One ear, however, heard every sound; and either a very gentle hand, or a very light wind, slightly stirred a curtain. Poor Emily! she only caught sight of the postilion, Why, with all our deep and unuterable sympathies with love, are we inclined to laugh at half its disappointments? "I Give my most cordial approbation," said Lord Mandeville : "I think Emily Arundel is a very sweet creaturea 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." 66 : My dear Ellen, beware how you encourage this tendency in your pretty protegee-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 disinterestedness." "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 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 neces saire." After many demurs-turnip fields and covies, the ash coppice and pheasants, put into the balance against "Raphaels, Corregios, 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 revivified by the process called purity of election. Like most fair tactitions, 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. 0 "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 colored leaves fell over her like rain: her fancy asked of her feelings, Do they weep to bid me farewell? Nothing exaggerates selfimportance like solitude; and, I 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 vinelike 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 droop=ing 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 shadows flung huge semblances of humanity far before them a less excited frame of mind than Emily's might well have invested them with the idea of something actual and ominous. It was a relief to reach the broad open turf before the house. The room into which she meant to go fronted full west. The sun had set sometime, and his purple pageantry, like that of a forgotten monarch, had departed; but one or two rich clouds, like faithful hearts, retaining the memory of his gifts to the last, floated still on the air. The middle window of the oriel before her, just caught and reflected back the crimson light and color. The ground below looked bright and warm compared with the shade around. One of those fancies which will, despite of reason, link some peculiar object and feeling together, now crossed Emily's mind she took a little branch of geranium-it was all leaves, for whose lingering fragrance she had gathered it and planted it in the most sheltered spot, by the steps: "If it flourish, I shall flourish if it perish, so shall I." : The window was open, and she entered the room. How dreary it looked! The carpet was taken up, the chairs ranged in formal order round the wall, the fire irons removed, and the grate so bright and so cold; the curtains were down, all the little ornaments put away, no flowers in the stands, and the pictures covered up from want of sufficient material, the face of her uncle's portrait was still visible: she thought it looked upon her sadly and kindly, forgetting that such was its habitual expression. A movement in the passage roused her; hastily she sprang down the steps, and in an instant was hidden in the thick foliage of the path which led to the village, where she was to meet Lady Mandeville and the children. Little did she know the terrors she had left behind her. The foot in the passage was that of the old gardener, who, now residing in the house with his wife and daughter, had been sent by the said female authorities to close the shutters against damp, thieves, and other evening annoyances. He just caught sight of Emily; the white dress was enough; and without pausing on the incongruity of a ghost in a large straw bonnet, he rushed back to the kitchen those spiritual securities, candles and company, enabled him to return; there was no trace of any earthly thing; the supernatural conclusion was soon drawn, the room pronounced to be haunted, and henceforth only to be entered in couples." A ghost story is an avalanche, increasing in horror as it goes; and, like an avalanche, one often brings on another. It was remembered that Emily was the last of a house which had for years and years been connected with every traditon in the country: the grandfathers of the parish could recollect when the old Hall had rung with the cheerful song and shout of a gallant band of relatives, all bearing the name of Arundel, and when the echoes of the morning were awakened by baying hounds and the ringing of the young hunters: but one grave had been filled after another-one name after another crowded the funeral tablets of the church; and the once flourishing race had dwindled down to one slight girl. Omens, predictions, and legends, now multiplied around every fireside one, in particular was revived. The lands of the Arundel estate had belonged to a monastery; but when the crosier bowed down before King Henry's anger, these domains were assigned to one of his favorite followers, Sir John Arundel. But the abbess, descended from an old Norman family, and inheriting all the spirit of her race, resigned not so easily the sway for which youth, beauty, and the world, had been sacrificed. She refused admittance to the messengers; defied the authority which attempted to dispossess her; and pursued her usual course of rule and faith, as if neither had been gainsayed. "As bold a Neville as ever buckled on spur or sword! She denies my right, and appeals to the pope," said the haughty monarch, throwing down her scroll. "Read ye ever such a bead roll of curses? Come, Sir John Arundel, they say you fear neither man nor devil, let's see if you fear woman? Clear me out this convent, and keep its candlesticks for your pains.' The knight needed no second command: he ordered a band of his stanchest followers to horse-men who had fought by his side in Flanders, and there learnt more reverence for Sir Captain than Sir Priest. They staid a short while in the hotel of the village; for mine host's Canary smacked, as the jesting soldiers said, of a monkish neighborhood. When Sir John mounted again, he somewhat regretted the delay; for the night was falling--and, besides, it gave time for the daring prioress to hear of his coming, and perhaps prepare, however fruitlessly, to oppose it. As he rode up the hill, he saw lights gleaming from the convent, and a sound of music floated upon the air. To his great surprise the gates were all unbarred. Not a creature was visible: all were evidently assembled in the chapel, whence issued both the light and music. The doors of the chapel were unfastened, though closed. In they went; but even Sir John and his reckless soldiers paused a moment on the threshold, and two or three even doffed their steel caps. Chanting-though, it must be |