********************START OF HEADER******************** This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place. Title: Compensation, volume II, an electronic edition Author: Chatterton, Georgiana, Lady, 1806-1876 Publisher: John W. Parker and Son Place published: London Date: 1856 ********************END OF HEADER******************** COMPENSATIONA STORY OF REAL LIFE THIRTY YEARS AGO.IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. IILONDONJOHN W. PARKER AND SONWEST STRAND1856[The Author reserves the right of translation]LONDON: SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS-STREET.Table of contents for the second volume Chatterton's Compensation.Table of contents for the second volume Chatterton's Compensation.COMPENSATION. CHAPTER I. THE CONSPIRATOR.MRS. DELAMERE had caught a fresh cold the day after her first interview with Dudley, and a relapse was the consequence, attended with violent inflammation of the lungs.The Randals called several times, but she was not well enough to see them, although Mr. Randal discovered, with extreme annoyance, that Mr. Aylmer had been admitted.The next day he insisted on Julia forcing her way in, and offering her assistance in case Mrs. Delamere should wish to send her daughter a letter. So she told Mrs. Delamere's maid that she had something very particular to say, and begged Mrs. Delamere would see her for a few minutes.Dr. Leighton had given strict orders, the maid said, that her mistress was to see no one but Mr. Aylmer, but she would go and tell Mrs. Delamere; and in a few minutes the maid returned and said that her mistress would be glad to see Mrs. Randal. So Julia went in, followed by her husband, who remained on the outside of the open door of Mrs. Delamere's room.Julia then suggested that it would be better to write to Linda, and said she would do it. Thus the letter was written which gave Linda so much anxiety when she received it at Rome. Julia then told Mrs. Delamere that her husband was most anxious to see her, if only for a moment. Randal came in and tried to amuse the poor sufferer, and entered most feelingly into her desire to see Linda, approving most highly of the little letter she had written.'Would it not be advisable for you to sign it?' he said, looking at the few lines she had written in Julia's letter.It was evening, and the room was getting rather dusk. Julia had taken little Ethel into the next room, under the plea of asking the child whether she was not very unhappy about her dear grandmamma. Mrs. Delamere looked uneasily round and said, in a faint voice, 'No, I am tired; that will do. Good night,' she continued, putting out her hand, as if rather annoyed at being disturbed.'Well,' he said, pressing it affectionately, 'we will take care this letter is put in the post. But you will let me see you again if I come to-morrow. Do let me,' he urged, in an imploring voice, which touched poor Mrs. Delamere, and she uttered a faint 'yes.'When they had left the house, Julia said, 'Well, I did exactly as you told me, but I can't imagine what your motives are, and why you so much wanted her to write, and to sign the letter too. It will only frighten poor Linda, and make her travel faster than her strength will allow.''That is no concern of yours, and I desire you will ask no foolish questions,' he said, with one of his repellant and impenetrable looks, which sometimes frightened her so much. 'You will know some day,' he continued, somewhat more kindly, as he felt her start with terror; 'only be guided by me implicitly, and you shall soon know all.'At this moment two men, in the peculiar dress of the country, or, as Julia thought, looking wonderfully like banditti, emerged from the orange grove, and she fancied that one of them made a sign to her husband to follow them.'Who are those men? I think we met them one day before, and you seemed to know them,' said Julia. 'I remember particularly that tall man, with a deep scar on his left cheek.''Yes,' he said, in a tone of indifference; 'they are come about a horse I wanted to buy. They are countrymen from Amalfi.''I do not like their countenances,' said Julia; 'are you sure they are not banditti? Do take care of yourself; they might mean some harm, dear George.'Randal laughed, and they proceeded homewards. As soon as they arrived at the garden gate, which surrounded the villa where they lodged, Randal left Julia, and said he would take a longer walk, as the night was so fine, and perhaps she might like to go and pass the evening with the Antonini's, as they were always glad to see her.'Julia much wished to follow him; for she felt a strong curiosity to know whether he was going to see the strange men. But it was getting very dark, and the moon was not yet up: so she went home, feeling very anxious, as she often did, on account of the strange mystery which encircled all her husband said and did, and the number of questionable people he often seemed to have dealings with.When the doctor called on Mrs. Delamere that evening, after the Randals' visit, he found her much worse. The fact was, that since Mrs. Delamere had seen Dudley, and since her illness began, the contrast between him and Mr. Randal struck her most forcibly, and enabled her to see both in their genuine light. The contrast between them was so striking, that she began to see that Linda and Mrs. Grant were right in their opinion of Randal, and that little Ethel's antipathy was not ill-founded. The near approach of death gives a strange insight, often, into people's characters, and places all they see and do in a more real light.'You have disobeyed my orders,' said the doctor, 'and you are suffering now in consequence; if you persist in seeing these people again, I warn you that you will not live to see your daughter. Now, think no more of it, and Mr. Aylmer will be here early in the morning.''I wish he would not leave me until Linda comes,' said Mrs. Delamere, in a sad, helpless tone.'The next morning, Dudley came at an early hour, and was much annoyed to find that she had written to Linda. He knew that it would have the effect of making her travel night and day from Rome; and besides the great fatigue of this, after a long journey of three weeks, he knew the roads were in a most dangerous state from banditti, and that it was more than probable she would be attacked. For the robbers contrived to obtain accurate information about travellers who were expected along the road; and a rich young English lady, travelling alone, with only her courier and maid, could scarcely escape an attempt, if it so happened that she proceeded at night through the rocky passes between Terracina and Mola di Gaeta. However, nothing could be done, for the post went out the night before; and in another letter were sent by the next, he feared it would be too late to reach her at Rome. Still, on the chance of its arriving before she left it, he made Dr. Leighton write and beg that she would not hurry, and caution her against the danger of banditti. Dudley did not, of course, express his fears to Mrs. Delamere; on the contrary, he tried to tranquillize her, and make her hope that Linda would arrive safe and well in a few days. He would not let her talk, but he read to her, and talked to little Ethel; and all he did and said had a soothing effect on them both. Dr. Leighton had told him of Randal's visit, and begged he would endeavour to prevent a renewal of it. So when the Randals again called they were denied, and all their efforts to be admitted on that and the following days were of no avail. Mr. Randal was, consequently, in one of his blackest humours, which terrified and perplexed Julia extremely; the more so, as he took no pains to please and soothe her, which was most unusual with him; so that she was utterly wretched;—yet she could not venture to expostulate or complain.CHAPTER II. ANXIETY.AS the time drew near when it was possible Linda might arrive, poor Mrs. Delamere became sadly nervous. Drs. Leighton and Dudley both tried to convince her that it was impossible she could reach Sorrento for several days; for after she arrived at Naples, a considerable delay must occur; and Lord Clanville, who was still detained there, had promised to see her, and despatch a messenger to apprize them of her arrival, that her mother might be prepared to see her, while he endeavoured to induce her to take some rest.In the meantime, Linda was proceeding on her journey from Terracina. It was a bright moonlight night, and all went smoothly till they began to ascend the pass of Itri: then something happened to the wheel of the carriage, and the postilions got off their horses to see what was the matter. The courier inspected it, but could see nothing wrong, and rather suspected that the postilions had some design in detaining them. So he began to swear and accuse them of having played a trick, to impede the signora on her journey. 'Mount and drive on, or I will shoot you both!' he said, pointing to two pistols, with which he had the precaution to arm himself.The terrified postilions were just about to proceed, when a shout was heard, and a party emerged from behind the rocks on their right. The escort immediately took flight, without firing a shot, leaving the travellers to shift for themselves; and the poor maid screamed.'No cause to fear,' said Francesco to Linda; 'I will try to manage them; it is not the first time my party has been attacked.' So saying, he replaced his pistols, and taking off his hat, with a civil bow he advanced, in a cool and determined manner, towards the man who appeared the ringleader.Linda watched the proceedings from the carriage window. Her great fear was the delay; and though ill, and worn out with fatigue, her presence of mind did not forsake her. The courier was soon surrounded by fierce-looking men, but they seemed to be waiting for a signal from their chief before they offered any violence. Francesco evinced no fear, but gesticulated in Italian with all the energy and vehemence of his nation, and his words seemed to produce some effect; for soon, the leader came up with a respectful bow to Linda, and taking off his hat, begged for a few minutes' conversation. The bright moonlight shone full on his tall figure and strongly-marked countenance. His features were handsome; but a deep scar on his left cheek, and the ferocious expression of his large, dark eyes, gave him a sinister look, which made Linda shudder, as, from the description she had heard, she feared he must be the redoubted Gasparone. Still she tried to appear composed, and to reassure her poor maid, who was almost fainting with terror; and she quietly let down the window, while she implored him not to delay her journey, as she was going to her poor dying mother, and every instant was of importance.'Well, we will only require the ransom which you would pay if we took you prisoner, Signora, and any jewels you may have.'Linda took out her purse, and only retaining enough money to pay her journey to Sorrento, she gave him all the rest. Gasparone, for it was he, seemed much struck with her beauty, and the cool courage she manifested, and said that, as far as himself was concerned, he should have willingly allowed the Signora to depart without any more ransom, but that his people would be so outrageous if they had not some plunder,—as they had but just before been disappointed, poor fellows, of a rich family that was expected on the road,—that he must reluctantly request her to give him any jewels or other valuables. Linda took up her box from the bottom of the carriage, which contained only the few ornaments she had brought with her on her hurried journey, and told him to take all, except that—and that, she said, pointing to a couple of miniatures set in a bracelet and brooch. 'And now let us proceed,' she entreated; 'for already I fear I may not find my mother alive.''Si, si, Signora, subito! a rividerla spero fra poco,' he said, with a malicious smile; 'adesso buon viaggio!' and giving a signal to the postilions, who touched their hats with an air of half-frightened and half-knowing respect to the bandit chief, they mounted their horses and drove off.It seemed like a dream—all passed so quickly, as if quite a matter of course; so that she had scarcely time to be surprised or alarmed. She scarcely thought of the loss of her money and jewels, though her maid could not cease moaning over it; and the only strange part seemed to be that the banditti had treated her with so much civility; but this she supposed was owing to Francesco's clever management. In fact, her mind was so absorbed in anxiety about her mother that she seemed incapable of feeling or caring for anything else.The first distant view of Vesuvius, as it came in sight in the dawn of day, now only gave her pleasure because it showed they were approaching Naples. She then felt more thankful and composed, and determined not to look out again, but try to sleep; for one of her greatest apprehensions was, lest she should be too ill on her arrival to be of any comfort or use to her poor mother, in case she had the happiness of rinding her still alive. So she resolutely shut her eyes, and though she scarcely slept, she did not open them again until the carriage stopped.They were entering Naples, and a gentleman on horseback was speaking to the courier. Linda hastily let down the window, for she saw it was an Englishman, and thought he might be a messenger from her mother; the next moment she recognised the old friend of her youth, Lord Clanville.'I hope you will excuse me for intruding so abruptly,' he said, in a hesitating and shrinking manner, very different from the buoyant, trustful look that used formerly to light up his features. He appeared much older, too, and as if he had suffered much, and there were some grey hairs mingled with his black curls. He proceeded to inform Linda that he came by his brother's and Dr. Leighton's urgent request to say that her mother was better, and to beg that she would rest for some hours before she proceeded; 'and if—if she would allow him to accompany her to Sorrento——'Linda most gladly consented, for she was really cheered to see the old friend who used to be like a brother; and she endeavoured to dispel the shy reserve which she deeply regretted to perceive had sprung up since the last fatal day when they parted—that day when she had been compelled to refuse his proposal. This attempt fortunately served to divert her mind, in some measure, for a short time, from her dreadful anxiety, and she had the gratification of seeing him gradually become more like his former self.The fact was, Lord Clanville had never recovered his grief for her refusal—had never been the same person since that day. He was in every sense a disappointed man. He had unconsciously hoped for the restoration of his property; then, he had found bitter fault with himself for not having thought, before it was too late, how much more likely Dudley was to succeed in gaining the affections of such a creature as Linda. He was quite willing to give up everything to him; and his great desire was that Dudley should marry an heiress, and then, by succeeding, after his own death, to his estates and title, should restore the Aylmer family to what it once had been. Lord Clanville was strongly tinctured with the Norman sense of superiority—and a sort of narrowness which is sometimes found to pervade the members of a very old and time-honoured race, particularly those whose possessions have been forfeited in the service of the old royalty of England; and this feeling made him deify, as it were, his own family. He therefore scarcely tried to get over the disappointment he felt at having deprived his brother of Linda Delamere; perhaps, because he thought it was generous of him to feel it so much, and he would not bring his energy to bear on that disappointment, though he would have thought it wrong to repine for himself. This gave an indifference to his manners, and his natural diffident shyness, which had always been painful, became worse, and rather increased than diminished, as years passed on.Thus it sometimes happens that the characters who seem formed to be amiable and useful are occasionally spoilt by a reverse in early life, and disappoint the expectations of others, because they themselves have been disappointed.'Then where, in such a case is the advantage of trials?' some wise person may ask. Time will show—if not here below, when we reach that world, where we shall no longer see 'through a glass darkly.'Dudley tried to rouse him from his despondency, but the brothers were so seldom together that his influence could not have much effect, and of late, Lord Clanville's habitual depression had been much aggravated by anxiety for his poor sister, Lady Theresa.CHAPTER III. THE MEETING.THE last part of the journey from Naples to Sorrento seemed longer to poor Linda than the whole three weeks since she left England. The particulars of her mother's illness, which she learnt from Lord Clanville, although he endeavoured to make the best of it, alarmed her exceedingly.Mrs. Delamere had never been dangerously ill before; she had always enjoyed stronger health than Linda, and therefore being so unaccustomed to see her suffer, Linda found it the more trying to contemplate her illness with resignation. She could almost distinguish Sorrento across the blue waters of the Mediterranean, as they drove out of Naples; and it seemed so near, that the length of the journey round by Castelamare annoyed her beyond measure.At last, after a long, weary drive, a turn in the road brought them in sight of the Villa Palavicini; and, as Lord Clanville pointed it out, she fancied she could distinguish two figures standing on the steps in front. One of them disappeared, and then a child—it must be her own Ethel—stood there. She is waving her handkerchief—she has distinguished her mother's carriage. And now that the long wished-for moment had arrived, Linda felt afraid she should faint; in fact, she soon seemed to lose all perception of anything more, till she found herself lifted from the carriage, carried up the steps, then her child's arms clasped round her neck, and warm tears on her face. But she could scarcely see or hear. At last the words 'grandmamma is better I' sounded in her ears, and she was able to stand. 'And now, you are alive too, and we shall all be happy—dear, dear mamma.' Then she was led into a darkened room, where she could scarcely see; but she rushed towards the bed, and was clasped in her mother's arms. Dr. Leighton raised a part of one of the blinds, and then mother and daughter were able to see each other.Both were too much exhausted to speak for some moments; and although each was struck with the alteration which illness and care had made on the pale face of the other, yet a sensation of happiness—of perfect rest and peace, was felt by them both. Their wishes were fulfilled—they had met once more! and that alone satisfied them entirely, and absorbed for the present all care and apprehension for the future.Little Ethel, with a tact beyond her years, divined their feelings; and though she longed to go into the other room, and bring Dudley, who had not yet seen her mother, she would not stir. But she wished he would come, and wondered why he had left the terrace as soon as Linda's carriage appeared. Her happiness was not quite complete until Dudley had seen her own dear mother.Mrs. Delamere was the first to speak. 'Thank God,' she said, 'I am now quite satisfied; but where is Dudley?—you must thank him, dear Linda, as well as Dr. Leighton; for without their wonderful care I should not have been alive.'Little Ethel went into the other room, as soon as she heard grandmamma ask for Dudley, but he more, till she found herself lifted from the carriage, was not there. She ran wildly along the terrace, and through the garden, but he was nowhere to be seen. But the next morning little Ethel's happiness was complete, for Dudley called at an early hour. And, when her mother saw him, her cheeks, which had been so sadly pale, had such a beautiful colour in them, and her eyes looked—oh! happier than she had ever seen them.And Linda was happy; she felt as she had done, when in childhood he had returned from school. There was something so reposeful in his whole air—his best qualities seemed to have been fully developed. Unlike his brother, the disappointment had worked for good; it was written in unmistakeable characters on his brow. And she rested her hand in his, and looked into his eyes with full and perfect joy. All fears, all perplexities, all restraints, seemed to vanish—Linda had recovered the friend of her youth.Then it was as if the clear daylight which seemed, as Lady Rochford had described, to shine around him, showed Linda all that was in her own heart. She saw and felt already that she had endeavoured to do right—that the effort to be of use, to make all around her happy, had not been in vain; that, if she had erred from want of knowing her own feelings in consenting to marry, that error ought not to embitter her whole life, and paralyse her efforts for the attainment of goodness.Yet this is often the case—particularly with those who, like Linda, are born with a very sensitive conscience. The conviction of having erred seems to crush all their efforts. They become so depressed with the sense of innate sin, and with the difficulty of habitually distinguishing right from wrong, that in despair they give up the attempt; and thus, some of the noblest natures become almost the worst characters, in their progress through the difficult paths of this strange world.Linda knew that Dudley read the whole history of the years since they parted, on her countenance; and she was encouraged to go on, and strive more vigorously still, to enter into the 'strait gate.'Linda's admiration or love for Dudley was not like that of many young ladies who idolize a human being, and then fall in love with their own creation. It was an affection which sprung out of an intense admiration for whatever is beautiful and good; and as her own character had become developed, and her appreciation for goodness more just, the recollection of what he was—of all he tried to be from earliest childhood, became more and more vivid and powerful, and her admiration, if not affection, consequently increased.They resembled each other most in their immense capacity for happiness. A most unusual power of finding beauty and delight in what are called common things. Every blade of grass, every leaf and tiny fibrous moss was replete to them with an exquisite never ending loveliness.Dudley, in addition to this, had always possessed a full conviction of the endurance of this infinite joy—or rather, its increased perfection in eternity. But Linda had only attained this blessed hope of late years, so that now they understood each other more fully than ever before.Mrs. Delamere had passed a better night; and though Linda was still much fatigued, from her hurried journey, yet as she now sat at the open window, between her mother and Dudley, with little Ethel on her lap, and the glorious view spread out before her, she felt perfectly happy. Now she could enter most fully into the loveliness of the scene. 'Yet how miserable I was, coming along that beautiful road only yesterday,' she thought, as she saw it winding below the cliffs—a faint white line along the seashore. 'It seems years ago—for how long the time appears, how fully one lives when one is very happy;' and the recollection of yesterday's anxiety seemed to be getting quite dim. All was now so bright; and she felt that the scenery—the sky and the sea looked more lovely than anything had ever appeared before.Sometimes we have no idea how unhappy we have been for a long time, until a sudden sensation of joy, a gleam of rapturous delight illumines our path, and shows how dark was the shade in which we lived. Linda was startled, almost dazzled at the light which seemed to shine around her, illuminating the future and even the past with its brightness. Yes, even as she reflected on the past, she felt that everything had always been happy, and brighter than she imagined at the time. Her own home in Scotland, and its mountain views, although she had indeed always admired them, never seemed to possess before the glowing tints that now illumined them in her memory's eye.Mrs. Delamere gradually got rather better, but she was not allowed to leave her room. So they all sat a good deal with her, and Theresa was sometimes well enough to come and listen to Linda and Dudley's music. For Linda it was a most happy time; and as if nothing should be wanting to make her enjoyment complete, she heard from Mr. Grant that he was soon coming to join them, as his dear mother was much better.Lord Clanville's spirits had improved considerably since her arrival; for now Linda's capacity for making others happy, which she had so assiduously cultivated for the last five years, showed itself more powerfully than ever, and he became quite the open-hearted, trustful, affectionate person he had been in early youth. Linda often accompanied the brothers in their excursions, for her health was every day improving.Lord Clanville had begun some excavations in Naples the preceding winter, which he now often went to superintend, and he was glad to avail himself of his brother's presence with Theresa to prolong his stay, sometimes for several days together. It so happened that whenever Linda walked out with Dudley and little Ethel, and without his brother, they always appeared to meet Mr. Randal, and he generally joined them for a short time, entered into conversation, and then left them with an expression on his countenance which they could not avoid feeling was intended to convey that he went because he felt he was interrupting their téte-à-téte.The autumn was unusually fine, and many parties of pleasure were made to visit the interesting places in the environs of Naples. Linda had refused to join them, on the plea of ill health. Although she liked to go with one or two chosen friends, yet she had none of the sort of high animal spirits or turn for general conversation which makes people enjoy those kind of large mixed pic-nics. It would have disturbed her pleasure in musing over the ruins of Pompeii or Paestum, to have to turn her mind to irrelevant or foolish remarks, and make herself agreeable to comparative strangers.Julia had in vain entreated her to go with the Kilgrogans and Antoninis to Pompeii. She said that the Duchess de St. Didiée, a French beauty, and sister to the Princess Antonini, was collecting the party, and was longing to make Mrs. Grant's acquaintance. 'It will really be delightful,' said she, 'for one can seldom meet with such a very pleasant set of people—really the best specimens of all countries; and the Duchess de St. Didiée will never forgive me if I do not persuade you and Mr. Aylmer to be of her party.'Julia's entreaties, however, produced no effect; for neither Linda nor Dudley could be prevailed upon to accompany her to Pompeii.CHAPTER IV. THE LIONNE.ON one of those fine days towards the end of October, which the delicious climate of Naples sometimes produces, a group of some ten or twelve people were eating their midday meal among the ruins of the Forum at Pompeii. The Duchess de St. Didiée, one of the greatest beauties of the day, had made up the party, and she now sat, or rather had perched herself on a ruined column on the higher part of the Forum, where she was enthroned like a queen, looking down on her slaves, who were grouped around her. She was dressed in the best and latest style of the French fashion; everything was well chosen, and calculated to enhance her loveliness, yet nothing to attract the eye, or induce the beholder to imagine that it was not herself which gave the chief charm to her attire; nor by its richness to appear incongruous with the fun of a country excursion. She was descended from some of the oldest and noblest families in France, and had inherited that peculiar charm and agreeability, or esprit de société, which characterised the nobility of the old regime; but in the opinion of some people, she had now become spoilt, and others thought her attractions enhanced by a spice of the Jeune France Lionne—a fashion which had then lately appeared—a sort of fungus sprung up from the rank grass of the revolutionist contempt for the ancient aristocracy.She had just finished her last marenge à la glace, and was now holding a cigar to her pretty mouth in the most graceful manner, and with the loveliest little hand imaginable. On one side of her sat the Marquis de Hauteville, her devoted and acknowledged admirer, and on the other side Randal, who had been making himself particularly agreeable to the Duchess all the morning, but who at the present moment was engaged in eating a most excellent páté de foie gras. They had all been visiting the lions of the place, were rather tired, and very hungry; and as the repast consisted of every imaginable delicacy, and the choicest wines, it is not to be wondered that conversation had rather flagged.As most of the party were English, and the Duchess and her sister spoke it fluently, they now conversed in that language.'How dull you all are,' said the Duchess, puffing her cigar with rather an impatient air; 'and how voraciously you are all eating! In such scenes as these, one ought to live on air, among the spirits of those who are gone. Well, this is all very well,—the view is certainly very picturesque, and these ruins interesting; but they do not amuse me. No, I do not like this place; all these remains seem to bring one so near to those who have lived many centuries ago; it makes me think what has become of them, and of all the races that have passed away since they sat here and looked on the columns of this old Forum. No—it is very painful,' she continued, with an air of sadness which the Marquis thought made her look more lovely than ever. 'Why don't you say something to amuse me?' she inquired, turning towards him with a pettish look;—'why do you let me ennuyermy- self to death?' she continued, with a smile, as she saw the expression of increased adoration which beamed from his eyes.'I like to see you think,' said the Marquis. 'I like to read the expression of thought in your eyes.''Take care,' she said; 'for if you let me think too much, I shall return home to my husband in Paris, and elevate my children, and shut my door to you. Oh, this is a weary world!—I wish we could have got that beautiful—oh, that enchanting Mr. Aylmer; why could he not come?—why is he so insensible to my charms?' inquired she, turning to Randal, who had now nearly finished his páté.'You should have made M. le Marquis try to get Mrs. Grant to your party, and then you would have been sure of having Dudley Aylmer,' said Randal, with a bow towards the Marquis, as if in acknowledgment of his irresistible charms.'I do not agree with you there,'said the Marquis; who, although he was really jealous of the Duchess's admiration for Dudley, yet had too much of the real spirit of chivalry which still lingers in some of the best specimens of the old French noblesse, to allow Mr. Aylmer to be unjustly suspected. 'I do not at all agree with you, though you ought to know the motives of your own compatriots and associates best,' said he, with a slight expression of irony in his handsome features; 'for I can quite enter into the feeling which makes him not like to accompany parties of this kind, to see such 'interesting' places as Pompeii. The pátés and champagne, and all our foolish talk, do not accord with these solemn remains of ancient times.''Yet here were theatres and wine-shops, and many things to show that people tried to amuse themselves as much in those days as they do now,' said the Duchess. 'No, I cannot forgive le beau Aylmer, for I never saw any one so charming;—and his singing,—oh, it sends one to heaven at once; and, indeed, it makes me believe there is such a place, where one might be really happy;—not what you see in the pictures of 'chilly angels sitting on wet clouds.'''Yes,' said the Marquis; 'I do not wonder at your admiring Mr. Aylmer, and I wish we had the privilege to see more of him. It is a great pity he is not the eldest brother, instead of that Lord Clanville,—who looks to me like a schoolboy afraid of being whipped because he does not know his lesson. And as for that lovely Mrs. Grant, if there be any evil spirit in her, it surely has assumed the form of an angel of light.''Oh, indeed,' said the Duchess, with a little impatience; 'I have not examined her so accurately as the Marquis de Monteville appears to have done. But I am sure that Mr. Aylmer has no evil in him, for, indeed, when I see him, I begin to think what will become of us all when we die;—the sight of him produces the same effect as these ruins.''Well, if he makes you sad,' said Randal, 'I don't see why you should wish for his presence. I should have thought something more brilliant, more witty, would better accord with your taste,' said he, with an impassioned glance. 'There is something so cold and indifferent about Mr. Aylmer—indifferent to all but one,' he added, in a lower tone, and then whispered something in her ear.But she did not seem to heed what he said, and turned away from him with a cold, imperious air, saying to her sister, the Princess Antonini, 'Well, my fine sister, have you not nearly finished your dinner; you will give yourself an indigestion with all thepátés;—lucky for you that you are a dévote, and that your confessor will make you fast to-morrow. Now, Lady Kilgrogan, have you finished yet?—and shall we proceed to Mount Vesuvius,—for are we not to be there to see the sun get, and the moon rise?—They have actually not done eating yet!' she exclaimed, with an expression of disgust, 'Now then, tell me/ she inquired of Julia, who sat at a little distance, near a sentimental German, Baron Küller,—'tell me, was not your friend Mrs. Grant attacked and robbed by the banditti?—and they were so civil to her?—Ah, I thought so, and I envy her!—I want to see that celebrated Gasparone, who is so handsome and so courageous that the king's armies can never take him.''I hear his beauty has lately been spoilt by a desperate wound he received when attacking an English party near Paestum, which has left a deep scar on his cheek,' said Sir James Stanley, a young Englishman, who was standing near to the Princess Antonini.Julia started as he said this,—for she now remembered the strange-looking man she and her husband had met one evening at Sorrento.'Ah, but I should so like to see him!' said the Duchess, with that craving for excitement in which the Lionnes indulged. 'I should even like to be taken prisoner—to live for a little time with the banditti, far away among the wild mountains! It must be such a complete change—so reviving and invigorating; and one would get rid of all these frivolous refinements,' she continued, as she threw down some beautiful embroidered cushions which had been placed under her, and kicked them with her beautiful foot among the company which sat on the slope below. 'We live such artificial lives,' she said, impatiently; then, taking the one on which she had been sitting, she threw it with great force towards the lower end of the Forum, among a group of the servants and attendants who; were eating their dinners. It fell exactly where she had intended—on the powdered head of Lady Kilgrogan's fat footman, and showered a cloud of powder among all the pies and dishes.'Brava!' exclaimed Randal; 'that was well aimed. It cannot be said you want renovating!—And by the bye, when are we to have the swimming-match?—you promised one day you would fetch a stick with your teeth, if it was thrown into the sea, at the distance of twenty yards; and I will undertake to fetch it from thirty yards. We will have boats stationed at the winning-post, and the Princess Antonini and the fair San-Teodoro shall be the judges. Now Lord Kilgrogan, which of us will you bet on?—And, by the bye, Lady Kilgrogan is to be of the party,—are you not?' he inquired.'Oh yes; I have been practising for the last week, and I can swim nearly as well as the Duchess,' said Lady Kilgrogan.'But we must have a fourth,—who shall it be?''Perhaps M. le Baron,' said Randal. But the German's sentimentality did not go so far as to run the risk of being drowned in the cold sea.'I suppose M. le Marquis does not approve of the swimming plan,' said Randal, in a low voice, to the Duchess.'Ah, no! his vieille cour, or old ideas of bienséances, are sadly shocked by my doings, very often. Well, never mind, I must amuse myself sometimes;' and she ran off at full speed, as if afraid of a lecture from the Marquis.On hearing the beginning of this discussion, the Marquis had turned away, for his sensitive good taste was extremely hurt by her adoption of the Lionne practices; and when he saw that she had accepted Randal's arm to assist her down the steep sides of the Forum, he offered his to Julia. They were followed by Lady Kilgrogan, with Baron Küller and the rest of the party.Lady Kilgrogan's appearance had not improved since her marriage, and she seemed to have inherited nothing from her mother but strong health and high spirits. And without any of her power to charm, she had the same ambition and craving for admiration which, in Lady Kilgrogan, often degenerated into a wish to astonish others, and to be talked of; and she would rather be abused than not noticed; whereas, Lady Rochford's greatest wish, with all her ambition, was to be loved.'How very unlike her mother is Miladi Kilgrogan,' said the Marquis to Julia and Sir James Stanley, who was walking with them. 'Your aunt was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. Oh, how well I remember, falling éperdument in love with her when I was only fifteen. I am afraid, like ours, that your English nobility is also becoming bourgeoise. We are being ruined—there is very little of the old charm left.''That dear Duchess is a very interesting child,' he continued, directing his conversation chiefly to Sir James Stanley—'very interesting; for she was married to a selfish husband by her parents, from convenience, before she was sixteen, and had seen no one at all—pauvre petite, and he neglected her. Yet she too is getting spoilt by these foolish revolutionary principles. No, there is little of the charm of true noblesse left in the world. We ourselves are degenerating, and a fresh set must supplant us; but it must take some centuries before they produce such as the La Rochefoucaults, the Recamiers, the Sévignés. The De Staël is quite another genre,—that is a vigorous mind—a genius ; but she never could have the charm of the hereditary refinement which formed a La Vallière ; and she felt it herself, when she wished to exchange all her genius and talents for beauty. She mistook the word; it was charm she wanted—the high cultivation which would inspire love,—a love like the De Longueville, and which even plain people who are bien-née sometimes inspire.''There is a good deal of truth in what you say,' said Sir James Stanley; 'but I think your partiality for the old noblesse makes you exaggerate a little. There is a proof.' pointing to Lady Kilgrogan, 'how little qualities are sometimes inherited.'The Duchess continued to walk with Randal—or rather to run, for they proceeded at such a quick pace through the old streets, and in and out of the buildings, that it was not easy for the rest of the party to follow. The Marquis saw that Julia looked sad, and he attributed her melancholy to Mr. Randal's evident devotion to Madame de St Didiée; so, with true French amiability, he exerted his talents to amuse and distract her mind; but his brilliant conversation did not seem to produce much effect. There was a pettish expression on her beautiful features, and his quick judgment saw that the cold hauteur of her look proceeded more from insensibility to wit, and incapacity for being amused, than from any sense of duty, or apprehension that there would be anything dangerous in his fascinations.They saw that the Baron had joined the Duchess and Randal; and Sir James Stanley was amused at watching the persevering attempts made by the German to engage her attention, and point out some of the remarkable objects which they passed. But apparently he was not successful, and he turned back and joined their party with rather a disappointed look. The Baron was an agreeable German, of cultivated intellect, and his admiration had been thoroughly excited by the charming Duchess.The Germans generally possess less of that sensitive fastidiousness which produces grace; and though deep-seeing and metaphysical, they have less of the insight into the more delicate shades of character than the French, who may be said to possess the metaphysics of the sensations ; so that he was much less shocked than the Marquis at her outbreaks of lionism, which he looked up to as proofs of her originality and strength of mind ; but his pride was hurt at her preferring the conversation of Randal to his own more intellectual discourse,—so that he now began to attempt a flirtation with Julia. The Marquis, although his amour propre was rather hurt at being foiled in his attempt to amuse her, yet was quite willing she should have the distraction of the Baron's conversation. Therefore, with the ready tact of true agreeability, which often consists in giving up to others the post of honour—satisfied that they should succeed where we have failed,—in fact, with genuine unselfishness, he turned towards Sir James Stanley, and proposed that they should go and see some new excavations which had lately been made.Sir James Stanley was a clever man, who was travelling abroad for the sake of his wife's health. Lady Stanley belonged to rather a serious set, and nothing would have induced her to join the party then assembled. He was, however, a most excellent man; and many people wondered at his intimacy with such people as composed that party. But the fact is, he formed one of those connecting links we sometimes see, which seem to unite the bad and good. Such people are occasionally met with abroad, where they throw away all narrow prejudices, and are determined to see and study human nature under all its various forms.'What a lovely creature that Contessa San-Teodoro is,' said the Marquis; 'and I think we have here the best examples of each country,—that is, if the beautiful Mrs. Grant were with us. That sister of Antonini is very charming,—one hardly knows which of the three countries produces the most perfect beauty. There is something so bewitching in the languid air and sleepy passion of the San-Teodoro's eyes,—but she looks as if she had never been fully awakened to a consciousness of her feelings or power,''We do not see the Italian character to advantage in such mixed parties as these,' said Sir James. ' It always appears to me that the Italians amuse themselves in a sort of indolent matter-of-fact way, as if they felt all the time they were fulfilling duties, and that they considered it a good action when they condescend to take the trouble to amuse themselves. They have a sort of bonhomie in their vice which is often very striking,' 'It can scarcely be called vice,' said the Marquis; 'very often it is complete ignorance; the women, especially, can scarcely read; and they know of no duties except the orders of their priest.''As to that, some of our own compatriots are as much under their influence, without the excuse of ignorance. There is the Duchess's sister, the Princess Antonini,—her whole life is taken up with an endeavour to make proselytes; and I am certain it is by Padre Ventura's orders that she brought Mrs. Randal here to-day. They are endeavouring to convert that poor creature, and I pity her extremely, for she has a most worthless husband.''I do not think she is very interesting, or much deserves your pity,' said the Marquis; 'for I remember she almost broke her poor father's heart, and he is a very interesting man. I met him at the beautiful Lady Rochford's; and I remember seeing Mrs. Grant there, too, before she married. Ah, I believe she is the most perfect of the three types, after all. I wish my Duchess would imitate her more. But see—look! she has actually taken that Mr. Randal off in her carriage!' said the Marquis. 'Well, really, that is too bad; and what are we all to do now? There is the Princess looking very much annoyed,—and well she may.''Well, M. le Marquis, where are we to go now?' said the Princess; 'for Beaujolais has started off, and left us in the lurch. I suppose she is gone to Vesuvius,' so we had better follow.''Yes, to see the moon rise,' said the Baron. 'I heard her say so; but she seemed to forget all about it, and went off with your husband,' turning to Julia, whose temper was not improved by this finale to the excursion.The party then drove towards Vesuvius. In those days its ascent was not quite so arduous an undertaking as it became after an eruption (which occurred the following year) had altered the form of the mountain. Still it was a fatiguing walk, and most of the party were extremely tired, and in no very good humour when they reached the summit.In answer to their inquiries about the Duchess and Randal, the guides said that they had seen a young lady and gentleman go up some time before, but they would not take any guide with them.The Marquis and Princess Antonini became now really anxious to know what had become of the giddy Duchess, and they desired the guides to go the whole way round the summit of the crater, and search for them. There was more smoke than usual, that day, coming up from the lower crater, so that they could not see far off; but as the inner sides were very steep, they hoped the Duchess would not have ventured to go down any part of the way.Julia was almost too angry with her husband to feel much alarmed for his safety, and she was very cross with everybody, and tired: so she sat down on the edge of the crater, and looked at the glorious sunset with a feeling of listless indifference, while the rest of the party walked on to search for the missing pair;—for in spite of her follies, the Duchess had too much real charm not to be loved even more than she was admired by those who knew her; so that most of the party felt considerable interest to ascertain her fate.The Marquis de Hauteville was the first to proceed along the narrow ledge of the crater, followed by the others. At last they met two of the guides, carrying the Duchess, whom they had found some distance down the crater, almost suffocated with the smoke. Her shoes were burnt off her feet, and her dress in the greatest disorder. But the fresh air which now blew in her face, at the summit, revived her, and she began to laugh heartily, and inquired what had become of Randal.It appeared that she had persisted in going down, in spite of his remonstrances; for he knew the descent was both difficult and dangerous. When they reached the spot where she was found by the guides, she had dropped a very valuable bracelet, and he had left her to go down further in search of it; and she now begged the guides to go and endeavour to find him; but they shook their heads, and said the mountain was cattivo that evening, and in a very dangerous state, besides which it was getting very dark. The Duchess, who, though a thoughtless person, was really good-natured, became much alarmed for the consequences of her folly, and offered a large sum to the guides if they would venture down. She also implored the Marquis to try and save Randal; but the next moment, when she saw that he was really going to obey her, she rushed towards him, and declared that nothing would induce her to let him stir. 'Only make the guides go; pray make them search for the poor man; it was all my fault. I am such a fool,' and the tears started to her beautiful eyes.At this moment a cry was heard from beneath. 'Bring a rope!' exclaimed the Duchess; it certainly is Mr. Randal.' But there was no rope to be had. 'Our shawls!' said she; 'quick—vite!' and she pulled off her own magnificent cashmere, and seized those of her sister and the other ladies: 'Vite, vite! help me to knot them together.'A long cord was thus formed of the beautiful cashmeres, and the guides and gentlemen held one end. The smoke was so thick, and it was now so dark, they could not see the lower end, but the whole party shouted to Randal, and soon a cry was heard, and they felt that there was a weight attached to it,—so they pulled it gently up.In the meantime, Julia had bethought herself that it appeared very strange that she should be the only one of the party who seemed indifferent to the fate of her husband and his companion; and, as she was now becoming really alarmed, she got up, and endeavoured to find her way to the others. She was met by the whole party, and the guides were now carrying Randal, who was quite exhausted, and his hair and whiskers singed off by the heat, and his hands and clothes much burnt But he had found the Duchess's bracelet, and had strength enough left to place it on her arm, when he sank back fainting.'Here, we have brought your husband all safe,' said the Duchess, who had now recovered her spirits; 'he will soon be quite well. But I need not console you,' she continued, with rather a contemptuous look, 'for I believe you were not half so anxious about him as I was;—and we have spoilt six splendid cashmeres to save him. It is almost more than he is worth,' she continued, in a whisper to the Contessa San-Teodoro.The party now proceeded to descend the mountain, and soon reached the spot where the servants and an excellent repast awaited them.The Contessa San-Teodoro said to the Duchess, in a low tone, 'How could you go away with that Englishman, who, I do not think cares for anybody but himself, and desert that delightful Marquis, who adores you so much, and is so very agreeable? I can't think how you can be so insensible to his attractions.''I am not at all insensible,' said the Duchess, with a sigh; 'it would be better, perhaps, if I were; I love him more than I ever did any one—but what will you? He is so much with me that I sometimes forget, and regard him almost like my brother or my husband; and I must occasionally have a little variety, and a little distraction and excitement.'Lady Kilgrogan felt rather annoyed at not having done something outrageous, and was envious of the éclat the Duchess would obtain,—for Randal's burnt whiskers and disfigured appearance must, for some time to come, retain marks of her doings at Pompeii.Julia's drive home Avas by no means pleasant, for her husband was in one of his most diabolical tempers,—railing against the ill-treatment he received from the world in general, and vowing vengeance against the Duchess, whose childish folly had reduced him to such a deplorable plight.CHAPTER V. THE OLD CROSS.'I WISH you would not go near that melancholy cottage, mamma,' said little Ethel one day, as she accompanied Linda and Dudley in their walk. 'I always feel unhappy in this narrow valley. Let us go up to that cross; I feel happy there, and we can see all over the world from it.''I wonder what has happened in that old building,' said Linda, pointing to the cottage near where Randal and Julia had found themselves one evening, and the sight of which had strangely excited a feeling of horror in his mind. 'There is something very sad in the sight of a ruined cottage,' continued Linda, 'and I really think some dreadful event has occurred within its blackened walls; I can't bear to look at them, but, like Ethel, I always feel happy near that cross. I fancy it is on account of the prayers that have been offered up there for so many centuries. I often think places retain some sort of impression of the feelings of those who have lived in them. An atmosphere of good or evil is in some degree created by the prayers or the evil thoughts of their inhabitants.''Yet a murder has probably been committed near that cross!' said Dudley.'Very likely; yet the prayers of penitent sinners, which for so many centuries must have been offered up, may long ago have purified away the stain of that one crime, and shed a hallowed atmosphere of peace around the old cross.'As they approached it, they were surprised to see a person dressed in black, with a veil over her bonnet, who appeared like a lady, kneeling down before it. But her attitude and air resembled that of the Italian peasants. Her head was bent low, with a sort of contrite look, as if afraid to lift up her eyes to an offended God—yet her hands were clasped in prayer—and a beautiful boy was kneeling at her side. From his attire, he appeared to be an English child, but his dark hair and splendid eyes had that peculiar Italian expression—a sort of languid indolence, that tells of the repose and confidence of power, and in which a smouldering fire seems always ready to kindle into a blaze. When he saw these strangers looking at him, the boy touched his hat with an English air which puzzled them; for his large Italian eyes were regarding them with a look of intense admiration. Then, as if ashamed of having allowed his attention to wander from his prayer, he covered his face, and leaned against the foot of the cross.'She must be an Italian,' said Linda, as they walked away; 'there is that peculiar sort of abandon and grace in the manner in which she leans against the cross, such as no English person Could ever attain.''No,' said Dudley, 'there is an air of wild freedom in southern peasants, untinctured by the reserve which becomes natural in the higher orders of more civilized countries; yet the dress, and what seems like her assumed appearance, is quite English. She must have lived long in our country.''That beautiful boy, too, though so Italian, puts me in mind of something English; what is it? who is he so like?' said Linda.'Oh, don't!' exclaimed little Ethel; 'don't say he's like—for I love that boy—and yet'——'And yet you see that he resembles Mr. Randal,' said Dudley, as he smiled at Ethel's disappointed look.They were all startled at the thought. There was the same Grecian outline, and perfect regularity of features, but the expression was very different.'I wish you had not said that, for it makes me sad,' said Ethel. 'Poor boy! and will he ever get so dark as Mr. Randal, and make everybody unhappy? Oh, no!' she continued, as she turned back to look. No, for he is praying—I see he is, very hard; and God will hear, and make him good.' And she skipped along before them with a lighter heart, to gather some of her favourite wild-flowers.'I wish dear Theresa could come up on this height,' said Linda, 'for this is the most lovely view in the whole neighbourhood; I really think she might venture, if she were carried up the steepest parts, and she is getting stronger, much—do not you think so?' she inquired, looking anxiously in Dudley's face. 'I am afraid you do not think so; yet Clanville said last night he thought her much better. His spirits, too, are so good now.''Yes, since you came, he is quite a different creature; to my great delight he allowed me yesterday to mention a subject which has been quite forbidden ground for years. I have always wished him to marry. His natural shyness deprives him of the enjoyment of general society, and makes him more dependent on his home circle for interest and amusement. And poor Theresa, having in some degree the same dislike to strangers, shuts him out from the chance of becoming acquainted with girls, or meeting any one who might gain his affections.''I never thought in old times that his shyness would continue,' said Linda.'No, nor would it, but for his disappointment,' said Dudley, with a sigh. 'That was fatal, indeed, but it could not be helped; and it was, in a great measure, my fault,' he continued, as he saw her air of regret.'Your fault?' she inquired, with surprise. 'What can you mean—surely, if any one's fault, it was mine.''No, do not reproach yourself. I will explain some day, before I leave Sorrento, what I mean; but I now wanted to tell you about my poor brother, for I think you might assist me in a project I have formed.''I wish it were possible—I would give anything to see him happily married,' said Linda.'I am afraid he will never love again—that blissful dream is, alas, over,' said Dudley, deeply moved; 'but I think he would be much happier if he could marry a sensible person—not very young—who, like himself, had lived over the youthful vision of happiness, and passed through the sad trial of disappointment without bitterness. Such a person is your friend, Miss Barton.''Oh, how charming that would be,' exclaimed Linda:—'how happy they would make each other! and what a companion for dear Theresa!''Yes, there is everything in favour of the plan; but, alas! I doubt whether she would consent. My brother likes her better than any one else, though, of course, he is not at all in love,—but he venerates her good qualities, and her writings have done him more good than those of any modern author. He is, poor fellow, delighted at the idea; only, he feels sure that she would not consent. And I do not wish to subject him to the disappointment of a refusal, nor do I wish to allow his mind to dwell with too much anxiety on the subject, until we ascertain whether he is likely to succeed. So now you see how you could help me.''Yes,' said Linda, while a flush of joy lighted up her pale face. 'But could it be done by writing? or must I wait till I could see her—it may be such a long time before we meet?''I think you may write, for you would be sure to feel your way, and do it well.''I will try,—and fortunately I have a letter almost finished, which I intended to send tomorrow.'CHAPTER VI. THE PENITENT.LITTLE Ethel, who had, during the foregoing conversation, been running about in all directions, picking flowers and enjoying the view, now came to them with breathless haste.'Oh, come,' she said, 'for I see the beautiful boy running down to the creek, and looking so frightened. I am afraid something has happened to the lady. They went some time ago into the ruined cottage; I could see down into it from the top of that rock. Come quick,' she said, as she pulled Linda's dress, and made them hasten in the direction of the cottage.As they approached near it, they were met by the boy, who bowed to them respectfully, and said, in good English, but in a hurried and energetic manner, quite different from the calm look he endeavoured to assume,—'I beg your pardon, but I am in great distress: my poor mother seems very ill,—she has fallen down, and is quite insensible; and you looked so kind, I ventured to come and implore you to help me.'They found the poor lady lying down on the hearthstone of one of the rooms,—her bonnet was off, and the boy had thrown some water over her face; but as yet she gave no signs of returning consciousness. Her long black hair had become loose, and hung in wavy masses round her beautiful figure.'Your mother is not English?' inquired Linda of the boy, while they bathed her temples, and endeavoured to restore animation.'No,—she was born in Italy, but we have always lived in England ever since I can remember, until we came to Naples the other day, with our kind friends, the Miss Stuarts. But oh, will my dear mother recover?—will she ever look at me again?' he exclaimed, as he threw himself down before her, and with a sudden outburst of his anxious feeling, he gave himself up to despair. 'Madre, madre mia!' he exclaimed, taking her cold hands, and pressing them to his lips, while he poured forth his feelings in Italian, and called her by every tender name.At last their efforts were successful, and she opened her eyes, and looked at Linda with a bewildered gaze.'Eduardo, ahi dove sono?' she exclaimed, as she clasped her arms round the child. 'Siamo in Paradiso? e un angelo mi chiama.'Then, as she gazed round on the blackened walls of the rooms, a painful recollection seemed to depress her; she covered her eyes with her hands, and shuddered. 'Ahi no, e inferno—é saro punita, si——maledetta me, e colpa mia. O, madre, padre, perdona, perdona!' and she threw herself on her knees and wept.The boy knelt by her side, and mingled his tears with hers, until, as if afraid his mother's illness would be increased by the excess of her sorrow, he turned to Linda, and said,—'Dear lady, help us,—do not let my mother cry so—she is so good,—oh, so good: she has nothing to reproach herself with.''Si, si, e colpa mia,' said the Italian; and as she looked on the compassionate countenances of Linda and Dudley, she poured forth her whole history. She told them of her guilt: how she had loved a young Englishman more than her parents or her God, and how she had deceived and left them, and given up her country and her honour, and fled with him; and after a short time he had left her, as she deserved; and then, after the birth of her child, she had given herself up to despair, and followed him to England, determined to see him once more, and then die.He would not see her, and he was on the point of being married to a fair English girl. So, in her agony and despair, she threw herself into the Thames, after leaving her child on the bank, to the mercy of strangers. At the moment of drowning, a pang of regret had seized her, as she thought of her poor boy, and dreaded the punishment of eternal suffering. All this passed for the first time through her mind, and then she became insensible, but at last found herself in a room, with kind eyes looking at her.'Like yours now,' she continued,—'only not so beautiful; but they called me back to life again, as you have done. I asked for my child, and the kind lady made inquiries, and after some hours, when I seemed to die a thousand times over, from the fear of losing him, the child was put into my arms, and I recovered, to live for him.'All this was said in Italian, and she wanted to say more; but Linda begged her not to speak again, until she had taken rest and nourishment. They then helped her up, and supported her between them, until they reached the Villa Palavicini.But they found considerable difficulty in per- suading her to enter the house; she said her friends were at Amalfi, and she had promised to return there in the evening: 'besides which, I am a guilty being; I am not fit to enter into your house,' she exclaimed. But Dudley united his entreaties to those of Linda, and with that power of compelling people to follow his wishes which no one possessed in such a high degree, he persuaded her to come in and rest.Dudley promised to send a messenger to the Misses Stuart, to inform them of the lady's illness.'Maria Rossini,' she said, seeing that he was at a loss how to describe her;—'but that is not my real name. I will tell you everything, dear lady,' she continued, turning to Linda;—'only in this place I do not wish to be known, for many reasons.'Mrs. Delamere was enchanted with the lovely creature they had brought home, and endeavoured, with the tact of true kindness, to make her feel at ease. Her nerves were much shaken, and now and then she could not repress her sobs. 'Though it was very ungrateful,' she repeatedly said,—'for she ought to be so thankful for all the undeserved kindness she received.'It appeared from her account that Miss Stuart was one of those kind persons of whom there are, thank God, more than we sometimes believe possible in this world, through our wilful blindness and evil imaginings,—when we, like the Prophet Elijah exclaim, 'I only am left,'—and then find out there are a thousand unknown servants of God 'who have not bowed the knee to Baal.' She was one of those persons who, in sorrow and sudden adversity, seem sometimes to spring up unex- pectedly, when we fancy ourselves all alone in a world of misery.Miss Stuart seemed to have been exactly fitted for the saintlike task of binding up the broken heart, and by her encouragement rekindled the flame of true religion in a mind where belief had hitherto only assumed the form of superstition. For Paulina (her real name) was gifted by nature with one of those rare dispositions which seemed formed to bless all around; and yet by adverse circumstances and the intensity of her feelings, she had caused the death of both her parents by a broken heart.She knew that they had died, for Miss Stuart caused inquiry to be made soon after she had saved Paulina, and then it was that her utmost exertions were used to keep alive the smoking flame which was again almost extinguished in Paulina's heart, from the excess of her despairing remorse. Then it was that Miss Stuart showed herself to be one of those 'Who skill of comfort best.'She tried to divert the poor sufferer's mind by making her study, and stirred up her energies to try and gain a livelihood for her son. She showed her how dependent the poor child must be upon her for everything; and thus Paulina gradually became developed in heart and mind. She had great talents, and began to find pleasure in their exercise.She had become a great proficient in music and drawing, and her faculty of learning languages was so great that she could now speak most modern tongues, as well as her own. Miss Stuart saw she was competent to give lessons, and obtained pupils for her; although Paulina would never consent to appear different from what she was, or lead any one to imagine that her child was born in lawful marriage.Yet the contrite humility of her manners, and her gentle subdued expression, could scarcely fail in touching those who saw her, so that she had not found much difficulty in obtaining pupils. She had of course met with many slights and rebuffs; but she told Linda these had been of great advantage to her, otherwise she might have learnt to forget her sin. And Miss Stuart had agreed with her, that great is the mistake too often made by those who wish to shield penitents from the consequences of their fault. The world is just, often, in its apparent injustice, when it visits the sins of youth, not only of parents on their children, but the errors committed in youth, by marks of disapprobation through their entire lives. Otherwise the landmarks of right and wrong would be effaced.The only motive which had induced Paulina to change her name was, that she wished the man who so greatly wronged her should never know that she had not been drowned. Miss Stuart had reason to suppose that he imagined she was,—that he supposed she was dead; for it so happened that she had remarked a gentleman gazing on the apparently lifeless form of the unfortunate girl; and there was something in his countenance and in his assumed composure, which led her to suppose he might have been her seducer. And the man's handsome face and regular features exactly answered the description Paulina had given of him.As her feelings became more and more elevated by the study of scripture, Paulina's standard of perfection became higher also, and she started with horror at reflecting bow different had been that of her lover. Yet she did not learn to reproach him; far otherwise, she only wondered more and more at her own strange infatuation, and contemned herself more and more, as years passed by, for having allowed her affections to be gained by a person so inferior to the true Christian character.Who this seducer was, Linda discovered by accident, the following morning, when Mrs. Randal was announced. Perhaps she had some suspicion before, which made her watch Paulina's countenance, and endeavour to shield her from Julia's observation until she had time to become more composed. And then she led her into the garden, while Mrs. Delamere told Julia of the strange occurrence which had brought such a beautiful visitor to their house the preceding evening.'I see you are prepared for this—that you are acquainted with him,' said Paulina, 'I fancied so, yesterday, from the manner in which you all looked at Edoardo! He is, indeed, like his father. Now that I have discovered he is here, I must return at once to Amalfi.''You need not fear; he is gone to Naples. Mrs. Randal is alone at present, and a sad life I am afraid she leads.''Poverina! and does she really love him?''As much as such a man can be loved, I believe. She is unhappy, because she followed her own inclinations, and disobeyed her father—who is the best man that ever lived, and because she has no faith, and no humility. But all this might have happened if she had married any one else of whom her father disapproved. His heart was nearly broken by her conduct; but I fear she is not penitent, she does not endeavour to repent as you do; she is proud and sullen, not humble and retenance, as you are.''Ah, but she has not sinned so much against the laws of God as well as man! I disobeyed the laws of God more than she did, and therefore she does not so much deserve to suffer as I. And she cannot feel the same necessity for repentence, nor is she reminded of her errors as I am by the scorn I meet with from many, many persons.''Now, then, I will say Addio,' continued Paulina; 'but we must meet again. I will come, and will bring Miss Stuart over with me from Amalfi to see you, if—if you will let me. I cannot regret the weakness which made me so upset in the dear abode of my parents; for by it I have seen your angel face, and that of your kind and sweet child. But oh. it was fearful to see the cottage where I spent the happy days of my youth, with my beloved father and mother, and where they had died lonely and broken-hearted on account of my sin, in their old age! I was their only joy—they had no other child; and as I stood there yesterday, the tones of their voices and their dear faces, came before me so vividly, that I almost fancied they were really come back again from the grave to meet me there, and give me what I deserve—their curse, and not their blessing! Ah! how utterly unworthy I was of such parents,—how regardless of all my mother's teaching, of all her prayers, when she used to kneel before that old cross with me beside her, and pray for the Madonna's blessing on her unworthy and ungrateful child!''But you are worthy of them now. Your sufferings have not been in vain; you will meet your dear parents again in glory.''Yes, I can often now imagine even that pos- sible; and I am blessed with the firm conviction that they are now enjoying eternal rest,—that they no longer suffer from my ingratitude.'During the following weeks Paulina often came to see Linda; but she did not venture to bring her child, lest Julia should be struck with the likeness, and mention it to her husband.CHAPTER VII. THE CONFESSION.THE Randals were both absent from Sorrento for a week after the Pompeian party; and then Julia returned alone. She gave Linda and her friends a long account of her grievances,—of the infamous treatment of her husband by the Duchess de St. Didiée, which had made him very ill; and he had determined to go to Rome and consult a doctor there, who understood his constitution. Julia had been anxious to accompany him; he had suffered so much, and seemed so grateful to her for nursing him, that his old influence over her had revived, and she forgot his faults, and was now only anxious to fulfil his wishes. He had been particularly anxious that she should return to Sorrento, and pass as much of her time with Linda as possible, so she joined all their parties, and spent most of her evenings with them.The Antoninis had gone with the Duchess and the Marquis de Hauteville on an expedition into Calabria, and the Kilgrogans would probably follow, though Julia had tried to persuade her cousin to come to Sorrento, and visit Mrs. Delamere. But Lady Kilgrogan shrank from suffering, and could not endure to see illness, or to be reminded of the uncertainty of all things in this world.'I can scarcely believe,' said Dudley, when he was walking with Linda the last evening before he intended to return to Vienna,—'I can scarcely believe that what Julia tells me is true, and that you made up that match of poor Lord Kilgrogan and Lady Helena.''Yes, indeed I did,' said Linda, with a self-reproachful sigh; 'but I thought I did it for the best then, for Lady Rochford told me the poor girl was so deeply in love with him, and was just the sort of sensible, good, high-principled girl that would make a good wife, and influence him in the right course, that I persuaded him into it. Now, I fear that Helena could only have been in love with his marquisate and his riches, and that these were also the great attractions in Lady Rochford's eyes. But it is very sad. I have never ceased to reproach myself as the cause of his unhappiness.''You should not do that; for, after such an appeal from Lady Rochford, it would certainly have been difficult to refuse her; and you were so young, too, at the time!' said Dudley; and then he added, after a pause, and with a voice in which emotion was strangely struggling with the usual quiet dignity of his tone, 'Linda, before I go, there is something I must say,—for there should be perfect confidence between us, and I feel we ought to read each other's entire histories, and that the reason of the strange estrangement in which we have all lived for the last eight years should be accounted for. I wish I could have remained until Mr. Grant arrived,—I should like to have seen you quite happy with him; and perhaps it would have been better to say in his presence what I am now going to utter; but I find I am unexpectedly summoned to Vienna to-morrow,—therefore, this is my last opportunity.Yet you must know,' he continued, in a tremulous voice,—'you must long ago have felt, that I loved you in past years more than I ought—more than was consistent with my brother's views. I knew he was attached to you—I knew that his great object in life was that you should be his wife; and when I made the startling discovery that I also loved you with more than a brother's affection, I was so overwhelmed with shame and remorse, that it almost deprived me of reason; and in my selfish agony I forgot the possibility that you might——but it is useless to say more,—you now see, and know all the truth; but you must have felt all this long ago!'Linda said nothing, and they did not even look at each other for some minutes; but if ever there was a rapturous moment of joy in this world, they felt it then! Such a feeling could be only fully understood by those who have loved intensely with the strong conviction that their love was not returned. For except remorse, there is no suffering so great—no feeling so crushing and depressing—as the conviction that we love in vain,—that is, when we become conscious of the feeling; for the dawn of love, before we are aware of its existence, is a sort of heavenly light which illumines our whole being with rays of joy!But Linda had been roused from this state of happy unconsciousness before her marriage, and with it she made, as she thought, the startling discovery that she had loved in vain. Then the solitary feeling began: the helpless endeavour to do right, the earnest striving for faith—faith in the goodness of God, and hopes for future joy,—though all felt dark, and she could see no light in life or death! And her endeavours had been, in a great measure, successful: she had learnt to hope and pray; and now, as if to crown her joy and to give a more perfect charm to all the blessings she had received, the vague weight which had depressed her for years was quite removed. She seemed to breathe still more freely. All the enchantment she had felt when they met again, after so many years' absence, and which she sometimes feared would vanish when Dudley was gone, seemed to assume a more positive and permanent form, and she thought nothing could ever make her really unhappy again,—not even the conviction that she might possibly never meet him any more in this world. Her affection seemed sanctioned by his; and it seemed to give an excuse and a reason for its having originally sprung up in her heart. The solitary feeling which had isolated her from the entire confidence and perfect sympathy of any one except her mother-in-law, was now banished—gone for ever, and she could tell Mr. Grant, and even in time, perhaps, her own mother, all that had passed. She felt as if she had been listening all her life before to the chord of the seventh, and that now it had resolved itself into the key-note of full and perfect harmony.Dudley's master mind, and the deep knowledge he had of her peculiar character from early childhood, had caused him to divine all this; and he had wished to make everything clear, that, when he was gone, she should have no doubts, no perplexing thoughts or self-reproaches, to cloud or depress her.Mr. Grant was expected in a few day's; but Dudley had just received a letter which obliged him to start for Vienna the following morning. He had been particularly anxious to remain until Mr. Grant arrived, on many accouuts, but especially because he felt sure that Randal had some sinister design—some mysterious motive, which made him force his and Julia's unwelcome presence on Linda and her mother.'Dear Mrs. Grant was right,' said Linda, after they had proceeded some time in silence. 'She said I should be happier if I saw you again.''And you really told her, dear Linda? Were you so unhappy as to be obliged to ascertain the cause? Oh, then, Lady Rochford has much to answer for! I should certainly have tried to see you that day after I met her, if I had not been unexpectedly ordered to return to Vienna! I since discovered that it was her doing! It is, indeed, a rial to think—to know—that we might——''But, Mr. Grant——it would have been so unfair, so cruel,' said Linda. 'Surely, Lady Rochford acted for the best, as she thought, to save me from inflicting such pain.''I doubt whether that was quite her motive,' said Dudley, with a smile, 'although she fancied it was; she had other views, I saw plainly. And one of them was, I remember hearing at the time, that Lord Kilgrogan had declared he would not marry Lady Helena until you were married too; therefore, she thought that if I had seen you, your marriage with Mr. Grant would have been broken off; and, judging all mothers by herself, she could not fancy that dear Mrs. Delamere would consent to allow her beautiful daughter to marry a penniless younger brother like myself. Then your marriage would have been indefinitely postponed, I dare say she thought; Lord Kilgrogan's hopes would be revived; and he, waiting for the chance of your accepting him at some future time, would have thrown over Lady Helena! I see quite enough to account for her manœuvring. If Mr. Grant be really the person I imagine him to be from all accounts, and from the affection with which you regard him, I cannot but think that his love was of that unselfish character that he would have infinitely preferred your happiness to his own gratification; and that he would willingly have submitted to the disappointment of losing you——if—you had really then preferred a person so unworthy as I am. I have never spoken on this subject before, nor should I now have done so, but that I heard you were ill, and that your illness was attributed to an unhappiness of which I feared I may have been the cause; and if, as I thought possible, you had not known my reasons for avoiding you ever since we grew up, I wished to explain them, and make all clear; and I therefore trust my words may restore the balance to your mind, without depriving Mr. Grant of any portion of that affection to which he must be so fully entitled. If I have done wrong, I pray you to forgive me; but I have judged you by myself, for I have felt that all my subsequent sufferings since you married, when I discovered my hopes were futile, were nothing to the agony I endured when I thought I had always loved without return. But, however, I must not now speak any more of the past; I have said enough, for my only object is to smoothe the. difficulties which my stupidity and folly have thrown in your path through life.''Everything seems easy now,' said Linda; 'for I now feel that what I did before—the happiness I tried so hard to assume, in order to cheer others, will now be real. My greatest trial was to feel how little use I was to Mr. Grant—that another sort of person would have suited him so much better; and the more his good qualities excited my affection and admiration, the more I regretted being so unlike him, and entering so little into his feelings and tastes.''Yet I heard you acted as if you had been born for no other purpose than to be Mr. Grant's wife,—that you entered perfectly into all his schemes and improvements. Surely there was nothing to reproach yourself with in this. If you had been ever so much in love, you could not have acted more kindly.''Perhaps not; but I should have felt differently; all would have been easy and have come quite natural. I should have been a 'cheerful giver,' instead of having, as old Eleanor shrewdly remarked, 'chosen a weary way, and all alone, too;' as I was then without faith, or hope of or in anything but to make all those poor sufferers happy. I certainly succeeded, thank God, with his mother. I suited her so well—better, I believe, than any of her own children; for I could enter into her more fully, and she understood me so much better than my own dear mother. Oh, if she——if mamma——now suspected the truth, how miserable she would be, to think that we—that I——''It was all my fault,' said Dudley, after a pause; 'I was older, and had more experience, and I ought to have known more clearly my brother's unselfish love for me; and that he would have given up most gladly all his best hopes in this world for my happiness. I did him great injustice in not trusting him, and also your dear mother. I see it all now. It is deeply humiliating to see how sadly I have erred; and what a coward I was to desert my post—to mistrust even your friendship—to leave you just at a time when your want of faith, the difficulty I well knew you found in believing the truth of revelation, was most likely to lead you wrong. Ah! you have much to forgive,' he continued; 'and it was very foolish in me to have been misled by the coldness of your manners when I returned, after nearly two years' absence, and found you no longer a child. How could I expect you to evince the same kind of bounding joy?''Ah!' said Linda, 'it was because I felt it so much more, that made me so strangely ashamed of showing any. See!—who is that?' she exclaimed, with a start—'Paulina running towards us, down the hill. What can have happened?''Ahi, Signori! return home—here, this way; lose not a moment! I have seen him!' she continued, with flashing eyes. 'I recognised him, although he was disguised as a bandit, with false red beard and eyebrows; and there are a number of men with him, all armed. Run faster—faster; let us go into the Villa, Spada gardens, and then we shall be safe. This way, across the path—I know it well.' She had caught up little Ethel in her arms, who had been gambolling at a little distance, and with the other hand she seized Linda's arm,—and, as Dudley fully believed that Randal would attempt some violence, he helped them on as fast as possible. They soon reached the outskirts of the gardens of his brother's villa; and they entered by a private gate, which had a path down to the seashore.'Thank God!' said Paulina, as soon as she had recovered breath; 'we are safe for the present—but oh, do not loiter. I should like to get the Signora within the walls of the house. But oh, Dio mio—what will, what will happen?—do not leave this place, I pray, to-morrow. Mr. Randal is in league with Gasparone, for I recognised him too; and they may break into the house. They intended to seize you both to-day—I saw it. They were concealed behind a rock, near the path where you generally walk. I was so miserable all the day that I felt convinced he was near; and I saw you set out in that direction, so I determined to go on by a short-cut before you. Thank God for having given me the presentiment.''Can Julia be aware that he is in league with the banditti?' inquired Dudley, as they walked towards the house.'I fancy she is' said Paulina; 'for I observed her start, when we heard that the Duchess of St. Didiée and her party had been attacked at Pæs-tum. But, I implore you not to leave us now—not, at all events, until your brother returns from Naples, or that Mr. Grant arrives.''Surely they would not attack a house in Sorrento?' said Dudley.'I hope not; but when two such spirits as his and Gasparone's are united, who can tell what will happen?—and the safer plan will be, to bring Mrs. Delamere home to your house. I know,' she continued, in a whisper—'my mother lived as nurse in the Spada family; and she told me of a secret room there is in that house, from which a passage runs down to the seashore. I think I could find it—for my grandmother also was nurse to the Spada, and it was a secret then; and it is probably not known now, as the place has been sold since. Do not say a word of this; above all, to Mrs. Randal—for she is, I see, completely under the influence of her husband, and no doubt will inform him of whatever you do.'It was then arranged that, without saying anything of the real reason to any one, and under the pretext of not leaving Lady Theresa alone, on Dudley's forced departure for Vienna, the inhabitants of the Villa Palavicini should take up their quarters with their friends Lady Theresa was delighted at the move; and the prospect of having her old and devoted friend under the same roof served in some measure to console her for the sad prospect of losing her favourite brother the following day. They invited Mrs. Randal to pass the evening with them, as usual; but, from her manner, they did not think that she at all suspected that her husband was in the neighbourhood, or was aware of his having left Rome. Linda and Dudley agreed that it would be better not to say anything to Mrs. Delamere or Lady Theresa of their adventure with Paulina, and the latter having seen Randal with the banditti, as in their present delicate state, any alarm or excitement might bring back a return of their maladies; and this, in Lady Theresa's case, would inevitably prove fatal.CHAPTER VIII. THE MYSTERY.'A LETTER from Linda—a foreign letter!' exclaimed Miss Polly Barton; 'I thought we should hear from her soon, for I have been dreaming about her so much;—what dreadfully thin paper! I wonder you can read it—and how you are devouring its contents! I hope you mean to read it out loud, for I never could decipher those close lines. But, dear me! something has happened to her—you look anxious and sad! Oh, well, if you can laugh too, it's all right; and now you are blushing, too, and look quite surprised and confused. Do read it out, now, and don't tantalize me so, with your expressive face.'Miss Barton went to see that the door was well closed, and then proceeded to satisfy her sister's curiosity.'How very delightful!' said Polly, when she had heard some of the beginning of the letter; 'how very delightful for her to have met with her old friends, and how happy she seems! I can't think why you looked so anxious.''Oh!' she exclaimed, clapping her hands joyfully, as Miss Barton proceeded with the letter; 'so you will be a countess after all! Oh, what enchantment! and have that beautiful old place, Clanville Court, and Mr. Dudley and that interesting Lady Theresa for brother and sister. Why, you don't look half pleased enough.''Surely it would not be advisable for me to accept Lord Clanville's proposal,—although I am most grateful to him and to dear Linda, and Mr. Aylmer; it shows what a very high opinion they are so kind as to have of me. But no! though far from young, yet still I am not sufficiently old to marry without love.''Yet surely,' exclaimed Polly, 'Lord Clanville is a sort of person one could be very fond of,—amiable, well-looking,—and clever, too, from what I have heard.''Yes, all that, is very true! I have a strong friendship for him, and——but——besides, authorship has been a sort of profession with me, and I feel it right to continue to devote my best faculties to it;—that I could influence more for good in that way than as Countess of Clanville, at the head of an establishment——I have never cultivated either my managing or conversational powers. It would all bore me very much.''But there is no reason for giving up authorship,' said Polly; 'you would have full leisure—even more so than now; for then you might have a person to attend on me,' and have no trouble, as you have now.''And what advantage would it be to Lord Clanville to have a dull, silent person sitting opposite to him at meals, and going off to her writing-table as soon as she had done? He does not want an authoress,—he wants a wife. No; it would be extremely disagreeable for him, and really no use to any one. So do not say anything more about it.''Well, I see there would be no use,—for when once you put on that resolute air, one might as well talk to the cathedral and try to turn it round. Yet it is really trying to think you wont consent to be a Countess—like Lady Rochford;—why do you laugh? surely there is no reason why you should not be just as great a person! She said, herself, talent was more valued than anything else; therefore, there is no reason why you, as Countess of Clanville, should not have just as much and still more influence, and exert it much more usefully than she does. But you are not thinking of what I am saying.''No; for I feel very anxious about Linda: the position she is in is much more dangerous than I see she imagines.''Dangerous! why, I thought your friend, Mr. Aylmer, quite perfection,—that he was less likely to do wrong than anybody; and Linda, too—they have always been your beau ideals of everything that is good and elevated!''So they are; and I have more confidence in the purity of their intentions than I have of any two human beings. But I also know that the temptation—the trial to them is much greater—infinitely greater than to any other two people; for their love—such a love!—must have been immense beyond all idea, and now they must discover it was mutual.''But Linda has been very happy in her marriage; she is very fond of Mr. Grant;—and then her beautiful child, too: surely there can be no real danger for her.''I hope not; but the approaches of sin are sometimes so mysteriously subtle; the evil spirit in our nature lies so concealed, and Satan so often transforms himself into an angel of light, that such intellects as Linda's and Dudley's would be all the more likely to be led astray. But I trust they have the daily and hourly protection of prayer.But the great danger for them will be that, conscious of their own purity and good intentions, they will not be sufficiently aware of the extreme danger of their position. That Mr. Grant should know it—that she will inform her husband of all as soon as he arrives—will not be sufficient protection, unless they see the necessity for earnest prayer. 'They love much'—they must love. Then her extreme veneration and high opinion of Dudley will be dangerous, unless he keeps firmly on the gigantic height in which she has deified him. Oh, now she is really happy; I see it in evèry line—in the very look of her handwriting!—the expression of decision it used to have when she was a girl has returned, and has developed more than ever.''How anxious it makes you look, dear Susan; yet you did not like her being unhappy before,—and you said you could see, with all the cheerfulness she assumed, that she was not quite really happy.''No, one is never quite satisfied,' said Susan; 'but then we love her so much, and perhaps I am wrong now to be so apprehensive. But a strange idea has struck me. Do you remember a paragraph there was, about a week ago, in the newspaper, copied, I think, from a French paper, about a beautiful young English lady, who was spending the winter at Naples for her health?—who——''Yes,' interrupted Polly, 'and I felt sure it was intended for Lady Kilgrogan and Mr. Randal. You know we heard she has become a dreadful flirt, and though she is anything but beautiful, yet they always make people so in the papers.''Nor did she go abroad for her health,' said Susan, musingly; 'but Mr. Randal—as far as that goes, you may be right; and from some spite against Linda and her mother, he may have put that paragraph in the paper: that man is capable of anything! This makes me still more fearful for them; his malice would be so much gratified if Linda's fair fame were in any way injured.''But he would never venture to put such——There is a knock! perhaps it is dear Mr. Seaton—they were to arrive yesterday.'CHAPTER IX. BAD NEWS.IN a few minutes the door was opened, and Mr. Seaton entered the room. The six years which had passed since his recovery from his dangerous illness had left some traces of suffering behind. Yet his countenance was still as handsome as ever, only his stoop was now more habitual, and his step less firm. But what he had lost in the appearance of vigorous health, he had gained in a more habitual and buoyant cheerfulness. It was no longer resignation, for his eyes now beamed with delight: all the fun which for years had been repressed now found vent, and he was the idol of all who knew him.Yet, to the surprise of both sisters, there was now an anxious look on his countenance as he came into the room.'I see you have received a foreign letter, too,' he said, in a hurried manner, pointing to the one Susan held in her hand. 'Perhaps, then, you know what has happened, and that I need not be the messenger of ill.''It is from Linda, but she does not mention any bad news; on the contrary, her health seems much restored, and her mother was getting better.''What is the date?' he inquired, with anxiety,—'the 21st?—the very day before—before——; but I can't think it can be true, though Julia writes so circumstantially. I am convinced there is some diabolical trick—some design of that Mr. Randal's,' he continued, with something of his old angry impetuosity. 'And what does Linda say?—does she mention Mr. Aylmer?''Yes, she is full of the great happiness she is enjoying in the society of her oldest and dearest friends.''All quite natural; and I cannot think any evil could come of it,' said Mr. Seaton; 'but I must tell you what Julia writes,—for I suppose the papers will be full of it soon; indeed, a paragraph in a French paper seems, in some degree, to have led to the catastrophe. On the morning of the twenty-second, the post brought them, so Julia says, a newspaper, in which there was a paragraph containing an account of a beautiful young English lady, &c.''I saw it last week,' said Polly, 'and we were talking about it just before you came in; I said it must relate to Lady Kilgrogan.''No, it was intended for Linda and Dudley, no doubt; though I feel sure their conduct could not have given any reason for such a report. It must have been fabricated by some enemy, because it seems that Linda read it, and whether she was afraid to see her husband, who was expected that very evening, or that she dreaded her mother's displeasure, she was seen to run out of the house with the paper in her hand, and she did not return. Dudley also disappeared at the same time, and as no clue could be obtained as to the whereabouts of either, good-natured friends,' he added, with biting sarcasm, 'are sure to have concluded that they eloped together. But I will never believe it. Only the result was very sad, for Mrs. Delamere was seized with convulsions on being informed of the event, after reading the fatal paragraph, and she is so dangerously ill that her life is despaired of.''And what has become of Lord Clanville? Could he not find his brother, and throw some light on the mystery?' inquired Susan.'He was unfortunately absent at Naples; they had not heard of him; and Julia mentions that the Prince Antonini, and a French Marquis de Hauteville, whom I remember meeting at Lady Rochford's, both most zealously endeavoured to institute inquiries, and obtain, if possible, some clue to the mysterious disappearance of poor Linda and Dudley.''And poor dear Mrs. Delamere alone with only the invalid Theresa, how very dreadful! and where was Mr. Randal all the time?' inquired Susan, with eagerness.'At Rome—so Julia says, at least; but I doubt if she knows, for he takes her in; he deceives her, and has her most completely under his influence,—that I saw long ago. Mr. Grant had not arrived when she wrote, but he was expected every hour; and the poor child, the dear little Ethel, was in a most dreadful state of anxiety. And how sad it is to be so far away, and able to do nothing to help them all, poor things; we can't even hear for another week at least.''But there comes my little comfort,' continued Mr. Seaton, as his face brightened, and a knock was heard at the door. 'Little Margaret would not leave me long, though I begged her to let me come first, as I do not wish her mind to dwell on these sad details; she is so over-sensitive and apprehensive about those she loves.'Little Margaret was now nearly fifteen, and had grown up to be a very interesting girl, though now not so beautiful as her childhood seemed to promise. Her health was not strong,—or rather she seemed to be worn by the intensity of her feelings. Since her father's illness, her affection for him had, if possible, increased, and she seemed never now quite happy when away from him even for a few minutes. It was as if she valued the remainder of that life in proportion as it was drawing to a close, for Mr. Seaton was now nearly eighty.Yet Margaret was very far from appearing sad; on the contrary, her merry laugh, when awakened by any little joke of her father's, was most inspiriting to hear, and her eyes beamed with a sort of exulting delight as she looked on him. She seemed to live in him, and for him.'How glad I am to see you two dear people again, she exclaimed, as she bounded into the room; and after kissing the two Miss Bartons, she went to sit down by her father. And I have a message from mamma, for I dare say papa has forgotten to give it.—Ah, I thought so. Mamma wants you to dine with us to-morrow; and if you can't, any other day; and she will send a long wheeling-chair that we have got on purpose for Polly,—it is to bring her upstairs, and our man can carry her down. You shan't look so grave and sensible, for I will have my own way,—and we have got such beautiful flowers in Aunt Rochford's vases. I have brought here a Malachite vase, too, that the Duke of Dartford gave me, and there is a stephanotis in full bloom in it; I brought it to W——on purpose to show Polly, so she must come, for it is too heavy to bring here.''And you went to the Duke's place in Scotland, with Linda, last summer, did you not?' said Polly. 'And is it so very beautiful?''Yes, I suppose it is,' said Margaret, while a sudden cloud passed over her expressive countenance;—'but all the country there is so very lovely, and I think the view from Craggie Castle the most beautiful of any.''But the Duke's house is quite a palace, is it not?''Yes,—and I wish——I wish——But your flowers are not in such good order as they used to be,' she said, darting playfully over to the window. I must bring you some new ones, and it is very wrong of me to come without any. Papa, we must bring Susan some of our new stephanoti plants. But how sad you all are,—and you, too, have had a letter from dear, dear Linda,' And as the tears started to her eyes, she said,—'and something dreadful has happened, and I must not know it. No, I will not ask dear papa, for I see he would rather not tell me yet; and I will try and not let you think of it; for at this distance you can do no good. So, dear Susan, you must not cry, for Linda would not like to see us grieve, I am sure, whatever it is,—for she always wishes, always makes everybody happy.''And I ought to try and follow her example, and so I will;—let me see what will interest or amuse you,' continued Margaret, holding up her finger to her pretty mouth with a graceful, meditative air. ' Ah, you wanted to hear about the Duke of Dartford's place, dear Polly; and I was so foolish as not to like to tell you,—I am sure I don't exactly know why, for it makes me quite ill-natured. And it is so strange,—I sometimes regret he has such very splendid palaces!Well! it is all magnificent,—beautiful gardens, and that sort of thing, you know, and splendid pictures,—all his ancestors; and one beautiful lady—her picture I mean, hanging up in the long gallery,—his great-great-grandmother;—it is so exactly like him, you can't think. And he has built such beautiful school-houses and cottages, and——And I do hope he will marry dear cousin Jane, for Aunt Rochford has set her heart upon it,' she continued, with a slight tinge of sadness.'And you really wish your cousin to be Duchess of Dartford?' inquired Susan, regarding her with a penetrating look.'Yes, I do wish she were Duchess of Dartford, but——but——I wish, too, he were not the Duke of Dartford,' she said, slowly, as if weighing fully the meaning of her words. 'I wish he were a poor curate, like brother Charles Gray, before he got the living of Harting; and I should like to be able——but all this is so foolish. Dear Susan, pray don't let me talk such nonsense, for I am so childish and ignorant, and you know Jane is twenty, and very clever and accomplished, and such a dear, sensible, wise, kind creature.''But does she love the Duke?' inquired Miss Barton.Margaret meditated deeply, and then said, 'She likes him very much, and she thinks he is the most perfect man that ever lived: but——but——''Well, never mind,' said Mr. Seaton, who had been watching her with intense interest; 'you can't quite know, darling, what her feelings are; for no one can read quite into each other's heart; but I am sure of this, that if Lady Jane does not love him, she will not accept him; if——''Not even to please her mother?' inquired Margaret, with anxiety.'No, I am sure she will not.''Well, I am glad of that,' said Margaret ; 'for I should not like him to be married, even to dear Jane, if she did not—if she does not feel, oh, so happy, so happy, when he is near,—as if she were in heaven,—as happy—as happy as I do with my own darling papa.'CHAPTER X. THE ACHING HEARTS.WHEN they were gone, Polly said,—'I almost tremble when I see the deep affection that child has for her father. What will become of her when he dies? Could she ever get over it?''You may well think of that! and as to what will become of her—what, indeed! I only hope that——I really believe she will enjoy a more 'sure and certain hope' of immortality—that she will see and feel plainer and clearer than any of us, that he is gone before—entered sooner into perfect joy, where she will surely join him. Dear child! but I do hope her career in this world will be prosperous; for if ever there was a disposition which seemed to require no more trials than she has already had, it is Margaret's.''And you suspect she has already suffered—and that she is in love with the Duke of Dartford, I apprehend?''Yes, and I fear Lady Rochford is at her old tricks again; untaught by experience, and unmoved by all the suffering she has witnessed, or the unhappiness she caused by forcing that Kilgrogan marriage; she cannot stand that people should be able to say she has not married her other daughters well; and from what Linda told me, she seemed to think it a sort of disgrace if her plain daughters do not make splendid marriages; and you may depend upon it, she is deter- mined to make the Duke marry Lady Jane, coute qui coute.''Oh, I hope not; she seemed so penitent,—so very sorry for having made up that match between Lady Helena and Lord Kilgrogan.''Yes, I am sure she felt it then,' said Susan; 'but she is still liable to fall a victim to the snares of this world, and I saw that her self-love was flattered when she was here, at finding herself so happy in this dull old town without the usual excitement she had before thought necessary to her existence;—whereas, I am afraid it was partly the change and the pleasure of being admired and loved by a totally different set of people.''But she is so fond of Margaret, too; do you remember, she seemed really very glad that her brother had left his fortune to that lovely child, in preference to one of her own.''Yes, her innate nobleness and generosity,—the very qualities which have helped to make her so popular, would cause her to feel real joy at her niece's good fortune, and she was glad, for she loved little Margaret deeply. Well, we shall see! May God touch her heart, and prevent her from doing what I fear would break that poor child's! And now, I trust, too, that this dreadful report about Linda and Dudley will show her still more the evil of meddling and interfering in such an awful thing as marriage,—severing two hearts that were formed for each other!''And it was in some way about this very Duke, was it not?'inquired Polly—' but I can't believe that kind-looking creature, Lady Rochford, could be so ill-natured,—she could not have known that Linda loved Dudley?''I fear she wilfully blinded herself: yet she was really fond of Linda, too, and so she is of Margaret. Perhaps she may have learnt more wisdom,—but then, she has had no real trials yet—nothing—no misfortune that really touched her.''But she will feel this about Linda—I am sure she will,' said Polly.A few days after, two serious ladies called on the Misses Barton,—Miss Scroggins, and her widowed sister, Mrs. Jacob Tight. They rarely condescended to call on people who had such a strong tendency to worldly-mindedness, as they considered Polly and her sister to possess; and looked down especially on Miss Barton, who, 'though a good soul, devoted all her time to such a debasing and sinful employment as writing novels.'These ladies were full of the news about poor Linda and Dudley:—'Your grand friend, Mrs. Grant,' as they said to Susan. 'Doubtless, she has been debasing her mind with foreign literature,—above all, those French novels; not that we would even look at the outside of them; so I am sure we know nothing as to what they are about,—but from what we have heard, they must be quite enough to lead people astray; and it all comes of her learning so many profane languages, and singing Italian songs about love, and that sort of thing.'The Misses Barton tried to suggest that nothing had occurred to prove Mr. Aylmer and Mrs. Grant had eloped, and that, therefore, 'we must suspend our judgment until we hear more,' but the ladies had taken up a high position, put full faith in the report, and would not be brought down from it; and they soon after took their leave.'How very ill-natured,' said Polly, when they were gone; 'they seemed to enjoy the reports about dear Linda.''It is an excitement—an event for them, and they cannot help making the most of it,' said her sister.'How provoking you are, Susan,' said Polly, angrily; 'I declare that instead of being exasperated at Miss Scroggins's abuse of Linda, you try to find excuse for her.''It is hard for Linda, certainly; but remember that Miss Scroggins and Mrs. Tight do not think it right to read works of fiction; and as they fall asleep over history, they have no amusement—nothing to excite and keep them alive but the interest they take in the faults and misfortunes of their neighbours. They do not really mean to be unkind; and if they knew more of Linda, and could remove a few of the little prejudices that warp their feelings and judgment, I have no doubt but that they would feel as wretched as we do about her.''Wretched, indeed!' said Polly; 'since I heard of it, I have quite lost the little appetite I usually have for my meals, and can't even find pleasure in my tea!—and to think we may not hear anything more of her for a whole week!'CHAPTER XI. THE DISGUISE.IN a retired boudoir of the Antonini Villa at Sorrento, two beautiful women were occupied at their toilette, or rather in the endeavour to disguise themselves;—for the object of each seemed to be to leave no traces of their real selves—to appear as unlike as possible to what nature had formed them.'Are you sure the doors are well fastened?' inquired the younger of the two; 'for I would not for the world that the Marquis discovered what I am doing;—and how will you contrive to dye my hair and eyebrows?''Wait a minute,' said the other, 'and don't look at yourself in the glass until I give you leave; and then I defy man or woman, or what is more to the purpose, Gasparone himself, to recognise you.''And will you make me like yourself? I wish you would,—for I never saw so beautiful a creature as you are, dear, dear Paulina; I love you so very much. And it was so very good of you to confide in me, and to give me credit for a wish to liberate your noble friends, Miladi Grant and le Chevalier Aylmer; and, believe me, I will keep your secret—no one shall ever know that you exist. How I wish I were like you in mind and in penitence, too. And your sad history has made me reflect so much;—I do really think now of reforming my ways: and if the Due would be but kinder, and the——''Stay—don't move your cheek, for I am putting on a colour to darken your complexion.''But will it come off afterwards?' asked the fair Frenchwoman, with some anxiety, as she involuntarily drew back her face.'Never fear—it will, certainly; only don't delay me, for speed is of the utmost importance, and the wind may change; and our boat must get round the point before noon, if possible.''Well, go on—I wont say another word.'After Paulina had finished her task, she said, 'There, now look in the mirror: if Monsieur the Due de St. Didiée were to come, I should defy him to recognise his beautiful Duchesse.''But how much more beautiful I am! you have embellished me énormement. I shall dress myself so at the next fancy ball I go to in Paris,—and I shall make so many conquests.''I thought you were going to reform your ways,' said Paulina, with a smile;—'but do not forget the stiletto, for alas! I fear it may be of real use.''Oh! if I could be the means of liberating that poor Miladi Grant and Milord Aylmer,' continued the little Duchess, 'I should be so enchanted, for I know they are innocent; and then I could clear their characters, and triumph over that horrible Randal: then Heaven will triumph over Hell.'In the meantime, Paulina had covered her own black hair with a grey wig and white cap, and arrayed herself in a servant-maid's dress.'Ah, you look exactly like an old bonne,' said the Duchess, laughing.—'Yes, just like Lady Theresa's old nurse Nanny.''That is exactly what I want,' said Paulina.'And I natter myself I am like you,' said the Duchess, as she turned herself round and round before the looking-glass.'I hope not,' said Paulina, 'for Mr. Randal would be frightened then, and discover everything, perhaps. Ah, now I must take you down to the sea-shore. My cousin Tommaso is there, waiting with the boat; he has promised to help me, and do what I like; but he knows nothing of who you really are—he will take you to Gasparone's camp, and make them all believe you are his own sister. He has dealings with them. You must do what he tells you, so as to take them in.''Oh, what fun it is!' said the wild little Lionne. ' I did so want the other day to go among these banditti, and now I have my wish; but I should like you to accompany me.''Alas! that is impossible,' said Paulina; 'particularly while poor Mrs. Grant and Mr. Aylmer are away. I feel sure I ought to stay and watch that dear lady, Mrs. Delamere; I have no confidence in that new doctor, Battoni, for he is a friend of Mr. Randal's.'They then glided out at a low window, and, creeping under the thick orange trees, went down to the sea-shore, without being perceived or meeting any impediment; and on the way Paulina explained more particularly to the Duchess all she was to do.When Paulina had recognised Randal in disguise among Gasparone's troop, she felt convinced that he had a design on Mrs. Grant. She had found out in some manner that he had been disappointed in his endeavours to make Linda marry him, and she knew his character was of that implacable and revengeful kind, that he never forgave a fancied injury. The affection that Linda had inspired in Paulina, quickened her apprehensions, and she resolved to watch over her, and prevent, if possible, the fulfilment of his plans. Some of her relations at Amalfi, being in league with Gasparone's troop, enabled her to carry out her designs with the greater ease.As soon as she discovered that Linda had been really carried off, she bethought herself that the Duchess de St. Didié would be a fitting person to assist her. Paulina had given lessons in music a few months ago, at Rome, to a little daughter of the Princess Antonini, and the Duchess had taken a great fancy to Paulina, and would always join the music lesson. So Paulina had ample opportunities of becoming acquainted with the naïve Frenchwoman's character, and she saw she had all the requisite qualities for her object. There is much good always mingled with the bad in human nature, and true genius shows itself in nothing more than in the power of drawing out this good. This genius Paulina possessed, and saw besides that the Duchess had sufficient tact, and possessed, when she chose, that indescribable charm and power of persuasion, which might draw out Gasparone's better feelings, and enlist them in her cause.CHAPTER XII. THE SPIRIT OF EVIL.RANDAL had returned to Sorrento the evening of the 21st, some hours after Paulina had rescued Linda and Dudley from the ambush of banditti,—which she had informed them of. He found his wife but just returned home from spending the evening with Mrs. Delamere, Linda, and Lady Theresa; and Julia could not understand the look of annoyance his countenance betrayed, when he found from her that they had all moved into Lord Clanville's villa. Julia also told him that Mr. Aylmer was to start for Vienna at daybreak the next morning, as he had a summons which necessitated his presence there.'Say rather that he wished to avoid a meeting with Mr. Grant, after the reports that have got about,' exclaimed Randal, with a sneer; 'and I am sure I was prepared to hear these reports, for anybody who had eyes might have seen.—Look here, Julia, this is a newspaper that has just come to me from England, of the 14th; read that paragraph,' he said, with a malicious smile, pointing to the one which had already caused such annoyance to the Misses Barton.'Then, after Julia had read it, he said,—'That is meant, as you know, for Linda and Dudley; and I would advise you to take the paper and show it to her to-morrow morning, after breakfast, and warn her; but you had better take her into the garden, or down to the shore, before you show it, for she ought to see it alone. The news would agitate her poor mother so dreadfully. Then you had better leave Linda there to think it over, and you go back to amuse Mrs. Delamere until her daughter returns. It will require Linda's utmost tact to reassure Mr. Grant's mind when he arrives, for this paragraph must have been read by him a week ago.'Mr. Randal went out early the next morning (on some business, he said), and on his return home in the afternoon, appeared much distressed to hear from Julia of Linda's mysterious disappearance.'And Dudley also went off this morning, on pretence of starting for Vienna,' said Randal. 'You may depend upon it they are gone off together,' he added, with a sneer. 'You had better write to break it to your father, as he will doubtless soon hear of it.''How very dreadful all this is; and Mrs. Delamere is very ill, too/ said Julia; 'she fell into convulsions,—and Lady Theresa is so unhappy because Dr. Leighton is gone to Rome for a few days, and Mrs. Delamere has such a horror of foreign doctors.''Oh, never mind about that; I will get Dr. Battoni to go to her; he is such a clever man, and will do her more good than any one else.'Randal had already sent Dr. Battoni to the Spada Villa, and that worthy's recent act had been to dispatch little Ethel to the Randals' lodgings, as he said her clamorous grief would be most injurious to her grandmother's health.The poor child arrived soon after the above conversation, and was laid on Julia's bed. Randal and Julia went up to see her, and softly entering the room looked at her as she lay wearied out with grief,—having apparently cried herself to sleep.There was something so utterly at variance with Randal's diabolical feelings in the heavenly purity of her expression, in the confiding tenderness and love so plainly visible on her countenance, that he turned away from the contemplation of it, as if he felt sure good angels were hovering over the child. He seemed powerless to meditate evil while he looked at her,—as if his wicked thoughts were brought into more hideous deformity by the atmosphere of light which seemed to beam around her. He shrank from little Ethel as from the personification of goodness and truth, and paced the room with hurried steps. The movement caused Ethel to turn, and brought a look of suffering and pain on her face, which, making her resemblance to her mother more plainly visible, served to remind Randal of his projects.'Come,' he said—'come, Julia; let us go down. I do not wish to be present when she wakes.''Nor do I,' said Julia; 'for I am sure she will beg very hard to be taken to her grandmother, and it will be so difficult to refuse her.''Are you sure of your maid?—can you trust her?' inquired Randal; 'for it is of the utmost importance her grandmother should not be excited by the child's grief, and the child may perhaps persuade Giovanna to take her back.''Oh, there is no fear of that,' said Julia; 'but why was Ethel not sent to Lady Theresa's room?—why could not she keep her away from. Mrs. Delamere? it seems so very strange she should have been brought here.''Lady Theresa!—that weak girl! Why she could have no influence over such a child as that; little Ethel would over-persuade a hundred Lady-Theresas. And now you had better go to the Villa Spada, and offer to be of use to the poor invalids.''I will go if you wish; but remember Linda never seemed to like our being much with Mrs. Delamere, and she even thought it strange I wrote that letter to her at Rome.''Dudley was there then, you know, and he seldom left Mrs. Delamere during her illness; but remember now that it is quite different,—they are gone off, and there is no one to attend to poor Mrs. Delamere. How marvellous it would appear, if her only English friends in the place were to desert her at such a moment. So now get your bonnet, and go immediately.'Randal then went into his own room, and unlocking a secretaire, took out a bundle of papers.'How fortunate that I made Parke draw up this will,' he thought; 'I always foresaw I should be with her in her last moments. And now, if I can but manage Julia, and that she will not get into one of her perverse fits, all will be well.'CHAPTER XIII. THE APPROACH OF DEATH.IN the mean time, poor Mrs. Delamere was lying on her bed in a state of extreme suffering. She knew nothing of any banditti being in the neighbourhood, and was too innocent and simple-minded to suspect foul play on Randal's part; but the disappearance of her beloved daughter had caused her the greatest alarm. She did not, however, give a moment's credence to the insinuations of Julia and others, that there was anything mysterious in Dudley and Linda having both disappeared the same morning. When luncheon hour had passed, and Linda had been sought for everywhere in vain, Julia thought it better to show Mrs. Delamere the paragraph in the newspaper; but it had not the effect which Julia anticipated. It brought no conviction that Linda and Dudley must have really gone off. On the contrary, poor Mrs. Delamere was deeply offended by it, and wondered who could have dared to pen such insinuations against a being so pure and loyal-hearted as Linda. She feared that it must greatly have grieved her poor daughter and Dudley both; and dreaded, moreover, that Linda's having appeared so moved by it as Julia described, which was quite natural in so sensitive a nature, would yet give more colour to these nefarious reports, and confirm Julia in her opinion.Yet gradually poor Mrs. Delamere began to remember various little things which led her to imagine that perhaps her daughter and Dudley had loved unconsciously, and she reproached herself most bitterly for not having tried to ascertain more particularly the state of Linda's feelings before she married Mr. Grant. In fact, she felt exactly what Linda had feared she would, if she ever became aware of her attachment to Dudley. All these conflicting feelings and self-reproachings seemed almost to affect her reason, and she became very ill. Unfortunately, Dr. Leighton was absent, and there was only an Italian, Signor Battoni, to be had.Mrs. Delamere had, like most English people, a great prejudice against foreign doctors, and she had made up her mind not to have any one, but try and doctor herself until Dr. Leighton could be procured; when her servant entered with Dr. Battoni's card, saying he had been requested by Mrs. Randal to wait on Mrs. Delamere;—and so she felt obliged to see him. Poor Lady Theresa had also been so upset with anxiety about Linda, that she felt she could be of very little use, but she determined not to leave Mrs. Delamere's room. When Dr. Battoni entered, however, after prescribing for Mrs. Delamere, he turned to the suffering girl, and giving her some medicine also, he compelled her, sorely against her will, to go and lie down in her own room, and gave strict injunctions that she should not be permitted to leave it. He also ordered that little Ethel should be taken from her grandmother; as, he said, the sight of her sufferings was injurious to the sensitive feelings of the poor child,—and advised that she should be taken at once to the lodging of Mr. Randal.The weary hours passed on in that house of mourning; none of the messengers despatched by Mrs. Delamere and Lady Theresa had been as yet successful in finding any traces of the lost one.It was drawing towards the evening of that eventful day, and Dr. Battoni came again to see his patients. He seemed to think very badly of Mrs. Delamere's condition, and told her he feared her last hour must be approaching.Mrs. Delamere, though not very strong, had generally enjoyed good health; and, therefore, though she had always tried to prepare for death, it had never been brought so vividly before her as now. Most people would have imagined that a person like her, so gentle and kind and trusting,—so considerate of the feelings and wants of others, and always actuated by religious and conscientious motives, would have nothing to reproach herself with—nothing to trouble her now. But there is something in the near approach of death that must be appalling even to the best-prepared. The last change looks very different when it seems afar off. We are willing enough to think of it and talk of it then, and fancy we shall face it boldly, and become familiar with it, as our friends die around us; but 'c'est une chose bien sérieuse que de mourir en personne,' as some wise Frenchman said. How different our feelings become when the solemn moment arrives, and we are obliged to give an account to ourselves of the hopes on which we have rested, and ascertain in what, and in whom, we trust!Mrs. Delamere was too ill to read, and there was no one near, to speak any word of comfort applicable to her awful position. She tried to think of the texts and prayers that were familiar to her heart and lips; but, at first, only those that most condemned her would come to her recollection. Then she remembered how inferior had been her efforts,—how much less good she had succeeded in doing to others, than dear Linda or Mrs. Grant or Miss Barton. If they were placed in the same desolate position, and suddenly called to their last account, how much greater comfort they would derive, she thought, from the recollection of their well-spent lives!At last, wearied with reflecting on her own shortcomings, and almost in despair with the thought of her sins, she uttered the words of the repentant publican, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!' And then suddenly the idea struck her that God would be merciful—that Christ came into the world to save sinners,—yes, sinners, even such as herself. And that beautiful verse in Isaiah came into her mind—'Thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.'And, in answer to her prayer, that peace was given which never fails in their hour of real need, those who endeavour to do right—to employ their talents, however small, to the best of their ability. Our Saviour's gracious words, 'Blessed are the meek,' came vividly to her mind, with all the train of peaceful and hope-giving ideas which such texts must produce in those who are truly humble. For Mrs. Delamere's was true humility, and, therefore, to her that peace was already given—that blessing bestowed, which has been promised to those who wish to love and serve God, however feeble their capacities, or small their opportunities may have been.She was one of those who would ask with surprise in the last day, 'Lord, when saw we thee hungred, or athirst, or sick, or in prison, and ministered unto thee;' and to whom the gracious answer would be probably given, 'Verily, I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my servants, ye did it unto me.'At last, when the tears started to her eyes as she thought perhaps she might die without again seeing her darling child, the words of the Book of Revelations came to her assistance, and an angel seemed to whisper to her soul, 'All tears shall be wiped from their eyes in that place where there is no need of the sun or of the moon, for the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof; and eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive the things that God hath prepared for those who love him.'CHAPTER XIV. A FRIEND IN NEED.THUS, as the day darkened and the shadows of night fell around her, Mrs. Delamere's mind became more and more fitted for the bright prospect before her. She had such happiness as Randal, or those who live in utter forgetfulness of their immortal souls, could never feel. But she suffered much bodily pain, and the feeling that she had no remedy—nothing to cool the burning thirst that consumed her, was a dreadful trial. Her maid, tired out, she supposed, with her exertions all day, had fallen fast asleep in a chair; and she had in vain called her several times. There was no bell near her bed—she felt too weak to get up and cry for assistance—and there was nothing but a nauseous draught within her reach that had been sent by Signor Battoni.'Perhaps I had better take it,' she thought, at last; 'for it may put me to sleep, and deaden this dreadful pain and sensation of thirst.' She was just about to raise it to her lips, when she heard footsteps in the room, and by the faint moonlight which stole through the blinds, she could distinguish a person that looked like Lady Theresa's nurse.'Is that you, Nanny—and is Lady Theresa better?—but you ought not to leave her for a moment.''She is asleep, mum; and I came to see if you wanted anything. I am afraid you are suffering very much.''Dreadfully!—and have no medicine, and am dying of thirst; but do tell me, how is darling Ethel—is she able to sleep?''She is fast asleep—and now drink this, mum; and if you will tell me where your medicines are, I will mix what I think would be of use,' said the old woman, as she felt Mrs. Delamere's pulse, and then struck a light, and after carefully closing the shutters and fastening the door, mixed some medicine, and gave it to the poor sufferer.'And you wont tell any one I came here, will you?' said the nurse. 'For Dr. Battoni would be very angry if he thought I left my mistress alone, and gave you any medicine without his orders; but I have no opinion of 'furring' doctors, and I think this plain saline draught will refresh you, and do you no harm.'It is delightful!—just what I wanted; how sound Johnson sleeps! Now go back at once to dear Theresa; only leave some water by me.''Yes; and I will try to return soon, and get you anything you like after the doctor has left, for he will be here presently, and you had better not take any of his medicines, only don't tell him so—and don't let him suppose you have not taken his draught.' And after throwing it away, and putting the empty phial in a glass near Mrs. Delamere, she left the room.Soon afterwards Dr. Battoni came, and was followed by Julia, who said she would read aloud, if Mrs. Delamere would permit her. Dr. Battoni was one of those sinister-looking Italians that are sometimes seen, and whom you involuntarily imagine to be Jesuits in disguise; for no country pro- duces such strange specimens of artful cunning: you cannot help trembling if they cross your path; and you thank your stars that you are not obliged to have any dealings with them.When an innkeeper has been blessed with such a face, you feel how utterly useless it would be to remonstrate against the exorbitant charges in his bill; and you are only too glad to leave his hotel, and escape having been murdered or robbed there! Such countenances must have led to the Italian superstition of the Yattatoris, or Evil Eye.'No—the Signora is not much better,' said Dr. Battoni, with an ominous shake of the head; 'and I should advise, if you have anybody to write to, any directions to make, that you should lose no time. 'No, no time to lose,' he said, as he felt poor Mrs. Delamere's pulse—'the hours are precious, for you may scarcely see another sunrise.'Poor Mrs. Delamere, although she had no faith in his remedies, yet was so ill, and there was something so depressing in the look of that sinister countenance, that she felt as if under the influence of some horrid nightmare,—that she must die, and that no friend, no relative, or kind face, would be near to cheer her last moments.'Do not weep,' he said—his large hand still grasping her wrist; and the cunning eyes, peering from under his shaggy eyebrows, were fixed on her with a horrible sort of mesmeric power.'Do not lose your time in weak repining against the will of Providence. Have you no final arrangements to make—do you not like to say something to your daughter? If you wish to do so, the Signora there will obey your desires.''Yes; I should like to write to my poor daughter,' said Mrs. Delamere, faintly.'Well, I will leave you now, and not intrude any longer; but I shall remain in the house, and you can call if you want me.''No tidings of her?' inquired Mrs. Delamere of Julia, when he had left the room; 'and have you really sent messengers in all directions? How sad, that even Lord Clanville has not yet returned; and Mr. Grant, what can have delayed him so?''You forget what fearful storms there were,' said Julia; 'probably the Simplon was quite impassable—and it would take some days to clear the road. Then, Lord Clanville must have gone to Rome; for George, who I told you this morning arrived late last night, had met him as he was leaving it yesterday. George has, ever since he came in this afternoon, been making inquiries, and despatching people in all directions. He made every endeavour to discover what has become of the fugitives. He is most anxious to see you, but would not intrude until you gave him leave. And now shall I write for you, as Dr. Battoni proposed, and you seemed to wish?' continued Julia, placing a sheet of paper and writing materials on a table near.'Thank you—it is very kind; and dear Linda, what shall I say to comfort her for my loss?—Oh, my poor head; I can scarcely think,' said Mrs. Delamere, as she sank back exhausted on the pillow, from which she had raised herself in her eagerness to inquire for Linda. But the awful words of the doctor still sounded in her ears, as he said, 'the moments are precious;' and rousing herself, she endeavoured to dictate a letter.'Tell her that I am convinced she is innocent; nothing will ever induce me for one moment to doubt her;—that I trust she will not be affected by what ill-natured people may have said, or will say. Tell her all that she has been to me—the kindest and dearest child mother was ever blessed with. Tell her that I die happy,—that God has given me peace,—that my Saviour is near me,—that I know and firmly believe we shall meet in glory, where there is no parting, no——''You must not let the Signora say any more,' said the doctor, who had, perhaps, been listening at the door, which had remained partly open.But at this moment Randal appeared, and said to Julia and Battoni, 'Go quickly, both of you, to Lady Theresa. She is very ill, and must see you both immediately,—and I will finish the letter for Mrs. Delamere.' They accordingly went, and Mrs. Delamere was left alone with Randal and the still sleeping maid.CHAPTER XV. THE SIGNATURE.SHALL I finish this letter?' said George Randal, taking up the pen: 'but you have said enough,' he continued, as he glanced his eye over it; and then looking at Mrs. Delamere, he added, 'you seem to be exhausted,—do not attempt to say more; but would you not like to sign it? Poor Linda would be so much more pleased if she thought it really came from you, that, of course you will make the effort, for her sake.''Ah! I thought so,' he continued, as he saw she made a sign to bring it nearer. The lamp was at some distance, and its faint light scarcely illumined the letter, as he held it by her bedside. 'Let me place it on a book: here is a pen, but you can't write so,' he said, as she was about to sign it without endeavouring to read the writing.'Here—this will be better,' he continued, as he took the letter from her, and got a larger book, contriving, with sleight-of-hand worthy of a first-rate conjuror, to substitute another paper in its place, while he dropped the letter written by Julia behind the bed-curtain.But as he held the blotting-book, his hand trembled more than that of the apparently dying woman. And if any one could have witnessed the expression of intense anxiety his countenance wore,—the cowardly fear that disfigured his handsome features, and then turned to look at the repose and trusting faith depicted in hers, they would have envied her instead of the handsome young man, although he was in the vigour of youthful manhood, full of health and strength, gifted with rare talents, and great powers of pleasing.Yet, not satisfied with all he possessed, his dire passions spurred him on to grasp for more,—and, untouched by her look of patient suffering, and the heavenly composure with which she awaited her doom, he endeavoured to cheat a dying woman, deprive Linda of her birthright, and cruelly withhold from her the token of her mother's love and trust—the last words she would ever speak to her child.Slowly and with great effort Mrs. Delamere contrived to form the letters of her name. Randal held his breath, and his agitation made his hand tremble so much as almost to prevent her from writing.The grand desire of his life was about to be attained,—his great object—to become a rich man; to gain that fortune of which he accused not only Linda but Dudley of having cheated him,—she by refusing to marry him,—Mr. Aylmer by having induced Sir James St. Lawrence to leave his property to Margaret. This would now be remedied, and he would attain his dearest wish, in spite of them all.And now his agonizing fear was, lest she should die before she had signed the will by which she bequeathed all her property to him. She had just completed her Christian name when she was interrupted by a knock at the door. He had locked it when he found himself alone with her. 'It is only Dr. Battoni,' he said; 'you had better finish, and then he can come and see you.''I don't want to see him again; don't let him come.''But you have not signed your surname—you should; indeed—indeed you must.''That's enough; Linda will know.''But this being your last word, you really must exert yourself,' he said, with all the energy and force of will he had at his command. So to be rid of his importunity, she took up the pen again, and wrote as he directed.As soon as she had formed the last letter of her name, he snatched away the document with an exultation which, if she could have seen it, would have startled and perplexed her. But she was too much exhausted then to look at him or see what he did with it.And now, oh joy! he had gained his object,—he had actually baffled Dudley—he had triumphed over his evil genius! Yet he could scarcely believe that it was really done—that he had, indeed, succeeded; so he went to the lamp, and, holding it close to the light, gloated over the document with avaricious delight. Then folding it carefully up, he placed it in his bosom.He was proceeding to open the door, where he fancied somebody had knocked again, when he suddenly remembered that he had dropped the letter Julia wrote,—the one that Mrs. Delamere thought she had signed. He hastened to look behind the curtain; but to his dismay it was nowhere to be found. In vain he searched and brought the lamp nearer—not a trace of any paper could he discover. This was most wonderful,—for no one had come into the room;—Mrs. Delamere had not stirred;—the maid Avas still asleep, and certainly had not moved from her chair.No one could have entered the room, for the door was still fastened, and there was no other entrance. But he had no time to dwell on the mysterious occurrence. After a fruitless though most accurate search, he was obliged to unfasten the door, as the knocking continued, and some one seemed extremely impatient to be admitted.CHAPTER XVI. THE NIGHT WATCH.IT was Dr. Leighton, who had just arrived, having heard that morning, at Naples, of the lamentable occurrence; and fortunately, not having yet gone to Rome, he posted down immediately to the Villa Spada.On his arrival, he went direct to Lady Theresa's room, where he found her with Julia and Dr. Battoni, in a sadly nervous and excited state of mind. The poor girl had been most reluctantly persuaded to quit Mrs. Delamere's bed-chamber, and she had since been tormented with a sort of vague impression that she ought not to have left her, and that she was not properly taken care of. She also had no opinion of Dr. Battoni's skill.The sight, therefore, of Dr. Leighton gave Lady Theresa the most intense pleasure, and she would not even allow him to feel her pulse, or answer his inquiries as to her own sufferings, but implored him to proceed to Mrs. Delamere without a moment's delay. The impetuous little Doctor required no second hint, but insisted on being conducted there at once, and old Nanny showed him the way, followed by Julia and Dr. Battoni. The latter could hardly conceal his vexation at the coming of his rival, for he knew the English doctor had no opinion of his skill; and he saw, too, that Dr. Leighton had some suspicion, from the moment of his arrival, that mischief was going on, and that his misgiving was still more increased when they reached Mrs. Delamere's room, and found the door locked.At last Randal opened it, and said, with apparent unconcern,—that as Mrs. Delamere seemed to be asleep, he was afraid of her being disturbed. Dr. Leighton said, with a sarcastic smile,—that he should have thought the noise, they were obliged to make in endeavouring to obtain admittance, was worse for the patient than the sound of persons going into the room. With these words he cast a hasty glance around, and fixed his penetrating eyes on Randal's face. But no traces of agitation were visible,—for Randal, feeling that everything depended on his assuming an air of indifference, succeeded in making his countenance as passionless and impenetrable as a stone wall. He then whispered aside to Dr. Leighton that he had locked the door at Mrs. Delamere's request, as she did not wish to see Dr. Battoni again, and that he was so veryglad Dr. Leighton had come,—for he was afraid Battoni did not quite understand her case.'How long has the maid been asleep?' inquired the little Doctor, as he gave an impatient shake to Johnson's arm, while he looked into her drowsy and bewildered face.The poor woman rubbed her eyes, and tried to rouse herself to say something; but the smell of her breath plainly indicated that a considerable dose of laudanum must have been administered.'I should not have thought this poor woman required a sedative!' he said, with a glance at Dr. Battoni.'Of course not,—how could she possibly have taken one?' said that worthy, with well-assumed surprise.Dr. Leighton gave directions that she should be taken to bed, as she was still much too drowsy to be of any use. He then proceeded to examine poor Mrs. Delamere's state, who seemed scarcely aware of what was passing; while he inquired what medicines had been administered, and insisted on seeing them. Randal waited for a few minutes, to see the result of the investigation, and then, after inquiring from Dr. Leighton, with great anxiety and interest, his opinion of Mrs. Delamere's health, he again expressed his extreme satisfaction at leaving her in the hands of her own doctor—('such a kind friend'),—and said he should now return home.But Randal's work was only half ended,—for he was determined not to leave the house till he had found the letter which Mrs. Delamere had not signed. For he well knew that if any one else found that letter, and that Mrs. Delamere discovered he had made her sign another paper, some very unpleasant suspicions would be excited; so he contrived to conceal himself in the next room, intending to return and renew his search in hers, as soon as Dr. Leighton had quitted it, and that he could enter without being observed. But his position was by no means pleasant; although he had attained the great object of his life, and accomplished, perhaps, the most difficult part of the task, in making her sign the will, still he thought it would be almost useless if she were now to recover,—for she might at some future time make another will, and then he would be balked of his prey. The Italian doctor had a bad opinion of her, and said he was convinced that her lungs were affected, and that she could not live long, even if she survived the shock her nerves had lately received from her daughter's disappearance. Randal had been very happy to believe this, and had besides such a high opinion of his friend's skill, that he felt almost certain that any one would die under Dr. Battoni's treatment.Randal now found that he had fully reckoned upon her death; and this being the case, he was consequently much disappointed at the prospect of her recovery. Thus the words Dr. Leighton had uttered, in reply to his anxious inquiries—'She will do very well, if proper remedies are applied,' had caused him serious uneasiness. Therefore, he was now in will, if not in deed, a murderer; yet, if any one had, years before, hinted at the possibility of such a thing, how he would have resented the suggestion as perfectly impossible. How he would have loathed the idea of such baseness—for baseness it would then have seemed to him,—and have scouted it, as Julia did the idea that she could possibly be tempted to marry against her father's wishes! Yet, at the beginning of his evil courses, everything had seemed so natural; there appeared to him so much excuse for any slight deviations from right. A younger son, with no portion, yet inheriting all the tastes and wants of opulence, he had been brought up by weak and fond parents, in the indulgence of every wish, and the enjoyment of every luxury. Then, when his parents died, his eldest brother married; and when ho was no longer a welcome visitor in the home of his youth, it seemed hard, very hard, that he should be reduced to live on a less sum than he had been accustomed to spend on his dress alone! He had studied the law, but without perseverance; and when he became acquainted with scenes of fashionable life,—when, on account of his rare and brilliant wit, his presence was courted by the greatest people of the day, how could he turn his mind to drudgery? how could he toil and slave at dull law documents, with the remote chance of getting a few pounds! No—it was impossible! and it would be wrong, too, he persuaded himself, for his health would never stand it, and he could, after all, win more at écarté or whist than the most successful barristers made. Then, when luck deserted him, he began to resort to tricks, which seemed to him almost innocent—for they only insured his winning money from rich old dowagers or lords, who could well afford to lose, and who did not want the money half so much as he did. Thus he gradually lost that fine perception of truth which marks the boundaries of right and wrong, and sunk to a level with people whom he formerly looked down upon with horror. What would have appeared to him twelve years ago as a worthless action, he now daily committed without feeling any compunction—on the contrary, he prided himself on the success of his villany.But he had never yet contemplated murder. He had, indeed, wished to possess Mrs. Delamere's fortune; and he felt he had a right to it, because he was convinced she would gladly have married him at that time when he instead, most unfortunately, ran off with Julia, in the full expectation of her uncle's fortune. He had ever since thought it was extremely hard upon him to be deprived of it,—particularly as Mrs. Delamere would have proved a much more amiable and better wife than Julia. Having, therefore, this clear right to her fortune, he thought there was no such very black crime in endeavouring to obtain it skilfully. Besides, he hated Linda, and anything he could do to annoy her, gave him intense gratification. But if he should now be discovered—if his well-concerted plans should fail, and those who suspected him could bring his villany to light, what a triumph it would be for them!—for Dudley—that hated rival!—a successful rival, too, who had far surpassed him, even in gaining the world's applause; and had deprived him of all he valued most. No—he could never endure to be found out by Dudley, for he well knew that he despised him already; and if Mrs. Delamere should recover, and the fatal letter be found by any of them, all must be discovered. Besides, Mrs. Delamere was fully prepared for death. She had dictated that letter to Linda with the full conviction that she was going to die; and it seemed that she was quite resigned, and Randal almost fancied she contemplated death without any terror. How different would be his own case! flashed for a moment across his mind. But he did not dwell on the dreadful idea; for it was plain he would not be inflicting on her any of the torture which he would suffer himself if his fraud were discovered.And how often we try to deceive ourselves by this sort of sophistry, until we almost imagine we are conferring an obligation on the person we intend to injure, and flatter ourselves we are doing a reasonable and just action in saving ourselves from unbearable misery.Mr. Randal was provided with the means for preventing her recovery—for he had a small bottle of laudanum and belladonna in his pocket, which he always carried about him, as a remedy against tic-doloureux, from which he often suffered.All this passed through his mind while he was waiting concealed in the outer room; and by the time Dr. Leighton had left Mrs. Delamere, and that fully made up. He opened her door with the greatest caution, and, by the faint light of the lamp, he saw that she appeared to be asleep. But old Nanny was sitting near her; and he was about to frame an excuse to search by the bedside for his purse—which he intended to say he must have dropped there—when he saw that she must be asleep too, for she did not perceive his presence. So he renewed his search, but without success, and then he hastily poured the contents of his phial into a glass, which contained a cooling drink, evidently placed there to moisten her parched lips; and then he crouched down in a corner to wait till she awoke, and he could see that she had drank it! So far all had been successful—he felt a thrill of exultation, and he triumphantly touched with his hand the precious document which was concealed in his bosom.Soon afterwards, he took it out to gloat over it, and then a horrible dread lest he should have made a mistake came over him—lest by the dim light of the lamp he might possibly have got her to sign Julia's letter instead of the will! He opened the deed with trembling hands, but it was too dark to see it where he was, so he softly went across the room with it and approached the lamp. It was at the farther end, and it took some time to reach. All right! there was the will,—and he read it through with fiendish delight. A slight sound as of a glass being moved, caused him to look round, and he fully hoped to see that Mrs. Delamere was taking the fatal mixture. But she had not stirred, and old Nanny had remained in exactly the same position. It must therefore have been his own fancy; so with the same cautious steps he returned to his lurking-place near her bed.Time passed on, and no sound was heard but the breathing of the sleepers. Once or twice Mrs. Delamere turned restlessly, and uttered a low moaning sound, which made Randal hope she would wake and take the mixture. For he began to dread that Dr. Leighton might return towards morning and discover his presence there; or what was worse still, find the mixture by her bedside. He heard a distant clock strike four; he had already waited more than an hour in this dreadful suspense and most dangerous position. It could be endured no longer, so he thought he would try to wake her, and he dexterously contrived to pull the bed-clothes in such a way as to disturb her without showing himself. She sighed heavily, opened her eyes, and seemed endeavouring to speak. But she saw no one in the room, for old Nanny was concealed from her by the bed-curtain, and then she put out her hand and took up the glass. It trembled so from weakness, that Randal was in an agony lest its contents should be spilt, and could with difficulty prevent himself from assisting her to lift the glass to her mouth. But he knew if he did so, it would startle her and wake Nanny, and then he would be suspected of giving her poison. So he remained perfectly still, and to his great exultation saw her empty entirely the contents of the glass!And now all was over, and as she closed her weary eyes and sank back on the pillow, he crept out of the room, and got safely out of the house without rousing or meeting any one—a successful murderer!CHAPTER XVII. CONSCIENCE.THE night was very dark and stormy, and Randal could scarcely distinguish his way to his own lodgings. The wind howled and the sea beat against the rocks, and the slanting fitful gusts of rain drove in his face as he tried to walk quickly. It reminded him of just such a night as this many years ago, when he had traversed the same ground with Paulina—the night on which he had persuaded her to leave her parents and fly with him! He remembered how she had clung to him, and how she had said that the moaning wind sounded like the voice of her mother crying. He had laughed at her for her superstitious fears, because his conscience did not then bear the full burthen of sin which his desertion of her and other crimes had since laid upon it. But now, he too fancied he heard the moans of the dying, and heavy sighs such as Mrs. Delamere had lately breathed; and he saw her pale countenance look at him with reproachful eyes;—and Paulina too, as she appeared that day in London, when he fancied she was drowned, seemed to flit before his bewildered gaze.And surely he was near the spot where she had lived. Yes, he now saw the blackened walls of the cottage—that place he could never pass without a shudder; and a feeling of dread—the dread of death—of retribution in another world—came over him. Now that the excitement—the danger of disgrace or failure in this world was over, and that he had attained the object of his anxious wishes, he felt more convinced that there was a Being from whom his doings, even his thoughts could not be hid, and the dread of being summoned to his presence seemed to crush him to despair. The document for which he had incurred such risk, and which was to ensure him riches and splendour, seemed now to lose its worth in his eyes, for the shortness of life, the uncertainty of everything in this world, struck him as if for the first time; and his great dread now was, lest his lot should be in the place where 'dwell murderers.' The words spoken in early childhood by his mother, now sounded in his ears. For, however much the pleasures and ambitious cares of this world may choke the seed of religion in the breast, yet it seldom happens that the child who has been prayed over by a loving parent, who has heard the Word of God in childhood, will not some day be reminded of it.Yet Randal fancied he was an Atheist. He was accustomed to laugh at religion, and contemn those who acted under its influence as weak fools. Yet people are often deceived on this point for many long years; while on the other hand, some, who think they have full faith in Revelation, are dismayed in a dark hour of despondency and trial, to find how weak was their belief, how frail and undefined their confidence in the religion they had always triumphantly professed.Randal had always wished to disbelieve, because his inclinations and habits of life were always at variance with the precepts of Christianity, and so he wilfully stifled the Word of God; nor did it ever recur to his hardened heart, except at such a moment as this, when he had been startled to find how much farther he had plunged in sin, how much more guilty he really was, than he had ever intended. And now the fear of death made him for a moment envy the condition of poor Mrs. Delamere; for something whispered to him that, although her eyes would never again open in this world, yet she would awake in Paradise. That there was certainly a hell, his own feelings, and his agonizing fear of death, showed him plainly; and he felt that there might be a heaven for those who had faced death like Mrs. Delamere, with heroic confidence in the Saviour of men, and with a look of trusting faith and hope such as was clearly visible on her countenance, as he had watched it during the tedious hours of that long and anxious night!But Randal remembered he must not give way to such thoughts or speculations, for much remained to be done. Yet his despondency was so great that he was obliged to remind himself of the triumph that awaited him, of the success which had hitherto crowned all his designs,—a triumph still greater than the signature of the will; for Linda was in his power, and in a few hours he might be with her, far away from the protection of her husband or mother,—safe from the arts and designs even of Dudley. He should triumph over that hated rival; and Dudley should have the mortification of seeing Linda in his power,—perhaps an humble supplicant to his mercy.Full of this anticipated delight he returned to his lodgings, to give Julia some advice and directions. Morning had not yet dawned, and he found her asleep, with poor little Ethel by her side, who remained still under the influence of the soporific draught that Dr. Battoni had administered.Julia woke up with a look of bewildered dread, and inquired what had become of him? When she left Mrs. Delamere's house she thought he had quitted it before her, and had expected to find him when she reached home.'You are quite right,' he said, 'I did leave it before you, for I found I had lost my purse, and I was anxious to get home and see if I could have left it in my desk. So I ran very fast, but not finding it there, I went to the Antoninis, thinking I might have dropped it when we dined there.''And did you find it?''No. It was very provoking, for there was some gold in it; and then I hurried home, and found you were in bed and fast asleep; and now I wake you up to tell you that I am determined to start at once for Rome. I see I can do nothing here to assist poor Mrs. Delamere and Lady Theresa; and the post is so slow and uncertain that Lord Clanville may not get the letter telling him of all these strange misfortunes, and he may start off to Volterra on some excavating expedition. And you must remember,' he continued, without allowing her to make the objections to his sudden departure which he saw she was beginning to utter,—' You must remember to write immediately if anything unforeseen occurs,—if poor Mrs. Delamere should die, or——''Oh, I trust not, now that Dr. Leighton has come, and has a much better opinion of her——''Well, I hope not; but her nerves have been so much shaken, and if Linda should not return, she will scarcely regain her spirits, or weather the storm; indeed, I am very anxious about her, and so I will leave Jiacomo here, and you can write by him,—that is, he must start the moment anything fatal occurs, that I may break the news to poor Mr. Grant, whom I fully expect to find at Rome, or meet on my way. So mind and write the very moment anything happens, and pray go to the Villa Spada and take Ethel back to them as soon as you have breakfasted, and remain there with them all day. And if by any chance I should miss Lord Clanville or Mr. Grant, tell them I returned to Rome on purpose to meet them, and urge the necessity of their coming home at once. Will you remember all this, dearest Julia?' he said, with a look of extreme affection.'I will try,' she said; 'but I wish you could tell me what takes you to Rome so often? I don't mean now,' she continued, on seeing his impatience, 'so don't be angry with me; only you sometimes do such strange things.''Well, I will tell you all about it when I return, dearest Julia, for I know I must sometimes appear mysterious to you; but I shall soon be able to explain all, and I know you will be pleased. Good-bye, darling. Go to sleep again, for it is quite early, and you look tired, from all the anxiety you have had. I am quite refreshed, for I have had an excellent night.'He then went to give some directions to his servant, who was waiting at the door with his horse. He intended to ride part of the way to Naples, and starting at a quick pace, he proceeded for about a mile on the high road.CHAPTER XVIII. THE LION AND THE ADDER.DAY had now begun to dawn, and Randal looked cautiously around as he turned his horse's head towards a rocky path which led up the mountain side in the direction of La Cava. But no one was in sight, and he proceeded without hindrance till he reached a wild part of the country north of La Cava.It was one of those scenes which Salvator Rosa loved to paint. A narrow glen, the sides of which are covered with magnificent chesnut trees, and beyond, an old ruined castle on a rocky height, surmounting a rushing stream. He gave a whistle, and two men in rich and varied costumes suddenly appeared. He then dismounted, and giving the reins of his horse to one, walked with the other up towards the ruined castle.'Are the prisoners safe?' he inquired, in Italian.'Si, Signore,' said the stranger, pointing upwards to the corner tower of the old castle, which was situated on a perpendicular rock overlooking the torrent; 'you see those two narrow slits in the wall—it is not wide enough for a dog to creep through, yet that is the only way by which they could escape.'The foundation of the old Castle of Montefeltro was of Cyclopian work, and had been in the middle ages, a fortress of gigantic strength, though now it was partly in ruins, and had become the head quar- ters of banditti. From three sides it was inaccessible, as the rock was quite perpendicular; and on the fourth, the more unequal surface of the rock had been made use of to form a sort of rough staircase. here was a tradition that the Count of Montefeltro, a hero of old times, had ridden up this staircase on his war-steed; but now, in some places, it had so crumbled away that the ascent was most difficult. Randal surveyed the stronghold with extreme satisfaction, and exulted in the conviction that the escape of his victims Avas utterly impossible.'And they have been placed in two of the upper cells,' continued the bandit, 'where they have no means of communication with each other. They are the strongest of all; and the wall between is so thick that not a sound could be heard by either. But I am glad the Signer is come, for Gasparone has been impatient for your arrival; he wants to be off to the Villa Reggia. He has received some message from the Signora Lorentini; a deaf and dumb girl brought it last night, and he says he is losing his time here, as there is nothing to be done.''So he is going to see her. The Signora will be a great parti for him, if he consents to marry her;—and what will become of you all if he retires from this noble profession?—And where is Gasparone?''He will be here soon; and he told me to inform you that he has left plenty of men here to answer your purpose,—but, cospetto, here he is!' said the Italian, as a cavalcade approached with the renowned bandit at its head.Randal saw that Gasparone was not in one of his best humours, as he threw away the remnant of his cigar, and beckoned to Randal that he wished to speak to him.'I do not like this work,' he said; 'the nobil Signora does not deserve such treatment. She is a heroine—a saint! You told me it was true love, and that she must be removed before her husband returned;—but I am positive she has done nothing to be ashamed of. I am sure from such a face as hers, she does not wish to escape from her husband;—and I don't believe she will be so glad to see you as you suppose.''Are you sure she has not learnt that the Englishman is here?' inquired Randal.'Quite sure; and I am very sorry I agreed to seize him; for his wonderful bravery cost the lives of two of my strongest men, and he wrenched himself out of the hands of four others, as if they had been so many straws. I never saw such strength,—it required ten of us to hold him; then I thought he would not have given in, and only that I saw he was so grieved to think he had killed two men, I verily believe he would rather have died than surrendered. He shall not be a hair the worse, either; I could not take a scudo from him, if it were the last I Avas ever to see. Dio!—what a handsome man. The sight of his face made me feel as if I was young again, and praying by the cross of San Stefano, before I ever used a stiletto, or shed a drop of blood; and if I were to meet many like him, I should soon give up this lawless life.''Perhaps you will do so without the help of his saintly countenance,' said Randal, with a sneer,—'the soft influence of the Signora Lorentini——. Well, I shall not detain you longer,' continued Randal; 'and remember, I have helped you to many good chances. There was the plate and jewels of the Antonini pic-nic at Pæstum;—that Lady Kilgrogan had a ruby cross on, worth a thousand scudi; and this very lady here, your prisoner—I helped you to her money and jewels too.''Yes; and truly sorry I was to take them from her; and I should have given her back every one of them yesterday if I had them still, when I saw her walk up those stairs with as firm a step as if she felt sure the holy angels were protecting her from all harm,—and no doubt they were. She looked like the Madonna herself,' continued Gasparone, crossing himself devoutly. 'I saw that even the drunken Lorenzo and Pietro would not have ventured to raise a finger against her; and yet she looked as sad as the picture of St. Catharine. She was praying that our sins should be forgiven, I doubt not. I should soon give up this life if I had many such prisoners as those two.''And you have visited her since?''No, no; never fear,' continued the bandit, with a malicious laugh; 'no one has been near her, but she has been well taken care of, and plenty of food has been put through the lattice for both prisoners. And there is the key,' he said, as he gave it to Randal, and, turning away from him with a surly and discontented air, he and his followers rode off.Randal rushed up the ruined old staircase, and then passed through a long dark corridor, until he came to a door, which opened on another staircase. This was in better preservation, and at the top of the staircase, a square inner grating enabled him to look down into the cell without being seen by any person within. And then, by the faint light which streamed through the narrow aperture in the wall, he saw the figure of Linda. She was sitting on a low chair—the only one that the miserable room contained. Her hands were clasped on her knees, and her eyes were gazing upwards towards the light, with an expression of trustful hope which seemed to see far beyond those gloomy walls, and to make.her independent of the dreary wretchedness by which she was surrounded. Randal thought she had never looked so beautiful. Besides the innate loveliness which always gave a charm to her movements, her attitude had now that air of touching trustfulness, that sort of indescribable ease and grace which springs from true resignation—from a disposition which does not uselessly strive against, or resent, but, on the contrary, accepts misfortune when it is really inevitable, and, giving up all hope of rescue in this world, looks with faith to future bliss in another life.This touching trustfulness may be sometimes seen in its purest type in the expression and attitudes of those who have died in the blessed hope of pardon, and with humble confidence in the efficacy of a Redeemer! Something of this Randal could read in her pale face and the graceful abandon of her attitude; and, for the first time, he enjoyed the full luxury of gazing at a thing so lovely, with the conviction that she was in his power.'Yes,' he thought, as he lingered at the grating, 'she certainly is much more beautiful than she ever appeared when conscious of my presence.'For then her features always assumed a sort of contemptuous look, and also, perhaps, a sort of half-unconscious veiling of her charms, which in some extremely sensitive women seems almost to diminish their beauty when they are in the presence of those who they know love them too well.In common natures, this takes the form of prudery; but in such souls as Linda's, it is a sort of mesmerism, an exertion—though, perhaps, unconscious—of the will, which in some degree neutralizes the attraction of their beauty, when they feel it to be necessary. Randal now knew that she would despise him more than ever, if she could see into his heart—for he had committed another crime. He was guilty of her mother's death. How could he now approach her,—so hallowed in her purity and trustful resignation! He, the murderer of that mother whom, he well knew, she loved so intensely—more even than her husband—perhaps even more than she loved Dudley in her childhood. For Randal possessed in himself by nature sufficient of the seeds of original beauty, and taste for the sublime, to be able fully to comprehend her character. And its very purity and exaltation, from its great contrast to his own perverted nature, had always proved a most powerful attraction.Then ensued one of those paroxysms of conflicting passions, that struggle between the good and the bad—which render even the selfish indulgence of crime sometimes full of thorns. At last, cursing his own foolish misgivings, he unlocked the door, and rushed impetuously towards her. Linda started up, seized the chair on which she had been sitting, and retreated to the further end of the room. She there leant her back against the prison wall, and, grasping the chair with all the energy of despair, she placed it between herself and him.'Ha, it is useless to strive against fate I' he exclaimed, with a fiendish laugh; 'you are now completely in my power, and your fame is gone.Dudley Aylmer was taken prisoner yesterday also; and all the world believes that you have eloped with him. This conviction has had such an effect upon your mother, that she is dying—yes, she was given over last night, and by this time she must have died.'CHAPTER XIX. THE PRESENTIMENT.ON the morning of the fatal day of Linda's mysterious disappearance, she awoke with a weight on her mind; and a feeling of unaccountable anxiety, which she had not experienced since her arrival at Sorrento depressed her spirits. She had taken leave of Dudley the preceding evening, as he was to start before daybreak on his journey to Vienna; and she could not avoid feeling sad at witnessing Theresa's grief in parting from her favourite brother.Mrs. Delamere, too, and little Ethel, had evinced extreme sorrow, but Linda had felt much less melancholy than she expected. In fact, she was still under the influence of the intense happiness which her last conversation with Dudley—the clearing up of that long, weary, perplexing mystery—had produced. She felt a sort of sweet repose; and trusting confidence that they should meet in another world, and that no more doubts or mistrusting fears could cloud the purity of their earthly friendship. She had been so happy, that she could not imagine any sorrow, and she had scarcely wished him to remain. She was almost surprised at the deep sadness of his look, as he wished her good-bye, and said,—'If you feel unhappy to-morrow, think of our last conversation.'Dudley had a deeper insight into the human heart than she had, and he had felt pretty sure what her feelings had been ever since his interview with Lady Rochford before Linda's marriage. So in the éclaircissement that had now taken place there was little new to him; and although he could not bring himself to be insensible to the delight of seeing how deeply he had been loved, yet he feared now lest her trials should be increased, lest she should have to suffer that feeling of blank disappointment, which he had experienced for years, in spite of all his endeavours, and the daily-renewed struggles and inward wrestlings, accompanied by fervent prayer. He had wished to give her the certainty of knowing that the affection she felt for him had not been bestowed upon an insensible object. He wished to account to her for the coldness and neglect with which she had been so long treated, by the friends of her youth; and to show her that the admirable manner in which she had fulfilled the duties of her wedded life, had not been lost upon, or unnoticed by them. He had acted to the best of his judgment, for he felt that if she had suffered in any degree the same for him that he had for her, then her bad health and precarious state would be quite accounted for, and he thought the only cure for this would be to make her know, and certainly feel, that she was not without sympathy from him, that there was one who understood and felt with her.But when he saw the beaming happiness of her last look, and contrasted it with the sorrowful tears of his sister and Mrs. Delamere, he trembled, and almost regretted he had said anything. For he feared she would experience a revulsion after he was gone;—he remembered that he had felt the same himself, when from Lady Rochford's words, he first suspected that she loved him. He remembered that his happiness then had been so perfect—so intense, that he was almost satisfied to leave England without the prospect of ever seeing her again; and during his entire journey, he had lived in a sort of dreamy enchantment, which was only dispelled by the intelligence that she was actually married. And then the agony that followed—the sort of dull despair—the dark shade cast over his whole life—the loss of interest in all his favourite pursuits and employments, can only be understood by those who have loved as intensely.Yet his friends and acquaintance scarcely remarked any change; nor did he neglect any of the daily duties of his position, because faith and trust in God had not deserted him, and he was gradually able to bow down with humble confidence in the goodness of the Great Supreme Will, who orders all things in Heaven and earth. And so he had passed seven long years, never wearied with the effort to become better, feeling that each day brought him nearer to God, to the great end of our being—the fulfilment of our best hopes. And now he had taken leave of Linda with the firm resolve, that so far as depended on him, and unless any unforeseen occurrence should make his presence absolutely necessary, they should never meet again in this world.Now, when Linda felt so sad on awaking, she did not attribute her depression to his departure. 'It must be something else,' she thought, as she watched the morning twilight stealing through the closed blinds. Something dreadful is going to happen—it must be the fear of those dreadful bandits;' and she started up to see if her child was safe in the little bed near her own. Yes, there she lay, with her eyes still closed; but she had evidently cried herself to sleep, for the tears were moist on her cheeks, and her little face wore an expression of care and anxiety.'Is that you, dear mamma? Oh, I am so glad! I dreamt they had taken you away. And why are we here?—why have we left our own house? Oh, I see it all now. Yes, we are come to dear Theresa, and Dudley is—is gone away!' she said, as her tears broke out afresh.'This is wrong, darling,' said Linda; 'we must not repine, we must try to comfort poor Theresa, and thank God for all the blessings we have, and that dear papa is coming soon—perhaps to-day; and let us pray for him and dear granny.''But I may pray for Dudley, too?' inquired the child.'Oh yes, always—always,' exclaimed Linda, with a look of intense happiness.'Ah, now I see you look so, I shall be happy again; and Dudley—he is happy, too, is he not? Then why should I be sad?' she exclaimed, as she skipped round the room, and sung one of Dudley's favourite airs.After breakfast Julia was announced, and when she had spoken for a few minutes to Mrs. Delamere and Lady Theresa, she asked Linda to walk with her in the garden.'I wanted to see you alone,' she said, with some embarrassment, after they had walked some distance from the house; ' for I thought it right to show you what came this morning, and then you can do as you like about mentioning it to your mother and Theresa, or let them hear of it by chance. I am very, very sorry,' she continued 'that this has happened; but it is most fortunate now that Mr. Aylmer has left Sorrento,—for his departure, and the arrival of Mr. Grant, will have the best possible appearance in the eyes of the world.''What can have happened?—what can you mean?' inquired Linda.'Read this, and you will soon see; it came from Lady Venables with a letter, in which she says that people at Naples were wondering at Mrs. Delamere allowing the thing to go on under her eyes; and that——but I am sure I never saw any harm in it, and never could understand why George was often so shocked when he met you and Dudley walking together.'Linda glanced her eye over the paragraph, and a blush of surprise and indignation suffused her cheeks; but after a moment's thought she said: 'Surely, dear Julia, you cannot think this is intended for me! there may be other people whose names begin with a G. No, I cannot think it;—I am sure there was nothing wrong in Dudley being with us,—we who used to be always together when we were children;—had we been brother and sister, we could not have been brought up in greater intimacy. Surely, there could be nothing wrong in his being with us now.''I am sure of it, too; but the world is so ill-natured,' said Julia, 'one can never be half cautious enough; and I know they talked about you and Mr. Aylmer at the Duchess's party, at Pompeii; and the Marquis de Hauteville——''And did he really think me wrong?''No; on the contrary, he defended you from George's attacks, and praised you so much that the Duchess Avas quite jealous.''This is all very sad,' said Linda; 'and I am afraid mamma will be dreadfully annoyed,—more particularly because, perhaps, owing to her illness, Dudley was more with us than he otherwise would have been; and poor Theresa, too, will be so upset, on her brother's account. What can I do?''Would you like me to go back and break it to them, and see how they take it; and then I will return here and tell you;—it would be less awkward——''No,' said Linda; 'they shall hear it from no other lips than mine. I have nothing to fear, or to be ashamed of; they, at least, have perfect confidence in me;—but before I tell them, I wish to recover myself a little, and to chase away the agitation which this annoying information has caused: for I know my dear mother would be still more pained at it if she were to think I were hurt by it. So you can return to them if you like, and tell them I will come in as soon as I have enjoyed a little more of this sweet sea-breeze.'As Julia turned towards the house, Linda proceeded along the garden walk, glad to be quite alone for a short time, and to be able to collect her thoughts; for what Julia had said, added to the strange paragraph, made her feel quite bewildered. Yet Linda had too little vanity to care much about the opinion of people in general, and even with those she loved best, was too much occupied in thinking how she could make them happy to have much thought about their opinion of her.But the words, 'avoid even the appearance of evil,' now sounded in her ears, and she was miserable to think that though she knew hers and Dudley's intentions were perfectly innocent, yet perhaps she might have given cause for censure to those who did not know the real state of the case. Yet she felt that she had only carried out her dear mother-in-law's wishes, and that she would have been satisfied with every word that had passed between her and Dudley; and that her hopes that Linda would gain happiness and peace from regaining the friendship and perfect understanding of the companion of her youth, had been fully realized. Then, besides, she had perfect confidence in his judgment. Surely he would not have remained here with his sister, and been so much with her poor mother, if he had the slightest idea it was wrong! No, it was impossible; and yet Julia's words haunted Linda like some dreadful nightmare! She longed for her husband to return; for if she once had the pleasure of feeling his trusting eyes upon her, and of telling him everything that had happened, she felt she would be able to brave the whole world, and feel no longer the stings of evil tongues.Linda was so absorbed in these perplexing thoughts, that she walked on at a quick pace, and quite forgot Paulina's caution not to leave the immediate neighbourhood of the villa. She had unconsciously descended the winding path which led down through the garden to the sea-shore, before she remembered the danger of which she had been warned. As soon as it occurred to her mind, she turned hastily round, and was about to retrace her steps, when four men suddenly emerged from behind a rock, and rushing upon her before she was at all aware of their intention, they seized her, and with a dexterity which showed they were well accustomed to such tasks, placed a cloth over her face, so that she could not call for assistance, while they quickly carried her to the water's edge, and placed her in a boat that had been concealed in a small creek near.She could see nothing, but she heard the plash of the oars, and felt by the movement that they were rowing her quickly away from the coast. She could scarcely breathe, for the bandage was so tight over her mouth; but in a few minutes they loosened it, and at the same time cautioned her in Italian, that if she uttered any cry, it would be immediately replaced.She was still blindfolded, and her hands were tied behind her back, and now the recollection of Randal's mysterious appearance, as Paulina had described, disguised as a bandit, which had perplexed them so much the preceding evening, recurred to her mind. She bitterly regretted her own folly in having forgotten it in the excitement produced by Julia's disclosure. She now fancied that this must be Randal's doing; or that, perhaps, he was even now in the boat with her; and then a feeling of horror and dread, such as she had never before experienced, overwhelmed her with dismay. She had long feared that his passion for her was not extinguished, although he sometimes appeared so fond of Julia as to make her hope he was happy with her. Yet she now recollected most painfully what she had endeavoured to dismiss from her mind at the time, how that often, by his glances, and sometimes even by his words, he had dared to evince his love,—notwithstanding the repellent coldness of her manner towards him.After rowing on the water for some time, Linda found herself lifted from the boat, and placed on what seemed to be a litter; she made a desperate effort to free her hands, in the hope that some of her guards might have become less vigilant; but a rough voice sounded in her ears, and with a violent oath, declared that if she persisted, he would tie them much tighter.It was evidently not Randal's voice, and she felt most thankful to discover that he was not near her. For the real bandits she feared little in comparison to the horror of thinking she was in his power; and she began to hope that Gasparone, or some others of his band, had taken her prisoner for the sake of gaining a large sum of money for her ransom. This she knew had occurred to several persons the preceding winter; and regaining some degree of courage, she ventured to inquire why they were carrying her away, and promised that her friends would pay any sum, if they would only restore her to freedom.'No, it is impossible!' said the same rough voice; 'but have patience, Gasparone never harms any lady such as you.'She saw it was in vain to speak, and felt much better pleased to learn that she was in Gasparone's power, so long as Randal did not come. But now she began to fear that perhaps he intended to come, and appear as if he meant to rescue her from the robbers; and if such was his plan, she determined to throw herself on the protection of Gasparone.CHAPTER XX. THE CAPTIVE.AFTER a ride of what appeared several hours, she was placed on the ground, and the bandage taken from her eyes.They were in one of those wild valleys of the Apennines which reminded Linda of a picture Lord Clanville had of Salvator Rosa; and if she had not been so painfully anxious about her mother and her own friends, she would have enjoyed the picturesque scene. Various groups of men, in the costume of banditti, were dispersed about; and to her great relief, she saw there were some women, too. Near her stood two girls and a child, in the beautiful costume of the Calabrian peasants, and their jewels seemed to be of great value. They regarded Linda with eager curiosity, and touched, perhaps, by her beauty and sorrowful looks, they approached, and begged her not to be alarmed. At the same moment an old woman brought her some refreshment, and the man whose rough voice had sounded before so cheeringly in her ears, because it was not Randal's, begged her to eat, as they had still some distance to travel before evening.'Do, dear Signora!' said one of the girls, when they saw that Linda hesitated to taste the food; you need not fear, for Dorina cooked it herself, and there is no danger of poison, or anything to make you sleep,' she continued, with a smile, and eating some herself. 'Now try the other part of the dish; for you look so pale and ill, dear lady.'Linda explained that she was in the greatest anxiety about her mother, and that she knew her disappearance must have such an effect on her health, that she feared she would die, and she should never see her more; in fact, she spoke so eloquently, that those of the banditti who sat within reach of her voice were evidently touched; and Linda began to hope that she had some prospect of interesting them in her favour. But at this moment shots were heard at a distance, and there was a sudden movement of the whole party. Her rough conductor instantly replaced the bandage on her eyes, she was lifted upon the litter, and the cavalcade proceeded at a quick pace up a steep mountain. Linda inquired several times the reason of this alarm, but no answer was returned; and she trembled lest her rough conductor might have been replaced by Randal.After mounting for some time, they began to descend a steep path, where they proceeded very slowly; and then she heard a shrill whistle, and much talking and disputing was going on at a little distance, but she could not distinguish the words. Then she felt that they proceeded at a quicker pace, and from the echoing sound of the horses' steps, concluded that they had entered a narrow and rocky valley. At last there was a halt, and the same rough voice said,—'Ecco siam arrivati—and now the Signora may repose herself.'The bandage was again removed, and Linda found herself at the base of the high rock on which stood the old Castle of Montefeltro. A tall man, who, from the scar on his cheek, she recognised to be Gasparone, assisted her to dismount, as he lifted his hat from his head with an air of respect, and asked her pardon for the inconvenience to which she had been subjected.'The Signora will find but poor accommodation in yonder castle,' he said, pointing to Montefeltro, with its Cyclopian foundations; 'but such as it is, I can only offer it with the hope that you will rest.''But why must I remain here? Why will you not allow me to be ransomed? Why——''Do not speak so,' said Gasparone, waving his hand before her face with the usual gesture of Italians when they wish to put an end to remonstrances which they have determined shall be useless. 'I have sworn to leave you here until four suns have risen and set, and I cannot break my oath; but you need fear nothing. Come, Guiseppe. Now, dear lady, let me assist you up this steep path, for if you do not consent willingly, it will be my duty to use force,' and so saying he attempted to take her hand; but she drew it away and begged him not to touch her, and she would walk up that path if it was really necessary; 'only protect me—oh, protect me,' she said imploringly, 'if——if an Englishman——''Oh, I know all,' he said; 'never fear; you shall be as safe here as if you were in the Castle of St. Elmo.''But you do not know what I mean——''Si, si,' he said impatiently; 'I am obliged to ride to Benevento to-night, and I have sworn to see you safe in this old tower before I start. So do, dear Signora, proceed, unless you will allow us to carry you up, which indeed would be the safest plan; for the steps are steep and dangerous in some places, and the height makes many people giddy.''No, do not carry me,' exclaimed Linda; 'I will walk alone; only let go my hand,' she said, for Gasparone's look plainly evinced the extreme admiration her beauty had excited, and she shrank from his touch with dread.Seeing that all entreaties to be allowed to return home would be useless, she proceeded with a firm step to mount the steep and difficult path. In some places it was so narrow there was only just room for one person;—she saw the rushing torrent at a fearful depth below, and there was no parapet or protection of any kind. But she only dreaded her companions, and therefore she quickened her pace whenever she saw that Gasparone was going to assist her.'Brava!' he exclaimed, when she had reached the summit. 'A steady step, and a clear conscience, too, or you would never have mounted it in the way you have done. E un miracolo davvero, ' he said, turning to the rough men who accompanied him. 'And now, Benvenuto a Montefeltro, Signora; and Giovanni will attend to your orders as far as he can,' he said, as he conducted her into the vast hall of the fortress, and raised his hat as he took leave of her with a look of greater respect than he had manifested before.'Hear me for one moment,' she exclaimed, while a flash of hope darted through her mind as she saw he no longer ventured to regard her with that look of familiar admiration that had terrified her so much before she mounted the difficult ascent; but before she could finish the sentence he was gone, and he seemed as if he was determined not to listen to her expostulations. She saw it would be useless to try and appeal to the compassion of the rough-looking men who had followed her up into the Castle,—she looked round in vain for the beautiful girls she had seen in the ravine when they first halted, and only ventured to ask whether she should see them again.Giovanni shook his head, but said, 'La vecchia Berta would soon come and attend to her.' They then made her mount a long winding staircase, and after proceeding through a dark corridor and up another staircase, Giovanni unlocked a ponderous door, and Linda found herself in a cell which was almost dark; for the sun had just set, and only a faint light gleamed through the narrow loophole which served as a window.'Berta will bring a light and some supper to the Signora,' said Giovanni as he withdrew and locked the door on the outside.Linda was glad to be alone, for her first object was to ascertain whether the door could be fastened on the inside; but she could feel no bolts or bars, and she groped about to seek for some heavy object which could be placed against the door. There seemed to be a bed in one corner—one of those gigantic, ponderous, Italian bedsteads which are sometimes seen in old houses; and her utmost strength could not suffice to move it an inch. She then approached the loophole, but it was so high that she could not reach to look out. It was now quite dark, but Linda could see a few bright stars through the aperture, and she always felt consoled by the sight of them; so she knelt down and prayed long and fervently, and when, about an hour afterwards, old Berta came in with a light and a tray of refreshments, Linda looked so peaceful and resigned that the old woman gazed at her with evident surprise and admiration.But Berta either was, or pretended to be, so deaf that she did not seem to hear a word that Linda said. She then declared, in Italian, that she could not hear if a carabine were shot off close to her ear; and she begged Linda would make a sign if she required anything more to eat or drink. Linda tried to express that she did not, but endeavoured to make her comprehend that she wished her to remain in the room. Old Berta shook her head, and after, arranging her bed, she withdrew, and locked the door outside as before.Poor Linda now felt most desolate; but she knew it was useless to repine, and she determined to pass the night in a chair, which she placed against the door, that she might be sure to wake if any one attempted to open it. She tried to sleep, for her strength was quite worn out by anxiety and fatigue—but, for a long time, she found it impossible to close her eyes. At last she sank into a sort of doze, but presently started up, fancying she heard a slight noise on the farther side of the room, as if of a crumbling down of the wall. The lamp was still burning, and she went in that direction. She passed her hand over the stones, and there was a slight vibration made, as if something was being moved, though at some distance. Could this be any one trying to release her?—for, of course, were it Randal, or one of the banditti, they would come in by the door. The sound continued, but did not become any louder; and she therefore imagined, from the large size of the stones, and apparent massive thickness of the wall, that if any one were trying to break through, it would prove a very long and tedious operation. There was no sound of a hammer or any instrument—but, as if some persons were pulling at the stones, and rolling them down with their hands.So Linda began to think it might be some person endeavouring to escape; or perhaps rats. So she tried to sleep again. This time she was more successful, although she awoke very often in the course of the night; but a feeling of hope and: trust in God sustained her courage. There was something, too, rather soothing in the monotonous sound at the other side of the wall. It gave her the impression that she had some companions in misfortune—that somebody was suffering, and, perhaps, praying near; and therefore she felt less lonely.When the first faint rays of morning twilight dawned through the aperture, she awoke refreshed, and listened for the friendly rolling of the stones; but the sound was no longer heard. Soon afterwards, old Berta came with her breakfast. She seemed in a less good humour even than the night before; and, without waiting for Linda to make any signs, hurried out of the room. Linda then fancied that she heard the sound of her voice, disputing with some one outside the door.Several hours passed, and poor Linda's courage began to droop, for she dreaded the effect her prolonged absence must have on her poor mother; and perhaps Julia, too, might tell her of that dreadful paragraph in the newspaper;—and her child! what must she be suffering—poor little Ethel, whose sensitive feelings were always sadly excited when anything happened to those she loved;—and she remembered the look of misery the child's face wore, when she was dreaming the preceding morning, that her mother had been taken away.But her great hopes were, that if Mr. Grant should arrive, he would be able, by Paulina's advice, to bring a sufficient force to rescue her from the banditti. Several times she fancied that shots were fired in the distance; but no one came near.At last, the sound she had heard in the night was resumed, and seemed to be nearer; and now she felt alarmed, for the large stones on her side of the wall slightly moved, and she could almost see small apertures in different places, through which she fancied she could see a faint light. Then it ceased again—and now she had nothing to relieve the monotony of her imprisonment. She could not reach the loophole to look out, and could only watch the narrow patch of sunshine, as it slowly traversed the opposite wall.At last a quick step was heard on the stairs—and there was something in its sound which made her start and turn pale. It approached, but then ceased, and she prayed more fervently for protection. Then it was, that her face wore that look of holy resignation which had so touched Randal, and made him pause in his diabolical designs, as he watched her through the iron grating. But his evil passions prevailed. He had dared to approach her, and tell her, with fierce exultation, that all the world believed she had eloped with Dudley Aylmer—and that, in consequence, her mother's death was hourly expected.Linda knew that he would not scruple to tell a falsehood; but her own fears convinced her that what he had said was true. Still she was determined not to lose her strength and presence of mind, and, as he darted forward and seized her wrist, she endeavoured, with superhuman energy, to free herself from his grasp, and screamed loudly for aid, in the vague hope that her fellow-prisoner in the next cell would be able to assist her. And she was not disappointed.Just as Randal, with a laugh of exultation, thought himself secure of his lovely prey, a crash was heard—part of the wall between the cells gave way, and a heap of large stones came rolling in. Randal looked round aghast—and, to his utter consternation and dismay, he saw the hated form of Dudley Aylmer appear at the aperture!For a moment Randal trembled and cowered before the look of withering scorn that glared from Dudley's eyes; but the next instant Randal had drawn a pistol from under his cloak, and with that deep and crafty knowledge of character which formed his chief power, he pointed it at Linda's heart, exclaiming, in a voice of thunder—'If you approach a step nearer, I shoot her!'It was an agonizing moment! For Dudley well knew that Randal would fulfil his threat—that his love for her was of that selfish and revengeful kind which is more akin to hatred.Then a sudden idea seemed to strike Randal, as he looked at the athletic form of Dudley, standing on the heap of stones, and remembered the vast strength those arms must possess to have thrown them down. With a bitter laugh, the baffled and cowardly villain gradually retreated to the door, dragging Linda after him, and still pointing his pistol at her heart; then, as soon as he had reached the entrance, he said to her,—'I see that my presence is no longer required—I leave you under the protection of the man you have always loved, and the whole world will see that its surmise was right—for here you will be found together.'As he pronounced the last words, he released his grasp of Linda's arm, dexterously withdrew, and locked the door on the outside.CHAPTER XXI. THE LETTER.MR GRANT had, after he left Scotland, been impeded on his journey by storms. His mother was still unwell, but she had urged him to leave her, because Linda expressed great anxiety for his arrival. There was something in the tone of Linda's letter that gave Mrs. Grant much cause for thought. She had, like Miss Barton, been struck with the greater look of happiness in the handwriting. Then, it seemed strange that Mrs. Delamere and Linda should apparently derive so much pleasure from the society of Lord Clanville and his family, and particularly of Mr. Aylmer, when those were almost the only persons of Linda's acquaintance whom she had never spoken about to Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Delamere had also written several times, and her letters were full of praise of Dudley—his enchanting songs, his varied talents, and wonderful kindness, in reading and devoting so much of his mind and time to her during that painful illness she had, immediately on her arrival at Sorrento. She attributed her recovery to him, or rather, she said that he had kept her alive until dear Linda had arrived.'Could this Dudley be the person poor dear Linda had loved?' was a question Mrs. Grant was continually asking herself. This would account for her never having mentioned him. or kept up any intercourse with his family. Otherwise, why had they never said anything about such a remarkable person as he must be? And his sister and brother Linda's oldest friends!The more she considered this, the more she trembled; for she saw in what an extremely embarrassing position poor Linda would find herself. But, above all, she trembled for Dudley. For she had always seen that a love such as had been unconsciously developed in Linda's heart, must have been caused by a person whose passion was still more strong, though at first, perhaps, equally unknown to himself. And Mrs. Grant so fully appreciated Linda's attractions, that she felt deeply for any one who had really loved her. She was most intimately acquainted with all the noble and mysterious workings of her mind—with all her efforts to obtain faith in religion. She could clearly read every page of that beautiful book,—and its deep recesses, which were concealed from most people—even from her own mother,—Mrs. Grant could see as distinctly as if reflected in a clear and limpid lake.She well knew what it must be to love such a creature, and fully to comprehend her,—what the love of a person must be, whose intellect was equal, or perhaps even superior to Linda's, and who could really see and appreciate her most original excellences. How deep—how enduring must be the adoration of such a person! and what a fearful trial, when after, in all probability he had purposely avoided Linda for the last six years, they were suddenly and unavoidably thrown together, and subjected to renewed intimacy,—to see each other almost hourly—to read and talk together by her mother's sick-bed—then, at the urgent request of that mother, to walk out with him, and luxuriate in the enchanting scenery of the enervating south; above all—and most dangerous,—they must sing together—they must sing their old and fatally remembered songs—those songs in which their voices had mingled together while unconscious love had first dawned in their hearts,—when life was still a vague and enchanting dream, ere its rough realities and disappointments had awoke them to the consciousness of a fatal and hopeless attachment.Poor Mrs. Grant pictured to herself all this; and she remembered several songs which Linda rarely sung, and then only at the urgent request of some old friends, and which Mrs. Grant had always fancied were composed by 'him.' Linda's voice then sounded quite different—infinitely more beautiful; but there was an exquisite pathos in her tones, which always made Mrs. Grant weep; and she saw that they used also to have a painful effect on Linda's own feelings. Not that she had ever appeared sad to any one else—but Mrs. Grant had observed that the effort to be cheerful after she had sung one of those songs was greater.Linda was now always in her thoughts and in her prayers,—and she prayed more fervently than ever, too, for she felt the necessity of prayer so much. Her experienced mind told her that perhaps neither Linda nor Dudley were aware of the danger of their position. They might be so absorbed in the ecstasy of happiness at the renewed intimacy of their childhood, that at first forgetting the after passion which had troubled their existence, they might fancy themselves safe, luxuriating in the strong affection, the friendship they had felt for each other in their unconscious youth. 'Never was there such a trial,' Mrs. Grant constantly exclaimed; —and then she dreaded the suffering they might experience afterwards if they thought they still loved too well. If Linda discovered that her feelings had in any way been too strong,—that she had not sufficiently striven, or had even temporarily ceased to strive to make her husband the first object of her love, how fearful would be the remorse experienced by such a painfully sensitive conscience as hers!Such anxious thoughts as these had induced her to hasten her son's departure; and then her anxiety to hear of his arrival was painfully intense,—for she loved Linda, if possible, with greater affection than her son, and she felt more apprehensive about her. She longed to know whether this meeting with her old love would turn out for Linda's happiness, or the reverse; and she foresaw that this must entirely depend upon the strength and earnestness of both their prayers, and the vital power of religion in their hearts.Mr. Grant intended to travel as quickly as possible, and he should probably not write until he had crossed the mountains, and reached Rome or Naples.About ten days after his departure, a letter reached Mrs. Grant from Linda—a most satisfactory one. It was written the same night as that on which she had sent one to Miss Barton, and consequently just after Dudley's last conversation. Mrs. Grant found her surmise had been correct, and that Dudley was the person who had gained Linda's early affection. And to her mother-in-law she poured forth her inmost feelings, and repeated all Dudley had said—every word he had uttered; and described his features and outward appearance, the repose of his forehead, the light in his eyes. She told of her own bounding happiness at finding that her love had been returned—or rather that it had been caused by his;—the courage and strength this discovery had given her, the confident feeling that now she need have no longer any secrets from John, and that he would forgive her having given her first love to such a person as Dudley, because it was awakened by him long before she knew or saw her husband.She described the trustful peace she experienced, her renewed prayers and hopes that she might become more and more worthy of her husband's affection; and she could look forward to Dudley's departure from Sorrento the next day without any pain, or even contemplate their never meeting again in this world, because she felt such thankful, joyful faith in the happiness of another life when this was over, where she might hope to be for ever with those friends she had loved on earth.Mrs. Grant was greatly comforted by this letter. She saw that as Linda had become fully aware of her own feelings, and was passing, with the help of prayer, through a fiery ordeal, which would have overturned minds less pure and devout, she ought to cease to fear for her, particularly as Dudley was to leave Sorrento the following day. She still, however, trembled for him. Did he leave it? Was it possible he could tear himself away from such a being as Linda, whose heart was so pure and trustful, that she must have attained in his eyes all the perfections her youth promised, and have become far dearer to him than ever before? Was it possible human nature could attain such strength and goodness as he must possess to leave the creature who must be so exactly fitted to be the star of his earthly existence?A voice seemed to answer her prayers in the affirmative,—'Yes, he must indeed be endued with strength from a higher Power, he must be self-denying and courageous, or Linda would not have loved him so intensely. He must be one of those who would pluck out the right eye, or cut off the right hand, rather than offend Him who is their Example and their Guide.CHAPTER XXII. A HUSBAND'S LOVE.IN the meantime Mr. Grant pursued his journey, and reached Rome on the 22nd, the very day when the distressing event occurred that has been already related. He only remained there a few hours, and then set off by the first conveyance he could find. There was fortunately one inside place vacant in the diligence, which was just about to start when he reached the office.He found himself sitting by a person whose features he thought he recollected, but could not remember the name; and the stranger seemed equally at a loss. Mr. Grant began to speak, in hopes that in conversation he might elicit who the gentleman was, and see whether he had been formerly acquainted with him. But his companion did not seem much inclined to converse; he was either very shy, or absorbed in some painful thoughts, and after exchanging a few words, they relapsed into silence. But their opposite neighbours were more talkative;—one was a sort of vulgar Englishman, and the other a German.Mr. Grant did not feel much interest in what they were saying, so, taking a book from his pocket, he began to read. Presently a few words reached his ears which made him look up, for he thought he heard his own name mentioned.'Yes, I hear it is a Mrs. Grant,' said the Englishman, 'and the gentleman is a chap of the aristocracy, a Mr.——Mr. Aylmer.'These words appeared to interest the gentleman whose name Mr. Grant could not remember, as much as himself, for he looked round with great anxiety.'Yes, it is an old love,' said the man opposite; 'only the gentleman was poor, and had a hateful eldest brother who would not give him a sixpence, and who wanted to marry the girl himself.''She is a very beautiful lady,' said the German (Baron Küller), 'so I do hear—I was asked a few days ago to pass the evening with her by a friend of mine at Sorrento, but I could not go, I am sorry to say. I heard that her husband is very ugly, and treats her shamefully.''And they are gone off, are they?' inquired the vulgar Englishman; 'but I do not see it mentioned in this paragraph, nor in Galignani.''Will you have the kindness to show me the paper?' said Mr. Grant, whose curiosity was powerfully excited. After glancing his eye over the paragraph before alluded to, and pitying in his own mind the relations of the unfortunate couple mentioned in it, he handed it to the gentleman who sat next to him, and inquired whether he knew to what it alluded.'Yes—no—I—I have seen it before, and I am very much distressed; in fact, I am hastening back to——to——on purpose,' he said, with an air of extreme embarrassment.'Then you are acquainted with the parties,' said Mr. Grant, with an air of kind commiseration, which appeared to touch the stranger. For he said in a whisper only loud enough to be heard by Mr. Grant,—'Yes, I will tell you all I know as soon as we reach the first stage, for, if I mistake not, YOU are as much interested in that atrocious attack as myself.''Then it is false, I trust?' said Mr. Grant, in the same low tone.'I trust so, indeed; but it will be a great trial to them, when they find what scandalous stories have been circulated about them.''But it is true that the lady was attached to the gentleman before her marriage.''I—I—it is impossible to say; but I know that my poor brother——'Mr. Grant determined to inquire no more until they were out of reach of being overhead by their fellow-travellers; but so soon as they arrived at Albano, he ascertained that his companion was Lord Clanville, whom he had met a few times in London before his marriage, and he saw that he had been recognised by him at once; only seeing that Mr. Grant did not seem to remember him, Lord Clanville could not summon up courage to salute him as an acquaintance.He now told Mr. Grant, with a look of deep feeling, that it was his wife, Mrs. Grant, who had been attacked in that paragraph; that she had been almost brought up with them when they were all children, and that she was the oldest and dearest friend he or his family had. That he had proposed for Linda, and been refused, and that he afterwards ascertained, to his great grief, that his poor brother Dudley had always been attached to her, but had concealed his love, out of unselfish devotion to his eldest brother. That when he made this discovery, he, Lord Clanville, had no means of repairing the mischief he had done to his brother, for that Linda was then engaged to Mr. Grant, and therefore he had never learnt whether his brother's affection had been reciprocated by Linda or not.'And they have been thrown constantly together for the last two months,' said Mr. Grant, after a pause. 'Poor Mr. Aylmer, it must have been a severe trial for him!''Yes, and it was very stupid of me to urge him so strongly to remain, when I knew all; but poor Theresa was so ill, and she and Mrs. Delamere depended so much upon him, and would have been so miserable if he had left Sorrento before he was obliged to return to Vienna, that I saw no reason why he should. Besides, he was anxious to remain until you came; he said he should be so very much happier if he could see you. But he was ordered off to Vienna suddenly, and I received a note from him, dated the 21st, begging I would meet him at Rome, as he passed through, but he was not at the place appointed, nor can I obtain any tidings of him.'This report is certainly very distressing. Still,' said Mr. Grant, with composure, 'everyone who knows Linda must be perfectly convinced there can be no truth in it; no one could look in her face and doubt her for a moment.''I am very glad you take it so. Indeed, that must be the case; but I am always so foolish and apprehensive about everything,' added Lord Clanville, with less reserve, for he felt strongly attracted by Mr. Grant's honest countenance.'It is certainly very annoying, and must of course throw a damp on your brother's intercourse with them, and no doubt Mrs. Delamere will be much hurt; but perhaps they will not see it, and if not, we need not tell them anything about it,' said Mr. Grant, with a look of kind cheerfulness that quite raised Lord Clanville's spirits.The journey went on smoothly, and Mr. Grant was able to enjoy the scenery, and took much interest in what Lord Clanville told him about the excavations he had been making near Volterra and Nola.Towards the evening of the following day. they reached Naples, and there they were met by Mr. Randal, who came up to them with a look of extreme agitation, and said that he had come on purpose to break some bad news to them—'That Mr. Aylmer had eloped with Mrs Grant the day before——''It is false!' exclaimed both husband and brother in a breath. But Randal continued his narration as if he had not heard them, and gave no heed to their words:—'——that poor Mrs. Delamere had been utterly overwhelmed with the sad event, and had been taken so alarmingly ill that her life was despaired of. That he had watched by her with Julia; but as soon as Dr. Leighton had arrived the night before, Randal had caused inquiries to be made in all directions, and had set off himself to try and obtain some intelligence of the fugitives, and if possible to inform Mrs. Grant of her mother's dangerous state.'Randal continued to say that he fortunately obtained some information, which enabled him to track them to a wild place in the mountains, near La Cava, whither he went, and he had found that they had retired to the Castle of Montefeltro, an old fortress, which he supposed Dudley had hired from the banditti, for it was generally a haunt of theirs, he had heard. He had some difficulty in finding the place, for it was very secluded in the gorge of a narrow valley. 'But,' said he 'when at last I reached it——''They were not there,' interrupted Mr. Grant.'Pardon me,' said Randal, with provoking composure; 'after a long and tedious search, I at last reached the castle, and clambered up its difficult approach, and there, in an upper cell, I found them together.''It is impossible!—they could never have intended to leave Sorrento. I can't believe it!' exclaimed Lord Clanville. 'My brother was to quit Sorrento yesterday, I know, but——''You need not believe me,' said Randal; 'but if you like to see with your own eyes, you have only to ride as far as the old Castle of Montefeltro, and there you will find them.'When Randal began to inform them of this strange occurrence, he had led them away from the crowd of people which always surround a diligence when it arrives; but as he proceeded with his narrative, the two men who had been in the diligence came near to listen; then some more who had heard vague rumours of 'the elopement,' as it was called; so that by the time he had ended with the words, 'At Montefeltro you will find them,' quite a crowd had collected, and all were eager to hear the details.When Randal had left his victims locked up in the upper cells, he gave strict directions to some of the banditti, whom he well knew he might trust, to guard them most carefully, and allow neither of them to escape. At the same time, he made arrangements, that at a given signal the robbers were to withdraw, and conceal themselves effectually, so as to make it appear that no compulsion had been used, and that no one, except old Berta, should be visible, who was to act as guide to Randal, or whoever he might send. Giovanni was to manage cleverly to unlock the door at the last signal; and Randal promised them very large sums of money, which he already felt he possessed through Mrs. Delamere's death, if they would faithfully carry out his wishes.He then rode off to Naples to waylay Mr. Giant and Lord Clanville; and great was his delight when he saw them arrive together by the first diligence that came in after he reached Naples. So now he felt confident of vengeance, and of making Linda and Dudley appear guilty in the eyes of the world.At first, Mr. Grant was startled by all these positive assurances of Mr. Randal's; yet after a moment's reflection, he felt that nothing was more improbable than that Linda should leave her mother and child. He was not much acquainted with Randal; but he knew that Linda disliked him, and he could not help suspecting that he had some design in misleading Lord Clanville and himself. He therefore hesitated, and felt at a loss what course to pursue, when a note was put into Lord Clanville's hand which determined them. It was from Lady Theresa, who had sent a messenger express to meet her brother, and inform him that Linda had mysteriously disappeared the preceding morning, and that rumours had reached her ears that she had been carried off by banditti, who had also taken Dudley prisoner; and she begged Lord Clanville to take some troops and go in search of them. They now felt that not a moment was to be lost, and horses were ordered at once for Mr. Grant and Lord Clanville. Randal advised them to take an escort, but they were too impatient to wait; and the two other travellers, and several other people, whose curiosity and interest had been excited, accompanied them, and formed quite a cavalcade.Mr. Grant questioned Randal on the subject of Lady Theresa's information, and showed him her note. But he still maintained that the elopement had evidently been planned by the lovers—though perhaps, assisted by the robbers; for that there were no signs of any banditti near the old castle where he found them, nor could he see any during his search for them among the mountains.'However, we shall see,' he exclaimed, as they started on the expedition; 'and if we continue at this pace, we shall reach Montefeltro before sunset.'CHAPTER XXIII. THE REVENGE.FOR the first part of their ride, Randal was in a state of triumphant exultation, for hitherto all his designs had prospered in the most satisfactory manner. The only drawback had been the loss of Mrs. Delamere's letter, the one Julia wrote, and which she had believed she had signed; but as she would never wake again in this world, it was of no importance, as no one, except Julia, was aware of her having written it. Then, although his atrocious designs on Linda had been frustrated by the sudden and almost miraculous appearance of Dudley, yet he had made use of that very occurrence to forward his schemes of revenge on them both. For, although he was well aware of the unselfish nature of Dudley's love, and was convinced that no passion, however strong, that he might feel for her, would induce him to risk the sacrifice of her character in the eyes of the world; yet now that appearances would be so far against her as to ensure its loss, Randal could not imagine that any higher motive or more noble consideration could uphold him in the path of duty.The only circumstance that gave Randal real cause for alarm was, that no intelligence had reached him of Mrs. Delamere's death, although he had taken every precaution to insure receiving Julia's letter, informing him of the event. And now he should have no means of ascertaining her state until he returned to Sorrento.He had agreed with the robbers that, on receiving a preconcerted signal, they were to leave the neighbourhood of Montefeltro, so that the armed escort which Mr. Grant would probably bring with them should not find any traces of them. This he had been obliged to do, both for their own safety, and to make it appear that Dudley and Linda remained in the castle of their own free will.No words were spoken during that quick ride; but Randal felt, to his extreme annoyance, that Lord Clanville and Mr. Grant both regarded him with considerable distrust. This expression was more plainly indicated on Mr. Grant's honest countenance, and Randal, too, saw there such evident signs of strong good sense, and that absence of enthusiasm or strong passion which he well knew was the most difficult to deceive—a disposition which would never be led away by any sudden surmise or plausible appearance, and so full of affection and kindness withal, that Randal began to tremble at the accurate investigation such a man would institute into the case, before he condemned his beautiful wife. He had always feared and hated the acuteness of perception and generous high-mindedness of purpose which Dudley possessed, and which rendered it so difficult for Randal to cope with such a grand nature; yet, in this instance, he dreaded the plain, straightforward, honest simplicity of Mr. Grant even more.However, in case of the worst, and that he still refused to believe in his wife's guilt, there was no danger for Randal;—they could not prove that he came to the castle with any evil intention, or that he was in league with the robbers to carry Linda there. He might have gone, as he had told Mr. Grant, to try and bring her back; and from her dislike to him, she might have screamed or imagined he intended her harm, bewildered as she must have been by the dreadful misfortune of having fallen into the hands of Gasparone, and having been carried away from her friends; and though Dudley had found him seizing hold of her arm, that might have been because he was in haste to induce her to leave the castle with him as quickly as possible, and withdraw from the robber's power, that she might return to her dying mother. No, there was nothing that could actually be proved against him—nothing. Besides, Dudley and Linda, he thought, would be so utterly confounded by the misery and shame of being found together in such a strange place, they would have no thought to bestow on him,—they would be utterly indifferent as to what his designs might have been. Even Dudley would be too full of self-reproach to throw any blame on Randal for having purposely left him in a position of such dire temptation.But as they approached the neighbourhood of Montefeltro, Randal became still more impatient than before to witness the dénouement of the tragedy he had so skilfully prepared. He longed to witness their confusion and dismay at seeing the injured husband and brother, and to triumph in their agony. Poor Mr. Grant!—he could almost find it in his heart to pity him; and, indeed, he had always felt rather kindly disposed to him than otherwise, because he had been the means of preventing Linda from marrying the man she loved—of separating her from the rival that he hated more than any human being. Yet, when he looked in Mr. Grant's face, where he expected to see some traces of the agony of impatience he must suffer as the moment drew near which was to determine his wife's innocence or guilt, he was surprised to see that look of trustful hope—almost composure, winch had so astonished him on Mrs. Delamere's face, when she was momentarily expecting her summons from this world; that peace which, indeed, 'passeth all understanding,' and which can only be attained by those who live in the daily effort to become better,— 'So to act that each to-morrow,Finds them further than to-day;' —a look which he felt could never be seen on his own face, infinitely handsomer though it was;—a look that must make the comparatively plain features of Mr. Grant more attractive than his own. Perhaps Linda had learnt to love him,—perhaps it was impossible to live with a person who had that expression, and yet encourage a love which must lead her astray! Randal saw plainly that as yet Mr. Grant harboured no doubt of his wife's innocence,—that he was only intensely anxious for her safety.At last they approached the end of the long narrow glen which led to Montefeltro, and Randal spurred on his horse to give the preconcerted signal to the men who were to be stationed behind Berta's cottage, and who were to proceed by a short concealed path to the castle, and give the alarm to the robbers, while one should take away the bar of Linda's room, and stand ready to unlock the door and disappear when Randal should give the last signal. Randal called loudly on the old woman, who, he said, was stone deaf,—and at last she appeared, hobbling along with her crutches, and Randal made her understand that they wanted to be shown up to the castle. She shook her head, and muttered something about the signora not liking to be disturbed; and she appeared in no very good humour at being interrupted in her occupation, which seemed to have been washing, as her hands were covered with soapsuds.But when Randal insisted, she seemed frightened, and went at almost a quicker pace than appeared compatible with her lameness. But when they reached the base of the old castle, she was quite out of breath, and could not speak, but motioned with her hand, as much as to say that they could find their own way up the steep ascent, and that she did not like the trouble of mounting the narrow path before described.So Randal proceeded to show them the way, followed closely by Mr. Grant and Lord Clanville, and as many of the party as could venture up the dangerous ascent. In the long dark corridor at the top of the first stairs, Randal stumbled against a stone, and uttered a sharp cry of pain: it was the last signal agreed upon,—that Giovanni should manage quickly to withdraw the key from Linda's door, and retire by another back staircase.But Randal did not wait a moment, although he said he had grazed his shins most painfully. He hurried on, and when they approached Linda's cell, to his great surprise he heard the voices of two persons quarrelling violently. They distinguished a plaintive voice entreating for mercy, then what sounded like blows,—and a shrill woman's tones were heard, bawling out in terms of no measured abuse. This was most perplexing—it was so totally different from the gentle lovers they were brought there to surprise. Some of the party could not help laughing, for they thought that evidently the one was boxing the other's ears; and the beautiful English lady was defending herself very loudly, in excellent Italian, or rather what appeared to be patois, as the words 'Bricone,' 'maledetto ladro,' 'ubriaco,' were heard.Randal at once suspected that all was wrong, and that some foul trick had been played him by Gasparone, or perhaps Dudley, and he gnashed his teeth with rage and mortification. With breathless haste they rushed on, and looked through the grating. There they saw a bony old peasant woman belabouring an unfortunate man, who seemed to be in the greatest terror, and quite unable to defend himself from her attack.'What trick is this?' exclaimed Lord Clanville; 'you have mistaken the place.' But Randal had contrived to slip away, and go down the secret staircase to find old Berta, and discover from her the cause of this bitter disappointment. But she was nowhere to be seen: he hunted all over her cottage, and round it, and among the paths near, but not a trace of any human being could he discover. In the mean time, Mr. Grant and Lord Clanville entered the cell, and endeavoured to obtain from the inmates some account of Linda, and to inquire whether any people answering the description of his wife and Mr. Aylmer had been there at all. But neither Mr. Grant nor Lord Clanville could speak much Italian; still less could they make themselves understood by those who could only converse in the language of Neapolitan peasants.The bystanders, whose mirth had already been excited by the strange dénouement, could not refrain from laughter at hearing Mr. Grant's attempts, and seeing the fury of Lord Clanville, at not being able to make himself understood. At last Mr. Grant, struck by the absurdity of the scene, burst into a fit of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by Lord Clanville.As no traces of the banditti could be found, and they could hear nothing of Linda, Lord Clanville and Mr. Grant determined to proceed to Sorrento immediately, instead of following Lady Theresa's directions, and procuring an armed force to pursue the banditti further up the mountains.They were both greatly relieved to find Randal's statement so completely false, and came to the conclusion that he must have misled them for the sake of a wager;—in which idea they were strengthened by his having disappeared as soon as they reached the cell. Still, as they read Lady Theresa's note again, and saw that when she wrote Linda had really disappeared, they felt great anxiety to learn the entire truth. And Mr. Grant's agonizing suspense, for fear any harm had come to her, and that he should not find her at the Villa Spada, made the rest of the journey appear to him of intolerable length,—the more particularly as they met with several delays, and the only horses they succeeded in procuring were already jaded and worn out.CHAPTER XXIV. EXPECTATION.AFTER Mrs. Delamere had made the effort to sign her name to the letter she had dictated to Julia, she sank back quite exhausted, and had only a dim consciousness of hearing Dr. Battoni's voice replying in angry tones. Then, after a few minutes, she had a sort of dim idea that Dr. Leighton was there, and that he poured something down her throat which gave her a sensation of relief, and that she sank into a pleasant sleep. But after a time her dreams became disturbed, and she saw the figure of Randal standing by her bedside, and pouring something into a glass which she felt she must drink. He remained and looked at her with a tormenting gaze, and then she tried to call Linda, but she could utter no sound. At last she awoke with a burning sensation in her throat, and saw no one; but she fancied she had seen Dr. Leighton, and that therefore it was safe for her to take the mixture that had been placed by her bedside. So she drank it, and feeling much refreshed, she sank into a quiet sleep that must have lasted several hours; for when she awoke, a bright sun was shining through the crevices of the window blinds, and Dr. Leighton was standing by her bedside, feeling her pulse.'What has happened?' she inquired. 'I thought I was dead and——and, oh! I remember all—dear Linda is gone; and was not Mr. Randal here in the night?'the remains, he saw it was one of his own draughts which he had directed she should take.''I almost feel now as if I should recover,' said Mrs. Delamere, 'if I could get any tidings of Linda, or even know that she is safe; though I had fully made up my mind to die last night! Dr. Battoni said there was no hope, and so I wrote—that is, I made Julia write—to Linda. And can nothing be done? Is there no tidings of Lord Clanville or Mr. Grant? It is strange what can have detained him so long——and dear Ethel, is she here to-day?''No, she is still at Mrs. Randal's house.''Oh, do pray let her come. I will not excite her,—I will not let her see me grieve; but it would delight me so to have her with me.'And poor Mrs. Delamere continued to talk on with that sort of half-pleased, half-grumbling volubility in which a convalescent indulges when enjoying an unexpected respite from death—a return to the daily cares and interests of life which they had been almost resigned to quit.Dr. Leighton let her talk on, although he was rather afraid of her fatiguing herself. He was unwilling to excite her suspicions of any sinister designs on Randal's part, and that of Dr. Battoni; but he wished to obtain all the information he could as to what she had seen and heard during the night; for, after having found Randal so mysteriously locked into Mrs. Delamere's room, he now reproached himself for not having remained with her all night. Her having again seen Randal put some medicine by her bedside, and then read a paper at the lamp, while a mysterious hand changed the glass, struck him as very remarkable, unless it was a dream, which, from her manner of relating it, he did not think was the case.He determined to go and get little Ethel; and, perhaps, in her innocent prattle, more particulars might be brought to light. Could it be Mrs. Randal, he thought, whose hand had appeared to change the glass, wishing to counteract some evil designs of her husband's, without his knowledge. Yet, what possible object could Mr. Randal have in wishing to take Mrs. Delamere's life, if, indeed, he had attempted it?As Dr. Leigh ton was proceeding to fulfil his intention, he met Mrs. Randal at the door of the villa, with little Ethel, and he saw that the poor child was still under the influence of some sedative, so that a much more powerful dose must have been administered than could have been required to compose her nerves.Julia inquired, with great apparent anxiety, about the health of the invalid; but Dr. Leighton did not remark in her manner anything to indicate that she had taken part in the mysterious proceedings of last night. Indeed, when Dr. Leighton inquired about Randal, she replied, without the slightest hesitation, that her husband had not returned home last night until a short time after her, but had started at daybreak for Rome, to try and bring back Lord Clanville, in case the letters sent should have missed him.She seemed particularly anxious about Mrs. Grant, and, as soon as she had given up Ethel into Dr. Leighton's care, she said she would go to the Villa Antonini, and inquire whether any news had reached the ladies there, as the Prince and the Marquis de Hauteville were both to have started the day before in different directions, to try and obtain some clue to Linda's fate.Julia soon returned, saying that the Prince and the Marquis de Hauteville had come back the preceding night, after a fruitless search, and that the Princess was in great anxiety about her sister, for the Duchess had sent her a message to say she was very ill, and unable to leave her room, and she had admitted no one since the preceding morning.Later in the day, Lady Theresa heard that the Marquis de Hauteville had received a note which made him start off instantly; and the Princess imagined it had something to do with the fugitives, but she did not know, not having been at home when he left the house, and neither she nor the Prince had seen him before he departed.As soon as Lady Theresa and Mrs. Delamere had clearly ascertained that Dudley had also disappeared—for he had not passed through Naples—they became still more anxious, and more disturbed by the ill-natured reports that had been circulated about him and poor Linda.Still there were also some rumours afloat that banditti had been seen in the neighbourhood; consequently Lady Theresa wrote a note to Lord Clanville, and sent the messenger with it, who met him and Mr. Grant at Naples that afternoon.When the second evening was drawing to a close, without any tidings having reached the poor inhabitants of the Villa Spada about their lost relatives, their anxiety and suspense became quite insupportable.Lady Theresa could not remain in her room, and yet was too weak to sit up; so she lay on a sofa, near Mrs. Delamere's bed. Poor little Ethel was apparently the most composed of the party—for Dr. Leighton had threatened her that, if she cried or manifested any impatience, she should be at once taken away from her grandmamma so the poor child sat perfectly still, and only Legged to be allowed to sit up, at all events, until they heard of the Marquis de Hauteville's return—for it would be impossible for her to sleep.Dr. Leighton was touched at the heroism the child displayed, for he saw her whole soul was absorbed by her suspense,—and her little hands were clasped together in fervent prayer. Yet she did not shed a tear; and even now and then she came and smiled in Mrs. Delamere's face.CHAPTER XXV. COUNTER INFLUENCE.MORE than once the anxious party had imagined that a carriage was driving up to the door; but at last a real sound was heard, and Dr. Leighton glided out of the room to see—for Ethel would not stir, lest she should excite hopes in her grandmother that might be disappointed. So the poor child clasped her hands still tighter, while she almost held her breath, and averted her face, that Mrs. Delamere might not see the agony of suspense she could no longer control.In a few moments Dr. Leighton rushed back, with a cry of joy, saying,—'They are safe, thank God! Mrs. Grant is come, and——' But Ethel did not longer remain to hear the rest of the joyful news which he had come to break to Mrs. Delamere. She flew down to her mother, and sobbed on her bosom; and Dudley! he too was there, at the door, with the Marquis de Hauteville and the Duchess de St. Didiée. And it was to the cleverness and courage of the latter that they owed their rescue!In her disguise as Tommaso's sister, she had obtained entrance the preceding evening to the Castle of Montefeltro, under pretence of assisting old Berta, and had contrived to slip a note under the door of Dudley's cell, informing him that Linda was imprisoned in the next; that she had gathered from the conversation of the banditti, that Randal was expected to come there ; and imploring Dudley to endeavour to devise some means of saving Mrs. Grant from him. She could do nothing to assist the poor lady, as the door of Linda's cell was so strictly guarded, she could not approach it.No sooner did Dudley receive this note than, in an agony of anxiety, he looked round the room to see what he could do; an iron bar went across the narrow loophole of his cell, which his gigantic strength enabled him to wrench out; and assisted by this only, he began to work at the wall which divided his cell from that which the note had described as Linda's.There were no other means left him, for the banditti had such an exalted opinion of his prowess, that they had not even ventured once to open the ponderous iron door of his cell, and had put his food in by a small square hole through the wall. This circumstance was so far favourable to him, that they would not see what he was about.The result of his labour is already known; but as soon as Randal had left the poor captives, suffering all the agonies of suspense for Mrs. Delamere and for themselves, which his words and villanous threat had caused, they saw that further efforts to escape were useless, surrounded as they were with banditti, and that their succour must come from a higher source.In the meantime the disguised Duchess had overheard Randal's arrangements with the robbers, and divined his wicked designs to blast the fair fame of poor Linda; and she saw that not a moment was to be lost in saving them. But how was this to be accomplished?—to appeal to the better feelings of the robbers who were there, would be useless, for Randal had offered them such large sums of money!To send Tommaso for an armed force would be equally impossible,—for, in the first place, he would do nothing to endanger the safety of Gasparone's troop (on this condition he had only consented to forward Paulina's designs); and, in the second place, the camp was so carefully guarded by spies and outposts, that the first appearance of soldiers would immediately give an alarm,—the robbers would march off, and either carry the prisoners with them, or murder them to prevent their escape.While absorbed in these perplexing fears, she heard that Gasparone had just returned from the Villa Reggia; and so, taking Tommaso with her, by way of protection and introduction, she hastened to meet him, and found him at the gorge of the valley.Then imitating as best she could the Neapolitan patois, she appealed to the generosity of the robber in behalf of the poor prisoners, and disclosed Randal's wicked design in imprisoning them there together. As soon as he heard the real state of the case, Gasparone, with the generosity of true genius, consented to liberate them, and would not even accept any ransom, but drew off all his troop, and proceeded further up the mountainous country, leaving the castle completely unguarded. He also ordered that the keys of the prisoners' cells should be given up to Tommaso's sister.The little Duchess, overjoyed, sent off her companion to the Marquis de Hauteville, imploring him to bring, with all speed, a carriage and horses to convey Linda and Dudley home. She had managed to scribble a hasty pencil note, begging him not to waste any time in wondering at her absence in the mountains, instead of her being ill in her room, as was supposed; and she particularly requested him to come away without telling her sister, or anybody, the contents of this note, for fear Mrs. Randal, who was so constantly at the Antonini Palace, would hear of it, and tell Randal, and he might then bring back the robbers upon them, or do them some further mischief, before they had got safe back to Sorrento. She directed also Tommaso to serve as a guide to the Marquis, that there might be no delay in his finding Montefeltro.The Duchess then returned to the castle, and before she unlocked the cells to gladden the captives with the joyful tidings of their release, she paused at the grating.There she saw Linda kneeling, with her face uplifted towards the narrow loophole, and was awestruck at the devotion and resignation it expressed. Her beautiful countenance wore the same look that had staggered Randal in his headlong course of crime, and the Duchess felt almost as if the narrow light that descended through the aperture formed a glory round Linda's head, and that she was a visible embodiment of one of the saints or martyrs who had suffered and conquered in past ages.The Duchess de St. Didiée could also see through the aperture in the wall Dudley's figure, in the other cell, as he knelt with his back towards her; and then, unable longer to control her emotion, she rushed to the door, and turned the ponderous key.She entered the cell, clasped Linda in her arms, and burst into tears,—but they were tears of joy. And after explaining to her astonished companions the release she had procured for them from Gasparone, she conducted them down into the open air, and took them to Berta's cottage, where they obtained some refreshment. But the light-hearted Frenchwoman could not resist playing a trick upon Randal when he should return, and she bribed largely a peasant woman, Berta's neighbour, to pretend to be beating her husband in the vacant cell, so soon as they should hear Randal's signals, and see a cavalcade approaching. The Duchess then bought three mules from the peasants, which she, Linda, and Dudley mounted.The three happy friends had not proceeded more than a couple of hours on the road to Sorrento, when they met the Marquis de Hauteville and Tommaso. Linda and the Duchess, who were both beginning to feel much the fatigue of riding, and the results of all their anxiety, were very grateful to the Marquis for bringing a carriage so promptly. And on their way they related to each other the strange occurrences of the past two days, and wondered what could have actuated Randal to play such a dreadful trick.However, as there was no means of punishing him, or proving anything against him, they resolved, for the sake of his young wife, to say as few words about the matter as possible. The little party were at a loss which to admire most—Dudley's extraordinary, almost miraculous efforts, in dragging down the portion of the wall, or the Duchess's skill and courage in carrying out her object, and last of all persuading Gasparone to grant her request.They proceeded along at a rapid pace, and reached Sorrento about two hours after sunset, when the Marquis de Hauteville and the Duchess had the happiness of witnessing the joy of poor Linda and Dudley's return to their friends.CHAPTER XXVI. THE NEW-FOUND FRIEND.IN the meantime Mr. Grant and Lord Clanville were on their road to Sorrento. But they had lost their way among the mountainous roads they had to traverse, and were besides detained at a roadside inn for want of horses; so that they did not arrive at the Villa Spada until after breakfast the following morning, and just as Dudley was preparing a second time to start for Vienna.Mr. Grant's love for Linda had been of that increasing kind which often begins in friendship; and his mother was right in her supposition, that when he married he was not violently in love with his bride. Nor could he half enter into the varied excellences of her character, or understand many of her feelings, nor even sympathize with many of her tastes,—he only knew that in intellect and genius she was infinitely his superior.But afterwards, when in her Scotch home, he saw her in the daily exercise of every gentle and domestic virtue, unselfishly and unceasingly endeavouring to promote the happiness of others,—when he knew that with powers of mind, strength of character, and depth of penetration, which would have fitted her to be the queen of some great empire, she yet invariably bowed to his will—to his far inferior judgment, and even, to save him the pain of contradiction, made herself approve of projects she would naturally have questioned;— when he saw all this, his affection for her became a sort of adoration—of reverence, until he almost trembled at the excess of his worship.His tenderness was, perhaps, increased too, because he felt, rather than saw, she was not perfectly happy; and feeling how unable he was to be to her all that he wished, he sometimes reproached himself for having married her, because she might have found some one who would have been more worthy of her than himself.Yet Mr. Grant, with the habitual reserve of his nation and disposition, never showed his feelings; and even his mother imagined that his powers of loving had never been fully awakened. So now, when he heard from Lord Clanville the sad history of his brother's hopeless love, Mr. Grant divined the remainder, and saw that much of Linda's suffering and bad health was accounted for.She became still more exalted in his eyes, if possible, than before; for he perceived that she had lived in an heroic and unceasing endeavour not only to promote his happiness, to enter into all his views, and interest herself in everything to which he turned his attention,—but he saw that she had endeavoured to bestow upon him an extra devotion and tenderness, as if to atone for not having been able to give him her entire heart. And now his feelings were not of disappointment for himself, only regret at having been the unconscious means of destroying her happiness; and with his pity for her, his affection and reverence, if possible, increased.He felt sure that she was too pure, too good, and above all, too much under the influence of constant prayer, to be betrayed into error, however strong the temptation. After six years of such daily walking with God as her life has been, 'He would not now suffer his servant to be tempted above what she was able to bear.' Yet it must have been a fearful trial to both; two people with such powerful and enduring feelings,—nothing but prayer and the love of God could have saved them.When he arrived at Sorrento, and looked into her eyes, he felt that one glance would have convinced him of her innocence, even had he any doubt previously; and he pressed her to his heart with, if possible, greater love and reverence than he had ever felt before.This Dudley saw, and his heart yearned towards the man whose face could wear that noble look, when at such a moment, and when appearances had tended to give colouring to the rumours which he must have heard, one might have naturally expected to trace in it gloomy doubt or injured pride.If Dudley had been capable of thinking at all of himself at such a moment, or had he needed any other reward than the approbation of his own conscience, for his long endeavour to bear with cheerfulness the disappointment of his best affections, he would have been rewarded then.For after Mr. Grant had greeted Linda and his mother-in-law, and held up little Ethel in his arms, his first thought was for Dudley. He came up and took his hand with a look of grateful confidence, and entire trust, plainly written on his noble brow, and said, while the tears started to his eyes,—'Thank you for having protected her for me.'Dudley could scarcely repress his emotion, and was grieved also to see on Mr. Grant's face what he had never expected—the traces of illness, and to hear that fatal short cough he knew so well, while he remembered that his brother and sisters had died of consumption.He could no longer conceal his feelings, or delay the words of gratitude and admiration that were striving for utterance; and so he begged Mr. Grant would give him a few minutes' conversation in an adjoining room.And then such a scene was enacted as can only take place among the highest order of human beings. Dudley expressed his regret and remorse that his presence at Sorrento, and having been in the society of Linda, should have given any colour to the infamous reports which must have wounded and distressed Mr. Grant.Dudley then related the substance of his last conversation with Linda, and his reasons for having spoken.He said that 'having heard that Mrs. Grant's health was in danger, and having had reason to suspect that it was partly owing to some early disappointment, he had thought it right to explain to her the cause of that disappointment; that the reason why he had never come forward was out of false delicacy to his brother's views, not from any want of feeling towards her in himself; and he had wished to tell her so, because he thought it would make her happier, if the mystery, which had so long clouded their friendship, and stopped all intercourse between Linda and her oldest friends, could be cleared up.'Dudley added—'that he had wished to explain it in the presence of Mr. Grant; but what was now perhaps better, he was glad to be able to tell him alone. He bitterly regretted that he should have been the means of preventing Linda from giving her whole heart to Mr. Grant when she married, but that he thought now there was little lost, for that she loved her husband with a devotion and admiration perhaps better than any early passion, ߞfor in most cases it would be more enduring.'Mr. Grant listened attentively and looked with intense interest on the superior being who, he saw, was fully worthy of the love of such a creature as Linda.'I know and see all,' said Mr. Grant; 'and, indeed, you are fully blameless; the fault was mine. How stupid I was to imagine myself worthy of such a being as Linda, and she so young when I married her,—only eighteen, poor child! And even when I proposed, she told me she could only love me as a sister would;—how cruel it was of me not to leave her a year or two to see more people, then you would have come forward, and all would have been well. How cruel of me to grasp such a priceless jewel, and set in my plain Scotch bonnet what was only fitted to grace a diadem. Yes, she would have suited such a mind as yours. Nothing can excuse me—nothing; but that Mrs. Delamere was so foolishly anxious to marry her daughter to a good sort of man, lest she should have been run away with for her money, and that poor dear Linda herself did not seem to fancy any other of the devoted admirers who frequented their house. Alas! I never suspected that her heart was far away with you;—and she, poor child, of course, would never confess her love for a person who, she imagined, did not return it.'But I was much older,' continued Mr. Grant; 'I ought to have known that she would and must really love, at some time or other; and I should have more closely investigated the state of her heart. Even my mother had her misgivings, when she saw her picture, and noted its unhappy expression. I remember how, on her wedding-day, it ought to have opened my eyes to see how pale she looked—just like a victim being led to slaughter; and I foolishly thought it was the heat and the crowd, and being stared at by so many people, or the short parting from her mother, perhaps! Poor, poor Linda!—what a life of self-denial hers has been! and how miraculously has she been enabled to fulfil dull and irksome duties with not only patience but cheerfulness! I see it all now;—she is indeed one of those who have passed through great tribulation, and who will be clothed in white robes, and receive a crown of glory. And you, too!—what fearful suffering you have passed through; your own noble abnegation of self, and devotion towards your brother, made the means of your lifelong loneliness and misery.''Do not think of me,' said Dudley; 'I do not regret it now; it has been the means of increasing my faith and hope, and making me long more for that world to which we are all hastening; besides, now that I have the privilege of knowing you, I see that Linda, in being united to such a man, has learnt much more than I could have taught her.''No, it is not so,' said Mr. Grant; but his cough prevented him from speaking for a minute; and, as he saw Dudley's look of anxiety, he said—'Yes, I have one more point to mention; I have felt for some months that the fatal malady which carried off my young sisters, has been gaining ground, and will soon finish its work on me; and—and—then promise me that you will fulfil the trust I shall impose on you—promise me that you will be the guardian of my child! and if—if you can pre- vail on Linda——prevail on her to——you have my full approbation, my warmest wishes and prayers for your success! I shall make the same request to Linda—it is the only reparation now in my power for having taken her from you. Do not be so moved, pray, dear Aylmer,' he said, seeing that Dudley sobbed like a child with emotion.—'Do not—the time may be yet far distant.''Heaven grant it may,' said Dudley, regaining his self-control; 'and I well know that Linda would never consent—I am sure she would not, of that you may rest assured. Oh, pray endeavour, for her sake, to recover your health; for she would so bitterly reproach herself, were you to leave her, for not having always given you her entire heart,—I feel sure it would kill her! If you had seen her in the old castle, when that villain Randal first left us, her agony of fear lest you should be grieved, lest you should believe what vile tongues said, and think that she had ceased to love you or to think of you! Then, her unceasing prayers for you and for her poor mother and Mrs. Grant.''And you, too, strengthened her endurance, and upheld her faith! I feel you did. May God reward and bless you. He will, I am sure, and has already.'At this moment they were interrupted by Dudley's servant, who came to say his carriage had been waiting some time; and so he took leave of Mr. Grant, saying, 'I am off now for Vienna; but if at any time you require my services, you may depend upon me.''Poor Linda—and is she not to see you again; must this be?' inquired Mr. Grant, while he pressed Dudley's hand, and retained it in his grasp, as if unwilling to part thus soon.'Poor dear Linda, how will she bear it?' he continued; 'and must she, then, again lose her earliest and best friend?—now, too, that her health has been in a great degree restored,—and I am convinced it is from the happiness of being with those who were brought up with her like brother and sister.''It will be better for us all, I think,' said Dudley; 'but do not be apprehensive about Linda. Believe me, she will be happier now that all has been explained. You will find that the depression which injured her health was, in a great measure, caused by a sort of vague mystery—a kind of self-reproach for having, as she fancied, perversely loved a person who did not care for her; and in having a secret from you which she felt powerless to disclose, she imagined herself a hypocrite towards you. This was the bitterest trial of all; and she fancied that nobody could really love her—that you would cease to love her, if you thought her first affections had been given to another; and consequently she felt solitary and wretched. She could not understand her own feelings in avoiding us all, and giving up her correspondence with my sister. Now all will be right. You will find her so happy, that the sight of her peaceful bliss will restore your health.'Mr. Grant shook his head. 'I have been long prepared, or rather long expecting—alas! I am far from prepared—an early summons from this world; only, for my poor mother's sake, who had lust all but me, I wished and prayed so fervently to live, to be the support and comfort of her old age, that I felt my prayer was granted. But she has Linda now, who loves her, if possible, more, and understands her more fully, than I, or any of her own children ever did,—and little Ethel; so she can afford to lose me, if it be God's pleasure. And——but I will say no more, for I see it grieves you, and you think that this discovery of Linda's early attachment may tend to make me wish less ardently for life—and, perhaps,' continued Mr. Grant, after a pause, 'at the first moment I heard of it, it did so. But I see now how wrong that would be, and what injustice I should be doing to you and Linda both, in not giving you credit for a pure, unselfish desire for my happiness. I hope God will enable me to be not unworthy of such friends; and I will endeavour to believe that you were right in saying Linda will be happier now.'CHAPTER XXVII. CONSEQUENCES.AND Dudley was right. For the next two years the happiness enjoyed by the circle at Craggie Castle was more than usually falls to the lot of human beings. The health of both Mr. Grant and Linda seemed to have been restored by the winter they had passed in Italy. They had found Mrs. Grant, on their return, quite as well as she had ever been, and her happiness was complete, in seeing that Linda was not only improved in health, but had lost that look of effort to be happy, which had often pained her to see. She was really happy now!Mrs. Delamere still suffered a good deal at times; and old Eleanor often looked at her with one of those anxious glances which made Linda tremble.The Grants and Mrs. Delamere had remained in the Villa Spada all the winter, as Theresa would not hear of their leaving her. Linda had been hoping and expecting to see Paulina again, but she never came; and as she knew her friends had left Amalfi, Linda was at a loss how to direct to her. At last Linda received a note from her, dated Florence, saying that her poor little Edouardo had been dangerously ill of a contagious fever, and that she had not dared to go to Sorrento since Linda's safe return, for fear of the danger of infection for little Ethel. Paulina added that they were on their way to Venice, and that her friends intended afterwards to go to Greece and Egypt, and perhaps make a tour in the Holy Land. So she feared it would be a long time before she would have the happiness of seeing Linda again. Paulina said that she hoped, after the proof which had now been obtained of Randal's treachery, in causing the banditti to seize her and Dudley, that she would be more than ever cautious,—and particularly guard Mrs. Delamere from having anything to say to him. She hinted that she wished to explain more, and had been particularly anxious to see Linda, and inform her of a design a certain person evidently had on Mrs. Delamere's fortune; but she did not like to trust the explanation to a letter.Lady Theresa's health and spirits became gradually quite restored, and during the last two months they remained in Italy, they entered a little into society, and saw a good deal of the Marquis de Hauteville, with whom, as well as with the Duchess, the Grants had been very intimate since their adventure among the banditti.The Marquis evidently admired much the fair and gentle Theresa: her placid and refined repose was the more attractive from its contrast to his own passionate temperament; and the little Duchess very generously and kindly did all she could to bring the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. Intercourse, first with Paulina and then with such a person as Linda, had developed all the latent good qualities the Duchess possessed, and she returned to Paris, resolving to smile away the Due's cross looks by endeavouring to make him happy, and 'elevate' her children.Some of her friends jocularly observed that no greater proof of Beaujolais de St. Didiée's reformation could possibly be required, than the surprising fact that she had submitted to the humiliation of returning to Paris without her admirer, the Marquis, and that, actually, when she received her monde at the Hotel St. Didiée, she did not appear to think it at all necessary to her enjoyment, as she formerly did, to be suivie everywhere by a train of devoted chevaliers!Randal had never ventured to appear at Sorrento after the day when his triumphant expectation of revenge on Linda had been so bitterly disappointed at Montefeltro. He lingered a short time in the neighbourhood incognito, in an agony of apprehension lest Mrs. Delamere's death should be attributed to him; and then, when he found she was daily recovering, it was a relief to him to find that he was not a murderer.He came to the conclusion that he must have made a mistake when dressing that morning—put some other phial into his pocket,—and consequently had poured into her drink some innocent medicine, instead of the laudanum he imagined it was. But he did not venture to return to his lodgings to see; and after a few days, he wrote to Julia from Rome, pretending that he had been taken suddenly ill—too ill to write before,—but was now better, and wished her to join him there.She accordingly did so, and they went to travel in Greece. But his spirits and temper had not been improved by the events of the winter, and she did not even venture to question him upon the strange reports that had reached her ears, of his having been in league with the banditti who had carried off Dudley and Linda. Randal gradually sank lower and lower: he drank, and gambled, and entered more openly into dissipation,—greatly injuring bis health. Julia certainly bad not a happy life of it; but instead of being penitent for her errors, she became more reckless and indifferent to everything. Her blindness and pride had deprived her of the love and confidence of her own relations, and yet she had not quite lost a sort of anxious longing to be restored to their affection again. She felt, however, extremely jealous of her sister Margaret,—the little Margaret who, on the night she quitted her father's roof, had almost awakened her slumbering conscience by her tender endearments.That little Margaret had succeeded to the large fortune of her uncle, which had been first intended for Julia. And the next year, too, Julia heard she was a great beauty, and was to be presented at Court by her aunt, Lady Rochford, the following spring—though Margaret was only just sixteen; that Lady Rochford was fonder of her than of any of her own children, and meant to take her about in the world as she had Linda, nine years ago.—And Julia was extremely provoked at all this, for she remembered that Lady Rochford had never taken any interest in herself, not even when she had been the acknowledged heiress of her uncle,—'so what can make her take to Margaret now,' she often inquired, with a petulant toss of her head. Julia heard most of these details from her sister Letitia, who had lately married a man of good property, and they were making a honeymoon tour in Italy when Julia met them.CHAPTER XXVIII. QUEEN ADELAIDE'S DRAWING-ROOM.'NOT yet, not yet; bolt the door, Laura, and don't let anybody, not even Rochford or Mr. Seaton, come in, till we are quite dressed,' said Lady Rochford, as she gave a few finishing touches to Margaret Seaton's court head-dress, and then cast a hurried glance in the long mirror at herself. The image she saw there was still very lovely, and all the arts of the most skilful modistes had been expended on it. A court dress, with its graceful plumes and splendid gems, is certainly becoming; but apparently Lady Rochford was not quite satisfied with what she saw, yet she did not attempt to improve her appearance by any of the slight touches, or last smoothings of the hair, with which beauties are wont to take leave of their looking-glasses, when dressed for some more than usually important occasion. With a faint sigh, and the slightest possible shrug of her still beautiful shoulders, she turned from it, and the look of sadness which the glass had scarcely time to depict, was exchanged for one of joyous admiration, as she gazed on her beautiful niece.The nine or ten years which had passed since Linda had been introduced by her into the world, had certainly told upon Lady Rochford's beauty, and the boudoir was no longer illumined by the brilliant sunshine which was freely admitted when Linda was wont to sit there in the eventful days before her marriage.Embroidered curtains, lined with pink gauze, now gave a mellowed glow which was extremely favourable to the complexion; and Lady Rochford no longer neglected those arts for the improvement of beauty, which she had once so proudly despised others for using. Yet still, if she had remained in the full bloom of her charms, her power and influence would have been on the decline, for now there was a real queen.William the Fourth had lately come to the throne; the good Queen Adelaide was about to give one of her drawing-rooms, and Lady Rochford was going to present her fourth daughter, and Margaret Seaton.And the great lady had already begun to feel the difference. She found with dismay that many of the persons who, during the Regency had been her willing slaves, now regarded her with an independent look, which was most provoking. At first she thought it might be owing to a diminution of her beauty or charms, and yet she felt convinced that however much she had lost, she was still a more attractive person than the Queen. And she had so grown up in that sort of democratic school into which a combination of strange circumstances and the vices of the Regency had converted the highest aristocracy, that she could scarcely understand how a plain and unattractive-looking queen should have so much influence in the world of fashion. In fact, she unconsciously adopted the principle of, perhaps, real justice, which awards honour to personal merit, in preference to hereditary claim; for her own power had grown out of the system which deifies charm.But it was some time before the elected queens of fashion lost their power, for the good Queen Adelaide was not of that energetic or quick-sighted nature that could feel and see the need there had been of a real court, although her presence unconsciously tended to improve its tone, and pave the way for the downfall of the Almack's clique.Still there were many people who thought it a greater feather to obtain a subscription for Almack's than an invitation to a court ball; and this feeling continued, in some degree, till the good sense and energy of our present Sovereign put things on their proper level: a superior set obtained the ascendency, imaginary distinctions were lost, and Almack's was no more.But Lady Rochford was determined not to give up her sway without a struggle; she was therefore more anxious than ever to strengthen her power by marrying her daughters to men who possessed the most influence, from their rank, fortune, and mental endowments. The first parti of the day was undoubtedly the Duke of Dartford; and her great ambition was now, as it had been ten years before, that he should marry her favourite daughter Jane. He was now nearly thirty years of age, and he had passed through the ordeal of coming into possession of the largest fortune in England, with no father or near relation to influence his conduct, better than could have been expected.But he had been rather wild for several years; and when Mr. Seaton discovered that Margaret's young heart was likely to be touched by his evident admiration of her, he had exerted all his influence to arrest the feeling, before her happiness had been endangered.Yet Mr. Seaton liked the young Duke extremely, and only wished he were not the Duke of Dartford, or placed in a position of so much temptation and responsibility. It was with deep regret he endeavoured to crush the feeling which he saw dawning in Margaret's loving heart, yet he would have trembled to see her placed in such an elevated and responsible situation, even if the Duke had not shown some indication that he might possibly be unable to act up to the full requirements of his high duties.Mr. Seaton knew that Lady Rochford had set her heart upon his marrying Lady Jane, and therefore he found it was not difficult to persuade Margaret to enter into her aunt's wishes,—all the more, because she felt conscious that she was sacrificing her own feelings to favour Lady Rochford's views. So, the last time she had met the Duke, Margaret treated him with a coldness which almost drove him to despair. He went abroad, fell under the influence of some gamblers, and ceased to devote his mind to the improvements on his estates which he had begun, and which had been instigated by the unconscious influence of Margaret, when, as a young girl of thirteen or fourteen, she had been on a visit to the Grants at Craggie.Poor Mr. Seaton heard with deep regret of the fatal effect which his daughter's coldness had produced, and his sensitive conscience was full of self-reproachful torture, as to whether he had done right in checking an attachment which might have been sufficiently powerful to have preserved the Duke in a right path all his life, and without his darling child's happiness being endangered.Poor Margaret, too, was very sad; but she had such a deep knowledge of her dear father's cha- racter, that she saw the great necessity there was to keep up her spirits, and not to let him fancy that her happiness had been destroyed by the disappointment. For it was a sore disappointment to know that her demeanour had driven him whom she loved from the path of duty,—to hear from the Grants that the improvements in his country places and schools were suspended, and that he was losing immense sums of money—endeavouring to cure the agony of rejected love by the excitement of the gaming-table.And now, as Margaret stood at her toilette, to receive the last touches of her aunt, there was a shade of melancholy on her countenance; she could not avoid thinking of the last time she had seen the Duke, and her fervent wish was, that she might not meet him again. There was a chance of his being at this very drawing-room, for he held an hereditary office at Court.Something of this feeling Lady Rochford divined, as she looked at her beautiful niece; and she saw more evident signs of deep feeling than she had ever felt herself, and more than she had fancied it possible Linda could have experienced in the days when she separated her from Dudley—applying the balm to her conscience, that Linda was too cold and indifferent ever to be deeply in love. Perhaps the consciousness of having again, by her arts, been the means of separating the Duke from Margaret, gave now an increased warmth to the kindness of her manner; for Lady Rochford really loved her niece—perhaps even more than any of her own children,—and she only wished she were really her own daughter, for then it would answer her purpose as well if she were to marry the Duke.But poor Jane—'poor plain Jane,' she often said to herself,—'her happiness really depends on being united to him, the only man she could ever love; and poor Jane was ill, and Lady Rochford had sent her with her cousin Letitia to spend the winter in the South; and at Rome, where she went, the Duke had been staying for a short time. Lady Rochford, who had so often been accused of not tolerating plainness, persuaded herself she was acting most generously in forwarding the wishes of 'plain Jane' in preference to her lovely niece—who was so rich also, and did not want so splendid an alliance to add to her power.But Lady Rochford deceived herself, as she had done with regard to Linda ten years before. Yet she often fancied that she had been quite cured of wishing to make great matches for her daughters, when she saw how badly Lady Kilgrogan's had turned out,—for they had lately been quite separated, and Lord Kilgrogan was endeavouring to get a divorce. She fancied during that visit to W——, when Mr. Seaton was so near dying, after Julia's elopement, that she had quite given up all ambitious and worldly views; and years afterwards, when the report of Linda's false elopement with Dudley reached her ears, and she remembered his words during that one important interview, she again vowed, with tears of self-reproach, that she would never meddle with the happiness of any one again for the sake of worldly advantage.But the same besetting sin continued as strong as ever. She courted the Duke—the same Duke of Dartford who she had feared would marry Linda—for one of her own daughters, because it would reflect greater lustre upon herself. She had never yet learnt to resist temptation—never learnt to look honestly into her own heart, and discern what were the real motives of her actions. Thus she went blindly on, and was blown about by every passing wind of impulse and excitement of the present moment.Lady Jane had not yet returned home, and Lady Rochford was rather glad that she was absent while Margaret remained with her in London. She did not wish them to meet, because she was afraid that poor Jane would at once give up all hope of obtaining the Duke's affection if she saw that Margaret was at all touched by his admiration. For she knew Jane was a good, generous girl—much too honest and straightforward to assist her mother in any manoeuvring, and too fond of her cousin to indulge in a feeling, or act in a manner which might interfere with Margaret's happiness. For she never allowed Jane to suspect that there had been any inclination for the Duke on Margaret's side. She only told her what in fact was true—only she exaggerated the case a little,—that Mr. Seaton would never consent to his daughter marrying the Duke, and therefore the less they were thrown together the better—it would be for the happiness of both.The Duke had always appeared to like Lady Jane, and had shown her more attention than to most other girls; for she had none of that artful forwardness which disgusted him with young ladies in general, and made him usually prefer the society of married women. So Lady Jane was almost the only girl he talked much to; and Lady Rochford had sufficient tact to appear as if she rather wished to check than to forward this intimacy. She made herself extremely agreeable to the Duke, entered into all his plans, interested herself with all that occupied him, and, with the cleverness of her experienced tact, she seemed rather jealous when Jane at all engrossed his attention,—so that all the world thought she was in love with him herself.But she contrived that a report should be circulated that he was engaged to marry Lady Jane,—so that the subject was continually brought before him; and, as generally in cases of this kind such a restraint conies over the parties as to prevent the fulfilment of the report, she artfully contrived that no awkward feeling should arise between them. The first time it appeared in the papers, she said to the Duke that she trusted such foolish reports would not have the effect of causing what she knew they were intended to do—a coldness between the families.'It is some ill-natured mother, who wants to get you for her own daughter, and I hope we shall all be above minding such folly;—just as if two people could not talk rationally together without being engaged to be married. Besides, poor Jane is so plain, she would never do; you know you must marry a beauty!'And thus there was perfect ease between them, although the reports continued; until at length the Duke began to think that perhaps he could not do better. 'Oh, if I could but have that lovely little Margaret Seaton; but she certainly would never return my love!' he thought. 'No; I felt by her manner the last time we met, that she hated and despised me, as I deserve. I must never hope for any happiness again, all is dark and miserable! Jane Mandeville would certainly make an excellent wife, and she is a good creature, too; but it would be a great bore. I could never stand the gentle, drawling—'Yes,' with which she would answer my proposal;—at any rate, there is time enough to think of her.'They met at Rome several times, but the intimacy did not progress so favourably without Lady Rochford. For Lady Jane was one of those shrinking dispositions which require the presence of a genius full of tact, like her mother, to draw them out. Her cousin, Letitia, had married a man who seemed to belong to a different and far inferior set; and his wife, who had never fully profited by her father's ennobling precepts and example, was the more easily influenced for evil, and fell into the vulgarity of wishing to be fine. Mr. Donald had been enchanted that his wife's titled cousin, a countess's daughter, and that countess one of the most distinguished patronesses of Almack's, had been permitted to travel with them. But his deference was often very oppressive to the sensitive Jane; and she had not strong health—her spirits were soon damped, and her energies paralysed, by anything that annoyed her, or shocked her good taste. She could not avoid seeing the impression made on Mr. Donald by her friend the Duke; and he was beside himself with delight when his invitation to a grand dinner-party he gave had been accepted by his Grace. Poor Jane was dismayed at the fuss they made, and feared that even the Duke himself would think it ridiculous. She was therefore not at her ease, and consequently not particularly agreeable.Lady Rochford had been rather afraid this would be the case, for she saw at once what kind of person Mr. Donald was; but she could not well go abroad herself. There was no alternative, and she decided that it was better Jane should meet the Duke, even under adverse circumstances, than lose sight of him entirely. She trusted, besides, that the intimacy of sight-seeing and making expeditions to the objects of interest around, might bring about a proposal.But the Duke had left Rome, she had lately heard, and some said that he meant to return to England. So she had written to express a hope that the Donalds would bring back her daughter as soon as they had finished their tour in Switzerland. By that time she thought Margaret would probably have left London,—perhaps she would even be engaged to be married to some of the great partis of the day,—and thus there would no longer be any impediment to Jane's happiness, and the Duke of Dartford would be sure to propose. Yet Lady Rochford was not entirely absorbed in her own selfish aggrandizement. She was really extremely anxious that Margaret should make a brilliant marriage, and be truly happy, also. So she bestowed more pains on her dress than on that of her own young daughter, Mary; and as soon as she was quite satisfied that nothing could be more perfect than Margaret's attire, she told the impatient Laura to unbolt the door, and admit Lord Rochford and Mr. Seaton.Then triumphantly leading forth the young beauty, she exclaimed,—'Now, now! Mr. Seaton; I think you may very well be proud of her.'Margaret stood patiently for a few minutes to allow her father time to gaze on her from head to foot, and she fully enjoyed the admiration she saw depicted on his countenance; but when she thought she had allowed sufficient time, she could not longer restrain her impatience, and rushing into his arms, exclaimed,—'I am so glad you admire me, dear papa.''Take care, Margaret!' said Lady Rochford, in dismay; 'you will spoil your dress;—and see, you have actually powdered your black hair against his; and there is some on your face,' continued she, wiping it hastily off, while Margaret fondly stroked her father's venerable locks, which she had put into some confusion with her feathers and head-ornament of rubies and diamonds.Margaret's dress was rich as well as graceful, for she wore some of the splendid family jewels which she had inherited with her uncle's fortune. Mr. Seaton saw that Lady Rochford looked at them without envy, although, in his diffident humility, he had often wondered that Sir James St. Lawrence had not selected one of her children as his heiress,—and this wonder had tended to increase the anxiety both father and daughter felt to avoid interfering with the happiness, or even the worldly advantage of Lady Rochford's favourite daughter Jane.And when Margaret found herself now outshining her cousin Mary so much in the splendour of her attire, she was the more resolved to act in the same cold manner to the Duke, if she were so unfortunate as to see him at the drawing-room.'No, I am not at all envious,' said Lady Rochford, as if she read what passed in Mr. Seaton's mind; 'for she has a better right to these rubies than any of my own children, for she is the very image of what I was at her age,—only she is still more beautiful, because she has had the advantage of your influence, and the education of the heart, which you have given her, and which neither your wife nor I ever had.'Mr. Seaton looked from one to the other, and Saw that there was more resemblance of form and feature than he had ever remarked before. There was the same tall figure and commanding look; the same eyes, of that rare and most lovely violet hue—something like the colour of distant mountains on a warm summer evening, and which had the half mysterious and dreamy, far-off look, making one inquire with the poet— 'Maiden with the meek brown eyes,In whose orbs a shadow lies, Like the dusk in evening skies,* * * *'Hear'st thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more—Deafened by the cataract's roar!' Then the beautiful mouth, with that short upper lip, which seems naturally inclined to express contempt—and therefore the kind smile it often wore was more flattering to the beholder. The nose a little retroussé, and the high forehead and dignified contour of the throat put one in mind of the best portraits of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and one felt sure that an ancestor of theirs must have furnished his type of perfect beauty.'Yes, we are indeed very beautiful,' said Lady Rochford, with a smile; 'she is quite lovely,—but neither of us at all equal to Linda—poor dear Linda,' continued Lady Rochford, with a sigh; 'for we have no genius;—and to think that she has scarcely ever appeared in the great world since her marriage! Yes, Linda is decidedly more beautiful; but Margaret will make a greater sensation,—she will be more universally admired, because she will be much more easily understood.'Lady Rochford was right. There was a truthful simplicity about Margaret, and she was perfectly natural, because she had never been obliged to shrink from the expression of her inmost thoughts to her father. She had never been tormented with those startling doubts and vague, perplexing ideas which had caused Linda's reserve; nor had she any of that indescribable and ever-varying expression of genius, which to the few superior persons who could comprehend it, was so enchantingly fascinating, yet which had rendered Linda's countenance a sealed book to the great bulk of mankind.For very few persons can comprehend the deep humility of true genius, or imagine that a person of superior power and acquirement can be more constantly imbued with a feeling of their own ignorance and imperfection than their less gifted and clear-sighted fellow-creatures. Linda had been considered inanimate and inexpressive; and the sense of deep humility, or rather abiding remorse, which was caused by her sad want of faith in religion, and partly the strong affection, or, perhaps, unconscious love she felt for a person who seemed no longer to care for her, gave that diffident and subdued air which was most perplexing to those who were aware of her great acquirements and superior powers of mind; and it was often attributed to affectation.'The carriage has been waiting some time, and we shall be late,' said Lord Rochford.'But you have not looked at Mary, dear papa,' said Margaret. 'Is not this embroidered tulle beautiful? and her eyes look so bright, and more sparkling than any of my diamonds.''Yes, she has very good eyes,' said Lady Rochford; 'only they are inclined to be rather too pert sometimes. Now come, Margaret, and don't kiss papa any more; you really must tear yourself away, though I well know you have no pleasure in anything without him,' said Lady Rochford, as she drew her reluctant niece out of the room.Mr. Seaton was too old and infirm to accompany his daughter, but he gazed after her with eyes that seemed full of prayers, and an expression of fervent hope that his darling would be kept unspotted from the world and all its snares and trials.Lord Rochford had the entrée, and they did not encounter any crowd or delay in their progress to the royal presence.Margaret had too little vanity to be shy,—so that her manners when presented to royalty had nothing of that embarrassed awkwardness which often spoils the appearance of débutantes; and she had, there fore, leisure to be amused and interested by the scene.She wondered at the air of condescension with which Lady Rochford kissed her Majesty's hand. It seemed almost as if her aunt thought that she and the Queen had changed places, and that she expected to receive rather than give homage to the meek-looking royal lady.They then stood for a short time where they could see other persons undergo the same ceremony, and afterwards proceeded into another room, where a circle soon formed round Lady Rochford; and Margaret wondered at the extreme homage her aunt seemed to receive. A number of persons were presented to her by Lady Rochford, and some of the men regarded Margaret with looks of such intense admiration, that she began to feel rather embarrassed.No one appeared to her very interesting, and it seemed as if they were all striving to gain some object. She scarcely saw a face that looked quite satisfied, or really happy; not even Lady Roch- ford herself. And Margaret gazed around in vain for one person who had that look of hope and repose she was accustomed to see in her father. And while the young Marquis of Albertmount was endeavouring to make himself particularly agreeable to her, Margaret's thoughts wandered involuntarily to the Duke of Dartford; and she remembered that he had that very look which she now missed on every countenance. Yes; for his earnest eyes, and calm forehead, and even a sort of impetuous and joyous smile, had often reminded her of her dear father, and insensibly attracted her love;—yet she was glad he was not there—very glad indeed.But she began to feel rather oppressed at the admiration her beauty seemed to excite, and she was no longer amused at the scene. Perhaps it was that Lord Albertmount, and some other men, talked to her so much that she was unable to devote her mind to it, as she had done during the first part of the time in the presence chamber. And she did not like the expression she saw now and then on her aunt's face, and which she never remembered to have seen before; she felt perplexed and annoyed at not being able to understand what could produce that strange look;—for though Lady Rochford talked and laughed as much as usual, her smile did not seem to come from the heart. In fact, Margaret was getting tired, and longed to return to her father, feeling sure she should never like to live in the great world at all.'Ah, Margaret,' said Lady Rochford, as they drove off from St. James's, 'you will never become the great lady I was, though you are so much admired,—you are really even more beautiful than I; but even if you marry the Duke of B——or Lord Albertmount, you will never be the queen that I have been,' continued Lady Rochford, with a sigh, at the recollections of past triumphs which she felt were never to return. 'Not because of the present Court; for King William's good wife has no idea of taking any decided position: and did you observe she actually made one of her awkward attempts at civility to the Duchess of S——.''Yes, I saw,' said Lady Mary, with a smile; 'I saw that she endeavoured to speak to that fat housekeeper of a Duchess, more than she did even to Lady J——or you. She actually seemed to make no distinction, except to rank.''No; and she never appeared to observe Mrs. B——or Miss S——at all,' continued Lady Rochford, while her lip curled, and her eye flashed with angry contempt; 'and yet they have more power and influence in a movement of their little finger, or a stroke of their pen and pencil, than her Majesty can ever hope to attain. But did you remark, dear Margaret, that young girl by the Duchess of Kent? She will be your rival. I see real power in her face—a power and a will to make good use of her position; and unless she can do that, royalty will be irrevocably out of fashion.''Yes, I remarked her,' said Margaret, 'and concluded that she was the Princess Victoria; and I observed that she saw and made her comments on every one that passed by. I felt interested by her face, before it occurred to me who she was; because there was something in the repose of her forehead, and that quiet movement of the eye, which observes everything without appearing to look, that reminded me of you.''Yes, I see what you mean,' said Lady Roch- ford, 'for she has the same talent for command, the true royal stamp of power, and when she becomes Queen, I see our reign will be over. There is another thing, too, which will tend to destroy the rule of any such person as myself,' continued Lady Rochford, after a pause; 'the world is getting less amiable, and real agreeability is less prized. I do not mean wit, for that will probably be always appreciated, but the talent of being really agreeable, of saying good things in a pleasant way, and entering into the tastes and feelings of those who are listening to one; like dear old Lady Charlotte L——, which can only be attained by the highbred, and those who, like La Vallière, can 'Bien parler suns le vouloir,Bien juger sans le savoir,' and without an appearance of intention or effort can say what is brilliant and clever. But all this is less prized by the generation which is springing up,' continued Lady Rochford. 'There is less intellectual refinement. A harder and sterner spirit is getting into vogue, and the young girls now affect a sort of strong-minded contempt for the polish and gracefulness of the old nobility, and thus give themselves a sort of independent and selfish air which prevents their being agreeable. And I am afraid you are getting so, Mary; all of you are,—though where you catch it, I cannot imagine; there must be something in the air—I often think it is caused by those dreadful manufactories, and all the fortunes that are made by spinning-jennies and smoking chimneys. It really reaches all the way to London, for there are so many more blacks, too, than formerly,' continued Lady Rochford, blowing off a little flake of soot which had settled on her white satin train, as if on purpose to corroborate the truth of her theory. 'I hope, dear Margaret, you will not get spoilt, but remain one of the good old kind; and, indeed, you ought not, for your dear father is a true old English gentleman. But look at Mary now, and you will see what I mean; look with what an air of defiance she shakes her pocket handkerchief, as if she thought herself so much wiser than any one; yet this is actually the first time she has appeared in public; that she has ever left the school-room! It is very strange; and alas! none of my children are amiable and agreeable, except poor dear Jane. Ah, Margaret,' she sighed, in a low whisper, 'remember you have poor Jane's happiness in your keeping, and you will, I know, try to help her; you will have power to do that,' she added, more cheerfully, and with one of her most fascinating glances, 'although you will never be the great lady I have been.''I do not wish it, dear aunt; I should only like to be as loveable as you are;' and she nestled her beautiful head on Lady Rochford's shoulder, and kissed her with all the trusting affection of her loving heart.'What are you laughing at, Mary?' inquired Lady Rochford.'I was thinking that poor Lady Cranlock and her daughters would wonder how any one could think mamma 'loveable;' for they looked much more frightened when Lady J——presented them to her, than when they stumbled backwards over their trains after the presentation to the Queen; and I heard one of the unfortunate girls whisper how awfully proud mamma looked, and that she was sure they never should be able to get a ticket for Almack's. Besides, I do not think mamma so very loveable, and she never has been so to any of us—never, as she is to you and Linda. And I know it is because we are not pretty—is not that the reason, mamma?''No, not quite; for I know I am very fond of Jane, and she is even less well-looking than you are; but, dearest Margaret, were you not pleased at the immense admiration you excited? You have quite won the young Marquis of Albertmount's heart already, and he is a most amiable young man, besides being the richest in England. All mothers are dying to be introduced to him. Poor dear Mary, she has no chance near you; he would not even lose a moment; he could not even take his eyes off you to give a bow to poor Mary when I introduced him!''No, I saw he could not; and it made me laugh so,' said Mary; 'for he tried to turn his head and make his body look civil; but his eyes continued to be fixed on Margaret;' and the clever little girl mimicked him so exactly, that both Lady Rochford and Margaret laughed heartily at the absurd resemblance. 'And he scarcely knew what he was saying, or heard a word you said, mamma; only when you said, 'Come to us to-morrow evening,' he seemed to recollect your existence, and to wake up for a moment, and then repeated, 'Tomorrow evening—yes—yes, to-morrow evening; and you will be there?' as he looked at Margaret with a sort of enthusiastic gratitude, as if he thought she were to save him from drowning.''Yes, I never saw a stronger case of love at first sight,' said Lady Rochford. 'What a pity it is that he is so immensely rich, for your fortune will be useless to him.''But who was that clever-looking man talking to Mary? He admired her, and tried to make himself agreeable to her, I am sure,' said Margaret, who felt quite sad at taking away any admirer from her cousin.'That was a Mr. Sarsfield, I think,' said Lady Rochford—'a clever and a rising young man. Yes, he did seem taken by Mary. Oh, you will do very well, dear Mary. Never fear, you have plenty of wit; but you cannot expect to make the splendid match that Margaret will. But Mr. Sarsfield is not quite good enough for you, Mary. I cannot consent to anything less than an earl. Mind, you must not disgrace me.''I thought you never cared for rank, mamma; I have often heard you say that Mrs. B——was a much greater person than the Duchess of L——.''So she is, but you have not her beauty and talent; and you cannot afford to do without rank. Besides, rank is now coming into vogue. Yes, it is; however you may curl your proud lip with that defiant and democratic air, a young Queen will bring rank into fashion!''There she is, all safe again,' said Lady Rochford, as they arrived at home and found Mr. Seaton; 'there—and her head is not the least turned by all the admiration she has received, and the hearts she has won. Ah! it is lucky poor Lord Albertmount cannot see her now, with that look of radiant joy on her face—dear child! but I am afraid there will be no real happiness for her in this world, if she is separated from you.'CHAPTER XXIX. THE VISIT TO CRAGGIE CASTLE.MR. SEATON had taken a house in London for the season. He wished Margaret to see something of the great world, and to become acquainted with a variety of persons, that she might have the opportunity of choosing her own friends and society. He also longed to see her happily married before he died, for he dreaded the attraction her large fortune must prove to a worthless or ambitious man; and as he was now upwards of eighty, he felt it was impossible he could long be spared to watch over his darling child.Mrs. Seaton's health had been declining ever since Julia's fatal marriage; although her temper and disposition had improved, and she bore her real illness with much more cheerful patience than she had ever done the slight ailments and imaginary complaints which she formerly fancied were so hard to bear.As neither of her parents were sufficiently strong to accompany Margaret to parties, she went out with her aunt; and Lady Rochford exerted all her powers of fascination to make them pleasant to her lovely niece.Margaret tried to be amused, because her father wished it; and she felt often very angry with herself for being depressed and melancholy in such gay scenes,—much more so than she had ever been at home in the country, or at dear old W——So, after persevering for a whole month, during which time she received endless proposals, and refused the Marquis of Albertmount and the Duke of B——, she became so pale and thin that Mr. Seaton was alarmed.'Shall we accept dear Linda's invitation to Craggie, dear Margaret, instead of remaining any longer in London,' said Mr. Seaton, one morning, 'for I see you cannot stand the late hours and hot rooms?''Oh! how delightful that would be, dear papa! and I am sure it would do you and mamma so much more good than to remain in this dreadful atmosphere, with no better amusement than to see me dressed out for balls and breakfasts. Oh, how very enchanting to see that dear beautiful Craggie again!' and Margaret danced round the room with more buoyant glee than she had shown since their arrival in London. 'And yet, dear papa,' she said, in a low tone, and very close to his ear, 'yet, perhaps we had better not go there; for perhaps——''There is no fear, darling: I know what you mean, but there will be no danger of meeting him,—for Linda tells me he is gone to Egypt and the Holy Land, and is not expected to return for another year.''Oh, I am so glad! And now would it not be very delightful for us to try and persuade Susan Barton to go with us; for Linda expects Lord Clanville and Theresa;—so what a nice, merry party we shall be!''Yes, write and try to persuade her; for Susan has always longed to see Craggie, and Linda in her own home, and dear old Mrs. Grant. How happy you look, darling! I quite reproach myself for not having proposed this plan sooner.''Of course you reproach yourself, dear papa; and now you will make out that you were wrong in wishing me to form pleasant acquaintances, and giving me the choice of selecting friends from the best society, and taking this beautiful house, and giving splendid dinners, and dressing me up like a queen, and being so anxious to see whether there were any men worthy of your little Margaret!''Yes, because it has made you ill; and I was wrong! but the hope of leaving it all has made you look so bright, and brought such a lovely colour in your cheeks, that I will not reproach myself any more,—no, not even for the mischief you have done, and the hearts you have broken,—that poor Lord Albertmount;—but don't look so sad about him; you could not help it. He was foolish to allow himself to hope—to fall so deeply in love without the slightest encouragement.''Yes, I do think he was rather foolish; for Mary always laughed at him so while he was talking to me, and took him off to his face, that he must have seen it. But one is foolish, dear papa, and I was, and am still, I fear,' she added, as the tears started to her eyes. 'Well, it will be all right in the next world; and when I think of and pray for him, I feel as if we should all meet there,—and then I shall be more happy to think that he has loved dear Jane better than me. And now I will write to Linda and Susan, and we shall all be so happy; so don't look sad, dear, dear papa, or I shall feel that I am the most ungrateful person in the world,—I, who am so undeservedly blessed with every advantage, when everybody loves me, and I have the means to help those who are in want,—it is really too ungrateful not to be quite, quite happy.'The letters were written; and to the surprise and delight of Margaret and her father, Miss Barton consented to accompany them in their visit to Craggie.She had been very successful in her publications of late, and could afford to give herself a holiday; and Polly had been better this spring, and had always been extremely anxious that her sister should accomplish a visit to Scotland.So the Seatons and Miss Barton left London the very day before a splendid fancy dress ball at D——House, to the dismay of Lady Rochford, and the surprise of all the world of fashion. Margaret was to have gone there in the dress of Queen Philippa, and to have danced in a quadrille of beauties which her aunt had made up. It was to be the most splendid fête of the season, and people did the most outrageous things to obtain invitations; and Lady Rochford had made the Duke refuse two of the Queen's maids of honour, who were dying to be invited.But Margaret was delighted to leave the bustle and turmoil of the season; for she saw much behind the scenes at her aunt's, and her heart often ached at the disappointments she saw so remorselessly inflicted on persons who were struggling to get into the great world.It was in vain that Lady Rochford argued with her, when poor Margaret tried to help some of them who so humbly and touchingly implored her assistance, and begged her to use that influence with the great lady which they saw she possessed. It was in vain Lady Rochford showed the necessity of keeping society select, and joked at the folly of those who endeavoured to push themselves into a position for which neither their talents nor attractions qualified them. 'They would not be happy; they would be too awkward and embarrassed to be really comfortable,' argued Lady Rochford.Margaret could not feel convinced; but she saw she could do no good, and though she was still very fond of her aunt, yet she was less sorry to leave her, and only hoped the next time they met, she would be less absorbed by the tumult of the great world.It was a beautiful morning in the middle of May, when they drove out of London. Miss Barton had arrived the night before, and Mr. Seaton's large family coach contained the four travellers most comfortably. They were to travel by easy stages, on account of Mrs. Seaton's ill health, and this plan exactly suited Miss Barton, who had scarcely ever been out of her own county before, and therefore enjoyed seeing all the towns and villages through which they passed. And, while their dinner was preparing, and Mrs. Seaton resting on the sofa, the happy trio strolled through the rural scenes, or visited some neighbouring church or ruin. Margaret was in ecstacies of delight, for her enjoyment of country scenes was now more vivid than ever, from the reposeful contrast they formed to the hurried and anxiously fatiguing life she had lately led; and Miss Barton's poetical taste for scenery made her observe many beauties which might otherwise have passed unnoticed. They visited the English lakes, which none of the party had ever seen before; and it so happened that the scene of one of Miss Barton's most popular novels was on Derwent Water.'How strange it is,' exclaimed Margaret, as they walked up the hill near Penrith, 'that you have described all this scene so exactly; I feel as if I quite knew it.''Yes,' said Mr. Seaton, 'and all your descriptions of scenery are so wonderfully vivid—yet I believe you never saw anything more picturesque than our bare Hampshire and Sussex downs.''Oh, yes, I have seen Salisbury Plain,' said Miss Barton; 'but I am convinced it is not necessary to see what is beautiful in order to acquire a taste for it. Most of our faculties are innate, though in some cases they may be improved by cultivation—but not by a drawing-master,' she continued, seeing Margaret sit down on a rock, and gaze with a look of intense enjoyment on the splendid view.'I do not wish to draw it,' said Margaret. 'I feel it would disturb my enjoyment to put it on paper, even if I could represent the scene as Linda or Dudley can.''Yes, and so it would mine,' said Miss Barton; 'but I believe that is because neither of us have much genius for drawing. It would not disturb them, because it would be no effort—they have much larger capacities. For me, I feel with Mr. Monckton Milnes:— 'Try not, or murmur not if tried in vain,In fair rememberable words to setEach scene or presence of especial gain,Like hoarded gems in precious cabinet.Simply enjoy the present loveliness,Let it become a portion of your being;Close your glad gaze, but see it none the less,—Not clearer with your eye than spirit seeing.Then in far sorrows it shall ease your pain,In distant struggles it shall calm your strife,And in that further and serener lifeWho says that it shall be remembered not!''Yes, those are charming lines,' said Margaret; but dear Linda—I think she is quite happy now, is she not?''I should think as much so as it is intended a mortal should be in this life of trial,' said Miss Barton. 'She has now the happiness of being thoroughly known and appreciated by those she loves best—and this, to such an original nature as Linda's, is a very rare delight. It seems that Mr. Grant now fully appreciates her,—I mean, that he is quite able to understand her, and he reverences her efforts to do and think aright. It seems that his mother always did; but I imagine she feared her son had not the capacity fully to understand or sympathize with Linda. Dear Mrs. Grant—how happy it makes me to think that I shall at last see her.''Yes; and how you will delight in each other. Oh, dear papa, it will be too great happiness; it almost makes me tremble, for I don't deserve it. To be at Craggie with Linda, and you, and dear Mrs. Grant, and Susan—all of us together. I feel quite wild at the thought; and the view from the old nursery window is even more lovely than this: yes, for there is more distance, more blue haze, far, far away, that seems to send one into eternity, and where old Eleanor fancied she saw Mr. Grant's beautiful sisters in their glorified shape. And little Ethel—how enchanted she will be to have papa and you; for she always says, papa, that you have more light on your face than any one, except her own mamma. Dear little Ethel! I sometimes fear she is too forward—her mind too much developed,—she is too ripe for eternity to live long in this world.''I do not think she will die young,' said Mr. Seaton; 'you know she has been brought up by a very extraordinary person, besides having inherited genius and development; so that, considering her position, there is nothing remarkably precocious about her; and though not strong, she has good health and much elasticity of spirits.''And I am glad to hear Linda has got a companion for her of her own age—a nice, healthful-minded creature, who makes Ethel play and run about, and helps to develope her bodily powers,' said Susan. 'This was a most wise measure, and I trust will obviate some of the evil of being an only child.''I think this little tour is of great use to dear mamma,—she seems to be getting stronger every day,' said Margaret, as they returned to the inn, and found Mrs. Seaton looking out of the window and admiring the scenery.'Yes; I have often thought travelling would do her good, but she never fancied it.''I had no idea it would be so pleasant as you all contrive to make it for me,' answered Mrs. Seaton. 'You never let me feel oppressed by having to see too much, or by letting me feel that I prevent your seeing anything.''It is not our doing,' said Mr. Seaton; 'but the fact is, you are one of those who can stand travelling—and it is a great compliment to you, according to Jean Paul Richter. Do you remember, he says, in his Levana—that a bride and bridegroom should always see each other before marriage with their night-caps on, as that most unbecoming attire would bring out to view the natural defects of each. And then he goes on to say, es keinen bessern schlafrock der seele giebt als den reiserock—that there is no better night-cap of the soul than the travelling dress; and recommends that the parents of the bride should take the young people for a three days' tour, in miserable weather and on bad roads, which will so certainly disclose their natural defects of temper and disposition, and they will most probably be so tired of each other, that, at the end of their journey, they will be very glad to break off the marriage. You see, you would have stood this ordeal admirably, only you have always such a bad opinion of yourself that you never think you are fit for anything, and I have always felt convinced that——''That was what made me so disagreeable for so many years,' said Mrs. Seaton'No; but what made you lose so much time, expresses it best.''Yes, I know what you are going to say,' answered Mrs. Seaton; 'and I have lost such an immense deal of time,—first of all by ill-humour and allowing myself to be miserable, and make every one about me so; and then, when I at last saw the sinfulness of such ingratitude, I gave way to so much repining, and was so depressed by self-reproach, that I became quite incapacitated; and it prevented me from looking about to see what could be done to help others or myself. I often think I have lost much more time by ill-humoured querulousness than my dear sister has in all her worldly dissipations.''We must remember there are diversities of gifts, and some of the best may become a snare,' replied her husband; 'and it seems strange, but I really think that your sister's extreme amiability and capacity for happiness has been hers.''And she has never yet, poor dear, experienced a real sorrow, or great suffering of mind or body; —her hour is not yet come.' Then, after a pause, Mrs. Seaton said—'As you find that I am such a good traveller, would you not like to visit the Scotch lakes before we go to Craggie, instead of leaving me with Linda? I really enjoy the view so much from the inn windows,—not that I dread the visit to Craggie as I should formerly have done; for you described so warmly the happiness you enjoyed during your last visit there, that I always since felt it would be the only house I could ever stand being a visitor in. Even my sister, who is so truly agreeable, does not quite contrive to make me at home in her country house.''That is because she attempts too much,' said Mr. Seaton. 'Like most hostesses of our nation, she is never satisfied unless she is doing something about, or with, her guests; instead of leaving them to themselves at least one half of their time. I always think English people are too hard upon themselves; they have naturally no turn for society, yet inflict it all day upon each other in country houses. Their spirits would be much more fresh, and their conversation much more brilliant, if they did not dull both by forcing them for so many hours. French people could not stand this, even with all their natural wit and esprit de societé. They do not meet so early in the morning as we do; nor in French chéteaux will you find that the ladies think it necessary to sit droning over their work-tables together, or the gentlemen lounging over their billiards or in their stables, during the interminable hours of wet or dull days. And then Linda, you know, has the advantage of many years' practice in making others happy; she seems completely to lose sight of herself.''But you saw she was not quite happy, and so did Mrs. Grant,—did you not?' inquired Miss Barton.'Only because it seemed almost unnatural, as old nurse said, 'that she was never fashed with anything;' but now there will not be even this drawback, I trust, to our perfect enjoyment.'CHAPTER XXX. THE FRIENDS.AND so they found it; for since their return from Italy everything seemed to have prospered with the whole family at Craggie Castle.Dudley and Linda had never met since they parted at Sorrento, but he wrote to them all very often, and little Ethel made her letters to him the depository of all the strange, and sometimes beautiful thoughts which entered into her most original mind.Mr. Grant was always a good deal occupied with his farming improvements, yet he sometimes joined the others in their expeditions to see the interesting places in the neighbourhood. They had not yet visited the Duke of Dartford's magnificent place, for both Linda and Miss Barton felt that Margaret would not like to go there; but one morning she proposed it herself, and with that absence of reserve, or rather that touching tone of trustfulness, which showed she was speaking to real and true friends, she said, 'I think, dear Linda, we had better go to Dunballan this fine morning; for Susan ought to see it, and the horses must be fresh, as you did not use them yesterday. I first intended to have sent you all without me, but dear mamma not being strong, I am sure it would be too far for her, or Mrs. Grant either, and so I flatter myself you would not enjoy it quite so much without me!'Mr. Seaton looked up from his newspaper, and gazed with moistened eyes on his darling child, and then he said in a grave tone, 'I have just been reading something in the newspaper, darling, which may perhaps make you alter your intention.' He read thus:—'The Duke of Dartford has arrived at Dartford House, and we understand that his marriage with the Lady Jane Mandeville will take place early next month.''But Jane is not returned yet, and Aunt Rochford did not expect her till August,' said Margaret, as the blood mounted to her cheeks; and she continued, after a pause,—'Well, I hope she will come, and that it will take place. But this need make no difference; there is no fear of his coming—no fear that he would be there I suppose,—and, even if he were, it could not signify, for now that it is all settled, we must so soon meet him.'And Margaret turned pale, although the sweet smile that beamed on her face when she first proposed the expedition, melted into a touching expression of cheerful resignation.The carriages were ordered, and they drove off to Dunballan, and Margaret had the delight of seeing how much Susan Barton enjoyed the grand and picturesque scenery of the park, and the fine collection of pictures that the house contained. They found that the old housekeeper had not heard of the Duke's return from abroad, and she did not seem to put much faith in the report of the newspapers.She looked at Margaret with great interest, and said she well remembered seeing her there during her visit to Scotland two years ago. The old woman, whose whole heart was entirely devoted to her master's family, whispered to Linda, that she was sure the Duke had never got over the disappointment he had felt at Miss Seaton's coldness.'And I did hope in them days,' continued the stately old lady,—'I did hope that our good master wad have succeeded in getting yon bonnie lass for his wife—he's never been the same person since. Poor young gentleman! and to think how handsome and good he was.'If it's not too bold to ask, why will yon beautiful bairn not have him?' continued the housekeeper, as she drew Linda into another room,—'and I have heard that you were the first person he ever loved, and you would not have him either;' and the old lady drew herself up with a proud air of offended dignity, and with rather a reproachful look at Linda.'But I have heard, too, that a great London lady used some charm or enchantment or something, and would not let either of you have him, because she wants him for her own daughter; and yet, I can't understand how it was, for ye would not have been so weak as to be led by anybody, for ye have the spirit of a queen in your bonnie e'en,—more nor she, poor young lady! she don't look so happy as she did three summers agone, when his Grace used to go and get the finest flowers he could find in the 'servatory, and ride off like mad with them to Craggie Castle,—and when he was always giving fetes and filling the old halls wi' music and dancing for her. Ah, welladay,' continued the old woman, after a pause,—'and she so young, too,—only fourteen, was she; surely she had never seen anybody she liked better?''No, I don't think she had,' said Linda, who felt much interested in the old housekeeper's wondering speculations.'Don't go for to think that there has been any chattering about his Grace's concerns, or Miss Seaton. It's only my old foolish fancies, and may be a word or two as his sister, Lady Julia, dropped to me now and then, and so I put this and that together, and I have often wished to make bold to speak to you, ma'am, for ye know nurse Eleanor is of my kin, and I hae heerd from her what a blessed lady you was, and how you always made everybody do what was best and happiest for them. And so I often says to myself—What a pity she can't do something about his Grace and that bonnie bairn,—for it makes my old heart ache to know how changed he is, and how all the promise of good that was in him, all he was going to do, so as to be a credit to his ancestors and a blessin' to the world, all turned aside and thrown away,—and all for love, I fear, and——'But now at last,' continued the old woman, quickly, 'my tongue has got loose, and like a winter flood, it has broke through the bank, and I fear yell be drownded with all my gabbling. But no, I see ye don't mind, and ye forgive me, for ye know his Grace has been like my ain bairn, for he and his sister had no father or mother since he was three years old, and their aunt, Lady Strathden, was always very kind, and let me manage them, the blessed bairns, as long as they were in the nursery; and the Duke, bless his dear heart, always calls me Maggie, and gies me a kiss every time he comes hame and goes away, for, says he,——But I beg parding for bothering ye about myself, only I hope ye will try and do something, for if that bonny lady has no other fancy, why should not she consent, if she had twenty aunts as were against it! But she'd make him a gude wife, and a worthy lady she be to succeed all these beauties,' she continued, pointing with proud triumph to various lovely portraits of former duchesses in olden times, by Vandyck and Sir Godfrey Kneller,—and of one by Sir Joshua Reynolds she said, 'this one I always thought so like Miss Seaton, and yet it is sometimes the very image of the Duke himself, when he is in his best and pleasantest humour.''It is very like her,' said Linda, as they joined Margaret, who had lingered behind the others, to take one more look at this picture, for she had been struck with its resemblance to the Duke,—and the tears started to her eyes, but she brushed them hastily away, aud said to Linda, with a joyous look,—'How pleased dear Jane will be with that picture, for it is a better likeness of him than even the one there is of him in London by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Was that beautiful lady his grandmother, Mrs. Stewart?''His great-grandmother, dear young lady; and here is another picture of her, with the Duke as then was, and their four children: the rosy-cheeked boy, with a blue sash, was the late Duke's father—and they Avas the beautifullest family that ever was seen; the little one that's putting the roses on his mother's knee was Lord Edmund—him as served in the wars, and took no end of towns in Spain;—and I remember him, the handsomest old man I ever set eyes on; he only died the year before my Lord came of age.'And the old housekeeper continued, with de- lighted garrulity, to give an account of different branches of the family as they passed by their portraits,—for she observed that Margaret was interested, and she looked with delight at the ever-changing expression of the young girl's violet eyes, and the more she looked, the more she longed to have her for the mistress of all the surrounding splendour.'And have ye had your portrait taken, my beautiful bairn? I am thinking ye wad make the grandest picture of them all.''I have taken a little likeness of her,' said Linda, who saw that Margaret was alarmed at discovering the thoughts which seemed to pass through the old housekeeper's mind. 'I will show it to you, if you will contrive to come and pass a day at Craggie, and visit your relation, our dear old Eleanor.''I will, indeed; for, alackaday! our Lordie never comes here now,—'tis but little I have to do, and a useless old body I'm getting; and I've no children of my own to leave to all the power of money as has been given to me, and I shall always hope to give part of it for the finest christening cup that can be got for my Lord's firstborn! And to think that perhaps he may never have any!—for as to his marrying that Lady Jane, don't ye go for to make me believe a word of it!' she continued, as she saw they were prepared to leave the hall. And, with tears in her eyes, the old woman drew Margaret aside into an adjoining room, and whispered,—'Forgive a word from an old fule, my beautiful! but my thoughts will out, in spite of all that I can do to keep them back—bless your bonnie e'en!—forgive me if I say—Think twice before ye refuse him; if—if——beg pardon; I know I'm too pre- sumptuous, but you are such a sweet dear lady; but I won't say no more, for I see I'm distressing ye; only let me kiss your beautiful hand, and say you'll forgive me.''I do, indeed,' said Margaret, as she shook hands warmly with the old housekeeper; 'and remember, too, that if the Duke marries my cousin, you will have a most kind mistress.''And is she really fond of you—and does she know that his Grace loves ye? Weel, weel, I will ask no more, for I am distressing ye. May God bless and guide you, my beautiful bairn.'CHAPTER XXXI. OLD TIMES.AS they drove home, Linda went in the small pony carriage, with Miss Barton; and they expressed to each other their regret that Margaret should so early have met with a cloud to overshadow her happiness.'It is one of those strange cases where Fate seems to defeat, in some mysterious manner, the purest wishes and intentions of those most interested to carry them into effect. We all know how artful Lady Rochford is, and some of us have suffered from her machinations,' said Linda, with a sigh; 'yet we all seem powerless to counteract them.''But Mr. Seaton objected, in the first instance, did he not, before Lady Rochford used any art to induce Margaret to imagine that Lady Jane's affections were engaged?''I fancy she always told Margaret that the Duke was attached to Jane; and when he most decidedly fell in love with Margaret during her visit here three years ago, she, poor girl, was quite unconscious of it, or that her own heart was becoming touched. Poor child! I shall never forget the expression of her face after he had spoken to her, the evening before the Seatons left Craggie. They had walked down the terraced garden to the river, and we were all on the upper terrace. Margaret came up alone, and flew past me, saying, —'Oh, where is papa; I must see him at once.' There was such a mixture of intense joy and surprise and horror in her face; and then she threw her arms round her father's neck, and led him into the library. It seemed that he was as much thunderstruck and surprised as herself; for, as the Duke had been rather wild, he would not have allowed them to be so much together, if he had not understood the poor young man was almost engaged to her cousin. When I saw the dismay it caused, I reproached myself for not having taken some steps to prevent what, I must confess, I had cordially wished should happen. For I always thought, and so I do still, that they were made for each other; but, really, his wildness could scarcely have been unexpected, or not surely inexcusable, when we consider the immense temptations he was beset with in every way, with such a large property, and no near relations to guide or influence him. But, of course, dear Mr. Seaton trembled at the idea of allowing Margaret to be engaged at such an early age as fourteen.''Yet he did not positively refuse him, did he?''Not entirely; but poor Margaret was so frightened at discovering the state of her own feelings, and so full of self-reproach, that she wished not to see him again. So she ran up to the nursery while Mr. Seaton spoke to the poor Duke in the library, and they did not meet again before the Seatons left us. It was a very sad termination to their happy visit, and I urged all I could, for I well knew that Lady Rochford would work upon her feelings and prevent any engagement being made, unless something was decided on at once.''But did not the Duke explain that he was not engaged to Lady Jane?''Most distinctly; and that he was determined no power on earth should induce him to marry her.''And did not that satisfy Mr. Seaton?''It did, so far that he was induced to consent that, if they remained in the same mind until Margaret was eighteen, and that in the mean time the Duke acted in such a manner as to insure her happiness, he would not object. But then, unfortunately, Lady Rochford worked on Margaret's feelings, and made her treat him the next time they met with cold disdain, while she contrived at the same time to get hold of the Duke, and, I fear, was rather the means of throwing him into temptation; and, in despair at Margaret's manner, he lost his self-control, and fell an easy prey to designing persons—I trust not instigated by Lady Rochford, but I am afraid it is just possible they may have been,—and he gambled, and then Mr. Seaton and Margaret herself began to think she had escaped a fearful lot; and so two hearts were separated, I fear, for ever,' said Linda, with tearful eyes.'That would be sad, indeed, and I cannot imagine that Lady Rochford would have acted in such a cruel and base manner. There is something so particularly melancholy and Judas-like in that sort of betrayal with a kiss—making dear Margaret so fond of her; and her aunt can find no excuse for spoiling her happiness, for Margaret's total absence of reserve must enable Lady Rochford to read her feelings so plainly.''She is not aware of the guilt of such conduct; she has not very deep feelings herself, and so she cannot enter into those who love intensely. Yet I had hoped, when she saw the misfortune, the misery, which her interference produced in my case, that she would have been totally changed. You know what I mean, dear Susan, for I believe you know my entire history, and, indeed, you were aware of my feelings before I discovered them myself; for you wrote me that kind letter when you first heard of my engagement, and it ought to have opened my eyes. I can't imagine how I could have been so stupid; but I dreaded to think—I was, oh! so very wretched! the world, everything, even the thought of eternity, was so dark and dreadful. Oh! how fearful it is to have that feeling! It was so awful, I could not think it was love. It was so perplexing, so utterly unaccountable. I lost faith in everything and everybody.''But you see it all plain now—everything is accounted for.''Yes, I am no longer a solitary being in creation; I now seem, indeed, to understand everything, and all those I love best understand me, for I have no secrets from them. Yet how strange it was you should have divined me so well, without seeing Dudley, either, after he was grown up. Dear Susan, how deeply you must have loved, to enter into me without knowing anything!''No, I have not, dear Linda; I have never seen the person to call forth feelings which, I know, might exist; or rather, I have never inspired any one whose character or mind I much admired with sufficient love to call forth any return. I am most thankful to God that he has spared me from it, for I have not sufficient beauty; and if I had ever loved, I should have felt, with Madame de Staël, that I would give up all my talents and powers of authorship in exchange for outward loveliness and the power to charm.''Then, if you have never loved, I can't think why you refused so many persons,—and particularly poor dear Lord Clanville?''Because I could not love him as he ought to expect to be loved. He is too good—he ought not to be satisfied with only friendship. No, for I might love his brother,—yes, even though I know his heart must be engrossed, and always will be.—Ah, dear Linda, what a fearful ordeal you have passed through! I look at you with never-ending wonder, as the most convincing proof that could be obtained of the truth and power of Christianity.''And you really feared for me that time at Sorrento when you heard those reports?''Yes, I did; for though I always looked up to you and Dudley as beings of a higher order, yet still I could not forget that you were human, and, knowing the fearful temptation you were subjected to, I naturally trembled——But your prayers—the prayers you offered up long before you contemplated such a temptation, were heard.''I trust so,' said Linda; 'but it was principally, I believe, through God's goodness in giving me such a husband as Mr. Grant, and such a friend as his dear mother, that I have been preserved from, repining and weariness of heart, and was consequently enabled to endure the sufferings of that time. Without the faith that she assisted me to attain, I should have been wretched indeed, and the happiness I was struggling after I never should have gained. Then Dudley doubtless helped me, too. His mind was so much more deeply imbued with scripture than mine was; he saw plainly years before; and he had accepted his trial, and made it tend to good so much more than I had mine,— he is so far superior to me. I feel so unworthy of having been the means, as he says, of developing so much of the good in his character. And how little merit I have! for how wonderfully easy every duty has been to me, with such a husband, and dwelling with such a mother as Mrs. Grant! When I think how different I might have become if I had married a harsh or unkind husband, or had lived on without faith and without hope, and had to endure all the agonies of crushing my early love, unassisted and alone, without prayer and without God—then, had the hour of temptation come, dearest Susan, it is fearful and humiliating to think what I might have been now; and oh! with what pity I look upon those who, being placed in similar trials without my advantages, have fallen a prey to the violence of their feelings.''Yes, your husband and mother have indeed smoothed your path. Still it is impossible for me not to grieve that your fate has been so contrary to all that I had fondly dreamt and hoped when you were a child.''Dear Susan, I have no one to blame but myself. If, when I was eighteen, I had possessed even a small portion of the faith in Christianity which, by a patient study of scripture and a good use of my intellectual powers I afterwards obtained, nothing would have induced me to marry as I did. Now I fully see how wrong I was, for the scriptures have taught me to analyse my feelings, and have brought to light more vividly the recollection of what I felt when love first began to dawn, and develope my aspirations after all that is good and lovely.''Yes,' said Miss Barton, 'there is no question that, of all the means of ennobling our nature which God has, in his mercy, given us, love is the most powerful—the union of two spirits who are really suited to develope in each other all better feelings. I see how the suspicion that Dudley did not care for you crushed and depressed you, and that still the thought of him retained such power over you, that you could never feel the same for any other man. Therefore, in marrying, you sinned from want of faith in the goodness of God; but still, you should not blame yourself too severely, for how much of it was owing to your youth and inexperience, and, above all, to that dreadful Lady Rochford's machinations.—Do you see anything of her now—and can you ever have quite forgiven her?''For myself, quite; but when, sometimes, I think of the misery it might have entailed on dear John—how unjust for any one to marry him without entire and devoted love—how unjust to him that his wife's entire sympathies and tastes should not have been in accordance with his,—then I see, indeed, the fearful sin of her manoeuvres. Yet, with all this, I cannot help loving her, in spite of all the solitary darkness she was the cause of my suffering for so many years.''But you did not know at the time that it was her doing?''No, never till Dudley told me in that last conversation we had. He said that, from what he suspected of my feelings, in spite of all Lady Rochford's arts to throw a veil over them during his talk with her, he would certainly have endeavoured to see me before he left England,—and if we had met, how different it would have been!''It would, indeed, my poor dear Linda. How much you would have been spared! Even the mere effort to appear and make others happy for years, taking into consideration no other feeling, must have been a great strain.''It became quite easy as soon as I could pray.' 'Yes, you are happy now—I see it in the peaceful repose of your forehead, which is only the indication of past struggles, of fearful storms; and now and then your under lip has that indescribable look that tells of conquered passion and checked feeling which is so very touching. I am sure you suffered more than those who lived with you have any idea of.''Yes, and most thankful I am that they were spared the knowledge of it, that I was enabled to prevent its interfering with their happiness; but they saw my bodily sufferings, which were great also,—though I often felt a sort of ungrateful pleasure in them, because they seemed to distract my thoughts, and gave me some little excuse for not seeming joyful. But afterwards, when, by the help of dear Mrs. Grant, I obtained faith—when I obtained the happy, happy certainty of the Atonement—that my sins would be blotted out—such a feeling of peace was bestowed upon me as I had never before expected to attain. Then, to add to my happiness at Sorrento, when Dudley opened my eyes, as it were, to the cause of my love for him—that this early love appeared to have been in some measure excused by his attachment,—the dreadful vague weight that had so long oppressed me was entirely removed, and has never returned. I have no longer any secret from my husband, and, strange to say, I have even the delight of seeing that he loves me better than he ever did, since he has known all my history. Dear John! he is so generous, so noble, so high-minded! He is one of those persons in whom religion seems to supply all the original deficiencies which nature left in them. Have you not often seen that it exalts people born without much talent or insight into character to such a degree that they are placed at last almost on a level with those who have naturally been gifted with genius and power?''I have, indeed. Religion enlarges the heart, as well as the mind; and a person deeply imbued with the love of God attains, by degrees, a grander elevation, a greater measure of strength and wisdom, than the natural large-mindedness of genius could ever reach of itself alone. But when both are united, as in Dudley Aylmer, where religion and genius go hand in hand,—or, rather, where the love of God is the life and object of all the efforts of that genius, how splendid is the sight! What intense happiness you must have felt, poor dear Linda, when you met again at Sorrento, after so many years' separation; how enchanting, to 'Meet the mirror of his answering mind,' in all you thought and felt. But was there no reaction when you were obliged to part?''Perhaps there was; and I found that the happy peacefulness of my feelings had in some degree been deceptive, when I almost trembled at my ecstasy, but it did not last long. I soon recovered the joy which the knowledge of his love had produced. I thought this was no more than I felt as a child, when I looked up to him, and enjoyed being with him more than any one else; and the intense happiness I felt was in his presence, not only because this delightful interchange of thought was renewed, but because he had even more than fulfilled my expectations, and realized the sublime beau-idéal I had formed; and I said, John will love him as I do, and rejoice with me in knowing that there is such a character as his in this sinful world.''And so he did, I am certain.''Yes, he did indeed. But the morning after Dudley was gone, I had a most unaccountable weight on my spirit,—everything looked so dark, that I fancied I had deceived myself when I thought, the evening before, that nothing would ever make me unhappy—not even if I never saw him again in this world. Perhaps the delight of finding that he had always loved me had been too great; or perhaps it was a presentiment of my capture by the banditti.'But I was able to pray fervently for support,' continued Linda, 'and my heart was lightened. But then came Julia, with that paragraph in the newspaper,—of course it made me feel miserable again; and, in the midst of my perplexity, the banditti carried me off, as you heard.''Yes; but I never could quite understand about it, or whether it was Mr. Randal's doing, and how you were extricated at last. I suppose it must remain in mystery on Julia's account, as you did not like to expose him—but I should much like to know.'Linda then gave Miss Barton an account of her adventure at Montefeltro, and how she and Dudley had been delivered by the Duchess de St. Didiee, who had obtained information of their dilemma, through some mysterious means which she did not disclose.'I suspected a good deal of this before; but how dreadful to think that Randal is at liberty, and that you are still liable to his arts and direful revenge.''It is, indeed; but I tremble most for Dudley, and for Ethel. I always feel a sort of vague dread that he will endeavour to destroy the happiness of my child; he has the dire art of wounding in the most vulnerable place.''Poor Julia, what a sad fate hers has been!''It has, indeed; yet she has almost ceased to be interesting; her standard of good has been so lowered by her misplaced love, or rather blind adoration of a worthless character, that I much fear she will never improve—never become awakened to a full sense of her errors, or learn to appreciate her dear father's worth.''The poor father, dear Mr. Seaton! And how dreadful it will be if Margaret's spirits or health should sink under this trial; for I am afraid her feelings are more deeply touched than any of us imagine.''So am I,' said Linda; 'and I am afraid we were very foolish to let her go to Dunballan today, for I ought to have remembered how vividly it would recal to her mind the happy hours and days she spent there when, as a young girl, she was quite the little queen of the Duke's pretty fetes. Her extreme youth, and the childish simplicity of her manners, prevented us from giving the importance to his attentions and evident admiration which we ought. But as we walked through the gardens to-day I remembered so many things: a school f@te there was one day, and an archery meeting another; and these rooms and galleries where, in her childish glee, she had chased some of the Duke's little nieces; and when he had run after her and taken the whole merry little troop to see a curious old baby-house up in the nursery; and then I, too, remembered some of his observations to her as they looked at the old armour and the trophies which some of his ancestors had won in the Crusades; I saw how deep had been the impression of all this on her mind; and poor dear Margaret!—I saw that look of desolation, that expression of dark, solitary despair that I so well know, several times to-day on her face; and then it was replaced by such a beautiful expression of touching resignation, as she inwardly prayed and wrestled with the feeling, till, as she looked on her father, scarcely a trace of sadness could be seen. Oh! if they could now meet!—if we could but counteract Lady Rochford's arts, I feel sure all would be well, and the Duke would regain more than his former worth; for this suffering, and the unselfish self-sacrificing feelings it has engendered, have so developed dear Margaret, that she would be more than ever adapted to this high station, and able to influence him for good. It is certainly too provoking that we are so powerless to resist Lady Rochford's will.''And why will she so perversely fix on this Duke? Why could she not be satisfied to use her arts upon the Duke of B——, who proposed, I heard, to Margaret before they left London. Could you not suggest this, for I have no fear but that Lady Jane would make a very good wife, and you say the Duke of B——is an amiable man.''I have endeavoured to set her upon this plan,' said Linda, 'and she appeared, by her manner, as if she would quite enter into the thing; but I have no faith in her, unfortunately; and the Duke of Dartford has, from his long minority, enormous wealth, besides possessing great promise of talent, and an unusually handsome person,and has been always the great object of the worldly ambition of all mothers, For the last fifteen or twenty years Lady Rochford has concentrated all her great capabilities to attain this end; and now that her power is waning—now that she feels she no longer rules in the London world with undivided sway, I am afraid she will be more than ever anxious to carry her point, in order to make the world believe that her reign is as triumphant as ever. The root of all her follies,' continued Linda, 'is jealousy and inordinate ambition; yet her beauty and fascination have been, and still are, so great as to make her worldly career almost one uninterrupted triumph. She has been able even to blind her husband to her faults and defects;—no wonder, then, that she often succeeds in blinding herself, and believing in the amiability that most people attribute to her. She is one of those characters where the good and evil are mingled in such an unusually subtle manner that it is most difficult to know where one begins and the other ends. She is a sort of Jesuit of fashionable life, and deceives herself into the belief that she is acting rightly all the time.''It is very, very sad,' said Miss Barton, 'that poor Margaret should now be the victim she is determined to sacrifice to the gods of her ambition: and Lady Rochford appears to possess such dire strength of will, which, when perverted, is the most awful of all gifts—that, when once she has made up her mind, no entreaties or arguments would ever avail to divert her from her purposes.'CHAPTER XXXII. FILIAL TRUST.THE evening after the expedition to Dunballan, Margaret appeared to be in unusually high spirits, but her gaiety was evidently forced,—she was too natural to be able to disguise her feelings; the poor girl at last saw she could not cheer her father, and as if crushed and humiliated at her want of power to feel the gladness she wished to assume, she whispered to Mr. Seaton,—'It's no use—I'm a weak, silly child;' and throwing her arms round his neck, she burst into tears.'You are tired, my darling; do not be cast down,' he said, as he led her into the library, which was only lighted by the moonbeams that shone through the latticed windows.And then she laid her head on his shoulder, and the old man made her tell him all the thoughts and feelings which had passed through her mind during that visit to Dunballan,—all the regrets, and struggles, and rebellious feelings she had tried to contend against. She confessed all. And as the vague tumultuous feelings which had long depressed her were poured forth in words, and breathed into that loving paternal ear, it became plain to both how deep those feelings were.'My darling,' he said, as the moon illumined his calm forehead and snowy locks, while her blushing face remained in shade, 'perhaps we have both been wrong. I may have been too fearful, and expected more steadiness from the Duke than was possible, considering his temptations, and I deceived myself by thinking you would soon get over the disappointment; and perhaps I was too glad to make the excuse of Jane's attachment, and too ready to believe Lady Rochford's account of him,—for I have reason now to think that her abuse of him was much exaggerated, and perhaps also her account of Jane's attachment, and his advances to her.''But I am afraid Jane really loves him most deeply; and how wrong of me—how sinful I am, to——''But remember, darling, we have no proof that the Duke loves Jane; and if not, and that Lady Rochford has merely imagined it, I think you might——if——if he would but repent.''Oh, dear papa, don't say that, or I shall be so wild with delight, that the world will be too bright——''Alas, darling, if it be too late,—if they should be engaged, and as yet nothing can be done, I could not now tell the Duke, till we find whether there be any truth in this newspaper paragraph or no.''I see it all, dear papa; yet still it makes me so happy. I feel so sure that if you do not object, and that he does not really wish to marry Jane, that in time, that some day——and perhaps she, too, would not be so very miserable,—dear Jane, though it would be very, very sad for her.'And the father and daughter continued to talk on till the moonbeams had passed away, and left them in almost total darkness, and they groped their way to the door, proceeding up the wide old carved staircase to the drawing-room, where they found the party just about to retire for the night.'But they all saw that the conversation had been satisfactory, for both looked much more full of hope, and Linda whispered to Miss Barton that, from the countenances of both, she thought there would be no impediment to Margaret's happiness, if any means could be devised for counteracting Lady Rochford's schemes.The next morning, while they were at breakfast, a note was brought to Linda, which made her turn pale, although she did not show any other signs of emotion, and rising from table with the usual graceful calmness which distinguished her movements, she said to Mrs. Grant, after hastily reading the note,—'Old Peggy Johnstone wishes to see me, so I am going to run there; but do not let Ethel or any one follow me, for there may be something infectious.'Then, as she passed near her mother-in-law, she said in a whisper inaudible to any but her—'Don't be afraid, that is not the case, but I have a reason for wishing to go there alone.'Mrs. Delamere and Mr. Grant were calling to her to beg she would not go to the cottage if there was anything infectious; but before they had time to express their fears, Mrs. Grant contrived to make them a sign, and gave them to understand that there was no danger.Yet, every one saw there was some mysterious reason for Linda's paleness. Mrs. Grant and Miss Barton both imagined that Dudley had something to do with it,—that perhaps Randal had been using one of his diabolical arts: and their vivid imaginations pictured a variety of misfortunes; yet Linda had not looked unhappy—only anxious.But another idea had occurred to Margaret, which made the blood rush into her cheeks, and she pressed her father's hand and looked up into his face with an anxious, inquiring expression.'Perhaps it is,' he whispered; 'I know what you fancy, but I do not think it likely,—and we ought to hope not.''In the mean time, Linda was proceeding with hasty steps along the south terrace, and down the path which led towards the river. She paused for a moment to read the note again, for the recollection of Randal and his persevering endeavours to annoy her, flashed through her mind.'The note was signed by the Duke of Dartford, and though written in a hurried and agitated manner, was, she thought, certainly his handwriting. It contained an urgent request that Linda would see him for a few minutes without letting any of her friends know of his being there.For this purpose he said he would wait for her in the grotto near the river; and he had contrived to send this note by old Peggy Johnstone, as none of his servants were aware of his being in Scotland, and he wished it not to be known.Linda remembered that this grotto where she was now going to meet the Duke, was the very spot where, three years ago, he had startled poor Margaret by the first declaration of his love; and she could not help indulging a hope, that in spite of all Lady Rochford's arts, and the sufferings which both parties had undergone since then, it might end well.Linda had many years wished for this marriage; ever since she saw how deeply the Duke had felt her own rejection of his love, she had longed to know that at last he had found some one worthy of him; and when years had passed on without his appearing to have seen any one he liked, and little Margaret had grown to be a lovely girl, with the promise of attaining her dear father's most exalted standard of good, then it had become her happiest dream that these two should love.Her own perverse destiny had made her particularly long to behold the perfect happiness of two beings who seemed made for each other, and to see whether such a thing were possible in this sad world. In her own case, she was convinced that she had not been worthy of such perfect happiness; for the spirit of disbelief, which for years had haunted her, was so sinful, that she must expect to meet with trials, and she could not be deserving of such immense bliss as a union with Dudley would have afforded. Yet this had only made her the more anxious for Margaret's happiness, because she was worthy of it, and did not require any further trial than the infirm state of her adored father's health must entail.So Linda was full of prayers as she ran down the walk, and the birds sang over her head, and the merry morning sunbeams danced on the river, while gay butterflies crossed her path, and insects buzzed among the opening flowers; and as the distant cuckoo's note spoke of love and hope, she felt a sort of bounding gladness, which gave her confidence in the ultimate success of her wishes.Yet as she approached the grotto, and remembered how the Duke had become a gambler, and committed many acts of such a nature as to be extremely thoughtless, if not criminal, she trembled, and her fears were not re-assured by the first sight of the Duke himself could scarcely have recognised him. During his eastern tour he had allowed his beard to grow, and his skin had been browned by the southern sun, but it was the alteration in his expression which startled her most. The baser passions of his nature had evidently gained the ascendant, and there was a look of reckless suffering in his face, and a sort of hard contempt, which seemed to tell that he had lost confidence in the goodness of God.Yet, when he looked on Linda, his roughened features assumed something of their original expression, like a flower that has been nipped by a biting blast, which revives when a ray of sunlight falls upon it;—so Linda's serene countenance seemed to infuse into him a more hopeful feeling of peace. Yet he said, with some bitterness,—'It was kind of you to see me, but I suppose nothing will be of any use. I am doomed to misery, and I deserve it. Like a fool, I have thrown away all chance of happiness. When I thought Margaret despised me, I did not care for anything in the world. It was all so dark and utterly wretched.''But why did you fly from all your duties?' said Linda. 'Why, by your misconduct, did you justify Mr. Seaton's objections to your wishes?''Because I thought she hated me, and I was fool enough to believe Lady Rochford's assertions that she loved another. But now I know all, and I am indebted to you for the discovery. I fortunately met Lady Jane Mandeville at Interlachen, and she had just received a letter from you, in which you expressed your fears that Margaret cared for me. In short, your letter seems to have opened her eyes to some strange designs of her mother's, and——''And did you never do or say anything to justify Lady Rochford in supposing that you loved her daughter?''Never; and I can't conceive why she has been so anxious to separate me from Margaret, her own niece, whom she has always professed to love.''But I am afraid Jane imagined you loved her; for Lady Rochford so artfully contrived to insinuate the——''I can't help it,' interrupted the Duke, impetuously; 'my conscience, though guilty enough in many things, exonerates me in this. I am certain I never gave them any real grounds for supposing it. I liked Lady Jane as a friend better than any other girl; and her mother amused me, and I foolishly thought they were unlike most of the people I met, who always seemed to wish——. But I have no time now for explanations; it is enough that Lady Jane opened my eyes, and I hastened to London, where I expected to find Margaret, but I found she had gone away after inflicting two most severe disappointments on my poor friends, Lord Albertmount, and the Duke of B——. So I determined to start at once for Scotland, without informing any one of my intention; I have almost a superstitious dread of Lady Rochford, for I know she contrives to ascertain everything I do or say. I would not even bring a servant, or let them know where I was going; in fact, every one, except my confidential servant in London, thinks I am ill in bed at Dartford House; for I felt sure that if Lady Rochford knew of my sudden departure, she would guess where I was gone, and travel here post haste to try and counteract my wishes. So here I am,' continued the Duke, with increasing agitation, 'come to learn my fate from your lips. I confess, with shame and regret, that I have been very, very guilty. In despair I forgot that there were duties I ought not to neglect; I had no right to throw away every noble feeling, and almost to cease to wish to do well. I am quite unworthy of her love; yet, if I thought there was a remote chance that she could ever forgive—that she could in time be induced to look kindly upon me again, I feel sure that God would give me strength to cast away my evil habits, and become what I formerly hoped to be.'But I see you despair of her forgiveness,' he said, with a look of still greater misery. 'I see that you think it impossible she can love such a wretch as I am; and you pity me—you can't help seeing how changed I am, how infinitely inferior to what I was in those happy days when I fondly imagined I had won her heart——. You think she can no longer care for me!'Linda had been deeply considering whether the Duke's penitence was sufficiently sincere to justify her in giving him any hope; for she felt the awfulness of the responsibility, and she endeavoured to read his inmost soul, and try to discover whether the bad habits he had lately acquired had taken too deep a root in his disposition and character to be easily eradicated. So she perused his countenance with even more interest than she listened to his words. She saw there was still the stamp of truth on his high, open forehead, and his fine eyes had, even through their haggard expression, a look of real hope—an under current of true love and belief in the happiness of another world, without which she knew there was no real faith in religion. So, after a short pause, she said—'I believe that in spite of all that is past, and all we have heard—I believe that Margaret loves you still.''Bless you for those words,' he exclaimed, as he impetuously seized her hand. 'If Margaret can love me, I defy everybody. I feel that God will forgive me, and enable me to act aright; and I——oh, what a blissful idea!—can it be possible?''Do not be too confident; remember that Mr. Seaton, her father, always dreaded your impetuosity—that long ago he trembled for——''Yes, yes,' interrupted the Duke; 'I well remember; only let me——let her know!''I will tell Mr. Seaton, and he shall decide;—I will go instantly, as I well know how impatient you must be.'Linda flew up to the house, and contrived to take Mr. Seaton into the library. In a few minutes she informed him of all that had passed, not withholding her impression of the Duke's altered appearance.'I will see him before Margaret knows anything of his being here,' said Mr. Seaton; 'for, if my old eyes have not quite lost their power of reading into the heart, I shall be able to judge pretty well of his countenance; and if my heart tells me he is really penitent, I shall gladly, oh how gladly, give my consent.'So Linda accompanied the old man down the terrace walk, and she left him alone with the Duke, while she waited near; for she would not return to the house, and run the risk of seeing Margaret until she had learnt the result of their conference. Poor Margaret was in the meanwhile undergoing all the tortures of expectation, for she had seen Linda take her father away out of the drawing-room, and then she had watched them from the window, as they walked along the terrace.'It must be—oh, it must be he,' she thought; and she pressed her hand on her side to still her throbbing heart, as she leant for support against the window-sill. Fortunately no one was in the room to see her agitation, or note the changing colour in her cheeks. She knew she must not follow them—she must wait; and she saw them disappear at the end of the lowest terrace, and then she caught a glimpse of Linda's white dress through the trees near the grotto, and there it remained, Margaret thought, for an age. At last the white dress moved—'She is returning, she has appeared on the lowest terrace, she is alone;'—and Margaret could no longer restrain her impatience; she ran out, and down the steep green slope between the terraces, at the risk of falling down the slippery grass, and joined Linda.'Where is he?—oh, I know all. I am sure he is with papa; and dear papa is satisfied—he consents!' Margaret read the glad answer in Linda's face, and throwing her arms round her neck, she sobbed upon her bosom.CHAPTER XXXIII. THE POET'S BREAKFAST.'SO the dear old poet has actually invited you to breakfast,' said Lady Rochford, as she put on her bonnet before the long glass in her boudoir. 'He never would ask Helena, either before or after her marriage, or any of your sisters except Jane. What can you have done to please him?—for I saw he was very cross at having to hand you down to dinner last night, instead of his favourite, Mrs. Blackstone. I thought it was so foolish of Lady Derwent to allow such a person as the dear poet to be amenable to ordinary regulations of rank. I always let him choose for himself; but I thought you seemed to get on very well before the dinner was over.''We did, indeed,' said Lady Mary; 'though I told him he looked so cross, and that, to punish him for his predilection of beauty, I should make myself as disagreeable as possible. I gave him one of my roughest faces, and put on my sharpest and most repellent look; but somehow, he gradually became amused by me, though once or twice he said he wondered you did not box my ears—particularly when I told him that I did like his poems, and did not agree with S——, who said of them, that 'they would surely have been dished, if it were not for the plates.' ''You actually ventured to say that?—what an impertinent creature you are,' said Lady Rochford, with a serious look.'And he asked me how I came to be so sharp and unlike you; and yet he said, at last, I might come with you this morning to breakfast, if I liked. So here I am dressed, and have made myself quite pretty.'You don't think that, I see; and certainly my little brown face and turned-up nose looks rather different to yours,' continued Lady Mary, as she stood by her mother at the glass. 'You look particularly well this morning, and so you did last night—for you were so pleased at all the congratulations you got at the Duke's return, and the marriage with Jane being arranged, and I was so excessively amused at your taking it all as if the marriage really was settled, and as if you had seen the Duke.''Well, and so it is,—and so it shall be. I am better pleased that he is ill, and not able to see any one. Well, what do you mean? What idea has come into that cunning little head of yours?''Nothing particular,—only I am so curious to see whether you will carry your point. But had we not better go, for I want to look at all Mr. Roland's beautiful pictures and curiosities, as I have never seen them, you know.''Yes; and we will call, on our way, and inquire after the Duke.''To Dartford House, and drive in at the gates,' said Lady Rochford, as she stepped into her carriage; and the two tall footmen shut the door, and echoed the order to the wigged and powdered coachman who sat in state on the furred hammer-cloth. The glittering carriage drove off at a quick pace, and in a few minutes reached Dartford House.'How stupid the servants are,' said Lady Roch- ford, as they drove up alongside of the massive gates which shut out the Duke's magnificent residence from public view. 'I told you to drive in,' she said, in an angry tone.'If you please, my lady,' said one of the handsome footmen, 'nobody is to be admitted at all, for no consideration, as his Grace is very ill.''But I must go to the house—I will see him; drive in,' she exclaimed, with one of her most authoritative looks. 'I have something particular to say to him,' she continued, as she beckoned to the porter, and ordered him to open the gates.'I was told not to let no one in, my lady. Mr. Donald coom down to the lodge himself, and told me not; for the noise of carriages and driving up to the door would disturb his Grace.''I will walk, then,' said Lady Rochford, whose determination was strengthened by the opposition she encountered.'But we shall be late for Mr. Roland's breakfast,' remonstrated Lady Mary.'I can't help it; I must ascertain how he is, or I will see Donald, at any rate.' And Lady Rochford got out, and went in through the small door, leaving Lady Mary in no very good humour at the delay.But she had not long to wait. Lady Rochford soon came back, looking very angry; and when they drove off, she said, 'It is very strange! I have not been able to see even Donald. The butler went in to beg he would come and speak to me, and he sent out his respects, but could not leave the Duke! It is too insolent, really. That man of his gives himself such airs. I verily believe he makes the Duke do exactly what he likes! Now, don't laugh, Mary, and look so provokingly sharp, for really this is all quite maddening; and to think that he has never answered either of the two notes I sent. He can't be too ill to write, or make that fine gentleman of a Donald send a line for him.''Don't look so angry, mamma, for it spoils your beauty, and Mr. Roland will think me the prettier of the two, if you don't take care.''It does, indeed,' said Lady Rochford, smoothing her ruffled brow, and looking at herself hi the plateglass window. 'It was very foolish of me; and quite brought ugly lines into my forehead. But it was really so provoking, it drives me mad! and I don't know what to do, for I begin to suspect some trick. But I am determined to fathom it,' she continued, as they got out at the poet's door; and her face had lost all traces of annoyance and anxiety as she entered the drawing-room with one of her most sunny smiles.'I suppose I am to wish you joy,' said Mr. Roland, as he took Lady Rochford's hand with an air of pleased gallantry, and looked on her with an admiring smile.'But I don't think you require any more joy. Were you ever unhappy?' he inquired, with one of his penetrating looks, and a slight expression of sarcasm which gave a sort of pungency to his playful smile, and sometimes made the beholder suspect there was a deeper meaning in his words than they seemed to imply. 'No, I don't think you ever were, though you have made many hearts ache,' he added, with the graceful wave of his hand that was usual to him. 'And what have you done with my beautiful little friend, Miss Seaton, and why does she never appear now? and why did you not marry her to the Duke of Dartford? She would have made a much better duchess than Lady Jane,—besides, I want your daughter for myself. I am very fond of Lady Jane; I don't wish her to be stuck up in one of those great palaces; she is too good to live in a State prison, as my friend L——called T——.*He alluded to L——'s lines on the Duke of G——'s place, Which in old times was considered very stiff and dull:— 'In punishing crime, 'tis a wonder that BenthamNe'er thought of inflicting a fortnight at T—ham!' Why do you wish your daughters to marry dukes?—that plan did not answer very well with the old Duchess of G——. And are you going to marry a duke, too?' he said, turning to Lady Mary.'I have no objection, if you will find one for me,' said Lady Mary.'I think she would prefer a plain Mr.,' said the beautiful Mrs. Blackstone, who had just entered the room.'I know who you mean,' said Lady Mary, sharply; 'but he is no longer Mr., though, unfortunately, he still remains plain, for you forget his father has been made an earl.''Ah,' said Mr. Roland, in his soft, though somewhat drawling tone, and pronouncing every word with its fullest intonation,' you should never forget to give people the advantage of their full titles and honours, particularly when they don't deserve them.''But surely he has attained great eminence at the bar?' said Lady Mary.'He has condemned a great many people, and he has written a great many books. Have you read any of them?''I am afraid not.''Ah, I thought not,' said Mr. Roland; 'for if you had, you would not look so bright.''Do I look dull?' inquired Mr. Sidney Elwards, while his jovial face was glowing with the very-essence of fun, 'for I have read them all; but I suppose I do look like a bore, Mrs. Blackstone, for your servant would not let me in yesterday, though I knew you were at home, for I saw Lord Toucaster's cab near your door.''I was not at home, certainly, or John would have had better judgment than to deny you. I was out all day buying furniture for my new house, and most profoundly ill-tempered it made me—trying easy chairs that were anything but comfortable, &c.''Ah, beware of modern furniture,' he rejoined; 'I had three chairs killed under me the other day at that new man's house, Mr.——''Mr. Wat Smith's, I suppose you mean?' said Mrs. Blackstone, for people always forget common names, and I found you offended him by saying (when you heard he did not like being called M r. Wat Smith) that it was better to be named Mr. Wat Smith, than What Mr. Smith. But what have you done with Mr. Harrit?—I thought, Mr. Roland, you promised me that he would be here?''Are you not satisfied with Mr. Sidney Elwards and myself?' said the poet; 'if he were here, we should none of us be able to get in a word, unless Lady Rochford's beautiful eyes could strike him mute with admiration, and make him honour us with some of his brilliant flashes of silence, as my friend calls them; then I think he is most agreeable.''Yes, I hope he wont come,' said Mr. Sidney Elwards, 'for I had a dreadful nightmare last night; I dreamt that I was chained to a rock, and that he and Miss T——were talking me to death.''And I am inclined to agree with old Lady C——,' said Lady Rochford, 'that he would be more delightful if he lost his memory.''Is that the person that you call the Bore Contradictor?' inquired Lady Mary. 'Ah! I don't like that kind of person; but I want to meet the author of Cogitations.''Oh, never fear, he is sure to come, because I did not invite him,' said Mr. Roland.'Very likely,' said Sidney Elwards, 'for he has quite done away with those disagreeable restraints on society—introductions and invitations. Yes, here comes the happiest-looking man in London,' as in walked a fair, and, as Lady Mary thought, interesting-looking young man, with a kindly expression and a cheering smile,—and every one seemed gladdened by his presence.'I was very near bringing you a lion this morning,' said the new comer, Mr. Mallet.'As a fit companion to the bore we were talking of just now, eh? Who was your lion?' continued Mr. Roland, as he held out his hand with a kind look of welcome to the young man.'The Scotch author, Mr. Lennox; but I suppose he forgot all about it in his joy at being accepted by the great heiress—the red-faced Miss Bernard.''Is that match really to be?' said Mr. Roland; 'then Theodore Hook was right when he predicted it, and said it would be an excellent marriage—because he would bring wit, and she humour! Now let us go down to breakfast; we will not wait any longer for Sir John Chandell.''Oh! is that celebrated sculptor coming?' exclaimed Lady Rochford; 'how glad I shall be to meet him, for I admire his works so much, and I hear he is so simple-minded and unspoilt by all his success.''Yes; you fair ladies have not succeeded in spoiling him yet. Here he is,' continued Mr. Roland, as they met a large, and, as Lady Rochford thought at first, heavy-looking man at the dining-room door.But, when Mr. Roland presented her to him, and he fixed his quiet earnest eyes on her face, she felt from his glance that he fully appreciated her beauty, although his expression did not testify any particular admiration.'I am very glad to meet you,' said Lady Rochford, with one of her most winning smiles.Sir John Chandell slightly bowed, but his massive features did not denote that the pleasure was mutual; and Lady Rochford saw that he could not, indeed, be spoilt,—for he was above being influenced by the admiring notice of rank and fashion. But she had too much good taste to be repelled by his apparent coldness. She continued at intervals to address her conversation to him, and was rewarded by finding him extremely intelligent and agreeable.'Ah! now you understand each other,' said Mr. Roland; 'and yet, how different you are,' he continued, as he surveyed the high-born lady of fashion and the sculptor. 'You are kindred spirits, I see; and I ought to clap my hands, and say, as Thalberg did, 'A soul has been delivered from purgatory.'''I don't think either of them look as if they had passed much time there?' said young Mr. Mallet, with a smile; 'though I think we all met at one last night.''Where, at Lady S——'s do you mean?' said Lady Rochford. 'Yes, it was dreadful—such a squeeze. In general, I never go to her parties, but I heard the poor old woman had been knocked down in the galopade at Hayfield, and I was curious to see how she had survived it.''And there you found her, with all her jewels glittering on that shrivelled skin, and her painted cheeks, and all—and perhaps you don't know that L——said of her fall—apropos of all these so-called 'rotten boroughs' they are trying to do away with now,— 'Conservatives at Hayfield are rather harum scarum,What more could the Reformers do, than overset Old Sarum?''It is the fashion to abuse the poor old lady,' said Mr. Mallet; 'but I think there is a great deal of good in her; and, because she still wishes to be sociable at ninety, and to have parties, I don't see why we should find fault with her.''Why, indeed!' said Sidney Elwards. 'If she would not persist in giving them also on Sundays; I cannot get over that—it must do harm.''Ah, you are very severe, I am afraid,' said Lady Rochford; 'was it true that you said of poor Lord S——, when he died—'Well, we have often heard of his dinners, but we know not what his deserts will be!' Ah, I see you did. Well, I can only forgive you when I think of what you said to my poor friend, Lord D——.''What, the Infidel?' inquired Mrs. Blackstone.'Yes, he is a positive unbeliever,' said Lady Rochford; 'and, as you know, a great epicure. There were some particularly good patés one day when he was dining with us, and Sidney Elwards sat next to him. Lord D——expressed great admiration of the dish, and asked for another, upon which Mr. Elwards turned round to him, with his half-jovial, half-earnest face, and said—'Do you think that they were made, or that they made themselves?—do you believe in the cook?' I am convinced it set Lord D——thinking whether there was not, indeed, a Creator of all things.''Mrs. Smith told me you had picked up a very old picture the other day,' said Mrs. Blackstone to Sidney Elwards, after she had been admiring some of the exquisite works of Italian and other masters Mr. Roland's room contained.'Yes,' said Sidney Elwards, 'it is a singular one of the Dutch school, and in high preservation.''What is the name of the artist who painted it?' inquired Mrs. Blackstone.'Van Who,' returned Sidney Elwards, his face glowing with satisfaction; 'you must come and breakfast with me and see it, he continued; 'you have never honoured me with your presence—never once; if you do not come I shall die of it; you will see, one morning in the paper, a paragraph headed 'Frightful suicide committed by a dignitary of the Church.—The Rev. S. E——, as he was about to deliver his discourse yesterday morning, threw himself from the pulpit into the body of the church, on the heads of the congregation; owing, it is supposed, to the weighty matter of which his head was full, and to the natural dimensions of his corporeal frame, his fall was so stupendous that it crushed to death ten unfortunate persons, and besides, two children upon whom he happened to descend.''Well, certainly, to prevent such an awful catastrophe,' said Mrs. Blackstone, laughing, 'I must set aside all other engagements, and breakfast with you the first day you ask me.''What has become of the Duke of Dartford?' inquired Mr. Mallet of Lady Rochford; 'why do they say at Dartford House that he is too ill to see any one,—when he is gone to Scotland?''Gone to Scotland! what can you mean?' inquired Lady Rochford, as she endeavoured to conceal her alarm,—'why do you think he is gone?''Well, perhaps I am wrong; you must know best; but my father thought he saw him in York, and supposed he was on his way there. I had a letter from him this morning.''Perhaps after all, then,' said the poet, 'I have still some chance of Lady Jane for myself. You know,' he continued, turning to Lady Mary,—'you know I have proposed for her several times, and she has always refused me,' he added, with a shrug of his shoulders, and a sort of half-laughing, half-sentimental sadness on his face.'I wonder at that,' said Lady Mary; 'but I wonder still more that you have never found any one you liked sufficiently to marry.''Oh, but I have—I have proposed to at least thirty ladies.''And are you not very angry with all our sex for their bad taste in refusing you?''Oh, no,' said Mr. Roland, with a sort of half-bitter and sarcastic, yet humorous melancholy; 'oh, no! on the contrary, I am most grateful to them for so many escapes!'CHAPTER XXXIV. DISAPPOINTMENT.ON their return from the breakfast, Lady Rochford again drove to Dartford House, but she was not more successful in her endeavours to obtain admittance, nor could she even see Mr. Donald, the Duke's confidential valet. She was more and more convinced that there was something mysterious going on, and that it could not be illness alone that prevented the Duke from seeing her, or answering the numerous notes she sent; but she would not believe he had left London.A few days afterwards, when Lady Rochford returned from her Wednesday meeting of the patronesses of Almack's, she found her table covered with a larger proportion of notes and letters than even usually encumbered it.'Do see what all those notes and letters are about, Mary; for I am so dreadfully tired with my exertions to induce the other patronesses to deny people tickets. But I have carried my point, notwithstanding. There is no diminution of my power/ said Lady Rochford, as she cast a complacent glance towards the glass which she was now acquiring a more constant habit of consulting, as she felt that her charms were on the wane.'I have succeeded in excluding the fat, vulgar Viscountess, and the Dunrobins.'Ah, but you can no longer venture to deny a Duchess tickets,' said Lady Mary, 'as I remember hearing you did when I was quite a child.''Alas, no!' said Lady Rochford; 'those good old times are gone by, never to return; but——number of letters, too! I don't like the second post one has now: it unsettles one's mind twice a day.''Here is one from Linda, mamma,' said Lady Mary, as she glanced over its contents; 'and oh! you will be so disappointed.''What is it about?—give it me,' said Lady Rochford; and as she hastily perused the letter, she became deadly pale, and then ran out of the room.'What is the matter?—what has happened to mamma? I never saw her look so before,' said little Lady Louisa to her sister, Lady Mary.'She is only disappointed and angry because the Duke of Dartford is not going to marry Jane.'Lady Rochford left the drawing-room because she did not wish her daughters to see the extreme annoyance she felt.Yet Linda's letter was written in the manner best calculated to soften the disappointment, and soothe her irritated feelings; for Linda wisely abstained from any allusion to the possibility that Lady Rochford would feel any regret. Her great object had been to prevent Lady Rochford feeling that anger against Lady Jane, which she and Margaret had both dreaded so much the poor girl would excite.And their fears were well founded; for Lady Rochford's first feeling was most bitter. This was the first time she had met with any real check—that any one had dared to thwart her wishes, or counteract her strong will; and that her own daughter should have been the person—her own favourite Jane, for whose good and aggrandisement she had so long worked and willed.'But Linda was very wrong, too,' she thought; 'yes, she is quite right in saying it was principally her fault; for what right had she so far to meddle, or inform Jane anything about Margaret's foolish fancies;—and that stupid Margaret, why could she not be satisfied with Lord Albertmount or the Duke of B——? for I shall never be able to get them to propose to poor Jane. It is too bad of Margaret, who might choose from all the world, with her beauty, and so hard upon me when I really am fond of Jane;—yes, it is my best feeling—I know it is—and to thwart me so in it was very wrong of Linda, who pretends to be always trying to do everybody good. But it is just like her; she takes up such an absurdly high standard, and reasons so subtly, that she makes herself believe black is white, and that she is now doing a good action by depriving poor, suffering Jane of the best match in England, and giving him to a girl who may choose whoever she likes. Decidedly she is wrong and cruel.'And as Lady Rochford read the letter over again, it had now still more the effect Linda intended it should have, in drawing the chief part of Lady Rochford's anger upon herself, and she felt more disposed to view Jane's offence with indulgence. And she sat down at her table, and poured forth a most angry effusion to Linda, giving full vent to the bitterness of her disappointment. She then felt somewhat relieved; but it was time to dress for the Duke of B——'s dinner-party, and there was to be a splendid ball afterwards, and she would have to announce her niece's in- tended marriage, instead of her daughter's. Yes, she must do it herself, otherwise people would see that she had been foiled; and she must put a good face on the affair, and look as pleased as possible.Linda had, she thought, fortunately been considerate in this respect, as they had resolved to keep the engagement and proposal secret till Lady Rochford should herself announce it to the world. And now, should she do it at once, or wait until Jane had arrived? Her first impulse was to wait, in hopes that something might turn up. Perhaps——but as her eye fell on Linda's letter, and marked the air of decision in the handwriting, she saw that it would be useless to cope with that will, which she had always known was, when excited, fully as powerful as her own; and from the manner Linda spoke of the attachment of the Duke to Margaret, it was evident that she was fully resolved that they should marry. And then the thought crossed Lady Rochford's mind that at all events it was fortunate she had prevented Linda from becoming Duchess of Dartford. Then, indeed, she would have had a fearful rival; whereas Margaret was not the sort of person to acquire more power in the fashionable world than it might suit Lady Rochford's wishes she should attain. This conviction ought to serve, in some measure, to console her for what was now inevitable. But it was a bitter trial, and she revolved various plans in her ingenious mind, but was at last obliged to confess that nothing could avert the misfortune. 'No, there is no hope; I see I am completely baffled!' and Lady Rochford covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.But she soon started with horror, as she remembered they would leave traces, and dim the brightness of her eyes. She went to the glass, and saw indeed that the bitter feelings in which she had indulged were not at all becoming,—her forehead was full of crabbed lines, and she bad pushed up her hair so rudely in her agitation, that a little patch which was beginning to turn grey, on the right temple, had come in sight, and she sighed again more bitterly than before. 'But I will not look ugly, for that sort of angry grief is so very unbecoming; it is not like real sadness, such as my poor sister felt when she thought Mr. Seaton was dying, for that embellished her.' And the thought suddenly dawned upon her that perhaps she was all very wrong—that such ambitious and angry disappointments were wicked. 'Well, I will not be ugly, and I will not be wicked, if it makes me so;' and she tried to smile, and to think whether she had not better announce the marriage that very evening, and put on her most joyous looks, and then it will be over. Besides, unless she announced it at once herself, the report would soon spread; for it was impossible it could long be kept secret, for all the party at Craggie must know it, and Mary, too, had already read the letter. 'Linda was wise in this, where she says she is certain I shall be happier if I try to seem pleased about Margaret—if I endeavour to show the world that I am not at all disappointed;—in that she has shown her usual deep knowledge of human nature.'So Lady Rochford rang for her maid, Mdlle. Josephine, and resolved to begin at once, and announce the marriage to that expert soubrette while her hair was being dressed, and then she could see in the glass what expression there was in her own face. For Lady Rochford was one of those who take an extreme pleasure in their own beauty and fascination; so that she seldom allowed herself to be betrayed into the expression of any feeling that would distort her looks, or produce an unfavourable impression upon those she wished to please. And she liked to be admired and loved even by her servants, so that she was a heroine to her maid. It was probable that the habits of good humour, and constant wish to look amiable, tended much to preserve her beauty and that youthful freshness which was wonderful to behold,—illustrating Butler's dogma, 'that good humour is benevolence while it lasts.''Well, that is surprising, indeed,—when we had already planned the costume miladi Jane was to wear at the ceremony. And can it be miladi is glad?' said Josephine, when Lady Rochford had informed her of the intended event, as she looked down at Lady Rochford in the glass; and Lady Rochford felt that she winced, and caught a slight frown on her brow.'Yes, I am glad; for you know I love Miss Seaton as my own child.''And miladi always know of this? How was it then every one say Monsieur le Duc was to marry Lady Jane?'Here was a puzzling question, and Lady Rochford congratulated herself on having had this rehearsal with her maid. Still she was rather amused at her dilemma, and a genuine smile played round her beautiful mouth.Far more bitter and perplexing questions, however, than those asked by the good-tempered and admiring Josephine had Lady Rochford to encounter in the course of the evening, and to undergo the trial of seeing many triumphant smiles, and hearing many bitter words from those who she knew were glad to detect any diminution of her power.And oh how hard it was to preserve an unruffled countenance, and not to give some bitter retort which would have betrayed the annoyance she felt! She never before found it so difficult to look pleased.Lady Rochford was at last very glad when the evening was over, though she would not come away before her usual time, and rather encouraged Lady Mary to stay for the cotillion. But Mary knew the effort she was making, for she had worldly sharpness enough to be able fully to enter into her mother's feelings; and as Lady Rochford had lately been more kind to her, since her cleverness had given her a sort of independent position of her own in the world, so Lady Mary tried now to soothe, as much as possible, the annoyance which she knew her mother must experience. Therefore, under the plea of being tired herself, she begged Lady Rochford would take her home. The Countess was more tired in body and mind than she liked to acknowledge to herself; and the thought of some peculiarly brilliant parties to which they were engaged gave her no pleasure; the gay season had lost its zest, and but that it would appear as if she felt her power declining, she would most gladly have left London, and gone to meet Jane on the Rhine.CHAPTER XXXV. THE WEDDING-DAY.IN the mean time the social party at Craggie were enjoying the sight of the young people's happiness in that delicious summer. At first it had been settled that the marriage should not take place for a year; but Mr. Seaton had been gradually persuaded by the Duke to believe that there was no danger of his again resuming that wild career into which he had rushed in his despair, or of his becoming unworthy of the treasure he had obtained. Mr. Seaton was the more inclined to grant his request, from the conviction that his own end was approaching; and he could not help longing to see his darling child married to the man of her choice before he left her.So it was settled that the ceremony should take place the beginning of August; and as the air of Craggie seemed to agree particularly well with Mrs. Seaton, Linda succeeded in persuading them to remain, and allow the marriage to take place in the church near Dunballan, which contained some splendid monuments of the Duke's ancestors, as well as of Mr. Grant's.The Duke was enchanted with this arrangement, and he suggested that they should spend the first week or two of the honeymoon at an old castle which he had fitted up as a shooting-box in the Highlands, and then return to Dunballan, where the whole dear party from Craggie were to meet and spend some time with them. Thus there would be scarcely any parting for Margaret from her parents; for the Duke had sufficient good sense not to be jealous of Margaret's devoted love for her father. Indeed, he admired her the more for it; and seemed quite satisfied when they allowed him to sit with them in the mornings while she was reading to Mr. Seaton, and never tried to engross her exclusively, or take her away from him.And the old man was most grateful for this unselfish consideration, which was the more touching in a young man whose strong and naturally impetuous feelings had never been tutored by a watchful parent's eye, or even kept in bounds by the animadversions of his fellow-creatures.Lord Clanville also, Theresa, and her husband the Marquis de Hauteville, were expected for the marriage, and Miss Barton had been persuaded to remain for it. Linda had also invited Laura and Mr. Gray, and Margaret's two other married sisters,—for there was plenty of room in Craggie.And to Linda's inexpressible surprise and delight, Dudley Aylmer had promised to come, if he could obtain a holiday from his diplomatic duties;—for he had gradually become much happier since his conversation with Mr. Grant at Sorrento. He felt he had gained a true friend himself,—one who could fully sympathize with all the struggles which for years had oppressed him, and he was no longer a solitary being in this world,—he had the prayers and good wishes of a noble man, who daily united his petitions with those of Linda for him, before the throne of grace.Dudley felt that he was their companion always; that now, whenever a fine view or the sound of a pleasant melody struck Linda and reminded her of the Dudley who had in youth been the depository of all the original thoughts and feelings which no one else so fully comprehended, she would say, without restraint, and with the delightful conviction of being rightly understood, 'How pleased Dudley would be with this!'And he knew that this was often the case, by the tone of her letters, and those of Mr. Grant, who frequently wrote. He saw that they talked and thought of him constantly,—that he was, in fact, associated with all their highest pleasures and most holy aspirations.As time passed on, therefore, Dudley felt that he might venture to accede to the wish Mr. Grant had often expressed, that he should visit them at Craggie. As yet, however, Linda had not joined in this entreaty; but when the Duke's marriage was arranged, she added a few words to the letter Mr. Grant wrote, and said that she would be very glad to see him.So it was settled; but, as the time drew near, a letter arrived from Dudley to say that, owing to some particular business, he could not obtain leave to quit Vienna for a sufficient length of time to enable him to reach Scotland.Little Ethel was dreadfully disappointed; but the others were so pleased to find that he would have come—that he had sufficient confidence in himself and Linda to venture,—that it seemed to atone in some degree for the disappointment of not seeing him.And Linda herself was scarcely sorry: she was now so peaceful and happy that she was almost afraid of anything occurring to change the delight- ful course of her existence. That Dudley had thought it right to venture seemed to fill up her cup of joy to the brim; and when the wedding-day arrived, and she saw Margaret attired in her bridal robes, with her pretty little bridesmaids—Laura Gray's three girls and her own little Ethel,—Linda felt that her dearest wishes were fulfilled.It was a lovely morning in August, and they had a rural wedding. The country people flocked in from long distances around—for the Duke's family, as well as Mr. Grant's, were much beloved,—and numerous triumphal arches of flowers had been erected.Linda's only anxiety was for Mr. Seaton, yet he appeared more composed than she had ventured to expect, even at the trying moment when he gave his daughter away. But afterwards Linda heard him repeating several times, as if to reassure himself,—'Lanark Castle is only twenty miles off, and they will be back in a week.' Margaret also was so afraid of any agitation for her father, that she endeavoured to preserve her own self-possession, and there was a calm and thoughtful solemnity in her look which surprised many people, and rather disappointed some who thought she would have evinced more triumphant joy at being united to the handsomest man, as well as the richest duke in the three kingdoms.But the bridegroom seemed quite satisfied with her expression, and although he wore a look of more intense joy, yet there was much of humility and awe mingled with the adoration with which he regarded her, that showed he felt the responsibility, and valued in the highest degree the gift that was intrusted to him. And when they were to step into the travelling carriage, when the moment arrived that Margaret was to leave her parents, after she had given them the last embrace, the Duke gently led her again to Mr. Seaton, and told him to give his darling one more kiss, while he whispered in the old man's ear,—'You know if you send for us, we can ride across the mountain path in less than an hour; and if,' he continued, as he thought with anxiety of Mr. Seaton's great age,—'and if at any moment you wish to see her, send to me; but I trust you will be quite well and happy till we come back.''I will, indeed,' said Mr. Seaton, with a grateful smile, as he pressed the Duke's hand; 'for I know she will be happy, and may God bless you both.'The young couple started from the church door, for Linda wisely judged that the parting would be less agitating for both parties, and less fatiguing for Mr. Seaton. And he was now able to return to Craggie with Laura and Mrs. Seaton, and she had arranged that the three should have their repast together in Mrs. Seaton's dressing-room, and not mingle with the rest of the company during the remainder of the day, unless they felt inclined.Mr. Seaton's daughter Helena had married a clergyman in Wales, and had not been able to come; and the other, Letitia, was still detained abroad by her husband's health; and no one had seemed to wish that the Randals should be invited. But Lord Clanville, his sister, and brother-in-law had arrived a few days before; and Linda was delighted to find that Theresa's health was quite strong, and Lord Clanville seemed in much better spirits than when they had met in Italy. They had never been in Scotland before, and Linda had the greatest delight in showing her interesting old home and its beautiful neighbourhood to her oldest friends. As she drove home after the wedding in the carriage with her two mothers and husband, and little Ethel on her lap, she felt as if she were enjoying more happiness than she had any right to have ever hoped for,—more than it seemed this world of trial and probation could or ought to afford. How many of those she loved had been collected together! and what perfect happiness seemed in store for the two beings whose love had now been hallowed before the altar of God.Linda felt that this was one of those rare days which could only occur once in her life! For it must be too bright for this world,—too intense in its joy for sinful human nature. For she seemed so deeply imbued with its brightness that she felt as if all her past trials, as well as those which must hereafter come, were tinged with a rosy hue, as if she never had been, or could be unhappy. Yet, to a mind like Linda's, there is something awful in such joy! It seems as if it were a culminating point,—a mental midsummer, which must be followed by decline, and the falling leaf, such as Jean Paul Richter means when he says,—'With some men, when they find themselves at twelve o'clock on midsummer's longest and brightest day,—the time when the shadows of the outward world are the smallest, they perceive a dark melancholy overclouding their souls,—a so much larger inward shadow, when the external world is all light.'A vague feeling that she was unworthy of such happiness, and that it could not last, struck Linda most forcibly; and she feared that she had not been sufficiently grateful for all her blessings. Yet she felt most thankful for the enjoyment of such health as she was now blessed with, and that this alone, on such a day, and amid such scenes, would have been enough enjoyment without the addition of an adoring husband and two mothers; and the conviction that Dudley was happy, and that she, and all those she loved best, and who interested her most, had the constant benefit of his prayers and happiest thoughts; yet as she considered all these causes for happiness, she felt still more convinced that some sad event must occur,—that all this was too bright to last.On her return to Craggie, she wont up to the nursery,—old Eleanor had not been well the last few days, and she had a vague feeling that the old nurse might be worse, and that her increased illness or death might be the offset to so much happiness.Perhaps there was something of this fear depicted in Linda's countenance, for Eleanor started when she saw her, and said with one of those inspired looks which sometimes illumined her still handsome features—'Ye hae come frae a wedding where all were happy, and yet methinks there is fear of ill in your face, as if there was mair of a funeral in your thoughts.—And the tears, they quiver in your bonny e'en.''Where's your mother?' she continued,—'your ain, I mean,—for my heart tells me that her loss will be your first sorrow.'Linda did not lose a moment, for she suddenly remembered that Mrs. Delamere had looked more than usually pale, and yet excited, when she returned from the wedding, and she now determined to make her lie down in her room instead of coming to dinner.'I am so glad you are come, dearest Linda,' said Mrs. Delamere, who was trying to take off her bonnet as Linda entered the room; 'for I feel very odd, quite faint, and I had a strange sort of dread of not being able to reach the bell, and that I should not see you again, my darling child,' she said, faintly, as she clasped her arms round Linda's neck. 'Remember that you have always made me so very happy—always, and we——shall meet——the Saviour will take me——and you will be——happy too.' Linda felt the dear arms relax their hold;—her mother looked on her with a gaze so full of love and happiness and hope, that it seemed as if a whole eternity of bliss were depicted in it. And then she laid her head on Linda's shoulder, and closed her eyes with a soft reposeful trust, like a child when it falls asleep.Linda felt that her mother was dying, and called wildly for assistance. Laura Gray and her husband were there in a moment, but they saw that no human aid could avail! All was over. The mother's pure spirit had been borne to its eternal rest, and she looked as calm and full of peace as if she were asleep, and dreaming a happy dream.CHAPTER XXXVI. REST.LINDA mourned for her mother as those must whose love is so strong that they had always imagined there would be no happiness in this world without the beloved object, and for whom heaven has not yet become peopled with those they love,—who are for the first time called upon to put in practice their faith in the eternal love, and trust in the eternal home.Yet it is those who love thus deeply, that God supports with the consciousness of his presence; a veil seems to be cast over the naked picture, so as to conceal from them the first vivid sight of their loss,—a sheath is drawn over the keen edge of their sorrow, and both only gradually removed as they are able to bear the reality of the misfortune.In some respects, and to some dispositions, it is an advantage to lose a very dear friend in early youth. It must tend to teach us,—to awaken and strengthen our faith. Perhaps if Linda had lost in her childhood one whom she loved intensely, that spirit of unbelief, that difficulty in realising the unseen, would have been avoided; Dudley had in this the advantage of her, for when a child he lost his adored mother.Old Mrs. Grant saw and felt that this would be the case with Ethel, for although she was fully sensible of the loss which such a delightful companion as Mrs. Delamere would be to herself, and of the grief which poor Linda and little Ethel must feel for her death—yet she saw that the trial would conduce to the advantage of both. It would make them happier afterwards, and increase their faith in Him who had gone before to prepare a place for them,—to prepare it for those they loved:— 'Far better they should rest awhileWithin the Church's shade,And wait until new heaven, new earth,Meet for their new immortal birth,—For their abiding place be made,Than wander back to life and leanOn our frail love once more.'Tis sweet as year by year we loseFriends out of sight, by Faith to museHow grows in Paradise our store.'Christian Year—Burial of the Dead.Mrs. Grant also felt that this trial would enable them to bear with more cheerful resignation her own death—or what she had often of late trembled to think might occur even before her own, the death of her son. And to Linda this would be the hardest of all to bear,—for the mother feared that Linda would feel it far more than if John had always possessed her entire heart. There would—there must be a feeling of self reproach, a consciousness of not having always fully valued and loved him entirely as the first exclusive object of her heart; and the fond mother was convinced that her son's earnest wish, that if he died, Linda should marry Dudley, would be too overwhelming to her in its touching generosity.The death of Mrs. Delamere produced on little Ethel a different effect from what they feared would have been the case in such an excitable and deeply-loving disposition. And yet it could scarcely have been otherwise with a child who always had such vivid faith in the unseen world, and brought up by persons whose daily habits of life indicated plainly that the object they had in view was the great hereafter, and whose most evident feeling was constant love for, and consideration of, their fellow-creatures.And it had produced the same effect on her that Mr. Seaton's true Christian-mindedness had on Margaret; that is, a firm trust in a Heavenly Father. Ethel now felt, though she could not put the thought into words, that her dear granny was gone to a better home. So she regarded the peaceful face of Mrs. Delamere and its happy expression with a sort of awed satisfaction. She did not give way to any violent burst of grief, but she seemed more than usually anxious to please her parents; as if she felt a sort of increased responsibility; and that she ought to avoid showing any grief which might increase their sorrow. What seemed to depress and perplex her most were the signs of mourning, the black dresses, and gloomy preparations for interment.'What a pity we should put on these rough black dresses,' she said, when the bombazine and crape habiliments were brought in.'I am sure dear granny does not like to see us in these,' continued Ethel; 'for she never likes you to wear black, and she can't bear the feel of such rough, scratchy clothes as these. I am sure she sees us now, and knows what we are thinking of, which she could not do before she went to God.'And the conviction that she was nearer than ever to her granny seemed to dwell constantly on Ethel's mind; and, if she were inclined to give vent to any wayward impatience, or self indulgent temper, she appeared to remember that 'grandmamma does not like to see it,' and her serenity returned in a moment.She had evidently no horror of death, yet she had the most fearful horror of what she called 'darkness,'—when she saw persons whose looks indicated, like those of Mr. Randal, that they lived in utter forgetfulness of God, whose predominating expression was hatred, or discontent, or contempt,—in whom there seemed no love, and therefore no lïght For these persons she conceived the most extreme aversion, for she felt that such was the expression of sin, and it depressed her spirits and dwelt painfully on her mind—and she sometimes asked with an anxious look, when the Randals' names were mentioned, whether he were still so 'dark.'The manner in which little Ethel bore Mrs. Delamere's death tended more than anything else to reconcile Linda to the sad loss; but yet she found the exertion of faith not easy, for she had grown up without it; and although she now firmly believed in the truth of Christianity, yet, for the last two years, her life had been very bright, and this world had seemed so full of a never-ending happiness that it would have appeared hard to suffer now, did she not feel more and more each day that God supports those who trust in him, enabling her to realize her parent's happiness, and to feel that she was still more entwined with her spiritual self than when on earth,—that now her mother could quite enter into all her thoughts and feelings, that there was more real sympathy between them than ever before.Thus, by the time the dear remains were deposited in their last resting-place, Linda could con- template her loss with more resignation than she had expected. Her mother's death had been awfully sudden; yet she well remembered that Mrs. Delamere had wished for such a death, and only prayed that Linda might be with her at the last moment, and that she might die in her child's arms.How often it happens that God grants our prayers as to the manner of our departure from this world! In my long life I have seen and known many instances of persons who wished for a particular kind of death, and their wishes have been fulfilled,—I mean where they had been in the daily habit of thinking of the great end of their lives, and seeking to prepare for it.On the day of Mrs. Delamere's funeral, the rain descended in torrents, and the church (the same in which the happy party had so lately attended the Duke's wedding) was three miles from Craggie. Mr. Grant had not been well for the last few days, and before he joined the mournful procession, Eleanor cautioned him to beware of cold, and Linda saw the tears in the old nurse's eyes, and a look of apprehension in her face. 80 she entreated her husband not to venture out in such stormy weather; but he shook his head, and could only be induced to promise that he would return at once after the ceremony, and take care of himself for the rest of the day.But after it was over, a poor woman from the village near the church begged him to go and speak to her husband, who was dying, and was most anxious to see the master before his eyes were closed for ever. Mr. Grant forgot his promise to be prudent, in his desire to comfort the poor dying old man, and he remained for several hours in his wet clothes. When he returned home, Linda, who had been anxiously watching at the window with his mother and old Eleanor, went down to meet him into the hall, and found, as they anticipated, that he had considerably increased his cold. They sent off to Dr. Johnstone, who soon arrived, and ordered him to go at once to bed.Timely remedies were applied, and he seemed better next day; but his mother's experienced eye saw that look which was already so fatally well known to her on the countenances of her lost treasures, and she knew the hand of death would ere very long translate him to a blessed eternity.But she did not allow Linda to read her thoughts, and even succeeded in persuading her that Mr. Grant's illness was of no great consequence; for she wished to spare her for a little while, until she became more reconciled to her mother's death, and Mrs. Grant saw there was no immediate danger for her son.CHAPTER XXXVII. THE WILL.MRS. DELAMERE had made no will, but all her property devolved on Linda. Mr. Dobson, the family lawyer, came down to Craggie to make some arrangements about the estates, for they did not wish Mr. Grant to incur the fatigue of a journey to London. A few days after Mr. Dobson's arrival, he received a letter from his partner, Mr. Parke, which excited in him the greatest surprise and consternation. A will of Mrs. Delamere's had been found, apparently quite correct and incontrovertible, leaving the whole of her property to George Randal, except some small sums to Linda, and other relations and friends. It was dated Sorrento, Nov. 22nd, 18—. In consequence of her daughter being well provided for, Mrs. Delamere stated that she wished to leave it to George Randal, as being a relation of her deceased husband's.'Is he related?' inquired Mr. Grant of his wife.'I think I have heard he was a very distant relation,' said Linda.'But this would be no reason,' said old Mrs. Grant, 'for Mrs. Delamere's property was her own by inheritance; and it would have been more natural for her to have selected some of her own relations; surely they have a better right to the property than Mr. Randal.''Yes, but my dear mother was very fond of Mr. Randal,' said Linda, who thought it very possible she might wish to benefit him; and she had often heard her mother pity and groan over the poverty of Julia, and remark that they bore it so well. She knew, also, how little her mother cared for money herself, and that she had really always considered Mr. Grant's fortune very large, and rather regretted that they should have the incumbrance of the large house at Delamere, which they had so little time to inhabit. So Linda tried to persuade herself that Mrs. Delamere had done wisely; only she herself was, unfortunately, very fond of Delamere, and could not help regretting that it should become the possession of such a dreadful person as George Randal. However, she tried to think that her mother was right, and that in time perhaps Mr. Randal might become an improved character, if the pressure of debt under which he always seemed to labour were removed.But neither her husband nor old Mrs. Grant viewed the case at all in this light; and they were convinced that Mr. Randal must have used some undue means to make Mrs. Delamere disinherit her daughter. They regretted exceedingly that they had not fully disclosed to Mrs. Delamere Randal's infamous conduct to Linda at Sorrento. They had not done so, from an apprehension of the effect it might have upon the poor mother's nerves, who was always anxious about her daughter, and who would have been made uselessly miserable, and uncomfortable by such a recital. But in any case they were sure that she would not have concealed her will from Linda had she made one; for she was always in the habit of speaking about all her concerns without the slightest reserve; indeed, her character was so natural that she never couldconceal anything, if she wished it ever so much; and it was quite the joke of all her friends, that they must never tell Mrs. Delamere a secret, for she was sure to let it out, in spite of her best intentions to conceal it.When Mrs. Grant reminded her daughter-in-law of this, Linda could not help agreeing with her, that it was very strange her mother should not have mentioned the will.'And remember,' said Mr. Grant—'remember, when one day she was speaking of Delamere, she expressed her conviction that we should some day alter the library, and make it join the conservatory. I am quite sure, too,' continued Mr. Grant, 'that if she left the estates away from her own child, it would have been to restore them to the family who had lost them by their good service to King Charles in the Civil War,—particularly as she was so fond of Dudley Aylmer, and justly thought no one like him. If she had left them to him it would have been all right—quite proper,' said Mr. Grant, with a look of generous exultation; 'for that fine old family should really have some of their ancient possessions restored to them. But Randal—it is surely impossible!''Yet,' said Mr. Dobson, 'there are many extraordinary instances of people making the most unlooked-for disposal of their property. I have seen many apparently cruel and unjust wills made even by persons who had always seemed remarkable for their sense of justice and good feeling. It is impossible to say.''Then you think nothing can be done?' inquired old Mrs. Grant, with an anxious look.'I do not say that,' replied Mr. Dobson. 'I think we ought to investigate the matter most deeply; we must, in the first place, ascertain the respectability of the witnesses, and means must be taken to prove who was with Mrs. Delamere the day the will was signed.'Mrs. Randal was at Rome, with the Antoninis, when she heard that her husband had succeeded to Mrs. Delamere's property. For the last two years her position had been peculiarly uncomfortable!—her husband had been often absent for months, and she would often lately have been without even the common necessaries of life, but for the Princess Antonini, who was extremely kind, and made her come on a visit to her of several months, in the absence of her husband.The Princess was a zealous Roman Catholic,—and her great object was to make proselytes among the English. She had for years been trying to convert Julia, and, to forward her designs, she contrived to keep her as much estranged from her father and her own family as possible. Randal had encouraged the intimacy for the same purpose, although he pretended to regret it; and he was often amused to see how unceasingly the Princess acted exactly in the manner he most wished, and that she and her Jesuit confessor forwarded his designs without being at all aware of it—and, of course, for a very different end.Thus everything had conspired to keep Julia abroad, and to prevent, even by letter, any real intimacy with her own family from being kept up. As soon as it was known that Mr. Randal had succeeded to a large property, the Princess and her friends redoubled their efforts to convert her. There had been an old Priory on one of the Delamere estates, and Padre Anselmo and the Princes did not despair of having even this restored to its ancient use, if they could succeed in converting Julia to their faith.Julia had often envied the repose of mind, and absence of personal responsibility which some of her Roman Catholic friends appeared to enjoy, under the rule of their confessors. The system, too, of fasting and penance appeared to her a more attractive way of atoning for her past errors, and less humiliating, than a return to her father and her childhood's home would have been, and a full confession to him of her past pride and sin; which her uneasy and half-stifled conscience sometimes told her would be the only true repentance.She was wretched—dissatisfied with herself, and discontented with all the world; and, closing her eyes at once and for ever to all the arguments against 'Popish errors,' which had been so zealously inculcated in her youth by her mother and governess, she determined to seek repose in the Princess Antonini's creed.A few weeks after the announcement of her husband's good fortune, she publicly entered the Roman Catholic Church, and, as is usual on such occasions, was greatly feted and flattered by some of the distinguished personages whose faith she had embraced, and some of whom were very proud of the conversion of so young and beautiful an English lady—the mistress of magnificent estates, and also sister to the Duchess of Dartford.Poor Mr. Seaton was not surprised at the intelligence, although he regretted it still more now, since her accession of fortune, as he saw that her position would be one of still greater responsibility. And it made him more anxious even than he was before, that Mr. Grant should go to law, and endeavour to set Mrs. Delamere's extraordinary will aside. This Linda had been most unwilling to do, on Julia's account; but when Mr. Seaton insisted on it so strongly, she was unable longer to withhold her consent.It chafed and annoyed the high-minded old prebendary beyond measure, that a daughter such as Linda had always been to her mother, should be disinherited in such an unjust manner, without the smallest shadow of excuse; and he felt convinced, with Mr. Grant and his mother, that it could only have been brought about through some villany of Randal's, who was notoriously immersed in debt.CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE COURT OF JUSTICE.SO the cause was to be tried. It excited great interest, for all parties were well known in the world. The Duke of Dartford, Lady Rochford, and all the people who knew Linda, were extremely indignant at Randal's accession to the property; but, through the agency of the latter, the old scandalous stories about Mrs. Grant having eloped with Mr. Aylmer, and her husband having forgiven her, were revived. Consequently, those persons who were not acquainted with the Grants or Mrs. Delamere's character, began to think it almost natural, that when she imagined herself deserted by her own daughter during a dangerous illness, and that she, as well as all the world, then fancied that daughter had eloped with Mr. Aylmer, it did almost seem natural that she should disinherit Mrs. Grant, and bequeath her property to the friends who had attended upon her so assiduously during her child's desertion,—Mr. Randal being also a distant relative of her husband's, it seemed the more probable she should have fixed upon him as her heir. In fact, it appeared to many such a clear case, that they wondered that Mr. Grant should incur the expense of a law-suit that was sure to fail. The most eminent counsel were engaged on both sides; and on the day when the trial began, the crowd was so great that hundreds could not obtain admittance.Randal himself was there; and the confident, and almost triumphant expression of his face, increased the fears of those who were interested for the daughter,—or, as it was called, the right side. Wagers were laid on the contending parties; but those who wished most for the Grants' success were reluctantly obliged to confess that there was little chance of their being able to set the will aside. It was known that the witnesses to the signature had been brought over from abroad—and though it was also rumoured that they were people whose oaths could not be relied upon, still, on the other hand, it seemed impossible to prove that Mrs. Delamere had not signed the will. One witness was Dr. Battoni; the other a courier, at that time in Mrs. Delamere's service, Louis le Saunier.As the trial proceeded, more and more interest was excited. Randal had artfully contrived to make use of his wife's conversion to the Church of Rome, and threw out hints that he might possibly follow her example, in order to enlist some influential English Roman Catholics on his side; and he thus succeeded in making it quite a party question. The Grants had come up to London, and also the greater number of their friends. Linda could not be persuaded to enter the court-house; but the Duke and Duchess of Dartford, Mr. Seaton, Lord Clanville, the Marquis and Marquise de Hauteville, and Lord and Lady Rochford, &c., accompanied Mr. Grant there, as, besides the absorbing anxiety they felt for his success, the pleading on both sides was most eloquent.On the other side sat Julia, surrounded by her new Romanist friends; and as, in spite of all her efforts, she could not forget that her conduct had nearly caused the death of that once-loved venerable father, upon whom her recent conversion must have inflicted another deep wound, her sensations were not of the pleasantest kind.Margaret could not help watching Randal's face with a look of horror; and the diabolical expression of his countenance, the dark, half-averted, restless glance, that seemed afraid of meeting any honest eyes, made her shudder, and she found herself praying that he might not succeed. It was one of the strange features of this trial, that, of all the spectators present, none wished so much for the will to be set aside as the father and sister of the person who was to benefit by it.Towards the end, it seemed so clear who would win, that bets were being doubled in favour of Randal. Mrs. Delamere's maid, Johnson, on being examined, confessed that she had fallen asleep after Dr. Battoni had given her a mixture to quiet her nerves. She 'had been so upset,' she said; and old Nanny, the nurse, also said she 'had been sleeping in her chair some part of the night, and had seen no one in the room.'The Marquise de Hauteville (Lady Theresa) was examined also; but the only thing she was able to state for the plaintiff was, that she was hurried out of Mrs. Delamere's room, sorely against her will, by Dr. Battoni, who had also sent little Ethel away from her grandmother.Mr. Grant had at the first written to Dr. Leighton in Rome, an account of the will; as he remembered the little quick-sighted doctor had had suspicions when they were at Sorrento that all had not gone on quite right during Mrs. Delamere's illness, although at that time they were all so absorbed in the joy of being again together, and her recovery, that the happy little party at the Villa Spada did not give much thought to his surmises. But now considerable anxiety was excited in Mr. Grant's counsel by the non-appearance of Dr. Leighton, on whose evidence he had chiefly depended. At last, when the right side were almost in despair, he arrived, having been detained by storms—and his appearance rather raised the hopes of the Grants' friends. He proved, in the first place, that the witnesses to the signature were persons whose characters could not be depended upon. He described the useless, if not injurious medicines that had been administered by Dr. Battoni to Mrs. Delamere; also, the powerful sedatives that he had given to Johnson, the maid, and to little Miss Grant, the grand-daughter, as if on purpose to keep them out of the way.He detailed Mrs. Delamere's account of having seen Randal in the room that night after it was supposed that he had left the house; and her having made Julia, that is, Mrs. Randal, write a letter to her daughter. An inquiry was made as to where the letter was, and why it had never been mentioned before; as it might throw some light on the reasons for the disposal of the property?Witness replied that every search had been made for the letter, which had been left on the writing table in Mrs. Delamere's room, but that it was supposed afterwards it had been inadvertently destroyed; as a housemaid confessed at the time she had taken a bit of paper off the table to relight the fire in Mrs. Delamere's room, which had gone out, and that the paper had writing on it; but as the woman was an Italian, and unable to read, no clue could be obtained as to the contents of the paper, or whether it really was or not the letter that had been written. The family in general had supposed it was Mrs. Randal was then examined as to the contents of the said letter, but she did not, or would not appear to remember much about it. But on being cross-questioned, it appeared that Mrs. Delamere had said nothing about the disposal of her fortune in it. Margaret could not help observing how Randal had quivered and grown pale when Dr. Leighton spoke about the letter, and how triumphant his expression again became as soon as he mentioned that it had probably been destroyed.Julia had scarcely resumed her place, when a great sensation appeared among some of Mr. Grant's friends, and a witness was brought forward who said she had most important and conclusive evidence to produce. Her presence seemed totally unexpected,—even Mr. Grant's counsel appeared as surprised as any one else. The new witness, a lady, tall and graceful, was dressed in black, with a thick veil over her face; she was accompanied by two Italian peasant girls and a handsome boy, who, every one remarked, bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Randal.The whole court was in expectation, and when she lifted up her veil, and disclosed the features of a young and beautiful woman, with large black eyes, raven hair, and the dark complexion of the sunny South, Randal grew perfectly livid with rage and fear, and he muttered between his closed teeth,—'Paulina!—or her ghost! Surely I saw her drowned body in these very streets! Not dead, then! But, what folly!' he then thought; 'she can know nothing of this. How can her testimony implicate me?' Then, smiling with assumed indifference, he regained the same confident expression as before.The witness gave her name as Paulina Gaddi. She stated that she had been travelling abroad with some friends for the last three years. That she had just come from Poland and Southern Russia, and having by chance, in passing through Vienna, met Mr. Aylmer, the English minister, in the streets one morning, he kindly saluted her, she said, as an old acquaintance; and from him she had heard of Mrs. Delamere's strange will. She had immediately sent for her cousins from Italy, and they had all travelled night and day to England, in order to give their evidence in favour of Mrs. Delamere's daughter.Paulina stated that she happened to be at Sorrento the winter that Mrs. Grant was there, who treated her with most extreme kindness, and for whom, in consequence, she entertained the deepest affection. She added that she was thoroughly acquainted with Mr. Randal's unprincipled character, and having one evening seen him disguised and lying in wait with a troop of banditti to seize Mrs. Grant and her child, as well as Mr. Aylmer, who were all walking together, she determined to watch him, and endeavour to baffle his schemes, whatever they were.The court listened with breathless attention; not a movement was heard as Paulina proceeded with her narrative.'I discovered,' she said, 'through my cousin Tommaso Gaddi, who was an old friend of Gasparone's, the chief of the banditti, that Mr. Randal had promised Gasparone a large sum of money if he would take off Mrs. Grant and Mr. Aylmer, and confine them in the Castle of Montefeltro, and that they meant to attack the small and lonely Villa Pafavicini, where Mrs. Grant was. I there- fore persuaded them all to move into the Villa Spada, which was much larger and more secure, and had, I knew, a secret room and subterranean communication with the seashore; so that there I might come and go, and watch over them as I pleased, and no one would be the wiser. I told no one but Mrs. Grant of this secret room, and I made her promise never to reveal it. In spite of my precaution, however, the banditti succeeded. Mrs. Randal took Mrs. Grant towards the shore the next morning, on pretext, by her husband's directions, of showing her a newspaper, and left her there. The banditti immediately sprang upon her, and carried her round by boat, and then on mules, to Montefeltro, where they had already imprisoned Mr. Aylmer, having seized him that same morning on his way to the embassy at Vienna.'No sooner did I hear of this than I started off to my kind friend, the Duchess de St. Didiée, who gladly consented to go to the robbers' camp with my cousin Tommaso, disguised as his sister, and endeavour to deliver the prisoners; while I remained behind to watch over poor Mrs. Delamere, who had been made seriously ill by her daughter's mysterious disappearance.'It was fortunate that I did so. As I was returning towards Mrs. Delamere's house, after having put the Duchess in the boat. I saw Mr. Randal approaching arm-in-arm with Dr. Battoni. I hid myself behind a rock, not wishing he should see me, and heard the following words:—'Then you think the Signora Delamere will not recover?''No, certainly not,' said Dr. Battoni; 'I have reason to believe her lungs are affected.''Ha, well,' said the other, 'you know she is very rich—rolling in money. Your fees shall be very handsome if you will just contrive to get rid of that child out of the room, and make the maid go sound asleep while Mrs. Delamere signs me a little paper.''I understand,' said Dr. Battoni; and then as they passed on I could hear no more. But in case I should need anybody to help me, I ran back to my aunt's cottage, and taking these two girls, we all proceeded up by the secret passage to the Villa Spada, and I concealed them in the secret room.'This room opened by a small invisible door into Mrs. Delamere's bedchamber, immediately behind her bed, and was so effectually shaded by the hangings of her curtains, that we could have it open almost the whole evening and night: thus seeing and hearing, through the opening of the curtain, everything that passed in the room without being observed.'For some time after we arrived at our post, Dr. Battoni remained with Mrs. Delamere; but as soon as he was gone out of the house, I went to the poor lady. I was disguised like old Nanny, Lady Theresa's nurse, in order that my presence should excite no surprise, if I were accidentally seen. I found her suffering very much from a burning thirst. I took away Dr. Battoni's draught, and told her not to take any of them,—and I gave her a saline draught instead, which refreshed her.'Soon hearing steps approaching, I withdrew to my place of concealment. Then I and my companions saw Dr. Battoni and Mr. Randal come into the room. The former told the poor sick lady that she was dying, and could not live till morning,—and that if she wished to make any arrangements, she had better do so.'She replied that she wished to write to her daughter; whereupon Mrs. Randal offered her services, and a letter was dictated, expressing Mrs. Delamere's firm conviction that her daughter had never intended to leave her, and her trust that they should meet in a better world. She had hardly concluded, when Mr. Randal came running into the room, and sent off Dr. Battoni and his wife to Lady Theresa, who was ill, he said; and then, after he had bolted Mrs. Delamere's door, he offered to finish the letter for her, and asked if she would not like to sign it, as her daughter would value it more.'She replied that she wished to write to her daughter; whereupon Mrs. Randal offered her services, and a letter was dictated, expressing Mrs. Delamere's firm conviction that her daughter had never intended to leave her, and her trust that they should meet in a better world. She had hardly concluded, when Mr. Randal came running into the room, and sent off Dr. Battoni and his wife to Lady Theresa, who was ill, he said; and then, after he had bolted Mrs. Delamere's door, he offered to finish the letter for her, and asked if she would not like to sign it, as her daughter would value it more.'She said 'Yes;' and then we saw him bring the letter to her:—the lamp was a long way off, so it was rather dark; but she was so tired and ill she did not try to read it, but took the pen.'Then he said, 'Stay, you can't write so.'—and he pretended to put it on a larger blotting book, but in doing it he put another paper instead of the letter, and let the letter fall down by the bedside. Then I crept out on my knees under the bed, and gently putting out my hand, I seized the letter and got back with it, not making any noise. By that time I thought Mrs. Delamere had done, but Mr. Randal said, 'You have not put your surname,' She said, 'That is enough—Linda will understand;' but he insisted on it. Just then a knock was heard at the door. He made her go on, however; and when she had written the surname, I never saw such a look of exultation on mortal face as his wore at that moment.'Mrs. Delamere sank back quite exhausted; but the knocking continued, and Mr. Randal folded up the paper and put it in his bosom. Then he came to look for the letter he had dropped; so for fear he should move the curtains at my side, I closed our sliding panel without noise, and did not open it till we heard him unbolt the room-door to the people who were knocking. To my relief, I found it was Mrs. Delamere's own English doctor who had just arrived, whom I see with pleasure is standing there.'Here is the letter I rescued,' added Paulina, as she handed it to the lawyer near. 'Here also is a note in Mrs. Randal's writing, with her signature, procured from the Princess Antonini for me by the Duchess de St. Didiée her sister. On comparing the two you will find the handwriting identical.'There could be no doubt of it. Julia, in spite of her horror and dismay at the disclosures that had been made, was compelled to confess that the letter in question was the one she had written. All eyes were now turned on Randal; and had any doubt remained of the truth of Paulina's story, a glance at his countenance would have removed it. Though dying to tear himself away—to sink into the earth—he remained as if turned to stone: so intense was his rage, disappointment, and shame, that they seemed to have deprived him of the power of movement.Mr. Grant's counsel then asked Paulina, whether she remained in her hiding-place during the remainder of the night, and whether it was her hand that had surprised Mrs. Delamere so much.Paulina seemed reluctant to answer, but a moment's reflection convinced her that even pity should not make her conceal the truth, and she said 'Yes, we remained there; one of my companions became very sleepy, but the other was so interested for the poor lady, she felt no fatigue, and after I made them take a little food and wine we had brought with us, we returned to the aperture. Dr. Leighton was then just going to leave Mrs. Delamere for the night; and therefore I thought it more necessary to resume my watch, in case Dr. Battoni or Randal should return; and without being seen, I took one of Dr. Leighton's draughts and a glass into my hiding-place, that I might give it Mrs. Delamere at the right time, for I saw poor old Nanny looked very much worn out. Not long after I saw Mr. Randal glide into the room, and look again, I suppose, for the letter. Then he poured something out of a bottle into the cooling drink that was placed by Mrs. Delamere's bed, and he crouched down near her curtain. Soon afterwards he took the paper she had signed out of his bosom and went over to the lamp. I seized the opportunity to take away his glass and substitute Dr. Leighton's in its place. He waited in the room until he saw her drink it, and then he went away.''Do you know what was in the draught you exchanged for Dr. Leighton's?''I believe it was a sedative,' said Paulina, 'for it smelt of laudanum; but I threw it away.''Why did not you disclose all this at the time?' inquired Mr. Randal's counsel, sharply.'Because Mrs. Delamere got quite well, and Mrs. Grant and Mr. Aylmer were rescued by the Duchess, and arrived all safe the next day.—Therefore I thought the paper would be of no use to Mr. Randal,—'Mrs. Delamere will surely make a will before she dies,' I said 'Because Mrs. Delamere got quite well, and Mrs. Grant and Mr. Aylmer were rescued by the Duchess, and arrived all safe the next day.—Therefore I thought the paper would be of no use to Mr. Randal,—'Mrs. Delamere will surely make a will before she dies,' I said——and——and,' continued Paulina, while her lips quivered with emotions of grief and humiliation, and she could scarcely repress the tears that started to her eyes,—' I——was unwilling to expose without absolute necessity the father of my son!'A murmur of 'shame'—'atrocious villain,' was heard through the crowd, and after a pause Paulina added,—'In the cause of justice, however, I felt it would be a sin to withhold longer what I knew, and give to Mrs. Grant the property to which she is entitled, and what she will value much more, her mother's letter, written as supposed in her last moments to a daughter so greatly, so justly beloved. If you wish to examine my companions, they will corroborate my tale.'It is scarcely necessary to add, that after these disclosures, the Delamere property was restored to the rightful owners. The result of this trial was most fatal to Randal, for it led to a discovery that he had been several times guilty of forgery, and he was soon afterwards sentenced to transportation for life. But the humiliation of having been found out, the knowledge, too, that most people felt convinced he had attempted to shorten Mrs. Delamere's life, added to the complete failure of all his artfully-planned schemes, had such an effect on his mind that he was attacked with brain fever.For some days his life was in immediate danger, and even if he were to rally from this state, his constitution was so much shattered by the excesses of his past life, that it was thought he would not live long. Paulina nursed him in his illness, and it was her hand that slaked his burning thirst, and her ear that listened to the fearful ravings of his delirium. His wife was so utterly disgusted and mortified when she found what the man was, for whom she had sacrificed the affection of her family and friends, and she was so much afraid of it being suspected that she had been an accomplice in his evil deeds, that she did not attempt to see him once after the result of Mrs. Delamere's trial. The 10001 a year she inherited on coming of age was settled entirely on herself, so that she still possessed it; and as soon as her husband's influence was withdrawn, her confessor, who feared that if she remained in England, she would fall again under the influence of her father, advised her to return immediately to Rome. This she consented to do, and persuaded herself she would be doing a virtuous action to desert in his just humiliation the man who had wronged and disgraced her so shamefully. Thus Julia put the finishing stroke to her amiability, and proved to the whole world that she had gradually learnt to care for nobody but herself.Dudley Aylmer obtained leave of absence from Vienna, and came to London just as the Grants had left it on their return to Scotland. His first act was to visit the wretched criminal. He found that on his partial recovery from his fever, Randal had with great difficulty been prevented from putting an end to his existence, but in a little while this desire was replaced by a fearful terror of death and the judgment to come. He was convinced that his end was approaching, and felt equally certain that he could never be saved,—that he was already condemned to everlasting misery.Dudley visited him every day, but Randal's horror of his presence was so great that he began to despair of being of any use. However, he persevered, and he gradually succeeded in convincing the wretched man that he did not come to gloat and triumph over his misery, which Randal at first persisted in thinking, and that the pure desire to comfort and save, to pluck a 'brand from the burning,' was the only motive that actuated him. Dudley supplied him with every bodily comfort and luxury, and talked to him, and read passages that he thought applicable to his state. Dudley's wonderful powers of persuasion, the charm that he could wield with such magical effect, were now, he found, powerful auxiliaries in his labour of love.His deep knowledge of the human heart, and the inward conflicts he had himself endured, above all, his lifelong study of scripture, enabled him to administer such medicine to Randal's diseased soul, as he required most. He was at length rewarded by seeing, as he humbly hoped, the signs of a true repentance; and as Randal's last hour drew near, he appeared to contemplate the great change with some degree of peace and hope, through the merits and intercession of Him who had once pardoned the dying thief. But the state of that man is truly awful, who, like Randal, only is arrested in his headlong course of crime, because he can go no further; and who thus, when he repents at last, has cut himself off from being able to prove that his repentance is genuine. Whether it be so or no, the Great Searcher of hearts alone can tell. So Dudley thought, as he watched the last moments of the man whose unceasing endeavour had been to injure him,—and then gently closed the eyes from which the light of life had fled.Mr. Aylmer had hardly concluded his melancholy task, when he received an urgent letter from Mr. Grant's mother, imploring him to hasten to Craggie without delay.CHAPTER XXXIX. THE DYING BEQUEST.THE summer was drawing to a close, when, a few days after the trial was over, the Grants returned to Scotland. Mr. Grant seemed more than usually anxious to reach home, and Linda could no longer disguise from herself that he was fearfully altered,—that his health seemed declining fast.When they arrived at Craggie, Mrs. Grant saw that Linda's fears had been fully aroused, and she did not therefore attempt any longer to conceal her own impression as to the hopelessness of his case.Poor Linda! this was a blow she had never contemplated, for Mr. Grant had for many years, until the winter he joined her in Italy, apparently enjoyed such strong health, that she had imagined he was more likely to live long than most of her relations or friends. She now reproached herself for not having made him consult some of the London doctors. But her mother-in-law assured her it would have been useless.'They would only endeavour to send him to Madeira,' she said, 'or some southern climate; but when the malady is hereditary, as in his case, it could only be to die there,—and I know John would never consent to it. When he witnessed the last hours of my poor Laura, who died at Madeira, he implored me never to try and persuade him to leave his home, if he were ever attacked in the same way. So, dear Linda, do not indulge in any useless regrets, but keep all your health and spirits to cheer his last hours, and to be able to devote yourself with unimpaired energy to fulfil his wishes with regard to Ethel and yourself when he is gone.'And Linda saw that her mother was right, and she also felt that she was not even entitled to the 'luxury of woe;' that she must accept and bear the trial cheerfully, that she might be of more real use to him—to the husband she had not at first fully valued. Happiness again became a great difficulty to her, but she must not allow herself time to feel or see that the whole world now seemed full of gloom, and that even her own mother's attained bliss became less real to her darkened mind. She must hope on, and trust that at 'eventime there would be light'— 'She must gaze on where light should be,Though not a beam the clouds remove.'One evening Mr. Grant seemed a little better, and Linda would almost have allowed herself to hope, but that Mrs. Grant's countenance was unchanged; it wore the same look of cheerful resignation, and she did not respond to the expression of hope which slightly dawned in Linda's eyes.But Mrs. Grant fancied her son wished to speak with his wife alone, for his voice was stronger than it had been lately, and he was less fatigued. So she took little Ethel up to bed at the usual hour, and did not return for some time.And then Linda could not help giving expression to the thoughts and hopes that were in her mind, and to her joy that he seemed so much better. He shook his head, and with a cheerful smile, said—'Before I joined you in Italy, two years ago, I thought my end was approaching; and then when I discovered that I had been the unfortunate means of separating you from your first love, and that you knew I had made this discovery for the first time, I wished and prayed so fervently that God would spare me for a while, that I felt my prayer was granted. For I feared that you would imagine that what had occurred might have produced a bad effect on my health, and that thus your sensitive nature would have been needlessly pained. This, Dudley feared too, and he implored me to try and recover. I feel sure this has been his unceasing prayer; but in such a case as mine I know it is impossible; and, indeed, I have often thought it was wrong of me to marry at all, when I felt pretty certain that I should one day die of the complaint that carried off my sisters.'But you have made me so happy, Linda, in my married life, that I can now only feel deep thankfulness for having been permitted so long to enjoy the society of such a wife; and as you have been so supported in your first loss, I feel confident God will not desert you and dear Ethel when I am gone. Your heart is already half in heaven, and as your mother is now at rest, it will be easier for you to part with me, and to feel sure that, through the merits of the Saviour, I too may enjoy the blessed privilege of being with your dear mother, in that blessed place where sorrow is unknown. Then when this short and uncertain life is over, when you have brought up my Ethel to be like yourself, to follow in my Linda's steps, remember we may look forward to a joyful meeting, never, never to part. But I have one request to make before I go, and I feel sure you will not refuse me when I tell you that it will be the only thing wanting to make me die in perfect happiness—that is, that you will marry Dudley.'Do not look so pale and sad, dearest Linda,' he continued, as he saw she was unable to restrain her tears; 'but hear now, and remember my words; do not interrupt me, and remember that by accepting Dudley you will be fulfilling my most anxious wish—that my spirit will look down upon you with increased pleasure and approbation if you will grant my last and most earnest prayer. My mother, too, will use her utmost entreaties to induce you to consent. I have appointed Dudley, Ethel's guardian. Remember that his office will be much better performed if he has a real right to be called her father; otherwise he must continue to live abroad and retain his profession—he is too poor to give it up, and his profession being one of such responsibility, would allow of no leisure to attend to the education of that child. You must see that Ethel's disposition is also an exaggeration of yours; if properly developed and trained, she would be an angel; but her passions are so fearfully strong, that it is absolutely necessary she should have the restraint and teaching of such a master-mind as his.''You are right with regard to Ethel, dearest John; I see all your kind motives, and I trust, indeed, Dudley may devote some of his time to her, and to cheer and console our dear remaining mother; but for myself, I do not feel that I could ever survive your leaving me; I must follow soon, I think. Oh! how could I ever bear to see your empty chair!——the loss of your dear smile!——' she said, as she knelt down and sobbed upon his bosom.'You will bear it, my dearest,' he said, as he fondly stroked her head; 'because God will enable you to feel that though separated on earth I am yet with you in the spirit, and far happier than any mortal can ever be in this world of pain and anxiety. So live, darling, for my sake and for Ethel's; and oh! make me this promise—do not refuse my last request—do not make me feel that my fault, in hurrying you at eighteen into a marriage with one whom, poor child, you then confessed you could only love as a brother—do not let me have the misery of feeling that my fault was irreparable! What right had I to appropriate your young heart! and yet you have always bestowed upon me a far greater amount of love than I ever hoped or expected—infinitely greater than I deserve. And do not let me feel that, through my having selfishly grasped your young affections, I must now leave you alone without any sheltering human breast to watch over you and console you for my loss. Dearest Linda, I know that where once you have loved, your nature cannot change; and I know, therefore, that having loved me, you will still do so when I am with you no longer; but I also know that there is room in your heart for more than one affection, and Dudley is deserving of it. Promise me, dearest, for indeed it is necessary to my happiness that you should.'Linda was too much overcome to speak, and Mr. Grant forbore to add more that evening. His great desire was to see Dudley, and he requested his mother to write and urge him to come to Craggie. On his arrival Mr. Grant saw him alone, and obtained the same promise from him that he was endeavouring to extort from his wife. He said that he looked upon Dudley as the dearest friend he had, he therefore bequeathed to his love and guardianship the most precious possession he had in this world—his wife. Mr. Grant added, that he knew he need not say anything of Ethel and his own beloved mother; for he felt Dudley would be more than son to the one and father to the other. Finally, he begged Dudley would not leave him until all was over, and would not suffer Linda to grieve too much for him when he died. He foresaw what a trial it would be, for the depth and strength of her affections were so great. Dudley promised to fulfil to the best of his power the last wishes of the dying man, and then the only remaining desire Mr. Grant had was to induce Linda to promise.Old Mrs. Grant also spoke to her daughter, and entreated her not to withhold her consent, 'for John's sake.' She reminded her how anxious poor Mr. Seaton had been that his dear Margaret should be united to the husband of her choice, and have a person to love and watch over her when he was gone; and how this anxiety had been even so great as to make him overlook the risk of placing his child, when so young, in a position of such responsibility and temptation. She showed her, also, that to Mr. Grant's desire there could be no drawback of this kind, and pointed out how restless and uneasy he was until she should make him this promise.Linda did not feel as if she deserved to be consoled in any way for the loss of such a husband as Mr. Grant, because she had not always fully valued him as she ought to have done. When she felt he was about to leave her, she exaggerated equally his perfections and her own shortcomings; and it would have been more gratifying to her at that moment of misery to feel that she might punish herself all the rest of her life for her past faults,—give herself up to a lonely woe,—retire, as it were, into a mental convent, and shrink from any further contact with life's pleasures and cares. But she felt it would be more unselfish and humble-minded to promise to accede to her husband's wishes at some future time. So at last she made John the promise he required, and she was rewarded by seeing the restless look of suspense and anxiety replaced by one of grateful joy on his face.Then, in the earnest hope that those he loved best would be happy so long as they lived in this world, Mr. Grant viewed his approaching end with cheerful composure and perfect peace.It was a very different death-bed scene from the last Dudley had witnessed. As the sun sinks below the boundary of our mortal vision, full of the promise of a brighter and more glorious morrow, increasing in radiance and beauty as it approaches the horizon, so Mr. Grant's spirit prepared for its happy flight.Linda indulged in no useless grief, or thought of self at all; her whole soul seemed absorbed into her husband's, and she attended his last hours with a 'strange participation of his joy.' And when the last parting was over, and his spirit had burst the bands of flesh, she did not shed a tear,—she did not, and could not, realize that he was gone. The perfect conviction—the perception of the happiness he was enjoying—seemed to make her totally insensible to what was passing around,—to the last sad rites, to the gloomy symbols of death. She seemed to be in spirit with him above the world,—it imparted a strange light to her eyes and calmness to her spirit. It was because she hoped that his death had for ever chased away doubt and unbelief from her mind. Death—that awful parting which she had all her life dreaded as the great calamity of nature—as that which she feared would shake to its foundations the fabric of faith she had so long tried to build—assumed, as it approached, the features of an angel, and seemed to place her faith, her trust in the love of God, on a rock that she imagined no more storms of earth could ever again shake.Yet, Mrs. Grant and Dudley would rather have seen her weep; they dreaded the reaction that would follow as soon as she began to feel her husband's absence in the familiar duties and pleasures of everyday life; and they saw that her health had been fearfully shaken by watching and fatigue. They took her and Ethel for a week to a small watering-place not far off, hoping that the change would be of use; but her unnatural excitement remained still, and she could neither eat nor sleep.And as time passed, on it was evident to all that Linda was very ill. Poor little Ethel began to tremble lest she should lose her mother also, and her anxiety became most painful. The doctor recommended the South; and then, during the comparative leisure of travelling, when daily duties had ceased, Linda began to feel what had been gradually coming on—the reaction of spirits that Mrs. Grant and Dudley had dreaded for her so much. The latter had been obliged to return to Vienna as soon as he had concluded his office of executor, and therefore Mrs. Grant and Ethel were left alone with Linda. She suffered at times from fits of depression that were dreadful to witness, fancying, in spite of all her mother's persuasions to the contrary, that she had 'never made John happy;' that she had neglected taking proper care of him when he was in health; and that she could not be worthy to meet him in a better world. Then her painfully vivid and tenacious memory recalled all the past as plainly as if it had happened but yesterday; and Mrs. Grant saw with dismay that, as time went on, poor Linda's bodily maladies, as well as mental depression, increased rather than otherwise. So she wrote to Vienna imploring that Dudley would come and join them in Italy, and, if possible, bring Lord Clanville and Theresa; for she felt that the society of these old friends would be the only thing to restore her daughter's shattered nerves, by taking Linda back in thought to the peaceful memories of those old days when they were all children together.CHAPTER XL. SUNSET HUES.IN the month of July, two years and a half after the events recorded in the last chapter, Miss Barton received a letter one morning, with the Craggie postmark.'Dear Polly, here is a letter from Dudley Aylmer, and they are to be married!' she exclaimed, while tears of joy started to her eyes.'Oh, how glad I am!' said poor Polly, equally moved; 'and how is she?''He says the winter in Sicily has done her a great deal of good, and the doctors have at last permitted him to hope that she may quite recover. Mrs. Grant and Lord Clanville are also as well as possible, and they are all four, with little Ethel and the De Hautevilles, to come from Scotland to Delamere and Clanville Court in a week. Yes, and that is not all,' said Susan; 'the wedding is to take place at Harting; they are to be married by Mr. Gray, and dear old Mr. Seaton is to act the part of Linda's father; and Dudley says that he insists that you and I shall accede to Mrs. Grant's and Linda's request, and go to stay a month at Delamere. I really think you might, dear Polly, for you are so much better, thank God,—and in Linda's house, you know, you would be quite at home, and need never see more people, or exert yourself in any way you would not like.''Yes,' said Polly, half laughing and crying, 'it would be very delightful; I think perhaps I might.''How glad I am that you will,' said Susan; 'and it is also a great comfort to think that dear Linda will he united to Dudley in the old village church, where they knelt side by side when they were children. It will be so much less painful for her, too, than if the wedding were to take place in London or at Craggie.'The two years that had passed had been a time of fearful anxiety to Mrs. Grant and Dudley. Linda had been in the most precarious state,—and some doctors had even condemned her case as quite hopeless.The summer before, they had attempted to return to England, according to her earnest desire, but the fatigue of travelling had made her so ill, they were unable to proceed, and she had with great difficulty been taken back to Sicily for the ensuing winter.Nothing but the unceasing care and devotion of Mrs. Grant, poor Dudley, and Theresa had saved her life; and they had done so principally, by never permitting her mind to dwell on her past sorrows, nor on the self-reproach by which she was at times tormented. It was mental disease, aggravated by her state of health, and consequently the steady cheerfulness of Mrs. Grant's mind, and the irresistible charm that was Dudley's distinguishing characteristic, were the best remedies that could be administered. He entered into her so completely—he understood and sympathized so entirely with every thought of her heart—and these natural qualifications were so heightened by his intense love for the being whom Mr. Grant had entrusted to his care, that he was enabled always to say just the right thing at the right moment.Mrs. Grant often watched with surprise and admiration how, when the sad look of feverish depression and self-reproach was returning on Linda's pale face, he would take his seat beside them, and, without making any allusion to the thoughts he knew were tormenting her, he would attune his conversation and manner, at first as it were to the sad minor of her feelings, and then gradually, like a beautiful melody, as he saw she could bear it, his words seemed to swell out into a glorious major key, and he succeeded in bringing a hopeful, glad smile into those eyes where tears had trembled but a short while before. At length their devotion and care were rewarded by seeing her spirits gradually regain their tone, and her nerves their former strength and elasticity, while her health was more and more benefited every day by the delicious climate of Sicily. She could now review the past, and her own share in it, with a cheerful and hopeful spirit, and felt full of thankfulness and joy for the many blessings she had received. She saw that the pains, disappointments, as well as pleasures of past years, had at last borne good fruit. She felt with the delightful author of Jeanne de Vaudreuil—'Que pour connoitre le but de la vie, son sens, sa valeur, les remèdes à nos maux, les consolations à nos peines, il faut d'abord étre entrée plus avant dans la vie. L'extréme jeunesse ne peut pas savoir tout cela . . . car le bonheur est une harmonic rétablie.'When the second winter had passed, the Grants returned to Scotland, for Linda was anxious to be at home again, and resume her interrupted duties. Mrs. Grant had dreaded that her daughter would suffer from the sad recollections that the old place must excite; but she was greatly comforted to find that it was not so, and that Linda did not lose any of the renewed hope and cheerfulness that had been bestowed upon her.And Linda was now happy again, and with that joy which is independent of reasons and materials for happiness. She possessed that inward peace which she had so often wanted before she attained a settled faith in things unseen—even when all outward circumstances were most prosperous, and everything ministered to her delight. And, on the day they all came back to Craggie, after their long absence, she felt most grateful to God for enabling her to return to her widowed home with feelings capable of enjoying the lovely scene. As she and Ethel looked out from Mr. Grant's favourite oriel window on the bright sunset, the gleaming river, the evening star, all the vivid hues of trees and fields, the villages and church steeples, the distant mountains,—they all seemed to accompany, or rather take part in their feelings of thanksgiving and praise!'I was afraid we should have missed him so much more,' said Ethel; 'yet, on the contrary, he seems nearer to us now than ever.''Yes,' said Linda, 'I feel, indeed, he is very near, and I feel, too, quite solemn with thanks, as if all this was a beautiful cathedral, sanctified for worship by his dear spirit. That lovely view, the light hovering clouds and blue sky above, seem like one vast temple dedicated to God!'With true tact, Dudley had never spoken to Linda, during the two years they passed abroad, of Mr. Grant's desire that they should marry. But as Linda gradually got stronger, Mrs. Grant, who loved Dudley as a son, wrote to him soon after their return to Craggie, and said she thought the time was almost come. By his request, she agreed to break the subject to Linda, as soon as she saw her daughter could bear it; and thus it was at last all settled.'How beautiful dear Linda looked,' said the Marquis de Hauteville to Miss Barton, as they drove home after the wedding. 'I never saw such a sweet expression.''Yes,' said Susan, 'I found it impossible to repress my tears as I looked at those two,—their faces wore such an expression of glad, holy thankfulness; and still the shadow of the past, its sufferings and trials, seemed to subdue and mellow the radiance of their present joy,—to harmonize it with this world of probation. You could read their histories so plainly in the repose of their foreheads, and in the touching expression of their mouths; and one could feel, as they knelt with folded hands, that though fully alive to their present happiness, their united hearts were already in heaven. Their attitude and expression seemed to say,—'Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come.''Yes, quite,' said Lady Theresa; 'and as she left the church with Dudley, Linda's face reminded me of those words of Longfellow— 'Round her lips there played a smile,As holy, meek, and faint, As beams in some cathedral aisle,From the features of a saint.''That is like her,' said Susan, 'except that she has more of joy and cheerfulness; and one can see that she possesses a peace that cannot be disturbed, and which would still be hers, even though separated from the being she loves best on earth.''Poor Dudley! I can perceive that at times he looks very anxious,' said Theresa; 'he does not think her by any means safe yet; she is almost too fragile for this world,—too good to live.''I trust she may be spared to us a long while yet, especially for poor Mrs. Grant's sake. It is delightful to see how happy she is; it must be so comforting to her to perceive also how poor Mr. Grant still lives with them, as it were, though unseen; how Linda and Dudley always seem to connect him with their happiest and best thoughts, and how his beautiful example seems always present with them both. And dear Ethel, how happy she looked at seeing her dear father's wish fulfilled!'The wedding was as quiet as possible; and yet both Clanville Court and Delamere were full of guests. Besides the two Miss Bartons, old Mr. and Mrs. Seaton, and the Duke and Duchess of Dartford, Lord and Lady Rochford, and the Ladies Mandeville, were also present Jane was engaged to be married to Lord Albertmount; but Mary had annoyed her mother exceedingly the year before by absolutely refusing the Earl of Delaroche and the Marquis St. Ives, and declaring she would have nobody but 'plain' Viscount Kidderminster,—né Sarsfield, a person of no ancient family or wealth, son of the new law peer. 'It was too provoking!' Lady Rochford declared.But in a year or two she was induced to consent She was no longer the all-powerful Countess she had been: a new generation had sprung up,— and it was the more mortifying to her to perceive the visible decline of her power, as she had committed no flagrant act, or met with any particular misfortune to call forth the world's neglect. She had been so accustomed to be fed on admiration—to find her daily bread in the love and applause of human beings,—that even the partial loss of it was dreadful. It was a bitter moment, indeed, for her, when the tears she shed of mortification and regret were, for the first time, unchecked by the remembrance that they would spoil her beauty.Still it is to be hoped that in time Dudley's and Linda's society and friendship, and the affection of her niece Margaret, brought to light Lady Rochford's better feelings and hopes, and enabled her to set her desires on higher objects.Mrs. Grant and old Eleanor lived much longer than the term ordinarily allotted to mortal existence,—and had even the pleasure of seeing a little Dudley arrive in time, wonderfully like his father and mother, who was the great delight of Ethel, and whom she patronized and petted extremely. Linda's health became gradually quite established, and many, many happy days were spent by the Misses Barton with her and Dudley at Delamere and at Craggie.Whenever Linda was in London, she and Dudley used to visit her old friend the poet, Mr. Roland. He lived to a great age, but to the last he liked seeing her,—and the sight of her face seemed to afford him a kind of pleasure, not dissimilar to that inspired by his favourite sunsets, and the beauties of nature. The last time she saw him he was watching (as was his wont) with great delight the evening scene from his western window. 'Ah!' he said, as he watched the golden orb gra- dually sinking behind the hills,—'It is going down—down quickly: I shall soon be gone, too!' and then added, with a brightening smile, 'but it is coming up on the other side,—and so, I trust, shall I, one day!'Lord Clanville's spirits were quite restored when his brother married, and he declared himself the happiest man alive. But his horror of strangers never left him, and Miss Barton's refusal so entirely disgusted him with matrimony that nothing would induce him to propose to any one again. Linda and Dudley have restored the beautiful architecture of Clanville Court, and spend much of their time there every year with their brother. The latter is now very grey; but his great delight is his little nephew Dudley,—who, though an only son, and the idol of his father and uncle, is yet very well brought up, and bids fair to prove a worthy representative of the old Earls of Clanville.THE END.