Tales of the peerage and the peasantry

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 Surrey.

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 monopolise more of her conversation than was either judicious, or prudent.

To these succeeded another and another object, selected 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, indignation, and mortification. At the end of this time she made up her mind to her fate, and bore his infidelities with tolerable composure. Henceforward their domestic life was very peaceable. The wife no longer reproached and wept; and the husband was exceedingly gay and good-humoured.

But now began trials of another sort to Lady Westhope. 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 admired 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 profligacy 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 calmly 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 womanhood; 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 toilsome duties of chaperonage for a series of years, during which she had successfully disposed of her elder daughters in marriage. She was not sorry, therefore, to repose from her labours, and to entrust the youngest to the care of so unexceptionable a person as her niece, Lady 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 Elysées, with Tivoli—with everything; and entered with spirit and gaiety 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. Lady 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 countenance beamed with animation, joy, tenderness, and each emotion that rapidly succeeded the other in her bosom.

Among the many slight preferences, incipient flirtations, 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, enthusiastic girl, peculiarly calculated to feel the attractions of a man who was formed to figure as a héros de roman. He was very tall,—he was pale,—his features were marked, but they bore an expression of melancholy and of feeling. The qualities of his mind corresponded with his exterior. Lofty, uncompromising rectitude, was combined with acute feelings, which, as his appearance indicated, were more calculated to work him woe 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 Molton was in love—desperately in love 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 himself to occupy the seat by her side. If by chance he was betrayed into any expression of his feelings, he studiously 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 was only endangering his own peace of mind; he believed he so completely 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 inconsistencies, these uncertainties, the air of intense melancholy which at times overspread his countenance, were more dangerous to a person of Lady Blanche's disposition than the most open and decided attentions.

She could not think he was indifferent towards her; yet she was piqued by his occasional 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 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 unconsciously acted with the most consummate coquetry—

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 fine property. He was extremely good-looking—his character was excellent—as a parti 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 an 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 constantly 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 attentions, with pain which he could not control that he marked anything which might be construed into encouragement on her part; but it was with most unreasonable 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 confiding to him that he was very much attached to Lady Blanche, that his parents wished him to marry, and that he had made up his mind to propose, as soon as he felt sure of the lady.

This annunciation fell as a final death-blow on De Molton's hopes—if hopes they might ever have been called. "Yet Glenrith spoke doubtfully of her reception of his offer—and Glenrith is not usually over-diffident of himself," thought De Molton in the midst of his despair. Still he felt it would be folly, madness, to linger in the society of Lady Blanche. In all probability 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 feelings; and now that Glenrith had spoken thus confidentially, there was nothing left but to withdraw himself from witnessing the prosecution of a suit, in the probable 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 suddenly 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 presumption, 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 Glenrith. 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 impossible 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 encased them in an armour of coldness and reserve, so interesting a 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 tantalising 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 anything for Aladdin's lamp, that she might have endowed 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 mortification—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 struggling with a hopeless passion,—in short, while she accurately 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 Westhope'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 régime 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 morality for which we would fain be thought remarkable), perhaps 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.

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 who 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 yesterday;—called home on some tiresome regimental business. But did you not see him? 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 employed 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 unexpected intelligence.

The carriages of the rest of the party drew up in the street. Lord Glenrith ran down stairs to deliver a message to one of the Miss Elwicks, 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, calculating men, who do exactly what is right, and discreet, 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 wrong, to a wary, prudent one, who was coldly right. But what 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 fall 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 noble—the whole replete with the most interesting recollections. Lady Blanche had always been an enthusiast about Madame de la Vallière, Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette. 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 Antoinette, with the dauphin in her arms, addressing the people on that dreadful day when the royal family were carried off by the mob to the Tuileries. She looked round with vacant eyes at the white and gold apartments where Marie Antoinette held her evening soirées; nor could she warm herself into a proper emotion over the oratoire of the unfortunate king, nor even over the narrow 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 Fontanges, and Madame de la Vallière herself, failed to 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 Vallière.

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 grandeur 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), would 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 redoubled his attentions.

The party had obtained permission to have their collation 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 Miss Elwicks were beauties—decided beauties, and in the first bloom of youth, with gay and lively manners, high spirits, light hearts, and vanity enough to thoroughly 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 ladies, whatever their claims might be. Lady Westhope was, for the first time, quite in the background—nearly on the shelf. Lord Glenrith was devoted to Lady Blanche; Sir Charles Weyburn was decidedly 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 had subsided. Mr. Stapleford, the sharp, sarcastic, clever diplomate, 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 gentlemanlike 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 passée 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 conversation.

At the breakfast, or luncheon, or by whatever name the repast might be designated, the pictures which adorned the walls of the gallery were discussed. Among others, that of Madame de Maintenon, with Madame de la Vallière's daughter at her knee. Lady Blanche exclaimed with energy, "The only redeeming point about that hypocritical old woman is her having been so good-natured to poor dear Madame de la Vallière's child!"

"And may I ask Lady Blanche why she so much prefers Madame de la Vallière to Madame de Maintenon?" in the softest voice imaginable, inquired Mr. Stapleford, who was rather fond of putting people out of countenance. In this case he perfectly succeeded; for though it is true that every one loves the erring Madame de la Vallière, 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 Vallière, because she was so unhappy!"

"Then every one who suffers may hope to have someplace in your affections," whispered Lord Glenrith.

Mr. Stapleford replied,—"As an approving conscience is universally allowed to produce cheerfulness, I conclude the strictly virtuous have no chance of finding favour in Lady Blanche's sight."

"Oh! Mr. Stapleford, how you misconstrue everything 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 indeed blush over forehead, throat, and arms, till the tears were ready to start from her eyes. Lord Glenrith uttered 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 having defended her, and for having given Mr. Stapleford a reproof.

"Is Mr. Stapleford a friend of yours?" said Mr. Wroxholme to Lady Westhope.

"Not at all," she answered: "is he of yours?"

"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 mentioned 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 comfortable 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 anything 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. Wroxholme?" 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 acquisition."

"What an odious man Mr. Stapleford is! 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 giving him a lecture, which ought to have made him look foolish."

"How handsome Lord Glenrith is!" said Lady Westhope, curious to know how Blanche felt towards him.

"Yes! he certainly is handsome; but he has too much colour, and he looks so very healthy and robust! I do not think his countenance could express unhappiness. I like a man to look serious and thoughtful, as if he was full of feeling, and as if his gaiety was just a bright gleam of sunshine, the more brilliant for the gloom which precedes 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. The London season was nearly over; Parliament did not sit late; there was no business which required Lord Falkingham'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 Westhopes. 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 suddenness 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—before he had time to answer the sort of half invitation contained 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 contemplate the possibility that younger minds might not be 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 acquainted 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 opportunity for seeing his beloved; how much easier, then, to improve one that presents itself! The only conclusion, therefore, to be drawn was, that she was an object of perfect indifference to him.

In September a party was collected for shooting; and, among others, Lord Glenrith accepted with joy and eagerness 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 property; there was not an objection to him. Lady Falkingham, whose health was very delicate, was much relieved by the idea that she need never again pass from twelve till four 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 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 Falkingham 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 settlements. 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 was shocked to find she still retained such vivid recollections of incidents the most trivial in themselves. Mr. Wroxholme had arrived the day before, and at dinner Lord Westhope remarked, "We shall be quite the old Paris party on Friday, when De Molton comes."

Lady Blanche was listening to Lord Glenrith's description 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 preserved by the alteration in the road, which now approached the gateway from the north-east, instead of the north-west.

If Lord Glenrith had a fault, or rather a foible, it was his passion for his native place, and an inclination to think everything 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 connected with him. It is seldom that such a person makes an unkind husband, or a tyrannical father, or a hard master; 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 farther acquaintance, to be a very agreeable addition to the society. He had read much, and was full of information. Lord Falkingham pronounced him to be one of the most rising young men of the day. Mr. Wroxholme, on his part, was delighted 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 Glenrith's downright happiness, with Lady Blanche's beauty, with the good shooting, and the beautiful place, and he felt gratitude towards Lady Westhope for having given him the opportunity of enjoying 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 refinement 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 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 Molton at this moment, but it was one of those things for which there was no remedy. He and Lady 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 coach-houses of Wentnor Castle.

CHAPTER III.

Dicen que amor ha vencido,
A los deydades mayores,
Y que de sus pasadores
Cielo y tierra està ofendido.

Spanish 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.

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 himself attached, even if, with regard to Lady Blanche herself, 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 teaching his men the new manœuvres recommended by the Horse Guards. Never were men so well appointed, never was troop in such order. 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 distress,—he was not, in the common acceptation of the word, a popular man. It was not De 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. His manners were a little stately, and a youngster was not likely to choose De Molton as the confident 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 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 when he saw Lady Blanche.

It was with an uncontrollable burst of joy that he rushed to hand her down the steps; and this brief interview 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 certainly 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 necessity 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: anything 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 repeatedly 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 feelings under great controul, but they were strong and ardent, and he could not reach that pitch of stoicism!

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 Westhope's invitation.

He was giving his orders to his servant at the door, when he saw Lord Glenrith approach the house in 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 sun-burned, and ruddy with exercise; his kind eyes beamed with honest joy to see De Molton. De Molton's heart sank within him as he recognized his dear friend; and it was with an effort, which would have been visible to any other eyes, that he returned his cordial greeting.

As they both entered the drawing-room, the pale countenance and melancholy brow of De Molton would, in the opinion of many, have set off to advantage the gay good-humour 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, re-seated herself to her embroidery frame.

Lord Glenrith approached her. De Molton's heart beat quick; he felt almost giddy. Lord Glenrith's manner 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 "beautiful!"—"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 purchase; all around were friends, and why should there be any mystery?

To De Molton's eyes all mystery was indeed dispelled. He felt choking. He could not master his feelings sufficiently to preserve an indifferent countenance, and he left the room under the pretence of seeing after his postboy, or his portmanteau.

The rest of the company gathered round 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 consequence 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 she certainly had 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 épergne 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. Poor De Molton! 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 accomplished!

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 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 admiration, his earnest wishes—his prayers for her happiness."

"You are not going to-day, surely, Captain De Molton?" answered Blanche in a tremulous tone.

"I must," he said: "I could not, would not stay here another day, for anything this world can 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—imperative circumstances, over which I have no controul, 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, consequently, by no means attributing his visible agitation to its true cause.

"No misfortune has occurred in my family," he resumed 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—I 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 gained the heart of the most perfect of womankind; and that the woman who alone in my eyes is perfect, is likely 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 I had more command over myself; I did not mean to torment you, to insult you, with an avowal of my hopeless, my presumptuous love!"

Lady Blanche had stood transfixed in fear, amazement, joy;—yes, joy! there are no circumstances under which it is not joy to find affection is requited. "And do you indeed love me?" 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—cannot quell my love!"

"Oh, why—why did not you tell me sooner?" she said, earnestly clasping her hands.

"Tell you 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 your acceptance?"

"Oh, I 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 everything he had especially resolved not to do, and, mingled with the delight he could not help experiencing 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 devote himself. He struck his forehead, and exclaimed, "Oh, Lady Blanche, I am a wretch not worthy of a moment'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 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 Molton 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 herself 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?" replied Lady Falkingham, as she put down the untasted piece of toast she held in her hand.

"Mamma! he loves me after all!"

"Who, my dear?—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 has 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——"

"Oh, mamma! you do not understand me: I never told Lord Glenrith I loved him."

"What on earth do you mean then?—what are you talking about?" Lady Falkingham's countenance assumed an expression of alarm, wonder, and displeasure.

"Oh, how can I tell you?—you, mamma, who never did anything 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, who is so sincerely devoted to you?"

"Oh, mamma! I do value him, and I render him justice, 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!" 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."

"I never knew till to-day what were his feelings towards me, mamma!"

"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? For what? He has scarcely bread to eat himself, and his father has none to give him."

"He knows all that, mamma, 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! I should never have thought a daughter of mine would have acted 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 Strickland or myself had not previously perused; you were never allowed to walk beyond the shrubberies and the park! If, like some mothers, I had neglected 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 Lady 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 just received from Lord and Lady Wentnor, expressing every thing most gratifying concerning the choice their son had made.

Each word she read was a dagger to Lady Blanche's heart. "I cannot overthrow all the happiness of these worthy people," she mentally revolved, "and that of my parents, and of poor Lord Glenrith. I must quell this foolish inclination,—I must fight a good fight, and I shall conquer, I dare say. 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 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 momentary 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 her self-deception.

Lady Falkingham would have been very sorry to lose so estimable and so unexceptionable a husband for her daughter; but the disgraceful éclat 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 received 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.

CHAPTER IV.

Now have I shewed you bothe, 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 More.

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 unexpectedly 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 unhealthiness 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 Westhope 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. Wroxholme telling her he had found Captain De Molton in the library before breakfast, with his head leaning against the marble chimney-piece, and his countenance so pale and haggard, that he feared for a moment something dreadful must have happened. Lady Westhope recollected Blanche's hurrying manner 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 Glenrith, awakened by the consciousness of having 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 his 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 nothing wanting in her manner, 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 everything. He even forgot the dislike he had imbibed for Mr. Stapleford; and when his arrival that day was announced, he declared him to be a "devilish good fellow, though he was a sarcastic dog."

His flow of spirits was almost oppressive to Lady Blanche, yet she rejoiced he did not possess the sensitive tact which might have rendered him alive to every look of hers.

At dinner, Lord Glenrith was telling Lord Falkingham he had a famous brood-mare at Wentnor Castle, whose colt was likely to win the St. Leger.

"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!"

"I 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 grey 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 perfectly 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 Benedick.

Nothing lowers a man in the eyes of 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 héros de roman lover had departed in magnanimous despair, the successful one should lay himself open to the quizzing 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 miserable 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 Mr. Stapleford found himself near Lady Blanche. "I must offer you my congratulations, Lady Blanche, and especially upon the 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