Org. Time can never
On the white table of unguilty faith
Write counterfeit dishonour.
FORD.

"It was the heat, Harriet, indeed. Mrs. Fitzpatrick will tell you that I cannot bear hot weather," said Margaret earnestly.

"Mrs. Fitzpatrick is not in the room, ma mie," said Harriet, taking a chair just opposite to Margaret. "I certainly never knew such a heroine as you are. Going down to dinner after an obstinate fainting fit; divinely dressed, and looking like a very pale angel. Now I have said a generous thing, because I see your white dress is more prettily made than mine; but I make a great exertion and forgive you."

Margaret smiled.

"Well now, Margaret, what was it? This is the second time of asking. Beware of the third."

"I have told you, dear Harriet," said Margaret. "I was not well when I came. I felt wretchedly all yesterday, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick thought the journey had been too much for one day; she means to divide it when we go back."

"When you go back! That will not be while I am here, I can tell you," said Harriet. "Oh! I do wish Margaret that you were married. I hate single women!"

"I really cannot help that, Harriet," said Margaret.

"I told you all about my affair with George;" said Harriet with emphasis.

"True, dear Harriet, but I was not a married woman!" said Margaret, trying to rally her spirits.

"If you think I should repeat any-thing to George, you are quite mistaken," said Harriet, "he may think himself very well off if I confide to him my own affairs."

"But, indeed, dear Harriet, I have no affairs to confide;" persisted poor Margaret.

"You cannot be in love with Mr. Haveloc;" said Harriet musing, and trying to recall what happened at Chirke Weston, the only time she saw them both together.

"In love with him—no!" said Margaret drawing herself up, and speaking with energy.

"Brava! you handsome little creature;" cried Harriet catching her in her arms, and covering her with kisses, "but come, it is a dull party to-day, but we will make up for it to-morrow."

If it was a dull party, it was at least a very large one. The drawing-room was full. Lady Raymond, with jewels in her dress and hair, was standing by a vase of flowers, showing something choice to one of the guests. Lord Raymond came in quietly, spoke to the company, went up to his wife and looked at her dress, took hold of one of her ornaments, with some curiosity, and then stood on the hearth-rug until dinner was ready.

Margaret was assigned to Everard Gage, who never talked if he could help it; and she felt the luxury of repose and silence during this grand, tedious dinner.

When they were again in the drawing-room, the ladies divided into little knots according to their tastes and degrees of intimacy. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was seated in one of the windows; Margaret at a stand near her, looking over some prints; Harriet was discussing, with Miss Campbell and Lady James Deacon, the French vaudeville they meant to act.

Lady Raymond, whose feelings, though not very deep, were kindly, seated herself beside Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"We met a very old friend of yours to-day, quite unexpectedly," she said in a low voice.

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with great interest. "Was it Mr. Haveloc? Is he at Tynebrook?"

"He is just arrived," said Lucy, "and he dines with us to-morrow. I thought you would like to know."

"Thank you; I shall be truly glad to see him;" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a sigh.

"I know it all," said Lucy in a sympathising tone. "Raymond told me he was engaged to my poor cousin." For Lady Raymond having adopted Mrs. Fitzpatrick to that degree of relationship, extended the kindred to her lost daughter.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was truth itself; there was no occasion to enter into detail; but she could not avoid correcting an erroneous statement of facts.

"He is a very intimate and tried friend of mine," she said; "but he was not engaged, nor even attached to my daughter in the common sense of the word. He did not form our acquaintance until after Aveline had too clearly shown a tendency to the complaint which destroyed her. There could have been no thought of marriage between them; but being in my neighbourhood, during the latter part of her illness, he paid me such frequent visits, that, had there been any gossip in that solitary place, I dare say it would have ascribed such a reason for his conduct. I am sure he was like a son to me, at a time when I was deeply in need of support. And it is possible that under other circumstances, if his heart was disengaged, of which I am entirely ignorant, the regard and respect that he felt for my daughter might have ripened into a permanent attachment."

"Of course it would; it is just the same thing. How melancholy!" said Lucy, with the usual amount of pity in her voice. "And so after all, my dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you are to be the future mistress of Tynebrook."

"Do be reasonable, my dear Lady Raymond," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, laughing. "I have always heard it considered hazardous for ladies to think of single men as their brothers: but I never heard that the same danger existed when they looked upon them as sons."

The prints fell from Margaret's hands. She sat listening—breathless—with parted lips, and eyes fixed, to every word that Mrs. Fitzpatrick uttered.

At first she could not think; she seemed turned to stone. Her next feeling was a sense of oppression, which made her find the crowded room intolerable. She looked cautiously round, and seeing every one engaged in their own pursuits, she made her escape through one of the open windows into the shrubbery.

And all this she might have known easily before. She must often have been within a hair's breadth of knowing, when any-thing moved Mrs. Fitzpatrick to some distant allusion to her daughter.

And two years had passed, during which she had been guilty of such injustice, such baseness; for had she loved nobly, would she have believed appearances against him? She, who was so slow to believe evil of the most casual acquaintance. All her sorrow, all her agony had been nothing to this corroding sense of shame to which she was now delivered.

When she had believed herself sinned against, she knew where to seek for alleviation; but how shield her heart from the intolerable sting of believing herself to be the one in fault? To have ruined her happiness for life through a narrowness of soul that refused to trust implicitly the heart and honour of the man she had chosen!

To her high generosity of feeling the anguish that these reflections brought with them was intolerable.

Sinking on a seat, she remained motionless—tearless; endeavouring to still by the pressure of her hands, the wild beating of her heart. And few people, after committing some deadly crime, would have felt more conscience-stricken, more self-debased, than Margaret, when she reproached herself for the ungenerous want of a romantic confidence.

How long she sat there she knew not; but she was roused by the clear voice of Harriet, among the shrubs exclaiming:

"Run, Everard! Why don't you run? How can you expect to find any one at this snail's pace?"

"I do run," was the faint reply.

Margaret, thinking it better to declare herself, called to Harriet, who was presently at her side. Everard Gage creeping slowly after.

Harriet turned to look at him.

"Come, make haste, and give Miss Capel your arm—or, no; run as fast as you can to the house, and bring out a shawl."

Everard turned, and disappeared slowly down the walk.

"Well, now, ma mie," said Harriet, sitting down beside her; "was the room too hot?"

"Yes; but it was rather the sound of so many voices that disturbed me," said Margaret.

"Well, then, little one, go to bed," said Harriet. "If you sleep soundly, you will be well to-morrow. I can't think what is come to the child; her hands are as cold as ice."

Margaret took Harriet's arm, and returned to the house. At the portico, they met Everard Gage, who had just succeeded in finding a shawl. Harriet rallied him upon the haste he had made, attempted to push him out of her path with the points of her slender fingers, and led Margaret up the great staircase.

She helped to undress her with great care and quickness, brought her some coffee, saw her drink it, and then desired her to go to sleep.

Strange to say, she had not long been out of the room, before Margaret obeyed her directions, and fell into a profound slumber.

Yielding to the advice of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, it was late in the morning before she went down stairs.

As the day was very hot, the ladies had all agreed not to go out. The evening was the gay time at Wardenscourt; and it was good policy not to look fagged, when there were so many people always to dinner.

Margaret found the ladies assembled, all at their worsted work, except Harriet, who was playing with Lady James Deacon's little boy, and enticing him to do all sorts of mischief to the ladies' work-baskets.

Lady James had no objection that her darling should be amused at the expense of worsteds and floss silks, so long as he kept his hands out of her particular basket; and Harriet raced him round the room like a kitten, trailing after him half a dozen brilliant-coloured balls.

Miss Campbell, who was pretty, in spite of her red hair, and possessed all the mysterious powers of attracting the other sex, common to ladies of that hue, became an object of serious interest to Margaret.

She remembered Mr. Haveloc's smile, when he thought he was speaking to Miss Campbell; she recollected that he had not positively declined the part of Alphonse, and Miss Campbell seemed only to be uncertain about accepting Camille, until she knew definitely, who was to enact the lover.

As she reclined in a low arm-chair, displaying the most slender ancle conceivable, and a thin foot incomparably shod, with her delicate blue muslin dress, her exquisite collar, and piquante cap of blue gauze artfully commingled with lace, Margaret thought that no one could deny her the meed of remarkable elegance. True, that extreme slenderness of form was adverse to an evening toilet, the neck and arms gained considerably by being left to the imagination; but she was exceedingly clever—talked good nonsense, laughed prettily, and sang with great archness and point. She was certain of a crowd of gentlemen round the piano, whenever she went to it: and Margaret who had scarcely ever seen Mr. Haveloc in society, did not know at all the style of person he generally admired. Harriet called her a knitting pin, a javelin-woman, and every other term she could coin expressive of her distaste for that style of beauty; but Harriet was no guide in the present instance; no test of what Mr. Haveloc might like. And feeling sure that she was, by her own act, for ever divided from Mr. Haveloc, she was conscious of a feverish desire to know on whom his choice would fall.

The ladies dispersed to dress rather earlier than usual, there were three or four officers coming, and women seem aware that fine clothes are never wasted upon men in that profession.

Margaret whose dress was always simple, came down soon into the deserted drawing-room, and finding Mrs. Fitzpatrick reading at a table, she joined her, and read over her shoulder. It was the "Records of Woman." They looked as if grouped for a picture, and Harriet who was coming in at the door-way with Mr. Haveloc, who had just arrived, stopped him and bade him admire the attitude.

Margaret's face was turned from them, but her extended arm, as white and rounded as that of a statue, was passed over Mrs. Fitzpatrick's shoulder, tracing the lines with her finger. Mr. Haveloc stayed a moment, in obedience to Mrs. Gage, then came abruptly up to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"My dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick!"

"Mr. Haveloc—this is a pleasure!"

Margaret withdrew her hand softly, and passing behind them, went to one of the sofas and sat down beside Harriet. Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Haveloc continued in earnest conversation. Directly after he had spoken to her, he looked round as if to address Margaret, but finding her gone, and people scattered between them, for the room was now filling, he turned back again.

Margaret tried to keep up a conversation with Harriet; she took up her fan, and asked Mrs. Gage to show her some of the Spanish movements with it. Harriet, full of fun, complied. She showed her how to say, "How are you—come, and see me," and other little sentences of the kind; but she warned her that this accomplishment did not depend solely on the dexterous handling of the fan, but required to be seconded by the expression of the lady's eye.

Lord James Deacon wished to share the lesson; but at the first trial, he endangered the ivory sticks, and Harriet took the fan from his hand. Lucy declined a trial, and Everard got to the farthest end of the room, behind the piano, because Harriet had already called to him for a footstool. Lord Raymond said gravely that he did not think the Spanish women could be much better than they should be; and that he thought these tricks with fans were as bad as sending about tulips, and cinders, and rubbish, as the women did in Turkey.

Lady Raymond laughed at him, and so did all the others. Miss Campbell was wild to learn, and Margaret surrendered her place to her; but dinner was announced before the lesson could proceed. Margaret, as usual, was assigned to Everard Gage, and as usual they went on very peaceably.

Mr. Haveloc was between Miss Campbell, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but he appeared to devote all his attention to the latter lady. Lord James Deacon treated Margaret with his usual insolent neglect; staring hard at her when it suited him, and at other times neither addressing a word to her, nor helping her to what she wanted at table.

In the evening, Lady Raymond came up to Mr. Haveloc who was standing by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and renewed her entreaties that he would take the part of Alphonse.

He declined, laughing—she pressed the point; she bought Lord Raymond to press the point—still he laughed it off.

Nothing he should like better than to play, if he could; but it was a weakness of his, that he could not overcome. He was too diffident to succeed on the boards.

Harriet accused him of being a Saint.

He bowed to the compliment, and said he saw neither reason nor precedent for saints to put on the buskin when they had no turn for wearing it.

Lady James Deacon who had secretly destined him for her friend Miss Campbell, now called on that young lady to persuade him.

Miss Campbell was sitting on a sofa making pencil alterations in a song. She looked up with her quaint expression.

"Oh, don't teaze him!" she said, "I would not. Put his name down, and send him a part-book, if you cannot get a better Alphonse."

She gave her speeches all the point in tone and manner of a good actress. Mr. Haveloc took a seat by her side.

"Is that your advice, Miss Campbell?" he said, "they should make you stage-manager."

"Lord James is stage-manager," she replied, without raising her eyes from the sheet of music she was marking.

"Are you going to sing, Miss Campbell?" he asked.

"Oh! if I'm properly begged and prayed;" she returned, still making dots on the paper on her knee.

"How much begging and praying do you require?"

"Try," she said, suddenly raising her quaint eyes.

Every body laughed, Mr. Haveloc as much as the rest.

"Everard!" cried Harriet, making way for him, "see if you possess sufficient oratory to persuade Miss Campbell."

"Do," said he, putting on his softest look. They all laughed again. Miss Campbell rose, and walked idly to the piano.

"No eloquence like the laconic," said Mr. Haveloc to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"So I perceive," she said smiling, "it was equal to the Spartan—If."

But Miss Campbell having tried over the embellishments with her right hand, rose from the instrument.

The officers surrounded her with various exclamations, she paid no sort of attention to them, and resumed her seat beside Mr. Haveloc.

"What have we all done," said he, "that you disappoint us in this manner."

"Nothing at all," said she, putting the music in his hand, "but Schubert has done something, he has written this accompaniment in so many flats, that it is beyond me to read, and sing at once."

"Then let some one accompany you."

"La chose est faisible," said she, "go and canvass for me."

"What do you want," asked Lady Raymond.

"Only a player," he returned, "will you be so charitable?"

"Oh! not at sight, I wish I could. Harriet!"

No; Harriet would not volunteer, she had her own private reasons, which she would not reveal. The fact was, that she had made up her mind to forward Margaret's interest with Mr. Haveloc, and to cross Miss Campbell in her endeavours.

Lady James would not undertake Schubert, nor would Mrs. Leslie, nor any of the Miss Veseys.

"Margaret will, I am sure," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

Margaret who had been detained in conversation by one of the officers, who had heard she had a good fortune, rose, and proffered her services. The officer, knowing he must undergo a certain amount of trouble if he hoped to get her money, led her to the piano, and arranged the music. Margaret took her place with the pleasing consciousness that Mr. Haveloc was about a yard behind her, listening with eager delight to the singer. It was well worth listening to, never was a clearer, or sweeter voice, and her German was perfect. Even Everard said, "He never had—" which was rather a long sentence for him, and all united in begging for something else.

Miss Campbell allowed herself to be persuaded, and selected one of Vestris's ballads.

"You will not want me for that, I think," said Margaret, looking up to Miss Campbell.

"No, thank you very much, how beautifully you play," said Miss Campbell, making way for her.

Some one moved a chair out of her path, it was Mr. Haveloc. She bowed, glided quietly across the room, and sank into a chair, heart-sick. Mr. Haveloc, who had followed her, leaned against a table by her side. She felt so humbled now that she knew the real motives of his conduct, that she did not venture to lift up her eyes, but sat with her hands clasped listlessly in her lap, trying to feel calm and composed. He remained silent for a few moments, finding it as difficult as she did, to be calm.

"I did not know you, yesterday, Miss Capel," he said at last, "at least, not till I had put you in the carriage. I am very near-sighted."

To tell her so! This was, indeed, proclaiming that he had forgotten all their former intimacy. She looked up, trying to speak. There was a pause. He stood playing with his eye-glass; he seemed to have something else to say, and Margaret only hoped he would make haste, for she felt as if she could not bear up much longer. At last he said in a very low tone:

"We can never be entire strangers to each other; we have one memory between us—the memory of your uncle."

Margaret tried to reply in vain. She was trembling so much, that she feared she should fall from her chair. Mrs. Fitzpatrick came up to her at the moment.

"Come, my child," she said, "I must send you to bed early until you are quite strong again. Good night."

Margaret rose, gave a bow in passing to Mr. Haveloc, without daring to raise her eyes, and made her way through the officers who were standing round Harriet. Mrs. Gage relating to them the history of the altar-cloth, and the officers laughing almost into convulsions, and declaring that Mrs. Gage and the altar-cloth would certainly be the death of all of them.