Chapter II: Part 2

Then turning to Ellen, she motioned her to approach. Ellen rose, and went to the bed-side; she looked on Juliet, and saw that sweet angelic countenance, slightly flushed, and looking as composed as ever; and ignorant of the appearances of disease, fancied her better, and was, in some measure, comforted. Juliet faintly articulated a few words, expressive of the pleasure she felt in seeing Ellen, and would have said more, but the nurse, for the sake of all, interposed, and requested that Miss Juliet might not be allowed to speak much. With difficulty she held out her feeble emaciated arms to Ellen, who tenderly embraced her, and half dissolved in tears, retired to the window, whither she drew Miss Cecil. Still the wretched Laura shed no tear; and the deep grief, impressed on her fine countenance, was much more painful to the beholder than the loudest expressions of sorrow could have been.

"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!"

"For heaven's sake, my dearest Laura," said Ellen, "endeavour to take comfort; surely she is better--she will recover!"

Laura only shook her head; and the nurse approaching, said, "Indeed, Madam, Miss Cecil will kill herself; she has not had her clothes off these two nights, nor has the slightest refreshment passed her lips this day."

"Oh! talk not to me of rest or food," cried Laura, "I can partake of neither."

Ellen most tenderly urged her to take something; but pressing her hands upon her heart, she replied, "Oh no, oh no--I could not; indeed I could not. Go," she added, "my dear friend--go, this is no place for you; nothing but the request of ----; nothing but _her_ request should have induced me to send for you."

"But now I _am_ here," said Ellen, "surely you will allow me to stay; I may be of use to you; of comfort to dear dear Juliet."

In vain she urged. Laura sacrificed all selfish considerations, and insisted on her returning home, promising to send to her should Juliet wish to see her again; and St. Aubyn, anxious for her, now sent to request his wife would come: she therefore embraced her friend, and looking once more on the departing saint, who now again lay heavily dozing, she lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, and, with another shower of tears, left the room.

St. Aubyn was rejoiced to find her disposed to accompany him home, though she complained bitterly that Laura would not let her stay.

"Laura," said he, "judges as she always does, wisely, and acts kindly: you could be of no real service, and your being here would be highly improper; you must not think of it."

Two days of the greatest anxiety now passed, and at the end of that time the fair and lovely Juliet breathed no more: her last moments were attended by consolation so powerful, and hopes so celestial, as might well have taught the worldly "how a Christian could die!"

For many days Laura was confined to her bed, and it was feared she would follow her sister to the grave; but by degrees she shook off the excess of her sorrow, and for her father's sake endeavoured to recover from the dreadful shock she had received.

Sir William Cecil, who had long been convinced that Juliet would not live many months, was more easily consoled. The St. Aubyns of course had delayed their journey to London on this event; and finding that Sir William Cecil was disposed to make an excursion to Bath, which his gouty habit indeed rendered almost necessary, they endeavoured to prevail on Laura to come to them at St. Aubyn Castle for a short time, and then go with them to London. From this proposal, especially the latter part, she for some time shrunk, and wished to be allowed to remain at Rose-hill alone: but that her friends would not permit: and Sir William having arranged to go to Bath at the same time with a neighbouring family, and to be in the same house with them, Laura was at length prevailed on to remove to the Castle, and from thence, after a short stay, to accompany her friends to London, where they promised her an apartment exclusively her own, and that she should see no other till she herself wished it.

"Yet why," said she, "my dearest Lady St. Aubyn, why should I burden you with one so powerless to add to your comforts, or partake your pleasures?"

"Is not that an unkind question?" said Ellen; "or do you really believe me insensible to the gratification of soothing your mind, and supporting your spirits? Whenever you will permit me, I will be your visitor in your apartment; whenever my company would be irksome, I will leave you to yourself, provided I do not find you the worse for the indulgence."

All was therefore thus arranged, and Miss Cecil, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn in one carriage, and Miss Cecil's maid, and Ellen's talkative but faithful Jane, in another, with out riders, &c. in great style left Northamptonshire, and arrived the next evening at the Earl's magnificent house in Cavendish-square.--Lady St. Aubyn's first care was to select such an apartment for the mournful Laura as would make her easy, and free from restraint; and having conducted her to it, she told her she was entirely mistress there, and never should be interrupted unless she chose it.

Ellen, who had made several little attempts in verse since she had seen those of Miss Cecil, now soothed her sorrow for the loss of the sweet Juliet by a few stanzas, which, when she thought her able to bear them, she gave to Laura, who was gratified by this little tribute to her loved, lamented sister's memory.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

How mourns the heart, when early fades away
The opening promise of a riper bloom;
When youth and beauty, innocently gay,
Sink in the silent ruin of the tomb!

Oh, thou pure spirit! which in life's fair dawn,
Arose superior to that childish frame,
(Fair tho' it was) from which thou art withdrawn,
To that bright Heaven from whence thy beauty came.

Sweet Juliet! happily releas'd from care,
Which future years perhaps had bade the prove;
A heart so tender, and a form so fair,
Ill with the perils of the world had strove!

Thy heart expanding at affection's voice,
How had it borne in native kindness warm,
To check the rapid fire of youthful choice,
And dread deceit beneath the loveliest form!

To thee were graces so benignly given,
A soul so tender, and a wit so rare;
A love of harmony, as if kind Heaven
Had bade thee for an early bliss prepare.

Long shall the heart which lov'd thy dawning grace,
The pensive mem'ry of each charm retain;
Thy winning manners studiously retrace,
And dwell anew on each harmonious strain.

Nor shall that heart to present scenes confine
Its views and wishes; but with worthier care,
Seek to preserve an innocence like thine,
And humbly hope thy happiness to share.

CHAP. IV.

To such how fair appears each grain of sand,
Or humblest weed as wrought by nature's hand!
A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view.--
----See with what art each curious shell is made:
Here carved in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid!
What vivid th' enamel'd stones adorn,
Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!

S. JENYNS.

The arrival of the St. Aubyns in London opened a wide field for conjecture and conversation in the fashionable world. It was known, for St. Aubyn's haughty relations had not failed to publish it, that he had married a young woman far inferior to him in rank, and absolutely without fortune. It was also known that she was uncommonly beautiful; and great anxiety, mixed with no small share of ridicule, was excited by her expected _debut_; but the modest Ellen was in no haste to afford the starers and sneerers so rich a treat: she merely went to a few morning exhibitions, attended only by her Lord, for the first fortnight of her stay in town; and indeed St. Aubyn hoped, notwithstanding her present distance and displeasure, to induce his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt, to chaperon Ellen to some of the public places, being fully sensible what an advantage it would be to her to be so supported: he therefore acquiesced in her wishes, till he could bring about this desirable arrangement, and allowed his wife to spend most of her evenings at home.

Several ladies had however called on Lady St. Aubyn, some of whom had left their cards, and others she had seen. Most of these visits she had returned; but one of those, who had shewn the greatest desire to see more of Lady St. Aubyn--indeed, a distant relation of the Earl's, she had not been yet to see.

One morning Lord St. Aubyn said he would go with her to see the museum of an old friend of his, who lived at Knightsbridge, who was a great collector of every thing rare and curious, particularly shells, pictures, and gems. "He is quite a character," added he: "but I will not anticipate your surprize: we can go there early. I told him we would go to-day, or to-morrow; and after we have been there, you can call on Lady Meredith, who gave herself a trouble so extraordinary, as actually to alight from her carriage and make you a personal visit."

"You will go with me?"

"Pardon me, my love, that is not necessary, and you really must learn to _go alone_, and not depend so much on me."

"I hope her Ladyship may not be at home."

"Indeed, my love, I hope she may; for dissimilar as they are in every respect, my aunt, Lady Juliana, spends a great deal of her time there. She is so fond of finding fault, and differing in opinion from others, that I really believe she goes to Lady Meredith's chiefly for the pleasure of lecturing her, who is so indifferent to the opinion of any one, that she does not think it worth while to be at the trouble of resenting the sharp things Lady Juliana says to her."

"What a strange motive for being intimate with any one."

"Strange enough: but when you see more of the world, you will discern that affection is not the only bond of union between those who call themselves friends."

"I think I have seen that already in Mrs. Dawkins and Miss Alton."

"True: convenience, the wish of finding a patient _hearer_, accident, the want of a more pleasing companion, are amongst the numerous inducements which form what we are pleased to call friendship. Nay, I once heard a good lady say she was sure a family she mentioned had proved themselves _real friends_ to her, for they had sent her a _large plumcake_[A]."

[A] A fact.

Ellen laughed at this curious definition of friendship.

"Well," said St. Aubyn: "but to return to Lady Meredith. I hope she may, by reporting well of you to Lady Juliana, induce her to become more friendly towards us: you know how anxious I am to have you in her good graces--not, believe me, on account of her immense fortune, but because, with all her pride and stiffness, she has a warm heart and excellent qualities, and would be to you a most valuable friend; so pray do your best to please Lady Meredith."

"Very well: but will you tell me the most likely way to succeed?"

"I am afraid it will be difficult: she will think you too handsome, unless indeed she intends soon to have a large party."

"How is it possible _that_ should have any thing to do with the matter?"

"Why, Lady Meredith's great ambition is to outshine all her competitors in the number and fashion of those collected at her routes; and as sometimes, in spite of her charms, and the lustre of her abundant jewels, there are some obstinate animals who will be uncivil enough to recollect they '_have seen them before_,' consequently become rather weary of them, and desert her for some newer belle. Lady Meredith may think you (so new to the world, and so beautiful) a desirable reinforcement, and may therefore honour you with an invitation: pray accept it, if she does, and take great pains at your toilette to-day: for my friend, Mr. Dorrington, is a great admirer of beauty, and will shew you his fine collection a great deal more readily if he admire your's, particularly if he should fancy you like a bust he has of the _bona Dea_ (at least he gives it that name, though it is so mutilated, he confesses he does not exactly know for what or whom it was designed), which he almost idolizes."

Ellen hastened to obey, but she wished herself at Castle St. Aubyn, for she had not liked the little she had seen of Lady Meredith, and she shrunk from the idea of this formidable morning visit. Conquering her fears, however, as well as she could, and looking uncommonly beautiful, she rejoined her Lord. Her milliner had just sent home a most elegant and expensive morning dress, bonnet, and cloak, all of the finest materials, and in that delicate modest style, which she always chose, and was to her peculiarly becoming. St. Aubyn thought he had never seen her look so well, and gave great credit to Madame de ---- for consulting so admirably the natural style of her beauty, as to embellish, without overloading it. The barouche was at the door: she had therefore only time to say "farewell" to Laura, and stepping hastily in, half an hour brought them to Mr. Dorrington's.

As the carriage stopt at the house, the figure of a fine old man with grey hair caught the eye of Lady St. Aubyn: he was at the instant ascending the steps to knock at the door, and was so meanly dressed, that she supposed him a mendicant, or at least extremely poor, and her ready hand sought her purse, intending to give relief to the infirm looking old man. What then was her surprize, when, just as she stretched out her hand for that purpose, the old man, looking into the carriage, and seeing Lord St. Aubyn, advanced, and taking off his hat with the most courtly air imaginable, displayed a fine commanding forehead, expressive eyes, and a contour of countenance so admirable, as, once seen, could never be forgotten.

"Ah! my dear St. Aubyn," he exclaimed, "how rejoiced I am to see you! I am really happy that I returned in time to receive you: as you did not say positively you would come to-day, it was all a chance; but come, do me the favour to alight: I have just succeeded in making the finest purchase--a shell, a unique: you shall see it."

By this time St. Aubyn had alighted, and giving his hand to Ellen, introduced her to this extraordinary man. Nothing could be more polished than his address, nothing more elegant than the grace with which he received her, or more spirited than the little compliment he made St. Aubyn on his happiness, and the beauty of his lady.

Whoever looked at Mr. Dorrington, when his shabby old hat was removed, must instantly see the man of sense and superior information: whoever heard him speak, heard instantly that it was the voice and enunciation not only of a gentleman, but of one who had lived in the very highest circles; and yet his appearance, at first, would have led any one to suppose him, as Ellen did, in absolute poverty. He led the way into his favourite apartment, indeed the only one he ever inhabited, except his bed-chamber; and into neither would he ever suffer any one to enter unless he was with them. No broom, nor brush of any kind, ever disturbed the sacred dust of this hallowed retirement: in the grate, the accumulated ashes of _many months_ remained; the windows were dimmed with the untouched dirt of years: and nothing but the table on which his slender meals were spread (for his temperance in eating and drinking were as remarkable as his singular neglect of personal attire), and two or three chairs for the reception of occasional visitors, were ever wiped. In one of these he seated the astonished Ellen, who gazed around her at treasures, the value of which exceeded her utmost guess. A handsome cabinet with glass doors contained a variety of curious gems, vases, and specimens of minerals: some invaluable pictures stood leaning against the walls: heaps of books in rich bindings, which Ellen afterwards found were either remarkable for their scarceness, or full of fine prints, lay scattered around.

"Now, my Lord," said Mr. Dorrington, "I will shew you and Lady St. Aubyn my new purchase: I said it was unique, but it is not exactly so: I have another of the same sort; but these are the only two in the world: I think this is a little, a very little finer than that I had before; I bought it at ****'s sale, and gave a monstrous price for it; but I was determined to have it: it was the only thing in his collection I coveted."

He then displayed his new purchase, and descanted for some time on its various beauties; and seeing Ellen really admired it, pleased also with her beauty and sweetness, he proceeded to shew her his collection, and even those rare articles which never appeared but to particular favourites, saying she was "_worthy to admire them_." Some beautiful miniatures particularly pleased her, and he was delighted that she seemed to understand their value. He also produced some fine illuminated missals, and explained every thing with so much grace and perspicuity as quite delighted her.

Two hours fled swiftly in examining these wonders, and even then they had not seen half, but promised to visit him another day. He told Lady St. Aubyn he should be at her command at any time; and then most politely attending her to her carriage, he with a courteous bow took his leave.

On their way home, St. Aubyn told Ellen that the extraordinary man they had just left had for many years led a life of dissipation, by which he reduced a large fortune almost to nothing; but that having once, in consequence of his extravagance, been obliged to sell a collection still finer than that he now had, he had determined to gratify his passion for _virtu_, without the risk of again ruining himself, and therefore denied himself every thing but the bare necessaries of life; and was, consequently, enabled to purchase rare articles at any price, and to outbid other collectors, who had different demands on part of their incomes. He kept no man, and but one female servant; and St. Aubyn said, that when he had called on him a few days before, he found him in a storm of rage with this poor servant-girl, for having dared, while he was engaged with some company in his sitting-room, to brush out his bed-chamber, in the door of which he had, _par miracle_, left the key.--"And I am sure, Sir," said the girl, crying, "I never touched nothing but that great wooden man" (meaning a layman which always stands in Mr. Dorrington's room), "that's enough to frighten a body; and he I only just moved, for master never won't have nothing like other people; and I thought if he brought the gentlefolks in his bed-room, as he sometimes will, it was a shame to see such a place, and such a dirty table cover; so I was only just going to make it a little tidy, and I never broke nothing at all."

"I comforted the poor girl," said St. Aubyn, "by giving her a trifle, and advised her by no means to provoke her master, by presuming to touch a brush in his rooms again without order: and she promised me she would in future be contented with cleaning her own kitchen and passages--'And never touch nothing belonging to master's rooms, nor any of them outlandish things, that be all full of dust, and enough to breed moths and all manner of flies all over the house.'----And I think," said he, laughing, "she appears to have kept her promise very exactly."

CHAP. V.

---- So perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with it.
---- She did lie
In her pavilion, cloth of gold.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

Lady St. Aubyn set down the Earl in Cavendish Square, and proceeded alone to the house of Lady Meredith in Portland Place. A carriage which appeared to be in waiting drove from the door to make way for her's, by which Ellen guessed Lady Meredith had company. To the inquiry whether her Ladyship were at home, she was answered in the affirmative, and requested to walk up stairs. Ellen was now tolerably well accustomed to magnificent houses; but there was something in the style of this different from any thing she had yet seen: the hall was not only warmed by superb stoves, but bronze figures, nearly as large as life, stood in different attitudes in every corner, and all bearing censers or urns, in which costly aromatics perpetually burnt, diffusing around a rich but almost overpowering perfume. As she ascended the staircase she found every possible recess filled with baskets, vases, &c. full of the most rare and expensive exotics, which bloomed even amidst the cold winds of March, with nearly as much luxuriance as they would have done in their native climes; for every part of this mansion was kept in a regular degree of heat by flues passing through the walls and beneath the floors communicating with fires, which were not visible: when, on the other hand, the weather became warm, the cambric sun-blinds at every window were kept perpetually moistened with odoriferous waters, by two black servants, whose whole employment it was to attend to this branch of luxury; indeed, to luxury alone the whole mansion appeared to be dedicated. The floors were not merely covered, but carpetted with materials, whose softness and elasticity seemed produced by a mixture of silk and down: the sofas, ottomans, &c. were not merely stuffed, but every one had piles of cushions appertaining to it, filled with eider-down, and covered with the richest silks or velvets. To the presiding goddess of this superb temple Lady St. Aubyn was presently introduced. In her boudoir Lady Meredith sat, or rather lay, not on a chair or sofa, but on piles of cushions, covered with the finest painted velvet. Her majestic, though somewhat large figure, appeared to great advantage in the studied half-dress in which she now appeared; yet there was something in her attitude, in the disposal of her drapery, from which the modest eye of Ellen was involuntarily averted. Her dress was of the finest and whitest muslin that India ever produced, and clung around her so closely as fully to display the perfect symmetry of her form: the sleeves were full, and so short, they scarcely descended below the shoulder, which not the slightest veil shaded from the beholder's gaze, while the delicate arms thus exposed were decorated with rows of what she called undress pearls: they were of an extraordinary size and beauty, and were formed into armlets and bracelets of fanciful but elegant fashion: two or three strings, and a large Maltese cross of the same, were the only covering of her fair bosom, and a few were twisted loosely amongst her dark but glossy and luxuriant hair. At her feet sat a lovely little girl about four years old, with a low hassock before her, on which she was displaying the contents of one of mamma's caskets of jewels, as well amused as the great Potemkin himself could have been by arranging his diamonds in different figures on black velvet; a favourite entertainment of that extraordinary man.

On one side of Lady Meredith sat a gay young officer in the uniform of the guards, and on the other a stiff formal looking old lady in a dress somewhat old fashioned, but more remarkable for being excessively neat and prim: she had a sour contemptuous look, and her stays and whole figure had the stiff appearance of a portrait of the last century. She levelled her eye-glass at Ellen, as she followed the servant who announced her into the room, and with an emphatic _humph!_ (not unlike poor Mrs. Ross's) let it fall again as if perfectly satisfied with one look, and not feeling any wish to repeat it; yet repeat it she did, again and again, and, as if the review displeased or agitated her, her countenance became still more and more sour. In the meantime Lady Meredith half rose from her cushions, and holding out her hand, languidly said:--

"My dear Lady St. Aubyn, how good you are to come and see me! I am delighted I happened to be at home. Andrew," (to the servant, who, having placed a chair, was retiring) "don't give Lady St. Aubyn that shocking chair: bring a heap of those cushions and arrange them like mine: do rest on them, my dear creature; you must be fatigued to death."

"Excuse me," said Ellen, smiling with modest grace; "I am not accustomed to such a luxurious seat, and prefer a chair."

"Do you really? Is it possible!" exclaimed the languishing Lady, sinking back again as if the exertion of speaking had been too much for her. "Well, I should absolutely die in twelve hours if I might not be indulged in this delicious mode of reposing."

"Nonsense!" said the stiff old lady, in no very conciliating tone; "how can you be so ridiculous: pray how do you manage when you sit six or eight hours at pharo, or go to the Opera--you have none of those silly things there?"

"Oh, as to pharo, dear delightful pharo, that keeps me alive, prevents my feeling fatigued even when my unfortunate feet cannot command so much as a poor little footstool; and as to the Opera, I wonder your Ladyship asks, for you know very well, my box, and the cushions belonging to it, are stuffed with eider-down, like these," and she sunk still more indolently on her yielding supporters. "Apropos of the Opera," added she; "have you obtained a box there, Lady St. Aubyn?"

"No," replied Ellen: "Lord St. Aubyn had one offered to him, but as it is so late in the season, and our stay in town will not be long, I begged him to decline it."

Lady Meredith here exchanged a smile of contempt with the officer, which seemed to say "how rustic that is!" then half yawning she said:--

"Oh, but indeed that was very wrong: what can a woman of fashion do without a box at the Opera? I am sure, from all I have heard of the former Lady St. Aubyn, for I had not the honour of knowing her, she would not have lived a month in London without one."

"Very likely," said the old lady, "but for all that _I_ think _this young person_ quite in the right, and as to the late Lady St. Aubyn, I am sure _she_ was no pattern for any body, and I wonder, Lady Meredith, you will name her in my hearing."

"I beg your Ladyship's pardon," replied Lady Meredith; "I forgot."

"Well, no matter; don't say any more."

To paint Ellen's surprize would be difficult: the odd epithet this strange lady had applied to her, "_this young person_," the allusions to the late countess, of whom she never heard without an indescribable sort of emotion, and the suspicion she now entertained that her ungracious neighbour was Lady Juliana Mordaunt, all conspired to overpower her; and the heat of the apartment, the strong smell of perfumes from immense China jars, with which the room was ornamented, completed it; in short, though wholly unaccustomed to such sensations, she had nearly fainted. The young officer, who had long been watching her interesting and lovely countenance, saw her change colour, and said hastily:--

"The lady is ill."

"What's the matter, child?" said the old lady; and rising hastily, she untied her bonnet and the strings of her mantle, which, falling aside, discovered enough of her figure to render her situation obvious.

"So!" exclaimed the old lady; but whether the interjection expressed surprize, pleasure, or what other sensation, was not easy to discover. "Do, Colonel Lenox, exert yourself so much as to open the door and ring for a glass of water: the air of this room is enough to kill any body."

"Pardon me," said Ellen, the colour returning to her cheeks and lips, "I am sorry to give so much trouble; I am much better."

"That's well," said the old lady. By this time the water was brought; Ellen drank some, and quite recovered, begged leave to ring for her carriage.

"Don't go yet, child," said the old lady; "perhaps you may be ill again."

"No: pray don't go yet," said Lady Meredith, who all this time had been holding a smelling bottle to her own nose, affecting to be too much overcome to do any thing for the relief of her visitor. "You have frightened me enormously; stay a little to make me amends; besides, you still tremble and look pale: are you subject to these faintings?"

"Not in the least," said Ellen. "I believe the heat of the room overcame me."

"No wonder," said the old lady; "it is a perfect stove, and enough to unstring the nerves of Hercules, especially when aided by the powerful scent of those abominable jars."

"Oh, my dear sweet jars," cried Lady Meredith; "now positively you shall not abuse them; any thing else you may find what fault you please with, but my sweet jars I cannot give up:--have you ever read Anna Seward's poetical recipe to make one?"

"Not I," replied her friend in an angry tone, "nor ever desire it; all the poetry in the world should never induce me to fill my rooms with such nonsense."

During this conversation, the little girl, who had tired herself with looking at the jewels and trinkets, rose from her cushion, and said:--

"Pretty mamma, dress pretty Miranda in these," holding up some fine emeralds.

"No indeed, child: go to Colonel Lenox, and ask him to adorn you; I cannot take so much trouble."

"No, Miranda won't; Miranda go to pretty, sweet, beautiful lady;" and she went to Ellen, who, admiring the lovely little creature, kissed her, and indulged her by putting the shining ornaments round her little fair neck and arms, and twisting some in the ringlets of her glossy hair.

"Now I beautiful," said the child, looking at herself. "Is not Miranda pretty now, mamma?"

"Yes, my love, beautiful as an angel: come and kiss me, my darling."

The child, climbing up the load of cushions, laid her sweet little face close to her mother's and kissed her.

"Is not she a beauty and a love?" said the injudicious mother to the Colonel, clasping the little creature to her bosom, with an air more theatrical than tender. He whispered something, in return to which she replied with affected indignation, "Oh, you flattering wretch, _that_ she is, and a thousand times handsomer; but she will never know what[B] her mother was, for before she is old enough to distinguish, I shall either be dead or hideous, and then she will hate me." She heaved a deep sigh, and looked distressed at the idea, which the child perceiving, fondly twined her little arms round her mother's neck, and answered:--

"No, dear mamma, Miranda always love you, you so beautiful."

[B] It is said that the once lovely Lady C----, when on her
death-bed, lamented to a friend sitting by her, that her
little boy, then in the room, _would never know what a
beautiful creature his mother was_. "She feels the
ruling passion strong in death!"

"See," said the old lady, "the effect of your lessons; you teach her to love nothing but beauty, and if you were to lose your good looks, she would of course cease to care any thing about you."

"Yes, that is exactly what I dread."

"Then why do you not endeavour to prevent it, by giving her more reasonable notions? If she is led to suppose beauty and fine dress the only claims to affection, if she is never taught that virtue and an affectionate heart can alone ensure unfading esteem, she will grow up a mere frivolous automaton, and probably throw herself away on the first coxcomb with a handsome face and red coat she meets with."

The Colonel coloured, laughed, and bowed.

"Nay," said the old lady, "if you choose to apply the character to yourself, with all my heart, settle it as you please; but, I suppose, all red coats are not mere coxcombs."

Lady Meredith and the Colonel laughed, but did not appear entirely pleased even with this half apology.

"Well, but," said Lady Meredith, "what, Ma'am, would you have me do with Miranda? Can I prevent the child from observing that beauty is universally admired?"

"That," said Colonel Lenox, with a bow, "would indeed be impossible while with _you_."

The old lady shrugged up her shoulders, with a sour contemptuous frown, and said:--"Then put her into a better school."

"A school!" replied Lady Meredith, half screaming; "what, would you have me send the dear creature from me? No, my only darling, thou shalt never leave me."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed the old lady, with even encreasing sourness; "well, if fashion absolutely demands this _extraordinary_ degree of tenderness, for very good mothers _have_ sent their children to school before now, at least, do get the child a rational and sensible governess, and let her employ herself in something better than admiring your jewels, or even your beauty, all the morning.--Ah! I wish," said she, turning abruptly to Ellen, "I wish she had such an instructress as _your Miss Cecil_."

Ellen's surprise at this sudden address from one with whom not even the ceremony of introduction had passed, yet who seemed to know her and all her concerns so well, almost deprived her of the power to reply; she rallied her spirits, however, and said, that any mother might think half her fortune well bestowed, could it purchase such a preceptress: "But," added she, "such excellent qualities as Miss Cecil possesses, are rarely to be met with in any rank of life: my experience of character has, indeed, been very limited, but Lord St. Aubyn says, for elegance of manners, sweetness of temper, and strength of mind, her equal will hardly ever be found."

The blended modesty and spirit with which she spoke appeared to please the old lady, who, with an approving nod, again took up her eye-glass, and viewed Lady St. Aubyn from head to foot, though she saw that the steadfast gaze embarrassed and covered her with blushes.

Lady Meredith said something to the old lady in so low a tone, that the word "introduce" was alone audible, to which she replied with some tartness: "No, I can introduce myself."

Ellen now once more rose to depart, and Lady Meredith detained her another minute, to mention a large party she intended having in about three weeks, for which she said she should send Lady St. Aubyn a ticket; and requested her to tell St. Aubyn he might come also, "For I hear," she said, "you always are seen together."

"So much the better," muttered the old lady, who seemed, however, to be speaking aside, so no one took any notice of her. She rose when Ellen left the room, and returned her graceful courtesy with a not ungracious bend, and bade her good morning with an air more conciliating than she had shewn on her entrance.

On relating the particulars of this visit to her Lord, Lady St. Aubyn found there was no doubt the old lady she had seen was Lady Juliana Mordaunt: he made her repeat the conversation that had passed, and when she told him that the old lady had made use of the disrespectful term, "_this young person_," in speaking of her, he coloured excessively, and execrating his aunt's pride and impertinence, told his wife she ought to have quitted the room immediately. He smiled when Ellen mentioned Lady Juliana's attention and kindness on her fainting, and said, "That is so like her: her warm heart thaws the ice of her manners when she sees any one ill or distrest."

When Ellen repeated the mention which had been made in the course of conversation of the late Lady St. Aubyn, he changed colour, and said, "Well, Ellen, were you not surprized? You did not, I believe, know--you never heard I had been married before."

"Pardon me, my Lord, I was previously acquainted with that circumstance."

"You knew it!--from whom? Where did you hear it?"

"From Miss Cecil, from Miss Alton, accidentally."

"And were they not astonished you had not heard it before?"

"I had heard it before from Mrs. Bayfield, the day after we went to Castle St. Aubyn."

"From Mrs. Bayfield--she told you of it?--She told you--What, Ellen, did she tell you more?"

"Nothing, my Lord, but that your lady was young and beautiful, and died abroad."

"And why did you never mention the subject before? Why this reserve, my love?"

"Because I thought as you never told me of it yourself, you would rather the subject were not mentioned."

"Dear creature!" said St. Aubyn, sighing. "I have always had reason to admire the excellence of your judgment and the delicacy of your sentiments. Believe me, Ellen, I withhold from you only those things which I think will give you pain to know. Our acquaintance commenced under such singular circumstances, that I had hardly opportunity to tell you this before we were married, and in fact, that name, that recollection is so hateful to me, is connected with so many painful ideas, that I cannot bear to recall, to dwell upon it! Why that tear, my love--are you dissatisfied with me?"

"No, dearest St. Aubyn: whatever you do, appears to me wisest and best to be done--but I was pitying--I was thinking----"

"Whom were you pitying?--Of what was my Ellen thinking?"

"Pitying a woman, who, having once possessed your love, lost it so entirely, as to render her very name unpleasant to you. Thinking--ah, heaven!--thinking--should such ever be _my_ lot!"

She paused, struggling with a sudden gush of tears, and sobs which almost choaked her.

"Impossible, impossible!" exclaimed St. Aubyn, clasping her to his bosom: "you will never deserve it, never bring disgrace and dishonour on my name, and blast with misery the most acute, the best years of my life!--Agitate not yourself, my best love, with these frightful ideas. Ah, had the hapless Rosolia been like thee!--but oh! how different were her thoughts and actions!----No more of this, compose yourself, my love, and tell me what more passed with this strange proud woman."

After a few moments, Ellen recovered enough to repeat the remainder of the conversation, with the result of which he appeared very well pleased, and prophesied from the latter part of it they should soon be on good terms with Lady Juliana Mordaunt, an event for which he appeared so anxious, that Ellen could not fail to wish it also; and, indeed, that lady's good sense and just sentiments had made a very favourable impression on her mind, though her manners were so sour and repulsive.

This day Miss Cecil dined with her amiable friends, as they had no other company; indeed, except by a few gentlemen, their dinner hour had generally passed uninterrupted, Ellen not being yet sufficiently acquainted with any ladies to mix with them in dinner parties. The report of St. Aubyn's male friends had, however, been so favourable towards her, as to incline Lady Meredith to wish a more intimate acquaintance, and to attract so much youth, beauty, and grace to her evening parties, while Lady Juliana was pleased to hear that she possessed qualities in her eyes far superior, namely, modesty, talents, and a demeanor towards her husband equally delicate and affectionate.

After dinner, St. Aubyn having some engagement, left the fair friends alone, and they enjoyed a long and confidential conversation.

From Laura, Lady St. Aubyn learnt that Lady Juliana was well known to her, and that in spite of her austere and forbidden manners, and the pleasure she undoubtedly took in contradicting almost every thing she heard, she was yet a woman of good sense, and would most certainly, could her esteem be once engaged, prove to Ellen a steady and valuable friend: "Especially," added Laura, "should any thing happen to Lord St. Aubyn, for she is his only near relation to whom he could confide the future interests, either of his wife or child; and young and beautiful as you are, my dear Ellen, no doubt St. Aubyn thinks such an additional support would be highly desirable for you." Seeing she was deeply affected, for Ellen now believed she could discern the cause of St. Aubyn's anxiety for her being on good terms with his aunt, and connected it with the painful circumstances he had told her were hanging over him, Laura now added, with a pensive smile, "Nay, my dear friend, do not be distressed. I have of late thought so much of mortality, I was not sensible how much you would be pained by the suggestion; but certainly, St. Aubyn will not leave you a moment the sooner for my hinting the possibility of such an event."

Ellen endeavoured to shake off the painful ideas which forced themselves upon her, and asked Miss Cecil if she had known much of the former Countess. "Not very much," said Laura: "she was very handsome, but the character of her beauty was so different from yours, that I have often wondered how St. Aubyn came to _choose_ two so different; though, indeed, I believe I should hardly say choose, for Lady Rosolia de Montfort was not so much his choice as that of his relations--at least, I believe he would never have thought of her as a wife if they had not."

"Who was she? Do tell me a little about her: I am quite a stranger to all particulars."

"I know little more than I have told you, except that she was the only daughter of the late Earl de Montfort, a distant relation of Lord St. Aubyn's. Lord de Montfort, during the life of his elder brother, went to Spain in a diplomatic situation, and there married the daughter of the Duke de Castel Nuovo: this marriage with an English protestant, was, for a long time, opposed by the lady's relations: but, at length, moved by fear and compassion for her, whose attachment threw her into a lingering disease, which threatened her existence, they consented on one condition, namely, that the sons of the marriage should be educated Roman Catholics, and on the death of their father, be placed with their maternal grandfather, while they permitted the daughters to be brought up in the Protestant religion, hoping, perhaps, that the influence of a mother over females might ultimately bring them also over to her faith: but the Countess died young: one son and one daughter were her only children, the boy some years younger than his sister: they both remained with their father (who soon after his marriage became Earl de Montfort), sometimes in Spain, sometimes in England, till the marriage of Lady Rosolia with Lord St. Aubyn, though she was frequently his mother's guest, both in London and at St. Aubyn Castle, where the young Edmund also often spent some time: he was a very fine and amiable boy, and excessively attached to his sister.

When Lord de Montfort died, the son was claimed by his maternal grandfather, and Lord and Lady St. Aubyn went to Spain with him, where she died: report spoke unfavourably of her conduct during her abode on the Continent; indeed, in England, the gaiety of her manners, especially after the death of Lord St. Aubyn's mother, approached more nearly to the habits of foreign ladies than those of England. It was said, that while abroad, Lord St. Aubyn was involved in many unpleasant circumstances by her behaviour: certain it is, that on his return, he appeared overwhelmed with melancholy, which was the more extraordinary, as it was well known they had not lived on very affectionate terms even before they had quitted this country."

"And what became of her brother: where is the young Lord de Montfort?" asked Ellen. "He has remained ever since in Spain," replied Laura; "but as he will very soon be of age, he must then, I suppose, return to England to take possession of his estates, of which Lord St. Aubyn is the guardian."

"Oh," thought Ellen, "is it to his return St. Aubyn looks with so much apprehension and dismay? What! O! what is the strange mystery in which this story seems to be involved?"

CHAP. VI.

"Within 'twas brilliant all, and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright:
It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer's even;
And from their tissue fancy frames,
AErial knights and fairy dames."

LADY OF THE LAKE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I believe--I think I can guess."

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

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

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

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

"And what do you do in the evening?"

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

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

"I am sorry for it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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