quently the first person to whom she had hinted the fact. All this account she detailed with great volubility. Her mistress recommended discretion most earnestly; and at the same time expressed a doubt whether her information was correct. "I wish you would go and judge for yourself, ma'am," said the maid. "God forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhenry. "God grant I never see Lady Lodore again! She will go soon. You tell me that dame Nixon says she is only staying till she is well. She will go soon, and it need never be known, except to ourselves, Wilmot, that she was ever here." There was a dignity in this eternal mystery that somewhat compensated for the absence of wonder and fuss which the woman had anticipated with intense pleasure. She assured her mistress, over and over again, of her secrecy and discretion, and was dismissed with the exhortation to forget all she had learnt as quickly as possible. “Wherefore did she come here? what can she be doing? Mrs. Fitzhenry asked herself over and over again. She could not guess. It was strange, it was mysterious, and some mischief was at the bottom--but she would go soon-" would that she were already gone!" It must be mentioned that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry had left Maristow Castle before the arrival of Mr. Gayland, and had therefore no knowledge of the still more mysterious cloud that enveloped Lady Lodore's absence. Ignorant of her self-destroying sacrifices and generosity, her pity was not excited, her feelings were all against her. She counted the days as they passed, and looked wistfully at Wilmot, hoping that she would quickly bring tidings of the Lady's departure. In vain; the doctor ceased to visit the cottage, but the Lady remained. All at once the doctor visited it again with greater assiduity than ever-not on account of his beautiful patient-but dame Nixon had had a paralytic stroke, and the kind Lady had sent for him, and promised to defray all the expenses of the poor woman's illness. All this was truly vexatious. Mrs. Fitzhenry fretted, and even asked Wilmot questions, but the unwelcome visiter was still there. Wherefore? What could have put so disagreeable a whim into her head? The good lady could think of no motive, while she considered her presence an insult. She was still more annoyed when she received a letter from Ethel. It had been proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Villiers should pay her a visit in the spring; but now Ethel wrote to say that she might be immediately expected. "I have strange things to tell you about my dear mother," wrote Ethel; it is very uncertain where she is. Horatio can hear nothing of her at Paris, and will soon return. Edward is going to Wales, as there seems a great likelihood that she has secluded herself there. While he is away you may expect me. I shall not be able to stay long-he will come at the end of a week to fetch me.' Mrs. Fitzhenry shuddered. Her prejudices were stronger than ever. She experienced the utmost wretchedness from the idea that the residence of Lady Lodore would be discovered, and a family union effected. It seemed desecration to the memory of her brother, ruin to Ethel-the greatest misfortune that could befal any of them. Her feelings were exaggerated, but they were on that account the more powerful. How could she avert the evil?—a remedy must be sought, and she fixed on one-a desperate one, in truth, which appeared to her the sole mode of saving them all from the greatest disasters. She resolved to visit Lady Lodore; to represent to her the impropriety and wickedness of her having any intercourse with her daughter, and to entreat her to depart before Ethel's arrival. Her violence might almost seem madness; but all people who live in solitude become to a certain degree insane. Their views of things are not corrected by comparing them with those of others; and the strangest want of proportion always reigns in their ideas and sentiments. CHAPTER LIII. So loth we part from all we love, THOMAS MOOre. On the following morning Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry drove to the Vale of Bewling. It was the last day of February. The March winds were hushed as yet; the breezes were balmy, the sunshine cheerful; a few soft clouds flecked the heavens, and the blue sky appeared between them calm and pure. Each passing air breathed life and happiness-it caressed the cheek—and the swelling buds of the trees felt its quickening influence. The almond-trees were in bloom-the pear blossoms began to whiten-the tender green of the young leaves showed themselves here and there among the hedges. The old lady felt the cheering influence, and would have become even gay, had not the idea of the errand she was on checked her spirits. Sometimes the remembrance that she was really going to see her sister-in-law absolutely startled her; once or twice she thought of turning back; she passed through the lanes, and then alighting from her carriage, walked by a raised foot-way, across some arable fields—and again through a little grove; the winding path made a turn, and dame Nixon's white, low-roofed cottage was before her. Every thing about it looked trim, but very humble and it was unadorned during this early season by the luxury of flowers and plants, which usually give even an appearance of elegance to an English cottage. Mrs. Fitzhenry opened the little gate her knees trembled as she walked through the scanty garden, which breathed of the new-sprung violets. The entrance to the cottage was by the kitchen: she entered this, and found Margaret : occupied by a culinary preparation for her grandmother. Mrs. Fitzhenry asked after the old woman's health, and thus gained a little time. Margaret answered in her own former quiet yet cheerful voice; she was changed from what she had been a few weeks before. The bloom had not returned to her cheeks, but they no longer appeared streaked with deathly paleness; her motions had lost the heaviness that showed a mind ill at ease. Mrs. Elizabeth congratulated her on the restoration of her health. 66 "O yes," she replied, with a blush, "I am not the same creature I used to be, thank God, and the angel he has sent us here; -if my poor grandmother would but get well I should be quite happy; but that is asking too much at her time of life." The old lady made no farther observations; she did not wish to hear the praises of her sister-in-law. "Your lodger is still here?” at length she said. 66 Yes, God be praised!" replied Margaret. "Will you give her my compliments, and say I am here, and that I wish to see her." "Yes, ma'am," said Margaret; "only the lady has refused to see any one, and she does not like being asked." "I do not wish to be impertinent or intrusive, " answered Mrs. Elizabeth; "only tell her my name, and if she makes any objection, of course she will do as she likes. Where is she?" "She is sitting with my poor grandmother; the nurse-Heaven bless her! she would hire a nurse, to spare me, as she said—is lain down to sleep, and she said she would watch by grandmother while I got the gruel; but it's ready now, and I will go and tell her. Away tripped Margaret, leaving her guest lost in wonder. Lady Lodore watching the sick-bed of an old cottager-Lady Lodore immured in a poverty-stricken abode, fit only for the poorer sort of country people. It was more than strange, it was miraculous. Yet she refused to accompany poor Henry to America! there must be some strange mystery in all this, that does not tell well for her." 66 So bitterly uncharitable was the unforgiving old lady towards her brother's widow. She ruminated on these things for a minute or two, and then Margaret came to usher her into the wicked one's presence. The sitting-room destined for the lodger was neat, though very plain. The walls were wainscotted and painted white, -the windows small and latticed,-the furniture was old black, shining mahogany; the chairs high-backed and clumsy; the table heavy and incommodious; the fire-place large and airy; and the shelf of the mantel-piece almost as high as the low ceiling there were a few things of a more modern construction; a comfortable sofa, a rose-wood bureau and large folding screen; near the fire was a large easy chair of Gillows's manufacture, two light cane ones, and two small tables; vases filled with hyacinths, jonquils, and other spring flowers stood on one, and an embroidery frame occupied the other. There was a perfume of fresh-gathered flowers in the room, which the open window rendered very agreeable. Lady Lodore was standing near the fire-(for Wilmot was not mistaken, and it was she indeed who now presented herself to Mrs. Fitzhenry's eyes)-she might be agitated-she did not show it she came forward and held out her hand. "Dear Bessy," she : said, "you are very kind to visit me; I thank you very much." The poor recluse was overpowered. The cordiality of the greeting frightened her she who had come full of bitter reproach and hard purposes, to be thanked with that sweet voice and smile. "I thought," at length she stammered out, "that you did not wish to be known. I am glad you are not offended, Cornelia." "Offended by kindness? O no! It is true I did not wish-I do not wish that it should be known that I am here-but since, by some strange accident, you have discovered me, how can I help being grateful for your visit? I am indeed glad to see you; it is so long since I have heard anything. Ah! dear Bessy, tell me, how is Ethel ?" Tears glistened in the mother's eyes: she asked many questions, and Mrs. Fitzhenry a little recovered her self-possession, as she answered them. She looked at Lady Lodore-she was changed-she could not fail of being changed after so many years,—she was no longer a beautiful girl, but she was a lovely woman. Despite the traces of years, which however lightly they impressed, yet might be discerned; expression so embellished her that it was impossible not to admire; brilliancy had given place to softness, animation to serenity; still she was fair-still her silken hair clustered on her brow, and her sweet eyes were full of fire; her smile had more than its former charm-it came from the heart. |