NEW SCENES.

Kate stood a moment transfixed, as nurse's awful words met her ear, her eyes riveted on her grandfather, but the repose of his face, almost reassured her, and, stepping back from Mrs. O'Toole's encircling arms, she exclaimed, hurriedly, angrily, but in carefully subdued tones—

"Be silent, nurse! do not terrify me with such strange words—see, he is asleep!"

Nurse's only reply was a burst of tears, as she laid her hand upon that of the Colonel, the fingers of which gently grasped the arm of the chair. Kate now bent down to kiss his cheek—but shrunk back from the icy touch.

"He has fainted," she exclaimed, looking wildly round at nurse. "Bring water, and wine—send for Doctor S——."

"I will, I will, my own child, only don't look at me that away."

Mrs. O'Toole's violent ringing, soon brought Mrs. Crooks, and the servant.

"Go," said Miss Vernon, who, though pale as death, was calm and stern, "send for Doctor S——, instantly, Colonel Vernon is taken very ill, he has fainted! see! Nurse thought he was dead, but I forbid any one uttering that word—until—until—go," she exclaimed, again with the same suppressed vehemence, with which she had before spoken, "Why do you stand gazing at me? life or death depends on your speed."

Both the frightened landlady and servant rushed from the room; and Kate never stirred from her rigid position beside her grandfather's chair, never moved a muscle of her face, until the Doctor, who was fortunately at home, entered, and found them apparently fixed in their several positions.

A hasty glance, showed the experienced physician, that it was indeed but the lifeless clay, round which poor Kate strove to preserve the quiet, prescribed for a suffering spirit, and turning to Mrs. O'Toole, he whispered—

"Try and get Miss Vernon out of the room."

Her quick ear caught his words.

"Why should I go? I can assist you to revive him."

"But—but—" stammered the doctor, fairly terror struck, at the thought of all the wild grief implied by her incredulity, "If I do not succeed?"

"Oh! hush, hush, it is not two hours since he blessed me, and said he was happy! Grandpapa, do not you hear? it is I—your own Kate! Why do you make no effort to recover him?" she exclaimed, turning almost fiercely to the doctor—"Where is your skill? Where is your science?"

"If you will leave the room," he returned, recovering himself. "I will do my best, but the consciousness that you, in your extreme anxiety, are watching me, will paralyse my best efforts."

"I will go then, and return in a few minutes," said Kate, retiring.

But these few minutes were employed in stretching the lifeless form on its bed; and then nurse met her child, in an agony of tears, that told her better than words could, that she was alone in the world!

Then, at last she was convinced, she did not faint or weep, but stood quite still, regardless of the well meant words of those around her, a sudden tremour passing at intervals through her frame; at last, turning to those, who pressed near her, she said, in strangely quiet tones, almost a whisper, but terribly earnest—

"Leave me, I wish to be alone." Then seeing they hesitated to leave her, she repeated with a sudden sharpness of voice and gesture of dismissal, which long remained in the memories of those who witnessed it, so expressively did it seem to reject all human aid, or sympathy: "I wish to be alone!"

They left her; and sinking on her knees, by the bed, on which lay the form of him she loved so well, she gave herself up to the first burst of real grief, that had ever rent her heart, with its wild energy; before, though there was fear, there was hope, though every nerve in her delicate frame trembled and shrunk from the expectation of trials, the nobler spirit dared to contemplate—there was an object for which to bear them all—an end to be attained. Now she was alone! with none to live for—none to whom, and for whom she was a world! He was gone—the kind, the gentle, loving friend; and there lay the lifeless image of him, whom she had lost, the stately prison-house, not unworthy its immortal captive, now free, and amid eternal bliss, perhaps near her, compassionating the sorrow which his already Heaven taught prescience showed was for her good! and should her life be henceforth alone? what was to become of her! No longer any reason to hush regret, lest it might cloud her brow, to catch gladly at hope, the most uncertain, that she might reflect something of its glad beam! "Yet I would not recall him, if I could, Oh, God!" was the only ejaculation that escaped her lips, as her soul lay prostrate beneath the heavy weight thus laid upon it. The past, the present, all mingled in one strange chaos, by the pressure of a mighty grief. And the moment that her grandfather blessed her (scarce four hours ago) was already fixed amid the great events of the heart, ages back; for sometimes, when thoroughly roused, and freed an instant from its fetters, the soul becomes in capacity a reflex of its great original, and in its sight, also, one day is as a thousand years.

But with the exhaustion of spirit natural to excitement so strong, came the wish for human sympathy, without which none can exist; and groping her way to the door, through the darkness, perceived for the first time, she opened it, and was caught in the arms of Mrs. O'Toole, who, with a silent, watchful love, equalled only by Cormac's, waited, humbly ready, until that love was wanted.

"You are all that is left me," sobbed the poor girl, as nurse held her in her arms; and they were the only words that escaped her lips, for the long hours through which she wept, in unutterable grief.

She obeyed all nurse's suggestions with the simplicity of a child, incapable of thinking for itself; and, at last, that faithful friend had the satisfaction of seeing her gradually sink into a sleep, still and heavy, but interrupted with deep sighs, which, at intervals, unclosed the lovely lips that seemed only formed for joyous smiles.

Then came the terrible awaking, the first unconscious exclamation—"Dear nurse, I have had such dreadful dreams!" The sober sense of waking grief—the struggle to think calmly and resignedly of all—the partial success—the sudden fresh outburst of sorrow.

So the day dragged on; and at the same hour at which Kate had last heard that voice, which had ever spoken fondly to her, a heavy travelling carriage, drawn by four posters, laden with numerous trunks and imperials, dashed in hot haste down the quiet little street. It stopped at the house of mourning; and the next moment, a tall lady, wrapped in a travelling cloak of velvet and costly furs, throwing back her veil, grasped Mrs. O'Toole's hand; and, after a piercing glance at the honest, troubled face before her, exclaimed—

"I am too late!"

"Not to comfort mee darlint, glory be to God! Yer come at last, me lady! He said you would be here this day."

"Kate, Miss Vernon, where is she?" said Lady Desmond, in clear, firm tones, that sounded as if command was natural to them; and passing on to the stairs.

"No, no! me sweet child is here."

And Mrs. O'Toole opened the parlour door, Kate, at the moment, entering from the inner room. She stopped, for an instant, while Lady Desmond advanced rapidly, and clasped her to her heart, straining her closely in her arms.

"Oh! Georgy," cried Kate, amid her sobs, "you will never hear his voice again—he is gone! gone before a gleam of hope or prosperity brightened the sad evening of his life; before I could see him as he was, before the bitter dregs of the cup of adversity had lost their bitterness by use. And I could do nothing for him, nothing! Oh, when we parted last, who, who could have thought, that it would have ended thus?"

And she pointed expressively to the small, mean room, now dimly lighted, by the candles, which Mrs. O'Toole scrupulously kept burning after evening closed.

Lady Desmond, grasping Kate's hand nervously, walked to the bed-side, and holding back the folds of her veil, bent reverently over the dead, for a moment, in silence, then drawing back, broke into an agony of hysterical tears, that startled Kate, by its vehemence, and brought nurse rapidly to her side.

"I feel as if guilty of his death," she repeated. "Why, why, did I delay my return?"

"Oh, hush, dearest Georgy, hush," whispered Kate, somewhat calmed, by witnessing the remorseful emotion of her cousin. "I was wrong to speak as I did; it was the sharpness of sorrow made me utter such words; God forgive them, for in my inmost heart I feel that He never punishes, He only sends messengers after us to keep us in the right path; the poverty was nothing; and even this! we shall yet understand it all!"

They stood there in silence, nurse supporting Lady Desmond, who leant against her, her bonnet thrown aside, her luxuriant black hair drawn back from her lofty forehead, her large dark eyes dilated, as if her soul gazed through them far away. Kate, a smile struggling through the tears streaming from hers, and one hand slightly raised towards Heaven. The three figures symbolising well, homely humanity, with its quiet necessary fortitude. Intellect and refinement, with their larger capacity, for joy or for suffering, and faith, so often almost extinguished, amid sorrow and doubt, yet still preserving a ray of everlasting hope.

But Lady Desmond was overpowered by the fatigue of a rapid and frequently obstructed journey, performed in a fever of anxiety; and Kate's attention was beneficially attracted from her all engrossing subject of thought to her cousin's evident exhaustion. She wished much to remove Kate at once from what she considered her wretched lodging, to her hotel, but this Kate resolutely refused to comply with.

"It is the last sad duty I can pay him," she said, "not to quit his remains until they are carried to their last home!"

Lady Desmond, therefore, determined to stay with her; and Mrs. Crook's establishment were put to their wits' end by the mingled excitement of a death, and a ladyship in a carriage-and-four.

Recovered from her fatigue, by a night's rest, Lady Desmond devoted herself to the care of her young cousin, with all the eagerness of a passionate nature, remorseful for the past; but though she hushed Kate to sleep each night in her arms, she performed every task that could by possibility devolve on Miss Vernon, such as attending to the details of the funeral, &c., with a diligence and tact that spared Kate many a pang; it was the latter who, amid her own absorbing grief, found time and gentle wisdom, wherewith to calm the sudden bursts of sorrow which often welled up from the heart of that proud, but generous and impulsive woman, who ever rushing into extremes, found food for self-reproach in every little incident which either nurse or Kate betrayed, of their life, for the last year.

"It was so obstinate, so unkindly obstinate of you not to join me at Florence; God only knows how much it might have spared; yet that was no excuse for my selfish negligence; though, Kate, I had powerful inducements not to return to England, I will—perhaps I may yet tell you them, and you will then understand me."

The day after the funeral, that renewal of death and sorrow, Kate readily acceded to her cousin's wish to leave the spot, no longer sanctified by the inanimate presence of him they had lost. And it was with a dull feeling of weariness, as if even the capacity of suffering had been worn out, that she threw herself into the carriage that was to take her away from the scene of her late bereavement. All was now over, nothing more to be done; and all she longed for was silence, solitude, and sleep.

"Come to the hotel as soon as you possibly can. Miss Vernon looks terribly cut up; she will want you to comfort her," was Lady Desmond's last injunction to Mrs. O'Toole, who remained behind to settle all the final affairs of packing and payment.

"I will, me lady," returned Mrs. O'Toole, who had found some consolation in the handsome appointments of the hearse and mourning coaches, which the day before had carried the remains of her beloved master to the grave; and re-entering the house, she immediately applied herself to her task. "How'll I iver get the dog away?" she asked, when about to depart.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Crook; "he's done nothing but wander about the house all day, and whine so piteous-like every time he went into the poor old gentleman's room!"

"Faith, I thought he'd have ate up the undertaker's min whin they kem into the room. Ah, God help us, is it any wondher me sweet young lady's heart is broke, whin the dumb baste itself knows what we have lost; where is he now?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; I've not seen him these two hours."

Mrs. O'Toole went in search of him to what had been the Colonel's bed-room; and there, stretched by the bed he had so long watched, lay the old hound, his limbs quivering in the agonies of death.

"Och! Cormac! you're not dyin'?"

The noble dog strove to raise his head in answer to her voice, but it fell back, and he was dead.

"Och, Cormac! me poor Cormac!" cried Mrs. O'Toole, her scarce dried tears flowing afresh; "but you wur the thrue hearted dog! Sure, there was somethin' inside iv ye far betther than many a man's heart. Och, how'll I iver tell Miss Kate that ye couldn't stop afther yer ould masther was gone?"

But Lady Desmond wisely determined that Kate should not hear of Cormac's death until she made enquiries for him; and Kate lay in perfect quiet for several days, rarely speaking, and never alluding to the sad scenes she had so lately gone through, though often the large tears would pour unconsciously down her cheeks, and when, at last, the intelligence of poor Cormac's death was communicated to her, she received it with a burst of grief, seemingly disproportioned to the occasion. All her sorrow was revived by the death of this faithful follower, so closely associated in her mind, not only with her lamented grandfather, but with her own earliest and happiest days.

One morning, as Lady Desmond and nurse were standing in silent concern, by her bed-side, noticing sadly the deep traces of grief on her young face, she suddenly roused herself from the species of lethargy into which she had fallen, and stretching out her hand to Lady Desmond, said—

"Forgive me, Georgina, forgive me, nurse, I am very selfish and wrong to lie here so indolently; I will endeavour to do better, to be resigned. I will get up and go out in the carriage with you, Georgy, if you wish."

From that day, Kate strove diligently to keep her self-imposed promise, and gradually time, the healer, accustomed her to think, with calm, though unutterably tender sadness, of the dear and venerated relative she had lost.

But she almost loathed the state and luxury amid which she now lived, remembering the petty privations which had depressed and mortified the last weary hours of his life. Often the erring child of earth, groping in the dim twilight of imperfect faith, would raise her heart to Heaven in silent supplication for forgiveness, at these half involuntary murmurs; it is so hard to believe that the sorrows laid upon a beloved and revered object, are not "too heavy." We all know the deep-rooted sin and error of our own hearts, which lie hidden from mortal eye, how much they require chastisement and guidance, but the life that to us seems blameless, the kindly nature, to our eyes, a model for us to follow! Oh, how inscrutable seem the trials we could comprehend if directed to our own discipline.

It was with a stronger sensation of pleasure than she had known for many days, that Kate heard her cousin propose their removal from the mighty capital, now rapidly gathering together its beauty and its strength, its fashion and its political hosts.

"Is there any place you would prefer, dear Kate," she asked, one evening as they sat together, after their quickly despatched dinner, (Lady Desmond had, after much solicitation, consented to accompany an old Neapolitan acquaintance to the opera, and was now waiting for her friend's carriage.)

"No, none," replied Kate, indolently, "all I care for is to leave London; though, dearest Georgy, it is by no means insupportable to me, if you wish to stay."

"It has no attraction for me," said Lady Desmond, "Ireland would be painful to you now, and though I long to take you abroad, you will enjoy a visit to France or Germany much more a few months hence; besides, I would rather not leave England at present.

"Lady Elizabeth Macdonnell was sitting with me this morning," she resumed, after a pause, during which she played thoughtfully with the tassels of her Cashmere cloak. "You don't know her, she was related to poor Sir Thomas, and beside that, her husband was an old brother-in-arms of his. When General Macdonnell died, his widow was left almost penniless, and so they gave her apartments at Hampton Court Palace; she tells me it is a pleasant, quiet place for a month or two; pretty rides and drives near town if you want to see any one, or any thing—out of the way if you are misanthropically inclined. In short, she is very anxious to get me down there; she is in wretched health, and if it is practicable, I should like to gratify her; she was most kind to me, poor thing, in her palmy days, when I was an inexperienced bride. Would you like the locale, Kate?"

"Who, I?" said Kate, absently, "yes, very much."

"Well then, I will go down there to-morrow, and see the place, and Lady Elizabeth; to tell the truth, for I must not take credit for more philanthropy than I possess, though I do not wish to remain in London, I feel a reluctance to leave its neighbourhood—it is strange," and Lady Desmond relapsed into silence and thought, a look of impatience slightly contracting her brow, and changing the expression of her resolute mouth to one of dissatisfaction and unrest.

Kate gazed at her in the indolent speculation of a mind too depressed for activity of thought, as to what cause of vexation could possibly ruffle the prosperous current of her cousin's life.

"Mr. ——'s carriage," announced a spruce waiter.

And kissing her fair god-child, and bidding her an affectionate good-night, Lady Desmond swept out of the room, leaving Kate to the care of Mrs. O'Toole.

In less than a fortnight after this conversation, the cousins were settled in a large old fashioned house, adjoining the Palace of Hampton Court, Lady Desmond's well filled purse, and her major domo's tact and intelligence, supplying all the deficiencies of a ready-furnished mansion, with the celerity of modern magic. The above mentioned functionary, an old attendant of the late Sir Thomas, was, as Lady Desmond termed him, her steward, rather than her servant; he arranged her household, paid her bills, and tyrannised over her in a thousand ways, to which, in full consciousness of her weakness, she languidly submitted.

April was well advanced when they took possession of their new abode, and most gladly did Kate exchange her daily lifeless airing in the Park, for walks amid the thousand blossoms which adorned the Palace Gardens, with all the freshness and perfume of early spring.

The stately parterres, the mossy grass, and the first delicate exquisite green of the trees, the lovely avenue of horse chesnuts in the neighbouring park, all were new to her, all unlike any scene she was accustomed to, and unconnected in her mind with suffering; passionately enjoying the sights and sounds, and scent of a garden, at this, its loveliest season, she felt drawn out of herself by the contemplation of so much beauty; grief was softened to sadness, by this evidence of Almighty love! the past engrossed her less completely, it was so uncongenial with the smiles and tears of April, the anticipative joyousness of all nature, and no longer apprehensive of losing self-command by approaching the subject uppermost in her thoughts, she found a quiet pleasure in constant talk of her grandfather, of his opinions and sayings, and even of his death with a composure that might have misled a superficial observer as to her real feelings.

She now gathered courage to write a long descriptive letter to Mr. and Mrs. Winter, in return for the truly affectionate missives they had written, on hearing, through Langley, of the Colonel's death. Some other writing, also, devolved upon her, replies to relations, cognisant of her existence, since she had become the inmate of the prosperous Lady Desmond. These were soon despatched, and she felt somewhat of a blank from the absence of all necessary employment. She still claimed immunity from the little ceremonious, scandalous re-unions of the palace; and Lady Desmond, far too impatient by nature to endure restraint, made her gentle cousin's mourning an excuse for rejecting the distasteful invitations. Indeed Kate could not help observing, that, for an invalid, Lady Elizabeth took a wonderful interest in mundane affairs; and, although she had recommended Hampton Court to Lady Desmond, as a quiet retired place, she was perpetually suggesting a little society, as a panacea for every ill, and she felt an instinctive dislike to her cousin's noble relative, who always addressed her with the same carressing condescension, she might have shown to a pet terrier, belonging to her respected wealthy kinswoman.

"A thousand apologies, dear Kate," cried Lady Desmond, as she made her appearance one lovely May evening, half an hour after their usual time for dinner, "I fear I have kept you waiting, but I could not tear myself from Mrs Fordyce and her lovely flowers; you must go with me on my next visit, her villa is so perfect, and Richmond looked so bright." Kate smiled, pleased to see her cousin so animated, and secretly wondering what could be the reason of the joy that sparkled in her large, dark eyes, and lent so much of soul and brilliancy to her generally proud, calm countenance. "And," continued Lady Desmond, "as the carriage turned out of the gate, it was stopped by almost the last person I expected to meet on the banks of the Thames, an Italian acquaintance, the Wentworths and myself used to see a great deal of, at Naples. You have heard of Lord Effingham?"

Kate shook her head.

"He was universally known in Italy, and here too; he seemed quite as much astonished to meet me, and promised, he would ride over some morning—he said, he had a villa on the Thames, I think, but I was in too great a hurry to attend."

Lady Desmond was more than usually affectionate to Kate that evening, stroking her glossy hair, with the fondness of an elder sister, and exerting all her powers of persuasion to induce her to join a tea-party, at Lady Elizabeth Macdonnell's; and Kate, fearful of being a check upon her cousin's amusements, and conscious that she had no right to exclusive self-indulgence, consented; nor could she regret having done so, as Lady Desmond appeared to be much gratified.

The day after this unwonted exertion she had taken a long walk with Lady Desmond, who, in her happiest mood, had entered into a charming description of her life in Italy, of Rome, and her impression of it—of the high opinion entertained by various Englishmen (whom she had met abroad), of rank and reputation, for Colonel Vernon; and Kate's heart and intellect alike gratified, submitted with reluctance to her cousin's decision, that she had walked enough, and must rest at home, while she paid a promised visit at the palace.

Lady Desmond, after opening a box of new books and periodicals, just arrived, stepped through the window, to a balcony, communicating by a flight of steps with the garden, and passed through a side gate directly into the palace grounds.

Kate took up Dickens's last number, and was soon wrapt in the perusal of it. Slightly fatigued by exercise, she leaned back in her fauteuil, one hand buried in the rich masses of her hair, on which the light threw a thousand golden gleams—the other holding the book, she read against the arm of the chair, on which her right elbow rested; one fairy foot stretched out upon a tiny ottoman; an air of profound repose, and perfect quiet pervading the slight figure and sweet face, always grave in silence, and now more so than ever; while the soft liquid eyes, with their thoughtful depth of expression, rivetted on the page before them, were brightened by the faint tinge of rose called up by her animating walk.

Lady Desmond might have been gone about half an hour, when a gentleman, mounted on a dark brown horse, of great beauty, rode up to the hall door, and dismounting, wound the reins round some of the spiral ornaments of the old fashioned iron railing.

"Is Lady Desmond at home?"

"Yes, sir." And the stranger followed the servant up the broad stairs. "Who shall I say, sir?"

"Lord Effingham."

But the large, low drawing-room, was unoccupied, and placing a chair, the footman retired to announce the visitor. He stood a moment after he was thus left, then strolled to the window, which looked towards the green; but finding little to interest him in the prospect, after a careless glance at one or two pictures, and some exquisite miniatures, which lay on the tables, he walked through the open door, leading into a smaller room within, which opened on the park; and here he stood, as if rooted to the ground—his every faculty absorbed in the contemplation of the living picture before him—till Kate, with that instinct which whispers to us, when a fellow mortal is near, slowly raised her fringed lids, and looked at him a moment, bewildered; then rising, her natural, well-bred, self-possession, heightened by the calmness and indifference consequent on pre-occupation, and the stillness that follows deep emotion—

"I fear I kept you too long waiting; my cousin, Lady Desmond has unfortunately just left me, to pay a visit at the Palace. I will send for her." And she laid her hand on the bell-pull.

The stranger stood a moment, in silence, an unwonted look of irresolution, on his haughty countenance; then, bowing with profound respect, he begged pardon for his intrusion, in soft and refined tones, which, as also his face, grew strangely familiar to Kate's memory, as she looked and listened.

"Pray do not give Lady Desmond the trouble of returning," he said, with a degree of hesitation, marvellously at variance with his air of un grand seigneur.

Here a servant entered.

"Her ladyship is not at home, my lord, I did not know she had gone out again."

"I see her returning across the garden," said Miss Vernon, "she will be here immediately," and pointing to a chair, she bent her head gravely to the visitor, and left the room.

He remained gazing after her, then muttering to himself, "most surpassingly novel-like, by Minerva," turned to greet Lady Desmond as she entered, with an easy grace and quiet firmness of manner, very different from the demeanour he had exhibited to her gentle, unassuming cousin.