SINCE our last visit to Dilston Castle, the place had acquired a new interest from the marriage of the young Earl of Derwentwater with the beautiful Anna Webb.

The event occurred about three years previously, and was productive of unalloyed happiness to the earl, who made it his entire study to please his lovely wife. In his eyes her charms had improved, and as she was scarcely two and twenty, she might not yet have attained the point of perfection.

Mistress of this proud mansion and all belonging to it, adored by the husband, who had raised her to this exalted position, the countess ought to have been happy—and to all appearance she was so.

Yet were we to search her breast, we should find a secret sorrow there. She had made every effort to banish the feeling, but without effect. The consciousness that she had a secret from her husband troubled her, but she dared not reveal it to him. Even to Father Norham, she had not entirely laid bare her heart.

One day, when she was at confession in the small chamber, employed for her private devotions, and which was furnished with an altar and a crucifix, the good priest thus addressed her:

“I grieve to find, dear daughter, that you still keep back from the Earl, your husband, the secret that has so long weighed upon your breast. This ought not to be. He is entitled to your fullest confidence, and any concealment from him even of a trivial matter is sinful.”

“I know it, father,” she replied; “and I ardently desire to relieve my breast of its burden by disclosing all to him, and am only deterred by the fear of giving him pain.”

“Perhaps you are right, daughter,” said the priest, after some reflection. “As no good purpose can be answered by this disclosure, and it is possible it might cause temporary estrangement of the earl's affections, I will not urge you to incur that hazard. But I should be glad to learn that you have at last entirely dismissed the silly fancy which you have so long allowed to occupy your breast. Give me an assurance to that effect, and I shall be content.”

“I am far easier than I was, father,” she rejoined with a sigh. “But I have not entirely subdued the feeling.”

“Persevere, daughter, and you will succeed,” said the priest. “Fasting and prayer will do much.”

“I am willing to undergo any penance you may enjoin, father,” she replied; “and, however severe it may be, I shall not complain—provided I obtain relief.”

“With these good resolutions you cannot fail, daughter, and you shall have my best assistance.”

The good father's injunctions were strictly obeyed by the countess, and after a time she told him her breast was tranquillised.

Meantime, the earl's felicity was entirely undisturbed, except by some misgivings as to the future.

Since his marriage a remarkable change had taken place in his sentiments. At one time he had been chiefly engrossed by the thought of accomplishing the restoration of the Chevalier de Saint George, and no peril would have deterred him from making the effort. He now dreaded being engaged in a civil war. He had everything that could contribute to happiness—a lovely wife, to whom he was passionately attached—high rank, great wealth, large possessions, a splendid mansion-all of which would be sacrificed, if the enterprise should fail. The game was too hazardous—the stake too high. Never, since his marriage, had he been separated from his beautiful countess, and the thought of quitting her—even for a brief season—was intolerable. He told her of his fears, and she laughed at them.

“I should not love you half so well as I do,” she said, “if I did not believe you would fight for King James—fight for him to the death. Should a rising take place, you must join it—must take a prominent part in it.”

“Since I wedded you, dearest Anna, life has acquired such value in my eyes, that I am not disposed to throw it away lightly.”

“Do you call it throwing life away lightly to die for your king?”

“'Twould be worse than death to lose you, Anna.”

“This is mere weakness. Shut me from your heart. The king's claim is paramount. 'Twould be a crime to desert him. If you wish to preserve my love, you will draw the sword for King James, when called upon.”

And she quitted the room.

Much irritated by the scornful tone in which the countess had spoken, the earl walked forth into the wood, and did not return till he had regained his calmness. He found the countess in the garden. She received him with a smile, that dissipated any lingering feelings of anger, and no further allusion was made to the subject at the time. Still, her observations rankled in his breast and produced the effect she had designed.

He felt that if he did not support King James, he should not retain her love, and that would be a death-blow to his happiness. Whatever course he might take seemed to lead to difficulty and danger.

Fortunately, he was not called upon for an immediate decision. Another year of wedded bliss was allowed him.

Not till the expiration of that term did the storm begin to gather that was destined to burst upon his head.