Hatton was by no means so agreeable a sÉjour to Christobelle as in former days. The Pynsents were never happy without the four unruly children constantly in their sight; and their amusements were the chief subjects under consideration. The children scrambled over the table to snatch at the dessert; they were admitted in the drawing-room at all hours, and in every phase of dirt and fighting; they were to drag heavy weights round the room at pleasure, and every one made themselves a party in their quarrels.

Mrs. Pynsent generally advocated the part of the baby, whom she designated "that proper divil of a Bill," with a hearty vehemence which increased the uproar and confusion; while her son, with stentorian voice, argued in favour of the girls. Anna Maria rarely interfered in the alarum which occurred. She sat smiling at the fray, only her distress was occasionally awakened by the length and frequency of the battles, and her taste was offended at intervals, by the disagreeable abbreviation of their names. She "wished her Mary could be called by her right name, and not Moll. She would give any thing they would call the baby Willy, instead of that horrid 'Bill;' and as to Bab, it was a shocking word; but Bab she would be called for ever. Barbara was too long a word for her mother and Tom to pronounce. Sometimes she fancied their noise must be disagreeable to their guests, but Tom loved to have the little things round him."

The Pynsents were, therefore, the happiest people possible in themselves; but it was extremely disagreeable. Every body must think Hatton a very disagreeable place to stay at now; and Christobelle was glad to escape with Mr. Boscawen the following day to Lidham. She had little difficulty in privately persuading him to curtail their intended stay at Hatton, and proceed to the Spottiswoodes. He, as well as Christobelle, felt the utter hopelessness of procuring a peaceful moment, where every thought and feeling was absorbed in four remarkably noisy children. How very different to the Hatton of other days, when she enjoyed the society of her sister undisturbed, and spent there such happy hours of her life! It was there, too, she met first the man whom she hoped to make happy for long years of futurity.

Christobelle thought they should never be allowed to enter the carriage when it drew up to the door. The children were delighted to get in and out, and Tom particularly amused himself with putting up the steps and throwing them down again with as much noise as the leather would allow. Tom Pynsent detained Christobelle in the hall, to enable her to enjoy a scene which he considered most delectable; and Mrs. Pynsent uttered exclamations of delight, as she watched the baby trying with all its might to imitate his companions.

"I say, Tom, do look at that divil of a Bill, trying to clamber into the carriage; did you ever see such a young dog? Moll, put Bill into the carriage. Let my sharpshooter take his turn. Moll, you'll break his leg!"

The "sharpshooter" was handed into the carriage by the butler, for "Moll" could not lift the scrambling child, and they all began jumping upon the seat till a battle commenced, through the instrumentality of Bab, who had pulled Tom's hair rather too roughly. The screams of Tom were echoed by the baby; and Bab cried violently at her own ferocity. Tom Pynsent and their grandmother both spoke at once, in their loudest key.

"Halloo there, you young ones. Bill, what are you at, all of you? Hand out that young dog," cried Mrs. Pynsent.

"What the devil are you all roaring at? Moll, what's the matter?" called out Tom Pynsent.

"Pa, Bab pulled Tom's hair!" screamed Miss Mary, alias Moll; Mrs. Pynsent's words now became confounded with those of her son.

"What the devil!—don't fight there, you rascals!—Hand out Bill, James; they'll kill that poor Bill.—Here, Tom, never mind your hair: bring some cakes here, Dick, to stop this row.—Hand out that Bill thing, Thomas, he's on his head.—They're murdering Bill!"

"I declare my children will fight themselves to death," said Anna Maria, who took no part in the affair, "I am sure they will kill each other. Tom, dear, don't let the children fight so."

Mr. Boscawen took advantage of the moment when the carriage was emptied of its noisy contents, and hurried Christobelle into it. She was too willing to quit the uproar of Hatton not to rejoice at his polite movement, and both were glad to remain silent for some time after they had quitted its grounds.

"I fancied," said Mr. Boscawen, after a long pause, "that Isabel spoiled her children, till I have now compared them with their cousins. I shall remain satisfied in future that they are not more vivacious than healthy children should be."

"It is altogether a different form of government at Brierly. You are monarch, though an indulgent one; but it is a frightful democracy at Hatton."

"I shall keep my young ones out of the infection," he observed; "for though Mary and Barbara may have hearts as kindly affectioned as their grandmother, those manners are deplorable. I should be sorry to see my little Bell become coarse and loud in her way of speaking."

"What could be the cause of the Miss Wycherlys imbibing such manners, in the first instance?" asked Christobelle.

"Old Wycherly was a broker," replied Boscawen; "and he retired to Lidham with an immense fortune, and a young wife whose connections were far superior to his own. Mrs. Wycherly did not live many years, and the daughters were allowed to educate themselves, and to act, in every respect, as seemed good in their own eyes. They were always the subject of conversation; and, though they never were suspected of any thing more reprehensible than extreme wildness, their conduct subjected them to many extraordinary scenes, and much objectionable remark. Captain Hancock drank, I believe, to drown care, and Mrs. Hancock was infinitely the worst of the two. How the young ladies learned their swearing propensities, I cannot tell; but I have heard that their brother Wycherly led them into very exceptionable society in his youthful days. They were an extraordinary trio. No one, however, spoke ill of them."

"They had great good nature, I suppose."

"They had great wealth, Bell, or they never could have held any position in society. Four hundred thousand pounds drew the first gentlemen in the county to Lidham."

Christobelle chatted till the Lidham woods rose in sight, and then she became silent. Every thing connected with the name of Spottiswoode held a powerful interest in her heart, and concentrated her thoughts upon himself. She had heard from him once since her arrival at Brierly, and then he spoke so cheerlessly of her mother's spirits, that he lingered to assist and console her father. He knew, he said, that he was giving her pleasure by attending upon her father, and he hoped so much from his assiduities! Dear Spottiswoode, how much more sanguinely than herself did he expect a change in her mother's sentiments!

As the carriage drove through the lodges, a gentleman on horseback galloped towards them. "Here comes Charles full of news," said Boscawen; "and he is riding fast, I suppose, to carry it fresh into Shrewsbury. A little news is a passport among one's neighbours."

Christobelle bent forward to observe Charles Spottiswoode; but no, it was not Charles Spottiswoode. Her heart beat thickly, and her eyes strained to gaze. She knew the horseman from afar: she knew the air, the figure, and the style of riding, well. Was her lover winging his way to her?—was he thinking of Brierly, and one there who loved him better than herself? Christobelle caught her brother's hand. "Boscawen, it is not him, it is John Spottiswoode! what brings him so soon from Fairlee?"

"God bless me!" cried Boscawen, "it is indeed our friend from the north, and I must stop him, or he will never condescend to look at us." He put his head out of the carriage-window, and waved his hand: Sir John Spottiswoode heeded not the movement. He was riding rapidly by, and would have passed with a slight inclination of the head, had not Christobelle caught his eye. His handsome face glowed with surprise and delight, while her own feelings, so very suddenly called into action, completely took away her powers of speech. She could only hold out her hand, as he checked his horse, and wheeled round to the window, but it was pressed so fondly—and he looked so bright and happy!

"Why, Spottiswoode, what fair lady are you scampering after, that you nearly passed by us?" exclaimed Boscawen, shaking him by the hand.

"Never mind, I am going to turn back with you. Indeed, I was galloping to Shrewsbury, to get upon the coach for Brierly. I only arrived this morning."

"My mother, Spottiswoode," uttered Christobelle, in alarm—"how is my mother?"

"On her road to Wetheral, by short stages; I am but their avant courier, Chrystal. I have brought a letter for you. You will now, perhaps, offer me a seat in your carriage to Brierly, when you return. My brother said nothing about your visit—do they expect you?"

"No, I am making a tour with my young sister—but let us reach Lidham before we enter into particulars."

The carriage moved on, and Spottiswoode rode by its side. How unexpected was this meeting, and how busy were Christobelle's thoughts, conjecturing upon the motive of her mother's early journey! If it had but a happy reference towards herself, how would her cup of joy be filled! but, no, her mother never forgave an offence like hers!

Christobelle was prepared to meet astonishment at Lidham, as she had found it every where else, since her return into Shropshire, and she was not deceived. Mrs. Charles Spottiswoode held her from her at arm's length, as she examined her person and growth.

"My dear little Bell, is this really and truly yourself? I have heard of you from persons whom I did not consider altogether unprejudiced in their accounts; but, indeed, I now see it with my own eyes! John, you have not said half enough of this creature. I recognise her eyes—those large eyes—but these ringlets—that figure—no, John, upon my honour, you did not do her justice!"

Spottiswoode stood by Christobelle, and his eyes flashed a proud satisfaction at the remarks of his sister-in-law.

"But, Charles, Charles," she continued, "tell me if you could recognise Bell Wetheral in this grand creature! tell me if it is not a vision, for I cannot think I really see the prim little Bell, always poring over books, and diving out of her father's study with a little shock head, like my terrier Tarter!"

"Yes, I recognise Miss Wetheral," answered Mr. Spottiswoode, "for I see the same expression of good-humour, and the same fine outline, which gave such promise of what we behold. Miss Wetheral, you are most welcome to Lidham."

"By the Lord Harry!" cried Mr. Wycherly, emerging from his own room in spectacles, "here's a posse comitatus! Well, I'm come to welcome the new filly myself. How d'ye do, Miss Wetheral?—how d'ye do, ma'am? God help us, how the young people grow! They run us down, Mr. Boscawen! You are come to stay a week—a month with us, I hope? Come in, come in, all of you!" They entered the sitting-room, and the conversation was general for a short time, till Mrs. Spottiswoode suddenly turned to Christobelle.

"My dear Bell, I know what your anxiety must be, to hear of those whom John has left behind. I see, by the expression of those large eyes, that you are longing to hear news of Fairlee. Come with me, and I give John alone leave to follow us. We will adjourn into the library. I can quite understand your feelings. John, you may follow us with your letters."

Mrs. Spottiswoode led Christobelle into the library, and there she again embraced her. The first reception, she said, belonged to Miss Wetheral, but now she embraced her future relation—the bride of her excellent John—the brother beloved by all! She was embracing now the future Lady Spottiswoode. Christobelle returned her embrace with fervent pleasure. She said her heart rejoiced in the congratulations of her friends, and in the language of praise which always accompanied the mention of Spottiswoode's name. She only hoped—and she expressed the hope with tears—that her mother would in time see Spottiswoode with the eyes of all who knew his great worth; that she would in time receive him as a dear son, and remove the only impediment to her happiness, by extending the hand of friendship towards him, and her pardon towards herself. Mrs. Spottiswoode hoped all things.

"My dear Chrystal—which, by the by, is a prettier designation than Bell—there is bitter in every cup. Rest happy in the knowledge that Lady Wetheral's offended feelings proceed from disappointed views, and not from unworthiness in the object. It must always be painful to displease a parent, but it cannot, in this particular case, strike deep into your happiness. Your excellent father long wished for the match—he confessed it to John. Come in!" A gentle tap at the door was heard, and Spottiswoode entered.

"You allowed me to follow you—am I welcome now?"

"Ever welcome, wherever you appear, John; and most welcome to Chrystal and myself," said Mrs. Spottiswoode; "I will leave you while you read your letters together. I shall allow you a quarter of an hour, to acquaint yourself with their contents, Chrystal."

"One hour, Pen—only one little sixty-five minutes!" cried Spottiswoode, beseechingly.

"Indeed, you shall not monopolize my guest an hour, John. Do as you please at Brierly—but I will only relinquish Chrystal a quarter of an hour from this moment."

"Chrystal!" said Spottiswoode, as the door closed upon his sister—"Chrystal!"

Christobelle beheld her lover's arms extended. Away with every feeling but unfeigned joy to behold him again. She flew towards him, to be clasped to his dear, warm heart! "And now," she said, when their spirits had become somewhat tranquil, "tell me of my father, and tell me of my mother. Are they on the road?"

She listened with trembling eagerness to his reply. Spottiswoode had not seen Lady Wetheral since Christobelle quitted Fairlee. She could not be persuaded to leave her room, or resume the direction of the establishment. Sir John Wetheral suffered greatly from her determined resolution to avoid the man on whom he had bestowed his daughter; and he felt deeply, also, the privation of domestic comfort. It was that privation which kept Spottiswoode at Fairlee—he was anxious to be useful to the father who mourned her daughter's absence, and felt alone, in his own house.

Spottiswoode knew Christobelle would wish him to stay and solace her father—and he did stay; but his thoughts were chained to Brierly, while he lingered at Lochleven. He had never trusted himself to visit places where they had roamed together. He had not once dared to seat himself on the rocky bench, or walk the terrace by moonlight. He had sat constantly reading in the window which witnessed their first confession of attachment, and he numbered the days which lagged heavily between him and his rest. He had been three weeks absent from all he loved.

How Christobelle dwelt upon the words which fell from Spottiswoode's lips! She could not sorrow for her mother's harshness while he was near her. She only felt the calm of his presence, and the absence of every regret. But she should weep when she was alone again! She should suffer when she had time to reflect upon every thing—but not at that moment, for the arm of Spottiswoode encircled her, and she was too happy to reflect.

Christobelle received no letter from Lady Wetheral, but her father wrote to her of all he suffered; and he said, his happiest moments were passed in contemplating her prospects. His Chrystal was given to a man who would value the blessing conferred upon him. She would be the wife of a good man—a wife as happy as Isabel, or as Anna Maria proved to be—a wife whose hopes were anchored upon high principle and religious feeling, and who, therefore, would not be called upon to endure the undying torments of self-reproach.

He could not allow himself to think upon Clara—but she had been removed early from her strife. What Julia's destiny would be, he could not venture to assert. She was a banished child to him. They were to begin their journey the day after Spottiswoode quitted Fairlee, but the passage would be very slowly made, as her mother could not endure travelling long—her nerves were worse than ever. Her father urged her to be at Wetheral to receive them. If her other parent would not see her, Wetheral was large enough to contain them apart, but he could not live without her, and she must not disappoint him of her presence. Her father concluded his epistle with a thousand parental blessings and cares for her future comforts.

Spottiswoode watched Christobelle as she read. "Is it a letter of comfort, my Chrystal?" he asked, as she finished its perusal. "Yes, I think so, by those large eyes, as Pen calls them. It is a letter of comfort, is it not, dearest Chrystal?"

Christobelle placed it silently into his hands, and she now watched Spottiswoode as he read. She saw the deepened red upon his cheek, as he lingered over her father's commendation, and his eye met her own.

"Every word of it is true, Spottiswoode," she observed.

"You are a partial, dear creature, Chrystal; but I will try to deserve his opinion so kindly expressed."

Mrs. Spottiswoode entered. "Three minutes past the quarter, John, and every one is impatient to see Chrystal again. Papa says she is as beautiful as his celebrated colt, which is the height of his commendation. I am jealous, too, myself of your society. You must return with me, good people." She led them forth.

Christobelle conferred with Boscawen upon the contents of her father's letter. Since he wished her to be at Wetheral when he arrived, she thought she had better not return to Brierly. They might travel more rapidly than was anticipated. Lady Wetheral might feel more equal to the journey than she imagined, and Christobelle might be at Brierly the moment they reached Wetheral. She felt she would prefer returning to Wetheral from Lidham; and Isabel would understand the circumstances, which left her no power to act otherwise. She would return to Brierly at a future time.

"Do as you please, my dear Chrystal: I think you are right in your decision. Your trunks shall be forwarded to Wetheral, and I will see you safely there to-morrow."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" said Mrs. Spottiswoode. "Mr. Boscawen, you are an excellent guardian, but I cannot think your scheme a good one. Leave Chrystal with us: we are only three miles from Wetheral, and I will drive her over every day, to make preparations. If Sir John Wetheral should arrive unexpectedly, she will be there in twenty minutes—Chrystal shall not remain alone in that enormous place!"

Much consultation took place, and it was decided, at last, that Christobelle should accept Mrs. Spottiswoode's invitation, and remain at Lidham: Mr. Boscawen consequently changed his own plans, and determined to return immediately to Brierly. The horses were yet at Lidham, and they should take him back to Shrewsbury.

"Now what extreme folly, my dear Mr. Boscawen! You intended to stay here with Chrystal: why not allow us still the pleasure of your company?" Mrs. Spottiswoode would not hear of his departure. "Charles, persuade Mr. Boscawen to remain at Lidham!"

But Mr. Boscawen was resolved to return to Isabel: "he was in attendance upon Christobelle when he left his home; and now that charge was removed, he must return to Brierly and Isabel. He should acquaint her with Christobelle's movements, and he felt obliged by their wish to detain him, but he never left Isabel unless a momentous care devolved upon him, such as watching over the personal safety of his attractive sister Bell, or a child's tooth to be extracted. He should return now in time for Isabel's tea."

Excellent Boscawen! How fortunate was Isabel in securing a man so devoted to her comforts, and so loth to be absent from her. Her father was indeed right when he said Boscawen's age was the only objection he could urge against him.

And Christobelle was left at Lidham with the Spottiswoodes—the Miss Wycherly of other days, when Julia was her bosom-friend, and the Charles Spottiswoode with whom she suffered so long and despairingly, till Julia's bold confession ended the painful suspense on both sides! She was also wedded in heart to the elder brother, and their renewed acquaintance sprung at once into friendship at the very moment of its renewal.

But where was Julia, who used to gladden her friends' heart so often? Where was the confidante of Penelope Wycherly, who used to fly to Lidham, to console and assist her friend in adversity, caused by her own transgressions? Where was that sprightly, affectionate creature? Alas! she was lost to her friends, and her voice had ceased to be heard among them! More than five years had elapsed since Julia's marriage, and from that hour she had never seen Lidham, or its inmates; she had not even noticed the nuptials of its mistress. What a change must have come over Julia!

It was a day of exquisite enjoyment at Lidham. Mrs. Spottiswoode loved to look at Christobelle, for she said she was strangely like Julia, and her heart bounded towards her as to an old and dear friend. Spottiswoode was also at her side, and there were no noisy children to break the tranquillity of her enjoyment by their unwelcome mirth. How could she be otherwise than most happy? What evil could reach her, while those she loved were near, and she could listen to the voice of her beloved one? None!

Mrs. Spottiswoode engaged the following morning to drive Christobelle to Wetheral, and the ladies agreed to remain quietly in the house with their work, till the hour arrived for their airing. It was then that Mrs. Spottiswoode opened her heart, and told Christobelle all her fears respecting Julia's happiness. She heard only reports like the rest of the world; but they were reports which filled her with uneasiness and apprehension. She felt assured her friend had been sacrificed, and she was equally certain the Dowager-countess had been the mental vampire which clung to Julia, and destroyed her peace, by interfering with and withholding her correspondence. Sir John Wetheral had suspected as much at Bedinfield himself—she knew it was not Julia's nature to forget her friends—she would never credit the assertion, let who would insinuate it.

Reports breathed suspicion on her fame, with regard to Colonel Neville; but she would stake her existence that, however Julia's taste must have turned disgusted from her wretched lord, she was pure as unsunned snow. Any one who dared to question her friend's purity of mind before her, would rouse the blood of all the Wycherlys in her veins. Charles did not like the subject ever brought forward in her presence, because she felt keenly every remark which touched upon her friend's miserable fate; but now the gentlemen were out of the way, she could unfold her fears to Christobelle.

"If ever there was a wretch in the form of mortal, Chrystal," she continued, "it is that wicked dowager; and we shall live to see it confirmed in the case of my poor Julia, the friend of my youth, whom I loved so dearly. I told Charles she was going to woe, when she was led like a lamb to the slaughter! Oh, Julia should not have married Lord Ennismore, Chrystal!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode became affected as she dwelt upon the scenes of the past; and she detailed to Christobelle many incidents which had escaped her young observation. It was delightful to Christobelle to hear her talk of Julia, and her eyes often bore testimony to the sympathy she felt in the narration of their long friendship, and the events of their earliest days. The hall-door bell pealed its sounds as they wept and talked. Mrs. Spottiswoode was surprised and annoyed; she breathed hastily upon her hands, and applied them to her eyes.

"How very disagreeably early some people are calling; and our eyes, Chrystal, are quite unfit to be seen! I must draw down the blinds. I really cannot receive any one with such a pair of eyes and such a heavy heart, comfortably."

The door was thrown open, but no name was announced. A female figure, however, appeared, and approached slowly and unsteadily towards Mrs. Spottiswoode. She spoke in tones which startled her ear and heart.

"I am come to try my friend's truth; for she told me that in evil report, or in good report, in weal or woe, here I should find rest!"

Mrs. Spottiswoode stood motionless.

"Julia!" she faintly uttered—"is this Julia's voice!"

"It is Julia, Penelope! I am come to seek my promised home, for elsewhere there is none!"

"Welcome, a thousand welcomes!" cried Mrs. Spottiswoode, springing towards Lady Ennismore, and clasping her to her heart with a straining pressure—"oh! welcome, whatever event may have brought my lost Julia home!"

"Home!" replied Lady Ennismore—"home! Have I been obliged to return from whence I came, to find a home!" Lady Ennismore shuddered as she spoke, and fell senseless in the still close embrace of her friend.

"Chrystal!" cried Mrs. Spottiswoode, "bolt the door: let no one enter this room!"

Miss Wetheral obeyed in silence, and she then assisted Mrs. Spottiswoode in conveying her sister to the sofa, where she remained extended till her consciousness gradually returned. Mrs. Spottiswoode trembled, but her powers of thought were clear and undisturbed. She spoke low, as Lady Ennismore lay in blessed forgetfulness of present sufferings.

"Chrystal, we will carry Julia into your room when she recovers, and here my angel friend will be tranquil. I will trust—I know she is blameless! but a thousand errors would not change my love, or the devotion with which I will watch over her for ever. If all the world deserted her, she would be my own dear friend; but for her fame's sake, I hope—no, it is not so—it is not so!"

Christobelle gazed in astonishment at her sister's extended form. She mechanically obeyed Mrs. Spottiswoode's directions, but her mind was a chaos. She heard her remarks, though she did not reply to them; she could not withdraw her eyes from the object which absorbed all her wonder.

"Chrystal," continued Mrs. Spottiswoode, as she chafed Julia's temples with eau de Cologne, "there has been dreadful work to bring my blessed friend to this! Her spirit has been dealt with beyond her powers of endurance, to urge this step; but I, Penelope, am with her, and she is again at Lidham. I bless the events which have brought her from banishment, and given her again to her friends!"

A slight pressure from the hand which was clasped by Mrs. Spottiswoode, attested returning animation in Lady Ennismore, and proved that she heard and understood her friends' words. Mrs. Spottiswoode proceeded with deep feeling.

"Julia, you hear me—you hear your friend declare, that she cannot mourn the cause which has given her back the companion of her early days. We were ever together, Julia, and together we enjoyed our first step upon the gay stage of our pleasures. We will also walk together through the waters of adversity, and our sorrows shall be, as our joys have been, borne in fellowship. I am Penelope Wycherly in heart, and you are Julia Wetheral. We will part no more, my own dear, ill-used friend!"

Lady Ennismore raised her head from its pillow with effort.

"I have been hardly dealt with, I have been cruelly treated, Penelope! I must have been very treacherously used, since I believed in the desertion of all my friends!"

"I see it all; I have long seen and feared all this, Julia! I know the snares which have been set to wreck your happiness, and throw you from your husband's heart! I know the influence which was feared and counteracted by that vile woman, with all the energy of vileness!"

A fit of trembling attacked Lady Ennismore, and cold perspiration bedewed her face and hands.

"If you have seen it, or can understand it, Penelope," she exclaimed, "how must I have felt it!" Lady Ennismore sunk back with the effort of speaking.

"Chrystal," said Mrs. Spottiswoode, "let us support Lady Ennismore to your room at once. There alone will be security and quiet. The gentlemen may be returning."

"What gentlemen?" exclaimed Lady Ennismore, hastily. "Don't allow Neville to come near me. I will never see him again."

"No one is coming, my own Julia, but Charles Spottiswoode. You remember Charles Spottiswoode—your friend and mine, and now my husband?"

"Yes, I remember him, but I never heard of your nuptials; every body was so silent, every thing was kept from me!"

"Did Colonel Neville never inform you of Shropshire events, through the medium of the papers, dearest?"

The name of Neville pronounced by other lips produced extreme terror. Lady Ennismore started up, and seized Mrs. Spottiswoode's hands.

"Don't believe a word of it, Penelope!—don't credit that horrible assertion! it is untrue! As I am looking for the peace which can only reach me beyond the grave, I never lost my own respect, or forgot I was a wife!"

"I knew it—I knew it!—I never would believe a word of their vile reports!" exclaimed Mrs. Spottiswoode, bursting into tears: "but oh, Julia, your words are balm to my heart!"

"I have flown from treachery, Penelope; and if you receive me, so will my father. Oh, my father!—my poor father!—you told me your heart was not in my marriage! I heeded you not! I clung to my mother's prophecies that I should be great and happy!"

Lady Ennismore's emotion became alarming; and it was with some difficulty she was conveyed into her sister's apartment. She leaned upon her friend, and Christobelle assisted in supporting her trembling form. Christobelle marked her sister's emotion, and heard her deep suppressed sobs. The last time she beheld Julia Wetheral she was led in the pomp and circumstance of bridal glory, anticipating the excellent things which wealth and station are supposed to command.

Lady Ennismore was laid upon the bed, and it was hoped repose would give comparative tranquillity, but Julia's disease was of the heart: she could not rest.

"Penelope," she said, as her pale cheek grew hectic in its deep glow, "I have flown from Neville!—I have not flown with him! The world may say my flight was wrong, but they cannot say it was infamous!"

"Heed them not who dare say so, Julia. We are together, and my love shall be your shield from the world's remarks—but it will soon distinguish your innocence—it will not lay the burthen on the innocent long. You will be justified in your action, my own dear friend!"

"I hope so—I hope so! I fled from my own heart, too, Penelope; I might have fallen like others, but I fled from my own heart, and from persecution. Oh! don't let any one come near me but yourself, Penelope. That young lady is very kind. I told Neville to follow me no more. Do not persecute me, Neville—let me alone to grieve silently. I am unhappy, but I am yet a guiltless wife. I will go to Penelope...."

Lady Ennismore's spirit wandered: fever was upon her cheek, and she ceased to remember her own friend.

"I will go to Penelope—she always loved me, and she will save her poor friend. I wish I could get to Lidham! A chaise, Conynham—a chaise to the lake-house! If I could only get in—but my foot will not move. Lift me in, Conynham, if you would save me from the Countess!"

A slight shriek broke from Julia's lips, as if in her vision she had encountered her mother-in-law. Mrs. Spottiswoode sent instantly for advice, and she summoned her husband, to consult with him upon the extraordinary arrival of Lady Ennismore. While the short interview took place in her dressing-room, Christobelle sat by the bed-side of the invalid, who had relapsed into total forgetfulness of her situation; and she could gather from her wanderings the nature of her sufferings, and the reason of her flight from Bedinfield. It broke Christobelle's heart, to hear her mournful voice in its ravings.

"Let me attend my lord, I beseech you. If he is ill, who dare close the doors of his apartments upon his wife? It is my duty to wait upon my lord—no, I will not be left whole hours and days with Neville. I know his kindness and his love for me. Where is my father? Will any one seek my father?—no, Neville, never—I am a wife—a guiltless wife—do not persecute me. I will go to Penelope, for she never ceased to love me—they are dead, I think—all that belong to me are dead!"

Low moanings succeeded, till again Julia burst forth in complaint, as her ideas dwelt upon the painful scenes of Bedinfield. All her anxiety manifested itself in reproaches to Colonel Neville, and in fancied inability to enter her lord's chamber. Not one self-reproach mingled among her moving cries—all was purity of thought, as Mrs. Spottiswoode had unceasingly believed and maintained, in her remarks upon Julia's conduct.

Charles Spottiswoode heard her complaints, as she rambled in alarm lest the Countess should intercept her flight to Penelope, and he could not endure the sound of her voice in sorrow: he quitted the dressing-room in distress almost as poignant as that which agonized the heart of his lady, who sat in silence and in tears, hoping fervently that the step of the physician would soon be heard. It was vain to soothe her complaints; she did not hear the voice of consolation. She was conversing with herself upon circumstances which absorbed her attention, and her mind was evidently in the home she had quitted so eagerly. He came at last. The voice of Dr. Darwin sounded in the gallery, and there was hope and comfort in the knowledge that all would be done which science and kindness could effect. This was the second member of the Wetheral family whom he had attended under circumstances peculiarly painful.

Dr. Darwin at once discovered the secret of Lady Ennismore's state, and applied himself to give temporary tranquillity to her disordered mind. It could be, he said, but temporary rest: he could not make her forget the sorrow which raged within, or mitigate her waking grief—that must be effected by other hands—but anodynes would lull its fury, and bestow rest upon the frame. Since Lady Ennismore spoke fondly of her father and Mrs. Spottiswoode, they must be near her; and, if possible, they should be present whenever she woke from her unnatural rest. The sight of esteemed objects was grateful, and would prevent the immediate recurrence of painful Wetheral was expected shortly, and he would advise the constant attendance at present of Mrs. Spottiswoode alone.

Mrs. Spottiswoode remarked that Lady Ennismore had not recognised Christobelle during the whole scene. She thought it a remarkable instance of forgetfulness in a person so nearly connected. Dr. Darwin considered it only a proof of the depth of her suffering, which fed exclusively upon itself. Till the recognition took place, he prohibited Christobelle's return into her room, but the sooner it was named to her ladyship the better—it would rouse her attention from more afflicting thoughts.

Dr. Darwin remained at Lidham till the medicine took effect upon Julia's nerves, and she sank into sleep. Mrs. Spottiswoode and Christobelle then sat in the dressing-room, with its door half closed, and pondered over the event of the morning. It was too evident that the Dowager had thrown Colonel Neville constantly into the society of Julia, and that she had been debarred all communication with Lord Ennismore.

What could be the reason which prompted the Dowager to poison the fountain of their domestic peace? It was that insatiable love of power, which thirsted for entire dominion over the imbecile mind of her son, and for which every tie, moral and religious, must be torn asunder. It was that devouring passion for domination, which swallowed up every kindly feeling, and bore down all impediments to its terrific strides. It had sacrificed the happiness of Julia, the best and gentlest of created beings—it had aimed at her reputation; and, to sever Julia's influence from her son at one fell swoop, the Countess had endeavoured to make her a prey to infamy. She had endeavoured to cause an eternal separation between two unoffending beings, that her reign at Bedinfield might be perpetual! She had succeeded only in driving Julia from her husband's house. Oh, Power! how gradually and wickedly do its votaries consume every right principle, to feed its fiercely-burning fires!

Christobelle saw Spottiswoode but once after her sister's mournful entrance into Lidham, and she was too much overpowered with regret to enjoy his society. She could not recall her thoughts from Julia, to concentrate them even upon him—but he was also in low spirits. His feeling heart sympathised in the general sorrow, and they mourned together over the fallen hopes and the short career of Julia's brilliant prospects. Like a shooting star, she had fallen from the altitudes of a princely marriage, to the cold, dark nothingness of disappointed earthly pleasures. How Christobelle mourned over her brightly gay sister, whom she remembered so lovely and so loved! She did not remain long with Spottiswoode. She left him, to pass the evening and night in her dressing-room, to assist Mrs. Spottiswoode in her cares, and to think of Julia.