portion of the British nation, by whom Lord Wellington was at that period regarded with jealousy and distrust; nor were they finally relinquished, until he had succeeded in crowning the British arms with a series of victories, unsurpassed in our annals, and his fame had become, alike beyond the reach of envy or detraction.

In the drawing room, I enjoyed no opportunity of particular conversation, with Lady Melicent, nor did I seek for such. I saw her, I heard her, and this in itself was happiness. Perhaps she was to me more attractive, that she now resembled more what I remembered her to have been, on my first visit to Staunton. Her spirits were certainly better, than when I had seen her in Bath; her step was more elastic, and her manner more airy. Lovely she was, indeed, in all her phases, but to me most delightful in this, in which she had at first impressed my young imagination.

A week flew past at Staunton, and found the same party still assembled within its walls. Once a day, Lady Melicent generally walked with Lucy in the Park, or drove her in a pony carriage. On these occasions, sometimes alone, sometimes with Sir Cavendish, I formed their escort. Often, when tired by the length of her walk, Lady Melicent would lean on my arm for support. At first, by the very privacy which this af forded, I felt embarrassed. That to which my wishes were most eagerly directed, when obtained, brought with it no enjoyment. But by degrees this wore off. There was nothing of reserve about Lady Melicent; her manner was ever free and unconstrained; and open in the expression of her sentiments, she was vehement alike in her partiality and aversion. Thus were the artificial barriers to our intimacy broken down, and now for the first time did hope dawn on my spirit, and whisper of high destiny, and successful love. The seeds of passion, which had hitherto lain dormant in my bosom, by degrees burst out into life and vigour. Its roots became gradually twisted with every fibre of my heart, and I felt and knew, that the tree to which my life-blood lent its nourishment, could not wither, till that heart had perished. I was a being no longer under the sway of reason. In all that concerned my love, or its object, my judgment had no share. I acted under a vehement and commanding impulse, which it was alike impossible to oppose or to restrain.

CHAPTER IX.

The house which was my father's, is mine own;
I am the lord of all this fair demesne.

Montalto, a Tragedy.

FROM the period of her marriage, both Lucy and myself, had received occasional letters from Jane. Those written immediately after that event, were not couched in the established phraseology, which new-married ladies generally employ, to convey their first blissful experience of the wedded state. She did not profess herself the happiest of women, nor bless Providence in the exuberance of her gratitude, for having. given her an angel for a husband. This I did not expect. She had given her hand to one who I was well aware could never touch her heart. But I was not without hopes, that, unpromising as the character of Hewson certainly was, he might be led, in a great degree, to relinquish his former habits, by the allurement of domestic pleasures, to which he had till now been a stranger. Jane's fortune, though considerable, was not such, as to hold out any strong inducement to a man like Hewson. Love alone, I imagined, could have led him to seek an union with one, whom it appeared to me, so natural to love; and little pleasure, as I could promise myself in his society, I deemed it right, for Jane's sake, to cultivate the acquaintance, and, if possible, to secure the friendship, of a person with whom, I had become so closely connected.

On our arrival at Staunton, I had therefore written to Jane, offering a visit from both Lucy and myself, which had been joyfully accepted. I felt it would be unkind to quit England, without seeing her. It would seem, as if her own family declined affording her either countenance or protection, and left her to depend solely, on the kindness of those, among whom she might be cast, when, by the disseverment of all former ties, she was but as a waif amid the troubled waters of the world.

When we reached Feltham, for so Hewson's place was called, we found Jane there alone. Hewson had gone to Newmarket, and was not expected for some days. I was not displeased at this.

It gave us an opportunity of enjoying that confidential in

tercourse with Jane, to which Hewson's presence must have been a bar. The meeting was, as might be expected, an af fecting one. Since we had last met, our only surviving parent had been laid in the grave; and in the situation of us all, great changes had taken place. I endeavoured to support Jane's spirits, which I saw were strongly agitated, by rendering the meeting, as little as possible, the vehicle of painful remembrance, and smilingly congratulated her on her recent change of condition. Jane too smiled, but her smile was a faint one, and certainly not a smile of gladness. My presence, indeed, had but little share in exciting the deep emotion, which the meeting had evidently caused her. The two sisters clasped each other in a long embrace, and wept bitterly. From infancy to womanhood, never had they been separated for a single hour.

"They with their neelds created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key:
As if their hands, their sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So they grew together,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.”,

But the vows which Jane had breathed at the altar, had been to them the fiat of separation, and then, they first had been divided. They spoke not-they could not speak; but well did I know, at that moment, that their hearts were full, even to bursting, with the memory of Home.

What an infinity of mournful recollections had not that single word the power to conjure up within them! They thought at that moment of all their childish happiness and love-of love unbroken-of happiness, perhaps no longer so. Even to those, whose days have been unclouded by sorrow, the memory of past delight brings with it a pang. But, happy as their days of youth and innocence had been, they had not been unmarked by storm and darkness. Their joys had been the same, and the same clouds had overcast them.

There exists between sisters a confidence too sacred, even for the ear of a brother to partake. Nature herself, has placed a barrier in the difference of sex, to that perfect sympathy and communion of feeling, that guileless out-pouring of the heart, which knits still closer the ties of blood, and alike alleviates the sorrows, and heightens the enjoyment, of young and inno. cent sisters. It was natural, that in such a meeting I should form but a secondary object. They embraced, they wept in

each other's arms, but sunshine came again, for in their tears there was comfort.

Perfect confidence, even between sisters, can exist only before marriage. Thus far can it go, but no farther. Different feelings, and separate objects of interest, then inevitably spring up, and the ties by which female hearts till then had been bound together, are either loosened or snapt in twain. The love may still remain, but the confidence is gone.

Thus I found it was with Jane. When I questioned her on the situation in which she was now placed, and, pressing her hand in mine, inquired if she was happy, she answered evasively, and was evidently anxious, to turn the conversation into another channel.

"Do not, my dear brother," she at length said, “believe me to be unhappy, till I complain of being so. Do you not. see me surrounded by all the comforts and elegancies, which wealth can bestow? and if She paused for an instant, for a sigh mounted to her lips, and struggled for utterance. "And if there are some drawbacks to my happiness, these can, and ought to be known only, to God and myself, and must be borne unrepiningly, and in silence."

I forebore, therefore, any further entreaties, on a point to which allusion was evidently painful.

Jane, since I saw her last, had not in appearance, undergone any remarkable change.. Her figure was thin and graceful, as it had been in the days of her maidenhood. Her countenance bore the same sweetness of expression, but its vivacity had been dulled, by an acquaintance with the new cares and duties, of a married life. The cheek was paler, and the eye more dim, than my memory told me, they had been of yore. I regarded these external demonstrations with interest, for it was in a great measure from these alone, that I could draw any conclusion with regard to the effect which her union with Hewson, had produced on her happiness.

In speaking of her husband, she used neither the language of complaint nor reproach. I read the delicacy of her feelings, and felt their propriety. Whatever Hewson might be, she was now his wife; and she was resolved to shrink from no duties, whether of action or sufferance, which that relation imposed on her. His failings, whatever grief they might have caused her, were things, of which it was painful to think, and impossible to speak; and of whatever sorrows, her union might have been the fatal cause, they were treasured in the secrecy and silence, of her own heart.

VOL. II.-9

While I was still at Feltham, and before Hewson returned from Newmarket, a letter reached me, which had been forwarded from Staunton, having arrived there the day after my departure. It was from Mrs. Thornton, informing me of the death of her son, and stating her willingness, now that her own interests alone were concerned, to enter into a reasonable compromise, in order to avoid the unpleasant family disclosures, to which the legal prosecution of my claims could not fail to give rise. She invited me, therefore, to grant her an immediate interview at Thornhill, by which the preliminaries of our agreement might be arranged, and the lawsuit brought at once, to an amicable termination.

Nothing could possibly be more consonant to my own wishes, than such an arrangement. I was willing to give up much, in order to avoid the humiliation, of a public disclosure of a father's weakness and prejudice. The idea that the sanity of my father's mind, should become the subject of investigation in a court of law; that the privacy of his domestic life should be exposed to the public gaze, become the subject of newspaper comment, and furnish matter of amusement, to every coffeehouse in London, was to me inexpressibly painful. With the most perfect conviction of having both law and justice on my side, I felt this, and felt it strongly; and to escape from such an alternative, there was scarcely any demand, short of the entire alienation of the hereditary estate of my family, with which I was not fully prepared to comply. I determined, therefore, to lose no time in seeking the proposed meeting; and having already spent a day or two with Jane, I left Lucy with her till my return, and on the following morn ing set off for Thornhill.

There was nothing remarkable in my journey, and on my arrival, I was instantly ushered into the presence of Mrs. Thornton. She was alone, and apparently, or (why should I question the sincerity of a mother's sorrow for the loss of her only child?) really absorbed in deep and violent grief. offered her such condolence, as it was natural for one, peculiarly circumstanced as I was, to feel and express-neither suffering the expression of my sympathy to exceed the modesty of nature, nor to sink below, what one, in any case, may be expected to feel, for the bereavement of a mother. My little brother, I learned, had always been an unpromising and sickly child; and at last had fallen a victim to one of those fevers, to which children are peculiarly liable.

The conversation, which had begun in this melancholy