There was wassail in Wetheral Castle previous to the nuptials; a scene of gaiety repugnant to Sir John's ideas of propriety, but which was not checked by the simple expression of his wishes. In vain he remonstrated against the levity which surrounded him; in vain he disapproved of the course of dinner-parties which preceded so immediately an event of deep importance to the happiness of two children. His lady protested the "proprieties" were not infringed by a house full of company.

"If, Sir John, your daughters were on the eve of marriage with plebeian men of wealth, or had they chosen to select professional men, or even men of inferior weight in their respective counties, I grant you it would be an unnecessary display; in the present case, the neighbourhood expect a gaiety, which throws a sort of halo round the approaching event. One daughter, love, becomes a countess on Thursday next, and one daughter weds the finest property in Shropshire. I wonder you do not exult with me! I have been complimented with burning hearts, I am sure, by all my married friends, and, as Lady Farnborough said yesterday very truly, I have monopolized the first matches in the counties of Salop and Staffordshire. I am aware I have done so; I am aware I have taken great pains to promote my children's welfare. I may say, too, Julia's match was exclusively my own, in its invention and maturity."

"My dear Gertrude," replied Sir John, calmly, "I am satisfied if my girls are marrying according to their own satisfaction, as far as regards themselves; but I cannot exult in losing two members of my family, when I strongly doubt the happiness of one of them."

"My dear love! you have the oddest notions! but you were always unaccountable. I am proud to receive the congratulations of my friends. I wish Anna Maria had persuaded Tom to remain at Hatton, when it was first named, for old Pynsent may live these twenty years! However, since Hatton is out of the question, I am glad they are going abroad. I should not like Anna Maria placed in any situation less magnificent than Hatton, and people of distinction crowd to Paris now, to see the allied sovereigns. Tom has bought a very handsome travelling chariot; his appointments will be perfect."

"I should think, Gertrude, less bustle would be more agreeable to you, on the eve of parting with your daughter for twelve months."

Lady Wetheral sighed. "A little amusement, perhaps, is useful in softening my regrets, and Mrs. Boscawen, poor child, is so delighted with the entertainments! How Mr. Boscawen has managed, I cannot imagine; I never could silence Isabel, but he has succeeded; and Isabel is really a little star now in society. I had quite given her up. Mrs. Boscawen, poor child, was in ecstacies over her sisters' wardrobes. They have jewels which a crowned head might prize, certainly; whereas, Boscawen gave Isabel nothing. I confess I do sometimes feel indignant that the Lady of Brierly is so very simply dressed, but I never liked Boscawen's temper."

"He considers Isabel too young to indulge in folly, my dear Gertrude."

"Temper, all temper," returned her ladyship; "an old man marrying a young wife, should consider her tastes and her wishes. What did Isabel become Mrs. Boscawen for, but to command advantages, and surround herself with comforts?"

"Then Isabel must learn by experience the wickedness of sacrificing herself to mercenary views. Chrystal," continued Sir John, addressing himself to his youngest child, with earnestness of voice and manner, "your education was made over to my care. Never let your mind rest upon the follies which women delight to enjoy at the expense of happiness and respectability. Let your wishes, my child, rest upon better and nobler views; and advise your elder sisters, when they perceive the fallacy of hunting after useless pleasures, to turn aside from ambition, and think what a bitter draught has been presented to their lips."

"My dear love, a perfect homily!" exclaimed his lady, smiling, "and my youngest daughter's very unpronounceable name will be less disagreeable than her temper, if she is to preach to her family upon your recommendation. I am quite amused by your humility, considering the splendid matches your daughters have made. I am not so gifted with humble feelings; I am silly enough to rejoice in their welfare. The Kerrisons, my love, dine with us to-day. Sir Foster and myself are almost lovers; I am delighted with his sentiments—most excellent man! I told him he must allow us to run away with his pretty daughter for a few weeks, after my dear girls are gone to their new homes. Clara and you, Chrystal, will miss your sisters. I shall be very low myself. Dear girls! I told Sir Foster, Miss Kerrison's lively spirits would be of so much benefit to us! He seemed flattered, I thought, by my remark, and gave such a polite bow of acquiescence! Sir Foster is really a gentleman of the old school; a picture quite."

Lady Wetheral became loquacious in praise of Sir Foster; and in her fulness of commendation, the purpose of her heart betrayed itself.

"I am so provoked when I hear people repeating all the idle reports which emanate from discharged grooms, and low servants. Just the very class of society who deal so largely in ungrateful abuse. I can gather from Sir Foster's sentiments, how gentle his nature must be, and his large family, I am sure, are excellently managed. Such order and economy in every department! I judge, of course, from fountainhead particulars, for Sir Foster and myself talked a great deal upon the subject at Hatton yesterday, I told him his daughter would improve my Clara in matters of economy; her ideas, I said, were at present crude and undigested upon the subject, but I knew her tastes pointed that way."

"So Clara and Kerrison are to marry, are they?"

"You may truly appeal to me, my love, for, indeed, you have little part in your children's prospects. Yes, I have decided upon Kerrison and Clara. No alliance can compete with those which will be celebrated on Thursday, but I bear in mind the old proverb, 'marry your sons when you will, but marry your daughters when you can.' Ripley is the next eligible situation in Shropshire, now Hatton is secured. If Clara will only check her temper! I am sure I have lectured enough upon the subject, and I tell her four or five weeks of gentleness is all I ask at her hands."

"Gertrude, you are wrong, you are wicked," exclaimed Sir John, for once rousing himself into determination, and rising from his chair, "I have been weak and wicked myself in allowing you such uncontrolled liberty over my children's minds, and, God help me, I shall have reason to repent it too soon. I tell you Clara shall not marry Kerrison. I tell you, Gertrude, I will not have her sacrificed to that violent and coarse fellow at Ripley, to drive a woman into misery or sin, because your ambition will be ministered to!"

Her husband's sudden energy was wholly unexpected, its effect was powerful; her ladyship sank into the seat he had just quitted.

"Really, Sir John, your violence kills my poor nerves. I am not equal to contend against such dreadful exhibitions of temper. My poor constitution requires perfect tranquillity, almost amounting to total silence, and these explosions of passion do me a great deal of harm. Indeed, Sir John, you have overpowered a poor nervous creature." His lady's hands trembled as she spoke, her voice faltered, and the tears coursed down her cheeks.

Did Sir John Wetheral ever resist his lady's pleading when it took the form of suffering, and spoke in the silent eloquence of grief? When did he ever create a sorrow, or cause a heartfelt reproach, without enduring far greater disquietude, from the knowledge of having given pain! He took his lady's hand, and bent kindly over her.

"Gertrude, this is sad work, and the consequences of my weak indulgence will be sadder still. I have given way to you in every wish of your heart, and submitted my better judgment to your tears, till my authority has passed away, and I am a cipher in all affairs connected with my children. In this particular, however, I will be heard and obeyed. I will not allow of a distant allusion to Clara's marriage with Sir Foster; and the instant I believe, or have reason to suspect, any private attempt to draw Clara into such a hateful connection, that instant I will remove my family from Wetheral, and reside in Scotland."

"My head! my poor head, Sir John! Send Thompson to me, my love, for my brain seems on fire! I declare men are so brutal, women's hearts should be cut out of wood. I am quite unfit for company to-day."

Sir John did not ring for Thompson: he had much to say, now that the indolence of his nature was roused into effort, and his mind dwelt with anger upon the meditated sacrifice of Clara.

"Never mind company, my dear Gertrude; I wish all company had been spared this week. The few days which intervene between the present hour and my poor girl's wedding-day should have passed in domestic privacy and reflection on their parts."

Lady Wetheral's distress and emotion allowed herself no moment for reflection. She hastily exclaimed:—

"The less they think about it, poor things, the better!"

"This is a fearful idea, Gertrude. If you conceive matrimony to be a leap which only the ignorant should take, you condemn yourself in your own plans. A husband-hunting parent, who draws a veil before the victim's eyes, and leads it blindfold to the altar, is a creature to be feared and hated."

Lady Wetheral's astonishment at this remark, pronounced with energy by her husband, produced total forgetfulness of hysterical assistance. Her anxiety to remove blame from her measures, gave seriousness to her manner, but dispelled for the moment all idea of having recourse to fictitious aids. Her lips quivered, but not a tear flowed.

"I am sorry, Sir John, I am grieved to be supposed to sacrifice—to sell my poor children. I seek their good, I wish them to marry well, as I married myself, but you are harsh to call them victims. I have done my duty by them; I have obtained excellent establishments for my three eldest, and received congratulations from my friends. I really cannot receive your reproach."

"Then why are they to dissipate thought, Gertrude, and fly from reflection?"

"I'm sure I don't know, my love. One is not always prepared with reasons in an instant: marriage brings cares. They will have the same anxieties about their children's establishments that I have endured. I suppose that was my meaning. I really can't tell; but you frighten me with such violent expressions."

"Gertrude," said Sir John, seriously, "let all painful thoughts and subjects be banished between us. I exact one promise from you."

"My dear love, I never made a promise in my life."

"Then let it be made now, and stand in your mind in its singleness and sacred meaning."

"A promise would overcharge my heart, and burst from my lips, Sir John. I hate promises."

"Yet you promised at the altar, Gertrude, to love and honour, and obey your husband."

"These are words of course, love, and mean that people are to jog on as well as they can together: but what do you require in the shape of a promise?"

"I require your assurance that you will for ever renounce all idea of a son-in-law as far as Sir Foster Kerrison is concerned."

"Do you know, love, I see the hand of Boscawen in your determined dislike of Kerrison. That man has enormous influence with you; and when he married a woman young enough to be his granddaughter, it ought to have silenced him upon the subject of matrimony. Lady Ennismore has heard my reasons in favour of Sir Foster, and it was but yesterday I was speaking upon the subject with her ladyship. Lady Ennismore has returned in high feather from Bedinfield, my love, and looks nearly as young as Julia; does she not? She assured me Thursday would be the brightest day in her calendar of pleasures. I am sure it will be a day of proud delight to me!"

"I will not allow you to include Sir Foster Kerrison in the bridal party, Gertrude. I wish you to understand that I object to every species of intimacy with the Ripley family."

"My dear John, why did you not express your wishes earlier? I have indeed asked that pretty, cheerful creature, Lucy Kerrison, to spend a few days with Clara when she loses her sisters, and I felt obliged to include her father in the wedding arrangements. I am sorry your odd ways of thinking prevent so many agreeable circumstances from becoming valued, but so it is, and I cannot decline Sir Foster's society without a cogent reason to apologise for my change of manner."

"I only object to the man on Clara's account," replied Sir John, considerably annoyed at the intelligence.

"What nonsense, Sir John! Do I insist upon the girl's falling in love, or do I lay violent hands upon the owner of Ripley?"

"Not exactly, Gertrude, but I object to your eternal plans and manoeuvres, which tend to the same effect."

Lady Wetheral kissed her hand playfully.

"Avaunt such notions! A mother is a very different being from a father. One is all tenderness and anxiety for the future; the other dreams heavily, and not always wisely, over the present. Look at Chrystal there, sitting bolt upright, with her hair in such masses, and her throat covered up like the picture of Heloise. You find her necessary to your amusement now, but you are blind to her future advantage. Who will ask for a wife from the alarming precincts of your bookroom? Who will care to please a girl brought up among authors, full of self-importance, and whose conversation will preclude her from pleasing others?"

"Christobelle is a very agreeable companion," was her father's reply.

"She will do for old Leslie's nephew, perhaps," observed her ladyship, listlessly. "Kerrison says they have got him into Dundonald's ship."

A short silence ensued, and Lady Wetheral quitted the room, unshackled by any definite promise upon the subject of Sir Foster Kerrison. Sir John sank again into tranquil employments, satisfied that his sentiments were made known, and that henceforth, when the bustle of the double marriage should subside, the tide of gaiety would ebb, and Wetheral Castle become a scene of calm and domestic cheerfulness. Then all this communication with Ripley must terminate, and Clara would not be subjected to the constant society of Sir Foster Kerrison. This happy vision lulled Sir John Wetheral into present security, and his mind dismissed the subject from its consideration.

Nothing could exceed Isabel's delight at the daily party which met in the splendid dinner-room at Wetheral. Nothing could be more delightful to her imagination than the scene which presented itself to her view each day after the fatigues and annoyance of a long morning passed in her husband's dressing-room. When the six o'clock bell rang in the assembled guests, and warned them to their toilette, Isabel emerged from her labours, and, with the wild delight of a girl emancipated from a boarding-school, she flew to her room and prepared for the exquisite amusement of the evening. It is true, she was constrained to enter the drawing-room leaning discreetly upon her husband's arm, and his tall figure hovering round her chair, checked for a time the exuberance of her spirits, by his close and anxious watchfulness; but her eyes feasted upon the countenance and dress of those around her. Compared with Brierly, this alone was happiness. She looked beamingly upon her sisters, and complacently at the gentlemen, who were so soon to carry them from her sight. She never tired of watching Miss Wycherly, and her beau, Charles Spottiswoode; the former delighting her with the oddity of her remarks, and the latter full of agreeable entertainment.

Wholly wrapt up in the bustle of the scene, Isabel forgot the plodding disquietude of the morning, and utter oblivion closed over the studies which Mr. Boscawen vainly hoped would reach her taste and improve her mind: her soul was dedicated only to simple subjects, and the warm-hearted Isabel acknowledged no desire beyond the delight of seeing happy faces and hearing kind remarks. Life to her was a blank, if it brought other sounds than affectionate greetings, or produced other objects than smiling, well-dressed individuals.

During dinner, Isabel's eyes feasted silently upon her friends; but when the ladies rose to quit the dinner-room, and her spirit became disenthralled by the door closing upon Mr. Boscawen, then did her speech burst its enclosure, and revel in unrestrained freedom. The day preceding the nuptial morning Isabel was in very high spirits, almost as unsubdued as in the days of her singlehood: even Mr. Boscawen could scarcely repel the vivacity of her remarks, though he stood tall and grim before her, his dark eyes fixed upon her face, and his strongly marked eyebrows lowering at the rapid remarks which passed her lips. GaietÉ de coeur played in her eyes that evening, in spite of her silent, stern-looking attendant; and, when the ladies withdrew, Isabel caught Miss Wycherly's arm in their progress to the drawing-room.

"Oh, my dear Miss Wycherly, now I've got away from Mr. Boscawen, I have so much to say, and I must say it all before he leaves the dining-room, you know! Well, how beautiful Lady Ennismore looks, and what a lovely ornament in her hair! I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me wear ornaments! I have been teasing him to allow me to wear a feather to-morrow-morning, but he replies in some unaccountable language, which I suppose means 'no.' I want to ask the girls if they are frightened about to-morrow: I was not a bit alarmed. If I had known, though, how little I was to be mistress of Brierly, I would not have married."

Isabel flew to her sisters, on reaching the drawing-room, without waiting any reply from Miss Wycherly.

"Now, I want to know if either of you feel frightened. I only laughed, if you remember. Lady Ennismore, won't Julia be very happy?"

"I trust so," replied her ladyship, smiling, and obligingly pressing Julia's hand between her's. "My daughter will repose on flowers, if a wish of mine has power to confer such a destiny."

Julia turned her head towards Lady Ennismore; joy and affection sparkled in her eye, but she did not speak.

"Ah, you are so charming, dear Lady Ennismore," exclaimed Isabel—"how I wish Mr. Boscawen would make me repose on roses, and leave that horrid 'Universal History,' which puzzles me to death. I don't think you are in spirits, my dear Anna Maria; but you need not be afraid of Tom Pynsent, I'm sure—he was the very best partner I ever had. I'm sure Tom will spoil you. He allowed me always to call the same country dance, though I know he would have preferred any other. You need not fear, my dear Anna Maria. I shall ask Mrs. Pynsent, to-morrow, if any body need fear dear Tom. Oh, Miss Wycherly, that is the very sweetest comb I ever saw—and my blue silk looks so dowdy by the side of your darling dress, Miss Spottiswoode!"

Lady Wetheral approached Isabel, and complimented her upon her improved looks during her stay at Wetheral.

"Oh, do you think so, mamma? I know I wish I was not in the family way, for I must be confined at Brierly, Mr. Boscawen says; and the place is so large and dull.—Anna Maria, I wish I was going to Paris with you—any where, to get out of Miss Tabitha's way. Oh, Julia, I hope you won't be in the family way soon, for it is terrible to be such a size, and your figure is so lovely."

"Ring for coffee, Chrystal," said Lady Wetheral, in gentle tones, but suffering acutely under the laugh which was raised by Isabel's speech.

"Oh, don't ring for coffee, yet," cried Isabel. "I have so much to say, and Mr. Boscawen will leave the dining-room if he hears a bell.—No, don't order coffee, yet. Clara, I must not utter Sir Foster's name, because Mr. Boscawen tells me not; but I think I know whose wedding will be next. I saw him in the avenue to-day! ah ha!—I really think you are too handsome for Sir Foster—now I am going to make a match for dear Chrystal."

So ran on the happy, gay-hearted Isabel, perfectly blind to Lady Wetheral's agony of mind, and her efforts to turn the conversation into other hands. Miss Spottiswoode and Miss Wycherly encouraged Isabel's ingenuous and indiscreet powers of chat.

"Chrystal," repeated her ladyship, "I am pining for coffee."

"No, no, I vow you shall not approach the bell," cried Isabel, arresting Christobelle's hand as she prepared to obey the hint. "My dear mamma, don't be thirsty yet, I have so much to say. Do you know I have only recovered my old spirits within these four days, and they will expire again the moment I set off for Brierly. If you ring for coffee, Mr. Boscawen will rise up before me like Samuel at the Witch of Endor's call, which I read this morning to him."

"Do you really read a chapter every morning, besides studying arts and sciences?" asked Miss Wycherly, seating herself on a stool beside Isabel. "Now, girls, form a circle, and listen to Mrs. Boscawen's prospectus of married education."

"Prospectus!" replied Isabel, laughing—"Heaven knows what that is; but, now you are all listening, I will tell you every thing. What merry faces! I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me fill Brierly with such faces, and allow us to scamper over the park and feed the deer. I got old John, one day, to—"

"Who is old John?" said Miss Spottiswoode, who formed the centre of the circle.

"The butler, my dear, the old butler.—I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me do exactly as I like. Ah, Julia, Lord Ennismore is not so old as Mr. Boscawen, so he will be so good-natured!—As to dear Tom Pynsent, I know he will let Anna Maria dance from morning till night. Mr. Boscawen says married women cannot be too grave, but he never told me so till I was married. Mr. Boscawen loves Chrystal; that's one thing, therefore, she will return with us to that horrible Brierly. Mamma, we are going to run away with Chrystal."

"Are you, Mrs. Boscawen?" Her ladyship spoke languidly, as though she was resigned to the endurance of all evils, till her son-in-law should appear.

"Oh yes. Mr. Boscawen told me he should take away my sister Chrys. She is twelve years old, now; quite a companion, he says, for me, if I ever have half her application—that, I'm sure, I never shall have. Old John told me—"

The door opened and disclosed the gaunt figure of Mr. Boscawen, approaching in the dignity of extreme height, and large, bushy eyebrows. He walked slowly and silently towards his young wife, and stationed himself at the back of her chair. Isabel became mute.

"You are early, Mr. Boscawen," observed Lady Spottiswoode. "We were in the first burst of remarks sacred to our sex."

"Make me a participator," he replied, smiling.

"Never," replied Miss Wycherly. "We have too much freemasonry to admit you behind the scenes."

"My wife hears no conversation, Miss Wycherly, which her husband may not share, I presume?"

"La, Mr. Boscawen," eagerly exclaimed Isabel, turning to her husband, "you don't like nonsense, and we talk nothing else."

"I am sorry to hear you confess such folly and wickedness, my love," replied Mr. Boscawen. "I had hoped better things."

"Well, Mr. Boscawen, I don't mean exactly nonsense. I don't mean what you mean by nonsense. I only mean, we—we—"

"What do you really mean, Isabel?" Mr. Boscawen took her hand kindly, and meant evidently to be playful, but it was the donkey attempting to imitate the lapdog. Isabel coloured, and withdrew her hand in alarm. Her husband's shaggy brows concealed the kindly expression of his eye, as it rested upon her face.

"I am sure I don't know, Mr. Boscawen, what I mean. I don't think I ever mean any thing."

Mr. Boscawen made no reply, but resumed his position behind Isabel's chair. An awkward pause was agreeably relieved by the entrance of coffee, and shortly afterwards the gentlemen entered from the dining-room. Tom Pynsent flew to Anna Maria, as usual. Lord Ennismore seated himself by the side of his mother.

"Lord," cried Mrs. Pynsent to Lady Spottiswoode, "I can't find out a single good quality in that fellow, Ennismore, to attract a girl like Julia Wetheral. If the poor monkey hasn't popped himself down by his mother, instead of his bride. Look at my Tom, now! See how he rattles and coos to his dove! Why, my poor Bobby was not such a honey lover as this Ennismore; and Bobby, you know, would not set the Thames on fire."

Sir John sat between Anna Maria and Julia, in silence; he listened with pleased attention to Tom Pynsent, who was dilating upon the comforts he had prepared for his young wife's travelling mania.

"God knows what sort of a figure I shall cut," he remarked, in his usual stentorian tone of voice. "I can't fancy much hunting or good shooting among such thin, whey-faced chaps as the French; and, as to dogs, they can know nothing by being spoken to in such a language. I can't speak a word of French, and Anna Maria is as wise as myself. I haven't a notion how we shall get on, but, if my little girl is pleased, I am content. A man should please his wife, you know, or he must be a brute. I wish the Ennismores would join us. Ennismore, my lad, here, come this way—it is not too late now to change your mind and join us in Paris."

Lord Ennismore rose and joined the party, who had grouped round Sir John and his daughters. Lady Ennismore followed her son, and placed her arm carelessly within his. Tom Pynsent repeated his observation, and Julia gave her bridegroom a beseeching look, which was observed by Miss Wycherly. Lady Ennismore answered Tom Pynsent's appeal, with her sweetest smile.

"I almost wish we were going en masse, my dear friends, to enjoy your delightful visit to Paris. I almost wish the Bedinfield property was situated on the banks of the Loire, to be able to snatch moments at the French capital. My dear Julia will be so occupied in her new domain, she will not have leisure to sigh for other scenes; and I must bask a while in her happiness, before I can allow myself to imagine I am a dowager, and free to roam about."

"Perhaps we will go with you!" exclaimed Isabel, in a moment of excitation, forgetful of Brierly, of her situation, and of her husband's tastes. "Mr. Boscawen, I should so like to go abroad!—Mr. Boscawen, do let us join Tom and Anna Maria!—I should so love to go to a place where I could not speak a word of the language—to see people stare and eat nasty frogs!"

"My dear Isabel!" said her husband, pressing his hand upon her shoulder, in token of his wish she should remain silent.

"Well, Tom Pynsent said so, Mr. Boscawen! didn't you, Tom?—didn't you say they eat frogs, and snails, and things alive?"

Mr. Boscawen never hazarded a reply to provoke fresh rejoinders—he only alluded to Isabel's state of health, which he feared might suffer from late hours, and in a tone of voice, soft, yet decided—a tone which Isabel never dared to resist—he offered his arm, and counselled her to retire for the night.

"Another hour for Mrs. Boscawen—let me pray for one hour only," said Mr. Charles Spottiswoode—"this will be our last general meeting!"

"My wife's health is of great consequence to her friends," replied Mr. Boscawen, mildly, as Isabel rose in dismay. "I must attend to my wife."

"Oh, indeed I am very well in health, Mr. Boscawen, though I am rather heavy to look at. Mrs. Tollemache was much larger than I am, when she danced a reel, wasn't she, Miss Wycherly?"

Mr. Boscawen was deaf and dumb, upon principle, whenever Isabel began to converse. He led his wife to her mother, in silence, to pay her retiring compliments, and Christobelle accompanied them in their transit. When Isabel was deposited in her room, Mr. Boscawen began the evening lecture.

"Isabel, you shock me to death with your ignorance and indelicacy."

"I'm sure I was not indelicate, Mr. Boscawen. You are always finding fault, now I am married to you," sobbed Isabel.

"My love, you should not allude to your situation before gentlemen, or name Mrs. Tollemache in that extraordinary way."

"Well, I did not know there was any harm, Mr. Boscawen! I declare I wish I was not in any situation at all, for you carry me away from every pleasant amusement, and it makes this place as dull as Brierly."

"I am sorry you weep, my love, and find Brierly so dull. I hoped you would be happy here, at least, yet you hurt me by complaining and tears. My dear Isabel, don't be so childish."

"Well, I am a child, Mr. Boscawen. I'm only eighteen, next Sunday."

"I cannot bear to see you weep, Isabel;" and Mr. Boscawen hung tenderly over his wayward wife. "You will do yourself an injury."

Isabel had sufficient acuteness or instinct to perceive the source of her temporary power, and she employed the moment to advantage. Her sobs increased in vehemence.

"I only wished to—to wear—one little white feather—at my sister's wedding to-morrow—and you refused me, Mr. Boscawen."

"Did I, Isabel? Cease this sobbing, and you shall have the feather; do, my love. You shall wear a plume, only be tranquil; as many feathers as you please, Isabel, only cease weeping." Mr. Boscawen drew his sobbing wife upon his knee, and fondled her, like an infant in the arms of its nurse.

"I only wish for two feathers, Mr. Boscawen; one to play easily, and a long thing to droop."

"You shall have them, Isabel; now lay down your little head on my shoulder."

Isabel sank upon her husband's shoulder like a wayward child fatigued with its own efforts; her sobbing gradually subsided, and a low murmuring noise succeeded, which again softened into sighs. Christobelle quitted the Boscawens to return into the drawing-room. Isabel had gained her point, and the feather was won.

How Christobelle's young heart gloried in the scene which presented itself to her view the eventful morning of her sister's marriage! A large and well-dressed company filled the great drawing-room to overflowing; and Christobelle's eye traversed the apartment, resting upon each group, as they offered themselves to her attention. She saw Anna Maria pale as when her heart pined under love unrequited, hanging upon her father's arm, while her lover stood near her, even more red-faced and happy than in his day of acceptance. Julia sat composed between her bridesmaids, Miss Wycherly and Miss Spottiswoode. Lady Ennismore was standing immediately behind her, leaning on her son's arm. Isabel, bright and sparkling, was closely attended by Mr. Boscawen; the plume so long coveted, waving gracefully in her blue silk hat. Mrs. Pynsent was there, full of happy importance, evidently taking command of all proceedings, and untired with gazing upon Tom, her only son, now on the point of leaving England, full dressed for his journey—large, loud, and good-looking. The Tyndals were grouped with the Kerrisons and Clara. Sir Foster stood silent and absent, winking his left eye with a nervous motion, which produced an extraordinary effect.

Lady Wetheral glided among her guests with an ease and grace of manner truly bewitching. No one could have supposed her heart was swelling with triumph at the events which were shortly to deprive her of the society of two children, or that her present attention was deeply fixed upon Clara and Sir Foster Kerrison. Every turn of the baronet's countenance was eagerly noted by her acute eye; and though, to common observers, Sir Foster was looking stupidly before him, winking his eye, and tapping his leg with a cane, her keen perception drew conclusions from impossible things, and it added increased graciousness to her insinuating manners.

Far less satisfied was Sir John Wetheral's mind, as he glanced from Tom Pynsent to the effeminate figure of Lord Ennismore, and thought of Julia's futurity with a man whose mind appeared to be as imbecile as his person was unmanly. Christobelle could trace his thoughts in the expression of his eyes, now gazing with pleasure upon Anna Maria, and anon resting mournfully on his beautiful Julia. Christobelle was too young to sorrow with him, or understand the deep feeling of his mind; but the remembrance of his expressive emotions often came over her in after-life, when experience had enlightened her in suffering, and when the bitter pangs of parental disappointment were more clearly understood.

There was a pause of some moments, after the general hum of a first meeting had subsided, as though all parties awaited a summons to the chapel, which in Wetheral Castle still remained untouched by the hand of time, since the days of the seventh Henry. It was a large, and generally well-filled pile of building, many of the nearer neighbours preferring to attend Wetheral Castle for its accommodation in point of distance, and perhaps with reference to the gay luncheons which awaited their return into the great hall. The deep silence was broken by Mrs. Pynsent.

"Here, hallo! what are we waiting for? John Tyndal has been in his canonicals this half hour. Now, Sir John Wetheral, will you lead Anna Maria? Tom, you be hanged; not so fast, stupy; take Miss Spottiswoode. There you go! Hoy, Charley Spottiswoode, leave Pen, and trot by the side of Mistress Boscawen."

"My wife is under my own charge, thank you," said Mr. Boscawen, bowing smilingly to Mrs. Pynsent.

"Lord, what an ass! Here, Sir Foster, you have tapped a hole in your trowsers with that cane; do move on with Clara Wetheral; she is Anna Maria's bridesmaid. Don't keep humming a tune, my good fellow—get on."

Sir Foster passed on as he was directed, but he took no notice of Mrs. Pynsent's address. He went forward, humming an air, and winking his eye. Clara leaned upon his arm, in white muslin and satin. Never had she looked so very handsome. Perhaps Sir Foster operated as an excitement to her powers of captivation. If a woman could charm Sir Foster Kerrison, she might animate an image of clay; but Clara liked to be spurred on by difficulties.

Tom Pynsent's hunting propensities lay fresh and green at his heart, in spite of circumstance, and a bouquet of geraniums, which bloomed in the button-hole of his coat; for, perceiving Christobelle following the train without a partner, he turned good-humouredly to Henry Tyndal, and called out,—

"Whip in the tail-hound, Harry, and take her to kennel." Christobelle was accordingly escorted into the chapel by Henry Tyndal.

The ceremony ended, which gave Anna Maria for ever to Tom Pynsent, and Julia was saluted Lady Ennismore. Lady Wetheral had reached the summit of her wishes. Which ever way her eye directed its glance, there was glory and triumph. Her two eldest daughters were become head-stones in the county, and Clara was stationed by the side of Sir Foster Kerrison. Could all these things be?

A magnificent breakfast awaited the nuptial cortÈge, but Sir John Wetheral would not appear at the crowded tables; he retired to his study after the ceremony had concluded, desiring to take leave of his children in the privacy of his own place of refuge. Christobelle remained with him during the dÉjeÛnÉ, and Mr. Boscawen was deputed to take his place in the scene of festivity.

Anna Maria appeared in a quarter of an hour, to receive her father's blessing ere she quitted his roof for some months, and his paternal care for ever. Her father kissed her glowing cheek, and bade her depart in peace. "You have married a good man, and a religious man, my dear child; therefore you will be free from the stings of reproach. The trials of life must fall to your share, but there is one who will kindly share your troubles, and watch over you." He turned to Tom Pynsent. "I give you my child with great satisfaction and pride. I give her to you innocent and good; bring her home untainted by the vices of a foreign land." Anna Maria bent her knee, and received her father's blessing with streaming eyes. She was hurried from his arms into the travelling-carriage which was to convey them to the coast. The gentlemen were all assembled, examining its form and workmanship: but she was silently assisted into her new equipage by her brother-in-law and Mr. Wycherly. They respected her emotion, and forbore to increase it by addressing one word of compliment. Tom Pynsent followed, but his progress was arrested by the solicitude of his mother, who had rushed to the door to look once more upon the athletic form of her beloved son. Recollections of long-past days of parental solicitude overwhelmed Mrs. Pynsent's heart, and produced a flood of tears as she whimpered forth, "I say, Tom."

Tom advanced, and shook hands for the third time, besides offering every filial consolation over again.

"Steady now, mother—steady: go it at a hand-canter, and don't be disheartened. Take care of my father, and see to the dogs and colts. Let John Ball exercise Longshanks, and look well to the mare. We shall be back to Pen's wedding."

"Come, none of your jibes, you rascal," cried Mrs. Pynsent, smiling through her tears; "how could I guess who Pen cared for, with her wiffering manners? Well, I will look after your concerns, Tom, but how shall I get on with only Bobby? When will you be home, Tom, and when shall I see you again in Shropshire, and what will become of me till you come back? You are leaving your parents when they most want you, Tom." Mrs. Pynsent's grief became audible; and Mr. Wycherly, waiving his nephew into the carriage, endeavoured to lead his sister from the spot.

"It's no use, Bill; you'll never get me away till I have seen the last of my Tom. Anna Maria, take care of Tom, and bring him safe back."

The carriage rolled away, and Mrs. Pynsent gazed till a turn in the avenue concealed it from her sight; she turned to Mr. Wycherly.

"Take me away now, Bill, and don't speak a word. Put me into my coach, and send Bobby, for I'm done up."

Mr. Wycherly did all and every thing his sister could wish. She was conducted to her "coach," as she always designated the phaeton, weeping violently, and "Bobby" took his place by her side without offering a remark, or hazarding a word of consolation. The Hatton carriage drove off, but poor Mrs. Pynsent's sobs were heard distinctly for some time above the tramp of the horses' feet, as they paced down the green turf of the avenue.

The Bedinfield carriages now drew to the door, and Julia was to depart to another home, as her sister had done before her; but though her destiny appeared more brilliant, though all earthly advantages conspired to render her fate even more envied and enviable than that of Mrs. Tom Pynsent, there was a mournful silence among her friends, and the voice of congratulation sounded low and melancholy.

Smiles and happy prophecy had gladdened Anna Maria's departure; but no one ventured to say that Julia had won a matrimonial prize. No one could confess their heart was not heavy when they saw that young blooming girl led away by Lord and Lady Ennismore—a peeress and a bride. Miss Wycherly sprung towards her friend as she bade them adieu, and burst into tears. "Julia," she said, in a serious and touching tone, "you appear beyond earthly assistance—far beyond human cares; yet we know not what is to be. Julia, in weal or woe, in evil report or good report, Lidham and its inmates are yours for ever."

"Amen," responded Charles Spottiswoode.

Julia paused, struck by the solemn tone of her friend's affectionate speech: her lip quivered, and the colour fled from her cheek.

"Penelope, I know you love me, and I hope our meetings will ever be in undisturbed and happy friendship, but your manner is foreboding of evil."

"I have a pain at my heart, Julia," replied Miss Wycherly, pressing her hand upon her bosom; "but it will pass away. I have a severe pain here, but I trust it will never visit your warm heart. Julia, may you be the happiest of the happy! but, in all changes, remember Penelope Wycherly, whom you served in her need." Miss Wycherly threw her arms round Julia, and the two friends embraced in silence. Lady Ennismore interfered.

"This is a sad specimen of congratulation, my dear Miss Wycherly, and my daughter will be made ill by these agreeable, but hurtful phrases. Ennismore, lead your bride to her father; and we will take possession of our jewel, lest melancholy faces dispirit her mind. Lady Wetheral, I believe we are now preparing to carry away our darling."

Lady Wetheral's eyes sparkled with more than triumphant delight, as Julia was led into her father's study; she followed mechanically in the wake of the two Lady Ennismores, and her step sounded proudly as she remembered that her daughter now was numbered among the great ones of the land. Sir John only considered that his child was the wife of a man he could not love, and the daughter-in-law of a woman he did not esteem. The full tide of affection rushed to his heart, but became unutterable from his lips. He could only press Julia to his bosom; he could not tell her, his mind was happy in the prospect which was before her, but he bade God bless her in spirit, and his embrace spoke volumes.

Miss Wycherly did not intrude upon the sacred scene; but she was stationed in the hall to gaze upon her friend, and watch her movements. Charles Spottiswoode stood near her, but his accents of kind and fond interest were unheeded by Penelope. As Julia emerged from the library, and proceeded towards the hall-door with her new relations, her mother and the Boscawens, Miss Wycherly fixed her eyes upon her friend's pale countenance, and exclaimed, "Julia, you are going; remember my last words, my own dear friend—in all changes, remember me and mine!"

Julia was speechless, but she extended her hand, which Penelope covered with kisses, and resigned with reluctance to Lord Ennismore. "There, my lord," she exclaimed with energy, "take my friend, since it must be so, but you will not love her as I do, or understand her warm heart as I prize it! I shall be ever with you, Julia, in spirit, and my friendship shall be a buckler in time of need. Farewell, my own dear friend!"

Miss Wycherly left the hall, and watched Julia's departure through a window more retired from observation. There was only Charles Spottiswoode to listen, and to him her lamentation was addressed. She told her lover all her fears and all her thoughts respecting Julia's marriage; the melancholy idea took possession of her mind, that Lord Ennismore was unsuited to her friend's character, and, though there was nothing tangible in his lordship's behaviour to elicit a strong objection, there was a decided difference in his character, a manner totally opposed to the character and kindly bearing of her cousin Tom, which must affect every body's mind and opinions. She had an ominous foreboding that Julia would be unhappy, and never would she marry Charles Spottiswoode, unless he would swear, under all reports, under all circumstances, to receive Julia Wetheral at Lidham; yes, though she became a worthless thing, poor, miserable, and contemptible. "Swear it to me, Charles," she cried, "swear it now, ere the carriage-door closes on my friend, and carries her from my sight!"

"I do, Penelope," replied Spottiswoode, kindly. "Lady Ennismore will find me her warm friend in every trial; but, why are you so fearful and foreboding now? Why do your fears gain such influence and mastery at this moment of time, when her heart is calm, and his affection is undisputed?"

"God help me, Charles! but, as Julia came from the library just now, she looked like a lamb led to the slaughter. Did you read the expression of Lady Ennismore, the mother's eyes?"

"I did not observe her. I was watching your eyes, Penelope."

Miss Wycherly heeded not the words which at another time would have soothed and pleased; she became restless as Julia lingered on the steps with her mother, and her desire was to see Julia once more before she quitted Wetheral, to embrace her yet again, and repeat offers of kindness, which must be totally useless to Lady Ennismore, though they relieved her heart to utter them. Charles Spottiswoode urged her to remain, and avoid giving renewed pain to her friend, who had felt evidently struck by the ominous farewell; but Miss Wycherly would hear no objection to her anxiety. She advanced hurriedly to the door, but Charles stood before her, playfully holding her hands, and entreating her to resume her seat. The little strife of lovers did not last many moments; the sound of carriage-wheels caused Miss Wycherly to rush past her companion, and enter the hall. Julia was gone.