A train of servants in the spacious hall stood ready to receive their Lord and Lady. Amongst them was a respectable middle-aged woman, who, with deep respect, mingled with tears of joy and affection, addressed the Earl: he kindly and condescendingly took her hand, and said, "My good Mrs. Bayfield, I hope you are quite well: I am rejoiced to see you look so. See, my worthy friend, I have brought you a new Lady. Ellen, my love, I am sure I need not tell you to esteem my good housekeeper and nurse, for such she has been to me in much of illness and affliction." Ellen, with some kind words, offered her hand to Mrs. Bayfield, who, courtesying, received it with an air of the most profound respect. St. Aubyn also spoke with great kindness to the other servants, and then led Ellen into a magnificent library, which he told her was his usual sitting-room when at St. Aubyn's. Ellen, fatigued with her journey and the surprizing occurrences of the day, was not then able to do more than take a cursory survey of it; but she saw that here was entertainment and instruction enough to fill a long life, if even wholly devoted to literary pursuits.

In a few minutes a man of a venerable appearance, dressed in the cassock of a dignified clergyman, entered the library, whom St. Aubyn announced to Ellen as his friend and chaplain the Rev. Doctor Montague. "See, my dear Montague," said he, "this lovely creature, who has generously forgiven my appearing to her in an assumed character, and before she knew how much my real station was superior to that in which she first saw me, most kindly assured me of her perfect willingness to share my fate, be it what it might." He gave her hand to the good old man, who, clasping it between both his, said, "Pardon, Madam, this freedom in a man who has for many years felt the affection of a father for your excellent Lord." Ellen bent her knee to him as to a second Ross, whose blessing she had been accustomed to ask in that posture with Joanna. The venerable man understood the graceful appeal, although fashion has so long proscribed it to her votaries; and raising his hands and eyes, said, "God bless you, lovely lady, and you, my dear Lord, with her!"

St. Aubyn then said a few words in a low voice to the Doctor, to which he replied, "Certainly, my Lord: if you have the least doubt of the entire legality of your marriage, it will be far the best way: have you the licence?" "Yes, here," said the Earl: "examine it, if you please. Ellen, my love," he added, turning towards her, "are your spirits too much fatigued, or will you oblige me, by allowing Montague to read the marriage-ceremony to us: I have a special licence from the Archbishop, and it will not take many minutes?" Ellen bowed a silent assent; and Montague, saying it would be proper to have witnesses, proposed speaking to Mrs. Bayfield, and Thornton, Lord St. Aubyn's gentleman, on whose secrecy they might rely, as of course it was desirable not to have the transaction made public. He went therefore to them, and having told them all that was necessary, they immediately attended; and the marriage-ceremony being read, Montague prepared a certificate, which was signed by all present, and deposited in Ellen's care.

All parties seemed rejoiced when this embarrassing business was concluded, which though it gratified Ellen as shewing her Lord's extreme anxiety to satisfy any doubt she might feel, yet could not be agreeable to either. A Sandwich tray was soon after brought in, filled with refreshments: after partaking of which, Ellen and the wondering Jane were shewn to an elegant dressing-room, which communicated with a still more splendid bed-chamber, both fitted up with the most peculiar attention, not only to costliness and effect, but to convenience and comfort, as the contrivances for hot and cold baths, and every luxurious accommodation both here and in a gentleman's dressing-room on the other side the bed-room, sufficiently evinced. All Jane's profound respect for her Lady could not keep her entirely silent, nor repress the exclamations of wonder and delight with which she greeted every elegant article of furniture: above all, a rich service of dressing-plate on the toilette attracted her attention. "How beautiful, how costly! And here again, what fine glasses! Dear, my Lady, you may see yourself from head to foot; and so clear, they make you look, if possible, more beautiful than you really are!"

Ellen, nearly as little acquainted with such objects as her maid, was not sorry to have only this simple girl witness to her actions, which would have betrayed to a more practised observer that she herself hardly knew the use of half the splendid articles before her. She endeavoured, however, to assume a graver manner, and to keep Jane at a greater distance; but the good-natured creature mixed so much affectionate respect with her somewhat too familiar prattle, Ellen could not be angry with her: she dismissed her, however, as soon as possible, with a reiterated caution not to betray to the servants that she had ever known her under any other name than that she bore at present.

The next day Ellen took a nearer survey of her noble habitation: the height and size of the rooms, the splendid furniture, and rich decorations, absolutely bewildered her senses; and when in an immense mirror, which hung at one end of a superb drawing-room, she saw herself reflected from head to foot, she, like the innocent Zilia[2], actually fancied for a moment it was some elegant female coming to meet her.

Passing through this room, she entered one smaller, indeed, but fitted up with such exquisite taste, as quite enchanted her: the furniture and hangings were of pale green silk, lightly ornamented with gold; the ground of the carpet, pale green, worked with the needle in bunches of the most beautiful natural flowers, which really appeared to be growing there. The tables, chairs, candelabras, and every article of furniture, were formed after the antique, and caught the eye of Ellen by the perfection of their figures and disposition; so true it is, that what is really beautiful and in perfect taste will please the unpractised as well as the critical observer, provided the natural taste has not been vitiated by any false ideas of proportion and ornament.

On the Countess's expressing herself particularly pleased with this room, Mrs. Bayfield (who had undertaken to shew her the house, for St. Aubyn had been interrupted in his intention of doing so by Mr. Mordaunt, who brought him some papers of consequence to inspect), looking cautiously round, said, "If your Ladyship pleases, it will be better not to tell my Lord that you like this room in particular." "Why so, Mrs. Bayfield?" asked Ellen, struck with surprize at this request, and the manner it was made in. "Why, Madam," replied Mrs. Bayfield, "this room and the small one within were fitted up by my late Lady according to her own fancy, and were always called her drawing-room and boudoir; and since her death, my Lord has never liked the rooms." "Lady St. Aubyn then has not been dead long, I suppose," said Ellen; "for the furniture of these rooms appears almost new." "About seven years, Madam; but the rooms have scarcely ever been used: they were furnished not long before she went abroad with my Lord." "Was this beautiful carpet her own work?" asked Ellen. "Oh dear, no, Madam! my late Lady was of too gay a turn to do such a piece of work: it was my Lord's mother worked this."

"I thought you had meant your Lord's mother, Mrs. Bayfield: who then do you call your late Lady?" "My Lord's first wife, Madam, the late Countess of St. Aubyn."

"The late Countess—my Lord's first wife!" repeated Ellen, gazing at her with the utmost surprize: "I did not know; I never heard that my Lord had been married before." "Indeed, then," said Mrs. Bayfield, colouring, and looking vexed, "I am sure, my Lady, if I had known, or had the least idea my Lord had not mentioned it, I would never have breathed a word of the matter; but I know my Lord does not like to speak of the late Countess, for her death was so—so—sudden, and shocked my Lord so much, he has hardly ever spoken of her since; and I dare say that was the reason he never told your Ladyship he had been married before."

Ellen, not altogether satisfied with this explanation, still felt somewhat hurt at St. Aubyn's extraordinary reserve: she asked Mrs. Bayfield several questions; such as whether the late Countess was handsome; who she was before her marriage; how long she had lived after it; where she died—and to all which Mrs. Bayfield answered with some appearance of reserve, and as if she felt impatient to dismiss the subject; that she was very handsome and very young when my Lord married her; that she was a distant relation of his own; and that all the family were anxious for the match; that they were married about three years; had only one child, a son, who had died at a few months old, and that the Lady had died abroad. "And what was the cause of her death, Mrs. Bayfield?" "Indeed, Madam, I do not exactly know," answered Mrs. Bayfield, looking a little confused: "she died, as I have told your Ladyship, abroad, and suddenly."

Ellen said no more, for she was above the meanness of attempting to learn from a servant what her Lord apparently meant to conceal from her knowledge; yet she felt even a painful degree of curiosity to learn some farther particulars of her predecessor, whose early death she thought must have caused that gloom of countenance and manner which sometimes even yet appeared in St. Aubyn.

The boudoir within was fitted up in the same style as the drawing-room, but with rather more simplicity, and contained a light bookcase, with gilded wires, and some elegant stands for flowers, &c. Mrs. Bayfield seemed so anxious for Ellen to hasten from these apartments, that she took only a cursory survey of them, determined to take a more accurate view of the paintings and ornaments some other time, when she should have learned to go about her own house without a guide. The boudoir being the last of the suite of apartments on that floor, they next ascended the noble staircase, and visited the bed-chambers, &c. and a large saloon filled with specimens of the fine arts: capital pictures, busts, models, &c. here met the eye in every direction, and here St. Aubyn joined them, and dismissing Mrs. Bayfield, took Ellen's arm within his own, and pointed out those objects most worthy of her notice. Charmed with all around her, and delighted with his attention and the perspicuity of his explanations, Ellen felt as if she had gained a new sense within the last few hours, so little idea had she before of the wonders of art, selected by the hand of taste. From this room they went to the library, where they had supped the night before, at the other end of which was a green-house, divided from the library by folding doors, filled with the choicest plants and flowering shrubs, and round the walls of which a gilded net-work served as an aviary for some beautiful canary and other birds. This green-house, kept constantly warm by concealed stoves, in the midst of winter gave an enchanting prospect of perpetual spring. Beyond the green-house noble hot-houses and conservatories ensured a constant succession of the finest fruits and more tender flowers.

In the library St. Aubyn and his grateful Ellen sat down together, and there he explained to her his wishes as to their manner of living for the next half year: he told her, that undoubtedly she would, for a time, be somewhat engaged with the few neighbouring families who remained in the country for the winter, and whom he expected, of course, to visit her: "But that once over, my love," said he, "let us propose to ourselves some rational mode of happiness, which shall not be dependent on the whim of others; you are so young, and have powers of mind so extensive, that it will be easy to supply those defects in your education which the retired situation in which you lived rendered unavoidable; and this may be done without any parade or eclat of any kind, as it is by no means unusual for ladies to take lessons by way of finishing, even at a more advanced age than your's; drawing and music-masters shall therefore be engaged to attend you, if you do not object to this disposition of a part of your time. In French, I will myself be your instructor, and we will mutually improve each other, my love, by reading together those authors you have so long desired to be acquainted with. If you wish to take a few lessons in dancing, that may be done in the spring, when we are in London, and they may perhaps be desirable to give you a little more confidence in yourself; for, in my eye, no acquired action, or fashionable attitude whatever, could compensate for the loss of one simple natural grace, already so conspicuous in my sweet Ellen: and as to dancing, I am so strange a being, that I cannot bear the idea of a married woman's ever exhibiting herself in public, and being exposed to the impertinent whispers and hateful familiarity of a set of coxcombs." "I wonder," thought Ellen, "whether the former Lady St. Aubyn was fond of dancing." "In the spring, then," continued St. Aubyn, "we will go to London for a month or two, just to see a few of its gaieties, and if I can prevail on Lady Juliana Mordaunt, a very stiff, haughty old aunt of mine, to forgive the dereliction she fancies I have made from my consequence, by marrying, as she supposes, below me, she will be your best guide and most respectable chaperon." "Ah," sighed Ellen to herself, "what shall I do with these stiff proud people: I wish I had remained what I supposed myself, plain Mrs. Mordaunt."

A slight trace of anxiety passed over her countenance, which St. Aubyn perceiving, for in quickness of apprehension and ready penetration no one ever exceeded him, he said:—

"Fear nothing, my love; I am by far too happy, and too proud of my choice, to pay the least attention to the suggestions of either Lady Juliana or any other person: if they come forward handsomely, and as they ought to do, they shall be indulged in the happiness of visiting you; if not, never will I, or shall you, make the slightest concession to them. I will have you support your dignity, even your pride, if pride be necessary, and look down with contempt on such insignificant beings. There is one family near us, Sir William Cecil's, where I hope we shall be very intimate: he is a widower, and has three daughters: the eldest, Laura, from a disappointment in the early part of her life, has remained single, and is now I suppose nearly thirty: the second, Agatha, is married to Lord Delamore, and is gone to live in Scotland: the youngest, Juliet, is still a child, and has bad health: she is a most amiable creature, and has extraordinary talents, but is so unfortunately delicate that she scarcely passes a day in tolerable health. Laura Cecil devotes herself to her entirely, scarcely ever leaving her: she has superintended the whole of her education, as she did that of Lady Delamore, who is some years younger than herself, and to whom Laura was most tenderly attached. Agatha was eminently beautiful, and Laura is a handsome woman, with a great deal of dignity in her air; yet without hauteur of affectation. I hope you will be on very friendly terms with her." "Indeed, my Lord, from your account of Miss Cecil," replied Ellen, "I most sincerely wish it. Next summer, I hope, we shall go into Wales, and then perhaps you will permit Joanna to return with me." "Of that we will talk hereafter," said St. Aubyn, rising hastily. "Let but the spring pass over and all be well, and my Ellen's wishes shall be my law; but beyond the spring, at present, I dare not look." "And may I not yet inquire——"

"Ask not, inquire not," interrupted St. Aubyn: "let me, if possible, forget the dreadful, the hateful subject.—And lives that being!" he exclaimed, in an agitation which mocked restraint—"lives that being who has the power to shake the soul of St. Aubyn; whose vindictive pursuit may yet deprive me of——"

He stopt: his pale countenance was instantly flushed to scarlet, and he hastily left the room; while Ellen, amazed, confounded, seemed as if every faculty were suspended; yet in ten minutes this mysterious man returned to her, composed, and even cheerful, neither his countenance nor manner bearing any traces of the emotion which had so lately shaken his frame: he solicited Ellen, as if nothing extraordinary had passed, to ring for her hat and pelesse, and to go with him into the pleasure-grounds. She readily complied, and was, if possible, more surprized and delighted by the grandeur and beauty of the shrubberies, gardens, &c. than she had been with the interior of her magnificent abode.

END OF VOL. I.

[1] It is probable most of my readers have heard the little pathetic tale here alluded to, and which Mr. Spencer has told very sweetly in his little poem, entitled Beth-gelert. For the advantage of those who have not met with it, we insert the following account:

The tradition says, that Llewelyn the Great had a house at the place now called Beth-gelert, and that being once from home, a wolf entered it. On Llewelyn's return, his favourite greyhound, Gelert, came to meet him, wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince was much alarmed, and on entering the house, found the cradle of his infant overturned, and the floor stained with blood. Imagining the dog had killed the child, he instantly drew his sword, and killed the greyhound; but turning up the cradle, found the babe asleep, and the wolf dead by its side. Llewelyn deeply repented his rage, and built a tomb over his ill-fated greyhound. Mr. Spencer has thus beautifully described the event:

Llewelyn then passionately accuses and kills the greyhound.