CHAPTER XIV. "Happiness Is the gay to-morrow of the mind 66 "I GIVE my most cordial approbation," said Lord Mandeville: "I think Emily Arundel is a very sweet creature-a little too visionary." Nay, it is that," replied his wife," which makes her so interesting: she is just a heroine for a romance in five volumes; and I shall never forgive her, if something a little out of the common run of, brought out one season and married the next, without an interesting embarrassment, does not happen to her." My dear Ellen, beware how you encourage this tendency in your pretty protégée-to invent a life rather than live: with all your penetration, I think you are hardly aware of the strength and intensity of Miss Arundel's character. At fifteen, her poetry of feeling (you see I do my best to please you with a phrase) would just give piquancy and freshness to her entry into life; but at twenty, it is grown into a decided mental feature-and nothing would surprise me less than to see her throw herself away on a worthless fortune-hunter, under some mistaken fancy of affection and disinterested ness. "No fear of that; I have a match for her in perspective-one that I am much mistaken if both she and you would not highly approve." "And I am much mistaken if she has not some floating fancy of her own." "But suppose we both agree in our choice?" "Well, suppose what you please, only be cautious how you act upon your suppositions." "In the meantime, I have your consent to ask her to accompany us to Italy?". "A very cordial yes to that." Emily gladly accepted the offer. But for Lady Mandeville's friendship, her position was at this moment very awkward to live alone at the Hall would have been too independent-a residence with her aunt was put out of the question by her marriage-and Lady Alicia's death prevented her deriving that advantage from Mr. Delawarr being appointed her guardian, which, perhaps, her uncle had anticipated. To be sure, an heiress is never at a loss for friends; but the very thought of strangers made Emily cling more closely to Lady Mandeville's protection. Her ladyship was very tired of Norville Abbey, and a little female diplomacy had been exerted for some time, to convince her husband that-whether put on those unfailing arguments, health or spirits a little change was indispensable, as Hortense says of her drawing-room's Sevres china, and or-molu, "C'est plus qu'utile, c'est nécessaire." After many demurs-turnip-fields and covies, the ash coppice and pheasants, put into the balance against "Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff”—it was finally agreed they should travel for the next season, on condition that the following one was to see them quietly settled in the Abbey again, taking care of the county interest during that seventh year of such importance to our constitution, where the phoenix parliament dissolves into its original elements, again to be collected and re-vivified by the process called purity of election. Like most fair tactitians, Lady Mandeville, contented with present advantages, left the future to take care of itself: besides, after a year on the continent, Norville Abbey would offer contrast enough to be quite delightful. Arrangements were soon commenced and soon ended. Emily took leave of Mrs. Clarke, who gave her divers small commissions, and many ingenious hints how the custom-house officers might be evaded. The Doctor recommended her to learn to make milk coffee, a thing never met with good in England—and, as he justly observed, she might marry a man who was fond of it. "And I can say, from experience,” added his wife, "there is nothing like seeing to things yourself." Her last visit was to Mr. Morton: the old had died around him, the young were departing, and regret deepened into anxiety as he bade her farewell. "Come back, my child, as kind, as affectionate, and with hopes only less visionary because realised in their happiness: be humble, be thankful, and, my child, may God bless and keep you!" It was the last evening of all, and that Emily gave to her saddest farewell-to her home. She retraced the walks of her childhood; the shrubbery, with its luxuriant growth of roses, now in the full beauty of summer; the fruit-garden, where every tree and walk had a remembrance -those iron links of affection. The wind was high, and at every step a shower of fragrant and coloured leaves fell over her like rain: her fancy asked of her feelings, Do they weep to bid me farewell? Nothing exaggerates self-importance like solitude; and, perhaps because we have it not, then more than ever do we feel the want of sympathy: hopes, thoughts, these link themselves with external objects; and it is the expression of that haunting desire of association, those vine-like emotions of the human heart which fasten on whatever is near, that give an interest like truth to the poet's fiction, who says that the mournful waters and the drooping trees murmur with his murmurs, and sorrow with his sorrows. It was now the shadowy softness of twilight -that one English hour whose indistinct beauty has a vague charm which may compensate for all the sunshine that ever made glorious the vale of Damascus; and as she emerged from the yew-tree walk, the waving wind and the dim light gave the figures cut in their branches almost the appearance of reality, and their |