CHAPTER IX.

“Yes, once did resolution fail.”

Asit was still day-light some of the ladies walked to the gardens, others strolled about near the doors; Lady Susan disappeared without speaking to any one; Frances went to seek her; Julia flung herself on a sofa in the great drawing-room, which she found quite deserted. She lay so much absorbed by her own meditations, as to be unconscious of the lapse of time. It became quite dark. Every thing was still about her. At length she heard avery soft step approaching through the ante-room, and a figure in black appeared within the door, which was half open. It held in its hand a long white wand tipped with flame: it glided on with a step, now that it was on the deep Turkey carpet of the drawing-room, quite noiseless: it touched branches and candelabras with its magic wand, and left floods of light behind it: it proceeded through the glass doors of a green-house, at the further end of this spacious apartment, and continued crowning with radiance lustres that hung, at certain intervals, over the centre walk, till the whole long perspective became a dazzling maze of real and reflected illumination. Julia’s eyes admired and, mechanically, followed what they beheld long before her comprehension was aroused to any understanding of what was going forward: at length she smiled as sherecollected that such had been her abstraction, that, for the first few moments after the entrance of the figure, she had viewed it and its operations with as much of almost superstitious astonishment as if she had never before seen a decent old butler, who was too well-bred to wear creaking shoes, light up a drawing-room.

She arose from the sofa, passed the man on his return through the great room, entered the greenhouse, proceeded along the centre walk between rows of orange trees, and in a blaze of light, till the white marble footway, branching off in two directions, led round on both sides towards a kind of arbour of sweets, which was screened from the entrance and principal walk by the intervention of an immense circular stand, crowded from the marblefloor to the glazed roof with numberless exotics. Here she seated herself.

The artificial day that reigned around, the excess of brilliancy resembling enchantment, the very intensity of light, seemed, if not literally shelter, at least security from sudden intrusion, by giving proof at once that none were near, and certainty that none could approach unseen.

“I wonder,” mentally ejaculated Julia, who by this time had renewed her meditations, “why she did not look happy!” She paused, and a tear or two fell. “Is it possible that he can love a stranger better than those he has loved all his life?” she thought, and a feeling of something like reproach passed through her mind. Then came a series of kindly recollections, making it very difficult to believe that this could be the case. Then she called tomind, how Edmund always used to say, he never would marry; and how she, too, had determined never to marry. She reflected on this subject for some time; then asked herself a question, but very vaguely indeed; for she did not venture to give it the form of words, even in thought: the purport, however, was as follows:—if Edmund had ever said, that to be married to her was absolutely necessary to his happiness—what would have been her reply? A deep blush was all the answer she gave herself. She sat, unconscious of outward objects, till she felt her hand softly taken. She started, and looked up: Edmund stood before her. “Dearest Julia!” he said, “there has so evidently been some anxiety on your mind, some depression on your spirits, all this day, that I cannot resist taking, perhaps, an unwarrantable liberty, and entreating you to tell me whatit is that thus distresses you?” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, and made no reply. “Did you not promise,” he continued, “to permit me to call myself your friend, your brother? and is not confidence the privilege of friendship?” And he seated himself beside her, still retaining the hand he had taken.

“I don’t wish, Edmund,” she said, her face averted, “to hear you talk like a stranger about taking the liberty, and all that kind of thing: it only makes me more unhappy.” “More unhappy!” he repeated.

“But, you know,” she continued, “when you wished so very much for my friendship, Edmund, it was when you first came home; now—you will probably—be—everyday—making so many new friends—that—perhaps—” “New friends!” cried Edmund.—Then, quite thrown off his guard, he added passionately;“what are all the new friends—nay, all the friends the world contains—what the whole world itself to me, in comparison of you, Julia! My earliest, my kindest friend?” he added hastily, fearful he had gone too far.

The assurance of afriendshipso exclusive, so much in unison with her own ideas on the subject, and still more the tender and agitated tone in which words so kind were uttered, banished every thought of Lady Susan, and in one moment restored Julia to perfect happiness. For reply, she only lifted her eyes to his. Their expression seemed to him, at the moment, to justify him in pressing her hand to his lips, though afterwards he thought he had done very wrong. So much accustomed was Julia, however, to consider the establishment of perfect confidence between herself and Edmund, as quite necessary and right, that in all thisshe saw but the kind reconciliation offriends, and never dreamed of being surprised, as some more experienced ladies might have been, that no fuller or tenderer declaration followed, neither apology, for having approached so near to such.

She now felt quite certain that Edmund still loved her better than any one else in the world; and, therefore, she was happy. He thought his secret still safe, because he saw he had not given offence: indeed he saw more! Suspicions, delightful suspicions fluttered at his heart. He watched the brightening of her features: yes, he could not refuse to admit the flattering, the intoxicating conviction, that the more his love betrayed itself, the happier Julia evidently was! Thoughts like these ought to have filled him with sorrow and repentance; but they did not—they caused a joy that nowords can paint! and this was not a moment to resist its influence. He was gazing upon the countenance of Julia, she had just looked up to express kindness and confidence, tears of pleasure had started into her eyes, and now she was looking down again perhaps to hide them; but they were stealing into view over cheeks that glowed with an animating, a beautifying confusion, which could not be termed a mere blush, for it visibly betrayed conscious happiness as well as bashfulness.

Words that, while possessed of reason, he had determined never to utter, literally trembled on his lips. But honour, gratitude, principle, flew to his aid, and rescued him from the eternal remorse, which, in a mind like his, must have followed an avowal of sentiments, it was so much his duty to conceal. He was enabled to be silent—but to withdraw his eyes from thecontemplation of the lovely being before him, to close his heart against the dangerous bliss that contemplation afforded, was impossible!

Music now struck up in the great room; and at the same instant several persons entered the greenhouse. The next moment they were approaching along the centre walk, and calling Julia. Our heroine answered and made her appearance. Edmund, still trembling from the late agitation of his feelings, followed in silence. But when he saw the gay group gathering round Julia, he was struck with the sudden apprehension of her dancing with some one of them; and, at this time, he could not view such an event, without a degree of horror, very disproportionate to the importance of the subject. He hastened therefore to her side, offered her his arm, and whispered something, probably a request to dance with him, as they immediatelyaccompanied those who had come in search of them, into the drawing-room, where quadrilles were forming.

Thus was Edmund preserved from further risk of an imprudence, which, in addition to the endless repentance it would have cost him, might have taught even the inexperienced Julia the necessity of treating him with more reserve. Hitherto, her affectionate heart, in its enthusiasm, had ever been ready to reproach her with estrangement and unkindness, when she experienced but the natural timidity inseparable from the feelings which were hourly growing upon her; so that the very parts of her conduct, which most strongly proved those feelings to be more than friendship, were by her, not unfrequently, considered as deficiencies in the frankness and confidence due to a friend, the companion of childhood; one, too, so delicatelysituated, who thought himself so much obliged; who might mistake a reserve, very proper towards strangers, (by whom Julia meant, all the world, except her grandmamma, Frances, Edmund, and Mr. Jackson,) for pride, for haughtiness, for a reminding him of his situation—No! that thought was not to be endured! At the present moment, however, her heart having been just lightened of an inexpressible load of sorrow; of the first doubt it had ever known of Edmund’s affection, she waited not to define its movements, but joined the dance, feeling as if she moved on air, though in an unusual flutter of spirits. Whilst he, as he led her to her place among those who stood in all the pride of rank and title, birth and fortune, felt his heart sink within him; and, as he gazed upon her thus removed, as it were, to an incalculable distance, from the namelessdependant on the bounty of her own very family, he wondered at the mad presumption that, but the moment before, had possessed him!

Yet as from time to time she smiled and spoke to him, joy stole again into his bosom, and he experienced an undefined species of happiness during the remainder of the quadrille. As soon as it was over, however, and before Julia had taken her partner’s arm to leave the set, Henry came up to her, and asked her to dance the next with him. She could not well refuse, and the moment she consented he drew her arm over his, and led her away to a vacant end of the room, where, as they walked up and down, he suddenly broke silence, saying, in a rude sort of half whisper, “You don’t suppose, Julia, that Lord L. will consent to your marrying this picked up fellow! this Edmund! and I can tell you, themanner in which you are behaving, will end in his being forbid my aunt’s house, and indeed the houses of all your friends and relatives.” If ever Julia’s colour mounted, now it flew to cheek and brow; yet, indignant as she felt, such was her terror lest Edmund should chance to hear one of those shocking words, that she caught Henry’s hand, and entreated him to lower his voice. At the same moment she looked involuntarily towards Edmund, and saw that he observed her; while Henry, grasping the hand that she herself had laid on his, carried it to his lips. She dreaded to provoke him by withdrawing it either as quickly or as angrily as she felt inclined to do; and he held it fast, with the most malicious satisfaction in her dilemma, which he perfectly understood; while, as if to mortify her the more, he kept up, by countenance and manner,a sort of dumb show of tender solicitude. She, however, forced back her presence of mind, and, in an under tone of suppressed vexation, trying at the same time to look dignified and as angry as her youth and natural gentleness would permit, said, “do not for a moment imagine, Henry, that I dread your rude, impertinent remarks on my own account, but take care you do not let one word be heard, which can wound the feelings of Edmund. As for the motive of my anxiety on this point, if you are not capable of understanding it, remain in ignorance of it, or judge it what you please! It is to my father, not to you, sir, that I shall give an account of my actions.”

“Mighty fine!” he replied; “but, Julia, if my anxiety for you proceeds from my own attachment, and, I suppose I may presumewhere Edmund does, you cannot be surprised that I should not wish to see you throw yourself away; but I believe,” he added, with a sneer, provoked at the evident scorn depicted on Julia’s countenance at the mention of his own attachment, “you are tolerably safe, as the gallant Captain Montgomery happens not to be at leisure to accept your ladyship’s proffered affections, being otherwise engaged.”

It is wonderful how many times in the course of the evening Julia repeated over to herself the two words, “otherwise engaged.”

“The world is come to a pretty pass,” continued Henry, “when two titled ladies are pulling caps for a fellow without a name!” Julia’s bosom was swelling with indignation, pride, and anger; she was dying to give them utterance, but she felt that, now, she dare not trust herself to speak, while her fingers, indespite of her utmost efforts, being still held, as in a vice, she could not disengage herself without a publicity she wished to avoid. Indeed, Henry seemed careless how roughly he treated the delicate little hand thus imprisoned in his; for now, as at all times, for reasons best known to himself, he was more intent on persuading others that he was well with his cousin, than on really making her believe that he loved her.

At this moment Sir Archibald, who had been standing with his arms folded at a little distance, came hastily forward, and seized Henry by the collar, crying out—“Villain! villain! villain! have I found you at last?” Henry disengaged himself, and turned on his assailant, with a look of pale rage so horrible that, had time and place agreed, no less than a mortal struggle seemed likely to ensue.

Julia uttered a scream of terror: all was in a moment confusion and consternation. Lord Arandale, however, interfered, and finally prevailed on his nephew to leave the room for the evening; explaining to him in hasty whispers, as he almost forcibly led him aside, that Sir Archibald, from the bewildered state of his mind, was evidently unconscious of the lapse of time, and must in consequence have mistaken him for his unfortunate father, against whom he had but too just cause of complaint, and to whose memory a discussion of the subject would be by no means creditable.

Julia stood trembling, and, for a moment, alone; the next, Edmund was at her side. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. He offered his arm to lead her to a seat. She took it with a heavy sigh, but avoided his look of enquiry. He felt much less happy than he hadbeen. Why had she caught Henry’s hand? Why had she suffered him to press hers to his lips—and retain it, too, so long? Why had she looked so deeply interested in what he said? And what was the cause of her present emotion?

Every one had of course been much alarmed; several of the young ladies had fled into the greenhouse, whence they now peeped through the glass door. Lady Morven was near fainting, and Mr. Graham was unable to assist her.

Some one proposed music as the most likely thing to calm Sir Archibald’s excited nerves, he was so fond of it. One of the Miss Morvens was prevailed upon to return to the drawing-room and play an air on the pianoforte—it had no effect. Lady Arandale requested Julia to sing; she at first wished much to decline, but Lady Arandale pressed her request,and Julia felt that it was necessary to consent. Sir Archibald was still walking up and down with hasty and uneven strides, leaning on the arm of Lord Arandale; Julia’s song commenced. Sir Archibald’s violent gesticulations gradually became less frequent; his step, as she proceeded, became slower, his countenance less furiously agitated. By insensible degrees he approached, and, at length stood with folded arms, immediately before our heroine.

Julia exerted, on this occasion, but a small share of the power of voice which she possessed; yet, every one was delighted with the magical effect the then state of her own feelings gave to a pathetic air. By the time the song came to its conclusion, Sir Archibald was standing almost directly beneath the great centre lustre, just so far removed from itsimmediate perpendicular, as to admit of its strong flood of light streaming full on his face and figure. His attitude was still the fixed one in which he had hitherto listened, but now he seemed unconscious of the presence of any one. His perfectly white hair was made more remarkable by the brightness that shone upon it; his countenance was calm, every passion being stilled, every effort laid aside, while an expression of woe, of hopelessness, such as can proceed only from the utterly broken heart, had settled on every thus relaxed feature, and large tears, which glittered in the strong light, were silently rolling over his cheeks.

An absolute stillness reigned throughout the apartment for some moments, when, supper being announced, it was agreed, almost inwhispers, that they should retire quietly to the eating room without disturbing Sir Archibald; leaving a servant at the drawing-room door to observe his movements.

“The hell informed passion, avarice.”

“Really,”said Lady Morven, as she lolled back in her seat at the supper table, after asking Mr. Graham to help her to some wine and water, “my nerves can’t stand such alarms! and I dare say you are quite ill too, Mr. Graham.”

“This is the first time Sir Archy has shewn symptoms of violence,” observed Lady Arandale, “hitherto he has been quite harmless, an object more of commiseration than of fear.”

“I must, I believe,” said Lord Arandale, “be under the necessity of requesting my nephew, Mr. St. Aubin, to take a few days sport with some of the neighbouring gentlemen, while Sir Archibald remains here; for never shall my door,” and he spoke with the honest energy of good feeling, “be closed against the shattered remnant, in mind and in body, which still exists of poor Oswald—the once gay companion of many a merry, many a thoughtless hour, spent, some of them beneath his own hospitable roof, where, even I, may have possibly, though innocently, contributed my share to his ultimate ruin!” Then, addressing our hero in particular, he continued, “At the age of fifteen he was his own master, and at that early period commenced the career of folly, dissipation, and gaming which led, finally, to his destruction. St. Aubin was oneof the set,” he proceeded, lowering his tone; “it was he who drew him into high play, and who won from him the principal part of his estates, unfairly too it is generally believed. There was some agreement also, about the winner paying the loser’s then existing debts; but when St. Aubin got possession he sold the estates, or his interest in them, to Jews, and disappeared, leaving Oswald to answer his creditors as he might. There were informalities in the sale, it is thought; but however that is, or was, the Jews keep possession, and Oswald has not a title or paper of any kind to shew: St. Aubin, on various pretexts, had got all into his own hands. Poor Oswald’s state of mind, too, adds greatly to the difficulty of clearing up any part of the unfortunate business. In some of his ravings he declares vehemently that he staked but his ownlife use, and that, could he find the villain St. Aubin, and make him produce certain papers, his boy, (Oswald’s boy I mean,) would enjoy the whole property at his father’s death.”

“And are ye gone indeed, ye happy hours,When our course in the chace was one; when weChanged the words of love beneath thy shadiestWoods, Oh Cromla?”

“And are ye gone indeed, ye happy hours,

When our course in the chace was one; when we

Changed the words of love beneath thy shadiest

Woods, Oh Cromla?”

Juliaentered her room, arm and arm with Frances, pondering in what words she should ask a certain question, which she meant to put to her sister, as soon as Alice should retire; for Henry’s remarks had aroused again some of the painful suspicions, which Edmund’s soothing attentions had so lately laid asleep.

Frances made many droll critiques in Frenchon Lady Morven, Mr. Graham, &c. &c. Forced, unmeaning smiles were Julia’s only replies.

At length, both the sisters’ heads were laid on their downy pillows, and Alice had left the room. Still Julia had not determined in what precise words to put her important question; besides, though the candles had been extinguished, there happened to be an impertinent bit of trundling coal among the embers of the fire, which sent from its side a bright flickering blaze, and caused a most obtrusive light to enter the bed, by means of a small, neglected opening between the foot curtains; and, until it should be quite dark, Julia did not wish to speak.

Frances put her arms about her sister’s neck, kissed her, and bade her good night. Julia returned the good night with equal kindness,as was their custom. She was again silent. At last the blaze went out, and the room became nearly dark.

“What—was that—you were saying—to me—when we were dressing for dinner, Frances—about—about Edmund, you know?”

“What!—What?”—said Frances, with a start, for she had just dropped asleep.

“What—was it you were saying—I say—before dinner, you know?”

“Saying! About what?”

“About—about Edmund, you know.”

“What about Edmund?”

“Oh, you know, about him and Lady Susan, you know.”

“Oh, about their going to be married!” said Frances, rousing herself to enter fully, as it were, into the amusing subject; then, with animation, and a voice of confidence, she continued,“I really think it will take place; and he is certainly very fortunate; for she has a cheerful, happy temper, and her affection for him is truly generous and disinterested!” The darkness covered Julia’s changing colour, and her starting tears, also, which she now gulped down, as she replied, “Her affection indeed! What can her affection be, in comparison of those who have loved him always!”

“Do you mean any one in particular?” asked Frances.

“No—” replied Julia, “that is—yes. I mean, you and I, you know.” “Certainly,” said Frances, “we have loved him always; but then, you know, we are not going to marry him.”

“No, I suppose papa would not think it right, if we were,” said Julia.

“You may be sure of that!” replied Frances.“It is very plain, from his letters, and from what grandmamma and Mr. Jackson said the other day, about Henry’s nonsense, what sort of people papa intends us to marry.”

“I shall never marry any one while I live!” said Julia, with great earnestness.

“You can’t tell, you know, Julia,” replied Frances; “you may happen to fall in love; and if you do, it will be desperately! for you know how enthusiastic you always are, about any one you care for!”

“Fall in love with a stranger, indeed!” exclaimed Julia. Then, after a momentary pause, she added, “do you think yourself, Frances, that Lady Susan can possibly love him as well as—as we do?”

“Why, I dare say,” replied Frances, “if any thing should prevent their being married, that Lady Susan would forget him by and bye,whereas you and I shall always have the same regard for Edmund, that we have had for him all our lives. But, on the other hand, there is Lady Susan going to waive all about his unknown birth, that some people, you know, are so ill natured about. She says, his own nobility is more to her, than any he could derive from all the ancestors that ever were in the world.”

“Did she say so to you, Frances?” asked Julia.

“Yes,” replied her sister, “and she is going, she says, to give him, most cheerfully, her hand, her heart, and her fifty thousand pounds, in preference to many of the first young noblemen in the kingdom, among whom she might choose; and you and I are not going to do all that for him, you know!”

Julia sighed heavily, and made no immediatereply.—In a little time she said, “Do you think, Frances, you could do so much for Edmund?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied Frances; “though I certainly love Edmund next to you and grandmamma, yet I have no particular wish to be married to him; for I can love him just as well, you know, when he is married to Lady Susan. But you, Julia, who were always so enthusiastic, would you like now to sacrifice so much for him?”

“I could do any thing for those I love!” said Julia, in a scarcely audible whisper, and blushing, though none could see her.

“Oh, that is, you mean, if it were absolutely necessary to their happiness!” rejoined her sister. “I should not like, either, to make poor Edmund unhappy! But then, you know, it is not necessary to his happiness; for he wishes himself to be married to Lady Susan.”

“But are you sure of that, Frances?” asked Julia, as recollections crowded in upon her mind, “are you sure of that? for I am certain it is impossible for him to love Lady Susan, or any one, as much as—as he loves—that is, seems to love—those he has always loved.”

“I know,” said Frances, “that there cannot be a more amiable or affectionate disposition in the world than Edmund’s; yet, still he never showed me any such excessive sort of love, that he could not love another person as well, or better, I suppose, if he were going to be married to them! But, to be sure, you were always his favourite. I remember when we were children I used to be vexed at it sometimes, but since we have been grown up, I don’t mind people loving you best, because I know you deserve it.”

Julia wept on her sister’s breast, and persuaded herself that her tears were those of gratitude and tenderness, caused by Frances’ kind expressions. In a little time she said, “But how are you sure, Frances, that Edmund wishes to be married to Lady Susan?”

“Because he asked her to marry him, when they were in the cottage this morning! She told me so herself, just before I came up to dress for dinner, you know.” Julia asked no more questions; nor did she utter another word that night. Frances went on explaining about Lord and Lady Arandale knowing nothing of the matter, as yet, and what Lady Susan meant to do to obtain their consent, &c.; but having the conversation all to herself, she soon began to articulate slowly and with frequent unnecessary pauses, and, finally, fell asleep: upon which, Julia began to draw her hithertosuppressed sighs audibly. She wept for a time with bitterness. She thought for hours. When she recollected looks or words of tenderness she wept afresh; but, when she called to mind such circumstances as Edmund’s having, at any time, taken her hand in his, or pressed it to his lips, she blushed till her cheeks seemed to burn, and wondered how she could ever have permitted any thing so very wrong: she had always called him brother Edmund, certainly; but she ought to have remembered that he was not really her brother. She then asked herself the following startling questions:—If her feelings for Edmund and her conduct towards him had hitherto been guided by the friendship of a sister, why should they not be still the same? what change had taken place in their relative situations? This candid mode of treating the subject puzzled her not a little. At length shetried to persuade herself that friendship, or even sisterly regard for one who loved their friend or sister better than any one else in the world, was a very different thing from friendship for one who felt a stronger affection for some other object. “And does Edmund, then, really love Lady Susan better than he loves me?” Her tears now flowed again, and, wearied out, she fell asleep, without having come to any conclusion but that she was wretched, and that all the recollections which, hitherto, had given her pleasure, now gave her pain.

As soon as reason had abdicated her seat, fancy ascended the throne. Confusion succeeded, and the busy turmoil of weary imaginings, and painful contrarieties, robbed sleep of her healing balm. Wanderings alone on starless nights—Dreary wildernesses in the blaze of noon, without one living object to be seen—Crowdedball-rooms—Edmund leading Lady Susan past to join the dance, with a countenance so changed, so cold; and all interspersed with short glimpses of Lodore and happy childhood: till, at length, by the time she ought to have been awaking in the morning, her dream (notfrom “foregone conclusions,” but from outward causes,) took the following form. She thought she saw Edmund and Lady Susan coming towards her in one of the shrubbery walks at Arandale. She tried to avoid them, but could scarcely move an inch at a time. They overtook her. Edmund, she thought, to her utter astonishment, put one arm round her, and drew her towards him; while the other, she now perceived, was around Lady Susan. Amazed at this audacious freedom, and especially indignant at such partnership in love, she struggled to free herself, and, with almost a bound,awoke. Arms really were around her, laughing eyes were close to her’s, and a soft voice named her. But it was that of Frances, who had, all this time, been trying every means, but hitherto in vain, to awake her sister; so heavy was the late sleep induced by the anxious thoughts of the night, and the busy dreams of the morning. Indeed it was not quite two hours since Julia had first closed her eyes.

“Bless me,” cried Alice, as she entered the room, “can that be the bagpipes for breakfast, and it has only just gone ten! Well, I thought my Lady Arandale would have taken a sleep this morning, after being up a matter of half the night.”

“Were we so much later than usual then?” asked Frances.

“Much as common, my Lady,” replied Alice; “but when the men went in to take the supperthings away, my Lady and my Lord, both, were so busy with Mr. Edmund, Captain Montgomery, I should say, that they were sent away again, and not rung for, for two hours. I wish all may be true that was said in the hall,” she recommenced, after having assisted her young ladies to dress for some time in silence; “for Mr. Edmund is one that every body loves; and I, for one, should rejoice in his good luck—and think it nothing so strange, neither; though the old butler put himself in such a passion, and said that Lady Susan was a wife for the first duke in the land—and—”

“I have told you before, Alice,” said Julia, making an effort to conceal her real feelings under the mask of pettishness, “that you are not to repeat the conversations of the hall-table in our room.”

“I beg pardon, my Lady, but I only meantto say as how my Lady Arandale came to be late. But I am sure I repeated nothing: neither what my Lady Susan’s maid said, nor what my Lady Arandale’s maid said, nor what my Lord’s man said, about the time they were at Lodore, nor all I said myself about the power of money that Mr. Edmund had won from the French, and about what a nice, handsome young gentleman he was;—but for just a kind wish for one that every one loves, I didn’t think it would have given offence.”

“You can never give offence by wishing well to any one, Alice,” said Frances, “but it was not necessary to repeat what other servants said: that was all. I suppose,” she added, in an under tone to her sister, as they went down stairs together, “he was asking papa andmamma’s consent, last night. And after his fine resolutions, too!” she added, laughing, “never to think of marriage till he had discovered all about his birth, name, and so forth.”

“She will wait in vain thy return.”

Atbreakfast, Sir Archibald was again the subject of conversation. “He is still late to his breakfast,” said Lady Arandale, “and when he does come he will tack but one cup o’ coffee, without sugar, cream, or bread; so totally have his excesses destroyed his stomach!”

“How dreadfully broken down he is in appearance, since I last saw him!” observed the General.

“Well,” said Lord Arandale, “poor Oswaldwas once, I think, the handsomest fellow in Scotland! Do you remember how well he used to sing, General?”

“His voice is still peculiarly melodious,” said Lady Susan, who was looking as grave as she had done at dinner the day before; though Edmund was seated next to her, and, seemingly, paying her very solicitous attention.

“How poor Maria could have given St. Aubin the preference,” continued his lordship, “I cannot imagine; Oswald, however, married a very elegant woman—one of the Ladies Allan. Your friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin’s first wife,” he added, turning to Edmund, “was one of the sisters. The Fitz-Ullin family seem to have modelled their conduct towards poor Lady Oswald, by that of her own more immediate relatives: indeed it is not improbable that theymay have by this time forgotten her very existence; for the death of her sister, and Lord Fitz-Ullin’s second marriage, have, for many years, sundered the connecting link: while a feeling of pride, very natural, I allow, but which Lady Oswald certainly ought to have sacrificed to the good of her child, has hitherto, I apprehend, prevented her making any direct claim on their notice.”

The mention of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s family as connected with the Oswalds, made a lively impression on Edmund’s mind. That the friendless, destitute boy, whom he had been planning to protect and assist with all the limited means he could command, should possess legitimate claims on his powerful and kind patron, and on his young friend, Oscar Ormond, opened new and flattering prospects for the son of poor Sir Archibald, of whichEdmund was determined not to lose sight. The friendless, the destitute seemed to him as more peculiarly his brethren than the rest of mankind. Nor was this a parade of sentiment with Edmund, even to his own heart; it was rather an involuntary emotion, upon the impulse of which he frequently acted before he had considered what were his motives. His affectionate and gentle nature yearned for the tender family sympathies of which his peculiar circumstances deprived him; and he sometimes took a melancholy pleasure in thinking that he thus belonged to a large family, namely, the unfortunates. Henry entered the breakfast-room looking very pale.

“There is no one missing now but poor Sir Archibald,” observed Lady Arandale. The butler came in with a supply of hot rolls. Her ladyship enquired if any one had been inSir Archibald’s room this morning. The man answered that he believed Sir Archibald had left the castle, as he had gone out very early. “If he has gone off in this sudden manner,” observed Lord Arandale, “it is probable that a lucid interval has arrived; for at such times he always hastens to his miserable retreat in the island; avoiding most especially those old friends and associates whose society he seeks when his mind is in an unsettled state. I do not know that I have ever seen on his countenance that expression of utter woe, unmingled with cheating phantasies, which it wore last night, except on the approach of reason; before which it is feasible to suppose that all the airy visions of the madman flee away, reducing our poor friend to the unalleviated consciousness of his actual situation. Young men!” continued the Earl, lookinground at his nephews, who were busily engaged in eating cold pie, “surely I need not, no one need preach against gambling in this neighbourhood while such a beacon light is placed on high to warn all off the rock on which poor Oswald became a wreck! Aye, a piteous wreck indeed!” he added, murmuring to himself, and moving his head slowly from side to side, as Mrs. Montgomery sometimes did, for it was a family symptom. Then, after a moment’s pause, addressing Edmund in particular, he said: “This will make some little alteration necessary in the arrangements we concerted last night. You have breakfasted, I believe, Captain Montgomery?” Edmund assented. “Will you come with me, then, to my study?” Edmund arose and accompanied his lordship. Most of the party quitted their seats about the same time; and Frances saidto Julia, as they walked together towards a window: “It seems Edmund has got over all his mighty objections to matrimony!”

“Yes—they are in a wonderful hurry, it would appear,” said Julia. “But what can Sir Archibald’s going away have to do with their arrangements?”

“I cannot imagine,” replied Frances. “Perhaps Edmund is about to turn out to be Sir Archibald’s son.”

“Sir Archibald’s son, you know,” returned Julia, who had inwardly studied the subject in all its bearings, “is mentioned as a boy; besides, he is living with Lady Oswald in the Isle of Man; and never was lost or found in infancy, as Edmund was.”

“That is true!” answered Frances, “that won’t do—but he must be some way related toSir Archibald, (for what my uncle said, must mean something,) and in that case, I dare say, they will consent to the marriage.”

Julia looked at Lady Susan, and again wondered why she did not look happy.

“That is a good lad, that Captain Montgomery,” observed Lady Arandale. (Lad is a term applied by elderly Scotch ladies to all men of all sizes and ages, not quite as old as themselves.) “He has made a good sum of money, it seems,” continued her ladyship, “and will make a very good use of it, I dare say.” Lady Susan coloured slightly, and told Henry he had eaten no breakfast. “Are you all prepared for the race-course, young ladies?” inquired Lady Arandale. “We had better arrange how the carriages shall be filled.”

“There is my barouche for any one that likes,” said Lady Morven, “for I shall positively go in the curricle with Graham.”

“We can accommodate two ladies,” said Julia, “if Henry and Captain Montgomery ride.” It was the first time she had named Edmund, Captain Montgomery, and the sound of her own voice pronouncing the words, startled her.

“There is no scarcity of carriages, my dear,” replied Lady Arandale; “there is my barouche, and my lord’s chariot, and the family coach, and the General’s barouche, and all the young men’s curricles and nondescripts; I only mean to plan how the several parties may like best to be disposed of. As for my Lady Morven’s barouche, I advise that none who regard their necks may trust themselves with her horses.”

“La! ma’am,” interrupted Lady Morven, “who would drive any thing but blood-horses!”

“I fancy, my dear,” returned Lady Arandale, “my Lord drives as good horses as your ladyship; though they are not mad ones! It was but the last races, you know, that one of your ladyship’s leaders killed an unfortunate boy.”

“I beg your la’—ship’s pardon a thousand times,” observed Mr. Graham, “but that certainly was the boy’s own fault.”

“How so, pray?”

“Why, the boy should have staid at home, and, I will venture to affirm, that Lady Morven’s leader would never have hurt him! Really such creatures should keep themselves from under the feet of people of fashion.”

“It happened on the king’s highway,” retorted Lady Arandale, “and people of fashionhave no right to infest that with animals dangerous, or even inconvenient, to the poorest of his Majesty’s subjects. And as for my Lady Morven, if she takes my advice, she will appear on the ground in my barouche, rather than in an open carriage with any gentleman.”

“La! ma’am,” cried Lady Morven, “if I had used my own barouche, I should have sat in the dicky seat with Graham, and made him drive!”

“Well, my dear, if your husband chooses to give you your own way,” said the old lady, “I shall not interfere.”

“I give Morven his own way, and he gives me mine. That’s all fair, you know.”

Lady Arandale, without vouchsafing further reply, desired her daughter and nieces to get ready, as the carriages would all come round in half an hour.

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