No more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottaged dell
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray;
COLERIDGE.

Margaret was cheered during this tedious interval by several very kind letters from Lady d'Eyncourt. As soon as she heard of Mr. Grey's death, she wrote to Margaret a letter full of deep feeling and sympathy. She said that when she returned to England, she counted on Margaret's taking up her abode at Sherleigh, unless before that time she was fixed in a home of her own. She was happier than most married women can expect to be, for she was not separated from her father. Captain Gage was now at Paris, with the d'Eyncourts, and he had agreed to travel with them, as long as they remained on the continent. Elizabeth mentioned in one of these letters, that her brother Hubert had sailed for South America, and that her father was very glad to get him out of the country; but it was evident that she did not know who had influenced his decision.

Margaret was cheered by this intelligence. She would have dreaded meeting him again, at least, for some time to come; and she was glad to find that she had been able to do some good by her advice.

One morning, Mr. Warde begged Margaret to come into his library as he wished to speak to her on business. Blanche and Mr. Compton were playing at battledore and shuttlecock, and she was not sorry to escape from their noisy enjoyment for a few minutes. Mr. Warde then told her that he had made several inquiries for such a home as he thought might be agreeable to Margaret; that he had found it rather difficult to meet one in all respects satisfactory. But that he had just received a letter from his friend, Mr. Fletcher, that he thought was worth considering about. Mr. Fletcher, if she remembered, was the clergyman to whom he had applied when her uncle desired to take a house by the sea-side.

Yes; Margaret recollected the name. She breathed short; one of those feelings called presentiments came over her. She knew perfectly what was coming.

"It seems," continued Mr. Warde, glancing at the letter, "that a lady in his neighbourhood has lately lost an only daughter, and she has been strongly urged to receive an inmate into her house; she is much averse to a companion in the usual sense of the term, but upon Mr. Fletcher stating to her the sort of home I was anxious to obtain for you, she seemed willing to receive you. You know the neighbourhood, and you are fond of fine scenery, but I must warn you that this lady lives absolutely without society. She is very well connected, but she has retired from the world."

The world—of which her short experience had been so bitter. That, indeed, was an inducement; and Aveline's mother—there was a sort of strange charm to her in the idea.

"I think I should like it," she faltered.

"This lady is a highly cultivated and intellectual woman," said Mr. Warde, "and I think you will appreciate the advantage of her conversation; no lessons are of such real benefit to a young person, as constant intercourse with a superior mind. And her principles are such as you know how to value and respect."

"Let me go to her," said Margaret.

"Can you make up your mind to solitude?" asked Mr. Warde. "Oh! yes—yes."

"Then I will write to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and conclude the arrangement."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Blanche, when Margaret repeated to her what had been determined upon. "I wonder what my uncle thinks women are intended for; that is to say, pretty women. Of course, ugly women ought to be buried alive. But the idea of sending you into a wilderness like that. Oh! you like it? Don't tell me—I won't believe you; how are you to get married I should like to know?"

"But I have no intention of marrying," said Margaret. "I intend to remain single."

"You don't mean to—oh! I understand," returned Blanche. "A good many girls say so; but I always think it is better not, for fear the men should take you at your word."

"I wish to be taken at my word," said Margaret quietly.

"So it really would seem," said Blanche, "by your suffering my uncle to dispose of you in that way. Oh! I wanted to tell you; my uncle begins to think it odd, that Compton comes here so much. I believe he was afraid that you were his attraction, and it is his business to look sharp after your money, you know."

Margaret could not repress a feeling of disgust, but she tried to look as if Mr. Compton's assiduities would not be very offensive to her. Blanche went on.

"I soon set him right on that point, and then he actually asked mamma, if she was quite assured of Mr. Compton's principles. He said he hoped he had no particular prejudice against the army, but he thought their manner of living was seldom such as to gain them much respect in any neighbourhood where they might be quartered. How I did laugh!"

"But do you not then think principles of any importance?" asked Margaret.

"No, my dear, of course not," returned Blanche. "I think Compton very hand-some, and if he were a Roman Catholic, it would make no difference to me."

Margaret did not think it of any use to explain that a Roman Catholic might possibly have high religious principles, and a Protestant, none at all, so she was silent.

"I told Compton about the principles," continued Blanche, "and you should have heard how he laughed; I thought he would have died."

This must have been a prevalent fear among Mr. Compton's friends whenever he favoured them with a burst of laughter.

"However," said Blanche, "Compton told me to set my uncle's mind at rest as soon as I liked, for that he was 'the same religion that every body else was.'"

The grammatical arrangement of this sentence was, perhaps, its least charm. So profound a knowledge of the various doctrinal shades then agitating the world must have been very cheering to Mr. Warde's feelings.

"And," said Blanche, "even Compton says that it is a great shame you should be banished to that stupid place in ——shire. For he says you are exceedingly pretty, only too quiet for his taste. You don't mind, I hope?" added Blanche, fearful that these last words would be too severe a blow.

No. Margaret thought she should manage to survive this expression of Mr. Compton's opinions, in common with several others, with which he had made her acquainted from time to time; and of which, perhaps the most striking was, that "he hated black, and he thought it a shame for women to wear it." And on being reminded that it was sometimes indispensable, he then thought it "a shame for people to die."

Nothing refreshed Margaret so much as a letter from Elizabeth. She seemed to come in contact with another order of mind. Elizabeth never thought or spoke a littleness, and however short, or however general her letter might be, the nobleness of her nature seemed to find its way into the handwriting.

In a letter Margaret received from her at this time, she mentioned that they had been surprised, at Paris, by a flying visit from Mr. Evan Conway. He was on his road to the Pyrenees; and had been disappointed of his travelling companion. Mr. Haveloc had arranged to go with him, and suddenly sent him an excuse, saying that some recent occurrences had rendered him unfit for society. "This tribute to the memory of your uncle, my dear Margaret, I am sure will please you, added Elizabeth. I always thought Mr. Haveloc's character no ordinary one; but this is a depth of feeling which we rarely meet in the present day.

"He has started off alone for St. Petersburg, and has left a good many English mammas to conjecture whether he will bring home a Russian wife."

Elizabeth added that the rest of the Conway family were in Germany, where they seemed likely to remain some time.

Margaret pondered long over the intelligence contained in this letter. Was it solely grief for her uncle's loss that made Mr. Haveloc decline the society of his friend? Did no remorse for his falsehood to herself mingle with his regrets? Did he suffer half what she endured? She knew nothing, she should never know anything of his feelings. They were parted for ever; and, perhaps, as Elizabeth said, he might bring home a Russian wife.

This idea cost her many tears, though she constantly repeated to herself that she had no longer any interest in his future.

Mr. Warde received a favourable answer from Mrs. Fitzpatrick. From his account of Miss Capel, she felt assured of her own satisfaction in the arrangement. She only feared that so young a person would soon be wearied of the monotony of her residence. On this point, Margaret was sanguine. She had much pleasure in telling Mason that the day of her departure was fixed. Mason lifted up her eyes; even Ashdale was better than the place they were going to: "but it did not become her to complain."

Margaret bought the costliest bracelet that the jeweller in S—— could furnish as an offering for Blanche before she left.

"Accept it as a wedding present," she said, "I trust it may prove so, if it is for your happiness."

Blanche was in raptures—she dearly loved trinkets, and a bracelet of the newest fashion glittering with precious stones, and costing more guineas than she ever possessed at a time, was almost enough to disturb her brain. She ran from room to room to show it to everybody; she put it on; she took it off and shut it in its morocco case. She embraced Margaret, she laughed, she waltzed, and finally was able to reply to Margaret's remark.

"You dear creature—that is the kindest thing you could say! A wedding present! Yes! I will believe it; he has said nothing, but I understand what he means. Did you ever happen to observe his nose in profile?"

Margaret had merely remarked that there was something elegant in the sharpness of his features that seemed at variance with the excessive ignorance of his mind; but she forbore giving so candid a statement of facts. She merely said she was willing to take for granted that Mr. Compton shone in that position.

It happened, that the evening before she left Ashdale, she was in her own room overlooking Mason, who was putting the finishing touches to her packing, when she saw Mrs. Somerton and Mr. Compton walking together in the avenue that shaded one side of the garden.

Mrs. Somerton seemed very earnest; Mr. Compton greatly embarrassed. Sometimes he relieved himself by trying to bite through his cane; sometimes he caught at the few leaves which hung on the boughs overhead. He looked the picture of awkwardness. But suddenly, Mrs. Somerton stopped short, and shook hands with him fervently, and they walked together towards the house.

Margaret set off too early the next morning to have any opportunity of learning whether Mrs. Somerton had succeeded in bringing Mr. Compton to confession, on that memorable evening; but about two months afterwards, she received a couple of cards bound together with silver twist, and bearing the names of Mr. and Mrs. Compton, which led her to believe that she had chanced to witness the crisis of the affair.

It was a wretched autumn day on which she set out for her new home. All the fine weather seemed to have vanished at once. It was cold and windy, and the rain fell steadily. Margaret was glad of the company of Mason in the carriage. She tried not to think of the past or the future—she tried to forget her first coming to Ashdale, not a year ago; of that solitude she had been led to expect; and of the whole life-time of events she had gone through in those months. Some of these could never occur again, she thought. She could never lose another relative. Mr. Grey was the last she possessed. She could never love again, and therefore could never be again deceived. Come what may, she thought, the future would be more tranquil than the past. Yet she looked forward with great anxiety to her first interview with Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Her shyness came back with more force than ever; she dreaded the termination of her journey; and her heart stood still with affright when the opening of gates, and the barking of dogs warned her that she had arrived at the cottage.

She saw a tall figure in black standing in the doorway, handsome, pale, like Lady Constance before her distraction. It was her hostess, come to welcome her upon the threshold:—that picturesque but obsolete custom.

"I am afraid, my dear, you had a very rough day for your journey," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick as she led her to the drawing-room.

There was nothing in the words, but the voice seemed to dispel her fears in a moment. She looked up with a smile, though her eyes were filled with tears.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick felt it as difficult to be composed as Margaret, but they both had learned the hard task of self-command.

"It was dreary," said Margaret. "The fire is very pleasant."

She sat down, and looked round the drawing-room. The curtains were drawn before the window where she had seen Aveline on the last evening of her life. There was the sofa on which she was lying; she recalled the gesture of Mr. Haveloc, turning from her to raise one of the pillows.

She shuddered.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was seated at the table engaged in making the tea. She was exceedingly pale, and her dark eye-brows gave almost an air of severity to her face, except when she smiled.

"Still cold?" said she turning round with one of those beautiful smiles; "you will not be really warm until you have had some tea. Will you come to the table, or shall I bring it to you?"

Margaret laid aside her bonnet, and drew a chair to the table. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was exceedingly struck by her beauty, and the gracefulness of her action, particularly with that exquisite brightness of complexion, which results not so much from fairness as from a peculiar texture of the skin. It has been likened by a poet to "the dim radiance floating round a pearl."

They parted for the night, greatly pleased with each other. And our first impressions are seldom false to us, if we take care not to reason upon them. Reason and fancy are good separate guides; but I know not how it is, they never work well together. But Margaret did not attempt to philosophise upon the matter. She laid her head upon her pillow with a vague but delightful consciousness, that she had found at last a tranquil home.

END OF VOL. II.

LONDON:
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