The next morning, Ellen, who felt a little fatigued from the various circumstances of the day before, some of which had considerably agitated her spirits, declined going out; and after breakfast retired to her own dressing-room; Laura, at the same time, going to her's, having letters to write to her father and some other friends.

Lady St. Aubyn was soon surrounded by her favourite books, some maps, a drawing she was finishing, and all those resources with which she now knew so well how to fill up her time. In one corner stood an elegant harp, on which Ellen had been taking lessons, and had made a considerable proficiency; in another sat her faithful Jane busy at her needle, at which she was very expert; and Ellen detesting to see any one idle, kept her generally employed either in fine work, or making linen for the poor, to seek out, and relieve whom, was one branch of Jane's business. A simple, though graceful taste, regulated the ornaments and furniture of this favourite retirement; no velvet cushions, no overwhelming perfumes, were met with here; all was elegant, but all was modest, and generally useful: a small bookcase, a porte-feuille, a netting box, shewed that its inhabitant loved to be employed.

By a cheerful fire this fair inhabitant was now seated: the modesty of her demeanor, the delicacy of her dress, were such as suited one, who, though young, and even girlish, was a wife, and likely to be a mother; the toÛt-ensemble, in short, was a perfect contrast to the figure, dress, and apartment of the luxurious Lady Meredith. A complete silence prevailed (for Jane had learned when her lady chose, which as now was sometimes the case, to have her in her apartment, to be quiet), and had lasted at least half an hour, when a step was heard in the anti-room; and a footman knocking at the door, Jane opened it, and the servant requested her to tell her lady that——A voice behind interrupted him, by saying, "You need not trouble yourself, Sir; I know my way, and shall announce myself." Ellen rose, and looked surprised, for visitors were never shewn to this room: still more was she amazed when she saw the sharp countenance and stiff figure of the old lady she now supposed to be Lady Juliana Mordaunt, who, pushing by the man, gave him one of her express nods, and said, "You may go, Sir."—She then advanced, and seeing Jane, who rose and stared at this extraordinary visitant, she said, with another nod to Ellen, "So, you make your maid work at her needle: I am glad of it; but send her away now, for I want to talk to you." Ellen seeing that Jane hesitated to leave her with this stranger, whom the poor girl began to believe was deranged, told her to go to her own room, and she, gathering up her work, very readily obeyed; though she went to the housekeeper and told her she thought they had better both go and stay in the anti-room, for she really believed a mad-woman was gone into her Lady's dressing-room. "Nonsense!" said the housekeeper: "I saw the lady go up: it is my Lord's aunt, Lady Juliana." This intelligence quieted Jane, who really was under some fears for Ellen, to whom she was become tenderly attached.

In the meantime, Lady Juliana seeing that Ellen continued standing, said—"Sit down, child, and don't be frightened." Ellen gladly obeyed, for she could not help feeling a little agitated by Lady Juliana's strange mode of visiting.

The old lady looked round the room, and after a moment's pause, said—"Why, you are an unfashionable young woman, I see; work, books, maps, and the furniture remaining nearly as it was seven years ago! What, has nobody told you, child, the whole house ought to be new furnished?"

"Indeed, Ma'am, if they had, I should have paid no attention to them," said Ellen. "I must, indeed, be a strange ungrateful creature, if the magnificent furniture of this house was not more than equal to my wishes."

"So much the better, I am glad of it," returned Lady Juliana.—"Do you know me?" she added, turning in her usual abrupt manner to Ellen.

"I believe—I think I can guess."

"Oh, I suppose you told St. Aubyn you had met with a cross, disagreeable old woman at Lady Meredith's, and he told you it must have been his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt."

"Indeed, Madam," said Ellen, blushing a little at a statement so near the truth.

"Nay, don't tell lies, child," bluntly replied the old lady. "I hate flattery; besides, your countenance won't let you. I know what I am, which is more than every body can say. And do you generally spend your mornings in this manner?"

"Generally, unless my Lord wishes me to go any where with him."

"And what do you do in the evening?"

"Lord St. Aubyn, Miss Cecil, and myself, sit together: we net or work, while he reads to us, unless Miss Cecil is sufficiently in spirits to give us some music."

"And have you no idea, child, how ridiculous the fashionable people think all this?"

"I am sorry for it."

"But will you persist in the same plan?" Ellen smiled.

"And do you mean to go on in this way all the time you are in town?"

"Not exactly perhaps. I am to see a little more of the public places; but my Lord wished me to wait till——"

"Till what? You may as well tell me, for I see you have an old-fashioned way of speaking your thoughts."

"It is true, your Ladyship sees in me one so little accustomed to the habits of the great world, that I have not yet learned to dissemble: will you permit me to say, and not be displeased, that Lord St. Aubyn anxiously wished to procure a chaperon, whose sanction should be unexceptionable—in short, Lady Juliana Mordaunt."

"I believe you are a little flatterer after all," said Lady Juliana, relaxing into a smile. "With all your talk of sincerity, I hardly believe St. Aubyn thought of me at all; and how, if he did, he could fancy I should ever get the better of the shock he gave my pride, call it prejudice if you will, by marrying you—for I love plain-dealing, child. I don't know but it is all over now—I like you; and if you will continue as modest and unaffected as you are now, keep your neck and arms covered, and bring your Lord an heir, that these de Montforts may not succeed to his title, I will love you, and do all I can to assist and support you."

Seeing that Ellen blushed at the last hint, she added,—"Nay, you need not blush, though I like to see you can: for I promise you, it was observing the probability of such an event that did more to reconcile me to you than all your beauty and merit could have done; so take care of yourself, and don't disappoint me; and now, my dear, kiss me, and call me aunt whenever you please."

Ellen modestly and gracefully bent to receive the old Lady's embrace, and at that instant St. Aubyn opened the dressing-room door, and found the two people he loved best in the world in each other's arms, with tears of tenderness on the cheeks of both.

"What do I see!" he exclaimed.—"Is it possible!"

"Yes," said Lady Juliana, "it is very possible you see a foolish old woman, who loves you too well not to love one so dear to you, and so worthy of being loved."

St. Aubyn respectfully and affectionately kissed the hand she gave him, and clasping Ellen in his arms, exclaimed, "My dearest Ellen, how happy has all this made me!"

"Come, don't hurry her spirits with your raptures," said Lady Juliana. "She is a good girl, and we shall be very happy together, I dare say. But I find, Sir, you have been waiting for me, of all people, to chaperon your Lady about to all the fine places: I have had enough of them, and at my time of life I do not know any business I have at operas, balls, and plays: however, to oblige you and my niece, I will go wherever you wish me. I do not think she is one who will tire me to death: I shall dine with you to-day, and if you choose to let one of your people go to Drury-lane, and inquire if there are places, we may hear the oratorio to-night."

Charmed with this speech, for St. Aubyn knew his aunt well enough to be sure if she had not been thoroughly pleased with Ellen, she would neither have called her niece, nor have staid to dine with them, he most readily accepted the kind offer.

They dined rather earlier than usual, that they might be in time for the opening of the oratorio, which Ellen was anxious to hear. Laura Cecil, in compliment to Lady Juliana, dined with them, and was quite delighted to see the affection, and even respect, with which she treated Lady St. Aubyn: for Lady Juliana was not a person to do things by halves; and having once conquered her own prejudices, was determined to give her niece all the consequence in her power with every other person, and would have been extremely angry with any one, who had dared to treat her with half the contempt she herself had done the day before. Once a friend, she was a friend for life, unless the object of her affections proved really undeserving, and then she hated with as much warmth as she had loved.

Miss Cecil could not be persuaded to go with them to the theatre; and indeed Ellen was afterwards glad of it, for many of the songs were those which the sainted Juliet used to sing with so much sweetness and expression: and exquisitely as they were now performed, yet Ellen still felt something wanting. The soul that used to animate the eyes of Juliet, while she sung, was not there. The lips that had breathed those sacred strains, were so pure, so hallowed, that all the wonders of voice and science, now lavished for her entertainment, could not compensate to Ellen's mind for the pang she felt in recollecting that those eyes, those lips, were closed for ever.

After this evening, Ellen's engagements became more frequent; but she was never seen in public, except with Lady Juliana, and seldom without her Lord. In vain did fashion dictate, or ridicule assail: the sly glance, the pointed sarcasm, alike were vain: she knew herself safe, her reputation secure, with protectors so respectable; yet there was nothing obtrusive or formal in St. Aubyn's attention to his lovely wife: he was neither inseparable from her side, or incapable of attention to any other lady, or expecting Ellen never to speak to any other gentleman. But it was obvious, without being intrusive, that each was the first object of the other, and that their mutual honour and happiness were the most interesting care of both.

Hence no bold and disgusting flattery assailed the ears of Ellen; no forward flirting woman dared dispute with her the heart of St. Aubyn; so pure, so spotless was her character, that, raised as she had suddenly been to a rank which might easily excite the envy of those who thought they had a better claim to it, not even the bold license of the age we live in had dared to breathe one syllable against her.

Thus passed the time till the latter end of April, which was the period fixed for Lady Meredith's famous fÊte, about which all the great world was going mad. The persons who were invited were expected to wear masquerade dresses, and the house appeared in masquerade, as well as the company. The whole had been new furnished in a fanciful style, and at an enormous expence, for this one evening; and her Ladyship's own dress was literally covered with jewels: she wore the habits and ornaments of an eastern beauty, and her attire was exactly copied from that Lady M. W. Montague describes for the fair Fatima, only, if possible, still more rich and splendid; and, if possible, still more calculated to display as well as to adorn the figure. No words can do justice to the magnificence and splendour of the whole entertainment: the Bow-street officers at the door, and Mr. G—— and his men serving ices and other refreshments in a room fitted up to represent a casino at Naples, with a panorama view of its beautiful bay, &c. gave it all the characteristics of a modern fÊte; and the number of gay dresses, shining decorations, lights, and music, made the whole appear to Ellen more like a palace in a fairy tale than any thing "which the earth owns." She wore a black domino, but with a very fine set of diamonds, which Lady Juliana had given her the night before: amongst them was a sort of coronet, or chaplet, set to represent sprigs of jessamine and small vine leaves, in commemoration of that which St. Aubyn had woven of those simple materials the day he discovered to her his real rank; for Lady Juliana had heard the whole story, and was much pleased with that little incident.

Their party consisted of Lord and Lady St. Aubyn, Lady Juliana, and Sir Edward Leicester, a particular friend of St. Aubyn's, a very amiable young man, who appeared much charmed with Laura Cecil, and paid her great attention, whenever he had an opportunity of being with her. They spent a very agreeable evening: it concluded with a splendid supper, at which all the company appeared unmasked, and the super-eminence of Lady St. Aubyn's beauty was allowed by all.

A few nights after this, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn, Lady Juliana, Lady Meredith, and her favourite beau, Colonel Lenox, went to the Opera: the entertainment for the evening happened to be the beautiful opera of Artaserse. Ellen, lost in delight at the superb stage decorations, the exquisite beauty of the music, and the interest of the story, which, by the help of the action, and having read it in English, she understood very well, was scarcely sensible of any thing around her, till the scene in which Arbace is accused of the murder of the king. Turning then to speak to St. Aubyn, who sat behind her, she saw him pale, agitated, and trembling: "What is the matter?" asked she, in a voice of alarm; but pressing his hand on her arm, he said, in a low voice, "Be silent—do not notice me."

At that moment the voice of the singer, who performed Arbace, in the most pathetic tone, breathed out, "Sono Innocente," to which Artaserse replies:

A stifled sigh, almost amounting to a groan, from St. Aubyn, met the ear of Ellen. Recovering himself a little, he whispered—"Remember, Ellen, and I too am innocent!"

In spite of the precaution with which he spoke, Lady Meredith turned, and asked him if he were unwell.

"I have a violent head-ache," he replied, forcing himself to appear more composed.

"You look pale, indeed, my Lord," returned Lady Meredith: "and Lady St. Aubyn seems quite overcome with this pathetic scene."

She spoke of the opera, but a crimson flush spread over St. Aubyn's face, and complaining of the intolerable heat, he rose, and went out of the box.

"Bless me!" said Lady Juliana: "what is the matter?"

"Only Lord St. Aubyn complains of the head-ache," said Lady Meredith.

"Oh, I know what it is," answered Lady Juliana: "my nephew hates to be disturbed when he is attending to music; and I suppose you, Lady Meredith, have been talking to him, as you always do at the Opera."

Lady Meredith only laughed; and St. Aubyn returning soon after, nothing more passed. When the opera was over, and St. Aubyn and Ellen were alone in the carriage, he still appeared so restless and agitated, that Ellen could not resist addressing to him a few words, indicative of curiosity, if not of alarm. For a time he evaded her tender inquiries; but, at length, grasping her hands with an action expressive of the utmost emotion, he again repeated his former words: "Remember, Ellen, oh, remember that I too am innocent!"

"I know it, I am sure of it," she returned: "but why thus confide by halves? Why torture yourself and me by these mysterious hints?"

"Ah, why indeed!" said he: "I ought to have more command of myself: but that scene—that fatal instrument of a horrid deed!—Appearances how false, yet how convincing!"

"To me," she replied, "appearances are not and never shall be any thing, when opposed to your single assertion, to my confidence in your integrity."

"A thousand thousand thanks," he replied, "for the sweet assurance! Soon, too soon, perhaps, you will be tried!"

"Demanding so much reliance, so much implicit confidence from his wife, under such mysterious conduct, was St. Aubyn willing, if called upon, to grant an equal share to her?"