^
 
 ^T A L E S 
 
 PEERAGE AND THE PEASANTRY. 
 EDITED BY LADY DACRE. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. ]L 
 
 NEW. YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 
 NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET, 
 
 AND SOLD BY TUB PRINCIPAL BOOKSKI.LBRS THROl'GHOU'I TKB 
 UNITED STATES. 
 
 1835.
 
 THE 
 
 HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER f. 
 
 And still it was her nightly prayer 
 
 To live to close his sightless eyes ; 
 For this her torturing pains to bear, 
 
 Then sink in death ere morning rise. 
 Who, were she gone, the staft' would guide 
 
 With which he feels, amiss, his way ] 
 Who, careful, lay the stone aside, 
 
 That might his tottering footstep stay ? 
 Who lead him to the sheltered stile 
 
 That fronts the sun at noontide hour ? 
 And watch the western clouds the while 
 
 To warn him of the gathering shower 1 
 
 Unpublished Ballad from Xature. 
 
 In one of the last cottages of the village of Overhurst, 
 dwelt Nicholas and Sarah Foster. There, in their ac- 
 customed seats, did the neighbours for many years find 
 old Nicholas, still bending over the embers of his humble 
 hearth, and Sarah still gazing through the casement win- 
 dow, in patient endurance of the evils with which each 
 was visited. 
 
 They rest now in their quiet graves : but those who 
 have known that ancient couple will not easily forget 
 their appearance, or that of all around them : they will 
 remember the well-polished wooden chair in which the 
 old woman sat, both her hands pressed tightly against 
 her right side, as if to quell the tortures of an agonizing 
 and mortal complaint which had long preyed upon her : 
 they will remember the very dress she wore, — such as is 
 rarely seen of late years. But Sarah was an English
 
 4 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 peasant of the olden time, and she changed not with the 
 fashion of the day. Her cap had a narrow, close, stiff 
 border ; the crown was high and well starched ; and 
 round it was tightly pinned a broad piece of dark pur- 
 ple riband. Her gray hair was turned back over a roll, 
 — one of the last remaining specimens of that mode of 
 dressing the hair. Her waist reached to her hips ; her 
 sleeves were tight, and ended at the elbow. The gown 
 was open in front ; and the apron, which was of spot- 
 less white, always seemed to be just out of the folds. 
 
 Her usual seat, by the long casement of their clean and 
 decent kitchen, commanded a view down the village 
 street ; before her was a clean deal table, which ran the 
 whole length of the window, and upon it lay her spec- 
 tacles and a book of prayer. 
 
 Her countenance bore the traces of extreme suffer- 
 ing, and her brows were always contracted ; but on her 
 lips dwelt a patient smile. She swayed her body inces- 
 santly backward and forward, as if to allay her pain ; 
 but her voice was invariably cheerful, and ever lively, — 
 for Nicholas was blind ; — and to cheer his days of dark- 
 ness was her constant task of love. 
 
 Nicholas in his youth had been a hedger, and he still 
 wore the brown leather coat peculiar to his calling. His 
 place was in the chimney corner ; his back towards the 
 light, his two hands resting on his staff, his chin upon his 
 hands, and his sightless eyes fixed on vacancy. 
 
 Tempted by the beauty of the sunset, the 'squire's 
 family one evening extended their walk to the village, 
 and, as they frequently did, paid a visit to Master Foster 
 and his dame. Sarah's face lighted up with a momen- 
 tary expression of joy as they trooped in, filling the 
 humble dwelling ; and the old man smiled upon them 
 the patient, placid smile of blindness. 
 
 There was the 'squire's lady, the gentle and kind Mrs. 
 Mowbray ; and her blooming daughter, the young Alice, 
 in the full flush of maiden loveliness ; and the tall, slen- 
 der, merry Fanny, just verging on womanhood ; and two 
 stout school-boys ; and the rosy little Emma, who had 
 quickly gained possession of the tortoise-sheH cat, and
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 5 
 
 was trying high its powers of endurance by her childish 
 mode of fondling it. Besides this, the usual party, there 
 was a dark and handsome youth, who appeared to be all 
 attention to Mrs. Mowbray ; while the young Alice's 
 cheeks were more brilliant even than usual, her smile 
 more animated, and her eyes more downcast. 
 
 Old Sarah Foster soon perceived that the village re- 
 port, which said the 'squire's eldest daughter was likely 
 to be early settled, was better founded than is usually the 
 case with such reports, 
 
 " Where is Susan this evening ?" inquired Mrs. Mow- 
 bray. 
 
 " 'Tis Freshfield fair to-day, madam," answered fhe 
 dame, "and all the young people hereabout are gone to 
 see the humours of it: and so her father and I thought 
 poor Susan should take a little amusement for once. 
 She has but a dull life with us, so poorly as I am, and so 
 helpless as my good man is !" 
 
 " I think you look rather better this evening. Dame 
 Foster," said Alice, who was in that happy frame of 
 mind when it is painful to be obliged to believe others 
 less fortunate than one's self, and when one had far rather 
 be called upon to sympathize in their joys, than in their 
 sorrows. 
 
 " Thank you. Miss Alice," replied the old woman, 
 while a sudden pain caused the smile with whi^% slic 
 tried to receive Alice's kind words, to die away on her 
 lips, and her brows involuntarily to become more con- 
 tracted. " Thank you, my dear young lady, I am much 
 as usual ; but I do not mind my pains as long as I am 
 able to do for my poor Nicholas. I know his ways so 
 well. Susan herself could not guess all his thoughts as 
 I can. Blindness is a heavy affliction, ladies. He wants 
 some one who can speak comfort to him at times, when 
 he gets thinking his sad thoughts ; some one who can talk 
 of by-gone days, when we had every thing to make us 
 happy ; and one who can remind him of that better 
 place where we shall be happier than even the happiest 
 are in this world. Morning and night I pray to be spared 
 as long as my poor Nicholas lives, however hard my 
 a2
 
 6 TlIE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 pains may be to bear ; and morning and night I pray 
 that, wlien he is gone, I may never see another sun 
 rise." 
 
 A silence of some moments ensued. All were touched 
 by the pure and devoted affection so unconsciously ex- 
 pressed by the old woman. Alice's eyes had filled with 
 tears ; for one instant they were raised to those of the 
 youth to whom she was betrothed, but they as quickly 
 fell again. 
 
 " 1 am sure, dame, you are a pattern for all wives," at 
 length added JMrs. JMowbray. 
 
 At this moment the sound of distant merriment was 
 heard ; and parties of young folks, the slant western 
 sun shining on their holyday apparel, were seen trooping 
 down the headland of the opposite hill, under the shelter 
 of the hazel copse. 
 
 " My fc?usan will soon be at home," said the dame, " for 
 I lold her to be sure and not stay late at these merry- 
 makings. I always hold that no good comes of too much 
 pleasure, madam ; and, in my young days, girls had not 
 half the liberty they take now. I can't say, however, but 
 that Susan is a good girl, and minds what we old folks 
 say to her: but she is light-hearted, poor thing ! and has 
 not known trouble yet — God grant it nrray be long before 
 she does ! There she comes, poor girl ! Ah ! time was 
 when I could move as nimbly as she does, and laugh as 
 heartily. You must excuse her, ladies : she little thinks 
 what visiters we have in our cottage, or she would know 
 better than to be so free of her jokes," added the dame, 
 as Susan and her lover reached the garden gate, and she 
 laughingly shut it against him, and ran into the cottage. 
 
 Upon finding herself in the presence of the 'squire's 
 family, she stopped suddenly, while the blood rushed over 
 her face ; and she dropped a courtesy, graceful in its 
 awkwardness, and took refuge close to her mother's chair. 
 George Wells, meanwhile, had followed ; and, threaten- 
 ing that he would steal a kiss in revenge for the trick she 
 had played him, burst into the cottage after her. His 
 shamefaced look of dismay, when he perceived the com- 
 pany assembled, was irresistibly comic. Mrs. Mowbray
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 7 
 
 smiled, Fanny tried to be serious, the two boys laughed 
 outright, while Alice and Captain Harcourt each main- 
 tained a countenance of imperturbable unconsciousness. 
 
 The visit was now speedily brought to a conclusion ; 
 and Susan and her lover were left to settle their little 
 quarrel, relieved from the awe inspired by " the gentle- 
 folks." 
 
 They had already, as. it is termed, kept company two 
 years. George had saved enough to furnish a cottage 
 decently ; and Susan had already provided the linen, 
 blankets, and counterpane, which, among the better sort 
 of poor people, and those who think it necessary to make 
 any provision before they enter into the marriage state, 
 is reckoned the proper dowry of the bride. They only 
 waited to hear of a cottage which they might rent, before 
 they were asked in church. 
 
 George Wells was invited to stay supper, and the quick 
 and lively Susan had soon arranged the humble meal. 
 The rashers of bacon were fried, the smoking potatoes 
 were on the table : she had placed her father's chair, and 
 she gently led him from his chimney nook, and settled 
 him comfortably to his supper ; then, gayly kissing him 
 on the forehead, she began to tell him of the wonders 
 they had seen at the fair. The old man turned his sight- 
 less eyes towards her, and, leaning forward as he listened, 
 smiled placidly to hear of all the brilliant things which he 
 might never gaze on again ; and the dame forgot her 
 pains for a while, rejoicing in the happiness of her child. 
 " But, mother, you do not know why I am so overjoyed 
 to-day ! I have such a piece of news for you ! 1 think 
 you will be as pleased as I am, and father too ! Won't 
 they, George ?" 
 
 "Maybe they will, if it comes true." 
 
 " Well, mother, guess." 
 
 " I never was a good guesser, Susan, not in my best 
 days ; and I shall never begin now." 
 
 " Well, father, do you guess, then." 
 
 '* Lord save you, child ! how should I know ? Maybe 
 'tis that the 'squire will give away coals gratis to the poor 
 this Christmas ?"
 
 8 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 " No, 't aint that ; 'tis something that will moke us 
 happy at Christmas and at Lady-day, at Midsummer and 
 at Michaelmas, and all the year round, as long as we all 
 live." 
 
 " If so be that it comes true ; but we are not sure yet, 
 Susan," interposed the more steady George, who did not 
 run away with a notion so quickly as the light-hearted 
 Susan. 
 
 " Oh, George ! I know they will give up the cottage ; 
 you will see if tiiey don't. They say, father, that Master 
 Mumford is going to set up carpenter, and that he is to 
 move to Mr. Peters's shop, and Mr. Peters is to be a great 
 cabinetmaker, at Turnholme ; and then what should 
 hinder us taking Master Mumford's cottage, and living 
 next door to you ? I should not mind marrying, if I was 
 to go no farther than that from you and mother : for then 
 1 could do for you as well as I can now, and mother need 
 only just trouble herself with little odd jobs that will be 
 rather a pleasure than a trouble to her." 
 
 " But, Susan, we don't know, even if Master Mumford 
 should set up at Mr. Peters's, whether the 'squire will let 
 the cottage to us. If you run off so at score, maybe 
 you'll only meet with a disappointment. However, I am 
 willing to go to the 'squire's to-morrow morning, and see 
 what 1 can do." 
 
 " That's right, George I" exclaimed the eager Susan ; 
 " that's what 1 have been wanting all along !" 
 
 "Well, I never said I was against trying; only I aint 
 for making too sure of a thing before we have got it. You 
 have heard, maybe, Susan, of counting your chickens 
 before they are hatched." 
 
 " Don't you make game of me, George ! I'll answer 
 for it, the 'squire is not the man to say no to us ; he has 
 always been a kind friend to father :" while the suspicion 
 that he seldom missed an opportunity of asking her how 
 she did, and taking a look at her sparkling' biack eyes, 
 may have increased her reliance on his kindness to her 
 blind father. 
 
 " I shall be glad enough if we are so lucky as to get 
 the refusal of it," replied George ; " for I see little chance
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 9 
 
 of our finding any other place hereabout ; and I would 
 never be the man to take you into another parish, with 
 your parents such poor afflicted creatures as they are ! 
 I'm not one of your high-flown flighty folks ; and I've 
 never read any of such fine books as you and your school- 
 fellows sometimes get hold of, Susan ; but I can read my 
 Bible pretty middling, and I know what is the duty we 
 owe to our parents, who took care of us when we could 
 do nothing for ourselves, and I would never wish my wife 
 not to be a dutiful child." 
 
 Old Surah Foster looked approvingly at her future 
 son-in-law ; and Nicholas said, " You are a young man 
 with good principles, and it will be a pleasure to give our 
 Susan to such a one as you. When I die, I shall rest 
 quiet in my grave, if I know she is married to you." 
 
 " They did not always speak so of you, George," an- 
 swered the merry girl, " You used to say I was a wilful 
 girl, did not you, father, when I said I would have George 
 or nobody ? So, after all, I have got an old head on 
 young shoulders, though nobody has given me credit for 
 it yet !" 
 
 It was not many weeks after Freshfield fair when the 
 village of Overhurst was all alive with another and a 
 greater jubilee. The church bells rang a merry peal 
 from the very sunrise ; the village maidens, in their most 
 trim apparel, were in waiting to strew flowers on the 
 path of Alice Mowbray and Captain Harcourt ; an ox 
 was roasted whole in Overhurst Park, and the beer flowed 
 as beer should flow on such occasions. 
 
 The 'squire had promised Master Mumford's house to 
 George Wells, and he had obtained Susan's consent that 
 they should soon be asked in church. Susan was all 
 blushes and smiles, as, among other maidens, she scat- 
 tered flowers on the path ; and she courtesied with a 
 pretty confusion when the bride gave her a nod of recog- 
 nition, as she hurried past into the travelling carriage at 
 the gate. 
 
 Hitherto all had seemed to smile on Susan ; for, having 
 been accustomed to them from her youth, her father's 
 blindness and her mother's ill health did not dwell upon
 
 10 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE 
 
 her mind as misfortunes ; while the wish to enliven her 
 parents, and the pleasure they took in her t^prightliness, 
 had rather tended to increase the natural gayety of her 
 disposition. But on this, the happiest day of her life, a 
 change came over the destiny of Susan Foster. 
 
 The festivities of Overhurst Park concluded with a 
 dance on the green ; and Susan, gay, blooming, and 
 thoughtless, seemed to be the reigning village belle. 
 
 The scene was one which could not be looked upon 
 without interest. There the good-natured Mrs. Mowbray 
 might be seen, moving about among her humble guests, 
 with a kind word for each. She was flushed and agitated, 
 breathless and tearful ; but she had given her daughter 
 to a son-in-law whom she thought perfection, and she was 
 as happy as a mother can be who has for the first time 
 parted from her child. The simple congratulations of 
 the poor people overcame, while they pleased her. The 
 tears started into her eyes when she heard the hearty 
 *' God bless Miss Alice !" " May the captain niak^ her a 
 good husband !" " May Miss Alice be as happy as she 
 deserves to be !" which greeted her on all sides. 
 
 Half ashamed of her own emotion, she turned away 
 to a demure and staid matron, who sat somewhat apart, 
 watching the young ones as they footed it merrily on the 
 grass to the music of the village band : " We\\, Dame 
 Dixon, I hope you have enjoyed yourself, and that you 
 have had every thing you wished for ?" 
 
 *' Every thing was beautiful, I am sure, madam," re- 
 plied Mrs. Dixon, rising respectfully from her seat: "his 
 honour has treated us with the best of every tiling." 
 
 " Is your daughter among the dancers?" inquired Mrs. 
 Mowbray, as she saw Mrs. Dixon's eye glance frequently 
 towards the country-dance. 
 
 " Yes, madam ; Jane is very partial to dancing — al- 
 most too partial," she continued, as a bouncing couple 
 came flying by beyond the double hedge of dancers. 
 *' Jane," said the mother, as she clutched the maiden's 
 elbow, " don't you see that madam is here ? Where's 
 your manners, girl 1" 
 
 Jane stopped short, dropped a sort of courtesy, and
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE, 
 
 11 
 
 composed her laughing countenance, while the partner 
 disappeared among the crowd, with the sheepish bash- 
 fulness which characterizes an English clown, especially 
 in his youth. 
 
 " I am afraid we have stopped their dancing," said 
 Mrs. Mowbray. " Pray, do not mind me, Jane. I hope 
 I have not frightened away your partner ;" and the kind 
 hostess glided on. 
 
 "What is become of Will Smith?" asked Dame 
 Dixon. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Jane ; " and what's more, I 
 don't care. I'm very tired," she continued, as she let 
 herself drop on the bench by her mother's side ; while 
 her countenance relaxed into as decided an expression of 
 sadness, as it had previously worn of uncontrolled mer- 
 riment. 
 
 " Then I am sure, Jane, I wish you would not make 
 so free with him, nor with half a dozen other young men. 
 You have tbo much to say to them by half." 
 
 " It won't do to sit and mope," cried Jane, starting up 
 as George Wells and Susan Foster were slowly advan- 
 cing to join the dancers, w^th a lingering step, as though 
 they were loath to have their conversation broken in upon. 
 Jane was off like a startled deer ; and in a few moments 
 Dame Dixon saw her dancing away with more spirit 
 than ever, having already provided herself with another 
 partner. 
 
 Mr. Mowbray meantime had stopped Susan Foster to' 
 speak to her, and she was blushing and courtesying un- 
 der the compliments he was paying her on her bright 
 skin and her black eyes, and George was shifting from 
 leg to leg under the compliments he was paying him 
 upon his good taste and his good fortune. 
 
 Mr. Mowbray had an eye for beauty, and certainly 
 felt the glow of charity more strongly in his bosom to- 
 wards the young and the good-looking of his parishioners, 
 than towards the old and the ill-favoured ; at least, he 
 was apt to think Mrs. Mowbray understood the wants 
 and the sorrows of the latter better than he did. 
 
 •' And who is that buxom lass ?" said he to his wife,
 
 12 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 who was looking on upon the scene ; " she is a hght- 
 hearted one. How indefatigable she is !" 
 
 " That is old Dixon's daughter, Jane, to whom you al- 
 ways used to give a shiUing lor opening the gate, because 
 her eyes were so blue." 
 
 " So she is ! Faith, she has turned out a fine creature ! 
 But, bless me ! who is this pretty woman 1 Quite an 
 elegcmte, I declare ! Where can she come from ?" 
 
 "Why, from our own farn) of Holmy-bank, to be 
 sure. Do you not sec Farmer Otley close behind her ; 
 and do you not know he has been married this year, 
 though they are only lately come to the farm ?" 
 
 " Why, you know, my dear, 1 have a taste for the 
 beautiful, and not for the sublime ; and I quite overlook 
 every thing else when there is such a pretty woman as 
 this to be seen." 
 
 " I am sure, if you are thinking of beauty, Mr. Otley 
 is almost the handsomest man I ever saw in my life ; 
 and if she looks like a lady with her smart dress, lie 
 looks ten times more really distinguished, with tnose fine 
 features, and his head like an antique gem, though he is 
 dressed as befits his station of life." 
 
 "Well, my dear, you may admire Mr. Otley if you 
 like it : it is only fair to allow me to admire his wife. I 
 have just recollected, I have a great deal to say to Far- 
 mer Otley," continued Mr. Mowbray, laughing ; and he 
 was soon in deep conversation with his tenant about his 
 course of cropping and his stock ; while Mrs. Mowbray 
 secretly reflected, " Mr. Mowbray is growing too old to 
 talk so much about beauty. 1 feel quite uncomfortable 
 when he goes on so before the children." 
 
 " Well, mamma !" interposed Fanny ; " don't you think 
 Susan Foster is much prettier than Mrs. Otley ? Her 
 eyes are much larger, in the first place ; and then she is 
 so quiet, and does not look up and down so ; and then, 
 as for her nose — " 
 
 " My dear, Susan Foster is a very respectable, worthy 
 young woman, and very good-looking ; and now do not 
 let us hear any more about beauty. I am really sick of 
 the subject."
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 13 
 
 It was not that Mrs. Mowbray was jealous, for Mr. 
 Mowbray was a kind husband, and she knew it was only 
 " his way." She knew that his foible was not to " affect 
 a virtue though he had it not ;" but rather to talk, as if 
 he were far less scrupulous than he really was. It was 
 only before the children, or in the hearing of strangers, 
 who did not know "his way," that Mrs. Mowbray felt 
 seriously annoyed. 
 
 Mr. Otley was of course gratified when his landlord 
 wished to be introduced to his wife ; and Mr. Mowbray, 
 with twinkling eyes and a gay smile, was soon inquiring 
 into the condition of her pigs, her poultry, and her dairy. 
 
 " Oh, sir !" she replied, with a tender look at her hus- 
 band ; " you must not ask me about the pigs : Mr. O. 
 says 1 am a sad fine lady" (and she looked up for ap- 
 plause) ; " but I never could^ bear the smell of those 
 creatures" (and she looked down with a refined cast of 
 countenance) : " but I am very fond of my dairy ; am 
 I not, Mr. O. ? and I slip on my clogs every morning, 
 and step into my dairy ; don't I, Mr. O. ?" 
 
 " Why, yes, Lizzy, you do that, to be sure ; but my 
 mother used to see to the scouring of the milk-pans her- 
 self, and would never let father have any peace if there 
 was not always plenty of wood-ashes to clean them with, 
 every morning." 
 
 " Oh dear, Mr. Otley ! don't you go off" now about 
 that dear good old soul, your poor dear mother. I am 
 sure Mr. Mowbray will not care to hear what she did 
 twenty years ago." 
 
 " I had always rather hear about a pretty, young 
 woman of the present day, than about an old' one, be 
 she ever so good, of the past day," replied Mr. Mow- 
 bray, with a bow ; and Mrs. Otley simpered, and blushed, 
 and looked down, and removed a curl which fell a little 
 too much over her eyes, and then added, turning to her 
 husband — 
 
 " You know, Mr. Otley, I have promised to be very 
 good about the poultry, and to look after the eggs every 
 morning, as soon as you have made a raised path across 
 the farmyard to the henhouse. But really, sir, the farm- 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 14 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 yard is in such a pickle, that nobody but the labouring 
 men could think of crossing it." 
 
 " Impossible that Mr. Otley can have so little gallantry 
 as to wish those pretty little feet should step into the 
 farmyard ! He would not be such a Goth !" 
 
 "That's just what I am always telling Mr. O.," added 
 Mrs. Otley, turning round exultingly ; "I am always 
 telling him he is a Goth and a Vandal ; and then he says 
 he does not know who the Goths and the Vandals are ; 
 and then I laugh, and tell him he is more of a Goth and 
 a Vandal than ever." 
 
 " Ah, Lizzy ! you must not mind every thing his hon- 
 our says ; he is pleased to joke sometimes. But he 
 knows well enough that a former has need of his head, 
 and both his hands, too, and that a farmer's wife should 
 be a stirring body : he knows well enough they are the 
 sort who pay their rent to the day, and keep their land 
 in good condition." 
 
 " You, and your father before you, have been very 
 good tenants. Master Otley ; no landlord need wish for 
 better — but here comes Mrs. Mowbray. My dear, you 
 must allow me to have the pleasure of presenting you 
 to our new neighbour, our friend Mr. Otley's pretty 
 wife." 
 
 Mrs. Otley simpered, " Mrs. Mowbray had already 
 done her the honour — " 
 
 " You need not introduce us, Mr. Mowbray," ansv^ered 
 Mrs. Mowbray, with a shade of asperity in her tone, 
 which amused her husband ; " I have already had the 
 pleasure of seeing Mrs. Otley's pretty farm, and her 
 sweet little boy: Emma and I walked to Holmy-banka 
 few days ago, and Mr. Otley showed us all about the 
 place." 
 
 ♦' IIow are the dear little calves, Mr. Otley," exclaimed 
 Emma, "that Fanny and I were feeding?" 
 
 " They are growing nicely, thank you, young ladies," 
 replied the farmer, " and 1 should be proud to show them 
 to you again if you would favour us with a call." 
 
 " Oh I Mrs. Otley, what a pleasure the calves must be
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE €OTTAGE. 15 
 
 to you 1 1 dare say you pass half the day in feeding them : 
 I am sure I should !" 
 
 " They are pretty, innocent creatures, indeed, miss ; 
 and if our old Daniel would keep the pens a little cleaner, 
 I should have no objection to looking at them oftener 
 than I do. But, if Mrs. Mowbray should honour us with 
 another visit, 1 think I could show you something that 
 would please young ladies more than such common, 
 every-day creatures as calves. I have got two beautiful 
 greenparrots, that can chatter, and will repeat any thing. 
 And 1 am sure it would please you to see the curious 
 Gothic castle, all made of shells, and the lady at the 
 window playing on the guitar!" 
 
 " Oh ! I should like another walk to Holmy-bank of all 
 things ; but it would be to see the dear calves — I like 
 them much better than parrots." 
 
 " My girls are very homely in their tastes, Mrs. Ot- 
 ley ; they are quite country lasses ;" and Mrs. Mow- 
 bray glided on, a little provoked that her husband should 
 find so much to say to such a would-be fine lady as the 
 farmer's pretty wife — " And he has never remembered 
 to speak once to good old Mrs. Williams, our own stew- 
 ard's mother," she thought, as she proceeded towards 
 Mrs. Williams, in order to make up for his omission. 
 
 The evening was now beginning to close ; tbe cock- 
 chaffers were humming under the beech-trees, and were 
 flying into the faces and among the hair of those who 
 had taken refuge under their shade. Much was the 
 merriment they gave rise to, and many a rustic coquette 
 affected a little more fear than she really felt of their 
 harmless, though sticky claws; while .Tane Dixon laughed 
 rather longer and louder than the occasion seemed to 
 require. 
 
 The SUB had sunk quite below the horizon ; and the 
 vapours, which had been rising during the heat of the 
 sultry day, were suddenly condensed, and hung on the 
 lower grounds, looking silvery white under the light of 
 the summer moon. 
 
 Susan and some other village girls, tired with dancing 
 and tije excitement of the day, mounted an empty wagon
 
 16 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 which was returning homeward, and the merry group of 
 thoughtless young creatures thus made their entry into 
 the quiet village street. Susan had, in the exuberance 
 of her spirits, danced the longest and the latest ; the day 
 had^been oppressively hot, but with the evening came a 
 heavy dew, and the air was chilly. When Susan arrived 
 at home, her mother thought she looked pale ; and scolded 
 George for having allowed her to return in the wagon, 
 after having heated herself with dancing. 
 
 " Time enough for me to mind him, mother, when 
 once v/e are married," answered the joyous girl ; " I 
 have but a little while longer to be my own mistress, and 
 I must use my liberty now, or never !" and the gay crea- 
 ture laughed, conscious of her power over father, mother, 
 and lover. 
 
 " Oh, mother, we have been so happy ! I never was so 
 happy before, and, maybe, never shall be again ! never, 
 at least, if you- teach George that I am not to have my 
 own way !" and she turned her beaming eyes from her 
 mother to her lover, while old Sarah hoped she had 
 many days in store for her of more true happiness if 
 not of such flighty gayety. Alas ! it was well for them 
 they could not look into futurity. 
 
 The next morning Susan awoke with a heavy cold, 
 and an unusual pain in her eyes ; they were bloodshot 
 and inflamed. The dame reproached her with her 
 imprudence, and doctored her with that degree of dis- 
 cretion which is usual among tlie poor people. Her 
 eyes became hourly more painful. 
 
 As he returned from work, George paid her his ac- 
 customed visit. He wished she would see the doctor ; 
 but she laughingly replied she should be well to-mor- 
 row, for old Dame Jones had given her an infallible 
 remedy for all complaints of the eyes.
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAOE. 17 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 O dolce Amor che di riso t'ammanti 
 Quanlo parevi ardente in que' favilli 
 Ch'aveano spirto sol di pensier santi. 
 
 Dante, Paradise, cant. 20mo. 
 
 Dame Jones's infallible remedy rather increased than 
 diminished the evil ; and Susan's spirits be^an to fail 
 her at the continued suffering, the enforced idleness, 
 and also in some degree at the disfigurement occasioned 
 by the dimming of her brilliant eyes ; for she was not 
 without a share of female vanity, — vanity which is in- 
 dulged as almost a laudable feeling when it is for the 
 sake of another that personal attractions are valued. 
 
 The Sunday on which Susan and her lover were to 
 be asked in church was fast approaching, when she half 
 sadly, half sportively, thus addressed him : " You had 
 better go to Mr. Sandford, George, and tell him not to 
 say any thing about us in church. It would never do 
 to be a bride with such eyes as these ;" and she tried 
 to smile, though she was more inclined to weep. 
 
 " There will be plenty of time for your eyes to get 
 quite well, Susan, before we are out-asked." 
 
 " They must begin to mend, George, before we need 
 talk of their getting well," replied Susan with a sigh ; 
 and then she playfully added, "Do you remember 
 your telling me when Miss Alice, that was, walked 
 down the churchyard, looking so blushing and beauti- 
 ful, that you would show them a prettier bride before 
 long ; and that, though she would not have such a 
 smart lace veil to hang over her face, she would have a 
 pair of brighter eyes to shine out of her bonnet. You 
 must wait a bit, George, before your words can come 
 true." 
 
 B 2
 
 18 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 " Not long, Susan, not long ; I am sure you will be well 
 before three weeks are over : that's a long time." 
 
 " So it is, George — a long, long time to be as I am ! 
 But the folks shan't laugh at you for having such a homely, 
 half-bjiiid bride. I should not like you to be ashamed of 
 your wife upon the wedding-day, at all events ;" and she 
 tried to carry off her sadness and her mortification by an 
 assumed air of sprightliness. 
 
 Still, poor Susan's eyes did not mend ; her mother's ' 
 applications and Dame .Tones's wonderful remedy proved 
 equally unavailing. Susan's spirits quite gave way : she 
 often sat and wept when her mothers back was towards 
 her, and her sightless father could not perceive how sad 
 his once light-hearted girl was now become. After Alice's 
 marriage, the family of the Mowbrays had left home for 
 some time, and Mr. Sandford was old, and had been ill, 
 or Susan's sufferings would never have been allowed to 
 continue so long without being provided with better medi- 
 cal attendance. The old couple themselves had derived 
 so little benefit from the advice of doctors, that they, as 
 is frequently the case among the poor, reposed more 
 confidence in the doctoring of Mr. Sandford, or of any 
 other gentleman or lady, than in that of the first physician 
 in the land. They all felt anxious that the good minister 
 should recover his health, and visit them ; and they flat- 
 tered themselves he would soon afford Susan some relief. 
 When he did call, he was shocked at the alteration in the 
 poor girl's appearance, and he instantly sent for the best 
 medical practitioner in the neighbourhood, deeming the 
 case much too important a one for his own unassisted 
 advice. 
 
 Mr. vSand ford's countenance first excited alarm, serious 
 alarm in Susan's mind : for the first time she trembled 
 for her eyesight : and an icy chill ran through her when 
 she thought of her future fate. 
 
 George called as he returned home from work ; and, 
 on hearing that Mr. Sandford had visited the cottage, his 
 countenance brightened : " Then now we shall see you 
 begin to mend ! What has our good minister told you to
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 19 
 
 do, Susan ? Am I to go to his house lo-night to fetch any 
 stuff for you ?" 
 
 *' No, George, no ; he saj's I must see the real doctor ; 
 he says he can't do any thing for me himself." George 
 looked amazed and confounded. " He says he does not 
 understand such things himself;" and she added, in a tone 
 which she tried to make perfectly calm and composed, 
 "he says he is afraid I shall not be well for a long 
 time." 
 
 George was in despair. He thought if Mr. Sand ford 
 could not cure a complaint, it must indeed be a bad one ! 
 He turned his eyes towards the old dame : she sat, as 
 usual, rocking herself backward and forward, with her 
 hands pressed to her side, in mental as well as bodily 
 suffering-; for she too had been struck by the manner of 
 their pastor. " We shall hear what the doctor says to- 
 morrow, George. I am sorry now that we kept waiting 
 and waiting for Mr. Sandford to get well ; but 1 have had 
 enough of doctors in my time, and I was loath to begin 
 again with them. We must hope for the best, and not 
 be down-hearted." 
 
 " She is young, poor thing !" added old Nicholas ; 
 " and 'tis to be hoped she won't be afflicted at her age as 
 I am. I was near threescore when I lost my eyesight, 
 and I thought it a heavy affliction. It would be a deal 
 worse for a young thing, just turned her one-and-twenty," 
 continued the father, at once uttering in plain English the 
 utmost extent of their fears, in the simple straightforward 
 manner common among the poor people, but which would 
 sound harsh and unfeeling to the sensibilities of the more 
 refined. 
 
 " I only hope I may be able to bear my trials as well 
 as you do, father, if 1 am to be so afflicted," exclaimed 
 Susan, as she burst into an agony of tears, rendered the 
 more violent by her having previously attempted to 
 control herself 
 
 " Susan, Susan, you must not take on so," said 
 George, anxious to sooth her. 
 
 " You'll do your poor eyes more harm, if you cry, 
 Susan," said her mother, " than the doctor can cure
 
 20 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 in a week. You must try not to give way, Susan 
 dear !" 
 
 " Cheer up, my child," added Nicholas, " We do not 
 know yet what the doctor will say; perhaps it may not 
 be so bad after all." 
 
 Susan dried her tears, and tried to be composed ; 
 but the inmates of Nicholas Foster's humble cottage 
 retired to rest that night with sadness in their hearts, 
 which was not destined to be much alleviated by the 
 doctor's visit the next day. He talked of time and 
 patience, of a cooling diet and soothing applications, a 
 tranquil mind, and the necessity of not fretting, — of all 
 injunctions, the most difficult to obey I He gave them 
 hope certainly which, though not enough to relieve 
 Susan's mind, was eagerly caught at by George, and 
 he was beginning to urge that it could do no harm, if 
 they were asked in church. 
 
 "Not yet, George, not yet. Wait till I begin to 
 mend. I should be but a useless wife to y(5u at present. 
 I have given up the thought of making a pretty bride," 
 she continued in a tone almost of bitterness ; " but I 
 must be able to do for you, and to keep your house 
 tidy ; so there's no use in talking about being asked ia 
 chgrch, George." 
 
 George desisted, for her manner was so resolved he 
 felt it impossible to oppose her.
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 E I'aspettar del male e mal peggiore 
 Forse, che non parrebbe il mal presente. 
 
 Tasso. 
 
 Susan was a good-hearted girl, but she had a high 
 spirit. She had a generous temper, but it was not 
 always under control. Of all qualities a sweet temper 
 is perhaps the one least cultivated in the lower ranks 
 of life. The peculiar disposition is not watched ; care 
 is not taken to distinguish between the passionate child, 
 the sulky, the obstinate, and the timid. The children 
 of the poor are allowed a latitude of speech unknown 
 among the higher orders, and they are free from the 
 salutary restraint imposed by what is termed "com- 
 pany." 
 
 When in the enjoyment of full health and strength, 
 the ungoverned temper of the poor is one of their most 
 striking faults, while their resignation under affliction, 
 whether mental or bodily, is the point of all others in 
 which the rich might with advantage study to imitate 
 them. 
 
 Susan's spirit was not yet tamed by affliction. 
 There were moments when she could not bear, with- 
 out impatience, the pain her eyes occasioned her, and 
 the weight of care which oppressed her mind. 
 
 It was towards George that she most frequently 
 evinced any signs of captiousness; and yet it was on 
 his account that she most poignantly felt her present 
 affliction and her future prospects. She was more un- 
 happy than she quite ventured to own to herself, or to 
 him ; more apprehensive of what might be the result. 
 She feared he would not always continue to be as kind 
 as he now was. She could not expect it ; and she
 
 22 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 sometimes received his simple attentions as if she was 
 more surprised than touched by them. 
 
 One evening he brought her some flowers from his 
 father's garden. 
 
 "Well! I shall be able to smell," she said, "even 
 when I shall not be able to see ; but perhaps, George, 
 you will not go on bringing me flowers then ! What 
 beautiful double stocks these are ! we can't get any to 
 grow like these in our little bit of garden." 
 
 " I raised them for father myself, Susftn : so I don't 
 see why we should not have some, just as fine, and finer, 
 when we have a garden of our own 1" And poor 
 George looked pleased at her praise of his pet flower. 
 
 " I dare say you will never get any to come so thick 
 and so double another time, — even if you should try," 
 answered Susan, despondingly ; for she thought, " when 
 could she hope to have a home of her own ?" 
 
 " And do you think I shall noL try, Susan, to make 
 my wife's home as nice as my father's ?" 
 
 " Maybe you will, — and I may not be there to 
 see it." 
 
 " Why Susan, I do not know what is come over 
 you ; there is no pleasing you. I thought you would 
 [ike my flowers !" 
 
 " And so I do, George ; and I am very much obliged 
 to you for them," she continued in a tone of gratitude 
 almost beyond what the occasion called for. Presently 
 she added, in a sad, low voice, " You are very good to 
 me, very good, indeed." 
 
 Just at this moment Nicholas and his dame were 
 seen approaching the garden gate. She was leading 
 him from the stile over which he loved to lean, and to 
 feel the warm sun on his eyes, and turn his face in the 
 direction of the setting orb. Sarah was hobbling back, 
 guiding the blind old man, whose firmer step assisted in 
 supporting her suffering frame. George opened the 
 cottage door to admit them, and the slant beams of the 
 sun glanced through the opening upon poor Susan's 
 eyes. 
 
 The sudden light pained her j and although she had
 
 IME HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 23 
 
 one moment before reproached herself with not being 
 sufficiently grateful for the kindness shown her, she ex- 
 claimed, somewhat pettishly, "Don't you know, George, 
 how it hurts my eyes to have the light glare upon them 
 all at once?" at the same time pushing back her chair 
 with an impatient movement, which was accounted for, 
 but not justified, by the pain which she suffered. 
 
 The sight of her poor blind father, and of his meek 
 expression of countenance, recalled her to herself. She 
 hastened to him and helped him to his chimney nook, 
 and then assisted her mother to her usual chair. They 
 each thanked her in a kind and gentle voice, and she 
 felt inwardly rebuked by their patience and their sub- 
 mission. 
 
 George had stood aloof, awkward, and mortified. 
 Slie drew near him. "I beg your pardon, George," 
 she murmured : " George, I do not know what is come 
 to me ;" and she burst into tears. 
 
 "Never fret, Susan; I don't mind. 'Tis very natu- 
 ral, I dare say, that you should be a little testy or so ; 
 don't cry, your mother says 'tis so bad for you. I don't 
 mind ; though, to be sure, you do sometimes hurt my 
 feelings a little." Dame Foster thought she saw him 
 brush off" a tear with the back of his hand. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter, Susan? Sure you and 
 George have not been falling out, have you ?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! not a bit of it, dame !" 
 
 "George is vejy good to me, mother; but I don't 
 know how it is, I believe sometimes I am hard to 
 please;" and she strove to smile. 
 
 " Ah ! my poor girl," said Nicholas, " trouble is hard 
 to bear when first it comes ; but the back gets used to 
 the burden. If you are a good girl, and say your 
 prayers as should be, God will give you strength to 
 bear what it is his pleasure to lay upon you. Won't 
 he, dame ? I am sure we have found it so. He is 
 very merciful ; and if he gives us trouble, he sends us 
 comfort to make up for it. If it has pleased him to 
 afflict me with blindness, he has given me a good wife 
 — ay, the best of wives ; and if she is afflicted with her
 
 24 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE* 
 
 side, poor soul ! why, he has given her, and me too, 
 dutiful children; and children who, some of them, are 
 likely to do very well. Tliere are our two boys, though 
 they are settled in distant countries, they are very good 
 to us, and have never let us want for any thing, but 
 have kept us off the parish as yet; and that's what few 
 people can say for their sons. If we do but look the 
 right way for them, we shall all find we have our com- 
 forts ; though we may not be so sharp to find them out 
 as we are to find our troubles." 
 
 Among Susan's causes of uneasiness there was one 
 which she did not like to dwell upon to her parents. 
 She had been used to assist towards the maintenance 
 of the family, by taking in needlework. She had now 
 for many vi^eeks been obliged to give up her occupa- 
 tion ; and she felt that, though her brothers provided 
 for the comfort of their parents, it was hard upon them 
 to have a helpless sister also to support. 
 
 She was allowed to be much in the air if she wore a 
 shade over her eyes ; and she frequently made use of 
 this liberty to visit an old neighbour, who had long been 
 bedridden, and who earned herself a decent livelihood 
 by knitting stockings for the poor, and muffettees and 
 handkerchiefs for the gentry, who admired the intricate 
 and curious stitches with which she adorned her work. 
 
 Susan, who already contemplated the probability of 
 being eventually condemned to blindness, thought it 
 would prove useful if, while she still retained some eye- 
 sight, she was to make herself acquainted with old 
 Nelly's art; and, accordingly, she applied herself dili- 
 gently to acquire the requisite proficiency. She would 
 sometimes close her eyes and try whether she could 
 thus accomplish the difficult stitch ; and, then, when 
 she opened them for the purpose of ascertaining where 
 lay her mistake, she would sigh to think the time might 
 soon arrive when the darkness would be eternal. 
 
 vSusan's visit to Nelly Warner had a considerable 
 and not unfavourable influence upon her future char- 
 acter. 
 
 The old woman was naturally of a querulous dispo-
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 25 
 
 sition, and was more inclined to dwell on the many pri- 
 vations to which her complaint condemned her, than on 
 the superior comforts which fell to her lot beyond others 
 who were equally afflicted. She had an attentive grand- 
 daughter, who was devoted to her ; and she was not in 
 want of what might in her line of life be deemed com- 
 forts, for the neighbouring gentry showed her much 
 kindness. 
 
 Susan could noj; but compare the patient endurance 
 of her mother, the placid submission of her father, with 
 the fretfulness of Nelly Warner ; and when she an- 
 swered her complaints with such arguments for resig- 
 nation as naturally occurred to her mind, she could not 
 but apply the words she uttered to her own case. 
 
 "So you are come, at last, Susan," said old Nelly, in 
 a reproachful tone ; " I have been expecting you this 
 half-hour. The church clock has gone three, I do not 
 know how long. Young people should not keep old 
 folks waiting, more especially when they want them to 
 do them a kindness." 
 
 "It is only ten minutes past three, Nelly; I looked 
 as I came by; but I am sorry I was not quite to my 
 time. The bright sun dazzled my eyes, and I went 
 back to get mother to alter my green shade." 
 
 "Ah I young folks always have some excuse or an- 
 other which they think mighty good themselves. It 
 fidgets a poor body like me to lie wondering, and ex- 
 pecting, and listening to hear the door open I When 
 one is helpless and ailing, as I am, folks should take 
 care not to worry one. It is bad enough to bear one's 
 own miseries. Here I lie, and what pleasure have I 
 from one week's end to another ?" 
 
 " liittle enough of pleasure, indeed, dear Nelly, ex- 
 cept the pleasure of doing a kindness by me," said 
 Susan, as she took out her knitting-needles. " Then 
 you have little Patty to help you, and to bring you all 
 you want, and she is a good child. Some people, 
 Nelly, have not the comfort of such a good little girl 
 to attend to them : sure you have much to be grateful 
 for." 
 
 VOL. II. — C
 
 26 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 " I can't tell what I have to be grateful for. There's 
 JMaster Thompson, he is two years older than I am, 
 and he is hearty and well, and i^oes to his work regu- 
 larly, and earns as much as a young man. And there's 
 .my own sister Pratt, why she's ten years older than I 
 am, and she can walk to market." 
 
 " Oh, but, Nelly, the way to be contented is to com- 
 pare our condition with those who are worse oft' than 
 ourselves. You want for nothing; you are able to 
 earn a good deal yourself. Now, I can't earn any 
 thing yet," she added in a very low voice, " and peo- 
 ple are very good to you." 
 
 " They like my warm muflettees well enough ; but 
 I need not thank them, but myself, for that." 
 
 Susan felt shocked at Nelly's ill-temper and ingrati- 
 tude, and she thought what a hard task it must be for 
 Patty to study the humours of such a discontented old 
 woman. 
 
 She remembered how kind her mother had always 
 been to her ; she remembered how patiently George 
 had borne with her ; and she resolved she would not 
 put him to such trials any more. 
 
 The uncertainty in which she remained concerning 
 her future fate sometimes appeared to her harder to 
 bear than the knowledge of the truth would be, and she 
 made up her mind she would some day ask the doctor 
 what was his real opinion of her case. But many a 
 visit passed over v^ithout her summoning the requisite 
 courage. If he should destroy all the hopes she still 
 indulged, what should she do ? How ought she to con- 
 duct herself towards George ? Could she wish him to 
 be encumbered with a blind wife ? 
 
 While all these contending feelings were working in 
 her mind, she found it difficult to be always gentle and 
 placid, and yet she was ashamed before her good re- 
 signed parents to give way to impatience. They 
 never tutored her, they never gave her advice ; but, 
 
 " Example more than precept weighs," 
 
 and their whole lives were one continued moral lesson. ,
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 27 
 
 Susan was one day sitting at home, with her back 
 towards the light, diHgenlly plying her long needles, 
 when she suddenly addressed her mother: "Mother, 
 do you think. I shall ever get well?" 
 
 "There's no saying, my dear Susan ; such things are 
 in the hands of Providence 1" 
 
 " Mother, has the doctor ever told you any thing ?" 
 she asked, with a great effort. 
 
 " No, my child, he has never said any thing for cer- 
 tain : but how do you feel your eyes yourself V 
 
 " No better, mother, no better ; I don't think they will 
 last long, and that's the truth of it," she said, relieved by 
 giving utterance to what had been so long preying on 
 her mind. 
 
 *' My poor Susan ! the Lord have mercy upon you, 
 and bear you up under this affliction ! — and he will, my 
 child, — depend upon it, he will. But it goes harder 
 with me, Susan, to see you so, than it has to bear all the 
 other troubles I have ever been visited with." 
 
 " Well, mother, don't fret ; we will hope," said Susan, 
 alarmed herself at the alarm she had excited in her 
 mother's bosom, and half disappointed at not meeting 
 with more reassurement ; but Sarah had long perceived 
 with grief that her daughter made no progress towards 
 amendment, and the melancholy truth had gradually 
 forced itself upon her mind. 
 
 The doctor called one day when the dame was lead- 
 ing her good man to his usual stile, and Susan was there- 
 fore alone. Slie determined to put the question to him, 
 and to be assured whether she ought or ought not to 
 relinquish all hope. Having thus armed herself with 
 resolution to hear the worst, slie framed her question 
 with such apparent composure, and as if she entertained 
 so little expectation of recovery, that the doctor thought 
 there was no occasion to deceive her, and did not 
 attempt to deny that her fears were only too well 
 grounded. She dropped him a respectful courtesy, and 
 only said, " Thank you, sir." He praised her for her 
 strength of mind, advised her to seek fortitude whence 
 alone it was to be found, and recommended her being
 
 28 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 as much as possible in the open air, that her general 
 health might not sufler. 
 
 When he had taken his leave — when poor Susan 
 found herself quite alone — then all her strength of mind 
 forsook her. She relieved her bursting heart by floods 
 of tears, and had scarcely recovered any composure 
 when her father and mother returned from their evening 
 stroll to the neighbouring stile. That night Susan could 
 not sleep, but she pondered deeply on the future. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 But not to understand a treasure's worth 
 Till time has stolen away the slighted good. 
 Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
 And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
 
 COWPEK. 
 
 After her conversation with the doctor, Susan ap- 
 plied herself more diligently than ever to her knitting, 
 and succeeded in acquiring such dexterity that she nearly 
 equalled her mistress. She took every opportunity of 
 walking in the fields, for she thought she should like to 
 see the beautiful face of nature as long as it was per- 
 mitted her to do so. George found that all peevishness 
 had disappeared ; his kindnesses were received with 
 gratitude, and any little omission on his part did not 
 seem to be perceived. The days had become so much 
 shorter that she could no longer take a walk with him 
 each evening when he returned from work, but on Sun- 
 days they still wasidered through the fields together. He 
 one day reujarked how long the oaks had kept their 
 leaves this year. 
 
 " I can see that the woods look thick," she replied ; 
 " but I cannot well distinguish their colour. However, 
 I am glad the leaves last late this autumn, for I shall 
 never see them again ; before spring I shall be quite
 
 TUE HAMPSlIIIiE COTTAGE. 
 
 29 
 
 (lark, George. I shall be very sorry not to see the 
 young lambs : I used to like to watch them skip about 
 upon the headlands when the sun shone out on a spring 
 morning; and I shall be sorry not to see the primroses 
 in the dell by Fairmead shaw. Oh dear ! I shall tie 
 up no more bunches of violets in Oldash lane, where 
 the banks are always so blue with them ! I did not know 
 at the time how much I enjoyed all those sights. And 
 the pretty young shoots of the sallow, that we used to 
 gather for Palm Sunday I Oh ! we are giddy, thought- 
 less creatures, George, and do not half value the com- 
 mon blessings of life while we have them. I think 
 sometimes of such things till my heart seems ready to 
 burst ; and then I remember poor father, how patient 
 and contented he is ; and I know how mother bears all 
 her pains, and I remember that I have not much pain to 
 bear; for I do not sutler now, except, to be sure, in my 
 poor mind. I feel a great deal sometimes, George, — 
 more than I like to talk about ; and I think a great deal ; 
 and the time must come when you must think too. I 
 know this is not the way for a young man to wear away 
 his life ; I know it all, and I do not mean to hold you 
 to your word ; only, as long as 1 can walk about and see 
 the old places at all, I should like to walk with you, and 
 see them with you," 
 
 " Oh Susan, you go near to break my heart when you 
 talk so beautifully. But you know I wanted long ago 
 that we should be married, and you know I am ready to 
 work night and day to keep you ; and there will be Mas- 
 ter Mumford's house at liberty by spring. I am ready 
 and willing to do my best for you." 
 
 " No, George, it won't do ; such a poor helpless crea- 
 ture as I shall be by the spring must not think of taking 
 care of a family. Hark how that robin is singing ! 
 There is one comfort: I shall be able to hear the birds 
 sing, and I shall know when the spring comes by hear- 
 ing them ; and listening to their songs will put me in 
 mind of all the pretty sights there are in spring time. 
 I will tell you what is worst of all, George, — that I shall 
 never be able to see the faces of those I love again. I 
 
 c 2
 
 30 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 cannot justly discern the favour of any one now ; that 
 is what I miss most. I cannot be sure now when you 
 look at me, except by a kind of guess. Oh, George ! 
 sometimes I think how vain and foolish 1 used to be, and 
 how much I prided myself upon looking pretty of a Sun- 
 day when I thought 1 should meet you, and it all seems 
 to me now to have been such vanity : and 1 am sorry 
 now 1 did not read my Bible more when I could read. 
 It would be a comfort to me to have more texts by heart, 
 to repeat to myself when 1 feel as sad as I often do." 
 
 They walked on in silence till they passed under a 
 large holly which grew on the steep bank of the road. 
 " Is not that the old holly from which we used to gather 
 the branches to stick in our windows at Christmas ? I 
 think it looks black against the sky." 
 
 "Yes, dear Susan, that is the very holly." 
 
 " Are there many red berries upon it this autumn ?" 
 
 " Yes, there's quite a sight of berries." 
 
 " I wish I could see them ! — but that can't be. As I 
 was saying, George, about the Bible, — be sure you read 
 a chapter every Sunday : it will do you good : as poor 
 Mr. Sandford used to say, the Bible is the poor man's 
 best friend. Poor Mr. Sandford ! I am sorry he is so 
 bad. It would have been a good thing for me if he had 
 been able to go about as usual, and to talk to me, and 
 give me good advice. Perhaps I should never have been 
 so pettish as I was for a little while ; but I have got over 
 that now. He will be very much missed in the parish 
 when he is gone ; but he is of great age, and we must all 
 go when our time comes. The place won't seem like 
 itself when he is in his grave, and 'Squire Mov^bray in 
 foreign parts ; for they say he is not coming back, but is 
 going somewhere for Miss Fanny's health, and to finish 
 the young ladies' education, now Miss Alice is married. 
 Poor Miss Alice 1 To be sure, how well I remember 
 her wedding ! and truly enough did I say I should never 
 spend so happy a day again ; but I did not think so when 
 I said it. I thought 1 should spend many and many 
 much happier days when I was married to you, George,
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 31 
 
 for all I was so flighty that evening." And Susan smiled, 
 and then sighed to tliink how light-hearted she had been. 
 
 " Ah, that was a happy day !" said George ; and he 
 shook his head sorrowfully as he led poor Susan home 
 to her father's cottage. 
 
 Each succeeding week saw Susan's blindness gradu- 
 ally increase ; and as her sight became more and more 
 dim, she became more than ever gentle and uncomplain- 
 ing. Of all the visitations with which human nature is 
 afflicted, none assuredly has such a tendency to calm, to 
 purify, and to refine the heart, as blindness. The ab- 
 sence of all external objects to distract the attention, 
 forces the soul to look back into jtself, to subdue its pas- 
 sions, to control its emotions, to chasten all its feelings. 
 It is seldonl^that the countenance of a blind person does 
 not bear the stamp of a meek and resigned spirit within. 
 
 Old Mr. Sandford died, and was replaced by a worthy 
 commonplace olergymafe, who did the duty in a respect- 
 able commonplace manner; who attended the schools, 
 and visited the pooiij^eople, and was sorry for the blind 
 young woman ; but, not having known her previously, 
 took no particular interest in her case. Susan and her 
 father lamented the death of Mr. Sandford. To them 
 the loss of the voice to which 'they had been accustomed 
 was a deprivation far greater than to others, for to them 
 a voice was every thing. 
 
 Susan vVas one day seated, at her usual hour, with her 
 knitting" f)y Nelly's side, when Mr. and Mrs. Otley paid 
 the old woman a visit. 
 
 "Ah 1" said Nelly," I warrant me, they are coming for 
 some job of their own. It's seldom any one opens my 
 door to keep me company, or to cheer my lonesome 
 days: that's the way of the world, — every one for him- 
 self." Then addressing Mrs. Otley as she entered : 
 " Well, ma'am, and what queer ncw-fingled piece of 
 work do you want to set me about now ?" 
 
 " I have brought you a new pattern, Nelly," replied 
 the good-humoured Mrs. Otley ; " these knit boa^'afe 
 quite the fashion at Turnholme ; and I thought if you
 
 32 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 got some done before they grow common, it would be 
 such a good thing for you !'' 
 
 " And can you tell me how I am to set about making 
 such an out-of-the-way thing as this ?" said Nelly, as she 
 held up the boa with a disdainful air. 
 
 " No, I cannot tell you how to do it ; but you are so 
 clever at such matters, I thought you would know 
 directly." 
 
 " Perhaps I may find out, as there are few stitches I 
 do not know," replied Nelly, her temper a little soothed 
 through the medium of her vanity ; " but when 1 have 
 made them, I do not see who there is to buy them, now 
 Mrs. Mowbray and her family are gone." 
 
 " Oh ! in the first place, 1 will take one : and then Miss 
 Mincing will be glad to take any number, if you let her 
 have them a trifle under the usual price." 
 
 Nelly nodded, with a half- pleased, half-cunning air, as 
 if she had proved right, and Mrs. Otle^; had her own 
 ends to answer in her apparent good-nature. " And, per- 
 haps," continued Mrs. Olley, "the Mowbrays may be at 
 home before next winter." 
 
 " No," said Nelly, " not a bit of it. That's all a pre- 
 tence about the young ladies' education. They have 
 had some losses out there away in them sugar mines, 
 and they won't be at home these two years," replied 
 Nelly, with the dogmatical air of one whose superior 
 inforniation could not be doubted. 
 
 " That's sad news, IMrs. Nelly," interposed Mr. Otley ; 
 <' 'tis a wonder^S^-. Williams did not say a word about 
 it yesterday, whSi I called about stocking up that 
 hedge." 
 
 " The news only came this morning ; but I believe 
 you will find it's true enough ; though people think an 
 old woman can know nothing." 
 
 " I'm loath to credit such bad news about such good 
 people," answered Mr. Otley. 
 
 " They may be good, for aught I know to the con- 
 trary ; but I am sure it is little enough I have profited 
 by their goodness." 
 * " Oh, Nelly !" exclaimed Susan, " did not they keep.
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 33 
 
 you always in employment ; and if you had nothing else 
 to do, did they not bid you always be knitting stockings 
 for them, which they afterward gave to the poor ?" 
 
 " And much good that did me ! I was none the 
 warmer. They paid me for my work, sure enough ; 
 and what thanks do I owe them for that ? It would be 
 a pretty thing indeed, if gentlefolks ordered goods of 
 poor people, and then cheated them out of their money." 
 
 " Oh, Nelly !" cried Susan, and she longed to add, 
 ' how ungrateful !' but she remembered she was old and 
 sick, and she restrained herself 
 
 " I always thought it would come to this. I always 
 thought the 'squire would run himself into debt with the 
 warm house he kept, and his dances on the green to 
 giddy boys and girls." Susan sighed. " And then the 
 grand company that visited at the Park ! I am sure it 
 has kept me awake many a night to hear the carriages 
 rolling by after a dinner-party. It won't do to burn the 
 candle at both ends. I have always said so ; but nobody 
 minds me." 
 
 "I am sure, Nelly," interrupted Mrs. Otley, "Mr. 
 Mowbray saw no more company than was proper and 
 becoming for a gentleman of his birth and connections ; 
 and it would have been a sin and a shame if he had let 
 his daughters mope at home without allowing them to see 
 a little of the world ; and as for his losses in his West 
 India property, he could not foresee that his crop of 
 sugarcanes would fail, or that a hurricane would ruin his 
 plantations." 
 
 " 1 know nothing about sugarcanes, nor hurricanes, 
 not I ; but I know that if they are things that pay one 
 year, and don't pay the next, you should reckon accord- 
 ingly, and not live as if sugar mines paid every year as 
 regular as sheep or corn." 
 
 " Not sugar mines, Nelly. Sugar grows in planta- 
 tions." 
 
 " Sugar mines, or salt mines, it is all one to me ; that's 
 no business of mine," replied Nelly, doggedly, " and it 
 makes little difference to me. If them losses out there 
 away hinder the 'squire's family from coming home, and
 
 34 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 I have no regular sale for my stockings, it matters little 
 what keeps them in Ibreign parts." 
 
 " Well, JMrs. Nelly," said Mr. Olley, " you are not the 
 only person who will miss Mr. and Mrs. Mowbray. All 
 who are willing to work will wish for the 'squire back 
 again ; and all who are sick, or sorry, will miss Mrs. 
 Mowbray's kind words, and kind deeds; and I am sure 
 I shall miss those sweet young ladies, with their smiling 
 faces, and their affable manners, running about my yard, 
 and playing with the dogs, and the cats, and the calves, 
 and all the dumb animals." 
 
 " And I am sure I shall miss Mr. Mowbray's elegant 
 manners and agreeable conversation, though 1 own it 
 struck me there was something rather high about Mrs. 
 Mowbray's ways, though she was such a dowdy in her 
 dress. Well, Nelly, you do not seem to like the idea 
 of knitting boas, so 1 will take away the pattern." 
 
 " And if I don't get employment from Miss Mincing, 
 who am I to look to now ? — but if you are against leaving 
 it with me for a day or two, why I don't viish to be 
 beholden to anybody." 
 
 " I borrowed it on purpose of Mrs. Knotaway ; and if 
 you succeed in making them, 1 shall be very glad to buy 
 one," added Mrs. Otley, as she took her leave. 
 
 Almost before the door was closed, " There," said 
 Nelly, " I told you how it was. She thinks she can get 
 her flaunting boa a trifle cheaper than if she bought it at 
 Miss Mincing's. 1 know her well enough. People think 
 I can't see through them, because 1 am old and helpless ; 
 but I have not lost my senses." 
 
 " Indeed, Nelly," said Susan, " Mrs. Olley ordered one 
 out of good-nature." 
 
 " And do you think, if my work was dearer than the 
 shop price, she would think so much of being good- 
 natured ?" 
 
 " Oh, Nelly ! we should not be looking out for bad 
 motives to kind actions. It will be a great advantage to 
 5^ou to find a market for your goods at Miss Mincing's, 
 and 1 am sure Mrs. Otley meant to do you a service ; and
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 35 
 
 if it had not been for your good, Mr. Otley would never 
 have let her propose it." 
 
 " Mr. Otley, indeed ! — he just lets his flighty wife take 
 her own way." 
 
 " He is very kind ; but my cousin, Sophy Foster, who 
 lived with them half a year, says he can be firm enough 
 when there is need for it, and that he rules in all great 
 things, though he does not like to be jarring about 
 trifles." 
 
 " I don't know how it is, Susan, you are always contra- 
 dicting one. You always have something to say in 
 defence of everybody. It is a very disagreeable trick in 
 a young woman to be contradicting her elders." 
 
 Tlie spring had now stolen on ; Master Mumford's 
 house was free ; and Susan thought it her duty to tell 
 George that she released him from his engagement. She 
 was quite blind. No hope was held out to her of re- 
 covery. Her becoming the wife of a poor man, the 
 mother of a poor man's children, was absolutely out of 
 the question. She took the opportunity one day, when 
 her father and mother were both present, to say to him, 
 " The time is come, George, when I must give you up. 
 You have been very good to me, and I shall feel your 
 goodness as long as 1 live ; but I cannot make you such a 
 wife as a poor man ought to have : and now, George, 
 here, before my father and mother, I give you back your 
 word. The house next door is free, and you must give 
 the 'squire's steward your answer ; and so you had better 
 go to Mr. Williams and give it up at once. I can never 
 live there with you ; and if — if you should — if you should 
 marry another girl, George,'' she continued resolutely, 
 though with a choking voice, " I could not bear to have 
 her live there — no more could you, I am sure you could 
 not ; so you had better go to the 'squire's steward and tell 
 him how it is !" She stopped, exhausted with the effort 
 she had made. 
 
 George stood by, grieved, distressed, uncertain how to 
 act, or what to say. He loved Susan dearly, as dearly 
 as ever ; but it was true, she could not take care of a 
 poor man's house. He was but a poor labourer ; it was
 
 36 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 impossible he should earn enough to support her, and a 
 person to do for her and the family they might have. It 
 would be bringing her into a state of hopeless poverty 
 and distress. He had no arguments to adduce, and yet 
 he could not bear to break off the engagement. " What 
 is to be done, dame ?" at length he said, with the tears in 
 his eyes. " I love Susan, there, as dearly as ever I did, 
 and I can't bear the thoughts of giving her up ; and yet I 
 have nothing to say against the reasons she has been 
 bringing up against me. I am fairly puzzled what to do," 
 he continued, rubbing his forehead. " I would not mind, 
 if I thought I could keep her creditably ; but if she and 
 her children were to be brought to want, anci I not able 
 to earn a decent maintenance for them, why, I do think 
 that would be worst of all." 
 
 " There is nothing to be done, dear George, but what 
 I tell you. We must break off with one another, and you 
 must try to forget by-gone days : that will soon be easy 
 enough for you. As for me, I do not see there is any 
 need for me to try to forget, fori may as well think over 
 every thing that is pleasant ; and it will always be a 
 pleasure to me to think how kind you have been to me, 
 and how true you have been to me !" and she held out 
 her hand in the direction where he stood, moving it 
 slowly towards him as blind people do. He took her 
 hand ; he grasped it firmly ; he pressed it between his 
 own hard palms ; occasionally patting it, in silence, for 
 some minutes, till, at length, he let it fall ; and dropping 
 his head upon the deal dresser, he burst into an agony of 
 uncontrollable sobs.
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 These orbs, that heaven's gay light no longer know, 
 
 JVor meet with kindred beam affection's eye 
 
 (Long, long denied each grateful ministry!) 
 Still own the tear that flows for others' wo ! 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 Susan sat dissolved in silent tears. The dame hud 
 clasped her hands in prayer. Old Nicholas's head rested 
 on his staff, while tears also rolled from his sightless eyes. 
 It is not a new remark, but it is always a touching reflec- 
 tion, that eyes which have long forgotten to minister 
 to pleasurable objects, should still retain the faculty of 
 weeping. 
 
 Few more words were spoken that evening by t!ie 
 party assembled in Master Foster's house. It was 
 necessary that George Wells should decide, whether he 
 should take the neighbouring cottage. There was no 
 alternative, and he was obliged to give it up. But he 
 still continued to visit Susan. 
 
 The summer came on, and he often led her carefully 
 forth to walk in their accustomed paths. He tliought in 
 his heart that he should never marry, and he was sure he 
 could never like any girl as well as iiiis Susan. He some- 
 times told her so, and she gladly believed him ; and she 
 found herself, when thus convinced of his continued affec- 
 tion, less unhappy than she had imagined it possible to be 
 under her melancholy deprivation. Her skill in knitting 
 almost exceeded that of her old mistress ; and although 
 she could not earn as much as she formerly had by needle- 
 work, still the farmers' wives patronised her ; some of 
 the gentry in the nearest country town bought her muf- 
 fettees as fast as she could make them ; and she was able 
 to assist her parents in some degree. The household 
 cares fell heavier on old Sarah, but she had a willing 
 spirit, and grudged no labour for those she loved. 
 
 VOL. n. — u
 
 38 
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 One of Susan's most constant customers for her worsted 
 manufactures was Mrs. Otiey, who thought, in the absence 
 of the Mowbrays, it was incumbent upon her to patronise 
 their favourites. Though her husband rented but a small 
 farm, not exceeding a hundred acres, she was not, in her 
 own estimation, a personage of small importance. She 
 was possessed of that desire of aping her betters which 
 is the misfortune of many in her condition. 
 
 Because a man with a capital of ten or twelve thousand 
 pounds chooses to invest that capital in a large farm, and 
 consequently lives himself and brings up his family as he 
 would be entitled to do if the same fortune was invested 
 in any other speculation or profession, why should the 
 small farmer, who can barely stock his forty or fifty acres, 
 and by the utmost industry ought not to expect a profit 
 much beyond the earnings of a good labourer, think him- 
 self called upon to emulate his richer neighbour? Like 
 him, he keeps his greyhounds to go coursing, or his nag 
 to ride hunting ; while his wife and daughters appear at 
 church attired in the extreme of the fashion, and at home 
 display in their best parlour the elegancies of a drawing- 
 room ; such as diminutive cupids bearing gigantic candle- 
 sticks, j)^t^i^ ohjets on a small table, a flower-glass con- 
 taining an artificial bouquet, and not unfrequently a piano- 
 forte. Farmer Otley himself was not one to whom these 
 remarks were applicable, but he had married a woman 
 who was the very type of a fashionable farmeress. She 
 had received a boarding-school education, could play on 
 the pianoforte, spoke French, wrote a delicate hand with 
 a steel pen, embroidered muslin, was really a pretty and 
 not a vulgar-looking woman, and having brought him a 
 decent fortune, felt herself entitled to be as refined as 
 books and backboards could make her. 
 
 She had been struck by Mr. Otley's personal beauty, 
 and had fallen in love with him, as being more fitted by 
 his appearance to enact the hero than any one else with 
 whom she associated. He was certainly a singularly 
 handsome man ; and although (after marriage) she some- 
 times reproved him for allowing his voice to go beyond 
 what she thought the true pitch of romance, and his laugh
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 39 
 
 to become too heart}', she consoled herself by finding 
 many examples in novels and poems, where strength, 
 manliness, and courage are the re([uisite attributes of the 
 lover, and the delicacy and refinement are only indis- 
 pensable in the lady-love. 
 
 When she married him, she imagined all farmers must 
 move in the same sphere of gentility ; and as Mr. Glover, 
 who rented and cultivated highly a thousand acres in her 
 native parish, drove his wife and daughters to church in 
 a phaeton with two pretty ponies ; as the Misses Glover 
 were dressed as well, or nearly as well, as the Ladies 
 Larkington ; as Mrs. Glover frequently dined with the 
 clergyman's wife, and Mr. Glover occasionally at Lark- 
 ington Hall, she concluded that when she also was united 
 to a farmer, Mrs. Otiey would be as great and as genteel 
 a personage as Mrs. Glover. 
 
 Much has been said and much has been written, both 
 against the farmers of the present day and in their de- 
 fence. Surely, the condemnation and the approbation 
 have both been too general. It is often urged that all 
 the distress among that class of people is owing to their 
 altered notions, their finery, and their ambition. It has 
 also been urged, with truth, that there is no reason why a 
 large capitalist, who invests his money in agricultural 
 speculations, should be condemned to eat bread and 
 cheese, and to wear a smock-frock ; and his wife to churn, 
 bake, and feed her chickens. 
 
 The fault appears to be that sufficient regard is not 
 paid to the difference of capital requisite for a large and 
 a small farm. The small shopkeeper in a narrow alley 
 does not feel himself called upon to make the same 
 appearance, or to indulge in the same luxuries, as the 
 proprietor of one of the brilliant magazines in Regent- 
 street or Bond-street ; but the small farmer strives to 
 vie with the large one, and would be ashamed to see his 
 family appear at church less well dressed than that of a 
 man whom he considers in the same rank of life as 
 himself 
 
 Dame Foster was, as usual, one afternoon sitting at 
 her cottage window, whence she commanded a view
 
 40 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 down the village street, which enabled her to beguile the 
 tedious iiours by reporting to iier blind companions each 
 little villitge incident. She saw Mrs. Otley draw near, 
 accompanied by her children and a girl who attended 
 upon them. Old Sarah could not help remarking that 
 Mrs. Otley was more dressed out than even Mrs. Mow- 
 bray used to be. " It is a pity folks do not know their 
 own places. I remember the time when Mr. Otley's 
 mother — old Mrs. Otley, that's dead and gone — used to 
 wear her black satin bonnet and her red cloak, just as I 
 did ; only her cloak was handsonier, and the satin was a 
 richer satin, and she was never forced to wear them till 
 they were shabby. She looked respectable at all times ; 
 and she kept as warm a house as anybody in the parish ; 
 plenty for her own family and for anybody who was in 
 want. When you were courting me, Nicholas, you used 
 to work with old Farmer Otley, and, I dare say, if you 
 had gone on with him, you would not have married for 
 some years longer. 1 don't justly mind how it was, but 
 you and he came to words, and you went off to Farmer 
 Lightfoot, and he did not board nor lodge his men ; and 
 I remember well you said 'twas all so different from old 
 Mrs. Otley's comfortable hot suppers, and her good clean 
 bed, and her warm fireside to sit by of an evening, that 
 you resolved you would have a home of your own, and 
 you said it would not cost you much more to have a cot- 
 tage to yourself than to hire a single room. Ah I it was 
 all very well, and we got on pretty middling ; but it was 
 a good while before we gathered things comfortable about 
 us. We often used to say that if we had waited another 
 two or three years, we should have begun quite before- 
 hand with the world. Do you remember, Nicholas, how 
 pleased we were when we got our nice clock at last ? It 
 was a hard matter to save up enough for the clock, with 
 a growing family coming on !" 
 
 When old Sarah had advanced thus far in her remi- 
 niscences, she perceived that Mrs. Otley crossed the road, 
 and directed her steps to her cottage. She entered the 
 humble apartment with a graceful slide, and her silk gown 
 rustled, as Nicholas said, till he almost thought she must
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 41 
 
 be the minister's lady. Her little boy was dressed in a 
 Polish coat, with a cap from which dangled a smart tassel. 
 The little girl, who was just able to toddle, had a boa 
 round her neck ; and the brawny country girl who acted 
 nursery-maid, seemed to have been tutored into taking 
 as mincing steps as her mistress. Mrs. Otley came to 
 bespeak some handkerchiefs and muftettees like those 
 which Mrs. Parkins, the oracle of fashion in the town of 
 Turnholme, had ordered ; and she begged Mrs. Foster's 
 permission to wait at her house till Mr. Otley passed by 
 from market, and would drive her home in " his cliaisc" 
 — a term which serves some people to designate every 
 gradation of one-horsed vehicle, from a stanhope to a 
 tax-cart. 
 
 It was not long before Mr. Otley was seen approach- 
 ing in the market-cart, which Mrs. Otley denominateil 
 his chaise, and she sent the girl to the garden gate to stop 
 him on his way. The good-natured husband quickly 
 dismounted from his cart, and entered the cottage, fearing 
 something might be the matter. " Why, what's this, 
 Lizzy ? You're not ill, to be sure ?" 
 
 *' No, my love," answered the lady ; " only fatigued 
 with my walk ; but do not speak so loud, if you please, 
 my love ; you forget my nerves." 
 
 " Lord bless you, Lizzy, I can't remember those things 
 I know nothing about ; but I am sorry you are so trou- 
 bled with them. I am sure if they are -a trouble to you, 
 they are a trouble to me too ; for they won't let you do 
 any of the jobs that want doing about a farmhouse. 
 Why, what's this queer bit of a rat's tail you've twisted 
 round little liizzy's neck?" he continued, laughing, as he 
 held up the child's Lilliputian boa. 
 
 " Take care, dear Mr. Otley ; the child will take cold 
 if she is without her boa. Mrs. Foster will think you (]uito 
 a savage," she continued, in a mincing half-tender tone, to 
 carry oft' his rough manners. 
 
 " No, no, she won't !" he replied. " Dame Foster knows 
 me of old ; and Nicholas, he was the iirst that taught me 
 how to take a wasp's nest. Do you remember, Nicholas ? 
 You had left working for father then ; but you were ab 
 
 d2 
 
 M
 
 1 
 
 42 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 ways partial to nie ; and I remember well you used some- 
 times to come at after-hours, and help me wasp-nesting, 
 or bat-fowling, or such like." 
 
 " Ah, Master Otley ! you were a smart sprig of a lad, 
 and I always had a liking for you. You always were 
 sharp and active ; and when you were quite a child, you 
 would be helping your poor mother when she was busy 
 at her dairy, or her poultry-yard, or when she was par- 
 ticular busy on baking-days." 
 
 " There, Lizzy ! you see I always told you how mother 
 used to set her hand to every thing, and never thought 
 any useful work was beneath her. That's the way to 
 make farming answer. 'Tis the small profits and the 
 small savings we must look to, if v.e mean to get on in 
 these hard times." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Otley, I do not like to hear you talk so. 
 Anybody would think you quite mean and niggardly to 
 hear you. I am often telhng you, you do not do yourself 
 lustice." 
 
 " Ah, wife ! that's all very well ; but it is just because 
 I want to do myself justice that I talk so. But come 
 along. Up with you into the cart, and we'll be jogging 
 home. The more the merrier," he added, as he took the 
 little girl in his arms. 
 
 " oil, Mr. Otley ! when will you get me a little pony- 
 chaise, or something decent, to go about in ? I have never 
 been used to such a shabby conveyance." 
 
 " I am sorry for it, my dear ! When I have the money 
 you shall have just such a chay as you fancy, but mean- 
 time you must put up with this.' Good-night to you, 
 Master Foster !" he continued, as he left the cottage. 
 " Good-night, dame ! good-night, Susan ! I saw some 
 rare fine worsted in a shop window at Turnholme to- 
 day. You shall have some next time I go to market. I 
 did not think about bringing some to-day. It would be 
 just the thing for your work." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, sir. You are very good," an- 
 swered Susan. 
 
 " Well, to be sure, she looks too much of a lady to be 
 getting up into that common cart," remarked Sarah, as
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 43 
 
 she watched Farmer Otley carefully assisting his wife 
 into the "chaise," and dutifully saving the silk gown 
 from coming in contact with the wheel. " There's no 
 particular harm in the woman if she was married to some 
 one who only wanted a wife to look at ; biit how she is 
 to keep every thing going about a farm, is more than I 
 can tell ! She needs somebody to look after her, instead 
 of being able to look after others. There's her veil flying, 
 and her bit of fur that she calls a boa slipping offamong the 
 spokes of the wheel, and her smart shawl almost shaken 
 oft' her shoulders as the cart rattles down the street. Now 
 the wind takes her bonnet, and it is blown quite back ! 
 Old Mrs. Otley used to look so decent and respectable, 
 as she came home from market by her husband's side, 
 with her warm red cloak held tight round her, and her 
 close black bonnet fitting to her face, it was a pleasure 
 to see her. Well ! after all, this young woman's a good- 
 natured soul, and gives you a good price for your work, 
 Susan ; and for all she is so fine herself, she is not proud 
 nor haughty to others," added the kind-hearted Sarah ; 
 for though the habit of sitting at her window, watching 
 all that took place in the village, and making her remarks 
 and her calculations thereon, had unavoidably caused 
 her to be something of a gossip, her heart was so good, 
 that she always qualified any fault she might find with 
 her neighbours, by discovering some counterbalancing 
 merit. 
 
 It is almost impossible that those whose lives are 
 passed in ministering to the mental cravings and the 
 amusement of the infirm and the unoccupied, should 
 avoid talking too freely of others. However amiable 
 their intentions and their feelings may be, so many words 
 cannot be uttered without sometimes doing mischief, if 
 it were only by magnifying trifles into matters of im- 
 portance.
 
 44 THE HAMPSHIUE COTTAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 When love's afraid, do not that fear despise ; 
 Flames tremble most when they the highest rise. 
 
 D'AvENAJfT. 
 
 George Wells still took his Sunday walk with Susan ; 
 and Susan, having once told him distinctly that she should 
 never marry, and that she gave him back his troth, having 
 even alluded to the probability of his marrying another 
 woman, lelt she had done her duty, and that they might 
 still be, and ever might remain, friends. But friendship 
 between man and woman seldom exists without an ad- 
 mixture of love, past, present, or to come. The feeling 
 that begins in friendship often leads on to love ; often, 
 too often, love is indulged under the garb of friendship ; 
 and sometimes, but more rarely, love leaves behind it a 
 regard which subsides into friendship. Such, as Susan 
 flattered herself, was the case with George ; and she 
 therefore hoped that she should always experience from 
 him the same kindness and the same attention. But it 
 was not friendship, it was still love that George felt for 
 Susan : and it was a touching sight to mark the young 
 man leading his once plighted wife, the blind Susan, on 
 her way from church ; tenderly watching that the merry 
 urchins who were playing in the path did not nm against 
 her in their sport, or carefully pushing aside with his foot 
 any loose stone which might cause her to stumble. He 
 would often bring her a nosegay too ; and Susan might 
 generally be seen with a bovvpot placed near her, con- 
 taining the common flowers of the season, backed up 
 with southernwood and marjoram enough to drown 
 the scent of all the roses and pinks of which the fore- 
 ground was composed. George loved to see the smile 
 with which his present was greeted ; and still looked
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 45 
 
 with admiration at the silken eyelashes which shaded the 
 eyes that could no longer beam upon him. 
 
 The summer thus glided by ; the autumn was equally 
 tranquil ; and Susan learned to listen for the accustomed 
 step ; to know, without attending to the village chimes, 
 the very hour at which he usually dropped in, and to 
 recognise his hand upon the latch. But as the winter 
 advanced, and the days became short and the weather 
 severe, when they could no longer walk together in the 
 fields, and his visits were as much to the old people as to 
 Susan, he did not call so regularly ; and Susan listened 
 in vain for the sound of his step on the gravel, or the 
 turn of his hand on the latch. In vain did she now 
 count the hours and the quarters most accurately. The 
 usual time had long elapsed when he did call, and some- 
 times he omitted calling altogether. She could not won- 
 der,; she told herself she ought to be grateful for all the 
 kindness she had met with ; she was aware she had no 
 right to reproach him, but yet she felt her sorrows moro 
 acutely than before. 
 
 Old Nicholas was the first to remark upon George's 
 frequent absence. Some rumours had reached Susan's 
 ears that George was not so steady as he had formerly 
 been ; but she hastened to defend him, and to account 
 for the manner in which his time was occupied. Though 
 she might feel hurt herself, it was painful to hear him 
 blamed, and she dreaded hearing herself pitied. 
 
 " Why, is not that seven o'clock? — five, six, seven, — 
 yes, sure enough it is seven o'clock," said old Nicholas, 
 one Sunday evening just after Christmas, — "and no 
 George I He was not here last Sunday neither. I am 
 got so used to the young man, it seems quite dull when 
 so many days go by without his giving us a call." 
 
 " Young men must take a little pleasure sometimes, 
 father ! 'Tis always the same thing here, and I dare say 
 he likes a little change." 
 
 '* That's quite true, Susan. I've been young in my 
 day, and have had my pleasure ; and Sarah, she has 
 known what it is to be light-hearted : and we must not 
 grudge young people what is natural at their age ;" then,
 
 46 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 after a little while, he added, " but you, my poor girl, 
 trouble is come upon yoa before its time. It is all as it 
 should be for us to bear our trials and wait patiently till 
 it pleases God to take us ; but you, not yet turned your 
 two-and-twenty — " 
 
 " Don't pity me, father ! that's just what 1 can't bear. 
 I do very well when I am not pitied," exclaimed Susan, 
 with a little touch of her former petulance. " Thank you 
 all the same, father, for thinking so much about me," she 
 added, in a few moments, with a subdued manner. "But 
 hark ! I hear his step ! I know the sound of his nailed 
 shoes on the gravel ;" and her head was raised, and her 
 face turned to the door, while a smile almost angelic in 
 its sweetness played around her mouth. " I am glad you 
 are come, George," she said, " for father missed you so 
 much. Come in, and sit down by him, and tell him all 
 the news." 
 
 This was just what suited George, for he felt conscious 
 that he had been somewhat neglectful of late, and he 
 found it easier to entertain old Nicholas with the village 
 news, than to sit by Susan and explain to her how his 
 evenings had been occupied. 
 
 " I heard plenty of news, and bad news too, at the Cart 
 and Horses t'other night." 
 
 " Oh George ! you have not taken to going to the 
 public-houses, sure ? You never used to do such a 
 thing !" 
 
 " Bless you, Susan, a man can't work all day, and take 
 no amusement when his work is over. What can a 
 man do that has not got a home to go to ?" This w ent 
 to Susan's heart, but she said nothing. " As I was tell- 
 ing you, they said at the Cart and Horses — no, 'twas at 
 the Chequers — Tuesday evening — " 
 
 " So he frequents both public-houses !" thought Susan. 
 
 George continued, " Master Smith said there was a 
 talk of breaking up the benefit club." 
 
 " The benefit club !" exclaimed Sarah ; " why what 
 will my good man do if the benefit club should go ! His 
 half-pay is almost all we have had to live upon for many 
 a long year !"
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 47 
 
 *' That will fall heavy upon us, indeed," said Nicholas. 
 *' Why, what's the meaning of this ? I never heard any 
 talk of the club being so low." 
 
 " Why, they say the members are all growing old, and 
 so many of them keep coming upon it that it can't hold 
 out, unless they consent to take less pay." 
 
 " Ah !" cried Nicholas, " I always was afraid how it 
 would be, and I was very sorry to be such a burden to 
 it myself That was why I agreed that, as my affliction 
 was not like a common illness of which one might hope 
 to be cured, but as I must look for no other than being 
 on the club as long as I lived, I would take only half-pay, 
 walking-pay, as they call it. My two sons are very good, 
 they always make up the money to me out of their earn- 
 ings. I am sure I would not wish to be too covetous, and 
 to break my club." 
 
 " I hope 'tis only talk : it will do well enough, I dare 
 say, if we can get some new young members into it that 
 are not likely to be any drain upon it yet. Well ! I 
 have put in for four years and never drawn a farthing 
 yet." 
 
 " I am sure, George, you should be very grateful to 
 think w hat a blessing God has granted you, in giving you 
 such good health all these years." 
 
 " True enough, Susan : in that sense I should be glad 
 never to have any of my money back again. And 1 am 
 sure. Master Foster, I am glad enough to be in the club, 
 and help to keep it going, if it is only for your sake." 
 
 " Thank you, George ; that's kindly said," answered 
 Susan, while a tear trembled in her eyelashes. 
 
 " Well, Master Foster," said George, " 1 must be going ; 
 for I promised to meet Will Dixon at the Chequers this 
 evening." 
 
 " Oh, George I you are not going to pass your Sunday 
 evening at the public-house 1" 
 
 " Come, don't scold, Susan ; I promised to meet Will 
 Dixon ; and though we want to have a bit of talk to- 
 gether, we need not make too free with the beer, you 
 know :" and George was gone. Susan remained with
 
 48 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 an indefinite sensation of uneasiness for which she could 
 not satisfactorily have accounted to herself. 
 
 The following week they saw no more of George, 
 neither did they on the Sunday ; but in the succeeding 
 week he again called. The alarm concerning the bene- 
 fit club seemed to have subsided : Nicholas's mind was 
 set at ease upon the subject ; and Susan timidly asked 
 George whether he and Will Dixon had had a merry 
 bout of it at the Chequers. 
 
 " Come, come, Susan, you want to get me to tell tales 
 out of school I we drank no more beer than was good for 
 us, and then I went home with Will Dixon to supper." 
 Did these few words reassure Susan that George was 
 not likely to fall into the habit of frequenting the ale- 
 house, and did they consequently restore her mind to its 
 usual tranquillity '( On the contrary, a sensation shot 
 through her which she had hitherto been spared. She 
 remembered that Will Dixon's sister Jane was a pretty 
 girl with bright blue e3'es, and one who had for a short 
 time divided George's attentions with herself, before she 
 had finally fixed them. She remembered thinking that 
 Jane Dixon was very partial to George, and she remem- 
 bered that the neighbours had joked Jane Dixon about 
 wearing the willow. Jealousy for the first time darted 
 through her heart, and she was alarmed and roused by 
 the keenness of the pang. With tiie ra[)idity of lightning 
 she pictured to herself George in love with Jane, — 
 George, Jane's accepted lover, — George her bridegroom, 
 — George her kind and affectionate husband ! It was 
 with difficulty she could bear her part in the conversation, 
 and her smile was sad and constrained. 
 
 " 1 do not think you seem right well, Susan. Are you 
 ill, Susan ? inquired George kindly and affectionately. 
 
 " No, thank you, dear George ; I am quite well — only 
 I feel a little dull — I think 'tis the weather. Mother said 
 she felt heavy this morning." 
 
 " Maybe it is. Jane Dixon was saying, Sunday, that 
 this mild weather was not seasonable, and that .she liked 
 a good sharp frost, and a good long walk." Susan 
 quivered as the name came from George's lips. But
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 49 
 
 George was not yet in love with Jane, and no conscious- 
 ness prevented his uttering the name freely. Susan 
 had almost said, " So, you were walking with Jane 
 Dixon, Sunday !" but she checked the remark, mentally 
 saying, " And why should he not walk with Jane ? and 
 why should he not marry Jane ? Why should I fret ? I 
 ought to hope Jane may draw him away from' idle com- 
 panions and bad company. I fretted when I thought 
 he was taking to such courses ; surely I ought to be glad 
 if anybody else gets the power I have lost to lure him 
 from evil ways. Poor fellow ! he would never have 
 thought of such things if I had not been afflicted as I 
 am. If he had married, and had a comfortable home, 
 he would have gone on being steady. Yes, I ought to 
 hope he may marry Jane Dixon and make her a good 
 husband." But, school herself as she would, she did 
 fret ; and all the placidity of mind which she had la- 
 boured to acquire was gone. Night and day did she 
 think of George and Jane, and constantly did she fancy 
 them walking through the same lanes, strolling up the 
 same field-paths, loitering along the same headlands, 
 where she had so often wandered with George. Long 
 before such things did occur, had she imagined thorn. 
 But in the course of a few months, that which her reason 
 wished, but her feelings dreaded, came to pass. George's 
 visits became more and more rare ; and when he did 
 look in, Jane Dixon's name was never breathed. 
 
 There was an awkwardness in his manner, and he al- 
 most exclusively addressed himself to Nicholas. Susan 
 was all gentleness, and invariably, when he took leave, 
 thanked him for calling, in a subdued manner, which 
 showed how entirely she felt it was from motives of 
 charity, and not from preference, that he now visited 
 them. George, without deciphering what caused the 
 change in her tone, was aware that she read his mind, 
 and he became ill at ease in her presence. 
 
 Jane Dixon had originally liked George ; and now that 
 he was free again, and that Susan Foster had, as it was 
 well known, refused to marry him, she saw no reason 
 why she should not put forth all her stores of rustic 
 
 VOL. II. E
 
 60 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 allurements to win back her first love. George was by 
 nature steady and domestic : he had for two years been 
 engaged to Susan, and had therefore been in the habit 
 of considering a wife, a family, a home, as the enjoy- 
 ments to which a poor man should look forward ; and 
 although he had latterly been led to mix more with com- 
 panions of loose character, though he had loitered away 
 many an evening at bowls or in the alehouse, he was 
 not happy while leading such a life. At first, it was 
 for the loss of Susan herself that he grieved ; but in 
 time his regrets became less sentimental. He pined for 
 a fireside of his own, his own chimney nook, his hot 
 rasher of bacon for supper, and the kind attentions of a 
 wife, even though that wife were not Susan Foster. He 
 was in a state of mind which laid him peculiarly open to 
 such attractions as Jane Dixon possessed ; a tolerable 
 share of beauty, extreme good-humour, and, above all, a 
 very decided predilection for him, which she was at no 
 pains to conceal. No wonder then, if, after two years of 
 hopeless attendance upon poor Susan, he should now find 
 himself engaged to Jane Dixon, and that the only diffi- 
 culty which remained, was to break the event to Susan. 
 Every time George entered their cottage, to bid them 
 a hurrying good-morning, or to wish them a hasty good- 
 night, Susan thought the moment was arrived when he 
 was going to announce to them the step he had taken ; — - 
 for she felt that he would not allow them to learn it only 
 from common report ; and she judged rightly. Once, or 
 twice, after having wished tiiem good-night, he had lin- 
 gered with his hand upon the latch of the door, or had 
 returned to ask some trifling question, and then had hur- 
 ried suddenly away. Each time she felt that the decisive 
 moment was come, and she worked herself up to re- 
 ceive the intelligence as she ought. She thought she 
 wished it over, and her mind at rest ; and yet she felt re- 
 lieved when the door was closed, and she heard his step 
 receding along the little gravel path, and she might still 
 think of him as her George, and not as the promised 
 husband of another.
 
 THE IIAMPSIIIRE COTTAGE. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Behold the herbage rich, in pride of June, 
 Pranked with gay flowrets dancing merrily 
 
 Beneath the sunbeams of the sultry noon, 
 
 While slumbering in their cells their perfumes lie. 
 
 But when the scythe sweeps on right sturdily 
 Laying their sweet heads low, their spirits fling 
 
 Pure incense on the breeze ere yet they die : 
 So doth the chastening hand of sorrow bring 
 Virtues and graces forth, by joy left slumbering. 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 It was rather more than two yenrs from Alice Mow- 
 bray's wedding-day, when George Wells lifted the latch 
 of Master Foster's door, and, closing it after him, walked 
 into the house, seated himself on the polished wooden 
 chair opposite old Sarah's, and said, in a hurried voice, 
 " I am come, neighbours — I am come to tell you a piece 
 of news which I should be loath you should hear from 
 anybody but myself" 
 
 Susan's heart died away within her — her head drooped 
 more than ever over her knitting ; Dame Foster took off 
 her sfjectacles, and, wiping them, laid them within the 
 sacred book from which she had been reading some texts 
 to her husband and her child ; old Nicholas half turned 
 jiimself upon his settle ; but none spoke. Susan felt that 
 the silence must be distressing to George ; and exerting 
 herself the first, she replied, " If it is any news, George, 
 that concerns yourself, you may be sure there are no 
 friends who will be more rejoiced to hear of any good 
 likely to befall you, or more grieved to hear of any mis- 
 fortune. You have scarce any older friends than father, 
 and mother, and myself; so you need not be afraid to 
 speak." 
 
 " Thank you, Susan, thank you ; that's just like you. 
 I was sure you would take it so. And yet, after all that 
 has passed between us, I felt — I don't know how I felt. 
 But it seems strange 1 shoiild marry anybody else,"
 
 52 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 " I gave you back your word, George, and this is what 
 I have long expected ; and long tried to make up my 
 mind to," she added, with some eflbrt. " I could not ex- 
 pect you to go on always tending upon a poor blind girl 
 like me. 'Tis better, much better, than getting any way 
 unsteady. God knows, 1 have not a word to say against 
 your marrying Jane Dixon." 
 
 " Thank you, Susan, thank you," he repeated ; " I feel 
 easier now ! Susan, this has been a great trouble to me ; 
 for I could not bear deceiving you like, and yet I did not 
 know how to tell you there was any courting going on 
 between me and Jane," 
 
 " You know, George, I gave you back your word from 
 the first." 
 
 "Yes, yeS; so you did ; but for a long time I did not 
 believe I should ever think of any girl but you ; but 1 do 
 not know how it is, a man wants a home — does he not. 
 Master Foster ? — and he wants a wife to see to him- 
 And then, Jane Dixon, she's a tight lass ; and I don't 
 know how it was, I never came home from work without 
 meeting her going of an errand somewhere ; and then 
 she is a bustling girl, and one who will keep things nice 
 and tidy in a poor man's house." 
 
 " Her mother was a thrifty, bustling body, and I hope 
 she will make you a good wife, George," said Dame Fos- 
 ter, in a tone which she meant should be very kind; but 
 her thoughts were so much occupied with Susan, that 
 she had no feeling to spare for any one else. 
 
 " I wish you happiness, George," said Nicholas ; " you 
 have behaved very well by my poor girl ; and, if it had 
 not been for her affliction, you would have married her 
 and made her a good husband, I warrant. It is the will 
 of God it should be as it is." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, Master Foster." 
 
 Meanwhile, Susan had been feeling, upon the little 
 shelf on the wall close to where she sat, for a small book, 
 which at length she found. " George," she said, " I have 
 a book here which I ought to give you back. 'Tis those 
 Watts's Hymns which you gave to me a few days before 
 Miss Alice's wedding ;" she could not repress a sigh^
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 53 
 
 ** If you remember, you wrote both our Christian names 
 upon it, — and then said you would add the surname when 
 one name would do for both. I don't think it is right I 
 should keep that book, and you the husband of another ; 
 and yet I could never find it in my heart to destroy it. 
 Besides, I can't read all the beautiful hymns that are in 
 it ; but you can, and sometimes it may do you good per- 
 haps to read them." 
 
 George indeed remembered giving Susan the little 
 book : he had that day obtained the promise of Master 
 Mumford's house, and he had that day gained her consent 
 to their being speedily asked in churcii. They had then 
 written their names in the manner described by Susan, 
 and had talked over their future prospects with the as- 
 surance of soon being indissolubly united. 
 
 As George took the book from Susan's hands, he felt 
 them tremble. He was scarcely more composed him- 
 self The appearance of the little volume, the sight of 
 the writing, annihilated for a moment the intervening 
 two years ; and he saw Susan as she then stood beside 
 him, radiant with health, joy, and tenderness. 
 
 Jane Dixon would not have been pleased had she 
 known with what pain he received this present, with 
 what regret he looked back upon the image thus con- 
 jured up to his mind. The tears were in his eyes as 
 he held it. " If it is not right for you to keep the 
 book, Susan, I do not think it is right I should ; for I 
 am sure I shall never look upon it without wishing — with- 
 out remembering — • Oh I Susan, how happy we were 
 when I gave you that book !" His voice broke, and he 
 passed the back of his hand several times over his eyes. 
 
 Strong emotion in a stout and sturdy peasant, whose 
 feelings we are sure are thoroughly genuine, and in which 
 we are satisfied there is no touch of sickly, morbid sen- 
 sibility, is always an affecting subject of contemplation. 
 It was almost too much for old Sarah, who now wept 
 like a child ; while Susan experienced among the poignant 
 regrets which overpowered her, a mixture of satisfaction 
 to find she was so tenderly recollected. " I did not think 
 you would mind it, George ; but if it makes you think 
 
 e2
 
 54 
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 too much of by-gone days, why, perhaps 'twill be best 
 you should give the book to mother to keep. I would 
 not wish you to think any more about me now ; it would 
 be no way right." But it was a comfort to Susan, 
 though she was not aware of it, that she had to tell him 
 not to think about her. 
 
 George still held the book, awkwardly shifting it 
 from hand to hand : at length he held it out ; " Take 
 it, dame," he said, " take it ; for I'm going to be mar- 
 ried to Jane Dixon, and I must not think any more 
 about Susan, nor about the days that are past and 
 gone ; it won't do," and he pushed the l>jok towards 
 Dame Foster, and abruptly opened the door. " God 
 bless you, George," and Susan held out her hand. He 
 had closed the latch and was gone. Her hand dropped 
 to her side, but she was not mortified. She scarcely 
 knew how it was that she felt so much less miserable 
 than she expected she would feel when George was about 
 to be married to another, — when an eternal barrier was 
 about to be placed between them, — when she had broken 
 the last link that bound them to each other. Alas ! it 
 must be confessed, that if the causes of her more re- 
 signed frame of mind were accurately analyzed, there 
 might be discovered, among better feelings, a slight ad- 
 mixture of vanity, which had been soothed by finding 
 George still remembered her with afiection, and by feel- 
 ing that he did not love Jane Dixon so well as he had 
 once loved her. 
 
 Susan was a good and a generous girl ; but in her 
 nature there was a portion of that quality which, although 
 subdued and chastened by heavy affliction, is seldom en- 
 tirely rooted out of the human heart. She did not wish 
 George to be unhappy on her account ; she heartily 
 hoped Jane would prove a good wife to him ; and yet, 
 after having experienced considerable mortification in 
 the course of his unavoidable neglect of her, it was a 
 balm to poor frail human nature to feel that she was riot 
 relinquished without a pang. 
 
 " My poor girl," said Sarah, after she had watched 
 George's hurried steps along the road, over the style.
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 55 
 
 and into the fields beyond the village, — " my poor girl ! 
 I must no longer pray, as I have done, never to see 
 another sun rise when once my poor Nicholas is in his 
 grave, for what will you do without me ? As long as 
 George was single, I felt you would never want a friend ; 
 but now I must hope to be spared still for your sake ! I 
 once thought, when you were George's wife, and my 
 good man was at rest, that old Sarah Foster's task would 
 be finished, and that she might pray the Almighty to 
 release her from these pains. But God's will be done !" 
 and she bowed her head in meek submission. 
 
 George Wells had instinctively avoided the village ; 
 he dreaded to meet his betrothed. Susan had risen up 
 to his mind as she had been in her best days : those days 
 once more became so present to him, that all his former 
 love seemed to return with fresh force, and he wondered 
 how he had become entangled with Jane Dixon. But a 
 few weeks more, and she would be his wife ; and among 
 the lower orders that name is more sacred than anions 
 the higher, where the gradations between virtue and 
 vice are softened down, and the line of demarcation not 
 so absolute. He remembered that he had promised to 
 walk with Jane that very evening, and he somewhat 
 slowly and unwillingly returned towards the village by 
 a path which led nearer the dwelling of his new love. 
 He had not advanced far when he met her gayly approach- 
 ing in search of him. He was scarcely yet in a frame 
 of mind to meet her gladly, and he wished she had not 
 been quite so affectionate in her disposition towards him. 
 She certainly was not coy. He had never been called 
 upon to sue ; he had but to receive the advances she 
 was disposed to make. "Poor girl !" he thought, "it is 
 not her fault, if I once liked Susan so much. She has 
 always been partial to me : I must make her a good hus- 
 band. It would never do to be anywise unkind to her 
 now ; besides, the parish begins to talk, and the best 
 thing we can do is to be married out of hand." And 
 the result was that they agreed he should wait on the 
 minister, and inform him they wished to be asked in 
 church.
 
 66 THE HAMPSIIIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best, 
 Nae mair's required ; let Heaven make out the rest. 
 
 Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd. 
 
 Susan was somewhat agitated and perplexed the next 
 Sunday morning, debating in her own mind whether 
 George and Jane were likely to be asked that very day, 
 and whether she could hear their names called over 
 with the composure which befitted so holy a place. She 
 did not like to absent herself from church on that ac- 
 count; for to those who have acquired the habit of never 
 failing in their attendance, the omission appears a dere- 
 liction of duty. She therefore summoned up her cour- 
 age ; her mother, as usual, arranged her bonnet, and 
 pinned her shawl with due attention to neatness. The 
 dame, as usual, turned the key of the door, and placed it 
 in her pocket'; then, taking Nicholas's arm with one hand, 
 she guided him safely on his way, while with the other 
 she supported her own feebler steps with her polished 
 staff. Susan followed, led by a neighbour's little girl, 
 who always came to attend her to church. 
 
 This afflicted family, so decent in their apparel, so re- 
 spectable in their behaviour, were never seen drawing 
 near the house of worship without exciting a feeling of 
 pity and veneration in all whose souls were not callous 
 to every good emotion. They had arranged themselves 
 as usual in their pew. The service had begun ; and 
 when the close of the second lesson drew near, poor 
 Susan's heart beat almost audibly. Her head was held 
 low, and her face was partly concealed by her bonnet : 
 but she strove to maintain as unmoved a countenance as 
 possible ; for she knew that the opposite seat was occu-
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 57 
 
 pied by gay young girls who would feel a curiosity about 
 her, and she was unable to tell when, or when not, her 
 countenance might be the subject of remark to others. 
 
 The last words of the lesson were read ; the large 
 Bible was closed with a heavy noise ; there was a mo- 
 ment's pause, but the clergyman proceeded with the 
 service, and Susan was spared for that Sunday. A sort 
 of hope shot through her mind ; and yet what did she 
 hope ? She had herself relinquished George, she had 
 herself anticipated his marriage, she knew he was en- 
 gaged, she knew he could not with honour break oif with 
 Jane Dixon ; if he did, was not she as unfit for a poor 
 labourer's wife as when she first gave him back his troth? 
 It was all so, and yet she felt relieved. 
 
 The following Sunday she was again seated in her 
 accustomed place, and she again listened as the clergy- 
 man read the service. This time the names were read, 
 — " George Wells, bachelor, and Jane Dixon, spinster, 
 both of this parish." The girls opposite might have seen 
 her lips quiver; and the hands which were habitually 
 meekly clasped upon her knee, were slightly raised, and 
 fell again immediately. 
 
 That day Sarah herself led Susan from church, and 
 gave up the guidance of Nicholas to the little girl. They 
 reached their home ; and before old Sarah busied her- 
 self in the preparation for their humble repast, she sat 
 down to rest herself. Susan heard her mother sigh. 
 
 " Mother!" she said, " you are fretting about me !" 
 
 " Not to say fretting, Susan, for we heard no more 
 than what we expected to hear; but I thought it was 
 a great trial to you to hear their names in church. I 
 was afraid whether it might not be almost too much for 
 you. And then I sighed to think, when we were gone, 
 what a poor desolate creature you would be; and I 
 was wishing we could any way provide for you. I 
 should not like you to come on the parish, and yet I 
 don't see how we can save any thing, — 'Wo that can't 
 earn a shilling. Next time Farmer Otley calls, I will 
 ask him about the Friendly Society he was mention-
 
 58 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 ing ; and I have heard talk of insuring one life against 
 another, and perhaps we might get your hrothers to 
 help," continued the old woman, her thoughts gradually 
 led from the wound Susan's affections had received, to 
 the blasting of her worldly prospects. 
 
 When, as among the lower orders, the provision 
 necessary for existence is at stake, the most tender re- 
 grets must often be mixed up with other considerations ; 
 but Susan could not yet comprehend any sorrow but 
 that of losing the lover of her youth. " Never trouble 
 your head about me in that way, mother ; I don't care 
 nor think any thing about such matters." 
 
 " That's all very well for young folks who have 
 always had their fathers' roof over their heads," inter- 
 posed Nicholas, " and a bit to eat as long as their 
 parents had it ; but it is the duty of parents to look 
 forward for their children. You will find it very dif- 
 ferent when we are in our graves, and you have to find 
 yourself board and lodging and every thing. It frets 
 me so, sometimes, I can't go to sleep I I and my old 
 woman used often to say we should be at rest when 
 we were beneath the sod, and we did not care how 
 soon our time came ; but now I quite dread to think 
 we may be taken any day." 
 
 " And so may I, father, be taken any day. It often 
 happens that the youngest goes first; and as 'tis all in 
 the hands of Providence, there is no need for you to 
 make yourself unhappy about me in that way. Besides, 
 who knows but God may raise me up friends if my 
 time o/ need should ever come? It is not my board 
 nor my lodging that troubles me," she could not help 
 adding, with an irrepressible expression of grief. 
 
 " Ah ! I know what 'tis that troubles you. 'Tis just 
 what 1 am often thinking of. In my affliction I have 
 a kind helpmate to cheer me, and keep up my spirits, 
 and save me from ever feeling lonesome ; and I have 
 you, Susan, and I love to listen to your voice, though 
 it has not its cheerful tone, and though I never hear the 
 laugh that used to make my heart glad within me. 
 You, my poor girl, you can never have these comforts,
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 59 
 
 and that weighs upon my mind, though I do not Hke to 
 say much about it." 
 
 " It can't be helped, father, and I hope I submit as 
 I should. It has pleased God to visit me as he has 
 done, and I am sure I have done no more than my duty 
 in not letting George burden himself with me for a 
 wife." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is all right ; you have done your duty, 
 that's certain." 
 
 "And when we have done that, we must leave the 
 rest to Providence." 
 
 Mr. Otley called soon afterward with some of the 
 worsted which he was now in the constant habit of 
 procuring for Susan. Dame Foster took the oppor- 
 tunity of getting her mind enlightened concerning an- 
 nuities, and friendly societies, and all the other modes 
 of provision for the poor which were established at 
 Turnholme. But all required a larger monthly sum, or 
 a more considerable deposite, than they could possibly 
 contrive to pay. " I wish, Mr. Otley," said Susan, 
 " you could persuade father and mother not to think 
 so much about me; if 'tis any thing about themselves, 
 they always say we should rely on Providence: tell 
 them they should do so for me, as well as for them- 
 selves." 
 
 "It is quite right, Susan, you should speak as you do, 
 and feel as you do ; but it is quite right too that your 
 parents should be willing to do the best they can for 
 you. I am sure I wish I could put them in the way of 
 making some provision for you ; but when people get 
 to be in years, all the insurances are so high : that is a 
 thing people should think of when they are young and 
 in health." 
 
 " That is quite just. Master Otley, and so I did when 
 I was young ; for I put into my club as soon as I was 
 turned nineteen, — as soon as I got any thing like man's 
 wages ; and a good job it has been for me that I did so ; 
 but, you sen, one could not reckon upon such an afflic- 
 tion as poor Susan's." 
 
 "And that's quite just too, Master Foster; and I'll
 
 GO THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 be bound that if ever she should be in want, the gentry, 
 ay, and the farmers too, would not grudge her some 
 help, — such a good girl, and such a patient girl as she 
 is 1 and so young too, and so well-favoured as she is ! 
 I often tell my mistress I don't care how many warm 
 handkerchiefs she buys of Susan ; 'tis all money well 
 spent : though I will say I wish she would not always 
 be making me drive her over to Turnholme, that she 
 may learn the new fashions. What do the fashions 
 signify ? say I ; where is your red cloak ? say I ; and 
 where is your checked apron ? say I : and then she 
 is so mad with me ! But she is a good-natured soul, 
 and always comes round after I've laughed a bit. And 
 then she is not so hearty and strong as I am, and she 
 can't bustle about. Well, good-night, Nicholas ! I must 
 be off. I must not forget this package, though : Miss 
 Mincing, at the shop, told me I must be sure and carry 
 it very carefully, for the least touch would spoil it." 
 And away went the good-natured farmer, carrying the 
 parcel very carefully to the cart, but then putting it at 
 the bottom of the vehicle among many other articles of 
 great size and weight, where it was jumbled in a manner 
 which would have agonized Miss Mincing had she wit- 
 nessed it, and which did agonize Mrs. Otley when she 
 extracted it from among its travelling companions, and 
 upon examination found the beautiful cap, with its wires, 
 and its bows, more fit to adorn a May-day chimney- 
 sweeper than the head of so refined a lady as she was. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Otley, how could you !" she exclaimed, in 
 an accusing voice to her husband. 
 
 " How could I do what, Lizzy, dear ?" 
 
 " Look at my cap !" she said ; " I am sure Miss 
 Mincing must have told you to take care of it." 
 
 " So 1 did, Lizzy ; I held it up between my finger 
 and thumb, as tenderly as if it was a plum with the 
 bloom on it, till I laid it quite light at the top of every 
 thing else in the cart." 
 
 *' And then you went rattling away as hard as you 
 could drive, without once looking behind you to see 
 how all the articles rode in the chaise ! I do think you
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 61 
 
 must have been a little too gay at market, Mr. Otley," 
 she said in a small voice ; " you must have made a little 
 too free with some of your coarse, drinking companions:" 
 and she drew herself up. 
 
 " Not a bit of it, Lizzy ; none of your insinuations ! I 
 just wetted my bargain, as everybody should, and that 
 was all. I'm sorry your cap is tumbled." 
 
 "Crushed, spoiled, abeemy,'' {query abime?) "as Miss 
 Mincing says." 
 
 " But I'll tell you what : it is a sort of a flashy thing 
 I can't abide ; and I had rather by half see you in such 
 a cap as old Dame Foster wears." 
 
 " My love, you are quite uncivil : you have quite lost 
 your manners. I am sure you are saying what you do 
 not think ; and I am sure that all the while you like to 
 see your wife look neat and genteel." 
 
 " Neat, I do, and neatness is gentility enough for 
 me. Come, I'll buy you a new cap after my own 
 fashion; and then if you take half the bows, and all the 
 flowers, off" this queer thing," and he held the cap up 
 aloft, dangling by one of its strings, " you will have two 
 decent caps, instead of one out-of-the-way concern." 
 
 " You have no taste, dear Mr. Otley 1" said poor 
 Mrs. Otley, as she pinched, and pulled, and tried to 
 squeeze the unfortunate cap into its pristine shape. 
 Mr. Otley watched her as she put her head first on this 
 side, then on that, looking distressfully on the cap, and 
 every now and then giving it a masterly twitch. 
 
 "Now, what puzzles me, Lizzy, is, when you look to 
 wearing this cap ; you can't go to church in it, and you 
 can't drive out in the cart in it ; and hang me if I know 
 when you mean to put it on." 
 
 " Surely, Mr. Otley, every woman should have some- 
 thing decent to wear if visiters should come." 
 
 " I'm sure Farmer Dobson will never know what sort 
 of a cap you bave on your head, and Mr. Higgins is 
 quite a plain sort of a man ; and 'tis but seldom they 
 call in, except just in the way of business." 
 
 " But Mr. Dobson has a wife, and daughters too," 
 answered Mrs. Otley, triumphantly ; " and Mrs. Hig- 
 
 VOL. II. — F
 
 6^ THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 gins's lace veil, last Sunday, was quite the talk of the 
 whole church. I am sure 1 heard of it three times be- 
 fore I could get down the churchyard and into our 
 chaise ; and I saw all the bonnets moving in all the 
 pews as she came up the aisle with her beautiful veil 
 hanging down almost to her knees." 
 
 Mr. Otiey had nothing to reply; and Mrs. Otley 
 remained in possession of the field. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Cancel all our vows; 
 And, when we meet at any lime again, 
 Be it not seen in either of our brows 
 That we one jot of former love retain. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 George Wells and Jane Dixon had been asked for 
 the last time, and the wedding was fixed for the Wednes- 
 day following. George Wells had not again visited 
 the family of the Fosters. His mind was more at ease 
 since he had spoken to Susan; but he found that the 
 sight of her meek countenance, the sound of her sweet 
 voice, and the recollection of former days, unsettled 
 him. Neither did Susan desire that he should call any 
 more. She was never again to consider him but as 
 the husband of another, and she wished for time to 
 accustom herself to this idea before she again heard 
 his voice; she wished to school and calm her feelings, 
 so as to be sure her heart would not beat when she 
 heard his step, and recognised his hand upon the 
 latch. 
 
 The sun rose in the full effulgence of a September 
 nnorning, and all seemed gay in the village of Over- 
 hurst: the children were all sporting in and out of 
 every cottage door; the bells began to ring a merry 
 peal while the Fosters were yet at breakfast ; and
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 63 
 
 Betsey Smith, who was Jane's particular friend, was 
 seen by old Sarah, in her white gown and her new 
 shawl and ribands, carefully picking her way across 
 the road, as she came from her home in the outskirts 
 of the parish, to join the rest of the party at the Dixons. 
 Susan and her father did not see the bridemaid in her 
 gala dress; but they heard the merry chimes of the 
 bells, and Susan with difficulty swallowed the cup of 
 tea her mother had prepared for her. The chime of 
 church bells is, of all sounds, that which conveys the 
 most melancholy or the most joyous impressions to the 
 heart, according to the circumstances under which it 
 is heard, and the associations with wiiich it is connected. 
 If the feelings are not in accordance with their peal, 
 there is no sound so unutterably, so unaccountably sad 
 as that of a merry chime. It may well be imagined 
 that to Susan, that morning, it was more sad than a 
 funereal toll, and it was a relief when the ringers re- 
 laxed from their exertions. Dame Foster's eyes were 
 frequently turned upon her daughter with increased 
 tenderness. 
 
 The countenances of the mother and of the daughter 
 formed a singular contrast. The old woman, who 
 bore her bodily sufferings without uttering a complaint 
 — who never allowed her voice to fall into a cadence, 
 which could express pain, or peevishness, or vexation, 
 lest she should grieve the two objects of her love — had, 
 from the knou^ledge that they could not read her looks, 
 allowed her features to set themselves into a form ex- 
 pressive of intense agony and constant anxiety. Those 
 of the daughter, on the contrary, who was aware that 
 her feelings might be the subject of observation to 
 others if suffered to show themselves on her face, sel- 
 dom, if ever, varied in their placidity. She knew not 
 when her mother might be gazing upon her; and, 
 from the fear of grieving her, she had learned to wear 
 a gentle smile, whatever might be her mental suf- 
 ferings. 
 
 The village noises gradually subsided. Susan felt 
 that the wedding had drawn off the idle children and
 
 64 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 the village loungers in another direction. Neither 
 Nicholas nor Sarah spoke. There was no sound except 
 the incessant and buzzing hum of the autumn flies in 
 the sunny window. 
 
 " It is a beautiful day, is it not, mother ?" at length 
 inquired Susan. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; a beautiful sunshiny day," answered 
 the dame, with a deep-drawn sigh. 
 
 " I thought it was, for the flies buzz so. I am glad 
 of it. It is a pity when a wedding comes on a bad 
 day. I hope 'tis a good omen for poor George !" 
 
 " I have heard say, that the duller the day, the 
 brighter the marriage ; not but what I wish well to 
 George and his wife." 
 
 " It would be very wrong in us not to pray for his 
 happiness, mother ; for I have not a word to say against 
 his behaviour to me from first to last." 
 
 "Jane Dixon is a lucky girl. He's sure to make a 
 good husband, for he has good principles." 
 
 " And he her first lover and all, too !" replied Susan. 
 " She is a lucky girl ! I used to feel sorry for her, 
 when first George slighted her for me ; for I saw she 
 did not laugh and joke with him as she did with the 
 other men. Now 'tis her turn to be sorry for me, and 
 perhaps she is, though she has given up calling to see 
 me almost ever since I have been afilicted. But it was 
 not to be wondered at, when she began to think of 
 George again. That was one thing made me almost 
 sure what would come to pass at last." 
 
 " Why, 'twas to be expected that things should fall 
 out much as they have done. But I do not know how 
 it was, when I found George seem so attentive and so 
 constant for such a long time, I thought, mayhap, he 
 would always go on as he did then. I believe it 
 is the way with parents, they can't help fancying their 
 own children something beyond other people's; and 
 so I began to count George would never be looking 
 out for anybody else. However, 'tis my belief he 
 will never love Jane Dixon as he has loved my 
 Susan."
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 65 
 
 «' If he does not yet, mother, he will soon. George 
 will be sure to love his wife, and he will grow to love 
 her better and better every day, and then he will quite 
 forget me ; but that is all as it should be. Do you 
 think, mother, I shall ever forget him ? I mean to try 
 hard to do so ; and I don't mean to talk over w^hat has 
 gone before, even with you, mother; and then do you 
 think at last, mother, I shall quite forget to think of 
 him, except as a friend ?" 
 
 " I hope you may, my child ; but it is always harder 
 for a woman to forget than it is for a man : and 'tis 
 harder still for you, who have nothing to draw off your 
 mind. 1 have often heard old folks say, that scarce 
 anybody marries their first love ; and, if that is true, 
 many and many must have got over such things. But 
 1 can't justly say myself, for I never kept company 
 with anybody but your father, and we have been mar- 
 ried so long that I can't frame to myself a notion of 
 anything but being his wife." 
 
 Susan sighed. "And that's just what I used to feel 
 about George ; and I always thought he and 1 should 
 be just such another couple as you and father." 
 
 Susan had indulged herself in thinking and speaking 
 of George as her lover, till the images of the past had 
 usurped the place of the realities of the present. The 
 growing hum of voices struck her quick ear. The 
 village was all alive again. The shouts of children 
 and the steps of passers-by recalled her to herself, and 
 painfully dispelled the recollections which had taken 
 possession of her mind. It was over, and he was now 
 the husband of another ; and she felt wicked in having 
 given way to such thoughts. 
 
 " Mother, we must not say any more. The time is 
 come when it is not enough for me to put a guard upon 
 my words and my actions ; I must now set a watch 
 over my thoughts. I do not often talk as I have done 
 to-day; and I (elt as if it would do me good to speak of 
 liim once more : but there's an end now." 
 
 Towards the afternoon the bridal party paraded the 
 humble street, as is the custom among the peasantry. 
 
 f2
 
 6b THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE, 
 
 The bride and bridegroom, and the bridemaids and 
 bridemen, dressed in their holyday apparel, and paired 
 for the day, perambulated the most frequented parts of 
 Overhurst ; the laughing blushing bride received the 
 hearty, if not refined, congratulations of her neigh- 
 bours ; and, probably, among some of the wedding 
 guests, the foundations were laid for another festival of 
 the same kind. 
 
 George had as much as possible curtailed the usual 
 march of the little procession, and had contrived that 
 only once did they pass before Master Foster's cottage. 
 He was ashamed on his wedding-day to say he wished 
 to avoid that part of the village, and yet his heart sunk 
 within him as he approached it. He almost rejoiced 
 for a moment that Susan could not see the merry troop ; 
 and, as he passed, he dared not raise his eyes in that 
 direction. 
 
 Mary remarked that day that Jane was all joy and 
 smiles, as would have befitted the bridegroom, while 
 George's downcast looks would better have suited the 
 bride. 
 
 Dame Foster was at her window, and saw the party 
 advancing. Sus;in heard them almost before her mo- 
 ther perceived them, and inquired if the wedding pro- 
 cession was not passing. Her mother answered in the 
 affirmative ; and could not help adding, that she had 
 not believed George would be so unfeeling. 
 "Do you see him, mother?" 
 "Yes,, there he is, Susan, sure enough !" 
 "Oh, mother, how does he look? 1 gave him a 
 handkerchief two years ago last summer, and he said 
 he should keep it for his wedding-day. He has not 
 got that on, sure ?" 
 
 " 'Tis a checked brown and yellow he wears round 
 his neck." 
 
 " No I 'twas a spotted blue I gave him." 
 " Poor fellow !" exclaimed the dame, in a more kindly 
 tone; "he holds down his head, and now he looks the 
 Other way, — quite away from his bride, up the hilL
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAOE. 67 
 
 Poor fellow ! he can't bear to turn this way after all. 
 I'll be bound he does feel it !" 
 
 "Jane must know all that has been between him 
 and me," said Susan, with some bitterness ; " and I do 
 think she need not have led him this way neither 1 But 
 1 am glad you have seen him, mother. I like to know 
 how he looks, for I may still wish him well." Susan's 
 fingers resumed their knitting, and the dame proceeded 
 with her darning. 
 
 George would have silenced their merriment, had he 
 had the presence of mind to do so ; but a peasant 
 bridegroom is of all creatures the most awkward, the 
 most shamefaced ; far from bearing himself as the 
 man who has won the prize he sought, he has the air 
 of one who has been fairly caught in the snare, and 
 has no longer a chance of escape. 
 
 George, however, felt it impossible to march again, 
 as it were in triumph, by Susan's door; he led Jane 
 the back way into the village. It was nearly the same 
 path he had taken the day he had told Susan of his 
 marriage ; and it is to be feared that Jane did not find 
 her George the more gay or the more tender for being 
 removed from the observation of others. Presently 
 the sounds of gay voices grew once more upon the ear 
 as the party returned on their steps. 
 
 Dame Foster again put down her spectacles, and 
 gazed through the window. " God bless him 1" she 
 exclaimed ; " he could not stand it again, and he is not 
 with the rest." 
 
 "Not gone away and left Jane?" inquired Susan, in 
 a tone of alarm ; " that would not be right." 
 
 "No, no, she's gone too. I warrant me they've 
 taken the back way round to Master Dixon's, and I 
 like him all the better." The dame felt more in cha- 
 rity with him than she had done a few minutes before ; 
 and Susan was gratified, and yet grieved, that George 
 should not be thoroughly happy. " He will be so soon," 
 she thought, however; and so he was. 
 
 " He enjoyed the comforts of a tidy home, a blazing 
 fire, a warm supper, and a smiling wife to greet him
 
 68 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 on his return from work. His days were occupied in 
 his accustomed labour; his after-hours were filled up 
 by cultivating his garden; and the helpmate who re- 
 ceived him kindly, and provided him with comforts, 
 became daily more endeared to him. The birth of a 
 child gave him a fresh object of interest, and George 
 was a happy man. 
 
 Susan also was calm, if not happy. He was an- 
 other woman's husband — he was a married man — and 
 all was over for her. The barrier was so entirely in- 
 superable that her feelings did change, that she did 
 learn to think of him merely as of a kind friend, and 
 that the past did at length appear to her only as a 
 dream. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 And now, their wanderings o'er, 
 They, mid imbowering trees, descry their home once more. 
 Home — thrilling sound ! To the time-sobered breast, 
 
 1 hronged with remembrances, not sweet alone, 
 But sacred, and with sadder thoughts impress'd 
 
 Of cherished sorrows, and dear hopes o'erthrown ; 
 While to young hearts, that yet have onl}' known 
 
 The heyday joys and buoyancy of spring. 
 It speaks of happiness again their own : 
 
 Of throbbing bosoms, bright eyes glistening, 
 
 And laughter's merry peal, that through the hall shall ring. 
 
 Unpublished Potms. 
 
 Three years had elapsed since the Mowbrays had 
 left Overhurst, and all the parish was now jovfuHy ex- 
 pecting their return. Aeain the village bells rang a 
 joyful peal, a^ain the village children shouted, and all 
 was animation in Overhurst and at the Park. 
 
 Susan was the first to hear the carriage wheels.. 
 " Yes, sure enough, here they are !" said her mother y 
 " three carriages full: and such a load, and the horses 
 so jaded, poor things ! And there's Mrs. Mowbray
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 69 
 
 nodding as she goes along ; and there's Miss Fanny — 
 no — why, I declare if it is not Miss Emma, with her 
 head quite out of the window. Well, I'm glad enough 
 to see them all come home again. And there's the 
 'squire on the box ; he turns round to speak to Mrs. 
 Mowbray; he looks hearty still. And there is such a 
 queer foreigner behind, with such black whiskers. And 
 sure that can never be Jenny Simpson ? Her very 
 face seems Frenchified ! I'll be bound her own mother 
 will hardly know Jenny when she sees her." Not long 
 afterward the dame's eyes were again attracted to the 
 window. " Why, sure, there can't be another carriage 
 full of them ! Why. if it is not Captain and Mrs. Har- 
 court I And there is the baby I May the Lord bless 
 them all ! It will be a happy evening at Overhurst 
 Paik I" Dame Foster sighed while she rejoiced in 
 their happiness. 
 
 And heartfelt joy and social gayety did reign in Over- 
 hurst Park. The delight of finding themselves again in 
 Old England, the joy of meeting after a long separation, 
 the raptures of Mrs. Mowbray over her first grandchild, 
 the pleasure of visiting their old haunts, occupied the 
 ladies for the first day or two ; but Mr. Mowbray had 
 been looking about him, and had made himself acquainted 
 with all the village gossip. 
 
 On the third day after their return, he bustled into the 
 drawing-room, where his wife and daughters were ea- 
 gerly displaying to Alice and Captain Harcouri their 
 relics from the various places they had visited in their 
 travels, and were explaining the exact point of view from 
 which such a drawing had been made, or directing their 
 attention to an invisible dot in a pencil sketch, which 
 stood for ' imperial Rome' in the distance, or helping out 
 by descriptions viva voce the tints which did not express 
 the roseate hues of evening upon the glaciers. 
 
 " I do not know what all the pretty women in the 
 parish have been thinking of while we have been away," 
 interrupted Mr. Mowbray. " There's poor Susan Fos- 
 ter ! ilave you heard, my dear, about poor Susan 
 Foster ?"
 
 70 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. ^ 
 
 " No, indeed. I have been so occupied with Alice and 
 her baby, and so full of our own travels, I have not had 
 time to go into the village. What has happened ? You 
 quite alarm me." 
 
 *' Why, 1 really am put out about it myself. She is gone 
 blind ! Pretty Susan, with the bright eyes ! I am quite 
 vexed. If it had been any other girl in the village, I 
 should not have felt it so much. Those soft brilliant 
 eyes, tha4: could sparkle so merrily too I And then, that 
 pretty Mrs. Otley ! she is going into a consumption." 
 
 " Susan — Susan Foster blind !" exclaiujed the ladies 
 all together. 
 
 "Impossible!" cried Mrs. Harcourt — the hopeful, 
 happy, Mrs. Harcourt. 
 
 " It is quite true, my dear Alice : she is blind ! and 
 what's more, George Wells has jilted her, and has mar- 
 ried Jane Dixon. The fellow has some taste, 1 will say 
 that for him. She was as fine a girl as ever I saw, 
 though hers is not such a high style of beauty as Susan 
 Foster's. Susan Foster, if she had been a lady, would 
 have looked well anywhere ; now, Jane Dixon would 
 never have told in a ball-room : and then, she is so al- 
 tered ; she is grown course ; and blue eyes soon lose 
 their blueness and turn gray, while black eyes retain 
 their brilliancy — " 
 
 Mr. Mowbray might have proceeded at greater length 
 in discussing the comparative merits of black eyes and 
 blue, but neither filial piety nor conjugal devotion could 
 enable the listeners to keep silence any longer. " Oh, 
 papa !" exclaimed Alice, " George Wells married to 
 another girl ! and Susan Foster blind, and jilted ! and I 
 had fancied her so happy in that cottage close to her 
 parents ! I remember begging you so to let them have 
 it, because I thought how 1 should like to live close to 
 you and mamma I" 
 
 " Yes, my dear Alice I I have seen Susan myself; 
 and there she sits knitting, by the side of her blind 
 father. I declare it was almost too much for me. I got 
 away as quickly as I could, for I hate seeing sad sights
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 71 
 
 when one can do no good : I always make it a rule to 
 get out of the way." 
 
 " But do you think it impossible we should be able to 
 do her any good ? Let us go and see them, mamma ; 
 perhaps we may think of something. 1 always was so 
 fond of Susan, and we were to be married the same 
 month ! Poor dear Susan !" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" cried Emma ; " at all events it will please 
 them. Old Nicholas used to be so fond of me. How 
 well I remember he used to put his hand upon my head 
 to feel how much I w^as grown ! Do let us go directly, 
 and pay them a visit, dear mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray was shocked and grieved at Mr. Mow- 
 bray's intelligence, and the whole party was soon in 
 motion along the well-known paths. 
 
 " I wonder how Susan looks !" said Emma, in a low 
 voice, while a sensation of awe stole over her youthful 
 mind at the prospect of an interview with a person who 
 had undergone a great misfortune since she had seen her 
 last. 
 
 Dame Foster soon recognised the visiters she had 
 been watching for. " Here they are !" she exclaimed ; 
 " I was sure Mrs. Mowbray would come and ask after 
 us before long. And there's Miss Alice — Mrs. Harcourt 
 I should say — looks prettier than ever ; — and Miss 
 Fanny ! I'm sure she does not seem as if any thing had 
 ever been the matter with her; — and Miss Emma, why 
 she is almost a woman now." Susan sighed, and thought 
 what sad changes had taken place in her fate since last 
 they had received a visit from the 'squire's family. 
 
 As they approached the little garden gate, the bear- 
 ing of all the party became subdued and saddened ; and 
 they gently opened the door, and followed each other qui- 
 etly into the cottage. The dame and Susan both rose, and 
 Susan courtesied, but not exactly in the direction in which 
 Mrs. Mowbray stood. She soon made fhem resume 
 their seats, and then inquired after old Sarah's health. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, madam, I am still able to get 
 about, though sometimes 1 think my pains make me grow 
 weaker; but 1 must try to the last to do for these poor
 
 72 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 afflicted creatures, madam. You have heard, I dare say, 
 madam, of all our misfortunes. And there's my poor 
 girl now, no better otf than her old father. But 'tis as 
 pleases God, and it is not for us to murmur." 
 
 The old dame had at once entered upon the subject in 
 the plain, direct manner usual to the poor, and the 
 restraint which mi^ht have rendered such a meetino; dis- 
 tressing among the higher orders was soon dispelled. 
 
 " My poor Susan !" said Mrs. Mowbray, going up to 
 Susan, and taking her by the hand, " I have only this 
 moment heard of your afflictions, or I should have been 
 here sooner. I wonder such sad news should not have 
 reached me abroad : but the death of poor Mr. Sandford 
 has been a loss to us all. He knew my village friends, 
 and he would have told me about you. And you, Nicho- 
 las, how are you ?" How do you bear up against these 
 trials?" 
 
 " Pretty middling, madam — pretty middling : I am 
 quite used to my own, and I don't think any thing at all 
 about them ; but I can't say I have rightly got over hear- 
 ing my poor girl ask her mother whether 'tis a fine day 
 or not, or who it is going by the door, and whether her 
 shawl is pinned straight, or her cap as it should be. Them 
 things go hard with me. But, as my good w'oman says, 
 'tis as it pleases the Lord ! Are all tlie young ladies with 
 you, madam ?" he added, after a short pause. " I war- 
 rant me they are grown very tall," and he stretched out 
 his hand : " 1 should like to put my hand on Miss Em- 
 ma's head once more, bless her heart !" 
 
 " You must put it a good deal higher," said Emma, as 
 the old man was feeling at the same height he had been 
 used to feel, three years before ; and she took his brown 
 withered hand and lifted it to the crown of her head. 
 
 " Sure !" he exclaimed, in almost childish wonderment. 
 
 Alice meanwhile had been talking to Susan, and had 
 extracted from her some account of the mode in which 
 her eyes had been attacked, although it was with pain 
 she was brought to allude to any thing connected with 
 Alice's wedding-day and the happiness which at that 
 time was hers. She could not help an inward shudder
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 73 
 
 when she heard Captain Harcourt address }iis wife : 
 "Alice, my love, I think you should return home to the 
 baby ; I would not have you out too late." The pic- 
 ture of home happiness, wedded love, maternal affection, 
 all the visions in which she had indulged as almost reali- 
 ties on that day, rushed over her mind ; but she remem- 
 bered that George was the husband of another, that 
 another was the mother of his child ! 
 
 When they returned home, Alice eagerly recounted 
 to Mr, Mowbray an instance of a person, whose blind- 
 ness had been described as somewhat resembling Susan's 
 having been restored to sight by an oculist with whom 
 Captain Harcourt was acquainted. With the sanguine 
 disposition of youth, she felt convinced that something 
 might be done ; that Susan need not be condemned to 
 perpetual blindness. 
 
 The more sober part of the company did not enter 
 quite so warmly into Alice's hopes, but all were equally 
 ardent in their wishes that Susan might recover her sight. 
 Captain Harcourt's friends had the care of an eye hos- 
 pital : so that Alice declared it would be the easiest 
 thing in the world to secure Susan's admission, and the 
 most certain thing in the world that she would be imme- 
 diately cured. The only difficulty that remained was to 
 get over the prejudice entertained by many of the poor 
 against hospitals in general, and the horror they had of 
 parting from their friends. 
 
 " But Dame Foster is so reasonable !" exclaimed Alice ; 
 *' and Nicholas is so quiet, he will never oppose it ; and 
 as for Susan, what would one not do to recover one's 
 sight ? To be sure, her lover is married now, and even 
 the restoration of her sight cannot restore her to happi- 
 ness, poor thing ! But still, think of the joy of seeing 
 the blue heavens and the green fields again !" 
 
 "Oh yes, dear Alice," answered Mrs. Mowbray, " if 
 we could indeed restore to Susan her eyesight, she might 
 look forward to many happy years. She is still young, 
 and she is so pretty, that I dare say she may yet marry 
 comfortably." 
 
 " Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Alice reproachfully. 
 
 VOL. n. — G
 
 74 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAQEi 
 
 " I am sorry to have shocked you, my love ! and if 
 you wish it so much, we will suppose that Susan shall 
 never marry," 
 
 " Mamma, you speak as if marrying was marrying, and 
 as if it did not signify whom one married/' 
 
 " Not exactly, my dear ! but I do imagine it just pos- 
 sible that after a certain number of years have elapsed, 
 a woman may be happy with a man who has not her 
 first love. But now we will not disturb ourselves con- 
 cerning the use Susan may make of her eyes when they 
 are restored to her. We will first adopt all possible 
 means to accomplish this most desirable, but, I fear, im- 
 probable event." 
 
 " She has had no advice yet but that ignorant man's 
 at Turnholme. Captain Harcourt shall write to-day, 
 and the moment we get the answer, I will undertake to 
 persuade Susan and her parents to consent to our pro- 
 posal." 
 
 All prospered according to Alice's wishep. Her pro- 
 tegee was to be admitted into the hospital, where she was 
 to meet with every kindness and attention. Susan gladly 
 agreed to any plan which might possibly enable her to 
 assist her parents more effectually than she could at 
 present : old Nicholas thought it so " against nature" that 
 the young should be afflicted like the old, that he was 
 pleased and hopeful, while Sarah assented, but assented 
 despond ingly. 
 
 "If it is God's will our poor child should be blind, why 
 there is no use in man's fighting against Providence. 
 However, there's no saying these may not be the means 
 by which God has ordained she is to be cured ; so it is 
 not for us poor mortals to say any thing against it : we 
 will try, and hope for the best; but it is an awful thing to 
 have our blind child go quite away from us to that great 
 town." 
 
 " But we will send somebody with her, dame, who shall 
 see her safe into the hospital." 
 
 " Thank you, madam, you are very good ; and let it 
 turn out which way it will, we shall always be grateful." 
 
 The evening before Susan's departure, Farmer Otley
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 75 
 
 called. " I thought I would just look in and wish you 
 good luck, Susan ; we shall all be heartily glad to hear of 
 your doing well, though my good woman will miss your 
 nice worsted-work. She would have come down to see 
 you too, but that she is not quite as she should be. She 
 has got a nasty cough that keeps plaguing her. I tell her 
 'tis because she will wear such smart thin shawls, instead 
 of a good warm cloak ; but young women they will have 
 their own way ; I dare say you have a way of your own, 
 too, Susan, though I don't know what it is." 
 
 Susan smiled. "1 believe I was as headstrong as 
 other young folks once ; but a poor helpless creature like 
 me, who is quite dependent upon mother's goodness, has 
 no business with any fancies now," 
 
 " Well, Susan, 1 hope you will come back with a will 
 of your own, that's all : and I dare say, dame, you won't 
 mind 1" 
 
 " My poor Susan ! I should be glad enough, indeed, to 
 see her own sprightly self again ; and 'tis our duty not 
 to throw away any opportunity that God puts in our 
 way." 
 
 Susan was safely conveyed to the hospital ; and from 
 thence the reports, which were received by Mrs. Har- 
 court, and duly transmitted to Nicholas and Sarah Foster, 
 were satisfactory. The hopeful Alice was not disap- 
 pointed in her eager desire to serve Susan ; and before 
 six weeks had elapsed, she was able to run breathless to 
 the cottage of the Fosters, with the surgeon's letter in her 
 hand, announcing that Susan's sight was safe, and that in 
 another month she might return to her friends in health 
 and happiness. 
 
 Old Sarah clasped her hands in speechless joy ; the 
 tears rolled in torrents unheeded down her face ; her 
 soul was absorbed in prayer. Old Nicholas groped 
 about till he found Mrs. Ilcircourt's hand ; and seizing 
 it, the old man suddenly fell on his trembling knees 
 before her. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear young lady, and God reward 
 you ! I know it is to God we first owe our gratitude ; but 
 you have been the blessed instrument in his hands. God
 
 7G THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 bless you !" and the old man sobbed aloud. Alice, inex- 
 pressibly distressed and affected, assisted him to rise, 
 replaced him in his seat, extricated her hand from his 
 grasp, and hastened away from a scene, which, although 
 delightful, was almost too overcoming. 
 
 At length Susan herself wrote to them ; it was the first 
 act of her restored sight ; and the dame placed the letter 
 before her on the deal table, with her prayer-book and 
 her spectacles, and every day did she look at it, and every 
 day did she read it over, word by word, to Nicholas, and 
 every day did Nicholas say, " God bless Miss Alice that 
 was !" 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 M^ise Nature is less partial in her love 
 
 Than ye do judge withal. When lavishly 
 
 She pours her gifts profuse, satiety 
 
 Doth blunt the sense : when sparingly dispensed, 
 
 A keener relish doth supply the measure ; 
 
 And but to live and see the blessed skies 
 
 (A good unmarked, unheeded, till 'tis lost), 
 
 Is rapture all too big for utterance 
 
 To one long shut from heaven's light. 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 It was a joyful day in Overhurst when Susan Foster 
 returned to her home. The old man and his wife had 
 toddled up to the village inn, where the coach stopped ; 
 and there they stood, Sarah to catch the first glimpse of 
 her, Nicholas to hear the first sound of her voice. Many 
 a head was popped out of a casement window, and many 
 a doorway w'as thronged with its inhabitants, at the hour 
 when the coach usually arrived. George Wells was 
 lingering in a field hard by, occasionally looking over the 
 stile. He had twice called upon the Fosters during 
 Susan's absence, and had inquired, in an awkward, hur-
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. it 
 
 ried manner, how she was. The inquiry was meant 
 kindly, and it was taken kindly. 
 
 The coach drove up to the little inn, and out sprang 
 Susan, blooming and lovely as ever. The old woman 
 nearly fainted ; and the neighbours assisted her and the 
 trembling Nicholas into the little parlour of the inn. 
 
 In about half an hour, Susan was seen supporting the 
 feeble steps of her mother on one side, and on the other 
 those of her father, down the village street, to her own 
 dear home. George Wells had disappeared ; and the 
 other neighbours did not intrude upon the sacred joy of 
 that family party. 
 
 " Oh, mother, did we ever expect to be so happy I" 
 exclaimed Susan, as they entered the little garden. " And 
 there is my own moss-rose blowing !" — a slight pang 
 shot through her, for George had given her the tree : but 
 she was too happy, too grateful, to allow any but feelings 
 of thankfulness to find a place in her heart. 
 
 With what eagerness did Susan hasten to busy herself 
 about the household duties ! with what pleasure did she 
 resume her former privilege of settling her father in his 
 seat, of preparing the supper, of assisting her father up- 
 stairs I She had thought the first sight of the heavens 
 glorious, she had gazed with rapture on the face of na- 
 ture, she had recognised with tenderness each well- 
 known spot of her youthful home ; but all these had been 
 but lesser joys in comparison with that of once more 
 ministering to the comfort of her parents, after having 
 so long been only a burden to them. Never were 
 prayers of more heartfelt gratitude oftered up to the 
 throne of Grace than those of the Foster family that 
 night. 
 
 Early the next morning, Susan repaired to Overhurst 
 Park, to make her acknowledgments to her benefac- 
 tors ; and as she walked alone through those paths where 
 she had so often wandered with George, which she had 
 never beheld since she had seen them with him, did not 
 the memory of former days come over her with almost 
 overwhelming power ? She thought of him certainly, 
 but she thought of him as the contented husband of 
 o2
 
 78 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 another ; and after having drunk so deeply of the bit- 
 ter cup of affliction, her present comparative happi- 
 ness seemed as great as mortals might dare to hope 
 for in this world. She looked with kindly feelings on 
 all around her. There was no touch of bitterness in her 
 emotions. 
 
 Farmer Otley was one of the first to welcome Susan 
 home again. He told her his wife was still very poorly, 
 " and that she would take it very kind" if Susan would 
 step up and pay her a visit some evening at Holmy- 
 bank. 
 
 " Well, Susan," he said, " 1 need not be fetching you 
 any more worsted from Turnholme now. You won't 
 send me to market any more. Those eyes of yours can 
 see to take up your old trade again. I dare say my 
 mistress will have some needlework for you, for she is a 
 rare bad hand at plain work herself." 
 
 A few days after Susan's return, she was employed in 
 tying up some straggling flowers, and in winding the 
 honeysuckle round the porch, enjoying the long untasted 
 pleasure of attending to her little garden, when, on look- 
 ing round, she saw George Wells loitering under the 
 hedge of^ the field which we have often described as 
 being opposite Master Foster's house. 
 
 Upon finding himself observed, George made a sud- 
 den effort, and leaping the stile, he crossed the road, 
 came straight up to Susan, and, before she had time to 
 collect herself, he had taken her hand, shaken it, and had 
 hastily uttered — 
 
 " 1 just came to tell you I was heartily glad you had 
 got your eyesight back again, Susan ; and to wish you 
 health and happiness, Susan : that's all :" and he was gone. 
 
 Susan trembled all over ; she tottered back into the 
 cottage, and sat down. 
 
 " 1 have just seen him, mother, for the first time these 
 three years I But it was not so much the seeing him, as 
 the hearing his voice again. It has put me quite in a 
 tremble ; but I shan't mind it another time. I must not 
 mind it, you know, mother ; and I am so happy, oh ! so
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 79 
 
 very happy to be able to do for you and father, that I do 
 not feel as if I had any thing left to wish for !" 
 
 In a few days Susan paid her promised visit to Mrs. 
 Otley, and she found her indeed sadly altered. She 
 passed through the kitchen where all bore the marks of 
 the mistress's eye being wanted : a servant-girl in greasy 
 papiUofes, the children in smart frocks, but with un- 
 washed faces ; the copper vessels, instead of being the 
 pride of the housewife and of her assistants, all out of 
 their places ; the floor, as if it had not been swept and 
 sanded for a week. The slipshod maid, with a dirty 
 apron ushered Susan into the parlour within, where Mrs. 
 Otley sat in a shabby-genteel armchair, cowering over 
 the fire, although it was in June. 
 
 Her cheeks were sunk, and there was a hectic flush 
 upon them which alarmed Susan ; her voice sounded 
 hollow. The smart cap, of which we have already 
 made mention, had now fallen from being a " dress cap" 
 into being an " every-day cap," a purpose for which it 
 was peculiarly unfitted. Its weak wires, and its heavy 
 ribands, shook in a most unseemly manner as the sick 
 woman restlessly moved her head. She laid down the 
 well-thumbed novel she was reading : " I am glad to see 
 you, Susan," she said. "Why you look surprisingly well, 
 as blooming as a rose. Mr. Otley told me how well you 
 were, and he said your eyes were as black as sloes : I was 
 quite curious to see you. Sit down, Susan, and tell me 
 all about it." But before Susan could begin to speak, 
 Mrs. Otley continued — " I am such a poor creature — 
 this cough fidgets me so ; but I am a great deal better, 
 only the weather is so unseasonable, and cold winds 
 always affect my nerves. Do you think I look ill ?" 
 
 " You are something thinner than you were, ma'am," 
 answered Susan : " but it is three years since I saw you 
 last ; and three years is a long time." 
 
 " So it is a long time, Susan ; but now tell me, what 
 did they do to you in London ? I am so curious ! Did 
 you stay in the hospital all the time?" 
 
 " YeSj ma'am, I never left it, except to come home."
 
 80 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 ♦' What ! did you not see any of the sights ? Not the 
 king's palace, nor the theatres, nor any thing ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, 'tis against the rules for people to go out 
 visiting ; and sure, as soon as I was well, 1 wanted to 
 see nothing so much as father, and mother, and home. 
 As soon as I was able, they set me to work, cleaning the 
 place, and helping to wait on other poor creatures who 
 were worse than myself." 
 
 " Poor girl, that was very hard !" 
 
 " Oh no, ma'am ; I was very glad to be useful, and I 
 was a deal happier than being idle. I missed my worst- 
 ed-work sadly at first ; the time seems so very long when 
 one has nothing to do, — nothing but to think, think, 
 think !" 
 
 Just then Farmer Otley entered. 
 
 •' I say, Lizzy, where are the keys of the cellar ? I 
 want to get something to drink for Mr. Hawkins, who is 
 waiting at the door." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Otley, don't speak so quick ; you hurry 
 one. The keys are in my reticule ; it is up-stairs. Tell 
 Hetty to fetch it." 
 
 Mr, Otley went after Hetty, and Mrs. Otley remarked, 
 " Poor dear Mr. Otley ! his manner is so abrupt ! He 
 is not used to an invalid !" 
 
 " Lizzy, I can't find your bag anywhere. The keys 
 should be in your pocket : feel for them there." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Otley, you know I do not wear pockets ; 
 a reticule is so much more convenient." 
 
 " Well ! but where are the keys ? Mr. Hawkins will 
 think I grudge him a glass of ale." 
 
 " Oh, my love, be patient; you quite make me shake !" 
 and she began in a really nervous trepidation to hunt for 
 the reticule, which was found in her chair. 
 
 Mrs. Otley and Susan resumed their conversation, 
 when presently the farmer returned. 
 
 " Lizzy, you have not got a needle and thread handy, 
 have you ? I told you I thought this button would soon 
 be off, and so it is." 
 
 " Oh, dear Mr. Otley, I thought you had told Hetty to 
 sew it on yesterday. Do call her, and tell her to bring
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 81 
 
 my work-box here." The good-natured husband called 
 Hetty, and after sonme time the needle and thread were 
 found. 
 
 " Come, look sharp ; I must be at the vestry at three 
 o'clock ; and 1 tlon't like to be seen with my waistcoat 
 all any how." 
 
 Mrs. Otley's fingers really trembled as she was sew- 
 ing on the button. " Why, Lizzy, 1 have hurried you ! 
 I am sorry for that. There, never mind ; don't fluster 
 yourself !" 
 
 " You never think of one's nerves, Mr. Otley." 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Lizzy, if you did not talk about 
 them, or if you did not call them nerves, I should think 
 about them. I see you are not well, and you have got 
 a bad cough, and I must take care of you ; so don't fret 
 yourself, but keep quiet. I'll try to see to the things 
 myself, though in-door matters are not in my way : but 
 we must make a shift." 
 
 " I am sure Mrs. Glover never did all the drudgery 
 poor dear Mr. Otley expects me to do," said Mrs. Otley, 
 when her husband had left them : " I do not think a wife 
 is to be a servant," she continued, with a toss of her 
 head. 
 
 Susan thought that a wife ought to see that all was 
 well regulated in her household ; but poor Mrs. Otley 
 was evidently ill and suffering, and she pitied her. As 
 Susan went away, she saw the little girl crying because 
 the maid had slapped her, and the little boy slapping the 
 maid because she would not let him put his fingers into 
 the pie she was preparing. She retraced her steps to 
 her humble home, in the full persuasion that she was 
 happier than any of the inmates of Holmy-bank farm. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Otley became rapidly worse ; and before 
 many months had elapsed, her troubles and her finery 
 were alike brought to a final close, and she was laid in 
 the quiet grave. 
 
 Mr. Otley remained a widower, with two young chil- 
 dren. He was a sincere mourner. The natural kindness 
 of liis heart had caused him to become truly attached to 
 the woman whose preference for him had at first been
 
 82 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 her principal attraction ; and her sufferings latterly had 
 still further endeared her. But when the freshness of his 
 grief had subsided — when he found that a bustling old 
 body, whom he took as housekeeper, kept all things 
 around him far more neat and trim than they had formerly 
 been — when he found his kitchen clean, his buttons sewed 
 on, his shirts mended — and, above all, w hen every thing 
 he asked for was always forthcoming from that compen- 
 dious receptacle, the old woman's pockets — his spirits 
 gradually revived. His children were less fretful, their 
 faces were cleaner ; and he only lamented that the old 
 woman could not read, and that he had not much leisure 
 himself to attend to their morals or their education. By 
 degrees he began to think that a younger woman might, 
 perhaps, attend to the dairy and the chickens as effec- 
 tually as old Goody Thompson ; that a younger woman 
 might make the new servant-girl (for Mrs. Thompson 
 had dismissed the slipshod maiden) scour the pots and 
 pans as perseveringly ; and he also began to think it 
 would be more agreeable to have a younger face and a 
 brighter smile welcome him home, after his labours of the 
 day. And whom could he find who would be more 
 active and useful than Susan Foster? Who w^as calcu- 
 lated to train his children's minds to duty, submission, and 
 religious resignation, more practically than Susan Foster? 
 And where could he find a brighter smile or more spark- 
 ling eye than Susan Foster's ?
 
 I'HE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 83 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Bairns, and their bairns, make sure a firmer tie 
 Than aught in love the hke of us can spy. 
 See yon twa elms that grow up side by side : 
 Suppose them, some years sjme, bridegroom and bride \ 
 Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed, 
 Till wide their spreading branches have increased. 
 This shields the other Irae the eastlin blast, 
 That in return defends it frae the west. 
 
 Allan Ramsay. 
 
 Although Mr. Otley had no longer any commissions 
 to perform at Turnholme for Susan, her worsted-work 
 having given place to her former occupation of needle- 
 work, still he found many an excuse for calling. Some- 
 times he would send the old man a rabbit for his supper ; 
 sometimes a cheese, the handiwork of Dame Thompson. 
 At another time he gave Susan a hive of young bees, 
 which had just swarmed, as the dame had said she was 
 fond of honey. By degrees he greatly won upon the 
 esteem of Susan by his attentions to her parents. He 
 was in a situation comparatively so much superior to 
 theirs, that he had the opportunity of appearing to them 
 almost in the light of a benefactor. Some time, however, 
 elapsed before he ventured to express his feelings in any 
 mode but by kindness to her parents. The sorrows she 
 had known, the trials slie had gone through, and the com- 
 posed resignation to which she had trained her mind 
 during her affliction, had left a sedate self-possession in 
 her cheerfulness. He was aware of her previous attach- 
 ment, and he did not feel sure whether an offer of mar- 
 riage would be received, in the manner probable, from the 
 relative situation of the parties. 
 
 At length his little presents became more pointedly 
 addressed to her. His basket of ripest gooseberries was 
 given to her. He would invite her to take a walk to
 
 84 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 look at his garden, and gather herself a nosegay. He 
 sometimes lamented to her that his children were not 
 sufficiently attended to. " He did not wish to bring them 
 up to over-gentility, but he wished them to have a good 
 plain education. He should like iiis girl to be as good a 
 scholar as Susan was ; that would do for him ; plain 
 useful learning, plain useful good sense, and plain useful 
 work. He wished Susan would step up, and see how 
 little Lizzy went on." Hut this Susan did not like to do. 
 
 The neighbours already began to talk, and the old 
 dame already began to hope her girl was likely to be well 
 settled in life ; " and then," as she said to Nicholas, one 
 evening, when Susan was gone out to carry home some 
 work — " and then, Nicholas, it does not signify how soon 
 it pleases the Lord to take us : then I may pray, as I used 
 to do, that I may never see another sun rise when once 
 it has pleased God to call you to himself." 
 
 Susan herself had no pride of romance about her. She 
 esteemed Mr. Otley, and she was aware that he became 
 every day more particular in his manner to her ; she knew 
 that the home he could offer her would be comfortable 
 beyond what she had any right to expect ; his plain man- 
 ners appeared to her neither rough nor hDmely, and she 
 felt sorry for the little children, who were deprived of a 
 mother's tenderness. Such being the state of mind of 
 the parties in question, the sequel may easily be guessed. 
 Mr. Otley stopped one evening on his way from market, 
 as it was now grown his custom to do, and good-naturedly 
 reproached Susan for not having been to see his garden 
 or his children. She was ashamed to give the true rea- 
 son, and said she had been very busy with a job of needle- 
 work. 
 
 " I don't like you to work so hard, Susan : it is not 
 good for her ; is it, dame ? Young folks should take a 
 little pleasure sometimes. I know I should like to see 
 Susan in a home of her own, with a servant girl to do 
 her work for her. She is too good by half to be always 
 drudging." 
 
 " Thank you kindly for your good wishes, Master 
 Otley," answered old Nicholas. " I should like to know
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 85 
 
 rny poor girl had a good home over her head when 
 I am dead and gone." 
 
 " Ah ! that's what a good father is sure to think of. 
 You would rest easier, Master Nicholas, if you knew 
 Susan was mistress of a comfortable place of her own, 
 and was never likely to come to want as long as she 
 lived !" 
 
 " Ah, sure ! should I," replied the simple old man, 
 who was in great hopes Mr. Otley was coming straight 
 to the point. And he wished no better than to come 
 to the point: but it is not easy to propose in company; 
 and, straightforward as Mr. Otley was, he began to 
 feel as shy as others do in this predicament. 
 
 " I should like to see Susan in a home of her own 
 very much," repeated Mr. Otley, slowly and awk- 
 wardly, and looking out of the window when he had 
 spoken. 
 
 The dame, who plainly perceived what was in the 
 farmer's mind, thought that if Susan was out of the 
 way he might speak openly to them ; or, if Susan was 
 alone, he might find courage to declare himself to her. 
 She, therefore, with feminine resource, told Susan to 
 go to the shop and buy her a pennyworth of ginger to 
 put in her tea. Susan left the cottage in a moment, 
 for she found herself becoming confused and uncomfort- 
 able. Mr. Otley lingered a short time, and said no- 
 thing ; but when he left the cottage he watched for 
 Susan's return, and their conversation was prolonged 
 till the dame began to doubt whether she would ever 
 have any ginger at all. 
 
 When Susan reappeared, Mr. Otley was with her. 
 She looked blushing, but happy; the farmer confused, 
 but glorious, as he told Nicholas he " hoped he would 
 rest soundly that night ; that is, if he thought Holmy- 
 bank farm was a place where Susan might make her- 
 self comfortable, and if he could trust to him to sec she 
 never wanted for any thing as long as he lived." 
 
 The old people did not attempt to conceal their 
 satisfaction, and never was son-in-law more cordially 
 received. 
 
 VOL. II. II
 
 86 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 We have already celebrated two weddings in this 
 short tale, and it was not long before a third took place 
 in the village of Overhurst. Mr. and Mrs. Otley ate 
 their wedding-dinner in the Foslers' cottage ; for Mr. 
 Otley had had enough of finery and fine folks ; and he 
 enjoyed the heartfelt happiness of those whom he felt 
 he rendered happy. When he took his bride home in 
 the evening, he left the old couple in a state of blissful 
 composure of mind, which they had once thought could 
 never again be theirs on this side the grave ; and when 
 they retired to rest, they returned their fervent thanks 
 to Heaven for having been allowed to see this day ; 
 and now tliey felt their task was ended, their duties 
 were fulfilled. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 Then be it still my nightly prayer 
 To live to close his sightless eyes, 
 
 For this my torturing pains to bear, 
 Then sink in death ere morning rise I 
 
 With steadfast hope, and faith serene, 
 The humble prayer of duteous love, 
 
 Pour'd ardent forth in anguish keen, 
 Was heard where Mercy rules above ! 
 
 Unpublished Ballad from Js'alure. 
 
 Susan Foster's unexpected prosperity was not re- 
 garded without envy by some of her neighbours ; and 
 old Nelly, her former mistress in the art of knitting, 
 whose temper had not grown more gentle with in- 
 creasing years and infirmities, failed not to remark to 
 her granddaughter that "she could not see, for her 
 part, what there was about Susan Foster that people 
 should always make such a fuss with her. Other poor 
 souls had their afflictigns, but the gentlefolks did not 
 send them to all the great London doctors to be cured j
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 87 
 
 Other girls had had bad eyes before now, but they did 
 not get a good husband a bit the more. And if Susan 
 Foster was so lucky as to marry so much above her 
 station, she thought she ought to do something for her 
 poor old father and mother, who had taken care of her 
 when she was blind. Folks might talk of Susan being 
 such a dutiful daughter, and all that; but for her part 
 she did not see what the old people were the better for 
 having a farmer's wife for a daughter." 
 
 " I am sure," answered Patty, " I cannot see any 
 thing particular about Susan, grandmother ; I think 
 there are many girls in Overhurst who are quite fit to 
 be her match. And many a time, since I have grown 
 big, I have wondered why I used to be so pleased when 
 Susan Foster spoke kindly to me, and told me I was a 
 good girl. I think she took upon her very much ; for 
 though she may be quite a great lady, and may ride in 
 her one-horse <;hay now, she w-as no better than tnyself 
 then!" 
 
 "Ah, my dear Patty! 'tis the way of those people 
 who seem to have such a respect for themselves, to 
 tnake themselves somehow respected by others. How- 
 ever, Susan is but a labourer's daughter after all, and I 
 don't see why you should demean yourself to her : I 
 have no patience with your up-starts. A poor girl that 
 could not have earned a farthing, and must have gone 
 iiito the workhouse, if I had not taught her how to knit! 
 and now she goes driving by with her husband, and has 
 called upon me but once, though she has been married 
 a fortnight ; and has never sent me any thing but a 
 basket of apples out of her orchard, which don't cost 
 her a farthing." Just at this moment a boy knocked 
 at the door, and Patty lifted the latch to admit him. 
 ■*' Mrs. Otley's respects, rna'am, and she sends you a 
 goose, and a bottle of Farmer Gtley's elder wine, that 
 you may drink her health on old Michaelmas-day." 
 Nelly was a little at a loss what to reply; but after 
 contemplating the present with a satisfaction which she 
 could not quite control, she consoled herself by saying 
 io Patty, as soon as the boy was gone, " Mrs. Otley's
 
 88 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 respects, indeed ! I think it would have been more 
 respectful if Madam Otley had called herself with her 
 present, instead of sending it by a scrubby boy." 
 
 It may well be imagined that if Susan did not forget 
 old Nelly, she took care that her parents should never 
 want any comfort which her affection could provide 
 for them, and her kind-hearted husband seconded her 
 wishes to the uttermost. He would willingly have had 
 them remove to Holmy-bank ; but the old man had 
 learned to grope his way about his own cottage, and 
 he would have missed his accustomed walk to his own 
 stile, and they found it was kinder not to break in upon 
 his habits. 
 
 Mrs. Thompson had resigned her charge to Susan ; 
 and Mr, Otley found that not only were the dairy and 
 poultry-yard as efficiently attended to, but that his 
 children became orderly and submissive, and that his 
 house soon acquired that air of home comfort, of taste- 
 ful neatness, that a wife only can give it. In her dress 
 Susan took old Mrs. Otley, the mother,, as her model,, 
 although she somewhat accommodated herself to the 
 fashion. She was a goodly sight to look upon, as she 
 sat by her husband's side in the market-cart, once de- 
 nominated a chaise, her black hair parted on her white 
 forehead, her smooth, rounded, blooming cheek enclosed 
 in her snowy cap and black velvet bonnet, with her 
 brilliant eyes glancing gayly as she stopped at her 
 fathers door on her way to market. More than a year 
 had thus glided by in sober and respectable happiness, 
 when old Nicholas began to droop ; he could no longer 
 reach his favourite stile. He was obliged to content 
 himself with leaning in bis accustomed attitude over 
 the wicket of his own little garden. After a while he 
 could do no more than take his seat at the cottage door^ 
 there to feel the rays of the setting sun. Susan now 
 devoted herself to her parents, and all other considera- 
 tions sank before the paramount duty she owed to 
 them. One evening she had brought him his tea to 
 the door, where Mr. Otley had settled him on his own 
 chair, and she asked him if he felt the warmth of the
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE, 89 
 
 sun. " I don't seem to have any warmth in my bones," 
 he said ; " but I Hke to know the sun is shining upon 
 me." 
 
 " Ah, the sun is a glorious thing," said Sarah, " as it 
 sets there in its golden bed ; but when my poor Nicho- 
 las is at rest, I never wish to see its bright face again. 
 You have got a good husband, Susan, and a comfort- 
 able home, and you will not want me now. My pains 
 have almost worn me out ; there's no taking pleasure 
 even in the works of God, when one is so racked by 
 pain." 
 
 " How well you do bear your sufferings, mother ; 
 'tis very seldom you make any complaints." 
 
 " There's no good murmuring, my dear Susan ; and 
 it is my duty to bear what 'tis God's pleasure to 
 send." 
 
 They looked round, and the old man's head had 
 dropped back upon the chair r they thought he was 
 asleep; but he did not breathe : life was extinct. His 
 wife was the first to understand the truth. "My hus- 
 band's spirit has passed," she said. " My poor Nicho- 
 las is at rest, — he is in heaven ! he is happy I Look at 
 that smile, — yes, he is happy ! God's will be done I" 
 and she bowed her head. 
 
 In tears and trepidation Farmer Otley and Susan 
 moved him within doors. He carried the lifeless body 
 and laid it on the bed up-stairs; while Susan held her 
 mother's hands, kissed them, and wept over them. 
 " He is gone, Susan ! my poor husband is gone ! He 
 has left me ! — my poor Nicholas !" and she rocked her- 
 self backward and forward, her hands clasped upon 
 her knee. 
 
 The neighbours soon assembled ; the last sad duties 
 were performed ; and the aged woman whose melan- 
 choly province it was to lay out the dead, and to keep 
 her dreary vigil by the corpse, attended as usual. But 
 old Sarah would not allow her to remain. She said 
 she had done for Nicholas to the last while he was 
 living, and she did not see what need there was of any 
 one else to tend him now. She thanked the neigh- 
 u 2
 
 90 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 hours kindly, but she could watch by her husband now 
 as then, and she would not trouble any of them. She 
 settled herself in her chair at the head of the bed, and 
 sat there silent, meek, and patient. 
 
 Susan, who was a nurse, had her baby brought from 
 the farm, and established it in what had formerly been 
 her own little bedroom. She and her husband then 
 took their station in the chamber of death, and together 
 looked upon the decent corpse of the old man. 
 
 The brilliant sunset had been followed by a stormy 
 night. The wind howled, and the rain beat against 
 the casement. The rush candle burned fitfully, and 
 shone with an uncertain light upon the sunk but placid 
 features of the old man. Susan could scarcely defend 
 herself from the vague and superstitious terrors which 
 assail the uneducated on such occasions. The furniture 
 creaked ; noises, which in the day are unnoticed, sound 
 startlingly acute in the stillness and darkness of the 
 night. Susan frequently crept into the adjoining apart- 
 ment to see how it fared with her baby ; she bent over 
 it as it slumbered, she listened to its respiration till she 
 fancied it drew its breath painfully. When suffering 
 under one calamity, the human heart is tremblingly 
 alive to the apprehension of others. She imagined the 
 infant was pale ; she stole back to beckon her husband 
 to look upon it with her. He attempted to reassure 
 her; but Susan's heart was oppressed with the forebod- 
 ing of some fresh ill, and it required all Mr. Otley's 
 patience and good-nature to sooth fears which appeared 
 so unreasonable. 
 
 It was an inexpressible relief when the gray dawn 
 began to appear. The rain all cleared away, and the 
 sun shone forth in all its splendour ; every leaf was 
 glittering in the sunshine, the rain-drops hung on every 
 spray, the birds sang as if to strain their little throats, 
 the flowers were beginning to expand to the welcome 
 rays. Susan placed her baby in her husband's arms 
 while she returned to share her mother's melancholy 
 watch. 
 
 When she entered the low room, the sun almost daz-
 
 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 91 
 
 zled her ; its beams streamed in upon the slanting, 
 whitewashed ceiling ; they shone full upon her mother's 
 face, as she sat in the same attitude in which she had 
 left her, — her head supported by the high back of the 
 upright chair, her hands slightly clasped as they had 
 fallen on her knee, and her eyes closed. 
 
 Susan drew near: her mother spoke not, moved not. 
 She knelt by her — she listened in breathless agony — no 
 sound, no sign of recognition. The sunbeams glared 
 upon her eyelids, but she heeded them not. 
 
 A nameless chill ran through poor Susan's frame. 
 She dared not touch her mother's hand. She rose 
 from her knees, and tottered back to her husband. " I 
 wish you would come to mother," she said ; " she is 
 very still. Mother is very still and very pale," she 
 added, in a voice scarcely audible. Susan's looks were 
 ghastly. Mr. Otley hastily placed the sleeping infant 
 on the bed, and followed Susan. The truth was at 
 once evident ! " Your mother's prayers have been 
 heard, dear Susan ; she has not seen another sun rise ; 
 she has not seen the sun which now shines upon her. 
 Her troubles are over, and we should thank God for 
 his mercy to her !" 
 
 And the time did come when Susan was able thus 
 to feel ; when she was able to rejoice that her mother's 
 humble prayer had thus been granted ; when she 
 learned to look upon its accomplishment as an earnest 
 that the spirits of her parents were enjoying the re- 
 ward of their piety and their submission. But, at first, 
 nature had its course, and she could but weep for that 
 dear mother who had supported her under her heavy 
 affliction, consoled her in her sorrows, tended her in 
 her helplessness. Nor did her husband oppose the 
 grief which was so natural ; he wept with her ; and 
 she feit ihtj. holy tie which bound them together for 
 weal and for wo, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and 
 in health, become more closely riveted as she clung to 
 him for support, as she turned to him as her only 
 earthly con)forter. 
 
 The neighbours again assembled. The two corpses
 
 92 THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. 
 
 were decently laid out in the same chamber which for 
 so many years they had inhabited ; and all who had 
 known them in life, came to have one last sight of Ni- 
 cholas and Sarah Foster. 
 
 Susan was soothed by this mark of respect to those 
 whom she had loved so well ; and she was gratified 
 when, among the rest, George Wells mounted the nar- 
 row stairs to look once more upon the well-known 
 faces of the departed. She wept when she heard him 
 sob as he came down again, and when he wrung her 
 hand as he hurried by through the little kitchen where 
 she sat in deep but gentle grief. She wished not that 
 he should cherish the recollection of herself; but any 
 slight to the memory of her parents would have been 
 bitter, coming from him whom they had once treated 
 as a son. 
 
 One funeral service was performed over the venera- 
 ble couple ; one grave received their mortal remains ; 
 one stone still marks the spot where they repose ; and 
 together, we may well believe, their spirits mounted to 
 those regions where suffering and sorrow are un- 
 known.
 
 BLANCHE.
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 The hidden traynes I know, and secret snares of love ; 
 
 How soon a look will prynte a thoughte, that never may remove. 
 
 Lord Sdrrey. 
 
 At the period when our story commences, Lord and 
 Lady Westhope had been married sixteen years. Theirs 
 had been a love-match. The love had lasted on the 
 part of the lady at least seven years and three months ; 
 but on that of her lord not quite seven months and 
 three weeks from the wedding-day. 
 
 Lord Westhope had then been thrown with the 
 handsome but designing Lady Bassingham, who made 
 an easy conquest of his heart ; which conquest she 
 retained till the rustic bloom of Lucy Meadows, his 
 wife's new maid, eclipsed the somewhat faded charms 
 of the lady of fashion. When weary of Lucy Meadows, 
 he became deeply smitten with the honourable Miss 
 Asterby, the young beauty of the day, who indulged 
 her vanity in listening to the compliments of a married 
 man, and allowed him to monopolize more of her con- 
 versation than was either judicious or prudent. 
 
 To these succeeded another and another object, se- 
 lected from every rank and condition of life. 
 
 During the six years seven months and one week, 
 which Lady Westhope's love survived that of her 
 husband, she had undergone tortures of jealousy, anger,
 
 90 BLANCHE. 
 
 indignation, and mortification. At the end of this time 
 she made up her mind to her fate, and bore his infideli- 
 ties with tolerable composure. Henceforward their 
 domestic life M'as very peaceable. The wife no longer 
 reproached and wept ; and the husband was exceed- 
 ingly gay and good-humoured. 
 
 But now began trials of another sort to Lady West- 
 hope. She was extremely handsome : her beauty was 
 of a sort to be more striking at twenty-five than at 
 eighteen. Her husband was known to be faithless — 
 she was soon found to be indifferent. All vain and idle 
 young men consequently aspired to her favour. It 
 need not be added, that the number was prodigious ! 
 
 But though she had been disappointed in her hopes 
 of being loved, she resolved to pass through life ad- 
 mired and respected. She would set the world the 
 example of a beautiful and neglected wife, defying, the 
 breath of slander, repressing every sign of admiration, 
 and pursuing her course uncontaminated by the profli- 
 gacy around her. A word, a look of encouragement, 
 would have brought any of these aspiring youths to 
 sigh at her feet ; but on none did she deign to bestow a 
 glance — firmly and cahnly did she check the first 
 symptom of preference which might be evinced towards 
 her. 
 
 She was not blessed with children, but she had many 
 female friends ; and to her cousin, Lady Blanche De 
 Vaux, she was warmly attached. Lady Blanche was 
 fifteen years younger than herself, and her affection for 
 her young cousin combined something of a maternal 
 character, with the ease and. companionship of two 
 women who were both in the perfection of woman- 
 hood ; for Lady Westhope at thirty-four had scarcely 
 lost any of her beauty, and Lady Blanche at nineteen 
 was in the fulness of hers. 
 
 The Westhopes were going to Paris ; and Lady 
 Westhope proposed to Lord and Lady Falkingham, 
 that their daughter. Lady Blanche, should accompany 
 them. Lady Falkingham had gone through the toil- 
 some duties of chaperonage for a series of years, during
 
 BLANCHE. 9T 
 
 which she had successfully disposed of her elder 
 daughters in marriage. She was not sorry, therefore, 
 to repose from her labours, and to intrust the youngest 
 to the care of so unexceptionable a person as her niece, 
 J^ady Westhope. 
 
 To Paris went Lady Blanche, in all the buoyancy 
 of youth ; escaped for the first time from the trammels 
 of an education in which no possible accomplishment 
 had been neglected, and the vigilance of the most correct 
 of mothers. She was enchanted with the Louvre, full 
 of admiration at the beauties and grandeur of Paris ; 
 amused with the theatres, the Champs Elysees, with. 
 Tivoli — with every thing ; and entered with spirit and 
 gayety into the agreeable society which is nowhere to 
 be found in greater perfection than at Paris. 
 
 Lady Westhope was also amused and interested ; 
 and for the sake of Blanche mixed more generally with 
 the world than it was her custom to do. 
 
 Lord Westhope also amused himself very much ; 
 but how we do not exactly know. 
 
 Independently of their rank and their situation, the 
 beauty of our two cousins would have rendered them 
 no inconsiderable personages among the English at 
 Paris, Lady Westhope's skin was whiter than snow — 
 her hair blacker than the raven's wing — her form full 
 and graceful — her manner calm and self-possessed : 
 had she been unmarried, it might have been thought 
 cold, perhaps haughty ; as a matron, it was dignified. 
 I^ady Blanche's clustering curls, and hazel eyes of the 
 same rich dark brown as her hair, the mantling glow 
 of her blooming cheek, her slender form and elastic 
 step, possessed all the graces of youth, while her coun- 
 tenance beamed with animation, joy, tenderness, and 
 each emotion that rapidly succeeded the other in her 
 bosom. 
 
 Among the many slight preferences, incipient flirta- 
 tions, and positive love-makings, which took place in 
 the set to which Lady Westhope belonged, none was 
 more decided than that between the beautiful Lady 
 Blanche and Captain De Molton. She was a romantic, 
 
 VOL. II. — I
 
 08 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 enthusiastic girl, peculiarly calculated to feel the attrac- 
 tions of a man who was formed to figure as a hCros de 
 roman. He was very tall — he was pale — his features 
 were marked, but they bore an expression of melan- 
 choly and of feeling. The qualities of his mind cor- 
 responded with his exterior. Lofty, uncompromising 
 rectitude was combined with acute feelings, which, as 
 his appearance indicated, were more calculated to work 
 him wo than weal. A look of sentiment, though to 
 the old and wary it may portend no happiness either to 
 the possessor or to those connected with him, is often 
 to the young and gay more attractive than the most 
 joyous liveliness. 
 
 Captain De IMolton was in love — desperately 1 ove 
 with Lady Blanche. But he knew he was poor : he 
 knew that if he was to offer her all he had — i. e. his 
 whole undivided affections, Lord and Lady Falkingham 
 could not in conscience allow their daughter to accept 
 him. He therefore confined himself to watching her 
 while she was talking to others ; he did not allow him- 
 self to occupy the seat by her side. If by chance he 
 was betrayed into any expression of his feelings, he stu- 
 diously avoided her for the next twenty-four hours ; 
 and by so doing, he flattered himself he was playing 
 the part of a martyr. He fancied he wgs only endan- 
 gering his own peace of mind ; he believed he so com- 
 pletely concealed what was passing within, that hers 
 could run no risk. He had not the self-sufficiency to 
 imagine he could win a heart he did not attempt to 
 gain. But these very starts of passion, these inconsis- 
 tencies, these uncertainties, the air of intense melan- 
 choly which at times overspread his countenance, were 
 more dangerous to a person of Lady Blanche's disposi- 
 tion than the most open and decided attentions. 
 
 She could not think he was indifferent towards her ; 
 yet she was piqued by his occa.sional avoidance, touched 
 by his air of intense melancholy, delighted with the fire 
 which gleamed from his eye when she addressed him, 
 and with the smile which, when it did light up his
 
 BLANCHE. 99 
 
 countenance, was bright and dazzling as the sunbeam 
 after a summer storm. 
 
 In short, while intending to preserve her heart 
 from the sentiment which possessed his own, he uncon- 
 sciously acted with the most consummate coquetry — 
 
 " Piqued her and soothed by turns." 
 
 Things were in this state, when Captain De Molton's 
 particular friend, Lord Glenrith, arrived at Paris, He 
 was immediately struck with Lady Blanche's beauty, 
 and fascinated by her manners. He was an eldest son, 
 and heir to a fme property. He was extremely good- 
 looking — his character was excellent — as a jjartl he 
 was unexceptionable. 
 
 De Molton, with a lover's quickness of perception, 
 read Lord Glenrith's feelings almost before he was 
 aware of them himself; and he thought it would be a 
 crime to stand in. the way of a union which would be 
 advantageous to Lady Blanche, and which must indeed 
 make the happiness of his best and earliest friend. 
 Although it was almost agony to see Glenrith con- 
 stantly occupy at dinner the place he resolutely did not 
 take, and to see him whisper soft nothings into her ear, 
 which it would have been rapture to him to utter ; 
 though it was maddening to see Glenrith act as her 
 escort on all morning excursions, when he seldom 
 dared approach ; still a sort of fascination bound him 
 to the spot. It was with trembling anxiety that he 
 watched Lady Blanche's reception of his friend's atten- 
 tions, with pain which he could not control that he 
 marked any thing which might be construed into en- 
 couragement on her part ; but it was with most unrea- 
 sonable joy that he perceived her listen to him with 
 cold indifference, and sometimes that he caught her 
 eye glance towards himself while Lord Glenrith was 
 by her side. 
 
 Any doubt he might entertain as to his friend's real 
 intentions, was soon set at rest by his one day confidiiig 
 to him that he was very much attached to Lady Blanche, 
 that his parents wished him to marry, and that he had
 
 100 BLANCHE. 
 
 made up his mind to propose, as soon as he felt sure of 
 
 the lady. 
 
 This annunciation fell as a final deathblow on De 
 Molton's hopes — if hopes they might ever have been 
 called. "Yet Glenrith spoke doubtfully of her recep- 
 tion of liis offer — and Glenrith is not usually over- 
 diffident of himself," thong-ht De Molton in the midst of 
 his despair. Still he felt it would be folly, madness, to 
 hnger ni the society of Lady Blanche. In all proba- 
 bility she would soon be the affianced wife of his friend. 
 
 It would be base and treacherous in him to attempt 
 to circumvent that friend — cruel to sport with her feel- 
 ings ; and now that Glenrith had spoken thus confiden- 
 tially, there was nothing left but to withdraw himself 
 from witnessing the prosecution of a suit, in the pro- 
 bable success of which he felt he ought to rejoice, while 
 his spirit recoiled from the bare anticipation of such a 
 result. 
 
 Accordingly he told Lord Glenrith that he was sud- 
 denly recalled to England on particular business. He 
 seated himself in the cabriolet of the Calais diligence, 
 and took his weary way to his native land with the most 
 profound adoration of wealth — with the most ardent 
 aspirations for honour, rank, riches, and all the good 
 things of this world — that he might, without folly or pre- 
 sumption, be entitled to throw himself at the feet of Lady 
 Blanche. 
 
 Lady Westhope's duty, as a wise chaperon, would 
 have been to discourage in every way the attentions of 
 Captain De Molton, and to foster those of Lord Glen- 
 rith. She meant to do so, — she thought she did so. 
 She constantly repeated to Blanche how impossible it 
 was that Captain De Molton should ever propose, how 
 impossible that he should be accepted, how totally im- 
 possible that they could ever marry — or that, if married, 
 they could have bread to eat ; and she thought she had 
 done her duty. But the spectacle of a man, sincerely, 
 ardently, respectfully, and hopelessly in love, was to her 
 feelings, naturally warm, though she had incased them 
 jn an armour of coldness and reserve, so interesting a
 
 T BLANCHE. 101 
 
 sight, that she could not help treating him and speaking 
 of him as a person formed to win the heart of woman. 
 All those who had formerly seemed inclined to pay her 
 attention, she had from the very beginning treated with 
 such repelling coldness, that she had never been exposed 
 to the trial of witnessing real and sincere emotions 
 strongly excited. In the desolation of her own secret 
 soul, the sight was tantalizing and painful. She could 
 not help envying Blanche the power of calling them 
 forth, nor could she help looking back with a sigh upon 
 the blank of her own loveless career. She would have 
 given any thing for Aladdin's lamp, that she might endovv 
 young De Molton with the worldly wealth which could 
 have secured to them the fate from which she was herself 
 cut out. 
 
 The few months they passed at Paris had a sensible 
 effect upon the minds of both the cousins. Lady Blanche 
 for the first time felt love. She also felt keen mortifica- 
 tion — for to nothing does love more completely blind its 
 victim than to the sensations experienced by the object 
 beloved. While Lady Westhope saw in Captain De 
 Molton an interesting and high-minded young man strug- 
 gling with a hopeless passion, — in short, while she accu- 
 rately read, and was able to appreciate his feelings, — 
 Lady Blanche thought him cold, indifferent, capricious, 
 and frequently doubted whether, indeed, he entertained 
 any preference at all for her. 
 
 In Lady VVesthope's mind a great change also had 
 taken place. Perhaps the example of all around her 
 (for, whatever the propriety of French women under 
 the new regime may be, the conduct of English women, 
 when once they have crossed the channel, is not such as 
 to impress foreign nations with a high idea of the moral- 
 ity for which we would fain be thought remarkable), per- 
 haps the more easy footing of society abroad, combined 
 to produce in her vague aspirations after an interchange 
 of sincere affection: visions of mutual love, devotion, 
 attachment, &c. — notions against which, for nine years, 
 she had been shutting her ears and barring her heart- 
 again found entrance to her bosom. 
 i2
 
 102 
 
 BLATiCnZ, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Whom call we gay ? That honour has been long 
 The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
 The innocent are gay. The lark is gay, 
 That dries his feathers saturate with dew 
 Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams 
 Of dayspring overshoot the humble nest. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The morning after De Molton's departure, our two 
 cousins were prepared for an excursion to Versailles, and 
 were expecting the gentlemen w'ho were to accompany 
 them, when Lord Glenrith entered. Lady Westhope 
 inquired what was become of Captain De Molton. 
 
 " Gone," he replied : " he set off for England yester- 
 day — called home on some tiresome regimental business. 
 But did you not see him 1 did you not hear from him? 
 Very uncivil, faith ! not at all like De Molton." 
 
 " I wonder he did not call," said Lady Westhope: and 
 she stole a look towards Blanche, who was so busily em- 
 ployed in tying her bonnet and putting on her shawl, 
 with her back towards them, and her veil half covering 
 her face, that she could not detect how she took this un- 
 expected intelligence. 
 
 The carriages of the rest of the party now drew up 
 in the street. Lord Glenrith ran down-stairs to deliver 
 a message to one of the Misses Elvvick, offering her 
 Captain De Molton's seat in the barouche ; when Lady 
 Westhope remarked — 
 
 " How strange in Captain De Molton !" 
 
 '• How mortifying !" replied Lady Blanche : " the idea 
 of marrying may be foolish and imprudent, as you say, 
 but he might leave me to find it out. I hate cold, calcu- 
 lating men, who do exactly what is right, and discreet,
 
 BLANCHE. 103 
 
 and proper ; whose conduct nobody can find the least 
 fault with. Such men may be esteemed, but they cannot 
 expect to be loved. I almost think I should prefer a 
 warm-hearted impetuous person, who was generously 
 \vronor, to a wary, prudent one, who was coldly right. 
 But wiiat am I saying ? The simple fact is, that the poor 
 man did not happen to like me. I do not know why I 
 should find fault with him because he did not fail in love 
 with me !" And she tried to smile, and to treat the 
 whole thing lightly. 
 
 Lady Westhope could not help adding, " that she had 
 thought, and indeed she did still think, that he was in 
 love notwithstanding his prudence." Lady Blanche had 
 just time to reply, half bitterly, half jestingly, " that there 
 could not be much love if prudence could so completely 
 master it ;" when Lord Glenrith returned to hand them 
 from their splendid apartments down the dirty brick 
 stairs of a French hotel. 
 
 The day was beautiful — the drive not long enough to 
 be fatiguing — the palace magnificent — the gardens no- 
 ble — the whole replete with the most interesting recol- 
 lections. Lady Blanche had always been an enthusiast 
 about Madame de la Valliere, Louis XVI., Marie Antoi- 
 nette. She had anticipated the greatest delight in visiting 
 the scenes of so many events with which, from childhood, 
 she had been familiar ; but she found herself listening 
 with the most absent mind to the details given by the 
 guide, even though he pointed out the very balcony from 
 which he himself remembered having seen Marie An- 
 toinette, with the dauphin in her arms, addressing the 
 people on that dreadful day when the royal family were 
 carried oil" by the mob to the Tuilleries. She looked 
 round with vacant eyes at the white and gold a[)artments 
 where Marie Antoinette held her evening soirees ; nor 
 could she warm herself into a proper emotion over the 
 oratoiro of the unfortunate king, nor even over the nar- 
 row back passage by which he attempted to escape. 
 
 In the gardens, the statues which were pointed out as 
 those of Madame de Maintenon, Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 tanges, and Madame de la Vallidre herself, failed to
 
 104 BLANCHE. 
 
 excite any interest. In her present state of mind she 
 thought it was all nonsense, and did not the least believe 
 that Diana was Madame de Maintenon,or Fidelity, with 
 a dog at her feet, was intended for Madame de la Val- 
 liere. 
 
 She became somewhat more interested at the Petit 
 Trianon. The Swiss cottage, the vacherie of poor 
 Marie Antoinette touched her, and she remarked to Lord 
 Glenrith, on whose arm she leaned, how, in the midst of 
 all her splendours, the queen seemed to have preserved 
 her taste for nature, the country, freedom, and simplicity. 
 " It shows, after all, how insufficient are pomp and gran- 
 deur to happiness !" And she thought of Captain De 
 Molton, and that just such a cottage as the Swiss farm, 
 with him (supposing he had liked her, which he did not), 
 w^ould be vastly preferable to Versailles itself with any 
 one else. Lord Glenrith thought, " what a noble, high- 
 minded girl ! she will love me for myself — she will not 
 be influenced by my being a good match ;" and he re- 
 doubled his attentions. 
 
 The party liad obtained permission to have their col- 
 lation laid out in the marble gallery ; and they sat down, 
 a large and brilliant party — as young, as beautiful, as had 
 ever been the inmates of that palace, consecrated to 
 pleasure, and pleasure alone. 
 
 Lady Westhope was the eldest lady present. The 
 two Misses Elwick were beauties — decided beauties, 
 and in the first bloom of youth, with gay and lively man- 
 ners, high spirits, light hearts, and vanity enough thor- 
 oughly to enjoy the admiration they were in the habit 
 of exciting. Mrs. Courtney Astwell was very pretty, 
 and being married, and a coquette of course, commanded 
 the attentions of the gentlemen still more supereminently 
 than any of the other 1 idles, w"hatever their claims might 
 be. Lady Westhope was, for the first time, quite in the 
 background — nearly on the shelf. Lord Glenrith was de- 
 voted to Lady Blanche ; Sir Charles Weyburn was de- 
 cidedly struck with Miss Elwick ; Lord James Everdon 
 and Miss Eliza Elwick were so merry, that another joke 
 succeeded, long before the laugh produced by the first
 
 BLANCHE. 105 
 
 had subsided. Mr. Stapleford, the sharp, sarcastic, 
 clever diplomat, did Mrs. Courtney Astwell the honour 
 of giving her his arm ; while Lord Faversham walked 
 on the other side and joined in the conversation, and the 
 stripling Lord Elmington hovered on the flank or in the 
 rear, as opportunity might serve. 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme alone remained for Lady Westhope. 
 He was a new addition to the society whose claims to 
 notice had not yet been ascertained. He was in the 
 law, and he looked clever. He might be nearly thirty, 
 and he was presentable in appearance and gentleman- 
 like in manners. 
 
 Notwithstanding the dignity and reserve of Lady 
 Westhope's deportment, she had never before found 
 herself overlooked. Her rank, her respectability, her 
 beauty, in the usual routine of dinners, parties, and balls, 
 secured for her the attentions of some one of the first 
 persons in the company. She never before had found 
 herself the most passie of a party — and on an occasion, 
 too, when the usual forms of precedence are not attended 
 to. Though she had never sought, or valued attention, 
 she did not half like the absence of it. She never 
 wished for it while she had to repel it, — it was not till it 
 was withheld, that she found she attached to it any value 
 whatever. 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme, however, was well informed and 
 agreeable. By degrees she found he was acquainted 
 with several acquaintances of hers, and the scenes which 
 they were viewing together afforded matter of conver- 
 sation. 
 
 At the breakfast, or luncheon, or by whatever name 
 the repast might be designated, the pictures which 
 adorned tlie walls of the gallery were discussed. Among 
 others, that of Madame de Maintenon, with Madame do 
 la Valliere's daughter at her knee, liady Blanche ex- 
 claimed with energy, " The only redeeming point about 
 that hypocritical old woman is her having been so good- 
 natured to poor dear Madame de la Valliere's child !" 
 
 " And may 1 ask Lady Blanche why she so much pre- 
 fers Madame de la Valli^re to Madame de Maintenon ?"
 
 106 ' BLANCHE. 
 
 in the softest voice imaginable, inquired Mr. Stapleford, 
 who was rather fond of putting people out of counte- 
 nance. In this case he perfectly succeeded ; for though 
 it is true that every one loves the erring Madame de la 
 Valliere, and few have any tenderness for the discreet 
 Madame de Maintenon, it would not have been so easy 
 for a young lady to defend her feelings and opinions on 
 the subject, without entering into a discussion which 
 might be rather awkward. 
 
 This Lady Blanche felt, and replied, scarcely knowing 
 what she said — " Everybody pities Madame de la Val- 
 liere, because she was so unhappy !" 
 
 " Then every one who suffers may hope to have some 
 place in your affections," whispered Lord Glenrith. 
 
 Mr. Stapleford replied — " As an approving conscience 
 is universally allowed to produce cheerfulness, I con- 
 clude the strictly virtuous have no chance of finding 
 favour in Lady Blanche's sight." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Stapleford, how you misconstrue every 
 thing one says !" Blanche blushed, half in confusion, 
 half in anger. Mr. Stapleford enjoyed it ; he liked to 
 make women blush ; — many men do. 
 
 " I am sure every one present ought to be very much 
 obliged to me for what I have said, if it is only for having 
 brought so beautiful a bloom into Lady Blanche's cheeks." 
 
 All eyes turned towards Lady Blanche, who did in- 
 deed blush over forehead, throat, and arms, till the tears 
 were ready to start from her eyes. Lord Glenrith ut- 
 tered in a more severe tone than was usual to a person 
 renowned for his good nature — 
 
 "One would think Stapleford had neither mother nor 
 sisters of his own, that he should find pleasure in causing 
 a woman to blush." And at the moment Lord Glenrith 
 worshipped Lady Blanche as devoutly as he hated Mr. 
 Stapleford. Lady Blanche felt grateful to him for hav- 
 ing defended her, and for having given Mr. Stapleford a 
 reproof 
 
 " Is Mr. Stapleford a friend of yours ?" said Mr. Wrox- 
 holme to Lady Westhope. 
 
 •' Not at all," she answered : " is he of yours ?"
 
 BLANCHE. 107 
 
 " I am happy to say he is a perfect stranger to me : 
 that is a kind of man I detest." 
 
 Lady Westhope liked her new acquaintance, for his 
 warmth and his openness. 
 
 The repast was over. The personages already men- 
 tioned sauntered for a short time before their departure 
 among the close walks and the orange-trees. Lord 
 James Everdon and Miss Eliza Elwick were inseparable ; 
 not that they had the slightest preference for each other 
 — their whole bond of union consisted in the magnificent 
 set of teeth with which nature had favoured them both. 
 They were not the least aware of the reason they were 
 pleased with each other; but it may be remarked, that 
 those who have bad teeth do not find themselves so com- 
 fortable with a companion who makes them laugh, as 
 with one whose conversation is more serious ; while a 
 person with fine teeth discovers a point in many a jest, 
 which to one who is conscious of any thing defective in 
 that respect would appear stale, flat, and unprofitable. 
 Many flirtations might be traced home to similarity of 
 teeth, which have passed for congeniality of disposition. 
 
 When they arrived at home, the two friends talked 
 over the day. " Who in the world is your Mr. Wrox- 
 holme ?" said Lady Blanche. 
 
 " I assure you he is a very agreeable man," replied 
 Lady Westhope, anxious he should appear to have been 
 her companion by choice rather than from necessity. 
 
 " What is he by birth and parentage ?" 
 
 " I do not know, but he is acquainted with several 
 people who are mutual friends ; I shall invite him to my 
 parties next spring. I think he will be a great acquisi- 
 tion." 
 
 *' What an odious man Mr. Stapleford is I I always 
 disliked his quiet sarcastic manner of dropping out just 
 the thing that is most disagreeable ; and I was so much 
 obliged to the dear, good, honest Lord Glenrith, for giv- 
 ing him a lecture, which ought to have made him look 
 foolish." 
 
 " How handsome Lord Glenrith is !" said Lady West- 
 hope, curious to know how Blanche felt towards him.
 
 lOS BLANCHE. 
 
 " Yes ! he certainly is handsome ; but he has too much 
 colour, and he looks so very healthy and robust ! 1 do 
 not think his countenance could express unhappiness. 1 
 like a man to look serious and thoughtful, as if he was full 
 of feeling, and as if his gayety was just a bright gleam 
 of sunshine, the more brilliant for the gloom which pre- 
 cedes and follows it. Nothing is so beautiful as the 
 smile of a countenance habitually melancholy." 
 
 Lady Westhope perceived that, notwithstanding her 
 pique, Blanche had not forgotten De Molton. 
 
 They returned to England. T!ie London season was 
 nearly over; parliament did not sit late; there was no 
 business which required Lord Faikingham's presence, 
 and Blanche joined her parents in the country, where 
 they had already established themselves ; but as she passed 
 through London, she went to the play with the West- 
 hopes. They were leaving the theatre when they met 
 Captain De Molton on the stairs. He rushed to them 
 with a face in which the much-admired smile usurped 
 the place of the melancholy which Lady Blanche also 
 admired. He asked her if she was staying in London : 
 she replied she was going to Temple Loseley the next 
 day. 
 
 " Then I must esteem myself fortunate to have caught 
 even this glimpse of you." 
 
 " Oh, but I hope we shall see you in the country." 
 
 They were both thrown off their guard by the sudden- 
 ness of the meeting, and their looks and their manner 
 proclaimed the state of their feelings as much as it was 
 possible for them to do so, in descending the last ten steps 
 of the private box entrance. But he had handed her into 
 the carriage — the door was closed — she was gone — be- 
 fore he had time to answer the sort of half-invitation con- 
 tained in Lady Blanche's last words. 
 
 Blanche had much to tell her mother; all she had 
 heard, all she had seen, but not all she had felt. Lady 
 Falkingham was reserved with her children : she was 
 above all weaknesses herself, and never seemed to con- 
 template the possibility that younger minds might not be
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 109 
 
 SO well regulated, younger feelings might not be so sober 
 and temperate, as her own. 
 
 The summer passed quietly; Blanche rode with her 
 father, gardened with her mother, and tried to think no 
 more of a person who felt nothing for her. Had she not 
 most unguardedly, most imprudently, almost invited him 
 to Temple Loseley? She forgot that, not being ac- 
 quainted with her parents, it was absolutely impossible 
 he could act upon such a hint. She only remembered 
 that she had advanced a step which had not been met by 
 him, and she recalled what she had heard and read a 
 thousand times, that a lover can generally create an op- 
 portunity for seeing his beloved : hovi' much easier, then, 
 to improve one that presents itself! The only conclusion 
 therefore to be drawn was, that she was an object of per- 
 fect indifference to him. 
 
 In September a party was collected for shooting ; and, 
 among others. Lord Glenrith accepted with joy and ea- 
 gerness an invitation to Temple Loseley. 
 
 Lord and Lady Falkingham rejoiced to see so fair a 
 prospect opening before Blanche. Lord Glenrith was 
 particularly good-tempered ; he was heir to a fine prop- 
 erty ; there was not an objection to him. Lady Falking- 
 ham, whose health was very delicate, was much relieved 
 by the idea that she need never again pass from twelve 
 till four o'clock in the morning seated on the blue sofas at 
 Almack's, her head nodding with sleep under the plumes 
 which she thought it her duty to place upon it. 
 
 Blanche could not fail to perceive that Lord Glenrith 
 was serious in his attentions : it was impossible to dislike 
 him ; he was an honest, genuine creature ; he loved her 
 sincerely, admired her, and respected her: he was not 
 wanting in sense or information. Had not her mind been 
 prepossessed, she would most likely have been in love 
 with him ; at least, ninety-nine girls in a hundred would 
 have been so, and ought to have been so. He proposed : 
 her parents were delighted ; she was sorry, although she 
 preferred him to any one else, except Captain De Molton. 
 Yet, what nonsense to allow her imagination to dwell 
 
 VOL. II. — K
 
 110 BLANCHE. 
 
 upon a person who cared not for her ! Should she refuse 
 an excellent man, who was sincerely attached to her — a 
 connection with whom would delight her own parents, 
 and his parents, and all their mutual connections — for the 
 sake of a penniless captain, who cut her — positively cut 
 her ? It would be the height of folly : there would be 
 a want of pride in continuing to pine for an indifferent 
 swain. So, as she had no good reason to adduce, either 
 to herself or to others for saying " No," she said " Yes," 
 and she was engaged. 
 
 This great event took place a few days before the Falk- 
 inghatn family paid a long-promised visit to the Westhopes. 
 Lord Glenrith was to have joined the party at the end of 
 the week ; but, as the accepted lover, he obtained leave 
 to accompany them to Cransley. 
 
 His sterling worth gained upon Blanche every day ; 
 there was something so English, so true, so generous 
 about him. Her parents were quite delighted with his 
 sentiments upon all subjects connected with settlemenls. 
 She heard him praised from morning till night, and she 
 was beginning to persuade herself that she ought to be, 
 and that she was, exceedingly happy, when they arrived 
 at Cransley. 
 
 The sight of Lady Westhope reminded her of Paris, 
 and of all she had felt when there ; and she w'as shocked 
 to find she still retained such vivid recollections of inci- 
 dents the most trivial in themselves. Mr. Wroxholme 
 had arrived the day before ; and at dinner Lord West- 
 hope remarked, " We shall be quite the old Paris party 
 on Friday, when De Molton comes." 
 
 Lady Blanche was listening to Lord Glenrith's descrip- 
 tion of his father's place, Wentnor Castle ; but she was 
 not so absorbed in the subject but that these words caught 
 her ear. She gave an involuntary start ; she felt Lady 
 Westhope look at her ; she felt herself colour. But her 
 start and her blush were unobserved : Lord Glenrith was 
 completely occupied in explaining how the seclusion of 
 the south and west fronts of the castle, and of the broad 
 terrace overlooking the rapid stream of the Dwent, was 
 
 ^
 
 BLANCHE. Ill 
 
 preserved by the alteration in the road, which now ap- 
 proached the gateway from the northeast, instead of the 
 northwest. 
 
 If Lord Glenrith had a fault, or rather a foible, it was 
 his passion for his native place, and an inclination to think 
 every thing belonging to himself superior to that which 
 belonged to another. He seldom sold a horse ; for when 
 once he had possessed it, he became so alive to its merits, 
 that he always asked more for it than others, who were 
 not so clear-sighted, thought it was worth. This is a 
 happy disposition for the possessor and for those con- 
 nected with him. It is seldom that such a person makes 
 an unkind husband, or a tyrannical father, or a hard mas- 
 ter ; but it is not a quality that interests a romantic girl. 
 Lady Blanche, however, thought, " Captain De Molton 
 shall see I am not pining ; he shall see that his friend can 
 appreciate me, if he cannot." 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme proved, upon further acquaintance, to 
 be a very agreeable addition to the society. He had 
 read much, and was full of information. Lord Falking- 
 ham pronounced him to be one of the most rising young 
 men of the day. Mr. Wroxholme, on his part, was de- 
 lighted with Lord Falkingham's political sentiments, with 
 Lady Falkingham's high breeding, with Lady Westhope's 
 gentleness, with Lord Westhope's good-humour and ease 
 in his own house, with Lord Glenrilh's downright happi- 
 ness, with Lady Blanche's beauty, with the good shooting, 
 and the beautiful place ; and he felt gratitude to Lady 
 Westhope for having given him the opportunity of enjoy- 
 ing society so much to his taste. 
 
 He was a man of good birth ; but, though born and 
 bred a gentleman, he had not before mixed in the very 
 first circles, and he was flattered at being deemed worthy 
 of admission into one of them. He had discrimination 
 enough to be pleased with the shade of superior refine- 
 ment which pervaded it, and tact enough instantly to 
 acquire its tone. 
 
 When Lady Westhope found herself alone with Lady 
 Blanche, she never alluded to Captain De Molton ; she
 
 H3 BLANCHE. 
 
 felt that the less that was said upon the subject the 
 better. 
 
 Blanche had treated his departure from Paris as wilful 
 neglect of her, and she had laughed at his indifference. 
 Although in her heart Lady Westhope believed she had 
 felt it acutely, it was wiser to treat the whole affair as a 
 trifling flirtation, which had left no trace behind. She 
 was sorry Lord Westhope had invited Captain De Mol- 
 lon at this moment, but it was one of those things for 
 which there was no remedy. He and Ladj Blanche 
 must meet some time or another, and the sooner it was 
 over the better. 
 
 Lady Blanche, meantime, continued to receive Lord 
 Glenrith's attentions, and to find her imagination more 
 and more inclined to wander, and her mind less and less 
 able to take in the relative positions of the stables, the 
 kitchen-garden, and the coachhouses of Wentnor Castle. 
 
 CHAPTER HL 
 
 Dicen que amor ha vencido 
 A los deydades mayores, 
 Y que de sus pasadores 
 Cielo y tierra esta ofendido. 
 
 Sj)anish Romance. 
 
 During the four months which intervened between 
 Captain De Molton's leaving Paris and his joining the 
 party at Cransley, how had he passed his time ? He 
 was a person of much determination of character ; and 
 when once he had made up his mind what was right, 
 he could, generally speaking, carry his resolutions into 
 effect ; at least, it was only when his feelings, naturally 
 strong, were immediately under excitement, that he was 
 betrayed into actions of which his judgment did not 
 approve.
 
 BLANCHE.* 113 
 
 To Lord Glenrith he owed an early debt of gratitude ; 
 their friendship dated from boyhood. At Eton they had 
 been bathing together, when De Molton was seized with 
 the cramp, and must have perished, had it not been for 
 the exertions of his young schoolfellow. This and many 
 other acts of kindness, which the rich heir of Wentnor 
 Castle was naturally enabled to show to the penniless 
 seventh son and thirteenth child of the distressed Lord 
 Cumberworth, made De Molton's friendship for Glenrith 
 partake in some measure of the nature of gratitude. He 
 felt it would be doubly base in him to attempt to gain the 
 affections of the girl to whom Lord Glenrith owned him- 
 self attached, even if, with regard to Lady Blanche her- 
 self, it would not have been ungenerous to drag her 
 from her exalted sphere into poverty and destitution 
 with him. 
 
 He went straight to his regiment, and devoted himself 
 with particular energy to teachinghis men the new manoeu- 
 vres recommended by the Horse-guards. Never were men 
 so well appointed ; never was troop in such ®rder. But his 
 fellow-officers at the mess found him somewhat moody 
 and silent ; he was not a jolly companion ; and although 
 all respected him — yes, and loved him too, and would 
 have applied to him for advice and comfort in any dis- 
 tress — he was not, in the common acceptation of the 
 word, a popular man. It was not Dc Molton who was 
 asked to ride this fellow's horse at the hack stakes got up 
 in the regiment ; or De Molton to whom another fellow 
 proposed to gallop forty miles to London to see the new 
 actress, and down again at night ; or to jump into a hack- 
 chaise after dinner and drive off to the tradesmen's ball 
 at the county town ; but if any dutiful son wished to 
 prolong his visit to his parents, or any pining lover had 
 an opportunity of flying to his mistress, he felt pretty sure 
 that De Molton would take his duty for him. Plis man- 
 ners were a little stately, and a youngster was not likely 
 to choose De Molton as the confidant of any foolish 
 scrape ; yet no one was more ready to sympathize with, 
 and to relieve, any case of unmerited distress. 
 
 He chanced to be in London one of the days that 
 K 2
 
 114 BLAIVCUE. 
 
 Lady Blanche passed there in her way from Paris ; and 
 he had been attending his mother and three of his six 
 sisters to the play, on the night \Yhen he saw Lady 
 Blanche. 
 
 It was with an uncontrollable burst of joy that he 
 rushed to hand her down the steps ; and this brief inter- 
 view sufficed to unsettle in his heart all the reasonable 
 acquiescence in the disposition of their fates which he 
 had been striving to attain. 
 
 When he received Lord Westhope's invitation, he cer- 
 tainly did not think it quite impossible he might meet 
 Lady Blanche ; but he persuaded himself that he had, 
 in four months, allowed his friend all proper time for 
 making himself acceptable ; and that there was no neces- 
 sity for his refusing the accustomed invitation to a house, 
 to which he was in the habit of paying an annual visit. 
 At all events, he should learn from Lady Westhope 
 what was the state of the case : any thing was better than 
 the uncertainty in which he lived. 
 
 Lady Blanche's manner, when he met her on the 
 dimly lighted stairs of the theatre, had made him vaguely 
 hope — he knew not what ; for, supposing they did love 
 each other, what then was to happen ? He repeat- 
 edly asked himself this question ; but did any one ever 
 wish that the person beloved should not return his love ? 
 De Molton was a very reasonable man ; he kept his feel- 
 ings under great control ; but they were strong and 
 ardent, and he could not reach that pitch of stoicism I 
 
 To Cransley he went, with a mind distracted by doubt, 
 wonder, hope, and fear. As he drove to the door, he 
 saw Lord Falkingham dismounting from his cob ; so he 
 knew that Lady Blanche was in the house. " How will 
 she meet me ?" he thought ; " how shall I find her ? how 
 shall I regulate my own behaviour?" and he almost 
 repented having wilfully run into such danger ; although, 
 in truth, it was the hope of being placed in that very 
 danger which had made him so gladly accept Lord West- 
 hope's invitation. 
 
 He was giving his orders to his servant at the door, 
 when he saw Lord Glenrith approach the house in
 
 % 
 
 BLANCHE. 115 
 
 shooting costume, followed by keepers and dogs. He 
 could not mistake the bright, happy face of his friend. 
 His teeth gleamed as the setting sun shone on them ; his 
 cheek was sunburnt, and ruddy with exercise; his 
 kind eyes beamed with honest joy to see De Molton. 
 De Molton's heart sank within him as he recognised his 
 dear friend ; and it was with an etTort, which would have 
 been visible to any other eyes, that he returned his cor- 
 dial greeting. 
 
 As they both entered the drawing-room, the pale coun- 
 tenance and melancholy brow of De Molton would, in 
 the opinion of many, have set off to advantage the gay 
 good-liumour of Lord Glenrith. 
 
 The ladies were all there. Lady Blanche shook hands 
 with Captain De Molton as soon as he had paid his 
 devoirs to Lady Westhope ; and, without having raised 
 her eyes higher than to his chin, reseated herself to her 
 embroidery frame. 
 
 Lord Glenrith approached her. De Molton's heart 
 beat quick : he felt almost giddy. Lord Glenrith's man- 
 ner was gay and unembarrassed : he held a parcel in his 
 hand. Lady Falkingham drew near : there was a great 
 colloquy : De Molton heard the expressions, " Beau- 
 tiful !" — " the prettiest I ever saw !" — " they tell me it is 
 the first that has been made !" — " well, how lovely !" 
 Lady Blanche seemed to be expressing her thanks, but in 
 so low a tone of voice he could not catch the words. 
 She looked blushingly beautiful ! Lady Falkingham 
 moved a little on one side, and he saw Lord Glenrith in 
 the act of fastening a bracelet on her arm. Perhaps 
 another lover might not have selected such a moment 
 for presenting his first love-token, but the parcel was only 
 just arrived. Lord Glenrith was pleased with his pur- 
 chase : all around were friends ; and why should there 
 be any mystery ? 
 
 To De Molton's eyes all mystery was, indeed, dis- 
 pelled. He felt choking. He could not master his 
 feelings sufficiently to preserve an indifibrent counte- 
 nance, and he left the room under the pretence of seeing 
 after his postboy, or his portmanteau.
 
 116 BLANCHE. 
 
 The rest of the company gathered around the bride 
 elect, and admired the beautiful ornament, and discussed 
 its peculiar fabric ; while poor Blanche sat frightened at 
 the agitation which pervaded her whole frame in conse- 
 quence of having been for five minutes in the society of 
 De Molton. 
 
 However, when she retired to her own room before 
 dinner, she satisfied herself that what she had felt was 
 merely a very natural awkwardness at first meeting a 
 person with whom slie had certainly flirted a little, and 
 shyness at being seen by a young man acquaintance, in 
 the act of receiving her lover's first present. She could 
 not help secretly wishing Lord Glenrith had not given 
 the bracelet before so many witnesses ; and she felt there 
 was a want of delicacy in the proceeding, even while she 
 told herself it was in unison with his open, unsuspicious 
 character, which measured the kindliness of others by his 
 own good-natured heart. 
 
 At dinner De Molton placed himself at the farther end 
 of the table, and the epergne prevented his being able to 
 perceive Lady Blanche's face. However, he saw Lord 
 Glenrith's ; and never did an honest countenance express 
 more secure and undisturbed happiness. PoorDeMolton ! 
 He had quitted Paris on purpose not to stand in the 
 way of that happiness which his friend had obtained ; 
 and now, how painful was it to see the object accom- 
 plished ! 
 
 During the evening. Lady Westhope contrived, in as 
 quiet a manner as she could, to convey to De Molton the 
 confirmation of a fact which was already too evident to 
 his eyes ; and she appeared not to remark the varying 
 hues of his complexion, and the agitation of his manner, 
 during her communication. 
 
 Lady Blanche strove to be easy and unembarrassed ; 
 and she succeeded so far as to make him believe her 
 happy, and perfectly satisfied with the prospect before 
 her. 
 
 He resolved to plead particular and sudden business — 
 a summons from his father — a relation at the point of 
 death — any excuse to depart the following day. This
 
 BLANCHE. 1 17 
 
 torture was not to be endured. Yet he wished to have 
 an opportunity of speaking to her once, and of telling her 
 how ardently he prayed for her welfare. 
 
 He left his room very early the next morning ; and he 
 perambulated the library, the saloon, the breakfast-room, 
 the hall. He knew Lady Blanche was an early riser ; 
 Cransley was renowned for the lateness of its breakfast- 
 hour ; perhaps she would make her appearance before 
 the other guests. He was not wrong in his calculations. 
 Lady Blanche came into the drawing-room to look for 
 her mother's work-basket ; and was hastily retiring with 
 it, when De Molton arrested her steps by saying, that, 
 as he was obliged to depart in an hour, he was anxious to 
 express to one, for whom he felt such esteem and ad- 
 miration, his earnest wishes — his prayers for her hap- 
 piness. 
 
 " You are not going to-day, surely, Captain De Mol- 
 ton?" answered Blanche in a tremulous tone. 
 
 " I must," he said : " I could not, would not stay 
 here another day, for any thing this world could now 
 offer me." 
 
 " Lady Westhope will be quite disappointed. She 
 hoped you were come for ten days, or a fortnight." 
 
 " Such was my intention ; but circumstances — impera- 
 tive circumstances over which i have no control, render 
 my stay here — impossible." 
 
 " I hope no misfortune has occurred in your family?" 
 inquired Lady Blanche, thoroughly impressed with the 
 idea of his indifference towards herself, and, conse- 
 quently, by no means attributing his visible agitation to 
 its true cause. 
 
 " No misfortune has occurred in my family," he re- 
 sumed in a voice of deep emotion — " but one to myself. 
 No — no ! it is not a misfortune : on the contrary, it is the 
 thing in the world I ought most to wish ; it is the union 
 of the two beings I most value, most respect, most love 
 on earth ! I ought to rejoice — 1 do rejoice. Believe 
 me, Lady Blanche, though my voice falters, and I am at 
 this moment weak, I rejoice that the friend to whom I 
 am bound by every tie of gratitude and affection has
 
 118 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 gained the heart of the most perfect of womankind ; 
 and that the woman who alone in my eyes is perfect, is 
 hkely to be happy with a man who is all honour, truth, 
 and uprightness. May Heaven in its mercy bless you 
 both !" 
 
 The tears stood in De Molton's glistening eyes. They 
 almost overflowed. "I am a fool," he added ; " I 
 thought 1 had more command over myself; I did not 
 mean to torment you, to insult you, with an avowal of my 
 hopeless, my presumptuous love 1" 
 
 Lady Blanche had stood transfixed in fear, amaze- 
 ment, joy ; — yes, joy ! there are no circumstances under 
 which it is not joy to find affection is requited. " And 
 do you indeed love me V she said, scarcely conscious of 
 what she uttered. 
 
 " Do I love you ! Lady Blanche, can you ask that 
 question ? In folly, hopelessness, misery, I cannot — can- 
 not quell my love 1" 
 
 *' Oh, why — why did you not tell me sooner ?" she 
 said, earnestly clasping her hands. 
 
 " Tell j-ou so ! How could I venture, penniless as I 
 am, without a home to offer you, — how could I have the 
 insane presumption to ask you to share poverty, penury 
 with me, when splendour, rank, wealth were courting 
 5^our acceptance ?" 
 
 " Oh, 1 despise these things ! I always did ! I never 
 could care for money in all my life, and now !" She 
 stopped ; her engagement rushed across her mind. She 
 felt guilty of perjury and infidelity. 
 
 De Molton, in his turn, stood confounded ; he had 
 done every thing he had especially resolved not to do, 
 and mingled with the delight he could not help expe- 
 riencing at the avowal which had almost escaped Lady 
 Blanche's lips, he felt humiliated by the base part he had 
 acted towards the friend to whom he had meant to de- 
 vote himself He struck his forehead, and exclaimed, 
 '• Oh, Lady Blanche, I am a wretch not worthy of a mo- 
 ment's regard ! Do not waste a thought on me ; forget 
 me, or at least only remember me to bestow a sigh of pity 
 on one who has been betrayed by his love for you into an
 
 BLANCHE. 119 
 
 act of ingratitude for which he abhors himself. Glenrith 
 is my best friend ; he is the soul of honour, he — he is 
 worthy of you !" 
 
 Lady Blanche was frightened at what she had said — 
 frightened at what she had listened to. Voices were 
 heard approaching, — the door opened, — Captain De Mol- 
 ton rushed into the adjoining library. Lady Blanche 
 seized her mother's basket, and left the room before she 
 had time to perceive who the intruders were. As she 
 ran up-stairs, she met Lady Westhope. " What is the 
 matter, Blanche ?" exclaimed Lady Westhope, as her 
 friend darted past her. 
 
 " Mamma wants me," she hastily answered, as she 
 took refuge in her mother's room. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma !" she exclaimed, throwing her- 
 self breathless into a chair ; " I am wretched, guilty, and 
 miserable ! I am the most unfortunate creature in the 
 world !" 
 
 " What possesses you, child ? what is the matter ?" re- 
 replied Lady Falkingham, as she put down the untasted 
 piece of toast she held in her hand. 
 
 " Mamma ! he loves ms after all !" 
 
 " Who, my dear 1 — what ! Lord Glenrith ? To be 
 sure he does ! I never saw a man more attached in my 
 life !" 
 
 " Poor dear Lord Glenrith, so he is ! Oh how little 
 I deserve that he should be so ! when I — oh, mamma, 
 what will you think of me ? I have almost owned that 
 my affections are — at least I implied — oh, mamma ! 
 what shall I do ?" And poor Blanche wept bitterly. 
 
 "Certainly, my dear Blanche, I do not consider it 
 modest and becoming in any young woman to allow a 
 man to perceive that he had acquired too much power 
 over her heart ; yet, as you are on the point of marriage, 
 I think you need not blame yourself so very much. 
 There should always be a certain reserve of manner 
 and expression ; but anxious as I am that women should 
 preserve their dignity, and that no daughter of mine 
 should condescend — "
 
 120 BLANCHE. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! you do not understand me : I never 
 told Glenrith I loved him." 
 
 " What on earth do you mean then ? — what are you 
 talking about ?" Lady Falkingham's countenance as- 
 sumed an expression of alarm, wonder, and displeasure. 
 
 " Oh, how can I tell you 1 — you, mamma, who never 
 did any thing weak, or foolish, in your life ! Do not 
 look at me, mamma, with those stern and reproachful 
 eyes, or I can never confess it." 
 
 " Blanche, you alarm me more than I can describe. 
 Do you mean that you love any one better than the 
 man whom you have accepted as your husband, — the 
 excellent, amiable, high-minded Lord Glenrith, whois so 
 sincerely devoted to you?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! I do value him, and I render him jus- 
 tice, indeed ; and I love him in a kind of way — " 
 
 Lady Blanche was each moment becoming more alive 
 to the ingratitude, the duplicity, with which she had acted 
 towards Lord Glenrith, and began to wish she had not 
 opened the subject at all to her mother. 
 
 " Explain yourself, Blanche," repeated her mother : 
 "whom are you talking of? Is it Mr. Wroxholme, 
 whom you met at Paris ?" 
 
 " Oh dear, no, mamma. It is Captain De Molton I" 
 And she no longer found any difficulty in speaking his 
 name. Mr. Wroxholme might be a very good man, but 
 in her eyes was immeasurably inferior to the object of 
 her preference. Those who are in love, always resent 
 as an injury the suspicion that they could find charms in 
 any other than the one person to whose merits they are 
 alive, 
 
 "Captain De Molton !' exclaimed Lady Falkingham ; 
 " why, I scarcely ever heard you mention him ! You 
 ought to have told me this before." 
 
 " 1 never knew till to-day what were his feelings to- 
 wards me, mamma I" 
 
 " I must say your lover has chosen a good moment 
 for avowing his passion ! It proves an honourable mind ! 
 And he wishes to induce you to break off your marriage 
 with a man in every way calculated to make you happy ?
 
 BLANCHE. 121 
 
 For what ? He has scarcely bread to eat himself, anji 
 his father has none to give him." 
 
 " He iinows all that, mamifia, and he is going away 
 this moment. He does not ask me to marry him. He 
 says he is not worthy of me." 
 
 " Oh, Blanche ! Blanche ! and you allow this man, 
 who tells you he cannot marry, to make love to you, 
 while you are the affianced wife of his friend ! 1 should 
 never have thought a daughter of mine would act in so 
 improper, so unprincipled a manner. Heaven knows, I 
 cannot accuse myself of having neglected my children. 
 You have all had every attention paid to your minds and 
 your morals. Each hour had its avocation ; you were 
 never permitted to read a book which Miss Strictland or 
 myself had not previously perused ; you were never al- 
 lowed to walk beyond the shrubberies and the park ! If, 
 hke some mothers, I had nei^lccted the essentials for the 
 sake of accomplishments — but the religion-master always 
 came three times a week ! How on earth can such low 
 notions of moral rectitude ever have found entrance into 
 your head, or your heart '?" 
 
 Lady Blanche was in despair at her mother's grief. 
 She now viewed her own conduct with horror ; but how 
 to meet Lord Glenrith, with this weight of guilt upon her 
 mind ? 
 
 "Look here," continued Ijady Falkingham ; "read 
 this letter; all kindness and generosity — receiving you 
 into the family with joy, treating you already as if you 
 were their daughter!" Lady Falkingham gave Blanche 
 the joint epistle she had received from Lord and Lady 
 Wentnor, expressing every thing most gratifying con- 
 cerning the choice their son had made. 
 
 Each word she read was a dagjijer to Lady Blanche's 
 heart. " 1 cannot overthrow all the happiness of these 
 worthy people," she mentally revolved, "and that of my 
 parents, an(l of poor Glenrith. I must quell this foolish 
 inclination ; I must fight a good fijjht, and I shall con- 
 quer, I daresay. But it is hard, when now, for the first 
 time, I know myself beloved." 
 
 After a pause, she told her mother she would try to 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 122 BLANCHE. 
 
 compose herself: she implored her not to mention the 
 subject to her father ; she strove to persuade her mother 
 and herself, that it was only a passing feeling, a momen- 
 tary agitation which would soon subside ; that it had 
 been pique, that it was now gratified vanity — any thing, 
 in short, except love. Her mother was only too glad to 
 be deceived, and assisted her in self-deception. 
 
 Lady Falkingham would have been very sorry to lose 
 so estimable and so unexceptionable a husband for her 
 daughter ; but the disgraceful eclat of breaking off an 
 engagement openly entered into and acknowledged, was 
 still more appalling to a person who had a salutary horror 
 of being " talked of." She had herself passed through 
 life with the highest character as a wife and as a mother. 
 Her elder daughters had married at a proper age, and in 
 a proper manner. She looked upon a young lady's first 
 love as a silly affair, which has more to do with the 
 imagination than the heart ; and if any of her other 
 daughters had ever felt a preference which had not re- 
 ceived their mother's sanction, they would never have 
 ventured to confess it with that frankness which, in spite 
 of the education just described by Lady Falkingham, was 
 one of Blanche's characteristics.
 
 BLANCHE. 123 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Now have I showed you both, these whyche ye lyst, 
 
 Stately fortune, or humble povertee : 
 That is to say, now lyeth it in your fyst 
 
 To take here bondage or free libertee. 
 
 Sir Thomas Moee. 
 
 Captain De Molton had sent his servant to the 
 neighbouring town to procure him a chaise, that with 
 the least possible delay he might carry his project of 
 departure into execution. 
 
 When he had in some measure recovered his self- 
 possession, he made his appearance at the breakfast- 
 table, and informed Lady Westhope that he was unex- 
 pectedly obliged to return to London, to arrange with 
 his father some matters connected with his exchange 
 from his present regiment, which, as Lady Westhope 
 knew, was under orders for India. 
 
 This was strictly true, for he had resolved to insist 
 upon his father's suspending the application he was on 
 the point of making for this exchange. He determined 
 to proceed to India with his regiment. The unhealthi- 
 ness of the climate, which gave his relations so much 
 uneasiness, appeared to him, in his present frame of 
 mind, a positive recommendation. 
 
 The company expressed all due disappointment at 
 his sudden departure — all but Lady Blanche ; she was 
 not present. Lady \Yesthope suspected something must 
 have occurred, and when she bade De Molton adieu, 
 she pressed his hand with a mysterious kindliness, 
 which she meant should imply, " You are acting like a 
 man of honour ; I see you suffer, and I pity you." 
 
 She was confirmed in this opinion, by Mr. WroX' 
 holme telling her he had found Captain De Molton in
 
 124 BLANCHE. 
 
 the library before breakfast, with his head leaning 
 against the marble chimneypiece, and his countenance 
 so pale and liagg-ard, that he feared for a moment some- 
 thing dreadful must have happened. Lady Westhope 
 recollected Blanche's hurrying maimer of passing her 
 on the stairs, and she pitied all parties. 
 
 Lady Falkingham's indisposition accounted for Lady 
 Blanche's absence till the hour of luncheon, when she 
 came down-stairs with a feeling of kindness towards 
 Lord Glenriih, awakened by the consciousness of hav- 
 ing injured him. She scarcely ventured to raise her 
 eyes from the ground, but her blushing manner passed 
 for the modesty of a young girl on the eve of marriage. 
 Lord Glenrith pathetically lamented the absence of 
 liis friend, and Lady Blanche quivered at the sound of 
 his name, and then reproached herself for doing so. 
 
 Lord Glenrith showed her the letters he had received 
 from the different members of his family. Blanche 
 could not but feel flattered by the manner in which she 
 was spoken of; could not but think the better of the 
 son and the brother who was loved with such tender 
 affection ; could not but own she ought to be happy 
 with the prospect of possessing such a father, mother, 
 brothers, and sisters-in-law. Lord Glenrith in his own 
 happiness perceived notijing wanting in hermanner,and 
 laughed and talked, the gayest of the gay. His inward 
 satisfaction did not render him sentimental, but his 
 buoyant spirits made him inclined to be pleased with 
 everybody and every thing. He even forgot the dislike 
 he had imbibed for Mr. Stapleford ; and when his ar- 
 rival that day was announced, he declared him to be a 
 "devilish sfood fellow, thoug-h he was a sarcastic dog." 
 
 His flow of spirits was almost oppressive to Lady 
 Blanche, yet she rejoiced he did not possess the sensi- 
 tive tact which might have rendered him alive to every 
 look of hers. 
 
 At dinner Lord Glenrith was telling Lord Falking- 
 ham he had a famous brood-mare at Wentnor Castle, 
 whose colt was likely to win the St. Leger.
 
 BLANCHE. 125 
 
 "Is your colt as clever as your old horse Perseus, 
 Glenrith ?" asked Mr. Stapleford. 
 
 " Ah ! Perseus ! by Jove that is a horse ! Never was 
 a thorough-bred one so good for weight — and as active 
 as a cat — such action ! and such pasterns ! None of 
 your short pasterns the grooms are so fond of, but long 
 enough to be elastic. He is a true whalebone." 
 
 " 1 am not sure, after all, I do not like Quirk still 
 better," Stapleford dropped out quietly, while a sly 
 smile lurked in the corner of his lip. 
 
 "Quirk is a singularly good horse! He has such 
 bone, and such a constitution !" 
 
 "And that gray pony, Glenrith — you will never part 
 with that pony ?" 
 
 " Part with Yung-frau ? not for three hundred 
 guineas !" 
 
 " You are a fortunate man in your stud, Glenrith !" 
 remarked Stapleford with a quiet, composed, and serious 
 air, which to the unsuspicious Lord Glenrith was per- 
 fectly satisfactory, while the rest of the party, especially 
 poor Blanche, were painfully aware he was playing on 
 the one weak point of the amiable young Benedict. 
 
 Nothing lowers a man in the eyes a woman so much 
 as being made a butt, no matter whether the quizzer be 
 a person for whose opinion she entertains any respect 
 or not. It was unlucky that, at the moment the heros 
 de roman lover had departed in magnanimous despair, 
 the successful one should lay himself open to the quiz- 
 zing of a dandy. Lady Blanche felt miserable — more 
 miserable than when she parted from De Molton — 
 more miserable than when she heard the jingle of his 
 hack chaise, as it drove from the door — more miserable 
 than when her mother's statement of the case made her 
 awake to the enormity of her misconduct — more mis- 
 erable than when she resolved to drive her lover's image 
 for ever from her mind. Those distresses were at 
 least elevated ones — this bordered on the ridiculous. 
 
 In the course of the evening INIr. Stapleford found 
 himself near Lady Jilanche. " I must offer you my 
 congratulations, Lady Blanche, and especially upon the 
 
 L 2
 
 126 BLANCHE. 
 
 good looks and the good spirits of the fortunate Lord 
 Glenrith. His beaming and ruddy appearance shows 
 that you have not been unnecessarily cruel, tormenting 
 before you consented to make him the happiest of men. 
 It must give a person of your kindly feelings great 
 pleasure to behold a face so redolent with joyousness !" 
 Every word of this speech was disagreeable. Poor 
 Blanche did not admire a "ruddy" man — did not like 
 an unsentimental lover ; and, above all, she did not 
 like the implication that she had been 
 
 " Won unwooed, or slightly wooed at best." 
 
 Mr. Stapleford bore not the slightest ill-will either to 
 Lady Blanche or to Lord Glenrith. He enjoyed saying 
 the most disagreeable thing in the civilest manner pos- 
 sible ; partly because it is almost the only exercise of 
 power which a person without house, or lands, or 
 fortune, can indulge in ; partly because he liked to see 
 what people really felt, and he thus frequently dis- 
 covered the true state of their minds ; partly because 
 he happened to possess the species of tact which enabled 
 him to do it — and everybody derives pleasure from 
 success of any kind. 
 
 The next day Blanche received a packet from Went- 
 nor Castle. It contained some beautiful ornaments — 
 offerings from different members of her future family, 
 each accompanied by the prettiest note imaginable. 
 Congratulations showered in from every quarter. All 
 the numerous friends and relations of both sides wrote 
 letters in which each party was described as perfection, 
 and each as having met with perfection. It is astonish- 
 ing that matrimony should ever fail to secure lasting 
 happiness, when (if we may believe the written testi- 
 mony of those who best know the contracting parties) 
 none but paragons ever enter into the holy state. But 
 among all the happy unions that have been joyfully 
 anticipated, none ever gave more general satisfaction 
 than the present. The age, situation, rank — every 
 thing was suitable. Poor Lady Blanche felt herself 
 every moment more thoroughly hampered, entangled,
 
 BLANCHE. 127 
 
 and pledged ; and every moment her disinclination to 
 the marriage increased. 
 
 It was an odd thing ! but Mr. Stapleford's quiet 
 manner of quizzing Lord Glenrith, and his impertur- 
 bable good-humour under it — or rather his perl'ect un- 
 consciousness of what was happening, hurt his cause 
 even more than her preference of De Molton. She 
 would rather have seen him angry and resentful ; to 
 persons with la Ule exalUe^ the smallest shadow of 
 ridicule irrecoverably destroys the halo of romance 
 they would fain throw around the object of their devo- 
 tion. Blanche might have turned from her hopeless 
 and youthful dream of love, to admiration, respect, 
 obedience, and submission ; but when her h6ad, her 
 heart, and her imagination, were possessed with the 
 dignified brow, the melancholy eyes, the mellow voice, 
 the lofty air, the noble grief of De Molton, to see the 
 joyous, the " ruddy" Glenrith perfectly contented under 
 the quizzing of a Stapleford, prevented her being able 
 to work herself up to the feelings it was her duty to 
 entertain towards him. 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme one day remarked to Lady West- 
 hope that Lady Blanche appeared to be extremely out 
 of spirits, and that he almost feared her disposition and 
 that of her future husband were not exactly suited. 
 ^ " She seems to take no pleasure in his country pur- 
 suits — she listens with an abstracted air while he con- 
 tinues to pour into her ear details which he might 
 perceive are not interesting to her ; though I own I 
 sometimes wonder she should not be more curious 
 about Wentnor Castle, which, from the engravings, 
 must be a magnificent and interesting place." 
 
 Lady Westhope agreed with Mr. Wroxholme, and 
 could not help half confiding to him, that she feared 
 Lady Blanche had some other prepossession. 
 
 " Poor girl !" resumed Mr. Wroxholme ; " but then 
 it is a thousand pities she should marry, if she cannot 
 love, Lord Glenrith." 
 
 " He is such a good man !" answered Lady West- 
 hope ; " he has such excellent principles — he is so sure
 
 128 BLANCHE. 
 
 to make a true and faithful husband, that in the lon^- 
 run I should hope no woman, who had herself good 
 principles, could fail to be happy with him." 
 
 Lady Westhope sighed, and Mr. Wroxholme, who 
 had by this time heard and seen somewhat more of his 
 host, felt that poor Lady Westhope spoke as one who 
 had suffered from the absence of these qualities in her 
 husband. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ever still must I adore thee : 
 
 Though wide seas between us roll, 
 
 Each fond thought shall hover o'er thee, 
 And thine image fill my soul. 
 
 Morning breaking o'er the ocean 
 
 Will thine opening graces wear. 
 And with evening's last devotion 
 
 I will breathe thy name in prayer. 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 Upon leaving Cransley, Captain De Molton had has- 
 tened to town. He there found his father, who, having 
 left the rest of the family at Brighton, had also re- 
 paired to London for the purpose of eflecting the pro- 
 posed exchange. 
 
 Lord Cumberworth was preparing to enter a hackney 
 coach, which waited to carry him to Brookes's, where 
 he meant to dine and to solace himself with a quiet 
 game at tolerably high whist, when he was startled by 
 the unexpected appearance of his son. 
 
 " Why, Francis !" he exclaimed, " I thought you were 
 gone to Cransley for a fortnight ! What brings you 
 here ?" 
 
 " I wished to see you, father, and to talk to you
 
 BLANCHE. 129 
 
 seriously concerning my prospects in life. You are 
 come up about my exchange, are you not ?" '. 
 
 " Yes — and I hope I shall be able to settle it all com- 
 fortably. Your mother has been in one of her nervous 
 ways at the bare thoughts of your going to India." 
 
 " I think I ought to go, father." 
 
 " Why ! which way does the wind blow now ? 
 Why the d — 1 did you not tell me so sooner ? They 
 have all been pestering me to come to town, and to 
 leave no stone unturned to save you from this banish- 
 ment, as you all called it ; and now I have taken the 
 trouble of coming, you change your mind ! Upon my 
 word, this is very inconsiderate. But, after all, I my- 
 self do not like your going into such an unhealthy 
 climate, and I would rather keep you at home if 1 could. 
 If you are to go into danger, let it be where some 
 honour and renown are to be obtained. There is no 
 glory in dying of a liver complaint, as yellow as a 
 guinea." 
 
 " I am very sorry, my dear father, to have given you 
 so much unnecessary trouble, but I have fully made 
 up my mind to sail with my regiment." 
 
 " And pray. Master Francis, what has worked this 
 wondrous revolution in your mind?" 
 
 " Why, fatlier, to tell you the truth, happiness is out 
 of the question for me ; and therefore 1 had rather do 
 whatever will make me least burdensome to my family, 
 and also take me out of the way for a time." 
 
 "And why do you want to lie perdue? You have 
 not been running in debt, have you ?" 
 
 " No, father ; 1 am too well aware what are your 
 circumstances." 
 
 ''Not a scrape? eh, my boy!" and Lord Cumber- 
 worth, whose morals were not puritanical, smiled. " It 
 can't be Lady Westhope, she is such a prude. You 
 have not been playing the fool, I hope ?" continued Lord 
 Cumberworth, putting more of parental gravity into his 
 countenance. 
 
 " I have been guilty of nothing wrong in deed or 
 thought," replied Dc Molton with seriousness.
 
 130 BLANCHE. 
 
 " Egad ! but there's a woman in question though," 
 repHed Lord Cumberworlh. " You are not in any 
 danger of marrying?" and his face really assumed an 
 expression of alarm. 
 
 " Not exactly, father ; but I am unfortunately at- 
 tached to a person who is on the eve of marriage with 
 another." 
 
 " Thank Heaven that is all !" exclaimed Lord Cumber- 
 worth. '• Remember one thing, Frank — a man is never 
 thoroughly undone till he is married." 
 
 De Molton remained silent. His father's tone of feel- 
 ing was so little in unison with his own, that he wished 
 to say no more upon the subject than was absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 " Does the girl like you, my boy ?" added Lord Cum- 
 berworth. 
 
 De Molton was somewhat perplexed how to answer, 
 but he said, " I told you, father, she was going to be mar- 
 ried to another man." 
 
 " Ah ! but women have married rich men when they 
 have been in love with poor men, befoz'e now. And you 
 are a d — sh handsome fellow, and more like me than any 
 of my children. Well, don't look so sheepish, like a 
 bashful maiden, yourself. Is the gii-1 in love with you?" 
 
 "I conclude not," resolutely answered De Molton. 
 
 *' Have you told her you are in love with her ?" 
 
 " Why, yes ; I have." 
 
 " And she was not angry, eh ? Come, I suppose your 
 nice sense of honour will allow you to say whether she 
 is very much in love with her future husband or not ?" 
 
 "I should say she esteemed him highly, but was not 
 precisely in love with him," was De Molton's guarded 
 reply. 
 
 " "Wheugh — gh — gh !" with an elevation of the eye- 
 brows, and a sound that ended something like a whistle, 
 was the response produced by this last communication 
 of his son's. " You had better go, my boy. I see how 
 it is : if you stay, we shall have the marriage, broken off 
 and the d — 1 to pay. Ah ! well, I am sorry to part with 
 you, but you had better go — we will do no more about the
 
 BLANCHE. 131 
 
 exchange. But I am as hungrj' as a hound — I have eaten 
 nothing since I feft Brighton. There is no dinner in the 
 house — nothing in it but the old housemaid : we can't 
 roast her — she would be tougher than Pedriilo. Let's 
 be off' to Brookes's. By-the-by, you don't belong to 
 Brookes's : I remember you said it was too expensive, 
 when George wanted to get yqu put up. Well, you 
 can eat your dinner at your Junior United Service Club ; 
 and we will meet here, at home, at ten o'clock, and 
 talk matters over quietly." 
 
 Lord Cumberworth got into his hackney coach, and 
 De Molton walked off to his club, to snatch a hasty 
 morsel, and return to South Aud ley-street, there to rumi" 
 nate sadly upon his future fate until his father should join 
 him. There was much of bitterness in his reflections. 
 He could not help repining at the unequal distribution of 
 fortune, and thinking it hard that the happiness of two 
 beings should be wrecked for lack of that contemptible 
 thing, money. He almost doubted whether he jvas act- 
 ing rightly by Lady Blanche in abandoning her when she 
 had all but acknowledged her love for him. And yet, 
 what could he do? His worldly pelf consisted but of 
 his pay, and the very moderate allowance which his 
 father was able to make him. He had nothing to look 
 to. His father's property was entailed upon the eldest 
 son — his circumstances were embarrassed — he had been 
 obliged to let Cumberworth Hall, and lived principally 
 in London, making an occasional excursion to some wa- 
 tering-place: there was no chance of saving his money, 
 and there were twelve of them to divide the fifty thou- 
 sand pounds settled on younger children. Lady Blanche 
 certainly had no dislike to Glenrith, or she would never 
 have accepted him : and who could know Glenrith, and 
 not learn to value and to love his kind feelings and 
 singleness of heart ? the more he reflected, the more 
 strengthened he was in his purpose. When he was far' 
 away, she woiykkas^w^(lly4brgetihe slight prepossession 
 she had cnlert^^Pl foniiinr, and she would soon give her 
 whole hea"!flMi Glenrith. When he had brought his rea-
 
 132 BLANCHB. 
 
 sonings to this most desirable point, he found it infinitely 
 more painful than any other view of the subject. 
 
 His father returned about ten o'clock, and after 
 arranging to write immediately to the person with whom 
 they had been in treaty for the exchange, and to lose 
 no time in procuring the proper stock of articles neces- 
 sary for the voyage, as there was a possibility of the 
 regiment sailing within a fortnight, they agreed to leave 
 London the following afternoon, and to join the rest of 
 the family at Brighton. 
 
 " Well, cheer up, my boy !" said Lord Cumberworth, 
 as he bade his son good-night. " There is no use in fret- 
 ting — there are more pretty girls than one in the world, 
 and you are not the first sentimental young man who has 
 been crossed in love. II en faut passer par la. We 
 have all been crossed in love in our time. I, myself, was 
 very much smitten with another woman when 1 married 
 your mother ; but I saw that my marrying Helen was 
 out of the question, and so I did what they all wished 
 me to do, and it answered just as well. Your mother is 
 a very good woman, Frank, and I am very fond of her. 
 So cheer up, my boy — never be down-hearted ! You 
 will forget your dulcinea long before you cross the line." 
 He was closing the door when he turned back again to 
 say, — " Frank, you look for all the world as if you were 
 younger brother to the knight of La Mancha — el cavaliei'e 
 de la triste jigiira, — with your pale cheeks and your high 
 forehead. 1 would not be a skin of wine or a windmill 
 in your way for something !" 
 
 The good-humoured but unsentimental father chuckled 
 at his own joke, and went off to bed so relieved by the 
 thought that his son would be secured from the impend* 
 ing danger, that it quite reconciled him to his departure. 
 
 When they arrived at Brighton, late the following 
 evening, poor Lady Cumberworth was in despair at the 
 prospect of her pet, her darling, the most affectionate, the 
 most considerate, the most dutiful of all her children, 
 running all the risks consequent upo'h a banishment to 
 India; "not only," as she said, "braving perils by sea 
 and perils by land, but those of climate and disease."
 
 BLANCHfi. 133 
 
 " There are worse perils in England, Mary," replied 
 her husband, with a knowing wink. "Perils by eyes 
 are the most dangerous for handsome young fellows ! 
 Depend upon it, he is far safer in the other hemisphere ; 
 for peril by marriage is the worst of all — that is to say, 
 when a man has nothing, and never can have any 
 thing as long as he lives." 
 
 De Molton shrunk at hearing his attachment alluded 
 to among all the family circle ; though to his dear 
 gentle mother he could have opened his whole heart, 
 and to most of his sisters individually also. The eldest 
 was grown a little starch, and the youngest was rather 
 too young and giddy; but the four middle ones had 
 plenty of romance in them, and would have listened to 
 his tale with tears in their eyes. To any one of them in 
 a tete-a-tete he might have spoken his feelings ; but to 
 have twelve curious, wondering, though kind eyes, turn 
 upon him at once, was peculiarly unpleasant to a sen- 
 sitive and reserved man. 
 
 Lady Cumberworth saw his distress, and hastened 
 to say, " We were just going to bed when you arrived. 
 I shall carry Frank off to have a quiet gossip with him ; 
 so good-night, girls !" 
 
 De Molton followed his mother, and in her found a 
 sympathizing listener — one who entered into all his 
 ditliculties, and who was ready to love poor Blanche 
 for appreciating her own dear Frank as he deserved. 
 But she saw that, deeply as his affections were en- 
 gaged, their imion was impracticable ; and she was 
 obliged, though most reluctantly, to confess that a tem- 
 porary absence, and entire change of scene, were likely 
 to spare his feelings and principles many a trial. 
 
 Lady Cumberworth entreated her husband not to 
 annoy poor Frank by any allusion to his unfortunate 
 attachment. 
 
 " Lord bless the fellow !" exclaimed Lord Cumber- 
 worth, " I never meant to annoy him ! I know he is 
 d — shly in love, and that is ail i said ! And I only 
 said, he could not marry, and that he knows well 
 enough !" 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 131 BLANCHZ:. 
 
 " He is unhappy, and we must refrain from remarks 
 that wound his delicacy, just now." 
 
 " Delicacy — fiddlestick ! You always did spoil that 
 boy — and you will make him as full of feelings, and 
 nerves, and refinement, as the most fanciful woman of 
 you all 1" 
 
 The young ladies also met in a nocturnal synod. 
 " What is this love of Frank's ?" exclaimed Mary. 
 
 " How papa made him blush !" said Laura. 
 
 " And is he really going to India?" asked Charlotte. 
 
 " Who is the girl?" inquired Emily. 
 
 " And why could not mamma talk to him before us, I 
 wonder !" added Katherine, the youngest, who was 
 rather pert. 
 
 " When you are a little older, you will know that peo- 
 ple do not like to discuss les affaires du cceiir en pleine 
 salle,'" answered Jane the eldest ; and with a dignified 
 air she retired to bed. 
 
 "I suppose Jane wishes to persuade us she has some 
 love affairs of her own, though we know nothing about 
 them," continued the merry Katherine ; " she has pre- 
 served a most dignified mystery upon the subject, ever 
 since I have been grown up." 
 
 After a few more questions which could elicit no 
 answers, seeing that all parties were equally in the dark^ 
 the sisters separated for the night, and all found the 
 repose they sought except Lady Cumberworth, who 
 actually felt the approaching separation from her son, 
 and still more the pain that darling son was doomed to 
 endure. 
 
 Lady Cumberworth was not one who considered the 
 suflferings of lovers as matter for sport •, — she had been 
 fervently attached in her early youth, and the object of 
 that attachment had been snatched from her by death. 
 On her side, as well as on her husband's, their marriage 
 had been one of reason and expediency. But she had 
 made him an excellent wife, had borne him a large 
 family, and they had always been a happy and affection- 
 ate couple — happier, perhaps, than if one of the parties, 
 and only one, had felt more warmly.
 
 BLANCHE. 135 
 
 In a fortnifrht from the time De Molton joined his 
 family at Brighton, he tore himself from the arms of his 
 sisters, and, lastly, from the long, speechless, close em- 
 brace of his mother, to whose more sad and sacred af- 
 fection all instinctively yielded the parting caress. 
 
 He sailed with his regiment, and we will leave him 
 for a while, losing the sense of all his romantic and high- 
 wrought sensibilities in the absorbing sufferings oftea 
 endured in the Bay of Biscay. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 No te fi.ltera otra Dama 
 Hermosa y de galan talle, 
 Que te quiera, y tu la quieras 
 Porque lo mereces Zayde. 
 
 Spanish Romance 
 
 Tni3 visit of the Falkinghams at Cransley had now 
 lasted more than ten days. Blanche ardently wished to 
 be at home again. She felt wretched, hypocritical, and 
 guilty. She found herself so uncomfortable where site 
 was, that she- imagined any change must be for the bet- 
 ter. When they left Cransley, Lord Glenrith was to 
 pay his parents a visit of a few days, and then to join 
 them at Temple Loseley ; after which they were all to 
 proceed to London for the purpose of procuring the 
 wedding paraphernalia. 
 
 Lady Blanche''s depression became so evident, that 
 even Lord Glenrith, although not an acute observer, 
 could not avoid perceiving it. He was exceedingly flat- 
 tered, and attributed it all to his approaching absence. 
 He kindly consoled her. " I shall soon be with you 
 again, Blanche. I love my father and mother dearly; but 
 just now I do not think even they can succeed in keep- 
 ing me above tliree days away from you. I hate the 
 ihought of leaving you, but it will be such a pleasure to
 
 136 BLANCHE. 
 
 meet again! — will it not, dearest Blanche ? I think it 
 will almost nnake up for the pain of parting ; and then, I 
 suppose, I need not leave you any more. So we have 
 nothing but joy before us." And he wondered his be- 
 trothed did not appear to be more consoled by this pros- 
 pect. 
 
 He has handed them all into their travelling barouche, 
 and he hasthrownhimself intohisbritska,andtheyhave left 
 Cransley in opposite directions. All the rest of the party 
 had previously dispersed — all but Mr. Wroxholme, and 
 he was going to town the next day. As he and Lady 
 Westhope stood upon the steps watching the receding 
 vehicles, they could not help communicating to each 
 other their fears concerning the approaching marriage. 
 Lady Westhope was exceedingly out of spirits at poor 
 Blanche's prospects, and Mr. Wroxholme entered into 
 her feelings, with all the delicacy of a person with good 
 heart and good taste. 
 
 As their barouche rolled smoothly along, Lord and 
 Lady Falkingham fell into deep and earnest conversa- 
 tion : Blanche sat in the back seat, absorbed in her own 
 meditations. The road lay through an open, hilly, and 
 heathy country, watered by small rivulets, on the imme- 
 diate banks of which were sometimes seen a solitary cot- 
 tage, and close around, a small patch of cultivated ground. 
 It was a mild watery daVi with little positive rain, but 
 one in which the shifting lights and gleams of pale sun- 
 shine give a purple hue to the heathy hill-side, and a 
 bright yellow to the green meadow, or the mossy swamp. 
 Her eyes mechanically watched the varying hues, and 
 at length fixed themselves upon a lonely turf-roofed Imt 
 in the valley below. " How peaceful must be existence 
 in such a hut !" she thought within herself: " no worldly 
 considerations, no aspirations after rank and situation, 
 can there interfere with the affections. A strong arm 
 and a willing mind are all that are required to authorize 
 the peasant lover to seek the hand of his peasant mistress. 
 Personal, individual qualities alone are considered, — not 
 the adventitious recommendations of fortune. How much 
 happier must be that rank of life, where love, and love
 
 BLANCHE> 13? 
 
 alone, leads to a union which is to endure as long as 
 life itself! Oh ! if I could, in honour and in respecta'- 
 bility, become the wife of De Molton, how willingly 
 would I resign every luxury to which I have been born, 
 and live in that very cottage, unnoticed and unknown ! 
 I think I could gladly perform even the household 
 drudgery: I could feed the chickens and sweep the 
 brick floor, and pile up the blazing fagots, and pre*- 
 pare my husband's evening meal — if that husband were 
 De Molton I" 
 
 She gazed upon the cottage as long as it remained in 
 sight, and almost felt as if she left a place that was en* 
 deared to her by habit, when a turn in the road concealed 
 it from her view. 
 
 It may be much questioned whether Lady Blanche's 
 view of the various conditions of life were a correct one, 
 and whether there may not exist as much, or more, dis- 
 interested love in the higher orders than in the lower. 
 
 But her thoughts continued, " And feeling thus, shall I 
 promise entire, undivided, eternal love to another man ? 
 Has not my life been an enacted lie for the last fortnight ? 
 Can I make up my mind to continue for years and years 
 this unceasing duplicity? I thought De Molton's image 
 would fade from my mind — I thought I should each day 
 become more attached to Lord Glenrith. I hear of so 
 many happy wives who did not marry for love I But is 
 this the case? No! his image rises to my mind's eye 
 more frequently than ever, and I find my soul recoil 
 more, every day, from poor dear Lord Glenrith's ten- 
 derness. I shall behave ill to him in breaking off the 
 marriage, and I shall be called a jilt ; but shall I not be- 
 have more ill to him by marrying him, when I feel as I 
 now do ? I will tell him the whole truth myself! It is 
 a horrid alternative, but I cannot — I cannot marry him!" 
 
 The day after their arrival at home Lady Blanche 
 communicated to her mother the resolution she had 
 formed. Lady Falkingham was thunderstruck. Blanche 
 had continued for the last week to admit of Lord Glen- 
 rith's attentions, and had never again alluded to her at- 
 tachment, so that Lady Falkingham had convinced her- 
 
 M 2
 
 138 BLANCHE. 
 
 self the childish affair had passed from her mind. She 
 was inexpressibly grieved at the information ; but she 
 was a woman of principle, and could not insist upon her 
 daughter's marrying, while a passion, which would be- 
 come criminal, retained full possession of her breast. 
 Lord Falkingham, as might be expected, was very in- 
 dignant — perhaps moi-e so at first than his wife had been ; 
 but when the first ebullition of anger was past, he was 
 sooner able to resume his usual bearing towards his 
 daughter. The days are passed, when any measures, 
 beyond argument and persuasion, can be put into prac- 
 tice to force an unwilling bride to the altar ; and argu- 
 ment and pei'suasion were of no avail with one who un- 
 equivocally declared that she had tried in vain to subdue 
 her love for De Molton — that her efforts to return Lord 
 Glenrith's affection were totally unavailing, and that, if 
 she found herself his wife, she should be utterlyj^mis- 
 erable. 
 
 Two days had elapsed from Lord Glenrith's departure 
 for his father's. On the third he was expected at Temple 
 Loseley. There was no cross post ; there was no time 
 to write ; and, indeed, Blanche thought she had rather 
 tell him the whole truth herself, as she could better ex- 
 onerate his friend from any blame, by word of mouth, 
 than by letter. 
 
 Never did three persons await the coming of a gay 
 and gallant bridegroom with more uncomfortable feel- 
 ings. At the appointed moment on the third day he ar- 
 rived, beaming with honest joy. After the first greeting, 
 he slipped upon the finger of his love, with an attempt 
 at sentimental mystery, a ring containing his own hair. 
 He also brought from his mother the family diamonds, 
 which, she said, would infinitely better grace the bloom- 
 ing young bride than the sober matron. Lord Glenrith 
 exhibited them with some pride and great delight; — 
 pride at the family glories — delight at offering them to 
 Blanche. 
 
 Never were diamonds received so awkwardly and 
 with so little apparent gratitude.
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 139 
 
 '' Why, Blanche ! you do not seem to care about the 
 diamonds," he said in rather a mortified tone. 
 
 " Indeed I am very, very grateful to Lady Wentnor 
 for her constant, her unmerited kindness to me- — so much 
 more than I deserve !" 
 
 " You are very modest, my dear Blanche ! Well ! I 
 hope it is that you are so glad to see me, you cannot 
 think about the diamonds ; and if that is the case I v^'ill 
 forgive you, and so will my mother too, I dare say. I 
 have been told many women love their diamonds better 
 than their husbands : that will not be your case, I trust, 
 or you will care very little for me." He hurried off to 
 dress for dinner, a little put out by the reception he had 
 met with. 
 
 The dinner was most distressing. Lord Glenrith be- 
 gan, in the innocence of his heart, to tell them every 
 thing he had done, every arrangement that had been 
 made, and how Lord and Lady Wentnor meant to visit 
 Leamington for a few weeks, and to relinquish Wentnor 
 Castle to them for their honeymoon ; but he found his 
 audience so cold, that he in his turn became chilled and 
 daunted. 
 
 As they left the dining-room. Lady Blanche sum- 
 moned all her courage, and said, " I wish to speak to 
 you presently in the breakfast-room." 
 
 The die was cast ! She must now tell him all. She 
 seized her mother's arm as they crossed the hall. " Oh, 
 mamma ! what a task I have to perform ! How could I 
 ever accept poor dear Lord Glenrith, and plunge myself 
 into this dreadful difficulty !" 
 
 " My dear, say rather, ' How could I let myself fall 
 in love with a man whom it is utterly impossible I should 
 marry !' — that would be more to the purpose. But it is 
 too late now : there is no use in retrospection !" 
 
 It was not many minutes before they heard the dining- 
 room doors open. Lady Blanche rushed into the break- 
 fast-room adjoining, and in two seconds Lord Glenrith 
 followed her. He saw something unusual had occurred, 
 and he felt uneasy, but his mind never glanced towards 
 what awaited him. " Well, Blanche, what in the world
 
 140 J3LANCHE* 
 
 have you to say to me ?" and he seated himself on the 
 sofa by her side. " How glad I am we are once more 
 quietly here, and no longer surrounded by simpering, 
 quizzing acquaintances !" And there seemed a consid- 
 erablej danger of his attempting to put his arm round 
 her waist. If he did meditate such a thing, his inten- 
 tions were by no means carried into effect, for she started 
 up to take her reticule off the table, and reseated her- 
 self at the opposite side of the fireplace in an armchair. 
 
 " Lord Glenrith," she said, " I have something upon 
 my mind which has made me very miserable of late." 
 
 " Miserable ! — you miserable, and I not know it I 
 What can I do, dearest Blanche ? You know I would 
 go through fire and water to serve you." 
 
 " Do not speak so kindly to me, — you make what I 
 have to say more painful, more difficult. I deserve 
 nothing from you but hatred and contempt." 
 
 " What are you talking about ? Are you in your right 
 senses ?" 
 
 " Scarcely, I believe ; for any other woman would 
 think herself the happiest and most fortunate of crea- 
 tures in marrying you ; and if I was to do so, I should 
 be both wicked and wretched !" 
 
 " Not marry me, Blanche ! — you are dreaming. What 
 can all this mean ? It is very unpleasant, though you 
 cannot mean what you are now saying." 
 
 " Indeed, I do mean what I say, and you cannot know 
 how much I have suffered in coming to this conclusion." 
 
 " This is strange — this is unaccountable !" and he 
 passed his hands over his eyes as if to make sure he 
 was awake. " Have I done any thing to change your 
 opinion of me ? lam not aware of having been want- 
 ing in any way — and I am sure, Blanche, I have loved 
 you truly and sincerely." A tear glistened in his eye. 
 " Tell me what 1 have done, and I will correct my fault. 
 You are only saying this to try me ; and if so, let me 
 tell you that it is a very foolish jest, and one entirely un- 
 worthy of you." The colour mounted into his face, and 
 he looked for a moment extremely angry. 
 
 " No 1 Lord Glenrith, this is no jest ! I am in sober,
 
 BLANCHE. 141 
 
 serious, most sad earnest. Your conduct towards me 
 has been from the beginning ten thousand times better 
 than I deserved ; but 1 should be treating you shamefully 
 if I were to marry you when my heart — is another's." 
 
 " Your heart another's J Did you say so ? Your heart 
 another's ! Then, why on earth did you accept me ?" 
 
 " Well may you ask that question, and well may I blush 
 to answer it ! 1 thought my affection was unrequited, and 
 1 esteemed you. My parents thought more highly of 
 you than of any one. I believed I should soon prefer 
 you to the one person I had loved, as much as I already 
 did to all common acquaintances ; and it was not till I 
 found my affection was not unrequited, that I became 
 aware of the depth and strength of my own attachment. 
 I have been miserable ever since, and all I can now do 
 is to tell you the honest truth." 
 
 Lord Glenrith sat with his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 " This is a cruel blow !" he said at last ; " I have not de- 
 served this from you, Lady Blanche. And who is the 
 favoured object 1 By heaven, it must be De Molton ! I 
 remember his countenance at dinner the day he was at 
 Cransley — how pale he looked, and how continually he 
 strove to catch a view of you by the epergne ; and 
 every time he met my eye, he looked in another direc- 
 tion ! I am born to be made a fool of — to be deceived 
 by the friend I have loved from childhood, and by the 
 woman to whom I would fain have devoted all the rest 
 of my existence !" He hid his face in his hands. 
 
 " Blame me, Lord Glenrith, for 1 deserve your re- 
 proaches ; but your friend has never deceived you : Cap- 
 tain De Molton has always considered you more than 
 himself." 
 
 " Then it is Dc Molton ! These are the actions dic- 
 tated by his high-flown notions of honour ! A plain, 
 rnatter-of fact man would never have proved such a 
 shabby fellow." 
 
 " Captain De Molton shabby!" The word " shabby" 
 sounded strangely on her ear when coupled with the 
 name of De Molton. She would have answered Lord 
 Glenrith angrily, if the consciousness how deeply she
 
 142 BLANCHE. 
 
 had wronged him had not checked her speech ; but she 
 could rather have forgiven his calling her lover a black- 
 hearted villain, than a " shabby fellow." " Lord Glen- 
 rith," she repeated, " you wrong your friend. He care- 
 fully concealed from me his feelings till — till — " 
 
 " Till you had promised to marry me !" 
 
 " Till he fancied the avowal of them could not endan- 
 ger your happiness, or, as he imagined, mine. When he 
 took leave of me at Cransley, he showed some emotion, 
 which caused him to reproach himself for betraying feel- 
 ings he had long concealed. Then first I learned he did 
 experience any feelings which he wished to conceal, and 
 this discovery produced a revolution in my mind which 
 appalled me. I strove to blind myself as to the nature 
 of my sentiments — I strove to conquer them — in vain ; 
 and now, what can I do but throw myself on your mercy, 
 and implore you to forgive me for having ever accepted 
 the devotion of an honest man, whose affection I could 
 not requite as it deserved !" She held out her hand to 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, Blanche I you break my heart !" And he kissed 
 the hand which she did not withdraw : she felt a tear fall 
 upon it. Her very soul seemed to melt towards the kind 
 being to whom she was giving so much pain. 
 
 " Believe me, Lord Glenrith, when 1 tell you, that every 
 sentiment of esteem, respect, and gratitude — every senti- 
 ment which my reason can command, is yours ; and that 
 I esteem and respect you too highly to wish you married 
 to a wife who cannot give you her whole heart. In a 
 short time you will forget a person who has caused you 
 nothing but disappointment and annoyance ; and you will 
 find many, many girls who will esteem themselves fortu- 
 nate in being allowed to devote to you their first aflfec- 
 tions. You will soon rejoice in the liberty I now restore 
 to you. While 1 have nothing in store for me but con- 
 tempt and ridicule, you will find, with some one far supe- 
 rior to me in all respects, happiness, which I must not 
 hope for." 
 
 ^•JNever, Blanche, never! I shall never marry!"
 
 BLANCHE. 143 
 
 And Lord Glenrith conscientiously believed what he 
 uttered. 
 
 " Before we part, tell me that you forgive Captain De 
 Molton, and that you believe me when I assure you, that 
 he never intended to interfere with your interests." 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I do believe you, and I will try to 
 forgive De Molton." 
 
 Every thing was said. Blanche felt that their return 
 to the drawing-room was very awkward, but there was 
 no other course to pursue. She led the way to the door 
 — there was nothing left for Lord Glenrith but to follow 
 after. He felt that something of ridicule always attached 
 itself to his position ; but at the same time he felt injured, 
 and he tried to put a certain resolute and dignified air 
 into his walk. He looked flushed and heated ; his eye 
 glanced suspiciously and uneasily from side to side ; but 
 he attempted to assume an unembarrassed deportment. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 The smile that on thy lips erewhilc 
 
 So kindly wont to play — 
 That could each idle care beguile 
 
 Of Love's first golden day — 
 Now, when lone Fancy rules the hour, 
 
 At evening's lingering close, 
 Comes o'er my soul with mightier power, 
 
 To sooth my real woes. 
 
 Unpubliihed Poems. 
 
 Loud and Lady Falkingham were seated, one on 
 each side of the fireplace, awaiting the result of the con- 
 ference which was taking place in the apartment within. 
 They had been pathetically lamenting the folly with 
 which Blanche was resolved to throw away the most 
 desirable establishment in the world ; and they had been 
 indulging in unpleasant anticipations of what the world
 
 144 BLANCHE. 
 
 would say, when it was known that a daughter of theirs 
 was an avowed jilt. The door of the breakfast-room 
 opened, and Blanche entered : Lord Glenrith followed 
 close behind. I^ady Falkingham perceived, at a glance, 
 that the unacknowledged hope, which she had still cher- 
 ished, of Lord Glenrith's eloquence prevailing at the last, 
 was doomed to annihilation. 
 
 During their absence the tea had been brought in, 
 and the urn was smoking and boiling upon the table. 
 Lady Blanche sat down before it, and rejoiced in her 
 mother's old-fashioned fancy for having the tea made in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Lady Falkingham and her daughter took the earliest 
 opportunity of retiring for the night. Lord Glenrith 
 lighted their candles, and opened the door for them. As 
 they passed, Lady Falkingham pressed his hand with an 
 expressive look of sorrow and regret. Lady Blanche 
 held out hers, and uttered in a low voice, — " We part 
 friends !" He took her hand and turned away. 
 
 When the door was closed, Lord Falkingham ad- 
 dressed him : — 
 
 " I am afraid, Glenrith, you have had a very unpleasant 
 conversation with my daughter. I need not tell you 
 how much my wife and myself regret the foolish fancy 
 the girl has taken into her head. But what can we do ? 
 We cannot, in justice to you, urge her to fulfil her en- 
 gagement." 
 
 " 1 should be the last man to wish Lady Blanche's 
 affections to be controlled ; and I hope 1 know suffi- 
 ciently what is due to myself, not to wish any woman 
 to be forced into a marriage with me." 
 
 After a few more words of regret and kindness on the 
 part of Lord Falkingham, they also parted for the night. 
 
 The next morning all the jewels and trinkets which he 
 had presented to Blanche were restored to him, and 
 before the family were assembled round the breakfast- 
 table he was several miles on his road to Wentnor 
 Castle. 
 
 Lord Glenrith felt his disappointment keenly, for he 
 loved Blanche. He felt his mortification keenly; for,
 
 BLANCIIfi. 143 
 
 ahhough not vain (if by vanity we understand a desire 
 to show off in the eyes of others), still he entertained no 
 mean opinion of himself. He had never in his life before 
 met with any thing but success. He had been accus- 
 tomed to the admiring aftection of his parents, the devo- 
 tion of his dependants, the goodfellowship of his equals, 
 the attention of his inferiors ; and he had been early 
 warned by his mother to be guarded in his manner to- 
 wards young ladies, lest he should excite hopes which 
 he could not realize — hopes which he found them, gene- 
 rally speaking, only too ready to entertain. Astonishment, 
 therefore, almost equalled the other emotions to which 
 we have alluded. He turned and turned in his head how 
 he should break to his parents the result of the preceding 
 evening's conversation, and he felt that he equally dreaded 
 their pity and their indignation. 
 
 By degrees, as he got farther from Temple Loseley 
 and nearer to Wentnor Castle, he found his love and his 
 grief diminish, and his mortification and disappointment 
 increase, till, by the time he reached the lodge, he thought 
 he could have endured the latter, provided the pubhcity 
 of his engagement had not exposed him, while writhing 
 under the former, to the pity, the stare, and the jest of 
 great and small, rich and poor, old and young. 
 
 Blanche's first sensation, upon retiring to her room, 
 was that of relief and freedom. She felt as though a 
 weight of guilt and deceit was removed from her bosom, 
 and she resolved she would now indulge herself in think- 
 ing of De Molton as much as she pleased. But the mor- 
 tified expression of Lord Glenrith's countenance would 
 rise up to her mind's eye ; and she found herself more 
 occupied with him and less with the image of De Molton 
 than at any other moment since their meeting at Crans- 
 ley. She scarcely knew whether satisfaction at having 
 now done that which was decidedly honest, sincere, and 
 unworldly, or self-reproach for having so wronged Lord 
 Glenrith by ever entering into an engagement with him, 
 ought to preponderate ; and, upon the whole, she found 
 herself less happy than she expected. 
 
 The ensuing weeks passed drearily enough. Lady 
 
 vol.. u. — N
 
 146 BLANCHE. 
 
 Falkingham was under the necessity of announcing to 
 her friends and relations that her daughter's marriage 
 was broken off; an occupation which did not raise her 
 spirits, or smooth her temper. Of course the true reason 
 could not be openly divulged, or all hope must be relin- 
 quished of Blanche's ever forming any other alliance. It 
 is strange, but it is an undoubted fact, that a girl loses 
 half her attraction, if her maiden affections are supposed 
 to have been in any degree touched ; while there is a 
 peculiar charm attached to the idea of a widow, although 
 it may be presumed she has known what it is to inspire 
 and to experience all the emotions attendant upon love. 
 
 Blanche herself wrote to her sisters ; and as she felt 
 that her rejection of Lord Glenrith bound her fate in some 
 measure to that of Captain De Molton, she made no mys- 
 tery of the prepossession which had rendered her inca- 
 pable of doing justice to Lord Glenrith's good qualities. 
 
 She had scarcely despatched these letters, when she 
 read in the newspapers the departure of De Molton with 
 his regiment for the East Indies. He had sailed the 
 very day of her final interview with Lord Glenrith. She 
 experienced a blank sensation nearly allied to mortifica- 
 tion ; forgetting what were tlie motives which induced 
 him to seek safety and repose in another hemisphere. 
 
 Still, when she rejected Lord Glenrith, she did not 
 quite anticipate that there was to be an end of every 
 thing. She had not precisely looked forward to sitting 
 down quietly in deep retirement with her father and 
 mother, till the arrival of another spring should summon 
 them to London, there to be dragged the weary round 
 of insipid entertainments, without the hope or the pos- 
 sibility of seeing the only face she wished to see. Her 
 home was no longer what it had been. Lord Falking- 
 ham's vanity was mortified in the daughter of whom he 
 had hitherto been exceedingly proud. Lady Falking- 
 ham, although not absolutely unkind, was cold and 
 reserved, and never encouraged her to speak of a feeling, 
 which she always treated as a silly, unreasonable, youth- 
 ful whim. On all occasions, the attachments of young 
 people were spoken of in a slighting and contemptuous
 
 BLANCHE. 147 
 
 manner, which confirmed Blanche in her resolution to 
 prove that hers was not a passing fancy — but a real, sin- 
 cere, and respectable attachment. 
 
 Captain De Molton, after a prosperous voyage, had 
 arrived at Calcutta just about the time when the meeting 
 of parliament called Lord Falkingham to London ; and 
 Blanche with pain and disgust saw the bracelets, the 
 trinkets, the jewels, which her various friends had given 
 her upon her expected nuptials, packed up to adorn her 
 person during the ensuing season. She felt she never 
 could bring herself to wear these tokens ; for although 
 it had been impossible to return any, except those which 
 had been presented by Lord Glenrith's family, it seemed 
 to her as if they had all been obtained under false pre- 
 tences. 
 
 De Molton had struggled hard to bring his mind to a 
 state of calm acquiescence in his fate. He had tried to 
 accustom himself to the idea of Lady Blanche as the 
 wife of Lord Glenrith ; he had used all possible means 
 to divert his thoughts from his unfortunate passion ; he 
 had occupied himself during the voyage with studying 
 some of the eastern languages, with learning every thing 
 connected with eastern warfare ; and although the re- 
 nown to be gained in India at the expense of health, if 
 not of life, falls far short of that to be gained in a Euro- 
 pean campaign, still he resolved that fame should now 
 become his mistress. 
 
 He had not been more than three weeks in Culcutta 
 when a letter reached him from his mother, which over- 
 turned all the good resolutions he had formed, and 
 rendered him almost incapable of profiting by the oppor- 
 tunities which now offered themselves of perfecting his 
 knowledge of Hindostanee and Sanscrit, or of putting 
 in practice the tactics he had studied. 
 
 His mother informed him that the marriage between 
 Lord Glenrith and Lady Blanche De Vaux was suddenly 
 broken off, and that no cause was assigned for the event 
 except that the lady " had changed her mind." She 
 tried to persuade him that the case was as hopeless as 
 ever for himself, and she resisted the temptation of tell-
 
 148 BLANCHE. 
 
 ing him it was whispered that a preference for himself 
 was the true cause of the rupture. Although she longed 
 to communicate what she knew must give liim pleasure, 
 even she was aware that it would be weakness and folly 
 to keep alive a passion to which no prosperous termina- 
 tion could be anticipated. 
 
 Her intelligence, however, was sufficient to inspire 
 De Molton with an ardent desire to return to England. 
 Lady Blanche was free : honour no longer called upon 
 him to avoid her ; on the contrary, honour seemed to 
 demand that he should now profess his anxiety to devote 
 himself to her for life ; and he bitterly lamented having 
 so rashly banished himself from his native land. Yet, 
 upon his first arrival in India, he could not in decency 
 apply for leave of absence. He suffered tortures of 
 perplexity, doubt,'and anxiety. At one time he thought 
 he would write to Lady Blanche, and regularly make her 
 an offer of himself and of his fortunes. Then he shrank 
 from doing so ; for what were the fortunes he was able 
 to offer her? and, moreover, such a proceeding would 
 be assuming that it was for his sake she had broken off 
 her marriage with Lord Glenrith, — a conclusion he had 
 in fact no right to draw. 
 
 The news contained in h\i, mother's letter was already 
 six months old. Before his answer could reach England 
 another six months must have elapsed. What events 
 might not have taken place in that time ! Lady Blanche 
 would have passed through another season in London : 
 with her beauty, she must have been sunx)unded by ad- 
 mirers. It was possible, nay, probable, that his letter 
 might find her married, or on the eve of marriage with 
 some one else. How ridiculous, then, would his con- 
 ceited assumption appear in her eyes ! No — he would 
 wait, at all events, for further information ; at the same 
 time fully resolved to let slip no opportunity of returning 
 home, when he might easily judge for himself whether 
 an offer on his part would or would not be esteemed 
 presumption. Then again he thought, if for his sake 
 Glenrith had indeed been rejected, how cold and how 
 ungrateful must he appear, not instantly to avail himself
 
 BLANCHE. 149 
 
 of the chance afforded him. Fortunately for him, his 
 thoughts were necessarily in some measure withdrawn 
 from liis own annoyances, by his regiment being marched 
 up the country, and by being engaged in some shght but 
 animating skirmishes with the Pindarries. 
 
 The prospect of active service rendered his applying 
 for leave of absence absolutely out of the question. All 
 doubt upon that question was thereby set at rest. It 
 also seemed to set at rest the question whether he should 
 or should not address Lady Blanche herself: it was im- 
 possible to hint at her plighting her troth to him in a 
 foreign land, from which he might never return, or of 
 her keeping herself disengaged in the hope, at some 
 future indefinite period, of following the drum with him 
 from country quarter to country quarter. 
 
 He relieved his mind by writing to his mother a full 
 statement of his perplexed feelings, and by imploring her, 
 if possible, to convey them to Lady Blanche ; and having 
 done so, he resolutely bent all his energies to the dis- 
 charge of his professional duties ; while his heart beat 
 high with the cheering hope of returning to her feet, his 
 name coupled with deeds of valour, and illustrated by 
 feats of military prowess. 
 
 w2
 
 150 BLANCHE, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The soote season that bud and bloom forth brings ' 
 With greene hath cfadde the hyll, and eke the dale j 
 
 The nightingall with feathers new she sings, 
 The turtle to her mate hath told the tale. 
 
 Lord Surrey. 
 
 The '* soote season" had arrived, and the Falkingham 
 family were in London. Lady Blanche's heart sank 
 within her at the prospect of the wearisome pleasures 
 in which she would be forced to join. She shrank also 
 from the idea of being looked upon in the light of a 
 jilt. 
 
 Though Lady Falkingham, by her system of educa- 
 tion, had not been able to subdue the natural warmth 
 of Lady Blanche's feelings, or her somewhat headlong 
 indulgence of them, she had succeeded in inspiring her 
 with her own horror of being subject to the animad- 
 versions or the ridicule of the world ; and Lady 
 Blanche felt, more keenly than most girls, what is con- 
 sidered as a disgrace by all who have been well 
 brought up. 
 
 She thought that the only mode of redeeming herself 
 in the estimation of others was to adopt manners the 
 most reserved ; and to justify, by her scrupulous fidelity 
 to the object for whom it was now pretty generally 
 understood she had rejected Lord Glenrith, the incon- 
 sistency from which she could not clear herself. 
 
 Lady Falkingham, whose most ardent wish was to 
 see her daughter settled, was in a continual state of 
 vexation at the distant and chilling manner with which 
 Blanche received the most common attentions. There 
 was truth in the charge her mother brought against 
 her, of being on the defensive, even before she was 
 attacked ; and though there is nothing more attractive
 
 BLANCHE. 151 
 
 than the reserve which springs from innate modesty, 
 Lady Falkingham knew full well, that few things more 
 olfend the self-love of men, and render them proof 
 against the charms a woman may really possess, than 
 the reserve which seems to proceed from contempt, or 
 from a predetermination to check their advances. 
 
 Blanche would gladly have passed her days in retire- 
 ment ; but her parents believed that the only mode of 
 effacing the impression made by Captain De Molton was 
 to place her in the society of others. Moreover, to 
 seclude herself entirely from the world, would be a tacit 
 acknowledgment of deserving blame. At all the usual 
 places of amusement they were consequently seen. 
 But the calm brow of Lady Falkingham had acquired 
 a careful and discontented expression ; and the bright 
 glances and glowing smile of Lady Blanche, had given 
 place to a cold and stately pensiveness. She danced 
 occasionally, but partners no longer disputed the hon- 
 our of her hand. She sometimes received compli- 
 ments, nor did she dislike them ; for as she felt an in- 
 ternal dissatisfaction, she would have enjoyed any thing 
 which tended to reconcile her to herself; but she was 
 so afraid of appearing to enjoy them, that she assumed 
 a disdainful manner, which effectually prevented any 
 recurrence of what appeared to give offence. 
 
 With Lady Westhope alone did she find any com- 
 fort. To her she opened her whole heart — with her 
 she talked over each trifling incident which had oc- 
 curred during their visit to Paris — to her she repeated 
 every word De Molton had said — to her she dwelt on 
 his looks, his manner, his expression, in their last inter- 
 view at Cransley. Lady Falkingham little guessed 
 that the cold, the discreet, the immaculate Lady West- 
 hope, could be a companion so little calculated to lead 
 her daughter to a reasonable and worldly view of her 
 own prospects, — Lady Westhope, who, unknown to 
 herself, was every day acquiring a more thorough con- 
 viction, that in mutual affection alone can a married 
 ■woman expect to find happiness. Blanche's conversa- 
 tions with Lady Westhope tended, not only to keep
 
 152 BLANCHE, 
 
 alive the impression produced at Paris, they also made 
 her feel still more pledged to adhere to the attachment 
 which she professed. 
 
 It was about the middle of the season when Lord 
 Glenrith arrived in London. He and Lady Blanche 
 occasionally met at public places, in large and mixed 
 society. Their first meeting was inexpressibly awk- 
 ward. By some untoward accident, they found them- 
 selves vis-d-vis of each other in a quadrille. Although 
 good-breeding might prompt the fourteen or eighteen 
 other people in the quadrille to withdraw their eyes 
 from the pair who had once been lovers, their attention 
 could not fail to be riveted upon them. They were to 
 meet as friends ; consequently, they bowed when first 
 they caught each other's eye, and both blushed equally 
 crimson. The rest of the time they advanced and re- 
 treated, performed their queues de chat and their dos-d- 
 dos, without raising their eyes from the floor ; but when 
 poor Lord Glenrith was obliged in the pasiorelle to 
 figure before Lady Blanche as cavalier seul, she felt 
 ready to sink into the earth with distress on his account 
 as well as on her own. The effect which this position 
 had upon Lord Glenrith, and the degree to which his 
 pride and his self-love suffered under the gaze of others, 
 may be conceived from the circumstance of his that 
 night resolving he would not long be seen in the light 
 of a discarded lover, and of his beginning the very 
 next day a series of devoted attentions to the lovely 
 
 daughter of the Duke of L . Before the London 
 
 season drew to a close, the magnificent trousseau of 
 the future Lady Glenrith was the general subject of 
 conversation among young ladies, and the beautiful 
 horses and equipages of Lord Glenrith, that among 
 young gentlemen. 
 
 Then came the morning when the narrow entrance 
 to St. George's Church was crammed with lovely bride- 
 maids, and weeping, smiling relations ; and the after- 
 noon, when half the coachmen and footmen in the Park 
 appeared Vi^ith gorgeous favours in their hats ; and the 
 evening, when little morsels of tinsel, ensconced in white
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 153 
 
 satin riband, were seen pinned to the side, or stuck in 
 the buttonhole, of all the most distinguished personages 
 of both sexes. 
 
 Blanche and her affairs were utterly forgotten ; and 
 she heard on all sides descriptions of the loveliness of 
 the bride, and the happiness of the bridegroom. 
 
 In sober earnest, Blanche rejoiced that her anticipa- 
 tions with regard to Lord Glenrith had been so soon 
 realized ; and if she could have seen De Molton — if 
 she could have heard him speak — if she could have re- 
 ceived any communication from him — if she could have 
 indulged any hope of ever herself knowing the happi- 
 ness of reciprocal affection, she would have utterly 
 despised the frivolous grandeurs which excited such a 
 sensation in the London world. 
 
 But with her all seemed a blank. She had wished 
 her story should be forgotten, — and it was forgotten. 
 No one seemed to remember that she might have been 
 in Lady Mary L.'s situation. She wished people to be 
 aware that, though she had jilted Lord Glenrith, she 
 was no flirt ; and she had succeeded I No one at- 
 tempted to make love to her. 
 
 She was sitting with Lady Westhope, when Mr. 
 Wroxholme, who had been paying a morning visit, took 
 his leave. " I have just heard what is to me a very 
 melancholy piece of intelligence," said Lady Blanche. 
 " Mr. Wroxholme tells me parliament will sit three 
 weeks longer. I feel so weary, and so jaded with the 
 joyless entertainments to which mamma thinks it her 
 duty to take me ! She fancies I may thus forget; but 
 she is mistaken. My thoughts only recur the oftener 
 to him from whom she hopes to wean them. I think, 
 when among a number of indifferent people, one feels 
 the want of the person with whom one would fain in- 
 terchange thoughts and feelings, even more acutely 
 than in the retirement of one's own home." 
 
 " That is only too true," answered Lady Westhope, 
 
 with a sigh 
 
 ' This is to be alone — this, this is solitude."
 
 154 BLANCHE. 
 
 " I like Mr. Wroxholme," rejoined Lady Blanche. 
 " He looks as if he could understand one. I always 
 feel at my ease with him." 
 
 " I told you you would like him ! For my part, I 
 think he is quite an acquisition. I know no one who 
 is d'unplus doux commerce. He has so much tact, and 
 he is particularly obliging 1 One has but to express 
 before him a wish for any thing, and one is sure to find 
 one's wish gratified." 
 
 " And then he has another great merit in my eyes : 
 he cannot endure Mr. Stapleford." 
 
 "Aijd I know of one more merit still," added Lady 
 Westhope, with a smile ; " he likes Captain De Molton. 
 They were schoolfellows, you know." 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme had been always interested for 
 Lady Blanche and her lover, and, with the tact for 
 which he was supposed to be remarkable, had from the 
 first read her feelings. When her marriage had been 
 broken off, Lady Westhope had not scrupled to speak 
 confidentially to a person who had shown so much 
 sympathy and kindness concerning her friend. Mr. 
 Wroxholme had warmly approved of Lady Blanche's 
 disinterestedness, and, naturally enough, had spoken his 
 sentiments on the subject of worldly marriages. 
 
 He seemed to consider congeniality of tempers, 
 tastes, and opinions, as the only objects to be sought in 
 such a connection ; and there was something to Lady 
 Westhope's feelings singularly soothing and agreeable 
 in hearing such sentiments so warmly expressed, espe- 
 cially as her strict notions of propriety could not take 
 the alarm at a disprejudiced observer merely giving an 
 opinion upon the affairs of a third person. 
 
 All he said breathed a tone of high respect for the 
 sex in general, — a generous horror of seeing a woman 
 thrown away upon a man who was not worthy of her, 
 or who did not sufficiently value her, which could not 
 fail to be gratifying to a person who felt such to be her 
 own case. 
 
 The indignation he felt at Lord Westhope's neglect
 
 BLANCHE. 155 
 
 of his wife, and tiie pleasure she took in finding herself 
 appreciated, might gradually and unconsciously have 
 led them both to entertain sentiments for which both 
 would have reproached themselves, had nothing oc- 
 curred to arouse them to a sense of their danger. An 
 incident did however occur, which, though trifling in 
 itself, served to open the eyes of one who had no wish 
 to keep them wilfully closed. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Gentil parlar, in cui chiaro refulse 
 Con somma cortesia, somma onestate ; 
 Fior di virtu ; fontana di beltate ; 
 Ch' ogni basso pensier del cor m'avulse. 
 
 Petrarca. 
 
 Lady Westhope's praises of Mr. Wroxholme, and 
 her intimation of his early intimacy with Captain De 
 Molton, led Lady Blanche to talk to him with more 
 satisfaction than to any one else. When in conversa- 
 tion with him, her countenance resumed some of its 
 former animation ; and they frequently met, and always 
 met with pleasure. 
 
 One evening Mr. Wroxholme had been recounting 
 to Lady Blandie some boyish prank at school, in which 
 he had contrived to let her know that De Molton had 
 been engaged ; she had been listening with an expres- 
 sion of amusement, which had been succeeded by a 
 look, half confusion, half tenderness, on the incidental 
 mention of De Molton's name, when Mr. Stapleford re- 
 marked to Lady Westhopo, " I think the conversation 
 in that recess seems to justify the report 1 heard yester- 
 day." 
 
 " What report?" inquired Lady Westhope. 
 
 " Why, that Wroxholme might succeed in consoling
 
 156 BLANCHE. 
 
 Lady Blanche for the loss of her penniless as well as of 
 her wealthy lover." .^ 
 
 " Oh, what an idea !" exclaimed Lady Westhope. 
 
 " I assure you the report is very general, and 1 think 
 there can be no doubt but that VVroxholme is very 
 much in love." 
 
 " There never was so unfounded a notion I What 
 could put it into anybody's head ?" 
 
 "Though no blue-stocking, I presume Lady West- 
 hope knows enough of optics lo be aware that the rays 
 of light reflected from objects actually before us, pass- 
 ing through the different lenses of the eye, are im- 
 pressed upon the retina, and are, by some process be- 
 yffnd the comprehension of us poor mortals, thence 
 communicated to the brain ; in plain English, Lady 
 Westhope has heard the old adage, that seeing is be- 
 lieving." 
 
 His eyes, when he began to speak, were fixed upon 
 Lady Blanche, who was 'diligently picking to pieces the 
 bouquet she held in her hand (Mr. Wroxholme was tell- 
 ing her what a good-hearted fellow Frank De Molton 
 was at school, and how kind he had been to a poor boy 
 who had been run over by a cart) ; but as he finished 
 his sentence, he withdrew his most penetrating and dis- 
 agreeable eyes from the couple, whose feelings he, for 
 on»e, misinterpreted, and let them fall gently and fixedly 
 on Lady Westhope. 
 
 " I can assure you, you are perfectly mistaken in this 
 instance," Lady Westhope replied with some quick- 
 ness. " Lady Blanche is only likely to be persever- 
 ingly, foolishly, constant ; and as to Mr. Wroxholme's 
 being in love with her, it is quite out of the question." 
 
 " Why out of the question?" asked Mr. Stapleford, 
 with the most provoking matter-of-fact coolness. 
 
 Lady Westhope did not very well know why it was 
 so ; but she answered — 
 
 " Oh, he is not the sort of man to fall in love with 
 Blanche." 
 
 " He is an odd sort of man, then, if it is out of the 
 question for him to fall in love with one of the hand-
 
 BLANCHE. 157 
 
 somest girls in London, who plucks off every leaf of a 
 beautiful camellia while he is talking to her! A pre- 
 possession in another quarter might steel a man's heart 
 even against such attractions as those I have alluded 
 to ; and I have no doubt I^ady Westhope is better 
 versed in the mysterious workings of the human heart 
 than I can pretend to be. I must bow, therefore, to her 
 superior knowledge of the state of Mr. Wroxholme's 
 affections;" and with a supercilious bow he joined a 
 knot of politicians. 
 
 Lady Westhope felt prodigiously annoyed. She 
 could not tell why she disliked so mush to hear that 
 Mr. Wroxholme was j^Jove^vith Lady Blanche. 
 There was no harm i^^^^H^^. She looked upon 
 him as a man with whom ^^^man might be very 
 ^appy; and, although not riclPW had a competency. 
 Why was she so certain he entertained no particular 
 preference for her friend ? and why did she feel ag- 
 grieved at the suspicion ? It could not be that, at her 
 age, after having passed unscathed through all the trials 
 of her youth, her own heart was in any danger ? What 
 a humiliating, what a degrading surmise ! She felt 
 almost ashamed of suspecting herself of such a weak- 
 ness ; one that she would always have thought criminal, 
 but that now would be ridiculous as well as criminal. 
 It was evident, however, that Mr. Stapleford did sus- 
 pect her of harbouring so ridiculous a prepossession, 
 and she scrutinized her own feelings with resolute 
 accuracy. 
 
 The truth was, that she had been accustomed for 
 some months to feel herself the first object with Mr. 
 Wroxholme ; and although no words ever passed which 
 expressed, or implied, that such might be the case, it 
 was that consciousness which made her find his society 
 so agreeable. She had felt so secure that she was past 
 the age when she need guard her heart from tender im- 
 pressions, that she had relaxed in her former watchful- 
 ness ; she had felt so strong in her virtue, that she had 
 not taken heed lest she might fall ; and it was with a 
 sense of deep humiliation and self-abasement that she 
 
 VOL. H. O
 
 158 . BLANCHE. 
 
 awoke to a conviction of her weakness. She thence- 
 forth resolved to keep strict watch and ward over her 
 inward feeUngs as well as over her outward actions. 
 
 These resolutions were more easily taken than car- 
 ried into effect : she had no right to assume coldness 
 towards a person who had never given her the slightest 
 cause of offence, who had never presumed upon the 
 intimate fooling to which he had been admitted in the 
 house. 
 
 How difficult is it, with the very best intentions, for 
 a woman who lives in the world to steer entirely clear 
 of suspicion, or misinterpretation, unless there exists 
 between her and her ^3sbam^|n-ank and cordial under- 
 standing! If, wit h^Bjj^^^mowl edge of the world, 
 Lady VVesthope dic^^^^nd it easy to shape her con- 
 duct so as to be dsBlet without prudery, and cool, i 
 without unkindness, it is not surprising that the inexpe- 
 rienced should, without really deserving it, occasionally i 
 lay themselves open to blame. 
 
 The subject of love is one which young ladies are 
 not allowed to discuss; at least, not with their elders. ! 
 But how much have parents to answer for. who, by ( 
 their avoidance of the subject, leave the responsibility j 
 of forming their daughters' minds on a point of such | 
 vital importance to the man whom they may chance to 
 marry ! How much has the husband to answer for, i 
 who, by his neglect, his sternness, or his profligate no- < 
 lions, fails to becon)e the guardian of the virtue he is i 
 bound to protect ! Yet, by light conversation, by 
 reporting gossiping anecdotes, and witty though im- 
 moral jokes, how irequently does he treat with levity, 
 and make the subject of mirth and ridicule, errors, 
 nay, crimes, which hitherto the girlish matron has 
 scarcely ventured to contemplate! Is it wonderful 
 that the young mind should sometimes, when it fancies i 
 it only throws oft" the shackles of old-fashioned preju- 
 dice, discard at the same time the restraint of rigid 
 principle? And the husband who has thus contami- 
 nated the fountain whence the actions flow, is surprised 
 and indignant that the purity he once admired should
 
 BLANCHE. 159 
 
 have given place to notions more resembling his own ! 
 Is it surprising that a young creature, whose mind is thus 
 deprived of ballast and of rudder, should in the voy- 
 age of life fail to steer clear of shoals and hidden reefs ? 
 
 Fortunately, Lady Westhope had withstood the first 
 trial, — that of being early united to an unprincipled 
 man ; and she had now acquired knowledge of the 
 world, which enabled her to meet her present difficulty. 
 
 She debated within herself whether talking to him 
 freely concerning marriage, and advising one, who ap- 
 peared to entertain such exalted notions of the happi- 
 ness to be found in the wedded state, to enter into it 
 himself, might not be a good mode of proving how 
 completely she considered herself in the light of a 
 friend, though of a kind friend deeply interested in his 
 welfare; but, upon the whole,*§he decided that it was 
 entering upon a dangerous topic. It might be con- 
 strued into the common artifice of coquettes to pique, or 
 to lead to sentimental conversation; and if, unknown 
 to himself, he did entertain for her the feelings she 
 more than suspected, it might open his eyes to the true 
 nature of them, as Mr. Stapleford's insinuations had 
 opened hers. 
 
 In her early youth she had made to herself a rule 
 never to admit male visiters in the morning: but since 
 she had approached the middle age, she had gradually 
 relaxed in the strictness of her prohibition ; and gentle- 
 men now lounged on her sofas, and whipped their boots 
 before her fire as freely as in any other house in London ; 
 and no one more frequently than Mr. Wroxholme. 
 These visits, in the first place, she resolved to check ; 
 but she knew that an explanation was always a thing 
 to be most scrupulously avoided ; by remaining late in 
 her boudoir, and denying herself to all persons equally, 
 on the plea of not being dressed : by seizing every 
 opportunity of taking an early drive into the country, 
 she for some lime succeeded in her object, without 
 wounding one whose only fault consisted in regarding 
 her with respectful partiality. When he did find her 
 at home, she received him cordially, and he was for the
 
 160 BLA^ICUE. 
 
 moment reassured that she had not intentionally avoided 
 his society. When they met in public, though she 
 spoke to him but little, she carefully preserved the tone 
 of friendliness and intimacy. 
 
 Still, in the long run, gently and gradually, as the 
 change was made, iVIr. Wroxholme perceived that there 
 was a change. He could not but become aware that 
 he was less frequently invited to dinner ; and when 
 invited, that it was to large set parties, and not to the 
 hasty repast before the play, the friendly gathering of 
 a few intimates ; and he could not but be struck with 
 the numerous avocations and engagements which so 
 often prevented his finding Lady Westhope at home of 
 a morning. 
 
 In the course of time, he became hurt and half angry. 
 He had always heard rhat fine ladies were apt to be 
 capricious, and his pride was wounded : he was a 
 gentleman in mind, in manners, and in birth ; and his 
 spirit rose at the bare suspicion of having been so 
 sported with. He, in his turn, avoided Lady Westhope, 
 and this was the severest trial she had yet met with. 
 
 They still, however, occasionally met ; for both 
 parties wished to preserve the same demeanour towards 
 the other. Mr. Wroxholme took an opportunity of 
 expatiating upon the meanness of those men who 
 could condescend to be toad-eaters and hangers-on of 
 the great. He had no notion how any one with the 
 feelings of a gentleman could endure being taken up 
 and set down at pleasure ; and asserted, " that a man 
 who could submit to such treatment, amply deserved 
 to meet with it !" There was a tone of asperity in his 
 mode of speaking which proved that his was not a 
 general observation on men and manners, but that he 
 spoke from personal feeling. She was inexpressibly 
 hurt, and she determined she would by some means let 
 him know she was not one of the heartless fine ladies 
 to whom he alluded. 
 
 The evening before their departure for the country, 
 she invited a few friends to meet at her house ; and 
 among others, Mr. Wroxliolme. She had formed no -,
 
 BLANCHE. 161 
 
 distinct plan; and yet she vaguely hoped she should be 
 able to undeceive him, and to correct the impression he*' 
 had so erroneously received of her late conduct. 
 
 Notwithstanding his wounded pride, he could not resist 
 the temptation to pass one more evening in her society. 
 
 The party was small, the conversation general : 
 subjects of literature were discussed; the novels of the 
 day were naturally mentioned. From them she easily 
 led the discourse to the French novels of the day that 
 is passed, and she took the opportunity of remarking 
 how just were the little observations and reflections 
 with which they were often interspersed. Mr. Wrox- 
 holme added, that in knowledge of the smaller workings 
 of the human heart, he thought Madame de Genlis was 
 scarcely inferior to Madame de Stael. 
 
 " But none of Madame de Genlis's are equal in power 
 to Delphine," replied Lady Westhope. 
 
 " Are you a great admirer of Delphine ?" inquired 
 some one. 
 
 "A great admirer of the eloquence and fire with 
 which it is written : and if the motto at the beginning 
 is borne in mind, the truth of which is forcibly exem- 
 plified by the fate of both the hero and heroine, I think 
 a great moral truth may be extracted from it ; though 
 I grant that the charm thrown around immoral feelings 
 might render it a dangerous book for the young." 
 
 " And what is the motto ?" 
 
 " ' Que I'homme doit braver I'opinion, la femme s'y 
 soumettre.' All the miseries of Leonce and Delphine 
 arise from neither of them following the maxim con- 
 tained in the motto. How fortunate it is for us wo- 
 men, that the opinion of the world and virtue always 
 prescribe the same line of conduct ! There are many 
 occasions in which it is praiseworthy, nay, admirable, 
 in a man to risk the censure of his fellows ; many in 
 which he may act ill without risking it. But with us 
 it is quite difierent : it is seldom that we incur the con- 
 demnation of our own consciences, or the disapproba- 
 tion of others, if we avoid, not only what is really wrong, 
 but that which may bear the semblance of wrong." 
 
 o 2
 
 162 BLANCHE. 
 
 " Well," interrupted a young man present, " I think 
 it is enough for man or woman to do what is right, and 
 to leave appearances to take care of themselves." 
 
 "I am glad it is a man, not a woman, who says 
 so," resumed Lady Westhope, smiling. " 1 am always 
 grieved and alarmed when I hear a woman speak with 
 contempt of the opinion of the world : it argues in her 
 neither good feeling, cleverness, nor true courage. True 
 courage (in woman) consists in at once giving up what 
 may be agreeable and innocent in itself, rather than 
 risk having one's good name called in question." 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme had listened with interest, for his 
 attention had been arrested by the earnestness with 
 which Lady Westhope spoke. He suddenly understood 
 all that had previously puzzled him in her conduct. 
 He admired and respected her ; and his wounded pride, 
 his offended vanity, were soothed. 
 
 When she bade him adieu, she expressed a hope that 
 he would join their Christmas party at Cransley : she 
 did not invite him for partridge shooting in September, 
 as she had done the previous year. He felt that she 
 meant to be kind, yet firm ; and although the interve- 
 ning six months appeared to him immeasurably long 
 in perspective, he had too much principle himself, to 
 blame her or to repine. 
 
 There was a cordiality in the respectful devotion 
 with which Mr. Wroxholme took his leave, which con- 
 vinced Lady Westliope that he no longer looked upon 
 her as a capricious fine lady, but as a woman of rigid, 
 uncompromising virtue. 
 
 She felt, however, lowered in her own estimation 
 when she could not disguise from herself how great an 
 effort it cost her to exercise this same virtue ; and she 
 was indignant, almost disgusted with herself, when 
 she found her home cheerless, and her time unoccu- 
 pied, upon her arrival in the country. This very feel- 
 ing roused her to shake off the disgraceful weakness ; 
 and she resumed her wonted employments, and strove 
 to make to herself new ones.
 
 BLANCHE. 163 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 And words of small import, but tinged with gall, 
 
 Jar on the sense by their unkindly tone. 
 The morning greeting may sound harsh withal, 
 
 The evening benison a curse may own ; 
 While oft a smile — a kindly look alone — 
 
 Born of compunction, falls right soothingly 
 On the sick heart, the past otlence t' atone, 
 
 Ere word be spoke at all : as violets shy, 
 By their sweet breath betray where they are lurking nigh. 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 The events of the last few weeks in London had also 
 awakened Mr. Wroxholme to the state of his own affec- 
 tions ; and he no sooner admitted to himself that he had 
 been in danger of liking Lady Westhope too well, than 
 he rejoiced in the prudence and discretion with which 
 she had checked his growing preference, and felt grateful 
 that he had been preserved from the danger which 
 beset him. 
 
 During the period when London is nearly deserted, 
 and the few who are still detajned in its dreary and dirty 
 streets, are naturally drawn into habits of closer intimacy, 
 he was much thrown with the daughter of an eminent 
 lawyer, with whom he often had professional intercourse. 
 
 He fancied a considerable resemblance to Lady West- 
 hope's in the profile of her nose : her complexion was of 
 the same tone ; and he perceived a decided likeness in 
 the setting on of the head. 
 
 When Christmas arrived, Mr. Wroxholme wrote an 
 excuse to the Westhopes, informing them that he was on 
 
 the eve of marriage with the daughter of Sir H. B , 
 
 and that the arrangements attending this haf)py event 
 must detain him in London. He told Lady Westhope 
 that his future bride bore a strong resemblance to herself 
 in outward appearance, and that he only hoped that
 
 164 BLANCHE. 
 
 she might take her as a pattern in more essential quah- 
 fications. 
 
 How did Lady Westhope feel on the reception of this 
 letter ? She felt exceedingly surprised, for experience 
 only can teach woman how short a time love can survive 
 hope in the heart of man ; but she felt satisfied, nay, 
 relieved. She had for six months devoted herself to the 
 performance of her duties, — she had repelled every weak 
 emotion. She rejoiced that Mr. Wroxholme should be 
 happy, she rejoiced that she would no longer be called 
 upon to keep strict watch and ward over her own heart, 
 and she was gratified by the manner in which she spoke 
 of herself. The likeness which he professed to discover 
 in Miss B. was a balm to her vanity, and prevented its 
 obscuring her reason. She was therefore able to rejoice, 
 as her principles pointed out she ought to do, that they 
 had escaped all further trial. 
 
 While Lady Westhope was thus regaining tranquillity 
 and self esteem, Blanche toiled through a long summer 
 of very fine weather and the usual country occupations — 
 through a long autumn and its shooting parties. She had 
 to listen to the number of head of game killed at battues, 
 or to the merits of the young hounds, or of the new 
 huntsman ; and she conscientiously danced through the 
 winter balls at the county town. 
 
 In some respects she gave great satisfaction to the 
 neighbours. No one could accuse her of showing the 
 slightest preference for the most distinguished young 
 heir apparent over the most Tony Lumpkin-like son of 
 the most humble country 'squire, or the most penniless 
 young curate, who might summon courage to ask Lady 
 Blanche De Vaux to dance. Indeed, the more out of 
 the question the partner, the more gracious was Blanche ; 
 so that the popularity of the house of Falkingham was 
 greatly on the increase. Unfortunately, there was no 
 son, or his chance of being returned for the county 
 would have been considerably augmented. Lord Falk- 
 ingham's family consisted only of daughters, among whom 
 his personal property would be divided ; while his whole 
 landed estate would descend, with the title, to a nephew.
 
 BLANCHE. 165 
 
 A second spring arrived. To London they went 
 again. Tlie brilliancy of Lady Blanche's conjpjexion 
 was gone ; her step had lost its elasticity, her figure 
 something of its roundness. The last month or two 
 had been to her a period of much uneasiness, much mor- 
 tification. 
 
 She had calculated that the intelligence of her marriage 
 having been broken off, must have reached De Molton, 
 and bv this time she might have received from him a 
 passionate expression of his joy and his devotion. Day 
 after day elapsed, and no letter arrived. It is impossible 
 to say whether, suffering the pangs of (as she imagined) 
 unrequited affection, she might not have found a remedy, 
 as it were, in the very excess of the disease, had not a 
 circumstance occurred which again excited hope. 
 
 Even in woman, love can seldom exist if completely 
 deprived of aliment, though it thrives upon the very 
 smallest portion of sustenance imaginable. 
 
 Blanche frequently met Lady Cumberworth and her 
 daughters in society : the very sight of De Molton's 
 mother caused a tremor and an agitation which roused 
 her from the state of apathy into which she had fallen. 
 Moreover, she often perceived Lady Cumberworth's 
 eyes fixed upon her with a kind and motherly expression ; 
 and she even fancied she looked as if she longed to speak 
 to her, although they had never been regularly intro- 
 duced. Lady Falkingham watched with a jealous eye 
 every symptom of intercourse with Lady Cumberworth ; 
 and if they found themselves within speaking distance 
 of De Molton's mother, never failed to move to the other 
 side of the room. 
 
 One morning Lady Falkingham complained of a cold, 
 and promulgated at breakfast that she should not go to 
 Mrs. Baltimore's party that evening. Now, Mrs. Balti- 
 more was a relation and a particular friend of Lady Cum- 
 berworth's. Blanche quickly replied, " Oh, do not run 
 any risk on my account, dear mamma ! You know Lady 
 Westhope can chaperon me." 
 
 "Bless me, Blanche!" exclaimed her father; "you, 
 wishing to go out, and your mother to stay at home ! I
 
 166 BLANCHE. 
 
 am delighted to find young and old are resuming their 
 natural characteristics." 
 
 "Really, Blanche,"' said Lady Falkingham, I think you 
 are the most perverse girl I ever knew. Every evening 
 I am obliged to urge you to go and dress, to drive you 
 by force to the best parties in London ; and the one otily 
 night I would rather stay at home, you are seized with 
 such a fury of dissipation that you wish to send all over 
 the town to find a chaperon ! Nothi-ng I dislike so much 
 as that a girl should be hawked about one night with one 
 person and the next night with another." 
 
 " But surely, mamma, sending to Lady Westhope is 
 not sending- all over the town ; and 1 was so long with 
 her at Paris, that it is not like going out with a stranger." 
 
 " Don't talk to me of Paris, Blanche, if you wish me 
 to be able to eat any breakfast; the sample she gave of 
 her chaperonage there is not calculated to make me 
 anxious to intrust you to her again !" 
 
 " Really, my dear, I think it is you who are rather per- 
 verse ; you often find fault with Blanche for wishing to 
 shut herself up, and for not exerting herself to recover 
 her spirits, and now you check her when she attempts to 
 do what you so often urge. I have some business with 
 Lord Westhope this morning, and if I find Lady West- 
 hope at home, I cannot see any objection to my asking 
 her to take Blanche to-night." 
 
 Lady Falkingham could say no more ; she could not, 
 before Blanche, explain her objections to Mrs. Baltimore's 
 party. She resolved, however, to risk a fit of rheuma- 
 tism rather than allow her daughter to elude her vigilant 
 eye. 
 
 Lord Falkingham quickly settled the evening arrange- 
 ments with Lady Westhope, and as quickly took his 
 leave, to avoid the formality of a wedding visit from Mr. 
 and Mrs. Wroxholme, who had just returned from pass- 
 ing their honeymoon in the country. 
 
 Lady Westhope was exceedingly surprised to find Mrs. 
 Wroxholme small and slender, whereas she herself was 
 tall, and was altogether a fine woman rather than a pretty 
 one. She was also surprised to find that her mouth was
 
 BLANCHE. 167 
 
 wide (though her teeth were so bright and her smile so 
 sunny lliat no one who spoke to her would be disposed 
 to criticise it too severely), whereas Lady Westliope's 
 was peculiarly small, and classical in its form. The 
 setting on of the head was concealed by the winter ap- 
 parel ; and Lady Westhope was not sufficiently well 
 acquainted with her own profile to be struck with any 
 resemblance in Mrs. Wroxholme's. She scarcely knew 
 whether or not to be flattered at Mr. Wroxholme's having 
 fancied a likeness where so little existed ; and yet it 
 proved that she had been present to his thoughts, and 
 that he could not admire any one without trying to dis- 
 cover in her a resemblance to the person he had fixed 
 upon as the type of female perfection. 
 
 Mr. Wroxholme looked the happiest of the happy. 
 Mrs. AVroxholme was modest without being awkward, 
 and did not seem to be indisposed towards her husband's 
 friend, as is so frequently the case when the husband has 
 injudiciously praised, or the woman has a narrow mind, 
 or a jealous disposition. On the contrary, she seemed 
 disposed to take it upon trust, that the person of whom 
 her husband approved must be deserving of esteem. 
 
 Lady Westhope was much pleased with all she saw of 
 the bride in this morning visit ; and she was gratified 
 by her evident inclination to like, and her desire to be 
 liked. When they were taking leave, she took an op- 
 portunity of expressing to Mr. Wroxholme, how much 
 she was flattered at his having found any resemblance 
 between so charming a person as his young wife and 
 herself Mr. Wroxholme looked surprised, and wholly 
 unconscious to what she could allude ; then suddenly re- 
 collecting himself — "Oh yes, so I did ! 1 thought Em- 
 ma very like you when first I knew her ; but I have not 
 been so much struck with the likeness of late." 
 
 The truth was, that since he had become so exceed- 
 ingly in love with his wife, as he now was, he had utterly 
 forgotten what had at first been to him her greatest at- 
 traction. With the generality of men, love, when once 
 over, leaves not a trace behind. With women, on the 
 contrary, a person whom they have once loved, or even
 
 168 BLANCHE. 
 
 one by whom they once believed themselves to be sin- 
 cerely loved, remains to them an object of interest, 
 though the sentiment itself may long have ceased to 
 exist. 
 
 LadyWesthope felt almost abashed when she replied, in 
 an explanatory tone — " I should not have had the vanity 
 to make such a remark, if, in announcing your mar- 
 riage, you had not yourself mentioned the resemblance." 
 
 Mrs. Wroxholme, who caught what was passing, said 
 with such an air of honesty, that she was " really dis- 
 tressed at hearing the comparison made," and looked as 
 if she sincerely thought Lady Vv'esthope so much hand- 
 somer than herself, that Lady Westhope felt gratitude 
 towards the wife, mixed with a momentary (it was but 
 a momentary) emotion of pique towards the husband. 
 
 To Lady Falkingham's infinite annoyance, her cold 
 increased towards the evening — she was threatened 
 with the toothache — the night was extremely cold ; 
 she could not, without openly saying she would not 
 trust her daughter out of her sight, insist upon accom- 
 panying her to Mrs. Baltimore's ; neither was her illness 
 such that she could make it a pretext for keeping Blanche 
 at home. 
 
 Meanwhile, Blanche looked unusually animated at din- 
 ner, and her father rejoiced exultingly to see her dark 
 hazel eyes sparkle once more with the rich lustre which 
 was natural to them. Lady Falkingham, on the con- 
 trary, was suffering, and uncomfortable, botli in body and 
 mind. Her tone was querulous ; and she found it im- 
 possible to agree either with her husband or daughter 
 upon any subject, whether of literature, society, or poli- 
 tics. She felt provoked and oppressed by the unac- 
 countable spirits of both father and daughter. 
 
 Lord Falkingham had been trying to talk his wife into 
 good-humour, and nothing daunted by the ill success 
 which had as yet attended his efforts, he proceeded : " I 
 find Mapleton is quite sure of the county if he stands 
 next election." 
 
 " That is very odd !" said Lady Falkingham : " Mr.
 
 BLANCHE. 169 
 
 Evans told me that IMr. Talpoys had eight hundred votes 
 to spare." 
 
 " Well ! Mapleton himself told me he had more than 
 fifteen hundred to spare." 
 
 " I do not believe Mr. Mapleton knows any thing at 
 all about the matter. He believes what his agents tell 
 him ; and they wish him to persist in his opposition to 
 Mr. Talpoys, that they may m&ke their own perquisites." 
 
 " Mapleton must be a great fool if he is so taken in." 
 
 " I never heard he was clever," answered Lady Falk- 
 ingham, with a sarcastic smile. 
 
 " How pretty the new lamps look !" remarked Lady 
 Blanche, who knew that her father had a regard for Mr. 
 Mapleton, and did not like to hear him spoken of slight- 
 ingly. " I think they give a most agreeable, soft light, — 
 do not you, mamma ?" 
 
 " I cannot say I agree with you, my dear. To my 
 mind, they are not near so pretty as the old ones." 
 
 Lord Falkingham, who always felt a vague uneasiness 
 whenever he saw his wife look out of spirits, as he 
 amiably termed and thought what others might have 
 deemed being out of humour, made another attempt to 
 say something agreeable. 
 
 " Is. that pretty cap the handiwork of your new maid, 
 my dear? If it is, 1 think she is likely to suit you." 
 
 " My dear Lord [Falkingham, you mean to be very 
 complimentary, I dare say ; but it would be infinitely 
 more complimentary if you had recognised the old 
 friend you have seen me wear half the winter at Temple 
 Loseley." 
 
 This was another failure ; but he laughed at his own 
 mistake, said he evidently was not born to be a milliner, 
 and remarked what a good vol-au-i'ent he was eating. 
 
 " I am glad you like it. I thought it very bad, I must 
 confess, and had meant to speak to the cook about it ; 
 but 1 will tell him you approve." 
 
 Lord Falkingham was provoked at last. He piqued 
 himself upon his taste in gastronomy, and did not at all 
 like any one presuming to have a more refined palate 
 than his own. Little more was said. 
 
 VOL. II. — r
 
 170 
 
 BLA?ICHE. 
 
 Blanche counted the moments till Lady Westhope 
 called for her, with something of the same eagerness she 
 would have done had it been De Molion, instead of De 
 Molton's mother, whom she expected to meet. 
 
 To her great joy, the first person she saw on entering 
 the room was Lady Cumber worth ; and she felt, she 
 knew not wherefore, that this evening was big with 
 events of the utmost importance. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 So, bounding o'er the billows, ride our fleets, 
 To reach the land that owns the sacred name 
 Of home ; and high among the shrouds Iirave hearts 
 Beat towards that home with strong tumultuous joy. 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 Lady Blanche and Lady Cumberworth were at 
 opposite ends of the room. I'liey were not acquainted 
 with each other. Rubber after rubber was played by 
 the elder people ; some of the younger won and lost 
 considerable sums at ecarte. The evening wore away ; 
 Blanche's high-wrought expectations seemed likely to 
 end in nothing. " After all," site thought, " what did 
 I expect ? What was to happen ? How foolish I have 
 been ! Lady Cumberworth does not even turn her 
 head my way." She might have seen that a very 
 charming young man vvas in deep conversation with 
 the fourth Miss De Molton ; and Lady Cumberworth 
 would not have moved an inch, or even looked as if 
 she could ever wish to move, as long as this conversa- 
 tion lasted. When the charming young man had, 
 however, taken his leave to grace some more splen- 
 did assembly with his presence, Lady Cumberworth 
 changed her position, and crossed to the side of the 
 room where Lady Blanche stood. She was shghtly
 
 BLANCHE. 171 
 
 acq\iainted with Lady Westhope, and seated herself by 
 her. Blanche's heart beat quick — something; would 
 surely occur now. 
 
 Presently Lady Cumberworth beo^ged Lady West- 
 hope to introduce her to her cousin, Lady Blanche ; 
 which commonplace ceremony was performed in the 
 most commonplace manner : but Lady Blanche's eyes 
 were full of tears, and she blushed to her very temples. 
 Lady Cumberworth saw that her darlincr son was as 
 truly loved as ever, and though she knew it would be 
 reckoned imprudent, she could not help ardently wish- 
 ing to let her know that De Molton was neither faith- 
 less nor indifferent. " After all," thought she, in the 
 good-natured weakness of her heart, " it is evident they 
 are both so deeply attached, that they never can be 
 happy if they are separated. Lord Falkingham is rich 
 — he has no son ; if he chose to provide for Lady 
 Blanche, he could make them tolerably comfortable, 
 I must give the poor girl pleasure by letting her know 
 what are Frank's feelings ; and then he will be so very 
 happy if I tell him I have seen his Blanche, and that 
 she is constant !" She took the opportunity of Lady 
 Westhope's changing her position to draw nearer to 
 Lady Blanche. " Now," thought Blanche, " something 
 is coming; Lady Cumberworth looks as if she did not 
 wish my cousin to hear." 
 
 Lady Cumberworth asked her if she had been at 
 the last ball at M. House. Lady Blanche answered, 
 *' Yes ;" and felt disappointed at so unmeaning a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 Lady Cumberworth did not know how to open the 
 subjpct. " Were you much amused ?" she inquired. 
 
 " No ! I did not think it was very gay," was Blanche's 
 reply. 
 
 " I had a letter from my son in India the other day," 
 continued Lady Cumberworth, while Lady Blanche's 
 lieart seemed almost to stop its pulsations from excess 
 of emotion, "and he tells me the society of Calcutta 
 is very dull. He is gone up the country now on an ex- 
 pedition against some native chiefs."
 
 172 BLANCHE. 
 
 Lady Blanche changed colour, and her eyes turned 
 fearfully and inquiringly on Lady Cumberworth, who 
 proceeded — " He soothes my maternal fears by telling 
 me that it is not a service of much danger ; but he adds, 
 that while there is any active service to be expected, he 
 cannot, in honour, follow his own inclination, which 
 would be to return to England instantly. He seems 
 very much to regret having gone to India at all." 
 
 This was enough. Hope again danced in the heart 
 of Lady Blanche ; l)ut she dared not raise her eyes from 
 the ground : she did not utter — she could not think of 
 any thing which would not too openly commit her to a 
 person who was, in fact, a stranger. But Lady Cum- 
 berworth saw enough to convince her that Frank's de- 
 votion was amply requited, and she absolutely loved 
 Lady Blanche. She was a kind, nay, a tender-hearted 
 woman. She never could resist doing the thing which 
 she saw wished by others, and many a lecture had she 
 received from more sage and worldly matrons for allow- 
 ing her daughters to flirt uselessly, and for permitting 
 herself to be completely managed by them upon most 
 subjects. Several very imprudent marriages had been 
 in question for the girls, and had from her met with 
 little discouragement. Fortunately, Lord Cumber- 
 worth's heart was not so soft, while his head was some- 
 what harder. 
 
 From this time, whenever Lady Blanche and Lady 
 Cumberworth met, a few words of cordial recognition 
 passed between them. Lady Falkingham, to avoid the 
 necessity of being introduced, was either affectedly en- 
 gaged in earnest conversation with some one else, or 
 statelily reared herself to her full height, her eyes look- 
 ing over, or beyond. Lady Cumberworth. The greet- 
 ings, consequently, became each evening- shorter and 
 more constrained ; but still they were sufScient to keep 
 Blanche's mind engaged with the idea of De Molton. 
 
 The letter which his mother wrote to him immedi- 
 ately after her conversation with Lady Blanche, found 
 him one sultry day lying in his bungalow, exhausted 
 in body and mind. The expedition against the Pin-
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 173 
 
 darries was over. He had distinguished himself by 
 his eager and ardent courage, and his previous study 
 of the history and nature of the country had enabled 
 him to be of essential service to his commanding officer. 
 The novelty and excitement of this desultory warfare 
 had assisted to divert his thoughts from dwelling ex- 
 clusively on the subject of his unfortunate attachment; 
 but that excitement was over. The regiment was at 
 present established in bungalows, near the borders of 
 the British possessions, and removed to a great distance 
 from any European society. 
 
 The weather was so oppressively hot, that except for 
 some hours about sunrise, and for a few more in the 
 evening, it was impossible that even any military duty 
 could take place. 
 
 The intervening space of time was generally passed 
 by the officers languidly stretched -on mats, and gasping 
 for breath. They were cut off from all communication 
 with any of their countrymen, and the unhealthiness of 
 the climate had wofully thinned the number of those 
 who had originally formed their small society. The few 
 books possessed by the party had been read and re-read 
 a hundred times. An occasional tiger-hunt before day- 
 break — the exhilarating: intelliofence of a crocodile 
 having been seen on the bank of a neighbouring tank 
 — the punishment of some native discovered in one of 
 the thefts which were so often perpetrated and so seldom 
 detected — or the death of another comrade, — were the 
 only events which occurred to vary the monotony of De 
 Molton's existence. 
 
 In the vacuity of such a life, the image of Blanche 
 woLild rise before his mind, more beautiful, more fascina- 
 ting than ever; and he would pass whole hours with his 
 eyes fixed upon the blinds which the natives were con- 
 stantly watering to preserve some freshness in the at- 
 mosphere, while his thoughts wandered far away from 
 the melancholy and uninteresting sights around him, to 
 the festive and brilliant saloons of Paris, or to the 
 dimly lighted stairs of the private box entrance of Gov- 
 ern Garden, or to the long dinner-table at Cransley, 
 
 p2
 
 174 BLANCHE. 
 
 with the epergne and its projecting flowers, or, dearer 
 than all, to the library where he last beheld her — where 
 he caught the expression of her countenance when she 
 said, "And do you then love me?" — to the library where 
 she had uttered the few words which had changed the 
 whole tenor of both their fates — " Why did you not tell 
 me this sooner 7" 
 
 He was feasting his nmemory on these precious recol- 
 lections ; he was wondering whether she still remem- 
 bered him, whether he should ever return to England, 
 whether he should find her free from any other engage- 
 ment, whether there was a possibility that she might 
 ever become his, or whether he was not flattering and 
 deceiving himself in attaching so much importance to 
 these few words ; when he was roused from his reveries 
 by the arrival of despatches from Calcutta with English 
 letters, and his eyes were greeted by the sight of many a 
 well-known handwriting. 
 
 It is only those who have been in distant lands, far 
 from all most dear to them, who can judge of the mingled 
 emotions of joy and fear with which letters from home 
 are received by the exile, — the magic contained in that 
 word Home ! — the thousand tender, delightful, and pain- 
 ful feelings that crowd upon the soul, — the anxiety with 
 which the letters are hastily examined to see that they 
 are not sealed with black, — the eagerness with which 
 the one from the person nearest and dearest to the heart 
 is selected from all the rest, — the sickening agitation 
 with which it is torn open, and the nervous haste with 
 which the eye glances to the top of the page to look for 
 the accustomed " All well," and the glow of delight with 
 which the comfortable words are hailed ! 
 
 De Molton seized , his mother's letter, — perused the 
 assurances of the welfare of his father, his brothers, his 
 sisters, his uncles, his aunts, his first cousins, and his 
 second cousins ! Nothing could be more satisfactory 
 than the report his mother gave of every branch of the 
 family, and yet he was not satisfied. 
 
 At length came the postscript ; and there he found the 
 name he had been longing to see. There he found that
 
 BLANCHE. 175 
 
 Blanche was still free and unfettered, that Blanche did 
 not enjoy society, that Blanche still blushed when she 
 heard his name. 
 
 His impatience to return home now exceeded all 
 bounds. Two years had elapsed since he left England ; 
 there seemed little chance of any war in which his ser- 
 vices would be useful to his' country, or in which he 
 could himself acquire fame. 
 
 He' lost no time in negotiating his exchange into a 
 regiment which was shortly to sail for his native lan^l ; 
 and towards the end of the third spring from the time of 
 his departure, he once more set foot on English ground, 
 and hastened to his father's house, with all the trepida- 
 tion and anxiety experienced by any one who arrives at 
 a home from which the last intelligence is nearly a year 
 old. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 Love mocks all sorrows but his own. 
 And (lamps each joy he does not yield. 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 Dk Molton had the happiness of finding no chasm in 
 the dear and well-known family circle. He could look 
 round and meet the beaming, tearful, tender glance of 
 his doting mother, the gay but kindly smile of his father, 
 the affectionate countenances of his sisters ; and he felt 
 that the joy of reunion almost compensates for the pain 
 of separation, when the return is not imbittered by the 
 absence of any familiar face. 
 
 Three years, however, had worked some changes in 
 those around him. His mother was thinner, her eyes 
 were dimmer, her nose appeared sharper, and she was 
 altogether a smaller person than he had left her. His 
 father was fatter, and his head more bald. His elder 
 sister iiad acquired an air which bespoke the spinster of
 
 176 BLANCHE. 
 
 a certain age. His youngest sister was wonderfully 
 improved : but it was Charlotte, the fourth, in whom he 
 perceived the greatest alteration. 
 
 The very charming young man whose conversation 
 Lady Cumberworth had been so unwilling to interrupt, 
 had at length made his proposals ; and Charlotte, whom 
 her brother Frank remembered pale, and thin, and shy, 
 and dull, was grown rosy and blooming, with a peculiarly 
 expressive countenance, and singularly speaking eyes. 
 
 The moment De Molton could draw his mother aside, 
 he questioned her concerning Lady Blanche ; and from 
 her he learned that the Falkinghams were still in Lon- 
 don, that Lady Blanche was still unmarried, and that 
 she was supposed to have lately refused a most excel- 
 lent and worthy man. 
 
 De Molton's heart throbbed with joy which he did not 
 attempt to conceal from his mother ; but the very hope 
 to which, in her tenderness, she had not been able to 
 resist ministering, alarmed her, now she witnessed its 
 excess, and she began to remind her son how impossible 
 it was that he should ever marry Lady Blanche, how 
 improbable that the Falkinghams should ever consent to 
 such a union, and, even should they not oppose it as 
 strenuously as she anticipated, how impossible it was 
 that he should by any means muster an income sufficient 
 to provide against real, actual poverty. 
 
 But Lady Cumberworth's prudential reasonings came 
 too late. Her son had made up his mind that honour 
 and gratitude now demanded the same line of conduct 
 as that prompted by inclination, and he resolved if, upon 
 the first interview which he could obtain with Lady 
 Blanche, he had reason to believe he still held the same 
 place in her affections, that he would brave all the frowns 
 of fortune, and gladly, gayly, gallantly encounter any 
 degree of poverty, provided she were willing to share it 
 with him : if she were not willing to do so, she could but 
 refuse him. 
 
 In vain did I^ady Cumberworth use every argument 
 she might have recollected before she imprudently re- 
 vived the hopes he had been attempting to crush. De
 
 BLANCHE. 177 
 
 Molton, when once he had taken a resolution, was im- 
 moveable : and his mother, although frightened at what 
 she had assisted to bring about, could not help loving 
 him the better for his ardour, and her heart went with 
 him, while she dreaded the reproaches of others for 
 having fomented what she ought to have repressed. 
 
 De Molton left a card at Lord Falkingham's the day 
 after his arrival. On returning from the morning drive, 
 Blanche found it upon the table, and she could not en- 
 tirely check a faint exclamation. Her mother looked at 
 her with a stern and reproachful, but melancholy glance, 
 which suddenly drove back the colour already mounting 
 to her cheeks. She felt ready to faint; but she was 
 ashamed to show such emotion before one whose feel- 
 ings were so little in unison with her own, and by a 
 strong eflbrt she mastered herself She would have 
 given the world had Lady Falkingham spoken, even to 
 reproach her. This chilling silence was more awful, 
 more subduing, than any words which could be uttered. 
 
 She gladly seized the first excuse to retire to her own 
 room, and there to enjoy the delight of finding that her 
 lover was in England, safe, and faithful ; — for she felt 
 convinced he was faithful. She had seen Lady Cumber- 
 worth only two days before. He was not then arrived. 
 His calling the very day after his return, before he had 
 any printed cards (for his name was only written, and, 
 as she thought, written with an unsteady hand), spoke 
 volumes to her hopeful heart. 
 
 They dined out on that day ; and, after their dinner, 
 were to proceed to a party at which Blanche thought it 
 possible she might meet the Cumberworths, and, conse- 
 quently, De Molton. 
 
 If Lady Blanche's reputation for good manners had 
 depended upon her conduct on that memorable day, she 
 would certainly have been reckoned the least well-bred 
 young lady who ever sat at " good men's feasts." Three 
 times did tlie master oi' the house ask her to drink wine 
 before she took any notice whatever of his request, and 
 then she answered, " Mutton, if you please." The ser- 
 vants were repeatedly obliged to touch her sleeve with
 
 178 BLANCHE. 
 
 the silver dishes containing the entrees, before they could 
 induce her to turn round ; and her next neighbour gave 
 up the point of leading her into anything like connected 
 conversation ; not, however, till he had made many fruit- 
 less attempts to do so ; for there was an animation in her 
 countenance, there was a fire in her eye, and a blushing 
 consciousness pervading her whole demeanour, which 
 convinced him it was not because she was either dull, or 
 shy, or stupid, that it was impossible to excite or to 
 interest her. 
 
 It was with infinite vexation that Lady Falkingham 
 remarked all these symptoms. Not a word was spoken 
 during their drive from the dinner to the party. She 
 knew Blanche's frank nature, and she knew, if once the 
 ice was broken, she would speak boldly and strongly all 
 that Lady Falkingham least washed to hear. 
 
 When they entered the assembly, the room was not 
 full, and Blanche at once saw that none of the Cumber- 
 worth family were there. Though she ardently desired 
 to see De Molton, yet she almost dreaded it. So many 
 eyes would be upon her, that she would willingly have 
 postponed the long wished for moment of meeting. 
 
 The rooms began to fill. She fancied a likeness in the 
 hair of this man, in the forehead of another : but no ; 
 when the crowd allowed her to see the rest of the face, 
 it vp-as not De Molton. 
 
 At length the door opened wide, and she heard an- 
 nounced, in a loud voice, " Lady Cumberworth,the Misses 
 De Molton and Captain De Molton." 
 
 Every thing swam before her eyes : she could scarcely 
 distinguish Lady Cumberworth's delicate and fragile, 
 though faded beauty, as she entered the apartment, fol- 
 lowed by three fine handsome girls, all taller and larger 
 than their mother. Behind them all, she at length per- 
 ceived the stately figure of De Molton ; his faced bronzed, 
 — yes, and oldened too, — but there was the same look of 
 feeling and of dignity, although he seemed to wish to 
 glide unperceived into the room till his eager and inquir- 
 ing glance had ascertained whether his long-loved Lady 
 Blanche was present.
 
 BLANCHE. 179 
 
 Their eyes met, and as instantly fell ; but that one 
 glance revealed to each that, although so long separated, 
 time had worked no change in their feelings. In one 
 second he was by her side — the crowd had again closed 
 in — Lady Blanche was seated, while most of those around 
 were standing; and their meeting was more private than 
 in many a less crowded apartment. 
 
 But Lady Falkingham was by her daughter's side ; 
 both felt her cold and searching eyes upon them, and 
 both were unable to utter. Lady Falkingham, after a 
 somewhat lofty recognition of De Molton, made neither 
 sign nor m.ovement which could encourage him to seat 
 himself; and he stood before them, growing every mo- 
 ment more and more shy, and feeling himsell more incon- 
 veniently tall than ever he did before. 
 
 Blanche, in a trembling voice, had asked him when he 
 landed, and inquired whether his voyage had been pros- 
 perous, to which questions he had made some indistinct 
 answers ; when Lady Falkingham's attention being for a 
 moment withdrawn by some one on the other side, he 
 asked, in a low voice, whether he should find Lady 
 Blanche at home the next morning. She answered 
 " She hoped so." 
 
 " I must see you," he added ; " but not here, — not 
 thus !" Lady Falkingham turned round, and he hurried 
 away, leaving Blanche in a confused state of perfect hap- 
 piness. 
 
 He mingled among the crowd, and was soon over- 
 powered with greetings from numerous old acquaint- 
 ances, and friendly congratulations upon his safe return ; 
 but Lady Blanche was aware that his eye still turned 
 towards her, and that she was still in his thoughts. 
 
 She was romantic ; her heart was formed for love ; 
 while for nearly three years, her taste fjr the romantic, 
 and the warmth of her attachment, had been nearly de- 
 prived of aliment. Since her last definitive conversa- 
 tion with Lord Glenrith, she had had no delicate distresses, 
 no interesting persecutions, no occurrences of any kind. 
 This very blank had, to a person of her disposition, been 
 a greater trial than any more active trial would have
 
 180 BLANCHE. 
 
 been. Perhaps it was one which her constancy might 
 not have stood, if her rejection of Lord Glenrith had not 
 caused her pride, as well as her leehngs, to be engaged 
 in preserving an undeviating fidehty to her absent lover. 
 Be that as it may, the pleasure of again knowing herself 
 beloved, of again meeting eyes which beamed softly upon 
 hers, of being once more engaged in all the pleasing 
 agitations of a love-affair, was inexpressibly delightful. 
 
 De Molton, on his part, returned home intoxicated 
 with the rapturous conviction that the beautiful, the ad- 
 mired Lady Blanche had for his sake rejected many of 
 the best matches in England ; that among all the tempt- 
 ation of the London world, and in spite of all the oppo- 
 sition of her parents, she had enshrined his image in her 
 heart of hearts. The result was, that they were both 
 desperately in love ; and they both wondered how they 
 had endured existence during their long and hopeless 
 separation. 
 
 The next morning, De JMolton called at an unusually 
 early hour; but Lady Falkingham, as a measure of pre- 
 caution, had ordered the servants to say — ' not at home,' 
 and he was refused admittance. He bit his lips, and re- 
 tired from the door with a flushed brow, but a more 
 lofty bearing even than usual. He returned home to in- 
 dite a long and passionate epistle to Lady Blanche — as 
 passionate as might be expected from a man who had 
 loved long, fervently, and hopelessly; who felt himself 
 presumptuous in oftering himself, yet was conscious that 
 his eftusions would not meet a cold and disdainful eye, 
 but that they were addressed to one who fully returned 
 his affection. 
 
 At the same time, he wrote to Lord Falkingham, giv- 
 ing a true and undisguised account of his present situa- 
 tion and of his future prospects ; both of which were, it 
 must be confessed, as unpromising as can well be ima- 
 gined. Yet, while he honestly detailed his own un- 
 vvorthiness to match with such a person as Lady Blanche, 
 there was a proud humility pervading every line he wrote, 
 which proved that, although on the score of fortune he 
 owned himself her inferior, he felt conscious of being an
 
 BLANCHE. 181 
 
 honourable and high-minded man, her equal in birth and 
 situation, and one who would not brook being treated 
 with any want of consideration or respect. 
 
 Blanche received his letter WMth unalloyed delight. 
 She read over and over again the glowing expressions of 
 devotion it contained, and resolved that nothing short of 
 the positive commands of both parents should prevent 
 her returning such an answer as might reward Do Molton 
 for all he had suffered on her account. 
 
 With his letter in her hand, she hastened to her father's 
 study, in order to open the subject to him before her 
 mother had had an opportunity of influencing him against 
 her wishes. 
 
 " Papa," she said, " I have had a letter !" 
 
 " So have I, my dear !" answered Lord Falkingham, 
 who was sitting in his leathern armchair, one foot on the 
 fender, the other on a bar of the grate, with one hand 
 holding the open letter, with the other stroking his eye- 
 brows, as he often did when thinking deeply and un- 
 pleasantly. 
 
 " Pa{)a, mine is from Captain Be Molton," and she 
 coloured a little, — but it was only a little ; for she was 
 resolved, and not trembling. She knew her father was 
 aware of her attachment ; and she did not experience 
 the confusion attendant on the first confession of a bud- 
 ding preference. 
 
 " So is mine," rejoined Lord Falkingham, " and very 
 distressing it is. Take it and read it, my dear Blanche, 
 and you will perceive that, knowing as I do how com- 
 pletely you return Captain De Molton's affection, it is a 
 communication which must exceedingly distress a father's 
 feelings !" 
 
 Blanche's countenance fell : she seized the letter ; she 
 fancied there must be some difficulty, some objection on 
 his part, to which he had not alluded in his letter to her, 
 and she devoured each line with her eyes, dwelling with 
 delight upon the expressions of devotion to herself, on 
 the impossibility he had experienced to drive her from 
 his mind ; she admired the noble pride which pervaded 
 the whole ; she fully appreciated the candour with which 
 
 VOL. IL — Q
 
 182 BLANCHE. 
 
 he entered upon the subject of his poverty ; and quickly 
 glancing over the sums specified as his younger brother's 
 fortune, the amount of his pay, &c., as topics in which 
 she had no interest, and which weie " papa's aftair," she 
 returned the letter to her father with a pleased and ani- 
 mated countenance. " What a beautiful letter, papa ! 
 There is nobody the least like him : nobody so noble, so 
 true, so constajit!'' and she clasped her hands earnestly; 
 "and I know, papa, you value such qualities a thousand 
 times more than riches 1"' 
 
 " Yes, my child, more than riches ; but they will not 
 do instead of a competency. You have been brought up 
 in luxury, and you are very little calculated to make a 
 poor man's wife." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! you know that Lord Glenrith's splendour 
 did not gratify me the least. You know how inditierent 
 I was to the diamonds ; that I never felt the least wish 
 for his wife's beautiful trousseau, which all the world was 
 admiring ; nor for the long-tailed roan horses ; nor for 
 any thing of the sort. I could be happy without those 
 things ; but, papa, I could not — no, I coukl not live with 
 a husband I did not love :" she spoke with strong emo- 
 tion : " and I never shall love any one except Captain Do 
 Molton. So, if you forbid me to think of him, you may 
 rest assured I shall never marry as long as I live. I have 
 proved this is not a girlish fancy. It may be a first love ; 
 but it is not the contemptible first love of every young 
 lady which you and mamma despise so much." 
 
 " Would to Heaven it were !" exclaimed Lord Falk- 
 ingham. " Blanche, you make me very unhappy, for I 
 see nothing before you but a choice of evils ; no happi- 
 ness, or much unhaj)piness." 
 
 " No, papa ! not unhappiness. People cannot be un- 
 happy when they are truly attached, and when they are 
 together. And indeed ours is a true attachment. It has 
 stood the test of time and absence. It has conquered all 
 difficulties. If it was tiie passing fancy people can be 
 laughed out of, I should have been cured long ago. If I 
 could not forget Captain De Molton when I was uncer- 
 tain whether he remembered me or not, shall I forget him
 
 BLANCHE. 183 
 
 now, when I find that, among strangers, in foreign lands, 
 in another hemisphere, he lias thought of me, and me 
 only; when, added to my admiration of his character, I 
 must feel gratitude for his constancy." 
 
 " This is very perplexing," rejoined Lord Falkingham ; 
 "I wish the fellow was not so very poor. He is an 
 honest, straightforward gentleman, though: he has no 
 humbug about him : he does not tiy to make the best of 
 himself." 
 
 Blanche smiled through her tears, and looked up at 
 her father with such a proud exulting tenderness at hear- 
 ing him speak in these terms of De Molton, that his heart 
 was touched, and kissing her forehead, he said, " Well, 
 my child, 1 will do my best. If he can get his father to 
 assist him, and if we can make up any thing like an 
 income — " 
 
 " Remember, I despise riches, dear papa ; I hate the 
 very name of money." 
 
 " Yes, my love, yes ; and so do a great many other 
 people, who want the things which cannot be got without 
 money, as much as their neighbours do. Well ! I will 
 see De Molton ; 1 will talk to him." 
 
 At this moment Lady Falkingham entered. Blanche 
 felt a little alarmed at having first flown to her father in 
 the tumult of her joy ; but still she was glad her father 
 was not to receive his first impressions upon the subject 
 from her mother. Lady Falkingham looked surprised at 
 finding father and daughter together, with evident traces 
 of agitation visible on both tlieir countenances. Lord 
 Falkingham began: — 
 
 " My dear, 1 have just received this letter, and I 
 have been talking to Blanche very seriously upon the 
 subject." 
 
 l^ady Blanche was grateful to her father for so word- 
 ing his sentence that it might almost seem as if lie had 
 sent for her; for she now felt that Lady Falkingham 
 might be huit, and perhaps with some reason, at her first 
 impulse having brought her to her liitlier, rather than to 
 her mother, upon such an occasion. Lord I'alkingham 
 dwelt upon the serious manner in which he had spoken
 
 184 BLANCHE. 
 
 to his daughter ; for he knew liis wife would disapprove 
 of his having allowed her to hope there was any chance 
 of his ultimate approbation. 
 
 Lady Falkingham took the letter, and after having 
 perused its contents with an unmoved countenance, she 
 returned it, merely sayi'ig — 
 
 " I think Captain De Molton is as presumptuous a 
 young man as 1 ever heard of He cannot surely expect 
 that Lady Blanche De Vaux is to follow him in the bag- 
 gage-wagon." 
 
 The colour forsook Blanche's cheek, but the next mo- 
 ment it rushed again to her face ; and her eyes flashed at 
 hearing De Molton thus spoken of. The few words her 
 father had said in approbation of his conduct, had jus- 
 tified and sanctioned to her own mind her resolution to 
 abide by him through all opposition. Her father thought 
 him noble in soul, and worthy in character ; he found no 
 objection to him but the want of contemptible wordly 
 advantages, and she felt it was both generous and con- 
 sistent to persevere in her devotion. 
 
 Lord Falkingham having once said he admired the 
 manly candour of De Molton's letter, was not disposed to 
 agree with his wife ; and the severity of her remark made 
 him adopt the side of the lovers more decidedly than 
 he might otherwise have done. " Nay, my dear," he 
 answered, " there is nothing presumptuous in the man- 
 ner in which he offers himself. He speaks most humbly 
 of his own situation." 
 
 "It is the pride that apes humility. The very fact of 
 proposing, is presumption in itself" 
 
 "It might be, if he did not know that Blanche was in 
 love with him ; but as he cannot doubt that fact, I must 
 say I think the young man has acted very properly in 
 offering himself We should think him cold and calcula- 
 ting if he did otherwise." 
 
 " Certainly, if a girl throws herself at a man's head, 
 proclaiming her attachment to the sound of the trumpet, 
 and making her belle passion the talk of the town, it alters 
 the case. I once thought it impossible that a daughter 
 of mine should ever so degrade herself. But Blanche has 
 long been beyond my cotitroL"
 
 BLANCHE. 185 
 
 Blanche was so indignant for De Molton, that, although 
 deeply hurt at what her mother said, she was not soft- 
 ened, and did not weep, as she otherwise would have 
 done. She had always fancied that if Lady Falkingham 
 had known more of De Molton, she would have per- 
 ceived his superiority to the rest of mankind ; that, like 
 Lady Westhope, she would have admitted that he was 
 formed to captivate the heart of woman, even while she 
 condemned the marriage as imprudent : but now that her 
 mother had read this touching and manly effusion, this 
 epistle breathing the very soul of honour and of loyalty 
 to the lady of his love, she was indeed astonished, disap- 
 pointed, and mortified, at finding her still unmoved ; and, 
 for a time, her heart shut itself up from one parent, while 
 it opened to the other. 
 
 " I think the best thing I can do," resumed Lord 
 Falkingham, " is to have some conversation with Lord 
 Cumbervvorth, and see whether it is possible to arrange 
 any thing." 
 
 " It is utterly impossible Lord Cumberworth can ever 
 make Captain De Molton a fit match for Blanche." 
 
 "But the girl says she can never marry anybody she 
 does not love, and that she can never love anybody 
 except Captain De Molton." 
 
 " She has never tried," rejoined Lady Falkingham : 
 " from the moment she so foolishly rejected I^ord Glen- 
 rith, she has wilfully fostered her silly predilection for this 
 interesting penniless captain, though she has seen how 
 miserable her infatuation has made me. If she had not 
 nurtured it by every means in her power, it would have 
 died away like other young ladies' first loves." 
 
 There was a contemptuous expression thrown into these 
 last words, which roused all the heroine in Blanche. 
 
 " Mamma," she said, " I am very sorry I have made you 
 unhappy ; I am very sorry to have given my father any 
 uneasiness, but it is not in my power to command my 
 feelings. I can tell Captain De Molton that I will never 
 marry him without your consent ; but I can never cease 
 to love him, nor can 1 ever love another. How can you 
 say I have not tried to please you, and to obey you ! Did 
 
 q2
 
 186 BLANCHE. 
 
 I not accept Lord Glenrith, and have I ever ceased t<? 
 repent having done so ? If you command it, I will now 
 refuse Captain De Molton ; but when I do so, I cannot 
 attempt to conceal from him that my affections are 
 wholly his ; that they have been his during three years 
 of absence, and that they will be his as long as I live." 
 
 " You see, my dear, that you will not manage Blanche 
 in this way. The truth is, the girl is desperately in love, 
 and we must try to make the best of it." 
 
 Blanche was glad that her father at length treated her 
 attachment with some respect, but she would greatly 
 have preferred the phrase 'irrevocably attached,' to 
 ' desperately in love.' 
 
 "Indeed, Lord Falkingham, if you encourage your 
 daughter in these highflown notions, there is no use in 
 my interfering, and I must make up my mind to seeing 
 her a beggar, and an unhappy beggar ; for Blanche is 
 not formed to struggle w' ith poverty ; she has been ac- 
 customed to every indulgence ; every wish, every fancy 
 has hitherto been gratified. No young lady thinks it 
 more indispensable to be perfectly well dressed, no one 
 is more alive to any want of refinement in those with 
 whom she lives. I know my own child ; she will never 
 be happy in the style, and among the associates to whom 
 she wilfully dooms herself." 
 
 Lady Falkingham wept, but her tears were not all 
 tenderness ; some anger and mortification were mixed 
 with the feeling which prompted them to flow. 
 
 Blanche felt all this, without knowing that she felt it, 
 and was somewhat shocked at her own want of filial 
 piety in not being more touched by the tears her mother 
 shed over her. 
 
 This most unpleasant family colloquy ended by Lord 
 Falkingham'-s writing to Lord Cumberworth to request 
 an interview, and by the mother and daughter returning 
 to the drawing-room, with less cordiality between them 
 than is usual in modern days, when mothers are oftener 
 over indulgent than over severe.
 
 BLANCHE. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Je (lemeurai 6toardie, muette, et confuse ; ce qui etait signe que 
 j'etais charmee. — Marivaux. 
 
 Blanche's life had not of late been a happy one, and 
 in addition to the natural wish of being umted to the 
 object of her love, she experienced considerable anxiety 
 to change her present mode of existence ; and having 
 candidly avowed to her parents that she would not at- 
 tempt to conceal the state of her affections from De 
 Molton, and having received from them no prohibition 
 to answer his letter, she retired to her own room to 
 indite a suitable reply. 
 
 She longed to be alone, and at length to communi- 
 cate freely with the person who had so long been mas- 
 ter of her affections. She spread the paper before her, 
 she dipped the pen in the ink ; and when she had thus 
 prepared herself, she found herself totally at a loss 
 what to say. She was going to write a love-letter : 
 how ought she to begin ? She had written, " Dear 
 Captain De Molton :" she thought it looked very com- 
 monplace and cold ; and she did not know how to 
 proceed. It was true they had been long and faithfully 
 attached, but they had seen very little of each other. 
 Not more than half a dozen words of love had ever 
 passed between them, and those had passed three years 
 before, so that there were no habits of intimacy ; and 
 now it came to the point, she felt inexpressibly shy at 
 the thought of confessing her love in words addressed 
 to the object of it. 
 
 If a man is doubtful of the success of his suit, he 
 should never propose by letter. It is very easy to write 
 the kindest, the civilest, the prettiest refusal in the 
 world ; whereas a gentle and good-natured, or a timid
 
 18S BLANCHE. 
 
 person, finds it always difficult to utter in plain distinct 
 words, to a man's face, "I do not like you; you are 
 disagreeable to me." The hesitation produced by the 
 difficulty of couching such sentiments in pretty lan- 
 guage may be construed into encouragement : silence 
 is proverbially consent ; and a woman may easily be- 
 come entangled, in cases where tj^e feeling on her part 
 does not amount to positive dislike. 
 
 Blanche's epistle would, to the eyes of the indifferent, 
 have appeared a very stupid, ill-written letter. It was 
 formal at first : as it proceeded it almost too plainly ex- 
 pressed the warmth of her attachment ; she then pro- 
 fessed her determination to abide by the decision of her 
 parents. In short it was not consistent — it was not in 
 keeping ; but De Molton thought it perfect. He per- 
 ceived ardent feelings struggling with maiden modesty 
 and filial obedience, and he thought the eloquence dis- 
 played in it mis^ht render it worthy a place among the 
 etiusions of a Sapplio or a Heloise. 
 
 The next morning Lord Cumberworth waited upon 
 Lord Falkingham. He did not like the idea of the 
 marriage, for he feared he should be expected to make 
 some sacrifices for his sou's happiness, and he was not 
 a man who was fond of making sacrifices. He had, 
 however, an utifailing and excellent excuse for never 
 doing any thing he disliked, in the number of other 
 sons and daughters who had an equal claim upon his 
 parental care and tenderness — a tenderness which con- 
 sisted in imperturbable good-humour, and in allowing 
 them all the run of the house. 
 
 The two fathers were slightly acquainted ; and Lord 
 Cumberworth, seating himself with an easy air by the 
 fire, rubbed his hands several times up and down his 
 shins, and at length said, with a half smile and a shake 
 of the head, " My dear lord, this is a sad business of 
 my son's and your daughter's ; I am very sorry for it, 
 upon my soul !" 
 
 Lord Falkingham felt that he had more reason to 
 regret it than Lord Cumberworth, inasmuch as Blanche 
 would have twelve thousand pounds at his death, and
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 1S9 
 
 De Molton would only come in for the eleventh part of 
 fifty thousand pounds at his father's death ; inasmuch 
 as Lord Falkingham was an earl, and Lord Cumher- 
 worth only a baron. Ke looked a little awful, and 
 replied — 
 
 " Your lordship cannot regret the circumstance more 
 than I do." 
 
 " I have done my utmost to prevent it ; I have told 
 him from his boyhood that a man is never undone till 
 he is married. Just before he sailed, I said, ' Frank, 
 my boy, remember peril by marriage is the worst peril 
 a man can fall into. But as liiey say, every one must 
 buy his own experience ; and when young people have 
 taken a fancy into their heads, we cannot preach them 
 out of it. We cannot put old heads on young shoul- 
 ders, as you have found with your daughter, my lord." 
 
 Lord Falkingham did not half like hearing Lord 
 Cumberworth speak as if Blanche was as resolute in 
 her predilection as her lover was in his, though it might 
 be perfectly true that she was so. 
 
 '' My ^ughter places herself in my hands, and has 
 no idea of disobeying my commands." Lord Cumber- 
 worth slightly elevated his eyebrows, and the expres- 
 sion of his countenance did not betoken that he partici- 
 pated in Lord Falkingham's reliance on his daughter's 
 submission. " But as I know her happiness is deeply 
 concerned in this affair, I am anxious to do every thing 
 in my power to forward hers and Captain De Mol ton's 
 wishes." 
 
 Lord Cumberworth's countenance brightened : he 
 did not exactly know how strictly Lork Falkingham's 
 property was entailed upon his nephew, and he drew 
 his chair nearer to Lord Falkingham, hoping that his 
 son was going to make a better match than he had been 
 aware of 
 
 " That is exactly what I say ; as their happiness is 
 concerned, poor young things, parents should strain a 
 point rather than see their children pine, and pine as 
 poor Lady Blanche has done." 
 
 This was unpleasant to Lord Falkingham's pride and
 
 190 BLANCHE. 
 
 his delicacy: he instinctively pushed his chair back as 
 many inclies as Lord Cumber worth had advanced his. 
 
 The good-humoured but unrefined father of Ue Mol- 
 ton was totally unsuspicious that he had at all offended, 
 but on the contrary tiattered himself he was cleverly 
 pushing his son's interest. " After all, what do any of 
 us wish but to see onr children happy? I am sure 
 there is nothing I would not do that was compatible 
 with my means." 
 
 "You are aware," resumed Lord Falkingham, " that 
 my estates are all entailed upon my nephew; but my 
 personal property will be equally divided among my 
 four daughters, so that I shall be able to leave to each 
 twelve thousand pounds at my death. This sum I will 
 give to Blanche upon her marriage ; and if you will 
 make up Captain De Molton's income equal to the inter- 
 est of her fortiuie, I will consent to their union, although 
 by so doing I believe I am acting the part of a weakly 
 indulgent, rather than of a truly kind father." 
 
 Lord Cumberworth's countenance fell. He had ima- 
 gined — he scarcely knew what; and although nothing 
 could be more fair than Lord Falkingham's proposal, it 
 fell infinitely short of what he had expected, and he 
 found Jiimself not only unwilling, but unable to do 
 what was required of him. 
 
 De Molton had hitherto lived upon his pay and an 
 additional lOOZ. per annum from his father. Lord Cum- 
 ber worth was very little prepared to make such an 
 addition to the 1001. per annum, and replied evasively, 
 " that he would do all in his power — but that he had 
 duties towards his other children — that he could not 
 exactly say — that he would communicate with his man 
 of business — that his daughter Charlotte's marriage, 
 and the expenses attendant upon it, did not render him 
 just then very flush of money," &c., &c. 
 
 In short, he took his leave somewhat disappointed 
 with Lord Falkingham, while the impression he left 
 upon Lord Falkingham's mind was by no means a 
 favourable one. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lady Cumber worth, who could not en-
 
 BLANCHE. 19J 
 
 dure to witness the state of nervous excitement and 
 agitation in whicli her darhng Frank paced the floor 
 of her boudoir, resolved she would herself seek Lady 
 Falkingham. She felt sure she could so work npon 
 her womanly and maternal feelings as to win her over 
 to the side of the lovers. She accordingly ordered her 
 carriage, and soon after Lord Cumberworth's return 
 from his momentous interview with Lord Falkingham, 
 she found herself at the same door. 
 
 She did not inquire if Lady Falkingham was at 
 home, but sending in her card, she desired the servant 
 to take it at once to his lady, and to ask if she could 
 see her for a few minutes. 
 
 By this means she effected her entrance ; but Lady 
 Falkingham was exceedingly annoyed at what she 
 deemed an unwarrantable intrusion, and was disposed 
 to think Lady Cumberworth, who was the most hum- 
 ble and the meekest of her sex, a pushing, obtrusive 
 person. 
 
 Lady Cumberworth was somewhat abashed when 
 she entered ; for although she had worked up her 
 courage to take this step by reminding herself that 
 Lady Falkingham was universally allowed to be a 
 most exemplary mother, and that therefore she must 
 surely understand and sympatliize with the maternal 
 feelings of another, she could not quite shake off the 
 impression produced by Lady Falkingham's constant 
 avoidance of herself 
 
 Lady Falkingham was alone and received her with 
 the most awful perfection of good-breeding. The gentle, 
 the kind, the unsuspicious Lady Cumberworth felt 
 chilled ; but she tiiought of her son's care-worn face, 
 and she found resolution to open the subject. " She 
 was sure that Lady Falkingham's own tenderness for 
 her daughter would plead her excuse for intruding upon 
 her : that her son's peace of mind was so completely 
 involved in the event which was then pending, that she 
 could not withstand the temptation of seeking Lady 
 Falkingham, and of pleading his cause. She was fully 
 aware tliat her Frank was by no means worthy in point
 
 192 Blanche. 
 
 of fortune and situation to match with Lady Blanche j 
 but that, still, in point of character and disposition, he 
 was so perfect — so kind, so dutiful a son ! so affection- 
 ate a brother ! so excellent in all the relationships of 
 life ! that if personal qualities could make up for the 
 absence of worldly advantages, he was not unworthy 
 of any good fortune."' 
 
 Lady Falkingham listened with stately politeness, 
 and when Lady Cumberworth paused, she answered : 
 "that she had no doubt his mother's account of his 
 moral perfections was perfectly just, but she feared 
 these qualities would not provide the conveniences of 
 life. She regretted as much as Lady Cumberworth 
 herself could do, the necessity of attending to such 
 paltry considerations ; yet, as the world was now con- 
 stituted, it was impossible to disregard them." 
 
 " But, dear Lady Falkingham, surely any thing is 
 better than that two young creatures should die of 
 broken hearts !" 
 
 " If young people regulated their feelings, we should 
 not hear of such unreasonable proceedings." 
 
 "But in youth the feelings are strong, and the reason 
 is not matured. We have all been young ; we all 
 know — " 
 
 " Certainly — I also have been young ; and therefore 
 I know that in youth as well as in maturity, it is pos- 
 sible to take reason rather than impulse for our guide." 
 
 Lady Falkingham had never deviated for a moment, 
 in principle, inclination, or practice, from the strictest 
 line of prudence and propriety. Lady Cumberworth 
 thought of her own early love, and of its tragic ending, 
 and ardently wished to preserve her child and the ob- 
 ject of his love from the blight which had passed over 
 her own young days. In the warmth of her feelings 
 she could not help saying : " You have been a fortunate 
 woman, Lady Falkingham ! If you had known what 
 it is to give the whole treasure of your young affections 
 to one only object, and to be deprived of that object 
 for ever, you would pause before you doomed any thing 
 you loved to such a fate ! It is hard to bear when the 
 
 ih
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 193 
 
 'eleprivation comes from the hand of Heaven ; how 
 much more hard if from the hand of man !" 
 
 Lady Falkingham did not reply. The deep tone of 
 emotion with which Lady Cumberworth spoke, made 
 her unwillina: to maintain her own side of the argu- 
 ment ; neither could she be brought to allow the expe- 
 diency of Blanche's marrying Captain De Molton. 
 
 At this moment, Blanche accidentally entered the 
 room. She started at seeing Lady Cumberworth, but 
 approached her with a glowing, blushing countenance. 
 Lady Cumberworth, whose feelings were excited by 
 her previous conversation, received her with open arms, 
 embraced her tenderly, and burst into tears. Blanche, 
 surprised, delighted, overpowered, returned her caresses 
 with corresponding emotion. Lady Falkingham sat 
 by, provoked to see how every thing conspired to bring 
 about the dreaded union, and somewhat jealous of her 
 daughter's sudden tenderness for a stranger. 
 
 The following day a second interview took place 
 between the fathers, in which Lord Falkingham ascer- 
 tained, through a profusion of fine words, that Lord 
 Cumberworth either could not, or would not do any 
 thing more to assist his son in making up an income ; 
 and Lord Falkingham thought it his duty to inform 
 his daughter, that she must in good earnest exert her- 
 self to conqner her attachment — that the marriage was 
 impossible. 
 
 Lady Falkingham looked triumphant. Lady Blanche 
 gave way to utter despair. She wept, she was in hys- 
 terics ; she would not leave her room ; she fretted her- 
 self really ill : physicians were sent for, draughts pre- 
 scribed. Even Lady Falkingham began to be alarmed, 
 and was unremitting in her attentions. But these at- 
 tentions did not relieve or sooth Blanche's perturbed 
 spirit. Her mother had never attempted by kindness 
 to win her from her imprudent attachment, and she had 
 completely failed in ridiculing her out of it. The con- 
 sequence was, that she had lost all influence over her 
 mind, and much of that which she had possessed over 
 her affections. 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 194 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 De Molton of course heard of Blanche's illness. He 
 wandered about tlie neighbouring streets ; he inquired 
 twenty times a day at the door ; and at length, upon 
 hearing that Lady Blanche was considered worse, and 
 that a new physician had been called in to a consulta- 
 tion, he sent a message to Lord Falkingham, to implore 
 one moment's conversation. 
 
 Lord Falkingham was uneasy and confounded at the 
 serious aspect of his daughter's illness, and was begin- 
 ning to think any thing was preferable to the present 
 state of affairs. De Molton was admitted, and a pas- 
 sionate appeal on his part did not meet with an absolute 
 refusal. The matter was again renewed ; Blanche was 
 allowed to hope — her health rallied surprisingly, and in 
 the course of three or four days she was able to descend 
 to the drawing-room, and there to receive De Molton 
 as her plighted lover, affianced husband. 
 
 And now did they at length enjoy many delightful 
 tete-a-tetes ; and so fully were they engaged in detailing 
 to each other all the sorrows and fears, doubts, anxieties, 
 and sufferings of their years of separation, that they 
 had little time to talk over or to arrange their plans for 
 the future. They had both been duly warned what 
 were their prospects. Even the tender Lady Cumber- 
 worth had told them that they must not expect to pos- 
 sess all the blessings of this world ; that as they would 
 be rich in that which seemed to her the greatest of all 
 earthly ones, mutual affection, they must make up their 
 minds to be happy witliout others. Lord Cumber- 
 worth repeated, "Remember, Frank, there are twelve 
 of you : I cannot rob my otfier children :" which 
 meant, "I do not mean to give up any of my own 
 comforts for you." Lord Falkingham said every thing 
 that was reasonable and kind, and at the same time 
 provided them with a plain travelling carriage, with all 
 that is useful and necessary in the way of plate, and 
 with as much household linen as would be advisable 
 for people who must change their abode as often as 
 their regiment changed its quarters. Lady Falking- 
 ham, who had been too much terrified by Blanche's
 
 BLANCHE. 195 
 
 despair and her illness actively to oppose the marriage^ 
 contented herself with shaking her head mournfully, 
 and with secretly detesting her future son-i,n-law : but 
 she spared Blanche many of the home. truths and use- 
 ful severities, which might have been of much service 
 had they been duly attended to, but which, under the 
 present circumstances, might have been productive of 
 no g^ood eftect. 
 
 Blanche and De Mol ton, however, acquiesced in the 
 truth of all that was urged by their other relations and 
 friends, and declared, with the utmost sincerity, their 
 contempt for filthy lucre ; a contempt unconditionally 
 expressed by Blanche, but by De Molton in more mea- 
 sured terms, as considering it unworthy to be put into 
 a competition with the affections of the heart. 
 
 Immediately after their marriage, they were to repair 
 to a very pretty villa belonging to a friend of Lord 
 Ciimberworth's ; after which they were to pay several 
 visits ; and towards the autumn they were to join De 
 Molton's regiment, which was quartered in one of the 
 most lovely parts of Devonshire. 
 
 As they had no house of their own, there was no 
 need to procure furniture. Lord Falkingham had 
 already provided plate and linen ; Lady Falkingham of 
 course selected the ti-onsseau ; presents of all kinds 
 flocked in from the numerous connections of both fami- 
 lies — presents which, as they were known to be poor, 
 were all intended to he useful: china inkstands — 
 Sevres ornaments for chimneypieces — buhl clocks, 
 and beautiful dressing-boxes with cut-glass bottles, 
 mounted in silver gilt i 
 
 Nothing could exceed the happiness of the lovers — 
 nothing could exceed their gratitude to their friends for 
 their considerate kindness ; and Blanche felt how pref- 
 erable were these tokens of affection to the Glenrith 
 diamonds, which she had received so coldly.
 
 196 
 
 BXAIVCHXr. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LorJly gallants, tell me this : 
 
 Though my safe content you weigh not. 
 
 In your greatness what one bliss 
 Have you gain'd, that I enjoy not ? 
 
 You have honours, you have wealth, — 
 
 I have peace, and I have health ; 
 All the day I merry make, 
 
 And at night ho care I take. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 The honeymoon was spent at Sir Frederick Vyne- 
 ton's villa ; whose man-cook and whole establishment 
 were devoted to the new-married couple, while the 
 good-natured proprietor was making a tour in the 
 Low Countries. 
 
 Wlien Captain and Lady Blanche De Molton entered 
 the dark-green travelling chariot which Lord Falking- 
 ham had given them, and drove from the portico of Sir 
 Frederick Vyneton's villa, on their way to Cransley, to 
 pass a fortnight with the Westhopes, Lady Blanche ex- 
 claimed, " How strange it is that there should exist 
 people who can sell themselves for money, or for an 
 estabUshment ! Should we be happier, Frank, if we 
 possessed the mines of Golconda, than we are now V* 
 She threw her beaming eyes upon him with an expres- 
 sion of .joyous tenderness which made him indeed feel 
 himself the happiest of men ; yet he trembled to think 
 how little she knew the details of that poverty with 
 which he was already acquainted, although only in 
 the limited degree exi>erienced by a single man, whose 
 wants, and consequently whose privations, are merely 
 personal. 
 
 " Dearest Blanche," he replied, " you knovV nothing 
 of poverty yet. Repeat what you have just said two
 
 BLANCHE. 197 
 
 years hence, and I shall indeed esteem myself the most 
 blessed of human beings. I hold it a matter of duty 
 and of conscience to live within one's means, whatever 
 they may be ; and if, when you really have learned 
 what is the life of a soldier's wife, you still say you 
 despise worldly wealth, I shall be happier — yes, still 
 happier — than I am at this moment ; fur I now feel as 
 if you had engaged yourself in a fate you are not pre- 
 pared for. But 1 have warned you, dearest Blanche — 
 I have not won you under false pretences !" 
 
 " We shall see," replied Blanche, smilingly. " I think 
 I am made for a poor man's wife ; for no one can more 
 heartily detest every thing appertaining to pomp and 
 splendour, and that odious thing called money." 
 
 Blanche expected a rapturous glance of gratitude 
 from De Molton, and was surprised at hearing him sigh. 
 The truth was, they knew little of each other's dis- 
 positions when they became irrevocably engaged, 
 Blanche was warm, enthusiastic, inconsiderate ; she 
 followed her impulses, without looking forward beyond 
 the present moment. De iVIolton was not without en- 
 thusiasm, but his was of a more thoughtful and serious 
 cast. A high notion of honour was in him paramount 
 to all other considerations. It enabled him to leave 
 Paris when he found his friend was in love with Blanche, 
 — it enabled him to quit England when he discovered 
 that she was in love with himself, — it enabled him" to 
 stay in India while there was any military duty to be 
 performed, — it prompted him to throw himself at her 
 iect when he found her still free, although by so doing 
 he scarcely hoped for any thing but a contemptuous 
 refusal on the part of her parents. It now made him 
 resolve that his love for his beautiful wife should not 
 lead him into any expenses which his limited income 
 could not meet ; and that, however painful he might 
 find it to see her deprived of the luxuries to which she 
 had been accustomed, he would never be tempted to 
 run into debt, or to be a burden upon his father, who 
 was neither able nor willing to assist him. 
 
 But when he made this resolution, he did not look 
 r2
 
 198 BLANCHE. 
 
 forward with unmixed pleasure to installing her in the 
 temporary home which he should be able to procure 
 for her near M * * *. She watched the serious ex- 
 pression of his countenance, and she admired that ex- 
 pression, though she wished at this moment to dispel 
 it ; nor was it long before she succeeded in driving 
 away all traces of care from his countenance. 
 
 Several agreeable visits succeeded that to Cransley ; 
 and at last, when they approached the neighbourhood 
 of M * * *, he left her for a few days at the house of 
 a cousin, while he preceded her to his quarters, for the 
 purpose of preparing some comfortable habitation for 
 her reception. 
 
 He was fortunate enough to find a very pretty cot- 
 tage, with a veranda and a garden, to be let within a 
 mile of the town. He arranged the furniture so as to 
 make it look as little like a lodging-house as possible ; 
 he unpacked all the presents which had, at a consider- 
 able expense, been forwarded to M * * * ; and before 
 Blanche joined him, he had so disposed the buhl clock, 
 the inkstands, the paper cutters, the letter pressors, the 
 Persian table covers, and the low, luxurious, well-cush- 
 ioned armchair, which Lady Cumberworth insisted 
 should form part of the camp equipage, as to give the 
 room a look of home. 
 
 De Molton hastened to receive Blanche at the door, 
 and ushered her, with more complacency and satisfac- 
 tion than he had anticipated, through the narrow en- 
 trance, into the treillaged drawing-room. 
 
 It was a lovely evening. The flowers had not yet 
 all faded ; the little garden was bright in the western 
 sun. The view was enchanting. Rich varieties of 
 luxuriant trees clothed the undulating slope to the sea- 
 shore, and the clear blue sea, at a little distance, which 
 from their elevated situation reflected to their eye the 
 azure of the heavens, formed as it were a background 
 to the wooded bank. 
 
 Blanche was enchanted. " How lovely ! how beau- 
 tiful! Oh, what are castles, halls, abbeys, parks, or
 
 BLANCHE. 199 
 
 palaces, to such a home as this, with the person one 
 loves !" 
 
 De Molton was indeed happy — too happy for utter- 
 ance. A tear fathered in his eye, which he was almost 
 ashamed should be seen even by his wife ; and yet he 
 could not avert his eyes from hers when she looked up 
 so tenderly in his face. He gently drew her arm within 
 his own, and they walked forth to enjoy, in the fulness 
 of their hearts, the beauties of nature, and the delight 
 of enjoying them together. 
 
 Thanks to the snow-white tablecloth, the handsome 
 plate, the presents of Lord Falkingham ; the pretty 
 dinner-service, that of Lord Cumberworth ; the lovely 
 dessert-service, that of Lady Cumberworth ; the cut- 
 glass bottles, that of the eldest Miss De Molton ; the 
 tea-things, that of Miss M. De Molton ; the breakfast- 
 things, that of Miss J. De Molton ; the silver urn, that 
 of one of Blanche's married sisters ; and the silver 
 coffee-pot, that of another ; — the first four-and-twenty 
 hours of Blanche's life as the mistress of her own 
 house, passed in a state of rapture and of constant 
 exclamations at the uselessness and contemptibility of 
 money. 
 
 She forgot that she was all this time enjoying money's 
 worth, and that indifference to worldly advantages is 
 not put to the test while a person possesses every lux- 
 ury, every elegance, though on a small scale, — at the 
 moment of all others, too, when married lovers wish 
 only for the enjoyment of each other's society. 
 
 One of the soldiers, who had been trained by De 
 Molton to act as his valet, served as footman. His 
 horses were, of course, taken care of in the barracks ; 
 and, as he had a gig, they were able to drive every day 
 in different directions, exploring new parts of the de- 
 lightful country around. Blanche's life was a day- 
 dream of delight; her rich hazel eyes sparkled with 
 feeling and gayety ; her rosy lips smiled joyously when- 
 ever De Molton entered the room ; to her 
 
 " This earth was all one beautiful dream."
 
 SOO BLANCHE. 
 
 Still, De Molton felt that Blanche had not steadily 
 and dispassionately weighed the advantages and disad- 
 vantages of their present situation, and that it was not 
 with a thorough knowledge of what she was under- 
 taking that she iiad made choice of poverty with him. 
 
 Too much reliance must not be placed on those who, 
 having never had a wish ungratified in the way of 
 worldly conveniences, profess to despise them. If those 
 who have already experienced privation deliberately 
 form a poor marriage, we may conclude that they will 
 know how to abide by the selection they have made, 
 and we need not anticipate for them mortification and 
 disappointment. 
 
 De Molton, from his early youth, had had many op- 
 portunities of seeing the details of a married officer's 
 life; and though, for the sake of the woman he loved, 
 he gladly encountered the difficulties which he knew 
 awaited him, he was thoroughly aware what they 
 were, and he regretted that she should be exposed to 
 them. He almost trembled at her exuberant happi- 
 ness, knowing that he might not always procure for her 
 a pretty cottage orne in the neighbourhood of his bar- 
 racks, and that they should not always be quartered in 
 so cheap a country as Devonshire. 
 
 He would rather have seen her more soberly con- 
 tented ; and when she, proud, as it were, of being so 
 happy, looked to him for applause, she was half morti- 
 fied at the flatness with which her unworldly sentiments 
 were received. 
 
 These sentiments were not so frequently expressed 
 as the season advanced. The flowers wei-e all gone ; 
 the little garden was very damp ; the veranda kept out 
 the sun, and the windows did not keep out the wind ; 
 the roof did not always exclude the rain ; and black 
 beetles abounded on the ground floor, and sometimes a 
 stray one mounted to the bedrooms. The walks were 
 muddy, the drives were windy, the trees had lost their 
 foliage, and the chimneys smoked. 
 
 One evening, as they left the little dining-room, and 
 entered the small drawing-room, they were half stifled
 
 BLANCHE. 201 
 
 with smoke. •' Oh, dearest Frank ! make haste and 
 open the window, or we shall be smothered." But the 
 window was a French window, and the wind set that 
 way. There was no fastening it open so as not to run 
 the risk of breaking it, or letting in a perfect hurricane. 
 They agreed to open the door and window, and to re- 
 turn to the dining-room till the atmosphere was once 
 more fit for respiration. 
 
 This desirable result was soon accomplished, as small 
 rooms are soon filled with smoke, soon cleared, soon 
 warmed, and soon cooled. Accordingly, when they 
 re-entered their snug apartment, they might as well 
 have established themselves under the veranda for any 
 benefit they derived from the fire, which was only now 
 beginning to burn. " This is the only objection to small 
 rooms !" exclaimed Lady Blanche. " If one keeps the 
 doors shut, they become oppressively hot ; and if one 
 opens a door or a window, they are as cold as if they 
 had never been inhabited." 
 
 " It is very true, indeed," rejoined De Molton : " shall 
 I fetch you a shawl, dearest Blanche?" 
 
 " Thank you, dearest Frank, I think it would be 
 comfortable ;" and she drew her chair close to the fire, 
 and placed her feet upon the fender, when a great puff 
 of black smoke turned back from the chimney, as if to 
 fly in her face. She quickly pushed back her chair. 
 " How stupid that Devonshire girl is ! — she always will 
 heap the grate with small coals. Surely a housemaid's 
 business is to know how to light a fire !" 
 
 " It is, indeed ; but I am afraid a raw Devonshire 
 girl is not likely to be an accomplished housemaid." 
 And De Molton hastened out of the room to seek his 
 dear Blanche's shawl. 
 
 " Now, Frank, you must read to me while I work ; 
 that will be so comfortable ! and I have a great deal of 
 work to do. I shall show you what a good poor man's 
 wife I am !" She took out of her delicate ivory work- 
 box a small cap of tiny dimensions, which she was be- 
 ginning to embroider with the most intricate patterns. 
 
 De Molton looked really pleased, and smiled upon
 
 202 BLANCHE. 
 
 her with the gentle sentimental smile which had always 
 appeared so bewitching. 
 
 The room became warmer, the fire clearer ; the 
 shawl was very tenderly arranged by De Molton him- 
 self; and they sat down to pass a comfortable, domestic, 
 and rational evening. 
 
 " What book shall I read to you ?" inquired De 
 Molton. " Some of your own youthful library, which 
 your mother so kindly sent after us ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! I know all those books by heart ; but you 
 have some of your own upon that shelf. I dare say 
 they will be quite new to me." 
 
 " I dare say they will, dearest, for they are all upon 
 military tactics, engineering, and fortification, — Vau- 
 ban, Coehorn, and Jomini, &c." 
 
 " Oh, that will never do," rejoined Blanche. But 
 there are some novels, from the circulating library at 
 M *" * *, which I have not yet looked at. I dare say 
 that you will find something to amuse, though it may 
 not instruct us." 
 
 He turned over the volumes — the usual trash of a 
 country-town library — Lady EveUnas and Altendorfs, 
 and Cecilias and Mortimers, Albertinas and Ildelheims, 
 Eleanoras and Miraldinis, by the dozen. They at- 
 tempted one or two, but could not proceed beyond the 
 first three pages. 
 
 " Dearest Frank, why would you not subscribe to a 
 London library, as I begged you to do ? You see these 
 books are not readable." 
 
 " The expense of the carriage, dear Blanche, as well 
 as that of the original subscription, made me very un- 
 willing to do so. Moreover, even the London libraries 
 do not supply one with very good books, when one is at 
 such a distance in the country," 
 
 " Well ! we will return these horrors, and you shall 
 see what you can procure to-morrow. By-the-by, do 
 send for the mason, or the bricklayer, or whoever the 
 man may be who does chimneys, and let him try to 
 prevent the smoke. Look, again ! now we have had 
 fresh coals."
 
 BLANCHE. 303 
 
 " I will send about it to-morrow ; but I am afraid 
 we shall not be able to effect much good in a lodging- 
 house." 
 
 The next day " the man who did chimneys" came, 
 and he proposed new setting the grate, contracting the 
 sides, and altering the flue. Blanche said, by all means, 
 if these measures would secure the absence of smoke. 
 De Molton inquired what would be the cost of the 
 alteration, and found that it would be nearly a third of 
 the house-rent for the year. He paused, dismissed the 
 man, and explained to Blanche, that as they were to 
 pay her father and mother a visit in the spring, and as a 
 great part of the winter was over, and as they would 
 probably be quartered in some different part of the 
 world the following winter, it would not be wise to 
 spend much money upon the chimney ; and he advised 
 their sitting in the dining-room when the wind happened 
 to blow from the smoky quarter. 
 
 To this she assented, but it was with an effort ; and 
 she evidently did so, to prove that she was, indeed, the 
 good poor man's wife she had professed to be. 
 
 Colonel Jones, the colonel of the regiment, and his 
 wife, on their return from a short absence among their 
 friends, waited upon Lady Blanche. As she could not, 
 in this remote corner of the world, enjoy the best so- 
 ciety, Blanche would much have preferred living in 
 complete seclusion. But De Molton, who thought any 
 slackness on their part would be a want of attention 
 from an inferior to a superior officer, did not allow her 
 to put off the visit of propriety. 
 
 The weather was fine, though cold ; and they walked 
 to call on Colonel and Mrs. Jones, who lived in the 
 town, close to the barracks. 
 
 As they entered the door, their noses were assailed 
 by the smell of roast mutton and rice pudding; and 
 they were ushered into a dark two-windowed country 
 town drawing-room, with a dirty green paper and a 
 high dado, which had once been painted white ; while 
 remarkably smart bell-ropes rendered the dinginess of 
 the rest more conspicuous from the contrast.
 
 S04 BLANCHE, 
 
 Nine rosy children and the governess were seated at 
 dinner; Mrs. Jones officiating as carver, and the head 
 nurse assisting the youngest to guide its food safely to 
 its mouth. A smell of pudding and of small beer 
 pervaded the apartment, and greatly annoyed Lady 
 Blanche. 
 
 De Molton introduced her to the colonel's lady, who, 
 relinquishing the carving knife to the governess, retired 
 from the scene of action to the sofa with Lady Blanche, 
 and apologized for her children being so late at dinner, 
 saying, " The colonel had taken the boys out with him 
 to see the itinerant menagerie in the market-place, and 
 had kept them beyond their usual dinner-hour ; or 
 else," she continued, " I always make it a point to be 
 fit to be seen at visiting hours ; for when one lives in 
 the world, one can never tell who may drop in." 
 
 The little Joneses, who, having always lived "in the 
 world," were not shy, and were not more awed by the 
 De Moltons than by Mr. and Mrs. M'Vining, or Mr. 
 and Mrs. Green, or any of the other misters and mis- 
 tresses who " dropped in," proceeded with their repast 
 somewhat noisily: they were healthy, and there were 
 nine of them ! 
 
 Blanche could hardly hear herself speak, but she was 
 too well-bred to be fine ; and she contrived to look as 
 if she heard all Mrs. Jones said, and as if she was quite 
 accustomed to noisy children and clattering plates. 
 
 Dinner was over; grace was said in French by the 
 eldest girl; they rose simultaneously ; and, after being 
 kissed by their mamma, were dismissed to have their 
 faces washed, and their brown-holland pinafores taken 
 off, preparatory to the afternoon walk. 
 
 Mrs. Jones was an excellent woman, who was de- 
 voted to her domestic duties, and she considered the 
 whole proceeding as so completely in the common 
 course of things, that she made no apologies ; and was 
 so far from being distressed or annoyed by the bustle, 
 the ferment, and the clatter, that she was scarcely 
 aware a noise had existed, or that when the door closed 
 upon the last child a calm succeeded to the storm.
 
 SLAJVCKE. 205 
 
 When the De Moltons took their leave, Mrs. Jones 
 good-humouredly ran to the top of the stairs, and called 
 aloud for John, at the sanne time complaining how 
 troublesome it was that neither of the bells in the 
 drawing-room would ring. John was not forthcoming ; 
 and a dirt\^ housemaid appeared in his stead, hastily 
 tying a clean apron over the very dirty one beneath : 
 she opened the street door, and Blanche squeezed past 
 her into the welcome open air. 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" she exclaimed, " how can people sub- 
 mit to live in so wretched and vulgar a manner ! Mrs. 
 Jones is not so dreadful herself, but her entourage T 
 
 " My dear Blanche, Colonel Jones is very poor : and 
 he has nine children !" 
 
 " But there is no occasion to have things about one 
 so dirty, so untidy, so uncomfortable. We are poor, 
 but how different !" 
 
 " Our cottage would not contain one-ninth of Colonel 
 Jones's children." 
 
 "But why have no beli? And why such bell- 
 ropes ?" 
 
 " Poor people cannot afford to furnish every tem- 
 porary lodging-house with elegances." 
 
 " But why have all the Masters and Misses Jones dine 
 in one's drawing-room ?" 
 
 " I dare say all the other rooms are preoccupied 
 as sleeping apartments for said Masters and Misses 
 Jones." 
 
 " Now you are resolved to be provoking, and I could 
 beat you for not agreeing with me." 
 
 " I am afraid, Blanche, that poverty is not a pretty 
 thing in reality, though it sounds pretty in a book." 
 
 De Molton looked serious ; he could not joke upon. 
 the subject. Blanche also looked serious, for she 
 thought he was rather over solemn, and she firmly 
 resolved she would not be poor after Mr. Jones's 
 fashion. 
 
 Blanche worked very diligently at the little cap ^ 
 and when she had finished the cap, she embroidered 
 the body of a little frock, and showed them cxultingly 
 
 VOL. 11. — s
 
 20G BLANCHE. 
 
 to her husband. Still these preparations did not go far 
 towards providing the expected scion of the house of 
 De Molton with the necessary wardrobe ; and Blanche 
 feared she should be obliged to procure many articles 
 ready-made in the town. 
 
 "Why should not your maid work at them, my 
 dear?" suggested De Molton, as he found her consider- 
 ing, and wondering, and calculating what plan she had 
 best pursue. 
 
 " Why, perhaps, she would undertake the caps for 
 me ; but she has never been used to any thing but 
 dress-making. Mamma never expected her to do any 
 thing else." 
 
 *' You have been working so much yourself, surely 
 you must have done a great deal." 
 
 " Oh yes 1 — this cap and this body. Look how beau- 
 tiful they are !" 
 
 Blanche's distresses on this score were, however, 
 soon relieved by learning from Lady Cumberworth 
 that her good-natured sisters-in-law had amused them- 
 selves by making and providing every thing that she 
 could want ; and that a lovely set of baby-linen would 
 meet her at Lord Falkingham's, where she was to pass 
 some time previous to her confinement, in order that 
 she might be under her mother's eye. 
 
 She was not sorry when the time came for leaving 
 the pretty smoky cottage. The March winds did not 
 agree with the chimney, and she was not well enough 
 to be able to roam among the dells and dingles, the 
 shaws and the banks, in search of violets and prim- 
 roses ; and she thought it would certainly be more de- 
 sirable to enact the invalid, with all appliances and 
 means to boot, in her father's luxurious mansion, than 
 in the windy, smoky, creaking lath and plaster cottage 
 which looked so pretty in the beginning of September. 
 In London, Blanche would have been perfectly happy 
 with her kind father, — her mother who loved her, though 
 not with the usual melting tenderness of a mother, — 
 with her husband, who was as handsome and interest- 
 ing in appearance, and if possible more affectionate in
 
 BLANCHE. 207 
 
 his attentions than ever, — and with her husband's family 
 doting upon her, — if it had not been that Lady Falk- 
 ingham treated De Molton with a shade of super- 
 ciliousness. She always spoke of her daughter as 
 " poor Blanche," wondered to see her look so well after 
 the terrible winter she had passed in a house scarcely 
 weather-tight, alluded constantly to the great change 
 that had taken place ■ in her situation, and almost ridi- 
 culed the notion of the Misses Do Molton having pre- 
 sented her with such pretty worked caps and embroi- 
 dered frocks for the " poor little creature"' that was 
 expected ! 
 
 These speeches, although they contained some unde- 
 niable truths, were extremely galling to De Molton, 
 and very unpleasant to Blanche, for his sake as well as 
 for her own. 
 
 Blanche found herself infinitely happier with her 
 husband's family, where, instead of being treated as a 
 person wdio was now to be looked down upon by those 
 who were once her compeers, she was considered the 
 most charming of her sex ; adored by Lady Cumber- 
 worth for having loved her son so disinterestedly; 
 made a fuss with by the Misses De Molton because 
 they were good-humoured girls, by nature inclined to 
 like rather than dislike any fine, natural, affectionate 
 creature of their own age; and very much admired by 
 Lord Cumberworth, who thought she was an exceed- 
 ingly fine woman, and that Frank was a very lucky 
 fellow, for the present at least, however the marriage 
 might turn out in the long-run.
 
 208 BLANCHE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 There little love or c-inty cheer can come 
 Frae duddy doublets and a pantry toom. 
 
 Allan Ramsat. 
 
 As De Molton expected, the quarters of his regiment 
 were changed ; and soon after Blanche's confinement, 
 he left her to superintend the removal of their goods and 
 chattels, and the arrangement of them in some other 
 temporary domicil. 
 
 Unfortunately, the regiment was sent to a small town, 
 built principally of red brick, situated in one of the mid- 
 land counties, — ugly, bare, and bleak. There were no 
 pretty cottages with nice gardens in the neighbourhood ; 
 not even a retired farmhouse, with a few rooms to be 
 let ; for the rustic inconveniences and rural inelegances 
 of a rambling farmhouse are infinitely preferable to the 
 pert vulgarity of a red house in a street. 
 
 To this last alternative De Molton was most unwil- 
 lingly reduced, and all he could accomplish was the ac- 
 quisition of one of the few tenements to which was 
 affixed a bright light green balcony, which formed a 
 brilliant contrast to the vermilion of the walls ; at least, 
 the untarnished freshness of the colouring gave promise 
 of new furniture and cleanliness within. 
 
 He returned to London for his wife and child, and his 
 delight at seeing them was somewhat alloyed by finding 
 that, during his absence, Blanche and her father had as- 
 certained that Turton was very little out of the way to ■ 
 Temple Loseley, and that, consequently, he and her mo- 
 ther would pass a night or two with Blanche on their 
 way into the country. 
 
 If his heart had sunk within him at the thoughts of in- 
 troducing his wife to the vulgar abode which he had been 
 obliged to provide for her, how much more did it sink at
 
 BLANCHE. 209 
 
 the thoughts of exhibiting to her parents their graceful, 
 their beautiful, their high-born daughter, as mistress of 
 this same abode ! Moreover, the house was not calcu- 
 lated to receive an influx of company. 
 
 Still, every one ought to be proud and happy to re- 
 ceive a father and mother-in-law under his own roof; 
 and he was determined to be so. He reminded himself 
 that, though he was poor, he had never pretended to be 
 otherwise — he never would pretend to be otherwise : 
 there was no disgrace in poverty ; he had presented 
 himself under no false colours ; he knew his own situa- 
 tion, and he would not throw a ridicule over it by seeming 
 ashamed of it. 
 
 Blanche had pictured to herself another cottage, of the 
 same stamp as that in Devonshire : and as the country 
 was now in full beauty, and as there was no occasion to 
 put the chimneys to the test, she anticipated with plea- 
 sure showing her mother how happy and how pretty an 
 humble home might be ; how dignified De Molton could 
 look, though employed in working in his garden ; and 
 how little she deserved the pity that had been lavished 
 upon her. 
 
 She was extremely vexed when her dear Frank broke 
 to her the nature of the country, the situation of the 
 town, the sort of house he had been compelled to hire. 
 
 " Is there nothing else to be pi'ocured for love or 
 money V 
 
 " For money, yes ; for love, not !" he replied. 
 
 " But if something else is to be got, for Heaven's sake 
 make any sacrifice !" 
 
 " There is one house much larger than we require, 
 which has been fitted up with every luxury by a retired 
 brewer, who now wishes to travel, and would' gladly let 
 it." 
 
 "Oh, that will be just the thing !" 
 
 " My dear ! the rent is far, far beyond our means." 
 
 " Oh ! but for one year, dearest Frank !" 
 
 " With a limited income, one year's extravagance un- 
 avoidably entails many, many years of real distress. I 
 will not run the risk of being unable to answer the just 
 
 s2
 
 210 BLANCHE. 
 
 demands of my tradesmen. I never sent a creditor 
 away without his money, and I never will." 
 
 De Molten spoke with seriousness, and something ap- 
 proaching harshness ; for he suffered under the mortifi- 
 cation of [lis wife, and the tone was meant to confirm 
 his own determination, not to be unkind to her. She 
 thought him stern. 
 
 " We had much better put off papa and mamma, and 
 say at once we cannot receive them." 
 
 Her tone was a little pettish. De Molton's task was 
 no longer so difficult ; he dreaded seeing her unhappy, 
 but the moment he perceived there was temper mixed 
 with her sorrow, his fortitude returned, and he replied, 
 " By no means ; such as it is, our home is even open to 
 our parents ; and we have only to regret that it is not in 
 our power to make them more comfortable." 
 
 " I had a thousand times rather mamma did not come 
 at all, than she should see me in such a hole as you de- 
 scribe." 
 
 Her voice was half choked with rising emotion : she 
 had led her mother to expect something so very different ! 
 The Devonshire cottage had grown under her glowing 
 descriptions into a miniature terrestial paradise. 
 
 " Blanche, this is not kind by your parents ; you should 
 M ish to see them for their own sakes." Certainly De 
 ^lolton did not wish to see them, but he would not have 
 pleaded guilty to such a weakness for the world. 
 
 " I do not know how I can wish to be exposed to 
 mamma's taunting expressions and contemptuous looks ;" 
 and partly from vexation, and partly from bodily weak- 
 ness, she burst into tears. 
 
 " Blanche, this is childish ! You chose to marry a poor 
 man, and you must abide by it.'" 
 
 " You should not be the person to speak so coldly and 
 unkindly. You know the thing 1 mind most of all is, 
 that mamma always seems to despise you; and I had 
 lioped to show her that, though we were poor, we did 
 not deserve pity." Her sobs here interrupted her words. 
 In addition to her other mortifications, she felt injured
 
 BLANCHE. 211 
 
 by the husband whose dignity she was so anxious to 
 uphold. 
 
 De Molton was quite overcome by finding it was for 
 him her feehngs were so strongly excited. " Blanciie, 
 dearest Blanche !"' he exclaimed, " you do not think me 
 ungrateful for all you have given up for my sake ! Oh no ! 
 you cannot think that !" And he soothed her by every 
 attention and kindness in his power. 
 
 The effervescence of her mortification and vexation 
 had exhausted itself, and she was sorry to have wounded 
 him ; he was also annoyed at having allowed an unkind 
 word to escape his lips ; and they were still sufficiently 
 lovers for their little quarrel to be almost a renewal of 
 love : almost, — but not quite. Blanche could not forget 
 that he had said, " You have married a poor man, and 
 you must abide by it ;" and De Molton remembered that 
 she had said, " She should be ashamed to be seen in such 
 a hole," as the only home he could take her to. 
 
 These words recurred to his mind more and more 
 frequently as they drew near the small town of Turton, 
 He felt quite angry with the Horse-guards for having 
 built any barracks in so frightful a country as that which 
 they were approaching. It was all arable ; but there 
 were no enclosures, no hedges, no hill, no dale, no woods, 
 no copses ; merely a succession of fields ; in the highest 
 state of cultivation it is true, but that circumstance did 
 not add to their beauty in Blanche's eyes. She would 
 gladly have seen the wheat enlivened by some brilliant 
 scarlet poppies, some beautiful old-fashioned blue corn- 
 flowers, now almost exploded by the improvements in 
 agriculture ; she would gladly have been greeted with 
 the fragrance of a distant field of charlock. 
 
 They had a good view of Turton long before they 
 reached it ; for it was placed in the midst of a large 
 basin of land, divided into squares by the various crops, 
 though by no other visible mark. From the last hill, as 
 they looked down into the broad vale below, De Molton 
 felt responsible for its ugliness, and tried to carry off' a 
 sensation something resembling shame, by remarking 
 that, though such scenery was not to our English eyes
 
 212 BLANCHE. 
 
 picturesque, it was very like " la belle France. The 
 day was gray and colourless : there were no gleams of 
 sunshine, no passing shadows, which will invest any ex- 
 tensive view with a certain degree of beauty. The 
 wheat was all green, the barley was green, the oats were 
 green, the tares were green, the clover was green ; there 
 was no variety of hue, except where, here and there, a 
 field lay fallow, or had been newly ploughed up. 
 
 De Molton looked cheerlessly upon Blanche's spirit- 
 less face, and fairly wished the first evening in their new 
 domicil come and gone. Blanche wished, upon her 
 arrival, to be able to say she found it better than she 
 expected, but the words died away upon her lips. She 
 walked to the window, and looked up and down the 
 straight street. There was the lawyer's house opposite, 
 with a brass knocker well polished ; then came the Sun 
 Inn, all nevi^, and red, and staring ; then a paltry shop ; 
 and then the apothecary's door, surmounted by a gilt 
 pestle and mortar. The road was dusty, and the cut 
 lime-trees before the houses on the other side of the law- 
 yer's were rather whitish-brown than green. The street 
 ran north and south ; a gust of wind drove down it 
 from the north, which gave the poor leaves a fresh coat- 
 ing before her eyes. 
 
 It was as cold as days sometimes are in June : she 
 turned from the window, and proposed a fire ; they both 
 dreaded the attempt, but it succeeded, and there was no 
 smoke. 
 
 Blanche wished the days were not so long, that they 
 might sooner let down the green Venetian blinds (there 
 were no shutters), draw the short and scanty white cur- 
 tains, and shut out the dismal prospect. She tried to 
 place the furniture in such positions as to give the room 
 an inhabited appearance, but she only succeeded in 
 making it look untidy. The little dimity-covered chaise- 
 longue was wheeled out from the wall, and placed be- 
 tween the fire and the window, till they found that so 
 sharp a draught cut across from the ill-closed sashes, that 
 it was quickly wheeled back to its original situation. A 
 card-table was set open, and made to enact the part of a
 
 BLANCHE. 213 
 
 stand for 'petits objets. Blanche collected all her bas- 
 kets and boxes, in hopes of making the apartment look 
 comfortable, but her efforts were not as yet crowned 
 with success. 
 
 The next day she bought a square of dark red cloth, 
 and she bound it with gold-coloured binding, and with it 
 concealed a great portion of the card-table, and set off 
 to better advantage the chef-d'ceuvi-es of art and the 
 souvenirs of sentiment. The armchair, the dear arm- 
 chair, was unpacked ; and the buhl clock, it was hoped 
 by both of them, would be a redeeming object. 
 
 Alas ! there was no part of the room in which the 
 buhl clock could be safely and advantageously placed ! 
 The little chimney piece was infinitely too narrow; the 
 card-table was already filled ; and the one other table 
 which was not in constant requisition was by far too 
 rickety to be intrusted with so precious an article. 
 
 At length the small souvenirs were removed to the 
 rickety table, and the clock was established upon the 
 card-table ; and De Molton, when he looked upon his 
 wife with her child upon her knee, saw no fault in the 
 arrangement of the room. 
 
 There was, however, one misfortune to which even 
 De Molton could not close his eyes or bar his senses, — 
 a misfortune, too, which was utterly irremediable. 
 
 A kind of fixture, — half cupboard, half book-case, — 
 the lower part of which opened like a cupboard, while 
 the top finished in shelves, adorned each side of the fire- 
 place. Now, in the lower part of one of these nonde- 
 script things there was every reason to believe the 
 predecessors of the De Moltons had been in the habit of 
 keeping apples. When the room was closed, this dire 
 smell of apples assailed their noses, and at length it was 
 traced home to the guilty spot. 
 
 Chloruret of lime, eau de Cologne, every sort of fumi- 
 gation was tried, but the indomitable smell was only 
 quelled for the time : it returned with fresh vigour ! 
 Blanche was in utter despair, for Lady Falkingham was 
 expected in a day or two, and she was renowned for the 
 extreme acute ncss of her olfactory nerves ! Blanche
 
 214 BLANCHE. 
 
 had repressed any expression of her feelings, till this last 
 blow quite overcome her fortitude. 
 
 " Can nothing be done about this smell, Frank ? It 
 will distract mamma !" 
 
 " Upon my word, I do not know what more to recom- 
 mend. Let us wash it again with chloruret of lime just 
 before your mother comes." 
 
 " I would not mind all the rest if we could but get rid 
 of this smell of apples !" 
 
 That expression, " all the rest," spoke volumes. De 
 Molton was fully aware how much it implied of discom- 
 fort. 
 
 Love in a cottage is a thing very frequently met with 
 in books, and not unfrequently in actual life ; but love in 
 a red brick house in the street of a country town can 
 never exist in poetry, and seldom in reality. 
 
 " There is one thing I would fain alter, Frank, and I 
 think it might be accomplished without much expense." 
 
 Blanche spoke timidly, for she had learned to be afraid 
 of proposing any thing which he might deem extrava- 
 gant. " Could we not get rid of the knocker on the 
 door ? It looks dreadful ; but the horrid vulgar sound 
 is worse than the appearance. It is impossible to forget 
 where one is, when one hears that rap-a-tap !" 
 
 De Molton sighed to think she should so wish to for- 
 get that she was in her home, with her husband and her 
 child ; and Blanche, two years before, would not have 
 believed she could ever be otherwise than contented, 
 when certain of De Molton's constancy, of his undivided 
 affection, and when united to him by the holiest ties. 
 
 The day arrived on which tiie almost dreaded parental 
 visit was to be paid. De Molton proposed driving to a 
 nursery garden at no great distance, and buying some 
 flowers, which would make the room look rather more 
 gay and countryfied. To this Blanche gladly assented ; 
 and she took great pains to fill all the little ugly vases 
 upon the chimneypiece, and all the finger-glasses which 
 were not wanted after dinner, with such flowers as could 
 be procured. They had arranged every thing for the 
 accomm.odation of Lord and Lady Falkingham as well
 
 BLANCHE. 215 
 
 as the capabilities of the house permitted. Blanche's 
 maid was turned out of her room, and into the nursery, 
 for Lady Falkingham's maid ; an arrangement which 
 by no means met with her approbation, and which had 
 not been accomplished without considerable difficulty. 
 
 De Molton relinquished his dressing-room to his father- 
 in-law, and unknown to any one, as he hoped, performed 
 his toilet very early in the morning in the dining-room ; 
 the little back-parlour having been consecrated to the 
 ladies' maids, and any thing being more practicable than 
 to interfere with their morning repast. 
 
 Both Blanche and De Molton had looked repeatedly 
 into each room, and had ascertained that every thing 
 was as comfortable as they could make it, and they sat 
 waiting in some agitation for the arrival of their guests. 
 
 Generally speaking, if there is a moment of unmixed 
 happiness, it is that in which parents pay their first visit 
 to a married child, and in which children receive the 
 first visit from their parents. 
 
 The pretty, half-childish, half-matronly pride with 
 which the young wife does the honours of her domestic 
 arrangements ; the tearful joy of the mother as she in- 
 spects and admires ; the honest happiness of the father ; 
 and the modest exultation of the bridegroom who has 
 installed the creature he loves in all the comforts with 
 which she is surrounded, — render the moment one of 
 pleasing interest to the most careless bystander. 
 
 But such were not the feelings which animated any of 
 the present party.
 
 216 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Some difference of this dangerous kind, 
 By which, though Hght, the links that bind 
 The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
 Some shadow in love's summer heaven, 
 Which, though a fleecy cloud at first, 
 May yet in awful thunders burst. 
 
 Lalla Roukh. 
 
 The Falkinghams did not arrive till very late. Blanche 
 knew that every moment's delay was injurious to the re- 
 past she was so anxious should be tolerably well dressed. 
 She several times ran down into the kitchen herself, to 
 enforce upon the cook that she must contrive to keep 
 back the dinner without letting the meat be over- 
 roasted. 
 
 At length they heard a great rumbling of wheels, and 
 hallooing of little boys, and the well-known carriage, 
 with four horses, drove rapidly by, and drew up at the 
 Sun Inn opposite. The postillions were soon directed 
 to the right house; the whole equipage was turned round, 
 and at length drew up before the little door. 
 
 All this caused a sensation ; and well crepe d heads 
 were seen popping up above the v/hite blinds of the 
 lawyer's opposite, and frilled caps appeared at the win- 
 dows of the house with the cut lime-trees, and waiters, 
 chambermaids, and boots, thronged to the door of the 
 inn, hoping the coroneted carriage was going to put up 
 at the Sun. 
 
 The first greetings were over, and Blanche was eager 
 to show her mother to her room, for, " on hospitable 
 thoughts intent," she was reflecting on the over-boiled 
 chickens and the over-roasted beef. But their progress 
 was arrested by the imperial ! It was stuck in the
 
 BLANCHE* 217 
 
 Viirning of the stairs ; and Lady Falkingham's tall foot- 
 man, who measured six feet two inches and a half, and 
 De Molton's omnipresent John Benton, were struggling, 
 and lifting, and pushing, and shoving in vain ! 
 
 This was an unlooked-for misfortune ; one which 
 might have been laughed at, among people so nearly and 
 intimately connected, and one which might have been 
 an excuse for dining very m.errily in travelling costume ; 
 but with Blanche's feelings, with Lady Falkingham's, 
 with De Molton's feelings, the misadventure had a con- 
 trary effect. Blanche was extremely annoyed, and led 
 her mother back to the drawing-room ; while De Mo'- 
 ton hastened to lend his assistance, and with the help of 
 his more judicious mode of turning the imperial, it was 
 extricated from its inconvenient position, and was safelv 
 deposited in Lady Falkingham's room. 
 
 All this produced some delay ; then came their re- 
 spective toilets-; and they were not seated in the dining- 
 room till an hour and three quarters after the cook bad 
 expected to " dish up." 
 
 It requires the coolness, the presence of mind, the 
 decision of the bolder sex, to be able to accelerate or to • 
 retard the dinner-hour. The humble cook of the De 
 Moltons was thoroughly feminine in her timidity, and the 
 consequence was, that the chickens fell to pieces in the 
 dish, that the beef craclded under the teeth, that the po- 
 tatoes were watery and sodden, that the green-gages of 
 the pudding had burst through their surrounding paste, 
 and presented a shapeless, confused, and uninviting mass 
 to the eye, while the maccaroni was stringy, strong, and 
 burned. 
 
 De Molton had wished the dinner to be plain and 
 without pretension, and he had flattered himself that, by 
 attempting nothing, they must be secure from failure. 
 Alas ! they had the mortification of seeing both their 
 guests scarcely able to finisli what they had upon their 
 plates, and of perceiving that Lord Falkingham helped 
 himself three times to cheese, and that Lady Falkingham 
 demolished full half the sponge-cake at dessert ! De 
 Molton, who was habitually reserved and possessed much 
 
 VOL, II. T
 
 218 SLANCHE. 
 
 self-command, maintained a calm exterior ; but Blanche, 
 who, whatever might be her wish to do so, was never 
 able to conceal her feelings for any length of time, was 
 in a state of fussy agitation, and was the first to complain 
 of the badness of the dinner. 
 
 Her remarks disturbed the equanimity of John Benton, 
 who was most anxious that all should go off well. In 
 his eagerness, he made more noise, jarred the plates^ 
 knocked the glasses together, clattered the knives and 
 forks, and placed the dishes on the table in a more fear- 
 ful undecided manner than he was ever known to do 
 before ; constantly brushing by Lady Falkingham's cap 
 to give a finishing touch to the arrangement of the table, 
 Blanche's martyrdom increased every moment ! 
 
 It is very easy to be tranquil, composed, and agree- 
 able at the head of one's table, if one has the comfort- 
 able assurance that all will proceed properly and deco- 
 rously ; but when one has no reliance that such will be 
 the case, it is not so easy to preserve the careless air of 
 perfect good-breeding ; still less so, should one actually 
 -see one's guests hungry and incommoded: such tran- 
 quillity amounts to a lofty pitch of stoicism scarcely 
 attainable by common mortals. 
 
 If the Falkinghams had smiled good-humouredly, it 
 might have been better ; but the mother preserved a 
 civil semblance of not perceiving what was amiss, evi- 
 dently treating the present as the best entertainment it 
 was in the power of the De Moltons to give, and con- 
 siderately sparing their feelings. When the ladies retired 
 after dinner, Lady Falkingham made no allusion to the 
 house, the establishment, the cookery, or any part of the 
 jninage, except the baby, on whose growth she expa- 
 tiated, and whom she wished to see in its crib. 
 
 Blanche accordingly took her mother up-stairs to the 
 garret, where Lady Falkingham was shocked at finding 
 two beds in the small room. " My dear Blanche, do 
 you allow two people to sleep in such an apartment as 
 this ? It is very bad for the baby to be so confined as 
 to air and space."
 
 BLANCHE. 219 
 
 ^^ My maid sleeps here just now/' Blanche replied ; " it 
 cannot hurt the baby for a little while." 
 
 " The weather is so hot, I own I should dislike it very 
 much ; I always was very particular about giving you all 
 a very airy nursery ; — but 1 suppose it cannot be helped," 
 added Lady Falkingham, checking herself. 
 
 " Oh, this house is horrid !" exclaimed Blanche ; " if 
 you had but come to see us in our Devonshire cottage, 
 mamma — " 
 
 " I wish I had, my dear." 
 
 •• But you know we have this only for a time, mamma ; 
 and next year we may be quartered in a prettier country, 
 and a nicer neighbourhood, and where we can get some- 
 thing, out of a town," 
 
 "I hope you will, my love," replied Lady Falkingham, 
 who was resolved to dwell as little as possible upon her 
 daughter's present discomfort, and who thought herself 
 %ery kind and very meritorious in not saying what she 
 thought, felt, and looked — viz. " I told you how it would 
 be." 
 
 The breakfast was not more prosperous. The bread 
 was baker's bread ; the French rolls, well rasped and 
 very tough, were exceedingly unlike the rolls and cakes 
 of every variety whielf graced the breakfast-table of 
 Temple Loseley. The butter was bought at the shop ; 
 and Turton was situated in an arable, not a grazing coun- 
 try : they churned every morning at Temple Loseley. 
 The cream was thin, colourless, and tasteless : the Alder- 
 neys at Temple Loseley were renowned for their perfec- 
 tion in beauty and breeding. 
 
 Most assuredly, urban and rural poverty are very dif- 
 ferent things. With a pretty garden — with flowers, poul- 
 try, cream, butter, eggs, and vegetables in profusion — 
 vulgarity and discomfort may always be avoided, though 
 splendour may not be attained. 
 
 The Falkingliams went away, sincerely commiserating 
 their daughter, although Lady Falkingliam's sincere sor- 
 row was somewhat alleviated by being able to remark to 
 her husband how precisely every thing had turned out as 
 she had foreseen and predicted.
 
 220 BLANCHE. 
 
 When they had driven from the door, Blanche sal 
 down to work at her needle, with a sensation of depres- 
 sion more overwhelming than she had ever felt before, 
 *' I am glad mamma is gone !" she exclaimed, after having 
 hemmed nearly a yard of muslin without uttering a word ; 
 " when people are no longer young, they miss the com- 
 forts to which they have been accustomed !" 
 
 De Molton said nothing. He also had been deeply 
 hurt — mortified in every way ; hurt to see his wife ex- 
 posed to mortification, and mortified to see her feel it so 
 keenly. 
 
 "Not but what mamma behaved beautifully," continued 
 Blanche, for she was half angry with her husband for his - 
 very silence : she wished him to declare how annoyed 
 and unhappy he also was ; but he was a proud man, and 
 when such a man does feel mortification, it does not find 
 vent in words. Being somewhat displeased at his silence, 
 she did not spare him. The feelings of the daughter got • 
 the better of those of the wife, and she proceeded : 
 '■ Mamma never complained of any thing. It w^as only 
 through her maid that I heard she could not sleep a wink 
 on account of the baby crying over head ; and, the par- 
 tition being so thin, she heard her as plainly as if she had 
 been in the same room. Mamma was very kind ; she 
 took care to say nothing to vex rae." 
 
 De Molton thought mamma would have been infinitely 
 more kind if she had appeared a little less miserable, and 
 had not looked at Blanche as if she thought her a victim. 
 He did not feel in charity with Lady Falkingham ; he 
 found no pleasure in hearing her praised. 
 
 " I am going to call on Colonel Jones," said De Molton ; 
 " I shall be at home again in time to walk with you/' 
 He took his cap and his stick, and sallied forth ; but he 
 had walked far beyond Colonel Jones's before he recol- 
 lected his intention of calling upon him, and he had to 
 retrace his steps for some quarter of a mile. He found 
 him just returning from a long walk with some of his 
 children, who were joyously sporting around him ; and 
 they all together mounted the narrow staircase, which led
 
 BLANCHE. 231 
 
 to a drawing-room much in the same style as Blanche's, 
 though somewhat larger in its dimensions. 
 
 Mrs. Jones and her eldest girl were busily engaged in 
 needle-work, while the second daughter was reading his- 
 tory aloud. She cordially greeted De Molton, and said 
 they had been taking advantage of the colonel's having 
 cleared the house of the boys, to get on with the educa- 
 tion of the girls ; " for in a small house, and with such a 
 family, it is difficult to find a quiet moment," added Mrs. 
 Jones,with a cheerfulness and good-humourwhich seemed 
 to prove she found nothing unpleasant or disgraceful in 
 poverty. 
 
 She was the daughter of a country curate, and although 
 well educated, and tolerably well born, she did not feel 
 the want of elegances and luxuries to which she had 
 never been accustomed, and which none of those with 
 whom she associated missed any more than herself. 
 
 De Molton wished he could teach his wife to accom- 
 modate herself to her circumstances as Mrs. Jones did. 
 But how many habits had she to unlearn and to forget 
 before she could be as happy as Mrs. Jones was happy. 
 
 He resolved to cultivate the Joneses, and he asked 
 them to dinner that very day, frankly bidding them come 
 and feast upon the remains of the provisions they had laid 
 in for his father and mother-in-law. The happy and 
 good-humoured Joneses accepted the invitation in the 
 same unceremonious spirit in which it was made, and 
 De Molton returned home to inform his wife of the com- 
 pany she might expect. She detested the thought of 
 encountering another dinner in her own house ; but De 
 Molton was not a person who would ever condescend 
 to ask his wife's permission before he invited a friend to 
 dinner, and of that she was fully aware. 
 
 The Joneses arrived just five minutes before the ap- 
 pointed hour ; and Mrs. Jones asked Blanche's leave to 
 take off her bonnet and ari-ange her hair at her looking- 
 glass, as she had walked from her own house. She 
 shortly reappeared, with her bows and her ringlets in the 
 most perfect order ; for she had never been in the habit 
 of depending upon the services of a maid. She also 
 
 t2
 
 222 BLAKCHE. 
 
 appeared in a smart silk gown ; her fair, fat, handsome 
 arms uncovered, a necklace on her neck, and ear-rings 
 in her ears. 
 
 Blanche, on the contrary, was in a more seemly cos- 
 tume for a country dinner by daylight : and Mrs. Jones 
 wondered her hostess should wear, in the evening, what 
 seemed to her a morning dress. 
 
 The cook's nerves had not been agitated, and the din- 
 ner vi^as very good. Colonel Jones was gay and con- 
 versable ; he had served in the Peninsula ; he, and his 
 wife also, had been at Paris when the allied armies en- 
 tered it ; they had seen many different countries, had 
 been mixed up in many of the events of that period, when 
 every day brought changes w hich affected empires ; they 
 had been thrown with many of the personages who ai- 
 rsady figure as historical characters. They were delighted 
 with De Molton, who was an excellent listener ; delighted 
 with Lady Blanche, who possessed the charm to which 
 all people in all ranks are sensible — the real good breed- 
 ing of real high fashion ; and Blanche was astonished to 
 find herself in better spirits than she had been in for 
 some days. 
 
 No fund of natural spirits, however inexhaustible it 
 may be, can stand the trial of seeing the guests under 
 your roof cold, abstracted, and comfortless ; whereas the 
 phrenologists could certainly point out some organ in the 
 human head which takes pleasure in being developed 
 when you feel that those towards whom you are exer- 
 cising the rites of hospitality are really and thoroughly 
 enjoying themselves. 
 
 There was a good deal of broad humour about Colonel 
 Jones, and no shyness ; he was animated in his descrip- 
 tions. De Molton's wine was good of its sort, and the 
 dinner was gay — noisily gay. Blanche thought them a 
 httle vulgar, but still she liked them both ; and after the 
 cheerless restraint which had prevailed during the two 
 preceding days betvveen the nearest and dearest relations, 
 there was something which expanded the heart in the 
 •warmth and cordiality of the Joneses. 
 
 The dinner which they gave the De Moltons in return
 
 BLANCHE. S33 
 
 proved less agreeable. The astonishing clatter made by 
 the servants, the badness of the cookery, the multitude 
 of children, and the friends who were invited to make up 
 the party, did not conduce to reconcile Blanche to the 
 real work-day details of poverty, as De Molton had at first 
 intended it should, by showing her how happy people 
 could be in its despite. 
 
 The summer wore away, but without any summer en- 
 joyments ; the autumn succeeded, and winter followed in 
 due succession. They had many invitations from differ- 
 ent friends, but travelling was expensive ; and having 
 been in London for some months during the spring, they 
 could not obtain leave of absence for any length of time 
 which might make it answer to leave home. 
 
 The following year saw them removed to a fresh habi- 
 tation, and saw another olive branch added to the parent 
 stock. 
 
 The nurse now professed her inability to attend to two 
 children, " both babies, as it were ; she could not do jus- 
 tice to the dear little loves. Miss Emma, she was just 
 old enough to get into mischief; and she was more work, 
 a body might say, than the infant himself."' There was 
 no denying the reason and truth of the nurse's statement. 
 It was also true, as the nurse added, "that my lady was 
 very particular, and liked to see the children always nice ; 
 that it was not as if she did not mind their being just 
 dressed in brown hoUand pinafores and such like, as the 
 little Masters Jones were ; that, for her part, she could 
 not a-bear to see children look so — ^just like anybody's 
 children." 
 
 De Molton, as well as Blanche, was proud of little 
 Emma's exquisite beauty, and they could neither of them 
 endure the thought of their childien not being thoroughly 
 well taken care of. " Could you not ask Mrs. Green to 
 help nurse?" suggested De Molton ; "she might walk 
 out with Emma, and might make her clothes. Our life 
 is such a quiet one, surely she must have a great deal of 
 time upon her hands." 
 
 Blanche stood rather in awe of Mrs. Green, who was 
 a regular fine lady, and who felt the change in her situa-
 
 224 BLANCHE. 
 
 tion to the full as acutely as Blanche herself could do, 
 and who had not the same strong motive for bearing it 
 with uncomplaining fortitude, inasmuch as she was not 
 married to the man of her choice, neither had she any 
 character for consistency to maintain. In many of the 
 minor distresses and difficulties which had occurred, Mrs. 
 Green had not failed to make her mistress feel how great 
 was her merit in submitting to them ; and Blanche knew 
 it was utterly impossible to accomplish what De Molton 
 (who was not so well versed in the nice limits and bound- 
 aries of the honourable office of lady's maid) thought 
 could be so easily arranged. 
 
 "It is quite impossible, my dear Frank ! Green has al- 
 ready put up with a great deal to oblige me, and I could 
 not ask her to wait upon the nursery." 
 
 " I do not want her to wait upon the nursery, but she 
 might assist the nurse." 
 
 " I can part with her, Frank ; but I cannot propose to 
 her to attend upon the children." 
 
 De Molton, who saw no reason why one woman should 
 sit idle, while another had more to do than she could 
 well perform, was half annoyed with Blanche, and he 
 answered rather quickly, " AH I can say is, I cannot 
 aftbrd to keep another servant." 
 
 '•' I will tell Green what you say," replied Blanche, with 
 the tone of a heroine and a martyr ; and accordingly 
 she lost no time in informing Green that she must look 
 out for another situation unless she would wait on Miss 
 Emma, as Captain De Molton wished ; and as, of course, 
 Mrs. Green declined to do. 
 
 So much separated from all former connections, friends, 
 and relations, as Blanche had been of late, she naturally 
 felt a good deal annoyed at parting with a person whom 
 habit had rendered agreeable to her, who was an excel- 
 lent lady's maid, and was pleasing in her manners. De 
 Molton could not sympathize in her annoyance at getting 
 rid of a fine lady, and infinitely preferred the stout good- 
 humoured girl who came in her stead, and who was too 
 happy to fetch and carry, and was too much honoured 
 by being allowed to wait upon my lady.
 
 BLANCHE. 225 
 
 Unfortunately, the last remnant of Blanche's trousseau 
 was growing very shabby, and her wardrobe needed re- 
 cruithig. Green was gone ; the girl Phebe was no mil- 
 liner ; Blanche could embroider beautifully, and she 
 could now accomplish children's frocks with considerable 
 success, but she could not make her own clothes. How 
 should she? She was obliged therefore to have her 
 wants supplied by the country milliners, and both she 
 and De Molton were appalled at the bills which were 
 the inevitable consequence. 
 
 Blanche wished exceedingly not to be expensive, but 
 she knew not how to avoid being so. She had never 
 had any allowance when a girl : she had been so amply 
 supplied with every article of dress upon her marriage, 
 and had since led so retired a life, that little occasion to 
 spend money had occurred until now; and she was igno- 
 rant how miraculously, when once the purse-strings are 
 opened, the contents vanish as it were of themselves. 
 
 It is a great fault in the education of girls, to omit 
 teaching them, in some measure, the value of money. 
 They suddenly find themselves at the head of an estab- 
 lishment, in which, if large, considerable sums pass 
 through their hands ; if small, on them depends the com- 
 fort or discomfort of the 'menage ; and they are not 
 aware (except from theory, which has little to say to 
 practice) that twenty shillings make a pound. 
 
 The loss of Green was an annoyance of daily recur- 
 rence. Blanche could not dress her own hair ; and the 
 awkward attempts of the shy and frightened red-fisted 
 maid to brush and to curl, to braid and to creper, made 
 her every morning come down to breakfast in a ruffled 
 and uncomfortable state. She found it necessary now 
 and then to buy herself a cap, and unluckily the bill for 
 these caps came in at a time when De Molton's finances 
 were at a very low ebb. Blanche had no pin-money, 
 and she applied to him for the retjuisite sum. 
 
 "What nonsense, Blanche, to buy tawdry caps, when 
 you have all that beautiful brown hair, which is so much 
 prettier and more becoming than any cap that can be 
 made."
 
 226 BLANCHE. 
 
 " I never learned to dress hair ; and since Green is 
 gone, I find it impossible to do without a cap. I have 
 not quite made up my mind to go about a perfect figure 
 yet ; but 1 dare say I soon shall. It is impossible to be 
 well dressed without a maid." 
 
 *'But surely you could soon learn to arrange your 
 hair. You told me Mrs. Jones always dressed her own, 
 and I am sure it is very smart — in bows, and all kinds of 
 things." 
 
 This was too much for Blanche to endure. To have 
 been forced to part with her maid ! To be refused a 
 cap ! To be twitted with Mrs. Jones ! To have Mrs. 
 Jones set up as a pattern ! " Indeed I should be very 
 sorry to look like Mrs. Jones !" she exclaimed, with a 
 heightened colour, and an eye which was very beautiful 
 in its increased brilliancy : " if you wished to have a 
 wife who should look and dress hke Mrs. Jones, you 
 should not have selected me ! I hope I may never ar- 
 rive at such a pitch of vulgarity as that ! 1 had rather 
 look like anybody in the whole world than Mrs. Jones !'■ 
 and in her anger and petulance, she spoke as she would 
 not have done in a cooler moment, of a person whom 
 she both respected and liked. 
 
 " Mrs. Jones is a most excellent and exemplary wo- 
 man," replied De Molton, with some solemnity of man- 
 ner; "one who performs the duties of her situation in 
 life cheerfully and admirably. I have a very great re- 
 gard for Mrs. Jones. Where is this bill?" he added, 
 with an awful calmness : " I am sorry to say you must 
 buy no more caps. I have not the means of paying for 
 them !" He gave her the money, which she took with 
 pain and indignation. 
 
 It is very disagreeable to ask for money, — very dis- 
 agreeable to receive it when it is given grudgingly. 
 Women should have settled upon them when they marry 
 the sum which, in proportion to the income of their hus- 
 band, they may in fairne.^s spend upon their dress ; 
 otherwise, if extravagant, there are no regular limits to 
 their extravagance ; while, on the other hand, however 
 economical they may be, and however hberal the hus-
 
 BLANCHE. 227 
 
 band may w' h to be, they may chance to ask for money 
 at a moment when it may prove inconvenient to produce 
 a sum which the man had not calculated would be called 
 for at that particular moment. 
 
 An expression of annoyance will wound and distress 
 a high-minded woman, will anger a high-spirited one, or 
 will induce a timid one to conceal her bills, and to ac- 
 quire the habit of contracting debts unknown to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Blanche received the money with a swelling indignant 
 heart, and her feelings were not soothed when a trades- 
 man entered with a long bill, for which De Molton drew 
 a draft without a remark or a murmur, and most politely 
 dismissed the man, pleased with his exactness and punc- 
 tuality. 
 
 Blanche thought, " After all, he is not really so poor 
 as he pretends to be. He only talks thus to prevent my 
 spending any thing. He has money for every one else." 
 
 De Molton had appointed that very morning to pay 
 that very bill. He had purposely reserved the requisite 
 sum, and he remained with scarcely enough for the 
 weekly unavoidable expenses. But he did not explain 
 all this to his wife. He w^as resolved never to run into 
 debt, and he was unapproachably serious and correct 
 upon the subject. If he had candidly explained the state 
 of the case to her, shown it her in black and white, per- 
 haps she would have joined with him in cheerfully ac- 
 commodating herself to existing circumstances ; but he 
 dealt in general expressions of poverty and distress, and 
 yet, at the moment he complained most bitterly, the 
 money was forthcoming for those things which must be 
 paid for. It was exactly because he would have where- 
 withal to meet necessary expenses, that he so strenuously 
 opposed any which he deemed unnecessary. 
 
 Having once come to the conclusion that he had 
 acquired a habit of complaining, and that he could find 
 money if he chose to do so, she only felt injured when he 
 enforced economy, and mentally accused him of making 
 needless difticulties. 
 
 Two more years elapsed, and their family consisted of
 
 228 BLANCHE. 
 
 four promising children, whenDe Molton's regiment was 
 ordered to Brighton: they were again thrown among 
 people of their own class, and friends of former days. 
 
 They had been married nearly five yea. >, and during 
 those years words had been spoken which could not be 
 forgotten. Poverty had come in at the door; and if 
 Love had not quite flown out at the window, he fluttered 
 on the window-sill. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 And ruder words will soon rush in { 
 To spread the breach that words begin, 
 And eyes forget the gentle ray 
 They wore in courtship's smiling day, 
 And voices lose the tone that shed 
 A tenderness round all they said ; 
 Till, fast declining, one by one, 
 The sweetnesses of love are gone. 
 
 Lalla Rookh. 
 
 Among other old acquaintances, the Westhopes were 
 established at Brighton ; and it was with ijiixed feelings 
 that Blanche prepared herself to meet the friend of her 
 youth, the person who had most unintentionally assisted 
 to foster her love, by always appearing so impressed with 
 De Molton's attractions. Upon that subject both men 
 and women are more influenced by the estimation in 
 which the object is held by others, than they would 
 willingly allow : they are ashamed to be so easily pleased 
 as to prefer a person whom no one else thinks pleasing, 
 and they are decidedly proud of being preferred by one 
 whom every one else admires. 
 
 Mingled with her desire to see her early friend, 
 Blanche experienced a certain dread of the scrutinizing 
 eye of intimacy. She felt she should never be able to 
 echo, with the accent of truth, the romantic sentiments
 
 BLANCHE. 229 
 
 in which they used once to indulge ; and she did not 
 wish her friend to discover that the love which she had 
 spoken of as equal to endure any trials, had nearly sunk 
 under the petty and undignified vexations of pecuniary 
 difficulty. 
 
 Time, however, had worked some changes in l.ady 
 AVesthope. She had long conquered her incipient incli- 
 nation towards Mr. Wroxholnie ; she had learned that a 
 well-regulated mind can make itself contented, if not 
 happy, under almost all circumstances; she had quite 
 given up the point of being the youngest and most 
 admired person in her circle ; and she had convinced 
 herself that she ought to be grateful for the worldly com- 
 forts with which she was surrounded, for the ample 
 means of doing good wliich were within her reach, and 
 for the circumstance of having a very good-humoured 
 husband ; who, whatever might be his faults, was no 
 tyrant. 
 
 Lord Westhope also was somewhat altered. He was 
 now eight years older than when we began our story, and 
 twenty-two years older than when he began his infidel- 
 ities. It was indeed time he should have sown his wild 
 oats, and accordingly he was become infinitely more 
 domestic. Although love was a feeling whicli could 
 never again exist between them, there subsisted a con- 
 siderable regard, and their society was far froni disagree- 
 able to each other. 
 
 On the morning after the arrival of the De Moltons, 
 when Lady Westhope called upon Blanche, one of the 
 disputes which were now of too irequent occurrence 
 had just taken place between her and her husband. 
 Blanche had made a despcwate effort to persuade De 
 Molton to take a house which was to be let, at a rent low 
 in proportion to its size, but still higher than he thought 
 he could afford. Blanche shrank li'om being seen by 
 her former associates in the mean and paltry lodging, 
 which, in so expensive a place as Brighton, was the only 
 one he found within his means, lie persisted in his 
 usual resolution, never to do any thing which might event- 
 ually lead to a shabby action, lor the sake of avoiding a 
 
 VOL. 11. U
 
 230 BLANCHE. 
 
 shabby appearance. He had not long left the room, after 
 a peremptory refusal to accede to his wife's request, 
 when Lady Westhope entered. 
 
 After the first greetings were over, and Lady Westhope 
 had admired Blanche's beautiful children, they drew their 
 chairs to the fire, and Lady Westhope exclaimed, " How 
 I envy you those lovely children, Blanche ! I think if I 
 had four such enclianting creatures, I should be quite 
 happy ! I should so like to have a large flourishing family 
 growing up around me !" 
 
 " Heavens 1 dear Lady Westhope I and I consider 
 each addition to mine as a visitation which gives me the 
 blue devils for months ! When once they are there, and 
 they have made themselves beloved, one would not part 
 with them for worlds; but if you knew what unceasing 
 trouble they give, and how difficult it is to do one's duty 
 by them, you would not wish for a large family." 
 
 " Well ! perhaps there are advantages as well as disad- 
 vantages in everything. 1 have schooled my mind, and 
 brought myself to think every thing is for the best. 1 am 
 a much more contented person, Blanche, than when we 
 used to talk over your love affairs in former days. Now, 
 tell me a little about Captain De Molton. Is he as hand- 
 some as ever ? and are you as much in love as ever ? I 
 certainly never did see such a regular love-match as 
 yours ! The longer you were separated, and the more 
 you were thwarted, the more desperately constant you 
 both were !" 
 
 " Opposition has always been supposed to have that 
 effect: I believe it has often turned many a passing fancy 
 into a grande passion." 
 
 " Why, you are not implying such treason against 
 yourself, as to say that opposition assisted to foster your 
 grande passion ?" 
 
 " Oh dear no ! I only spoke generally. But do you 
 tell me a little about Lord Westhope," she added, to 
 turn the conversation from her own aflairs. 
 
 " Oh 1 he has grown so kind and attentive ! I assure 
 you we are settling down into a most domestic comfort- 
 able old couple."
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 231 
 
 The entrance of Mr. Stapleford interrupted the mutual 
 investigation of conjugal felicity which the friends had set 
 on foot. Mr. Stapleford said he had just met De Molten 
 in the street, who had told him where he should find 
 Lady Blanche, and he had lost no time in paying his re- 
 spects to her. " But, dear Lady Blanche, you are going to 
 remove from this horrid place 1 In such a situation, too ! 
 A mile and a half from the sea I I could scarcely believe 
 De Molton when he pointed out this as your abode ; and 
 should have imagined he was playing off a practical joke 
 upon me, if I had not known he was not given to being 
 facetious. But I suppose you are only here till you can 
 procure something in the land of the living." 
 
 Blanche did not wish Mr. Stapleford to perceive she 
 was not perfectly contented with her fate, and she replied 
 that she did not like being within hearing of the sea, — 
 the constant monotonous breaking of the waves upon the 
 shore made her melancholy. 
 
 " There is no accounting for tastes," he replied, with 
 a polite bow, and a glance which quickly ran over the 
 shabby furniture, the once smart trellised paper (a sort of 
 paper peculiarly in vogue at sea-bathing places, where 
 real flowers and real green leaves are rare), the little 
 round convex mirror surmounted by an eagle with a 
 chain in its bill, and the other lodging-house elegances 
 which adorned the room ; especially the bell-ropes, which 
 were as fine, and much more dirty, than those at Mrs. 
 Jones's, which, four years before, had excited such strong 
 feelings of horror in Blanche's mind. She saw the ex- 
 cursive glance of his eye, and she saw the affectation of 
 politeness with which he then let it fall to the ground, 
 while a slight smile just played about the corners of 
 his mouth. She always disliked him ; and she now most 
 devoutly wished he had not fancied the sea air bracing, 
 and the society at Brighton agreeable. 
 
 " You will be at Mrs. L.'s this evening, shall you not V* 
 inquired Stapleford. 
 
 " No," replied Lady Blanche ; ** I am not acquainted 
 "Vvith her,"
 
 232 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 " Ah ! by-the-by, she has come into fashion since your 
 time. "How long is it since we lost sight of you?" 
 
 " I have been married five years." 
 
 " Married ! Ah ! marriage is a holy rite, synonymous 
 with honourable sepulture. You have, from that day, 
 been dead to all your friends ! By-the-by, 1 was with 
 the Wentnors a month ago. You know your old friend 
 Glenrith is become Lord Wentnor now. He, however, 
 seems determined not to be buried alive. He is giving 
 balls and fetes of all descriptions ; or rather she is ; for 
 he is such a doting husband that every fancy of hers is a 
 law to him. It is quite pretty to see such love-making 
 after eight years of marriage, especially as the result of 
 this Arcadian conjugality generally is a splendid enter- 
 tainment by which half England profits." 
 
 Stapleford's instinct for saying the disagreeable thing 
 had not deserted him ; and he left Blanche to ponder on 
 the fate she had rejected, and to compare it with that she 
 had persisted in choosing. Lady Westhope, too, was 
 happy I She rejoiced that such should be the case ; but 
 certainly the reflections she made during the rest of that 
 day were not unworldly ones. 
 
 De Molton had again met Stapleford in his morning 
 walk, who, after complimenting him upon the unimpaired 
 beauty of liis wife, attacked him most unmercifully for 
 having kept her so long in seclusion, and for now bury- 
 ing in her such an out-of the-way place, and implied (what 
 he had no right to know, but what he had guessed from 
 the expressive countenance of Blanche, in which her feel- 
 ings might always be read as in a mirror), that she was 
 an unwilling denizen in that remote suburb. 
 
 De Molton returned home somewhat displeased at 
 having been, as he imagined, spoken of as a tyrant and a 
 misei*. The tete-a-tete in the evening did not promise 
 to be agreeable. 
 
 " Mr. Stapleford called this morning," Blanche began. 
 
 " So he told me," replied De Molton. 
 
 " And Lady Westhope has been here." 
 
 " Did they tell you any news ?" 
 
 " Mr. Stapleford told me he had been staying at Went-
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 233 
 
 I 
 
 nor Castle, and he gives such a description of their hap- 
 piness ! They seem to be giving splendid fetes and 
 beautiful entertainments, all to please her ; for he says 
 that every wish of l.ady Wentnor's is a law to her hus- 
 band." 
 
 De Molton felt this last sentence as an implied cut at 
 him, " It is very fortunate for Glenrith that he has money 
 to throw away in gratifying every foolish whim of a fan- 
 tastical woman." 
 
 Blanche felt that this was a hit at her ; and, forgetting 
 that by applying to herself what her husband said, she 
 gave him a right to conclude she meant to be personal 
 in her account of Lord Wentnor as a husband, she fol- 
 lowed her impulse, and replied — 
 
 " I cannot see that there is any thing fantastical in 
 wishing not to be laughed at by all one's acquaintance, 
 and in disliking a house one's friends can hardly bring 
 themselves to enter." 
 
 " Blanche, when you married me, you knew you mar- 
 ried a poor man : if you wished for riches and splendour, 
 why did you not marry Glenrith ?'' 
 
 " I am sure, if I wished for kindness and for good- 
 humour, I had better have married Lord Glenrith. I 
 do not know what foolish, girlish infatuation came over 
 me." 
 
 " It is indeed unfortunate that in consequence of this 
 foolish, girlish infatuation, which arc the terms by which 
 you designate your attachment to your husband, you 
 should have thrown away a situation in which you would 
 have been so much happier. I have but to regret that I 
 should have marred your fortunes — so unwittingly marred 
 them ; for neither Glenrith nor yourself can accuse me 
 of having, by any arts or underhand practices, attempted 
 to win your affections from him." 
 
 This implied, according to Blanche's interpretation of 
 his words, that she had allowed them to be gained before 
 he had made any attempt to do so ; and, as angry people 
 usually do, answering to the sense she chose to attribute 
 to his speech, rather than to its plain and obvious mean- 
 ing, she replied — 
 
 tt2
 
 234 BLANCHE. 
 
 " If it was only pity for the unfortunate passion which 
 you supposed me to entertain for you which induced you 
 to profess love at Cransley, it is indeed unfortunate that 
 you allowed your pity so far to overcome your prudence. 
 If I had imagined such to have been the case, I should 
 most assuredly never have broken oft" my engagement 
 with Lord Wentnor." 
 
 " I can only again lament that I should have been the 
 cause of your doing what you so much regret." 
 
 " If this is my reward for having rejected, for your 
 sake, the best pai^ti in England, a good man, too, and one 
 who loved me — for having disappointed and angered my 
 parents — for having preserved an undeviating constancy 
 for three years to a person who now laments that I did 
 not marry his rival, and confesses he only married me 
 out of pity, I am indeed the most unfortunate woman in 
 the world !" She burst into a flood of tears of anger and 
 vexation. 
 
 "Blanche, you wilfully pervert the meaning of all I 
 say. When did I imply that I married you for any 
 thing but love ? But these reproaches, this petulance, 
 are not the right methods to preserve a husband's 
 affection." 
 
 " If nothing but a slave — a patient, meek Griselda — a 
 Mrs. Jones — can preserve your affection, I am afraid I 
 have no chance of preserving it ! .1 do not know what I 
 can do more than I already do. I work for my children ; 
 I go without all the comforts I have been used to ; I 
 have no maid ; and I must refuse going to Lady West- 
 hope's to-morrow night, because the nursery-maid can- 
 not dress my hair, and because I have no gown fit to 
 appear in." 
 
 " I am very, very sorry I have not the means of pro- 
 viding you with the luxuries you regret, and I am very 
 sorry you refuse yourself the pleasures and amusements 
 that so naturally fall in your way. I had hoped that at 
 Brighton, where people may join in society without much 
 expense, and where it is not necessary to keep a carriage, 
 you might mix with your friends. I should have thought 
 the art of hair-dressing was not so very difficult to ac-
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 235 
 
 quire, when one sees every attorney's daughter, every 
 milliner's apprentice, every shop-girl, with hair which puts 
 to shame all the exertions of M. Hippolite." 
 
 " I am not a shop-girl, or a milliner's apprentice," an- 
 swered Lady Blanche, while all the blood of the Falk- 
 ingharas mounted to her cheek, and all the spirit of an 
 ancient race flashed from her eye. 
 
 " But you are the wife of a poor man, although of 
 one as nobly born as yourself!" and all the pride of the 
 De Moltons rendered the brow of her husband absolutely 
 awful. 
 
 " I know full well that I am the wife of a poor man ; 
 there is no need to remind me so often of that truth," 
 replied Lady Blanche, with some bitterness in her tone ; 
 " and therefore 1 shall stay at home, and not expose my 
 poverty to the eyes of the pitying world, or to the sneers 
 of a Mr. Stapleford." 
 
 " You will do as is most agreeable to yourself. I shall 
 certainly go to Lady Westhope's, as I shall feel sincere 
 pleasure in seeing my old friends again." 
 
 To Lady Westhope's went De Molton, and Blanche 
 stayed at home. She had originally intended, for the 
 sake of enjoying agreeable society, to brave the slight 
 mortification of not finding herself, as was once the case, 
 the best dressed woman in the room ; but the conversa- 
 tion of the preceding evening had left, her so unhappy, so 
 discontented, and so indignant, that she found a certain 
 pleasure in martyrdom. It was, however, only in the 
 eyes of her husband that she wished to enact the martyr ; 
 from the world she would fain conceal that she had so 
 misjudged the strength of her own attachment ; she meant 
 to persuade others that it was from choice, from bad 
 health, or from any motive rather than the true one, that 
 she persisted in leading a retired life. 
 
 But with her candid disposition, and her speaking eyes, 
 it did not require the malicious tact of a Staplcfonl to 
 read the true state of her feelings. With Lady West- 
 hope, especially, she could not always be on her guard; 
 and to her it was soon only too evident that the love for 
 which she had given up every thing else did not repay
 
 236 BLANCHE. 
 
 her for the sacrifices she had made. Lady Westliope 
 began indeed to doubt whether this much-vaunted love 
 had not, when tried in the balance against privations of 
 every sort, been found utterly wanting. 
 
 It may be asked, should then Blanche have married 
 Lord Glenrith ? No, certainly ; for she was not in love 
 with him. More especially no, for she was at the time 
 in love with another. But we would urge, that if afflu- 
 ence without love is insufficient to wedded happiness, 
 so is the most romantic love without those habitual luxu- 
 ries, and that dispensation from sordid details, which, to 
 persons in a certain situation, may almost be termed the 
 necessaries of life. 
 
 Let not those who, valuing the good things of this 
 world, are dazzled into forming an interested marriage, 
 anticipate the delights of sentimental affection, nor be 
 disappointed if one whose situation was the attraction 
 prove destitute of those qualities which were not sought; 
 and let those who are '• all for love and the world well 
 lost," keep in mind the latter half of the sentence, and 
 not expect to find both that which they prize, and that 
 which they profess to contemn. Above all, let not those 
 who have an opportunity of uniting in their choice true 
 affection with the enjoyments of those comforts to which 
 they have been accustomed, be induced, by any tempta- 
 tion of rank, wealth, or power, to give up virtuous hap- 
 piness for heartless splendour.
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
 No traveller ever reached that birss'd abode, 
 Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 In her intercourse with the De Moltons, Lady West- 
 hope observed that they seldom addressed each other; 
 and that, in speaking of her husband, Blanche invaria- 
 bly called him Captain De Molton, instead of Frank, 
 as she had formerly done ; and that De Molton also, 
 when speaking of his wife, added the title to her name, 
 and even occasionally addressed her as " Lady" 
 Blanche. 
 
 These were trifles, but yet they indicated much. 
 Though grieved for her cousin's sake, Lady Westhope's 
 i-eflections served to reconcile her to her own fate, and 
 to confirm her in her opinion that 
 
 Every black must have its white, 
 And every sweet its sour, 
 
 and that true wisdom consists in dwelling on the 
 " sweets" of one's own peculiar lot, and striving to 
 forget the " sours ;" and though for herself she would 
 still have chosen Blanche's trials rather than her own, 
 it might be that she knew her own, and was not so well 
 versed in Lady Blanche's. Yet her character was 
 better fitted for Blanche's situation : she had more de- 
 cision, more strength of mind, more pride, — not worldly 
 pride, but pride of soul to persevere in the path which 
 she had once chalked out for herself. 
 
 De Molton had keenly and painfully felt the coolness 
 which had for months, nay, almost years, been gradu-
 
 238 BLANCHE. 
 
 ally increasing between them ; and he was still more 
 deeply wounded when she nearly confessed, or at least 
 did not deny, her regret at having rejected Lord Glen- 
 rith for him. He could have found excuses for any 
 thing else. The pride of man, the tenderness of the 
 husband, the sensitiveness of the individual, were all 
 touched in the tenderest point. 
 
 " Could this," he thought, " be the same creature who 
 was such a contemner of worldly wealth, so ardent a 
 votary of love in a cottage, such an enthusiast for the 
 pleasures of nature ?" Alas, for poor Blanche ! it was 
 love in a lodging-house, not love in a cottage, that she 
 had tried ; and as to the pleasures of nature, the dusty 
 suburbs of a country town are scarcely "the country" 
 to a person brought up in the midst of an extensive 
 park, in a wild and woody country. 
 
 De Molton recollected how, out of consideration for 
 her, he had concealed his own feelings at Paris ; how 
 scrupulously he had avoided interfering with ihe more 
 brilliant prospects which were opening before her ; 
 how, far from taking advantage of her unguarded con- 
 fession of preference, he had banished himself from his 
 native land ; how, though hopeless, he had remained 
 constant to her image for three long years ; how, when 
 he found her free, he had hastened to throw himself at 
 her feet ; how, without murmuring or repining, he 
 gladly endured privations, the same that she did, and 
 thought himself only too well rewarded if she would 
 cheer their humble home with a smile. He thought 
 over all these things, and he felt himself the most in- 
 jured of men. Did he not deny himself every indul-. 
 gence ? Did he not even refuse himself the satisfaction 
 of asking a friend to share his morsel ? — the most gall^ 
 ing self-denial enjoined by absolute poverty ! Did not 
 the responsibility of providing for their children weigh 
 upon his mind ? Was it not his duty to look forward 
 to the time when education must commence, — when 
 boys must be sent to school, when girls must have mas- 
 ters ? What parent will sit down contented under the 
 notion that his children will not be fitted by manners
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 239 
 
 and education to move in the sphere in which they were 
 born ? None, who are not without that commonest 
 and strongest feeUng in all created beings, parental 
 affection — or who are not without the power of reflec- 
 tion ! And how were these expenses to be met ? How, 
 but by increased economy on their part? 
 
 Such were the cares which pressed on De Molton's 
 mind. How much better would it have been had he 
 fairly communicated them all to his wife ; had he 
 frankly counselled with her upon the best plan to be 
 pursued ; had he openly laid before her his actual in- 
 come, his actual expenses ! But the constitutional 
 reserve to which we have alluded prevented his pursu- 
 ing this course. 
 
 It was most painful to him to refuse any of her 
 wishes, and the very pain it gave him imparted to his 
 manner of doing so a certain harshness, which pre- 
 vented Blanche from entering into his views. Her 
 resistance to his views, or her martyr-like acquiescence 
 in them, rendered him still less communicative ; when, 
 perhaps, had he pursued a more open line of conduct, 
 a person who married with such good intentions as she 
 did (though with little knowledge of things as they 
 are) might have been led to suggest the very sacrifices 
 at which she repined when they were demanded as a 
 right. 
 
 Every succeeding day seemed to widen the breach 
 between them. This result of a love-match afforded 
 the materials for many a bad jest among some who 
 called themselves their friends, while others saw nothing 
 entertaining in the wreck of happiness to two people 
 possessing many amiable qualities, though neither of 
 them might be faultless. Some pitied Lady Blanche 
 for having such a harsh and ungrateful tyrant for a 
 -husband ; and some felt for the noble, uncompromising 
 De Molton, whose home was evidently rendered miser- 
 able by a wilful discontented wife. Some predicted a 
 separation : some predicted that, beautiful as was Lady 
 Blanche, and tired as she was of her home, the time 
 would arrive when she would be induced to leave it,
 
 240 BLANCHE. 
 
 for one more brilliant, though less respectable ; — al- 
 though her manners were now so reserved, so decorous, 
 a few years, and people would see the difference ; a 
 woman who had once loved so passionately, would not 
 remain con,tented to pass her life from the age of twenty- 
 eight in a state of cold indifference, if not of absolute 
 dislike. 
 
 But those who thus prognosticated, proved unin- 
 spired prophets. Affection was still deep-rooted in 
 both their hearts. The noxious weeds of petty griev- 
 ances had choked, but not destroyed, the goodly plant. 
 It still retained sufficient life, when moistened by the 
 waters of affliction, to spring up with renewed vigour, 
 and overcome in its growth the weeds which had almost 
 stifled it. 
 
 CHArTER XIX. 
 
 And dearer seems each dawning smile 
 For having lost its light a while. 
 
 Lalla Roohh. 
 
 The illness of their children first awakened Blanche 
 and De Molton to a knowledge of their real feelings to- 
 wards each other. 
 
 The children caught the measles, a complaint which 
 had at that period proved peculiarly fatal. The eldest 
 girl, who was at that most engaging of all ages when, 
 without losing the graces of infancy, the mind opens 
 into companionship, became alarmingly ill. In their 
 tender assiduity by the little bed of the sufferer, all 
 feelings of asperity, all feelings of coldness, were quickly 
 forgotten. 
 
 Together they watched with intense anxiety, to- 
 gether they listened to the short and frequent cough ;
 
 BLANCHE. 241 
 
 one held the cup of cooling beverage with which the 
 other moistened the lips of their child. No ! it is not 
 possible that parents can bend over the sick-bed of their 
 first-born, — tlie creature equally dear to both, — the 
 creature whose first accents of tenderness have been 
 framed to utter their names, — the creature whose first 
 emotions of love have been for them, whose first notions 
 of right and wrong they have together laboured to form; 
 — no ! they cannot bend over the sick-bed of this loved 
 creature, and harbour any recollection of former un- 
 kindness. The impression may fade away ; new 
 causes of irritation may subsequently arise ; but, for 
 the time being, surely it is impossible that any but feel- 
 ings of affection can find a place in their hearts. 
 
 With Blanche and De Molton all that had ever passed 
 was utterly wiped away, as, with the sickening dread 
 of hearing their worst fears confirmed, they followed 
 the physician from the sick-chamber. They scarcely 
 knew in what terms to couch the dreadful question to 
 which they feared to receive a still more dreadful an- 
 swer, — that question which is asked in a broken and 
 quivering voice, but sometimes with a faint smile, as- 
 sumed to reassure the questioner, — that question which 
 is oftener put in the form of an assertion, " You do not 
 think there is any danger." 
 
 " Why, certainly our little patient is in a very un- 
 comfortable state," replied the physician, who consid- 
 ered it his duty to prepare the parents for the event 
 which he thought only too probable. 
 
 The false hollow smile faded from the countenance of 
 the agonized father : he knit his brows, and bit his com- 
 pressed lip, till the blood almost started; but Blanche, 
 worn out with fatigue and agitation, his poor Blanche, 
 unable to meet this death-blow to her hopes, staggered 
 towards him for support, and the husband mastered the 
 feelings of the father, to sustain her fainting form, to 
 sooth her more overwhelming agonies. 
 
 There are sufferings on which it is painful to dwell 
 — sufferings too real, too true, too common, — suffer- 
 ings which have been often endured, and which, alas ! 
 
 VOL. u. — X
 
 242 BLANCHE, 
 
 many have in store for them, — -sufferings which equal 
 in intensity any of which humannature is capahle. 
 
 For two days and two nights did they watch each 
 varying symptom, count with trembhng accuracy the 
 minutes, tlie seconds, which were passed in undis- 
 turbed repose, and listen with painful rapture to the 
 sweet voice, the plaintive and endearing "papa," " mam- 
 ma," which the poor child often uttered, when, in the 
 restlessness of illness, she wanted, she knew not what. 
 
 How sad and painful an effort was it to veil under 
 a semblance of playfulness the anxiety which con- 
 sumed them, while they attempted to amuse the infant 
 sufferer ! to tell her childish tales, in a gay tone of voice, 
 while the iieart was bursting ! to smooth the brow, to 
 affect a smile ! How often, during these two long days, 
 these two interminable nights, did Blanche reflect upon 
 her folly and her ingratitude ! — her folly in not enjoy- 
 ing to the uttermost the happiness which a few short 
 days before was within her reach, — her ingratitude to 
 Providence for the blessings till then vouchsafed to her ! 
 
 A horrible chill ran through her ! — perhaps it was 
 this very ingratitude which had deserved so severe a 
 chastisement. How did she now wonder that petty 
 annoyances should have so ruffled her ! What to her 
 were now the sneers of Stapleford, the pity of the 
 world, the absence of elegances, of comforts ! Dry 
 bread to eat, a shelter from the weather, and her chil- 
 dren once more healthy, now appeared to her the sum- 
 mit of earthly happiness. 
 
 De Molton, too, when he beheld bis still-loved 
 Blanche bowed down with grief, when he found her 
 once more overflowing with tenderness to himself, won- 
 dered how he could ever liave imagined her to be 
 estranged from him ; and he watched over her as ten- 
 derly as over his child. 
 
 On the third day the physician perceived a slight im- 
 provement. He allowed them to hope ; and the revul- 
 sion of feeling", the unbounded joy with which this per- 
 mission was hailed by Blanche, alarmed him by its 
 vehemence. He attempted to qualify his opinion, but
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 243 
 
 it was in vain ! — she was allowed to hope : and stronger 
 than reason, her ardent nature made her jump to the 
 delightful conclusion, that her child was safe. 
 
 De Molton, fearful of a relapse, tried to subdue her 
 raptures ; but no sooner had the physician left the room, 
 than, throwing herself into his arms, she exclaimed, 
 " Our child will live, Fraukj! I know she will ! She 
 will live, and w.e shall be happy — entirely, perfectly 
 happy ! Nothing can ever make me unhappy again !" 
 
 Short-sighted mortals ! We little know what the 
 next week, the next day, the next hour, the next mo- 
 ment, may have in store for us ! 
 
 The hopes of Blanche, however, were not doomed 
 on this occasion to be disappointed : the little girl 
 rapidly recovered ; the other children had the com- 
 plaint mildly ; and Blanche, indeed, thought herself 
 beyond the reach of misfortune. She felt gratitude, 
 fervent gratitude, to Heaven for its mercies ; but afflic- 
 tion had not yet taught her to "rejoice in trembling." 
 She did not remember how, always, at all times, and in 
 all places, our happiness is in the hands of an all-wise, 
 all-powerful, but merciful Being, whose chastisements 
 are dealt in pity. 
 
 This truth was forced upon her mind when, just as 
 the children were convalescent, she saw her husband 
 become listless and oppressed : she heard him fre- 
 quently cough, and she felt some alarm on his account. 
 
 It had always been a matter of doubt whether a slight 
 rash he had in his boyhood was or was not the measles. 
 He had never remembered this doubt while attending 
 his child, and it was not till he felt unaccountably lan- 
 guid and suffering that he recollected he might possi- 
 bly have caught the infection. 
 
 The suspicion which he then hinted to Blanche shot 
 through her frame with the conviction of impend- 
 ing wo ; and when the physician confirmed the fact, 
 the agonizing, but not uncommon dread which often 
 overtakes those in affliction recurred to her mind with 
 increased intensity. Were their sorrows the visitation 
 of an offended Providence, called down upon their de-
 
 244 BLANCHE. 
 
 voted heads by their own want of submission to its de- 
 crees ? — was she unworthy of a happiness she had 
 failed to vahie ? — was the moment come when her re- 
 pinings and her discontent were to be requited with 
 a terrible retribution ? 
 
 Nothing that Doctor A. could utter was capable of 
 reassuring her. She shook her head mournfully, and 
 redoubled her attentions to her husband. When told 
 that " she ought to place more reliance in that Power 
 which had raised her cliiid from a much more desper- 
 ate state of sickness," she answered mournfully, " I do 
 not deserve it." 
 
 "We none of us deserve the mercies we meet with," 
 replied the kind-hearted physician : " if we were dealt 
 with according to our merits, well might we all des- 
 pair." For a few moments such arguments would 
 cheer her, but again she would relapse into despond- 
 ency ; and when, after some days, Dr. A. confessed 
 that his pulse was very high — when his tone of encour- 
 agement changed to one of consolation and condolence, 
 her spirit completely sunk — hope died away within her 
 bosom. 
 
 In what fearful array did her own faults towards 
 him rise up against her ! How completely did she for- 
 get the little tone of harshness which had once appeared 
 to her to excuse and to justify her in disputing his 
 wishes and opposing his plans ! She felt she could 
 never do enough to expiate her faults, that a whole life 
 of devotion could scarcely suffice to atone for them ; 
 and, extreme in every thing, she now looked upon her- 
 self as having been the most sinful of creatures. 
 
 De Molton, whose affection had only been suspended, 
 not destroyed, by the coldness he had met with, now, 
 when he found her tender, gentle, and indefatigable, felt 
 for her all, and more than he had ever fek before. One 
 day she had been tending him with even more than her 
 usual solicitude, when he said, " Thank you, Blanche ; 
 you are a kind and excellent nurse ; and it grieves me 
 when I think to what a dreary home of sickness, penury, 
 and drudgery, I have been the means of bringing you.
 
 BLANCHE. 245 
 
 Without me, you would have been now enjoying the 
 splendour, the brilliancy of your father's house, even sup- 
 posing you had never deigned to adorn any of the other 
 happy homes which courted your acceptance. I know 
 that you have suffered much from the privations una- 
 voidable in our situation ; you have at times thought me 
 harsh ; but indeed, my dearest Blanche — my dear, dear 
 wife, you do not know how much it has cost me to re- 
 fuse you any thing on earth." 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! do not speak in that manner ! I now 
 know how unreasonable, how ungrateful, I have been. 
 Do not talk of what is past. Believe me, you should not 
 agitate yourself." 
 
 " It will do me good to say what is upon my mind : 
 it is possible I may not recover." 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" She looked at him reproachfully, as if 
 he was unkind in saying v.liat it was so painful to hear. 
 
 " Nay, do not cast at me so frightened and so accusing 
 a glance. I am not so very ill yet ; and anticipating 
 what is possible will not make it more probable. Dr. 
 A. says there are still hopes." 
 
 " Oh, Frank 1 I cannot bear it ; indeed I cannot !" 
 
 " Dearest love, if it should please God to take me from 
 you, you must bear it ; and, what is more, you must ex- 
 ert yourself. You will be left with four young children, 
 and, I am sorry to say, with less than ever to support 
 them and yourself. I have ensured my life ; but that 
 could be but to a small amount, though to the utmost I 
 could succeed in saving. It was this, as I thought, indis- 
 pensable duty which contributed to render us so very 
 poor." 
 
 " Oh ! you were doing every thing that was right ; 
 and, indeed, if I had known all, I think — I believe — I 
 should have behaved better. I think, if you had told 
 me—" 
 
 " I ought to have done so, perhaps. It was a kind of 
 mistaken pride. The whole thing was so distressing to 
 me ! I desired so ardently to be able to gratify every 
 wish of your heart, that my spirit rebelled at being able 
 to gratify none. Still, my sense of duty and of strong 
 
 x2
 
 246 BLANCHE. 
 
 necessity made me resolve not to transgress one inch 
 the hne of prudence I had marked out for myself. The 
 more your notions seemed unfitted for the fi\te we had em- 
 braced, the more I thought it my bounden duty to resist 
 them, and to impress upon you the plain naked truth of 
 our condition in life. I was wrong ; I feel now that I 
 •was wrong. I should have made you the partner of my 
 thoughts and plans, as well as of my affections." 
 
 " No, no ! it was not you who were to blame : yon 
 were all that was admirable ; yours was strict, uncom- 
 promising rectitude, firmness of mind, every thing that 
 was manly and noble ; while 1 ! — oh, that I can have so 
 misjudged you ! — oh, that I can have so wasted these 
 past years, which I now feel ought to have been years 
 of such unmixed, such unalloyed happiness !" 
 
 " Now, when perhaps it is too late !" he added, in a 
 low faint voice ; then perceiving the expression of her 
 countenance, he added, " but better late than never, my 
 love ;" and he held out his hand to her, with a smile half 
 playful, half sad, attempting, as sick people often do, to 
 familiarize their own and the minds of their friends with 
 the idea of a final separation. He drew her hand towards 
 him, and placing the other upon it, he continued with 
 earnestness and solemnity : " We have been both to 
 blame — both of us. When I am gone, do not torment 
 yourself with useless regrets, but remember what I now 
 say — that I am conscious of having been to blame on 
 my part. If I had treated you with entire confidence 
 and openness, I might have won on your generous nature 
 to submit cheerfully to any privations. But I am reserved, 
 I am proud. I am at length aware of these constitu- 
 tional faults ; and I trust, if I should be raised from this 
 bed of sickness — if I should be spared to you, dear 
 Blanche — that I shall in future know my duty better, 
 and that I shall pursue it resolutely, and never again 
 allow pride and reserve to chill our intercourse." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, if we are but spared to each other, in 
 spite of all outward circumstances, we will be so very, 
 very happy ! But we will rejoice in trembling. We 
 are now too well aware how precarious is our happi-
 
 BLANCHE. 247 
 
 ness, and we shall prize it the more from that very con" 
 sciousness. We shall learn to be grateful for the ster- 
 ling blessings we possess." 
 
 " And we shall know, my love, as I do now, that, when 
 we meet death face to face, those points only on which 
 we have done our duty can afford reflections in which 
 there is any comfort, — those alone on which we have 
 failed to perform it can give unmitigated pain !" 
 
 " Alas, alas ! how much have I to repent of ! Instead 
 of making your happiness, have I not caused you vexa- 
 tion and disappointment? Have I always honoured, 
 always obeyed you ? — have I been really a helpmate to 
 you ? Oh, Frank ! forgive me ! Indeed, indeed, I need 
 your forgiveness ; and even that can never reconcile me 
 to myself !" 
 
 " Have you already forgotten my injunctions, my love? 
 Remember what I so earnestly wish to impress upon 
 your mind, — that we have been both to blame, — both." 
 
 " Thank you, my good, kind, beloved husband, — thank 
 you ; and may God in his mercy preserve you to guide 
 my mind, and direct me in the path I should go ! — then 
 I shall never err again." 
 
 " A weak and erring mortal, like youFseH', ia a poor 
 guide to lean upon, dear Blanche ; we must look within 
 ourselves for the ardent and sincere wish to do what is 
 right, but we must seek from above the strength to per- 
 form it. It is easy to know our duty ; the difficulty is 
 to persevere in its performance." 
 
 " I shall be able to persevere, with you to support 
 me!" 
 
 He looked upon her with an expression of unutterable 
 tenderness and pity, and pressed her hand in silence. 
 
 The more the fear that they might be for ever parted 
 grew upon her, the less could she admit any allusion to 
 it, the more did she cling to the idea that their union 
 was indissoluble.
 
 248 BLANCHE. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Some manne hath good, but chyldren hath he none ; 
 Some manne hath both, but he can get none healthe. 
 Some hath all three, but up to honour's throne 
 Can he not crepe by no manner of stelth. 
 To some she sendeth chyldren, riches, welthe, 
 Honour, worship, and reverence all his lyfe, 
 But yet she pyncheth him with a shrewde wyfe — 
 
 Be content 
 With such reward as Fortune hath you sent. 
 
 Sir Thomas More. 
 
 De Molton's health remained for some weeks in a 
 most precarious state, during which period they had 
 time and opportunity for opening their whole hearts to 
 each other. 
 
 The religious sentiments which, although never be- 
 fore much called forth, were latent in both their bosoms, 
 were more fully developed ; and in sorrow, in fear, and 
 in distress, the communion of feeling' and interchange 
 of thought became more complete than in the earlier 
 years of their marriage. 
 
 When he recovered — for he did recover — they found 
 themselves thoroughly, entirely, and reasonably happy. 
 The first time that he came into the drawing-room, 
 when she had arranged his armchair by the fire, and 
 drawn the narrow curtains, placed the table close to 
 him, and settled little Emma on a stool at his feet, she 
 looked round with delight, and could not help express- 
 ing that she thought the room an exceedingly nice one, 
 and that really a horse-hair sofa was not so very un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 " Take care, Blanche," replied De Molton, playfully ; 
 " we must be happy without deceiving ourselves : we 
 must see things as they really are. Do not, because
 
 BLANCHE. 249 
 
 you are glad to see me here, fancy this Httle room a 
 splendid apartment, or a horse-hair sofa a luxurious 
 seat, lest the moment of disenchantment should come. 
 No, no ! we will be happy in spite of a bad room and 
 wretched furniture : but we will indulge in no visions." 
 
 " How right you always are ! All will go well, now 
 you are recovering. Yes, you will at last make me 
 reasonable too : and you will teach me to keep all my 
 feelings, good as well as bad, under proper control ! 
 And yet I do not know how it is, the room does really 
 look different in my eyes ; and I almost think I do not 
 slip off the sofa as much as I used to do 1" He smiled 
 at her again ; and she laughed gayly at herself. 
 
 As he gradually recovered, some friends were admit- 
 ted to see him. Lady Westhope rejoiced, not only at 
 the restoration of his health, but at the restoration of 
 confidence between them. Mr. Stapleford pathetically 
 lamented that De Molton should have been taken ill in 
 this horrid nut-shell, and asked when they should move 
 to a more habitable part of the town. 
 
 "Not at all," answered Blanche. 
 
 "You are not in earnest? What can you find to 
 admire in this apartment, dear Lady Blanche?" 
 
 " Its cheapness," replied Blanche resolutely : " do you 
 not know, Mr. Stapleford, that we are very poor ?" 
 
 The courage to utter these few words would spare 
 many persons many moments of doubt, and hesitation, 
 and awkwardness, and many unavailing efforts to make 
 an effect. 
 
 Mr. Stapleford bowed with much respect, and a glance 
 which seemed to say, " You have made a bad bargain ! 
 with your beauty, thus to have thrown yourself away 1" 
 
 But his glance met that of Lady Blanche, which 
 seemed to answer, " I am very poor, but I do not repent 
 my bargain." 
 
 Blanche's object was no longer to make a decent ap- 
 pearance in the eyes of others, but to render her hus- 
 band's home happy. De Molton no longer felt humbled 
 at their poverty, when she no longer seemed affected by 
 it. He candidly detailed his expenditure and his plans :
 
 250 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 she took great pains to dress her own hair, and soon 
 acquired the proficiency of a Mrs. Jones, or of a milU- 
 ner's apprentice ; she gayly si)rung into a Brighton fly 
 with a bounding step, and wiUingly went into any 
 agreeable society that presented itself: and she found 
 that, though no longer the leader of fashion in point of 
 dress, she was handsome and agreeable enough to be 
 ecjually sought and liked. 
 
 In one of her tete-a-tetes with Lady Westhope, they 
 were both exclaiming at the worldliness of some mutual 
 acquaintance, who courted a woman whom no one 
 esteemed or loved ; whom no one thought either agree- 
 able or handsome, solely on account of her position in 
 the world. 
 
 " At least Frank and I have one comfort," exclaimed 
 Blanche, in the corner of whose heart there still lurked 
 a remnant of vanity : " if we are sought, it must be for 
 our intrinsic merits. There can be no interested motive 
 in any attention or kindness that is shown to us ; and 
 that is a reflection which puts one in better humour 
 with one's self." 
 
 " Yes," answered Lady Westhope ; " and if we were 
 so inclined, we might moralize on this subject as well 
 as on more serious ones. ' This is a world of com- 
 pensations,' as Lady Montreville says she has learned 
 from her old nurse. You remember Milly Roberts, 
 who was always toddling after her lovely children in 
 St. James's Square ? It is quite refreshing when one is 
 in London to converse with Milly Roberts, and hear 
 good sense, good feeling, and philosophy uttered so un- 
 consciously. Lady Montreville says she has taught her 
 almost all she knows of right and wrong ; and among 
 other things, that we must not look for perfect happi- 
 ness in this world ; that the most fortunate are not 
 without their troubles, as she expresses it, nor the most 
 unfortunate without their own peculiar blessings. I 
 have reasoned myself into a very respectable degree of 
 contentment, and I only hope that the sight of you and 
 your husband, as you now are, may not disturb my 
 philosophical, and I hope I may add, religious view of
 
 BLANCHE. 251 
 
 my own fate, as much as the sight of you three months 
 ago tended to confirm and strengthen it." 
 
 Blanche had time to prove that her cheerfulness 
 under privation was not the eftbrt of a moment, but a 
 resolution founded upon principle, and persevered in 
 from the same motive ; and De Molton also had time 
 to prove that the tenderness of his wife had softened 
 the sternness which was the only flaw in his character; 
 and to become as gentle as he was firm in the perform- 
 ance of his duty ; when an event occurred which pre- 
 vented their late-acquired virtues from being any longer 
 put to so severe a trial. 
 
 By the death of a very rich godfather, De Molton 
 became possessed of a small independence. It was 
 very small ; but it enabled him to retire on half-pay till 
 he might be wanted for the active service of his coun- 
 try, and to take a small cottage in the immediate vicin- 
 ity of Cransley, where Blanche was able to realize her 
 preconceived notions of refined poverty and elegant 
 indigence. They kept a cow, and their butter equalled 
 that at Temple Losely ; their cream was no longer blue 
 milk ; they baked at home ; and instead of a knocker on 
 the door, they had a bell with a respectable country fied 
 sound. They had a garden, a small one certainly ; but 
 its flowers were as bright as those at Cransley, and the 
 primroses decidedly blew a week earlier ! They had a 
 veranda, and it did not darken the room much. In 
 short, they had all appliances and means to boot requi- 
 site for real happiness. 
 
 They were enabled, while their children were so 
 young, to lay by something to assist in their education 
 as they grew older; and they began to think that Milly 
 Roberts was wrong, and that some fortunate people 
 were without " (heir troubles," when Mr. Stapleford 
 paid them a morning visit from Cransley, and enlight- 
 ened their minds as to the one only point on which 
 their fate might admit of amelioration. 
 
 After expressing his astonishment at their not know- 
 ing all the innumerable pieces of scandal which he 
 retailed to them ; at their not having read all the new
 
 252 BLANCHE. 
 
 novels of the last spring- ; at their not having seen the 
 new actress, heard the last singer, visited the last exhi- 
 bition, and become intimate with the last brides of the 
 season ; he exclaimed, " Why, dear Lady Blanche, you 
 will let the grass grow over your intellect, as you are 
 letting it grow ove<r the gravel before your door ! One 
 can see by your road and your conversation thatCrans- 
 ley has been uninhabited, and that Lady VVesthope has 
 been in London, while you have been in the country, 
 for the last six months !" 
 
 " Oh, come and help us, Mr. Stapleford ! we will 
 soon get rid of the weeds out of doors. Emma, fetch 
 the gardening basket ; Henry, bring your old knife ; 
 Arthur, where is my rake ? and Frank, if you will get 
 the roller, we will make our little bit of gravel quite 
 nice before Lady Westhope calls." 
 
 " Of course I am d vos ordres, Lady Blanche ; but I 
 assure you, I shall be vastly more useful in polishing 
 your mind than your garden. People who ruralize 
 all the year round, and cannot therefore be au courant 
 of what is going on in the world, should never let slip 
 an opportunity of instruction," 
 
 " There is some truth in what you say," replied 
 Blanche, as she looked up from her labours, with spark- 
 ling eyes, and a complexion dazzling in its brightness 
 from the warmth of the day and the nature of her em- 
 ployment : then shaking back her curls, she bade him 
 seat himself on the bench beneath the young acacia, 
 and tell her " every thing about everybody." 
 
 " Well, then, Lord D. did not propose, after all, to 
 Miss C. ; but set off for Paris, just as the family was 
 on the tiptoe of expectation, thinking every double 
 knock was the peer come to propose in person, and 
 every single knock was a special messenger bearing a 
 written offer of his hand and heart." 
 
 " I did not know Miss C. was grown up : does she 
 turn out pretty ?" 
 
 " Heavens ! Lady Blanche, she has been out these 
 two years ! and everybody thinks her quite gone off. 
 She was pretty when the duke made such a fuss with
 
 BLANCHE. 253 
 
 her at her first ball ; but Mrs^L. thought it an insult to 
 her charms." 
 
 "Mrs. L.'s charms ! I thought she was so very plain !" 
 
 " Plain ! why she has been a beauty these three 
 years. Lady G. betted Captain S. an amber-headed 
 cane to an ivory fan, that within a month she.wo'uld 
 talk her into being a beauty: and ske did so, in three 
 weeks and two days — five days within the prescribed 
 period. tVhen once Lady G. had given her a start, she 
 had the ingenuity to keep it. Her portrait now adorns 
 the Annuals, and the duke has worn her chains for two 
 years and a lialf. But I must not linger here any 
 longer,'' or I shall be late at dinner. Good-morning, 
 dear Lady Blanche ; your simplicity is quite piquant, 
 and absolutely refreshes me. You dine at Cransiey to- 
 morrow, when I will finish rubbing the rust off your 
 mind." 
 
 That evening Lady Blanche remarked to De Molton : 
 " The only little drawback to our perfect happiness is, 
 that certainly one does grow very dull, and very stupid, 
 knowing nothing that goes on in the world ! Yet, after 
 all, how much better to be like you, than Mr. Staple- 
 ford! Yes, notwithstanding the grass that has grown 
 over our minds, I do believe ours is the happiest position 
 in life — that we have the fewest troubles and the great- 
 est number of blessings. I think I may now say, with 
 truth, and without enthusiastic nonsense, that we are 
 happier than if we possessed the mines of Golconda. 
 I told you so when we left Sir Frederick Vyneton's 
 villa after our honeymoon ; and you then declared how 
 happy you should be if I said the same at the end of 
 two years. I could not have said so then ; but I can 
 now, after eight years of marriage." 
 
 We need not add, that De Molton was indeed per- 
 fectly happy, nor that he told his wife he was so. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
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