness in young people, and loved to see
Christobelle employed in reading, or, practising under her tuition, the
tasteful arts of tatting, embroidery, and fancy-work. Miss Boscawen and
Christobelle were very good friends; and she often drew her attention
from Isabel, and prevented sundry visits to her sister's room, which
would have terminated in mutual annoyance.

Christobelle had been a fortnight at Brierly, when a letter from Lady
Wetheral threw her into consternation. It was a great honour to be
noticed by her mother, but its contents were astounding.

  "Dear Bell,

 "You must make up your mind to return home, and be useful in spite of
 your stupidity, for I can't be left without a companion. Your father
 alarms me to death with his violence; and as to Clara, she has every
 excuse for the step she has taken. You know poor Clara and Sir Foster
 were very much attached, and it was tyranny to separate them. Nothing
 would serve your father but breaking off their engagement, so Clara
 ran away with Kerrison the day you quitted Wetheral. I declare I knew
 nothing about Clara's intention, for your sister always did as she
 pleased, without consulting me. However, she is Lady Kerrison now, and
 mistress of Ripley, which I always particularly wished might be her
 destiny.

 "Your father has been ill, and confined some days to his room;
 but, I confess, _I_ never was better, or more satisfied with the
 contemplation of my daughters' excellent establishments. Of course,
 Clara has no settlement; but Kerrison is a poor, half-witted creature,
 and it will be her fault if she does not do as she pleases with him.
 The first Lady Kerrison gave way too much. The Kerrisons arrived at
 Ripley two days ago, and your father will not allow me to call upon
 them. I cannot think it right to bear malice; it would have been
 another thing if Clara had married a curate, or Lesley's son. I tell
 Sir John we ought to forgive as we hope to be forgiven ourselves; but
 he shakes his head like Lord Burleigh, and waves me away. Altogether,
 his temper is become extremely violent, and I must have you at home,
 for Thompson is going to marry the Hatton butler, and set up a
 public-house. I have no patience with servants marrying.

 "I hope Isabel does not nurse; it will ruin her figure. Whereabouts is
 the nursery? I hope _miles_ from her room. Tell her about the baize
 door; and as boys have loud voices, give the child lettuce lozenges,
 and make it sleep day and night. I hope Boscawen won't let her nurse
 it. When you return, perhaps you will persuade your father to forgive
 the Kerrisons, for I wish to give a succession of parties, and I am
 sure I knew nothing about Clara's intentions. I think Frank Kerrison
 would be an excellent match for you, Bell, a few years hence. I shall
 send Thompson for you next week. Yours truly,

     "G. WETHERAL."

Christobelle wept over Clara's flight; she wept over her dear father's
illness, but still more over the summons to return and become her
mother's companion. She gave her letter to Miss Boscawen in distress,
for she could not trust her voice. Christobelle was too young then to
understand her error in so doing. She was not aware the letter laid
bare to Miss Boscawen's notice all her mother's private thoughts and
intentions, and that its perusal must consign her to contempt and
ridicule, in the opinion of brother and sister. She considered only
her wretched fate in returning to Wetheral, as the avowed companion of
a person who had never loved her, and who felt compelled to bear with
"stupidity," because Thompson was on the eve of matrimony.

Miss Boscawen returned the letter without any comment: she advised
Christobelle to conceal its intelligence from Isabel, and try to appear
gay, lest the idea of losing her sister should affect her spirits. It
might be, Lady Wetheral's mind would change, or some event occur to
postpone her return. She would inform her brother of the intimation
from Wetheral; but in the mean time Christobelle was to drive all
thoughts from her mind of leaving Brierly for some time to come.

With these consolations before her mental view, combined with the
hopes and sprightliness of extreme youth, Christobelle soon forgot
her sorrow, and enjoyed, in happy forgetfulness, the calm pleasures
of Brierly. Thompson did not make her appearance, and the Boscawens
never alluded to the transactions which had taken place at Wetheral.
In a few days, therefore, all fears were hushed, and she resumed her
usual occupations and amusements. Isabel made her appearance in the
sitting-room in due time, to her sister's great satisfaction; but their
mutual comfort was disturbed daily and hourly by the watchful affection
of Miss Boscawen, who objected and demurred to every project and action
on their parts, on the score of health. By this vexatious exaction of
power on the sister's side, one material change was effected, which
progressively gave happiness to Isabel, and gilded the gloominess of
Brierly to her eye and heart. It drew her thoughts and affection
towards her husband, who so often shielded her from Miss Boscawen's
anxieties, particularly in her treatment of her son.

June opened so brightly in sunbeams and flowers, that Isabel and
her sister loved to sit with the babe under the shade of a large
mulberry-tree which stood upon the lawn. The air benefitted Isabel, and
the soft rustling of the mulberry leaves lulled the infant into sound
sleep. This pleasure was not suffered to pass without its alloy. Miss
Boscawen was not the inventor of the agreeable _al fresco_, therefore
it was wrong.

"Oh, sister, don't sit there! Miss Wetheral, my dear, come in. The
flies will kill that poor child; nurse, bring it in. Sister, your
complexion!"

"I don't mind my complexion, Tabitha, at all; and my child is very
sleepy; it is just closing its eyes."

Miss Boscawen stood at the drawing-room window, with a parasol in her
hand.

"Oh, but, sister, that is wrong: the child will be bitten all over with
flies. Miss Wetheral, my dear, bring your sister in."

"Tabitha, here are no flies, I assure you. Don't insist upon my leaving
this shady place!" exclaimed Isabel, beseechingly.

"Oh, sister, the heat! What will my brother say? Oh, brother, I am glad
you are come, for sister is doing very foolishly."

"What is Isabel doing?" asked Mr. Boscawen, quickly.

"Sister is quite in a draught, brother; and the poor child must be all
over insects and flies!"

Mr. Boscawen joined his lady. He stood for some moments contemplating
Isabel, who sat in a low rustic chair, gently rocking the sleeping babe
on her lap. She smiled as she met his eye.

"Mr. Boscawen, I know you are come to take my part. You won't insist
upon my leaving this shady seat, will you?"

"No, my love, I am going to enjoy it with you." Mr. Boscawen seated
himself on the turf, at Isabel's feet. Christobelle could not help
thinking of the fairy tale which described Beauty and the Beast. It was
exemplified in the forms before her. Isabel, so young and delicate,
sat like a fairy, graceful in every movement, bending over her child,
smiling, and delighting to be free from her sister-in-law's power.
Boscawen, gaunt, tall, and unlovely, lay extended near her, smiling
grimly. Miss Boscawen saw her alarms were unheeded.

"Oh, brother, you are wrong. Sister will be very poorly, and you are
on the damp grass yourself--oh, brother!"

It was a useless lamentation: the little party remained long and
happily seated under the mulberry-tree; and Isabel, grateful for her
husband's sanction, became less reserved in his presence. In time, she
even sought his society, and the infant was ever a bond of union and
affection between them. Christobelle did not think the gay, thoughtless
Isabel would have become such a fond, anxious mother, so devoted to
her child, so active as a nurse. And yet, why was she surprised? Had
not Isabel warm affections, and was she not the favourite at Wetheral;
always kind and conciliating, always gentle and beloved? Mr. Boscawen's
age and manners chilled Isabel's heart by his anxiety to bestow
attainments upon a mind which disliked application; but her child was
sure to call forth every particle of her affectionate heart; its daily
wants, its helplessness, made her useful in the way she best loved.

There was no more dull schooling for Isabel to pine over--no more
lectures from Mr. Boscawen to urge her forward against her inclination,
and perhaps against her capacity. Another object had entered upon the
scene, to engross and charm each parent. Isabel never wearied in
watching her babe; her dislike to work chair-covers and footstools,
under Miss Boscawen's surveillance, was now succeeded by a taste for
baby-clothes; and the quickness with which she acquired from the nurse
the mystery of cutting out, and shaping materials, proved that an
object alone was needed to call forth her energies.

Mr. Boscawen was content to see his lady so employed; the schoolmaster
gave way to the parent; and he was no longer distressed by his young
wife's thoughtless speeches. How could Isabel talk unadvisedly, when
her only subject embraced the nursery department? How could she alarm
her husband's nice perceptions in conversation, when all her thoughts
rested in one absorbing interest--on one dear and mutual object of
earthly pleasure?

Christobelle was happiest of the happy at Brierly. Mr. Boscawen
had always something pointed in his remarks which attracted her
admiration; and if Isabel could not withdraw her attention from her
new and delightful occupation, Christobelle was ready to profit by her
husband's extensive reading; to listen with eagerness to his details;
and enjoy his animating comments upon men and books. Miss Boscawen was
aware that her brother's attention was given exclusively now to his
wife and child, to the utter exclusion of her complaints and alarms;
but her anxieties abated not. She still objected to every arrangement,
and cavilled at all pleasures which her own brain had not devised; she
could not even participate in them.

Isabel had long wished to spend a day in Bridgnorth. She knew no one
in that part of the country; she could scarcely give a reason for
wishing to visit that quiet rural spot; but she had been struck by its
beautiful scenery, as she passed and repassed from Wetheral. She liked
its situation, its river, its luxuriant banks; altogether, she had an
extraordinary desire to spend a day at Bridgnorth, and take her child.
It was a little change, it would be a pleasant long drive, and she was
sure every body would like the little trip. Isabel mechanically watched
her husband as she uttered her wish. He smiled. Isabel found a willing
auditor, and her desire waxed stronger in word and deed.

"Well, now, dear Mr. Boscawen, you will take us; won't you? Chrystal
and the child will have so many things to see. To be sure, the dear
babe can't understand what he sees, but I shall so like to carry him
about the town, and hear people admiring his little beautiful face!"

Mr. Boscawen was overcome. This was the first time Isabel had ever
addressed him as "dear Mr. Boscawen," and she was tossing her child
at the moment with such grace, with such beaming affection! He threw
his long arms round his wife and child, most ungracefully, but most
fondly.--

"We will do as you wish, my love; we will go to Bridgnorth for a
day--for a week, if you prefer it."

Isabel smiled in her husband's embrace, and looked truly happy. At
that moment, perhaps, a change passed over the mind of each. Mr.
Boscawen lost his alarmed and disgusted pupil in the matronly woman and
companion, at least in _one_ engrossing care. Isabel might feel that
the task-master was exchanged for a kind and indulgent protector. Her
child might engross her heart, but she would honour its father, and
rejoice under his mild administration. Isabel's nature was grateful:
she must love those who kindly sought her happiness; and Mr. Boscawen's
attention to her wishes would surely secure her content of heart.
Miss Boscawen appeared the only thorn in her path likely to affect
her peace; but the release from books and study was to Isabel's mind
emancipation from all evils. The minor vexations of life were hardly
felt by her yielding and gentle temper.

The Bridgnorth excursion was at once negatived by Miss Boscawen.

"Oh, sister, going to Bridgnorth! Mercy! who do we know in Bridgnorth,
brother?"

"My wife wishes it, Tabitha."

"Oh mercy, brother, what a foolish wish! Eleven miles' drive, and a day
spent in Bridgnorth!--what for, sister?"

"I always admired Bridgnorth, Tabitha, and I want to show my babe. I
have set my heart upon displaying my babe."

"Oh, sister, mercy! I can't think a drive to Bridgnorth can do you any
good. No, stay at home, sister."

"Mr. Boscawen has no objection, Tabitha. Have you, dear Mr. Boscawen?"

"Oh, but, brother, what nonsense! the child will be sick, and sister
will be so tired! Don't go to Bridgnorth, sister: let us spend a day at
Hawkstone next week."

"I have set my heart upon Bridgnorth," said Isabel, throwing an
appealing glance to her husband.

Mr. Boscawen was resolved to please his wife. There was a link between
them now, which nothing human could dissolve. Perhaps Mr. Boscawen
silently felt pride in the idea of displaying his "beautiful babe,"
as Isabel termed it. At Brierly, beyond the establishment, there were
none to gaze and admire. An elderly gentleman is generally proud of his
first-born; the less he says, the more apparent it becomes in action.
Mr. Boscawen watched his infant with unceasing interest, though he
seldom made it the subject of his discourse. He was now going to enjoy
the commendations of passing strangers in Bridgnorth. Isabel openly
confessed her pride and expectations; they only lurked in her husband's
eyes.

Miss Boscawen could not hear the subject named without expressing her
dissent. She had not proposed the drive, or even imagined such an
amusement, therefore the whole affair must be foolish and useless. Mr.
Boscawen urged his sister to remain at Brierly--there was no occasion
for her to undertake an irksome drive, if it was so unpalatable--she
could prepare a late tea against their return. Miss Boscawen differed
in opinion.

"Oh, mercy, no, brother! I must go, to see that sister does not
fatigue herself. The poor child, you know--yes, sister, I will go with
you, but, indeed, I think it a very foolish business--what with the
heat, and the poor child, I am sure we shall all be very tired."

In spite of Miss Boscawen's murmurs and prognostics, Isabel looked
forward with pleasure to the Bridgnorth visit, which was to take place
in two days from the date of its first proposition. Isabel gloried
in the idea of walking with her infant round the Castle Hill, and up
all the streets; she was sure every body would exclaim at the size
and beauty of her boy, and it would be a day of proud exultation to
her. She was also gratefully eloquent upon her husband's kindness in
entering at once into her plan; she was sure she must be the happiest
creature in the world, if dear Mr. Boscawen never more required her to
read, and plague herself over maps and things. She dearly loved nursing
and singing to her babe, and dear Mr. Boscawen had told her that
morning, he did not mind the child crying half the night; he was only
happy to see what an excellent nurse and mother he had married. Was not
that very good of dear Mr. Boscawen?

Christobelle also looked forward with pleasure to the trip; she had
never been allowed to accompany her family to Shrewsbury, because
Lady Wetheral said, nothing was so impolitic as displaying a lot
of coming-on girls; she had never seen a cluster of houses beyond
the small village of Wetheral, and her mind resigned itself to most
pleasing anticipations of Bridgnorth gaiety. She could conceive nothing
more charming than roaming with Isabel up and down the streets, and
examining the shop-windows--nothing more sublime than standing upon
the bridge, to watch the coal-barges from its parapet--nothing more
exquisite than the permission to buy gingerbread-nuts without remark
and without ridicule. There were not two happier beings than Isabel and
Christobelle, in their visions of the pleasures which were to surround
them at Bridgnorth.




CHAPTER XIV.


How could any party, however pleasantly arranged, prosper with Miss
Boscawen as one of its members? Nothing could exceed her restlessness,
and objection to every plan proposed. They were not setting forth to
Hawkstone, therefore every thing was ill-devised--every preparation was
nonsensical. Mr. Boscawen rode forward to order dinner, consequently
Isabel must endure her sister-in-law's complaints with patient
submission; and her comfort, during that lengthened drive, must arise
from silently contemplating her child, and exchanging looks of vexation
with Christobelle. They had not quitted the Brierly grounds, when Miss
Boscawen commenced an enumeration of miseries which must fall to their
lot from persisting in their excursion.

"Oh, sister, mercy! How you can wish to spend a whole day in such
a place as Bridgnorth, I cannot imagine. The poor child will be
so uneasy, and you will be so heated; and Miss Wetheral, my dear,
you had better not walk about, but sit quietly at the Crown with us
all. I have brought my knitting, and a piece of carpet-work; and,
mercy, sister!--what will you do with the child? and how can you be
comfortable at the Crown with a baby?"

Christobelle ventured to think the baby would prove their greatest
amusement, and Isabel's eyes and lips seconded the observation. Miss
Boscawen smiled good-humouredly upon Christobelle, as upon a child
whose opinions availed nothing, though the motive was amiable which
produced them; but she addressed Mrs. Boscawen in reply.

"Oh! sister, this is such a sad business--every thing will be very
uncomfortable, and that poor little baby will be heated into a fever."

Isabel replied gently to all the uncomfortable prophecies uttered by
her sister-in-law; but their constant repetition destroyed the pleasure
of the drive. It was vain to contend against Miss Boscawen's reasoning,
for the result was a quietly-expressed pertinacity, which must end in
the discomfiture of her gentle antagonist: it was equally impossible
to resent an opposition which took its rise in anxiety for the object
whom she professed to love and watch over.

Miss Boscawen was not aware of her own failings; she could not detect
herself, how deeply her desire to lead was interwoven with the
affection she professed, and really felt, towards Isabel. That desire
for power became the bane of her young sister's repose: had Miss
Boscawen possessed that power, her kind heart would have ministered
in every thing to Isabel's happiness; but, in striving for a poor and
useless supremacy, both parties became victims to the struggle.

It was so on this day of pleasure: when they entered the town so long
desired, so impatiently anticipated as the scene of matronly pride,
Isabel was jaded and disquieted by the miseries of the journey, and
Miss Boscawen became doubly impressed by her own complainings, that
Bridgnorth would prove a miserable affair. When Mr. Boscawen came
forward to assist them in alighting, he was surprised at Isabel's
languid appearance, and alarmed at the languor of her voice. Isabel
was overcome by her husband's anxious inquiry, his affectionate
endearments, and alarms about herself and his child: he stood again
before her as her protector from his sister's vexatious remarks, ready
to soothe her grief, and advocate her cause: his presence was a
relief--it was a pleasure--she began to feel it was even necessary now
to her happiness.

Isabel took Mr. Boscawen's arm when she left the carriage, and clung
to it with an involuntary movement of delight: her husband perceived
the expression of her eyes, as the warm pressure of her hand turned his
looks towards her, and that expression agitated his feelings. He forgot
Miss Boscawen, his long companion and housekeeper at Brierly--he forgot
the sister who had borne with him the dull routine of twenty years in
almost positive seclusion, to enjoy a new and delightful emotion in
the certainty of having at last won his young wife's heart. That one
absorbing pleasure, so novel, and so delicious, caused Mr. Boscawen to
forget the existence of Miss Boscawen and Christobelle, who stood ready
to receive his attentions upon Isabel's alighting. He had flown with
Isabel up stairs, followed by the nurse and her young charge, and Miss
Boscawen's transit took place under the superintendence of the waiter,
but, on her part, in profound silence. It was evident a severe blow had
been inflicted upon her heart or vanity, by this unexpected movement.

When they entered the apartment destined to their use, Mr. Boscawen
was still offering all his cares and attentions to Isabel. She was
arranged most comfortably on the sofa with the assiduity of a lover.
It was not Mr. Boscawen watching over the proprieties of an estranged
pupil--it was a husband attending to the comfort of a beloved wife.

Christobelle rejoiced in the scene which gave to her view Isabel happy
and unreserved in the presence of Mr. Boscawen. She rejoiced to think
her sister was loving him as _she_ had always loved him--that her
studies must in future be as pleasing to her sister, as they had ever
appeared to _herself_--that they should now enjoy the dressing-room
together, as sincerely as she had formerly abhorred it. Christobelle's
countenance betrayed the thoughts of her heart, for Isabel gave her a
smiling glance as she gazed upon her; and the annoyances of the journey
faded away in the contemplation of her happy, contented position, as
she still held Mr. Boscawen's hand, while the babe lay sleeping in her
lap.

Miss Boscawen made no remark, by word or look, upon the past and
present: her head was thrown more back, and a look of injured innocence
pervaded her form and movements; but not a syllable fell from her lips,
as she moved in silent dignity to the table, and seated herself to her
employments for the day. Neither Isabel nor Mr. Boscawen yet perceived
their sister's wounded feelings: they were both watching their child,
and enjoying their newly-awakened interest in each other, by disjointed
chat on the part of Isabel, and in little, rather awkward, fond
civilities on that of Mr. Boscawen. Isabel, too, had gained another
step in intimacy and unreserve: she now addressed her husband as "dear
Boscawen," which evidently gave intense satisfaction to its object.

"I shall walk round the Castle Hill with my baby when he wakes, dear
Boscawen."

A pressure of the hand, and a look of pleased expression, gave Isabel
courage, and raised her spirits to nearly their pristine height.

"I dare say you will go with us, dear Boscawen, won't you? and Chrystal
will like to see the babe admired all over the town. You shall have
plenty of gingerbread-nuts, dear Chrystal: the darling babe will be so
admired. I know you will come with us, Boscawen, won't you now?"

Mr. Boscawen gave a grim smile of acquiescence, and accompanied the
smile with a corresponding squeeze of the hand.

"I declare, Boscawen, you have hurt my poor little fingers," exclaimed
Isabel, with an affected scream.

"Let me examine them," said her husband, trying to gain possession of
her hand. Isabel withheld it playfully.

"Oh, no, Boscawen, I declare I gave it you in poor Wetheral chapel:
don't you remember how amused I was, and how I laughed when you put on
the ring?"

"Would you give it me again as willingly, if we were to renew our vows,
Isabel?" asked Mr. Boscawen, with soft seriousness, as he caught her
hand, and stroked it with his long unshapely fingers.

"Oh yes, indeed I should _now_, because you are so good, and I should
not know what to do without you. You know you protect me from...."
Isabel's voice sunk into a whisper, which reached her husband's ear
alone; but her eyes were directed towards Miss Boscawen, who appeared
intently occupied with her worsted work. Mr. Boscawen smiled and patted
her hand, as if in correction. Isabel went laughingly on.

"I always like people who love me, but I don't know how it is, some
persons are not pleasant, though they are kind. Mamma was very kind
sometimes, but still, however, I love you, dear Boscawen, very much. I
suppose I always liked you, but you frightened me so."

"Frightened you, my love!"

"Oh, yes, you did very much after I was married; you looked so proud
and frowning, and then those nasty books! I don't think I quite loved
you till you took my part about the cream, and then I _did_ begin in
earnest: I thought it so good of you; but when you allowed me to dress
my child, oh, then how could I help loving you!" Isabel, under the
influence of her feelings, threw her arms round Mr. Boscawen's neck,
and burst into tears. The action woke her infant. "There, now, Boscawen
dear, we have woke the little darling; how could you let me talk in
that way, and do such things! I don't know what was the matter with me."

Isabel, in smiles and tears, began the preparation for her child's
comforts. The nurse was summoned, and it was fed before her, as she
gazed delightedly at its movements: the face and figure of Isabel
received its greatest charm from her maternal solicitude. Her
enthusiastic nature was interestingly and beautifully illustrated
in the devotion of her heart to this one most loved object, and the
_insouciance_ of Isabel Wetheral was buried in the deep love of her
offspring. Christobelle never remembered her so captivating as she
appeared at this moment, when her attention was engrossed in watching
her child. The tears of grateful remembrance were upon her cheek,
yet smiles were chasing every emotion from her heart, but those of
tenderness and a mother's pride. Mr. Boscawen looked on, enchanted.
Isabel, in the fullness of her heart, turned for the first time since
her arrival to Miss Boscawen.

"Ah, Tabitha, I am sure you will be one of our party round the Castle
Hill, to enjoy my babe's crowing delight. Do put away your work, and
join us."

Miss Boscawen did not look up from her work, as she drily replied, "No,
thank you, sister."

Mr. Boscawen thought a little promenade would be very pleasant after a
long drive, and he joined in his lady's wish that she would attend them.

"No, thank you, brother." Miss Boscawen fixed her eyes pertinaciously
upon her work: she sat like a wax figure, motionless, and apparently
sightless.

"I am afraid you are ill, Tabitha," observed Isabel. "Do let me order
you a glass of wine and a biscuit. A glass of wine, dear Boscawen,
would not that do Tabitha good?"

"No, thank you, sister."

"A biscuit, Tabitha."

"No, thank you, brother."

Miss Boscawen's answers to many affectionate inquiries were equally
laconic. Something was wrong, but the cause was equally unintelligible
to her brother and sister. The walk, however, was to take place, and,
if Miss Boscawen would not be prevailed upon to add to the little
party, she would, probably, be kind enough to put off dinner another
hour. This change in the dinner arrangement was met with perfect assent
by Miss Boscawen.

"Certainly, brother."

Mr. Boscawen looked earnestly at his sister; but there was no ripple on
the surface of the water, to detect its agitation: the voice was dry in
its tones, but the eye was placid, and the manner quiet and composed;
one strong symptom betrayed the disease within to her brother, and upon
that symptom he spoke.

"Tabitha, you are vexed about something--tell me what it is."

"I am not vexed, brother."

Mr. Boscawen smiled. "I am sure all is not right, Tabitha; you have
made no objection to a single plan proposed, since we entered this
room, therefore, you are not pleased with some one of us."

"I am not displeased with you, brother."

"Then my wife has unfortunately offended you."

Isabel flew to Miss Boscawen. "I have not offended you, dear
Tabitha, have I? No one is ever offended with _me_ long, for I am so
sorry to give offence. A thousand pardons, dear Tabitha, if I have
unintentionally hurt you, but what could it be?"

"No, sister, you have not offended."

Isabel was free from offence, therefore her thoughts could dwell upon
her child; she did not suspect or observe Miss Boscawen's manner.

"Oh, well, then, let us set off, for I am dying to hear my child
admired. Now, Chrystal, you are head-nurse, so attend my babe in front,
and I will follow with dear Boscawen, to hear and see every body's
admiration. Now, Mr. Boscawen, don't let us linger."

Isabel took her husband's hand, and he suffered her to drag him in her
lively playful way to the door. Isabel was becoming the happy Isabel
of former days rapidly. Her sprightly laugh, at that moment, sounded
like the joyous tones which had captivated her husband upon their first
acquaintance; she was aware of it herself.

"I declare I am laughing as heartily as I used to do, when we were
engaged, dear Boscawen, and you look so like yourself when I first saw
you, and when you thought all I did was right."

"I think so _now_, Isabel," said Mr. Boscawen, drawing her to him, and
looking tenderly in her face.

Mr. Boscawen's person and cast of features could never assume a
sentimental expression, but Isabel was equally unsentimental herself.
If her husband looked kindly, and behaved indulgently, she was happy;
and, while her child continued well, eating his meals heartily, and
stretching out his little arms at her approach, no sorrow could reach
the heart of its devoted mother. Isabel would forget all grief at the
cradle of her darling babe, in whatever form it might assail her.

They were sallying forth from the Crown, when a post-chaise drove
rapidly through the north gate, and came with speed towards the inn.
For a moment they stood still to watch its progress. The horses
were panting with fatigue, but they were quickly unharnessed, as a
well-known voice called out with energy, "Horses instantly to Brierly."
It was Thompson.

Christobelle's fears instantly told her she was to receive a summons
from Wetheral, but she had spent three happy months with Isabel, and
could not in justice complain of its hurried and unexpected arrival.
The last letters, however, from Sir John, had not alluded to any such
intention. Mr. Boscawen had a powerful presentiment that something
was wrong at Wetheral, and they hurried to the side of the chaise.
Christobelle caught Thompson's eye.

"Oh, for ever, and two days! Why, that's Miss Chrystal, as I'm alive!
Well, Miss Chrystal, you must please to return with me immediately to
Wetheral."

Isabel looked bewildered; Mr. Boscawen inquired after the health of
Sir John with much anxiety. He was quite well; but Lady Wetheral was
suffering, and required her daughter's immediate presence; she was not
to delay an hour. Thompson produced a note written by Lady Wetheral,
which was to be put into Christobelle's hand the instant Thompson
arrived.

  "Dear Bell,

 "The moment you receive this set out, without waiting to pack up your
 things, for I can't be left a moment. I am very ill, and require one
 person's whole attention. You have led an idle life for twelve years,
 mousing in your father's study, therefore, your time is come to be a
 little active. I miss your sisters dreadfully. I am glad Isabel is
 happy, and I wish I was so, too; but your father is getting extremely
 methodistical, which distracts me. Don't keep Thompson a moment; you
 will be here this evening.

     "G. WETHERAL."

Poor Isabel's day of happiness was changed into mourning, as she stood
reading the note over her sister's shoulder. The hope of her heart fell
at this announcement into sorrow and disappointment, and they returned
into the sitting-room, stunned by the unwelcome summons. Isabel could
only lament, and resolve to return home; she threw her arms round
Christobelle.

"My dear Chrystal, we have been so happy together! What will my babe do
without you; and what will you do without the babe!"

Christobelle sat weeping, but could not reply to Isabel's touching
appeals.

"Ah, Chrystal, and what will you do for dear Boscawen's lectures and
readings, and when shall we be together again? how you will lament my
darling babe! but, Chrystal, don't cry. I know it must be a dreadful
blow to leave that darling boy, but I will have his picture taken every
month, and send you the old one regularly. I know Boscawen will let
me have its picture fresh every month, for he will wish it himself,
and you will be so delighted to see its innocent face every month,
too. Tell papa I _must_ have you every year, and tell Clara that she
will be very happy with Sir Foster, when a child is born. Perhaps she
won't like being at her studies, any more than I did, but Sir Foster
won't plague her after her child is born; be sure and tell her _that_,
Chrystal."

Miss Boscawen forgot her injuries for the moment, to comfort
Christobelle, when the cause of their grief was explained. Her
soothings were more useful and bracing to the spirit. She told her that
duties were imperious at home; and she assured her that conscience
through life would be tranquil under all trials, by the knowledge that
we had been obedient and pleasing to our parents, and, by so doing,
acceptable before our Maker, whose commandment it was to "honour thy
father and thy mother."

"Oh, yes, Tabitha," cried Isabel, earnestly; "Chrystal does not mean
to sorrow for being recalled on that account. She feels the loss of
the dear child, and I can understand the agony of parting with such a
treasure." Isabel took her boy from the nurse's arms, and pressed it
to her bosom. "I can tell what _you_ feel, Chrystal, for, if any one
took my child from me, I should die on the spot." The very idea of a
separation caused Isabel's cheeks to turn deadly pale.

Mr. Boscawen appeared, and advised Christobelle to return with Thompson
from Bridgnorth, without giving a thought to her clothes; they should
be sent after her. He considered Lady Wetheral's wish peremptory; and,
as her anxiety to have her daughter with her was one of Thompson's
particular remarks to him, he had ordered horses to be brought out for
the Ironbridge; the chaise was at that moment ready, and Thompson only
waited for her young lady's presence to return to Wetheral.

The adieus were short. Christobelle was again embraced by Isabel,
and received a kind farewell from Miss Boscawen, but she was hurried
away by Boscawen, without embracing her little nephew; he feared
lest Isabel should suffer by a prolonged view of her regrets. When
deposited in the chaise, she saw Isabel nodding and weeping, and
waving her hand from the window; her child was placed, too, where
Christobelle could see him kicking his little feet, ignorant of his
poor aunt's sorrow. Mr. Boscawen said many kind things, which were
remembered the following day; but Christobelle could not heed them at
the time they were uttered; her eyes and heart were at the window with
Isabel. She thought her misery could never be exceeded by any of those
trials of after-life, which Miss Boscawen alluded to: her heart was
broken--her happiness for ever gone. The chaise moved on, and Thompson
_tête-à-têted_ with her to Wetheral.

The silence was unbroken till the woods of Wetheral roused them into
conversation. Thompson would not interfere with her young lady's
grief, but allowed her to exhaust its violence in the natural way.
Christobelle cried without intermission, till they arrived within a
few miles of the castle; and Thompson, probably, was content to remain
silent, in pleasing contemplations of her own approaching matrimony. At
last she spoke.

"Now, my dear Miss Chrystal, cheer up, and think of all you will have
to do. Your mamma will not like a sorrowful face, and she is become
very capricious and rough, since Miss Clara married."

"Is mamma angry with Clara?" Christobelle asked, mournfully.

"Oh! for ever, and two days!--angry? not she indeed! but my mistress
wants to visit at Ripley--and my master, he won't allow it. She pines
very much about it, and gets melancholy; so, as I am engaged to Mr.
Daniel, at Hatton, you are to take my place--and a terrible place it
will be; for my lady has never spoken to me kindly since I engaged
myself to Mr. Daniel, Miss Chrystal."

Christobelle's tears increased at this melancholy picture of her future
destiny. Poor Thompson, who always loved her, strove to impart comfort.

"Pray, don't cry so terribly, dear Miss Chrystal, for your papa is
always kind and pleasant, and you are such a favourite, you know. My
lady, she does give way to whims, as I can testify; but my master,
he never was any thing but polite and proper. Mr. Daniel tells me
that whims run always in the female line; but he only says that, Miss
Chrystal, to plague me."

Christobelle inquired if her father had heard from Anna Maria, or if
her sister Julia was still at Bedinfield. Thompson put her finger to
her lip with a mysterious air.

"Miss Chrystal, there is something going on there which I can't make
out, neither can Mr. Daniel. My lady, she wrote to invite herself to
Bedinfield for change of air, after Miss Clara's marriage, and a letter
came in reply from the dowager, which I never made out clearly; for
my master, he had a long interview with my lady, and nothing was said
about it. My lady wept a good deal, but she never spoke to me upon the
subject, which I do not take kindly, for I have always been consulted
upon family matters; and Heaven knows, Miss Chrystal, how I held forth
upon poor Miss Clara's sweet temper, when you know her best mood would
turn milk into vinegar!"

"And Anna Maria?"

"Oh! for ever, Miss Chrystal, what a place that Paris is! Mrs. Pynsent,
our young lady that was, writes word they are coming home, for they
have not eaten an intelligible thing since they quitted Wetheral. Poor
young Mr. Pynsent declares a vixen fox roasted and well peppered, would
be far better than the ragouts and frogs he has been obliged to eat
since he left old England. Mr. Daniel says, the Hatton people have
sent them an invitation to return there for a time. Mrs. Pynsent, the
old lady, has been very low and poorly since her son married, and she
spends almost every other day with Mrs. Hancock."

They turned, at this moment, from the high-road into the Wetheral
grounds, and Christobelle was obliged to compose her features and heart
into something like external tranquillity. She made fearful efforts to
banish Isabel and Brierly from her thoughts; she could not think upon
the child whom she loved so dearly. She tried to remember alone her
father's precepts, and act upon his often repeated cautions, to begin
early in life the important task of sacrificing pleasure to duty, and
to pray for strength to act uprightly and obediently to his laws. She
did pray at this moment; and her earnest repetition of the prayer which
he taught her to offer up daily to her parent in heaven, caused some
words to escape which reached Thompson's ear. She turned towards her
with quickness.

"Well, for ever and two days, Miss Chrystal, if you are not saying your
prayers! Don't let my lady hear you going on so, or she will be angry;
she called me a methodist the other day with her own lips, because I
said just a few words about Mr. Daniel being a church-going man: and
so he is, Miss Chrystal, I assure you."

Christobelle's heart leaped when she saw her father standing upon the
lawn, as they drove up the avenue. The happy hours, the quiet delights
of his study, his affection for her, his long, solitary readings,
while she was absent--all and each pressed upon her mind, and absorbed
all thoughts of Brierly. There he stood watching their approach, and
smiling upon his child the same benignant smile which ever welcomed her
presence into his study: she held out her arms, though she could not
reach him; but the chaise stopped, and she was soon in the parental
embrace. How was she caressed and welcomed after an absence of three
months!

Christobelle thought there was a change in her father; but she was too
young to discover or dwell upon the cause. She fancied his manner more
grave, and his voice was melancholy; but her attention was attracted to
a thousand trifles, and she forgot to gaze upon him. She was listening
to all that had occurred in her absence. Christobelle took tea with her
father alone, and to him she detailed the happiness she had enjoyed at
Brierly; the odd ways of Miss Boscawen, the perfect bliss of Isabel: a
smile lighted up his countenance.

"I married Isabel to a good man, and she was certain of happiness: her
child is a delightful gift, but her content proceeds from her husband's
temper and principles. Isabel is a warm-hearted girl; she must be happy
with Boscawen." Christobelle assured him her thoughts were wrapped up
in her babe, much more than in Boscawen. Isabel only lived for her
child.

"She may think so," replied Sir John, "and you may judge it is so; but
when you have lived a little longer, you will both perceive a woman's
happiness to depend upon her husband's principles. If he is worthless,
she must be miserable; and children increase the misery, if she loves
them. Boscawen is a good man, and Isabel is happy. Be careful in _your_
choice, Chrystal."

"Oh! papa, you shall choose for me."

"Very well, my love; if I live, I will be your counsellor; but if your
father is taken from you, beware of marrying for any motive of worldly
considerations. Marry with esteem; and, if you believe a man to be
religious, performing his duties as a son and brother with kindliness
and affection, then love him, for he will deserve your affection.
Beware of marrying for affluence alone; your fate will be then as
Julia's or Clara's fate."

Sir John Wetheral's voice sunk into low, pathetic tones as he
concluded, and Christobelle was silent from an awful feeling which
stole over her frame, and forbade remark. A tap at the door roused them
from the silence of many minutes; it was Thompson with a message from
Lady Wetheral, requesting her daughter's presence. Christobelle looked
at her father with alarm; her hour was arrived, when the things of
this world must no longer appear like a vision of beauty; her life, in
future, would be a lengthened chain of annoyances, and she must bend to
the destiny which awaited her. She followed Thompson to her mother's
apartments, where she had secluded herself since Lady Kerrison's
marriage, in terror; but Sir John had smiled upon the movement, and
Christobelle could not escape her lot. She was certain of an unpleasant
reception, but restrained her tears from flowing. Lady Wetheral was
seated near her work-table, upon which six wax-lights stood burning.
She looked up.

"Oh! you are come, Bell: there, sit down, for I can't bear any one
to come near me, heating the atmosphere. I think you are grown tall
and gawky with your visit; it's very odd you should be so much plainer
than your sisters. I suppose Isabel is very busy with her boy, poor
thing! I hope all her children will be boys; girls are great plagues.
Your father will not allow me to see poor dear Clara, and there is no
settlement made upon her, which worries me to death. Suppose Sir Foster
dies, and Clara should become a widow without any provision; I can't
be troubled with any of you again. I can't be annoyed with daughters
returning upon me, when I have taken such pains to establish them. I am
extremely worried about Clara, and my spirits are sinking fast; not a
soul to take care of me. Thompson on the eve of marrying!--nonsensical
stuff! Servants, of all people, marrying! Daniel can't settle fifty
pounds upon Thompson, and so I tell her, simpleton!"

Christobelle had nothing to offer in the way of consolation; she was
always under a spell before her mother. Her tone of voice, too, was
irritable, and the fear of offending closed her daughter's lips from
answering. Lady Wetheral proceeded.

"You are awkward and dumb as ever, Bell: don't wriggle in your chair,
and look so intolerably stupid. I thought Boscawen would have talked
or read you into something like ease of manner. I shall be tired
to death with your abrupt motions revolving round me. I must make
you useful in your influence over your father, Bell; and you must
contrive to gain his consent to our visiting at Ripley. Your poor
father is become very selfish in many things. I meant to pay a visit
of a few weeks to Bedinfield, but the dowager has sent me a letter I
can't understand. Your father says the purport of it is to decline my
company, but I could see no purport at all. The Pynsents are in France,
and I never liked Boscawen; therefore I ought not to be refused my poor
Clara's society. This is dreadful seclusion, and I have this little
illumination to drive away blue devils. I never see Sir John now; my
influence is quite gone."

It was necessary Christobelle should now endeavour to enter into
conversation, and assist, as far as lay in her power, to console and
amuse the disquietudes of her mother's mind. She, therefore, inquired
if it was a true report concerning Anna Maria's return to England.

"Yes, Anna Maria is on the point of returning from Paris, very much
against my wishes; she will be only a secondary person at Hatton, and
their complaints are very foolish about that fine city. I think every
thing has gone wrong since my daughters married; I have not been well
or happy since Clara left me, and never shall be again."

"I hope you will, mamma; I will do all I can to please you."

"What can you do?" replied her mother, quickly, and with considerable
irritation in her tone; "you are too young to establish, or to think
about it these three years; how can _you_ please me? I am declined at
Bedinfield by the dowager, who, I am sure, manages her son and his
wife, for neither of them added a line to regret my postponement, if it
_was_ one; but I could not understand it. My daughter Pynsent cannot
ask me to Hatton when she returns; she will be a guest herself. I must
not see Clara; and if I did, she has no settlement. What pleasure has
accrued to me from their splendid matches?"

None, certainly, as far as Christobelle could judge from her mother's
complaints, but surely Brierly was a home of happiness; she told her so.

"Brierly may suit _you_, Bell, but what amusement would it be to me?
Isabel spoiling her figure and disordering her dress, by carrying a
heavy child about all day; Miss Boscawen sitting upright like all the
generation of old maids; and Boscawen keeping only a pair of horses,
and never entertaining the neighbourhood! I should be shocked and
distressed all day."

"They were so happy, mamma!"

"I dare say, Bell: so are the pigs when they have clean straw and
plenty to eat. I can't fancy any thing but merely animal enjoyments at
Brierly."

Who could reply to such determined obliquity of reasoning? Christobelle
perceived, indeed, that four splendid matches had failed to produce
pleasure to her mother's mind. Each establishment appeared clogged
with an evil, which overbalanced their boasted worth and magnificence.
Deeply as she coveted, and had laboured for her daughters' wealthy
suitors, the affluence of their position could now give no
satisfaction. The excitement was over, the objects were attained; and
the disadvantages connected with each were now as fluently expatiated
upon as were once their glory and their triumph. All this language of
complaint, this unexpected and unfounded source of grievance, pained
and dispirited Christobelle. It was ceaseless in its flow, and hurtful
in its consequences, to herself.

Lady Wetheral's nature and temper was changed in her daughter's eyes:
that agreeable fascination of manner, which so often softened away an
abrupt expression, was departed; the playful tone of voice and action,
which had so long held powerful influence over her husband's mind,
was no more. Her ladyship became secluded and irritable, pining over
Clara's banishment, regretting the absence of her settlement, and
offended at her own banishment from Bedinfield, till it became painful
to approach her; and Christobelle's spirits sunk under the confinement
and terror of her presence. She became ill; and her father's anxiety
sought a remedy for the evils she endured, by issuing a pardon to the
errors of Lady Kerrison, and admitting the families to a renewal of its
ancient association. This proved the signal for domestic peace.

Lady Wetheral, eager to profit from the permission so tardily bestowed,
flew immediately to Ripley: the carriage was at the door in a quarter
of an hour after peace had been declared; and she quitted her solitary
apartments, in the highest apparent health and spirits. During her
absence, Thompson appeared before Christobelle, and begged she would
apologize to her lady for a step she felt called upon to take during
her lady's absence, for many reasons. Christobelle inquired with
surprise to what she alluded.

"Oh, for ever, Miss Chrystal! I think the fashion of runaway matches
is coming into vogue at Wetheral. I have had many conversations with
my lady; but, really, they have been of so unpleasant a nature, that I
must beg to take French leave, as Miss Clara did. Assure her ladyship,
if you please, Miss Chrystal, of my sorrow at being obliged to part
in this cursory sort of way; but, as I am engaged to marry Mr. Daniel
to-morrow morning, it is useless to argue the affair any longer. I
hope, Miss Chrystal, you will do me the honour to call upon me, and
take tea, some fine Sunday, with us. We shall always be sensible of the
attention."

Christobelle stared at Thompson's disclosure; but she was dressed
for departure, and appeared anxious to be gone. Christobelle said
her mother would miss her services, and who was to succeed her in
performing those which Lady Wetheral required? Thompson smiled.

"My dear Miss Chrystal, my lady will not be very much surprised, for
I have threatened some time to leave suddenly. I have been baited
like a bull, these two months, about Mr. Daniel; and yet, miss, the
church enjoins matrimony to servants as well as other people. Mr.
Daniel quotes St. Paul, to prove the thing. However, I decline any more
controversy; for, my lady, she loses her temper now: therefore, I shall
be much obliged by your informing her of this step."

Christobelle gave the required assurance, that she would herself name
the affair to her mother; and Thompson, after making her adieus, and
repeating the pleasure she should feel in receiving Miss Chrystal to
tea, quitted Wetheral and its eventful scenes, to seek a new home, and
become the property of Daniel Higgins.

Christobelle was reading with her father a scene in Macbeth, when
Lady Wetheral entered. She had returned from Ripley; and the extreme
paleness of her countenance, her trembling hands, and quivering lip,
announced some fearful accident or event. She laid her hand upon her
husband's shoulder, and looked in his face, but did not utter a word.
Sir John grasped her hands, and bade her be composed; but his lady's
distress prevented all utterance for some moments: at length, a deep
sob relieved her, and she spoke in hurried accents--

"John--the brute has beaten her!"

Sir John feared his lady's intellects were shaken by some horrible
accident: he again took both her hands, and seated her, beseeching her
to gain calmness, and explain the cause of her agitation. Lady Wetheral
placed her hand upon her heart, and wept for some time in silence.
It was distressing to look upon her, suffering, without possessing a
knowledge of its cause, or being able to soothe its violence. A pause
ensued, till the paroxysm of weeping relieved her heart, and enabled
her to account for the extraordinary emotion. She took her husband's
hand, and spoke in broken sentences.

"John, I did not believe Sir Foster's temper was so bad as people
represented--I did not think he would use Clara ill; or, indeed,
John, she should never have entered Ripley, to be treated like his
spaniel--oh, John!"

"Tell me, at once, Gertrude, what you mean," said her husband, calmly.

"I went to Ripley, John, to give my daughter the delightful information
of your having overlooked her little fault; and I entered the
sitting-room, where Clara and Sir Foster were quarrelling, oh, so
dreadfully!--I was exceedingly shocked--I did not think a daughter
of mine would ever quarrel as Clara did, with her husband--it was
so underbred--so very vulgar! Sir Foster swore he would kick Clara,
if she persevered in her assertion--it was all about a wretched
fishmonger.--Clara persisted, and my child was knocked down before my
eyes--I saw my beautiful Clara upon the ground; her features swollen,
and her dear face crimson. Oh, John, I never saw such a scene!"

Lady Wetheral again wept, and proceeded brokenly to describe her
feelings and continue her account.

"I never felt so distressed and shocked in my life! I had always
inculcated the propriety of commanding their temper into my daughters'
minds. I always laid great stress upon the bad taste of making scenes
for servants to report and comment upon. I am sure I lectured my girls
by the hour, on the necessity of keeping up appearances, and avoiding
scenes--public scenes--which the neighbourhood must ridicule. I cannot
bear that Clara should become an object of ridicule. What will Mrs.
Pynsent say? Nothing can equal my shocked feelings. I told Sir Foster,
he was a brute, too disgusting and monstrous for remark or notice from
_me_; and I assured Clara, her violence of temper had done little
credit to my instructions, and ruined her appearance most cruelly. My
observations were of no avail; Clara persisted in asserting the odious
fishmonger was right in his charges, as she raised herself from the
ground, and another blow was struck. Oh, John, I left my child bleeding
on the ground--neither of them listened to me, or replied to me. What
can be done to hush up this dreadful scene, for my cries brought in
three footmen? Oh, John, what is to be done?"

Her ladyship's tears again flowed copiously.

"I will go, instantly, to Ripley," said Sir John, seriously, but
calmly. "Chrystal, my love, be ready to accompany me in ten minutes."

"I shall want Bell to talk to, my love--don't take that great girl with
you, every where."

"I particularly wish to point out to my daughter's notice the misery
and crime of connecting herself with a man whose only virtue is the
possession of riches, Gertrude. Make haste, Chrystal; the carriage will
be round in ten minutes."

Christobelle flew to her room, and prepared to accompany her father.
When she returned to the study, it was empty. Lady Wetheral had
returned to her apartments, and Thompson was no longer there to receive
and assist her. Christobelle was on the point of ascending the stairs,
to make known her flight, but the carriage was already at the door, and
her father called for her. She entered the carriage as her mother's
bell rang furiously, but time was too precious for delay; the order was
given, and they proceeded towards Ripley with rapidity.




CHAPTER XV.


Sir John Wetheral spoke very seriously to his daughter during their
rapid transit: he pointed out the crime of sacrificing principle and
content upon earth, to bow to idols which tempted the worst passions of
human nature, and gave the soul to mammon. He laid before her notice
the fate of those who forgot their Maker's injunction, to care for
their soul, and not for the body; and who strove for earthly things,
without considering they could not carry them to that place, where the
innocent and upright spirit alone could be triumphant.

Christobelle listened to her father's mild admonitions in silent,
pleased attention, and her heart drank in the holiness of the subject,
and the justice of his remarks; but when he changed his tone and
subject, to charge himself with negligence, in allowing his lady's
influence to prevail over his better reason--when he took blame
to himself for allowing the marriage of Julia, so contrary to his
own wishes, to a man so little calculated to make her happy, and
prophecied, in melancholy accents, that his grey hair would be brought
in sorrow to the grave, by his own unpardonable indolence, and blind
affection--_then_ she wept to hear him, and pressed his hands to her
heart.

"Do not say so, papa--do not die, or what will become of me?"

He smiled at her energy.

"I am not going before my appointed time," he said, putting one arm
round her waist. "I shall not leave _you_, Chrystal, unprotected,
whenever that time may arrive, for your mind is stored with those
precepts which can mitigate the evils of this world. You have a parent,
my child, who is not a fallible father, such as I am, and to Him I
commit you, and did commit you from your birth. You were given up
exclusively to me, with your poor mother's consent--indeed, by her
expressed wish--and I have endeavoured to lead your mind to those
truths which must advance your happiness. I have led you, Chrystal, to
the fountain of living waters, and from that fountain you will drink
the cup of tribulation, but it will be sweetened by the knowledge that
it came from His hands--that all trials are sent to the good, to see
if their faith is sincere, and their patience an abiding trust in Him
who gives and takes away. If, Chrystal, your earthly father is taken
away, and your home broken up, remember that Father above, and remember
that house made without hands, promised to all who walk steadily and
faithfully to the end."

Christobelle's heart was wrung with the seriousness of her father's
words, and the peculiar tone in which they were uttered: it seemed
that he was preparing to leave for ever the home, and the study, which
had sheltered her youth from every storm, and had been the scene of
their daily and long communion together. If her father was no more,
who besides Isabel would cherish his companion, and love her as he
had done? Who would save her from her mother's irony, and soothe her
increasing irritability towards her? Christobelle became wild with the
idea of his early death, and, clasping her hands, cried, "Oh! dearest
papa, don't talk so--don't frighten me, and promise not to leave me."

"Nay, Chrystal," he replied, soothingly, "do not alarm yourself; I am
here in present health; and I trust, for some years to come, to be
allowed to watch over you. I _speak_ seriously, because my words will
be remembered by you hereafter, when I may not be near to give counsel;
and I _think_ seriously, because Clara's unhappy marriage may affect
her conduct and character: she is too young to escape the contamination
of passing her life with Sir Foster Kerrison."

Sir John became agitated as they turned into Ripley Park, and drew
near the house which held his unfortunate daughter: he wished to
gain firmness with gentleness for the approaching interview, and
he muttered several times, quickly, "I hope I shall not forget
myself!--God help me, I hope I shall not forget myself!" He was
agitated even to nervousness, when they drove past the conservatory,
and the bells pealed their arrival; but Christobelle was then too
young and inexperienced to be useful, or even to understand the depth
of a parent's agony. She followed him in silence to the hall and into
the sitting-room, where Clara lay extended upon a chaise-longue, with
a bandage round one arm, and a severe bruise upon her eye. She rose,
upon their entrance, with self-possession, and, apparently, with utter
oblivion regarding the past, for her eyes flashed with angry feelings,
and she spoke only of the present moment, and of her own distress.

"You are come to witness a pretty scene at Ripley, papa, and to
congratulate Sir Foster, of course, upon being the greatest brute in
Shropshire. Pray see if 'brute' is not legibly stamped upon my arm, and
written upon my left eye. Look at this, papa."

Clara drew the bandage from her arm, and a dreadful sight presented
itself: her anger rose as she gazed upon it.

"If my absence should give _one_ qualm to that brute, I would never see
his face again; but I will plague his heart out!"

Her father was greatly shocked: he was offended and disturbed by the
exhibition of Clara's temper, but he detested the cowardly violence
of a man who could strike a helpless wife, even through extent of
provocation: his first movement was to insist upon her return home.
"Return with me to Wetheral, Clara, instantly; I will not see you
treated like a slave, or bear that my daughter should be struck down
like a dog, by a coward! Clara, return to your home, and I will tell
Sir Foster he shall reach you again through my heart."

Clara shook her head. "Papa, I detest Sir Foster; and I would
willingly fly to the wilds of America, if that distance would free
me from his brutal presence--but my mother would speak bitterly to
me. She drove me to Ripley by everlasting persuasions, and I will not
bear her taunts at my return. My mother has done this by her love of
high establishments, and I am married! She told me this morning, anger
ruined my appearance; but _she_ has ruined my happiness. Nevertheless,
I'll plague his torpid heart, and torment him by day and by night! He
shall feel that I can strike, too, in another way!"

"Clara," cried her father, "let me not hear such dreadful threatenings
from a young woman's lips...."

"I will threaten!" interrupted Lady Kerrison, starting to her feet;
"and I will do it! Am I to be bearded on every side, without revenge?
I am passionate by nature, but I am raging with ill-usage, and I'll
torment him--yes, I will retort upon him faithfully!"

Such language from a youthful and beautiful creature seemed to stun her
father; and Christobelle stood petrified at such a display of female
intemperance. Could this be Clara, her own sister? Was this irritable
creature the sister of Isabel, of Julia, of Anna Maria? As she stood
baring her arm, and fixing her eyes upon her father, she looked a
Pythoness unveiling future woes and tribulations to the enemies of her
country.

Clara was yet standing, when Sir Foster walked into the room, tapping
his boot, and humming his usual air: the same smile was upon his
lips, and the same vacant expression was upon his features: he nodded
familiarly to his guests, as though their parting was but of yesterday,
and he sat down in his capacious-cushioned arm-chair as quietly, and
with the same enjoyment, as formerly. His eye glanced at Clara, and a
chuckling sound proceeded from his throat--the same note of internal
gratification which issued in the boudoir, when Lucy Kerrison detailed
his prowess with the fishmonger. Clara understood its meaning, and she
pointed towards him with a bitter contempt.

"There he sits, smiling and curling his audacious lip, as if he was
thinking of any thing but cowardice and cruelty! Would you imagine
that man could strike a woman to the ground, for upholding justice and
right?"

Sir Foster winked his eye with the rapidity which denoted observation;
his colour rose at Clara's remark, but he did not reply. Why did Clara
persevere?

"Would you think _that_ animal, called a man, ever rose from his
dulness to revenge himself upon my person, for affronts he dared not
revenge upon a fishmonger?"

Sir Foster was roused: he approached Clara, and held her arm. "Will you
hold your tongue, or I'll kick you to the devil!"

"No, I will not hold my tongue: I tell you the man was
right--right--right--he was right--if I die saying it! Now, will you
dare touch me before my father, coward?"

"Oh, Clara!" Christobelle exclaimed, "do not persist in using provoking
words--oh, be like Isabel!"

"I'll be Clara Wetheral," she replied, indignantly; "I will never
submit to tyranny, or crouch to brutality. I would spurn a quarrel
about a salmon! Beat a woman about a salmon!--is there a coward upon
earth who would dare have acted as this man has done?"

Sir Foster appeared irritated to the top of his bent, and his hand
was raised to strike. Sir John Wetheral could be silent no longer; he
called to his son-in-law, in piercing tones, "Kerrison, be a man!" Sir
Foster did not touch Clara--he turned away with a great effort, and
resumed his seat; but he closed his fist, and shook it at his wife.

"If I don't wallop you some day properly!"

"Ay, when the fishmonger returns," answered Clara, in taunting tones.

The father's distress at witnessing this scene cannot be described.
A parent may feel with him the desolation of heart he endured, as
he listened to his daughter's unadvised and unwomanly railing, and
comprehend his deeply-pained, disgusted feelings--but no pen can depict
it. He stood for some moments unable to master his emotion; and, to all
appearance, he was bowed down under its influence. Christobelle was
sure the effect of this scene would have a fearful result, and that his
mind would dwell upon the reckless conduct of Clara, and her future
destiny, till his health would suffer. When utterance returned to his
opened lips, which had essayed in vain to move, Sir John advanced to
Sir Foster, and spoke kindly, but firmly.

"I have seen a dreadful quarrel between two people, who are my near
relations, and who have been married three months: this is a sight, Sir
Foster...."

"Plaguy devil!" muttered Sir Foster.

"I have seen great provocation on Clara's part, but I beseech you never
to lay your hand upon my daughter, as you hope to see your own children
happy in marriage."

"His boys are brutes already," exclaimed Clara, haughtily.

"Peace, Clara," replied her father, "and hear me, while I call upon
_you_, by the affection I have ever felt, and the kindness I have
shewn, to be gentle and obedient to your husband."

A laugh of contempt broke from Lady Kerrison. "Yes, papa, obey an
hyena, and be gentle to a tyrant!"

"D---- me, if I stand this!" cried Sir Foster, provoked beyond
endurance, and, seizing a heavy volume from the table, he hurled it at
Clara's head: it missed its aim, and fell at Christobelle's feet. Clara
again laughed contemptuously. Christobelle rose in alarm, but her fears
were not for herself; she threw her arms round Sir Foster, in terror,
and implored him to overlook her sister's conduct. She found fluency
of speech, as she besought him to bear with her temper, and take no
notice of her remarks. She implored him to think of her dear father,
and to promise he would never strike Clara, let her conduct be ever so
provoking. "Oh, leave the room, Sir Foster, when Clara becomes angry,
but do not throw such dreadful things at her!--do not commit murder in
your passion!"

Sir Foster winked his eye during this address, and smiled, but
Christobelle could perceive all decorum was banished between them, for
he replied with coarseness, "I'll serve her out, if she jaws in that
style."

It was impossible to interfere with Sir Foster and his lady, when each
party forgot prudence and propriety alike. It was but too evident
that Clara disdained to conciliate, and that she rendered her husband
furious by unfeminine and violent opposition. From the coarse mind
of Sir Foster also, that mind which Sir John had deprecated--which
his lady had palliated--which every one connected with Ripley
deplored--from such a mind, under the influence of provocation, nothing
but abusive language could proceed, or violent conduct be elicited.
It was therefore incumbent upon Clara to obey the wishes of a man
with whom her life must pass away in wrangling, should she oppose his
measures. But Clara had never curbed the strength of her passions:
her mother's influence had never been exerted to reach and amend that
peccant part, and, as the wife of Sir Foster, those passions increased
to the threatened destruction of her happiness and respectability. It
was impossible the present state of things could exist. Sir Foster or
Clara must yield in time, and who was to watch the conflict?

Sir John Wetheral placed his hand upon the bell-rope, and waved his
hand to demand attention. He besought them to heed his words, ere he
rang for the carriage to convey him from a scene which had harrowed
up his soul; this was no time for reproach and recrimination; he
would reproach no one; he perceived both parties were in fault, and
he trusted they would both see their mutual error. "It was grand in a
man," he said, "to overlook a wife's failings; her helplessness, her
weakness, demanded indulgence, and a woman never looked so lovely in
the eyes of God and man, as in her performance of the duties allotted
her. He would now depart, firmly believing he was quitting two rational
beings, responsible for their breach of vows to a higher authority than
himself. He would hope all things; he would hope, nay, he was certain,
each party regretted the transactions of the day, and he trusted
all remembrance of its bitterness was ended. He must now return to
Wetheral."

Sir Foster made no reply in words: he attended to his father-in-law's
gentle admonitions, because his usual winking motions and smile
evidenced his powers of hearing; but Clara betrayed her withdrawn
attention by the half-closed eye and head averted. When her father
approached to take leave, she saluted him with affection, and expressed
a desire to see him often at Ripley.

"Come very often, papa, pray, and see if I am alive. Don't leave me
quite in the power of the brutes around: the five boys are enough to
kill a giantess, and the next book thrown at my head may do mischief."

Oh that propensity to repeat and allude to past disagreeables! Not a
shadow of tact had descended to Clara from her mother, to preserve
domestic peace. The reckless speech again woke up contention; for Sir
Foster advocated his own system of education, by exclaiming,--"Hold
your tongue, will you?"

"I shall _not_ be silent," retorted Clara: "don't expect to make me
subservient to your vulgar prejudices, as your first wife was compelled
to be. I insist upon saying your five boys are like your terriers in
every particular."

The presence of her father checked the action which would, under other
circumstances, have dealt heavy punishment upon the speaker. Sir Foster
ground his teeth, but the closed fist attested his intention, and the
respect which induced the effort to curb his resentment. Clara saw the
effect of her father's presence upon his mind, and madly took advantage
of the moment to continue her invectives.

"They are terriers in their features, terriers in disposition, and
terriers in their feeding."

Sir Foster became pale with rage: he was a man of few words, but
his wrath was terrible to witness. He called down every imprecation
upon his lady's head, and vowed most fearfully to "wallop her" the
first convenient opportunity. Sir John hastened Christobelle from
the contemplation of such dreadful looks, and from the sound of such
horrible words. He withdrew with her as their voices rose high in
altercation, and left the scene of turbulence far, far behind.

Christobelle had indeed seen the misery of a match formed upon the
baseless fabric of worldly riches. She saw it was unblest and full
of woe. Their drive to Wetheral was silent and sad, for there was
that upon the father's mind which banished repose. Clara's nature was
too fearless and too violent to render her an object of esteem, or
even to awaken compassion in her lot. Her determined insolence, and
contemptuous bearing, towards her husband--her daring manner, and
offensive observations, were insupportable to the eye and the ear. It
was impossible to advocate the cause of a being, however youth might
plead extenuation, who had deliberately and clandestinely married
Sir Foster Kerrison, in defiance of her father's strongly expressed
objections, yet, in three months' matrimony, dared to the uttermost the
passions of her chosen companion for life.

Much as her father sorrowed over his daughter's destiny, he could not
uphold her cause; her passions were too powerful, too unrestrained
for his interference; he could not upbraid Sir Foster, when he had
witnessed the provocation given by Clara, and he could not again offer
his home to a disobedient wife. Clara must henceforth be a warning
to her acquaintance, a beacon-light to warn them from the perils she
had scorned, defied, and sunk under. But who had guided Clara to this
perilous position? who had taught her youth to covet wealth, and stake
her happiness against title and affluence without reflection?

Oh, mothers! what do you gain upon this passing scene, by bartering
your children's welfare for a tinkling sound?--what will you gain
hereafter, when the souls committed to your care on earth are required
at your hands? Is the atheist, the gambler, the reckless, and
blasphemer, to receive them, and become responsible for their lost
state at the great account? I tell you it is not so; you have sold
their minds to mammon, and you shall answer for that you have received,
and have not given back.

Lady Wetheral had discovered Thompson's flight when Sir John and
Christobelle returned to Wetheral, and her indignation was extreme. To
be left by a menial in that offensive manner was degrading; but that
Thompson should have flown from her duties, to enter matrimony, was
disgusting. Thompson marrying! and with all the mystery of an heiress
too! It was an insult she had not believed Thompson would have presumed
to offer; but every thing was wrong, every thing was most wretched
since her daughters had married. What was now left to her but poor Sir
John, who was half a methodist, and an awkward girl, who was as learned
as she was plain? It was very odd her intention to visit Bedinfield had
been frustrated. She supposed all her children intended to decline her
visits.

With these ideas and feelings, it was not to be supposed Lady Wetheral
could be happy; and her disappointed mind preyed upon her health and
temper. Christobelle was the victim of this state of things; she could
never be sufficiently attentive or sufficiently agreeable; she was
tiresome, awkward, or learned; she was to be an old maid, a nuisance
in society, an arguing, philosophical excrescence, whom people would
avoid and detest; she had not half the sense and conversation of poor,
dear Thompson. Christobelle's spirits fled under constant and frivolous
exertion of the power of tormenting. She was seated in the boudoir,
with Lady Wetheral, one morning at work, not many days after the
scene at Ripley; the irritability of her temper was increased by the
recollection of former days and former employments. She commenced her
usual complaints.--

"I think I am worse in health and spirits when I sit in this room; it
puts me in mind of my poor daughters, who are gone. I am now quite
deserted and forlorn; not one of them invites me to their home!"

Christobelle mentioned Brierly and the affection of its inmates.

"Fiddlestick, Bell! you are always quoting Brierly! I don't like
Boscawen. I have no opinion of a man who allows his wife to be driven
by a pair of horses, when he can afford four--I dislike avarice. And
Isabel would make me so nervous, by carrying a great heavy baby about,
and disordering her dress! I shall never visit Brierly."

"The Pynsents will be home soon, mamma."

"What's that to me, Bell? You don't suppose I shall stay at Hatton, and
hear Mrs. Pynsent's remarks about Ripley, and Clara's folly in coming
to an open rupture with her husband? The Tom Pynsents should have
accepted Hatton when it was first proposed to them. I shall not visit
there till Anna Maria is mistress of the property."

"But you will go to poor Clara, mamma."

"What am I to go to Ripley for?--to see my daughter ill-treated, or be
treated myself with indifference? Clara had no business to make herself
conspicuous by quarrelling. I wish, Bell, when you do vouchsafe to
talk, that you would choose better subjects to converse upon. Your poor
father's education has only fitted you to be a nuisance. I hate girls
with books in their hands, and dulness on their tongues."

Christobelle changed the conversation.

"Mamma, your worsted work looks beautiful upon that ottoman; I could
almost fancy that rose had perfume, it is so natural."

"Just the opinion of a girl who follows a man's occupation, instead of
her own feminine amusements: had you any knowledge of work, you would
have thought otherwise." Her mother gave a glance of disdain at the
ottoman.

"I assure you, mamma, I understand all the stitches. Miss Boscawen
taught me."

"One old maid teaching another, Bell."

"I don't think I shall dislike being single, mamma. Miss Boscawen looks
so beautifully dressed, so clean, not at all like your descriptions of
old maids."

"If you had any anxiety to be established like your sisters, Bell, you
might please and amuse me in my seclusion. No one comes near me now,
not even Miss Wycherly, who was always at Wetheral with Julia. I don't
understand it. You might bring about an intimacy with Frank Kerrison,
Bell, and ask him here to read with you. He will inherit Ripley, you
know."

"Mamma, I don't like Frank Kerrison, he swears so."

"Nonsense, you matter-of-fact thing: if he swears now, it does not
follow he will always swear."

"But papa says, it is seldom left off. I don't like Frank, he is so
violent with his sisters."

"But you would be his wife, not his sister, child. What stupid notions
you have!"

The hall-bell rang violently. Lady Wetheral's eyes brightened.--

"Some one has arrived at last to amuse me. I hope it is Penelope come
to ask us to her marriage. She ought to do so, for Julia's sake."

The door opened, and Clara entered, to their great astonishment. She
seated herself with perfect coolness.

"There," said she, "now let the brute seek me in my father's house!"

"My dear Clara, what brings you to Wetheral?--is Sir Foster with
you?--will you dine here?" asked Lady Wetheral, in delighted accents.
"I cannot tell you how a little society charms me in this dull place.
You have made up that foolish fracas, my love, and you are both come to
dine with me: is that it?"

"I am certainly come to dinner, and to sleep too," replied Clara,
taking up the work which Christobelle had dropped in surprise. "Where
is your thimble, Bell? I will finish this sprig for you."

"But, Sir Foster, my love--where is Sir Foster?"

"I really cannot say: perhaps, kicking the nurse-maids, as I am not at
Ripley to stand in their place."

"Are you alone, then, Clara?"

"I hope so. I mean to be alone for some time."

"My dear Clara, you surely have not been quarrelling again!"

"Again! oh, no! it has been one long-continued quarrel ever since I
married!"

"I am really shocked at your conduct, my dear love. How often I have
implored you all to avoid scenes when you married! My dear Clara, you
must remember my earnest instructions. This is a sad dereliction from
good taste!"

"You should not have married me to a brute," exclaimed Clara, becoming
impetuous.

"Clara, I was not at your side, when you eloped with Sir Foster," cried
her mother, in a vindicating tone.

"Perhaps not; but you may remember the means you took to induce me to
elope, mamma. You did not know the moment; but you were aware of the
intention, brought on by your own hints and anxieties to see me at
Ripley. Bell can bear witness to your remarks and innuendoes."

"I am sure Bell cannot," replied Lady Wetheral, in alarm.

"Bell can, though! Bell, I charge you to reply to my question. Did not
my mother induce me to run away with my brute? Speak truly."

"You cannot say so, Bell," said Lady Wetheral, bursting into tears.

"Bell, answer truly!" and Clara dragged her from her chair, to stand
before her. Christobelle struggled to get free; but Clara grasped her
with a force she could not resist. "Now, Bell, tell my mother the
glaring truth!"

"I will not be questioned--I will not speak--let me go, Clara, let me
go!"

"Go, then, stupid fool, too weak to utter the truth!" Clara released
her grasp, and Christobelle fled to a distant chair, to remain a
spectator of the ensuing scene.

"Clara," said her mother, reproachfully, "what could induce you to
blame _me_, for your own impolitic conduct? If I wished to see you the
wife of a man standing high in situation, I never counselled you to
forget the proprieties of life."

"You held up Sir Foster to my view, as a match which you prayed for,
and desired me never to relinquish," retorted Clara, with passionate
energy. "You have married me to a heartless brute, and now you turn
against me!"

"No, Clara, I do not deserve that reproach; your temper is too violent
for your peace, or mine." Her mother wept.

"I know my temper is like the whirlwind, but you never complained of
it, or subdued it! You only bid me conceal it when Lucy came here, till
I was actually the wife of a monster! I cannot conceal it now, for it
chafes under ill treatment. Oh, if you had but checked it in childhood,
to meet this extremity!" Clara grew almost madly passionate and
vehement; she threw herself upon her knees before her weeping mother.
"If ever my misery exceeds my forbearance, it will be your doing, oh!
hard-hearted mother! You have sold me to a wretch who will drive me
to desperation, and you must answer for it! My temper is warm--I know
it--but any other man would not have made me despise him so horribly. I
have provoked him, and I _will_ provoke him; but it is your doing, for
I did not understand a man's brutal nature. I thought they were all
like my father!"

Lady Wetheral became almost convulsed with agitation. "Ring for
Thompson--Thompson, Bell!" Alas! Thompson was no longer at Wetheral;
but Christobelle was acquainted with her mother's ways, and brought the
usual remedies to her hands. She did not avail herself of their use;
her mind was too deeply occupied to heed them: she pushed her daughter
aside, without being aware of the action.

"Clara, I never thought a child's reproach would rise against me! I did
not imagine a daughter could raise her voice against a parent, who had
sought so unceasingly the happiness of her married life."

"In what way, in what way?" demanded Clara, throwing herself on the
ground with a movement of despair.

"I secured the luxuries of life to you, Clara."

"Oh, folly, folly!"

"I secured to you a proper position in society, Clara."

"Oh, folly, folly!" continued Lady Kerrison.

"I was anxious to see you enter life, courted, admired, and envied, my
dear Clara."

"_Who_ admires and envies me?" cried Clara, starting to her feet.
"_Who_ envies my situation, or would change places with such a wretched
creature? By the Heaven which witnessed the sacrifice of my youth and
hopes of happiness, I would willingly exchange with the humblest woman
who breaks stones for her daily bread, and devours it in peace! Oh,
Chrystal, never marry while you live!"

The exertion of complaint, and the powerful passions which warred
in the soul of Clara, exhausted her strength after this vehement
exposition of her suffering; and she lay upon the sofa, like a child
who had sobbed itself into silence. It was a solemn sight to see so
young and fair a creature, so deeply engaged in the strife of passion
and contention; the expression of her countenance was already tinged
with angry feelings, and her beautiful mouth was losing its attitude
of repose: if such was Lady Kerrison's vehemence of character at this
early period of her marriage, what would become of her in after-years?

Clara fell into a doze, which continued till the hall-bell again
announced a visitor. Lady Wetheral, also, endeavoured to acquire
a composure which would not appear at her call; Lady Kerrison's
reproaches had startled and destroyed her tranquillity. Her hands
trembled under their efforts to resume their occupation, and sighs
burst from her bosom. Christobelle was glad the bustle of a fresh
arrival drew near the door, to divert her thoughts from her sister's
sorrow. Clara started from her sleep, at the sound of approaching
voices, and rose from her couch. The servants announced Sir Foster
Kerrison.

Sir Foster walked fiercely towards his lady, without taking notice
of Lady Wetheral or Christobelle, who stood amazed, as he advanced
to the sofa; he did not even wink his eye. Clara remained in haughty
expectation of his address, her head thrown back, and her eye flashing
defiance. "Now, sir, are you come to beard me at Wetheral!" was her
indignant exclamation; "are you come here to prove how brutally you can
treat a woman, even in her father's house?"

"Go home!" cried Sir Foster. "Go home this instant!"

"I will never return, if there is a roof elsewhere to shelter me!"
returned his lady. "I am weary of existence under a tyrant's power."

"You won't? who is master at Ripley?" Sir Foster raised Clara in his
arms, and, in spite of her resistance, he was carrying her from the
boudoir. Lady Wetheral endeavoured to interfere; she besought Sir
Foster not to commit himself before the servants--before the world--by
using force towards his wife; but he heeded not her observation, or
her prayer. Clara was borne into the hall, unable to contend with the
grasp which detained her prisoner. In vain she screamed, "Oh, father,
my father, save me!" he was not within hearing. In vain she vehemently
threatened to plague her husband, till life should be a burden to
him: Sir Foster made no reply. Before the household, who assembled at
the piercing cries of Lady Kerrison, before the Ripley servants, who
were stationed with the carriage, did Sir Foster bear his lady to the
hall-door, and, ordering his footmen to their post, Clara was placed
in the carriage by main force. She struggled violently to regain her
liberty, but her delicate limbs were unequal to the conflict; she
sank back almost fainting with her useless efforts; and, Sir Foster
taking his place by her side, nodded and winked, and chuckled, as he
exclaimed, "Done it well, by Jove! Jerry, drive like winking!" The
Ripley carriage dashed furiously down the avenue.

Lady Wetheral felt intensely the publicity which accompanied Sir Foster
Kerrison's resumption of his wife's society. The action itself was
disagreeable--must be most offensively disagreeable to Clara--but
the manner of the thing, the public display which surrounded the
whole affair, was inexcusable! It was beyond a doubt now, the affairs
of Ripley were discussed in the servants' halls and dining-rooms
throughout the neighbourhood--a most horrible idea! People might be
as unhappy as they pleased, and quarrel whenever they felt inclined
so to do, but it was an offence against society, to perpetrate little
misunderstandings before the world. Nothing could be in such wretched
taste. Clara was very foolish and impolitic to irritate a man like Sir
Foster, and blame her for the results. She had always cautioned Clara
and the rest of her girls against scenes.

The remembrance of her salutary cautions, however, did not operate
upon Lady Wetheral's nerves, or bring calmness to her mind. Clara's
words rang in her ears; and her figure, as she knelt in the attitude
of upbraiding, glided before her eyes. She could not forget those
piercing expressions, "If ever my misery exceeds my forbearance, it
will be your doing, oh! hard-hearted mother!" The voice sounded through
the house, it followed her into the dressing-room; she complained
to Christobelle that it would haunt her in her sleep, and that her
death would be caused by filial ingratitude, after all her anxieties
to promote her child's welfare. "I am sure these scenes are enough to
destroy me, Bell, and I think Thompson might have spared her part in
the transaction. She made my dose of sal-volatile exactly to my taste,
and now in my extremity I dare not touch your mixtures, for I dare say
they would excoriate my throat. Mrs. Bevan will never be what Thompson
was; she looks perfectly bewildered when I require any thing. Clara has
killed me: ingratitude is, indeed, hard to bear, and it will disgust me
from making any further sacrifices on my own part for others. I shall
not concern myself with your marriage, Bell. Marry whom you please;
but, if you marry less well than your sisters, never come into my
presence." Christobelle promised never to marry without her concurrence.

"So you all say, and act in defiance when opportunity offers. Say
nothing to your father, Bell, about Clara; it was lucky he rode to
Shrewsbury this morning; he would have laid the blame upon me, too; he
always lectures me now: say nothing about it, pray. What is that?"
Her ladyship started. "Oh, it is that ungrateful voice; it spoke quite
plain to me! I am sure I shall have a nervous attack, if that voice
haunts me."

Clara's reproaches had sunk deeply into Lady Wetheral's heart, though
she affected to carry off this impression with bravery of manner. In
vain she took repeated doses of camphor-julep to still her nerves, and
recover a portion of her spirits; the trembling of her limbs increased,
and she acknowledged it would be impossible to meet poor Sir John at
dinner; Christobelle must take her place, and invent any excuse she
pleased for her absence, so that the truth was concealed from her
husband. She was on no account to hint to him the transactions of
the morning. It was fortunate for Christobelle that her father made
few comments upon his lady's illness during their solitary meal; but
his disposition was perfectly free from suspicion or curiosity, and
conversation turned upon other subjects. Christobelle was delighted
by one piece of intelligence on his part. The Tom Pynsents were to
arrive in England the following week. Mrs. Pynsent and Mrs. Hancock
were in Lewis's shop, and they informed him of their instant return
to Hatton. Paris had not amused Tom, and he was longing to return to
England; they had even come to the resolution of never again quitting
Shropshire. Mrs. Pynsent was full of bustle and happiness at the
idea--she would now get Tom back, and thank God all his dogs were in
fine condition--not a puppy lost. Tom would find every thing as he left
it, and Sal Hancock must be off to Lea. Mrs. Hancock winked her eye at
her sister's remark.

"I tell you what, Pen, Tom will know a thing or two, when he comes from
France; ten to one but I get into fashion this time."

"You be hanged, Sally Hancock!"

"They are not so whitewashed in France, Pen. I'll make a good bet our
Tommy has had a 'cherry amy' by this time."

"None of your surmises, Sally Hancock; you know I can't bear any thing
said about Tom. I'll be hanged if I take you home for that fib!"

"Faith, you must carry me somewhere, Pen," replied Mrs. Hancock,
coolly; "you can't leave me and my game-leg here."

"Hold your tongue, then, about Tom and 'cherry amys.'"

Sir John thought it was time to make his bow to the ladies, and he
quitted the shop, leaving the sisters in high altercation. The
quarrels of Mrs. Pynsent and Mrs. Hancock were fortunately as short as
they were frequent and public. Ten minutes after Sir John's departure
from Lewis's shop, he saw Mrs. Hancock upon her sister's arm, walking
with great difficulty and in apparent pain; but both ladies were
laughing immoderately, and attracting the notice of the passers by from
the loudness of their conversation.

Christobelle trusted that Tom Pynsent's return would operate
advantageously upon her mother's spirits, and assist the recovery of
her tone of mind, which appeared sinking. She could not understand
the extraordinary change which had taken place in a person naturally
so active and lively. It appeared as though Clara's marriage had
acted as a sedative upon her mental and physical energies, and numbed
their vigour. She had sunk rapidly into a nervous, solitary being,
unequal to every exertion, indifferent to her husband's society, and
dead to all resources. Yet was Sir Foster Kerrison the long-coveted
object of her wishes, and every thought of her heart had been given
to the accomplishment of that most desired union. Clara married Sir
Foster, and obtained Ripley. What then caused this lassitude of body
and mind? this melancholy exhibition of energies unemployed? of time
heavily passed in dull complaining, and nervous misery? Her daughters
were highly and wealthily established; and her views for each had been
promptly and successfully fulfilled.

What _could_ produce such a fearful change in the graceful Lady
Wetheral, once, and so lately too, the gayest of the gay; ever
animated, ever pleasing, even to those who knew and feared her
matrimonial speculations? Because, all that was triumphant had
fled;--because all that was most exciting had passed away. The hopes
and fears which had given zest to life were unfortunately at rest, and
there was nothing now to lead on the energies, and compel exertion.
The cause was withdrawn, and the effect was fatal to a happiness which
consisted in ceaseless anxiety to procure establishments for her
children. All solicitude was now ended, and the mind sank, unemployed,
into listlessness. Every thing became gloomy in its routine; every
thing was conducted in its usual daily forms, but there was no longer
the spirit which gave animation to ceremony. The shadow still remained,
but the substance had departed, which threw a mantle of gaiety and
brilliance over the proceedings of Wetheral Castle.




CHAPTER XVI.


Nothing could exceed Tom Pynsent's pleasure at beholding himself again
in England, and at Hatton. The Wetheral party were summoned by the
warm-hearted, affectionate mother to attend the arrival of her son,
and rejoice over his "second birth;" and a large party of relatives
were invited to dine at Hatton, and celebrate his return. Mrs. Pynsent
particularly desired Christobelle might appear upon the occasion. She
thought the young ones had suffered enough in the matrimonial line;
and, as that "poor bit of a girl was not old enough to be hawked after
the men," she thought the lanky thing ought to be allowed to enjoy
herself for a few years, and begin her pleasures by rejoicing over
Tom's arrival. Sir John Wetheral decided that Christobelle should
accept the invitation; and his lady offered no objection, though her
daughter could not feel gratified by her remarks.

"Oh! go, by all means, Bell, as Mrs. Pynsent wishes you to meet Anna
Maria. You and your father, of course, must hunt in couples; your
tastes are so similar and so agreeable. I am much too nervous to join
that coarse party. Of course, Mrs. Hancock will be there; I cannot sit
in Mrs. Hancock's company. Anna Maria will come to see me some early
day. I must beg of you not to colour up so vulgarly, when any one
addresses you, and try not to sit down to any one's table so hungry and
thirsty as you manage to do at home. Pray, eat a meal before you set
off, to prevent that dreadfully famished look, Bell."

"I am always hungry with exercise, mamma."

"Nothing can be so insupportably in bad taste. I shall not be at
Hatton to shudder under your voracious _exposé_, but I shall imagine
you committing a thousand errors. I hope the Farnboroughs will not be
present to observe my youngest daughter. I suppose I must be content
to remain solitary, and submit to Bevan's attentions for that day. My
daughters marrying so early has left me a poor, solitary being."

Christobelle was anxious to be useful, and she tried to look cheerful,
as she exclaimed--

"I will remain at home then, mamma, if you please."

"Not as a _companion_, Bell. I cannot fancy you presume to offer
yourself as my companion. Oh, no! go with your father, by all means."

Christobelle was accustomed to be treated with petulance; it was vain
to hope for any change for the better, and her delight at the idea of
her visit sheltered her heart under this blow. How wearying it was
to endeavour to please, and yet to prove ever unsuccessful! But the
visit to Hatton would balance much annoyance: she looked forward with
intense eagerness to the first dinner engagement which had varied her
existence; and she felt doubly grateful that her first appearance in
public should take place without the fearful accompaniment of her
mother's presence. Her father was sure to be kind and encouraging. How
slowly did the days appear to pass by, ere she could be dressed for the
festivities of Hatton!

A select number of friends assembled at Hatton on the eventful morning
of Tom Pynsent's arrival. Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle arrived
first, and the Wycherlys, Charles Spottiswoode, and Mrs. Hancock
followed in their own order. _They_ were allowed to witness "Tom's"
re-entrance into Hatton--they alone were to witness the restless joy
and expectation which revelled in Mrs. Pynsent's heart and eyes. None
other possessed a claim to intrude upon her son's happiness, or divide
with herself the first words, the look, and the affectionate embrace of
her only child.

Mrs. Pynsent wandered round the rooms, and perambulated the Hall, as
the time stole on towards the expected moment of meeting. The hounds
were stationed in the park, with the whipper-in, to greet their master
and do him honour, by baying deep and loud as he drew towards his home.
The men were arrayed in their hunting costume by Mrs. Pynsent's desire,
that her own dear boy might be surrounded by all he best loved, in
the style he most approved, "for, married or unmarried, her Tom would
love the dogs and his old mother to the end of time." Mrs. Hancock
sat silent and quiet till her sister's restless movements roused her
attention.

"I say, Pen, you've got the staggers."

"How can I be still, Sally Hancock, when I am expecting Tom? I can't
sit like Bobby, there. Look at Bobby, sitting with his legs crossed,
and his face as calm as if Tom was no son of his."

Mrs. Hancock winked upon the company as she called out to Mr.
Pynsent:--"I say, Bob Pynsent, Pen may have--"

Mrs. Pynsent turned quickly upon her sister.

"Sally Hancock, you be quiet now. You know Tom and Bobby, too, won't
endure your jokes. If you begin joking, you will be sent back to Lea
before Tom arrives."

Mrs. Hancock was not in the least degree ruffled by the threat.

"None of your great guns, Pen. I'm as silent as a mouse. I thought I
should never be silent again though, when we caught Charley Snooks in
the booth that race-day."

"Sally Hancock, what things you do remember! Shall we ever forget
squeezing into the pit of the play-house, and finding Polly Sydenham
twigging us from the side-box?"

Again both sisters were plunged into a recital of past levities, and
were laughing immoderately, when the hounds sent forth their cry,
and ran in full chase round the swell of the park which fronted the
entrance to Hatton. They were laid on the scent of a red-herring,
which had been previously dragged round the knoll, the moment the
travelling-carriage entered the lodge. This was Mrs. Pynsent's
particular command. She was resolved to celebrate her son's arrival
in a manner most consonant to his tastes and feelings, and her heart
prompted this mode of testifying her delight at his return. The cry of
the dogs was a signal to rush towards the hall-door, and Tom Pynsent
was waving his hat, and tally-hooing with all his might, as the
carriage tore up the serpentine road from the lodge-gates. Mrs. Pynsent
was in ecstacies of joy.

"Here, hallo, Bill! fetch your master's horse out in a minute; he has
been saddled these two hours. I know what my Tom will do; his old
mother knows him well. Jack Ball! off with you, and turn the colts
into the park. Stir along, boys! Look at him--bless him! Come, Sally
Hancock, let us have a cheer for Tom."

Sally Hancock was nothing loth; she shouldered her stick with the air
of a corporal, and both ladies startled their companions by uttering
a loud and protracted huzza. Tom Pynsent answered the shout. His body
was half way through the carriage window, as he continued waving and
hurraing to the scene before him. At last the carriage drew up, and
Mrs. Pynsent's arms once more encircled her darling son. She hung
round his neck entranced.

"My blessed Tom, my only and sweet boy, your poor mother is happy to
get you back again. The dogs and colts, Tom, are well; the hounds
all well, my Tommy. Your poor mother has looked well after them. And
there's your father, waiting, Tom, to shake hands--and here's Sally
Hancock!"

Mrs. Pynsent withdrew her arms reluctantly, and her son advanced to
shake hands with his father. Mr. Pynsent's mild countenance shone with
pleasure as he congratulated him upon his return, and confessed how
much he had missed his society. Tom Pynsent was in tearing spirits at
finding himself upon Hatton ground, listening to affectionate speeches
delivered in pure English again. He shook hands with every one, and
saluted every lady.

"How do you all do? How do you do, my fat aunt, Hancock? How do you do,
Pen? Why, Spottiswoode, have you waited for me to be your bridegroom's
man? How do you do, Sir John? I have brought home my little woman,
quite rosy, you see--here she is. So, little Miss with the long name,
how are you? Upon my soul, you all look 'grass!'" Tom Pynsent held his
hand to his mouth, and turned again to the hall-door.

"Tally-ho, there!--bring 'em round, Barton!"

The saddled horse was trotted up, and Tom Pynsent sprang upon his back.
He waved his hand to the company.

"I use no ceremony.--One gallop round the park, and I'll be amongst you
again. Tally-ho, there. Tally-ho!"

The mettled steed plunged and reared under the tightened rein, while
his master spoke; but, in an instant, he dashed from the door, and the
horse and his rider were seen flying down the park, followed by the
whole complement of dogs and attendants. Mrs. Pynsent gazed after her
son with proud delight.

"I say, Bobby, there he goes! Didn't I tell you he would love to see
his dogs round him? Bless him, his mother knew his tastes. There's
his little wife gone off with her father! She does not stay to look
at Tom. _She_ doesn't care for his whims, Sally Hancock--how should a
Wetheral care for any thing?--I don't, and I can't, abide a woman who
is indifferent to Tom's whims."

"Don't mob the Wetherals, Pen; it's only the old lady: _they_ can't
help their mother."

"How well Tom sits a horse!" continued Mrs. Pynsent, who could not
withdraw her eyes, or mind, from one object, for a moment. "There he
goes, neck or nothing!"

Mr. Pynsent reminded his lady that Anna Maria was in the drawing-room,
and that she had scarcely welcomed her. Mrs. Pynsent snapped her
fingers.

"Tom is my son, and I'll attend to no one till he returns. Pen is with
the young woman. I won't stir till Tom comes back. If the young woman
loved Tom as I love him, she would be watching him in his delight
there, looking so handsome and happy! I don't like her for leaving Tom!"

Mrs. Hancock was quite of her opinion, and Mrs. Pynsent was softened by
her coalition.

"Sally Hancock, you shall dine here, to-day, if you will promise to be
quiet."

"Now, Pen, what do I _ever_ say?"

"I am afraid of you, Sally Hancock. You know Tom and Bob won't bear
your remarks. You know you never were fit for ladies' society, after
you married that Hancock."

"What was the matter with Hancock, except he was tipsy or angry, Pen?"

"Will you promise to be quiet, if I ask you to stay dinner, Sally
Hancock?"

"I'll try for it, Pen."

"I believe you must return to Lea, after all, Sally Hancock. Tom will
be very angry: he can't endure your remarks."

"Fiddle diddle, I'll be very good, to-day: I will, _indeed_, Pen."

Christobelle lingered at the hall-door, to enjoy the cheering sight of
the hounds, and to watch Tom Pynsent's enjoyment. When that display
was lost to her view, she flew again into the drawing-room, and seated
herself at Anna Maria's feet. Christobelle gazed at her sister, and
fancied four months' absence had affected a change. Mrs. Tom Pynsent
spoke with volubility, and her manner was less timid and pleasing.
A very high colour was upon her once pale cheeks, and her eyes were
unnaturally bright and sparkling: altogether, Christobelle thought
her sister Pynsent very much changed. When she had again received a
salutation from her lips, and a brief compliment upon her growth and
appearance, Anna Maria continued her discourse.

"Oh, I liked every thing exceedingly at Paris, as far as society was
concerned: every thing eatable, shocking--but the Count de Nolis
assured me the march of improvement had begun, and would be very
evident when he returned. Tom did not like Paris. He felt the want of
sporting, and those sort of noisy pursuits which are disgusting to the
Parisians. The Count de Nolis introduced us to many delightful French
families. I must confess I did not like it at first, but I was sorry to
quit Paris. English customs are so wearisome, after the ease of French
society!"

Sir John Wetheral looked surprised at Anna Maria's sentiments, and
he glanced his eye upon Christobelle with an anxious expression, as
she sat gazing at her sister. Miss Wycherly was entertained beyond
expression by the change in her manners, and amused herself by calling
forth Anna Maria's remarks. She inquired who the Count de Nolis was,
who figured so much in their train.

"The Count! Oh, the dearest and liveliest creature you ever saw. He is
engaged to pay Tom a visit, or rather myself, for I don't think Tom
liked him. He will visit us in the autumn. I have been obliged to bring
a French maid home, to dress me, because a lady's maid here is only fit
to dress an English woman."

"Have you renounced the title of English woman, Anna Maria?" asked her
father, gravely.

"No, indeed, papa. I shall always be English; but Félicé has such a
way of blending colours, and making up dresses!--You shall judge for
yourself. Is there a party, to-day, at dinner; or, are we to have a
_soirée_?"

Mrs. Pynsent and her son entered the room, followed by Mrs. Hancock, as
Anna Maria spoke. Tom Pynsent advanced to his lady.

"Well, little woman, chatting away!--Do you see, Sir John, how rosy we
are by our trip? I wish you could have seen her talking and chirping to
De Nolis. You would have been surprised."

"My heavens! What a couple of painted cheeks!" exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent,
in a tone of horror.

"A couple of what?" cried her son, quickly. Anna Maria became
perceptibly distressed: her husband surveyed her with looks of perfect
satisfaction and admiration, entirely unconscious of the cause of her
agitation.

"Yes, she is rosy enough now, bless her! I am glad France has done
such wonders for my wife: she looked as healthy as the best of them in
Paris. De Nolis advised her to rouge at first. No, none of that, says
I. No wife of mine shall paint, like Jezebal. I was right, you see,
for her cheeks soon grew blooming as a rose--didn't they?" he added,
chucking her under the chin.

Miss Wycherly smiled. Anna Maria recovered her self-possession,
and began a tirade against English costume, without answering her
mother-in-law's observation. She spoke so much more rapidly than
"Miss Wetheral" had ever spoken. She seemed to have acquired so
much alertness of speech and manner--so much forwardness in making
remarks--her eyes were so bright, and her cheeks bore such a deep
_couleur de rose_, that Christobelle sat in fixed attention, watching
her movements. She thought Anna Maria remarkably improved in person;
she admired the vivacity of her countenance, and manner; but she
was no longer the simple and elegant Anna Maria, so gentle and so
mild--that many opinions had decided her to be insipid. Every one
appeared watching her with nearly equal surprise and attention. Mrs.
Pynsent stood with her arms akimbo, and her eyes rooted upon her son;
but the others were all earnestly listening to Mrs. Tom Pynsent, as she
commented upon the dreadful _tournure_ of the English fashionist.

"I assure you, Penelope, you could discern an Englishwoman the instant
she appeared in the street. Her walk is firm and good, but her shawl
and bonnet is only English. I had such a lecture from De Nolis! He made
me put aside all my Shropshire habiliments, and I was obliged to be
entirely refitted by Le Boi."

"Well, by Jove!" cried Tom Pynsent, "that was not _my_ doing: De Nolis
was the ladies' favourite, and he turned my little wife's head about
dress. I liked her just as well in her stout silk pelisse, that put me
in mind of Wetheral and Shrewsbury."

Anna Maria playfully placed her hand upon her husband's lips.

"Do be quiet, Tom, and don't be so very English."

Tom Pynsent kissed the little hand which enforced silence, and held
it in his own capacious palm. Anna Maria drew her chair closer to her
husband, and, leaning her head against his side as he stood near,
continued her discourse.

"Upon my word, papa, I liked Paris dearly, but Tom complained of this,
and disliked that. He would not eat his dinner, because it was stewed
frogs; he said he would not eat frogs--he would not drink sour wine--he
would not do any thing to be comfortable."

"I wanted to come home in a fortnight," said Tom, still playing with
his lady's hand; "but my little wife would not listen to me. De Nolis
and herself led me a pretty dance, I can tell you. Hang me, if I
understood their jargon in Paris, and I only knew Jack Smith, and Tom
Biddulph, to talk with. Spottiswoode was at Florence; De Nolis jabbered
away every where with my wife; while I and Jack amused ourselves with
quizzing Biddulph. My wife had never any leisure to write home, or talk
to _me_."

"My dear Tom!"

"No, I vow you were always laughing and talking with that French
fellow, and his cursed broken English."

"But who ever saw me without _you_, Tom? and what pleasure should I
have had, if you had not been close to me?"

Anna Maria clasped her husband's hand with an air and manner so
affectionate, that all hearts present felt assured of her domestic
happiness. Her father's expressive face became enlivened, and Mrs.
Pynsent almost involuntarily gave Anna Maria a startling slap upon her
shoulder, as she cried,--

"I'm a happy woman, since my Tom is loved by us all alike. I tell you
what, young woman, I fancied you could not love my son, because you
did not remain to witness his delight with the hounds; but now, I see
you _do_ love him, though you will never understand his old mother's
fondness."

Anna Maria started at the blow, but she held out her hand to Mrs.
Pynsent, and assured her every one must love Tom who lived with him. He
had lingered in Paris against his will to please _her_. He had suffered
every disagreeable annoyance in silence to give _her_ satisfaction; and
Tom had never objected to any whim or amusement required by herself.
How then could she do otherwise than love him beyond every earthly
creature?

Tom Pynsent looked all astonishment during the dialogue which passed
between his wife and mother. It did not occur to him that his Anna
Maria's love was less sincere than his mother's affection: and as to
his wife's recapitulation of his virtues, "Who the devil married a
woman unless he meant to indulge her?"

This little scene, and Anna Maria's public testimony in favour of
her husband's kindness had great effects, however, naturally and
unsuspiciously as it had been spoken. Mrs. Pynsent was charmed by her
daughter-in-law's simple and affectionate statement, and she was the
head-piece at Hatton. From that moment every good feeling was enlisted
on Anna Maria's side by Mrs. Pynsent; and her fondness for her daughter
threatened to equal the affection she bore her son. She told her
sister, Hancock, Anna Maria might paint her cheeks as scarlet as the
Babylonian woman's gown if she liked, _she_ would raise no objection.
She cared for nothing but Tom, and if his wife loved him and made
him happy, she might paint and talk of that Frenchman as much as she
pleased.

The dinner-party appeared to Christobelle's eyes the _ne plus ultra_
of human happiness. She was attended to by every person; and no one
appeared startled by her awkwardness, or the vulgarity of her manners.
Lady Wetheral's searching eye was not present; her severe remarks
did not sound in her ear, and she enjoyed profound peace of mind
and body. No subsequent dinner-party ever equalled that day in its
effects upon her head and heart. She sat between her dear father and
Charles Spottiswoode, enjoying their conversation, and looking upon
happy faces. Miss Wycherly's lively spirits were ever amusing, and
her spirited dialogues with her cousin Tom appeared to Christobelle
to be the concentrated essence of wit and cleverness: she laughed
unrestrainedly and joyously throughout the evening.

Sir Foster Kerrison and Clara were among the dinner guests, with Lucy.
Clara's expression of figure and countenance was that of extreme
hauteur, and she did not look at, or address Sir Foster during the
evening. Sir Foster himself had regained his usual "_far niente_" since
his last appearance. When the gentlemen returned into the drawing-room
upon the summons to tea, Sir Foster deposited himself in an arm-chair,
without addressing any of his neighbours. He looked on the amusements
and the different groupes with a smile, as he sat stretched to his
utmost length; his eye winked with tolerable rapidity, and a subdued
chuckle every now and then evinced that his mind received pleasure
from some part of the conversation which reached his ear at intervals.
Clara alone preserved a haughty silence to all, and appeared cold
and indignant. Lucy Kerrison, whose age approached nearest that of
Christobelle, sat by her after tea, and confided to her hearing the
miseries of Ripley.

"I declare, Miss Wetheral, Ripley is more solitary and disagreeable
than ever. Papa and Clara do quarrel so dreadfully, that we cannot
expect any one to come near the house." Here Lucy lowered her voice.
"There was such a scene the day papa brought Clara away from Wetheral!
Oh! Miss Chrystal, what dreadful things they said to each other! Papa,
you know, is very violent, though he looks so still and quiet, and
Clara was very provoking. Papa struck her once, and yet she would not
be silent; she was very insolent, and papa threatened to turn her out
of the house before the butler. It was very dreadful. Well, Clara ran
away, and papa, you know, brought her back. Good gracious! how Clara
did abuse him in the hall before all the servants! Papa only laughed
then. I assure you they quarrelled this morning worse than ever; papa
forgets as soon as it is over, but Clara keeps worry, worry, worry,
till another quarrel is begun. I wish some one would ask me to stay
with them: Lady Wetheral promised to have me with her; but I have never
been asked since Clara married papa."

Christobelle mentioned her mother's illness, and her lowness of spirits.

"I am very sorry. Ripley is nothing now but a scene of quarrels. I was
not aware of Clara's temper at Wetheral. I fancied her quick-feeling,
but not violent. I assure you she makes papa worse, by her provoking
manner and her determination to have the last word. What can it signify
who has the first or last word in a quarrel?"

Christobelle was equally surprised at Lucy's description of Clara's
talents for tormenting. She knew her disposition was very warm, and
that she could be roused into violence; but she had never evinced a
disposition to provoke. Christobelle had always considered her too
proud to descend into wanton provocation, and too indifferent to her
husband, to endure altercation after the cause had passed away, which
provoked resentment. Clara's worst feelings were perhaps roused into
action by Sir Foster's violence. Had her good genius interfered, to
prevent the unhappy union of two beings so ill suited to each other,
Clara had been a happier and better woman, and Sir Foster a more
respectable and intelligent neighbour and friend. Christobelle looked
at Clara as Lucy proceeded in her remarks, and could perceive her brow
lowered, and her handsome mouth compressed. The cause of the morning's
quarrel, as detailed by Lucy, was indeed frivolous, and wretched in its
folly.

"That horrible fishmonger was at Ripley this morning, and Clara began
vexing papa with the old affair over again--good gracious! how she
did irritate him! Well, papa never forgets to revenge himself at
the moment, so he went into the servants' hall, and brought a large
fish into the sitting-room--goodness, how it smelled! Papa chuckled
very much, so I knew he was preparing for mischief; and he threw
the creature into Clara's lap, upon her beautiful silk dress--upon
my honour! Clara told him he was a brute, too brutish for his own
servants' hall; and there was such a dialogue! I ran away; but the
servants listened at the door, and heard it all. Pelham says it was a
proper Billingsgate on papa's side, and only just 'over the way' on
Clara's part. Papa has forgot it now; but Clara will remember it for a
month to come."

This was a sad prospect: Clara, so young and inexperienced, was
already wedded to dissention, and beginning her young career of life
in bitterness! Clara, full of spirits, and energy of character, was
deepening the shades of evil, by an unwomanly and improper contention
with the husband she had chosen against her father's wishes. What
must be the consequence of powerful passions constantly in collision
between Sir Foster and Lady Kerrison, since their early matrimony was
so discordant? Miss Wycherly spoke anxiously and feelingly upon the
subject to Anna Maria.

"This is a fearful match, my dear Mrs. Tom, and Ripley will be the
grave of your sister's respectability. The Kerrisons' quarrels are
already the topic of conversation at every table where your family are
not present. Can you advise Lady Kerrison to be patient?--will she bear
any interference?"

Anna Maria hoped all things, when they were more settled at Hatton. Tom
would perhaps interfere a little, and if any one could bring things
about, she was sure it would be Tom, he had such a peculiarly agreeable
manner. She would speak to Tom upon the subject.

Clara's eyes glanced towards the groupe, and she rose to join them.

"What are you all chatting about so earnestly?" she observed, as they
made room for her. She seated herself between her sisters. "Go on with
your subject: what was it?"

Miss Wycherly answered for all.

"We were talking of matrimony, Lady Kerrison."

Clara's eyes sparkled with a thousand fires, as she slightly waved her
hand.

"Let me continue it with you, Miss Wycherly, for I am able to speak
from experience. Who is counsel for that state? I am decidedly upon the
other side."

"We were only observing how much power the woman possessed over the
man's mind, by gentleness, patience, and soft words, under trials, my
dear Lady Kerrison."

"Gentleness! patience!" remarked Clara, with a laugh of disdain,--"ask
my brute any thing patiently!"

Anna Maria caught her hand, as she extended it scornfully towards Sir
Foster.

"Now, dear Clara, don't be energetic. I will ask Tom what he thinks.
Tom always says things so agreeably."

"I will say what is true, if it proves disagreeable," replied Clara,
withdrawing her hand from Anna Maria's light grasp, and again pointing
attention, by a graceful movement, to Sir Foster, who sat silently
winking his eye. "If there is a creature born to be a blessing to
woman--patient, gentle, and interesting--look at _that_ man."

Sir Foster winked violently. Anna Maria bent towards Lady Kerrison.

"Hush, my dear sister; do not offend Sir Foster, I beseech you; pray do
not attract people's notice. My dear Clara, forbear!"

"Nay, he is attractive enough in himself," observed Lady Kerrison, in
raised tones; "no words of mine can exalt him higher among the brute
creation, than he stands by nature."

Mrs. Tom Pynsent became alarmed at her sister's audacity, and she
signed to her husband, who was seated by Mrs. Tyndal, to join the
little circle. He advanced immediately.

"Well, my little wife, what are you wishing? The dear Count is not
here, is he? therefore you want _me_ among you."

"Now, be quiet, Tom." Mrs. Tom Pynsent looked round to discover a
disengaged chair: her husband saw the inquiring look, and he seated
himself upon the carpet.

"Well, now, what was I summoned for?"

"My dear Tom," replied his lady, smiling, "I particularly wish you
to give me your opinion upon matrimony before the young ladies here
assembled."

"_My_ matrimony, if you please," observed Lady Kerrison--"you are
requested to take a comprehensive view of _my_ matrimony." She looked
haughtily towards Sir Foster, who sat within hearing. "There sits my
animal: shall we decide upon the species?"

"Hush, Clara, hush!" softly whispered Mrs. Tom Pynsent.

"My dear Lady Kerrison!" burst from the lips of Miss Wycherly.

"Every one has a name and a place," continued Lady Kerrison, heedless
of all caution and counsel. "Pray, Tom Pynsent, assert your opinions as
plainly as I do mine, and tell me what a mother deserves, who weds her
young and unsuspecting child to a brute, without contemplating her fate
in prospect? Pray, Tom Pynsent, what is the conclusion of that fate?
Will it rest in dull misery, or will the indignant spirit burst its
fetters?"

Tom Pynsent affected ignorance of Lady Kerrison's meaning: he saw Miss
Wycherly and Lucy Kerrison cast looks of alarm at Sir Foster, who was
winking very rapidly; he saw, also, tears springing to the eyes of his
wife--something must be done: he rose hastily.

"Anna Maria, this is a very _English_ party, to your little trumpery,
new-set taste! Your French Count would have lectured you for sitting so
long in one spot. Come, Chrystal, and Lucy, let us have a round game or
a country-dance. Who will play us a country-dance? Pen, rattle the keys
for us."

Miss Wycherly was eager to break up the conference, and she played
country-dances with great spirit: five couple were therefore soon
arranged, and Christobelle was led forth by Charles Spottiswoode.
When they reached the termination of the set, Mr. Spottiswoode
addressed his partner with an air of mystery, and inquired, in low
tones, if she had lately heard of or from Bedinfield. Christobelle
could give no satisfactory intelligence. A letter had certainly been
received at Wetheral lately, but she had not been made acquainted
with its contents. Mr. Spottiswoode's reply was very complimentary to
Christobelle: she felt it exquisitely.

"Miss Wetheral, I address you as no common person; and I feel assured
a young lady, who has been the companion of Sir John Wetheral, must
be prudent beyond her years. Penelope has never received any reply
to several letters addressed to Lady Ennismore, and I am anxious to
understand the cause. Your sister is not ill, I hope?"

Christobelle was unable to answer even that simple question; she knew
nothing, and had heard nothing with reference to the Ennismores.

"It is very extraordinary!" was Mr. Spottiswoode's quick reply, but
nothing more was said, for they were again indefatigably engaged in
dancing, till eleven o'clock, when Sir John Wetheral approached his
daughter, and advised her to rest till the carriage was announced. As
she seated herself, according to his wish, Christobelle heard Mrs.
Pynsent speaking to Mrs. Tyndal with some vehemence.

"Upon my word, there will be a dreadful blow-up soon: I went to see
Sally Hancock into the pony-carriage, and who should be in the hall
but those two people abusing each other. That matchmaking woman has a
thousand sins to answer for: she will pay for all this, Jane Tyndal, in
the next world!"

Christobelle felt assured the Kerrisons were the party in question. Her
eyes sought them, but they were not in either of the drawing-rooms. She
turned to Mrs. Pynsent in terror, and inquired for Clara.

"Oh! my dear, they have killed each other by this time, as far as
intentions can go. They were fighting in the hall half an hour ago."

Christobelle turned pale with distress, and Mrs. Pynsent, whose
heart was as kind as her manners and address were abrupt, pitied her
sufferings. She put her hand gently upon Christobelle's shoulder, and
spoke with emphasis.

"_You_ can't help it, my poor girl; _you_ need not vex yourself: it
will all come home to the right person, but that won't be you. Only
take care you are not the next sacrifice, and sell yourself for money
at people's bidding."

"Oh! Mrs. Pynsent," cried Christobelle, "Where is papa?"

"Here, come with me, young lady, and I'll take you to your father.
Remember every word in your heart of hearts which _he_ utters." Mrs.
Pynsent put Christobelle's arm within her own, and continued, as they
quitted the room, "Some of her young ones have turned out well, in
spite of her. I hope that will tell for her hereafter. Don't fret, now,
and make your poor father wish himself at Old Nick: he'll want comfort
at Wetheral, and you must comfort him. Here, Sir John, I've brought
your good girl to you: don't let her marry in a hurry--ware sheep!
There, take her into your care, and hide her for the next seven years."

Sir John Wetheral received his daughter with smiling pleasure, and
they proceeded to make their adieus to the remaining company. The
Tom Pynsents were engaged to spend the following day at Wetheral, and
Mrs. Pynsent invited herself to accompany them. She had no intention
of leaving Tom, just as he was returned from outlandish places. It
might disturb the family party at Wetheral, but she liked to watch him
enjoying the good roast beef of Old England and home-brewed ale again,
and she would follow him to Old Nick, to see him looking so jolly and
happy. "Bobby might have Sally Hancock to keep him company; he did not
object to her when he was alone."

Sir John Wetheral particularly requested the pleasure of Mr. Pynsent's
company to complete the family circle.

"Oh! well, I'll tell him what you say," replied Mrs. Pynsent. "Bobby
has been snoring these two hours: he can't bear late hours at all. We
shall do very well without him to-morrow, for he only sits licking his
lips. Bobby never shone much--but I'll give your message. Sally Hancock
will take very good care of him: it's a treat to her, you know."

The Wetherals' farewells were rather lengthy, for they had many friends
to hold converse with. Miss Wycherly hovered round them for some time,
as if she had some disclosure to make which required effort. She
suddenly caught Sir John's hand as he was quitting the room, and spoke
quickly, "Have you heard from Bedinfield lately?"

"Not very lately; why do you appear so anxious, my dear Miss Wycherly?"

"I am very uncomfortable about Julia," she replied: "I have written
three letters without receiving any reply. I am sure the Dowager is
there; and I am equally sure she separates Julia from her friends.
Julia always loved her friends, and there is something wrong when
a woman is compelled to drop her old companions. It is not Julia's
fault; I'll stake my existence upon Julia's true heart: there is double
dealing somewhere, Sir John."

Sir John expressed his intention of visiting Bedinfield the following
week, and Christobelle was to accompany him. He would be the bearer of
a letter from Miss Wycherly with pleasure. Miss Wycherly's mind was
greatly relieved.

"Oh! if you go, Sir John, all will be well. I shall hear the truth from
you, and you will find how unchanged dear Julia is. Tell her, from me,
that my love and gratitude is unchangeable, and that my home is her
home for ever and ever. Tell her I care not for her silence, because
it is not _her_ doing; and though we may never more meet, she will be
Julia Wetheral, as freshly and fondly my friend, as when she married a
man who could not deserve her. Tell her this from me, Sir John."

Miss Wycherly passed on with her lover, and the Wetherals entered their
carriage in silence. Sir John sighed heavily, and did not enter into
any conversation with his daughter during their drive home: doubtless
there was bitterness in his thoughts. Christobelle lost all painful
recollections of the emotion caused by Mrs. Pynsent's conversation,
in pleasing remembrance of the pleasures of the day. She had enjoyed
herself with the pure, unalloyed happiness which attends youth, ere
it is pursued by care, and before it endures disappointment. She
considered that day as the very happiest portion of her life. She
had been kindly and hospitably welcomed by every one, and not a word
of reproach or disgust had been levelled at her. Every one seemed
delighted to see her eat and dance, to her heart's content. Nothing
could surpass the pleasure of that day--nothing had ever equalled it!

Sir John parted with his daughter in the hall. He kissed her, as usual,
but his voice was melancholy, and the parting short.

"Good night, my love--I am going to my study."

"Good night, dear papa!"

Sir John turned away, and Christobelle listened to his step, as it
echoed through the hall, till he closed the chapel-door behind him.
She then retired to her own room, and slept soundly, in spite of
anticipations of lectures from her mother upon supposed improprieties
committed at Hatton.




CHAPTER XVII.


Lady Wetheral was extremely disconcerted by the knowledge of Mrs.
Pynsent's intended visit for the day. The hour of breakfast passed
slowly and miserably to Christobelle, who bore the whole burden of
her petulance, and gave offence by the silence with which she hoped
to dispel her irritability. "She was not at all like her other girls.
Clara was warm in her temper, but she had always something sharp or
witty to say. Christobelle was the dullest creature she had ever been
doomed to sit in company with. Thompson was a great loss, poor dear
silly woman; the best creature in the world, and the greatest fool for
marrying a man who could not settle something upon her. If Christobelle
would have the kindness to inform her how Clara looked, she would be
extremely obliged by the information. Perhaps that was a subject on
which she might condescend to speak."

Christobelle told her mother all she had seen and heard; and how
fearful she was, that another dispute had arisen between the
Kerrisons, which would increase Clara's violence. Lady Wetheral smiled
incredulously.

"Clara will soon find herself no match for Sir Foster, and then she
must yield by degrees. One or other must domineer, and the battle will
be short: Clara will feel compelled to command her temper in time, and
all this nonsense will be forgotten. People always forget the faults of
the rich. Clara must give a splendid ball when it is blown over. How
did Anna Maria appear to like being a guest at Hatton?"

"She was so happy and agreeable."

"She is very unlike her mother, then. I never would visit Wetheral
till your father's tiresome old mother died, and Christobelle followed
her example. I expect to hear your sister designated 'Mrs. Tom' every
where. Country places are so second-rate in their customs! I hope no
one will be guilty of such bad taste before _me_."

Christobelle had nothing to bring forward upon any subject which she
considered likely to amuse; and, was therefore, again silent. Her
mother patted the table a few seconds.

"Was Mrs. Hancock at dinner yesterday?"

"Yes, mamma."

"And how did she behave?"

"She was quite silent."

"Mrs. Pynsent is tolerated, because her position in life raises her
among the highest of the land; but Mrs. Hancock is unfit for ladies'
society:--I was going to say, for female association; but she does not
often intrude. Miss Wycherly is a softened likeness of Mrs. Pynsent.
There is great insolence in such marked bluntness of manners; one only
meets with it in retired country places."

Another long pause.

"Your father talks of visiting Bedinfield next week, and he means to
intrude you there. I shall send for poor dear Isabel and her child, I
think."

Christobelle was all astonishment. What! summon the Brierly party, whom
she always deprecated! Her surprise was visible in her countenance.

"Any thing very extraordinary, Bell, in wishing to see my daughter? I
wish you would endeavour to suppress impertinence in your looks and
motions, before you leave home. What are you sitting there for? Pray
retire to your occupations."

Christobelle went into her father's study--that sanctum sanctorum for
painful feelings, and mortified spirits, and there she remained till
the Hatton carriage arrived. She had a long and serious conversation
with her kind parent upon many subjects. He spoke most feelingly
upon the distress of mind he endured, respecting Clara's conduct and
destiny. He had suspected at Hatton that the Kerrisons were not upon
speaking terms; and, though Sir Foster was not the man to whom he would
commit the care of a daughter, yet he feared that Clara's turbulent
disposition increased her own misery, and defied her husband's control.
He besought his youthful daughter to pray without ceasing for a mild
and teachable spirit, that her future days might not be steeped in
misery. He pointed out the worldly and avaricious feelings which had
induced Clara to marry; and which he feared would wreck the peace of
Lady Ennismore.

Lord Ennismore and Sir Foster Kerrison were selfish men--men who cared
for their _own_ pleasures, not for the happiness of those who lived
with them. What had Clara reaped from her connexion with the Kerrison
family?--Contention and disgust. What had Julia gained by an early
removal from her family? He firmly believed she was a victim to the
strongly imperious and fascinating Lady Ennismore, who was jealous of
any influence over her son's mind, and who would not endure a rival in
her power.

Christobelle listened to her father's anxieties in sorrowful silence;
young as she was, she had been too long his companion not to have
gained some powerful views of the great truths he had ever been
anxious to inculcate. She had also been too long his companion not to
comprehend and feel for his disquietude. She threw her arms round his
neck, and promised to be guided by his counsel in every action of her
life; but she besought him not to take blame to himself for Clara's
wilful conduct, or Julia's determination to become Lady Ennismore. Her
father smiled, but did not combat her prayer. Christobelle was too
young to be made the confidante of his feelings--much too young to
distinguish the cause of his self-reproach. He could not tell _her_
of one whom he deprecated as the cause of Clara's misery; that he was
mourning, when too late, the power he had delegated into unsafe hands.
He would not tell her his indulgence to his wife had been treacherously
and even wickedly dealt with; that he had given his affections to a
worldly being, and that its consequences were now gnawing at his heart.

True, he could turn with pleasure to Anna Maria and Isabel, and behold
_them_ happy. They had married men of principle--men whom he approved
and valued; but who would wipe away the tears from Clara's eyes?--from
Julia's once smiling cheeks? Not the Protector, who swore to cherish
each young and inexperienced creature at the altar. Not the world,
which condemns and punishes its erring and unhappy members, with
ruthless pertinacity. They must turn to another and more merciful Judge
for pardon and peace; and had they been taught to pray for help in
time of need? A father could not unfold all this to the youthful mind
of his child; though his melancholy tone and countenance struck her
attention, as he spoke to her of earthly and heavenly things. She could
not _then_ understand the chastening of his mind, but she listened in
deep attention to his precepts; and fancied that nothing in this world
could have power to attract her from him who loved and cherished her so
dearly. To marry, and quit the study, its quiet, its books, its happy
associations! Oh! Lucy Kerrison might wish to leave Ripley, and the
family quarrels which broke its rest; but Christobelle felt she could
never like a human being, as she honoured and loved her father.

The Pynsents arrived in the highest spirits at Wetheral, and the sight
of Anna Maria gave animation to her mother's countenance for a season.
She thought her very much improved in looks, and it was not her fault
that Anna Maria had not rouged before she married; but Sir John had
many prejudices, and that was one of them. Tom Pynsent was delighted.

"Well, I do like to hear every one say my little wife is rouged; it
proves how rosy she is grown. All my care, Lady Wetheral, all my care.
I let her do as she liked; Biddulph, and Jack Smith, and myself, went
after her, and the Count; every where kept her in sight, you know. She
talked herself into that pretty rosy face."

"You were not conspicuous, my love, I hope," said her mother, smiling.

"Oh, no; Tom liked me to chat my French, did you not, my love?"

"I liked you to make yourself happy," answered Tom, affectionately.
"You made _me_ happy, by getting such a nice healthy bloom."

A look of affection, and a pressure of the hand, attested his lady's
gratitude and love, though she coloured through her rouge at her
husband's remark.

"When we have lunched," continued Tom Pynsent, taking nearly half a
pigeon-pie into his plate, "when we have just taken off the edge of
hunger, we'll have a ride on horseback, Anny, and go over the old
ground again. You must have an old habit here, somewhere; let us go and
see our old love haunts."

Anna Maria was nothing loth; her matrimony was of only four or five
months' standing, and they were lovers still. She was quite willing to
take an agreeable ride with her dear Tom.

"Let us have the young one, too," exclaimed the good-natured Tom
Pynsent; "habits and horses for two, and you shall see the world,
missy."

"I shall want Bell," said Lady Wetheral, annoyed at the idea of a
_tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Pynsent.

"Ay, Miss Bell, stay with us, I shall want a casting vote, and I
shall want you to introduce me to Sir John's study," cried Mrs.
Pynsent, giving Christobelle a thump upon her shoulder. "I must become
acquainted with you, young lady."

Lady Wetheral's possession of manner concealed the disgust she endured
at this movement. She turned to her eldest daughter, and inquired at
what hour she would wish her horse equipped.

"Oh, my poor Lady Mary, let her be saddled at three, if you please. I
think three o'clock, Tom, will do."

"Lord, Mrs. Tom, you will be as hot as fire, riding in the blazing
sun," exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent.

"Perhaps Mrs. _Tom Pynsent_ would prefer her ride at four o'clock,"
observed Lady Wetheral.

"My daughter, Tom, will melt away," replied Mrs. Pynsent, giving her a
touch with the elbow. "Suppose your pretty face melts, eh, Mrs. Tom?
That would be a pretty confession, wouldn't it?"

"At what hour, Mrs. Pynsent?" demanded her mother, addressing Anna
Maria, and taking no notice of Mrs. Pynsent, the elder.

"Say four, then, at once," continued Mrs. Pynsent, "and don't confound
mother and daughter; I am Pen Pynsent, and that is my daughter,
Tom--Mrs. Tom, till I am underground, and out of the way."

Lady Wetheral bowed with much suavity and politeness to her unrefined
companion. "She had great pleasure in acknowledging her daughter Mrs.
Tom Pynsent, the wife of an excellent and honourable man, standing high
in the county."

"To be sure--and very happy to get him. Every girl can't marry such a
tight lad as Tom; as good a son as ever comforted a mother's eyes. He's
none of your pimmeny fellows, like I know who; or a ranting, violent
husband, like Foster Kerrison. He's good, downright Tom; and Mrs. Tom
may look the best of them in the face."

Tom Pynsent winked at his lady, and continued paying his _devoirs_ to
the pigeon-pie. Lady Wetheral could never argue with Mrs. Pynsent, and
a short silence ensued. Mrs. Pynsent's forcible mode of expressing
her ideas, and her perfectly opposite views upon every subject,
prevented all hope of coalition with Lady Wetheral, who could not
endure abruptness, or what the world denominated "a good, downright
person." Her education in high life did not enable her to shape her
sentiments and actions to the tone of country society, so far removed
from the atmosphere of courtly phrases; and of all her acquaintance,
Mrs. Pynsent was the least suited to her tastes. She disliked
"truth-telling," disagreeable people; she deprecated people who "spoke
their mind" upon every point, and at all times; in short, Mrs. Pynsent
was never to be endured but as the mother of Tom; and now he was
secured, nothing could be more intolerable than her presence.

Mrs. Pynsent took up her workbag after luncheon, and sat down to knot.
Lady Wetheral politely stationed herself near her guest, and appeared
occupied with her worstedwork. Anna Maria looked over Christobelle
as she was busied copying a drawing for her father; and Tom Pynsent
was gone to sit an hour with him in the study, and talk of Paris,
till the riding-horses should make their appearance. Mrs. Tom Pynsent
complimented her sister upon her first essays in landscape-painting,
and prognosticated she would be the only accomplished Miss Wetheral of
the family. Her mother smiled upon her.

"I may certainly confess you are the 'beautiful,' my dear Anna Maria. I
quite congratulate you upon the addition of a little rouge."

"I'm sure I would never congratulate a daughter upon her painted face,"
exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent; "a woman with her cheeks raddled, is like the
poor things in the street."

Anna Maria blushed, but in perfect good humour with her mother-in-law.
She answered the remark with a confession of its propriety, and
expressed her wish it should not be made known to her husband that she
_did_ employ art in improving her complexion.

"I was very foolish to rouge at all, because Tom did not like the
idea of it; but the Count de Nolis pressed it so much as a material
improvement to a lady who was naturally pale, that I tried a very
little gradually; and poor dear Tom had such pleasure in fancying I was
becoming blooming, that I never could bear to disappoint him. I assure
you it was only to please Tom."

Mrs. Pynsent was appeased at once by this candid confession: any thing
which bore a meaning, or shew of affection towards her son, won her
instant assent. She was satisfied the motive was good, and she upheld
her daughter-in-law from that hour in deceiving her husband. But there
was a reservation in her approval.

"It's a nasty trick, Mrs. Tom, and a bad trick; but if you love your
husband, and wish to please his eye--God help me!--I have nothing to
say. Whoever loves Tom, has my heart and good-will. But leave it off as
soon as you can."

"It is very becoming," observed Lady Wetheral, "and it is done in all
the highly fashionable circles."

"Yes, it's _done_, my Lady Wetheral, and so are many abominable
practices. Your high ladies do gamble, and they do intrigue, my Lady
Wetheral; but you would not approve your daughter's fashionable turn, I
hope, in that line."

Her ladyship disliked "home thrusts" also, in her catalogue of country
annoyances. She made no reply to Mrs. Pynsent's remark, but coolly
inquired of Anna Maria when Miss Wycherly's marriage was likely to take
place.

"Oh! I am most likely to know my niece's affairs," resumed Mrs.
Pynsent; "my daughter, Tom, can't explain Pen's intentions. Bill
Wycherly gives up Lidham to the young couple."

"A very excellent resolution," observed Lady Wetheral, with emphasis.

"I don't think so, at all. Bill should keep the staff in his own hand:
I'm very angry with him. Let the young wait for the old, is my maxim."

"The old, perhaps, are more fitted for retirement," drily remarked Lady
Wetheral.

"They are fitter to be called fools who renounce their birthright,"
retorted Mrs. Pynsent, "and so I told Bobby when he offered Hatton to
Tom. My son knew better than to accept it. Tom never forgets his duty,
and his wife may say her prayers for having caught him."

"I should feel inclined to soften that expression," observed Lady
Wetheral, in her gentlest accents; "the idea of catching a young man is
not a pleasing figure of speech."

Mrs. Pynsent gave a short, loud laugh. "Why, my Lady Wetheral, we won't
stand upon words; I express my knowledge of facts in few roundabout
phrases. I say what I think, and I can't help the cap fitting too tight
to be agreeable."

Anna Maria beheld the disgust of Lady Wetheral's mind expressed upon
her lowering brow. A slight frown was the only public token of distaste
which was ever allowed to transpire: her ladyship never rebutted, never
argued. It was, she averred, an indisputable sign of ill-breeding,
wretched taste, and bad temper. She frowned, and her daughter knew its
purport. It was impossible to leave two such ill-assorted companions
together; the undisguised sentiments of Mrs. Pynsent, uttered with
masculine energy of manner and voice, would overpower her conscious
yet refined companion--perhaps cause a nervous attack, and originate
an illness. Mrs. Tom Pynsent relinquished all intention of riding with
her husband. Her presence might check her mother-in-law's vivacity;
it would certainly give pleasure to her mother, and it must be a
satisfaction to Christobelle. Mrs. Pynsent's good nature even turned
her daughter-in-law's expressed intention to Christobelle's advantage.

"Very good move, Mrs. Tom--very good move. You and myself are old
women, as it were; we will sit here chatting to my Lady Wetheral, but
let every one have their turn. Tom will ride with poor Miss Bell, and
amuse her: the poor thing is cooped up to death here."

"My daughter Bell has every advantage. I rather think my daughter
considers her mother's society sufficiently agreeable," said Lady
Wetheral, bending politely but haughtily to her guest.

"Considers a fiddlestick, my Lady Wetheral!" replied Mrs. Pynsent,
knotting with great energy. "What young girl considers herself
agreeable with no playfellows, and a hipped Lady-mother? No, no; air,
my lady--exercise, my lady--companions, my lady: _that_ is poor Miss
Bell's proper entertainment. Tom will ride with her, poor thing."

Lady Wetheral did not condescend to reply to this sally. However
lowly Christobelle stood in her eyes, however petulant she might be
to the "stupid, awkward girl _herself_," "poor thing!" sounded most
offensively to her ear. Anna Maria again interfered by ringing the
bell, and begging that Mr. Tom Pynsent might be summoned from the
library. Tom's presence, she knew, was always desirable every where;
but his mother's attention would be riveted upon her son, and Lady
Wetheral would escape the inevitable contention which followed her
own remarks. This was the first time the ladies had ever been placed
a whole morning in juxtaposition. Anna Maria was sure the visit would
never take place again. Each party would decline a second day of family
intercourse.

Tom Pynsent's entrance with Sir John effected a change in every one's
situation. Christobelle was to ride; Mrs. Pynsent decided upon that
measure, and her father enforced it. He was then to do the honours
of the conservatory and gardens to his guest, while the mother and
daughter worked and conversed _tête-à-tête_. So far, all was prudently
arranged, and promised peace.

Christobelle was enchanted with her ride. Tom Pynsent did not possess
conversational powers, but his want of talent was more than balanced
by invincible good-nature, and manly courage of body and mind.
Christobelle loved him for his kind heart and anxious wish to make
every body happy; and she loved him for the devotion he expressed for
Anna Maria at all times, and in all places. It was not an uxorious
affection, effeminate, and annoying to witness. Tom Pynsent loved with
his whole heart the woman who possessed his name, and was to share
his fortunes. He loved her with a manly tenderness, which displayed
itself in a thousand forms, and raised him in public estimation by its
amalgamation with his very existence. It connected his wife with the
stable and the kennel; it connected her with all his amusements. She
was part and parcel of every thing in which he was concerned. What a
man had Julia thrown from herself, ere he discovered Anna Maria's love
and sufferings!

Tom Pynsent shewed Christobelle, with infinite satisfaction, the spots
most consecrated to memory, as the scenes of Anna Maria's confessions.
He seemed to linger with pleasure in the lane where his wife first
disclosed her long-concealed misery, and where he had dismounted to
impress a thousand kisses upon her hand. His tone changed, as he
recapitulated his astonishment and delight.

"By Jove, when I think of all this, I could never bear to ride here, if
any thing happened to my little wife; but I hope not--I hope she will
see me into my grave, and be comfortable with you all. She would do
very well without me, but I couldn't exist without her. I should let
Kerrison have the kennel then, and take the shoes off the hunters. By
Jove, they might turn out for life, then."

Christobelle listened to her brother's remarks with great interest;
she could not understand the deep affection of his heart at that
time, but she was sensible to the compliment of being the depository
of his thoughts. She was delighted with his notice and attention;
and particularly felt its pleasing influence, because her mother
undervalued and reproached her daily and hourly at Wetheral. She was
very sorry when their ride was brought to a close, and she again
returned to her apartment to dress for dinner.

Anna Maria joined her sister; her hair was forced into immense curls,
by her French attendant, Félicé, and her ringlets were frizzed into
bows. Félicé followed her mistress in green silk. Such a novelty
was rare and alarming in Shropshire; they had heard of the allied
sovereigns being at that moment in London, but nothing approaching to a
foreigner had yet appeared at Shrewsbury. Félicé was a creature to be
stared at, and Anna Maria would become most formidably fashionable when
once the knowledge of her arrival should transpire. Anna Maria said,
"she had brought her maid to friz Christobelle's very English head of
hair into something like effect. She bade her look in the glass, and
smile at her hair, combed straight in front, and just turned up at the
back. It was something that would horrify De Nolis in the autumn. She
must positively have it dressed properly."

"See now, Félicé; Miss Wetheral's hair must be dressed this way."

"_Comme-ça, madame_," repeated the smiling pretty Félicé.

"Yes, _comme-ça_: friz this dreadful crop into curls, _boucles_,
Félicé--_grand boucles_, like mine. _Donnez mademoiselle un_ very nice
_tournure_, and let her be _très bien mise_. You may laugh, Bell, but I
assure you a Parisian perfectly understands what you mean, if you only
use the words '_coiffure_,' '_parure_,' or '_tournure_;' they fill up
the rest of the sentence intuitively."

Christobelle submitted to the torture of the comb and curling-irons
with great satisfaction. Whatever was fashionable in Paris, must be
admired and envied in England, and her mother would be pleased to see
her decorated by the hand of approved good-taste.

The hair was not the "_ultima thule_" of Félicé's care. A "_bustle_"
was appended to Christobelle's waist, and the folds of her muslin frock
were drawn over it with the nicest care; her dress was dragged down
to give a lengthened appearance to the waist, and the band tightened
till she could hardly breathe. Mrs. Tom Pynsent and her "_artiste_"
were charmed with the result of their exertions. Félicé spoke a long
sentence, which Christobelle translated to her sister, whose knowledge
of the language was not at all improved by four months' residence in
Paris. It was a well-turned compliment upon the change in the young
lady's appearance. Anna Maria regretted that their education had been
so little attended to by Lady Wetheral.

"Papa has taught you so many accomplishments, Bell! You draw, and you
speak French, and quote delightfully, Charles Spottiswoode says. You
have had many advantages over us. The Count de Nolis said I was rapidly
improving in French, and he advised me to return to Paris soon, to
learn the accent; but I cannot speak it half so fluently as you do. I
wonder what mamma will say to your head? I think it perfect."

Their appearance certainly made a sensation in the drawing-room,
for Lady Wetheral raised her glass with a surprised and satisfied
expression of countenance, and examined Christobelle very attentively.
Mrs. Pynsent caught a glance of her head, curled, frizzed, and bowed
in all directions; and she exclaimed, "Hollo, there! why, Miss Bell,
what's the matter now? they have made a dancing-dog of you!"

"You have done a very kind action by your sister, my dear Mrs. Tom
Pynsent," said Lady Wetheral, still gazing at Christobelle through her
glass; "you have quite christianized her style and appearance."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Pynsent, "poor Miss Bell! Well, now they _have_
done it. Curly-headed christians for ever, Mrs. Tom! Who are you going
to baptize next?"

"But does not Bell become her baptism?" asked Anna Maria, smiling.

"She is always a pretty girl; and, what is far better, she is a good
and kind-hearted girl; but I don't like your French fashions."

"Pray, Bell, let your hair be attended to in future," said Lady
Wetheral, still holding her glass to her eye. "I approve of your
present appearance. I cannot endure your thick, short hair hanging over
your eyes."

"By far the most natural, at her age," observed Mrs. Pynsent; "a young
girl dressed up that figure, is very unnatural and ridiculous."

Lady Wetheral did not reply. Tom Pynsent was much amused at the
transformation, when he entered the room. He bantered Christobelle,
with great good-humour, upon the havoc she would cause among the
hearts of the schoolboys, the very next vacation, if she persisted in
twisting her hair into sausages; and he pitied poor Frank Kerrison,
who would certainly renounce murdering cockchafers, to write verses
upon her beauty. Sir John smiled, and stroked his daughter's cheek,
but he offered no comment upon her person. The circumstance was almost
too trifling to amuse even the dull half hour before dinner. A whim
of Mrs. Tom Pynsent had led her to dress her sister's hair; and its
end was answered, by causing a few smiles and a jest. The incident
passed away, and was forgotten in the summons to dinner; but that very
trifling occurrence laid the foundation of much future misery:--it
woke up Lady Wetheral's slumbering energies, and led her to speculate
upon the establishment of a creature whom she had, till that moment,
renounced as awkward and vulgar--a girl belonging exclusively to her
father--whose futurity was indifferent to herself. Causes, however
trifling in their origin, swell into fearful effects, under the agency
of the weak or wicked.

When the ladies returned into the drawing-room, Anna Maria and
Christobelle enjoyed a short _tête-à-tête_ during their mother's
_siesta_. Anna Maria said it would be impossible to hope for pleasant
intercourse between the houses of Pynsent and Wetheral. The two ladies
had not agreed in one sentiment upon any subject during Christobelle's
absence, and each appeared irritated and wearied. It was altogether
abrupt truth on one side, and haughty silence on the part of her
mother: she was very certain there would be no pleasant result from
this day's occurrences. Her two relations had never before passed a day
together, dependent upon each other's society; and it had only taught
them how impossible it would be to meet again upon those terms. She
would tell Tom her thoughts as soon as they arrived at Hatton--Tom
could manage every thing--she did not believe any body could resist
Tom's pleasing way of arranging things: perhaps Tom would entreat his
mother not to contradict Lady Wetheral so very flatly.

This was distressing intelligence: if Lady Wetheral felt disturbed by
Mrs. Pynsent's peculiar style of manners, there would be an end at once
to Christobelle's happy prospects; she was becoming jealous of her
daughter's society, though she professed indifference; and she could
see little of her sister's company, if Mrs. Pynsent was necessarily
included in the invitation, which welcomed the Tom Pynsents, at all
times, to the now dull halls of Wetheral Castle. Lady Wetheral's
offended taste was a mental wound which never closed. She was not
harsh towards vice--it might redeem itself; but rudeness of manner,
or a vulgar phraseology, was beyond the limits of pardon. In both
particulars did Mrs. Pynsent certainly transgress; and her ladyship's
remarks, after their departure, betokened her disgust and aversion to
the society of her departed guest.

"I shall feel obliged, Bell, by your silence upon the events of this
disgusting day. Let me forget, if possible, that I have been, for eight
hours, the companion of stentorian coarseness and vulgarity. I must
regret seeing your sister but seldom, as I apprehend I shall do. I
cannot be upon terms with a woman who designates her son's lady 'Mrs.
Tom:' now ring, if you please, for my _sal volatile_."

The next day's post brought a letter from Mrs. Boscawen: its contents
were most cheering. "She was very anxious Christobelle should know
how beautiful her darling babe was growing, and that it had outgrown
its first pinafores. Boscawen was quite as fond of the darling as she
could possibly be herself, and Christobelle would be amused by seeing
him nurse it to sleep, while she tamboured its little frock. Miss
Tabitha was gone to stay a few weeks at Worcester, with Mrs. Ward, and
there was no one now at Brierly to alarm her with heat, and cold, with
drinking too little, or eating too much. She was perfectly happy with
her dear Boscawen, nursing and laughing all day long--no books--no
lectures. Oh, if Chrystal could but see her _now_!"

A postscript, in Mr. Boscawen's hand-writing, was equally valuable, and
gave deep satisfaction to Sir John Wetheral. These were his words:--

 "I have lived many years in seclusion, and in the dull misery of a
 long bachelorship; but I am repaid by a happiness, too fondly valued
 to describe. The remainder of my life will pass in making an innocent
 and exemplary wife and mother, as happy as mortality will allow, and
 poor human nature can enjoy.

     "Yours faithfully,

     "C. BOSCAWEN."

It was grateful happiness to Sir John Wetheral, to reflect upon the
destiny of Isabel. Boscawen's age was an unpromising opening to the
fortunes of a young creature attached to juvenile pleasures, and
averse to the restraints of tuition: but Sir John judged that the
high principles of the man to whom he should commit the welfare of
his child, would be the safeguard of her happiness. The atmosphere of
Wetheral was unfavourable to mental culture. At Brierly, the society of
her husband would enrich Isabel's mind with stores from his own deep
resources; and her heart would become refined and exalted by Boscawen's
strict integrity of thought and action. He had judged rightly. Isabel
loved Boscawen for his kindness of heart; and the birth of her infant
knit their feelings together, in one dear object of continually
increasing solicitude, which would not dissolve again. Anna Maria was
happy, also, with her honest and affectionate Tom Pynsent; but what was
to be the hope of Clara?--clouds and darkness rested upon it.

Christobelle was now to prepare for her visit to Bedinfield. She
wondered at the sudden intention, on her father's part, to go uninvited
to Lord Ennismore; but she was not a party to the events--if such there
were--which gave rise to the meditated visit. Christobelle's youth
precluded her from entering into the consultations, or bearing a part
in the correspondence, of her father: she could only guess all was not
right, when he spoke of Bedinfield, because his smile fled, and his
expression became melancholy; but she was an utter stranger to its
cause. She was perfectly content to know she was preparing to visit
Julia, and to travel with her father. Her mother spoke very seriously
to her the evening before they quitted Wetheral.

"Bell, you will have Taylor to attend you at Bedinfield. I admire Miss
Willis's taste in your dresses: she is unrivalled in her selections,
and your figure is considerably improved since Félicé has given you a
few general instructions. The long waist is extremely becoming to you.
Your hair gives quite a changed expression to your whole person now,
Bell."

"I am very glad, mamma, you approve of it."

"I do, very much: I have some hopes you will equal your sisters in
appearance. If you persevere in attending to your hair, which is
such a graceful ornament to a woman, I shall have some pride in your
well-doing. I never looked at you before, Bell, you were such a
dowdy-looking creature. Walk across the room--head up, Bell: really,
that dress is very becoming."

Christobelle walked several times up and down the boudoir, to allow
her mother to complete her observations. She was to throw her head
gracefully back--she was to curtesy, as if in the act of receiving
company--she was bid to come forward and offer a fan, with an air
of easy composure. She performed many disagreeable, but extremely
necessary evolutions, to give her mother satisfaction; and,
unfortunately, her dress, and her eagerness to bring the lesson to an
end, assisted her success. She was decided a creature not destitute of
a certain air, and, as Landscape Brown would word it, there was "great
capability," with severe pruning, and much persevering determination,
to shine. If Christobelle made good use of the three following years,
her mother did not despair of matching her even higher than Lady
Ennismore. "A very Frenchy style of dress and walk would prove a great
novelty, and attract gentlemen who always approved the novelties they
failed to admire. She would cause a sensation, and some contention
in opinion, which would inevitably make her the highest fashion in
Shropshire."

This was an unlooked-for change in the politics of Wetheral. Little
did Christobelle think Félicé's hand would have wrought such evil to
an unsuspecting, unspeculative creature as herself. Little did she
dream, under her tasteful assistance, to spring, at a bound, from the
"awkward, dull Bell--Sir John's tiresome, learned daughter," into an
object of speculation, which would again waken her mother's powers into
action, to draw her from happy tranquillity, into scenes of distracting
contention. She was glad to think the Bedinfield visit stood between
her and a second lesson upon graceful movements. She could not dive
into the future, or draw conclusions from the present, at this moment:
she rejoiced only to escape lectures upon style, and reprimands for
acting upon impulse. Christobelle hoped to find freedom and happy
enjoyment at Bedinfield, and that pleasing thought gave her spirits
to endure her mother's unceasing efforts to arouse "a proper vanity"
in her mind, and make her look forward to a ducal, or, at least, the
coronet of a marquis.

"Bell, you shall certainly be emancipated from the seclusion of
Wetheral, and receive the first advantages which a dancing-master can
give. I will endeavour to persuade your poor father to give us a spring
or two in London, or a trip to Paris. Paris I should approve most.
Félicé has quite delighted me with her tasteful fancy."

"I prefer Wetheral, mamma, and my pleasant readings with papa in the
library, if you please."

"Young ladies are not the soundest judges upon their own case," replied
her mother, drily; "they may prefer indolence to activity: and, for
a season, they may be blind to their own defects; but they will take
care, in the end, to throw the consequences of their folly upon
their parents, as Clara did. She forgot her own very insupportable
violence of temper; and her endeavour to blame me as the cause of her
high position, as Lady Kerrison, was improper. _I_ find my daughters
establishments, but I look to _them_ to fill that situation with
propriety."

"Sir Foster is very violent to all his people, mamma" Christobelle
observed, hoping to shield Clara from remark.

"Your sister knew that, Bell: every body knew Sir Foster was a dull
brute. She should never have entered into collision with him. If he
kicked his servants, he was not likely to strike his wife without
provocation. Clara is extremely provoking."

It was true, indeed. Lady Kerrison did act most unadvisedly in rousing
a turbulent nature, when it was actually at rest: but who pointed her
attention to the match, and softened down every report which bruited
Sir Foster's violence to the neighbourhood? Surely, Lucy Kerrison's
remarks upon her father's temper was a beacon to parents, to avoid the
domestic quicksands of Ripley--yet Christobelle was present, and heard
her mother vindicate Sir Foster's treatment of the fishmonger, and urge
the eligibility of the connection. Lady Wetheral continued:--

"I am not at all pleased with the junior Pynsents being guests in the
country--Mrs. Pynsent will follow them every where, and quote 'Mrs.
Tom' to her friends. I cannot say that match has been productive of
pleasure to me. Lady Ennismore, the dowager, has been offensive in
her conduct, by presuming to close her son's house to his friends.
Bedinfield is no pleasant refuge for _me_, I can see. I can never
witness Clara's quarrels--and Brierly is so secluded, besides Isabel
having the child always with her, that I have no satisfaction in _that_
quarter. What comfort have I in my girls' marriages? You must make
up to me for these sad disappointments, Bell. You shall marry Lord
Selgrave, when you are both introduced into life."

"Lord Selgrave, mamma! I never saw him in my life."

"So much the better: the introduction rests with me. Lord Farnborough
will not leave Shropshire, and Selgrave, the boy, will be amongst
us. Farnborough Stacey will be the favourite residence, even when he
becomes Duke of Forfar. You shall be Lady Selgrave, Bell, the future
Duchess of Forfar: does not that title raise your little vanity, and
produce ambitious wishes?"

"No, indeed, mamma, I would rather be comfortable in the library,
reading to papa."

"If there is any thing I detest," exclaimed Lady Wetheral, with great
asperity, "it is a slothful and mean mind, content to grovel in
lowliness--untouched by ambition--crouching in dullness, and blind to
prosperity. Leave my presence, Bell. Go to your chamber, and let me
see you no more."

Christobelle prepared to obey the harsh injunction. She lighted her
taper, and turned to utter "good-night." Her mother waved her hand.

"Say nothing. I do not choose to be disturbed to-morrow by your
appearance. I have no regard for blind obstinacy--pass on in silence,
if you please."

Christobelle quitted the boudoir in tears. Why was her early life to
be embittered with reproaches concerning those things which might
never take place? and why was her mind to be tortured into projects
which could not affect her heart, or her time of life? She rushed to
her father's study, and threw herself into his arms, weeping. He was
surprised at the movement, and still more so at her words:--"Oh, papa,
don't let me be obliged to marry. Don't make me think of Lord Selgrave;
for I never saw him, and I cannot marry him."

"My dear Chrystal," he exclaimed, in astonishment, "I cannot understand
you."

Christobelle explained to him her mother's wishes, and her anger at her
disclaiming matrimony with Lord Selgrave. He smiled.

"This is sad folly, my dear child; I ought not to allow myself to
feel entertained at your alarm, for I see the pernicious effects of
education extending to yourself: but do not weep, Chrystal. No one
shall take you from me, without your consent."

"I may always live with you, papa, and stay at Wetheral?" she asked, as
the tears coursed down her cheeks.

"You shall never quit me till you say, 'Papa, I wish to leave you for
the home of another.'"

"And that will never, never be, my own dear papa!" Christobelle
embraced him with joyous gratitude, and smiled through her tears.

"Then be happy, my child, and think no more of little Lord Selgrave.
You, at least, shall not reproach me hereafter with weakness of
character. Go and sleep sweetly, and prepare for to-morrow's journey."

Christobelle received her father's blessing, and her heart was no
longer sorrowful. He would watch over and protect her! She would not
be driven to marry Lord Selgrave, and renounce her peaceful station by
his side. She could live with him, and read to him for ever! She became
calm, and her mother's angry glances faded from her recollection.
Christobelle retired to her slumbers in peace, that night.




CHAPTER XVIII.


Bedinfield appeared a kingly residence. The mansion stood before the
traveller's gaze, with its towers and battlements, grand and imposing
to the view. Had Lady Wetheral accompanied her husband, she would have
decided that happiness must reign uncontrolled in that most stately
dwelling. There was grandeur and repose in the scene, as they advanced
to the massive pile of building; and there was stately ceremony
enforced, when they arrived at its portals.

It was seven by the chapel clock, when Sir John Wetheral and his
daughter entered the hall of Bedinfield, and a train of footmen in
gorgeous livery bandied their names, till they were ushered into a vast
apartment, richly carved in oak. It was untenanted: there was a vase of
rare exotics upon a small silver table, which some hand had apparently
quitted in haste, for some of the flowers had fallen upon the Persian
carpet, and their stalks were wet and freshly gathered. Christobelle's
young ideas had considered Wetheral Castle the criterion of elegance,
and her eager curiosity examined with surprise the magnificent
decoration around. The superb silver tables--the costly cabinets--the
whole style of grand simplicity delighted her taste, and astonished her
mind. She turned to her father with feelings of ecstasy.

"Can there be any thing more grand than this, papa? Can any place be
more superbly beautiful? Oh, look at that lovely cabinet--that row of
cabinets--and those paintings! How happy Julia must be!"

"Does all this create happiness, Chrystal?"

"Oh no, that was a wrong word--but how _pleased_ Julia must be, looking
at these things, and thinking they are her own! But why does not Julia
come to us, papa? Did not she expect us to-day?"

Sir John paused, as he was accompanying Christobelle in her passage up
the apartment, and he addressed her with seriousness.

"Chrystal, make no observations of any kind, and ask no questions of
me, or of Julia. I expect great prudence from you. You are now my
companion and friend, and you must learn to veil much surprise, by
silence. Be very prudent, my child, and remark nothing to your sister."

"I will be very prudent, papa," answered Christobelle, in a whisper.
The vastness of the room, and the mystery expressed in her father's
words, struck her with awe. She already felt as though silence must
reign with so much grandeur, and that liberty of speech dwelt not
in lofty apartments. She continued silently examining a portrait of
extreme beauty, which she was aware represented the Dowager Lady
Ennismore, in her youth. It still retained a considerable degree of
likeness--the eye could never change--its extraordinary expression was
there--and the haughty look, subdued by the collision of high society,
was admirably expressed in the painting. Christobelle was irresistibly
attracted by the portrait, and she gazed upon it till a door opened
near her, and roused her attention. A female attendant approached.
She was a tall, stately person, attired with peculiar neatness and
precision. She brought Lady Ennismore's compliments of welcome. Her
ladyship invited her guests to retire to their apartments. She would
have the pleasure of meeting them in the drawing-room when the great
bell pealed, and after her guests had refreshed themselves by changing
their attire.

Sir John Wetheral advanced, slightly bowing to the stately messenger.

"I believe I address an attendant of Lady Ennismore?"

"I have the honour to attend the Dowager Countess of Ennismore," was
the reply.

"Your message is from Lady Ennismore, my daughter, is it not?" observed
Sir John, anxiously.

"My message is from the Dowager Countess," replied her attendant.

"Lady Ennismore is probably from home?"

"The young Lady Ennismore is in her dressing-room," was the answer. "I
am deputed to attend Miss Wetheral to her apartment."

This was extraordinary. Was not Bedinfield the property of Julia and
her lord? Yet the message of compliment was tendered by the Countess
Dowager, as if she still presided over the mind and estate of her son.
There was something gravely suspicious in this coldly polite reception,
which disturbed the father's heart. Christobelle begged to know if her
room was situated near her father's bedchamber, and she turned to him
with a look of earnest alarm. He smiled.

"Miss Wetheral feels a little nervous among strangers; may I inquire if
the rooms destined for us are near each other?"

"They are near," was the laconic reply, and Christobelle prepared to
depart. A servant entering at the moment, to offer his services to Sir
John, they proceeded together to the great gallery, into which their
apartments opened. The stately female pointed to a heavily-carved
oak-door, as she preceded Christobelle. "Sir John Wetheral sleeps in
the crimson chamber." She then threw open the door of a large gloomy
room appropriated to Christobelle. "Yours, Miss Wetheral, is the
tapestried chamber." She then curtseyed and withdrew.

Taylor was in a dressing-room adjoining, laying out her young lady's
wardrobe, and Christobelle surveyed the horrors of the tapestried
chamber, which she was sure would in itself disturb her slumbers. The
"Murder of the Innocents" stood in enormous proportions at the bottom
of the room facing her bed, which was decorated with sable plumes round
its summit. The brawny arms of the soldiery seizing the young children,
their dreadful eyes, and the weapons they brandished over the heads of
the hapless babes, took effect upon her imagination, and terrified her.
Christobelle was quite sure the glare of the high wax-lights, when she
retired for the night, would raise them into living bodies, that would
"live, and move, and have their being," to her extremity of terror. The
deep recesses, the dark oak furniture--all and each combined to render
the room terrible. She would have given worlds to be at that moment
even in the boudoir at Wetheral.

Sir John tapped at his daughter's door, as he prepared to descend to
the drawing-room: Christobelle was dressed, and ready to accompany him.
She begged him to see her safely to her room-door every night, and
confessed her alarm at the idea of passing so many hours in a place so
full of horrors. If he could only see the horrid objects which glared
round the walls of her room, he would not wonder at her disquietude!

Sir John endeavoured to reason Christobelle into calmness, and he
inquired why her rest should be disturbed by pictorial representations
of Scripture history. Was not the hand of her Maker as mercifully
stretched forth to uphold her among gobelin tapestry, as in the
paper hangings of Wetheral? Christobelle acknowledged it was so. She
was silenced; she did not offer any defence for her alarms, but she
could not suppress them. That chamber would never be her "sleeping"
apartment. She should never be able to close her eyes.

A servant was in waiting to announce them, as they descended into the
hall. The folding-doors were thrown open, their names were called over
with proper emphasis, and they found themselves in the presence of Lord
and Lady Ennismore, and the Countess-dowager. The latter rose, and
advanced with her usual suavity. She took both Sir John's hands in hers.

"My dear Sir John, this is a real and unexpected honour. I am delighted
to see you. Miss Wetheral, you are welcome: Julia is anxious, I see,
to appropriate you--fly to her, my love. We are a small family-party,
you see, Sir John Wetheral; but we shall endeavour to amuse you at
Bedinfield. Lady Wetheral is well, I hope."

Sir John replied in courteous terms, that his lady was in health.

"I hope you will find our dear Julia well, and as handsome as ever.
Our Staffordshire air is excellent, and Julia's bloom is, I think,
increased. Julia, I must not monopolise your father. It would not be
just, so I resign him with reluctance."

The Dowager led Sir John towards the young Lady Ennismore, who received
him with almost wild fondness. Lord Ennismore also came forward.

"I have much pleasure in bidding you welcome, Sir John Wetheral, as
also yourself, Miss Wetheral. I hope I see you both in good health."

Lord Ennismore bowed low, and resumed his seat. The Dowager Lady
Ennismore spoke for her son.

"My dear Ennismore feels with me the honour and pleasure of this
unexpected visit. I have much to show Sir John, now that he has
favoured us with his company. I shall do the honours of the Park to
him, with great pleasure, and request his opinion upon our new lodge."

"You will doubtless, my dear mother, show our guest, Sir John, the new
line of road through the plantations."

"My dear Ennismore, our very first drive will be through the
plantations. I am proud to exhibit your taste; it will always hold its
place in my mind, as our lion of Bedinfield."

"It was not my suggestion, my dear mother," replied the poor,
dull-looking Lord Ennismore.

"My dear son, you approved of my idea, which makes it your own affair.
The new drive is certainly an affair of your own carrying out. I had
little to do with it. The architect, you know, is secondary. The
filling up requires knowledge and taste: that was your part, dear
Augustus."

A smile of satisfaction stole over the pallid face of Lord Ennismore,
but it could not light up the leaden expression of his eyes, as they
rested upon his mother's face.

"I am glad you think highly of that road, my dear mother."

"I think it the finest work upon the estate, my dear son. I was trying
to inoculate Julia with my enthusiastic delight, yesterday."

"Julia does not admire it as you do," observed Lord Ennismore, rising
from the chair near his lady, and taking a seat by his mother.

"We are not all granted the same tastes," replied her ladyship.
"Bedinfield has been my home many years, and you, my dear Augustus,
were born here. It must be a cherished place to my heart."

"I hope it will be always your home."

Lord Ennismore took his mother's hand, and held it in his, till dinner
was announced.

Julia did not hear the conversation which took place between Lord
Ennismore and her mother-in-law, neither did she observe her lord's
change of situation: she was learning the news of Wetheral from her
father's lips, and her whole attention was fixed upon him, and the
communications which deeply touched her heart. Christobelle heard her
complain of the silence of all her friends: she dwelt with energy
upon the silence of Miss Wycherly, and mourned to think how slightly
her friendship had stood the trial of a few months' absence. She had
invited Penelope to visit Bedinfield, but even politeness had not
elicited an answer from Lidham. She felt very keenly the conduct of her
early friends, but Lady Ennismore had warned her seriously that such
would be the case, and her kindness was Julia's greatest consolation.

"Have you not _once_ heard from Penelope?" asked her father, speaking
low.

"I have never received a letter from Shropshire since I married, papa."
Julia's eyes filled with tears at the thought of estranged affections.

"Penelope charged me with many messages, Julia. She desired me to say
that, absent or silent, her heart was unchanged, and Lidham was your
home, equally with Bedinfield and Wetheral."

"Dear Penelope!" exclaimed Julia, with clasped hands, "I was loth to
think she loved me less; but her happy lot should not make her silent
to her old friend!"

Julia's movement attracted the attention of the Dowager. She addressed
herself again to Sir John.

"My dear Sir John, what do you think of Staffordshire scenery? We do
not relinquish the palm of beauty to any county in the southern part of
Great Britain. Tell me exactly your route."

Sir John gave a concise statement of their little journey, which
was commented upon by her ladyship with vivacity. She entered
into descriptions of Staffordshire scenery, and the Staffordshire
aristocracy, with increasing energy, keeping all attention engaged
towards herself, and allowing no respite for recommencing a
conversation with Julia. Lady Ennismore chatted even through the
immense hall, and to the very dinner-table. Christobelle also watched
the elder Lady Ennismore with uncontrollable surprise take her seat
at the head of the table, while Julia quietly placed herself at her
father's side. Christobelle looked at her father, to observe his
movements; she did not meet his eye; his expression of countenance and
manner was very grave, but he gave no evidence of having noticed the
circumstance: he was conversing with Julia upon the arrival of the Tom
Pynsents.

The dinner passed in solemn grandeur. The party was too limited for
general conversation, and the presence of many servants checked
all approach to remarks beyond commonplace allusion to the weather
and climate of Staffordshire. Christobelle admired the simplicity
of the apartment, in its magnificent proportions and grand style
of architecture, but she was glad when the meal concluded, and the
servants were withdrawn.

The Dowager Lady Ennismore was then seen to great advantage:
Christobelle could not help admiring the perfection of manners which
rendered her so fascinating to every one with whom she came in contact.
In spite of Julia's position, so decidedly a position of disadvantage
to herself, and improper, as the wife of Lord Ennismore--in the very
face of that impropriety, in spite of dislike to Lady Ennismore, as
the cause of Julia's present situation, Christobelle beheld her with a
powerful admiration. She was attracted by that refined attention, that
power of pleasing, so delicate, so full of tact, accompanied by great
personal beauty, which takes the senses captive, even while we struggle
against its power. She admired the witchery of her eyes, as she glanced
upon each person those captivating and flattering meanings, which few
minds could resist: and she was, beyond expression, charmed by the
attentions which were offered to her youthful age, which fell like oil
upon the waters. The Dowager was long past her _première jeunesse_; yet
the vivacity of her conversation, and the propriety of her style of
dress, threw over her whole person an air of indescribable attraction.
Sir John appeared to watch her ladyship with deep attention; no
wonder, then, that Christobelle's unsuspicious age drank largely of
her fascination, that she could never imagine the deep wickedness of
her nature, or believe such winning manners concealed an imperious and
dangerous spirit. Her whole attention was fixed exclusively upon the
Dowager Lady Ennismore.

All moved together into the drawing-room. The Countess laughingly
apologised for the abstemious habits of Bedinfield, and expressed
her gratification that her dear son never loved the pleasures of
the table--pleasures altogether so gross, so unintellectual, that
she wondered gentlemen could lend themselves to an enervating and
disgusting consumer of existence.

"We are very sober people, Sir John, and our little family-trio never
separate after dinner. I consider you in that affectionate light also,
therefore we will not lose each other's society during your stay.
I must have you form a little ring round me, that I may enjoy the
conversation of each. My dear Miss Wetheral, you must remain near me;
I do not forget my young friend. My dearest Julia, you will take your
little _siesta_ as usual."

Julia declined a _siesta_; she expressed her indisposition to sleep;
she wished to listen to her father, and ask for Shropshire news. She
could not sleep while her father and sister remained at Bedinfield.

"My dearest Julia, I shall be seriously uneasy. My dear son, let
us prevail upon Julia not to forego her _siesta_, so very strongly
recommended by Dr. Anstruther, so very necessary to her health at this
time!"

"My dear mother, you are always right; I agree with you, and think
Lady Ennismore should not omit her _siesta_," observed his lordship,
looking particularly dull.

"I do not feel its necessity now at all, dear mother," observed Julia,
affectionately pressing Lady Ennismore's hand, and looking beseechingly
in her face. "My dear father and Chrystal take away all inclination to
sleep."

"I will not lose my daughter for all the world can offer," exclaimed
the Dowager, throwing her arms round Julia. "My dear Julia, will you
not oblige me?"

"But, dearest Lady Ennismore, this _one_ evening, just to talk of
Wetheral!"

"My love, I trust your father is intending to honour us some days.
Ennismore and myself are uneasy. You will not give us disquietude,
Julia? Sir John will not advocate an abrupt change of system, I feel
assured. Oblige us, my dearest Julia."

Julia arose to give pleasure; when did she ever resist solicitation!
She gave her father an affectionate salute: "Dear papa, I shall not be
long away from you. Lady Ennismore is so fearful of my health, that a
_siesta_ is considered indispensable. Perhaps Chrystal will lull me to
sleep by tales of Wetheral. Come with me, Chrystal."

The Countess caught Christobelle's hand as she rose to accompany Julia.

"My dear young friend, I fear I must appear a monster, but I am
apprehensive; my Julia must repose, not converse with dear and near
relations. It is too exciting for her. My dear Julia never gives
disquietude--she is aware of my alarms. Oblige me and Ennismore, dear
Julia."

Julia retired with unwilling steps. Lord Ennismore gave his arm to
his lady, and escorted her to the door of her dressing-room; he then
returned to his mother's side. She watched him for some moments with
an anxious expression; and, while Sir John examined some exquisite
paintings, Christobelle heard the following dialogue between Lady
Ennismore and her son; it took place in a low tone of voice, as if it
was not intended to reach other ears.

"My dear Augustus, have you taken your dinner pill?"

"Yes; and the powder half an hour previous to the pill."

"I hope and believe Julia reminded you of it; I am glad she was so
thoughtful, dear girl."

"No, my dear mother, it was your hint; don't you remember saying this
afternoon something about dinner pills? It put me in mind of taking
one."

"Was it my hint, my dear son? Mothers are foolishly attentive
creatures, Augustus; they are always so apprehensive. I often fear I am
wearisome!"

"You never can be wearisome in attending to my pills, my dear mother. I
should be very unwell without them."

"My darling Julia forgets, Augustus; it is not, I am sure, intentional."

"But _you_ never forget. Julia did not pour out my soda-water this
morning. I was quite ill for half an hour."

"Young wives are thoughtless creatures, Augustus. A mother, you know,
has an old, reflecting head upon her shoulders."

"I am very glad you did not leave us, my dear mother; Julia would have
poisoned me by this time."

"Oh, no, my dear son, not _quite_ so bad as that; some few mistakes,
perhaps, but not so fearful a catastrophe. I could wish you to call
upon the Delancy's to-morrow, Augustus; the General very much wished
to ask your opinion upon some political point."

"Certainly I will call at Huish, if you wish it."

"Julia will ride with you: the world should see you always together. It
is politic, at any rate. I will----" Lady Ennismore's voice sunk into a
whisper. Again Christobelle caught her words.

"It won't be a long affair. Make a round of calls, and that will fill
up time, you know." Another long whisper. "My dear Sir John, you are
pleased with that Spagnoletti; it is a picture of great merit. The late
Lord Ennismore was a great collector."

Her ladyship spoke now of pictures: she gave the history of each
painting, and detailed the research of her late lord, who travelled
through Europe in order to form the splendid collection at Bedinfield.
When Lady Ennismore ceased speaking, it was time for coffee, and
Julia's reappearance was anxiously expected by her sister. With the
same punctilious attention, Lord Ennismore again left the apartment,
and returned with his lady under his arm. He placed her near the
Countess, made his bow, and offered to sweeten her cup of coffee, with
a cold formality and an unexpressive smile. Julia looked pleased by
the unmeaning attention.

"Have you slept, dearest Julia?" asked the Countess, as she sipped her
coffee.

"No, indeed; I thought of Wetheral, and I could not close my eyes. I
wish I had been allowed to remain here, dearest mother."

"Naughty girl!" Her ladyship tapped Julia's arm lightly. "How can you
trifle with my anxiety? Sir John, how is our dear Julia looking?"

"She looks in excellent health. Julia always enjoyed good health," said
her father; "she was the blooming rose at Wetheral."

"We watch over her with infinite anxiety," returned the Countess. "What
should we do, my dear lord, without Julia?"

Lord Ennismore cast a heavy glance upon Julia, and smiled. "Dr.
Anstruther is considered clever; I trust no unfortunate accident will
occur at Bedinfield. You, my dear mother, are extremely quick-sighted,
and will avert much that is unpleasant."

"You flatter me, my dear lord; but my fears create watchfulness, and
often, I fear, give disturbance to my sweet Julia. Sir John, we are a
whist party; may I challenge you to play? I shall give my young friend
the range of our library as her amusement. I remember Miss Wetheral's
taste for reading. My poor memory does yet retain the remembrance of
my friends' tastes. My dear lord will be so honoured in the task of
introducing you to his library. Allow me to light a taper."

The Countess rose with graceful ease and lightness of step to effect
her purpose. Lord Ennismore rose also, and bowed to Christobelle. He
spoke _so_ heavily, and with such dull precision.

"I shall have pleasure in doing the honours of the Bedinfield library
to Miss Wetheral. I cannot flatter myself it surpasses the very
handsome collection at Wetheral Castle, nevertheless, it claims
distinction. Do me the honour, Miss Wetheral, to accept my arm."

Christobelle placed her arm within the awkwardly-extended elbow which
Lord Ennismore held out for acceptance, and they proceeded to the
library. His lordship stood in the centre of the room, and harangued
with the tone and manner of a showman who describes by rote what his
mind cannot understand.

"You see here, my agreeable Miss Wetheral, a collection of the best
authors. To the right you will perceive the most approved ancients;
to the left, the most approved moderns. Before us you will observe a
splendidly-bound collection of the works of our novelists, such as
Fielding, &c.; and, behind us, there is an equally select collection of
plays, from our great Shakespeare to almost the present hour."

"This is a magnificent library, Lord Ennismore, indeed."

"It is considered so, Miss Wetheral. Bedinfield has long held
pre-eminence in Staffordshire; perhaps I am not wrong in asserting its
superiority to many mansions in the neighbouring counties."

"I will, my lord, if you please, borrow Shakespeare while you are at
cards. I promise to replace the book."

"We have a librarian, who replaces the different works, and attends to
the thing, Miss Wetheral; do not give yourself the trouble. My mother
arranges every thing with perfect order."

"Not Julia, then?" she exclaimed in astonishment, and without
reflection. "Does not my sister Julia arrange every thing at
Bedinfield?"

"No, Miss Wetheral; the Countess-dowager has the management of my
affairs. I should be extremely sorry to remove the control of every
thing into other hands. The Countess-dowager conducts the establishment
at Bedinfield."

"I thought the Countess was on a visit! I really thought Julia and
yourself lived at Bedinfield." Christobelle looked with extreme
surprise at Lord Ennismore.

"The Countess-dowager remains with us," returned his lordship. "We were
anxious to retain my dear mother at Bedinfield. She is kind enough
to transact all affairs for me. I am not fond of business; and the
Countess-dowager thinks I am unequal in my health to severe attention
upon any subject. I am very fortunate in possessing a relation
who considers it almost an amusement to overlook the concerns of
Bedinfield."

"Julia was always extremely clever," exclaimed Christobelle, anxious
to do justice to her talents. "Julia was always considered extremely
clever at Wetheral."

"No one can equal my mother in cleverness, Miss Wetheral: every thing
is in excellent order, and I am always supplied with money when I
require it. The Countess-dowager attends even to my private accounts: I
have no trouble."

"But _Julia_ attends to her own expenses, Lord Ennismore?"

"The Countess-dowager is kind enough to attend to every thing, Miss
Wetheral."

The library-door opened, and the "Countess-dowager" appeared, leaning
upon Julia's arm. She bantered Christobelle and her son upon their long
absence.

"You are as partial to reading the titles of books as Dr. Johnson, if
that has been your occupation. My lord has been very anxious to do the
honours properly, Miss Wetheral."

"We were not altogether talking of books," replied his lordship,
mechanically offering his arm to Julia.

"What could interest you so much, Miss Wetheral? If books were not your
subject, let us also enjoy your remarks." The Countess fixed her eyes
upon Christobelle with a searching expression. Christobelle coloured,
but remained silent.

"My dear mother, we were talking of you," said Lord Ennismore, taking
her hand.

"Of _me_, Augustus? I cannot think I can form a subject for Miss
Wetheral's contemplation. Pray let us return into the drawing-room."
This was spoken in a tone of slight displeasure.

"I never think any one can speak of you, my dear mother, without
pleasure. I like to talk of you."

"I am sure, dearest mother, you are the subject of conversation to
thousands," cried Julia, with tenderness, laying her hand upon her
ladyship's arm.

"My dear children, you are very flattering in your affection." Lady
Ennismore's countenance resumed its bland expression. "I must feel
happy in the love of two beings so dear to me. May we always continue
united, my beloved children! Miss Wetheral, you are surprised at this
little scene."

The group returned into the drawing-room. Lady Ennismore arranged the
whist party, as she arranged every thing connected with Bedinfield, and
Christobelle sat near the table, reading her favourite Shakespeare.
The whist party broke up to partake of a slight refreshment, and it
was then time to separate for the night. Christobelle did hope Julia
would have accompanied her to the tapestried chamber, but she retired
with Lady Ennismore, after "good nights" were mutually expressed.
Christobelle was escorted to her room by her father in silence. She
wished much to speak to him, and inform him of her short colloquy
with Lord Ennismore; she therefore begged him to stay with her a few
minutes.

"Come into my room, Chrystal; I have no lady's maid to overhear my
words."

Christobelle crossed the broad gallery, and entered the crimson
chamber. It was hung with dark crimson satin, as gloomy but not so
appalling as the tapestried apartment. She then told her father the
substance of her conversation in the library, and also remarked upon
Lady Ennismore's look of displeasure. He listened gravely to the
disclosure, and observed, "Yes, I fancied so--I can see it all."

"What do you see, papa?"

"You would not comprehend my views if I expressed them, my love;
your life is young, and at present my remarks would be mysteries to
your innocent mind. The world will gradually enlighten you to evil,
when your part is to be played upon its stage: till then, remain
untainted and happy. But when you enter upon its cares, bear in mind
the necessity of holding fast integrity. It secures happiness here and
hereafter. And now, good night, my dear Chrystal."

Christobelle returned to her room, and beheld the large eyes of a
giant-centurion fixed upon her. She could not struggle against alarm;
and Taylor sat by her till she fell asleep. She endeavoured to amuse
her young mistress by a description of the scenes which were taking
place in the lower department of Bedinfield.

"Lord help us, Miss Wetheral, if you could but see the pride of the
two butlers, Mr. Spice and Mr. Hornby! Miss, they won't look at, or
speak to, the other servants; and the great housekeeper, with her two
helpers, sit in a room by themselves. Mr. Spice only stands by the
sideboard, and Mr. Hornby behind my lady the Countess, just to look at.
And do you know, miss--poor Miss Julia that was--is considered nobody
at all. Every thing is my Lady Countess."

"Do they think so, Taylor?"

"I hear the servants that I associate with, miss, make strange
observations, as we do sometimes talk over things amongst ourselves;
and they say that the Lady Countess is a very determined woman, and
manages my lord completely. Poor Miss Julia has no power at all; but
the Lady Countess is very kind-spoken to her, and they say Miss Julia
is very content to be put on one side."

"Lady Ennismore, if you please, Taylor."

"Ah! she is no Lady Ennismore, miss, unless she has her proper
situation in this house. As to my lord, miss, I assure you the footmen
speak of him in a very odd way."

"In what way?"

"Why one of them said openly at supper the word 'ass,' Miss Wetheral;
and another said he couldn't follow his nose without the Lady Countess
at his side: they all pity poor Miss Julia, and say she is too good for
him."

"I shall tell papa, Taylor."

"Oh, gracious, Miss Wetheral! don't bring me up about such things; I
really couldn't appear, upon my oath, before any one, for the world. I
must hold my tongue."

"No, speak on, Taylor: you must talk me to sleep."

"Well, indeed, miss! The footman, Number 7, as they call him--for
they are called out by number, not by name--has been some years at
Bedinfield; and he says the Lady Countess had great power over her
husband, the late lord. She was always bland and agreeable to speak to,
if nothing offended her, but Number 7 says it was a sight to see her
_angry_. She never forgave any one, and will allow no one to differ
with her. Miss Julia is so gentle! that's one thing; she will never
offend; but if she ever does, Number 7 says it will be the worse for
her."

"How can Number 7 tell any thing, Taylor?"

"Oh! Miss Wetheral, he says things very hard to believe; but no one
contradicted him. He says his lady will never part with power till she
is in her grave, and that Miss Julia will only lead a quiet life while
she gives way. I think my Lady Kerrison and my Lady Ennismore have not
done so well, miss, though they are quality. I must say I should like
to be first in my own house--I should expect--if my husband--indeed,
says I--"

Taylor's words appeared broken, and they gradually became extinct.
Christobelle fell asleep during her lengthy speech.




CHAPTER XIX.


Lady Ennismore and Julia were already in the breakfast-room, when
Christobelle and her father descended the following morning. Lord
Ennismore was seated with a decanter of water on the table before
him; and he had sundry bottles stationed round it, from which he
weighed certain powders, and immersed the whole in a goblet of water.
His lordship was too occupied to rise upon their entrance, but he
apologised for the apparent want of gallantry.

"Excuse me, Sir John Wetheral, and also I entreat your pardon, Miss
Wetheral, for my sitting posture; but I am, at this moment, preparing
my morning draught. I shall, however, have much pleasure in drinking
your health, when the preparation is completed."

"I will stand proxy to your words, my dear Augustus," said the
Countess; "I am anxious about the given quantities of the powders,
and entreat you to be careful in examining the measures. Three grains,
I know, is the proper quantity. Three grains of each. My dear Miss
Wetheral, I hope you slept well. Sir John, I am going to carry you with
me per force, round the park. Three grains only, my dear son."

"Thank you, my dear mother; I am very accurate: I have just concluded
my dose."

Lord Ennismore stood up with an air, which he intended should be
picturesque and gallant. His lordship held the goblet in one hand,
and a tea-spoon in the other, as he bowed low to Christobelle and her
father.

"I have the honour to drink to your welfare, as also to express our
pleasure at your conferring upon us the honour of your company." His
lordship then stirred the liquid into a state of effervescence, and
drank the contents of the goblet. Julia extended her hand to receive
the empty goblet, but the Countess prevented the action.

"No, my dear Julia, I will receive it from my son. I know you are not
fond of powders and effervescing draughts; young people seldom like
them. Let me take the glass from your husband." Her ladyship perceived
the goblet was not quite relieved of its contents. "My dear Augustus,
I am not easy. I wish I possessed the calmness of Julia, but I never
_shall_ be so self-possessed; I am always in little alarms about you.
You have left a wine-glassful in this goblet, and you will not feel its
beneficial effects."

Lord Ennismore's satisfaction was observable at the care expressed
by his mother's remarks. Julia was totally ignorant of any concealed
purpose lurking in her ladyship's alarm. She only smiled at her
mother's perfectly unwarranted fears, and playfully jested at their
unfounded use. The Countess patted Julia's cheek.

"My dear love, you cannot know a mother's agonising, though, perhaps,
foolish fears. A young wife is not aware of the nature of unpleasing
symptoms, such as I fear I see arising in my son's system. Sir John, I
think we may assert it as a fact, that a parent's anxiety is even more
keenly acute than a wife's alarm."

Sir John did not agree with her ladyship. He thought parental pangs
must be to every heart a bitter trial; but a wife's welfare, or a
husband's health, must be a paramount interest. To his idea, a mother's
affection must bow to that of a wife.

"You think so, Sir John?" The Countess smiled bewitchingly upon her
son. "I believe I did my duty to my lord; I think I devoted myself to
his wishes; but I surely feel a more intense love for my son. Perhaps,"
continued the Countess, sighing, "perhaps his very delicate health
interested my feelings too powerfully for my repose."

"I am, and must be," said his lordship, in most sententious tones,
"extremely fortunate in possessing a relation so interested in my
well-doing. I am sure my excellent wife feels for me a proper and
lively affection; but, as the Countess-dowager remarks, there is
want of reflection in the young, which only the more aged gain by
experience."

"My dear lord," exclaimed Julia, with gentle earnestness, "I should be
the only proper attendant; and I should be a most willing one, too; if
you would allow me to mix your medicines--but Lady Ennismore has so
frequently assured me...."

"Come, come, my sweet Julia, away with self-upbraidings, or upbraiding
of any nature! I bear witness to your worth and kindness; let us
proceed to despatch our breakfast, that I may claim Sir John's
company." The Countess allowed no pause in the conversation to enable
Julia to continue her observation.

"Sir John, I look forward to great commendations on your part. My son's
taste is admirably set forth in the new drive, which comprehends a
circuit of three miles. My dear Miss Wetheral, you have a fine lady's
appetite: surely Bedinfield will effect a change. I am sure my Julia
will enjoy an hour or two of chat with you, my young friend, while we
are absent. A little chat upon Wetheral topics. Julia talks with so
much fervour of her friends in Shropshire!"

"I wish they would all think of me with equal interest, and become
better correspondents," observed Julia, energetically.

"Talking of correspondence," said the Countess, addressing Sir
John, "how few of our earliest friends ever continue to keep up the
delightful intercourse of extreme youth. So many new objects, so many
new perceptions! We rarely can long persevere in the course of our
early career."

"My daughter's friend makes the same remark. Miss Wycherly complains of
Julia's silence," observed Sir John.

"I have written frequently, papa," cried Julia, her whole figure
becoming animated with the subject. "I have even invited Penelope to
Bedinfield, without receiving an acceptation or denial. What can my
friend plead in extenuation of her neglect? I did expect to be summoned
to her marriage. I promised to attend her summons."

"You did not inform me of this arrangement, Julia," remarked the
Countess; "I was not aware of the intended pleasure of another visit
into Shropshire."

"I did not answer for _you_, dear mother. I was not aware at that time
of your intention to reside at Bedinfield. I only assured Penelope,
Lord Ennismore, and myself, would swell her train."

"You have changed your resolution, of course," said the Countess, in a
dry tone of voice.

"No, indeed: I should like to surprise Penelope. Papa, we will return
with you to Wetheral, if my lord has no objection."

"No plan can give me greater pleasure, my love. Let us return together,
if you please. If your ladyship will add your society, Wetheral will be
proud to receive you. Lady Wetheral will rejoice to see you."

"Oh! let us all return with papa," exclaimed Julia, turning to her
lord with eagerness; "let us all return with papa to dear Wetheral!"

"I am sensible of Sir John's politeness," returned his lordship, "more
particularly as change of air is beneficial to every constitution. I
shall with pleasure revisit Wetheral, if the Countess-dowager has no
engagements to prevent her quitting Bedinfield."

"My dear mother, you are not engaged? You will accompany us, won't
you?" said Julia, affectionately and eagerly.

"I am grieved that it is out of my power to accept Sir John's polite
invitation," replied the Countess, with much suavity.

"Oh! I am so sorry! but, my lord, _you_ will take me to Wetheral;
_you_ will return with me into Shropshire," continued Julia, anxiously
watching the stolid face of her dull lord. "You have no engagement,
Augustus?"

"None whatever, my dear Lady Ennismore," was his lordship's reply; "but
if my mother cannot postpone her engagements, we had perhaps better
defer our visit."

"I have every hope," said Sir John, bowing politely to the Countess,
"I have every hope that Lady Ennismore will yet favour us with her
company. Perhaps, upon a little consideration, one or two engagements
may give way, to do us honour."

"I will consult with my son," replied the Countess, with her most
bewitching smile. "A visit to Wetheral must be a pleasure too agreeable
to relinquish, if we can postpone less agreeable engagements. I shall
not fail to draw upon my invention for excuses in _one_ quarter. My
dear Julia, I hope we shall accomplish a visit to Wetheral. I hope my
lord's health will continue: but I do not like his pallid complexion
this morning."

"Do I look unwell?" asked his lordship, in an anxious tone, "do I
appear changed to-day, my dear mother?"

"I don't approve of that pale cheek, my dear son. Julia, do you notice
a little hectic spot--a very small spot, just upon the cheek-bone?"

Julia looked at her lord's leaden face. "No, I do not discover a spot,
I cannot perceive a hectic spot--do you, papa?"

"My dearest Julia, is it possible you cannot distinguish a little
feverish appearance? I see it from this distance, with great
uneasiness."

"Now, papa, you shall judge between us. Do you see any appearance of
spot or fever upon my lord's cheek?"

Sir John put on his glasses with an air of grave solemnity. "Am I
constituted judge in this matter?"

"Oh, yes, papa, you shall declare the precise state of the matter,"
exclaimed Julia, laughingly.

"No one must judge for _me_. No one can judge for a mother's quick
eye," said the Countess, playfully, "but still in the multitude of
counsellors there is wisdom; therefore, I should wish to hear Sir
John's opinion."

Sir John Wetheral examined Lord Ennismore's cheek with great command of
countenance: there was no spot, or even the slightest tinge of colour;
all was colourless, still, and heavy: dull, dismal, and disagreeable.

"My good lord," he said, "I am pleased to join my daughter in her
happy fearlessness; and still better pleased to be able to soothe her
ladyship's apprehensions. I think there is nothing alarming in your
cheek. Rather pale, but I can perceive no hectic tendency."

Lord Ennismore turned anxiously towards his mother. Her eyes were fixed
apprehensively upon him: he turned towards Julia; she was engaged with
the merrythought of a chicken. He again turned to the Countess.

"My dear mother, you are not satisfied with Sir John Wetheral's
opinion: I see you think I am unwell, and you are always watching me,
therefore, you understand my constitution better than any one can do. I
don't think I am very well this morning. I could almost fancy my head
was uncomfortable."

"You never give way to fancy, my dear son, therefore, you are not
well. I can read the expression of your poor heavy eyes this morning:
I am very uneasy." The Countess rose with some perturbation from the
breakfast-table.

Lord Ennismore rose also. "Excuse me, Sir John Wetheral, excuse me,
Miss Wetheral, if I appear abrupt in quitting your company. I will
retire, if you please, this morning; I certainly feel very unwell, and
a few hours quiet will be calming. Pray don't rise, Lady Ennismore; my
mother will give me her assistance to my apartments; my dear mother,
will you be so kind as to give me an audience?"

Julia rose, and offered her arm to Lord Ennismore, but he again
declined her assistance. The Countess approached with exultation in her
looks and manner; but soft words were upon her lips.

"I believe we old people are better fitted for nurses, my dear Julia.
Your alarm, perhaps, would be greater than my own upon any emergency,
but an old head is more used to critical situations. My dearest love,
will you accompany our friends into the sitting-room, and then join
us; you will be very anxious to see the effect of my old-fashioned
remedies. My dear Sir John, I will see you again to arrange our drive."

Lord Ennismore quitted the breakfast-room with a look of real
dejection. His valet, who had been summoned, followed his lordship,
as he leaned upon the arm of the Countess. Her implied suspicions had
taken such deep root in the weak mind of her son, that his imagination
led him to believe he was seriously ill. His lordship walked softly,
with the air of a person who felt assured he had been suddenly seized
with an alarming and painful malady: his person shrunk into greater
insignificance, his eye wore a more heavy expression--he was the
perfect illustration of Molière's "Malade Imaginaire," as he walked
gently across the grandly-proportioned apartment. What a creature to
possess a wife so lovely as Julia, and to be the representative of the
earldom of Ennismore! to own the baronial halls of Bedinfield, and
write himself a man!

Sir John Wetheral would not let Julia depart when they entered the
sitting-room. He made her take a seat by his side upon the sofa, and he
held her hand, while he gazed fondly upon her. Julia smiled, and asked
him "if he was examining the hectic appearances upon _her_ cheek."

"No, my child, here are no symptoms of green and yellow melancholy; you
look well, Julia, therefore, you _must_ be happy."

"Yes, papa, I am indeed happy. Lady Ennismore spoils me, and will not
let me stir from her side, 'lest the winds of heaven should blow too
roughly on my cheek.' She is all kindness."

"And Lord Ennismore is indulgent, Julia, and makes you happy?"

"I wish he would not take so much medicine, papa; otherwise, he never
contradicts me in anything. I cannot think it wholesome to take such a
quantity of medicine. The Countess encourages him, I think."

"You love him, Julia?"

"Yes, pretty well, papa. Mamma told me I should like him better and
better every day, when I was once married, but I can't say that is
quite the case. I like Lord Ennismore, though: he never offends
me, except in the quantity of pills and powders. I don't like him
_better_, but then I don't think I like him worse."

"You are anxious to visit Wetheral again, my love?"

"Indeed, papa, I am. I want to find out why my friends have been
silent. Mamma has behaved very ill: she has never written me a line,
though I addressed her every month. I can't imagine what my friends are
made of. The Countess warned me of all this."

"What can Lady Ennismore prophecy, who is so distantly known to your
friends, Julia?"

"She tells me, papa, that every body is envious of my marriage, and
that my friends will fall away, because all youthful friendships are
hollow. Penelope has, indeed, proved how little my letters interest
her."

"Indeed, Julia," exclaimed Christobelle, "Miss Wycherly has not
received one letter from Bedinfield. She told me so very sorrowfully at
Hatton."

"I cannot think that," returned her sister. "The Countess herself
took my letters to seal, and order them to be put into the post-bag.
Penelope must have received them, but she is preparing for her
marriage, and Charles Spottiswoode engrosses her attention."

"No, indeed, Julia; remember Miss Wycherly's message by papa."

"I cannot understand it all," replied Julia, as the tears rushed to her
eyes; "I love all my friends dearly, but now I am Countess of Ennismore
not a soul thinks of me, to keep up a correspondence. Mamma told me
that rank bought every thing, yet I cannot purchase a line from my own
home, 'to bid God bless me.' I am very unhappy about it sometimes,
only Lady Ennismore comforts me, and says she loves me for a hundred
friends."

"Think no more of it, my love, we shall be all united at Wetheral soon,
and you shall lecture Penelope before us in conclave." Sir John pressed
Julia to him as he spoke. She smiled through her tears.

"Oh, you are _all_ included in my coming lecture! You are _all_
delinquents! I thought I should have fainted when I heard of your
arrival yesterday, so unexpectedly! I was flying down to you, but dear
Lady Ennismore arrested my flight. She made me lie down, and take some
of my lord's horrid drops. She advised me, too, to receive you in the
drawing-room; it was more becoming my station, and your demerits. I
forgot station and demerits, when I heard your dear name, papa." She
threw her arms round her father's neck, and proceeded. "What care I
for any one, like my own dear papa? I know I should be fonder of Lord
Ennismore if he was not always mixing up draughts and lotions, and if
he was more with me; but his rooms are near Lady Ennismore, and mine
are in the left wing of this immense place."

"You do not mean to infer, my love, that you have separate apartments!"
said her father, starting up from the sofa. "Four months of matrimony,
and a separation already, Julia!"

"Oh, that's an old affair now, papa. Lord Ennismore had his rooms
prepared near Lady Ennismore these three months, because he thought she
understood the pennyweights and grains better than I do. I only see my
lord at meals, and he is extremely attentive to me then, I must say;
but I cannot like him as I should do if he consulted _me_ about his
medicines. I should learn the weights and measures in time, you know."

Sir John walked to the window, without making any reply. The Countess
entered the room at the moment; she spoke kindly and feelingly to her
daughter; at the same time taking both her hands, and pressing them
with affectionate solicitude.

"My dear love, my lord is inquiring for you: he feels better, much
better, but I have decided upon sending for Dr. Anstruther. He wishes
you to sit with him; he inquires for Julia upon all occasions, and I
am now come for you. My son is full of regrets," added her ladyship,
turning towards her guests, "that he should feel one of his little
seizures at this particular moment, when he wished to do the honours of
Bedinfield; but he deputes me to act for him. He has insisted upon my
ordering the _barouchette_, to drive Miss Wetheral and yourself to the
plantations. My dear son will hope to be perfectly well at dinner: he
is quite nervous about the plantations."

Sir John appeared too engrossed with his own emotions to reply; but he
bowed to her ladyship's speech. She turned to Christobelle.

"My dear young friend, we shall return to luncheon, therefore, as my
daughter remains with her husband, you will, probably, be glad to
accompany us in our drive. We shall set out in half an hour."

Christobelle promised herself little pleasure in the drive, since Julia
would not be with them, but she would prepare to attend her ladyship's
summons. The two ladies then proceeded towards the hall. Julia looked
back at her father, as he seated himself near Christobelle, and smiled.

"Papa, I shall find out about the letters from Lady Ennismore. I am
sure Penelope is wrong!"

"What is this little affair, Julia?" asked Lady Ennismore, with
peculiar quickness.

"My friends say they have received no letters from Bedinfield, my dear
mother. _You_ know I wrote, for you were kind enough to seal my long
crossed epistles. You told me they would serve me so!"

"I have often known fluctuations in correspondence among young people,
my love. I used to fancy in my youth that I was particularly ill-used;
but, when I look back, I perceive it was circumstances which over-ruled
many events."

Lady Ennismore continued speaking to Julia, but the distance prevented
the substance of her remarks reaching her friends. Before the speech
concluded, however, they had gained the door, which Lady Ennismore
closed after their transit, and the subject was never more renewed. A
heavy sigh from her father arrested Christobelle's attention. She asked
him if he was ill.

"Not in body, my dear child: my mind alone is wretched."

"Oh, why, papa?" she exclaimed, in surprise; "what makes you wretched
in this beautiful place of Julia's? and Julia herself so well and
happy!"

"There is no happiness with that dangerous woman, and that feeble son!"
said her father, as he paced the room. "There is no peace for my poor
child--ignorance, ignorance is her only earthly chance! Why was I so
weak, so deluded, to marry my poor child to a wretched idiot?"

"Papa," Christobelle uttered gently--"dear papa, who are you meaning?"

He did not hear her speak; her father apparently forgot her presence,
for he continued walking.

"To give way to a woman's tears, when my judgment recoiled at the
union, was folly, was wickedness. My heart will feel this, for I knew
it was wrong, yet I sanctioned it by my presence. My poor Julia!--my
poor, poor girl!"

Christobelle could not bear to hear her father's self-reproach; she
went to him and took his hand.

"Papa," she said, "don't say you have done wrong; you never did wrong
to any body. We all say how good and kind you are to us."

He stopped and looked earnestly at her.

"I have brought you up, Chrystal, with very different principles. I do
not think _you_ will bring me in sorrow to the grave. I think you will
not sell yourself to perjury and ambition, as others have done."

"I will never do what you tell me not to do, papa."

"I hope not--I hope not, my child. I tell you not to marry a selfish,
heartless man, as Clara and Julia have done, to secure wealth and rank,
which they will never enjoy in peace--which they will never enjoy in
respectability. It is a hard fate, but even the young must endure it
if they barter peace for riches. God help them! their poor mother has
done this, and I did not act a father's part by them!" Sir John seated
himself, and Christobelle knelt by him, and held his hand to her lips,
and kissed it repeatedly. He was recalled to recollection by this
movement, and he raised her from the attitude she had chosen, to a seat
by her side.

"My dear Chrystal, never repeat the remarks to any third person, which
you have heard now from my lips. Remember the trust I have in your
youth, because you have been my companion, and have learned to be
silent, and to think a parent's word sacred. You will understand my
distress of mind at a future period; but at this moment the knowledge
of my suffering would be incomprehensible to you. In your steadiness of
character I hope for much comfort hereafter."

Christobelle did indeed hope to be his comfort in age, as he had been
her shield in youth. Her words were simple, and her expressions were
uttered with untutored energy, but they were sincere in feeling. His
society, his kindness, his information, had been her happiness; for
they had shielded her from a mother's reproaches, and her increasing
loss of self-command. They had preserved her from ambitious feelings,
by withdrawing her from her mother's influence; and, by offering her
the calm pleasures of his study, instead of consigning her first young
days to the infected air of Thompson's room, and Thompson's arguments,
Christobelle had known only indulgence and gentle treatment. How
could she help loving this estimable parent, or fail to make his
slightest wish the law of her heart? She did promise--and redeemed
that promise--that she would never breathe to a human being the
conversations which he entrusted to her sacred keeping.

Lady Ennismore was true to her appointment. She did the honours of
the new drive with infinite grace, and conversed with Sir John upon
every subject with fluent and astonishing information. Her ladyship
appeared quite equal to guide the destinies of Bedinfield. Every
improvement originated with herself, however carefully she subscribed
Lord Ennismore's name to the plans; and her perfect acquaintance with
agricultural economy proved her equal to the task of superintending
her son's immense property. Christobelle was delighted with the polite
tact of her manners, as she directed her conversation from John to
herself. It is assuredly a great gift to possess that polite ease, and
well-directed attention, which gives a flattering unction to the vanity
of all who receive its plastic touch. It is the wand of a fairy which
turns words into the pearls and diamonds of the little tale--which does
so delightfully

    "Wash, and comb, and lay us down softly."

No one could exceed Lady Ennismore in that most fascinating, most
dangerous gift of attraction. Christobelle felt under its spell,
bound towards her by the silent and potent effects of soothed
vanity. She felt she was of equal consideration with her father in
Lady Ennismore's eyes; for her opinions were elicited, and listened
to with marked attention. Christobelle was raised above the level
of her understanding--she was gratified--she was delighted with
Lady Ennismore. The dull drive which had been anticipated, passed
pleasantly, even rapidly, to her charmed feelings; and Sir John
confessed to her, that he could not feel surprised at her ladyship's
powerful influence over the unsuspicious and gentle heart of Julia.

Lady Ennismore was equally fascinating at luncheon. She did not partake
of the delicacies which tempted the eye, and impelled appetite; but her
lively conversation almost recompensed them for the absence of Julia,
whose excuses she tendered. "Lord Ennismore was certainly very unwell;
he was suffering much pain in the head. His dear Julia never left her
son when he had those wretched attacks. He could not endure her to be a
moment from his sight; but she had deputed her to give her best love
to both dear relations, whom she hoped to meet at dinner, or at least,
in the evening."

But Julia did not appear at the promised hour. "Lord Ennismore's
symptoms increased. Dr. Anstruther was of opinion his patient was
preparing for another of those alarming attacks. She greatly feared
Julia would be confined to a sick room many days, but her son was so
eagerly bent upon receiving every thing from Julia's hand--so attached
to his lady, it was delightful to witness such conjugal affection. Lord
Ennismore almost increased the disorder, by regretting his inability to
see his agreeable guests: the next visit to Bedinfield, her ladyship
trusted, would be free from such a painful interruption of intercourse."

The evening passed away, and Julia did not appear. It _did_ seem
strange that she could not make her escape to her family for a quarter
of an hour. Why was Lord Ennismore so anxious for his lady's society,
so very much attached as his mother represented him to be, and yet
allow her apartments to remain at such a distance from his own? Why
was not his attachment manifested in that love for her society which
would make them inseparable, like the Boscawens, like the Pynsents,
nay, even like the unhappily assorted Kerrisons? Surely, Julia might
be replaced by the anxious mother, while she visited at intervals her
own father! Christobelle was infinitely astonished at Julia's complete
seclusion with Lord Ennismore, for she knew her strong affection to
her own family, and the little anxiety she could suffer for a man whom
she professed to like "pretty well!" This was not love, to compel that
devotion of time and thought to her husband's comforts which Anna Maria
would have shown to her honest-hearted and beloved Tom Pynsent. It was
a line of conduct Christobelle could not comprehend, and her father did
not enlighten her on the subject, when she expressed her sentiments
to him at parting for the night. He doubtless felt and understood the
whole system pursued by the Dowager Countess to sustain her power at
Bedinfield; but Christobelle was too young to be initiated in the wiles
of the human heart, and she wept to think her sister could absent
herself so long from those who loved her, and who had journeyed so far
to enjoy her presence.

The second morning's meal was ungraced by Julia still. Lord Ennismore
was even "seriously" indisposed; and her ladyship spoke with feeling,
and at great length, of her own parental anxiety. Her mind was torn
to pieces with agitation and alarm. She fancied sometimes, the mild
air of the South of Italy would be necessary to the recovery of her
son's health. Julia would be so confined at Bedinfield, she thought.
The bright climate of Rome or Naples would be beneficial to both her
children, and, perhaps, brace her own nerves. She had talked to Dr.
Anstruther upon the subject, and he quite went with her in her ideas of
Rome. "What did her dear Sir John think?"

Sir John could form no opinion. He was not acquainted with the nature
of the attacks which afflicted Lord Ennismore, and Julia's health was
excellent, if he was to judge by her blooming and healthy complexion.

"True, my dear sir; Julia does indeed give evidence of health, and a
tranquil mind. I am most happy in the knowledge, indeed in her own
assurance, that her heart is free from care. I have spoken to her this
morning, and she seems delighted with the prospect of a continental
tour. I am very uneasy about my son."

"Have you had medical advice from town, Lady Ennismore?"

"No: Dr. Anstruther is remarkably clever. My son, as well as myself,
pin our faith upon his advise. I am never easy without Dr. Anstruther.
We could not consult a more intelligent medical adviser."

"As I purpose leaving Bedinfield early to-morrow morning, your ladyship
may perhaps...."

"My dear friend, you must not quit us in this hurried way! Surely
you do not leave Bedinfield so soon!" The Countess spoke in tones of
regret, but her eyes betrayed her pleasurable feelings. "I must mourn
my son's illness, since it removes you from us. The next visit must
be at some moment more favourable to all parties. This has been an
unfortunate occurrence. I must lament this very unfortunate occurrence."

"I wish to see my daughter before I quit Bedinfield," said Sir John
Wetheral, with seriousness of look and manner. "I must see my daughter
before I return to Wetheral: probably she will not be so closely
confined to-day."

"I hope not--I will try to hope not," replied the Countess; "but
my fears will not allow me to be tranquil. When our breakfast is
concluded, I will visit our invalid again, and, if possible, release
my dear Julia. She is very watchful and attentive, dear creature. I
cannot wonder at Ennismore's anxiety to have her with him. We will see
what this hour has produced."

Breakfast was concluded in silence. The Countess lost her lively flow
of spirits, and Sir John did not contribute his usual portion of
pleasant conversation. The trio gradually became silent and sad, and
Lady Ennismore, politely expressing her hopes that they should yet
alter their intention of leaving Bedinfield, rose to visit her son. She
hoped Julia might return to them, when she was with the dear invalid,
to take her place; but, if a short time intervened, she trusted they
would find amusement in the stores of the library, or in perambulating
the grounds. All and every thing was at their command.

The father and daughter were alone for some hours. Each moment, as it
sped rapidly on, was full of hope that Julia was on her way to gladden
their sight, and delight their hearts; but, as time were on, they
feared some evil accident had befallen the unfortunate Lord Ennismore.
The door at last opened, and the same attendant, who appeared at their
entrance into Bedinfield, again presented herself.

"The Countess of Ennismore regrets the necessity of her absence, Sir
John, but she cannot quit my lord's apartment. I am deputed to bear
her compliments, and the regret of the young Lady Ennismore. The
Countess commands me to say the carriages are at your disposal, and her
ladyship trusts you will excuse her presence till the hour of dinner."

"I fear his lordship is very unwell," observed Sir John, fixing
his eyes upon the unwelcome messenger with an expression of strong
disbelief in her statement; but she avoided meeting his gaze.

"I am commanded to unfold my message to Sir John Wetheral, but I was
not authorised to speak beyond its purport. I must now return to her
ladyship."

"Stay one instant," resumed Sir John, "and take back my answer. Tell
your lady, I will not occupy the time and services, which appear
to be required on Lord Ennismore's part. I will order my carriage
immediately; but I wish for one moment to take leave of my daughter,
Lady Ennismore, ere I leave her to the mournful task of watching by her
patient. My daughter and myself are useless, since our exertions cannot
benefit Lord Ennismore. I wish to see my daughter, if you please; and I
shall be obliged by your conveying my wishes to one of her people."

The attendant of Lady Ennismore retired, and they were again two hours
without receiving any interruption. The carriage had been some moments
at the door, and Sir John was walking up and down the room with hasty
steps, when a note was presented to him, upon a silver waiter, by Lady
Ennismore's footman.

  "My dear Sir John,

 "I cannot wonder at your flight--this is a place of sorrow and
 sickness, unfit for the healthy and happy. May we meet soon again!
 Julia and myself dare not quit for a moment our beloved and suffering
 invalid--he is in great torment.

     "Yours most truly,

     "E. ENNISMORE."

Sir John Wetheral rang the bell: a brief pause, and the footman
reappeared.

"Is Dr. Anstruther at this moment in the house?"

"I believe the doctor is now with my lord, Sir John."

"I wish to see Dr. Anstruther the instant he quits Lord Ennismore's
apartment."

The servant bowed, and disappeared.

"This is hopeless and helpless," observed Sir John; "I can only
increase Julia's distress, by remaining at Bedinfield. What use will
it be to inquire into the machinations of the Countess, except to reap
bitterness, and perceive my inability to rouse the torpid character of
her son. My poor Julia's fate depends upon that artful woman's will. It
is vain to look on, and witness that which I cannot control."

"But Lord Ennismore is very ill, papa," exclaimed the sorrowing
Christobelle. "Lord Ennismore is very ill, and Julia cannot leave him
to bid us farewell! Will he die, papa?"

Sir John made no reply to the hurried question. He was struggling with
his own emotions. He led his daughter in silence through the file of
footmen in the hall to the entrance-door, where his carriage waited,
already packed and surmounted by Taylor. Hornby advanced to inform
him of Dr. Anstruther's departure from Bedinfield; he had driven away
before Sir John's message had been delivered to him. Sir John made no
remark; he handed Christobelle into the carriage, and ordered the door
to be closed: he did not enter it himself. Christobelle entreated him
to join her. "My dear papa, where are you going to ride?"

"In the rumble, my love: the air will do me good. Take Taylor inside."

The exchange was made quickly. Sir John took possession of the rumble,
which enabled him to commune with his own thoughts in silence, and
they quitted for ever the magnificent home, which Julia's fatal
ambition had preferred to the happy days of her singlehood, in the less
courtly domain of Wetheral Castle. They left, for ever, the towers
of Bedinfield, its wooded hills, its calmly beautiful and luxuriant
scenery: they never more beheld its ancient walls, or visited the home
of Julia's choice. In ten days after Sir John Wetheral's return into
Shropshire, the Bedinfield establishment, including Dr. Anstruther,
were on their road to Florence, and it was said Lord Ennismore's health
had compelled the sudden and silently arranged movement.




CHAPTER XX.


A twelvemonth passed by, unmarked by any event, save the marriage of
Miss Wycherly. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Spottiswoode resided at Lidham, and
Sir John Spottiswoode had returned to England, to inhabit his almost
desolate property in Worcestershire. Lady Spottiswoode and her daughter
were invited to remain with him at Alverton, to enliven his home, till
he could endow it with a wife; but Sir John's fastidious taste gave
little promise to the gay partakers of Lady Spottiswoode's festivities,
that she would be restored to her once agreeably filled jointure-house,
in the Abbey Foregate.

Worcestershire, also, lay wide and far between the growing loves of
Miss Spottiswoode and Mr. John Tyndal; but there was resolution on
his side, and encouragement on the part of the lady; and the repeated
absences of Mr. John Tyndal from Court Herbert, gave rise to much
observation and prophecy in their circle. The Tom Pynsents were at
Hatton, rejoicing in the prospect of an heir to its prosperity; and
Mrs. Pynsent's ecstasy could only be equalled by the anxiety she
manifested to keep Anna Maria's mind easy. Her whims, in every respect,
were to be met with instant fulfilment. Mrs. Pynsent formed a most
amusing contrast to the fearful Miss Tabitha Boscawen.

Christobelle was domesticated at Hatton a fortnight before her sister's
expected confinement. Her father rejoiced in her visits, for she was
then withdrawn from her mother's increasing petulance--a petulance,
which began to vent its puerile vehemence upon every being within her
power, and which fell upon Christobelle with peculiar violence.

The extremity of her ladyship's patience had given way under repeated
disappointments connected with Bedinfield and Ripley. Those matches,
which she had most fondly considered her own scheme, prosecuted to
their close, by her own determination and skill, in the very face of
her husband's objections, had given her no satisfaction. Bedinfield
was now deserted by her daughter for a foreign land; and Sir Foster
Kerrison had interdicted the meeting of Clara and her mother at Ripley.
He considered Lady Wetheral an aider and abettor of his wife's violent
spirit; and, having once forbidden the presence of her ladyship within
the walls, the gibing and bitter reproaches of Clara strengthened and
decided his prohibition. Vexed and irritated by these occurrences, Lady
Wetheral could not turn her attention to her happily-established Anna
Maria, or the gay-hearted Isabel, with her darling child: she forbade
Christobelle ever offending her ears with sounds so repugnant to her
taste.

"Hold your tongue, Bell. I do not choose to be lectured by a pert girl
of thirteen. What is Tom Pynsent to me? I detest a man who can tamely
bear to live shut up with those people at Hatton; and who can bear the
avarice of Boscawen, driving a stupid pair of horses, when he can so
well afford four? Those were your father's matches, not mine."

"I thought you particularly wished Tom Pynsent to propose to Anna
Maria, mamma?"

"Hold your tongue, Bell."

Christobelle was happy to escape from the cares of Wetheral, to the
perfect freedom of Hatton. Provided every one spoke their mind, and
that mind was free from mean pride, Mrs. Pynsent was content. Her
good-humour to those she loved was proverbial, as her detestation of
folly was public. Luckily, Christobelle was ranked among her favourites
at her first visit.

"You young thing, so you are come to Hatton, are you? Shake hands.
I shall like _you_, because you showed a good feeling about your
dare-devil sister Kerrison, some time ago. I like warm-hearted people,
without nonsense and pride--here's a welcome to you, you great, tall,
good-looking thing." Mrs. Pynsent wrung her hand with a good will,
which gave severe pain. Christobelle tried to smile.

"What, my welcome is rough, is it? Make a face at once, and don't
pretend you are pleased, when you are no such thing. There's your
sister--she's a proper little tub--and there's Tom, as handsome as
ever--and here's my Bobby, with the gout; but you may go and shake
hands with him. The poor soul can't wag from the sofa."

Christobelle was received affectionately by all and each. Mrs. Pynsent
was full of kind inquiries. Some fell kindly upon her young friend's
heart, and some remarks had better have been left unsaid.

"Well, and how is your father, my young one? A better creature never
walked this earth than Sir John. How is he?"

"Quite well, and desires his compliments."

"Ay, to be sure--and my lady, how is she?"

"I left mamma very unwell."

"Too-too! she can't be ill. Hasn't she married her daughters to two mad
scamps, that her heart was set upon? What is she ill about? Can't she
get _you_ off, just yet, that she is so dull? She had better throw you
at Selgrave's head. Well, and how is my pretty Mrs. Boscawen?"

Christobelle gave Mrs. Pynsent a full account of Isabel's health, and
her happiness at Brierly.

"Very proper; I am glad to hear it. That was your father's match,
missy. He valued a good man. Lord, Tom, what are you doing there, with
Anna Maria?"

Tom Pynsent was removing a basket of apricots from his lady's vicinity.

"I won't let my wife eat these unripe things, to make herself ill, and
bring on all sorts of queer feelings. Upon my soul, you have eaten six
half-ripe apricots; you have eaten sour things enough to kill an old
fox, much less a little delicate creature like yourself."

"Just one apricot more, Tom," said Anna Maria, coaxingly.

"By Jove, I'll throw them out to the dogs, Anna! You shall not eat such
trash."

"Just _one_ more, Tom," continued his lady, advancing her hand towards
the basket, and looking half-beseechingly, half-saucily, at him.

"Upon my word, you are enough to drive a man distracted! I declare you
are more trouble to me than the kennel!" cried Tom Pynsent, unable to
resist her _minauderie_, and again surrendering the basket of apricots
to her grasp. "I'm sure I hope this won't happen every time."

"Ha, ha," cried Mrs. Pynsent, "and that's the fear, is it, Master
Tommy? Give up the fruit, and let her eat as much as she likes. Do you
remember, Bobby, how I gobbled your pines, once upon a time?"

Mr. Pynsent looked up from his newspaper, and shrugged his shoulders.
"I remember a good deal, Pen."

"I'll be bound you do, Bobby."

Anna Maria now expressed a wish to walk with her sister into the
flower-garden. Tom rather demurred at her descending the long flight of
steps. Mrs. Pynsent would allow no opposition.

"Come now, Tommy, let the poor thing hobble about, if she wishes it;
and, if she drops down, pick her up again. I hate a poor unfortunate
woman to be refused any thing. I am sure it's no sinecure to be such a
roundabout."

Tom Pynsent was easily persuaded into measures which he endured pain
in refusing to his lady. His affectionate heart was only anxious to
do right by a creature, whose very footsteps he worshipped; and his
watchfulness proceeded from the fear of losing that which was dearer to
him than light or life. Anna Maria revelled in the very wantonness of
happiness, and she delighted in drawing forth her husband's attentions,
by every little inventive art. She loved also to rouse his alarms; and
enjoyed, with rapturous delight, the expression of his honest affection.

One morning, as the ladies sat at work, amused by Tom's account of the
progress of his kennel, Anna Maria suddenly sank back upon the sofa,
and, by her closed eyes, and the work falling from her hands, Mrs.
Pynsent did indeed fear some fatal termination to her son's hopes. Tom
Pynsent sat rooted to the spot; his clasped hands and trembling lips
exhibiting every appalling alarm. Mrs. Pynsent and Christobelle flew
to Anna Maria's assistance; but the apparently dying victim opened her
eyes, and laughed heartily, exclaiming--

"My dear Tom, I wanted to see how you would look at my death; come to
me, Tom, and don't look so overpowered."

Tom Pynsent flew to her, as the blood rushed violently into his face,
by the reaction of hope against the horrors of despair. He threw his
arms round her, as she looked half terrified at her own thoughtlessness.

"By all that's horrible, Anna Maria, never give me such a useless
fright again; I might have had an apoplectic stroke. How could you play
me such a devil's trick?"

She stroked his cheek, as she whispered, "I just wanted to amuse
myself, Tom."

"Yes, it might amuse _you_, but what sort of amusement was it to me?
What would you have done, if I had dropped down dead with the shock?"

"Cried, Tom," answered Anna Maria, putting her finger to her eye, and
looking demure. Tom Pynsent looked at her with admiring affection.

"Upon my word, if you play me this trick again, I'll--"

Anna Maria placed her hand upon his lips, and a little playful
scene ensued, which ended in the usual way. It gave the happy wife
the delight of witnessing her husband's sincere alarm and love, and
Tom Pynsent was charmed with the little ruse, which gave a zest to
the day's routine. "It was," he said, "one of those sly tricks which
his little wife acted so prettily, doubling and harking back, like a
knowing vixen fox. He thought a wife and a fox were devilish alike in
their politics."

It was a pleasing sight to witness the happy understanding which
prevailed among the members composing the family circles at Hatton.
If Mrs. Pynsent failed--and fail she assuredly did, in the elegances
of polished life--yet her domination was kindly wielded over those
who lived under her roof. She respected and loved her husband, though
his cognomen of "Bobby" threw a shade of ridicule round her gentlest
expostulations. She loved her Tom with that blind enthusiastic fondness
which extended itself to every thing connected with him. She loved his
wife, because she belonged to Tom--the dogs were Tom's dogs--Bobby
was Tom's father. Hatton would, eventually, belong to Tom; therefore,
her heart warmed to every one around her. Was not Christobelle also
a favourite? Had she not come to Hatton to _see_ Tom?--Mrs. Pynsent
cautioned Anna Maria not to repeat her fainting-fit, or trench upon the
sacred ground of her husband's feeling heart too closely; at present
she was safe, and Tom was pleased, so it did not signify.

"The deuce take the best of them, my dear; if they are often called
upon for sorrow, it hardens them, as the cold air stiffens your sticks
of lollypops. Tommy is but a man, after all; and the dog must be
amused, not frightened. What an owl he looked, bless his heart!"

Sir John Spottiswoode appeared suddenly at Hatton. He was staying at
Lidham, and excursing among his friends in Shropshire. Mrs. Pynsent
insisted upon Sir John becoming their guest, and enforced her request
in her usual quaintly expressive style.

"Here, hollo, Sir Jacky, you can't think of leaving us at the rate of a
sneaking call! Make yourself at home, man; and stay with us till Tom's
wife--"

An earnest look of entreaty from Anna Maria checked the rapidity of
Mrs. Pynsent's speech. She hesitated.

"Stay with us, Sir Jacky, till--I'll be hanged if I know what I was
going to say!--if you haven't put every thing out of my head, Anna
Maria. What did you think I was going to say? I wasn't going to talk
like Sally Hancock."

"Stay with us, Spottiswoode," cried Tom Pynsent, "and we'll have a
field-day; such a one as you never saw in Italy."

"Oh, those outlandish places, and those snivelling Frenchmen!"
exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent: "come to us, and here's a pretty girl, worth
all your mamzells."

Mrs. Pynsent pointed Sir John Spottiswoode's attention to Christobelle.
The timid girl felt a poignant shame, which caused deep blushes to
suffuse her face and neck, and she placed herself behind Anna Maria,
till an opportunity offered to escape from the room. When she returned
Sir John had departed, but he was to become a guest at Hatton for some
days, on the following morning. He was to accompany Mr. Wycherly and
the Charles Spottiswoodes to dinner. Mrs. Pynsent rallied Christobelle
upon her flight from the sitting-room.

"Why, hollo, my young one, you seem to shrink under a little notice.
That won't do for my lady, some time hence. You must expect notice now.
Don't be a fool--an affected fool--or any thing of that kind; but you
must expect to hear yourself admired. Why, you're a monstrous fine
girl, and, if you don't beat Lady Kerrison in a few years, my name is
not Pen Pynsent."

Christobelle blushed more deeply and painfully than before.

"Come, Miss Bell, try to bear beauty without reddening so furiously.
Don't be argued into selling it to the best bidder, and you need not be
ashamed of it."

"My dear Miss Wetheral," said the peaceable Mr. Pynsent, "come and
shelter yourself under my wing."

"A pretty wing you have got to shelter her with, Bobby."

Mr. Pynsent, to use a parliamentary expression, "withdrew his motion,"
and Christobelle was again exposed to his lady's jests.

"Now, I say, Sir Jacky would be a proper sort of beau for you, Miss
Bell. A long-legged fellow, as steady as our best hound, with a nice
estate, and a good temper."

"I would rather not leave papa," answered poor Christobelle, almost
inclined to weep.

Mrs. Pynsent laughed heartily. "A good joke this, for Jacky. I only
mention it, my dear, to be beforehand with my Lady Wetheral. When she
tells you of Sir Jacky's estate, you can say it came from _me_ first. I
recommended the spec., mind. It will be droll enough if I get before my
lady, in a matrimonial speculation."

"Come, now, mother, don't tease my friend, Bell," cried the
kind-hearted Tom. "I won't allow any teasing. I shall bespeak Bell for
my second wife; no one else shall have her."

"What is that?" asked Anna Maria, raising her head from examining a
painted screen.

"Why, Bell has promised to be my wife, the very next time you die, you
little rascal." Anna Maria snapped her fingers at him with a smile; Tom
Pynsent snatched a kiss, and proceeded.

"If any one teases sister Bell, I shall feel called upon to take her
part, so run and put on your habit, Bell, and we'll have a scamper with
all the dogs."

Thus ended Christobelle's trouble and blushes; and Mrs. Pynsent
good-humouredly forbore to distress her in future, by recurring to
her appearance, or extolling the fortune and long legs of Sir John
Spottiswoode.

When every species of joke was withdrawn, which caused feelings of
annoyance, Christobelle liked Sir John Spottiswoode's society. He had
travelled much; and she loved to listen to his accounts of the places
he had frequented, and the objects he had observed with interest. Sir
John was sparkling in his descriptions, and he saw that Christobelle
lent an attentive ear to all his communications; a flattering
circumstance, even though the listener proved a girl of thirteen. They
were the best friends in the world. Christobelle loved to question
him upon foreign subjects, and his very easy manners made her cast
away gradually the alarm and restraint of her first acquaintance with
a man so much her senior in age and mental acquirements. Sir John
had seen the Ennismores at Florence. They were very gay, and Julia
was considered the loveliest Englishwoman in Florence. Her society
was greatly courted, and there was a Colonel Neville who was deeply
attached to her. Every body pitied Colonel Neville. The Countess
encouraged his attentions to her daughter-in-law, which made poor
Neville's case more pitiable. The young Lady Ennismore had given no
occasion for remark, for her conduct was unimpeachable, but poor
Neville was sacrificed. He could not tear himself away, when Sir John
quitted Italy. He was lingering near Lady Ennismore. It must be a case
of strong temptation, he thought, for the young Countess. Neville was
a fine agreeable fellow, and Lord Ennismore looked more fit for the
grave. Pen Spottiswoode was extremely uneasy about her old friend.

In such interesting subjects, Christobelle's attention was deeply
fixed; and, whether they rode or walked, she generally found herself
by the side of Sir John Spottiswoode. Mrs. Pynsent winked her eye, if
their glances met upon these occasions, but she refrained from making
any remark, except by implication.

"I say, Miss Bell, if you would rather not ride to-day with an elderly
man, give me a hint, and I'll get you off."

"Here, hollo, Miss Bell, don't do any thing disagreeable to your mind.
Shall Tom give you his arm to-day? I dare say, like the rest of us, you
prefer variety."

Mrs. Pynsent would not allow Christobelle to return to Wetheral at the
appointed time. "She was a steady tight kind of a lass, and the deuce
a step should she make towards her dull home. She need give herself no
trouble. _She_ would settle the concern with Sir John. Christobelle
should stay over Tom's confinement--he would suffer quite as much as
his little wife--and Jacky Spottiswoode should stay too. It would make
Tom comfortable, when madam was in the straw."

So it was decided to be, and both continued at Hatton, enjoying long
walks, and assisting each other in dispelling gloomy apprehensions
from the mind of the affectionate and anxious husband. Tom Pynsent's
apprehensions increased as Anna Maria's hour drew near, and his mother
taxed her memory for calming and comfortable precedents.

"Tom, don't drop your lip, like Sally Hancock. Why, there's Kitty
Barnes, with fifteen enormous purple-faced children: she is alive at
this moment. And look at Polly Mudge, the whipper-in's wife, who they
thought must die; isn't she hanging out the clothes, and handing the
baskets along, as brisk as your three year olds?"

"Anna Maria is so delicate; one can't compare her with Polly Mudge,"
said Tom Pynsent, in doleful tones.

"Well, then, what do you say to Betty Smoker, who always wanted bacon
and greens, an hour after her troubles were over. She was a poor
sickly-looking thing!"

"I hope my poor girl will do the same, if it's a good thing for her,"
replied Tom, in more cheerful accents.

"Let her eat and drink just what she likes, Tom. I won't have her
contradicted in any thing."

At length, the day arrived which was to decide the fate of Tom Pynsent.
The moment Anna Maria complained of feeling ill and restless, her
husband fled to the kennel, and insisted upon some one bringing him
intelligence every ten minutes of his wife's health. Polly Mudge was
deputed to relieve guard with Christobelle; and for nearly thirteen
hours they were employed as carrier-pigeons, to announce bulletins
from Mrs. Pynsent to the kennel, where Tom pertinaciously resolved to
remain. It was the only spot where his mind could receive amusement, or
which had power to distract his attention from the idea that his wife
would not survive her confinement. He took no nourishment. He continued
constantly employed with his men in examining the dogs, and suggesting
improvements for their convenience.

At length, as the shades of evening began to fall, Mrs. Pynsent
approached the kennel, waving her pocket-handkerchief: it caught her
son's eye as he was preparing to give "Rattler" and "Beauty" a dose of
salt. He bounded over the wall, and gazed earnestly upon his mother's
face. She waved her handkerchief again in triumph, and gave a powerful
cheer. Tom caught up the note, and it was re-echoed by the huntsmen,
till their voices rose far and wide upon the air. Anna Maria had given
birth to a son. Mrs. Pynsent embraced her son in ecstatic delight, and
the tears ran down her cheeks.

"If it isn't as fine a boy as ever blessed my sight! Go and change
that coat, my blessed Tom, and you shall see them both; but don't go
smelling of the kennel, my pretty one!"

Tom Pynsent's heart swelled with a husband's and a father's best
emotions, when he contemplated his wife and child. It seemed as
though his Anna Maria had passed through death, and was raised again
to his eyes and heart. He gazed silently upon them for some time in
astonishment--he gazed upon the infant, as it lay by _her_ side, who
had suffered so much to give it life. He turned to his mother, who
watched the workings of his countenance with delight, and, seizing her
hands, he exclaimed,

"If John Spottiswoode and myself don't drink like fiddlers to-night,
for this day's work!"

All was joy and congratulation at Hatton. Mr. Pynsent, in spite of
gouty pains, insisted upon being carried to the door of his daughter's
apartment, that he might enjoy the satisfaction of hearing his grandson
cry. Mrs. Pynsent would not hear of it.

"Be quiet, Bobby, and nurse your crutch. To-morrow you shall all see
our little, squalling puppy."

Tom Pynsent did not drink like a fiddler with John Spottiswoode. He
remained the whole evening in Anna Maria's dressing-room, listening
greedily to the movements of her attendants--to the tone of her
voice--and to the cry of the newly-arrived object of his affections.
There he received refreshment, and he only left his station to retire
at a late hour to his own room.

Christobelle was allowed to ride with Sir John Spottiswoode, to convey
the intelligence to Wetheral the following morning. It was vain to hope
for her brother-in-law's company: he was never absent from his lady's
room. Christobelle was now quite unrestrained with her companion, and
to be escorted by him alone was delightful: he could then attend to
her, and she was free to chat, without fearing a wink or nod from Mrs.
Pynsent. Her arrival, so attended, was pleasing to Lady Wetheral, and
Christobelle was welcomed, for the first time in her life, with smiles
and kindness.

"My dear Bell, you are very kind to bring me such good news; I am such
a poor thing in illness--so alarmed about those I love, that my company
would have been worse than useless to dear Mrs. Tom Pynsent. Tell her
how I rejoice in my grandson. Sir John Spottiswoode, we are very old
acquaintance, though you have been so long absent. I hope you have
brought back your affection for old friends?"

"Unchanged, Lady Wetheral, unchanged."

"I am glad to hear it. You have been staying some time at Hatton, I
think?"

"Nearly three weeks, attending very closely upon Miss Wetheral, who has
had no other gallant."

"My daughter has been receiving pleasure, I am sure."

"I won't answer for that: but I can answer for her very polite
reception of me, and that I have received great pleasure from her
conversation."

"Give a proof of your satisfaction, by staying at Wetheral, Sir John.
My husband will be full of regret, if you quit Shropshire without
paying a visit to your old friends."

"I shall have pleasure in doing so, Lady Wetheral, when I leave Hatton."

Her ladyship was greatly pleased by Sir John Spottiswoode's alacrity
in accepting her invitation. Her manner wore its usual composure under
excitation, but her sentiments transpired in the gentle suavity of
her conduct towards Christobelle. She was the "dear companion whom
she missed--the only relic of past times--the child left to comfort
her age, now all the rest were gone far distant from her." Sir John
Spottiswoode felt compassion and interest in her complaining affection.
Christobelle knew from experience, that her mother's manner proceeded
from some concealed motives, in which she herself was involved. It
could not possibly proceed from any views which she might form upon
Sir John's liberty, because he counted five and twenty years, and
Christobelle was too young to become a speculation; but she was assured
there must be some powerful reason to effect such a startling change
in her manner of addressing her. Where was the "stupid, tiresome,
unloveable Bell" of their last meeting? She was, like Sir John
Spottiswoode, unchanged; but she was addressed as the creature who had
long been the only object of her mother's cares and affection, since
the marriage of Lady Kerrison. This was incomprehensible.

Sir John Wetheral accompanied them in their return to Hatton, and Mrs.
Pynsent was eager to exhibit her little charge. He was summoned into
the dressing-room, where the happy grandmother was seated with the
babe, preparing a little soaked biscuit in a small silver saucepan.

"Come in, come in, good folks: come in, Sir John Wetheral; here's a
chap for you! Don't squeeze the young dog! Sit down, Sir John. Where's
Tom? I'm just making a little meal for our young dog! Tom says he shall
be christened 'Rattler;' but he shan't be named after beasts that
perish."

Tom Pynsent came softly forth from Anna Maria's room, and received his
father-in-law's warm congratulations. Sir John took the infant tenderly
in his arms, and gave it a blessing, as he had done by the child of
Isabel. Tom Pynsent, almost purple in the face with happy feelings,
watched every movement of its arms and eyes.

"Upon my soul, it's the prettiest thing I ever saw! I do think, upon my
soul, it is!"

"It's just what you were at that age, Tommy," replied his mother, as
she assisted the nurse to prepare the biscuit; "it's just such a little
darling pudsey thing as _you_ were."

Sir John was allowed to see Anna Maria for one instant, to smile at
her, but not to speak. All were then driven from the dressing-room by
the mandate of Mrs. Pynsent.

"Off with you now, all of you. Wait in peace till Tom's allowed to see
company, and then we will have rare doings."

Lady Wetheral's visit was paid in great form, a fortnight after the
birth of Anna Maria's child, and Christobelle was to return with her
to Wetheral when it was concluded. Mrs. Pynsent could not endure the
protracted visit of a person equally related to the parties with
herself.

"Such coolness," she observed to Sally Hancock, who was sent for to see
Tom's child--"such cool ways of going on did not suit her ideas; and be
hanged if my Lady Wetheral should see either mother or child!"

When her ladyship arrived at Hatton, Sir John Spottiswoode and
Christobelle were in the drawing-room. She entered with graceful
composure, and in excellent spirits.

"My dear Bell, I come with increased pleasure, knowing I am to run
away with you. Sir John Spottiswoode, how do you do? Drawing, both of
you, I see. Sir John's sketches must be your models, my love. I hope to
be favoured with a sight of those sketches during your promised visit
at Wetheral, my dear sir."

"I was giving Miss Wetheral a few hints on perspective."

"How very kind! My dear Bell, I hope you do credit to your instructor.
I hurried here rather earlier than I generally drive out, in the hope
of seeing Anna Maria for a few minutes. My Sir John assures me it is a
lovely infant. I am happy she is doing so well; no fever, I hear; quite
well, and with an appetite."

A polite and playful conversation was kept up between her ladyship and
Sir John Spottiswoode, till Mrs. Pynsent appeared. She entered the
room with the short, sharp step which always marked her dislike to the
visitor.

"So you are come at last, my Lady Wetheral? A fortnight is a long time
to keep away from one's flesh and blood!"

Lady Wetheral appeared perfectly collected, and unconscious of Mrs.
Pynsent's rebuke. She bowed with polite good-humour.

"I trust I shall find my daughter awake. I long to be introduced to
my grandson--my first grandson, Mrs. Pynsent, for I have not yet seen
Isabel's boy."

"I would not have let a fortnight pass without seeing my grandson at
Brierly," replied Mrs. Pynsent.

"My dear daughter can perhaps receive me now," said Lady Wetheral,
rising. "I am anxious to see her."

"Your dear daughter is fast asleep, and so is her infant."

Lady Wetheral reseated herself.

"A few minutes may find her awake. I may be fortunate enough to remain
till she wakes."

"I don't think you will. Anna Maria has fallen into her first sleep
to-day, and I hope it will last. The child is asleep with her, and Tom
watches over them."

"Her sleep is quiet and refreshing, I hope?"

"We take great care of our invalids at Hatton. We don't leave them a
fortnight to be nursed by other people."

Lady Wetheral affected innocence of all covert meanings. She addressed
Sir John Spottiswoode.--

"My daughter tells me you saw the Ennismore party at Florence. Did you
see my daughter, Lady Ennismore, to speak? Did she trouble you with
any letters or messages for her friends?"

"I saw Lady Ennismore--your Lady Ennismore--twice; each time she was
accompanied by the Countess and Colonel Neville, and our interview was
short. Lady Ennismore was looking very lovely."

"You mentioned your intended return to England to her."

"I did; but no letters were consigned to my care by her ladyship."

"It is very strange," returned Lady Wetheral, "that only one letter has
reached us from Italy within twelve months!"

"Every body expected it!" said Mrs. Pynsent.

"I do not understand--I cannot quite comprehend your remark," replied
her ladyship, bending gently forward, and sinking gracefully into her
first attitude.

"Every body knew you had given your daughter to a weak man, governed
by his mother; and every body expected the poor girl would be carried
from her friends. Who ever heard of the old Lady Ennismore, and did not
learn that she was a tartar!"

Lady Wetheral changed the subject.

"You have probably brought some beautiful specimens of the different
arts, Sir John? Italy is full of rare antiquities."

"I have brought home a few things--a few pictures, and so forth, as all
travellers are expected to do," replied Sir John Spottiswoode. "I hope
Miss Wetheral will accept a little drawing of Naples, which I mean to
present on one knee."

Lady Wetheral smiled.

"My dear Bell will receive your polite offering, with a determination
to persevere in drawing, I am sure, Sir John."

"And our friend, Sir Jacky, is upon sale too," cried Mrs. Pynsent.
"Here he stands, framed and glazed, for manœuvring mothers to
contemplate!"

"Sir John Spottiswoode is worthy many manœuvres," answered her
ladyship. "Every lady will be forgiven for wishing her daughter happily
engaged to worth and high principle."

Sir John bowed low, and looked gratified by the compliment. Certainly
Lady Wetheral ably sustained her claims to good generalship. She
addressed Mrs. Pynsent.

"Perhaps my daughter may be awake; may I be allowed to enter her room?"

"No one enters her room but Tom. She is not awake: I hope she will not
think of it these two hours."

Lady Wetheral acted upon her own often-expressed principle of never
contending with "vulgar people;" she, therefore, rose to depart, and
Christobelle unwillingly rose to accompany her. She begged her kindest
love to her son and daughter.

"Yes, my Lady Wetheral, I'll tell my daughter Tom, you have called at
last," interrupted Mrs. Pynsent.

"Her kindest love to Mr. and Mrs. Tom _Pynsent_, and she hoped to be
more fortunate at a future visit."

"I'll tell Mrs. Tom, you will call in another fortnight, my lady."
Mrs. Pynsent advanced, and took both Christobelle's hands. "You are a
good, clever, handsome, gawky girl, and I am very sorry to lose you.
Come whenever you like, and stay as long as you like; you will be very
welcome at Hatton. You don't understand manœuvring yet, and I hope
you never will. Never lose your blushes, and never sell yourself to the
Evil One. Good bye, my dear, honest Miss Bell."

Mrs. Pynsent shook Christobelle's hands as warmly at taking leave, as
she had done at her entrance to Hatton; and her young friend departed
in lowness of spirits. Mrs. Pynsent had shown her great kindness; and
whenever her warm heart interested itself, it was impossible to resist
her roughly expressed, but continual demonstrations of good will. Sir
John Spottiswoode observed Christobelle's distress, as he led her to
the carriage, after having deposited her mother.

"You are loth to depart, Miss Wetheral," he said, with feeling.

Christobelle did not answer. The tears which fell uncontrolled
witnessed that she _did_ feel unwilling to quit the happy party. She
entered the carriage in a deplorable state of weeping. Mrs. Pynsent
looked from the window, which Tom had long named the "screaming window."

"I say, Miss Bell, don't cry, and come again soon. Don't be
down-hearted; your sister shall always see _you_."

Christobelle heard no more, for the carriage moved on, and she caught
only one glance of Anna Maria's window, as they drove round the wooded
knoll, which shut out the last glimpse of Hatton.




CHAPTER XXI.


Lady Wetheral's reception of Sir John Spottiswoode was most
flatteringly kind. His arrival had certainly taken great effect upon
her spirits, for she rose, at a bound, from listless, irritable apathy,
into the lively and amusing hostess. Her mind appeared again full of
employment, and capable of every exertion. Sir John Spottiswoode was
at once inducted into all the mysteries of Wetheral; and his peculiar
tact in quietly amalgamating with the different elements of which they
were composed, was admirably exhibited in his visit. Sir John became
Christobelle's tutor in many accomplishments; he argued literary points
with her father; and he was the depository of her mother's sentiments
and complaints. Such a visitor was worshipped at Wetheral.

It was a new existence to Christobelle to enjoy perfect liberty--to be
allowed to enter freely into conversation in the boudoir--to be even
consulted--and to roam through the grounds with Sir John Spottiswoode,
without fearing harsh and unkind remarks. On the contrary, her intimate
and improving acquaintance with Sir John was encouraged, and even urged
forward, by Lady Wetheral. She approved the hours devoted to drawing,
to music, and to botany; she smiled at their application, and thanked,
in grateful terms, "the polite consideration of such a man as Sir
John Spottiswoode, devoting his hours to the education of a perfect
schoolgirl."

Christobelle certainly had never known happiness unconnected with her
father's library till now. Never, till Sir John Spottiswoode arrived at
Wetheral, had she entered the precincts of the boudoir without fear;
and never, till his arrival, had she felt the enthusiastic pleasure of
associating with a companion who could accompany her in her wanderings,
and lead her taste, as an equal and a friend. She did truly love and
venerate the kind, considerate Sir John Spottiswoode--the guide of
her talents, and the companion of her walks and rides. She no longer
lingered in the library, and listened for her father's step. She had
now to fulfil the allotted tasks of her new instructor, and his praise
was the goal of happiness to her young mind. She only dreaded his
departure from Wetheral; but Sir John still lingered, and he did not
talk of Worcestershire.

The concerns of Ripley were now becoming the engrossing topic of the
neighbourhood. Clara's haughty temper would not endure her husband's
domination, and the scenes which now constantly occurred at Ripley,
began to threaten some direful termination. Since Sir Foster Kerrison's
interdiction of her mother's society, Clara's spirit had increased
in audacity, and a separation was hinted at, among the reports of
the hour. Sir John Wetheral heard the general rumour, and he sought
an interview with Sir Foster, some time after the arrival of Sir
John Spottiswoode at Wetheral. Sir Foster received him with great
politeness. Sir John at once opened the subject to his son-in-law, and
spoke most feelingly and sorrowfully upon the nature of the reports
which had caused his visit to Ripley. Sir Foster winked his eye during
the gentle remonstrance, and he tapped his boot with quickness, when
the propriety of a separation was alluded to.

"Let her go--glad to get rid of a she-devil," was Sir Foster's laconic
observation, as Sir John concluded his remarks.

"I think, Sir Foster, a separation would be advisable, since you cannot
live together in peace."

"Take her back with you, Sir John--devilish glad!"

"There was no settlement, Sir Foster; but you will make your lady an
allowance out of your ample fortune?"

"Not a penny," chuckled Sir Foster; "not a halfpenny, by G--!"

"You will not allow your wife to be a burthen to her friends, Sir
Foster, since you received ten thousand pounds as her portion?"

"Let her stay at home, then, and behave."

"My daughter is wrong, Sir Foster; I cannot excuse Lady Kerrison, but
I am willing to receive her at Wetheral, to prevent the unpleasant
recurrence of domestic quarrels. You will make your lady a stated
allowance?"

"Take her clothes--nothing more, Sir John."

"This is a most painful and disagreeable task," observed Sir John; "but
I must insist upon an allowance for Lady Kerrison, before I withdraw
her from Ripley."

Sir Foster chuckled and winked, as he repeated, "not a halfpenny--not a
penny; let her take her clothes, and set off."

"I cannot take Lady Kerrison from your house, without a proper
understanding that an allowance shall be paid to her regularly, Sir
Foster."

"Then let her stay at home, and behave."

Since the resolutions of Sir Foster could not be shaken, her father
resolved to seek an interview with Clara, and represent to her reason
the turpitude of her conduct as a wife, and the punishment which must
accrue to her in the lost affections of her husband, and the disesteem
of her friends. Lady Kerrison was accordingly summoned to meet him in
her husband's presence.

Clara entered the room with an air of haughty defiance, which vanished
at the sight of her father. She rushed to him with open arms. "My dear
father, take me away from this ruffian--I beseech you to take me away!"

Sir Foster winked and tapped his boot at the sight of his lady, but
he offered no opinion during the dialogue which ensued between the
father and daughter. It seemed as if Sir Foster Kerrison had no power
to understand, or feeling to be interested in any thing which had not
a direct reference to himself. Sir John Wetheral led Clara to a chair,
and spoke in tones of deep sorrow upon the subject which concerned so
nearly her respectability and happiness.

"I did not think, Lady Kerrison, I should be doomed, by a child's
forgetfulness to her duty, to become a party against her. Report has
loudly declared what I have unfortunately witnessed more than once at
Ripley--that it has become the scene of a wife's altercation with her
husband."

"It is the scene of a brute's treatment of an unfortunate creature in
his power," retorted Clara--"it is the scene of violence, blasphemy,
and disgust. I desire to be taken from this hateful place, and I will
never see it more!"

"What has made you so forgetful of the duty you decided so rashly upon
assuming, Clara, when you fled from your father's house?..."

"I know I did--I know I did!" shrieked Clara--"God help me! I did leave
my father's house, but my mother helped my flight, and beset me with
her persuasions to marry that monster. She caused the mischief, and she
must bear the blame. Who else had power to lead me into this horrible
snare, or direct my thoughts to wretchedness?"

Sir John Wetheral was greatly distressed.

"Clara, it matters little now who guided you into this luckless
marriage. You have vowed, at the altar, to obey the man you married,
and your submission to Sir Foster is your duty and your vow."

"I vow to detest him all the days of my life!" answered Clara, with
scornful energy.

"Then," said her father, rising, "farewell, Clara. I have no feelings
to throw away upon a disobedient wife--I can be of no use."

"Stay--stay," exclaimed Clara, rushing forward, and detaining
him--"stay, my dear father, and hear me! _You_ never taught me to marry
for this world's wealth--_you_ never taught me to barter happiness
for a miserable title--for a low-minded, disgusting creature like
that"--she pointed to Sir Foster with a shudder.--"_You_ were always
good and gentle, so stay and hear me."

"I beseech you, Clara, to command yourself, and do not use this
intemperate language," replied her father, "or I cannot return: be
calm, and be rational."

"I will be so, papa; I should be very calm, if I did not see that man
before me."

"I will not listen to such improper, such wicked language, Clara: hear
me!"

"I do, papa."

"I have learned the fearful news of your wretched and open quarrels,
from common report; and public opinion is against you, Clara, as it
ever will be against the daring and insolent wife."

Clara's neck and face became suffused with crimson, but she was silent.

"The world, Clara, saw your determination, when you eloped with Sir
Foster; let it see your determination to remain constant and obedient,
now that he is your husband."

Clara burst into tears, and her head sank upon her clasped hands, as
she stood before her father. She seemed struggling for composure. Sir
John seated her, and spoke strongly and feelingly upon her situation.
"Loved by none, and respected by none, how was an imperious wife to
pass her remainder of existence, condemned to opprobrium and contempt?
How could a woman presume to hope for happiness, when she was breaking
down the proprieties of life, and offending her God by broken vows and
unholy thoughts?" Clara cast her weeping eyes upon Sir Foster, as he
sat buried in his easy chair, winking his eye, and appearing perfectly
unconcerned at her distress. Her spirit rose again like the whirlwind
at his sight--she started up. "Let the world talk on--let it upbraid
me with every crime under heaven, I care not; but I will not live with
_him_--I will not look upon _him_--my brain will not bear the constant
misery of living in this place--this wretched place--the home of him
who disgusts me so horribly! Oh, take me away for ever!"

"Would you return to Wetheral, Clara?"

"No, no, no, not to Wetheral; my mother is there. She only loves the
wealthy and the high; and she drove me to all this! As I hope to meet
with mercy, she drove me into this!"

"Be still, Clara, and listen to me once more," said her father.

"Nay, hear _me_," cried Clara, "and hear what months of misery have
passed away under the influence of wine and laudanum. I have drank
wine, and I have drank laudanum, but it only stills for the time!
It is worse and worse to my brain! Oh, take me home, or take me
somewhere--but here I cannot, will not stay!"

Sir John was anxious to remove Clara for a few days from her home
of wretchedness, and he appealed again to the heart of Sir Foster
Kerrison. He begged to take Lady Kerrison, for change of air, to
Wetheral. A few days only, he would ask for his daughter's society: a
few days might be a short but beneficial visit to her own family. Sir
Foster chuckled.

"Take her home--never come back, I can tell her."

"I _will_ return!" exclaimed Clara, with impetuosity; "I will never
be turned out of your home: it was too great an honour ever to have
entered it, but I will enter it now, whenever I please."

"Go along, you she-devil!"

Clara's violent spirit was not to be controlled. She struck Sir Foster
upon the face, with the whole force of her delicate hand. The blow was
trifling in itself, but it raised the equally strong passions of the
person on whom it was directed. Sir Foster rose furious with passion,
and kicked his lady with brutal and senseless anger. This scene
determined her father no longer to endure his daughter's situation at
Ripley. He ordered his carriage round, without a moment's delay, to
withdraw Clara from the presence of her husband. It was a scene of
horror to his excellent and indulgent mind.

Both parties had acted wickedly and weakly. Clara deserved punishment
for her insolent and unfeminine action, in striking her husband; but
it was unbecoming and dreadful in Sir Foster, to wreak his fury upon a
defenceless woman. Ripley was not the proper home for Clara: since Sir
Foster and herself could not preserve even the decencies of appearance,
it was better to part at once. Sir John would place Lady Kerrison in
his own house--under his own protection; and if Sir Foster persevered
in declining to allow her a proper maintenance, the law should decide
the question. The carriage drew up, but Clara was not in a condition
to be moved. The violence of her anger, combined with her screams of
terror, had ruptured a blood-vessel, and she sunk at her father's
feet, deluged with the blood which streamed from her mouth. Clara was
carried to her bed by her father and Sir Foster, who had rushed from
his seat, and now winked his eye with astonishment and regret; he bore
his suffering lady in silence to her room; and, though in spite of the
chastening hand which had dealt the calamity, Clara twice endeavoured
to push him from her, Sir Foster remained by her bed-side in nervous
distress.

Sir John ordered the carriage to proceed instantly for his lady, who
was desired to set out without any delay, and an express was sent to
summon Dr. Darwin. All was confusion at Ripley. Sir Foster, except
when his eye caught the blood-stained dress of Clara, who lay almost
insensible, could scarcely remember the events of the hour: he did
not utter a word, or join in the orders which were issued by Sir John
Wetheral; but his usual habit of winking and making low short coughs,
indicated his satisfaction that some one did act for himself and the
unfortunate Clara.

Dr. Darwin arrived first, and his prompt mind applied the proper
remedies which the sufferer's case required. He remained that day and
night at Ripley. Lady Wetheral had most unexpectedly encountered the
Hatton carriage as she drove out of the Wetheral lodges; and, deeply
as she deprecated Mrs. Pynsent's boisterous and offensive conduct
towards herself, she now gladly availed herself of her useful and more
powerful mind, under the emergency of the moment. The kind-hearted Mrs.
Pynsent listened to her ladyship's statement, and took instant measures
to render herself of use to the shocked and distressed mind of her
companion.

She entered Lady Wetheral's carriage, and, sending her own back to
Hatton, with a message to her son, she prepared to assist in the
melancholy charge of Clara. She was well aware of her ladyship's
perfect helplessness in situations which required promptness of thought
and action; she was equally well assured that the dreadful circumstance
must have originated in Clara's alarming explosions of temper. Mrs.
Pynsent was therefore prepared to act the Christian part of adviser and
nurse to the ill-fated Clara, and to the woman she despised. In the
hour of need, Mrs. Pynsent developed all the real excellence of the
female character.

Clara lay silent and exhausted, when Mrs. Pynsent and her mother
entered her room. Her eyes rested with an expression of satisfaction
upon the former, as she preceded her weeping companion to the bed-side;
but they flashed with emotion when she perceived the figure of the
author of her misery. She waved her hand, and would have risen in
her bed, but Mrs. Pynsent prevented the movement. She placed Clara's
hands with gentleness beneath the bedclothes, and signed to her, by
placing her finger on her lips, that silence was absolutely necessary
on her part. Clara again raised her hands, to wave her mother away, and
exclaimed, in low and thick accents, "Don't let her come here. Is she
coming to lecture me about my misery?--it was her own doing."

"Hush, hush," whispered Mrs. Pynsent, "no one is come to lecture
you--only to nurse you."

"I saw my mother, just now; I know she is come to upbraid and jeer me.
She made me marry a ruffian--and it roused my nature. I might have been
better; but she would have me do it."

"Hush, hush!" repeated Mrs. Pynsent, signing to Lady Wetheral to
withdraw; "there is no one here but Dr. Darwin and myself."

"Is there not?" said Clara, faintly.

"Lady Wetheral is _not_ here, Lady Kerrison. Be calm, and be silent, I
entreat you."

"I will," replied Clara, "but don't leave me. Stay with me, Mrs.
Pynsent."

Mrs. Pynsent remained by the side of Lady Kerrison, till she slept;
and her place was taken silently, and at a late hour, by the doctor,
who enjoined the strictest quiet to be preserved. At eight o'clock the
following morning, Clara woke from a slumber produced by narcotics.
Dr. Darwin named to his patient, Lady Wetheral's wish to watch by her
bed-side, in the gentlest manner, and he approached her name with great
caution; but Clara shuddered and became feverish.

"Let no one speak of my mother," she said, "unless they want to kill
me."

It was useless to contend with Clara's wishes. The very allusion to
her mother's name raised a discordant spirit, and threw her into
almost convulsive alarms. Mrs. Pynsent, therefore, fixed herself at
the bed-side of Lady Kerrison. Clara slumbered through the day, and
appeared so calm, that the doctor quitted Ripley for a few hours. Mrs.
Pynsent was all-sufficient to meet any little change which might take
place before his return, but he did not anticipate any thing to give
alarm, provided she was kept in profound quiet. A change, however, did
occur. Clara woke suddenly, with very feverish and alarming symptoms.
"She had dreamt of her father, and she wished to see his kind face. She
could not rest again, unless she beheld him." Mrs. Pynsent renewed the
dose of laudanum, and Clara again slumbered.

Sir Foster Kerrison suffered as much agitation as his nature
was capable of enduring. He sat close to Lady Wetheral, in the
sitting-room, and did not offer to resume his daily round of
occupation. He did not visit the stable, or enter the kitchen; and his
attention was riveted upon Lucy, as she glided to and fro, between the
dressing-room and sitting-room, to give from time to time the last
accounts of the progress in the sick chamber.

Sir John Wetheral waited, in calm acquiescence, the issue of that
day's events. He believed Clara to be beyond all hope of a permanent
recovery, but he prayed in silence to the Giver of all good, that her
life might yet be spared, to become a penitent, and gain self-command
by her trials. Lady Wetheral wept severely, but she could not
believe her own hands had prepared her child's sorrow. "It was harsh
and ill-judged of Clara to decline her own parent, and accept the
attentions of a comparative stranger, especially after the efforts she
had made to procure her present eligible position. She deserved more
gratitude at the hands of her children--but she had done her duty, and
the world would do her justice." Nevertheless, her ladyship wept, and
suffered sincere distress at her banishment from her daughter's couch.

Mrs. Pynsent was Clara's watchful and most kind attendant; from her
hands she received her medicines without a murmur, and forbore to
agitate herself with asking questions, according to her expressed wish.
Towards evening, however, fever again rose high, and Mrs. Pynsent
felt that all hope was over, and that her patient must sink under its
raging influence. Clara again demanded to see her father; and, from
her excited state, Mrs. Pynsent deemed it prudent to acquiesce. Her
exertions were the feverish and uncertain effects of a roused, though
dying spirit, which would terminate fearfully and suddenly, when its
strength should exhaust. When her father entered the chamber, Clara
rose up in her bed, and extended her arms towards him. "Dear, good
papa, you are come to see me"--her thoughts took another and more
distressing direction; and her eyes, flashing with scorn, became
gradually heavy and half-closed, as she spoke.

"Look at poor Clara, wedded to riches, and see her state _now_! Where
is she? Where is Lady Kerrison, of Ripley? Where is the mother who
sacrificed her child, and why does she not come to look upon me?
Let her look--I am here, struck down--dying!" A copious hemorrhage
succeeded the last words, and Clara never more spoke. Before Dr. Darwin
returned to Ripley, Lady Kerrison was gone to her rest.

And this was the fate of Clara Wetheral! the young and beautiful Clara!
Scarcely passed the bounds of childhood, her days were sacrificed
to the false light of ambitious hope, which, like the delusive
Will-o'-the-wisp, led her only into the darkest and most impassable
paths. Like the Will-o'-the-wisp, it lured her on, and deserted her
in her hour of need. Few and evil were the married days of Clara. Her
maid disclosed, at the death of her mistress, the secrets of the dead.
Clara had habituated herself to the fatal influence of laudanum, upon
every dissention with her husband; and she had endeavoured to drown
the remembrance of her error, in potent and destroying libations. Her
father remembered that she had alluded to the baneful practice, on the
morning of his last visit.

Sir Foster Kerrison winked with more nervous rapidity than was his
usual custom, when Mrs. Pynsent announced to him the death of his wife;
but his mind appeared relieved by the knowledge that she would no more
appear before him, to reproach and annoy. Mrs. Pynsent's remarks to Sir
Foster, immediately after her announcement of the event, was either
unheard or unheeded.

"Now you have killed two wives, you be quiet, and don't bring a woman
to Ripley again, for they can't live in peace here. I wonder how you
had the face to marry at all; but your first wife's family shut you up,
and hid your coat, that you mightn't be off on the wedding-day; and we
all know how the second wife was managed, so you are a poor thing, in
spite of your temper. When the girls marry you in spite of yourself, be
quiet and temperate, like Bobby."

Clara's funeral was attended by few, and it took place by torch-light,
in the church of Ripley. Sir Foster sat perfectly quiet in his easy
chair, and allowed Sir John Wetheral to superintend the arrangements
of his lady's last removal from his home. He would not hear of any
attendance, or indite an invitation to his friends; but he followed
the _cortège_ to the church, and remained watching the workmen as they
closed up the vault. The following day, Sir Foster was busily employed
dragging the lake, with his servants.

Lady Wetheral had a severe illness upon her removal from Ripley,
which threatened fatal consequences. Again, Mrs. Pynsent appeared as
the good Samaritan, and assisted Christobelle in long and fatiguing
watches. Sir John Spottiswoode also remained at Wetheral, and his
attentions were very soothing to his friends. Christobelle feared lest
Anna Maria should feel the constant absence of her mother-in-law, who
daily visited Wetheral, and remained even through the night, when her
ladyship relapsed; but Mrs. Pynsent set aside all her fears. "Tom was
left to take care of his wife and child, and poor Bobby, who was half
another. Tom, God bless him! was like the Irishman's bird--he could
be in two places at once. She had great pleasure in being useful to
her poor, dear, honest Bell, who got more kicks than halfpence from my
lady, and come she would."

Lady Wetheral recovered very slowly, but her spirits were severely
depressed, and nothing appeared to give pleasure to her mind. The
Boscawens came to Wetheral, upon Sir John's departure, for it was
thought their presence might rouse her attention. Isabel, truly
happy in maternal cares, looked the picture of animated health, as
Mr. Boscawen proudly and silently watched her erratic movements, and
gloried in his lively, sweet-tempered wife. But her mother looked
heavily and unconsciously upon the scene, and did not notice the
gambols of her grandchild. Even the sight of Anna Maria failed to take
effect upon her attention.

It was thought prudent to change the air and scene. By her medical
attendant's advice, Sir John resolved to quit, for some time, the
scenes which brought the fate of her daughter before her mental
sight; and it was hoped a perfectly new situation, new people, and a
complete change in every point, would effect a gradual restoration of
her faculties and health. It was decided Lady Wetheral should spend two
or three years at Fairlee. Scotland was remote from all recollections
and painful reminiscence--there was nothing at Fairlee which could be
connected with the departed; and, perhaps, among the grander scenery of
the North, its bracing air, and novel inhabitants, Lady Wetheral might
forget her banishment from the deathbed of the child who had reproached
her as the cause of her bitter sufferings and untimely death. When her
ladyship was able to leave her room without effort, the family set
forth on their distant journey.

The Boscawens parted with Christobelle under many regrets, and they
promised to join them at Fairlee, the ensuing year. Christobelle
wept over her sisters--she wept over the little ones she must
leave far behind--but her father was with her, and he would again
be her companion, as he had been for thirteen years, in the happy
tranquillity of Wetheral library. Mrs. Pynsent promised to correspond
with Christobelle, and give her the news of the neighbourhood. She
prophecied respecting Sir Foster Kerrison.

"That fellow will be run down again, in spite of his two wives dying.
You may depend upon it, the fellow will be married again, without his
own consent, or being consulted in the matter. The deuce was in the
mothers!"

Mrs. Pynsent also winked her eye at Mr. Boscawen, and assured him,
"Jacky Spottiswoode had an eye to Miss Bell--she could see _that_.
Jacky would wait three or four years, and then pop. She thought my
lady had another trial to endure; for she was not Pen Pynsent, if that
poor Lady Ennismore came to good. What with the tartar Countess, that
poor wizen Lord, and the fine-looking Colonel, Julia would be the next
sacrifice;--every thing would come home to my Lady Wetheral."

How Christobelle wept as she drove away from the scenes of her youth,
and the hearts she loved! How Christobelle wept when she could see no
more the woods of Wetheral Castle!


  END OF VOL. II.


  LONDON:
  F. SHOBERL, JUN., 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET,
  PRINTER TO H. R. H. PRINCE ALBERT.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Manoeuvring Mother, by Charlotte Campbell Bury