AN ECLAIRCISSEMENT.

The note of invitation, which Lady Desmond had despatched to Mrs. Storey, was quickly answered in the affirmative; that worthy woman having a strongly marked preference for fashion and the aristocracy, though if the truth must be told, it was an act of heroic accordance, with her principles to spend an entire day with Lady Desmond, who had impressed her with a sincere feeling of awe.

"Mrs. Storey has much pleasure in accepting my polite invitation. Cela va sans dire; write, Kate dear, and say I will send the carriage to meet her at Kingston. Mr. Storey is engaged till six o'clock, but will come down for her, tant mieux."

Kate felt her cousin's civility to her friend as the most delicate kindness, and thanked her with an eloquent glance.

Lady Desmond seemed to cling more to Miss Vernon since she had made the confession detailed in the last chapter; she had seemed more cheerful, and hopeful too, as if relieved by her confidence in another—her manner with Lord Effingham, had more of frankness and courage, and he, ever keen and quick, was evidently aware of some change in the mind, or heart, he knew so well; and for the moment seemed roused from his habitual indifference to a deeper and more palpable interest. Kate watched all this anxiously. "Is he afraid of losing her," she thought. "Ah, if she would try to be, and not merely to seem, careless of him, she would bind him to her—there is something so irresistible in the evidence of truth. But how foolish—how worthless it all is—they are both too prosperous to love in earnest!"

Kate no longer avoided Lord Effingham, she readily accepted every opportunity of conversing with him, though each day showed her how vain were her attempts to penetrate his real sentiments; all things, however, wore a smiling aspect the morning she drove to Kingston, to meet Mrs. Storey.

"I am sure, Miss Vernon, this is most polite and attentive, and I am truly rejoiced to see you looking so much better, but the hair at 'Ampton Court is the best in world; and how is Lady Desmond, &c., &c."

Kate was really glad to see the good-natured garrulous little woman, and the sincere, kindly tone of her enquiries for Mr. Storey, and the children touched her guest's heart.

"Indeed, I always tell Mr. S. that you are not one of your forgetful people, that never remember a former friend, when you have got grand, new ones."

"I should indeed be sorry to be so worthless as to forget all your kindness to me and mine," returned Kate, warmly. "I would have gone to see you before this, but I cannot yet bring myself to go to that neighbourhood; before we leave this part of the world, however I certainly will."

"Oh dear, yes, Miss Vernon, remember I count on a week or fortnight, or as long as your cousin will spare you. I suppose you will never leave her now, until you go to a house of your own?"

"That I cannot tell," returned Kate; "at present, at all events, probably until this terrible lawsuit of mine, which is still dragging on, is decided, I shall remain with her."

"Well you must come to me for a few days soon, at all events, though I cannot offer you the same grandeur and elegance, you are accustomed to here."

"My dear Mrs. Storey, you know what I was accustomed to when you first showed me kindness and attention; but tell me something of your brother."

The meridian sun streamed fully on them, for the last part of their drive, and Mrs. Storey, who was an eager talker, and was excited by the meeting with Kate, looked painfully red and heated, by the time the carriage stopped at the old fashioned, iron gates, leading into the garden, before Lady Desmond's house; and as they were ushered into the cool, fragrant drawing-room, with its open windows, darkened by Venetian blinds, and breathing an atmosphere of simple refinement, Kate could hardly refrain from a smile, at the contrast between Lady Desmond's calm courteous manner, and fresh, undisturbed appearance, and the flushed, fussy guest—she rose to receive so graciously.

Lady Elizabeth Macdonnell, and Colonel Dashwood came in, during luncheon, much to Mrs. Storey's edification, though she sat listening, rather silently, to their animated talk of people and things all unknown to her.

"I am sorry," said Kate, turning to her, "this is not one of the days on which the band performs; it is a very good one, though I have only heard it from a distance."

"If you like I will order them to play this afternoon," said Colonel Dashwood. "Say the word, and they shall be ready by the time you have expended your admiration on the Vandykes, &c., which you are going to see."

"By all means, Colonel Dashwood," cried Lady Desmond, who dreaded the unoccupied afternoon, "Mrs. Storey would, I am sure, like it."

"Really," replied that lady, rather confused at the idea of so much power being exerted for her amusement, "Colonel Dashwood, you are very good, if it is not too much trouble."

"Trouble; oh, none whatever," he said, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Storey. "Lady Desmond, perhaps you will send one of your people with Colonel Dashwood's compliments, to Mr. Clark, the band master, and say he wishes the band should play on the terrace-walk, in about an hour and a half."

When they had prepared for their proposed lounge (and Mrs. Storey felt almost ashamed of Lady Desmond's coarse straw bonnet, with its simple black ribbon), they found that Lord Effingham had added himself to their party, and stood talking to Colonel Dashwood in one of the windows. His quick eye rested for a moment on Mrs. Storey's finery, with an expression of calm curiosity, as one might notice some unusual specimen in the Zoological Gardens.

Lady Desmond immediately presented him to her, with the same easy politeness she would have shown towards a duchess, and he, bowing profoundly, observed—

"You are going picture gazing! allow me to join your party, I have not seen the paintings here since my raspberry jam, and peg-top days."

Lady Desmond, and Mrs. Storey, escorted by Colonel Dashwood, walked first, Lady Elizabeth took Kate's arm, and Lord Effingham sauntered by her side.

"This is too much for me," panted Lady Elizabeth, "I cannot pass my own door, and, I am only delaying you from your friend; tell Lady Desmond I broke down on the road—pray ring that bell for me, my lord; thank you, good-bye."

"Pray," said Lord Effingham, as he and Kate continued to walk, side by side, "where did Lady Desmond pick up that curious specimen of the genus woman?"

"She did not pick her up, I did—or rather she picked me up, and showed me kind and respectful attention, when less curious specimens of the human race had the taste and discernment to class me, with the children's maids, and nurses, frequenting Kensington Gardens."

"Fairly hit, and deserved, I confess; yet I had hoped you were magnanimous enough to have buried that egregious mistake in oblivion."

"So I do in general, and only remember it when your contempt for something I know to be good, though, perhaps unprepossessing in appearance, recalls to my mind the unfairness of judging the Lord Effingham to-day by the uncourteous stranger of last winter."

He bit his lips in silence for a moment, and then, with a smile of unusual frankness, said—

"A retort from Miss Vernon is like a hair trigger in the hands of an angel with shining wings and snowy drapery; leave such carnal weapons to your imperial cousin; truth, simple and earnest, is at once your shield and spear; better say at once what is now in your mind, without circumlocution. 'You despise a good and a useful woman, who is worth a whole nation of 'vaut riens,' like yourself.' Eh, Miss Vernon?"

"That is rather too strong," said Kate, laughing.

"Nevertheless, I have read your thoughts—I often do—I can read your cousin's; what a different book! Yet she is a splendid creature—how desperately—"

And Kate, listening with all her soul, was almost startled into a scream by a sudden hand laid on her arm, and a breathless voice exclaiming—

"I have just seen Lady Elizabeth, Miss Vernon, and I ran after you to hear what all this arrangement about the band is. Ah, how do you do, Effingham?"

And the two Miss Meredyths were incorporated in their party.

The rest of the day passed over pleasantly enough; the pictures, the band, and the gardens kept them free from those "awful pauses" which so often desolate a day spent with country friends; while Lord Effingham's unwonted exertions to please and amuse Lady Desmond, pro tem. hushed every doubt, and enabled her to bear up heroically under the rampant agreeability of poor Mr. Storey at dinner.

"Well, my dear," cried his wife, as she was putting on her bonnet, previous to her departure, "I am sure I have had the most delightful day, and, what is the best of all, is the prospect of such happiness and success before you—a more elegant man I never met, and so taken up with you—"

"What are you talking about?" asked Kate.

"Lord Effingham to be sure; and—"

"How can you imagine such nonsense, dear Mrs. Storey," cried Kate, "it is too absurd, for—"

But Lady Desmond's entrance cut short their conversation; a profusion of farewell speeches followed—promises from Kate to visit them—assurances from the visitors of their content—a large bouquet from Lady Desmond—and they were gone.

Time rolled on with a pleasant sameness for the remainder of the month of trial agreed on by the cousins. Kate entered more into the little society which assembled two or three times a week at Lady Desmond's house, and the fair widow herself began a line of conduct to which, as she felt Kate would be much opposed, she always endeavoured to avoid any allusion when they were alone. Colonel Dashwood was unmistakeably "epris" with the beautiful widow; and she, though scarcely encouraging him, certainly showed a preference for his society, intended to pique Lord Effingham. Once only did Kate venture to hint at the imprudence of such a proceeding.

"It can never be successful, for it is untrue; Lord Effingham does not appear to notice it, and it is a cruel injustice to a kind-hearted, honourable man, who loves you. I am afraid. Dear Georgy, this is miserable work, it will destroy your better nature—let us leave this place. Forgive me for asking, but how can you prefer the uncertain selfishness of the Earl, clever and polished as he is, to that frank, manly, high-bred, Colonel Dashwood? I wish you would love him instead."

"Kate," cried Lady Desmond, almost angrily, "how can you accuse me of such deceitful conduct? Colonel Dashwood is a man of the world and can take care of himself. I beg you will not misunderstand me so much again. I shall leave this in a few weeks—till then, have patience before you condemn me."

"I do not condemn you, dearest; I only wish to see you happy," said Kate, anxiously.

"Indeed I believe you, cara miÂ," said Lady Desmond, relaxing from the air of hauteur with which she had last spoken. "Let us, however, drop the disagreeable subject."

And Kate felt she had been treading on forbidden ground.

She retired to her own room after this conversation, and seating herself on the window-seat, thought long though vaguely of the species of unhappy cloud thus thrown over her cousin's life, by the tenacious grasp she had permitted an absorbing passion to take of her heart, hiding from her the beauties and the pleasures which might have colored her life.

"How terrible to be thus dependent for happiness on the smiles or frowns of a cold-hearted man. Ah! if my own beloved grandpapa was alive, she would listen to him."

And at that remembrance, her thoughts took a different direction, and dwelt long and sadly on the kind and venerated old man.

Then again the restlessness which ever seized her when she reflected on her utter dependence, returned with startling force, and she felt as if she could, at that moment, set out to seek her fortune alone.

"I will do so, ere long," she thought, "I cannot live always thus; but, for the present, I must wait. Until Mr. Winter's return—he is so wise, so practical—and I must consider poor nurse before myself. Oh, what an utter change since the day when I walked into the dear old priory drawing-room with my poor Cormac, and found Colonel Egerton there."

And his face, and figure, and voice returned to her memory at her spirits' call, and she longed, with that intensity with which the prisoner in the body's cage strains itself against its bounds in unutterable pining to devour space—the wish to see him once more, to tell him all about her grandfather's death—her own deep sorrows, absorbed her fancy, and the hours rolled on while she listened in imagination to his rich, full, frank voice—

"Och! are ye all alone be yerself, asthore?" asked nurse, entering, "an' the big salt tears rowlin' down yer face. What was it vexed ye—tell yer own nurse?"

"Nothing, dear nurse. I was only thinking," returned Kate, drying her eyes, and endeavoring to smile; "is it time to dress?"

"Nearly, asthore!"

"I wonder Mr. Winter has not written; my last letter remains unanswered," observed Kate, after a silence of some minutes.

"Ye'll have one to-morrow, acushla," said Mrs. O'Toole, who was always ready to promise herself, and those she loved every possible good, in prospect. "An faith ye hav'nt ten minutes left to dress, an' all thim grand officers an' ladies to be here to-night; sure I'm as plaised as if I was made Lady Liftinant, to see ye among yer own sort again; not goin to thim shopkeepin gintry, at Bayswather, me heavy hatred to it. Thim Miss Merrydeaths, are mighty agreeable young ladies, I see thim walkin the other day, laughin like grigs they wor; what a quare name they have, sure it's no wondher they're wishin to change it."

"Are they?" asked Kate, smiling.

"To be sure they are, it's not natral for thim to be sich playful kittins at their time in life, but may be if they wer quite, they'd be mistakin for full grown cats."

"Really, nurse, you are so severe this evening, I must run away from you."

"The blessin iv heaven go with ye, where-ever ye go; an jist let me fasten this top hook; there now, here's yer gloves, an' there's not the like iv ye in the Queen's Coort, let alone Hampton Coort," murmured Mrs. O'Toole, as Kate kissed her hand to her, and descended to the drawing-room.

The weather had been rather broken for the last few days, and a dinner at Richmond had carried away the greater part of Lady Desmond's usual guests. Lady Elizabeth Macdonnell, Colonel Dashwood, Lord Effingham, the doctor, and one or two venerable specimens of whist-players, male and female, completed the party. The evening was cold for July, and a small bright wood fire was most acceptable.

The whist players were soon absorbed in their rubber, while Kate, Lady Desmond, Lord Effingham and Colonel Dashwood, gathered round the fire. Kate was seated on a low ottoman, Lady Desmond opposite her in an arm chair. Lord Effingham leaning back amongst the cushions of a sofa close to her, with that air of profound quiet and repose, which formed, at times, so admirable a mask to his real sentiments and impressions. Colonel Dashwood stood on the hearth-rug, leaning against the mantel-piece, and occasionally indulging himself in a study of Lady Desmond's profile, when she turned to speak to the Earl. The group was interesting; it bespoke refinement, cultivation, and civilisation in their best form, yet was each member of that little party inflicting or about to inflict suffering on the rest.

Little dreaming of such forebodings, Kate sat listening to a discussion between Colonel Dashwood and her cousin, on Kean's acting in Sheridan Knowles's play, of "Love," sometimes losing the thread of the argument in her own thoughts, when she was roused by Lady Desmond's pronouncing her name; she looked up suddenly, ashamed of her inattention, and met Lord Effingham's eyes, which wore an expression that puzzled her, as if they had been fixed on her for a long time.

"I beg your pardon Georgy," she said, quickly, "I really did not hear what you said."

"It was only to get you to side with me against Colonel Dashwood; but if you were dreaming instead of listening to me, I do not wish for such an ally," said Lady Desmond, laughing.

"But," pursued Colonel Dashwood, in continuation of some previous remark, "Love," in real life, is so different from the strange masquerade it wears on the stage."

"The most perfect description of love is that which Byron gives in his Corsair. 'None are all evil,' you know the passage," said Lord Effingham, rousing himself.

"Oh, yes," cried Kate, eagerly, "it is indeed exquisite, but, 'John Anderson, my Joe John,' conveys the idea of true love a great deal more forcibly to my mind."

"Burns," said Lord Effingham, "oh, his detestable jargon is too much for me, and I cannot see the poetry of a ballad, about some stupid old woman, who had been drinking 'usquebaugh,' till she was maudlin, and then proceeds to make love to her 'gude mon,' whose eyes she had probably been scratching out an hour before."

"Oh, shame, shame, to sully the real beauty of the fancy by so base a construction!" returned Kate.

"Kate worships Burns," said Lady Desmond, "she has a print of 'John Anderson,' opposite her bed, that her eyes may light upon it on their first opening in the morning."

"It is a sweet ballad, I think, and has an honesty about it, I like;" observed Dashwood.

"You are right, Colonel Dashwood," said Kate.

"Ah," said Lady Desmond, "you have ruined yourself with Kate, Lord Effingham."

"I hope not; but Miss Vernon must grant Byron's description to be perfect," he replied.

"Yes, but his is the description of 'Woman's Love,' added Lady Desmond, "no man ever felt the tenderness—

which he ascribes to the Corsair."

"And very few women either, Lady Desmond," said the Colonel.

"Certainly not a man so pre-occupied by himself, that personal injury or disappointment, could drive him into warfare with his kind, as Conrad is described to have been," cried Kate, "it is not such a character that could experience affection so exquisitely self-forgetful.

Her listeners were silent for a few moments, after the tones of her sweet voice, which had breathed these lines with so true, so tender an emphasis, had ceased.

Lord Effingham raised himself from his recumbent position, with a sudden gleam of light in his deep-set eyes.

"Then what description of man do you think likely to feel such love?" asked Lady Desmond.

"One whom we both knew and loved, might have felt thus, Georgy, and he, indeed, was a good man."

"The contradictions of human nature are incomprehensible, even to profounder philosophers than you are, Miss Vernon," said the Earl, "and it is not always the most irreproachable characters who have loved most devotedly. But do you not think Conrad justified by the injuries hinted at, in bidding defiance to a world to which he felt himself superior?"

"Yes, I admire Conrad, I confess," replied Lady Desmond.

"I do not think hatred is ever grand," said Kate, rather timidly.

"But it is very natural, sometimes, Miss Vernon," observed Dashwood.

"Miss Vernon would have us turn first one cheek and then the other to be smitten," said Lord Effingham.

"Yes," said Miss Vernon, colouring, but composed, "I would in that sense in which we were recommended to do so. If Conrad could have loved, as Byron describes, his sense of wrong would have led him to feel a noble pity for his injurers; revenge would have been merged in an effort to teach them truth by forgiveness; and which is the grandest creature, the man who, freed from the petty dominion of self, can look down on his own passions from a real eminence, or he who is their willing slave; before whose frown

"Bravo, Miss Vernon, you have converted me," cried the Colonel.

"Yes," said Lady Desmond, "I believe you are right, Kate."

"You demand perfection," observed the Earl, gloomily.

"I fear," said Miss Vernon, half ashamed of her enthusiasm, "I have talked a great deal too much."

"But the modern school of poets, who draw their inspiration from a mushroom, or pig-sty, or an old man afflicted with the rheumatism, are, I confess, too transcendental for me; I cannot interest myself in such anti-poetical subjects," remarked Lord Effingham.

"I rather like Longfellow; and Kate, I believe, considers him the first of poets," said Lady Desmond.

"Not exactly," replied Miss Vernon.

"Explain then, why it is that such a school has become so prevalent; and in painting too! The Royal Academy is filled with 'Dames' schools,' markets and kitchen scenery, and seems to endeavour in every way to make the modern and ancient style as unlike as the nature of the art will admit," rejoined the Earl.

"It is the confoundedly democratic tone of society; none but mechanics have money to buy pictures now," said Colonel Dashwood.

"It is the craving for novelty so prevalent in the present day," said Lady Desmond.

"Mr. Winter," said Miss Vernon, "used to say, that it was the gradual development of truth, that people began to see; it was absurd to consider that Oriental life had greater elements of poetry than our own, because it was farther off; or that princes or dukes, kings and queens, were the only subjects fit for poetry and painting, but that we began to feel that life, high or low, wherever sentient beings existed, loved, hated, or struggled, was matter enough for poetry or pictures."

"Mr. Winter is Miss Vernon's mentor, you must know," observed Lady Desmond.

"A capital fellow, he was most kind to Fred Egerton, so hospitable and droll," said the Colonel.

Further conversation was interrupted by the breaking up of the whist tables, and the subsequent departure of the guests.

"Can you take me into town with you to-morrow?" asked Lady Elizabeth of Lady Desmond.

"Do you know whether Mrs. Meredyth returns from —— to-morrow?"

"They do not come back till next week."

"I am sorry for it; I wished to ask one of the girls to stay with Miss Vernon, she will be all alone."

"How long do you remain in town?" asked Lord Effingham, carelessly.

"Until Friday; I cannot get off a dinner at Mrs. ——'s; and when I am in town, I may as well stay and hear Sir Robert Peel speak on the —— Bill; they say it will come before the House on Thursday night. But I am uneasy about leaving Kate."

"Well, Miss Vernon, if you are inconsolable for the want of my cousin's society, I will send an express to recall them."

"Oh, I do not mind in the least," said Kate, hastily, "that is, of course—"

"Do not finish, Miss Vernon; you have deeply wounded my feelings for those young ladies," returned Lord Effingham, smiling, then turning to Lady Desmond; "I shall probably see you at the House on Thursday evening; I should like to hear Sir Robert."

And after a few more remarks the party separated.

The next day was Wednesday; and Lady Desmond delayed her departure for the dinner party at Mrs. ——'s, as late as she prudently could, leaving Kate with evident reluctance, and even twice returning from the door to give her some parting injunction, and another last kiss. Kate felt in unusually good spirits; she was unspeakably grateful for her cousin's affection. And nurse had proved a true prophetess; for she had received a letter from Winter that morning, thanking her for accepting his gift, and giving her his address at a little frontier town, "where," he added, "if you write at once, I can receive a letter, but after that, you must wait till you hear from me." Mrs. Winter, he said, was beginning to get more reconciled to foreign ways. The little artist was evidently enjoying himself; and the kind, cordial, interested tone of her letter, short though it was, gave Kate a sensation of light-heartedness to which she had been long a stranger. She took a pleasant walk with nurse in Bushy Park, and made that worthy individual join her at tea.

Her first act, the next day, was to write a long and cheerful letter in reply to Winter's. She dilated much upon the kindness she received from Lady Desmond, on her contentment under her roof; yet she also dwelt on her anxiety to embrace her tried and true friends once more; and closed her letter with an exhortation as to their return before the winter set in; this missive despatched, she determined to take advantage of her unusually good spirits, and turning to the piano, practised delightedly for nearly an hour. She fancied, as exercise gradually restored flexibility to her voice, that it had acquired more richness and power from its long rest; hitherto she had only contributed instrumental music as her quota to the entertainment of her cousin's guests, and she proceeded to try an air of Gilpin's, to which she had adapted some lines of his sister's, thinking she would surprise and please Lady Desmond on her return. The music, which was simple, but most expressive, and very sostenuto, suited both her taste and her powers; she lingered over it with a sense of keen enjoyment; and when, at length, the last notes died away, she heaved a light sigh, partly the effect of fatigue; it was echoed, and turning with a sudden start, she beheld Lord Effingham standing near the window.

"Can you forgive my ill-bred intrusion?" he said, advancing towards her. "I have been calling on Colonel Dashwood; and walking round here, before mounting my horse, saw the garden-gate open, heard music, yielded to the temptation, and entered through the window."

"But my cousin is not yet returned," said Kate, with a smile.

"No, she does not return till to-morrow. I was aware of that; but I was not aware that you sang, and sang as you do. Why have I never heard you before?"

"I have not felt inclined to hear my own voice."

"And I," interrupted Lord Effingham, "would never desire to hear any other! speaking or singing, it is ever music to me!"

Kate stepped back in amazement at this address, incapable of reply; and Lord Effingham, after a short pause, as if expecting her to speak, went on rapidly—

"The words, 'I love you,' are too miserably weak to express what I feel. I have waited long to discover what your feelings are; you have not afforded me the slightest clue to them. I can endure your strange unconsciousness no longer, and am determined to lay mine bare before you in unmistakeable array. Kate! Miss Vernon, I know our natures are wide apart as heaven and earth, but still I can feel, in my inmost heart, that you have attained to a better and purer atmosphere than I have ever breathed. I know, that in your hands, I should be different from what I am. I tell you, that every shadow of good in me clings round you; and if you do not love me now, at least think before you—"

"Lord Effingham," cried Kate, covering her face with one hand, and extending the other before her, "give me a moment's thought to distinguish if this be not some horrid dream!"

"No, it is no dream, Miss Vernon," said Lord Effingham, recalled, by her evident alarm, from his passionate outburst.

She uncovered her eyes, and looking steadily at him, exclaimed—

"How could you act with such dissimulation? Why have you so deceived us?"

"I have not deceived you; nor am I answerable for the self-deception of others; but this is no answer."

"But my cousin, Lady Desmond," resumed Kate, still too bewildered to think of, or choose her words, "you love her. What, what is the meaning of this extraordinary address to me?"

Lord Effingham's pale, dark cheek did not change its colour by a shade; his firm, resolute mouth assumed even a sterner expression than usual, as he replied—

"Think over the past few months, and say honestly has there been a trace of the lover discoverable in my manner towards your cousin; except by eyes prompted to find out what did not exist."

"But," said Kate, anxious to screen her cousin, and not to admit too much, though ill able to cope with the far-seeing accomplished man of the world, "people said you were engaged to her, you must have loved her."

"Never," cried Lord Effingham. "Why talk of Lady Desmond? I never loved her—I may have admired her. I may have liked to feel my power over a proud spirit; but you, and you only, have I ever loved—loved with all the energy of my better nature; hear me, Kate!" and he threw himself at her feet; "do not turn from me with such repugnance—I will wait patiently till you think differently of me. I have overcome difficulties for far lesser objects; for you I will conquer myself—speak to me. I have borne suspense long, in silence—can you love me?"

"No," said Kate, deliberately drawing the hand he had seized, quickly from his grasp, "I cannot love you, for I cannot trust you; you think you love me, because you see you have no influence over my heart; Lord Effingham, you do not know what love is, you must change your nature first."

"Ha," said he, quickly, and sullenly, "but you do, you love another."

"I entreat of you to leave me, and end this distressing scene, I feel too shocked, too agitated to speak more to you; go, Lord Effingham, and let us not meet again."

"I will see you again, however," replied Lord Effingham. "Think, Miss Vernon, think, before you utterly reject me; I love you, I did not know I was capable of the love with which you have inspired me; I am cold and indifferent to the world, the warmth and tenderness of my inmost heart shall be lavished on you; you like to help those who are in distress; think what ample means of good would be at the disposal of the Countess of Effingham! What is there in me so repellant to you?"

"This is useless my Lord, I have never thought of you even as a friend; yet I do not wish to speak harshly. You do not know the injury this unfortunate disclosure will prove to me—I—."

"There can be no necessity to inform your cousin of what has passed. Let me come here as before, and endeavour to——."

"No!" cried Kate, indignantly, "I have been too long, unconsciously, aiding deception that I abhor, and my first act, when we meet, shall be to inform my cousin most fully. Now go! I beg you will leave me, Lord Effingham," she added, with an air of decision and hauteur.

"I obey you, but I do not, and will not consider the subject ended here." He drew nearer, looked at her a moment, and exclaimed, "No, I will not easily relinquish the brightest hope my life ever held out." Then turning away quickly, stepped through the window, descended from the verandah, and was out of sight before Kate could draw the long breath of relief with which she hailed his departure.

She little knew the trial yet awaiting her, though she looked forward with no small dread to the task of disclosing this strange interview to her cousin.

Wrapt in mingling emotions of amazement and alarm, Kate had not heard a light step in the adjoining room; and Lord Effingham, too much engrossed by the passion of the moment, was equally regardless. Both had been standing near the window by which he had entered, while an unseen witness gazed with the fascination of dismay and bitter mortification, through the opposite door, which was partly open.

Something had occurred to postpone the debate which Lady Desmond had wished to hear; and scarcely regretting the disappointment in her anxiety to return to Kate, had left town early, and on her arrival at home, having asked if Miss Vernon was at home, and being answered in the affirmative, walked at once to the morning-room they usually occupied; as she crossed the drawing-room communicating with it, she heard, to her astonishment, Lord Effingham's well-known voice, at the moment he raised it exclaiming—"Why talk of Lady Desmond? I never loved her, &c."—and reached the door in time to see him at Kate's feet, as she had longed to see him at her own. Every syllable of that torturing sentence seemed burning into her heart, as retaining sufficient self-command to retire, unseen, she rushed to her own chamber to hide from every eye, but that of the All-seeing, the awful agonies of a desolated spirit.

With agonised distinctness, she reviewed the last three months, and in the new and sudden light thus forced upon her, was compelled to own, that, had not previous impressions blinded her judgment, she might have seen she was not Lord Effingham's sole attraction in his frequent visits. Then again came the recollection of a thousand allusions to former scenes and passages in their intercourse, capable of a double signification, on which she had put but one; a thousand looks and tones, slight in themselves, but now irrefragable proofs that she had been duped; and Kate, could she have been a party in the deception, she to whom all the weakness, so carefully hidden from others, had been fully displayed, she on whom Lady Desmond had ever looked as the very personation of truth. Impossible! yet why was Lord Effingham admitted secretly? Why did Kate seem so ready and willing to be left alone? Why did she so pertinaciously endeavour to turn her from her unfortunate attachment; and Lady Desmond groaned aloud as these, to her tempest-tossed mind, incontrovertible proofs of treachery rose up before it. "But his influence is irresistible, and how was she to be wiser than I was. Why am I called beautiful?" And she flew to the glass: it flung back the image of a countenance so darkened and disturbed by the storm within, that she shrank from it. "Ah, she has the lovely freshness of youth, and I, why have I outlived it?" Then she remembered the evident joy of Lord Effingham, the first day he met her at Richmond; she recalled the rapture with, which she had hailed that joy, "and but for her all might have been well; if she had been candid with me, how much I might have been spared; but such deliberate treachery." And again and again did her troubled thoughts work round the painful circle of unanticipated mortification which had so suddenly risen up around her; each time returning with redoubled rage and bitterness to Kate's supposed duplicity, for it never occurred to her to doubt that Lord Effingham's love was reciprocated.

How long she had lain, her head buried in the cushions of the sofa, striving to find some loop-hole through which her wounded self-love might creep from the storm that beat it to the ground she could not tell. Ages seemed to have passed since she left the carriage, which had conveyed her to so much misery; but at last the door was opened, and Kate entered, she looked pale and agitated, and exclaimed—

"I had no idea you had returned, dear Georgy."

Lady Desmond raised her eyes with such a look of dark resentment, of concentrated indignation, that, innocent as she was, Kate recoiled before it with the confusion of guilt.

"Ay, shrink back from my presence," said her cousin, in low, deep tones, as if she dared not lose control of her voice. "Traitress! long practice might have taught you more art than to quail at my first glance. Lord Effingham can place full faith in a wife, who, for months, deliberately deceived and duped her friend, leading her to pour forth the last secrets she would have confided to a rival. False, false heart, I loved you, I trusted you; I heaped benefits upon you; I cared for my wealth only because it might be of use to you; and, in return, you have crept into the very sanctuary of my soul to rob and desecrate it; is this the truth, the honor of D'Arcy Vernon's grand-child?"

She had risen in her wrath, and stood—her long black hair thrown wildly back—nervously grasping the back of the sofa, on which she had lain, and gazing with pitiless eyes on the slight shrinking figure before her.

"Georgy, hear me, I implore you," cried Kate, trembling in every limb, and feeling, in spite of her conscious rectitude, as though she was guilty, before her cousin's impassioned reproaches.

"Hush," returned Lady Desmond, with a wild gesture of command and horror, "let me hear no well-arranged tissue of falsehoods. Your very voice is pregnant with dissimulation; go—relieve me of the sight of so much treachery."

"Not till you have heard me," said Kate, with firmness, recalled, by Lady Desmond's unjust reproaches, from the excessive commiseration which at first had unnerved her. "Why do you suppose I am a participator in Lord Effingham's deception? Why do you imagine that an acquaintance of but three months' standing could so influence me, as to change my entire previous principles? You are excited. You are wretched. And God knows how deeply I feel for you; but, Georgy, do not be unjust."

"Oh I have the boon of your pity," returned Lady Desmond, between her clenched teeth. "But I am not yet reduced to accept it. Lord Effingham shall know how his future wife was trusted, and how she betrayed. Go—I desire you to leave me; I can support your presence no longer."

"I will leave you," said Kate, with mournful sweetness, "but I leave you this solemn assurance, that however you may misjudge me, I would rather die than wed a man I dread so much, and love so little, as Lord Effingham."

"Ha," said Lady Desmond, drawing a long breath, her wild indignant rage stilled for a moment by the unmistakeable truth which spoke in Kate's voice and manner. "I must think. But go, guilty or innocent, we can never be the same to each other again."