LADY BASSETT was carried to her room, and did not reappear. She kept her own apartments, and her health declined so rapidly that Sir Charles sent for Dr. Willis. He prescribed for the body, but the disease lay in the mind. Martyr to an inward struggle, she pined visibly, and her beautiful eyes began to shine like stars, preternaturally large. She was in a frightful condition: she longed to tell the truth and end it all; but then she must lose her adored husband's respect, and perhaps his love; and she had not the courage. She saw no way out of it but to die and leave her confession; and, as she felt that the agony of her soul was killing her by degrees, she drew a somber resignation from that.

She declined to see Reginald. She could not bear the sight of him.

Compton came to her many times a day, with a face full of concern, and even terror. But she would not talk to him of herself.

He brought her all the news he heard, having no other way to cheer her.

One day he told her there were robbers about. Two farmhouses had been robbed, a thing not known in these parts for many years.

Lady Bassett shuddered, but said nothing.

But by-and-by her beloved son came to her in distress with a grief of his own.

Ruperta Bassett was now the beauty of the county, and it seems Mr. Rutland had danced with her at her first ball, and been violently smitten with her; he had called more than once at Highmore, and his attentions were directly encouraged by Mr. Bassett. Now Mr. Rutland was heir to a peerage, and also to considerable estates in the county.

Compton was sick at heart, and, being young, saw his life about to be blighted; so now he was pale and woe-begone, and told her the sad news with such deep sighs, and imploring, tearful eyes, that all the mother rose in arms. “Ah!” said she, “they say to themselves that I am down, and cannot fight for my child; but I would fight for him on the edge of the grave. Let me think all by myself, dear. Come back to me in an hour. I shall do something. Your mother is a very cunning woman—for those she loves.”

Compton kissed her gown—a favorite action of his, for he worshiped her—and went away.

The invalid laid her hollow cheek upon her wasted hand, and thought with all her might. By degrees her extraordinary brain developed a twofold plan of action; and she proceeded to execute the first part, being the least difficult, though even that was not easy, and brought a vivid blush to her wasted cheek.

She wrote to Mrs. Bassett.

“MADAM—I am very ill, and life is uncertain. Something tells me you, like me, regret the unhappy feud between our houses. If this is so, it would be a consolation to me to take you by the hand and exchange a few words, as we already have a few kind looks.

“Yours respectfully,

“BELLA BASSETT.”

She showed this letter to Compton, and told him he might send a servant with it to Highmore at once.

“Oh, mamma!” said he, “I never thought you would do that: how good you are! You couldn't ask Ruperta, could you? Just in a little postscript, you know.”

Lady Bassett shook her head.

“That would not be wise, my dear. Let me hook that fish for you, not frighten her away.”

Great was the astonishment at Highmore when a blazing footman knocked at the door and handed Jessie the letter with assumed nonchalance, then stalked away, concealing with professional art his own astonishment at what he had done.

It was no business of Jessie's to take letters into the drawing-room; she would have deposited any other letter on the hall table; but she brought this one in, and, standing at the door, exclaimed, “Here a letter fr' Huntercombe!”

Richard Bassett, Mrs. Bassett, and Ruperta, all turned upon her with one accord.

“From where?”

“Fr' Huntercombe itsel'. Et isna for you, nor for you, missy. Et's for the mesterress.”

She marched proudly up to Mrs. Bassett and laid the letter down on the table; then drew back a step or two, and, being Scotch, coolly waited to hear the contents. Richard Basset, being English, told her she need not stay.

Mrs. Bassett cast a bewildered look at her husband and daughter, then opened the letter quietly; read it quietly; and, having read it, took out her handkerchief and began to cry quietly.

Ruperta cried, “Oh, mamma!” and in a moment had one long arm round her mother's neck, while the other hand seized the letter, and she read it aloud, cheek to cheek; but, before she got to an end, her mother's tears infected her, and she must whimper too.

“Here are a couple of geese,” said Richard Bassett. “Can't you write a civil reply to a civil letter without sniveling? I'll answer the letter for you.”

“No!” said Mrs. Bassett.

Richard was amazed: Ruperta ditto.

The little woman had never dealt in “Noes,” least of all to her husband; and besides this was such a plump “No.” It came out of her mouth like a marble.

I think the sound surprised even herself a little, for she proceeded to justify it at once. “I have been a better wife than a Christian this many years. But there's a limit. And, Richard, I should never have married you if you had told me we were to be at war all our lives with our next neighbor, that everybody respects. To live in the country, and not speak to our only neighbor, that is a life I never would have left my father's house for. Not that I complain: if you have been bitter to them, you have always been good and kind to me; and I hope I have done my best to deserve it; but when a sick lady, and perhaps dying, holds out her hand to me—-write her one of your cold-blooded letters! That I WON'T. Reply? my reply will be just putting on my bonnet and going to her this afternoon. It is Passion-week, too; and that's not a week to play the heathen. Poor lady! I've seen in her sweet eyes this many years that she would gladly be friends with me; and she never passed me close but she bowed to me, in church or out, even when we were at daggers drawn. She is a lady, a real lady, every inch. But it is not that altogether. No, if a sick woman called me to her bedside this week, I'd go, whether she wrote from Huntercombe Hall or the poorest house in the place; else how could I hope my Saviour would come to my bedside at my last hour?”

This honest burst, from a meek lady who never talked nonsense, to be sure, but seldom went into eloquence, staggered Richard Bassett, and enraptured Ruperta so, that she flung both arms round her mother's neck, and cried, “Oh, mamma! I always thought you were the best woman in England, and now I know it.”

“Well, well, well,” said Richard, kindly enough; then to Ruperta, “Did I ever say she was not the best woman in England? So you need not set up your throats neck and neck at me, like two geese at a fox. Unfortunately, she is the simplest woman in England, as well as the best, and she is going to visit the cunningest. That Lady Bassett will turn our mother inside out in no time. I wish you would go with her; you are a shrewd girl.”

“My daughter will not go till she is asked,” said Mrs. Bassett, firmly.

“In that case,” said Richard, dryly, “let us hope the Lord will protect you, since it is for love of Him you go into a she-fox's den.”

No reply was vouchsafed to this aspiration, the words being the words of faith, but the voice the voice of skepticism.

Mrs. Bassett put on her bonnet, and went to Huntercombe Hall.

After a very short delay she was ushered upstairs, to the room where Lady Bassett was lying on a sofa.

Lady Bassett heard her coming, and rose to receive her.

She made Mrs. Bassett a court courtesy so graceful and profound that it rather frightened the little woman. Seeing which, Lady Bassett changed her style, and came forward, extending both hands with admirable grace, and gentle amity, not overdone.

Mrs. Bassett gave her both hands, and they looked full at each other in silence, till the eyes of both ladies began to fill.

“You would have come—like this—years ago—at a word?” faltered Lady Bassett.

“Yes,” gulped Mrs. Bassett.

Then there was another long pause.

“Oh, Lady Bassett, what a life! It is a wonder it has not killed us both.”

“It will kill one of us.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“God bless you for saying so! Dear madam, sit by me, and let me hold the hand I might have had years ago, if I had had the courage.”

“Why should you take the blame?” said Mrs. Bassett. “We have both been good wives: too obedient, perhaps. But to have to choose between a husband's commands and God's law, that is a terrible thing for any poor woman.”

“It is, indeed.”

Then there was another silence, and an awkward pause. Mrs. Bassett broke it, with some hesitation. “I hope, Lady Bassett, your present illness is not in any way—I hope you do not fear anything more from my husband?”

“Oh, Mrs. Bassett! how can I help fearing it—especially if we provoke him? Mr. Reginald Bassett has returned, and you know he once gave your husband cause for just resentment.”

“Well, but he is older now, and has more sense. Even if he should, Ruperta and I must try and keep the peace.”

“Ruperta! I wish I had asked you to bring her with you. But I feared to ask too much at once.”

“I'll send her to you to-morrow, Lady Bassett.”

“No, bring her.”

“Then tell me your hour.”

“Yes, and I will send somebody out of the way. I want you both to myself.”

While this conversation was going on at Huntercombe, Richard Bassett, being left alone with his daughter, proceeded to work with his usual skill upon her young mind.

He reminded her of Mr. Rutland's prospects, and said he hoped to see her a countess, and the loveliest jewel of the Peerage.

He then told her Mr. Rutland was coming to stay a day or two next week, and requested her to receive him graciously.

She promised that at once.

“That,” said he, “will be a much better match for you than the younger son of Sir Charles Bassett. However, my girl is too proud to go into a family where she is not welcome.”

“Much too proud for that,” said Ruperta.

He left her smarting under that suggestion.

While he was smoking his cigar in the garden, Mrs. Bassett came home. She was in raptures with Lady Bassett, and told her daughter all that had passed; and, in conclusion, that she had promised Lady Bassett to take her to Huntercombe to-morrow.

“Me, dear!” cried Ruperta; “why, what can she want of me?”

“All I know is, her ladyship wishes very much to see you. In my opinion, you will be very welcome to poor Lady Bassett.”

“Is she very ill?”

Mrs. Bassett shook her head. “She is much changed. She says she should be better if we were all at peace; but I don't know.”

“Oh, mamma, I wish it was to-morrow.”

They went to Huntercombe next day; and, ill as she was, Lady Bassett received them charmingly. She was startled by Ruperta's beauty and womanly appearance, but too well bred to show it, or say it all in a moment. She spoke to the mother first; but presently took occasion to turn to the daughter, and to say, “May I hope, Miss Bassett, that you are on the side of peace, like your dear mother and myself?”

“I am,” said Ruperta, firmly; “I always was—especially after that beautiful sermon, you know, mamma.”

Says the proud mother, “You might tell Lady Bassett you think it is your mission to reunite your father and Sir Charles.”

“Mamma!” said Ruperta, reproachfully. That was to stop her mouth. “If you tell all the wild things I say to you, her ladyship will think me very presumptuous.”

“No, no,” said Lady Bassett, “enthusiasm is not presumption. Enthusiasm is beautiful, and the brightest flower of youth.”

“I am glad you think so, Lady Bassett; for people who have no enthusiasm seem very hard and mean to me.”

“And so they are,” said Lady Bassett warmly.

But I have no time to record the full details of the conversation. I can only present the general result. Lady Bassett thought Ruperta a beautiful and noble girl, that any house might be proud to adopt; and Ruperta was charmed by Lady Bassett's exquisite manners, and touched and interested by her pale yet still beautiful face and eyes. They made friends; but it was not till the third visit, when many kind things had passed between them, that Lady Bassett ventured on the subject she had at heart. “My dear,” said she to Ruperta, “when I first saw you, I wondered at my son Compton's audacity in loving a young lady so much more advanced than himself; but now I must be frank with you; I think the poor boy's audacity was only a proper courage. He has all my sympathy, and, if he is not quite indifferent to you, let me just put in my word, and say there is not a young lady in the world I could bear for my daughter-in-law, now I have seen and talked with you, my dear.”

“Thank you, Lady Bassett,” said Mrs. Bassett; “and, since you have said so much, let me speak my mind. So long as your son is attached to my daughter, I could never welcome any other son-in-law. I HAVE GOT THE TIPPET.”

Lady Bassett looked at Ruperta, for an explanation. Ruperta only blushed, and looked uncomfortable. She hated all allusion to the feats of her childhood.

Mrs. Bassett saw Lady Bassett's look of perplexity, and said, eagerly, “You never missed it? All the better. I thought I would keep it, for a peacemaker partly.”

“My dear friend,” said Lady Bassett, “you are speaking riddles to me; what tippet?”

“The tippet your son took off his own shoulders, and put it round my girl, that terrible night they were lost in the wood. Forgive me keeping it, Lady Bassett—I know I was little better than a thief; but it was only a tippet to you, and to me it was much more. Ah! Lady Bassett, I have loved your darling boy ever since; you can't wonder, you are a mother;” and, turning suddenly on Ruperta, “why do you keep saying he is only a boy? If he was man enough to do that at seven years of age, he must have a manly heart. No; I couldn't bear the sight of any other son-in-law; and when you are a mother you'll understand many things, and, for one, you'll—under—stand—why I'm so—fool—ish; seeing the sweet boy's mother ready—to cry—too—oh! oh! oh!”

Lady Bassett held out her arms to her, and the mothers had a sweet cry together in each other's arms.

Ruperta's eyes were wet at this; but she told her mother she ought not to agitate Lady Bassett, and she so ill.

“And that is true, my good, sensible girl,” said Mrs. Bassett; “but it has lain in my heart these nine years, and I could not keep it to myself any longer. But you are a beauty and a spoiled child, and so I suppose you think nothing of his giving you his tippet to keep you warm.”

“Don't say that, mamma,” said Ruperta, reproachfully. “I spoke to dear Compton about it not long ago. He had forgotten all about it, even.”

“All the more to his credit; but don't you ever forget it, my own girl.”

“I never will, mamma.”

By degrees the three became so unreserved that Ruperta was gently urged to declare her real sentiments.

By this time the young beauty was quite cured of her fear lest she should be an unwelcome daughter-in-law; but there was an obstacle in her own mind. She was a frank, courageous girl; but this appeal tried her hard.

She blushed, fixed her eyes steadily on the ground, and said, pretty firmly and very slowly, “I had always a great affection for my cousin Compton; and so I have now. But I am not in love with him. He is but a boy; now I—”

A glance at the large mirror, and a superb smile of beauty and conscious womanhood, completed the sentence.

“He will get older every day,” said Mrs. Bassett.

“And so shall I.”

“But you will not look older, and he will. You have come to your full growth. He hasn't.”

“I agree with the dear girl,” said Lady Bassett, adroitly. “Compton, with his fair hair, looks so young, it would be ridiculous at present. But it is possible to be engaged, and wait a proper time for marriage; what I fear is, lest you should be tempted by some other offer. To speak plainly, I hear that Mr. Rutland pays his addresses to you, and visits at Highmore.”

“Yes, he has been there twice.”

“He is welcome to your father; and his prospects are dazzling; and he is not a boy, for he has long mustaches.”

“I am not dazzled by his mustaches, and still less by his prospects,” said the fair young beauty.

“You are an extraordinary girl.”

“That she is,” said Mrs. Bassett. “Her father has no more power over her than I have.”

“Oh, mamma! am I a disobedient girl, then?”

“No, no. Only in this one thing, I see you will go your own way.”

Lady Bassett put in her word. “Well, but this one thing is the happiness or misery of her whole life. I cannot blame her for looking well before she leaps.”

A grateful look from Ruperta's glorious eyes repaid the speaker.

“But,” said Lady Bassett, tenderly, “it is something to have two mothers when you marry, instead of one; and you would have two, my love; I would try and live for you.”

This touched Ruperta to the heart; she curled round Lady Bassett's neck, and they kissed each other like mother and daughter.

“This is too great a temptation,” said Ruperta. “Yes; I will engage myself to Cousin Compton, if papa's consent can be obtained. Without his consent I could not marry any one.”

“Nobody can obtain it, if you cannot,” said Mrs. Bassett.

Ruperta shook her head. “Mark my words, mamma, it will take me years to gain it. Papa is as obstinate as a mule. To be sure, I am as obstinate as fifty.”

“It shall not take years, nor yet months,” said Lady Bassett. “I know Mr. Bassett's objection, and I will remove it, cost me what it may.”

This speech surprised the other two ladies so, they made no reply.

Said Lady Bassett firmly, “Do you pledge yourself to me, if I can obtain Mr. Bassett's consent?”

“I do,” said Ruperta. “But—”

“You think my power with your father must be smaller than yours. I hope to show you you are mistaken.”

The ladies rose to go: Lady Bassett took leave of them thus: “Good-by, my most valued friend, and sister in sorrow; good-by, my dear daughter.”

At the gate of Huntercombe, whom should they meet but Compton Bassett, looking very pale and unhappy.

He was upon honor not to speak to Ruperta; but he gazed on her with a wistful and terrified look that was very touching. She gave him a soft pitying smile in return, that drove him almost wild with hope.

That night Richard Bassett sat in his chair, gloomy.

When his wife and daughter spoke to him in their soft accents, he returned short, surly answers. Evidently a storm was brewing.

At last it burst. He had heard of Ruperta's repeated visits to Huntercombe Hall. “You are not dealing fairly with me, you two,” said he. “I allowed you to go once to see a woman that says she is very ill; but I warned you she was the cunningest woman in creation, and would make a fool of you both; and now I find you are always going. This will not do. She is netting two simple birds that I have the care of. Now, listen to me; I forbid you two ever to set foot in that house again. Do you hear me?”

“We hear you, papa,” said Mrs. Bassett, quietly; “we must be deaf, if we did not.”

Ruperta kept her countenance with difficulty.

“It is not a request, it is a command.”

Mrs. Bassett for once in her life fired up. “And a most tyrannical one,” said she.

Ruperta put her hand before her mother's mouth, then turned to her father.

“There was no need to express your wish so harshly, papa. We shall obey.”

Then she whispered her mother, “And Mr. Rutland shall pay for it.”

Mrs. Bassett communicated this behest to Lady Bassett in a letter.

Then Lady Bassett summoned all her courage, and sent for her son Compton. “Compton,” said she, “I must speak to Reginald. Can you find him?”

“Oh yes, I can find him. I am sorry to say anybody can find him at this time of day.”

“Why, where is he?”

“I hardly like to tell you.”

“Do you think his peculiarities have escaped me?”

“At the public-house.”

“Ask him to come to me.”

Compton went to the public-house, and there, to his no small disgust, found Mr. Reginald Bassett playing the fiddle, and four people, men and women, dancing to the sound, while one or two more smoked and looked on.

Compton restrained himself till the end of that dance, and then stepped up to Reginald and whispered him, “Mamma wants to see you directly.”

“Tell her I'm busy.”

“I shall tell her nothing of the kind. You know she is very ill, and has not seen you yet; and now she wants to. So come along at once, like a good fellow.”

“Youngster,” said Reginald, “it is a rule with me never to leave a young woman for an old one.”

“Not for your mother?”

“No, nor my grandmother either.”

“Then you were born without a heart. But you shall come, whether you like it or not—though I have to drag you there by the throat.”

“Learn to spell 'able' first.”

“I'll spell it on your head, if you don't come.”

“Oh, that is the game, young un, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don't let us have a shindy on the bricks; there is a nice little paddock outside. Come out there and I'll give you a lesson.”

“Thank you; I don't feel inclined to assist you in degrading our family.”

“Chaps that are afraid to fight shouldn't threaten. Come now, the first knock-down blow shall settle it. If I win, you stay here and dance with us. If you win, I go to the old woman.”

Compton consented, somewhat reluctantly; but to do him justice, his reluctance arose entirely from his sense of relationship, and not from any fear of his senior.

The young gentlemen took off their coats, and proceeded to spar without any further ceremony.

Reginald, whose agility was greater than his courage, danced about on the tips of his toes, and succeeded in planting a tap or two on Compton's cheek.

Compton smarted under these, and presently, in following his antagonist, who fought like a shadow, he saw Ruperta and her mother looking horror-stricken over the palings.

Infuriated with Reginald for this exposure, he rushed in at him, received a severe cut over the eye, but dealt him with his mighty Anglo-Saxon arm a full straightforward smasher on the forehead, which knocked him head over heels like a nine-pin.

That active young man picked himself up wondrous slowly; rheumatism seemed to have suddenly seized his well-oiled joints; he then addressed his antagonist, in his most ingratiating tones—“All right, sir,” said he. “You are the best man. I'll go to the old lady this minute.”

“I'll see you go,” said Compton, sternly; “and mind I can run as well as hit: so none of your gypsy tricks with me.”

Then he came sheepishly to the palings and said, “It is not my fault, Miss Bassett; he would not come to mamma without, and she wants to speak to him.”

“Oh! he is hurt! he is wounded!” cried Ruperta. “Come here to me.”

He came to her, and she pressed her white handkerchief tenderly on his eyebrow; it was bleeding a little.

“Well, are you coming?” said Reginald, ironically, “or do you like young women better than old ones?”

Compton instantly drew back a little, made two steps, laid his hand on the palings, vaulted over, and followed Reginald.

“That's your boy,” said Mrs. Bassett.

Ruperta made no reply, but began to gulp.

“What is the matter, darling?”

“The fighting—the blood”—said Ruperta, sobbing.

Mrs. Bassett drew her on one side, and soon soothed her.

When their gentle bosoms got over their agitation, they rather enjoyed the thing, especially Ruperta: she detested Reginald for his character, and for having insulted her father.

All of a sudden, she cried out, “He has taken my handkerchief. How dare he?” And she affected anger.

“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Bassett, coolly, “we have got his tippet.”