"He she loved proved false, and did forsake her."
"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 couldnothave 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!'
"'I'm o'er the border, and awa'Wi' Jock o' Hasledean!'
"You don't understand me? Never mind—I don'tthink 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.
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 sheetof 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 forme, Sir John? Has Lady Wetheral sent forme, 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 visitClara. 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 agreeableto 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 incompany 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 thebeau idealof 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 hershe 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,halfa 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 eagernessand 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." Isabellooked 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 hadhastened 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 herrest 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 wasacid, 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 toher 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 preventedsundry 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,Inever was better, or more satisfied with the contemplation
"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,Inever 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 hopemilesfrom 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
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 hopemilesfrom 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."
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 shouldaffect 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 affectiontowards 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 agreeableal 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 bevery 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 engrossand 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 animatingcomments 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 Ishall 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 inoneengrossing 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 toaffect 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 seethat 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 accompanyher 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.
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 whichtook 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, andadvocate 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 totheir 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 asshehad always loved him—that her studies must in future be as pleasing to her sister, as they had ever appeared toherself—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 movedin 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 shouldnow, 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 verykind 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 Ididbegin 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 theinsoucianceof IsabelWetheral 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," observedIsabel. "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 withmelong, 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 happyIsabel 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 sonow, 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 watchits 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."
"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 dearBoscawen'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 Imusthave 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 herthat, 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 whatyoufeel, 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 depositedin 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 Thompsontête-à-têtedwith 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 becomevery 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 stillat 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 Hattonpeople 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 fewwords 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 MissBoscawen, 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 inyourchoice, 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 deserveyour 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.