very dear to me, because the pain of insisting is greater than the pain of refusing; and I speak now of mere bodily weakness.'

To reach the turret, it was necessary to cross a gallery filled with musicians and servants, looking eagerly down on the festivity below. It commanded a view of the whole hall; and Edward for a moment leant over the balustrade. At first all was a bright and gay confusion-colors only seemed to strike the eye-gradually the figures stood out distinctly, and Lorraine could distinguish every face except the one which he especially wanted. Yet his eye involuntarily lingered on the scene; for he had caught sight of the countess, who was standing in the centre of a little group, whose looks told their language was flattery; and she herself wore that bright excited air which the words of the flatterer, even more than those of the lover, can call up in woman's face. Every act a coquetry, every look a captivation, she just realised one of the brilliant beauties of La Fronde, a Duchesse de Longueville, for whose sake Rochefoucauld made love, war, and epigrams, and to whom he addressed his celebrated lines,

"Pour mériter son cœur, pour plaire à ses beaux yeux,
J'ai fait la guerre aux rois, je l'aurois faite aux dieux."

She wore a dress of azure blue velvet, with a deep border of gold: her luxuriant hair was put back from her brow in a style which no face but the most perfect could have borne, and was then gathered in a form like that of an ancient helmet, every plait glittering with diamonds: it was peculiar, but it suited her. What," thought Edward, "the poet says in praise of one beauty, I say in dispraise of another:

66

"Her eyes, like suns, the rash beholder strike,

But, like the sun, they shine on all alike."

This is very well for indifference, but very bad or vanity. I trust (and the lover smiled in scornfulness at the very idea) my Beatrice will be more exclusive of her smile." And with this wish, which with him took the shape of conviction, Edward turned into the gallery which led to the

turret.

It was a narrow, gloomy passage, hung with very old tapestry. How strange did the fantastic and discolored shapes appear by the dim light of the single lamp! At

first the sounds of music seemed like a connexion with the gay and bright left behind-soon the tones became con fused-and before Edward had threaded two thirds of the many turnings, the music was quite inaudible.

One large room only remained to cross: it had in former days been a picture gallery, but now, being apart from the other suite of apartments, it was never used. The furniture was old and faded, and a few worthless paintings mouldered on the walls. Among them was one which, in Edward's estimation, deserved a better place. It was the portrait of himself and his brother, taken years ago, when Algernon was a fine handsome boy, of about thirteen years of age, and Edward not quite three. The younger, a frank, bold, brighteyed child, was mounted on a large Newfoundland dog, whose impatience the elder brother was trying to soothe. This was another proof how little Algernon's affections or recollections were considered by the Countess Adelaide.

Lorraine was now at the foot of the winding staircase which led to the turret, and he could not but recall his brother's luxurious habits, as he ascended the steep and narrow steps. At last he entered the chamber, and his first look was caught by its comfortless and unfurnished aspect. There was a little table, on which stood a common inkstand, some scattered papers, and a candle which had burnt down in the socket; but the room was illumined by the moonlight, which streamed in from the uncurtained window. Lord Etheringhame was seated with his back. to the door, so that his visiter entered unobserved. "My dear Algernon, how comes it that I find you here, and alone?" There was no answer. With a vague feeling of alarm, rather than positive fear, Edward sprang to his brother. The lamp fell full upon his face-there was no mistaking its awful likeness. The features were drawn frightfully aside, and the open eyes looked out with that stony stare which says light has forsaken them for ever, Edward caught his hands, but they were death cold. Algernon had been dead some hours. "God of Heaven! my brother dead-and our parting was in anger!"

CHAPTER XXIX.

"And impulses of deeper thought

Have come to me in solitude."

WORDSWORTH.

"This cell hath taught me many a hidden thing;
I have become acquainted with my soul

Through midnight silence, and through lonely days
Silent as midnight. I have found therein
A well of waters, undisturbed and deep,
Of sustenance, refreshment, and repose."

"Supported by the very power of sorrow,
And Faith that comes a solemn comforter,
Even hand in hand with death."

WILSON.

"DEAREST LADY MANDEVILLE,

"IF you have not already forgotten my wilful, wayward, and ungrateful conduct, I am persuaded it will be forgiven when I tell you, that I have suffered much both in mind and in body, and am now at home-but ill, very ill, and pining to see you, my kind, my almost only friend. The fatigue of writing is great, and I will enter into no details; but only tell you that I have escaped from my convent, in company with, and by the assistance of, Beatrice de los Zoridos. She is with me now in England. Every event that has taken place you can learn from others-my feelings only from myself; and if I speak boldly on a subject which even now brings the blood to my cheek, it is because you, and you only, know my secret, and because I would implore you to keep silence as sacredly as you would a trust from the dead-it will soon be one. The melancholy wind is sweeping through the old trees of our garden-I could fancy it filled with spirit tones, which call me away. This is very fanciful; but what has my whole life been but a vain false fancy? I tremble to recall the past-the gifts I have misused-the good things that have found me thankless-the obstinate will that has rejected content, unless that content were after its own fashion.

"Death sends Truth before as its messenger. In the loneliness of my sleepless midnight-in the feverish restlessness of days which lacked strength for pleasant and useful employment-how have I been forced on selfexamination! and how have my own thoughts witnessed against me! Life-the sacred and the beautiful-how utterly have I wasted! for how much discontent and ingratitude am I responsible! I have been self idulged from my childhood upwards-I have fretted with imaginary sorrows, and desired imaginary happiness: and when my heart beat with the feelings of womanhood, it set up a divinity, and its worship was idolatrous !

"Sinful it was to love as I loved Edward Lorraine; and truly it has had its reward. I loved him selfishly, engrossingly, to the exclusion of the hopes of Heaven, and the affections of earth. I knelt with the semblance of prayer, but an earthly image was the idol: I prayed but for him. I cared for no amusement-I grew disgusted with all occupation-I loved none else around me. I slept, and he was in my dreams-I awoke, and he was my very first thought. Too soon, and yet too late, I learnt to what a frail and foolish vision I had yielded. A storm of terrible passions swept over me. I loathed, I hated my nearest friends. My shame amounted to madness: fear alone kept me from suicide. I repulsed the love that was yet mine -I disdained the many blessings that my lot still possessed-I forgot my religion, and outraged my God, by kneeling at a shrine which was not sacred to me, and taking vows in a faith I held to be false.

"A brain fever kept me to my bed for some weeks: I hope and pray that its influence was upon me before. My hand trembles so that I can scarcely write.

"Beatrice came to the convent; our intercourse was permitted; she was kind, gentle, and affectionate, to me, as if she had been my sister. I cannot tell you how loving her softened my heart. At length I heard her history. She told me of trials and hardships that put my complainings to shame; and then I learnt that she was the beloved and betrothed of Edward Lorraine. I looked in her beautiful face, and then, strange as it may seem to say, hope, for the first time, wholly abandoned me. My love had been so dreaming, that my imagination, even in the convent, was always shaping out some improbable reunion.

"I was ill again. Beatrice watched me, soothed me,

read to me from the little English Bible which she said had ever been, in her trying and lonely life, a friend and a support. Alas! my heart died within me to think what account I should render of the talent committed to my charge. I felt utterly lost and cast away. I prayed as one without hope-one who feels her sin is too great to be forgiven. But God tempers justice with mercy a new life rose up within me. I said, even at the eleventh hour there is hope: I said, surely the Savior of the world is mine also. I thought upon the grave to which I was hastening, and it seemed to me peaceful as the bed of a child-' There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest.' I repented me of my worldly delusions, and strove to fix my thoughts above. Had I earlier made religion the guide of my way, I might even now be fulfilling the duties I have neglected, and looking forward in patience and faith. But it is too late; the last of my house, I am perishing as a leaf to which spring has denied her life. I have longed to die at home-to hear once more the words of prayer in my native tongue-and wonderfully has my wish been granted, when expectation there was none! I shall sleep in the green churchyard where I first learnt that death was in this world;-the soil will be familiar, and the air that of my home.

"I am one and twenty tomorrow. Would, O God! that my years had been so spent as to have been a worthier offering! But thy fear is the beginning of wisdom; and in that fear is my trust, that a broken and a contrite spirit thou wilt not despise.

"Will you not, my dear and kind friend, come and see me? I shall be so happy, if I can once tell you, that, though the orphan for a moment forgot your kindness, its memory was not effaced. I have thought of you, and prayed for you. You will come, dear Lady Mandeville. I want you to know Beatrice. You will love her, and your kindness may benefit her. She will be more grateful than I have been. Will you not come tomorrow?

"Your affectionate

"EMILY ARUNDEL."

It was a curious coincidence, that this letter was put into Lady Mandeville's hand while she was making some arrangements for their Italian journey, and was in VOL. II.-21