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 '
 
 THE 
 
 EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY 
 
 E. M. SEWELL. 
 
 'Life, ... is energy of Love, 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained, 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
 Through shades and 6ilent rest, to endless joy." 
 
 The Excursion. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 I). APPLET ON AND COMPANY, 
 1, 3, and 5 BOND STREET. 
 
 1881.
 
 PR. 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 There was an unusual stir in the old cathedral town of 
 It was neither a market-day, nor the anniversarv of 
 
 a public fete ; neither the season of the annual visitation, nor 
 of any public meeting ; yet the narrow footways were thronged, 
 and knots of. idlers stood inconveniently at the corners of the 
 streets, making their remarks upon the few carriages which 
 enlivened the generally dull town, or noticing with interest the 
 occasional approach of the rows of neatly dressed school 
 children, who, with orderly steps and serious looks, were bend- 
 ing their way to the open square in which stood the great 
 entrance to the cathedral. Gravity, indeed, was the pervading 
 deportment of all the assembling crowd ; but a deeper, more 
 reverent, and anxious feeling might be traced upon the features 
 of some, who, fully aware of the difficulties of a Christian life, 
 were about to witness the renewal of those vows by which the 
 ignorant and untried, the weak and the erring, in the midst of 
 a sinful world, and about to enter upon the scene of its tempta- 
 tions, pledge themselves in the sight of an All Holy God, to be 
 His in spirit, in truth, and for ever. It was the day appointed 
 
 for the Confirmation of all within the diocese of who had 
 
 attained the age required by the Bishop, and on few occasions 
 had a more careful preparation been made for the due obser- 
 vance of this important rite. The time had gone by when the 
 verbal repetition of the Church Catechism was alone deemed 
 necessary for the candidates. A more zealous spirit had arisen, 
 and many, who had themselves been allowed to renew their 
 baptismal vows, without thought or prayer, now, warned by 
 past experience, endeavoured most earnestly to urge upon 
 others the importance of the period which they had reached, 
 •tin] the real meaning of the words, which from childhood had 
 been familiar to their lips ! 
 
 The Confirmation of that day was felt to be a most solemn 
 sot of self-dedicaticn ; and as the knights of old, when prepar- 
 
 857110
 
 4 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 in^ to assume the insignia and encounter the perils of theii 
 order, were accustomed to fast, and watch and pray, that they 
 mi^ht be enabled to struggle and conquer in the unknown 
 dingers before them ; so the young aspirants to the full privi- 
 leges of Christianity were taught to humble themselves by 
 repentance, and prepare their hearts by prayer, that in the hour 
 of temptation they might not be forgetful of their high calling, 
 and fall short of their eternal reward. The spectacle which the 
 cathedral church of St. Mark exhibited when the choir was 
 rilled, before the service of the church began, was one of no 
 common interest. The broad light of the sun, as its rays 
 streamed through the stained windows, fell upon fair young 
 faces chastened by holy thoughts, and boyish features subdued 
 into stillness by the pressure of a strange and hitherto unfelt 
 awe. There were countenances which told of fear and wonder, 
 and some, it might be, of indifference ; there were eyes bent 
 upon the page in which the vow to be renewed was recorded ; 
 and lips moving in silent prayer that strength might be granted 
 for its fulfilment ; whilst, at times, over those youthful faces 
 there passed the shadow of a dark cloud, the cloud of the 
 memory of sin ; the vision of cherished offences, of indulged 
 tempers, — vanity and pride, selfishness and irreverence, — the 
 bitter fruits of an evil nature, now a second time to be publicly 
 renounced for ever. Was it to be marvelled at, if in some then 
 present the weakness of humanity for a moment shrank from 
 the warfare imposed upon it, and would fain have returned to 
 the bondage of Egypt, the indulgence of earthly inclination, 
 rather than brave the battle with those stern enemies — the 
 world, the flesh, and the devil — which throng the borders of 
 the land of promise ? 
 
 But the wish, if it arose, was founded on error. The candi- 
 dates for Confirmation were no longer free to choose. Once 
 baptized, once admitted into the fellowship of the Catholic 
 Church, and there could be no drawing back. The members 
 of Christ, the children of God, the inheritors of the kingdom 
 of heaven, could never again " be as the heathen." They 
 might despise their privileges, and break their vows ; but the 
 privileges had still been granted, and they must be answerable 
 for them ; the vows were still upon their heads, and so would 
 also be the punishment for neglect. For them it could never 
 be a question, whether they would accept Christianity : but 
 whether, having accepted, they would renounce it ; and even 
 l.he most indiflerent amongst the professed followers of Christ
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER, 
 
 would surely have trembled to risk the woe which must inevi- 
 tably follow an open, deliberate apostacy. 
 
 But although no second promise could in reality increase th. 
 binding responsibility of the first, yet the public ratification ol 
 a covenant with God must ever be regarded with awe. Tin 
 baptismaPvow was now for the first time fully impressed upoi 
 the consciences of many by whom it had scarcely before been 
 renfembered, and they trembled as the moment approached 
 when they were to seal it with the consent of their own lips. 
 
 The peaceful soothing words of the daily service were said, 
 and when they were ended there stood before the altar of God, 
 the high-born inheritors of honour and wealth, and the gentle 
 children nursed in affluence and retirement, and the humble 
 offspring of poverty, united by one creed, one hope, one danger, 
 and summoned to join in one common act of self-dedication. 
 
 Together they listened to the earnest supplication which was 
 to bring down upon them from on high the " sevenfold gifts of 
 grace ; " and then side by side they knelt, and each in turn 
 bowed beneath a hand of blessing — the blessing of their 
 spiritual Father in Christ. 
 
 Once more they were seated as before, to receive from the 
 Bishop's mouth the words of advice, and warning, and consola- 
 tion, which were to guide them amidst the temptations of life ; 
 and when* the final benediction was given, and the full tones of 
 the organ pealed through the long aisles, they parted even as 
 they had met, for the greater part, unknowing and unre- 
 garding, to many a distant home, never to meet together 
 again in one place till they should stand before the judgment- 
 scat of God, to answer for the fulfilment of the vow which had 
 that hour been registered in heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was the evening of the same day, a day of unwonted 
 brilliancy and warmth. The sounds of busy life were lading 
 upon the listening ear, the cattle were returning from the 
 pastures, the birds were seeking their nests, the tired workman 
 was slowly wending his way towards his home, and the deep 
 tones of the cathedral clock as it struck the hour of ei^ht fell 
 with a warninsr voice upon the few who were still engrossed in 
 their round of daily occupation.
 
 6 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The peacefulness of such an hour was felt even amidst the 
 bustle of a crowded town, and the jar of folly and vice ; but in 
 the quiet garden of the old grey manor-house of St. Ebbe'a 
 there was nothing to disturb the hallowing effect of its influence. 
 The low ivy-covered walls which enclosed it seemed built for the 
 very purpose of excluding all thoughts of the busy world ; the 
 long green walks invited to regular exercise and meditation; 
 the neatly-trimmed borders, gay with flowers, spoke of careful- 
 ness and simplicity, and appreciation of the loveliness of nature; 
 and the quaint sun-dial, raised upon a circle of rough stone 
 steps in the centre, gave a silent call to the unthinking to note 
 the flight of time, whilst it bade them, in the words of Holy 
 Writ, which were graven upon its pedestal, " watch and pray, 
 that they might not enter into temptation." The building 
 itself, with its weather-stained walls, and mullioned windows 
 and deep porch, accorded perfectly with the quaint style of the 
 garden. It was not large, and boasted few architectural orna- 
 ments ; but it was the existing symbol of bygone years, and 
 insensibly carried back the mind to times far removed from the 
 present, when if mankind were not wiser and better they were 
 at least less restless, and when the lords of the manor of St. 
 Ebbe's were willing to " dwell amongst their own people," and 
 knew no higher interest in life than that of providing for their 
 welfare. So it was not now ; the house, and the garden, and 
 the lands, which once were deemed indissolubly attached, had 
 been divided into separate lots : the manor-house had become a 
 rarm-house, the farm-house had been neglected ; and, ruined 
 and dilapidated, would have fallen into almost hopeless decay, 
 but for a succession of fortunate events which placed it in the 
 hands of those who were willing to expend some money and 
 much taste in restoring it, though not to its original beauty, yet 
 to a condition in which it might oe inhabited with comfort. 
 
 The inmates of the manor-house, in its present state, were 
 widely different from its early occupants ; and if the first Sir 
 Ralph de l>retonville, whom tradition asserted to have been the 
 founder of the family, could have looked upon the youthful 
 figures standing upon the dial-steps, and watching the gradual 
 fading of the gorgeous sunset, lie might have deemed them 
 beings of another race, so little could they have resembled the 
 uncouth train of revellers, huntsmen, and serving men, with 
 whom his own halls must have been filled. 
 
 They were two girls, who appeared to have scarcely passed 
 the age of sixteen — unlike in dress, height, and figure ' but
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 Bhowing, by an unrestrained ease of manner, that the tie 
 between them, if not of blood, was one of familiar intimacy. 
 
 The taller — and, seemingly, the elder — of the two was finely 
 formed, and dignified, almost commanding in manner. Her 
 dark hair was "braided, with studied neatness, across a high 
 forehead, "and one long ringlet fell on either side upon the well- 
 tnrned neck, over which a shawl had been hastily thrown to 
 protect her from the evening air. H<§r complexion was clear, 
 and brilliant with the hues- of youth and health ; and none, 
 probably, could have turned an indifferent gaze upon the perfect 
 contour" of her features; — the deep set hazel eye— the Grecian 
 nose — the full expressive mouth, which bespoke intellect and 
 energy, and natural elevation of character ; — and as she stood, 
 with one hand pointed to the glowing sky, and the other rest- 
 ing upon the dial-plate, whilst the dazzling hues of sunset fell 
 upon her graceful figure, she might have been fitly deemed the 
 representative of the Sibyl, or the Pythoness, exulting in the 
 first enthusiasm of inspiration. 
 
 Her companion it will be less easy to pourtray ; for Lady 
 Blanche Evelyn was not regularly beautiful. She was slight in 
 figure, and rather below the usual height; — her complexion 
 was naturally pale, though, at that moment, tinged by the 
 faint crimson-flush of interest and agitation ; — her eyes, dark 
 and exquisitely soft, were not striking in their brilliancy, like 
 those of her friend. There was less of a marked outline in the 
 contour of her face, even of the long-chiselled nose and peculiarly 
 sweet mouth; and the clustering ringlets of glossy chestnut 
 hair, which shaded her features, gave an air of greater youth- 
 fulness to her general appearance. The forehead — high, open, 
 and intellectual — bore, indeed, some resemblance to her com- 
 panion's, but the expression of the whole countenance was 
 but little affected by it. 
 
 It was nut intellect which could have been uppermost in the 
 thoughts of any person, looking, for the first time, upon Lady 
 Blanclie Evelyn. The sparkle in her eye, the smile upon her 
 lips, tin- light eager animation of manner, chastened by refine- 
 ment and simplicity, were the tokens of a heart delighting in 
 the first freshness of life ; remembering the past without regret, 
 and painting visions of the future with innocent enjoyment; and 
 if, for a moment, a transient shade of thought passed over the 
 sunshine of her fair young features, it was the thought, not of 
 foreboding or discontent, but of a mind to which the mysterious
 
 8 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 realities of the unseen world were presenting themselves with 
 all their overwhelming power. 
 
 Graceful, gentle, and childlike as she was, she might have 
 been deemed by many unfitted to cope with the trials of the 
 world ; but, whether it were from the natural dignity of one 
 upon whom the honours of a long line of ancestry were destinec 1 
 to descend, or from a strength of character unknown only 
 because untried, — an under current of firmness ran through her 
 words and actions; scarcely indeed perceived, except by minute 
 observation, but then displaying itself even in the intonations of 
 ber musical voice, and the increasing earnestness of her gestures, 
 as she pursued her conversation. 
 
 " To-morrow," she said, as she threw her arm affectionately 
 around her companion, "to-morrow, Eleanor, by this time I may 
 have seen him, and you may have seen him too; our plans will 
 not seem dreamy then." 
 
 " They will to me," was the reply ; "till I can see how they 
 may be carried out : and I dread to-morrow, lest it should 
 make me forget to-dav." 
 
 " Sometimes it seems impossible to forget," replied Blanche, 
 as she gazed intently upon the golden sky. " Now, it seems 
 so ; and then again, — oh ! Eleanor, I feel it will be very hard : 
 — when my thoughts are given to earthly things my heart will 
 follow : and yet at this time how can I help it ?" 
 
 " Then, it cannot be wrong" said Eleanor, soothingly. 
 
 " If I could but think so ! But, after this morning, no one 
 who had really fixed principles would be as changeable as I am." 
 
 " No one thinks you changeable, except yourself," answered 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "I know myself better than others know me, then," said 
 Blanche. " Even, after all I have promised — all those prayers, 
 and the charge, and all my resolutions, I cannot keep ray mind 
 fixed as I ought. I have such dreams of home, and of" Papa ; 
 and when I shut myself up this afternoon, and tried to do what 
 Mrs. Howard advised, I was wandering to things gone bv, — all 
 that has happened since we have been here. I wonder whether 
 others have the same difficulties." 
 
 Eleanor thought for a few moments, and then said, rather ab- 
 ruptly, " Did you notice that sickly girl who sat to the right of 
 us, at the head of the charity-schoci ?" 
 
 ' Yes," exclaimed Blanche ; " her eyes never seemed to move 
 except when the chanting began, and then she looked up
 
 the earl's daughter 9 
 
 amongst the arches of the cathedral with such intense awe. I 
 was vexed with myself for thinking about her, and yet it did 
 me good." 
 
 "She was blind," continued Eleanor; " one of her compa- 
 nions led her up to the altar as we left it. Mrs. Howard says 
 she conies from Rutherford ; and I mean to ask papa if he 
 knows her." 
 
 * I think I could bear to be blind," observed Blanche, " if I 
 could only feel, as I am sure she did. But the world is so 
 beautiful, and it is so pleasant to live and to be loved !" 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor ; " for you, especially, who have every- 
 thing else that the world can give." 
 
 " Why should I have so much ?" exclaimed Blanche. " It 
 is very strange ; and when I looked at that poor girl it fright- 
 ened me. And yet, Eleanor," she continued, and a shade 
 almost of sadness, passed over her face, " it may all be marred. 
 I shall be like a stranger in my home, and papa may have 
 lost his English tastes, and be vexed that I am not what he 
 pictured." 
 
 " You are fanciful," replied Eleanor, with an air of authority ; 
 " you should remember what Mrs. Iluward says about not 
 creating evils." 
 
 " But.he will be my all," said Blanche, humbly ; " If his love 
 fails me, what shall I have to look to ?" Eleanor's countenance 
 expressed surprise, and Blanche instantly corrected herself; "on 
 earth, I mean," she said ; " but that is an instance of what I 
 mentioned just now about forgetting. I know that I ought to 
 be calm and trusting, thinking of to-day instead of to-morrow. 
 Do you remember the Bishop's saying it was part of our 
 duty?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Eleanor ; " I was looking at the blind girl at 
 the instant, and her face brightened when she heard it, as 
 little Clara's does when she first gains a new idea." 
 
 Blanche was silent for several minutes. " I must not think," 
 she exclaimed, at length ; " the time is coming so near. When 
 the sun goes down again, I may be watching it from the terrace 
 at Rutherford." 
 
 " And I from the rectory," said Eleanor. " We shall be 
 separated then." 
 
 The words sounded reproachfully ; and Blanche eagerly ex- 
 claimed, M Only for a few hours ; our homes will be almost the 
 tame. You do not think, Eleanor, that I could be happy if it 
 frerc not so."
 
 10 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Not now. But, Blanche, the path of your life will lead you 
 away from me into the world, and amongst gay friends ; you 
 will have many other ties." 
 
 " But the one," said Blanche ; " where can I find that ? The 
 blessing which was given us to-day together will never be re- 
 peated again ; — ours can never be a common love." 
 
 Eleanor grew very thoughtful. " Promise to love me always," 
 she said. " Doubt comes over me sadly at times." 
 
 Blanche did not promise ; but she looked at Eleanor with 
 wonder, as if not comprehending the meaning of her words, and 
 before she could reply, some one was heard to repeat her name ; 
 and a little girl, about ten years of age, ran up to them, ex- 
 claiming, " You must come directly, — this moment ; you must 
 not wait a minute ; Mrs. Howard wants you in her room. 
 Pray, Eleanor, don't keep her." 
 
 " Is it for me ? Did Mrs. Howard send for me, Clara ?" and 
 the colour faded from Blanche's cheek. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Howard ; and" — the child stopped, put her finger 
 upon her lip, and smiled archly. 
 
 " Who ? What ? Who is here ?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " Never mind ; don't ask questions. Mrs. Howard told me 
 I was to make haste." 
 
 Lady Blanche said nothing ; she leant against the sun-dial, 
 and every limb trembled. 
 
 " You are ill, dearest," said Eleanor, affectionately ; " and 
 this suspense is dreadful for you. Clara, you must tell us — Is 
 Lord Rutherford arrived ?" 
 
 Clara was delighted at her own power, and turning away, ex- 
 claimed, " For once Eleanor Wentworth cannot have her will." 
 
 " But Blanche Evelyn can;" and Blanche drew the little girl 
 t wards her, and said in a faint voice, "If you love me, 
 Clara" — 
 
 The appeal was successful. Clara's arm was put within 
 hers; and, looking up in Blanche's face to watch the effect of 
 her information, she whispered, "I have not seen him; but 
 Marv and A<mes have." 
 
 Blanche scarcely waited to hear the last word, before she had 
 flown towards the house ; but as she reached the porch she 
 stopped — her courage had failed. 
 
 Eleanor was at her skle immediately. "He must love you — ■ 
 dote upon you, Blanche ; and his letters — you do him injustice 
 by being afraid." 
 
 Blanche put her hand before her eyes ; and holier tho''g:/ta
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 1] 
 
 came to her aid. One Father, she had, who knew the weak- 
 ness of His child, and could strengthen her as well against the 
 infirmity of nature, as against the temptations of sin. She 
 placed her icy fingers within Eleanor's, and clasped them with 
 the energy of nervous resolution ; and then, with a firm step, 
 turned away to seek for the first time, since she had been con- 
 scious of existence, the presence of her father. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Earl of Rutherford was a man, the ruling principle of 
 whose character was generally supposed to be easily discovered 
 from his expressive countenance : conscious nobility, a love of 
 command, an impetuous temper, and a powerful intellect, were 
 plainly inscribed upon it. lie was born to honour, accustomed 
 from infancy to rule, and the world had decided that pride was 
 the governing motive of his actions. So at least it was said, 
 when, fifteen years before, he had suddenly left his ancestral 
 home, upon the death of a wife, whom, if he had not loved, he 
 had at least treated with the outward marks of respect ; and 
 confiding his infant daughter to the care of a lady, the personal 
 friend of the countess, left England with the avowed determina 
 tionof remaining abroad for some years. The step, strange 
 though it appeared, was declared not incompatible with his charac- 
 ter. The grief preying upon his heart was said to be less the 
 (*3ath of his wife, than the failure of a male heir; and the Lady 
 Blanche Evelyn, although born to inherit both the title and its 
 annexed estates, was considered to be an object of compassion 
 rather than of love to her haughty father, from the feeling that 
 it was impossible for a woman fitly to support the dignity of the 
 family, and the dread lest the event of her marriage with some 
 vet more distinguished individual should sink his own noble 
 "house into comparative insignificance. All this the world said. 
 The Earl of Rutherford was pitied, but censured; his sorrow it 
 was imagined would be transitory, and his journey was con- 
 side] ed merely the impulse of a hasty moment. That he would 
 return again, it might be with a foreign bride, or at least to seek 
 another in England, was considered a matter of certainty ; and 
 yet, \ear after year went by, and the Castle of Rutherford was 
 still left unoccupied. Political engagements it was known were 
 in a great measure the cause of the earl's absence, but they
 
 !-> 
 
 V2 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 would not account fur an exile of such length ; and the rumours 
 which were at first circulated regarding a second marriage at 
 length ceased. Tidings of him were heard — sometimes at 
 Rome, sometimes at Vienna, once at Constantinople; but all 
 gave the same impression. If Lord Rutherford had been con- 
 sidered proud at home, he was thought to be yet more so in the 
 careless ease of continental society. The noblest and fairest 
 ornaments of European courts passed before him, but all were 
 alike unnoticed ; and, at the expiration of fifteen years, he was 
 returning to his native land, with the same impenetrable man- 
 ner, the same cold reserve of tone, for which he had been 
 remarkable on leaving it. And in the mean time his child 
 grew up in retirement, under the care of a lady every way cal- 
 culated for such a charge. Mrs. Howard was a widow, who, at 
 the age of thirty, found herself suddenly reduced from a situa- 
 tion of affluence and happiness, as the wife of a beneficed clergy- 
 man, to one of almost hopeless poverty. The death of her 
 husband, which had been so sudden as to prevent him from 
 making any satisfactory arrangement of his property, joined 
 with other circumstances perfectly unforeseen, had combined to 
 produce this great misfortune; and, but for the long-tried 
 friendship of the Countess of Rutherford, Mrs. Howard's pros- 
 pects would indeed have been dark. Through her exertions, 
 however, the manor-house of St. Ebbe's was purchased, and fitted 
 up so as to accommodate Mrs. Howard and the few pupils whose 
 education she was able to undertake ; and when, in the pros- 
 pect of approaching death, the countess gazed in sadness upon 
 her child, her chief earthly consolation was derived from the 
 hope that the earl would consent to place the infant Lady 
 Blanche under the care of the only person in whose affection 
 and principle she was able implicitly to confide. Lord Ruther- 
 ford was not present to receive the dying injunction of his 
 wife, but her wishes were received with an attention nearly 
 amounting to superstition. Lady Blanche was removed to St. 
 Ebbe's, and the sole charge of her education trusted to Mrs. 
 Howard, with but one stipulation — that she should have no 
 companion. For a few years this agreement was easily kept. 
 During the child's infancy she was perfectly satisfied with Mrs. 
 Howard as her nurse, instructress, and playfellow ; but new 
 wants were discovered with increasing years, and Mrs. Howard, 
 believing that such a solitary education might operate unfavour- 
 ably upon her character, at length prevailed upon the earl tc 
 allow her to receive into her family Eleanor Wentworth, the
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 daughter of the rector of Rutherford. Blanche was at tins 
 time about seven years of age, and fully able to appreciate the 
 charms of companionship. Eleanor was clever, generous, and 
 affectionate ; and the progress made by both the children from 
 the period of their being placed together convinced Mrs. How- 
 ard that slie had judged wisely in the advice which she had 
 given : and when, in the course of events, the care of three 
 little' orphan nieces devolved upon her, she had no difficulty in 
 persuading Lord Rutherford to allow them also to share her 
 attention at St. Ebbe's. 
 
 The charm of society was felt chiefly by Blanche. Eleanor 
 returned to her home at stated times, and mixed with other 
 friends, and enjoyed the novelty of other scenes ; but to Blanche 
 the occupations of the manor-house, the interest of the village 
 of St. Ebbe's, and the dull liveliness of the old cathedral town 
 weni the only excitements of life. Even the Castle of Ruther- 
 ford, her destined home, was but like a beautiful dream, associ- 
 ated with visions of the mother who had been described as the 
 most lovely and perfect of earthly beings, and the father, whose, 
 supposed virtues and talents formed the great romance of her 
 childhood. 
 
 And the Earl of Rutherford, if judged by his letters, was 
 indeed foiyned to excite admiration, if not respect. They were 
 the letters of a refined, highly cultivated, affectionate mind ; — 
 keenly alive to the charms of grace and luxury, yet mourning 
 over the unreality of all earthly enjoyments ; joining in the 
 pursuits of the world, yet sighing for the sympathy of the few 
 who were alone deemed worthy of friendship ; and seeing too 
 deeply into life to be satisfied with aught that earth could give. 
 One thing alone seemed to give him real pleasure, the hope of 
 returning to England and devoting himself to his child; — and 
 yet year after year went by, and still he lingered in a foreign 
 land. Blanche learned by degrees to attach but little meaning 
 to his expressions of dissatisfaction with continental habits, and 
 of desire to revisit his own country. He might be — no doubt 
 he was — sincere ; but the circumstances or the feelings which 
 detained him abroad appeared as binding as ever ; and a shade 
 of discontent was just beginning to dim the brightness of her 
 hitherto happy life, when the intelligence that her father was 
 actually on his way to England, and would probably arrive in 
 th.' course of a few weeks, brought back all her early enthusiasm 
 and delight. Yet the satisfaction, after the first moment, was 
 by no means unalloyed. Her own departure from St. Ebbe's
 
 14 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 would l>e the inevitable consequence of the earl's return, and 
 with this was involved separation from the friend who had sup- 
 plied a mother's place, and claimed all but a mother's affection ; 
 and as Blanche recalled the fondness which had been lavished 
 upon her from infancy, she wept in bitterness of heart for the 
 ingratitude which could for an instant rejoice in such a prospect. 
 
 As regarded Eleanor, the case w T ould be very different. She 
 was to return to her parents at the same time, and the near 
 vicinity of the rectory and the castle formed, at least in the 
 simple mind of Lady Blanche, a reason for believing that the 
 change of life would be merely nominal ; that they would share 
 the same interests, and partake of the same pleasures, and be 
 to each other, what they had hitherto called themselves, — sis- 
 ters in affection, if not in relationship. 
 
 She could not contemplate the possibility of change, — and 
 the fears which Eleanor sometimes expressed, were to her 
 merely the fancies of an excitable, over-anxious mind. 
 
 But, as the season approached for the earl's arrival, the strug- 
 gle in the mind of Blanche between hope and regret — the 
 future and the past — became mixed with other thoughts, which 
 served to calm her spirits by diverting her feelings into a differ- 
 ent channel. The period of her Confirmation had been una- 
 voidably fixed for the time when Lord Rutherford was ex- 
 pected ; and though Mrs. Howard would at first willingly have 
 either hastened or deferred it, so as to give a more favourable 
 opportunity for due preparation, she soon saw reason to be 
 thankful that events had been so ordered as to leave no possi- 
 bility of choice. The gay, gentle, confiding spirit of Lady 
 Blanche, open to every impression, and apparently incapable of 
 the possibility of concealment, yet retained within it a depth 
 of reflection and principle which Mrs. Howard had never pene- 
 trated. Unknown to herself, Blanche was timid and reserved. 
 She could speak openly upon all ordinary subjects, — confess her 
 faults, and laugh at her mistakes, and lament her ignorance, 
 till even a very keen observer of human nature — and such Mrs. 
 Howard was — miffht imagine that she had told all that was in 
 her mind. But there were occasions when the deepening colour 
 of her cheek, or the hesitation of her voice, gave indications 
 that in the hidden world within there lay feelings far loftier and 
 purer than any which she ventured to express. Her words 
 w.re the words of a humble, candid, light-hearted, simple 
 child; but her thoughts — who may tell the earnestness, and 
 reverence, and trustfulness, with which the young heart devotes
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 itself to its Maker before the evil influence of the world has 
 chilled the warmth of its early affections ? What Lady Blanche 
 really was, Mrs. Howard never knew, till in the intimacy of 
 serious intercourse which preceded her Confirmation, the an- 
 guish of repentance for youthful sins overcame her natural 
 reserve; and hopes, and fears, and doubts, and the bitter con- 
 flict of the soul, which all — even the most outwardly innocent 
 — rrrust endure, in the work of bringing back the heart to God, 
 were confessed without a thought of concealment. From that 
 moment the tie between them was one which earth has no 
 power to break. 
 
 To Blanche this newly-acquired sympathy was an unspeaka- 
 ble blessing ; it soothed her in the moments of self-reproach, 
 when the delight of her father's anticipated return distracted 
 her thoughts from the solemn subject of her approaching Con- 
 firmation ; and enabled her to view clearly the life which was 
 opening before her, and to arrange definite plans for her future 
 conduct, instead of doubling and vacillating in the desire of 
 doinw everything, and the dread of succeeding in nothing:. If 
 Mrs. Howard had been dear to her before, as her truest and wisest 
 friend, her mother's chosen representative, much more was she 
 dear now ; and, even when trembling before the door which 
 was to admit her into her father's presence, a sudden pang of 
 sorrow shot through her heart as she caught the tones of Mrs. 
 Howard's voice, and thought how soon she might listen for 
 them in vain. Mrs. Howard herself opened the door as Blanche 
 placed her hand upon the lock. She did not speak; but her 
 silent kiss told more than the most eloquent words ; and, as 
 she walked slowly away, Blanche allowed herself to hesitate no 
 longer, and entered the room. The earl was standing by the 
 window — his eye fixed upon the travelling-carriage which had 
 brought him that evening from London ; but his thoughts wan- 
 dering to yjars, now so long passed away, that they seemed but 
 as indistinct, yet painful, visions. He was recalling the day 
 when, in the company of his wife, he had paid his first visit to 
 St. Ebbe's; and the associations awakened by the remembrance 
 \\en- bo absorbing, that the sound of his daughter's footsteps 
 was unheeded. Blanche remained irresolute — afraid to intrude 
 herself upon him, yet faint from the effort to restrain her agita- 
 tion. A few moments elapsed, but to her they seemed like 
 hours; and then the carriage drove off, and the earl, heaving a 
 jeep sigh, turned suddenly around, and became aware that he 
 n;i- not alone.
 
 1 G the earl's daughter. 
 
 It \v:is ;i strange meeting! lie did not move or smile ; but 
 the colour forsook his cheeks, and his lips quivered; and as 
 Blanche drew near, he gazed upon her steadfastly, and sinking 
 into a chair, the name of his wife escaped his lips. Blanche 
 stood before him motionless. The earl's head was averted as 
 if he dreaded to look again ; but, when at length the simple 
 word, "Papa,'' fell upon his ear, he started, passed his hand 
 across his forehead like one awakening from a dream, and, 
 clasping his child to his heart, he blessed her fervently, and 
 poured forth the fulness of his contentment; and, at that mo- 
 ment, the fondest hope of affection which Blanche had ever 
 ventured to indulge appeared about to be fully realized. 
 
 " My visit, to-night, must be but short, my child," said the 
 earl, when the excitement of feeling had in a measure subsided, 
 and Blanche ventured to inquire how long he could stay with 
 her. " I have business in the town, and must leave you almost 
 immediately; but to-morrow we will start early, and reach 
 Rutherford in time for you to see it in its beauty." 
 
 "And for the first time," said Blanche: "it seemed hard, 
 papa, never to have been allowed to go there before ; but I am 
 glad of it now. I would much rather see it first with you." 
 
 The earl smiled. 
 
 " And with Miss Wentworth ? We are to take her with us, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Will you really ?" and Blanche's eye sparkled with delight. 
 " We hoped it might be so ; but Dr. Wentworth was afraid 
 you might not like it." 
 
 " Shall you like it ? — that is the question, Blanche." 
 
 Lord Rutherford spoke shortly, and Blanche was a little 
 awed. 
 
 " I shall like everything that you like, dear papa," she said ; 
 " and Eleanor and I have not set our hearts upon it." 
 
 " But you would prefer it, my love ; only say so, and it 
 shall be." 
 
 _ Blanche had penetration enough to see that her father really 
 wished her to choose ; and, as she warmly expressed her plea- 
 sure at the proposal, the earl's gentleness of manner returned. 
 
 '_' My engagement is pressing," he said, as he rose to depart, 
 whilst Blanche hung upon his arm, " and a night's rest will be 
 desirable for us both ; but we will meet at eight to-morrow, if, 
 as Mrs. Howard assures me, you are quite prepared for such a 
 Hidden move." 
 
 The mention of Mrs. Howard brought back Blanche's sad 
 
 thoughts.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 " You will let her come and see me sometimes, deal papa, 
 (von't you ?" she said, timidly. 
 
 " Let her come J" replied the earl ; " rather, ask her if she 
 will be kind enough to take the trouble : she may not think as 
 little of a long journey as you do." 
 
 Blanche-Looked grave ; for she could not bear, even in jest, 
 the idea of any obstacle to a continued intercourse with her best 
 friend. The earl no sooner perceived it, than he began to assure 
 her that if the distance were ten times as great, it should not 
 interfere. She need not have a thought upon the subject ; and 
 if Blanche had not herself stopped him, he would have insisted 
 upon seeing Mrs. Howard again at once, and inducing her to 
 name a certain time for a visit to Rutherford. 
 
 Blanche scarcely understood this instantaneous attention to 
 her wishes. Mi's. Howard's object had been to guard her against 
 the peculiar dangers of her position in life, by accustoming her 
 to yield her own will even on the most trifling occasions. She 
 often saw others preferred before her, and her natural disposi- 
 tion led her to obey rather than to command ; and this, i.dded 
 to the influence of Eleanor Wentworth's apparent decision of 
 character, made her insensible to her own powers. Perhaps too 
 much so; Mrs. Howard at least began to fear lest, in fostering 
 gentleness and consideration, she had kept her too much in 
 ignorance of the influence which her rank and fortune would 
 naturally give her ; and lest the sudden consciousness of 
 superiority might prove more injurious to her character than if 
 she had been accustomed to it from childhood. But it was too 
 late to remedy the mistake. Blanche w r as about to enter upon 
 the world, unknowing of its snares, and guarded only by the 
 simple piety of a humble spirit, which has learned to distrust 
 itself, and to lean only upon God. As she was then, there was 
 nothing to fear ; but how long her simplicity would remain 
 untainted, her heart uncorrupted by the flattering homage 
 which awaited her, was a question which only the most un- 
 hesitating faith could have borne to ask. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mrs. Howard sat in her dressing-room that evening Ions* 
 after her usual hour of rest. She was too anxious, her mind was too 
 preoccupied, to hope for ^h-fp. She could only think over the past,
 
 18 the earl's daughter. 
 
 and pray for the future ; whilst she dwelt upon the dispositions 
 of her two young charges, and the trials to which they might 
 1).' exposed in their journey through life. 
 
 It would have been difficult to tell which excited the greater 
 interest ; perhaps the one for whom she feared the most seemed 
 then the nearer to her heart ; yet Eleanor Wentworth's charactei 
 \\a>, in itself, much more open to temptation than that of Lady 
 Blanche. Nothing but the certainty that, at the rectory of 
 Rutherford, Eleanor would be as carefully guarded from evil as 
 at the manor-house of St. Ebbe's, would have relieved the load 
 of apprehension which pressed upon Mrs. Howard's spirits as 
 she thought upon the fickleness of purpose, the pride and 
 jealousy, the hasty, though generous temper, which were con- 
 tinually marring the influence of her talents and high principles. 
 
 But Eleanor was not, like Blanche, to return to a home 
 where she would be the cherished idol of every heart. She 
 would be loved, indeed, deeply and tenderly ; but it would be 
 with a Christian love, which would watch over her faults, and 
 tell her truth without reserve. She would have quiet occupa- 
 tions ; duties to her parents and her sister ; duties in her father's 
 parish ; amusements in her garden and her books ; and society 
 in the castle and its neighbourhood. 
 
 Mrs. Howard almost smiled at the feeling of dread which she 
 had allosved to disturb her, as she owned to herself that 
 Eleanor's situation in life seemed peculiarly free from tempta- 
 tion ; whilst, again, she sadly reverted to Blanche — noble, 
 beautiful, and rich, but deprived of a mother's care, and with 
 no one to be her daily guide and counsellor, but the father, 
 who there was reason to fear might be little fitted for such au 
 office. 
 
 The position was undoubtedly one of peril, and self-accusa- 
 tions mingled with Mrs. Howard's forebodings. Memory went 
 back to the hour when, as an innocent, unconscious infant, tho 
 child of her early friend had been committed to her care ; when, 
 after the lapse of but a few weeks from the death of the 
 Countess of Rutherford, the earl had placed his daughter in her 
 arms, and bade her love and guard her for her mother's sake. 
 To love her was indeed easy ; but to guard, to teach, to educate 
 her — how had the task been performed? It was a sad array 
 of errors and neglects, which conscience brought before the 
 mind of one whom the world rightly judged to have discharged 
 her duty faithfully and unshrinkingly; so much seemed to 
 have been left unsaid, undone ; so much higher an example
 
 the earl's daughter. 19 
 
 might have been set ; so many warnings and instructions given. 
 As the painful reflections crowded upon her mind, a gentle tap 
 at the door was heard, and Blanche entered the room. She was 
 looking pale and ill, and her eyes were dimmed with tears ; and 
 Mrs. Howard^ startled at her sudden appearance, inquired, in 
 alarm, the cause. Blanche tried to smile, whilst she assured 
 her that it was merely a whim — a freak; — she was restless, and 
 could not sleep, and the light was shining underneath the 
 dressing-room door; and — but her voice failed her, and hiding; 
 her face upon Mrs. Howard's neck, she said, " To-morrow . — 1 
 eannot leave you." 
 
 " It will not be leaving me, my dearest child," replied Mrs. 
 Howard. " We shall still be one in affection, and your father 
 promises that we shall meet frequently." 
 
 " But that will not make things as they have been," replied 
 Blanche. " I shall only have you for a short time, and I shall 
 want you every hour in the day." 
 
 " Perhaps that is the very reason why it is good for me not 
 to be with you," said Mrs t Howard ; " we must not depend too 
 much upon our fellow-creatures, however we may love them." 
 
 " If I were not so ignorant," said Blanche, " and if I knew 
 what sort of life I was going to lead, it would not seem so bad ; 
 but seeing papa has upset all my ideas. I don't mean that he 
 is different exactly in appearance from what I thought, but his 
 manner is. He put me forward when I talked to him, and 
 seemed to make me settle things ; and I would much rather he 
 would not." 
 
 " You will be used to that in time, my love," replied Mrs. 
 Howard, smiling ; " and you must recollect you are no longer 
 a child." 
 
 " No, indeed," exclaimed Blanche, " after to-day I could not 
 be ; but that, again, makes me unhappy. How shall I know 
 what is right or wrong in trifles ? I cannot ask papa ; — at least 
 I think I cannot ;— and I may decide badly, and do what I 
 ought not; and perhaps all my resolutions may fail. You 
 know it is so sometimes, when people have felt a great deal 
 more than I have." 
 
 " You can apply to me always," replied Mrs. Howard, " in 
 cases in which you really have no one else to consult; but it is 
 not advice which can keep you right." 
 
 " No," said Blanche ; M but if — if I should grow careless, and 
 not pray properly — " 
 
 " Fear for yourself, my love," replied Mrs. Howard, " and
 
 20 the earl's daughter. 
 
 then no other friend need tear for you ; but if you can attend 
 carefully to the few rules I gave you the other day, I think you 
 will find your duties less difficult than you imagine." 
 
 u I always now have some time to myself in the middle 
 of the day," said Blanche ', " but here lean do as I choose." 
 
 " And you will do as you choose at home, my dear," replied 
 Mrs. Howard. " 1 have no doubt of it. The best thing, 
 however, to say to yourself, is : not that you will, if you can, but 
 th it you must; — that everything must, to a certain degree, 
 give way to it; that if you cannot be alone at one hour, you 
 will be at another. We require not long prayers but frequent 
 ones, to keep up our watchfulness." 
 
 " And then self-examination," said Blanche ; " it is so 
 difficult." 
 
 " Yes, most difficult ; and the only way to make it easy is to 
 practise it frequently ; to carry it on from one part of the day 
 to another, at the times we fix for our private devotions." 
 
 " The difficulty to me," said Blanche, " is, that all this makes 
 one think so constantly of oneself !" 
 
 " So it may, at first ; but the mind must be educated like 
 the body. How is it for instance, that you are able to walk 
 without stumbling ? If you are in a dangerous road, you 
 observe where you are going ; but, generally speaking, you are 
 kept in safety, not by thinking of yourself, but of the objects 
 around you." 
 
 " That is what I want to do with my mind," said Blanche. 
 
 " And it will come by-and-by, my love ; but you must be 
 contented to walk carefully in the dangerous road first ; and, 
 after a time, you will find yourself instinctively shrinking from 
 evil and able to pursue the right path — not so much by 
 watching yourself as by keeping your heart fixed upon God." 
 
 " It will be very long before that time comes," said Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, because it is the perfection of a Christian life ; but we 
 must be patient. In your case, I confess it is likely to be 
 particularly difficult, because you will have so many tempta- 
 tions." 
 
 " Not more than others, I suppose," said Blanche ; " and 
 yet it seems that 1 shall never be as good as some whom I have 
 read of." 
 
 " But I am afraid vou will have manv more temptations 
 than people in general," continued Mrs. Howard : " and I 
 should be happier if I felt that you understood this. God has 
 given you rank and wealth, and no one in your honT* V» share
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 2] 
 
 the attention which will be paid you; and your papa is very 
 likely to be over-indulgent and blind to your faults." 
 
 Blanche leant her head upon the mantelpiece, and in a low 
 voice said, " You will pray for me." 
 
 " Pray fo> you daily and hourly," replied Mrs. Howard, 
 earnestly. " God only knows how precious you are to me. 
 Perhaps I am over-anxious ; but luxury and flattery are very 
 insidious." 
 
 "I need not indulge myself in luxuries, even if I possess 
 them," said Blanche. 
 
 "No; though I am afraid the temptation will be greater 
 than you are aware of. If your mind is corrupted, dearest 
 Blanche, the commencement will almost inevitably be self- 
 indulgence in trifles." 
 
 *' I don't think I quite know what you would call trifles," 
 said Blanche. 
 
 " Such as a little indolence in rising," replied Mrs. Howard ; 
 " a little waste of time in light reading ; a slight carelessness 
 in conversation, saying things which are not strictly right foi 
 the sake of amusement ; or spending money thoughtlessly ; 01 
 even consulting your own ease by making yourself too comfort- 
 able, and so rendering yourself indisposed to exertion for other 
 people. All the-e things are considered allowable by the 
 world : you may do them, and no one will notice them ; and 
 your conscience may, perhaps, scarcely reproach you for them ; 
 but they are the beginnings of evil — the first steps towards 
 that love of self-gratification which is the peculiar snare of the 
 rich." 
 
 ' : I like ease and comfort now," said Blanche. 
 
 " I think you do, my love," replied Mrs. Howard ; '• and I am 
 not saying that the liking them is wrong, but dangerous ; and 
 against the danger I know only one safeguard, as far as our 
 own endeavours are concerned, There are times, you know, 
 when we are bound to deny ourselves the use even of lawful 
 pleasures; — one day at least in every week we should do so. 
 If we check our inclinations then, we may hope they will not 
 train the mastery over us at other times." 
 
 M I shall not know what to do when I am at home," said 
 Blanche. 
 
 " And I cannot tell you exactly," replied Mrs. Howard ; 
 " because, of course, you must be governed in a great degree by 
 th<- habits of your father's house. Only when we have deter- 
 mined to do something, half our difficulty is over. A sincere
 
 22 the earl's daughter. 
 
 will must soon find out the way, without being singular 01 
 acting in any way to attract notice." 
 
 " But I wish so much — so very, very much — that I could 
 have some rules," said Blanche. 
 
 Mrs. Howard half-smiled as she kissed her, and said,—" And 
 I wish so very much that I could give them, because I know it 
 would make you happier ; but I can only repeat in a general 
 way what I have said to you before ; little details must be left to 
 yourself: it is impossible to shake off the burden of responsibility, 
 Blanche, though I know you would willingly do it if you could." 
 
 " But if I make my rules and keep to them," said Blanche, 
 " still 1 may attend to them only as a matter of form, and then 
 they will be of no use." 
 
 Mrs. Howard was silent for a few moments ; the most 
 earnest-minded often feel bitterly the contrast between the 
 Advice which they give to others, and the practice which they 
 are conscious of in themselves. 
 
 " It is very hard," she said, at length, " to feel, even in a 
 remote degree, as we ought ; but, dearest Blanche, if you follow 
 the plan you have had marked out for these days; — begin 
 them, for instance, earlier than usual, if possible, and give up 
 your first thoughts to self-examination and meditation upon 
 those chapters in the Gospels which describe our Lord's suffer- 
 ings ; using special solemn confessions, and also arranging your 
 prayers for the rest of the day, with a particular view to these 
 subjects of meditation ; — I think you will scarcely fail to bav? 
 some deeper gratitude — some more sincere penitence ; you will 
 at least feel that the day is not like other days." 
 
 " I will try," said Blanche ; but she sighed as if distrusting herself. 
 
 " And you must hope, too," continued Mrs. Howard ; " hope 
 is a great instrument of good with us all. The work of a 
 Christian is the work of a whole life, and we must not despair 
 because we are not perfect at once ; especially when we have 
 such aid promised and given. In a very short time, my love, you 
 will, I trust, be fully admitted into the communion of the Church." 
 
 Blanche looked distressed, and for a few moments did not 
 attempt to speak : at last she said, " I thought you would have 
 been with me.'' 
 
 " And I thought so too, and hoped more earnestly than I 
 can say ; but it has been otherwise ordered, and it may — it 
 must be better for us both. Yet we cannot really be separated ; 
 my prayers and my heart will follow you, and we shall surely 
 be united in one spirit as members of the body of Christ — more 
 closely even than at this moment."
 
 the earl's daughter. 23 
 
 Again there was a pause ; the struggle of over-excited feel- 
 ings overcame Blanche's efforts to restrain them, and bursting 
 into tears, she exclaimed, " I am not worthy." 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Howard, and she placed her hand fondly 
 on BlancheV-head, "you are not worthy ; no one can be, not 
 even an angel from heaven. But if the blessing is greater than 
 wordsycan tell, so also is the love. Blanche, it is a Father's 
 voice which calls you ; perhaps now, for the first time, you can 
 understand what a father's affection must mean." The allusion 
 had the effect which Mrs. Howard desired. 
 
 Blanche raised her head, and a smile gleamed through her 
 tears as she said, "I will try to think of it, and not be afraid." 
 
 " And you will be assisted and accepted, dearest ; you must 
 not doubt it. There is much that I could say to you even now 
 upon the subject, though we have so often talked of it before ; 
 but I do not think you will allow anything to interfere with 
 such a duty. I do not think you will ever make false excuses, 
 or turn away with coldness, whatever examples may be set you. 
 In time," and Mrs. Howard's voice involuntarily became more 
 subdued in its earnestness, "you will cease to look upon it as a 
 duty — it will be your all in religion." 
 
 " Papa will be with me to help me, and teach me," said 
 Blanche ; " that is one great comfort." 
 
 Mrs. Howard sighed, and made no direct answer ; but rising 
 from her seat, unlocked a cabinet, and taking from it a locket 
 attached to a hair chain, she hung it round Blanche's neck, 
 saving, " Will you wear it, not only in remembrance of me, but 
 of thb daj 7 on which it was given you ? The date has been 
 engraved on it, that when you look at it you may be reminded 
 of the vow by which you have bound yourself. — And now, dear 
 child, we must part." 
 
 Mrs. Howard's usually calm voice became low and tremulous. 
 Blanche held the locket in her hand, and gazed on it long and 
 tearfully; and then, placing it within the folds of her dress, she 
 once more received Mrs. Howard's fervent blessing, and glided 
 silently from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The sun was still high in the horizon, when on the following 
 day a travelling carriage was seen standing at the bottom of the 
 
 2 "
 
 24 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 steep ascent on the summit of which was built the old baronial 
 castle of Ruther&rd. There was apparently some discussion as 
 to its movements, for a servant was engaged in carrying mes- 
 sages from his master to the postilions, and the eager tones of 
 a young girl's voice were heard endeavouring to win some com- 
 pliance with her wishes contrary to the will of her companions. 
 
 " It will be a pleasure to me to walk, I assure you," she 
 said ; " the distance is but a few hundred yards, and really I 
 deserve some trouble for having been so foolish as not to watch 
 which way the carriage turned. It will make a considerable 
 difference now to go by the road." 
 
 Lord Rutherford listened politely, and quietly remarking that 
 Miss Wentworth was under his protection, and that he could on 
 no account leave her till he .had seen her safely under her 
 father's care, sent an angry reproof to the postilions for their 
 stupidity, and ordered them to drive round to the rectory. 
 Eleanor looked annoyed, and Blanche raised her eyes to her 
 father's face, to see if it would do to interfere ; but there was an 
 expression in it which was not encouraging. The cheerful 
 smile which had brightened it during the first part of their 
 journey was gone, and, leaning out of the window, he kept his 
 eyes riveted upon the old grey walls appearing in the distance 
 above the trees. 
 
 " My father!" exclaimed Eleanor, as the carriage turned. 
 
 Lord Rutherford withdrew his head, and sank back upon his 
 seat. His mouth grew more stern, his brow was more gloomy 
 than before ; yet it might have been only from the effort to 
 repress some rising agitation, for, as Dr. Wentworth approached, 
 a smile of recognition again lighted up his features, and with a 
 cordial voice, and a warm pressure of the hand, he returned a 
 greeting which might have been termed affectionate. 
 
 " I have much to thank you for," he said ; " but you shall 
 not be detained now : we have a fellow-feeling for our children." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth's mild but strikingly sensible countenance 
 betrayed some painful thoughts, even as he assisted his daughter 
 to alight, and welcomed her eagerly ; but they were momentary 
 only, and again drawing near the carriage, he said, " Lady 
 Blanche is almost a stranger ; we have not met I think for two 
 years." 
 
 Blanche bent forward and gave him her hand. Lord 
 Rutherford was evidently interested in watching the meeting, 
 yet he looked annoyed rather than pleased with Dr. Went- 
 worth's kind expressions of satisfaction.
 
 the earl's daughter. 25 
 
 " I am not parting from Eleanor," said Blanche, in answer to 
 Dr. Wentworth's regret that his daughter's return home should 
 be necessarily alloyed by a separation from her friend. "I wish 
 you would "nut talk of it : we shall meet, as we have done, 
 every day." ^> 
 
 Dr. Wentworth smiled doubtfully. 
 
 " To-morrow Eleanor will be with me the first moment she 
 can he spared," continued Blanche, gaily ; " and if that should 
 not be early, I must be with her, and then we will arrange for 
 the future." 
 
 There was a silent assent, and Eleanor, who had been stand- 
 ing apart, went round to the other side H the carriage to say 
 good-h'ye. 
 
 " It is good-b'ye, really, — for long, for ever in some ways, 
 Blanche," she whispered. 
 
 Blanche was distressed. 
 
 "Eleauor, it is cruel to say so; but time will show." 
 
 " Yes, time will show ;" and, trying to appear indifferent, 
 Eleanor once more said, "good-b'ye," and, patting her arm 
 within her father's, turned away. 
 
 Blanche watched them, as they stayed to give some direc- 
 tions to a man who was to follow with the luggage ; and, when 
 at last they 'were lost to her sight, felt as if Eleanor's words 
 were prophetic. 
 
 But the painful foreboding was soon forgotten. The earl's 
 voice recalled her to happiness ; for, delighted at being freed 
 from all restraint, he now gave free vent to his affection, and 
 pointing to the range of richly-wooded hills, the green meadows, 
 and neat clustering cottages, he told her that all she could see 
 was her own ; that earth for him had but one treasure; and that, 
 whilst she was spared to him, nothing would add to his enjoy- 
 ment, except by ministering to hers. 
 
 "Now," he said, when the winding road brought them full 
 in front of the castle, " look, once more ; there is no view of it 
 like this." 
 
 Blanche looked, and her heart throbbed within her as sho 
 realized for the first time the grandeur of her future home. 
 Rutherford Castle stood upon a high promontory, which rose 
 almost perpendicularly from the banks of a deep-flowing stream. 
 The most ancient part of what had once been a fortress of con- 
 siderable strength was built upon the solid rock, and the huge 
 Mocks of masonry could scarcely be distinguished from the 
 impregnable walls of nature's formation : but the advance of
 
 26 T II K EARL S DAUGH1ER 
 
 civilization had induced the Lords of Rutherford, from time to 
 time, to add to the original stronghold, at first a lower tower 
 and massive wings, then gateways, and turrets, and quadrangles, 
 till the castle, stretching over the crest of the bill, formed a pile 
 of building which, although irregular in outline, was still as a 
 whole singularly imposing. Immediately in front of the castle 
 was a broad space of smooth turf, and from this the ground to 
 the left fell in a bank thickly planted with trees, which, as it 
 neared the river, was broken by grey moss-grown rocks. But 
 the most striking points of scenery were not discoverable from 
 below ; and when Blanche clasped her hands in ecstasy, and 
 declared that she had never imagined anything bah so beau- 
 tiful, the earl smiled contentedly, and, bidding the postilions 
 hasten, he sat in silence listening to her exclamations, as every 
 step in advance brought them some fresh object of beauty. 
 
 The high battlemented gateway was passed, and the carriage 
 entered the park ; and, after a drive of about half a mile, slowly 
 ascended the bill. As they approached nearer and nearer to 
 the castle, Lord Rutherford roused himself from his leaning 
 posture, and gazing from the window, seemed endeavouring to 
 recall the long-past scenes which were associated with nearly 
 every object that met his eye. Blanche, with an instinctive 
 delicacy of sympathy, did not attempt to interrupt him: her 
 pleasure was no longer openly expressed, and it was not till the 
 carriage stopped before the heavy portal, and a glorious land- 
 scape, with a foreground of rock and river, and a distance of 
 far-spreading woods and pastures, and fields ripening with the 
 golden corn, was disclosed before her, that she exclaimed, "Papa, 
 it does not seem like earth !" 
 
 At the sound of her sweet voice, the earl awoke from his 
 reverie. "I*, shall be paradise to you," he said, "if mortal 
 power can make it so ;" and, alighting from the carriage, he 
 hurried her forward into the hall. 
 
 The servants were assembled to receive them ; and the earl 
 presented Lady Blanche to them as their mistress. " Your 
 mistress now," he said emphatically, " as much as she must be 
 in years to come ;" and as he spoke many eves of admiration 
 and respect were turned to the gentle girl, who so gracefully and 
 meekly returned the reverential salutations of her dependants. 
 
 Lord Rutherford's impatience scarcely waited till the neces- 
 sary introduction was over. Proudly and firmly he passed on 
 through the splendid apartments ; yet, if Blanche had watched 
 his countenance, she might have seen that all was not equally
 
 the earl's daughter. 27 
 
 firm within. It was but the outline of a marble bust which 
 naught his attention,, but he quickened his steps, and compressed 
 bis lips, whilst he turned to see whether the bright fair features 
 of his child did indeed resemble the cold but matchless beauty 
 which the hafid of art had so exquisitely sculptured. 
 
 Blanche followed him, bewildered by the novelty of her situ- 
 ?/.ion,>and the strangeness of all she saw; so different from 
 St. Ebbe's, with its \'<-\v simple rooms and modern furniture. 
 The dark oaken panellings and grotesque carvings, the rich yet 
 cumbrous cabinets, the heavy gilded cornices, and faded tapes- 
 tries, were of the fashions of centuries past : and Blanche, though 
 delighted to behold what she had so often in imagination pic- 
 tured, yet felt something of awe steal over her, as they traversed 
 the empty chambers which for years had been disused ; and 
 which, even when the castle was filled with guests, had been 
 considered more as a necessary incumbrance than as at all con- 
 ducing to its convenience. 
 
 Lord Rutherford read what was passing in her mind. 
 
 " These are but the vestibules," he said ; " the ante-rooms — 
 endurable for appearance, but not habitable. You shall have 
 something difterent for your own enjoyment;" and, pushing 
 aside some massive folding doors, he led the way into a hall paved 
 with marble," and partly filled with rare plants. li They have 
 attended to my orders well," he observed, as he looked around 
 him with a pleased air ; "and here are your rooms, Blanche. 
 Look at them, and tell me what more they require." As he 
 said this, Lord Rutherford entered a small but lofty and very 
 prettily shaped apartment, which though harmonizing with the 
 rest of the castle in its general style, was fitted up with manv 
 of the refinements of modern luxury. The choice pictures, the 
 piano anil harp, the sofas, couches, work-table, and books ; and 
 cially, the flowers with which the vases on the tables were 
 tilled, gave Blanche, in an instant, the idea of forethought, and 
 care, aud affection-; though, when she tried to express her 
 gratitude, she could find no words to satisfy her feelings. 
 
 The earl, however, did not need words ; he looked at her fur 
 a moment with proud delight, whilst in her grace and beauty 
 she stood in the centre of the room, the fitting mistress of ail 
 that wealth and love could bestow; and, after pointing to a 
 -mall study opening from the outer room, he said, carelessly, 
 " We will see the view from this side now, Blanche; it is 
 diffi rent from the other." 
 
 Blanche followed him through the hall into the garden ■ Lut
 
 "28 the earl's daughter. 
 
 when she leant over the parapet, which bordered the lerfaee in 
 front of the window, she started almost with alarm upon dis- 
 covering the giddy height at which she stood above the deep 
 river that flowed round the castle. 
 
 To the right, the walls of the keep shut out the view over the 
 distant country ; but immediately before her the ground sank 
 id most perpendicularly, and far, far below gleamed the clear 
 waters of the rapid stream, as it forced its way between the 
 rocky foundations of the castle and the lofty wooded hill which 
 formed its opposite bank. For about the space of a quarter of 
 a mile it was inclosed in a narrow ravine ; but a sharp projecting 
 point of land then opposing its further progress, its course was 
 suddenly diverted in a different direction ; and the eye, no 
 longer able to follow its windings, turned rather to the long 
 vista of hills, locked into each other, and capped by the rugged 
 outline of a mountain-peak, which formed the termination of the 
 valley. 
 
 The scene was striking even to the earl, accustomed though 
 he was to the varied beauties of other lands ; but to Blanche, 
 as she beheld it for the first time under the dark shadows and 
 brilliant lights of a soft yet not cloudless sky, its effect was 
 magical. 
 
 " It is your home, Blanche," said the earl, as he stood beside 
 her, watching the feelings that were plainly working in her 
 countenance. 
 
 " And yours, too, papa," said Blanche, striving at length to 
 give her father some idea that she appreciated his affection. 
 " It can never be my paradise without you." 
 
 "Then we will make our agreement to-night, my child," 
 replied the earl ; " our happiness shall be in each other, — and, 
 whilst we are together, the world shall never intrude upon us 
 with its cares." 
 
 Blanche smiled sweetly, yet the words so full of hope and 
 happiness fell with something of a discordant sound upon her 
 ear. The serpent had entered into Eden, and how could she 
 dare to anticipate immunity from evil ? The earl, however, 
 seemed at that moment to have no forebodings ; — every trace 
 of sadness had passed from his brow, and his voice was more 
 cheerful than Blanche had yet heard it. He would not, how- 
 ever, allow her to linger longer on the terrace, fearing lest she 
 would be fatigued after the journey ; and, summoning her maid, 
 insisted that she should retire to her room for a short time to 
 rest before she rejoined him for the evening. Blanche, however
 
 the earl's daughter. 20 
 
 did not rest : she retired indeed, but it was to kneel humbly 
 before her God; to acknowledge his mercies, and pray that the 
 blessings winch He had vouchsafed to grant her might never 
 lead her heart astray. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 If the first waking to a sense of sorrow is bitter almos* 
 beyond any other moment of suffering, so the first dawning of 
 happiness, at least upon the young, is bright beyond the power 
 of description. Blanche dreamt that she was in the old manor- 
 house of St. Ebbe's, grieving over a letter from her father, 
 which, as had so often been the case, gave her no prospect of 
 seeing him. She opened her eyes, and the sun was shining 
 into a spacious, gorgeously furnished chamber, fitted rather it 
 might seem for the palace of a queen than for her own simple 
 tastes. For an instant, she scarcely understood the reality of 
 her senses; out, as she hastily rose and gazed from the window, 
 a full consciousness of her happiness came over her. There 
 were the old grey castle walls, the silvery stream, the woods 
 and hills, now bathed in morning light, and the distant moun- 
 tain-peak wreathed with a vapoury mist, — all which she had 
 beheld the previous evening, and which she felt must be for ever 
 associated with the thought of her father's love. It was then 
 very early, but Blanche did not consider the hour, and had no 
 remembrance of the preceding day's exertion ; and, long before 
 the earl had left his room, she was wandering through the 
 garden and the park, exploring overgrown paths, and mounting 
 hillocks, to gain a clearer idea of the beauties of her new home. 
 Lord Rutherford gently found fault with her, when she appeared 
 at breakfast, for having given herself so much unnecessary fatigue ; 
 but when Blanche gaily declared that she did not feel it, and that 
 she could bear 'more than many who appeared much stronger, 
 he seemed quite satisfied that she should follow her own fancy, 
 and began to make arrangements for what was to be done 
 during the day. 
 
 " You will find it but a short walk to the rectory," he said , 
 " and 1 suppose you will wish to go there the first thing, unless 
 Miss Wentworth should be here soon, which, from what 1 
 remember of the family habits, is not very likely. I nevercould 
 induce Dr. Wentworth to leave his books till after luncheon."
 
 30 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " But Eleanor's habits are the habits of St. Ebbe's, not of the 
 rectory," replied Blanche, " and she will do whatever she thinks 
 will please me. I should like to go to her, though, extremely. 
 I want so much to see more of her family — her .sister and her 
 brother — and especially her mother." 
 
 " Her sister must be a mere child," replied the earl ; " and her 
 brother, I suspect, is away ; and as for Mrs. Wentworth, she is 
 not a person to get on with, as it is called. She is very good, 
 and all that ladies always are ; but I never could understand 
 that she was anything more." 
 
 u Eleanor is very fond of her mother," said Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, my love, very likely she may be ; but I don't want 
 you to bo disappointed, and I have no idea that you will be 
 *bnd of Mrs. Wentworth." 
 
 Blanche however was disappointed. She had set her heart 
 upon finding in Mrs. Wentworth a second Mrs. Howard." 
 
 " Eleanor used to show me some of her letters," she said ; 
 " and they made me think she must be almost perfect." 
 
 Something like a contemptuous smile crossed the earl's face. 
 
 "You will have different notions of perfection, Blanche," he 
 said, " as you grow older. It is not so often to be met with as 
 some people think." 
 
 Blanche made no reply. That peculiar smile was one to 
 which she was unaccustomed, and Lord Rutherford not 
 continuing the subject, nothing more was said about Mrs. 
 Wentworth. 
 
 " I shall make Eleanor come back with me, and assist in all I 
 have to do," said Blanche, as her father suggested that there 
 would be ample employment for her in choosing how she would 
 have everything placed in her rooms, ar.d making herself at 
 home in them. " She promised me she would ; so I had better 
 go to her at once." 
 
 " Then we will walk together," said the earl. " I must see 
 Wentworth myself, and thank him for the care he has taken in 
 seeing your apartments prepared for your reception." 
 
 The path to the rectory was much shorter than Blanche had 
 anticipated, leading down the steep hill upon which the castle 
 stood, and then following the course of the river for a little 
 distance, till it terminated at a wicket-gate, which opened into 
 the shrubbery adjoining the house. Blanche was delighted 
 with the neatness and beauty of the small pleasure-ground 
 through which they passed, and the comfortable appearance of 
 the parsonage, with its trelliced verandah covered with creepers.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 3 ] 
 
 She would not have exchanged her own magnificent home foi 
 it ; but she felt that there was nothing to give rise in Eleanor's 
 mind to any feelings of envy or discontent. It was the home 
 of affluence, if not of riches. 
 
 The drawing-room was empty when they were shown into it, 
 and Blanche had time to recognise many tilings which Eleanor 
 had described before ; and to study with much interest a like- 
 ns which she was certain must be that of Mrs. Wentworth, 
 before any one appeared. 
 
 The first interruption was from a huge Newfoundland dog, 
 which sprang through the open window in bold defiance of the 
 warnincr voice of his master, who immediately followed. He 
 was a young man, apparently about three or four-and-twenty, 
 tall and rather striking in his appearance, and with a countenance 
 which would have been termed extremely handsome ; but 
 Blanche, as startled by the intrusion she turned from the 
 examination of Mis. Wentworth's picture, was less aware that 
 his features were regular, and his manners polished, than that 
 he was not entirely the person she had expected to meet in 
 Eleanor's brother. Such it was evident, from the strong resem- 
 blance, he must be. There was cleverness certainly in his bright 
 blue eve, and the high forehead round which his dark hair was 
 carefully arranged ; and his mouth was good-tempered, though 
 perhaps a little sarcastic ; but a self-satisfaction betrayed itself 
 in his look and general deportment, which almost from the first 
 glance Blanche felt to be repugnant to her taste. Yet there 
 was little said that could show anything of his disposition. A 
 few apologies were made for his sudden entrance, and a little 
 regret expressed that they should have been kept waiting ; and 
 then Mr. Wentworth bowed, and retired, with the intention of 
 se king his mother and sister, who he believed were to be 
 found in the garden. 
 
 " I should have known him anywhere," exclaimed the earl, 
 when he was g<»ne ; " and you would, too, I am sure, Blanche. 
 Did you "wer see such a likeness ?" 
 
 " it is striking, certainly," replied Blanche, with some hesita- 
 tion ; "but -" 
 
 " Well," said the earl, laughing, ''what is your but? Ishould 
 have thought it impossible to criticise anything so regularly 
 handsome." 
 
 " I do not mean to criticise, papa," said Blanche, blushing ; 
 "hut 1 don't think it would please me if Eleanor were 
 exactly "
 
 32 the earl's daughter. 
 
 'l'li«> sentence was not concluded, for Eleanor at that instant 
 appeared, her face bright with pleasure and exciten ent. 
 
 " It is so kind, so very kind in you, Blanche," she said. " f 
 did not in the least expect you ; for I am sure you must have 
 as much to do as I have." 
 
 " I have left it all," replied Blanche, " till you were with me. 
 You know I am never able to please myself ; and you must go 
 back to the castle presently, and help me to arrange my rooms, 
 and then we will settle all sort of things. But I wanted so 
 much, first, to see your mother and little Susan." 
 
 " And Charles !" exclaimed Eleanor, eagerly. " He told us 
 you were here : he came only last night, and he is going an ay 
 again to-morrow." 
 
 " So soon !" observed the earl ; " we shall scarcely have time 
 to make his acquaintance." 
 
 " I don't know why he should go," replied Eleanor ; " but I 
 don't think he finds as much amusement here as he does else- 
 where. Home is rather dull for a young man." 
 
 Blanche believed this because she was told it, but it seemed 
 strange. She could not imagine what society any one could 
 want beyond such a sister as Eleanor, such parents as she 
 believed Dr. and Mrs. Wentvvorth to be, and such a home as 
 Rutherford Rectory. 
 
 "Mamma will be here instantly ; she is longing to see you, 
 Blanche," continued Eleanor. 
 
 " I think I hear Mrs. Wentworth's voice," said Lord Ruther- 
 ford ; and he went a few paces into the garden to meet her ; 
 but though his words were cordial and easy, his tone was not ; 
 and but for Mrs. Wentworth's perfect calmness of manner, there 
 might have been something awkward in the meeting. 
 
 Blanche aid feel as her father had expected, when Mrs. 
 Wentworth advanced towards her, and simply took her hand 
 as she would have done that of an indifferent person. She had 
 expected some show of feeling, at least for Eleanor's sake ; but 
 Mrs. Wentworth's soft, quiet voice underwent no change in its 
 intonation, even when she looked at the earl, and said " Lord 
 Rutherford's return will now be doubly welcome to us all." 
 
 A few trilling observations passed, and Lord Rutherford, with 
 a slight accent of impatience, inquired if there was no hope o 1 
 [seeing Dr. Wentworth. 
 
 " He has been called into the village unexpectedly," replied 
 Mrs. Wentworth: " but we expect him to return imnieliately 
 Can I deliver any message for him ?"
 
 the earl's daughter. 33 
 
 " Perhaps I might be allowed to leave a note in his study," 
 replied the earl. " I think I know where to find it," and he 
 left the room. 
 
 Blanche in the meantime had been interested in observing 
 Mrs. Went\jorth more minutely. She resembled Eleanor's 
 description, in her tall, slight figure, and delicate, though rather 
 harassed-looking countenance ; but there were no traces of the 
 feelings which had been so vividly portrayed in her letters. 
 That she was Eleanor's mother, Blanche could scarceV believe, 
 as she watched the eager impetuosity of the one, and the marble 
 frigidity of the other ; still less could she believe that Eleanor 
 could ever dare to unburden her heart to such a mother. And 
 vet tlie love which she had been told existed between them had 
 been her " beau iueal " of what the tie between a parent and 
 a child might and ought to be. When Lord Rutherford was 
 gone, however, there was a little change in Mrs. Wentworth's 
 manner. The questions which she asked were marked by con- 
 sideration, and a desire to understand something of Blanche's 
 feelings, at this her first visit to her home ; and though the 
 tone in which they were put was cold, it still betrayed some- 
 thing more of real sympathy than before ; and when Blanche 
 began to express her pleasure in the taste and care which had 
 been shown in furnishing her rooms, a quiet smile even stole 
 over Mrs. Wentworth's features, and her eye brightened, though 
 she immediately afterwards turned from the subject But 
 Blanche had not much time for any further remarks. Eleanor 
 in-isted upon taking her to the school-room, and the garden 
 and shrubbery, and, as she said, making her at home at once ; 
 and Blanche, only too glad of an excuse to be alone with her, 
 readily followed. It did not require much time to see the 
 whole, but Blanche lingered with pleasure to listen to all that 
 Eleanor had to say of past enjoyments and future hopes asso- 
 ciated with the place in which she had been born, as well as to 
 make acquaintance with her sister Susan, an intelligent-looking 
 child, about eight years of age, who was now to be Eleanor's 
 pupil. 
 
 " I think you must be happy, Eleanor," she exclaimed, as 
 they seat.-d themselves at length on a garden-seat, in a retired 
 pari of the shrubbery. " I do not see one thing that is wanting. 
 And you will lead such a useful life." 
 
 " I have been talking to papa already about what I am to 
 Jo," replied Eleanor. " I am to teach Susan in the mornings, 
 v.d to go in the afternoons to see some of the poor people
 
 34 the earl's daughter. 
 
 and sometimes I am to ride with him, and he is going to read 
 with me some part of the day.'' 
 
 " And your music and drawing ?" said Blanche. 
 
 " Oh ! I must contrive to have some time before breakfast 
 You know I cannot arrange for every hour exactly till I have 
 tried ; but that will be the sort of life." 
 
 " And what is to become of me V said Blanche. 
 
 " That is what I wished to talk to you about. We must 
 manage to go to the poor people together ; and, when Susan 
 has a holiday, I can come up to you in the morning, and we 
 ran ride together; and then, these nice summer evenings, there 
 will be no difficulty in meeting." 
 
 Eleanor spoke eagerly and confidently, and Blanche did not 
 stop to analyse possibilities; nor did she remark how much 
 her friend bad changed since they had parted the preceding 
 evening. She was too much accustomed to Eleanor's varying 
 moods to inquire their cause. 
 
 " I am longing to begin," continued Eleanor ; " but to-day 
 you know is no day, and Charles being here makes such a 
 difference. It is impossible to do anything but idle away one's 
 time with him." 
 
 Blanche smiled, but she did not wish the subject to be pur- 
 sued ; for she was afraid lest Eleanor might discover that Mr. 
 Wentworth, notwithstanding his handsome face and his agree- 
 able manners, did not entirely answer her preconceived expec- 
 tations. 
 
 " And now T have talked all about myself," said Eleanor, " I 
 should like to hear something about yourself: — the cas'le, and 
 your father, and your own rooms. They must be exquisite, I 
 am sure. Mamma had the whole choosing of the furniture, 
 and everything, and she has such taste !" 
 
 " Yes, indeed she has," exclaimed Blanche ; " but I wish I had 
 known it, I should have thanked her so much more." 
 
 "Oh! mamma is not a person to require thanks; she only 
 requires to know that you like it: and 1 saw by her smile just 
 now that she was satisfied. That is her unselfish smile. 1 
 believe she would have it if she was in the greatest suffering, 
 if she thought another person was happy." 
 
 " I did not know what it meant," said Blanche ; " but I sup- 
 pose I shall understand you all by-aud-by, when I don't feel so 
 shy." 
 
 Eleanor laughed. 
 
 H As to that, Blanche," she said, " you have no right to com-
 
 the earl's daughter. 3S 
 
 plain. The joint wisdom and gravity of my whole family — ■ 
 uncles, aunts, and cousins included, and I have an interminable 
 number, could never be half as awful as Lord Rutherford's 
 politeness ; I don't know what I shall do at the castle." 
 
 " I think I, rather like being afraid of him," said Blanche. 
 " Do you remember, Eleanor, how we used to walk up and 
 down the garden at St Ebbe's, and discuss the different kinds 
 of affection V 
 
 "And how we always differed," said Eleanor. "You with 
 your fondness for looking ap ; and I with my perverse inclina- 
 tion to look down ; no, not down exactly, but quite on a level." 
 
 "And then our appeals to Mrs. Howard," said Blanche. 
 " That will be the one great thing wanting to my happiness. 
 If she were but here !" 
 
 " Yes," replied Eleanor, " but she will be with us soon, and 
 then it will be such great, such very great \ Jeasure ; and now, 
 without her, I have more hope of making ycu think as I do in 
 all sorts of ways ; for she always supported you." 
 
 " But," said Blanche, " before Mrs. Howard talked to us, I 
 never could see anything in your arguments to convince me 
 that love is greatest when persons are on an equality ; and 
 there is one thing, you know r , entirely against it, devotion — 
 which is the highest and purest love." 
 
 " I can't follow you in an argument, Blanche, to-day," 
 exclaimed Eleanor; "my mind is not up to it, as it is some- 
 
 times/' 
 
 Blanche looked disappointed. " I thought," she said, " that 
 you would let me talk of these things always." 
 
 "Yes, so you shall ; but I don't think 1 am in that sort of 
 sober mood to-day ; I am too happy." 
 
 "I am happy, too," said Blanche; "but my extacies went 
 away with my walk this morning, and I don't wish them to 
 last." 
 
 ■• Mine never do," replied Eleanor, laughing; "so I am in no 
 fear. 1 shall pay dearly for all my enjoyment before night 
 comes, I dare say. It would be much better to lie like you, 
 Blanche; your extacies never go quite away, 1 am sure, though 
 you -ay they do." 
 
 '• 1 don't know," said Blanche; "certainly I don't feel much of 
 them at this moment; and some feelings you have which are 
 much more lasting than mine." 
 
 Blanche spoke as she thought, truly : yet it was onlj her 
 own humility, and a natural respect for Eleanor's talents and
 
 3G the earl's daughter. 
 
 decided opinions, which could have blinded her to the fact, that 
 Eleanor was in reality swayed by every passing impulse ; that 
 she expressed herself strongly, but that she acted weakly. And 
 if Blanche had been quicker in discerning, Eleanor would have 
 felt greater hesitation in owning her faults. But it required no 
 effort to lament changeableness and hastiness, and the defects 
 of an enthusiastic temperament, when she was sure to be met 
 with a quick refutation of her self accusations, and to hear 
 instances adduced which apparently proved her to be the very 
 reverse of what she acknowledged. It was one of the weak- 
 nesses of Blanche's character that where she loved she could 
 not or would not see anything amiss. " I must try and be 
 regular in my habits," she said, " pursuing the conversation ; 
 " but I am afraid it will be very difficult. I should like espe- 
 cially to know something of the poor people, if your papa will 
 put me in the way." 
 
 " Papa hopes you will take a great interest in them," said 
 Eleanor ; " he told me this morning that it was of immense 
 consequence to you and to them ; and he talked a great deal 
 about the vast power, either for good or evil, which had been 
 placed in your hands." 
 
 " In mine ! " exclaimed Blanche ; " now when I am so 
 young." 
 
 " But you are not going to remain young always," replied 
 Eleanor ; " and, besides, whether young or old, you are still 
 Lady Blanche Evelyn, the heiress of Rutherford." 
 
 " Yes," answered Blanche, with a deep sigh, which made 
 Eleanor laugh heartily. 
 
 " You are the very strangest person, Blanche ! Just think 
 how many '\housands there are in the world who would envy 
 you." 
 
 " And I am to be envied," exclaimed Blanche, " for my 
 friends, — for papa, and Mrs. Howard, and you ; and for my 
 health too, and my education, and innumerable things ; but not 
 because I was born to have power." 
 
 " Yes, if you exercise it properly," said Eleanor. 
 
 "If! but there is a doubt. Mrs. Howard is afraid of me ; 
 she thinks I shall be spoilt, and that papa will not tell me 
 of my faults. Oh ! Eleanor, it might be very different if I had 
 a mother." 
 
 " You may have one if you choose," replied Eleanor. " Mam- 
 ma is already inclined to feel for you as her child." 
 
 Blanche did not receive the comfort which was expected from
 
 - * - - - 31 
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER 
 
 this assurance : her notion of a mother's affection was of some- 
 thing widely different from Mrs. Went worth's cold shake of 
 the hand. " Your mamma is very kind," she said ; " I am 
 sure she will do everything she can to help me. But still I 
 must be left.jiery much to myself; and even during the few 
 hours I have been at home, I have understood more of what 
 Mrs. Howard meant. The castle is so grand, and the servants 
 seem almost to bow before me ; and as for papa, he watches 
 ray every look, that I may not have a wish ungratified ; and 
 when I awoke this morning, and saw my beautiful room, I did 
 not feel as I used to do at St. Ebbe's ; I thought that I could 
 order more and have my own will ; and then I remembered 
 what Mrs. Howard said, and I was frightened." 
 
 Eleanor was touched by this simple confession. That which 
 caused alarm to Blanche, would, she well knew, have passed 
 unnoticed by herself. "You will be used to it all, dear Blanche, 
 by-and-by," she said ; " and then you will not think so much 
 about it, and worry yourself; and I dare say we shall both ba 
 aide to go on steadily ; and if you want to know the poor 
 people, we can go to them together. The first person we must 
 tind out is the blind girl who was confirmed with us. Papa 
 says he knows who she is very well ; it was her aunt, who is 
 the mistress of the Charity School, that she was staying with 
 but she is coming back directly. Y\*e will go and see her th< 
 first day we can, won't we ? " 
 
 Even this shadow of a duty was some relief to poor Blanche 
 whose conscience had a natural tendency to become morbicilj 
 sensitive, anl Eleanor saw that she had struck upon the righl 
 chord. Anxious to make Blanche feel as light-hearted as her- 
 self, she continued to plan a scheme of duties and occupations, 
 so cleverly and earnestly, that before the conversation was 
 interrupted both were equally satisfied. Eleanor having talked 
 herself into the belief that she was certainly devoted to a useful 
 life; and Blanche, having listened, till she was persuaded that 
 with such a I'rientl, constantly at hand to remind her of neglects, 
 she could never go far astray. 
 
 The afternoon was spent at the castle where Blanche found 
 sufficient to occupy and interest both herself and Eleanor in the 
 arrangement of her rooms ; and when they parted it was with 
 the agreement that, if the earl had no other plan for the ensu- 
 ing day, they were to walk together into the village. "And if 
 be wi.-hes me to ride with him, instead," said Blanche; "I 
 must ask him to let me come to you for an hour in the evening."
 
 38 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Eleanor willingly agreed, delighted to find that as yet then! 
 was no cause for jealousy, since even the society of Lord Ruther- 
 ford did not make Blanche forget her. 
 
 CHAPTER VI- 
 And so passed *he first day of Blanche's residence xt Ruther- 
 f< >rd Castle ; and so passed several days ; varied, indeed, hy 
 drives, and rides, and books, and visits, both to rich and poor ; 
 but all, equally bright and unalloyed, for the petty disappoint- 
 ments and trifling vexations from which no care and no affection 
 can guard us, were little felt by one who carried in her own 
 breast a shield against them. Each morning long before the 
 Earl was awake, Blanche knelt in the solitude of her own 
 chamber to pray for guidance during the day ; and then, with 
 her Bible in her hand, paced the broad terrace overhanging the 
 river, that she might study the will of her Maker, amid the 
 scenes which brought His power and goodness most clearly to 
 her view. Each day she planned her occupations with a view 
 to her own improvement, her father's happiness, and the com- 
 fort of those who were in a measure entrusted to her care ; and 
 not the most busy hour nor the most absorbing pursuit could 
 lead her to forget that it w r as needful to withdraw some 
 moments from this world to devote to the contemplation of 
 another. Mrs. Howard had early implanted in her mind 
 habits of order and punctuality ; and, duly as the time came, 
 which she had fixed upon as the most free from interruption, 
 Blanche retired to her own chamber to consider what she had 
 clone since last engaged in the same duty ; or, if prevented at 
 the exact minu'e, the first leisure opportunity was eagerly 
 seized upon, without any -?gard to the plausible excuses, which 
 might easily have been made from weariness or a pre-occupied 
 mind. Blanche never forgot Mrs. Howard's words, "Not, I 
 
 O 7 7 
 
 will if I can, but I must." And one especial reason she now 
 had for allowing nothing to interfere with her religions duties, 
 in the hope of being so soon admitted to the full communion ot 
 the Church, and the anxiety fitly to prepare herself. 
 
 On the second Sunday after Blanche appeared in the old 
 village church of Rutherford, the accustomed invitation was 
 given to all " such as should be religiously and devoutly dis- 
 posed," and as Blanche listened to the words a feeling of loneli-
 
 the earl's daughter. 30 
 
 ness stole over her. Eleanor was near, with the mother, who 
 could share every thought and feeling; and the father, whose 
 voice faltered, as his eye rested on the countenance of the child 
 h e so dearly loved, and to whom for the first time the exhorta- 
 tion was addressed. And Blanche stood m that sacred building, 
 with but one exception, the noblest and wealthiest of all ; and 
 with her was the proud earl whose sternest will would have 
 yielded to her wishes, as the humblest of his servauts would 
 have submitted to his ; but the one great blessing which she 
 then desired, a parent's sympathy and advice on the subject 
 most deeply concerning her happiness, was denied her. 
 
 Upon this topic alone no word had passed between them — 
 they met in the morning and the world was the theme ot their 
 conversation; they parted at night and no words of prayer were 
 uttered to call for a blessing upon the midnight hour. Poetry, 
 and painting, and music, and literature, and even the deeper 
 subjects of science and philosophy, were all at. times introduced, 
 and Blanche with her natural refinement and superiority of 
 mind was fascinated by the earl's eloquent language and 
 exquisite taste. His words were as the words of enchantment; 
 for, as he spoke of Italy and Greece, and the sunny islands of 
 the south, even Blanche forgot for the moment that earth was 
 but the steppiug-stone to heaven ; its beauty, but a type of that 
 which shall be hereafter ; its genius and its learning, but the 
 faint and misused relics of that perfect creation which only when 
 it issued taintless from the hands of its Creator, was pronounced 
 to be " very good." But the earl ceased, and Blanche was left 
 to her own meditations, and then as she retraced the conversa- 
 tion and sought for something which should be treasured in her 
 memory, a vague sense of unsatisfactoriness filled her mind. A 
 glittering pageant seemed to have passed before her; but it 
 was gone. And of what avail was it to her to have vividly 
 realised the solemn beauty of Genoa, and the dazzling lustre of 
 Naples ; to have wandered in fancy beneath the vast dome of 
 St. Peter's, or stood amidst the giant ruins of the Coliseum ; 
 to have floated in the dark gondolas of Venice, or gazed upon 
 the blue waters of the Mediterranean ; or how could it content 
 her to hear of Raphael, and Michael Angelo, and Guido; — of 
 Dante and Ariosto, and lasso and Petrarch, and the names 
 which associate Italy with all that is most precious in poetry 
 and art, if all were but for the amusement of the hour, bearing 
 no voice of warning from the past, no lesson of instruction for 
 the future ? But Blanche did not yet understand all she had
 
 40 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 to fear. She marvelled indeed at her father's apparent negleel 
 of the subject most interesting to herself; she thought it strange 
 that not even an allusion was made to it : but she was capti- 
 vated by the brilliancy of his conversation, and accounted for his 
 silence by remembering her own reluctance to converse upon 
 serious subjects, except at peculiar times and under certain 
 circumstances. She had been told that her own manner gave 
 no true impression of her mind, and so she supposed it must be 
 with him. A faint cloud was stealing over the sunlight of her 
 joy, but she saw it not. 
 
 And the day drew near to which Blanche so earnestly looked 
 forward with mingled hope and awe. Jt was the evening before, 
 and having returned from a long ride with her father ever one 
 of the most beautiful portions of his property, she sat down on 
 a bank which overlooked the windings of ;he river, and the 
 opening into the country beyond. 
 
 There was nothing to disturb the repose of the scene, except 
 the distant lowing of cattle in the pastures, and the dashing of 
 a mountain torrent, which escaping from the woody dell on the 
 opposite side, fell sparkling and frothing over a steep broken 
 cliff, and wound its way amid stones and mosses till it was lost 
 in the deep current of the larger stream. 
 
 Blanche rested her head against the trunk of a tree, and gave 
 way to one of those delicious reveries of feeling rather than of 
 thought ; which, when the fancy is free, and the heart un- 
 burdened by care, are amongst the most perfect enjoyments of 
 our early years. 
 
 The loveliness of the landscape was in accordance with the 
 tone of mind which she had been endeavouring to attain during 
 the day ; and when, at length yielding to fatigue, she fell 
 asleep, the images which haunted her dreams were pure and 
 holv as Her waking thoughts. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, there was the sound of an ap- 
 proaching footstep ; and, advancing from the shade of the 
 shrubbery, the earl stood by her side. 
 
 What could he have seen in a countenance so fair in its 
 youthful purity, to make him start and sigh — and then gaze 
 long and steadfastly with a frowning brow, and a mouth quiver- 
 ing with agitation ? Was it that in those features he saw a 
 resemblance which recalled the tale of his by-gone life ; or did 
 he read the visions which were passing before the eye of his 
 sleeping child, and shrink from the conviction that the hopes
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. -1] 
 
 which to her were all in all, were to him scarcely more than 
 the superstitions of an age of darkness ? 
 
 Yet, Lord Rutherford was no sceptic. He was but what 
 thousands have been before him ; in name, the follower of 
 Christ — in hanrt, the slave of the world. Whatever might be 
 his own indifference to religion he had no desire that it should 
 be shaded by his daughter, and the character of Lady Blanche 
 often derived a peculiar though painful interest from the simple 
 ardent piety which occasionally broke forth through her natural 
 reserve ; and which, to the earl's refined but hackneyed taste, 
 gave her the appearance rather of a being from another sphere 
 than of one born to participate in the vain heartlessness of 
 fashionable society. He could admire, though he could not 
 imitate ; and now, as he watched her, so calm, and peaceful, and 
 tranquilly happy, a pang of envy crossed his mind. Such peace 
 as hers, even were it delusive, would be cheaply purchased at 
 the sacrifice of all that he had hitherto valued. Yet^ it was 
 envy, not self-reproach; and the next moment he pictured 
 her such as he intended she should be — the star of a glittering 
 assemblage — flattered, courted, idolized ; gathering around her 
 all that was most attractive in grace and intellect ; herself, the 
 centre to which every eye would be directed in homage. 
 
 But the earl's countenance changed. In imagination there 
 rose up before him the still, shrouded form of one, who in by- 
 gone years had realized much that he desired to see in Blanche, 
 but upon whose brow the sorrow of unrequited affection had 
 set its indelible stamp ; and when his eye again dwelt upon the 
 living image of the wife whose love he had despised, he shud- 
 dered, and stooped to kiss his daughter's forehead with super- 
 stitious awe ; and a passing dread, lest the features which bore 
 the impress of life might" but chill him with the mocking 
 beauty of death. The kiss awoke Blanche from her short 
 sleep ; and the earl, hastily recovering himself, began to blame 
 her imprudence. Blanche endeavoured to laugh away his 
 fears, but proposed to return to the castle, as she had an en- 
 gagement to keep. 
 
 '■ And not spare me a few minutes?" said the carl, with a 
 Blight tone of pique ; "the sun will have set soon, and then we 
 shall have no temptation to stay." 
 
 blanche gathered up the folds of her riding habit, and 
 taking her father's arm they pursued their walk by the path 
 which led along the side of the hill. For some time both wen;
 
 42 the earl's daughter. 
 
 silent. Blanche could never thoroughly overcome a certain 
 Bense of restraint in her father's presence ; and Lord Rutherford, 
 wrapt in his own thoughts, was contented to know that she 
 was with him without seeking for conversation. Blanche was 
 the first to speak. 
 
 " I never knew, till now," she said, " what it was, thoroughly 
 to enjoy beautiful scenery. At St. Ebbe's, there was so little to 
 see ; but, even then, I used to fancy there must be an exquisite 
 charm in it." 
 
 " You are young," replied the earl ; " you have no painful 
 associations. When you have reached my age you will feel 
 very differently about all beauty." 
 
 " Yet some feelings of pleasure must increase," replied Blanche, 
 more gravely than usual ; " the best and highest." 
 
 " From being able to appreciate beauty better, you mean ; 
 from learning to look at it with an- artist's eye ? But that is a 
 mistake ; our greatest enjoyments are those which we never 
 pause to analyse." 
 
 "I was not thinking of that exactly," said Blanche, with 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Of what then, my love? What do you call the best and 
 highest pleasure ?" 
 
 Blanche hesitated, and then replied, timidly, as if doubtful of 
 the manner in which the observation would be received, " I 
 suppose, if we were very good, we should be grateful for beauty, 
 as people are for favours and presents." 
 
 Lord Rutherford became suddenly thoughtful. " You are a 
 metaphysician, Blanche," he said, after a pause ; " that was not 
 one of the accomplishments I expected from Mrs. Howard." 
 
 " If I am," replied Blanche, laughing ; " it is certainly with- 
 out knowing it." 
 
 "You are one, though. I have discovered a lurking taste in 
 you before ; and if you really have a fancy for the subject, we 
 will study a few books together on the subject. I should be 
 sorry for you to have prejudiced notions. Though you are a 
 woman, a little deep reading will do you no harm." 
 
 Blanche promised to read anything he wished ; though she 
 still disclaimed any love for metaphysics ; and the earl began to 
 enumerate a list of authors, ending with — 
 
 " But, my dear Blanche, until you have read a little, I advise 
 you not to trouble yourself with too much thinking. You will 
 only be puzzled, and it can lead to no good. Take up your 
 music and drawing, study history if you will, and we will have
 
 the earl's daughter. 4S 
 
 iwi.ian and German lessons together; but don't attempt to dwell 
 upon subjects beyond human comprehension." 
 
 Poor Blanche could not at all understand the reason of this 
 speech; and began to fancy that she had done or said some- 
 thing wrongs 
 
 The earl instantly remarked her change of manner, and said 
 kindly^ " I would not for the world find fault with you, my 
 deal ; you must not imagine it ; but I have seen the mischief of 
 too much thought with some minds, and you have been 
 unusually silent the last two days !" 
 
 M It was not that kind of thought which made me silent," 
 exclaimed Blanche, eagerly ; " I was thinking of — " 
 
 "Cf what? — there can be no thought, which you would not 
 wish me to know." 
 
 Blanche blushed deeply ; she would willingly have sheltered 
 herself under her former reserve, though at the same time 
 longing to break down the barrier, and receive the sympathy 
 which even then she could not doubt of obtaining. The earl 
 evidently expected a reply. 
 
 Blanche felt herself forced to speak, and began ; " I have been 
 thinking ; that is, I have been trying to think ; — one ought to 
 prepare oneself for to-morrow. My first Communion," she 
 added, in a tone which scarcely caught the earl's ear. 
 
 lie stopped suddenly in his walk. "Ah! yes; quite right. 
 But you are very young, my dear." 
 
 " Not too young ; am I ?" said Blanche, anxiously ; " I have 
 been confirmed." 
 
 " Xo, not if you wish it ; still, it is not right to force any one. 
 Mrs. Howard was always rather overstrained in her ideas." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, it was not Mrs. Howard only ; but the 
 rector and the bishop, and every one said it. I thought it was 
 always so," replied Blanche. "Is there really any reason 
 against it ?" 
 
 The earl smiled. " Xo possible reason, my dear child ; but 
 you know very little of the world, and I don't want you to tie 
 yourself down ; and in fact, my love, these things are best left 
 to every one's own feelings. It' you like it, do it by all means ; 
 only don't let me see your bright face clouded again; it makes 
 me uneasy." 
 
 Poor Blanche felt chilled to the very heart. 
 
 But her father had no idea of the effect of his speech, and 
 continued, "It might have been more pleasant for you to have; 
 waited a little. 1 am expecting your aunt, Lady Charlton
 
 H THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 short Iv ; and Sir Hugh and jour two cousins. You will like tc 
 become acquainted with them, as they are some of your nearest 
 connections." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," exclaimed Blanche, relieved at finding some 
 thing to say. " Dear mamma's sister ! I am sure I must b6 
 fond of her." 
 
 Lord Rutherford's tone was constrained, as he answered, 
 " Only her half-sister ; there is no resemblance ;" and then he 
 stopped suddenly, and there was a long pause. 
 
 The thoughts of Blanche reverted to the former subject. The 
 visit of one person or of hundreds — uf relations or of strangers 
 — seemed equally indifferent to her at that moment. 
 
 They had reached the termination of the path ; and the earl, 
 leaning over a fence, which protected the edge of the precipice, 
 riveted his eyes upon the stream, and appeared lost in a reverie. 
 
 " It is like the current of human life, is it not, Blanche ?" he 
 said, at length. " See how it whirls its rapid course ; and how 
 the light froth, and the fragments of the bank, are borne alon^ 
 by it ; like the frothy hopes and the fleeting pleasures of the 
 world. And think, too, how little we know of the end to which 
 it is hastening." 
 
 " Is it not travelling towards the ocean," said Blanche, timidly ; 
 " as we are all travelling towards eternity f 
 
 Lord Rutherford raised himself, and put his hand suddenly 
 upon her shoulder — " What is eternity, Blanche ?" he said 
 " We use words without meaning, when we speak of it." 
 
 " But," replied Blanche, and notwithstanding the softness of 
 her voice, it sounded tremulous in its earnestness ; " we are told 
 to think of it, and it must be for our happiness ; for this world, 
 the) say, is full of disappointment.'' 
 
 " They say !" repeated the earl ; " then you have never found 
 it so yourself." 
 
 "I have been very happy," said Blanche, whilst she looked 
 at her father with a smile of affection ; but it was followed by 
 a sigh. She could not say, " I am happy." 
 
 "Yes," continued the earl, thoughtfully, "you are standing, 
 as I once stood, upon a spot from which you can view the past 
 without regret, and the future without fear. For you it may be 
 a resting-place for years; though for me it was but a point, 
 .putted as soon as reached, and to which I could never return. 
 Value your peace, my child, whilst you have it; for it is vain 
 to hope that any thoughts of eternity will restore it to you 
 when it is once gone."
 
 the earl's daughter. 45 
 
 * 
 
 "But, papa," answered Blanche, firmly, whilst something 
 within her own mind seemed ur<nnof her to overcome her 
 reserve and speak more directly, " even now I can feel comfort 
 from such thoughts. I have been happy, because I have always 
 had some ong to love ; but though I know that the happiness 
 cannot last, I can bear to think so, and even to look forward to 
 a timo when I may be left quite alone ; because true love does 
 not seem to belong to earth, but to eternitv. Is it not true, 
 then, that these ideas do help us to bear trials ?" 
 
 Lord Rutherford made no answer; he withdrew his arm, 
 threw himself upon a bench, and relapsed into silence. Blanche 
 was frightened at her own temerity, and a sense of indescriba- 
 ble wretchedness oppressed her. Her father's principles, she 
 thought, could not be the principles of a Christian. The earl 
 perceived he had distressed her, and starting up and again 
 drawing her arm within his, said, as he pursued his walk : — 
 
 " I have vexed you, my dear child. Heaven knows how un- 
 willingly ! But you have been educated in retirement, and 
 your life has been made up of dreams. It is impossible that 
 you should understand the view which a stern, worn man, who 
 has borne the struggle of years, takes of those subjects, which 
 to you are everything. When you have heard them discussed 
 and argued -upon, and when you have known something of 
 men's actions as well as of their creeds, you will see the value of 
 your favourite notions more truly. They may be important to 
 you, but they will not bear contact with the world." 
 
 " And must I know the world, papa ?" inquired Blanche, 
 with difficulty summoning courage to answer. " I would much 
 rather live here alone with you." 
 
 Lord Rutherford laughed. 
 
 " .Mrs. Howard has certainly performed her duty strictly," he 
 said. "She promised to educate you in seclusion, and she has 
 kept her word. But have you no wish for gaiety, Blanche ; 
 for such an introduction into the world as vour station in life 
 offers you?" 
 
 "I should like it, dear papa," replied Blanche ; " and I think 
 of it very often. But I would rather stay here and keep my 
 own notions, because I believe they will make me better thai) 
 any others." 
 
 "Well!" exclaimed the earl, carelessly, "cherish them as 
 long as you can ; they will do no one any harm but yourself; 
 only, when your aunt and cousins come, I prophesy "that you 
 will think less about them."
 
 40 l'UE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Poor Blanche was not comforted by this prospect. 
 
 " Then I shall be happier, to-morrow, with you, alone, papa," 
 she said pointedly; anxious, if possible, to solve, by some aliu 
 sion to the first topic of the conversation, the painful doubt 
 whether her father intended to join with her in the service of 
 the next day. Lord Rutherford did not, at first, see that she 
 had any particular meaning in her words ; for the subject 
 referred to was not one likely long to remain in his thoughts. 
 When however it occurred to him, he answered hastily: — 
 
 "You must talk to Mrs. Wentwoith, my dear; she will 
 understand you in all these tilings better than I ao." 
 
 "I don't know Mrs. Wentworth well," replied Blanche, 
 whilst tears rushed to her eyes ; " and there is no one I love 
 like you." 
 
 Lord Rutherford played with his stick, but said nothing 
 more ; and, at length, when he saw that Blanche was again 
 about to speak, he turned suddenly into another walk and left 
 her. And then Blanche was indeed miserable. The sky and 
 the woods, the rocks and the river, the beauties which had 
 before entranced her with delight — all were changed. Their 
 brightness was gone ; the spell by which they had charmed 
 her was destroyed. She was alone ; and there lived not the 
 being upon earth- who could fill the void which that one con- 
 versation had caused in her heart. Who could recall the rever- 
 ence and holy affection which had, till then, formed her dream 
 of happiness in her splendid home ? Who could restore the 
 delusion which hitherto she had cherished, even against her 
 own secret convictions ? 
 
 But the spirit of youth is too buoyant to sink at once under 
 any disappointment, however severe. It is the succession of 
 griefs, the wearisome days, and the restless nights and the bit- 
 terness of long deferred hope, which at length will bow us to 
 the dust ; and Blanche had, as yet, known nothing of these. 
 Her elastic, sanguine spirit again suggested the thought from 
 which she had before found comfort. Her father's manner, and 
 even his words, might be no true index to his mind. He had 
 not said that he should not be with her ; he had fully allowed 
 that it would be right for her to attend the service, though he 
 seemed to fear that she was too young. Persons had different 
 opinions upon these subjects ; perhaps, after all, she had misun- 
 derstood him ; and, soothed by the idea, Blanche's countenance 
 resumed, in some degree, its former serenity. The suspense, 
 however, still rested as a weight upon her heart. She met her
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 father at dinner, and found herself almost unconsciously 
 watching his looks, and weighing his words in the faint hope 
 of learning from them something more of that inner world of 
 principles and motives upon which all her happiness seemed to 
 depend. But she learnt nothing. The earl was silent and pre- 
 occupied, ancfshe dared not ask him the cause. When the 
 castle clock struck ten, Blanche, as was her custom, rose to 
 retire t6 rest. Then, more than ever, she missed the prayers 
 which had closed the evenings at St. Ebbe's. Hitherto she had 
 accounted for the omission by supposing, either that her father 
 had some reason for delay until they had been longer settled at 
 home ; or that it was not a foreign custom, and therefore he 
 might not think of it till some other person suggested it : but 
 now it appeared too truly an indication of the neglect of all reli- 
 gious forms, except that which the world has thought fit to 
 honour with respect, the outward observance of the day of rest. 
 
 Blanche leant over her father's chair, and kissed his forehead 
 again and again, as was her wont. Her love was not chilled, 
 but it was altered. Doubt was mingled with it, and dread, and 
 the fond clinging of the heart to happiness, which seems about 
 to pass away. The ~ : \r\ looked up from his book, and as he 
 took her trembling nand in his, he said, — 
 
 " We have. been bad companions, to-night, Blanche : are you 
 tired of me ?" 
 
 A fear of losing self-command made Blanche pause before 
 answering. Lord Rutherford moved his chair, that he might 
 discover the reason ; but she had turned her head aside. 
 
 " You shall have other amusements soon," continued the earl, 
 and an accent of annoyance marked his words. 
 
 " Oh, no, papa ! I want nothing — no amusements." 
 
 " But what then ? What do you want ?" 
 
 Blanche was pained at her own weakness ; she could only 
 distress her father by showing her feelings, since to explain them 
 was impossible. 
 
 " I wish for one thing, papa," she said in a light, gay tone, 
 whilst her lip quivered with agitation, " that you should kiss me 
 and say good night." 
 
 The earl pressed her to his heart, and whispered, " God bless 
 
 you now and ever, my own precious child ;"' and Blanche 
 
 n treated to her room, once more happy. Her father did then 
 
 consider the blessing of God the one first object of desire. 
 
 iy, therefore, he must intend to. seek it where especially il 
 
 is bestowed. 
 
 3
 
 48 the earl's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 We close our eyes in peace, and we re-open them to sorrow 
 and care. It is the lot, sooner or later, of all ; the fulfilment 
 of the earthly curse denounced upon our first parents, and from 
 it there is no escape. We may, perhaps, have felt, upon lying 
 down to rest — the anxieties of the day at an end, the weariness 
 of exhausted nature inviting us to repose, and the heart calmed 
 by repentance, and the blessed trust in forgiveness and 
 protection, — that if it were then permitted for the Angel of 
 Death to call us to our long, last sleep ; the summons, awful 
 though it must ever be, would be hailed rather as a visitation 
 of mercy, than as an event to be shrunk from in alarm. But 
 God " seeth not as man seeth." He views the sins dormant 
 but not destroyed ; the passion lulled but not extinguished. He 
 beholds us unfit for the kingdom of His holiness, and knows 
 the warfare which must be endured, before the powers of a 
 regenerate nature can fully triumph over the temptations of 
 Satan. And if, at times, He does in mercy make us " to lie 
 down in green pastures, and lead us beside the still waters," it is 
 only that by such seasons of refreshment we may gather 
 strength for the battle, which is to " bring every thought into 
 captivity to the obedience of Christ." 
 
 When Blanche entered Rutherford Church, the ensuing day, 
 she felt but little of the peace which had been with her when 
 she lay down to rest at night. A breakfast t£te-a-t£te with the 
 earl, and a few remarks during their short walk from the castle 
 to the village, had again aroused her distrust. Many such 
 remarks had been made before, but they had fallen on an 
 unheeding ear, or rather on one which did not understand, 
 because it would not suspect evil. Now, the petty indications 
 of motives and feeling, which it is not in the power of the most 
 practised art to conceal, were as daggers to her heart, for they 
 struck upon the points on which alone her earthly happiness was 
 then vulnerable. 
 
 At any time a doubt which affected her father's principles 
 must have been poignantly felt ; but on no other occasion could 
 it have caused so much suffering. For Blanche had striven 
 numbly and earnestly to realise the awfulness of that most holy 
 service in which she was then, for the first time, to be permitted 
 to join. She had prayed and watched against the entrance
 
 the earl's daughter. 49 
 
 of erery unhallowed or worldly thought, and bad dedicated 
 herself to her Saviour with all the warmth and sincerity of 
 youthful devnt-edness. At such a moment, even the purest of 
 earthly affections might have been deemed intrusive ; and yet, 
 when she kr.fdt in the temple of God, and bowed her head in 
 reverence, and opened her lips in prayer, there arose in her 
 heart, not feeimgs of faith and hope, but of sadness and fear. 
 The words of confession were repeated, but the earl's voice at 
 her side pronounced the same language in a tone of proud 
 indifference, and Blanche forgot the repentance necessary for her 
 own sins, in anguish lest he should be insensible tc his. And 
 praises, and thanksgivings, and intercessions were uttered with a 
 wandering mind ; and the solemn declarations of Scripture 
 received but a half attention ; whilst she caught, as if by fasci- 
 nation, her fa'her's restless eye and listless posture, and then 
 turned in \vetchedness to herself, to discover that she also, 
 though not in like manner, was sinning against God. There 
 was a painful struggle in her heart whilst going through the 
 usual service. To be distracted then, seemed a miserable 
 evidence of sreakness and insincerity ; and to present herself 
 before God wuh thoughts clinging to earth, a fearful presump- 
 tion. Once ; c seemed easier and better to delay, — to wait fur 
 another opportunity, — to risk anything rather than offer a 
 divided heart ; but at that moment the voice of the preacher 
 spoke of Him, who " in that He Himself hath suffered, being 
 tempted, is tfble to succour them that are tempted ;" and 
 instead of gHng away to despondency, Blanche prayed the 
 more fervently to be pardoned and assisted, whilst she strove 
 again to recall her scattered thoughts. The last words of the 
 sermon were ended ; the concluding prayers were said ; there 
 was a solemn stillness in the church, followed by the rush of 
 movement and departing footsteps. No tones of joy or praise 
 were heard whilst one by one they, who were unwilling or 
 unable to remain, left the congregation; but silently and hastily 
 they poured fjrth into the open air, — some, it might be, to 
 grieve for the blessing of which they felt themselves unfitted to 
 partake ; but too many to stifle the reproaches of conscience in 
 the cares and follies of the world. 
 
 Blanche looked at her father, as he seated himself by her 
 iide, and her heart bounded with joy; but, as the church be- 
 came more empty, the carl rose, and stood for a few instants 
 with his hat mi his hand, and when the way of retreat was at
 
 50 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 hist opened without fear of mixing himself with the crowd; he, 
 too, followed the common example. 
 
 And the door was closed. 
 
 It was a moment of bitter, most hitter sorrow ; — beyond it 
 we may not look ; but when Blanche left the church she no 
 longer felt that she was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Lady Blanche is late in coming to you this .norning ; is 
 she not, Eleanor ?" said Mrs. Wentwordi, as the luncheon-bell 
 rang, and little Susan ran away to prepare for what was to bo 
 her dinner. 
 
 " Bather, I think," was the reply ; " but Blanche is never quite 
 mistress of her own time. Her father is so uncertain, and will 
 make her do the very things she ha°- determined not to do. 
 He may have taken her for a ride, as likely as not." 
 
 " Strange, certainly," said Mrs. Wer.tworth, musingly, " that 
 when a man like Lord Butherford devotes himself to the happi- 
 ness of his daughter, he should rnani-ge to do just the very 
 things she does not like." 
 
 "Oh ! indeed, mamma !" exclaimed Eleanor ; " I do think 
 you are wrong there. Blanche does like most things which her 
 lather proposes ; the only worry is, that they come at the 
 wrong time." 
 
 " And does she like, then, the prospect of having the castle 
 filled with visitors, and of gaieties going on continually ?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight tone of asperity, whicli 
 suited but little with her usual gentleness. 
 
 '* Yes, very much," replied Eleanor. " Lady Charlton is a 
 delightful person so every one declares. And it will be very 
 nice for me, too." 
 
 Mrs. "Wentworth seemed rather discomposed. " You must 
 remember, my dear," she said, " that what suits Lady Blanche 
 will not suit you. Your line of duties will be totally different." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, of course, mamma," and Eleanor coloured, and en- 
 deavoured to assume an indifferent air : " but you know there 
 is no one whom Blanche loves as she does me; and she never 
 will enjoy anything if I am not with hei." 
 
 " Then I am afraid she will pass a very unhappy ] : .fe ; for you 
 can be with her but seldom at the best."
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 " It is not exactly the being together, but the feeling that we 
 are near, and understand each other, and can compare opinions, 
 which is the pleasure ; — and — " 
 
 44 Well," interrupted Mrs. Wentworth, " compare opinions if 
 you like it, and sympathise with and love each other ; I should 
 be very sorry if you did not : but that does not imply the ne- 
 cessity of meeting every day, especially now." 
 
 " You are afraid for me, mamma," said Eleanor, laughing. 
 " You think I shall become dissipated, and forget Susan, and 
 the school, and old Nanny Marshall, and the almshouse 
 women." 
 
 " I have no cause to doubt you, my love," replied Mrs. Went- 
 worth affectionately ; " but it is scarcely strange that I should 
 have some misgivings about every society of which Lord 
 Rutherford is the head." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth spoke quickly, and Eleanor looked up in 
 surprise. But her mother's face betrayed no particular feeling ; 
 it was even more placid than before, as she added, " You can 
 scarcely have failed to discover that he is not the most fitting 
 person for the guardianship of a young, enthusiastic, interesting 
 girl like Lady Blanche." 
 
 " He would spoil her, if she could be spoilt," said Eleanor 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Yes ; he would spoil her," repeated Mrs. Wentworth. 
 " He would infuse into her mind low worldly notions ; and 
 make her think much of fashion and ultra-refinement, and the 
 admiration of his own peculiar circle ; and if she pleases him he 
 will idolise her, and if not — " 
 
 " He can never cease to love her," said Eleanor. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth was silent. The sudden burst of feeling 
 was over, and she had relapsed into her former indifference. 
 
 " Blanche is very like her mother's picture," observed 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes, very," replied Mrs. Wentworth ; " but it is not of her 
 that I am thinkin'g now, Eleanor. No one can see her indeed 
 without feeling most deeply for her; but it is you who are my 
 c-liar^e, my delight." 
 
 Hleanor smiled, and as she drew near her mother's chair, ar d 
 oent over it to kiss her, she said, "And I shall be so always." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth shook her head. " Ah ! Eleanor, that is 
 your Btumbling-block ; confidence in yourself." 
 
 " But I have begun well ; have 1 not, mamma ? Just re- 
 member how steady and regular I have been ever since I came
 
 52 the earl's daughter. 
 
 home ; and how much you say yourself that Susan is improved 
 And the old almshouse women, you should have heard yester- 
 day all the civil things they said ! You must not distrust me 
 more than any one else. Please, don't look so grave, and con- 
 jure up such a castle spectre." 
 
 " Ah ! if it were only a spectre ? But, Eleanor, I can look 
 back many years. I know what the tone of society used to be 
 at Rutherford, and I see no possible reason for supposing that it 
 will he different now." 
 
 " You were not injured by it, mamma," said Eleanor ; " and 
 why should I be ?" 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth sighed, " I had many safeguards," she said : 
 "yet, I will not say that I was not injured. There was only 
 one over whom evil seemed to have no power." 
 
 " The countess," said Eleanor, inquiringly. 
 
 " Yes ; she was indeed too heavenly-minded to be approached 
 by any ordinary influence ; and " — but Mrs. Wentworth stopped, 
 as if unwilling to continue the subject. 
 
 " Mamma," said Eleanor, " Lord Rutherford is very fond of 
 Blanche ; was he very fond of his wife ?" 
 
 The consciousness that luncheon was ready appeared suddenly 
 to have crossed Mrs. Wentworth's mind, for she did not give a 
 direct reply ; but merely saying, that Susan would be tired of 
 waiting for her dinner, she went away, and Eleanor was left to 
 answer for herself as best she might the question which had 
 lately become one of considerable interest. Before, however, 
 she had satisfied herself, her meditations were broken in upon 
 by the entrance of her father and Lady Blanche. 
 
 " Reposing from the fatigues of instruction, I suspect, 
 Eleanor," exclaimed Blanche, gaily. "Has Susan been a very 
 naughty child ?" 
 
 " Reposing from the weariness of disappointment rather," 
 replied Eleanor. " You were to have been here an hour ago." 
 
 " So I was ; but it is papa's fault. He would come and sit 
 with me ; and he read to me part of the time, and then we 
 talked, and at last the post came in, and I had to write in a 
 great hurry to my aunt, who is to be here the day after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Indeed ! Is Lady Charlton coming so soon ?" inquired 
 Dr. Wentworth. 
 
 " Yes," so she says, " if Sir Hugh feels himself equal to the 
 journey ; but she writes as if he was very much out of health. 
 But do you know my aunt ?"
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 " I can't tell," said Dr. Wentworth, rather bluntly. 
 
 Blanche and Eleanor laughed, and begged for an explanation, 
 
 u Why, it is rather the case of the Irishman and his tin- 
 kettle ; which he declared could not be lost, because he knew 
 where it was,— at the bottom of the sea. My knowledge of 
 Lady Charlton is about as valuable. Know her I do ; inasmuch 
 as I have spoken to her often, and even dined in company with 
 her some sixteen or eighteen years ago; but time is very 
 like the sea ; you can see through it, but you cannot grasp what 
 you are looking at. After all, it may only be Lady Charlton's 
 shadow, which I think I know." 
 
 " I know exactly what she is liiu in appearance," said 
 Blanche; "tall and thin, dark hair and eyes, very elegant 
 and—" 
 
 "Fascinating," added Dr. Wentworth. 
 
 " Yes, fascinating ; that is precisely the word papa used." 
 
 "And your cousins, I suppose, are fascinating too ?" said 
 Eleanor, in a constrained voice. 
 
 "No one knows anything about them, except that poor 
 Maude is an invalid, and that they have been educated abroad." 
 
 " Oh ! I remember," exclaimed Eleanor ; " Charles knew 
 them, I am sure! he said he had made acquaintance with some 
 relations of yours at Florence. It was at a ball, I think, they 
 met, and then they were at a great many gay parties together." 
 
 " A great many too many," muttered Dr. Wentworth in an 
 under tone. 
 
 " That was a twelvemonth ago, papa," said Eleanor. "It is 
 not quite fair upon Charles, is it, Blanche, to quarrel with him 
 for last year's follies V ■ 
 
 " I quarrel with no one, Eleanor," replied Dr. Wentworth, 
 very gravely; "but we will not keep Lady Blanche waiting ;" 
 and he led the way to the dining-room. Blanche followed, with 
 the feeling that her original distaste to Mr. Wentworth had 
 received some increase; yet she blamed herself for it, and in 
 order to conqufer her prejudice, paid [(articular attention 
 when other allusions were made to him in the course of her visit, 
 in the hope of receiving more satisfactory answers. But to her 
 surprise, she found that Dr. Wentworth, who, even in his most 
 courteous moods, was short and straight-forward in manner, wa .-, 
 when this subject was approached, so abrupt as instantly to stop 
 the conversation. It was clear that his son was not at that 
 moment perfectly in his favour. 
 
 This afternoon was to be devoted to the village, for Lord
 
 54 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Rutherford was obliged to be absent the greater part of the day, 
 and Blanche generally arranged her duties in such a way as to 
 give him always the first place in her attention. Under 
 L)r. Wentworth's guidance she had taken into her special charge 
 a certain number of the poor, principally the aged and infirm, 
 to whom her presence was almost as an angel's visit; so new 
 and strange did it seem that one so young and so far removed 
 from themselves, should take a personal interest in their comfort. 
 A few there were, indeed, who remembered the time when the 
 countess had occupied herself in a similar manner, and who 
 regarded Lady Blanche with a degree of compassionate affection, 
 which mingled with their respect as they noticed the resemblance 
 to her mother. From them it was that Blanche heard many 
 little traits of the countess's character, which she could have 
 learnt from no other source ; and they were treasured in her 
 memory, and fondly dwelt upon as the touches which were to 
 mark more vividly the outline of her mother's image. Yet, 
 when all had been repeated, and she believed that she had 
 gained a clear knowledge of what the countess must have been, 
 there still remained an undefined doubt of something untold. 
 Reverence and love were ever associated with her name by all 
 who spoke of her ; but pity was added also ; and why, Blanche 
 could not understand. For it was not the pity which is 
 bestowed so lavishly and unthinkingly, by the living who are 
 toiling through this weary world upon the dead who have 
 entered upon their rest, but rather that which must ever be felt 
 for those whom neither high station, nor wealth, nor even 
 goodness, have shielded from severe trial. Blanche was sure 
 that her mother ought to have been happy, but she could not 
 believe that she had been so. As she listened to the cottao-ers' 
 ott-told tales, she fancied that it w T as only a natural interest 
 which made her listen so intently for all they could tell; but, 
 if she had been as careful an anatomist of her feelings as she 
 was of her faults, she might have perceived that this longing 
 desire to know more of the history of the countess's daily life 
 was almost always aroused after conversations with her father, 
 which were now very frequent. 
 
 It is the gift of a superior mind to bring out the latent powers 
 of others; and Lord Rutherford's constant intercourse with his 
 daughter had done more than the most unwearied study 
 towards maturing her judgment, and enlarging her ideas upon 
 all worldly subjects. Blanche had lived in reality months 
 Instead of weeks at the castle, and every day brought some
 
 THE E A. R L S DAUGHTER. 03 
 
 fiv.»h evidence to the earl's mind of her quick intellect and 
 refined taste. lie delighted in engaging her in an argument, 
 and seeing the ease with which she would pursue her own train 
 of thought, whilst fully comprehending his ; and the graceful 
 candour with which, whcEl once convinced of error, she yielded 
 her point and begged for further instruction. He was more 
 and more satisfied, more und more convinced that Mrs. Howard 
 had educated her well. And Blanche ? Alas ! how little can 
 we read of the secrets of the heart ! How selfish and blind are 
 we, even in our love ! 
 
 If Lord Rutherford had been asked whether he had succeeded 
 in rendering his daughter happy, he would have answered, 
 without a moment's hesitation, perfectly. She had employ- 
 ments, amusements, interests, luxuries, friends ; and, to crown 
 the whole, himself: and though free from the petty conceit of 
 an inferior intellect, which believes that it is all which it desires 
 to be, Lord Rutherford could not but be conscious that the 
 powers of entertainment which had excited the admiration of 
 the first circles, both in England and on the continent, must be 
 more than equal to the ta*k of whiling away the leisure hours 
 of a young girl, whose knowledge of the world was confined to 
 the immediate neighbourhood of the place of her education. 
 And he thought correctly. Blanche was amused, excited, inter- 
 ested still — but the arrcw had entered into her heart; and 
 when she left her father's presence, her smiles too often 
 vanished, whilst she sough* the solitude of her own chamber, to 
 grieve over the bitterness of her disappointment. 
 
 It was then that she most thought of her mother. Had it 
 been the same with her ? Had she also loved, and reverenced, 
 and dreamt a dream of perfection ; and awoke to find it but 
 delusion ? Or had she, like the earl, been gifted with the 
 highest of earthly gifts, while destitute of that " pearl of great 
 price," which alone could be her ornameut in Heaven ? This, 
 Blanche could not think. AH that she heard and saw — the 
 letters, the favourite books, the kind acts which were so thank- 
 fully remembered, showed plainly that the Countess of Ruther- 
 ford had been in her inmost heart a Christian; and then, how 
 great must have been the pang at finding herself united to one 
 whose heart was centred In the world! Blanche thought upon 
 the subject till it haunted her as a spectral form, mixing with 
 her imaginations by day fnd night ; and, if forgotten for a 
 time, recalled by some accidental occurrence as painfully as il 
 it had never passed away. Yet the fear could not be named, —
 
 56 the earl's daughter. 
 
 certainly not to Eleanor, and scarcely even to Mrs. Howard, wIjc 
 had been much separated from the Countess bo f h before and 
 after her marriage, and had never hinted a doubt of her happi- 
 ness. The mention of it would have involved an acknowledg- 
 ment of disappointment in her father, which Blanche shrank 
 from allowing to herself, and could not have borne to embody in 
 words ; though she often reproached herself Lr a want of 
 sincerity in withholding the confidence which sLe knew was 
 expected. There was one person, indeed, from whom much 
 might be learnt ; but how was the inquiry to be made ? Mrs. 
 Wentworth, she had reason to believe, knew all the circum- 
 stances of her mother's history ; but Blanche had alreadv asked 
 all the questions which she dared, and had learnt the principal 
 events, and many additional traits of habit and character ; and 
 Mrs. Wentworth was not a person from whom to seek further 
 confidence. There was a great deal of sincerity, out no open- 
 ness in her disposition : she seldom encouraged conversation, 
 and when she did, it was confined to facts, — serious and 
 important, and often placed in a new and striking light, — but 
 stiil merely facts. Her own feelings she left to be discovered 
 by inference; and Blanche, accustomed to Itfrs. Howard's 
 warmth of expression, felt chilled even by her Lindness, and 
 would frequently have preferred silence to a succesrion of details, 
 which might have aroused the intensest interest, but for the 
 cold way in which they were narrated. There w as one hope, 
 however, still to rest upon ; Lady Charlton wai described by 
 every one to be a most charming person, sometuing like the 
 countess in appearance, and with a manner so winning that no 
 one could withstand it. Even Mrs. Wentworth had once been 
 roused into a momentary enthusiasm when Sj making of her 
 qualifications as an agreeable companion, and Blrnche already 
 clung to the idea, that in her aunt she might fine 1 a friend who 
 
 CD ' O 
 
 would throw light upon the subject which distressed her mind, 
 without requiring her to state the fears whica she would 
 willingly have hidden from her own heart. 
 
 CHxVPTER X. 
 
 Lord Rutherford perceived, with great satisfaction, the 
 pleasure with which Blanche looked forward to her aunt's visit. 
 He had resolved that his sister-in-law should be surprised and
 
 THE 
 
 earl's daughter. 57 
 
 charmed by his daughter's elegance and beauty ; and he wel" 
 knew the effect which Blanche's simple, eager cordiality would 
 have upon one who had so long been accustomed to the spark- 
 ling frigidity of the fashionable world. Blanche was always 
 courteous, always attentive ; but, when her feelings were 
 interested, shewas attractive far beyond any person whom he 
 had ever seen. He remained at home the whole of the day on 
 which "Lady Charlton was expected, under the pretence — 
 perhaps even the belief — that it would be a great mark of 
 neglect if he were to run the least risk of not being ready to 
 receive his guests. " Sir Hugh was so unwell, \nd they had 
 not met since they parted last year in Italy ; and Blanche 
 would feel awkward in probably having to receive her cousins 
 alone. True, they could not possibly arrive before five .''clock, 
 and he had an engagement, at two, in a neighbouring v.llage ; 
 but there might be some mistake ; they might come before, — 
 at any rate it was safe, and he would send an excuse ;" and then 
 the earl's eye wandered to Blanche, who was seated at her 
 drawing-frame, and he begged her to give him one air upon the 
 harp — his favourite. Blanche's face lit up with a smile of 
 pleasure, — and the earl felt the time only too short, as he leant 
 back upon the sofa, his eye delighting in his child's grace, and 
 his ear drinking in the sweet sounds which her talent was 
 producing. It w;is perfect human enjoyment ; for at that 
 moment no memories awoke to mar it. 
 
 " We will walk down the carriage drive, if you like it, my 
 love," he said, as the timepiece struck the quarter before five; 
 " these spare minutes are always very tedious." 
 
 Blanche disappeared as soon as the suggestion was made : 
 her father's marked attention to her wishes had made her scru- 
 pulously mindful of his. Lord Rutherford's careful inspection 
 whfeii she returned, was not perceived ; but it was bestowed 
 with the wish to decide whether she would be less likely to 
 appear to advantage in her walking than in her morning dress. 
 Lady Charlton's eve was fastidiously correct in dress, and it was 
 possible that she might be struck by some deficiency of which 
 Blanche was unconscious. But the straw bonnet and shawl 
 disarmed criticism, and Lord Rutherford smiled at his own 
 doubts. The afternoon was very still, but the atmosphere was 
 clear, and the sky blue and cloudless. Blanche felt the soften- 
 ing, soothing influence of nature's purity and beauty; and the 
 over interest, and even agitation, which she had experienced ir
 
 58 the earl's daughter. 
 
 the expectation of the meeting were calmed. But she was 
 silent, and so was the earl. 
 
 " We shall see them from this point," he said, at length, as 
 he led his daughter to a bench upon the summit of a steep knoll. 
 " It was an old boyish habit of mine, to stand here and watch 
 for arrivals." 
 
 Blanche looked towards the winding road which passed over 
 the village green. " There is something, — a carriage ; yes, a 
 carriage, I am sure. Don't you see it, papa?" 
 
 " Eyes of sixteen against eyes of fifty, Blanche," said the earl, 
 smiling. " Are you certain that you don't hear the rumbling 
 of the wheels ?" 
 
 " Oh ! papa, you won't believe ; but I do see it, though. It 
 is coming nearer ; it has just passed the first turning, and it is 
 very quick too. There must be four horses, so it must be them." 
 
 " Well, then, we will return ; but look once more : are you 
 sure ?" 
 
 " Yes, quite ; it is by the blacksmith's shop. I can see the 
 horses now distinctly." 
 
 Lord Rutherford quickened his pace towards the house, lie 
 looked thoughtful and uneasy. 
 
 They stood upon the steps together. The earl leant moodily 
 against the castle wall ; he saw no external objects, llis eye 
 was turned inwards to his own heart, and the images of the 
 years that were passed away. He started, however, as the sound 
 of wheels became more distinct; and, when the leaders 
 appeared on the crest of the hill, he drew Blanche forward to 
 meet the carriage. Blanche thought that it was the impulse 
 of hospitality and affection ; but it was merely restlessness : he 
 felt himself compelled to move. 
 
 Lady Charlton was the first to perceive them, and the car- 
 riage was instantly stopped. 
 
 " Kind ! — like yourself, always," was her salutation, as she ex- 
 tended her hand, which the earl took with something of trembling 
 cordiality. " And my dear Blanche too ! but I must walk." 
 
 The carriage-door was opened, and Lady Charlton alighted. 
 
 " We are not in public," she said, as she kissed Blanche's 
 forehead, and again gave her hand to the earl. 
 
 Blanche's smile was very sweet, and her few words — few 
 from repressed feeling, — were all that her aunt could desire. 
 
 "You don't want introductions," continued Lady Charlton 
 ' Maude, Adelaide ; you know your cousin, of course."
 
 the earl's daughter. 59 
 
 There was another warm greeting, and Blanche was recover 
 ing her momentary shyness and agitation. She remained at 
 the carriage-door, bending forwards and speaking eagerly, 
 whilst her eye sparkled with pleasure, and a bright colour 
 flushed her usually pale cheek. Lady Charlton watched her 
 for a few moments, and tV seemingly involuntary exclamation 
 escaped her,—" Yes, she is just what I could have imagined ; 
 1 must have known her in any place." 
 
 The earl turned away. 
 
 "Don't distress yourself, my dear," continued Lady Charlton, 
 as Blanche was about to address some person, or apparently 
 thing, which bore a resemblance rather to a bundle of shawls 
 than a human b<-inLC- " Poor Sir Hugh i he is miserably 
 tired — half dead with opiates ; — he has been suffering fear- 
 fully the last week, but he would come ; he will be himself 
 by-and-by: they had better drive on," and the carriage pro- 
 ce< ded. 
 
 Blanche walked leisurely to the castle with her father and 
 aunt. She was confused ; there had scarcely been time to 
 recognise any one, but the general impression was agreeable. 
 Lady Charlton was undoubtedly an elegant, distinguished look- 
 ing person ; her voice too was musical, and her manner very 
 winning from its ease anl kindness. And her cousins — she 
 thought she knew them apart ; one had a sallow complexion 
 and light hair, a plain but very clever face, rather severe and 
 grave in its expression — that must be Maude, the invalid: and 
 the other was a brunette, with dark hair, braided ; dressed 
 handsomely and carefully, lively in manner, and altogether 
 pleasing from youth and gaiety, and the quickness of a pair of 
 \ ery bright eves, rather than from any regular beauty. The earl 
 said little ; but Lady Chariton had words upon every subject at 
 command. No one could be in the least restrained with her. 
 Even in those few minutes, she seemed to take exactly that 
 position which Blanche had felt must be filled before she could 
 be quite at ease with her tanner. Lady Charlton was affection- 
 ate and interested, but she was not timid. Blanche could 
 scarcely understand the boldness with which she rallied the 
 earl upon his long absence, his present love of seclusion ; and 
 prophesied that he was yet to prove himself as distinguished a 
 person in England as he had been abroad. Lord Rutherford 
 was at first grave, but not annoyed ; and, after a few minutes, 
 he appeared to have caught himself something of Lady Charl- 
 ton's vivacity, and answered her remarks in a tone almost as
 
 60 the earl's daughter. 
 
 full of cheerfulness as her own. It was a new phase of eharao 
 fcer which Blanche had not before perceived. 
 
 " And Sir Hugh has been very ill, then," said Lord Ruther- 
 ford, as he saw the carriage stop at the castle, and two servants 
 assist in helping a seemingly decrepit old man to plight. 
 
 "Yes," and Lady Charlton sighed ; "it is very sad ; one can 
 never be prepared for these attacks. lie was at a great dinner 
 only a fortnight ago, and quite the life of the party ; made a 
 speech, and proposed toasts, and kept up the whjle thing till 
 alter twelve o'clock ; was quite himself, in fact : and now, you 
 see what he is." 
 
 " I suppose the dinner was the root of the evil,'* observed the 
 earl. 
 
 " Well ! yes ; I suppose it might have been so : but ;he 
 complaint is constitutional, hereditary. Blanche, my dear, you 
 may think yourself happy in being descended from another 
 family. The Evelyns never were a gouty race." 
 
 " I should hope not," said the earl, quietly. 
 
 Lady Charlton laughed. "Now, my dear Putherford, that 
 is one of your old exclusive fancies. I really fla<tered myself 
 that fifteen years' experience of continental liberalism would 
 have done something towards destroying them ; but you are 
 just the same, I see : just the same spirit of the Spanish hidalgo 
 in you — 'This comes of walking on the earth.' " 
 
 "And the Spanish hidalgo was right," said Blanche, archly. 
 
 Lady Charlton smiled, and answered, " Quite right, my dear ; 
 but 1 don't know how it is — the older one grows, the less in- 
 clined one is to hang, like Mahomet's coffin, btLween heaven 
 and earth : there is something very solitary and uncongenial in 
 the position; and therefore, since one cannot )et have the 
 higher, I am willing to rest satisfied with the lower, and to be 
 very happy upon earth, in spite of the Spanish h'ualgo." 
 
 " And the gout," said Lord Rutherford. " Sii Hugh, I sus- 
 pect, would tell a different tale." 
 
 "Oh ! poor Sir Hugh ! you will see him very unlike himself, 
 Blanche ; or rather you will not see him at all. He and Pear- 
 son £o their own way when he is in this state. A first-rate ser- 
 vant Pearson is ; and such a nurse !" 
 
 By this time they had reached the castle. As they entered 
 it, Blanche again repeated her welcome to her aunt, and Lady 
 Charlton's manner in an instant changed. She v as no lon^T 
 the cheerful, amusing woman of the world; but t!ie thoughtful, 
 Rarm-hearted, sympathizing friend. She took Blanche's hand
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 in botli hers, and thanked her with a warmth of affection which 
 Blanche fully appreciated. Dr. Wentworth's description recurred 
 to her mind. Fascinating ! — Yes, that was the right word. 
 
 Blanche was alone till nearly dinner-time. Her cousins wera 
 engaged in dressing for dinner, or perhaps in resting after their 
 journey. She did not see anything of them after showing them 
 to their rooms. Her aunt she supposed was with Sir Hugh ; her 
 father, she knew, had business to transact. The solitude was 
 very precious to her ; it gave her leisure for thought, for 
 examining her own impressions. Blanche trusted very much to 
 first impressions, for as yet she had never known deception. All 
 seemed bright and hopeful — not from any particular cause that 
 she could fix upon — the sensation of relief and satisfaction was 
 indefinable ; the castle was the castle still — her own position was 
 the same — her one great grief was as real as it had ever been ; 
 out her heart was lighter. 
 
 The earl was waiting for her as she left her room. He had 
 come on purpose to take her himself to the drawing-room, that 
 she might not be shy ; so he said : but his survey of Blanche's 
 dress and general appearance betrayed his true motive. A smile 
 of intense pleasure passed over his face as he looked at her : 
 the simple white dress was the symbol of the pure, spotless 
 mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 "Eleanor," said Mr. Wentworth to his sister, as he entered 
 the school-room the day after the arrival of Lady Charlton at the 
 castle, " you must leave those never-ending lessons, and come 
 out ; I want you." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Charles, you must wait : if you have 
 returned to sta} r here for several months, you must learn to 
 amuse yourself." 
 
 " Morfl easily said than done," was the reply ; and the young 
 man threw himself into the first arm-chair which presented itself, 
 and continued: "Four months! it is a terribly long time. 
 What on earth shall I do with myself V 
 
 " Lead," replied Eleanor, still occupying herself with an exer- 
 oi?e "which she was correcting. 
 
 " Uead ! my dear Eleanor," replied her brother, with a sigh
 
 62 the earl's daughter, 
 
 of languid weariness. " But I have read ; I do read. It is 
 nothing else but reading from morning till night." 
 
 " But it will only last a little longer," said Eleanor, soothingly ; 
 " and then " 
 
 " And then conies ordination," added Charles. 
 
 There was an accent of bitterness in his voice. Eleanor 
 looked up, and put her ringer to her lips, as she glanced at her 
 little sister. 
 
 " Susan, child, run into the garden, and find Brown," 
 exclaimed diaries impatiently. "Tell him lie must have my 
 horse ready for me by three o'clock." 
 
 Susan ran away, only too glad of the excuse to change her 
 employment. 
 
 " You forget Susan's age," said Eleanor, in a reproachful tone, 
 when she found herself alone with her brother. 
 
 " Yes, I did at the moment ; but there would have been \io 
 harm done." 
 
 " Only that she is very likely to repeat to papa all that you 
 say to me, and you would not hke that." 
 
 " I don't know ; he must hear it some day or other." 
 
 " Oh ! no, Charles : you intend to change your views, and 
 look at the matter differently." 
 
 " My dear Eleanor," was the answer, spoken coolly and 
 rather satirically, " it is exceedingly easy for you to talk ; but, 
 begging your pardon, you know nothing whatever of the subject. 
 Ordained I must be — 1 intend to be ; but not to be my father's 
 curate ; not to vegetate upon a hundred a year in a country 
 village, with no one but my own family to speak to. I was 
 not born for such a life, and I can never endure it." 
 
 " Would you not be just as badly off in any other place '$" 
 inquired Eleanor. " You will have the castle, and the society 
 there, for a change." 
 
 " Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche ?" said Charles, doubt- 
 
 fully. 
 
 " Y r es ; and I think you will scarcely require more. You will 
 go far before you meet any one the equal of Blanche, at least." 
 
 " Equal ! no ; to watch her is like looking up at a star ; but 
 confess, Eleanor, notwithstanding all your romance, it is awfully 
 out of one's reach." 
 
 " Y"et Blanche is the most warm-hearted, enthusiastic, 
 poetical person imaginable," exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 " Very likely ; you young ladies are extremely warm-hearted 
 to each other, and no doubt very poetical in your private
 
 THE EARL 1 S DAUGHTER. b'3 
 
 journals ; but that does not help us poor men. Lady Blanche 
 makes a most lovely picture ; but pictures are not society." 
 
 "Then you will have others besides Blanche," continued 
 Eleanor. " Lady Charlton, and" — 
 
 " The Charltons? Are they here ? When did they corned 
 You never U*ld me anything about them." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth grew evidently excited at the information. 
 
 Eleanor could not forbear laughing. " Why, my de.-.r 
 Charles, I was not quite prepared for such a burst. They are 
 here — Lady Charlton and Sir Hugh." 
 
 " And Adelaide ?" interrupted Charles. 
 
 " Christian names !" exclaimed Eleanor. " Really, Charles, 
 that is rather surprising. Do papa and mamma know of this 
 great intimacy ?" 
 
 " My dear Eleanor, you are a mere baby. Christian names 
 are nothing at all ; it entirely depends upon the people. I 
 should never think of calling Lady Blanche Evelyn, Blanche." 
 
 " No, because she is Lady Blanche ?" 
 
 " But if she were Miss, I could not. Don't you understand ? 
 Some persons are to be regarded at a distance. They never 
 give one the opportunity of approaching nearer; they are never 
 off their guard." 
 
 "Which, I presume, then, that the Miss Charltons are," 
 observed Eleanor, in a tone of amusement. 
 
 " They are very quick — very agreeable. I should not exactly 
 choose to see you like them ; but they will be great acquisitions. 
 When I say them, however, I really only mean Adelaide. The 
 other is clever enough — a very phoenix in learning and accom- 
 plishments ; but she is anything but agreeable, if you happen to 
 take her in the wrong mood." 
 
 " She is an invalid, I believe," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes, she thinks herself so, and she looks hideously ugly ; 
 people say, from ill health. It was the fashion abroad, to ad- 
 mire her forehead and eyes, and call them intellectual ; but I 
 never could get over the complexion." 
 
 " I don't see'that she is likely to be much of an acquisition," 
 continued Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes ; in her way, she will be ; she plays marvellously, and 
 Bings! I never heard any amateur voice in the least equa. to 
 hers. Upon the whole, I am immensely glad they are here." 
 
 " I must ask you to go, now," said Eleanor, gravely. " Susan 
 must come to her lessons ; don't you hear her in the passage ?" 
 
 " Run away, child, we are not ready for you yet," exclaimed
 
 6+ the earl's daughter. 
 
 Charles, rising from his chair with some effort ; and going to the 
 door, in spite of Lis sister's evident annoyance, he sent Susan on 
 another message, and then returning said, "These four months! 
 — thcv will be a great trial." 
 
 " I should not find them so if I were in your place," observed 
 Eleanor, whilst the colour mounted to her cheeks. 4> I should 
 be glad to be with you anywhere, especially at home." 
 
 Charles seemed a little surprised at her manner. " I don't 
 understand," he replied. " Of course, I am glad to be with you ; 
 but just think for a minute;" and his voice became quite ener- 
 gy tic ; "I have passed through the university, and made rather 
 a noise there ; since then I have been travelling for two years, 
 seeing most enchanting places, enjoying first-rate society — and 
 now I am told that I am to sit down for life — it is the life which 
 frightens me ! — in an old country parsonage, with not a single 
 person to speak to beyond my own family, and the chance 
 visitors at Rutherford Castle. Doubtless, there are persons for 
 whom such prospects might do very well; good, quiet, hum- 
 drum men, who, exactly the reverse of Charles the Second, may 
 be warranted never to do a foolish thing, and never say a wise 
 one ; — but I am not one of them. If my father wishes me to 
 do anything he must give me a sphere ; he ought to do so ; for 
 I have never caused him any trouble. I have never been wild 
 or extravagant ; and yet he looks as grave as if I were a complete 
 scapegrace." 
 
 "The notion of your ordination makes him do that," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "And whose fault is the ordination?" exclaimed Mr. Went- 
 worth. " He has dinned into my ears, ever since I was a baby 
 in arms, that I was to be a clergyman, and what possible right 
 has he to find fault with me now because I intend to be one?" 
 
 " Papa looks at the profession more seriously than you do," 
 observed Eleanor. 
 
 " Serious ; it is serious enough, no one doubts that ; but all 
 the more reason why I should have a little life and enjoyment 
 beforehand." 
 
 " Papa thinks that is not the right sort of preparation," said 
 Eleanor, in a tone of mild suggestion, rather than of reproof. 
 
 " I don't mean it as preparation — and yet call it so, if you 
 mil. When I am ordained, things will be different. I shall bo 
 a. clergyman ; and I shall conduct myself like one. My father 
 cannot suppose I mean to disgrace myself by being a vulgar, 
 fox-hunting, drinking, negligent, country parson."
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. Qc 
 
 "The race is happily becoming extinct," said Eieanor , " nut 
 mv father will not be satisfied with your merely escaping dis- 
 grace." 
 
 " lie wishes to see me honoured ; and he shall do so. Onca 
 let me have the opportunity ; place me in London ; give me, as 
 T said before?- a sphere; and, before he dies, he shall see me a 
 bishop." 
 
 Eleanor shook ber bead, and said more courageously, "That 
 is not the tone to please papa, Charles. He does not under- 
 stand it. He does not know what it is to wish to be a bishop." 
 
 " Neither do I wish it, Eleanor ; if I could be anything else. 
 But I am all but shut out from every other profession. I am 
 not educated, and not inclined for the army ; I am not at all 
 fitted for a physician; and utterly without interest at the bar — 
 if I could bring myself to submit to the drudgery of studying for 
 it. I know I must take orders ; and all I ask is, that my father 
 should try to place me where my talents — for you know, Eleanor, 
 it is impossible to deny that I have some talents," and Mr. 
 Wentwortb. laughed faintly, and settling his cravat, glanced at 
 himself in the looking-glass — "should have scope." 
 
 Eleanor's replv showed an evident wish to put an end to a dis- 
 agreeable subject. She was quite sure, she said, that her father 
 would do everything in his power to promote her brother's 
 views, bv-arrd-bye ; but that she could not herself see what steps 
 were to be taken at once. 
 
 " One, very simple," exclaimed Charles, eagerly. " Let him 
 consent that I should have a curacy in London ; or, at least, that 
 I should try for one ; instead of insisting upon my drudging on 
 a weary existence here, with nothing to rouse energv." 
 
 " You had better resign yourself, my dear Charles," and 
 Eleanor tried to laugh. " When papa once has made a deci- 
 sion, he is very resolute." 
 
 "And he will find that his son can be resolute too," exclaimed 
 Mr. Wentwortb. " I have made up my mind what I will do ; I 
 will be off — off to Australia; no power on earth shall stop me. 
 if I am thwarted." 
 
 "You, in Australia! a settler !" and Eleanor laughed : "no, 
 papa feels he is perfectly safe there. But, my dear Charles, there 
 is a much surer way of bringing him round to look at things in 
 your own way. Stay here quietly, and do as he wishes; study, 
 and \i-it the poor people, and then he will be satisfied ; and will 
 see himself, by degrees, that you are not likely to gain any harm 
 by ultimately settling in London. You must own," she added;
 
 GO the earl's daughter. 
 
 with some hesitation, "that papa's anxiety is natural enough 
 considering the way you talk." 
 
 " But 1 don't talk so to him," exclaimed Mr. Wentworth. 
 " Neither he nor my mother knows half I really feel." 
 
 "Poor mamma!" said Eleanor, speaking seriously, yet not 
 without some satisfaction at her brother's implied confidence in 
 herself; "with her high views, her very exalted notions of a 
 clergyman's office, I certainly should not like her to hear you 
 rattle on in this random way. 1 don't approve of it, you know, 
 myself; only I am sure you don't mean it." 
 
 " I do mean it, though," exclaimed Charles, petulantly ; 
 "and what is more, I am convinced that there are not half a 
 dozen men in England who would not say precisely the same. 
 Of course, I shall do my duty ; but it must be in the right 
 place — not here." 
 
 " Not even with Lady Charlton and her family, at the 
 castle ?" said Eleanor, pointedly. 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense, they would make a difference ; but it would 
 only be for a time ; they can't stay." 
 
 " Blanche expects them for a very long visit," replied Eleanor. 
 
 "Lord Rutherford and Adelaide Charlton !" said Charles, 
 musingly. " A very incongruous mixture. Adelaide's high 
 spirits will never stand the castle proprieties." 
 
 " Charles, dear ; promise me one thing, please," said Eleanor, 
 laying her hand upon his arm. " Don't speak of Miss Charlton 
 in that way before mamma; it is just the sort of thing to annoy 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth laughed. " My dear Eleanor, you really are 
 more childish than I imagined ; but anything you like ; only, 
 when you know Adelaide, you will see that it is impossible to 
 call her anything else. And, remember, if I am to stay here 
 and be well behaved, I must have full leave to go to the castle 
 as often as I choose." 
 
 "Leave from me as much as you wish," replied Eleanor; 
 "if you will only be cautious. I could not bear you to vex 
 mamma, and she is rather suspicious of vou already." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth put on an air of mock gravity; and folding 
 bis hands, and casting his eyes to the ground, promised to be 
 as demure as Susan, if only his sister would help to provide 
 him with amusement. " And suggest to my father that I shall 
 not be fitted for his curate," were his last words, as he went out 
 of the room, leaving Eleanor in a state of mind by no means ta 
 be envied.
 
 the earl's daughter. 67 
 
 He was scarcely gone, when Mrs. Wentworth came through 
 the garden to the school- room window. She held a note in 
 lu-r hand, which she put into Eleanor's silently, and then stood 
 by apparently engaged in twisting the straggling tendrils of the 
 clematis which darkened the apartment. Eleanor returned the 
 note with thanks ; her colour was heightened, and her eyes 
 sparkled with pleasure. "Shall I write an answer, mamma; 
 or will you ?" 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth paused for a moment before she said, in a 
 tone of annoyance, " I was afraid it would be so. I was sure 
 you would be vexed, my love." 
 
 " Vexed ! dear mamma." 
 
 " Yes. It is nothing very grievous ; but your father and I 
 think it best to decline. He wished me not to show you the 
 invitation ; but I could not agree, I have too much confidence 
 in vour good sense, and your love for me." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! the first day ! and an express invitation 
 to us all ; and Blanche so extremely urgent !" 
 
 " The very reason, my love, why it may be more desirable 
 to decline." Eleanor bit her lip, and made no reply. 
 
 " You will understand some of our objections," continued 
 Mrs. Wentworth. "As an acquaintance begins, so it may be 
 supposed to continue. We do not wish to be dining at the 
 castle perpetually, now." 
 
 "Because of Lady Charlton and her party, I suppose." 
 replied Eleanor, trying to be gooddiumoured. " But, dear 
 mamma, she is a very charming person." 
 
 " I don't know what she is," was Mrs. Wentworth's reply, 
 spoken more quickly than was her wont: "only you will be 
 contented at home, my child." 
 
 "Contented with you, mamma? oh! yes, always; but" — 
 
 " But you must try and think as I think ; try, and not 
 dream of the castle by night and by day." Eleanor smiled, 
 though without cheerfulness. " Consider what it would be to 
 me," continued. Mrs. AVentworth, "to see you restless and 
 excited ; or to find you longing for different society, and know 
 that you were neglecting your own simple duties." 
 
 " I should never neglect my duties by being with Blanche," 
 exclaimed Eleanor eagerly ; " she would always keep me right." 
 
 " My love, indeed you are mistaken. Lady Blanche is a very 
 sweet girl, most amiable and winning; but, when you are 
 together, her spirit cannot be the ruling one." 
 
 Eleanor's head was raised proudly, as she replied, " It should
 
 6S the earl's daughter. 
 
 bo, if I were Blanche. Rank, wealth, beauty, talent! Mamma, 
 Blanche ought to rule a kingdom." 
 
 " Let her learn to rule the kingdom of her own heart," 
 replied Mrs. Wentworth; "that will be the most needful 
 lesson. Poor child ! hers is a position of great temptation." 
 "Mamma," said Eleanor thoughtfully, "you might help her." 
 Mrs. Wentworth paused. "I might possibly, if circum- 
 stances were different ; if the opportunity should occur ; but 
 your affection, I think, a little deceives you, Eleanor. Lady 
 Blanche is not likely to give me the opportunity ; she is too gentle 
 and yielding to profit by the sort of help I should give. She 
 would require something less severe. Mrs. Howard is more 
 likely to be of use to her than I am." 
 
 " Mrs. Howard is so far off," replied Eleanor. 
 "Yes; but they can write. Though, of course, my love," 
 continued Mrs. Wentworth, assuming a tone of greater uncon- 
 straint, " I do not mean that I would not do everything for her 
 that I possibly could ; only there are some dispositions so easily 
 moulded that they take impressions from everything ; and, if it 
 should be so with Lady Blanche, you will find that the daily 
 life at the castle with her relations will really form her character. 
 And, besides," and Mrs. Wentworth's voice sank, as it some- 
 times did, into a tone so low that it scarcely seemed intended 
 for conversation, " there are different atmospheres, different 
 circles — the castle and the rectory — no, never again." 
 
 Eleanor made no comment upon this speech ; yet the thought 
 crossed her mind, with wonder, why, if the circles were so 
 different, and the atmospheres so uncongenial, she should have 
 been allowed to grow up from childhood in unrestrained inti- 
 macy with Blanche. 
 
 " And you will be satisfied then, my dear, not to dine at the 
 castle to-day," said Mrs. Wentworth in her natural manner; 
 " we have an engagement which will do very well as an excuse 
 for us all. Your father talked this morning, of asking Mr. 
 Moulton, of Enfield, to stay ; as he is going to ride with him 
 to see the workhouse ; and though we might leave them at 
 home, it will be better not." 
 
 Eleanor sighed at the prospect of exchanging a cheerful 
 evening at the castle for the society of an elderly gentleman, 
 whose only interest in life seemed to be the faults of the poor- 
 laws. The sigh was not utterly selfish ; it was as much for her 
 brother as herself ; and she ventured to add a petition for him 
 but Mrs. Wentworth negatived the idea instantly.
 
 the earl's daughter. 69 
 
 " Charles ! oh dear ! no. He was much too great a strangei 
 to go by himself; he would be quite a burden to Lord Ruther- 
 ford; and, moreover" — but this time Mrs. Wentworth's 
 thoughts were not betrayed by an undertone; and Eleanor 
 could only conjecture that the " moreover" might have some 
 reference to^Miss Charlton. She was not forbidden, however, to 
 go to the castle in the morning — that was some satisfaction ; 
 and she might see Blanche ; she might just have a glimpse of 
 Adelaide Charlton ; and, without hesitation, she expressed her 
 intention to her mother. 
 
 They had not met the preceding day, she said ; and Blanche 
 would think it unkind if she were not to go near her. 
 
 " Lady Blanche will call upon you, my dear, if she is anx- 
 ious about it," said Mrs. Wentworth, quietly and coldly. 
 
 Eleanor changed colour. " Anxious about it, dear mamma ; 
 what can you mean ?" 
 
 "Nothing, my dear; only I think you might as well leave 
 the castle for to-day." 
 
 A torrent of eager words seemed about to rush forth, for 
 Eleanor's eye. flashed with anger and vexation. Mrs. Went- 
 worth stopped her before the first word was spoken. "My 
 love, you have trusted me always ; do you doubt now that I 
 would make you happy in your own way if it were right V 
 
 The haughty spirit was subdued in an instant, and Eleanor's 
 arm was thrown round her mother's neck. 
 
 " Mamma, you are always right ; yet you cannot love Blanche 
 as I do." 
 
 "I loved her mother," was Mrs. Wentworth's calm reply; 
 ana as she walked slowly away, Eleanor threw herself upon a 
 shair, and burst into tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Here, Pearson ! stop a minute, can't you ? What in the 
 world are you going away for, Idiot?" growled Sir Hugh Charl- 
 ton, helplessly stretching out his hand to reach a small hand- 
 bell, which had unfortunately been placed just beyond his 
 roach. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir; very sorry, quite forgot," muttered 
 the stout, obsequious, black-haired, black-whiskered, and most 
 shrewd-looking individual, whose character was constantly sum-
 
 70 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 med-up by Lady Charlton, in the emphatic description of "the 
 best creature in the world." 
 
 " The medicine, the drops ! where are they ? why don't you 
 fetch them ?" continued Sir Hugh, as Pearson remained by his 
 side, pretending to adjust the pillows at his head, and eyeing 
 with great apparent solicitude the arrangement* of the gouty 
 stool which supported his master's feet. Pearson did not say, 
 that he had been on the point of departure when he was 
 brought back ; he placed the hand-bell more conveniently than 
 before, gave an additional touch to the pillows, brought the 
 newspaper within reach, and then, as he was leaving the room, 
 remarked, that the earl had invited some friends to dinner, so 
 he had been told by Mr. Hilyard, the butler. 
 
 " People to dinner, did you say ? Here, Pearson, where jire 
 vou going ? why, in the name of wonder, don't you speak out ?" 
 
 "Dr. Wentworth's family from the rectory are coming, so 
 Mr. Hilyard informed me, Sir Hugh ; but, perhaps, you would 
 wish me to inquire. When you have taken the medicine, if I 
 might be allowed, I would ask." Pearson returned almost in 
 an instant. The drops were properly measured and adminis- 
 tered, and Sir Hugh's next order was, not to fidget about the 
 room like a mouse, but to go and hear who was coming ; an 
 order fully expected by the ingenious Pearson, who immediately 
 departed to gossip, for at least a quarter of an hour, in the 
 housekeeper's room. 
 
 He was gone, but Sir Hugh murmured still, " Wentworths ! 
 who were the Wentworths ? People he had never heard of ! 
 Wentworth!" He stopped and rubbed his chin, and thought, 
 and muttered again, " Wentworth ! yes, he did know the name, 
 he remembered it. That intolerable fool, Pearson, where was 
 he gone ? he knew every one. Heaps of Wentworth's there 
 were everywhere — England — France — Italy." He seized the 
 hand beL, but, without ringing it, called for Pearson at the 
 highest pitch of his voice. 
 
 The call was answered by Lady Charlton. " My dear Sir 
 Hugh, such a noise ! it quite frightens one." 
 
 t% Well ! madam, and I intended it should. Here am I— 
 Pearson gone — you away — left by my daughters — it is too 
 bad." 
 
 '• Oh ! but, my dear Sir Hugh, you must not be exacting. 
 Poor children! they are only having a little music with 
 Blanche." 
 
 "No; not with me," said a very sweet voice ; and Blanche,
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 7l 
 
 who had just entered the room, came up to Sir Hugh's chair. 
 u You know, aunt Charlton, you promised I should be of 
 use. Can I do anything for Sir Hugh ? Might I not sit a 
 little while with him ?" 
 
 " Oh ! my dear Blanche, this is too good of you," and Sir 
 Hugh grew dilm directly. " Really you must excuse me — a 
 gouty man must make a great many apologies ; but that fool 
 — my-man, I mean, — a very good servant — a capital servant, 
 Pearson — but forgetful. Lady Charlton, pray place a chair ; it 
 distresses me quite." Blanche brought a chair for herself, and 
 placed it by Sir Hugh ; her work-basket was in her hand, and 
 again she hoped that she was not intruding. 
 
 Lady Charlton smiled, and said, "Sir Hugh would be only 
 too happy ; and, for herself, she had letters to write, very 
 important ones ; but Blanche must not fatigue herself. You 
 cau read, if you like it, my love, for a little while. Sir Hugh 
 is a great reader, and a writer too sometimes, only I shall be in 
 disgrace if I mention it." She looked meaningly at Sir Hugh. 
 
 " My dear Lady Charlton — Frances — you are really too bad. 
 Blanche will be shocked ; it is nothing ; nothing at all, I assure 
 you. Just a pamphlet, nothing at all to speak of. There is 
 one — Frances, my dear — on the side table ; I think you will 
 find one. But, never mind ; " seeing that Lady Charlton cast 
 an unsearchihg and unseeing eye round the room. "Never 
 mind, Pearson will find it. I can ring." 
 
 " Pearson is going to dinner," replied Lady Charlton, rather 
 quickly, " but Blanche, I dare say, will read to you. Let me 
 see, that book on geology I think it was you began. My dear 
 Blanche, I really am ashamed of myself for allowing you to 
 have such a task. I da-e say, if the truth were told, you know 
 no more of the ' ologies ' than I do ; but you will learn some- 
 thing — names, at least. I quite marvel at myself for not being 
 wiser, considering Sir Hugh's tastes. We had not very much 
 science in Italy ; and a great drawback it was for him. Good- 
 b'ye, my love. Maude and Ady will be in despair when they 
 bear you are not coming back." 
 
 "As much in despair as I shall be in delight," said Sir Hugh, 
 twisting his sallow and worn features into what he believed to 
 be an irresistible snnle. 
 
 "But I shall have mercy upon you, Blanche," said Lady 
 Charlton, returning to look into the room again. " Remember 
 we are to have a riding party this afternoon ; and your friends, 
 tli.- VVentworths, I hear, are to dine with us." 
 1
 
 72 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Lady Charlton was gone before she heard, or at least, before 
 she appeared to hear Sir Hugh's impatient exclamation of 
 " Wentworth ! that was the very thing ! that fool Pearson ! 
 why did he not come back ? Who are the Wentworths ? " 
 
 " Friends of ours at the rectory," said Blanche ; and her 
 voice acted with a magical effect upon the irritable Sir Hugh, 
 who immediately composed himself to the semblance of a 
 deferential listener. " Eleanor Wentworth and I were edu- 
 cated together," continued Blanche. " She is my very great 
 friend." 
 
 " Ah, yes, very true — very nice ; no doubt she is charming. 
 But I thought — you must excuse a little impatience, my dear, 
 the gout is trying, especially trying, — for a man of active habits, 
 in the prime of life. I spoke rather eagerly just now ; but I 
 thought I remembered the name of Wentworth abroad." 
 
 " It might have been Dr. Wentworth's son ; he has been tra- 
 velling," said Blanche. 
 
 Sir Hugh put his ringer to his lip, and presently, with a sud- 
 den start of recollection, exclaimed ; — 
 
 " Yes, I have it. I remember. Pearson knows ; — idiot ! " 
 and the voice sank again into an angry growl, " what a time he 
 is at dinner!" 
 
 Before Blanche could answer, a furious peal summoned 
 Pearson from his repast. Blanche could scarcely help smiling 
 at the insinuating tone of the servant, when compared with the 
 gesticulation of the master. Sir Hugh burst forth without 
 preparation, requiring Pearson to recollect all he had ever 
 heard or known of any one of the name of Wentworth ; and 
 Pearson, with the utmost composure, began a quiet, and rather 
 interesting account of Sir Hugh's first acquaintance with Mr. 
 Wentworth ; how they had met in Italy, and he believed Sir 
 Hugh had told him that Lady Charlton had been acquainted 
 with his family ; and, no doubt, Sir Hugh would recollect him 
 perfectly — a tall gentleman, very handsome ; he used to sing 
 with Miss Adelaide : and, as Pearson glanced doubtingly at Sir 
 Hugh, and saw a pleased smile on his face, he ventured to add, 
 " People had remarked — at least he had heard it said — how 
 well Mr. Wentworth and Miss Adelaide danced." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know. You may go now ; you won't be wanted 
 yet. Lady Blanche will do me the honour of sitting with me. 
 Go ; can't you ? " and Pearson hastened to escape Sir Hugh's 
 lightning glance. " Such gossips these people are, my dear," 
 continued Sir Hugh in his mildest voice. "Such intolerable
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 gossips! One would think I was an old man with no memory ; 
 telling me all those facts ! Of course, I recollect ! Mr. Wtnt- 
 worth was a handsome young man, certainly ; he danced 
 attendance upon Adelaide. Lady Charlton grew frightened ; 
 but it was all nonsense ; Adelaide is a great deal too sensible — 
 a shrewd girl you will find out — not equal to Maude. Maude 
 is a genius, plays, sings, draws — there was a copy of hers, of a 
 Guido, 5s good as the original. I should not have known the 
 difference ; and I am a very good judge, as good as the earl I 
 flatter myself; and he has the reputation of being a first-rato 
 connoisseur. Had, that is, some years ago ; — years you can't 
 remember, my dear Blanche, for a very good reason — there 
 was no Lady Blanche then ; no such bright star in the dark 
 firmament;" and he bowed with the most studied politeress; 
 " except, if there must be an exception, — you will not quarrel 
 with mine — the countess, your mother. A charming woman-— 
 a very charming woman." Sir II ugh paused to take breath ; 
 he saw that Blanche had laid down her work at his last words, and 
 was listening eagerly fur the rest. " Toor thing ! Ah ! years 
 gone by ! poor thing ! Yes, I remember perfectly. Mis. 
 Wentworth was here a good deal in those days ; she must have 
 been this young man's mother. 1 ' 
 
 '• Mrs. Wentworth was a great friend of dear mamma's," 
 said Blanche, speaking with an effort ; yet determined, if pos- 
 sible, to keep him fur a few minutes to the point. 
 
 " Yes, my dear — yes, I remember. Mrs. ^Yentworth and the 
 countess, poor thing ! " and the sigh which accompanied the 
 words evidently came from the heart. Blanche's fingers moved 
 quickly at her work ; but it was from nervousness, not industry. 
 Was the sigh for her mother's death, or for her life ? " Poor 
 thing !" again began Sir Hugh. " Your father is altered, my 
 dear ; a great blow that was — sudden to him. She was a lovely 
 creature ! I had a great regard fur her." 
 
 " It must have been so sad for papa, being away when she 
 was ill," observed. Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so ; one can't tell. One can never say ! it 
 was a very lonely life. But people were mistaken. A proud 
 man, Lord Rutherford; very natural pride, my char; don't 
 think I find fault with it. A very proud man ! Nobody 
 knows him thoroughly that has not lived with him for years. 
 Lady Charlton and I, of course, are intimately acquainted with 
 his character, but other people talked great nonsense. How- 
 ever, I always understood him. AYe had tastes in common.
 
 74 tiie earl's daughter. 
 
 lie was devoted to geology. I gave him introductions when 
 he went abroad, and they were of great use to Lirn. I wanted 
 him to take notes, and write. I told him I would assist. If 
 he would have given the facts, I would have dressed them — 
 adopted them and clothed them : they should have been my 
 ' enfans trouves ; '" and Sir Hugh laughed so long and heartily 
 at his own wit, that he did not perceive how little his compa- 
 nion sympathised with his mirth. 
 
 " That is the luncheon-bell, I think," said Blanche, vising, and 
 collecting her work. 
 
 " Luncheon ! so late is it ? But time passes so rapidly 
 ' With thee conversing' — you know the rest.' 
 
 " I am afraid it is easier to forget times and seasons than 
 luncheon," said Blanche ; " but I cannot leave you alone. May 
 I ring for Pearson ?" 
 
 " Ah ! thoughtful as you are ! it is quite reversing the natu- 
 ral order. A sad enemy is the gout ; very sad, indeed, to an 
 active man in the prime of life ; — a sad enemy !" 
 
 Sir Hugh shook his head long and dolefully, but would not 
 allow Blanche to do anything for him. " It would distress him 
 too much," he said ; " it was unnatural, improper — her society, 
 that was all he required — he had been so flattered, so 
 honoured;" and, with the words still ringing in her ears, 
 Blanche at last contrived to escape to the drawing-rooni. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " And so the Wentworths will not come, Blanche," said Lord 
 Rutherford, as his daughter seated herself at the luncheon-table. 
 " i)r. Wentworth has a prior engagement." 
 
 " Not come ! How very disappointing ! May I see the 
 note ?" 
 
 It was from Mrs. Wentworth, polite and chilling. Blanche 
 said nothing, but looked very vexed. 
 
 " I grive for the failure of my first attempts for society, 
 Adelaide," said the earl, addressing his niece. " Only remem- 
 ber, it really is not my fault." 
 
 Blanche took up the note again to examine it. " A prior 
 engagement is so odd. Eleanor must have known that I should 
 want her ; and they are not going out I am nearly sure, unless 
 it may be Mr. Wentworth. He returned yesterdaj-, I believe."
 
 TIIE EARLS DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 Adelaide Charlton looked up eagerly ; but her mother's eye 
 was fixed upon her, and the eagerness vented itself in a quick 
 demand for some bread. 
 
 " That must be our Mr. Wentworth," said Maude, speaking 
 in a deep, but peculiarly mellow voice, which was yet disagree- 
 ably abrupt. ** He said he came from Rutherford." 
 
 " I thought he was living away," observed Lady Charlton. 
 
 Her tone struck Blanche directly : it was new to her; there 
 was more gravity and sternness in it than she was prepared for. 
 
 " Young Wentworth is a handsome man," said the earl, care- 
 lessly ; " but he is too much of a coxcomb to be a gentleman." 
 
 " Those travelled young men very often are," observed Lady 
 Charlton. " It is ' We and the world' with them ; and really, 
 at last, one is disgusted in spite of oneself." 
 
 " But Mr. Wentworth must be superior to that class, I 
 think," said Blanche ; " his sister is so fond of him." 
 
 " And you swear by his sister then ?" asked Maude, sharply. 
 
 Blanche was rather startled, and did not know what to 
 reply. 
 
 "Maude, my dear; you really must be careful in your ex- 
 pressions. Lord Rutherford will think you a complete Goth," 
 said Lady Charlton. 
 
 " Give me a better word," answered Maude, " and I will 
 use it." 
 
 " Maude's favourite theory," said Lady Charlton, addressing 
 the earl. " I must tell you of it, to prepare you for anything 
 strange you may hear. She says — what is it, my dear Maude \ 
 Explain your own notions; you will do it much better than 1 
 shall." 
 
 Lord Rutherford assumed a listening attitude ; but it was 
 char that he was perfectly indifferent, and Maude raised her 
 piercing grey eyes to his face, and said : 
 
 " My notions are, that I should like a piece of cake ; if my 
 uncle will be good enough to cut it." 
 
 Lord Rutherford complied with the request, and did not 
 trouble himself to' ask for any further explanation of Maude's 
 notions. Blanche was still silent, pondering upon Eleanor 
 Went worth's refusal, and a sudden check seemed to have been 
 put to Adelaide's usual vivacity. The party was becoming 
 dull ; and Lady Charlton, who dreaded dulness as an enemy, 
 endeavoured to infuse a little spirit into it by inquiring what 
 were the afternoon plans. Blanche observed that the refusal 
 had rather disturbed them ; for Eleanor Wentworth, she had
 
 7G the earl's daughter. 
 
 hoped, would have formed one of a riding party with them : at 
 least, with Adelaide and herself. Maude, she understood, very 
 seldom rode. 
 
 "No, never; except hy myself," was Maude's ungracious 
 
 answer. 
 
 " Papa talked of taking you and my aunt for a drive," con- 
 tinued Blanche, with a slight air of restraint, caused insensibly 
 by her cousin's manner; " and Sir Hugh" — 
 * " Oh ! never mind Sir Hugh, my love," exclaimed Lady 
 Charlton. " Pearson will take care of him. He will not be in 
 a condition to move for the next week. But he is quite happy ; 
 don't distress yourself about him : he wants nothing except his 
 new book on geology. A great blessing it is," she addec" more 
 gravely, " that he can occupy himself: he is devokd to 
 
 science." 
 
 " Blanche," said the earl, rising suddenly, " can you come 
 with me and look at the shrubs they have been planting this 
 morning on the bank? "We will prepare for the driving and 
 riding afterwards, if your aunt and your cousins will arrange 
 together what they wish to do." 
 
 "lie threw open the window, and walked out upon the ter- 
 race. Blanche followed him with a sensation of freedom and 
 pleasure. The earl drew her arm within his : he did not take 
 her to see the shrubs ; but, when they reached the end of the 
 terrace, he turned again, and continued to walk without speak- 
 in g ; though once he passed his hand caressingly over hers, and 
 looked in her face and smiled : and Blanche had learnt to value 
 such a look. Lord Rutherford's laugh was for the world ; his 
 smiles were almost exclusively for her. He stopped at length 
 and drew a long breath, and in a light tone exclaimed, " Well, 
 Blanche ! we are alone again ; shall we remain so ?" 
 
 Blanche hesitated. " I have not made up my mind, papa : — 
 it is such a very early day. I like them." 
 
 " Like them, — yes, I suppose you do. But it is not duty, is 
 it ? I never wish you to like any one from duty." 
 
 Blanche laughed faintly ; she had already learnt that duty 
 was not in her father's catalogue of allowable motives. " No : 
 I suppose it is not from duty ; but feelings are such mixed 
 things, it is hard to analvze them. I am not sure that I shall 
 love them," she added, more boldly ; " except, that is, my aunt." 
 
 " Lady Charlton is a very sensible woman," said the earl. " 1 
 never knew her to do but one foohsh thing in her life. That 
 scatter-brained piece of pomposity, Sir Hugh ! how could she 
 marry him ?"
 
 the earl's daughter. 77 
 
 " Yes ; it is strange, very strange/' said Blanche, thoughtfully ; 
 "she is so superior, — she could never have loved him." 
 
 " Blanche, my child, you must learn to put aside youi 
 romance," said the earl gently, but seriously. " There are more 
 marriages in the world without love than you, in your simplicity, 
 can imagine. I do not wonder at Lady Charlton's marrying 
 without love — no one who has had any experience of life could 
 do so-^but it is marvellous that, when she was resolved upon a 
 sacrifice, she should have devoted herself for nothing, — absolutely 
 nothing," he added, angrily. 
 
 " Yet she must have loved him, too, I suppose," said Blanche, 
 musingly. " If there was nothing else, it must have been love • 
 I should not like to think it was not." 
 
 " Not like it !" said the earl. "Why, what could it signify 
 to you ?" 
 
 " Because," replied Blanche, and the colour deepened on her 
 cheek, and she spoke hurriedly — " because it seems a false thing 
 to do to marry without it; it is an untruth; it cannot really 
 bring a blessing: at least, I think not, — it seems to me," she 
 added, timidly, as if ashamed of her own eagerness. 
 
 The earl paused ; his voice was altered when he spoke again ; 
 it was low and tremulous. "And you believe that love must 
 bring a blessing ; that it must be happiness," he said. 
 
 " Yes, real, true, holy love," replied Blanche : " surely it must 
 be so." 
 
 " It may be, — one cannot tell," answered the earl ; and 
 then, in an under tone, he added, " Yet it is a dream, — ar 
 unreality." 
 
 " That is not what people generally think it ; is it ?" said 
 Blanche, quickly, for she was struck by the peculiarity of his 
 manner. ■ 
 
 u They call it happiness," said the earl ; " but they do not 
 know their own meaning. Happiness!" he repeated, bitterly ; 
 "no, happiness is for the cold and calculating ; for those who 
 can trust themselves, who know their own weakness, and can 
 foresee the consequences of their own actions. Love is impulse, 
 feeling, excitement." 
 
 " But there is something in it besides, calmer and deeper," 
 replied Blanche; "or it could never last: and marriage would 
 be miserable, most miserable," she added, earnestly. 
 
 Lord Rutherford stopped suddenly in his walk. " Did you 
 ever hear of a miserable marriage, Blanche ?" he said, 
 quickly.
 
 78 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 "Iii books, people have said it; there are such things," 
 replied Blanche, almost frightened by his manner. 
 
 lie laughed sarcastically. " Yes, in another sphere, — in the 
 world, the dreamy world ; not in the real Utopia of St. Ebbe's.' 
 lie was going to turn again on the terrace ; but, checking 
 himself, added, in his usual tone, " This is but idle talking Go 
 to your aunt, Blanche, and settle what you will. I will ride 
 with you, if you wish it." He did not wait for question or 
 reply, but strode down the walk which led to the river's bank, 
 and was soon lost to sight amon<_^t the thick trees. 
 
 " You are not going out with Adelaide, merely to please her, 
 my love ?" said Lady Charlton, as Blanche, about half an ho ir 
 afterwards, came into the room dressed in her riding-habit, and 
 looking rather grave. 
 
 Blanche brightened in an instant, and said that riding was her 
 favourite exercise : but her aunt did not seem satisfied. 
 
 " We shall not stay with you, my dear, if you allow us to 
 interrupt your usual habits. You are very busy, I am sure. 
 No one could have been educated by Mrs. Howard- without 
 being so." 
 
 " Mrs. Howard is so good with her business," exclaimed 
 Blanche ; " she is so really useful : what I have to do is very 
 little. I am sure, if she could be here, she would put me in the 
 way of doing a great deal more." 
 
 "But she is coming to you, is she not?" inquired Lady 
 Charlton. " I am sure I heard your father say something 
 about it." 
 
 " She was to have come ; but she has been obliged to delay : 
 one of her nieces is ill," said Blanche. " I am longing for her, 
 to help me in everything ; to make me methodical and ener- 
 getic, and like herself, if she could," she added, laughing. 
 
 Lady Charlton began the first words of a compliment, but 
 stopped. " I wont say what I was going to say, my dear ; I 
 don't think it would be in your way, though it would be true : 
 and I will not offer to take Mrs. Howard's place, — that would 
 be out of the question ; but you must let me know if lean ever 
 be of any use to you. I dare say you go about amongst 
 the poor people. Your dear mother always did," she said, with 
 a change of tone which made Blanche's heart thrill, though she 
 could not trust herself at that moment to answer the allusion. 
 
 " I go sometimes," was all she replied. 
 
 Lady Charlton drew near and kissed her tenderly. " You 
 shall let me go with you : I shall like it. It will seem that the
 
 the earl's daughter. 79 
 
 old times are come back — quite — when I look at you," she 
 added, gazing in Blanche's face with a sad smile. 
 
 Blanche returned the kiss, and, unfastening a brooch which 
 she always wore, showed a miniature, exquisitely painted. 
 " "Will you tell me if it is like ?" she said. " I have been afraid 
 to ask papa."'' 
 
 Lady Charlton took the brooch in her hand, and turned to 
 the light. She was looking at it attentively, and Blanche, 
 leaning over her, was waiting with great interest for her opinion. 
 Lord Rutherford came to the window. Blanche, by a kind of 
 instinct, took the brooch hastily from her aunt ; but not before 
 the earl had remarked it. 
 
 " A new trinket, Blanche ?" he exclaimed cheerfully. " Let 
 me see." 
 
 Blanche's hand shook, and the brooch fell to the ground. The 
 earl stooped to pick it up. There was a silence of some 
 moments. 
 
 Lady Charlton said, " It is very like," and held out her hand 
 for it. 
 
 " The carriage is waiting," was all Lord Rutherford's reply. 
 
 He walked away, and Lady Charlton, as she returned the 
 brooch to Blanche, said, " Yoa shall talk to me, my love ; it is 
 not a subject for him." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The first determination which Blanche formed the next day 
 was that she would go to the parsonage early. The disap- 
 pointment of the preceding afternoon had vexed her consider- 
 ably, and she was resolved not to run the risk of another 
 refusal. She would go herself and make the request, and then 
 it could not, she hoped, be denied. 
 
 Tli.; subject was mentioned casually at breakfast. Blanche 
 began to feel herself sufficiently at home with her aunt and 
 cousins to leave them to themselves, and said she should go 
 to the rectory the first thing, and engage Eleanor for the 
 day; "and we will walk, if you like it, in the afternoon," 
 -li" added, addressing Lady Charlton. "I must go into the 
 village." 
 
 " Must! my love," exclaimed the earl, quickly. " Who savs 
 must to you ?"
 
 80 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " I say it to myself," replied Blanche, smiling : " it is not. ac 
 imperative must; only my aunt said she would like to go with 
 me sometimes ; and " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, certainly," interposed Lady Charlton ; " of 
 all things I shall like to accompany you; but to-day, I rather 
 think, 1 have an engagement. A great friend of mine, Mrs. 
 Cuthbert Grey, is staying in this neighbourhood, and I promised 
 to go and see her when I came here. She is on a visit to the 
 Donningtons. I think I had better take advantage of the fair 
 weather. Ady, what do you say ?" 
 
 Adelaide answered carelessly that, if it must be, she supposed 
 it had better be ; but that Maude would do just as well as her- 
 self. "I shall go with Blanche this morning, if I may," 
 she continued. " Blanche, you will take me to the rectory ; I 
 delight in walking the first thing after breukfast." 
 
 " Immensely intimate," said Maude, in her cold sepulchral 
 tone ; " the civility must be for Mr. Wentworth : you don't 
 know any one else." 
 
 " You will stay at home, Ady," interrupted Lady Charlton, 
 glancing quickly at the earl ; but he was now engrossed in the 
 newspaper, and knew nothing that was passing. 
 
 Blanche was puzzled for an instant, but took the matter sim- 
 ply, and assured them that ceremony with the Wentworths 
 would be quite unnecessary. They met every day. If Adelaide 
 liked to go, she might do so easily. 
 
 "She will stay at home, my dear," repeated Lady Charlton, 
 decidedly ; and of course the question was supposed to be 
 settled. 
 
 But Blanche stood at the green gate of the rectory, and was 
 trying to open it, when she heard some one behind her say, 
 laughinglv, " Where there is a will there is a way, Blanche. 
 Did you never hear that before? An exceedingly romantic 
 spot this for a parsonage, I must say." 
 
 Blanche was silent from surprise. 
 
 " 1 can open the gate, I dare say," continued Adelaide ; " or 
 — look, there is Mr. Wentworth." 
 
 Blanche was excessively annoyed, and answered coollv, that 
 she would not trouble Mr. Wentworth ; she should leave a mes- 
 sage for Eleanor, and go back. 
 
 " When you have come on purpose to see her ? I am sure 
 you will not do anything of the kind : you could not be so 
 
 cipricious. Mr. Wentworth " and as the gentleman drew 
 
 near, Adelaide held out her hand with the ease of an
 
 the earl's daughter. 31 
 
 old acquaintance. " How very strange ! Where did vou drop 
 from .'" 
 
 Mr. Wentworth reciprocated the surprise, expressed a due 
 amount of pleasure, and threw open the gate. 
 
 Adelaide waited for her cousin to go forward ; but Blanche 
 paused resolutely. " Thank you," she said, addressing Mr. 
 Wentworth, " but I am afraid I must return now. Since we 
 have met yf>u, perhaps you will do me the favour to deliver a 
 message to Eleanor. I want her very much to spend the day 
 witrVme, and to come as early as possible. Mrs. Wentworth is 
 quite well, I hope ?" 
 
 " Quite, thank you ; but surely, — indeed, Lady Blar. /he, you 
 must not go back without seeing my mother ; she will be 
 vexed if you don't; you have given yourself so much trouble." 
 
 "Only a pleasant walk," replied Blanche. "Pray say to 
 Mrs. Wentworth how sorry we were she could not dine with 
 us yesterday. Good morning." She bowed, and turned away • 
 but Adelaide was already within the gate. Such a bewitching 
 rose she had seen ! — amongst the briers, — nearly hidden it 
 was. — Mr. Wentworth must give it her. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth plunged into the thicket, and Adelaide still 
 advanced. Blanche could not let her go on alone, for the next 
 moment she would be in front of the house : and so she was ; 
 and not only before the house, but before the whole family 
 party, who were talking together on the lawp. Blanche had 
 nothing to do but to go up to tbem, and introduce her cousin 
 and apologize ; though the apology was a difficulty, for her 
 gentle spirit was very considerably roused. 
 
 Setting aside the neglect of Lady Charlton's wishes, Adelaide 
 was unquestionably rude to herself, and Blanche had never 
 experienced rudeness before. Mrs. Wentworth received the 
 excuse for the intrusion politely, but without any cordiality ; 
 and even Eleanor's warm kiss and exclamation of delight, could 
 n >t take away the general awkwardness. Adelaide alone was 
 quite at her ease, and admired the house and garden in a tone 
 of easy familiarity, not unmixed with patronage, which made 
 Mrs. Wentworth's civility freeze into a stiffness nearly amounting 
 to haughtiness 
 
 The restraint, however, was at an end, when both Dr. and 
 Mrs. Wentworth were called away. Then Eleanor and Blanche 
 strolled to a distance by themselves ; and Adelaide, declaring 
 that the walk had tired her, and therefore she would wait till 
 they returned, threw herself upon a garden-bench, and began
 
 * 
 
 g2 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 a quick, laughing conversation of reminiscences with Mr. Went 
 
 worth. 
 
 " You are worried, Blanche," was Eleanor's first observation, 
 when they Vf'ire beyond hearing. "You have never looked as 
 you do now since the days when we used to puzzle over Dante 
 together.'" 
 
 "1 wish it was a Dante worry now," replied Blanche; u I 
 could understand that; but really to be angry and uncomfort- 
 able without knowing why, is pather trying." 
 
 " Are things going wrong at the castle?" inquired Eleanor. 
 
 " Oh, no ! not in the least, — that is, I suppose they are not ; 
 but new people fret me and puzzle me. 1 don't know what 
 they mean; and Adelaide Charlton is so persevering, — so 
 wilful, I suppose Mrs. Howard would say : and her manner is 
 — I can't tell what to call it — but excessively disagreeable." 
 
 Eleanor laughed heartily. " Now, that really is delightful, 
 Blanche, to find that you can be severe like the rest of the 
 world." 
 
 " It is not for myself," continued Blanche ; "really I should 
 not care what she did or said with me ; we are cousins, and it 
 does not signify : but it must look very strange to your mother. 
 By Adelaide's tone, I should have fancied her to have been 
 your intimate friend for years." 
 
 " Knowing Charles well, makes her at home with us, I 
 suppose," replied Eleanor : " he said to me yesterday that he 
 knew her in Italy. But do forget her oddity, Blanche, if you 
 can, and tell me how you are going on altogether." 
 
 Blanche sighed, and then laughed. " I can't tell, and I don't 
 know anything ; I believe I am quite cross this morning. The 
 castle seems in a complete bustle. My aunt has brought such 
 innumerable servants, I stumble upon a new face in every 
 corner. And it is so noisy to what it was : even when I am 
 alone, the atmosphere of bustle seems to be around me. More- 
 over, 1 suspect I shall see exceedingly little of papa ; for you 
 know it is not really seeing him, talking in a common way, 
 when other people are present: and Sir Hugh has taken posses- 
 sion of the librarv, so that 1 can't get the books I want; and 
 Adelaide sings snatches of songs to the piano, and will not 
 practise a single thing steadily with me ; and Maude reads and 
 says nothing, but looks as if she was not at all happy. In fact, 
 Eleanor, I suspect I am immensely selfish ; — I mean it in 
 earnest !" 
 
 Again Eleanor laughed, and expressed herself charmed to
 
 the earl's daughter. 83 
 
 find that Blanche could descend to the level of humanity, and 
 be tormented by trifles. " Put out ; actually put out," she 
 exclaimed ; " as I am when Susan says her lessons badly." 
 
 Blanche was silent for a few moments. She was full of 
 thought. " There is a way of taking things, I am sure," she 
 said ; " a right way and a wrong. Just as when one begins to 
 wind a skein of silk ; if one can find the right end, it all runs 
 smoothly ; -and if one begins with the wrong, it must he 
 entangled. When I can understand them all better, perhaps I 
 mayjje able to find the right end. Just now there seems an 
 entanglement ; — wills and ways mixing. They never mixed at 
 St. Ebbe's." 
 
 " My dear Blanche, how exceedingly amusing !" exclaimed 
 Eleanor ; " but you never were in a home before, — I forgot. 
 You don't understand what it is for grown-up people to live 
 together. Why that sort of mixing of wills and ways, as you 
 call it, goes on perpetually here." 
 
 " Does it ?" said Blanche. " But how do 3*011 manage ?" 
 
 " I go my own way, and let other people go theirs," said 
 Eleanor lightly ; " and things come round again." 
 
 " But I don't see exactly how it can be here," observed 
 Blanche. " Your lather and mother are so good, and your 
 brother — " 
 
 " Ah !" interrupted Eleanor, " that is the point. Charles is 
 delightful, exceedingly clever, and he can talk amusingly, and 
 sketch, and -sing duets, and rave about Italy; there is no one 
 like him. But it does not quite do; it does not suit papa and 
 mamma: they think a-clergyman ought to be graver, and they 
 don't know what Charles is really like; and so they are vexed 
 with him ; and he is provoked, and complains to me, and takes 
 up my time in listening to him : and then Susan is idle because 
 I d^n't attend to her, and mamma is angry with me because she 
 Bays I neglect my duties; and there is a history of my home, 
 Blanche ; so now choose between the two." Blanche did not 
 attempt to choose. A shadow of the deeper anxiety which was 
 for ever corroding her peace, crossed her mind : and the lighter 
 evils of which they had both been complaining, melted into 
 nothing. Adelaide Charlton's laugh just then reached them. 
 Eleanor stopped and listened. 
 
 ■• sin- is happy," said Blanche, gravely. 
 
 Eleanor looked round in wonder. " That from you, Blanche 1 
 One would suppose you envied her." 
 
 " Oh ! no, never ; but I suppose it is natural to some people
 
 84 THE EARL'S DAUGIITKIt. 
 
 not to think. However, I did not come here to moralize; wa 
 must settle what we will do to-day. You will come to the 
 cattle as soon as you possibly can ; and then we will walk, if 
 Vdii like it, in the afternoon. My aunt is going to pay visits, 
 and I thought you and I might go together to see poor Susan- 
 nah Dyer." 
 
 Eleanor hesitated for an instant. " You are going to walk ?" 
 she repeated in a musing tone. 
 
 " Yes ; do you see any objection ; wc aid you rather not ? I 
 thought, as it was our settled day, we had better not put it off." 
 
 " Is it our day ? I had forgotten," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes, on Thursdays we agreed to go ; and as my aunt will 
 probablv be here a long time, it seemed desirable not to give up 
 one's usual duties, if it could be helped. My aunt does not 
 wish it ; she told me so yesterday ; and she half offered to g<? 
 with me herself." 
 
 " Lady Charlton !" exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes ; she is not at all what I know you fancied her ; she i? 
 not in the least a fine lady. I put her out of my catalogue of 
 worries, for she is delightful." 
 
 " But she will not go with us," observed Eleanor. 
 
 " No, because of the visit ; we shall have the afternoon to 
 ourselves. Dear Eleanor ! I shall enjoy it so very much." 
 
 Eleanor could not help being pleased. The tone of Blanche's 
 voice was in itself sufficiently animating to dispel the feeling of 
 distrust which was continually lurking, though unperceived, in 
 her mind. She agreed that it would be very pleasant, and very 
 right ; and began to discover decided reasons why it was ne- 
 cessary they should go — the chief being, that as they had pro- 
 mised it would be necessary to keep the engagement, and that 
 poor Susannah Dyer being blind, and helpless, and ill, had a 
 particular claim upon them. 
 
 " And now I must go back," said Blanche, when the point 
 was settled. " Back to my duties. Such strange ones they 
 are, Eleanor; so unfitted for me ; at least, so unlike all that I 
 should have formed tor myself." 
 
 " To stay in the drawing-room, and play the agreeable, and be 
 referred to as the lady of the house," said Eleanor. " I shall 
 like to come and see how you behave." 
 
 " No, you would not like it," exclaimed Blanche, energeti- 
 cally. " One never does like to see people out of their sphere ; 
 mine most decidedly is not to rale. You must ?ee my aunt,' 
 Eleanor-, she is the person to be at the head of affaire; you
 
 the earl's daughter. 85 
 
 would say at once, that she could decide every question brought 
 before her, .and could tell precisely how, and why, and when, 
 everything should be done. Papa says she has immense tact, 
 and I think I can see it. There is an indescribable something 
 about her which is very charming ; her walk, the turn of her 
 head, her smile — and very handsome she is too ! handsome fur 
 her age ; she must have been beautiful." 
 
 " I shall-'be afraid of her," said Eleanor, coldly and proudly. 
 
 " Oh ! indeed, I don't think you will ; though one or two 
 things make me think she might be alarming if she chose 
 it. I doubt whether Maude or Adelaide get on with her ; 
 she seems very short with them ; and Maude shuts herself up 
 the moment her mother comes into the room. As for Ade- 
 laide, she rattles on always ; but there is a difference even in 
 her." 
 
 " And Sir Hugh," inquired Eleanor ; " what is he like ?" 
 
 Blanche appeared uncertain how to reply, and after waiting 
 some seconds, laughed and said, " I don't think it is fair to 
 question me in this manner about my relations ; you shall come 
 and judge for yourself. But I must go now, I have been very 
 rude in leaving Adelaide such a time." 
 
 " I don't imagine Miss Charlton thinks you rude," said 
 Eleanor, looking towards her brother and Adelaide. " I doubt 
 whether she is tired of her companion." 
 
 Blanche stood still, and watched them. Adelaide, sitting 
 upright, was speaking quickly ; and Mr. AVentworth, standing 
 before her, and lilavinix with a walking-stick, was listening with 
 an expression — which, to Blanche, seemed that of attentive 
 deference. 
 
 " He is very handsome, Blanche ; is he not ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 Blanche smiled thoughtfully. " Yes, very ; extremely hand- 
 some. I am glad Adelaide has some one to talk to that she 
 likes." She walked on quickly. Eleanor would not make 
 another observation, for she was disappointed. They heard 
 Mr. AVentworth say, as they drew near, " The charm is not in 
 the place, but in the people." He spoke with feeling ; but 
 Adelaide only laughed, and rallied him for his old-fashioned 
 sentimentality ; and as Blanche approached, thanked her fur 
 having interrupted their tete-a-tete, which she declared was 
 becoming tiresome as they had said all they could think of. 
 Mr. AVentworth turned from her, and addressed a few words tc 
 Blanche; but, after a short interval, Adelaide again dexterously
 
 86 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 engaged his attention, and kept up a series of bantering re 
 partees till they reached the shrubbery-gate. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Blanche returned home dissatisfied. It was provoking to 
 have spent halt' her morning without pleasure or profit; for her 
 conversation with Eleanor had brought her neither. It was 
 unconnected, desultory, and not free from petulance and irrita- 
 tion. She found Lady Charlton and Maude in the morning- 
 room ; one working, the other reading. Blanche took out her 
 drawing materials. She was determined to employ herself at 
 something which would tone her mind, and the drawing was 
 one which her father particularly wished her to copy. Lady 
 Charlton no sooner observed what she was doin<r than she left 
 her worsted frame, and stood by watching her, and called to 
 Maude to come and admire ; but Maude only turned round 
 languidly, and contriving to peep at the drawing without giving 
 herself trouble said nothing, and returned to her reading. 
 Lady Charlton laughed at her as sadly uncouth in manner, but 
 assured Blanche that it was always her way ; she was such a 
 first-rate connoisseur ; she would admire nothing, except Raphael 
 and Guido and the old Italian masters : and then, saying that 
 she must inquire if Sir Hugh was dressed, she left the room. 
 
 Blanche went on drawing and thinking, in a tranquil undis- 
 turbed state, which was very soothing. She Avas copying a 
 Holy Family from an engraving, colouring it according to 
 her own taste ; and, as the first soft hue brought out the 
 beautiful outline of the group, her attention was more and 
 more fixed upon it. She had no wish for conversation ; 
 silence was natural to her, especially since she had lately spent 
 many hours alone ; and Maude, leaning back in her easy-chair, 
 turned the leaves of her book so quietly, that Blanche soon lost 
 all consciousness of her presence. She finished the first tint, 
 and, laying down her brush, took up the print to examine it 
 more closely. The expression of the different faces was 
 wonderful ; pure, simple, almost severe, in their high spiritual 
 beauty. Blanche forgot that she was an artist; she forgot to 
 criticise or admire, and resting her head upon her hand, sb.fi 
 bent over it rapt in thought.
 
 the earl's daughter. 37 
 
 "Are you dreaming?" was the question which woke hei 
 from her reverie ; spoken in Maude's deep voice of melody. 
 She was standing at a little distance with a closed book in her 
 hand ; a smile was upon her lips, but it had nothing of gentle- 
 ness in it. Blanche started as she was addressed. 
 
 " You were dreaming," repeated Maude. " Was it of the 
 colour of Joseph's robe ?" and she laughed. 
 
 Blanche took up her pencil and replied, " It is difficult not to 
 dream a little with such a beautiful subject before one." 
 
 " It is beautiful, is it V continued Maude, in the same careless 
 way. She drew nearer to the table. 
 
 Blanche moved her own drawing, and placed the engraving 
 in a cfood lio-ht, and then was fjoino - awav. 
 
 " Don't go," said Maude, putting her hand upon her she al- 
 der ; " tell me why you like it ?" 
 
 " Why ?" and Blanche's eye flashed with enthusiasm ; 
 " because it is unearthly, pure ; — because it raises one's mind to 
 look at it ; — because," she added, her voice uuconsciousl y 
 sinking, ''it brings before one the only reality." 
 
 She was again going, but Maude a second time detained her. 
 " Then you dou't like it because it is a good drawing ?" she 
 said, abruptly. 
 
 " In a measure I do ; but that is a different kind of admira- 
 tion — it is an artist's, and I am no artist." 
 
 Maude-took the enffravinff in her hand, and turned to the 
 light. " That finger is out of proportion," she said, pointing to 
 the extended hand of the Virgin. She laid the print on the 
 table, and gazing from the window, allowed Blanche to resume 
 her drawing without further comment. 
 
 Blanche began her work in a different spirit. She was no 
 longer unconscious that Maude Avas in the room, her presence 
 oppressed her, and she could not succeed. Maude came be- 
 hind her, and hummed a light French air; and Blanche, m 
 despair, laid down her pencil, and looking round, said simply, 
 " If you don't mind very much — if you would not think 
 me odd — I should be so glad if you would go away." 
 
 Maude did not move. " Which do you like least," she said: 
 " my presence, or my song ?" 
 
 " I like neither," replied Blanche, laughing. 
 
 " I »on't you ? But listen ! I will try something else." 
 
 She leant against Blanche's chair and paused for a second ; 
 and then, as it' a voice sounded in the far distance, the melody 
 of a German Bymn fell upon Blanche's ear, soft at first, and
 
 88 the earl's daughter. 
 
 liquid in its sweetness, but gradually swelling and deepening 
 till the full burst of praise seemed to till the spacious room. It 
 (.cased suddenly as it had begun, and there was silence. 
 
 A tear rolled down Blanche's cheek. 
 
 Maude pretended not to notice it, but in her natural quick 
 manner, exclaimed, "You have not told me a word about your 
 visit this morning. Did Adelaide carry on her flirtation suc- 
 cessfully ? I knew she would go." 
 
 " I should like to hear it again," said Blanche, unheeding the 
 question ; and looking up at her cousin with a peculiar smile — 
 half of melancholy, and half of eager delight. 
 
 " You like music, do you ?" said Maude. She seated herself 
 at the piano, and touched a few chords, whilst Blanche returned 
 to her drawing. Maude suffered her fingers to wander over 
 the keys, slowly at the commencement, and as it were thought- 
 fully ; but increasing in power and force till they moved with a 
 rapidity which was electrifying. But again they sank into a 
 low prelude, and the same clear flute-like notes, which before 
 had seemed to Blanche as scarcely belonging to a human voice, 
 were blended with them. The words were distinct as the 
 music. 
 
 " II passato non e 
 Ma se lo pinge 
 La viva remembranza. 
 II futuro non e, 
 Ma se lo finge 
 La credula speranza. 
 II presente sol e, 
 Che in un baleno 
 Passa del nulla in seno. 
 Dunque la vita e appunto 
 Una memoria, una speranza, un punto." 
 
 As the song proceeded, Blanche's pencil dropped from her 
 hand. So surpassingly sweet it was ; so thrilling in its mourn- 
 ful melody ; so real in its expression : it seemed the true lan- 
 guage in which the vanity of human life should be told. 
 Maude repeated the last lines to herself, whilst she carelessly 
 turned the leaves of a music-book which was open before her. 
 
 Blanche left her seat, and stood beside her. 
 
 " ' Una memoria, una speranza, un punto,' 
 
 and that is all !" exclaimed Maude, looking round. 
 
 Blanche's colour deepened, and then it faded quite away, as
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 she said, whilst her voice faltered ; " Oh ! Maude ! Could you 
 bear to think so?" 
 
 "It is truth," answered Maude. "There needs no ghost 
 come from the grave to tell us of it." And she sang the two 
 last lines again, with an intensity of feeling which she did not 
 attempt to check. 
 
 Blanche stood with her eyes riveted upon her, — drinking in the 
 sounds which at each repetition seemed more and more perfect. 
 
 " T« 11 me," exclaimed Maude, with an air of triumph, as she 
 end^d, " What is it, if it is not so? Where is the past? In 
 what part of the world will you dig till you can find it ?" 
 
 " But how can that which has been cease to be ?" said 
 Blanche, raising her eyes timidly to her cousin's face. 
 
 Maude paused ; and regarding her steadily, said, " Are you 
 a child, Blanche, or a woman ?" 
 
 "A child, I believe," replied Blanche, laughing. "Tapa 
 tells me so." 
 
 " Yet you have notions; what are they ?" The question was 
 put with such an air of command, that Blanche, for a moment, 
 felt herself bound to obey it; but it was only for a moment, 
 and she answered with reserve, that it was hard to explain 
 them : perhaps when they had been together longer, it would 
 be less difficult. 
 
 " But I like notions ; I like theories," persisted Maude ; her 
 large grey eyes lighted up with what might almost have been 
 termed a fierce eagerness. " I must know," she added, laying 
 her hand upon Blanche's wrist. 
 
 Blanche drew back. A very slight accent of hauteur might 
 have been perceptible in the tone in which she said, " Another 
 time ; not now." 
 
 Maude's brow was clouded ; she rose from the piano, threw 
 herself into a chair, took a book from the table, and tossed it 
 down with an air of contempt ; and, after some time, began 
 walking about the room. 
 
 Blanche was annoyed with herself for being annoyed. She 
 scarcely knew why she had been ; and she sat at her drawing- 
 table, busied in discovering the state of her own mind, and 
 wishing that Maude would speak again and give her the oppor- 
 tunity of making something like an apology. 
 
 The silence was long and awkward, and disturbed at length 
 by the dull, slow, heavy sound of crutches. 
 
 "Sir Hugh is drest, I suppose," said Blanche, glad to find 
 something to say.
 
 f|Q THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Maude did not reply. 
 
 The sound grew louder, and the complaining voice of Sr 
 Hugh was heard, telling Pearson, as usual, that he was adespe 
 rate idiot 
 
 Maude laughed sarcastically at the mild, deprecatory intona- 
 tion which followed. She took up her book and disappeared 
 through the window, whilst Blanche went to the door. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Blanche! I thought I should find you here ; 
 ray first walk, you see. I was determined to pay my respects 
 to you. A delightful room this ! — infinitely improved ! — What 
 in the name of wonder are you doing, Pearson? Why don't 
 you keep behind me? — Infinitely improved, my dear. That 
 window I remember quite well. It was a plan of my own ; I 
 saw how things ought to be long ago; but your father — a very 
 first-rate man is the earl ; don't imagine that I have not the 
 highest appreciation of his talents. Excuse me, will you ? may 
 I be allowed to rest?" And Sir Hugh was assisted into an 
 arm-chair ; and, to the consternation of Blanche, wheeled to a 
 comfortable convenient position, which he evidently intended 
 should, at least for the present, be a permanent one. " I was 
 telling you," began Sir Hugh again ; but he was interrupted 
 by an exclamation — 
 
 " Sir Hugh ! this really is too bad ! It is far too great an 
 exertion for him, Blanche ; but he would come ; he was so 
 charmed with your half-hour's conversation yesterday. It won't 
 do though. — Pearson, you must help your master back to the 
 study." 
 
 " Lady Charlton ! Frances, my dear ! — I insist ; you must not 
 interfere. I was telling you, my dear Blanche, — " 
 
 Lady Charlton broke in again. " My dear Sir Hugh ; — in- 
 deed, I must have my own way. Hark ! really there are visit- 
 ors ; and the earl — that is his footstep, I am certain. I as- 
 sure you, Sir Hugh, you make me quite anxious. It is too 
 much, a great deal too much for you," she added, her tone be- 
 coming gradually but perceptibly irritable ; and taking the 
 crutch from Pearson's hand she put it near her husband. 
 
 '• Pshaw ! Lady Charlton," and with an impatient jerk, the 
 crutch was thrown to the ground, to the imminent peril of 
 Pearson's toes. " My dear Blanche, I was telling you — " 
 
 The sparkle of Lady Charlton's eye alone told what was 
 passing in her thoughts. When the door immediately after- 
 wards opened, and the earl introduced Mr. and Miss Wentworth, 
 her manner was that of the most bland good humour. 

 
 THE 
 
 earl's daughter. 91 
 
 " So distressed, I am ! so exceedingly distressed !" begau Sit 
 Hugh, attempting to rise as Eleanor came up to him. 
 
 Lady Charlton stood close beside him. " Poor Sir Hugh ! 
 He has been suffering fearfully : he is not fit to be here ; but 
 his spirits carry him beyond his strength. Your brother is an 
 old acquaintance, Miss Weutworth. We met last year at Flo- 
 
 rence." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth was upon the point of holding out his hand 
 to receive a cordial greeting ; but the extreme civility of Lady 
 Charfton's reception made him exchange the proposed shake of 
 the hand fcr a bow, and a hope that Lady Charlton had been 
 well since he last had the honour of seeing her. 
 
 " Quite well, thauk you. You were in Italy, I believe, long 
 after us." 
 
 " Only a few weeks ; Florence became very dull." 
 
 " Indeed ! I was not aware of it. We saw little general 
 society. Rumours reached us of gaieties, but as you know," 
 appealing to the earl, " general society is not very inviting 
 abroad." 
 
 Lord Rutherford carelessly assented. 
 
 " We had a splendid summer at Florence, Mr. Wentworth," 
 said Sir Hugh ; " I don't know whether you ever recollect such 
 
 another. I don't, except the year . Lord Rutherford can 
 
 tell the date, I dare say ; we were travellers together, taking a 
 scientific tour on the Rhine. If you remember," he continued, 
 addressing the earl, " you were developing your sketching powers, 
 and I flatter myself you made considerable progress, by the help 
 of a few occasional hints ; the few hints, Mr. Wentworth, which 
 a man engrossed in a great object could afford to give. Geology 
 was my study ; I gave up everything for it." 
 
 " Twenty years ago," said the earl coolly. " Blanche, my 
 love, how has your drawing advanced this morning ?" 
 
 Blanche brought it forward to be criticised. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth had recovered from the slight shock of Lady 
 Charlton's reception, and now, with a very quiet and rather dig- 
 nified air, joined in the remarks which the engraving and the 
 copy called forth. Sir Hugh looked on from a distance, stretch- 
 ing his head, and constantly endeavouring to interpose observa- 
 tions of his own, which were as constantly taken up by Lady 
 Charlton, and repeated in a new form, and, to judge from Mr. 
 Wentworth's manner, an interesting one, for his marked atten- 
 tion was given to whatever she uttered ; and, as Lord Ruther- 
 ford was about to replace the drawing in its former position, he
 
 02 the earl's daughter. 
 
 beg •'■■•1 permission to bring it nearer for her inspection and Sir 
 llugh's. 
 
 Blanche liked him better as she watched what was passing; 
 she had not thought before that he could be so easy and agreea- 
 ble, and yet so respectful. 
 
 " A very pleasant thing it is to meet a travelled friend again, 
 Mr. Wentworth," said Sir Hugh, quite excited by the patience 
 with which a disquisition upon the comparative merits of two 
 of the early Italian masters Lad been listened to ; "quite a grati- 
 fication, I assure you. Lady Charlton and myself shall have 
 great pleasure in renewing past recollections ; and my daughters 
 —Maude ! where is Maude ? My dear Blanche, surely she has 
 been with you this morning?" 
 
 " Maude is walking on the terrace," said Lady Charlton 
 quicklv, " and Adelaide is rambling over the grounds, I sup- 
 pose ; she went out directly after breakfast." 
 
 Blanche did not think it well to throw more light than was 
 necessary upon the movements of either. There was a certain 
 intonation in her aunt's voice which she was just beginning to 
 interj net. 
 
 " Ah, well, you will meet at luncheon ; but I forgot — really 
 — Lord Rutherford — Lady Blanche, I ought to apologize." 
 Lady Charlton bit her lip, and a'ave an apparently involuntary 
 push to Sir Hugh's chair, which made him stop short, with an 
 exclamation of pain. 
 
 Lord Rutherford was talking to Eleanor at the window, and 
 did not hear what was said, and the burden of hospitality fell 
 upon Blanche. Gracefully but timidly she repeated the request 
 that Mr. 'Wentworth would remain, and the invitation was soon 
 seconded by the earl, with that perfect though distant politeness 
 which leaves no room for complaint. Mr. Wentworth was 
 therefore established on a comparatively familiar footing; and 
 Blanche, feeling herself no longer bound to entertain him, left 
 ihe room with Eleanor. 
 
 CHARTER XVI. 
 
 Lmportaxt consequences, it is well known, often follow from 
 very slight beginnings. Mr. YVentworth's first introduction at 
 Rutherford Castle was marked by no circumstances but those in-
 
 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 cidental to morning visits ; yet it gave the tone tc the inter- 
 course which was to follow. 
 
 The earl's reserve and pride would have induced him to hesi- 
 tate long before he allowed any persons in the neighbourhood, 
 except his own peculiar friends, to be on such terms as to call 
 early, and lounge away an hour and remain to luncheon, and 
 perhaps join jhe riding and walking parties in the afternoon; 
 but what had been done once came rather naturally a second 
 time, and certainly Lord Rutherford had no cause to suppose 
 that Mr. Wentworth's presence or absence had the slightest 
 effect upon the only individual with whom he chose to concern 
 himself. Even as Eleanor's brother, Blanche could only partially 
 like Mr. Wentworth. His talents, his versatility of manner and 
 ease of conversation, and the right principle and good sense 
 which he always put forth when conversing with her. could not 
 blind her to his faults ; and Blanche could only feel interest 
 where she felt respect. It was perfectly indifferent to herself 
 whether Mr. Wentworth formed one of the circle or not ; but 
 childlike though she was, and simple in many of her ideas, 
 Blanche could not fail to perceive that it was not so to others. 
 Yet, even when the fact was acknowledged, Blanche scarcely 
 thought of it. She noticed that Adelaide Charlton liked to 
 talk and laugh with Mr. Wentworth ; and she observed that for 
 some reason or other Lady Charlton frowned and looked vexed ; 
 and she discovered that Mr. Wentworth contrived to ingratiate 
 himself with Sir Hugh, and was rather disliked by Maude. But 
 the little incidents, which would have afforded matter for sar- 
 casm and ridicule to a more experienced eye, passed before her 
 as the scenes of a theatre before a preoccupied, abstracted spec- 
 tator. For Blanche lived in a world of her own ; or rather she 
 lived in the world of her friends and relations, seeing the same 
 sights, hearing the same sounds, and performing the same actions ; 
 yet often deriving impressions totally contrary to theirs, from all 
 that was passing around. 
 
 So probably it must often be when religion becomes the pre- 
 dominant feeling of the heart very early in life : it is all-power- 
 ful then, for it has no master passion to oppose it. Adopted 
 later in life, it must struggle with past evil recollections, and be 
 frequently crushed and overborne by what we falsely term the 
 realities of the world. We try to think that earth is nothing, 
 that heaven is all ; but when we have toiled for years in the 
 pursuit of wealth, or pleasure, or fame, how shall we in a 
 moment persuade ourselws, that they are worthless! Like the
 
 94 the earl's daughter. 
 
 fisherman in the eastern tale, we have voluntarily opened the 
 casket in which the mighty spirit of delusion was encased, 
 and that which seemed at first but a faint mist of evil has 
 gathered itself up into a giant form, and made itself our lord ; 
 and, when we would fain command it back to its original no- 
 thingness, we find that our will is powerless to enforce obedience. 
 That Blanche retained her earnestness and sincerity of purpose 
 was not owing to any particularly advantageous circumstances ; 
 life at Rutherford Castle was, in its exterior, what life is in almost 
 all places where there is no one great business or occupation to 
 mould it into some definite form : there were rather late break- 
 fasts, mornings seemingly frittered away in light reading, music, 
 letter-writing, and not very profitable conversation ; afternoons 
 devoted to some drive or ride ; seven o'clock dinners and idle, 
 talking, musical evenings. What was the purport of all that 
 was said or done no one seemed to inquire. Lord Rutherford, 
 indeed, spent much of his time in his study, and busied himself 
 in managing his estates. His object was a definite one; yet 
 he was the only person, except Blanche, who appeared dissatis- 
 fied with it. After the first excitement of his sister-in-law's 
 arrival was over he seemed inclined to sink back into the 
 reserved and even contemptuous mood, which had occasionally 
 shown itself before when he was alone with Blanche. Lady 
 Charlton's vivacity indeed often roused him, and brought out 
 flashes of brilliant wit and quick observation ; but he soon 
 relapsed again into silence, — in Sir Hugh's presence especially ; 
 though, fortunately for his temper and his peace, the gout 
 lingered much longer than was expected, and kept Sir Hugh 
 in a great measure a prisoner to his room. When he was 
 absent the earl would occasionally read aloud, or enter into con- 
 versations with Lady Charlton, which, as they seemed to possess 
 a power to engage his aftention and give him pleasure, were 
 eao - erlv listened to by Blanche. 
 
 They were certainly very agreeable, full of anecdote anu 
 information. Blanche's opinion of her aunt's talents and power 
 of mind, and even of her principles, increased daily. For Ladv 
 Charlton never gave way to the earl's implied doubts of good- 
 ness, or clever sarcasm upon things and people whom Blanche 
 had learned to reverence. She spoke openly, and in a measure 
 earnestly upon all serious topics : blamed what was wrong, and 
 approved of what was right, and when left alone with Blanche 
 sympathized with any indication of her deeper feelings, more 
 Darticularly when they were in any way connected with her
 
 the earl's daughter. 9£ 
 
 mother. Blanche was beginning to lean upon and trust her 
 at times even to think that she might partly supply Mrs. 
 Howard's place as a guide in her daily actions. They were 
 very different, different in a way which Blanche felt better than 
 she could describe ; but their ideas seemed the same. Ladv 
 Charlton was more cheerful, more full of life and hope ; she 
 had more interest in passing events than Mrs. Howard : but 
 they liked me same people, approved of the same books, pro- 
 fessed the same motives. Blanche could not have spoken to 
 her alint upon anything which immediately involved her own 
 most sacred thoughts, for such confidence can scarcely be given 
 except to one person, and Lady Charlton was too recent a 
 friend, and too lively and light-hearted, to offer occasions for 
 alluding to them ; but in all minor points she seemed a safe 
 counsellor, and one whom the earl was particularly pleased that 
 Blanche should apply to. 
 
 '• I wish you knew her,'' wrote Blanche to Mrs. Howard, in 
 one of the weekly letters, which no occupation was ever allowed 
 to stop. " I should feel more certain then of my own opinion 
 about her. Perhaps you will think it is not right to sit in judg- 
 ment upon one who is so much my superior in age, and so 
 nearly related to me ; but I do not know how to help it. I 
 think you can scarcely imagine how entirely I am forced to form 
 my own decisions, and act upon my own will. The last few 
 months, since we parted, have worked a marvellous change. 
 I am mistress of the castle, and forced to order and arrange, and 
 treated with a deference which at first completely puzzled me. 
 Papa seems to delight that it should be so. He will never 
 allow the least opposition ; he calls me queen in jest, and when 
 I beg him to tell me what he wishes for himself, a cloud comes 
 over him, and he insists that he has no will but mine : and yet 
 to others he is so different. This is not what ought to be, is it ? 
 It frightens me : I long for some one to remind me of my 
 duties ; to scold me, and tell me when I do wrong — which 
 indeed is every hour in the day. I wish my aunt would do it 
 She has such very high principles, such good notions about 
 everything. I am sure she must perpetually see that I am not 
 acting rightly, but she never hints at its being possible. I do 
 make ber give me advice in common things, receiving visitors, 
 arranging for dinner-parties, and so on ; but it is all doi;6 
 laughingly, with a half apology, as if she had no reason to 
 suppose 1 did not. know all that she does. What I most wish 
 just now is to have some plan for the arrangement of my time. 
 5
 
 c\l} T II k earl's daughter. 
 
 1 have thought a good deal about it lately ; for the kind of life 
 1 lead at present is exceedingly unsatisfactory, and yet I cannot 
 tell liow to alter it. If we have visitors, I must attend to them; 
 and really that takes up more time than any one not on the spot 
 would imagine. My aunt constantly says that she will not 
 interrupt me, if she thinks I have anything to do ; but then she 
 begins talking, and I am bound in courtesy to listen ; and 
 very willingly, I must own, for she is the most agreeable person 
 I ever met with. Anecdotes she has to bring forward on every 
 occasion, and they are never wearying, they are told so quickly, 
 and with such spirit. She quite understands giving one 
 resting-places, and entering into anything one says in reply. 
 Really the hours pass by, and I have not the least idea that 
 they are gone. Yet they are not satisfactory to look back upon. 
 Then, if my aunt is not with me, Adelaide and Maude are ; 
 and Adelaide is like a butterfly, flying from one pursuit to 
 another, and calling upon me to follow her, and Maude — I meant 
 to have written a great deal about her, but I must not to-day : 
 if I once begin I shall certainly not leave off in time. She 
 interests me though, that I must say; and frightens me too. 
 We had a little quarrel the other day, a very tiny one, but still 
 sufficient to make me feel what she might be if she were 
 offended. I am afraid 1 am very proud : she rather ordered me, 
 and my spirit rebelled, and I showed that I was annoyed. I 
 thought perhaps she would have been angry with me a lonor 
 time; but instead of that she came up to me afterwards, the 
 first moment we were alone, and gave me a kiss, so kind ! 
 it made me ten times more vexed with myself than I was 
 before. Yet the next moment she was just like her old self, and 
 I do not feel I have advanced in the least with her. All 
 this is sadly wandering from my first subject, but when I write 
 to you I always do wander : so many things come to my mind 
 which I long to say. You will understand though that I lead 
 a very unsettled, idle life, and that Eleanor leads a very useful, 
 busy one ; and when we meet to compare notes I become 
 discontented with myself, and long to do better, but do not 
 know how to set about it. My aunt said she would go with me 
 to visit the poor people, and I know she would, if she could find 
 a leisure day ; but there is always some engagement. Poor 
 Susannah has been very much neglected in consequence. Elea- 
 nor has promised to go when she can, but Dr. Wentworth 
 trusted her particularly to me. She sent me a message the 
 rther day, asking to see me. You see I tell you all my faults,
 
 the earl's daughter. 97 
 
 as I used to do in the happy old times : sometimes — is it 
 wrong to say so ? — I fancy they were happier than these. At 
 any rate, I know that 1 never went to bed then with the same 
 burden of unfulfilled duties upon my conscience. Some rules 
 however*! can keep, and some things I hope I do not forget. I 
 can never be sufficiently thankful that I was confirmed 
 when I was...- Preparation would have been so much more diffi- 
 cult here, and I think I might have gone on in an unsettled 
 way, fancying thr.t confirmation would be a new starting-point, 
 and work some great change in itself. Whereas, now I feel 
 that all has been done for me which I could expect, and that if 
 I do not advance steadily, I must go back without any prospect 
 of being roused and warned again. Still I am uncomfortable 
 and anxious. The very fact of bringing my present mode of 
 life into a definite form, by writing about it, makes it assume a 
 more serious aspect. I am sure it must be very faulty in some 
 way ; and what will it be when I go to Loudon ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The answer to this letter brought a said disappointment to 
 Blanche. The continued illness of Mrs. Howard's niece made 
 her anticipate the probability of going abroad, and would at 
 any rate interfere with the visit to Rutherford, which had so 
 long been promised. Blanche had not realized before how 
 much she had hved upon the thought of this visit, — how 
 entirely she had looked forward to it as the means of making 
 Airs. Iloward acquainted with the fears and uncertainties which 
 she had never yet found courage to mention openly. A week 
 spent together would have sufficed to show the loneliness of 
 mind, — the absence of sympathy, — the uncongeniality between 
 herself and her father upon the one most important point, 
 which caused her daily grief. There would have been no need 
 of words ; Mrs. Howard would have felt and understood all. 
 Now that sinking, decaying isolation of heart must still remain, 
 unless she could explain. But what was there to explain ? 
 What had she to say? — the loved, petted, idolized daughter cf 
 a man in whom the world agreed to see no fault except pride, 
 — why was she not happy ? 
 
 " Read it, Eleanor," she said, putting the letter into her 
 friend's hand, as they met that same afternoon at the parsonage,
 
 98 the earl's daughter. 
 
 whilst tears, in spite of herself, rose to her eyes. " There is not 
 a shadow of hope for months, — probably not before next year/ 
 
 Eleanor glanced at the full sheet. "Am I to read it all?" 
 
 " [f you will; it is in answer to mine. But I have scarcely 
 thought of the advice in it yet." 
 
 Eleanor took the letter, and Blanche walked up and down 
 the gravel path, and very soon afterwards Mrs. Wentwortb 
 joined her. Blanche could not conceal that she was out of 
 sj hi its, and there was real kindness in the tone in which Mrs. 
 Wentworth addressed her, with a regret for the unpleasant 
 news which she had only just heard Poor Blanche was 
 always very alive to sympathy. The tears, which had only 
 uli-tened before, fell fast, and Mrs. Wentworth was touched by 
 her distress ; and opening the French window of a small room, 
 which fronted the flower-garden, begged her to go in, and sent 
 herself, and be alone if she liked it. "It was her own little 
 room," she said; "and no one would come near to disturb 
 her." 
 
 Blanche was only too willing to hide herself from observa- 
 tion. She expected Mrs. AVentworth to follow her; but sho 
 did not; and Blanche leant back on the sofa, and for a time 
 indulged her own sad, disappointed fancies. When she at last 
 raised her eyes, it was to rest them upon an object which at 
 once withdrew her thoughts from the present trial, and sent 
 tin in far back into the past. On one side of the fireplace hung 
 a small painting, the subject of which she recognised in an 
 instant. It was her mother's likeness ; but how different from 
 the subdued, sorrow-stricken countenance which dwelt in her 
 memory as the only true resemblance of the lovely Countess 
 Rutherford. The picture before her represented a young lady, 
 who .jould scarcely, so it seemed, have passed the age of twenty, 
 standing on the steps of the castle, dressed in a riding-habit, 
 and caressing a splendid horse, which she was evidently pre- 
 pared to mount. The face was bright, even mirthful ; the eyes 
 sparkling with expectation ; the mouth joyous in its expression 
 of happiness. There was no striving for effect in the picture; 
 nothing hut the simple representation of what must actually 
 have been witnessed. Blanche felt, as she looked upon it, that 
 the artist who could so have portrayed her mother must have 
 drawn her as she actually stood, without forethought or design. 
 Five years afterwards, that fair young creature had become the 
 pale, serious, care-worn woman, whose beauty was oversha- 
 dowed by a fixed, it might almost have been called, a stern
 
 the earl's daughter. 9£ 
 
 melancholy ; and whose fascination was the influence of that 
 purity of mind which grief lias prepared for heaven. 
 
 The picture, and the thoughts that it called forth, struck a 
 chord in the mind of Lady Blanche, which at that moment was 
 peculiarly though painfully sensitive. If her mother had been 
 spared, not even Mrs. Howard's friendship would have been 
 needed. Am} again an undefined doubt, followed by a long- 
 ing for a truer insight into that mother's history, arose within 
 her. Her attention was so engrossed, that Mrs. Wentworth 
 knocked at the door without being answered, and Blanche 
 started when she came in, as if the privacy of her own apart- 
 ment had been intruded upon. The attitude in which she was 
 standing, leaning upon the mantelpiece and aazing upon the 
 picture, told at once the subject of her thoughts. 
 
 " I did not know you had it," she said in a tone of gentle 
 reproach, as Mrs. Wentworth came up to her. Mrs. Wentworth 
 appeared at a loss for a reply. "And it must be like her," 
 continued Blanche, still with the same manner, as if she was 
 vexed at having long been deprived of a great pleasure. 
 
 " It was like her once, — for a short time," said Mrs. Went- 
 worth, her voice sinking at the last words, as it so often did 
 when referring to persons and events connected with other 
 days. 
 
 " I feel it must have been like," repeated Blanche ; '' more 
 like than the.bust at the castle ; more like than this," and she 
 unfastened her brooch. 
 
 " It is not the face bv which she was most known," said Mrs. 
 Wentworth, rather indifferently. "I am sorry you have seen 
 it; it will only disturb your ideas." 
 
 " No, no !" exclaimed Blanche. " I should be so glad if I 
 could know her as she was always ; as a child, — as a woman, 
 — as what I am now," she added, with a faint smile. 
 
 A slight contraction was visible in Mrs. Wentworth's fore- 
 head, the effect, perhaps, of some sudden pain ; but she 
 answered in her usual, undisturbed manner: — "There is no 
 picture of Lady Rutherford as she was at your age, my dear 
 Lady Blanche. This was taken three weeks after her marriage." 
 
 " And for you .' — was it her gift to you?" inquired Blanche, 
 with eagerness. 
 
 " No, not her gift. It was — " Mrs. Wentworth paused, 
 coughed, and then added quickly, "it was" the earl's once." 
 
 "And he parted with it?" exclaimed Blanche. "Oh, Mrs. 
 Wentworth ! even to vou !"
 
 100 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " [ loved her," was the reply, uttered sharply and bitterly; 
 and Blanche in an instant reproached herself for her words. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I know you did. I know you were her great 
 friend. Forgive me : you had of course a claim. But is there 
 no copy, — no other picture like it, taken at that time ? 
 Three weeks after her marriage! How happy she looks ! — my 
 own sweet mother !" and Blanche drew near with the impulse 
 to press her lips to the cold, lifeless figure. She checked her- 
 self however. Mrs. Wentworth's calmness seemed a reproof 
 for indulging anything like excited feeling. "Perhaps," she 
 said, turning to Mrs. Wentworth, with a smile of singular 
 attraction, so full it was of subdued eagerness, and softness, ami 
 hope, — "perhaps, some day, if I might be permitted, I would 
 ask to have it copied. It would be a great treasure. You will 
 understand," she added ; and in her earnestness she took Mrs. 
 Wentworth's hanJ, as if to entreat by action as well as by 
 word. 
 
 To her surprise, Mrs. Wentworth hesitated. " She would, 
 if it were possible ; — anything which could be done should be, 
 Lady Blanche might be certain of that. Artists were very 
 rarely in the neighbourhood ; but it might be possible, just 
 possible." 
 
 Blanche drew back her hand, — she began her reply proudly, 
 and it was an apology ; she had not known that she was asking 
 such a favour : — then conscience reproached her for pride shown 
 to her mother's early friend, and she tried to alter her manner. 
 Mrs. Wentworth stood passively by her, listening politely. An 
 unpleasant silence followed what Blanche said, — a stiffness and 
 restraint on both sides; but it was broken in upon by Mrs. 
 Wentworth. 
 
 "The original is so invaluable to me," she began. 
 
 Blanche interrupted her : — "You do not think I could wish 
 for that ? No, I assure you, not for a moment." 
 
 " There are associations connected with it," pursued Mrs. 
 Wentworth, quietly : " no copy would possess them. I was 
 present when the picture was taken. I watched its progress 
 from the commencement. The first sketch was made on the 
 countess's birthday, — she was just twenty. It was done by an 
 amateur, a friend of Lord Rutherford's, who was staying at the 
 castle. The countess had no idea of his intention ■ but I was 
 aware of it, and assisted him. I kept her, that is, in conver- 
 sation." 
 
 "And it was my father's ?" said Blanche, musingly.
 
 the earl's daughter. 101 
 
 '' Yes :" and again Mrs. Wentworth's manner grow very con- 
 strained ; and, after a short pause, she said, awkwardly, " I 
 do not think the earl would like to see it ; it might remind 
 him — " Blanche waited some moments for the continuation of 
 the sentence ; when it came, it was so hurried that she could 
 scarcely comprehend it : — " It might remind him," repeated 
 Mrs. Wentwjjrth, " that is, it would certainly bring to his recol- 
 lection : — I think it might annoy him to be spoken to about it," 
 were £he concluding words. 
 
 Annoy ! what a strange, cold expression ! But Mrs. \Vent- 
 worth was incomprehensible ; and so different on this day to 
 what she generally was, so frightened apparently out of her 
 usual self-possession ! Blanche felt quite bewildered. She 
 turned from the picture, and saying that she was now quit* 1 
 rested, and would rejoin Eleanor, was preparing to go, when 
 Mrs. Wentworth detained her. 
 
 " It is not pleasant to me to part in this way," she said more 
 freely ; " to appear unkind, as I must do. Might I hope that 
 vou would excuse it ; that you would make allowance for painful 
 recollections ? I think you will," she added, looking kindly at 
 Blanche ; " for your mother's sake I think you will excuse any 
 unintentional awkwardness in one who loved her very dearly." 
 
 Blanche's displeasure vanished in an instant. " My mother's 
 friend must always be privileged," she said, putting her hand 
 into that of Mrs. "Wentworth ; " even if there were anything to 
 excuse ; but, indeed, — of course, I can understand." The 
 mutual pressure of the hand was affectionate ; but Blanche was 
 relieved when she stepped into the open air : and she had not 
 forgotten, — there had been no second offer of procuring a copy 
 of the picture. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "Visitors in the drawing-room, my lady," were the words 
 which greeted Blanche, when she and Eleanor reached the 
 castle, with the hope of making some arrangements for spending 
 tin- afternoon more profitably than had seemed possible of late. 
 
 " Friends of my aunt's, I suppose," said Blanche, speaking to 
 Eleanor in an under tone. "Is Lady Charlton there?" she 
 inquired, aloud.
 
 1 02 THE K A It L ' S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Yes, my lady : Lady Charlton and Miss Adelaide. The 
 carriage has been ordered away." 
 
 Blanche went into the house. " "We need not appear, 1 
 imagine," she said to Eleanor. " I am supposed to be out ; and 
 ii' we once put ourselves in the way, there is an end to all 
 our plans for poor Susannah." Eleanor agreed that there was 
 no absolute necessity ; but she stopped at the foot of the stair- 
 case, and wondered who the visitors could be. 
 
 " We shall be waylaid, undoubtedly," said Blanche, trying to 
 hasten her. 
 
 " Hush ! who is that speaking ?" asked Eleanor, listening. 
 
 " Sir Hugh scolding Pearson, or Pearson scolding Sir Hugh," 
 said Blanche laughing. "Really, Eleanor, you are determined 
 to be caught." Blanche spoke in jest, but her words might 
 possibly have been true, for just then the drawing-room door 
 opened and a number of voices were heard. 
 
 " We shall be seen if we attempt to go up-stairs now," said 
 Eleanor decidedly ; but she had no one to hear her observation, 
 for Blanche had already escaped to her room. She sat there 
 for some little time very patiently. Eleanor, of course, had 
 waited the one moment too long, and been detained ; it was 
 provoking, but there was no help for it, and Blanche took out 
 Mrs. Howard's letter, in order to occupy the intervening time. 
 It was curiously appropriate to that precise moment. So much 
 of it was upon the subject of daily duties, daily interruptions, 
 and the spirit in which they should be borne. 
 
 " I am not in the least surprised at your complaints of desul- 
 toriness, my dear child," began Mrs. Howard. "All persons 
 situated as you are must in a certain way be desultory, or, more 
 correctly, they must I suppose appear to be so ; for it does not 
 follow that you should be so really. When you laid down 
 your strict rules, before you went away, I was convinced in my 
 own mind that you would find a difficulty in carrying them out, 
 hu! [ did not like to dishearten you, since a plan of life is in 
 itsoll good, even necessary, if we wish to discipline our minds 
 properly. The great mischief of such plans is when the fulfil- 
 ment of them is too rigidly insisted upon, and is raised into a 
 virtue in itself, instead of being considered as merely a stepping- 
 stone. However, I need not descant upon the danger of too 
 much regularity ; your difficulty seems to lie quite in the other 
 direction. ^ Naturally it would be so, for you cannot possibly be 
 entirely mistress of your own time, and you certainly are bound 
 in duty to consider the comfort of your guests before your own.
 
 the earl's daughter. 105 
 
 But there must be a limit to every duty, humanly speaking-, 
 or it will encroach upon another, and become a fault. Ami 
 this limit, I think, is to be found by having a true sense of our 
 position, not only in life but in our families. As a daughter, 
 you are of course bound to obey ; but, as the mistress of a 
 household, you are equally bound to take the lead, and to set 
 an example oi order and strictness. I doubt if you are likely 
 to remember this sufficiently. Your mode of life must in a 
 great measure give the tone to your whole household, and one 
 of the most important features in all families, especially in one 
 which like your own possesses influence from rank and wealth, 
 is that it should be under subservience to a law of duty And nut 
 of pleasure. I do not mean that it is possible to make iaws for 
 every hour, or every individual ; but it should never te left in 
 doubt that there are claims which must be attended to; em- 
 ployments which are never to be neglected except for some very 
 obvious reason. If your mother had been spared, these respon- 
 sibilities would not have been yours as yet ; but you are pecu- 
 liarly circumstanced, and there are duties incumbent upon you 
 which seldom fall to the lot of persons of your age. I wish I 
 could give you my ideas more in detail, for I am afraid I shall 
 not satisfy vou ; but what I mean is something of this kind — I 
 suppose you breakfast late, but that need not prevent you from 
 rising early. If you set the example the servants must in a 
 measure follow it, so one great temptation in an easy life will 
 be checked. I think you would find it useful not to shut your- 
 self up entirely in your room, but to let your servants see what 
 your habits are — as example is better than reproof, and indeed 
 reproof can scarcely, I imagine, be in the catalogue of your 
 duties at present. Then with regard to your mornings — you 
 intended I know, to study regularly; and certainly it seems to 
 me that you ought to do so. Could you not manage to give a 
 certain fixed time to your aunt and cousins, and any other 
 guests, directly after breakfast, and then let it be understood 
 that you wish to have an hour or two to yourself ? I hardly 
 think you would give offence, and your absence would by 
 degrees be taken as a matter of course. Perhaps, also, you 
 might be able to arrange to practise with your cousins, as you 
 say they are both musical ; but then, my dear Blanche, you 
 must take the lead. If your cousin Adelaide likes, what you 
 call, a butterfly life, it does not at all follow that you are to 
 humour her: and though she maybe some years older than 
 yourself, that will not prevent vour being of great use in keep
 
 in i t ii k earl's daughter. 
 
 in-- her steadily to one object, if you show you are detenuined 
 to°be steady yourself. So, again, I would beg of you if possi- 
 ble to decide upon seeing the poor people on fixed days; and, 
 when these days come, say you have an engagement, and make 
 any plans for drives, visits, &c, for your friends, independent of 
 yourself. Your reading, also, may be a great help to you as 
 regards system and regularity, if you can avoid the temptation 
 of beginning every new book that is thrown in your way — a 
 temptation which, I assure you, I can quite sympathise with. 
 We cannot always be studying history and metaphysics, but 
 when we do indulge ourselves in light reading it should be for 
 sum.' specified reason — at certain times, and under certain limita- 
 tions. I really believe that half the mischief of novels, those I 
 mean which are innocent, arises from their being so enticing 
 that we are induced to read them at wrong times. It may 
 seem a very slight fault to skim half a dozen pages more 
 when duty "calls us another way; but I am sure it injures the 
 conscience and untones the mind. If we can read a very 
 interesting book up to a certain moment, and then reso- 
 lutely close it because we have something else to do, the 
 relaxation can scarcely have done us harm. I am saying 
 nothing about higher rules and motives, because we have 
 talked of them so often before, and I am sure from your letter 
 that you have not forgotten them. 
 
 " This constant self-discipline, no doubt, requires energy and 
 watchfulness, but what is to be done without ihem? Especially 
 what can he done by persons situated as you «ire, having scarcely 
 any external restraints upon their inclinations? You must be a 
 law to yourself if you wish to avoid that wretched frittering away 
 of life which is the misery of hundreds of persons of your age at 
 the present moment. 
 
 "All I have said is of course subject to one proviso — that 
 your father should not object. If he were tc insist, or even evi- 
 dently to desire, that you should give yourself up entirely to your 
 aunt and cousins, you can but submit; only here again you 
 would find a law, and therefore satisfaction. It is not what 
 we do, but why we do it, that is of consequence. How often we 
 say to ourselves, speaking of things of this world, 'It does not 
 signify, it is all in the day's work V — and so, neither, does it sig- 
 nify in the concerns of another world, whether we are called 
 upon to rule a kingrJom or pick up stones from the road, if only 
 what we do is work ; work that shall turn to account in the 
 reckoning of the long day of life ; work for Hiuj to whom nothing 
 is great and therefore nothing can be little."
 
 the earl's daughter. 105 
 
 Blanche refolded her letter and sat for some time thinking 
 over it. She could not at once fully enter into Mrs. Howard's 
 views; or, at least, she could not at once see that they were 
 practicable. Yet they had given her an idea, a principle 
 which might materially assist her in the little difficulties that 
 often perplexed her. Blanche's mind was resolute and decisive. 
 This was not generally supposed ; but those who were in tho 
 habit of interpreting her conduct, too often did so without the 
 leastjinowledge of "the real clue to it. Lady Charlton saw her 
 amiable, agreeable, and attractive, aud called her " a sweet girl ;" 
 and Mrs. Wentworth understood, from conversation with Eleanor, 
 that she was very much fascinated by Lady Charlton, and ac- 
 customed to follow out her cousin's wishes, and, in consequence, 
 was likely to lead a desultory objectless hie ; and supposed 
 therefore that she was too gentle to be strong-minded. Lord 
 Rutherford indeed understood her better ; perhaps, if he had not 
 done so, he never could have given her his full affection ; for, 
 like her, he required respect to bring out his feelings, though it 
 was respect for the intellect, not for the heart ; and one of the 
 most satisfactory discoveries he had made in the progress of 
 their intercourse was that she could have an opinion and a will 
 of her own. But, even to him, it would have been a matter of 
 surprise to witness the immediate effect of Mrs. Howard's ad- 
 vice. He could not have understood the working of a mind 
 which obeyed conscience as it were instinctively, and to which 
 the bare possibility of a duty suggested an instant endeavour for 
 its performance. Blanche required only to perceive that Mrs. 
 Howard was right in her views, and of this a very little consi- 
 deration convinced her, and then her thoughts turned to the 
 practical mode of carrying them out, quickly, sincerely, without 
 delay, or reservation, or excuse, and in perfect simplicity ; not 
 at ail considering it necessary to guard against observation, or 
 to hide anything which she intended to do; but supposing 
 other persons would regard her duties as she did herself, as mat- 
 ters of course. She had already solved several difficult ques- 
 tions, when Eleanor's quick step was heard in the gallery, an 1 
 scarcely pausing to knock at the door she entered the room witn 
 the exclamation : — 
 
 " My dear Blanche ! I am so — so sorry ; I really am vexed tc 
 have kept you ; but — " 
 
 •• But if people will put themselves in the way they must 
 be caught," said Blanche laughing ; " however, we can go now." 
 
 "No, I beg your pardon, that was what I came to say," con
 
 106 the earl's daughter. 
 
 tinned Eleanor, hurriedly. "I am afraid we can't go this after 
 noon. L;idy Charlton wishes me so very much to stay ; they 
 are going out, — a large party: she quite pressed my joining 
 them. 1 am to drive with your cousin Adelaide." 
 
 Blanche could not conceal her vexation. ''And does my 
 •unit expect me to go too?" she inquired. 
 
 " Oh ! no, I assure you, I was very careful. I did not men- 
 tion your name. No one thinks you are in the house. Thev 
 suppose 1 liadcome to the castle to look for you; and now I 
 have left them with the excuse, that I must write a note to 
 mamma to tell her what I intend doincr." 
 
 "And shall you write ?" asked Blanche. 
 
 " Why no, upon second thoughts, I don't see there is a neces- 
 sity. I was to spend the afternoon with you, but whether I o-c 
 for a walk or a drive must be a question of indifference." The 
 latter part of the sentence was spoken in that tone of decision 
 which is sometimes used to conceal a doubt. Blanche, without 
 making any observation in reply, put aside the writing materials 
 which she was placing for Eleanor's use. 
 
 " Why will you not go with us, Blanche?" continued Eleanor. 
 " Why can you not wait till to-morrow?" 
 
 '• Because to-morrow will be like to-day," said Blanche: "it 
 will have its own duties." 
 
 " But I could walk with you then ; I promise that I will not 
 put myself in the way of temptation again." 
 
 ' Then it was temptation," said Blanche, a little reproachfully. 
 
 " Perhaps so ; it might have been : but I see no harm in it. 
 Whether you go alone to Susannah, or whether 1 am with you, 
 cannot make much difference to her." 
 
 " But it does to me," said Blanche, unable to repress a feel- 
 ing of vexation that Eleanor should prefer a drive with a party 
 of comparative strangers to a walk with herself. 
 
 Eleanor laughed, and declared that Blanche must be jealous 
 of her cousin Adelaide; but there was self-dissatisfaction be- 
 neath her assumed indifference, and she brought forward a 
 number of excuses for her determination. "Lady Charlton 
 pressed it so much," she said, "it was almost impossible to 
 refuse; in fact. I suspect she wants me as a chaperone. They 
 had not settled how it was all to be arranged/ Charles was 
 . striving hard for the honour of driving your cousin, 
 bnnself; but Lady Charlton had evidently set her' face against 
 
 It. ^ So. you See. I m;lV 1„. tH , f U 1 ." 
 
 Blanche did her best to enter into Eleanor's gaiety, but she
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 10'i 
 
 could not succeed very well ; fur, as she began to flunk of what 
 was to be done, she saw that all her plans were disarranged, 
 and Eleanor soon perceived it, also. 
 
 At the moment of accepting the invitation to join Lady 
 Charlton's party, she had not remembered that Blanche could 
 not well walk as far as Susannah's cottage alone. " However, 
 the next day^would do just as well," she said, " and Blanche 
 had better make up her mind to give up duty for that after- 
 noon, and go with the rest." 
 
 This Blanche declined ; since she was not wanted, she pre- 
 ferred having the time to herself. " I suppose you could not 
 send an excuse to mv aunt," she suo-o-ested. 
 
 But Eleanor negatived the idea instantly, and after again 
 be^ina; Blanche to forgive her, and promising; to behave better 
 
 OO O O X o 
 
 for the future, hastened away. 
 
 CIIABTER XiX 
 
 Blanche stood at the window, watching the party, which 
 was collecting in front of the castle. She saw Eleanor join 
 theai, and converse a little with Adelaide ; and, after some 
 delay, they both seated themselves in the pony carriage, and 
 drove off — closely followed by Mr. Wentworth on horseback. 
 Blanche could almost have repented having refused to accom- 
 pany them; since there was no apparent obstacle in the way. 
 But she felt that she had done what was best for her own mind, 
 and there was great pleasure in the quietness and solitude now 
 bo unusual; and when the rumbling of the wheels and the echo 
 of the horses' noofs died away in the distance, she lingered 
 still by the open window to enjoy the unbroken silence within 
 the house; and the low, soothing, mingled sounds of nature 
 without. They are rare and precious moments, which are thus 
 snatched from the whirl of life and spent in stillness and alone. 
 Even when they are not devoted to direct meditation, and appear 
 loo fleeting to be productive of good, they yet tend to give 
 ns a knowledge of the realities which encompass us. By the 
 depth of their solemnity and repose, they remind us that 
 beneath the surface of this weary, working existence, there is 
 another world — another, and an enduring life; — imaged in the 
 unchanging sky and the returning sun, and the ever renewed
 
 108 ihe earl's daughter. 
 
 beauty of the trees and flowers, and the steadfastness of tlie» 
 everlasting hills; and, if our hearts are open to the truth, they 
 may sometimes teach us to remember, that as in far off years 
 the glorious temple rose silently in the city of Jerusalem, neither 
 axe nor hammer nor tool giving warning or notice of the work, 
 so the more glorious temple — the Church of the Living God, — 
 is at this moment rising unperceived in the midst of a tumultu- 
 ous world ; each stone quarried and fashioned by the sharp edge 
 of sorrow and the keen stroke of adversity, uniil perfected and 
 prepared, it is fitted for that destined position which shall be 
 the place of its rest for eternity. 
 
 Thoughts something like these filled the mind of Blanche as 
 she sat alone, enjoying the unwonted quietness of the summer's 
 afternoon. She had early learnt to look upon what is, not 
 what seems to be; but, during the last few weeks, the truth had 
 been at times overlooked. Notwithstanding the dissatisfaction 
 expressed to Mrs. Howard, she had found much enjoyment in 
 the society of Lady Charlton and her cousins ; perhaps too 
 much, for it had unconsciously relaxed the strict, watchful tone 
 of her character. She perceived this now. Mrs. Howard's 
 letter had given the first warning; and this short interval of 
 reflection repeated it. Again she reverted to the question of 
 duty, but less practically than before. There 13 a close connec- 
 tion between the mystery of what we see and the mystery of 
 what we are ; and when Blanche looked upon the glorious 
 landscape beneath her, and the immensity of the sky above her, 
 she was carried away far beyond the immediate consideration 
 of daily pursuits into thoughts and speculat'ons for which no 
 answer could be found. Metaphysical difficulties suggested 
 themselves ; questions upon the origin of duty — its binding 
 power— the irremediable consequences of its neglect — the very 
 fact of its existence, involving the possibility of evil ; and this 
 again opening a new path for the reason to travel, till it stood 
 upon the brink of a precipice, and recoiled shuddering from its 
 own presumption. There are many amongst the young whom 
 such thoughts harass when it is little suspected — many, who 
 are armed with no shield of faith for their protection. We may 
 well pray for them, for their peril is great! 
 
 " ts that you, Blanche?" exclaimed a voice from below, as 
 Blanche still stood at the window. 
 
 Blanche started. "Maude! alone! T thought I saw yon 
 frith the rest." 
 
 1 No, thank you ; I am not a gregarious animal. And euci
 
 the earl's daughter. 109 
 
 a set too, as they were ! — just fitted for Adelaide. Bat come 
 down, I want you." 
 
 Blanche delayed. She had not settled what she was going 
 to do ; but, certainly, she had no intention of spending the 
 afternoon with Maude. 
 
 " Come, you must come," repeated Maude, impatiently ; " we 
 will have a German lesson. I promised you one. We will sit 
 upon the south terrace ; it is deliciously warm." 
 
 Blanche went to another window, from which Jie terrace 
 could be seen. It certainly was a most inviting spct, with the 
 bright slanting rays of the sun upon it, and the flowers border- 
 ing it radiant in beauty ; whilst, below, were contrasted the 
 deep shadows of the trees on the bank, and the glittering lines 
 of light which flickered on the sides of the distant hills. She 
 paused for a moment to consider ; and it seemed right to go ; 
 — right, since her afternoon was interrupted, to take advantage 
 of Maude's offer. 
 
 " We will read," said Maude, holding up a book ; " only 
 make haste." 
 
 Blanche threw a shawl round her and ran down stairs. 
 Maude met her at the hall-door. She looked quite satisfied, — 
 an unusual thino; for her, — and Blanche was 2Jad that she had 
 assented. 
 
 " I fancied I was quite alone," observed Maude, as she sat 
 down on a -bench in the shade. " Why did you not go with 
 the rest ?" 
 
 " I was not asked," replied Blanche ; " that is," observing 
 Maude's look of surprise, " I did not put myself in the way of 
 being asked. I meant to have gone out with Eleanor." 
 
 "Charity visiting, I suppose?" said Maude, with a slight 
 sneer. " Well! you are very good, Blanche; but, depend upon 
 it. it will be better for you to spend the afternoon in reading 
 ' Egmont ' with me." 
 
 "Egmont! Goethe's Egmont!" exclaimed Blanche hastily 
 and with doubt. 
 
 "Yes. Whvnot?" 
 
 " Goethe,! " again repeated Blanche. 
 
 " "Well ! " and Maude looked up almost angrily. "What is 
 the harm of Goethe ? " 
 
 " 1 don't know myself. I have never read anything of his. 1 ' 
 
 " Only the name frightens you. N< >w, my dear 1 ilanelie, do fol 
 once have an opinion of your own. ] >on't be a Quixote and con- 
 \ert a windmill into a giant, and then set to work to fight it."
 
 HO THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " But tin! world is the Quixote," said Blanche, laughing, " nol 
 I. I only go by what 1 hear." 
 
 " The world ! that is some few bigoted individuals who eon- 
 demn every creed which is not cut and squared after their own 
 pattern. Your father does not say so, I am sure." 
 
 "No; lie has often promised to read part of Goethe with 
 me. Only part," she added, laying her hand upon the book, 
 as Maude with a triumphant smile opened it. 
 
 " Egmont is a part — a very grand part, perfectly unexcep- 
 tionable." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " said Blanche. " I think " — an 1 she raised 
 her eyes to her cousin's face with an expressi jn of child-like con- 
 fidence ; " 1 think I might trust you." 
 
 The sneer which still rested upon Maude's lips vanished 
 directly. She turned to Blanche, and said eagerly, "Thank 
 you; yes, of course you may trust. Whatever I might 
 read myself, T could never ask you to listen to a word which 
 might offend you." 
 
 " But Goethe," said Blanche, as if speaking aloud her own 
 thoughts; " there is such a prejudice against him — there must 
 be something wrong — something dangerous." 
 
 u Dangerous ! absurd folly ! " and Maude turned the leaves 
 quickly in her irritation, exclaiming — as she went on, " The fear 
 ut' weak, narrow-minded cowards — false to their own convic- 
 tion — envious of a great mind. Blanche, you must not be one 
 of them." 
 
 "I hope I should be always true to my own convictions," 
 answered Blanche; " but it is very possible th.at you may call 
 them narrow-minded. I think you would," she added, boldly. 
 
 Maude fixed upon her a steady, penetrating gaze, and said 
 slowly, "I like that; better be narrow-minded and firm, than 
 narrow-minded and weak. You shall read Egmont." 
 
 "Tell me its faults first," said Blanche. 
 
 " Faults ! it has none. It is the most wonderfully true, noble, 
 inspiriting — but, you are a coward, after all;" and she threw 
 down the book and stood sjazincc over the edcre of the terrace. 
 
 Blanche went up to her. "I hope I am not a coward, 
 Maude; but we all know the weak points of our own minds. 
 Goethe's works must have something in them which does harm 
 to some persons— I may possibly be one. Tell me if there is 
 anything in Egmont which is generally objected to." 
 
 •' By whom i " said Maude, sarcastically. " By Mrs. Smith 
 —Brown— White— < rreen— Black ? " 
 
 "By persons whose opinions I am bound to respect."
 
 the earl's d a cghter. Ill 
 
 " By yourself, rather," exclaimed Maude, impatiently. " I k 
 forget such folly, Blanche, and judge fur yourself. As for the 
 story, it is matter of history ; though with Goethe, it is not 
 history, hut actual, breathing reality. It is Eginont as he was, 
 as he lived, and talked, and thought; with his gallant, chivalric 
 bearing — his openness, generosity, disinterestedness, love of 
 freedom, fearlessness of the world's censure. One must have 
 loved him, one must have been CTarchen, who died with him." 
 
 Blanche repeated quickly, " Died with him ? " 
 
 " Yes ; for him — with him ; she loved him too well to survive 
 him." 
 
 The next words were uttered by Blanche hurried.y, with an 
 effort ; ,k Who committed suicide, do you mean ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! yet I might have known it, it is all education. 
 Suicide ! Yes, what people call suicide. She kills herself. 
 You are shocked. What a mistake to have told you ! It is all 
 spoilt now; but you shall read it still; and tell me whether 
 Goethe cannot ennoble such a death." 
 
 Maude put her arm round her cousin to draw her back to the 
 seat, but Blanche resisted. " I am not afraid to read it," she 
 said ; " but it will give me pain." 
 
 "Yes; that pain which is pleasure, — the pain of sympathy 
 and admiration." 
 
 "That was not what I meant. T am sure I should admire it, 
 but I could not sympathize with it." 
 
 " Not with Eo-mont ? — not with Clarchen ? " 
 
 " Not with suicide," said Blanche, quietly. 
 
 " Pooh ! — nonsense ! Why will you harp upon the same 
 subject ? Of course, I do not admire suicide. I allow that it 
 is a crime, per se ; a great crime if you will ; but I do say, 
 and I will always say, that Goethe sanctities it by the power of 
 his genius ; that such love as Clare-hen's, is the love of a noble, 
 self-devoting spirit; that it is beautiful, and true love." 
 
 " Xo ; no ! " exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. 
 
 " Not beautiful ! Not true ! Then what is so ? " and Maude's 
 eyes flashed with irritation. 
 
 " Love which' lives through sorrow," said Blanche, her voice 
 slightly trembling. "Not love which dies to escape it." 
 
 Maude laid down the book which she held in her hand, 
 whilst waiting for a further explanation of her cousin's ideas, 
 and fixed upon her a cool, patient gaze, which was peculiarly 
 repelling. 
 
 Blanche turned away her eyes and went on ; " You asked
 
 112 T II E E A K I. S DAUGHTER. 
 
 me once about my notions and theories," she said, "and I did 
 not like to tell you; I am afraid I was wrong, but you must 
 forgive me. I don't thick I have what you would call theories ; 
 hut 1 have principles. And, since you are kind enough to read 
 with me, and talk to me, I should like you to know them, 
 because then we shall understand each other better. And, 
 another reason — they are true principles to me ; and when you 
 talk, it seems as if you were trying to uproot them. But it 
 would be unkind to do so," she added, very earnestly, as she 
 remembered the maze of perplexities in which but a short time 
 before she had been involved, when suffering her thoughts to 
 wander without check or guidance. " Even, if you could suc- 
 ceed, you would only be making me wretched, for they are my 
 hope and comfort — my happiness." And, in her energy, 
 Blanche clasped her hands, and drew up her slender, graceful 
 figure in an attitude of strength and power, which made the 
 half sneer upon Maude's face melt into a smile of admiration. 
 
 "And these thoughts and principles are what?" asked 
 Maude, patronizingly. 
 
 Blanche pressed her hands more closely together, and still 
 averting her eyes from her cousin, answered, "They are what 
 you may call narrow-minded prejudices — they are religion." 
 
 " Religion ! — yes ; certainly ; — extremely right," said Maude, 
 still in the same manner. " I hope I am religious too." 
 
 Blanche was for an instant distressed and perplexed. 
 
 " My dear child !" said Maude, speaking in a light playful 
 way, which made Blanche shrink at the recollection of her own 
 enthusiasm ; " my poor Blanche ! what an excitement you have 
 worked yourself into ! I declare you look quite ill." 
 
 Blanche with difficulty resisted the temptation to run away. 
 " Thank you," she said, "I am not ill. I did not mean to be 
 excited. I merely wished to say to you why I never could 
 agree in your admiration of Egmont." 
 
 " Because of that naughty Clarchen," observed Maude ; " but 
 we will forget her ; we will choose Schiller, if you like it, 
 and give up Goethe for the present. By-and-by, when you have 
 seen a little of the world besides St. Ebbe's, and this grim old 
 castle, you will not be so much shocked at him." 
 
 Blanche drew back from the caress with which these words 
 were about to be accompanied. " I never can wish that time to 
 come," she said. " If it did, I should have learnt to bear with 
 that which my reason, as well as my faith, tells me is utterly
 
 the earl's daughter. 113 
 
 There was a silence of some moments. 
 
 Maude appeared struck with the firmness of her cousin's 
 tone. She dropped the patronizing air which she had assumed, 
 and said, "Goethe's principles cannot be false, for they will find 
 an echo in the heart of every one who can admire generosity 
 and devotedness, and an undying, unchanging affection." 
 
 "I have^jiot read his works," Mas all the answer which 
 Blanche made. She seemed weary of the argument. 
 
 Maude again had recourse to the volume by her side. Open- 
 ing it towards the end, she read a few sentences to herself. " I 
 cannot let you have such notions, Blanche," she exclaimed, after 
 a short pause ; " they are beneath you. You must read, — you 
 must admire." 
 
 " As I should admire a dream or a fairy tale," said Blanche, 
 smiling. 
 
 " That is what I don't understand ; it is the only thing I can't 
 understand in you," said Maude. " What do you mean by a 
 dream ? Patriotism, the love of liberty, generosity, love, are 
 realities : you can feel them yourself; I know, I am sure, you 
 can." 
 
 " I hope I can," replied Blanche. " I think them very real, 
 very lovely, and admirable." 
 
 " And therefore true," continued Maude ; " true, that is the 
 point, — that is the object to be sought after, desired, striven, 
 piayed for I" She spoke earnestly, her dark grey eyes kindling, 
 and her colour heightened. 
 
 " Yes, truth ; it is the one thing needful," replied Blanche : 
 "but Mrs. Howard says that a half truth must be the greatest 
 of falsehoods." 
 
 " What ? say it again," exclaimed Maude. 
 
 Blanche repeated the words. 
 
 " Goethe's truths are half truths, you mean," continued Maude. 
 
 " I think they must be ; like the half truths of heathenism, 
 which led men to idolatry." 
 
 " But a whole truth, who can find it ? — who can be certain 
 of it ?" said Maude in a musing tone. 
 
 " God is truth," replied Blanche, timidly and reverently. 
 
 " Yes," ami Maude's manner became reverent also ; " but men 
 also are divine — in their noblest feelings, their highest desires." 
 
 " We were made in the image of God," observed Blanche : 
 " but the image is defaced." 
 
 " Granted, of course. Defaced ; but not utterly ruined — no* 
 loot."
 
 114 T II k earl's daughter. 
 
 '• No, indeed not," exclaimed Blanche, enthusiastically; "not 
 lost, — still to be restored, renewed again ; but it must be after 
 the perfect original." 
 
 " 1 ana tired of symbols," said Maude, hastily. 
 
 "Still, may I tell you, will you not think me very presump- 
 tuous if I say what such notions as I believe Goethe's to be 
 appear to me to resemble ?" continued Blanche : "those I mean 
 which make persons interesting, and in a certain way good, 
 without being Christians. 1 must use an illustration ; I cannot 
 explain myself else. It is as if he had accidentally met with 
 separate fragments of what had once been the copy of a perfect 
 statue ; and because he admired each portion separately, sup- 
 posed that by uniting them all together the whole would be 
 beautiful." 
 
 " Of course, of course," interrupted Maude ; " they could not 
 be less beautiful when put together than they were before, sup- 
 posing they were all the work of the same hand." 
 
 "But if parts were wanting," continued Blanche: " or if 
 Goethe had never seen the perfect original, and therefore, instead 
 of combining them according to the first design, formed a figure 
 after the imagination of his own heart — distorted and defi- 
 cient, — there would be no beauty in the whole, though every 
 separate member might be perfect." 
 
 '• Well !" was all Maude would say. 
 
 " I think, — it seems to me," continued Blanche, hesitating, 
 " that this is something like such principles as you tell me are 
 to be found in Egmont. The feelings described may be good 
 and true separately ; but they can scarcely be so when they 
 are put together, because love and obedience to God are 
 wanting" 
 
 "No," exclaimed Maude; "Goethe, in Egmont at least, 
 would make men obedient to the principles implanted in them 
 by nature and conscience. You would not wish for a better 
 guide than conscience." 
 
 " It must be the conscience of the Bible, then," said Blanche ; 
 " not the conscience of a fallen nature. This is setting myself 
 up as being able to decide very weighty questions," she added, 
 blushing ; "but I have gained all my ideas from Mrs. Howard, 
 Thoughts used to come into my head and puzzle me, and I used 
 to talk to her about them ; and she made them clearer." 
 
 " I should like to argue her into admiring Goethe," said 
 Maude, « that would be a triumph." 
 
 " Impossible !" exclaimed Blanche ; " that is, to make Ler
 
 TDE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 approve would be impossible ; or admire either, in one sense ; 
 because she never admires what is not true." 
 
 " True ! true !" repeated Maude to herself. " If one could 
 only find what is true !" 
 
 " We are not true ourselves," said Blanche, " because of our 
 evil nature ; so that if there is truth anywhere, it must be in 
 something distinct from ourselves." 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose it may be so," replied Maude, doubtfully. 
 
 " In, the Bible, then ?" continued Blanche ; and finding that 
 Maude did not contradict her, she added, " Goethe and the Bible 
 would not agree ; therefore Goethe's principles must be untrue. 
 Am I very obstinate ?" 
 
 " You are very provoking," replied Maude, tossing the book 
 from her. " I will never ask you to read Egmont again ; you 
 mav be quite certain of that." 
 
 She spoke with irritation, but Blanche fancied that some 
 portion of it was assumed. " I did not say that I would not 
 read it, and admire it too," she said ; " but you must let me try 
 and think that Clarchen was a heathen." 
 
 Maude looked sullen. She went forward, picked up the 
 book, and turned towards the house. Just then Lord Ruther- 
 ford came upon the terrace ; he had been riding, and had re- 
 turned earlier than he expected. Maude's countenance struck 
 him as he passed her, and, wdien he joined Blanche, he began 
 to inquire what was the matter. 
 
 Blanche did not venture to tell him the whole. She had an 
 intuitive perception of the points upon which they might differ, 
 and avoided them carefully. Difference with him was very 
 unlike difference with her cousin ; it involved so much more. 
 And then she was afraid of him ; afraid of his cool, keen 
 sarcasm ; especially afraid, because she could not feel, as she did 
 when conversing with Maude, that, however at variance their 
 sentiments might be, both were earnestly seeking after truth. 
 
 CHATTER XX. 
 
 " And you were not inclined to be of your aunt's party, 
 then ?" began the carl, alter Blanche had briefly told him that 
 she had just finished an argument with Maude, which left then' 
 apparently both where they had begun. 
 
 " The party was formed before I came back from the parson
 
 Ill) THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ao-e," replied Blanche ; "and I meant to have gone for a walk 
 with Eleanor." 
 
 " You are wonderfully fond of the parsonage, Blanche. Are 
 you in love with Mrs. Wentworth yet ?" 
 
 A remembrance of the morning interview came to Blanche's 
 mind, and she answered quickly, "Oh, no ! not at all in love." 
 Adding, to soften her words, " she requires, I think, to be known 
 
 Well."" 
 
 " Better than I ever knew her," observed the eail, with 
 asperity. " She is one of those chill pieces of propriety whoso 
 very presence freezes one's blood. Marvellous it is to me that 
 she should have such children. Miss Wentworth is superior in 
 every way ; and her brother is a very handsome, agreeable man." 
 
 " They are a handsome family," observed Blanche. " Dr. 
 Wentworth " 
 
 The earl interrupted her : " My dear, you were going out ; 
 into the village, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, some distance ; but I could not go alone, and the 
 pony-carriage was given up for my aunt." 
 
 " Well ! I will go with you ; you are not tired, I suppose ?" 
 
 Blanche thought of Maude. She fancied that it was unkind 
 to leave her. 
 
 Her father drew near the steps which led down the bank. 
 " Y r ou are going, — which way ? Can I help you ?" 
 
 Blanche mentioned her cousin's name ; but the earl quickly 
 negatived the idea of asking her to join them, ending, however, 
 with, " unless you particularly wish it, my love. I would have 
 you do whatever you like." 
 
 Blanche did not make a second proposal. She ran lightly 
 down the steps, and taking her father's arm, they followed the 
 path which led them through the underwood, and amongst the 
 scattered trees, down to the edge of the stream. A rough 
 bridge was thrown over it, and Blanche, leading the way, with- 
 out thinking it necessary to explain where she was going, 
 crossed it, and pursued the path over a green field to the foot 
 of the steep, broken ground which bordered it. Lord Ruther- 
 ford walked on in silence, till Blanche began to ascend the bank, 
 when he stopped, and rallying her upon her forgetfulness of his 
 age, asked her where she intended to carry him. 
 
 " Only a little way, — quite a little way by this bad road," 
 replied Blanche: "we shall be in a straightforward lane, when 
 we are at the top of the bank. But, papa, I will not go on if 
 you had rather not. I was going to see Susannah Dyer."
 
 the earl's daughter. 117 
 
 " Susannah who ? Oh ! a poor woman, I suppose." 
 
 " A blind girl," said Blanche. 
 
 " Blind ! poor thing ! — extremely sad. Blanche, my darling, 
 you will sit down, and rest first." 
 
 The afternoon was passing rapidly, and Blanche's hopes of 
 visiting Susannah Dyer were becoming very slight ; but she sat 
 down obediently. 
 
 " Susannah was confirmed when I was," sho commenced 
 again. 
 
 " Olf, yes ; I recollect you told me before. There is no harm 
 in your going to see her : you like it, I suppose ; and you have 
 not much amusement." 
 
 Blanche smiled to herself at the word amusement, for it was 
 not what she generally associated with her visits to the poor. 
 
 " Your aunt has been talking to me," continued the earl, fol- 
 lowing, as he always did, the train of his own ideas. " She 
 says I bury you here : it is not the season for London, or she 
 would make me take you there directly." 
 
 "Me ! London ! Oh ! papa, I am quite happy where I am." 
 
 " Happy in your ignorance, my love ! I am glad you are : 
 but ignorance will not do all one's life ; and you must be con- 
 demned to London, by-and-by, I am afraid. Condemned to a 
 gay life, — balls, fetes, concerts." 
 
 " They sound pleasant," said Blanche. " I suppose I shall 
 like them ; but Mrs. Wentworth tells Eleanor that she should 
 not like her to be placed within reach of them." 
 
 " Mrs. Wentworth is not your guide, my love. I mean, you 
 are not at all called upon to take her views. I don't wish you 
 to do so. I like you to form your own." 
 
 Blanche was checked and afraid to say how much she was 
 inclined to respect Mrs. Wentworth's views. It was always the 
 case when conversing with her father. With all his partiality 
 — his devotion, it might be called — his eagerness to gain her 
 confidence — insensibly, he repelled her. She was always 
 choosing subjects for conversation, thinking whether he would 
 be pleased. There is no real freedom where this feeling 
 exists. 
 
 " Your aunt," again began the earl, " is very different from 
 Mr-. Wentworth. She is a person of large, comprehensive 
 mind, ami very unprejudiced. You must find the difference in 
 talking to them." 
 
 u My aunt is much the more agreeable," said Blanche. 
 
 "Anl her opinions are much the more valuable," continued
 
 118 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the earl. " You could not find a safer friend to introduce you 
 into the world. She understands the thing so well ; you 
 oannot possibly make mistakes if you follow her advice. She 
 lias an intuitive perception of right and wrong in all cases." 
 
 " 1 think she has very good, high notions," said Blanche. 
 
 "Yes; very good, very high ; what all persons should have," 
 said the earl quickly. " But I was thinking of society. I have 
 perfect confidence in your good taste, my child ; yet you might, 
 in ignorance, offend against the customs of the world, if you had 
 in' one to direct you. And it is a woman's direction which is 
 required ; no man could understand what is wanted. I should 
 be quite satisfied if I thought your first introduction .'uto society 
 would be under your aunt's chaperonage." 
 
 " Ami will it not be?" inquired Blanche, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " There is a doubt. Sir Hugh has odd whims, and some- 
 times fancies he can only live abroad. I think it possible he 
 will not remain in England more than a twelvemonth ; if so, it 
 would be my great wish to give you a little insight into life 
 soon. You will be more than seventeen in the spring." 
 
 " Yes ; but that seems a long time oft"" said Blanche. 
 
 " You mio-ht enjoy a season in town, then7' continued the 
 earl, " and your aunt might be with us ; " and, in the mean time, 
 I think it would be desirable to show you something more than 
 the routine of our present life. Your cousins would like it, so 
 would your aunt, and it might induce her to remain with us longer. 
 She had an idea the other day of persuading Sir Hugh to go 
 down to his own place ; and I had some difficulty in talking her 
 out of it. It would be an absurdity. Sir Hugh never rests there : 
 I"; no sooner feels himself tied down to a place, than he is in an 
 agony to leave it." 
 
 " But is it not right for persons to live on their own pro- 
 i i rty," inquired Blanche ; " and take care of it and of the people, 
 as y< >u do ?" 
 
 "Right, if they like it, my dear: but Sir Hugh's steward 
 does infinitely more good at Senilhurst than Sir Hugh himself. 
 1 [owever, the question now is not about him. What shall you 
 say. Blanche, to an importation of visitors?" 
 
 Blanche laughed and blushed, and thought it might be 
 pleasant, quite pleasant, if only her aunt could be the lady of 
 the castle instead of herself. 
 
 ; ' There we must differ," replied the earl, turning upon her a 
 look of fond admiration. "There is but one who can fitly fill 
 that station, — only one," he repeated, in a lower tone. Then,
 
 the earl's daughter. 119 
 
 after a short pause, lie resumed, " And will you like it, Blanche ? 
 that was my doubt. Tell me, — let me know," he continued, 
 seeing that she was uncertain what to reply. 
 
 Blanche was obliged to speak ; she never dared to delay an 
 answer when her father's manner was impetuous ; but she could 
 only repeat that it might be pleasant. This she saw did not 
 satisfy him, a»d making an effort to be candid, she added, " 1 
 cannot be sure till I have tried ; and I do not like to say that I 
 wish it, because I think it might do me harm." 
 
 u Harm V the earl turned to her hastily. 
 
 " I might like it too well," continued Blanche, her voice fal- 
 tering a little, as, with an instinctive feeling that it would be 
 better not to provoke any discussion upon duty ; she added, 
 " To-day I do not seem to care about it, because I have been 
 disappointed about Mrs. Howard. I looked forward to her 
 visit so much, that now I do not seem to have an interest in 
 other people. I dare say I shall enjoy it though, dear papa," 
 she said, perceiving that he looked disappointed ; " and you 
 will not scold me for being fond of Mrs. Howard." She looked 
 up into his face with a smile, though a tear glistened in her eye. 
 It was a smile of bright, heavenly beauty ; but it brought proud 
 visions of earth to the worldly mind of the Earl of Rutherford. 
 
 " No," he exclaimed ; " I would have you love, venerate, 
 delight in her. Whatever my Blanche loves must be most 
 worthy. But- there are affections — feelings to be brought forth 
 under other circumstances. Scenes more fitted for you. You 
 do not think, Blanche, that I could consent to see you wear out 
 the best years of your existence here ; when I have but to speak 
 the word, and you may be the centre of attraction, the star, the 
 guiding light of hundreds. No," he added, as Blanche's colour 
 deepened, till her forehead was dyed of a crimson hue; "I 
 would not pain you, my child, with your own praises. I speak 
 selfishly, for my own happiness. To see you wasted at Ruther- 
 ford would be wretchedness. For my sake, you must forget the 
 dreams of your childhood, and look forward to the prospect 
 opening before you." 
 
 " It will not be very difficult, I dare say," said Blanche, trying 
 to throw her own mind into harmony with her father's. " I 
 dare Bay I have a taste for gaiety, only I have never had any 
 opportunity of indulging it." 
 
 "Then you shall have it now," exclaimed the earl, his face 
 brightening, " I have been remiss, certainly, in my attentions 
 to tli" people about us; but we will have a few persons in the 
 6
 
 1 -JO T II k earl's daughter. 
 
 house to help us to entertain them, and then we can collect them 
 en masse, and make it agreeable." 
 
 " Soon," inquired Blanche, with a timidity which she could 
 not hide. 
 
 Lord Rutherford laughed. " The execution-day is not fixed ; 
 hut, my love," — and his lightness of manner in a moment 
 changed into seriousness — "you must not deceive me as to your 
 wishes. Neither for your aunt, nor for myself, nor for any 
 human being, will I consent to do what you do not like. You 
 have only to say the word, and Rutherford shall be as quiet and 
 monotonous for the next six months as it has been up to this 
 moment." 
 
 The word Monotonous gave Blanche a quick insight into her 
 father's feelings. Though he would not own it the desire for so- 
 ciety wasasmuch for his sake as for hers. She could not disappoint 
 him ; and, besides, she was not in her heart inclined to do so. 
 Blanche was young and naturally cheerful. She enjoyed 
 change, and amusement, and excitement; and, though she 
 dreaded them as possible evils, she had never experienced any 
 harm from them. Eleanor, too, she knew would enjoy the 
 novelty, and Adelaide Charlton would be delighted; and, with 
 all these mingled inducements to bias her inclinations, she at 
 length answered, as heartily as the earl desired, that "she 
 should certainly like it, provided only that her aunt would 
 undertake the management of every thing;" and then, hoping 
 that her father would be satisfied, she stood up and proposed to 
 continue their walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "When Blanche reached the blind girl's cottage, she was not 
 quite in the mood for such a visit. Her fancy had been wan- 
 dering, — yielding to the gay ideas which her father had sug- 
 gested. Lord Rutherford went with her till they were within 
 sight of the house, and then he took out his watch and said that 
 it was late, and hoped that Blanche would not stay too long. 
 " It was a strange fancy to like coming to such an ugly place." 
 Blanche was vexed that she had brought him; and blamed her- 
 self for not understanding him better, at least for not consulting 
 his wishes more. This was one of the many trifling incidents 
 which were continually reminding her of the little true sympa-
 
 THE EAhl's DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 thy there was between them. He did riot reallj care for the 
 things for which she cared, notwithstanding- his des re of making 
 her happy. She opened a wicket-gate, and walked up a narrow 
 slip of garden to a square, red brick house, the only ornament 
 of which was a straggling monthly rose. She was almost re- 
 solved not to go in ; there was a sound of voices in the house, 
 and she said t<5 herself that perhaps it was another visitor, and 
 she should be in the way. Good reasons, or such as are appa- 
 rently good, always rise up to the aid of inclination. Her father 
 iras leaning over the palings, and she feared he was growing 
 impatient, and her knock at the door was hasty in consequence. 
 In answer to her first inquiry, she was told that Susannah was 
 not well, and was only just dressed and coming out of her bed- 
 room. Blanche was about to find an excuse, and say that she 
 would call another day ; but conscience reproached her, and she 
 never turned away from that warning. After Mrs. Howard's 
 advice, she certainly ought not to postpone any duty which 
 presented itself, and, conquering the disinclination, she said that 
 she could wait till Susannah was ready. 
 
 A delay of some minutes took place before she was admitted. 
 Susannah was to be brought into the room, and seated in her 
 proper chair ; and a bustling neighbour was to be dismissed at 
 a back door ; and two children sent out in a hurry, with some 
 broken plavthings, which made the room look untidy ; but the 
 smile that brightened up the blind girl's intelligent face, when 
 at last Blanche entered, quite rewarded her for her patience. 
 
 " And you are not well, Susannah, I hear ?" said Blanche, 
 sitting down by her side, and taking her hand ; whilst Susannah 
 turned to her with a look of gratitude, which did not need the 
 light of the eyes to give it expression. 
 
 " I have not been very well this week, my lady ; I believe I 
 go out rather too much. But I have had a little nephew stay- 
 ing here till yesterday, my sister's child, who lives near your 
 ladyship's aunt, at Senilhurst. That tempted me to go about 
 with him and the other children; for he is a sweet little fellow, 
 and I never liked ,to have him out of the way. AVe went over 
 the hill to the village one day, and it was too far: but there is 
 not much the matter." 
 
 "I wish I had known you were not well," said Blanche: "I 
 certainly would have managed to see you before ; but the days 
 pass by, and there are so many things to do. I should have 
 [iked, too, to Bee your little nephew. How old is he?" 
 
 Blanche had touched the right chord to show her sympathy.
 
 122 the earl's daughter. 
 
 The blind girl forgot her trials, whilst in the pride and delight 
 which she felt in her sister's child, she expatiated upon his good- 
 ness, and affection, and his beauty too; for he was beautiful, she 
 declared. She quite knew what he was like ; but a heavy sigh 
 
 followed. 
 
 " Poor Susannah !" said Blanche kindly ; " it must be a great 
 
 trial." 
 
 'lie blind girl recovered herself in an instant. "I am not 
 going to complain, my lady. It's all best, I know ; and I am 
 cheerful enough most times." 
 
 " Only out of spirits to-day from not being well, I am afraid," 
 said Blanche. " I wish I could stay with you and read to you." 
 
 " Ah ! if you could ! some of the hymns out of the book Miss 
 Wentworth brought, I should like. They seem to be work for 
 me afterwards ; because when I sit knitting, I can remember 
 them. It must be a glorious thing to make verses !" 
 
 Blanche smiled and said, " You told me one day you had tried 
 to make verses yourself, Susannah. I dare say it amuses you." 
 
 " Yes, sometimes, in my poor way ; it makes the time pass 
 to see how the words fit." 
 
 " And verses suit some thoughts better than plain words do" 
 continued Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, than some plain words, but not the Bible words." 
 
 " Many of them are really verses also, though not quite like 
 ours," replied Blanche. " Just listen to these," and taking up a 
 Bible, she turned to the passage in Isaiah which bears us, in 
 thought, from this evil world to" behold " the land which is very 
 tar off." 
 
 Susannah listened in the attitude of fixed attention, and when 
 Blanche's voice ceased, she entreated for more. " It was so 
 lovely," she said ; " it was like rest — not rest though, quite ; but 
 moving on without feeling it." 
 
 Blanche could not refuse, and was beginning to read the fifty- 
 fifth chapter, when the earl, unperceived, came within sight of 
 the door. " That first verse is a verse for illness, Susannah ; is 
 it not V said Blanche, pausing ; " for the hot, weary days, when 
 our lips are parched and dry ; and a verse also for our sad days, 
 when it seems that we have no pleasure ; when we sit for hours 
 .-till and lonely, and seem not to have any friends, or comforts, 
 and long and thirst for them ?" 
 
 " But that can never be your case, my lady," said Susannah. 
 
 Blanche answered quietly: "The lonely feeling comes to us 
 
 all alike, at times, and so does the comfort. But I know it must
 
 the earl's daughter. 123 
 
 be worse for you than for me ; God has given me a great many 
 blessings." 
 
 "Yes, so many to love yon," continued Susannah. "lean 
 fancy that better than all the grandeur." 
 
 Blanche could not repress a sigh as she replied, " I hope there 
 are some in the world who love me, certainly — love me very 
 dearly ; but that love is not enough alone." 
 
 " No, not alone ; I know it is not. I can feel it is not some- 
 times;" and the expression of the poor girl's face spoke deep awe 
 and demotion ; " but it comes for a time ; and then it goes, and 
 it is all dark — quite dark," she repeated, in a voice of melan- 
 choly, as if the privation from which she suffered had given her 
 a keener insight into the meaning of the darkness of the soul. 
 
 Blanche paused for a few instants before she replied. She 
 turned the pages of the Bible, and as she did so repeated, in an 
 under tone, the first words of the evening prayer, beginning, 
 " Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee." 
 
 Susannah caught the words and said eagerly, " Does it mean 
 darkness in our hearts ?" 
 
 " Yes, in one sense it must," answered Blanche ; " and night 
 must mean the night of this life. It is a beautiful prayer." 
 
 "Lighten our darkness," repeated Susannah, thoughtfully. 
 "Ah, my lady; that can never be for me." 
 
 " Not in this world perhaps," continued Blanche ; " but the 
 eight will pass, Susannah, and the day will come — the glorious 
 day. It is worth waiting for, worth suffering and striving for, 
 worth patience." 
 
 Susannah's face lighted up with interest, as she folded her 
 hands together with an air of devotion, and suffered a flower 
 which she had been picking to pieces to fall from her grasp. 
 
 "Just think," pursued Blanche, "what it will be like; it will 
 In- light with no shadow, no cloud, no power of fading away — 
 perfect light both for the body and the soul. And it must come ; 
 though the hours seem ever so long, ever so dreary, it must 
 come. Oh ! Susannah, it will be light for us both, and we both 
 promised together to strive for it." 
 
 Susannah did not reply ; the sympathy was beyond her com- 
 prehension. Since that one day which had united them in the 
 same act of self-dedication, their paths had parted to the world's 
 sight far asunder ; and whilst poverty and privation were her 
 lot, it seemed that both lit'*' and death must be light to the 
 envied heiress of Rutherford. 
 
 Blanche read her thoughts with wonderful quickness, and a?
 
 124 the earl's daughter. 
 
 h •:• voice sank and faltered, she added, " You will not think it; 
 bul 1 have my moments of darkness too — sadness, lonelin 
 and disappointment. Even for me earth would be often dreary 
 it' it were my all." 
 
 The call's cough at that instant warned her that he was 
 within hearing. She locked up and caught his eye. His look 
 startled her. It was stern; but the sternness of suffering rather 
 than of anger. He asked only if she was ready, took no notice 
 of Susannah, and scarcely allowing Blanche to bid a hearty 
 good-b'ye, led her from the cottage. 
 
 They walked on in silence fur some distance. Blanche was 
 nervous and uncomfortable. She dreaded she knew not what. 
 As they stood again upon the brow of the steep bank they had 
 ascended after crossing the river, and which commanded a 
 splendid view of the castle and park of Rutherford, the earl 
 stopped her suddenly, and whilst he pointed to the domain which 
 was one day to be her own, said in a calm tone, the more bitter 
 from its effort to be indifferent: "Then I have tailed, Blanche, 
 to make you happy. I give you all and you are disappointed." 
 
 For a moment Blanche was quite unable to answer. The 
 restraint which she always felt when with her father now 
 amounted to dread ; yet she summoned resolution, and replied, 
 " We must all be disappointed sometimes, I suppose, dear papa; 
 but I have a great dial to make me happy ; and I am very 
 happy generally. I would not vex you for the world," she 
 added, laving her hand affectionately upon his arm. 
 
 The earl took no notice of the caress, and after continuing his 
 walk for some little distance, exclaimed, as if giving vent to a 
 train of secret reflections, " You are right, Blanche ; it must be 
 so. I was a fool to think it might be otherwise. But a last 
 hope, a last wish," he added, in a lower tone. "Folly though 
 it may be to cherish it, it is hard to give it up." 
 
 " If it is a wish for me, papa," said Blanche, gaining courage 
 as she spoke, " I think you may be satisfied ; for I desire no 
 change outwardly." 
 
 " Then what would you have ? AYhy do you speak of disap- 
 pointment P he inquired, quickly. 
 
 Blanche evaded a direct reply, and -eplied, "Our sad feelings 
 generally come from our own minds. There would be none, I 
 suppose, if we were perfect." 
 
 " A cloud gathered upon Lord Rutherford's face. " You 
 must be careful," he said. " That morbid tenderness of con- 
 science may lead you, you know not where."
 
 the earl's daughter. 125 
 
 " 1 hope it is not morbid," exclaimed Blanche ; " for Mrs. 
 Howard did not call it so : she understood it, and gave me 
 sympathy." 
 
 " Sympathy !" said the earl, in an under tone ; and Blanche 
 repeated the word with an unconscious earnestness, for it 
 expressed the true extent of her needs. They had crossed the 
 bridge, which was divided by a little gate from the castle 
 grounds. The earl opened the gate for Blanche to pass, but he 
 did not follow her, and when she turned to look for him, she saw 
 him leaning over it with his face buried in his hands. She 
 walked on slowly ; her heart was full of anxious, unhappy 
 thoughts, and the sound of voices on the terrace above jarred 
 painfully upon her. The idea of possibly meeting strangers 
 made her hesitate to ascend the bank, and whilst waiting unde- 
 cidedly, the earl rejoined her. 
 
 "Not that way," he said, as he heard Adelaide's augh ; and 
 he went on before her, so that she had only a momentary 
 glimpse of his countenance; yet, even in that instant, she fan- 
 cied it looked paler than usual. They turned into a walk at 
 the foot of the bank and reached the castle by a more circuitous 
 path, which led to one of the side wings. A low door at the 
 foot of the turret presented itself at the termination. The earl 
 stopped before it. 
 
 " You know this way, of course," he said. 
 
 " Yes ; I have explored it once or twice," replied Blanche. 
 
 ''You think you know it," he continued, and a ghastly smile 
 overspread his features. " But I doubt if you do. It is a private 
 entrance to your mother's apartments." They passed on and 
 ascended a winding staircase, which Blanche had only noticed 
 before as leading, she supposed, to the servants' rooms; and in 
 a few seconds reached a small lobby, into which several doors 
 opened. The earl took a key from his pocket, unlocked the 
 nearest duor, and putting another key into Blanche's hand, said, 
 " This room opens behind the bed-room which you have 
 seen. You will find letters and papers in the cabinet. Read 
 them at your leisure, if you will." He did not wait for a reply, 
 but turned into a passage communicating with the other part of 
 the castle. 
 
 Blanche scarcely noticed that he was gone. She stood in her 
 mother's apartment, her place of solitude and retirement, and all 
 consciousness of the present was absorbed in feeling for her who 
 slumbered with the dead. The room was small, and furnished 
 very simply ; the chairs were without carving or ornament ; the
 
 12G THE EARL'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 curtains of the plainest pattern; the carpet worn and colourless 
 from age. But a reading-stand w<is placed in the oriel window, 
 and upon it lay a large open Bible ; and a low hassock, bearing 
 the marks of long use, was before it ; and near, upon a little 
 table, was a Prayer Book blotted with tears, and open at the 
 service for the Burial of the Dead; and Blanche, with but one 
 thought in her mind, cast a hasty glance around, and clasping 
 her hands together, threw herself upon her knees to pray, where 
 her mother must have prayed, for pardon, and strength, and 
 acceptance at the Last Great Day. 
 
 A few moments calmed her mind, and she was able to 
 examine the room more closely. It had evidently been left 
 untouched since her mother's death, for the walls were discoloured 
 and the paper was damp; and a sense of desolation came over 
 Blanche as she tried to unlock a large inlaid cabinet filling a 
 recess at the lower end, which at first resisted her strongest 
 efforts from the length of time, it had remained unopened. It 
 was the only mark of peculiar refinement or expense in the 
 room, with the exception of two small pictures upon sacred sub- 
 jects, exquisite in design, but fast losing their beauty from the 
 damp that had gathered over them. Blanche succeeded in 
 unlocking the cabinet after some further efforts, and began a 
 hurried inspection of its contents. Stray articles of various kinds 
 Mere collected in it, of little value in themselves, yet put aside 
 carefully and marked. Remembrances they were of absent 
 friends ; ornaments associated with happy days ; things which 
 once must have had a voice and language for the heart ; now, 
 like their possessor, silent in spirit and association. And there 
 were other trifles, more painful perhaps to look upon as recalling 
 the daily life which had since become but a dream : pens, sealing- 
 wax, scraps of paper, and memoranda, the items which form 
 part of our ordinary existence, and which could tell a truer tale 
 of life than the most valued relics. Blanche lingered over these 
 unconsciously. They brought her very near her mother. It 
 was as if but a few hours had passed since she had been seated 
 at her desk, using the pen encrusted with ink, sealing, perhaps, 
 the last letter which she ever wrote; or — the fancy flashed 
 across Blanche's mind, with an overpowering rush of regret, as 
 she caught sight of an infant's coral and rattle — amusing her- 
 self with the child who was destined only to learn the value of 
 her care by its loss. But time was passing rapidly. Blanche 
 had hut a few minutes more to spare, and, shutting the drawer 
 quickly, she opened another division of the cabinet. Manuscript
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 12 "i 
 
 books, letters, and papers filled it, and days would be required 
 in order to examine them thoroughly. Blanche took the bunk 
 which lay nearest. It was ull of old accounts; she threw it 
 aside, and opened another, it was the same ; another, and still 
 another, and the gong sounded for dinner; but Blanche could 
 not go. Paper after paper, book after book, was examined ; but 
 nothing was found which could throw any light upon her mo- 
 ther's persona! history ; until, quite underneath the pile, she laid 
 her hand upon a packet of letters and a journal book, marked 
 " Not *to be opened till after my death." The second gong 
 soul led as she hastily unfastened the string which bound them ; 
 and, closing the cabinet, she took up the packet, locked the door 
 of the chamber, and hurried to her own room to dress as quickly 
 as she might, and appear at the dinner table, if possible, as gay 
 and light-hearted as was her wont. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " You were a complete truant this afternoon, my love," said 
 Lady Charlton, addressing Blanche, as she threw herself into an 
 arm-chair after dinner, professing to be too tired either to read, 
 write, or work. "We had a charming drive, and I should have 
 liked to introduce you to my friends the Cuthbert Greys. Very 
 nice people they are in their way ; a little too fashionable, per- 
 haps, for your taste ; but kind-hearted and extremely clever. I 
 quite thought, when Miss Went worth joined us, that you would 
 be found somewhere." 
 
 Blanche did not exactly like to own that she had absented 
 herself on purpose, and endeavoured to change the subject, by 
 asking where they had been and what they had seen. 
 
 "The carriage party went round by Staplehurst Common, 
 and over the hill to the old monument in Lord Hervey's 
 gnmnds," said Eleanor; ''but Miss Adelaide Charlton and I 
 drove through the copse." 
 
 " Miss Adelaide did not go with you anywhere by her own 
 sousent," exclaimed Adelaide, coming forward from the window 
 where she had been standing. 
 
 Eleanor laughed, and promised to be less formal another 
 time ; "Though it is an error on the right side," she added. 
 
 "You must come with me to my room. I want to show 
 yo'i that sketch we were speaking ot*" continued Adelaide.
 
 1 L'8 THE EARl'.S DAUGHTER. 
 
 •• What sketch '." asked Maude, haughtily and quickly. 
 Adelaide's Mush was not perceived in the twilight; but sh< 
 diil blush as she answered, in a tone of affected indifference, 
 "Oh! only one that was taken for me abroad, — I dare say 
 you don't remember." 
 
 " There was one which T took," said Maude : " is that it V 
 " No, no, Maude. What can it signify to you f" and calling 
 to Eleanor, Adelaide hastened out of the room. 
 
 Blanche watched this little scene with surprise, and a feeling 
 of annoyance which she could not account for. She stood in 
 silence for some moments, when Maude's hand was laid upon 
 her shoulder, and Maude's deep voice of satire whispered in her 
 ear, "Jealous, Blanche?" Blanche started; but, before she 
 could reply, Maude had glided past her, and she was left alone 
 with her aunt. She could not go then, although she longed to 
 do so ; but it would have been unkind, when they had scarcely 
 mel all day ; and as Lady Charlton drew a chair towards her, 
 and beckoning to Blanche to seat herself in it, said, in her most 
 winning tone, "Now, my child, we will have a few minutes of 
 pleasure," Blanche would have been well contented, but for one 
 reason, to remain. 
 
 " You were grave at dinner, my love, and you are grave now," 
 began Lady Charlton. " What is there to make you so ? must 
 I not know?" 
 
 " 1 did not mean to show that I was grave," replied Blanche. 
 
 " But you cannot hide it, dear child ; not, at least, from ne. 
 \ o ( are graver than you ought to be, Blanche, for your years." 
 
 *■ it is my disposition, I suppose," said Blanche. 
 
 "No, my love, I assure you it is not your disposition. You 
 are naturally light-hearted ; but you suffer yourself to brool too 
 much upon serious subjects." 
 
 " That cannot be, surely V exclaimed Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, it can. You would say so, if you had had my 
 experience. You are very like your mother, Blanche." 
 
 •• You would not wish to see me different, then, would you?" 
 asked Blanche almost reproachfully. 
 
 "Not in many things ; but, in that one, perhaps I might, 
 Much more of your happiness may depend upon it than you 
 are at all aware of." 
 
 Lady Charlton spoke so energetically, that Blanche looked at 
 her with astonishment. " Was not my mother happy ?" was 
 the question which trembled on her lips; but then, as ofter 
 before, she dreaded to ask it.
 
 the earl's daughter. 129 
 
 " I should like to have my own way with you," continued 
 Lady Charlton, in a lighter tone. " You should not be buried 
 at Rutherford much longer if I had." 
 
 " Fapa means to make Rutherford very gay," said Blanche. 
 
 "Ah! my love, he means — I quite give him credit for his 
 meaning. But can he do it ? I know him better than you do, 
 Blanche. There is not a man. of greater natural talent, or 
 crreater powers of pleasing, in England than your father, — but 
 not at Rutherford ; there is a weight upon him here." 
 
 " What ! how ?" asked Blanche, quickly. 
 
 Lady Charlton hesitated, " A weight I called it, — well ! it is 
 one : the weight of the place ; the old wals, and the old furni- 
 ture ; it even make- me melancholy. Now at Senilhurst, where 
 I would take you if I could, you would find everything differ- 
 ent; a cheerful house, lovely grounds, open and bright, a very 
 pretty pasture country, not overpowering in beauty : you know, 
 or at least you will know by-and-by, that nothing is more 
 fatiguing than being always on the mental tiptoe of admiration; 
 — everything in fact to enliven you. It would be a new 
 phase of existence, and a good introduction to a season in 
 London." 
 
 Blanche liked the description, and said so ; and Lady Charl- 
 ton was excited too, and gave a yet more glowing picture of the 
 enjoyments she would find at Senilhurst. 
 
 "I should recommend it far more than remaining here," she 
 said. " There is nothing to be done in a place like Rutherford. 
 Entertainments — young people's entertainments I mean — are 
 out of character. And you would not have the change — I see 
 that is what you want — complete change of scene." 
 
 " When I have been here only a few months ?" 
 
 " That does not signify, my love," replied Lady Charlton ; 
 " it is the effect of the place which is pressing you down. If 
 your father had consulted me, he never would have brought 
 you here. There is nothing so desirable for young persons as 
 
 I] rfulness. Grave thoughts and anxieties come quite soon 
 
 enough," she added, with that sudden transition to a tone of 
 Borrowful feeling, -.which always gave a peculiar interest to her 
 conversation. 
 
 " I should have no village at Senilhurst; no poor people, or 
 school," said Blanche : " that I should regret." 
 
 " Yes ; but, my dear, you would have them. You should see 
 what we are doing there, and help us. Sir Hugh is a great 
 man for education, and gives me carte blanche to do as I like
 
 ],^0 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 when we are at home; and you shall he.p me. My own girls 
 unfortunately, have never taken to that sort of thing, and it ha? 
 been a great vexation to me. Ady is too giddy, and Maude is 
 so wrapt up in German metaphysics. I assure you, Blanche, 
 you could be of the greatest possible use to me." 
 
 " And poor Eleanor," said Blanche, unconsciously giving 
 utterance to her own train of thought. 
 
 " Yes, she would miss you ; but, my dear, you cannot be 
 always together." 
 
 "We have been so till now," said Blanche. "I could not 
 hear to think of our being really separated." 
 
 " No, indeed, I can quite understand that ; you must be just 
 like sisters : but the being parted for a time will only make you 
 enjoy being together the more afterwards." 
 
 "It will l>e such a very long parting," observed Blanche, " if 
 I am to go to London in the spring ; unless — I wonder whether 
 Mrs. Wentworth would let her go with me there." 
 
 " We had better not look forward, my dear child ; take the 
 day as it comes. Go to Senilhurst with me now, and leave the 
 spring to itself." 
 
 " Mrs. Wentworth would not allow it, I am afraid," said 
 Blanche, unheeding the warning ; " and I could never make up 
 my mind to ask her, if I thought she would say No." 
 
 " Mrs. Wentworth's strictness would come in the w r ay, I 
 suppose," said Lady Charlton: "hut never mind, my love; 
 leave it, as I said, and remember you will get on better in 
 London than you would elsewhere, without Miss AVentworth. 
 There will be so much to amuse and interest you. It pleases 
 me immensely, Blanche," she added, bending forward to kiss 
 her niece's forehead, " to find you take to the idea so kindlv, 
 as the poor people say; and I shall tell your father we have 
 Bottled it." 
 
 "Oh! no, no," began Blanche; but Lad)- Charlton stopped 
 her — " My dear, you don't know your own power, and yon 
 must be taught it. Believe me, you have but to say the word, 
 and horses would be ordeied for Senilhurst to-night. And now 
 you have quite cheered me, and I must exert myself, and go 
 and see after Sir Hugh. Shall we have tea soon ? I am tired, 
 and must go to bed early to-night ; so, if you can, don't let 
 that Mr. Wentworth keel) us till midnight sinking glees and 
 lr>.M~. 
 
 Blanche rang for tea, and thought it might be possible to 
 snatch a few moments for solitude and a cursory inspection rf
 
 T H K EARLS DAUGHTER. 1 •!! 1 
 
 her precious packet of papers, before it was brought in. 
 
 Eleanor and Adelaide were crossing the gallery as she went up 
 stairs. She heard Eleanor say, in a laughing voice, " I shall 
 certainly tell how carefully you have kept your treasure;" whilst 
 Adelaide replied, by a faint "Oh! no, no ! indeed you must 
 not !" which, of course, meant pray do. But Blanche did not 
 stop to interpret words, or search into hiduen meanings ; only 
 she thought ifstrange that Eleanor should have found so much 
 to occupy her with Adelaide Charlton as to leave no time 
 for hery 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 It was nearly midnight before Blanche went to her room for 
 the night. Notwithstanding Lady Charlton's injunctions, music 
 had been the order of the evening ; and music is, perhaps, of 
 all amusements the most enticinff. Lord Rutherford was 
 particularly silent, and seemed quite in the mood for enjoying 
 a gratification which could be obtained without effort ; and Sir 
 Hugh, who generally joined the party for an hour or two before 
 he went to bed. was charmed with the opportunity of display- 
 ing his scientific knowledge. Duets, trios, glees, and quartettes 
 succeeded each other rapidly ; or rather the quartettes were the 
 beginning, and the trios the finale : for, after a short time, 
 Maude, whose voice was of the greatest consequence, professed 
 her determination not to sing another note, and the piano was 
 left to the possession of Adelaide, Eleanor, and Mr. Wentworth ; 
 Blanche only joining them occasionally. Blanche was much 
 occupied with her own thoughts ; but not sufficiently so to 
 render her unobservant of what was (joins: on around. Music 
 was a delight to her, and in general such an evening would have 
 been a great treat; but when at length the piano was closed, 
 and Eleanor and her brother departed, she felt relieved ; as if 
 something which hail annoyed and offended her was removed. 
 ^1 i-t it was hard to say what that something was. There had 
 been nothing: to find fault with in the singing;. Nothing: in the 
 manner or behaviour of any one of the party to herself. Eleanor 
 had seemed anxious to make amends for any apparent neglect; 
 and Maude, as if wishing' to show that she had quite forgotten 
 fcheir-difference of opinion, was particularly gentle, and pointed 
 out, a beautiful passage of Egraont, which she assured her she
 
 132 the earl's daughter, 
 
 had marked because it was so entirely unobjectionable. Every 
 one had been kind to her ; yet Blanche was fretted. It was so 
 strange', she said to herself, that she should be so; so odd, 
 that she could not bear to watch Adelaide ; that she quite dis- 
 liked bearing her speak to Mr. Weutworth. She was really 
 very good-natured and sang nicely, and with a good deal of 
 spirit and taste of a certain kind. But it must be the taste, 
 Blanche thought, which jarred upon her. It was too marked 
 — too personal — and there was a system of amiable quarrelling 
 and bantering kept up between Adelaide and Mr. Wentworth 
 in the intervals between the different sor.gs, which was especially 
 disagreeable to her. She could not help hoping that, if this 
 style of intercourse was to goon, Mr. Wentworth would dis- 
 continue his visits. 
 
 Thoughts of Adelaide, however, were soon dispelled when 
 the door of Blanche's apartment was closed against interrup- 
 tion, and she was at length left at liberty fully to examine her 
 mother's papers. Late though it was, she could not rest satis- 
 lied with the slight glance which was all she had before given 
 them, and seizing upon the journal, as being the most likely to 
 afford her the information she desired, she be^an to read it. 
 
 But disappointment was destined to follow. There was no 
 record of passing events to tell the secret history of the Coun- 
 tess of Rutherford, although there was sufficient to show that 
 she had been singularly gifted with refined taste and powers of 
 observation chastened by deep piety. The journal was not 
 exactly what its name implied. It was rather a book of 
 remarks, thoughts, extracts, and prayers. To the writer it must 
 have beet full of memories and suggestions; for there were 
 dates and private marks, bearing reference, apparently, to the 
 seasons at which the observations had been made ; and there 
 was also a visible change in the style of writing from the com- 
 mencement to the end. The first pages showed more imagina- 
 tion than reflection; more of hope than contentment. The lasl 
 were almost entirely snort extracts from devotional writers 
 expressive of great mental sufferings, and an endeavour to b? 
 resigned under affliction. They were unconnected, and some 
 times abruptly terminated. The handwriting was often ille 
 gible, and a few sentences were introduced, apparently withou/ 
 meaning; but the concluding words, written • several montlu 
 before death had summoned the Countess of Rutherford to he- 
 rest, were the declaration of the Psalmist: "I will patientlj 
 abide a'.way, and will praise Thee more and more."
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 Blanche repeated the verse to herself again and again, for it 
 
 Beemed sent as her mother's legacy — her last accents of advice 
 and encouragement. But there was nothing strictly personal 
 in all this ; and she turned to the letters. They also were, for 
 the most part, unsatisfactory, being chiefly written by Lady 
 Rutherford's friends, with the exception of a few from the carl 
 dated in the first year of his married life, and preserved most 
 carefully in a^ittle silk case. These were kind and considerate ; 
 but implied frequent long absences, and gave few indications of 
 any wish to be at Butherford. Engagements, it was said, kept 
 him in Loudon, lie hoped to be in the country soon, but 
 could uot promise certainly ; he trusted that the countess was 
 amusing herself, begged her to deny herself no gratification; 
 was glad to hear that Mrs. Wentworth was with her. These, 
 and many similar wishes, came in every letter. But Blanche 
 was chilled as she perused them ; for it was not the love which 
 would have been shown to herself. 
 
 Surely, she thought, there must have been something more. 
 This could not have been the affection for the sake of which 
 her mother had left home, and friends, and early ties, and 
 pledged herself, by the most solemn and binding engagement, 
 to love, and honour, and obey, until death. One letter of the 
 packet was still unread, and, with a sickening feeling of doubt 
 and disappointment, Blanche unfolded it. It was without a 
 direction, and in her mother's handwriting, addressed to a dear 
 friend. 
 
 The first sentence attracted her attention by a painful fascina^ 
 tion. " You tell me I must struggle against my misery ; but 
 do you kuow what you require ' You would nut be willingly 
 unkind ; yet by such words you raise a barrier between us, 
 which leaves me doubly desolate. Weary and heartsick I have 
 
 1 n so long, that sorrow is my natural element, and hitherto I 
 
 have borne it in silence. But if the captive sinks under the 
 burden of captivity, who shall blame him ] I wander, day after 
 day, seeking for I know not what — lono-inix for rest which never 
 comes ; listening for — I am listening now — but you will find 
 fault with me. . God hears me ; I turn to Him. He will hear 
 my child. I give her to Him. — If my husband comes — I am 
 dreaming — too late." And those few sentences, the half-col- 
 lected, half-unconscious outpourings of a broken heart, were the 
 Duly indications granted to Blanche of the cause of that grief 
 which ha<l preyed upon her mother's health, and it seemed toe 
 evident, at length, crushed the powers of her mind.
 
 I 3 I THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 The morning dawned brilliantly and cloudlessly upon Ruther 
 ford Castle, and as Blanche roused herself from a short slum- 
 ber, the last words of her mother's letter flashed upon hei 
 memory before she could recall where she had heard them, or 
 why they should be accompanied by a pang. 
 
 Tin- recollection came up but too soon, and with it the con- 
 viction that her most painful suspicions were verified — that her 
 mother's life had been rendered miserable by neglect. For, in 
 the clear thoughts of the morning, Blanche could put together 
 words, and incidents, and trifling remarks, which had fixed them- 
 selves in her memory from the very pain they had caused, and 
 by their aid rind a clue to many circumstances hitherto myste- 
 rious. Long before the household had risen she sat up in her 
 lied, gazing upon the straggling, nearly illegible, characters 
 which showed the wretchedness of her mother's feelings, almost 
 as much as the words themselves; whilst indignation and fear 
 were succeeded by bitter self-reproach, as she allowed herself to 
 pity one parent at the expense of her affection for another. Her 
 mother had been lonely and heartsick, and no one had been 
 near to comfort her. She had been left to breathe her anxious 
 wishes, and no one had been at hand to gratify them. She was 
 ill in body and in mind, and there was no one to administer to 
 her needs or calm her distracted spirit. Whose fault could it 
 have been ? Blanche rested her forehead on her hand to still 
 the beating, throbbing pain, which was settling there. It was 
 no new thought that her father was proud and worldly, and had 
 no sympathy with her highest hopes. Day by day the assurance 
 had become "doubly sure;" and the gulf between them more 
 widely marked. But could he also be cold and neglectful ; he, 
 who was so devoted to his child's happiness, whose every thought 
 was centred in her gratification, whose eagerness to indulge was 
 even painful and burdensome? Alas! for that most bitter of 
 all doubts, which bids us look with suspicion on those whom 
 duty bids us reverence. 
 
 When the party assembled at the breakfast-table the 
 pale face of Lady Blanche excited general notice. The earl 
 looked at her with uneasy interest, but only asked if she had 
 slept well ; whilst Lady Charlton took occasion to remark that 
 it was ,-\ ident the place did not agree with her : die had thought 
 so for a long time but did not like to say so. " Senilhurst 
 would do her a great deal of good, if you would but think so," 
 she added, addressing Lord Rutherford. 
 
 "Senilhurst will do very well, if Blanche likes it," he replied; 
 "but I very much doubt if she does."
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 135 
 
 Blanche smiled faintly, and said she should miss many things 
 at Rutherford extremely. 
 
 " But, my love," and Lady Charlton turned round with a 
 sparkling eye ; "it was only last night you entirely entered into 
 my views, and quite enjoyed the idea ; you really are very in- 
 comprehensible." 
 
 " I don't much care," began Blanche ; but she stopped, for 
 she knew that indifference would vex every one. 
 
 " You don't care, my dear ? I wish I could understand you. 
 I wish I knew what you were aiming at." 
 
 "She is not aiming at anything," said the earl, coolly. " She 
 likes staying at Rutherford ; and, if so, at Rutherford we will 
 stay." 
 
 Lady Charlton compressed her lips and went on with her 
 breakfast Soon after Adelaide came into the room. Lady 
 Charlton looked up, and said, " You are very late. Is your 
 father dressed '?" 
 
 " I don't know," was Adelaide's careless reply, as if the ques- 
 tion did not at all concern her. 
 
 " I must know. I wonder what Pearson has been about ; 
 pray inquire," continued Lady Charlton to one of the servants. 
 
 " Pearson has grown extremely absurd of late," she added to 
 herself; "he never can be in time; and Sir Hugh won't bear 
 it." 
 
 Pearson made his appearance, and was immediately accosted 
 with, " Sir Hugh is not at breakfast, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes, my lady ; at breakfast, and quite enjoying it. He hopes 
 to see your ladyship as soon as is convenient." 
 
 " Oh !" and as Pearson withdrew, Lady Charlton gave a 
 Blight push to her plate, and declared she had no appetite, and 
 really felt quite unwell. As it was such a beautiful morning, 
 she thought she should like a little stroll on the terrace for the 
 sake of the air. 
 
 Blanche half rose to accompany her, or at least to ask if she 
 could be of any assistance ; but Lady Charlton motioned to her 
 to remain, and murmuring a few thanks went away. Silence 
 followed. Lord Rutherford took up a newspaper, and Adelaide 
 began reading a letter; whilst Maude occupied herself in study- 
 ing a large historical picture that hung opposite to her; and 
 Blanche tried to finish a breakfast for which she had not any 
 appetite. Maude looked at her from time to time with an ex 
 pression of greater gentleness in her features than they seemed 
 naturally formed to wear ; and as Adelaide lingered, according
 
 j 30 the earl's daughter. 
 
 to her custom, tasting first one thing and then another, sighing 
 because the tea was cold, and ordering coffee which, when it 
 came, she did not wish for, Maude declared herself ashamed of 
 wasting so much time, and proposed to Blanche to leave her. 
 
 "Yes, do go; never mind me," exclaimed Adelaide good- 
 naturedly ; " 1 have quantities of amusement — the most charm- 
 ing letter you ever read, Maude, from Caroline Grey. She is 
 so sorry not to be in the neighbourhood, with her mother and 
 - i. now we are here." Maude's lip curled: " I leave you 
 to your friend very willingly," she said, "so long as I am not 
 required to undergo the penance of reading what she writes." 
 
 "Ah, well! you don't like her; but that I can't help. 
 Blanche, Caroline Grey would just suit you ; you shall know her 
 some da v." 
 
 "And hate her, as I do," whispered Maude, putting her arm 
 within that of Blanche, and drawing her out of the room. 
 
 "Caroline Grey is Adelaide's dearest weakness," she added, 
 laughing, as she led Blanche to the library. "Almost more 
 silly than herself, if that were possible. But we won't talk 
 about her. What have you done, Blanche, to put my mother 
 in such a ferment?" 
 
 14 1 !" exclaimed Blanche. " Is my aunt vexed V 
 
 " My dear child, what a perfect innocent you are ! Vexed ? — 
 She is angry, furious." 
 
 " Oh ! no, surely." 
 
 " Hark ! Here she comes !" said Maude, and Lady Charlton 
 walked into the room, inquired for some sealing-wax — asked 
 Maude where Adelaide was, and, after a formal " Better, thank 
 you," in reply to Blanche's inquiry of how she felt, again 
 departed. 
 
 " I am afraid she is annoyed," said Blanche, much perplexed. 
 
 " Only annjyed !" said Maude. " Well, we must hope it may 
 oe nothing more. But what concerns me most, Blanche, is 
 yourself. You look wofully pale this morning, and I must know 
 the reason why ?" 
 
 " I slept badly," said Blanche. 
 
 " But why ? Sleeping badly is never an ultimate cause, and 
 ray mind cannot rest till it has reached one." 
 
 " I did sleep badly : but I cannot tell you the reason why,*' 
 Raid Blanche, quietly. 
 
 ' But I must know. I must insist upon knowing. Had it 
 anything to do with our stupid afternoon, yesterday? Did I bore 
 ,'ou by my German nonsense ?"
 
 THE 
 
 earl's DAUGHTER. 1 3*7 
 
 " Oh ! no, no ; I scarcely thought about it." 
 
 "Not complimentary ; one would rather he hated than for- 
 gotten. Still [ forgive you. But the pale looks and the bad 
 night, — I shall go backwards, like the wonderful history of the 
 house that Jack built, till I hnd the cause." 
 
 Blanche's eves filled with tears, and Maude's manner altered 
 directly. ^ 
 
 "There is something more in this than a little fever, or a fit 
 of worjy," she exclaimed. " Blanche ! I wish 1 could make you 
 believe that I am not quite such a heathenish savage as I appear." 
 
 " Only yourself would call you so," said Blanche, half laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " No. But a great many would think me so. And yet, 1 
 think, yes ; I am sure," she continued, more seriously ; " that I 
 could be a friend — a true friend — a better friend to you than 
 most people. Blanche, why do you feel yourself so lonely ?" 
 
 Blanche regarded her with a smile of surprise ; and Maude 
 went on. " You are lonely, though you may not choose to own 
 it ; you have no one to sympathize with you, though so many 
 love you ; and you have fancies, and worries, and brooding 
 thoughts. I see it constantly." 
 
 " Are you sure you are not speaking of yourself V asked 
 Blanche. 
 
 " Never mind me ; T am used to it. I am older, have seen 
 more of the -world, and have learnt to live in it by myself. But 
 you have not. And you are not formed to battle with it alone, 
 as I am." 
 
 " It may be the lesson I am to learn," said Blanche, gravely. 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed Maude ; " that is one of your narrow 
 views. We choose our own lessons, and shape our own lives. 
 They do so, at least, who are worth anything. Determine that 
 you will not be lonely, — that you will have companionship and 
 sympathy, and you will find it." 
 
 " Have you done so ?" asked Blanche. 
 
 " Xo ; but it is because I do not need it — because I would 
 rather stem the torrent of life's troubles bv mv own unassisted 
 power; but you are formed to lean upon others and cling to 
 them. Why* must you condemn yourself to reserve and soli- 
 hide ?" 
 
 " I do not condemn myself," replied Blanche. " I e^joy 
 sympathy when I can have it; but 1 do not need i* ,-vs much as 
 you imagine : or rather," and her colour slightly deepened an 
 the spoke, " I have more than I can explain."
 
 153 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Maude turned away asif annoyed. 
 
 " A in I unkind ?" said Blanche, following her. 
 
 " Incomprehensible, merely," was Maude's cold reply ; "but 
 [ have no wish whatever to force your confidence. I might 
 bave known, hum our conversation yesterday, how little our 
 ideas accord." And yet, as she said this, Maude lingered in the 
 room, evidently unwilling to break off the conversation. 
 
 " You are very kind to me, dear Maude," said Blanche, 
 ovntlv. "I wish I could make you believe that I really am 
 obliged; perhaps, by and by, you will, when we understand 
 each other ; for, in some things, I think we agree more than we 
 know. l'>ut v as regards confidence, I have none that I should 
 feel it right to give to any one, except Mrs. Howard, or, perhaps, 
 my aunt." 
 
 " Mamma !" exclaimed Maude. " Confidence to her !" 
 
 " I don't mean confidence, exactly," replied Blanche. ' But 
 there are s. line things which she could tell me, which would be 
 a comfort to me ; though I could not ask her about them just 
 now." 
 
 " No ; — certainly," answered Maude, with a satirical laugh. 
 " Fond though she is of you,I would not advise you to put your- 
 self in her way again, for some hours at least." 
 
 Blanche looked distressed, and said she was scarcely aware 
 what she had clone, though she supposed it was being so 
 foolishly changeable, as to going to Senilhurst. 
 
 " I suppose it was that : but leave her to herself ; she will 
 come round again ; and she will bear a great deal from you." 
 
 " I am glad she is fond of me," said Blanche ; though she 
 s.iid it with an uncomfortable feeling of distrust and disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 M Yes ! mamma is always fond of persons she is proud of." 
 
 Blanche's face showed that she was puzzled ; and Maude 
 continued, laughingly, "Now, my dear Blanche, there is a cer- 
 tain limit to simplicity, beyond which it becomes silliness. You 
 really are much too sensible not to know that you possess a 
 great deal of which the world is proud — rank, wealth, beauty. 
 Nay ; don't shrink from the truth," she added, as Blanche suf- 
 fered an expression of distaste to escape her lips. " I am 
 not flattering you ; I am not a man paying court to you ; if 1 
 were, I should be wiser than to praise you to your face. But I 
 long to see you make the most of yourself; and I am sure no 
 Dne can ever do that who has not a thorough appreciation of his 
 or her peculiar advantages. So you must understand that
 
 the earl's daughter. 139 
 
 mamma is proud of you ; and, as a consequence, fond of you ; 
 and if you choose to go and confide your griefs to her, don't let 
 me prevent vou. Only, I should have imagined — " 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 Maude thought for a moment, and then answered, " I should 
 have thought that your taste might have led you in a different 
 direction." ->* 
 
 " It is not a question of taste," replied Blanche. " If I did 
 not lose my aunt, she would still be the only person to help me 
 now ; unless, perhaps, Mrs. Wentworth could." 
 
 "Then go to Mrs. Wentworth," exclaimed Maude, hastily. 
 " Cold, though she is, stiff, unbending, — go to her, Blanche. 
 You wonder at me, and I shock you ; but I am not thinking of 
 my mother, as my mother — only as suiting you. Mrs. 
 Wentworth will tell you more of what you wish to know than 
 mamma will," she added, fixing her large piercing eyes upou 
 Blanche, as if she knew her inmost heart. 
 
 " But I cannot go to Mrs. Wentworth ; I cannot learn from 
 one who is not a member of my family — " 
 
 " The secrets of that family," added Maude, quietly. " Sup- 
 pose I could tell them, Blanche ?" 
 
 " Do you know ? Can you tell ?" exclaimed Blanche, and the 
 faint shade of colour in her cheeks went and came rapidly. 
 
 " If I cannot tell myself, I might learn," pursued Maude. 
 
 Blanche shook her head in disappointment. " No ; you are 
 Very kind, very good ; but it will not do." 
 
 " And there is to be no confidence between us, then ?" said 
 Maude. 
 
 Blanche did not answer. They had been standing together 
 at the window, and as she was about to turn away from it, 
 Maude laid a detaining hand upon her arm, and pointing to a 
 bird which was winging its flight far into the blue sky, said, " I 
 had a dream of two minds soaring together, leaving the delu- 
 sions of this paltry world behind them, and seeking a higher 
 life in the glorious light of truth." 
 
 Blanche sighed. 
 
 " Must it be a dream ?" said Maude, almost tenderly. 
 
 Blanche raised her eyes timidly to her cousin's face, as she 
 •••plied unhesitatingly, "There is a false light as well as a true 
 one. Before we soar together, Maude, we must know which we 
 are Beeking." 
 
 " Truth," answered Maude. "In other word-;, spiritual, intel- 
 lectual beauty, which is another name fur truth."
 
 KO THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche passed her hand over her eyes, and said, with a faint 
 smile, "I cannot talk as we did yesterday — my head aches too 
 much ; I cannot h'.v my thoughts." 
 
 There was a tone of indescribable depression and weariness in 
 her voice. Maude looked at her compassionately, and kissed 
 her, and said she would not tease her ; and the sympathy over- 
 came the self-command wnich Blanche had been exercising, and 
 large tears filled her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 Maude made her sit down. ''Can't I help you?" she said. 
 " A re you quite sure ?" 
 
 " Quite sure ; unless you know." She thought for i few 
 moments, and then added, "Does my aunt ever talk to you 
 about herself?" 
 
 " About past days ?" said Maude. " Yes, sometimes ; but not 
 
 often." 
 
 " Not of interesting things ; things which would interest me ?" 
 and Blanche looked up imploringly. 
 
 " I don't know," said Maude doubtfully ; " that is, they would 
 interest you in a way." 
 
 " But does she ever mention my mother ?" The last words 
 were uttered with painful unwillingness, and when they were 
 spoken Blanche sat with her hands tightly clasped together, as 
 with an effort to conceal the working of some keen emotion. 
 
 The perplexed expression of Maude's face increased as she 
 looked at her. " What is it that troubles you, Blanche ?" she 
 said. " Surely nothing connected with days so long gone by ; 
 sorrows that have so long ceased ?" 
 
 " Then she was sorrowful ; she was miserable," exclaimed 
 Blanche, rising impetuously. " Oh, Maude, in pity tell me what 
 you know." 
 
 " Sorrowful, miserable," repeated Maude slowly. " One must 
 always fear it in such cases ; but it may have been better than 
 \s<' think." 
 
 Blanche grasped her cousin's hand, and the brightness of her 
 eye was terrible in its eagerness. 
 
 " There are sadder moments of sanity than of delusion," con- 
 tinued Maude, gently ; and Blanche's fingers relaxed their grasp, 
 and she fell back in her chair nearly fainting, Maude was not in the 
 least hurried out of her usual steadiness of manner ; she sprinkled 
 some water on her cousin's forehead from a flower-glass near, 
 and when Blanche a little revived, and uttered mournfully the 
 word "delusion," answered, without any reference to her 
 '.ransient weakness. " I thought vou knew it, dear."
 
 the earl's daughter. 141 
 
 " No, no ; they kept it from me. But tell me now, quickly/ 
 
 " Only delusion," answered Maude ; " nothing more. No- 
 thing to distress you, Blanche. Pray believe me," she added, 
 as Blanche's eyes again tilled with tears. 
 
 " But what delusion ? of what kind ?" asked Blanche, faintly. 
 
 "Quiet melancholy ; only that, I assure you; nothing really 
 hereditary to .frighten you.'"' 
 
 Blanche scarcely seemed to hear this comfort ; she only said 
 in reply, " Was she alone ?" 
 
 "Yes, sometimes, when it could not he helped," replied 
 Maude, with evident hesitation. 
 
 " Quite alone ; sorrowful, miserable," murmured Blanche, tnd 
 she leant her head upon her hand, and cried bitterly. 
 
 " I will tell you all I know," said Maude. " She was not 
 suong naturally, mamma says ; and she was a great deal by 
 herself; and she must have been like you, Blanche, fond of 
 brooding over her own fancies, for they never could persuade 
 her to see people and go out, except occasionally, when Lord 
 Rutherford was here." 
 
 " And she went out then ? she was happy then 2 " exclaimed 
 Blanche, raising her head quickly. 
 
 " Yes, she went out a little to please him," continued Maude. 
 " But you know he was absent a great deal, especially at last." 
 
 Blanche's head sank despondingly. Maude's quick eye 
 remarked the-change, but she went on — " I do not think there 
 was really anything to distress you so much ; of course, she had 
 every comfort, and her mind" — she stopped, considering how to 
 approach the subject in the way least likely to give pain; but 
 Blanche made a slight motion of the hand, and said, " I can 
 bear it," and Maude continued, in a rather hurried voice, " It 
 was not so very dreadful ; not common insanity. She was very 
 quiet, and gentle, and good. Mamma used to come and see 
 her very often, and for a long time people said it was only 
 melancholy, it came on so gradually. She used to write a great 
 deal, I believe; but almost all her papers were destroyed when 
 Lord Rutherford came back from abroad." 
 
 " But he was with her ; quite at the last ?" said Blanche, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " .No ; he was not here in time. It was very unfortunate ; for 
 the longing to see him was so great, it was worse than any- 
 thing. But Blanche, my dear, I am doing you harm," she said, 
 observing her cousin's look of intense suffering. 
 
 " No, no ; go on ;" was all that Blanche ventured to utter.
 
 142 the earl's daughter, 
 
 " There is not much besides to tell," answered Maude. " But 
 indeed, Blanche, 1 am very anxious you should not think it at 
 all worse than it really was. She was ill and depressed very 
 long before it was thought necessary to have any one with her ; 
 a companion," she added, as Blanche slightly shuddered. 
 "And, even to the very last, there were intervals when she 
 knew everything and everybody quite well ; and the only way 
 in which they discovered when the attacks were coming on 
 worse, was that she would then kneel for hours together in her 
 room, repeating portions of the Burial Service." 
 
 Blanche put her hand before her eyes to hide the light of the 
 glorious sun. Many moments elapsed before she spoke. Then 
 she rose from her seat, and kissed Maude, and said, " Thank 
 you ; you have been very kind ; you must not say that you have 
 told me," and walked slowly out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth was sitting alone in her little room : the 
 post was just come in, and she was busied in answering her 
 letters. She looked particularly old that morning ; perhaps her 
 dress was unbecoming — perhaps her letters had been annoying ; 
 at any rate, her care-worn expression was sufficient to attract 
 observation ; and as Dr. Wentworth passed the window, and 
 stopped to say a few cheerful words, it made him delay the 
 business he was bent upon, and re-enter the house. " There is 
 nothing amiss in them ; is there, my love ?" he inquired, taking 
 up the letters on the table. " I did not read them through." 
 
 " Oh, no ! nothing ; they are mere chit-chat ; not of any con- 
 sequence. Why should you ask ?" 
 
 " \ ou seemed uncomfortable — that is all ; but if there is 
 nothing the matter, well and good. It must be the cap, I think, 
 which makes you look different. I think I tcfld you I was going 
 to the Union this morning." 
 
 " Yes; you will be back to dinner, I suppose, at six o'clock." 
 
 " Say half-past ; we shall be more punctual. Good b'ye ;" 
 and Dr. Wentworth departed. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth leant back in her chair, in a reverie, a strange 
 and painful one. It carried her back many years, to that early 
 romance of first love — that entire sympathy of thought and 
 Gaoling, which she had imagined was to last undiminished for
 
 the earl's daughter. 143 
 
 ever. Dr. Wentwortk was a good man, an earnest man : his 
 heart was given to his duties, first ; his family afterwards. His 
 wife did not wish it should be otherwise ; but she did not re- 
 semble him. The romance of her early years had not, like his, 
 been extinguished by the constant pressure of parochial cares. 
 She was poetical, enthusiastic still, in secret. She had, as it 
 were, two characters — the one of great imagination, the other 
 of strong common sense. Her husband's affections had been 
 won by the former ; they were retained by the latter. Imagi- 
 nation, with him, had been the amusement of boyhood, with 
 her, it was the present beauty of life : and if Mrs. Wentworth 
 had been endued with a less portion of right feeling and self- 
 command, the discovery of this essential difference in their 
 characters might have been made at the risk of the happiness 
 of both. As it was, it only served to throw her back into her- 
 self, to chill the outward show of enthusiasm, and to concentrate 
 all the intensity of her hopes and interests upon her children. 
 Perfect respect, and a true, though unimpassioned, love, were 
 still her husband's ; but she had learnt to live her inward life 
 witliout him : and whilst sharing his pleasures, and sympathising 
 in his sorrows, she coucealed, as by a natural instinct, those 
 keener, more sensitive feelings, which he would not have un- 
 derstood. There were times when this sense of uncongeniality 
 was very oppressive. When Mrs. Wentworth thought of her 
 children, she most felt the absence of that perfect sympathy, 
 which would have supported and soothed her under the 
 anxieties they occasioned. It was a fear for them which was 
 now pressing heavily upon her spirits ; that boding, shadowy 
 fear which cannot be combated, because it assumes no tangible 
 form. She indulged the reverie of the past for a few moments 
 only. It was dangerous to her peace, and contrary to her strict 
 conscientiousness ; but, as it faded away, there rose up the long 
 vista of futurity, and who can blame a mother's momentary 
 longing to pierce into its secrets? It is so hard to persuade 
 out selves that the children whom we love so fondly, and guard 
 so tenderly, must one day bear, as we do, the burden of this 
 evil world. When we are sinking ourselves beneath pressing 
 cares, we can least endure the thought that they must sink 
 likewise. When we are struggling with the claims of conflut- 
 ii_ r duties, or worn with exertions for their happiness, we can 
 least look forward to the same conflict for them. We watch 
 them in their hours of mirth, and listen to their joyful expecta- 
 tions, and in pity sutler the delusion to last whilst yet it may ; 
 7
 
 I } l THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ind at length we ourselves become sharers in it, and, closing 
 our eyes to reality, whisper to our own hearts, " To-morrow 
 shall bo as this day, and much more abundant." Happy is 
 it that a truer love and a wiser forethought is steadily, unshrink- 
 ingly, yet most mercifully, preparing for them the cup of trial 
 which we would so weakly withhold. 
 
 A knock at the door disturbed the train of Mrs. "Wentworth's 
 thoughts. "Come in," was the order, spoken quickly and 
 nervously; but Mrs. Wentworth did not look round. 
 
 " 1 )id you want me, mamma ?" asked Eleanor, standing as if 
 unwilling to enter. 
 
 " Yes ; if you are not engaged. Is Susan at her lessons ?" 
 
 " She was just going to say them ; but she can do something 
 by herself, if you wish it, mamma," and Eleanor retired. 
 
 Several minutes passed before her return, more, it seemed, 
 than were necessary, and Mrs. Wentworth had a hasty word on 
 her lips in coTisequence ; but it was not uttered, and served 
 only to give a sadder tone to her voice, as she said, " I 
 would not have interrupted you, my dear, if there had not 
 been a necessity." 
 
 A little awkwardness was perceptible in Eleanor's manner as 
 she approached her mother ; and a certain consciousness that the 
 necessity alluded to was not an agreeable one. 
 
 " You were very late returning from the castle last night, my 
 love," continued Mrs. Wentworth. " I did not like to vex you 
 by saying anything about it at the time ; but I was sorry. I did 
 not expect, indeed, that you would have stayed to dine." 
 
 " I did not mean to do it," replied Eleanor ; " but we went 
 out driving and riding, and came back late ; and then Laiy 
 Charlton and Adelaide persuaded me, and I thought you would 
 not be angry." 
 
 " Adelaide," repeated Mrs. Wentworth in a musing tone ; but 
 she made no other comment upon the familiarity. " I am not 
 angry, my dear child," she added ; " and, perhaps, I should not 
 even be vexed if you were alone." 
 
 "You are afraid for Charles," replied Eleanor; "but, 
 mamma, it is his only amusement." 
 
 " Y es, I know it ; but it makes me very anxious." 
 
 Eleanor looked steadily in her mother's face, whilst a smile, 
 which she vainly strove to repress, stole over her features, as she 
 said, " You are afraid of his falling in love, mamma ?" 
 
 "Falling in love, my dear! No!" and Mrs. Wentworth's 
 lips curled in disgust. "I could never fear that Charles would
 
 the earl's daughter. 145 
 
 fall in love with anything so vain and frivolous as Miss 
 Charlton ; but I am afraid of his being led on to say and do 
 foolish things ; to natter and talk nonsense, and go further than 
 he knows ; to flirt in fact : and I am afraid of your seeing it, 
 and perhaps being induced to join in it in a certain way. I 
 could not bear that sort of thing, Eleanor; it would be so 
 utterly against my taste, not to put it upon higher grounds." 
 
 " Charles likes Miss Charlton very well," said Eleanor ; " but 
 he does not really care for her." 
 
 " I do not see that it makes much difference whether he does 
 or does not," replied Mrs. Wentworth ; " for a young man just 
 preparing for ordination to waste his time and lower his charac- 
 ter by dancing attendance upon a silly girl, whom he does not 
 care for, merely because he wants amusement, is, to say the least, 
 unworthy." 
 
 " The Chafitons will be going soon," said Eleanor. " Lady 
 Charlton talks of spending the winter at Senilhurst, and taking 
 Blanche with her." 
 
 " Indeed !" Mrs. Wentworth's face brightened instantly. 
 
 " Yes ; it is nearly settled ;" but Eleanor looked as much 
 vexed as her mother was relieved. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth observed the expression of her face : " My 
 dear child, vou must forinve me for beincr Had ; I do feel for 
 
 Eleanor only drew up with an air of reserve, and said, " I am 
 not disappointed ; I have known that it must be so from the 
 be<xinnin<>\" 
 
 " It will smooth every difficulty if they go," continued Mrs. 
 Wentworth, evidently trying to be frank and unconstrained 
 " that was why I sent for you, Eleanor, to know if you could tell 
 me anything of their movements. If they were to remain, I 
 must urge your father to make some other arrangement for 
 Charles. I have such a great dread of the intimacy. Can vou 
 not understand me ?" she added, watching Eleanor's counte- 
 nance narrowly. " I think you must see yourself how bad it is." 
 
 " Certainly," replied Eleanor, flattered by her mother's confi- 
 Jence, " Adelaide Charlton is not the person to improve him; 
 out, there is more in her, mamma, than you would give her 
 credit for." 
 
 "That may be; but Charles must have a superior wife, if he 
 i- ever to do anything in life. lie must marry a woman whom 
 lie respects." 
 
 " i.nd loves, too" -aid Eleanor.
 
 146 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Yes, assuredly ; but the love in which there is no respect is 
 I ait a broken reed to rest upon. However, I need not take up 
 your time any longer, my love. If Lady Charlton goes soon, 
 all my trouble will be at an end ; and, in the mean time, I must 
 trust to you not to do more than you can help in biinging them 
 together." 
 
 " I will not do anything you dislike, dear mamma," was 
 Eleanor's reply ; " if you will only look less anxious than you 
 did when I came in." 
 
 " Anxious, did I ? My face is not generally a tell-tale ?" 
 
 " I understand it always," answered Eleanor. " You have 
 been uncomfortable very often lately." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth did not contradict the assertion. 
 
 " I think you would be happier," added Eleanor, " if the fastle 
 was far off; and yet, mamma," and she hesitated, " you suffered 
 me to be brought up with Blanche." 
 
 " Yes, I did ; possibly it was a mistake." Mrs. Wentworth 
 thought for a few moments, and then continued, " Yet I acted 
 fur the best at the time. When you first went to Mrs. Howard 
 I was very ill ; I could not take proper care of you myself. 
 Mrs. Howard urged me to let you go for the sake of Lady 
 Blanche, and for her mother's sake. At that time there seemed 
 little probability that Lord Rutherford would ever settle perma- 
 nently in England ; or, if he did, that he would choose to reside 
 at Rutherford. The circumstances under which he left it were 
 such that I myself could not have contemplated his return. He 
 lias another place in the north ; I imagined that he would have 
 preferred it. Yet it might have been an error, a want of due 
 forethought. Oh ! Eleanor, you will not make me regret it !" 
 
 Eleanor's feelings were touched by the earnestness with which 
 her mother spoke. "Mamma!" she exclaimed, "I have been 
 foolish, I know, of late; but, indeed, you may trust me. I can 
 only learn good from Blanche, and I cannot really be led away 
 by a person like Adelaide Charlton." 
 
 " God forbid you ever should be, "my love," replied Mrs. 
 Wentworth. "You do not know all that such an influence 
 brings ; how it lowers, wastes, vitiates the whole tone of the cha- 
 racter ; how its effects are felt for years and years. Such a mind 
 as yours, Eleanor, if it is not bent upon the highest objects, 
 destroys itself; .t cannot rest in mean pursuits, and it turns 
 inward and gnaws at the root of its own happiness. And you 
 may b — shall I tell you what you may be ? — what I hav t 
 sometimes pleased myself by imagining you to be ?"
 
 the earl's daughter. 147 
 
 " Something much better than I can ever imagine myself, 1 
 am sure," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yet nothing beyond your power," continued her mother. "A 
 woman with all a woman's tastes, and gentleness, and modesty ; 
 yet earnest, untiring, exalted in your aims, enlarged in your 
 views, sufficient for your own happiness, from having fixed it 
 where alone_>t may be safely centred, whilst living in the hap- 
 piness of others, because your whole life is devoted to the pro- 
 motion of their welfare ; and having a power over their minds, 
 because you have kept such a strict watch over your own. That 
 is what you may be." 
 
 " And what shall I be, mamma ?" The question was put in 
 atone of great thoughtfulness. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth paused, and her voice sank again into its 
 quiet stillness, as she said, " One only knows." 
 
 " But tell me ; help me, if you can," said Eleanor ; " tell me 
 what I must be if I am not what you describe. Mamma, it may 
 do me more good than you can think." 
 
 " Would you wish to hear ?" replied Mrs. Wentworth. " You 
 will think me exaggerating, yet I have watched the downward 
 progress of many characters like yours, and the general outline 
 is alike in all. First, self-dissatisfaction and a longing for the 
 respect which might be deserved, and then an endeavour to be 
 satisfied with mere admiration instead ; admiration becoming 
 necessary, and sinking gradually into the craving of a miserable 
 vanity ; and this changing in old age into a sharp, cynical nar- 
 rowness of mind, which is wretchedness to itself and others. I 
 am not speaking in the least too strongly, Eleanor. I have seen 
 it, and grieved over it ; and the first symptom has always been 
 that fickleness of action, though not of intention, in little things, 
 which you are always regretting." 
 
 " And never amending," said Eleanor. "Mamma, I must do 
 so, I will." The house-bell rang at that moment; Eleanor 
 toloured deeply. " It is Adelaide Charlton," she said. " I did 
 ii'fv wrong ; I asked her to come." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth strove hard not to show her real annoyance. 
 
 " She shall stay but a few minutes," continued Eleanor. 
 " She has only to look over some music, and she knows I shall 
 be busy." 
 
 Miss Charlton was announced in the drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth rose and said she would receive her, and, 
 collecting her letters, was preparing to go, when Dr. Went- 
 worth's voice was hear! The meeting at the Union wa.->
 
 J 48 T II K EARL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 deferred; he was returned unexpectedly, and he came to the 
 window to say so. 
 
 " 1 want von, my dear, particularly. I must have you for a 
 few minutes to go into the village with me." 
 
 " Is it really necessary ? There are visitors in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 " What visitors ? Only Miss Charlton. Charles and Eleanor 
 will entertain her." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth's conscience smote her for the pride which 
 had made her shut up from her husband the anxieties which she 
 imagined he could not sympathise with. Now, when she, 
 wanted his assistance, he was working unknowingly against 
 her. 
 
 " Indeed, I must have you, my dear," he continued. " I am 
 in a hurry." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth could say no more; but she looked at 
 Eleanor as she joined him, and Eleanor answered the look with 
 " Adelaide will only stay a few minutes. I shall not let her 
 do so." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " I hope I am not interrupting you," began Adelaide. Chart 
 ton, as Eleanor welcomed her with a gravity of manner which 
 she could not hide. 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't name it. I shall find the music I men- 
 tioned almost immediately," and Eleanor began searching for 
 it hurriedly inquiring at the same time for every one at the 
 castle. 
 
 Adelaide rattled on in her usual style. They must have had 
 a bad night, she supposed, for they all seemed cross ; but she 
 made a point of never inqniring what was the matter. She had 
 left Maude and Blanche in close conversation ; but, of course, 
 she did not know what it was about : they were becoming such 
 desperate friends, it would not do to pry into their secrets. 
 
 Eleanor bent over the music-stand, and regretted that the 
 lost piece of music was not forthcoming; but promised to look 
 tor it, and send it to the castle in the course of the day. 
 
 " < >h ! it, docs not signify ;" was Adelaide's indifferent reply. 
 "One never really cares for any particular piece; I dare say 
 you have a good many that I don't know. May I look P She
 
 the earl's daughter. 149 
 
 took up a piece of music, hummed a few notes, thought it 
 seemed pretty, and seated herself at the piano to try it. " Aw- 
 fully difficult all this style of music is, and not in good taste, 
 people say ; at least, Maude says so, and she is the oracle. 
 After all, instrumental music is worth nothing compared with 
 vocal. How badly your brother and I sang last night ! We 
 really must .practise before we exhibit again. Don't you think 
 it would be a good thing to have practising days ?" 
 
 " li>one had time, it might be," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Oh, but we must make time. I have no notion of persons 
 not finding sufficient time for anything they wish. I protest, 
 there is that enchanting trio we were talking of; you must 
 try it." 
 
 " A trio for two persons !" said Eleanor, laughing ; " that will 
 not quite do." 
 
 " Never mind ; just try our part." 
 
 She struck the first few chords ; Eleanor grew hopeless of 
 escape. Adelaide's visit was from her own invitation, and she 
 could not summon courage to shorten it by confessing her 
 engagements. 
 
 " You very good people are so methodical," continued 
 Adelaide ; " you quite put one to the blush. I declare, to see 
 the way Blanche goes on is enough to convert one into an 
 automaton. I must have some music this morning to put me 
 in good humour." 
 
 " Can that ever be needed ?" asked a voice from behind her ; 
 and to Eleanor's extreme annoyance, her brother joined them. 
 
 Adelaide Charlton's manner showed instantaneously the 
 working of her mind. There was a little blushing, a little ban- 
 tering, a good many quick upward glances, interspersed with a 
 few downcast modest ones ; some pretty nonsense about music 
 and flowers, and a pretence at shyness, when Mr. Wentworth 
 asked her to sing, with an evident disinclination to leave off 
 when she had begun. It was vanity, unmistakeable ; and Elea- 
 nor stood by and compared Adelaide's flirting with her own 
 dignity ; and, in the pleasure of self-satisfaction, forgot her 
 mother's caution and her own promises. And so the minutes 
 went by, and Eleanor satisfied herself that, the waste of time 
 could not be avoided, and therefore it could not be wrong to 
 enjoy it. And she did enjoy it in a measure. 
 
 Tliere is generally something agreeable in that sort of light, 
 quick conversation which accompanies music, and Adelaide 
 Charlton was not deficient in talent of a certain kind. She had
 
 150 the earl's daughter. 
 
 travelled and could relate amusing adventures herself, and assist 
 Mr. Wentworth in remembering his; and she had seen more 
 of the world than Eleanor, and laughed at many of her simple 
 notions; she was older also, and had been presented at court, 
 and was acquainted with people of rank and fashion. These 
 were all ingredients of influence, especially when mingled with 
 them was the thought, " Notwithstanding all these advantages, 
 1 am the superior." 
 
 " And now, Charles, we really must be steady," was at length 
 Eleanor's faint endeavour to stop the flow of the conversation. 
 " I am doing very wrong in staying here, and you are doing 
 very wrong too, Adelaide. I must be rude and send you away, 
 or we shall both get into disgrace." 
 
 Adelaide started from her seat ; " Go, must I ? Well I sup- 
 pose I have been here an immense time. I did not mean to 
 star a quarter of an hour. Mr. Wentworth, I must trouble you 
 to return my glove : you seem bent upon keeping possession of 
 it; but I am afraid it will not be quite as useful to you as to 
 me." She held out her hand, and to her surprise, the glove 
 was given as a matter of course, and Mr. Wentworth turning 
 suddenly to his sister, said, in a tone of quiet politeness, 
 " Eleanor, you do not see — Lady Blanche Evelyn." 
 
 Blanche was at the window, and Mr. Wentworth stepped 
 forward to open it. His manner was quite different; thought- 
 ful and respectful, as if some sudden spell had been cast over 
 him. Yet Blanche was thoroughly at her ease, smiled and 
 shook hands, and rallied him upon his musical mania. Perhaps 
 he saw that the words were words of course, spoken to smoothe 
 the little stiffness of the party, for there was no real gaiety in 
 what she said. She looked ill and harassed, and when 
 Adelaide declared her intention to return to the castle, Blanche 
 made no remark, and allowed her to say " Good b'ye," without 
 asking her to wait. So Adelaide, after a little more lingering 
 and sighing, and laughing, departed, taking care when she had 
 gone a few steps to attract attention, by an " Oh ! Mr. Went- 
 worth, I forgot ;" which drew him after her, and induced him 
 to accompany her more than half-way home. 
 
 Eleanor stood watching them until they were fairly out of 
 sight, and then going up to Blanche, said, as she stooped to kiss 
 her, " Blanche, I am thankful you are not your cousin Ade- 
 laide." 
 
 IManche smiled, and replied, " Perhaps, I am glad too ; and 
 vet that is wrong," she added, correcting herself ; though one
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 15] 
 
 ■ 
 
 may be glad one is not forced to lead the same life. But, 
 Eleanor, I was not prepared for your having any one here ; and 
 I thought Susan's lesson would be over by this time. If Ade- 
 laide has been with you that of course is impossible." 
 
 Eleanor had seldom felt less inclined to attend to lessons, and, 
 as an excuse to herself, said, that Susan could do very well 
 without her Jor the present ; she wished first to know what had 
 brought Blanche to the rectory. 
 
 " Business that can wait very well," replied Blanche, " so 
 ] 'lease go, if you have anything to do, and I will sit here and 
 write a letter till you are ready." 
 
 " But you look fagged and worried, Blanche ; »vhat has been 
 going wrong ?" 
 
 The eyes of Blanche filled with tears, but not one was suf- 
 fered to escape, and, avoiding a direct reply, she said, " I came 
 here partly to tell you that we shall all probably go to Senil- 
 hurst immediately." 
 
 Eleanor's countenance betokened blank disappointment ; she 
 was not prepared for such a sudden move. 
 
 "Yes," continued Blanche quickly, as if anxious to avoid 
 questions ; "it is my aunt's wish, and I shall vex her if I refuse, 
 and I don't think papa will dislike it. My aunt says it is the 
 best thing fcr me ; and, and I don't much care myself 
 what " her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. 
 
 Eleanor was at her side in an instant, soothing and caressing 
 her, and entreating to be told what was the cause of her grief. 
 Blanche seemed distressed at her own weakness, but had no 
 power of controlling it when she had once given way. 
 
 " Oh, Eleanor !" she exclaimed, " if they had only told me ; 
 if they had not brought me up in ignorance !" 
 
 "Ignorance, dearest Blanche! Of what?" 
 
 " Of everything ; of what I ought to have known ; what all 
 the world knows except myself," replied Blanche, impetuously ; 
 a feeling of pride mingling unperceived with her sorrow. 
 
 ■• All the world ! what? how?" inquired Eleanor, frightened 
 rit, her unusual vehemence. 
 
 " Yuii knew," continued Blanche, and she grasped her friend's 
 arm, nervously, until Eleanor said, " 1 can know nothing which 
 you will not tell me;" and then Blanche dropped her hand, and 
 leaning her forehead upon the table, murmured, " L am unkind 
 too ! and I thought I had self-command !" 
 
 "You must no1 have self-command with me, dearest," said 
 Eleanor. " [f you cannot talk openly to me, whom can you 
 P50 to r
 
 152 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 - No one ; no one ;" was the mournful answer. " But 1 
 think I o>uld bear it better if I knew all. Oh, Eleanor ! are you 
 sure '. did your mother never talk to you? did she never tell 
 V(lU f — f my own mother — my sweet mother?" she paused, 
 and her voice sunk almost to a whisper; but it was a whisper 
 clear and thrilling 1 , and Eleanor's cheek turned pale, and a 
 shudder passed through her frame as she heard, " Eleanor, she 
 
 was insane." 
 
 There followed a long pause, until Eleanor said very gently, 
 " Mamma, if it is true, would tell yo.i all." 
 
 Blanche shook her head : " I could not ask her. I had a 
 thought — a foolish one — that you might know." 
 
 " No, never. Could I have hidden it from you ?" 
 
 "Perhaps so ; they all did. They thought it right ; it was a 
 cruel kindness." 
 
 " Are you quite certain it is true ?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " Maude says so ; and I feel it. I understand things now. 
 Oh ! if I could have comforted her but for one hour !" and 
 Blanche groaned in agony for the past, whilst Eleanor trembled 
 at the horrible train of thought which in those few moments had 
 been conjured up for the future. 
 
 Blanche recovered herself by degrees. She related what had 
 passed with Maude, and showed Eleanor how the fact was con- 
 tinued by her mother's papers, and the strange silence and mys- 
 tery in which everything connected with her was involved. She 
 seemed to shrink from any attempt to persuade her into 
 disbelief. "It was better," she said, "to face the truth at 
 once ; that was what she was now longing to do entirely. A 
 few days ago she could have gone to her aunt ; but there had 
 been an unhappy misunderstanding ; she scarcely knew how it 
 had arisen ; from some foolish changeableness of her own, she 
 believed. It had worried Lady Charlton extremely, and she had 
 not recovered it. There is no one besides her, except your 
 mother," continued Blanche, and Eleanor assented. She did 
 not venture to ask why Lord Rutherford's name was not men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " And why should you not go to mamma ?" she said, as 
 Blanche again repeated her longing wish to hear the particu- 
 lars of her mother's history. 
 
 The answer was given with some reluctance : " Because I am 
 afraid of her." 
 
 " Afraid of her! so good, and gentle, and charitable, as ebe 
 is. Oh, Blanche !"
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 " Yet still I am afraid. Do you know what it is to have an 
 intuitive perception of being misunderstood — misjudged? Her 
 interest in you absorbs her; and well it may. It is a mother's 
 love." Blanche turned away her head to hide her unbidden 
 tears. " I am very wrong to regret," she added, " only some- 
 times I think that, if my mother had lived, I might have been 
 better ; butjhen " 
 
 It was an awful thought which suggested itself to both, and 
 Eleanor, willing to divert it, said "Even a mother's love, Blanche, 
 cannot always be our safeguard." 
 
 " It seems so, as if it must be," replied Blanche, musingly. 
 " Your home, and its quietness and peace ; ait your time 
 marked out, and your duties fixed, and a friend to go to always ; 
 it must be safer than mine." 
 
 Eleanor made no direct answer. " AYhen do you go to Senil- 
 hurst?" she said abruptly. 
 
 " Directly, I think ; but the day is not fixed." 
 
 This was said with an air of such melancholy indifference as 
 to recall Eleanor from all thoughts of herself. 
 
 " You must be made happier before you go, Blanche," she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " That cannot be. I must try and bear it, and the pain may 
 lessen." 
 
 " But not the ignorance and mystery ; and if you chose, there 
 would be nothing easier than to learn everything. Mamma 
 would tell you every little detail, if she thought you were aware 
 of the truth ; and you would feel her value then." 
 
 Blanche recollected the request for her mother's picture, and 
 was silent. 
 
 Just then Mrs. "Wentworth came into the room, accompanied 
 by Susan. Blanche looked nervous and agitated. Mrs. Went- 
 worth spoke to her, but seemed to have an instant perception 
 that all was not right ; and addressing Eleanor reminded her 
 that the morning was fast passing away, and that Susan's lessons 
 could not possibly be finished in time if she was left to herself. 
 * I make no apology to Lady Blanche," she added ; " she will 
 not require; it. I am glad you have been detained by her." A 
 meaning stress was laid upon the pronoun, and Eleanor's sincere 
 conscience would not suffer her to misunderstand it. 
 
 " Blanche has been here but a short time," she said. "Ade- 
 laide Charlton staved longer than I thought she would, and 
 Charles came in, and they san«;." 
 
 "Oh!"
 
 lot THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 There was no further remark or comment. Eleanor kissed 
 her mother, and the kiss was returned warmly; but the sigh 
 which accompanied it spoke volumes of disappointment. Mrs. 
 Wentworth sat down when she was gone; her manner was less 
 scl ^possessed than usual. She asked a few unconnected ques- 
 tions, and when Blanche mentioned the plan of going to Senil- 
 hurst directly, she did not appear to take in the idea; her mind 
 was wandering to another subject. At length, Blanche asked if 
 she might stay and write a letter, and occupy herself till Eleanor 
 was at leisure again ; and this seemed to put Mrs. Wentworth 
 at ease, and she placed the portfolio for her, and laughed at the 
 1-ad pens which she had to offer, and afterwards, saying she 
 would leave her at liberty, went away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " Your master is much better this morning, Pearson," said 
 Lady Charlton, addressing the civil man-servant, as he stood 
 aside, condensing himself into the smallest possible compass, 
 while she passed. 
 
 " Rather better, my lady. I am afraid he has been in a good 
 deal of pain the last half-hour." 
 
 " But he is better, Pearson ; a good deal. Mr. Stone said so 
 yesterday. He will be able to go to Senilhurst soon." 
 
 " Certainly, my lady ; certainly, if you wish it. Did you say 
 soon ?" 
 
 " Yes ; very soon ; next week. Your master will be quite 
 ready for the journey by that time." 
 
 " Certainly, my lady ;" and a faint smile played upon the 
 lips of the well-instructed Pearson. " The change is to do him 
 g 1, I imagine, my lady." 
 
 " Of course ; and this weather will do very well for travelling ; 
 later in the season might be running a risk/' 
 
 "Certainly, my lady; and it might be bad for your ladyship 
 and the young ladies." 
 
 ' Yes; in tact, we must be at Senilhurst next week. Lord 
 Rutherford and Lady Blanche will accompany us." Pearson 
 bowed low. " I shall see your master presently, Pearson." 
 Another bow. 
 
 Lady Charlton went to the drawing-room, and Pearson 
 repaired to the library, to see if the fire was getting low. The
 
 the earl's daughter. 155 
 
 glance with which Sir Hugh repaid his attention was discourag- 
 ing ; so were his words. As usual, they were a reproach for the 
 length of time he had been left, and, as usual, Pearson made no 
 attempt at explanation, and only answered, " Very sorry, Sir 
 Hugh ; extremely sorrv ; might I be allowed ? — I think I could 
 put vour pillow more comfortable." 
 
 " Not at ajl ; I don't want to be comfortable. Left alone 
 two full hours! it's unbearable." 
 
 44 I was certainly forgetful," began Pearson. 
 
 orgetful ! idiot, you forget everything ! Where's my 
 medicine ?" 
 
 Pearson poured it out, and as he handed it to his master, ven- 
 tured to observe that the day was so fine, he hoped it might do 
 for a drive. 
 
 " Where is the good of driving ?" muttered Sir Hugh, " the 
 bills stop one at every half-mile." 
 
 " Exactly what I was saying to the bailiff just now, Sir Hugh. 
 Mr. Denham, said I, this place is very different from Senilhurst. 
 There we have a fine open country, where my master can drive 
 about and get plenty of fresh air ; beautiful soft in the valleys, 
 bracing upon the downs. Trust me, if you could come to Senil- 
 hurst, you would never wish to go back to Rutherford." 
 
 " Then you talked nonsense, Pearson," exclaimed Sir Hugh 
 more mildly than before. 
 
 Pearson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on, 
 ''Mr. Denham is hard of belief; a very narrow mind; never 
 has travelled at all, Sir Hugh. He wouldn't credit a word I 
 told him of your crop of turnips the year before last?" Sir 
 Hugh leaned his head upon his hand in a soothed attitude. 
 " Wonderful, those turnips were !" continued Pearson ; " but, as I 
 told Mr. Denham, — my master, said I, understands these things ; 
 he's an experienced gentleman ; he takes nothing upon trust." 
 
 "And Denham wouldn't believe you, eh?" said Sir Hugh. 
 
 " Wouldn't behave a word," said Pearson ; " said there never 
 was such a crop known, and he couldn't understand it. Put, said 
 I, Mr. Denham, it's not for you and me to try and understand 
 these things* M\ master is a man of science, and what he does 
 he does, upon principle — strict principle ; the turnips, d'ye see, 
 grew upon principle." 
 
 u J [em, nonsense," muttered Sir Hugh, whilst the frown upon 
 lis forehead gradually subsided, and a pleased smile stole over 
 his features. "Why don't you bring him to Senilhurst, Pear- 
 son, instead of trying to talk bim ever he
 
 156 the earl's daughter. 
 
 "Undoubtedly, Sir Hugh; it's the only thing to oedune, 
 but, as 1 said, if we are to stay the winter at Rutherford, there 
 is no good in thinking of Senilhurst." 
 
 " And who said we were to spend the winter at Rutherford V 
 inquired Sir Hugh sharply. 
 
 " 1 understood from my lady," began Pearson ; but Sir Hugh 
 broke in, " 1 have told you fifty times before, Pearson, that you 
 arc to understand from me ; your lady knows nothing about the 
 i natter." 
 
 " I imagined it was my lady's wish," began Pearson again. 
 
 "And what did you think then was my wish? Did you sup- 
 pose that I meant to be cooped up here for the next six months, 
 with nothing to do but to follow your lady's beck and call ?" 
 
 " My lady seemed to think it was fixed," continued Pearson, 
 " and of course it was not my place to say anything ; though I 
 could see, like every one else, Sir Hugh, that it would be better 
 for you to be at home." 
 
 " And what is to hinder me from going home ?" inquired Sir 
 Hugh?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir, nothing ; if you desire it ; only my lady " 
 
 " Don't talk to me of your lady ; my will is her will." 
 
 " Unquestionably, Sir Hugh ; and no doubt my lady's 
 health, aud that of the young ladies, would be materially 
 benefited. As I said to Mr. Denham, Senilhurst air is quite 
 renovating." 
 
 " And what did Denham say to that V 
 
 " He was amazed, Sir Hugh ; never saw a man more so. 
 Mr. Pearson, said he, Senilhurst must be a paradise. Mr. 
 Denham, said I, it is." 
 
 " Hem !" muttered Sir Hugh ; " Denham's got more sense 
 than I gave him credit for. To see how he manages the estate 
 here, one would think him an ignorant booby. Young Went- 
 worth knows much more about farming than he does." 
 
 " Mr. Wentworth has had great advantages," observed 
 Pearson, " going about with a gentleman of such experience as 
 yourself, Sir Hugh." 
 
 " Wentworth's a sensible fellow," continued Sir nujrh : " Le 
 has his eyes about him, and he's not conceited. He has my 
 geology pamphlet by heart; in fact, he's quite the life of the 
 olace." 
 
 ' Mr. Wentworth would take a great interest in the farming 
 it Senilhurst," said Pearson insinuatingly. 
 
 ' V s, he might ; he would, I think. There would be a good
 
 the earl's daughter. 157 
 
 deal for him to learn there;" and Sir Hugh fell into a short 
 reverie, which was apparently caused by some difficulty in the 
 contemplated return home, as he tapped his finger on the table 
 and began reckoning — " Lady Charlton, one ; Maude and Ady 
 three ; young "Went worth, four; it's one too many." 
 
 " The earl and Lady Blanche will have a great loss in your 
 absence, Sir jjugh," began Pearson, a little alarmed at not 
 hearing their names mentioned. 
 
 " Well, yes ; I suppose they will," said Sir Hugh, stroking 
 his chin ; " the earl and I have pursuits in common, we are 
 both literary men." 
 
 u There's a thought of his lordship and Lady Blanche re- 
 maining here through the winter, I suppose," said Pearson ; " at 
 least my lady seemed to say so the other day." 
 
 " "What should your lady know about it ?" exclaimed Sir 
 Hugh ; " the earl has no fixed plans, he told me so confiden- 
 tially. If I were to ask him to Senilhurst he would go." 
 
 " And be delighted, no doubt," replied Pearson ; " he has 
 not been looking at all well lately." 
 
 " No wonder, living at this place. He and young "Went- 
 worth together." — Sir Hugh mused again, but whether upon 
 the travelling plans, or the probable indignation of Lady 
 Charlton if he presumed to give Mr. "Went worth an invitation 
 to Senilhurst, it is impossible to say. The difficulty which 
 perplexed him, whatever it was, seemed, however, to be insur- 
 mountable, for after the silence of a few minutes, he exclaimed, 
 " It won't do ; no, it won't do ; and after all, spring is the best 
 time for seeing a place. If we stay here a few weeks longer 
 we shall help them on into the winter, and they can come to us 
 early in the spring." 
 
 Pearson was in dismay ; but he was a man of singular 
 patience, and having reached the point from which he had 
 started, he steadily set forth to traverse the same ground again ; 
 pulling Sir Hugh one way, in the conviction that he would be 
 6ure to go the other, until at length he had once more brought 
 him to face the possibility of removing to Senilhurst immedi- 
 ately, taking Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche with them, 
 and giving an indirect invitation to Mr. Wentworth to follow at 
 his earliest convenience. This last resolution, however, Sir 
 Hugh did not fail to qualify by repeating, "I shan't invite him; 
 1 hate regular invitations. Only if he likes it of course he will 
 be welcome. Mind, Pearson, I have no intention of inviting 
 him."
 
 1 58 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Pearson assented both to the letter and the spirit of thia 
 declaration, and having arranged his master's pillows for ahoni 
 the twentieth time since the conversation began, ventured to 
 suggest that Lady Charlton might be glad to know of Sir 
 Hugh's definite plan. A gracious permission was given, and 
 Sir Hugh raised himself in his arm-chair to look imposing, and 
 spreading a blank sheet of paper before him, chose a new pen 
 that he might make a legible list of imperative orders for the 
 journey. 
 
 " Sir Hugh would be glad to speak with you, my lady," 
 Baid Pearson, as he met Lady Charlton at the foot of the stairs. 
 His f;iee was impenetrable, but his self-satisfied tone showed that 
 all difficulties had been smoothed away. 
 
 " I will be with him directly," was Lady Charlton's soft 
 reply ; and Pearson went off to the servants' hall, charmed at 
 his own cleverness, in having ruled his master, pleased his 
 mistress, and been instrumental in suggesting an idea, which he 
 had good reason to think would gratify one at least of the 
 young ladies ; and all without committing himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 It was not a long interview between Sir Hugh and Lady 
 l 'harlton ; no interviews of this kind ever were long ; for Lady 
 Charlton, when she had once gained a point, took care not to 
 dwell sufficiently upon it to give time for a change of feeling. 
 The determination of returning to Senilhurst was especially 
 important to her at this moment, as the neighbourhood of the 
 Rectory was, in her eyes, becoming every day more undesirable. 
 Even if the earl and Blanche persisted in remaining at Ruther- 
 ford, she had resolved to go; but independently of her own 
 pleasure, their society would, she knew, be a great inducement 
 in Sir Hugh to consent to her wishes. His vanity would be 
 flattered by the idea of showing Blanche his own place and his 
 own plans; and, as she had calculated upon this as the easy 
 mode of obtaining her point, she was the more provoked at the 
 indecision which Blanche had evinced. Still she did not doubt 
 of gaining her object eventually. Pearson's skill was almost 
 always successful in winning Sir Hugh's consent, even against 
 his favourite wishes ; and Blanche was too gentle not to be 
 easily brought round. Yet Lady Charlton allowed no surprise
 
 the earl's daughter. 159 
 
 or satisfaction to be visible when she entered the library. She 
 was quietly indifferent, and even put a few obstacles in the way 
 of a sudden removal ; obstacles which, of course, only strength- 
 ened Sir Hugh's resolution, and gave him a sense of power in 
 showing the clever way in which he could surmount them. 
 
 " Lord Rutherford and Blanche must be talked over," he 
 said ; and Lady Charlton agreed ; not even a smile betraying 
 that the suggestion had been made to them previously. 
 
 The>lay of departure was next to be fixed. Sir Hugh named 
 it — determined the hour of starting — wrote down the names of 
 the few villages through which they were to pass before they 
 reached a railway station, and the time which the distance might 
 be expected to take ; and then proceeded to copy c ut the after 
 details of the journey from a railway guide, Lady Charlton 
 assisting him by reading out 11*25, 12 - 50, &c, in due succes- 
 sion. 
 
 When, at length, the word Senilhurst war written, in legible 
 characters, at the bottom of the paper, announcing the termina- 
 tion of the journey, Sir LTugh threw himself back in his chair 
 and exclaimed, " There, my dear; now I think I have done my 
 part I have saved you all the trouble of arrangement, and you 
 will have nothing in the world to do but just to obey orders — 
 the easiest thing of all — just to obey orders — nothing more. 
 We leave this place at half-past eight precisely; we reach Senil- 
 hurst at twenty minutes past six. Don't trouble yourself; don't 
 distress yourself about anything : you see when a man is once 
 accustomed to this sort of thing it becomes quite easy. You 
 may tell Maude and Ady, if you like it ; but it will be as well 
 to leave Rutherford to me. Gentlemen always manage these 
 things best with each other. I shall hiutmy wishes gently, and 
 bring him round by degrees." 
 
 •'Perhaps it might be the bes': way," said Lady Charlton, and 
 she rose to leave the room. 
 
 ''Stop, my dear Frances ; Lady Charlton, you are in such a 
 nurry. Sit down, will you. One thing we have forgotten — 
 dinner. Let me see; we start at half-past eight; we reach 
 Walton at 10; Ditchley, 12-35; Hoxley Road, 2*40; Sun- 
 bridge, 5'15 ; reckoning a quarter of an hour for delay ; Senil- 
 hurst, G*20 ; that leaves us forty minutes — one hour and forty 
 minutes till eight o'clock. Will one hour and forty minutes be 
 sufficient ! Consider now — to settle vourseives — dress — be, in 
 fact, quite ready for dinner! Can you promise U* be in the 
 drawing-room by eight?"
 
 1G0 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Lady Charlton thought there would be no difficulty. 
 
 " Very well, then, that is another point decided. You may 
 write to Mrs. Corrie, and tell her to have dinner ready at eight 
 precisely. And, stay, don't I hear Lord Rutherford's voice?" 
 The ear] opened the door. " The very person I wanted to see. 
 I must have a few words with you ; I must consult you." 
 
 But Lord Rutherford interrupted him. " I beg your pardon ; 
 1 will return to you, but, at this moment, I have pressing busi- 
 ngs. Lady Charlton, can you give me a few moments of your 
 leisure 1" The tone was unusually haughty, and before Lady 
 Charlton had time to answer he was gone. 
 
 Lady Charlton followed him instantly, in spite of Sir LTugn's 
 entreaties that she would wait and consider what further arrange- 
 ments were to be made. 
 
 Lord Rutherford went before her till he reached his private 
 study, the door of which he opened, and motioned to her to 
 enter it, and then closing and bolting it carefully, he sat down 
 opposite to her. Lady Charlton turned pale. There was some- 
 thing in his countenance which would, in itself, have been suffi- 
 cient to alarm her ; a look of hardly repressed indignation, 
 reproach, and over-excited feeling : a curling lip — a frowning 
 brow — a fire in his flashing eye, only softened by the indescrib- 
 able expression of mental anguish that pervaded his whole 
 countenance. He did not speak for some moments, but sat 
 resting his forehead upon his hand. Lady Charlton tried to 
 shake off her fear. She went up to him, laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder, and said in a light, unconstrained tone, " You 
 must not treat me in this way. I must know at once what is 
 the matter." 
 
 lie looked up and said sternly, " You can tell." 
 
 Lady Charlton's tone was unchanged as she replied, ' ; You 
 .are mistaken. I know nothing that has happened to put you 
 into this strange mood." 
 
 'Not that you have deceived me — betrayed me — broken 
 your most solemn promise ?" 
 
 A momentary indignation clouded Lady Charlton's face, but 
 she subdued the rising feeling, and said gravely but calmly, 
 " My dear Rutherford, this is not language which I ought to 
 hear. I have not betrayed, or deceived you, or broken any 
 Bolemn promise; and I have not the most remote idea what it 
 is you refer to. I must insist upon your explaining yourself 
 more clearly." 
 
 • Vuu have told her," he said, "you have done the very thing
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 1G1 
 
 which" — lie stopped, and Lady Charlton said eagerly, "Blanche \ 
 do you mean that she knows V 
 
 " All that I would have kept from her at any sacrifice. Frances, 
 I thought that I could have trusted you better." 
 
 Lady Charlton looked extremely pained, and the colour 
 rushed to her cheeks as she said hesitatingly, " It was not I who 
 told her." ^ 
 
 " No," exclaimed the earl, " it was not you ; it was Maude. 
 But frojn whom did Maude learn such facts ? and who put it 
 into my darling's head to inquire ?" 
 
 Lady Charlton recovered from her embarrassment when this 
 question was asked reproachfully. 
 
 u You are still speaking mysteries," she said ; " if you will 
 say clearly what you refer to, I will give you the best explana- 
 tion I can." 
 
 " They are simple facts," replied the earl, sarcastically : 
 " Blanche was missing this morning when I wanted her ; I went 
 to her room, and found her in an agony of grief. AYhen I would 
 have forced her to tell me what distressed her, she said — you 
 know what she said. She knew it. Her whole life is embit- 
 tered — her happiness is blighted — her love for me — but I will 
 not think of that — I dare not." 
 
 "And Maude told her?" inquired Lady Charlton. 
 
 " Yes, Maude told her." 
 • " And what ? how much does Blanche know ?" 
 
 " Do you think I could bear to ask ?" exclaimed the earl, bit- 
 terly, " Was it a story that I could endure to have the details 
 repeated ; that I could listen patiently whilst my child described 
 her own misery ?" 
 
 " It might have been as well," said Lady Charlton, coldly ; 
 "you might have spared me much pain, and yourself much 
 after-reproach for injustice. Maude has heard from me little 
 beyond what all the world is acquainted with. What she may 
 have guessed or learnt from other sources I cannot answer for. 
 She is of an inquisitive disposition ; from a child she was 
 strangely interested in the fate of my most unhappy sister. To 
 Batisfy her. I told her the bare fact of her melancholy depres- 
 sion of spirits; but of other sufferings," — and Lady Charlton's 
 voice became eager, and her eye kindled as she went on — "of 
 neglect, loneliness, disappointed affection ; trials which crushed 
 ber intellect, and brought her to an early grave, I said nothing." 
 
 Lord Rutherford sank upon a chair and groaned. 
 
 "It may seem cruel to upbraid you now with an error of
 
 (62 THE EARLS DA t OUTER. 
 
 judgment," continued Lady Charlton ; "but, in my own justifi- 
 cation, I must remind you that you were long since warned 
 against the mistake of keeping from Blanche the secret of her 
 mother's history." 
 
 4> I did not wish to keep it from her," exclaimed the earl, 
 starting from his seat; "But I would have prepared her for it, 
 gradually. I would, yes," he added, his voice sinking from its 
 tone of proud excitement into an accent of the most mournful 
 tenderness, "I would have won her to myself, — I would have 
 made myself her all, and then I would have appealed to her 
 love, — her reverence, — her devotion, — for pardon." 
 
 " You must have had sympathies in common first," said 
 Lady Charlton, with a quiet sarcasm which escaped her almost 
 involuntarily. 
 
 The earl writhed under the censure which he knew was 
 intended, yet he answered firmty, " We have many, — art, and 
 taste, and refinement." 
 
 " And religion !" added Lady Charlton. 
 
 Lord Rutherford bit his lip, and was silent. 
 
 " That is the key to her affections," continued Lady Charlton ; 
 " without it I fear you may find the barrier between you greater 
 than you are aware of." 
 
 The earl regarded her steadily as if he would have said, Do 
 not try me too far, — but Lady Charlton knew her own power — 
 the power which almost necessarily accompanies the knowledge 
 of a strong mind's weakness — and she went on, " If it were 
 possible to humour her upon the point; — if you could, at what- 
 ever sacrifice, bring yourself even to appear" — but the earl 
 broke in upon the observation. 
 
 "Appear!-— to Blanche! — to my own child! — appear to be 
 what I am not ? Oh ! Frances, how little you understand us 
 both !" 
 
 " Blanche, at least, I understand," said Lady Charlton calmly 
 — " she is like her mother." 
 
 The name acted like an electric shock upon Lord Ruther- 
 ford. " Yes," he exclaimed shuddering, "like her in form — in 
 feature — in mind — in fate." The last word sank into a 
 wlii- per. 
 
 " There is little fear of it," replied Lady Charlton, " except in 
 your own imagination, and in possible circumstances, which are 
 entirely under your control. Loneliness and want of sympathy 
 preyed upon poor Emily's mind. There was no positive here- 
 ditary disease. Her case might be the case of any one in the
 
 the earl's daughter. 1G3 
 
 same situation. Loneliness, Blanche will never feel ; want of 
 sympathy she may not, if " 
 
 "If," repeated the earl, bitterly. " I tell you, Frances, I have 
 not the power, even if I had the will, to deceive my sweet child. 
 Pure-minded, simple, transparent, and true as she is, the very 
 earnestness of her own feelings must make her alive to hypocrisy 
 iu others. Would not the tone of my voice — the turn of my 
 sentences, — would not every action of my life betray me ! No, 
 better iar that she should see me as I am — admire me for 
 what I am — even hate me — hate me, if it were possible, for 
 what I am not — than be the dupe of professions which must, 
 sooner or later, be discovered, and bring wretchedness upon us 
 both." 
 
 " As you will," replied Lady Charlton. " It wouid be 
 useless to try and persuade you, that I do not wish you either 
 to deceive, or make a profession. All that I desire is, that you 
 should not shock her — prejudices, as you call them — principles, 
 as I call them." She paused, but the earl was silent. " You 
 make the same sacrifice to the world continually," pursued Lady 
 Charlton ; " you mix with persons whom you dislike ; you join 
 in amusements which do not interest you." 
 
 " Yes," interrupted the earl vehemently ; " I make a sacrifice 
 to the world, which the world sanctions and understands. I 
 speak its own language, and take advantage of its permitted 
 customs. It "is not deceived by civilities and professions. But 
 religion — Frances, I was never a hypocrite. If I had been, I 
 might have spared myself the bitterness of this hour." 
 
 "I think you are unnecessarily anxious," replied Lady Charlton. 
 
 The earl did not notice the remark. He was engaged in his 
 own reflections, and in an under tone he said, " Poor child ! one 
 could almost be inclined to envy her." 
 
 " Can you envy what you consider 2rror ?" replied Lady 
 Charlton. 
 
 " Error !" repeated the earl, musingly. 
 
 " You think it jo," said Lady Charlton. 
 
 He looked up quickly: "Have you never, Frances, watched 
 a sunset, and seen mountains, and islands, and glittering lakes 
 amongst the clouds, and looked till you believed — till you 
 almost knew them to be real? So have I watched Blaneht — 
 daily, hourly, since my return. She has been to me a vision of 
 beauty and purity beyond all that I have known, or could have 
 dreamt; and 1 have gazed upon her until almost I could per* 
 nuade myself that her enthusiasm was reality."
 
 IG4 T II K earl's daughter. 
 
 " It. is real, doubtless, to a certain extent," replied Lad}' 
 Charlton. "Blanche is young, and a little carried away by 
 feeling ; but her principles are unquestionably sound and high ; 
 and we ought to be most grateful to Mrs. Howard for having 
 made her what she is." 
 
 A sudden check seemed to have been given to Lord Ruther- 
 ford's earnestness. He drew himself up coldly, and said, " We 
 haw wandered very far from our first subject. I should be glad 
 to be quite assured that you have not disobeyed my wishes." 
 
 " You are really provoking," replied Lady Charlton, petu- 
 lantly. " I could never have taken upon myself such a responsi- 
 bility. Blanche must have had her suspicions previously raised, 
 and then exaggerated what Maude told her." Lady Charlton 
 stopped, and after considering for a moment added — " You told 
 me you had given her her mother's papers." 
 
 "Yesterday; it was an impulse, after a conversation, a few 
 words only, which passed between us. I felt they might 
 interest her, for I saw she longed for sympathy, and 1 thought 
 they might be something of a bond of closer union between us. 
 But I had long before determined upon doing so when I could 
 summon resolution." 
 
 " They must have betrayed the secret," said Lady Charlton. 
 
 " Impossible ! There were a few letters of my own, including 
 some written years ago, and a journal ; you must remember it. 
 I thought it might please Blanche, but there was little' in it 
 beyond extracts." 
 
 1 Are you sure that was all ?" inquired Lady Charlton. 
 
 " Certain. I destroyed every paper which was in any way 
 painful before I left England." 
 
 " Then it must have been Blanche's own fancy," said Ladv 
 Charlton, " or—" 
 
 The earl turned to her hastily ; " Or whom ? — what ?" 
 
 "Or Mrs Wentworth !" 
 
 " Yes," exclaimed Lord Rutherford, as if the idea had in an 
 instant brought conviction to his mind ; " yes, it must have been 
 her. How could I have been so blind ? But I thought she 
 know my wishes through you." 
 
 " I wrote to her," said Lady Charlton, " when you first 
 thought of returning to Rutherford, impressing upon her the 
 necessity of caution. Her reply was stiff and unsatisfactory, 
 like everything she does or says; but I certainly could not have 
 imagined her capable of telling Blanche what you wanted to 
 keep from her "
 
 the earl's daughter. 16a 
 
 " She supposed it her duty, perhaps," said Lord Rutherford, 
 with a sneer. " She is very much bent upon duty." 
 
 " Her own and other persons, too, in this case," observed 
 Lady Charlton ; " but you must not be hard upon her. Re- 
 member, we have as yet only suspicion." 
 
 " It shall be certainty, one way or the other, soon," exclaimed 
 the earl ; ami without adding another word, he seized his hat, 
 opened the window, and the next minute was walking at a 
 rapid ^pace down the steep path which led to the rectory. 
 
 Lady Charlton looked after him for a few seconds, and then 
 murmuring to herself, " Impetuous as ever ! but I have diverted 
 his thoughts for the preseut," she went to seek Maude, and give 
 her a maternal and not very gentle reproof, for the extreme 
 imprudence which had led her to divulge facts, only a portion 
 of which had as yet been intended to reach the ears of 
 Blanche. 
 
 Lord Rutherford and Mrs. Wentworth disliked each other, as 
 persons must do who, without mutual sympathy or respect, 
 have been compelled by circumstances to learn the secrets of 
 each other's lives, without caring to know the secrets of the 
 heart. Years before, when Lord Rutherford had brought his 
 bride to hei stately home, and offered her luxury and gaiety, 
 she had turned from all to seek the companionship of Mrs. 
 Wentworth. The earl was not jealous — he did not love suf- 
 ficiently to care where his wife found happiness, as long as he 
 was not called upon to give up his own wishes to contribute to 
 it ; but he chafed at the strictness of Mrs. Wentworth's princi- 
 ples, dreaded her influence, and was repulsed by the coldness 
 of her manner — and the aversion was quickly reciprocal. If 
 Mrs. Wentworth reverenced the Countess of Rutherford for her 
 piety, and pitied her for her lonely position ; she could scarcely 
 feel cordial towards the selfish, worldly husband, who by civil 
 unkindness blighted her hopes and mocked her affections. And, 
 as years went on, and absence and neglect did their fatal work 
 in wrecking not only the peace, but the mind of the unhappy 
 countess, the first feeling of dislike almost necessarily deepened 
 into intensity. 
 
 But that time was long gone by. The Countess of Ruther- 
 ford was resting in her quiet grave, safe from the weariness of 
 disappointment and the bitterness of unrequited love; and the 
 earl was returned to his home, to begin, as it were, a new life, 
 and repay the debt which he owed to the memory of his wife 
 by the devoted affection which he lavished upon her child.
 
 ICG the earl's daughter. 
 
 The past was forgotten ; — so it seemed to many but himself 
 forgotten l>v the countess's relations; forgotten, if it had evei 
 been remembered, by the world. Yet, was it so?— does the 
 tide of life indeed sweep by and bear away all traces of the joys 
 and griefs, the good and evil, of our vanished years ; or is there, 
 .\cii upon earth, a record of the deeds of former days, written 
 upon the memories of our friends and companions, and bearing 
 a witness which few can recollect and feel towards us as if such 
 things had never been? 
 
 But Lord Rutherford did Mrs. Wentworth great injustice, 
 when he considered her capable of biassing the mind of his 
 daughter in any way against himself; or even of endeavouring 
 to fix her affections upon her mother's memory at his expense. 
 Even if Mrs. AVentworth had felt for Blanche as she had once 
 felt for the countess, she would have shrunk from such an act as 
 worse than cruelty. But, in truth, she was not sufficiently 
 attracted by the gentle girl, who seemed to have no will but 
 her father's, to attempt to gain an influence over her. She was 
 interested in Blanche for her mother's sake and for Eleanor's ; 
 but being a person of strong impulse and prepossessions, and 
 peculiarly alive to the impression which she made upon others, 
 she could not help seeing, from the very beginning of their 
 acquaintance, that Blanche was not likely to seek her confidence. 
 This was an offence which Mrs. Wentworth was not inclined 
 easily to overlook. It awoke a sense of injustice, as if some- 
 thing was denied her which she had a right to claim. Her 
 natural stiffness and reserve also made her seek for the opposite 
 qualities in others; and symptoms of shyness, especially in 
 young people, were generally attributed to some instinctive 
 difference of feeling, caused possibly by her own defect of man- 
 ner, which it would be useless to endeavour to overcome. Thus 
 it was that, when Mrs. Wentworth was met with more than her 
 own cordiality, she could love, and love intensely ; but when she 
 did not love, she was indifferent, and not uufrequently pre 
 judiced. 
 
 Lord Rutherford knew nothing of all this. He was not an 
 observer of human nature in general ; and seldom took the 
 trouble to think what people were like, or why they pleased or 
 displeased him. A spoilt child from infancy, he only knew 
 what offended his taste, or shocked his self-esteem, and avoided 
 it. It was always an effort to him to be with Mrs. Wentworth, 
 and he would have shunned, instead of seeking, an interview, if 
 he had not been carried forward by indignation and something
 
 the earl's daughter. 107 
 
 like revenge. For it is pleasant to our unchecked natural 
 instincts to have a clear cause of complaint against a person 
 whom we dislike, and yet respect; and, by the time the earl 
 had reached the parsonage, he had worked himself up into the 
 persuasion, not only that the accusation against Mrs. Wentworth 
 was true, but that no extenuation could be offered. 
 
 Blanche saw him pass the drawing-room window as she sat 
 writing her letter and waiting for Eleanor, but she did not go to 
 meet J*im. His look of anguish as he turned away from her, 
 when in their short morning interview she told him the cause 
 of her distress, was still present to her recollection, and she 
 dreaded to encounter it again. In her simplicity, she could not 
 read its entire meaning ; but it had warned her that the subject 
 must never again be alluded to, unless by him. The earl was 
 shown into Mis. Went worth's morning-room ; and through the 
 thin partition Blanche could hear his voice, as the conversation 
 began — first formal, and subdued, then gradually rising into 
 energy and excitement ; whilst Mrs. Wentworth's answers 
 seemed only rather more decided than usual. The interview 
 was soon over ; Blanche heard, as she supposed, the parting 
 words, and a pause followed. She thought her father was 
 gone ; but as she drew near the window to see, she again caught 
 Mrs. Wentworth's voice. The words were distinctly audible — 
 " Your lordship must forgive me, if I earnestly warn you to be 
 cautious. No one knows better than myself the many reasons 
 for being so ; and, in pity to your child, you must remember, 
 that the germ of the evil, at least, may be hereditary." 
 
 There was a faint, sharp cry of exceeding misery, and Blanche 
 fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 That evening, as twilight shades were gathering over the 
 skv, and repose was settling upon the lovely valley of Ruther- 
 ford — as happy children were returning from their play, and 
 the husbandman was preparing to enjoy his evening meal, and 
 the sleep which " to the labouring man is sweet, whether he 
 eat little or much" — the young heiress of all that wealth, 
 beauty, and prosperity can bestow, lay stretched upon her 
 couch, striving to chasten her rebellious heart, and bring every 
 8
 
 108 the earl's daughter. 
 
 gloomy thought, and fruitless wish, into submission to the will 
 of her Maker. 
 
 .Poor Blanche ! she had not known, till that hour, that it was 
 possible to feel more intensely for herself than for others. 
 Unselfish, confiding, humble-minded, she had lived for her fel- 
 low-creatures, and in their joys and sorrows had found her own. 
 But there are griefs which encompass us with a barrier that 
 6huts out human sympathy, and forbids us to find relief in the 
 thought that our affliction is less than that of many around us. 
 '' The heart knoweth its own bitterness ;" and in those seasons 
 of trial it is incapable of estimating comparative wretchedness. 
 
 Blanche lay quite still, her hands clasped tightly together, 
 and her eyes firmly shut; occasionally her lips moved, and the 
 momentary contraction of the forehead, or a nervous action of 
 the fingers, gave indication of some passing thought of misery, 
 but the expression of the face was that of calm hopelessness. 
 Tliere was no one near her, no one watching her ; the one wish 
 she had expressed was for solitude; solitude with Him "to 
 whom all hearts are open, and from whom no secrets are hid." 
 
 The door opened slowly, and Lord Rutherford stole gently 
 to her side. Blanche just opened her eyes and closed them 
 again instantly. lie drew near and knelt down beside her, and 
 took her clammy hand in his, and she turned her face towards 
 bim and tried to smile ; but the parched lips quivered, and a 
 mist gathered over her soft dark eyes, and then the bitter tears 
 flowed silently and fast. 
 
 " Blanche," said the earl, " are you better ?" 
 
 His voice was quite changed ; low and husky. Blanche 
 raised herself and put her arm round his neck, and kissed him ; 
 but she could not speak. 
 
 " My poor child," he said, " they told me you were asleep." 
 
 Blanche shook her head, and answered faintly, " that she had 
 been trying to sleep, but it was of no use." 
 
 " You must have an opiate," observed the earl ; " I shall send 
 for one," and he touched the bell-rope. 
 
 " No opiates for me, dear papa," said Blanche, stopping 
 him; " they can do nothing — no one — nobody" — she paused, 
 and put her hand to her head, as if to eheck the swift torturing 
 current of thought which was about to rush over her. 
 
 " Blanche, can you forgive me?" and the proud earl hid his 
 face upon her pillow, and sobbed like a child. 
 
 " Forgive you, my own papa ; you who have been so kind, 
 bo good : what can I have to forgive !" And a^ain she kissed
 
 THE EARL's DAUGHTER. 169 
 
 him and fondly smoothed his hair, and whispered how dear he 
 was to her ; but the anguish of remorse was too keen for such 
 consolation. 
 
 "Stay, Blanche! stay," he exclaimed, putting asidi her 
 hand, and rising with a sudden effort at self control ; " hear me 
 patiently, calmly, if you can; let me toll you all." 
 
 " Yes, allj'tf you please, if you will," said Blanche, with a 
 gentle but sad smile ; " that is the greatest kindness ; and. 
 papa,>I will try to bear it." 
 
 "And if it should be too much ?" repeated the earl, thought- 
 fully. " They wished me not ; your aunt says it is unwise. 
 But, Blanche, neither you nor I can endure suspense." 
 
 " No, hideed ; thank you so much for sparing me. Then, 
 papa, it is — hereditary?" Her breath came quick and faint, 
 and her glassy eyes rested upon her father's face with a look 
 of intense eagerness, which made him turn shuddering from 
 her gaze. 
 
 The earl paused for one instant. " We think not ; we hope 
 not: onlv — " 
 
 " Only you fear," said Blanche, quite calmly. 
 
 " No, no," he exclaimed, " I do not fear ; others may, but I 
 do not. Blanche, you shall hear my story, and be comforted, 
 even though it be at the sacrifice of your love for me." He 
 sat down by her, and, without daring to look at her, went on : 
 " Your mother was insane — I would not try to conceal or miti- 
 gate the fact — for many months before her death ; and I — I 
 am said to have been the cause. Yes, turn from me, and hate 
 me," he exclaimed, as Blanche involuntarily caught away the 
 hand which he had taken in his ; " it is only what I deserve ; 
 but bear with what I have to say in my defence. There is no 
 hereditary insanity in her family, but there is a peculiarity, — a 
 tendency to morbid melancholy, on the female side — not on 
 that of your aunt, they were but half sisters. It is this melan- 
 choly which I am accused of having aggravated ; it may be, 
 truly. But, Blanche, even for this — a grievous sin in the eye 
 of man — it is possible that some extenuation may be found in 
 the sight of God. Men call me cold and forbidding; I am so 
 now, but I was not so always. Once, Blanche, I was loving, 
 tender-hearted, enthusiastic, even as yourself. I was young 
 then. I believed the world was made for happiness, and 1 
 thought that I had found it. Look !" and he drew forth a 
 small locket, from which the hair that had been placed in it 
 was gone. "This was a gift fronr one who was to have been
 
 lTO THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 my wife. It is a symbol of the heart she offered rae-— empty 
 valueless. She deceived me ; and, in the madness of my di» 
 appointment, I married another. There -was my 6rst offence — ■ 
 the offence for which I cannot forgive myself, and for which the 
 punishment of years has fallen upon me." Blanche stretched 
 out her hand, and again he took it and pressed it to his lips, 
 and continued: "Your mother had been known tome from 
 infancy. We had played, and walked, and sung together, and 
 outwardly shared many joys and sorrows ; but we had never 
 suited each other. So at least I thought till the hour of my 
 great trial ; then, for the first time, I discovered from the extent 
 of her compassion that we had sympathies in common. Yet I 
 did not really love her ; I knew that I did not. I felt that our 
 natures and our tastes were in their foundation totally dis- 
 similar. But I was so lonely — so unutterably wretched; it 
 was such a relief to be able to talk of my misery, that, forgetting 
 how by the very act of marriage I must shut out all memory 
 of the past, I offered myself, and was accepted. One great 
 mistake ! Oh, Blanche ! how it mars all hope of goodness and 
 greatness in life. From that hour I was an altered man ; bound 
 with an irrevocable chain ; having lost the prospect of comfort 
 in domestic life, and unable to rouse myself to interest in public 
 matters. For your mother, — let me speak of her as she was," 
 he said, gently, as Blanche heaved a sigh ; " if I seem to blame 
 her, remember that I am seeking to excuse myself to her child ; 
 your mother was not a person to be blind to the real state of 
 my heart. She had a craving for affection, and a keen insight 
 into the feelings of others. When she found herself disap- 
 pointed, she sank into a torpid, dreary melancholy, the more 
 unendurable for us both, because the occasion of it was never 
 alluded to by either. Whether by a different line of conduct 
 she might at length have won my love, I cannot say, but she 
 seemed to have no hope of it herself; for she shut herself up 
 from me. When I brought friends to the castle, she pleaded 
 illness, and withdrew from them ; and when I took her into 
 society, she gave way to a depression of spirits which awoke 
 constant remark." lie paused, watching the effect of his 
 words ; but Blanche averted her face. 
 
 ''That is all my complaint of her," he continued, hurriedly. 
 'She was too good, too high, forme. If she had been more 
 earthly we might have been happier. At least, I should not 
 have to reproach myself with having been the murderer of an 
 angel's peace."
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 1 7 1 
 
 " She was very good, then ?" murmured Blanche. 
 
 "Good!" he replied ; "I never knew her equal upon earth, 
 until — " and he stooped and imprinted a kiss on Blanche's 
 burning forehead. "Yes, she was a marvel, a miracle; but, 
 Blanche, even for that very cause we were unhappy. It was a 
 goodness which I could not comprehend; for it was exalted 
 above infirmity itself, and yet saw evil in the most natural pur- 
 suits of others. A life of entire seclusion from the world was 
 her ideal of real excellence, and she tried to carry it out, and 
 did so. I do not say she was wrong," he added, as Blanche 
 looked up with a disappointed expression: " it may have been, 
 I believe it was, my own doing. This is not a moment for con- 
 cealment: I drove her to it. My principles grieved her, and I 
 did not try to soften them ; and then she grew more strict, and 
 the evil increased. We led this life for nearly four years," con- 
 tinued the earl ; " and how wretched it was for us both I can 
 never describe. I had friends about me ; but they gave me no 
 real comfort ; and your poor mother took such an aversion to 
 them, that she made it, at last, a point of duty to avoid them. 
 Her only companion was Mrs. Wentworth. I doubted then 
 whether the intimacy was wise ; I am sure, now, that it was not. 
 Mrs. Wentworth aggravated, instead of soothing, what was 
 amiss. She made your mother think worse of me than I de- 
 served, and fostered her strict notions till they became absurd. 
 But you were born, Blanche ; my own precious child : it seemed 
 a new era in my existence ; a bright hope, and interest for the 
 future. People said that I was disappointed because you were 
 not a boy ; but they did not know me. If I was grave after- 
 wards it was not for that reason. Your mother's spirits for a 
 time rallied so much that I bei> - an to think she mio-ht soon be- 
 
 CD O 
 
 come more to me than I had ever fancied possible. I tried to 
 induce her to join more in society, and proposed that we 
 should travel. I sketched out a plan, and chose a party to 
 accompany us : she took some pleasure, or at least interest, in 
 the idea at first ; but when we came to enter into detail, all our 
 former differences revived. Two persons more diametrically 
 opposite in character and taste could never have been united ; 
 and unfortunately her prejudices were principles, and she would 
 never yield them. Yet she loved me, Blanche ; through all, 
 she loved me. It is the bitterest thought of all, now that the 
 past is irrevocable. Her very wish to travel with me alone, to 
 keep me away from those whom she thought likely to encourage 
 ine in error, arose from love : but it irritated me beyond
 
 I»72 the earl's daughter. 
 
 endurance ; and — " the earl paused, and moved from his seat as 
 it' thus to escape the pain of further recital. 
 
 Blanche stopped him. She said, in a clear, firm tone, "Papa, 
 you will tell me all now ; we shall both be happier." And like 
 a humble child he sat down again, and went on. 
 
 " Yes, I will tell all. Blanche, you are right; if we are ever 
 to know peace on earth, it must be by openness. Yet you will 
 shrink from me, even as I shrink from myself; fori was cruel 
 to her — your mother ! the mother of my only treasure. It was 
 on a stormy, blustering day — how well I remember it ! — I had 
 been absent all the morning, riding with a party of friends, — 
 some of whom she particularly disliked. Perhaps their influ- 
 ence was not good, at least it did not work for good on that 
 day. I returned home in better spirits than usual, and resolved 
 to show myself independent, and insist upon your mother's 
 giving up her prejudices and going with us abroad. I found her 
 in her favorite room — the same which you were in yesterday. 
 She scarcely ever left it, except to take her meals ; she was sit- 
 ting as usual, working, with the Bible open before her. I recol- 
 lect she told me that she was glad I had come, and that the 
 • lay had seemed long. We entered into conversation, and from 
 her manner, at first, I fancied it a favorable moment for again 
 insisting upon my wishes. She listened patiently whilst I urged 
 the pleasure it would give me, and reminded her of a wife's 
 duty ; but I saw by the expression of her face, as soon as the 
 subject was named, that her resolution was immoveable. If I 
 would go alone she would accompany me ; but on no other con- 
 dition. The very fact of her silence exasperated me ; I could 
 have better borne a torrent of words, than that still, fixed look 
 of determination. I upbraided her with inconsistency and 
 neglect of the duty she owed me ; and then, for the first time, 
 she poured forth her long-hidden griefs. They were true and 
 real. I had disappointed her affections, and treated her with 
 coldness, and forced upon her society which she abhorred ; but 
 I was too proud to bear it: and, in my indignation, I told her 
 that it was better we should part. The words were no sooner 
 uttered than a sudden change passed over her ; she stood before 
 me, a silent, colorless statue ; her limbs rigid, her eyes fixed on 
 vacancy. I spoke to her, but she took no notice ; and even 
 reproach — for I ventured upon it to excite her — had no effect. 
 I was more frightened than I chose to acknowledge, but I had 
 I" > doubt that quietness would restore her ; and, ringing for her 
 maid, 1 left her. Mrs. Wentworth met me in the passage. 1
 
 the eahl's daughter. 1V3 
 
 was bewildered and conscience-stricken, but I could not endure 
 that she should see any symptoms of humiliation ; and being 
 determined to tell my own tale, I stopped her, and related i'J 
 few words what had passed, attributing; your poor mother's 
 change of manner to obstinate resolution. ' My will,' I said, 
 • was irrevocably fixed ; as I could not make her happy, I was 
 certain it wa> better for both of us to part.' Mrs. Wentwortb 
 received the announcement with her usual cold stoicism, and 
 merely asking me where she should find your mother, went to 
 her room. I joined my friends, for the thought of solitude was 
 dreadful to me. I had such horrible misgivings, which I could 
 not subdue. After the lapse of about an hour, I sent to inquire 
 for your mother ; they brought me word that Mrs. Wentworth 
 \\ as with her, and that she wished to remain quiet. Can you 
 believe, Blanche, that I was irritated by this ? After all my 
 indifference and cruelty, I hated the thought of Mrs. Went- 
 worth's being her companion. I fancied how they would talk 
 of me, andblame me; and I had pictured to myself des- 
 pair and anger, rather than quietness. Hitherto I had tri- 
 umphed in the knowledge of my power over your poor mother's 
 affection ; perhaps, but for that, I should never have tried her 
 so far ; but the seclusion and calmness reduced me to nothing. 
 I was determined, however, not to betray what was going on ; 
 our party was as gay as usual, and we dined out ; and in the 
 course of the evening, as the plan for a continental tour was 
 again brought under discussion, I was induced to say that I 
 would not let anything interfere longer with the scheme, but 
 that I would be ready to start in a few days. In my heart, I 
 hoped that this determination of purpose would bring your 
 mother to reason, and that a reconciliation would oe the conse- 
 quence. But it was otherwise ordered, Blanche," and the earl's 
 voice became tremulous and hollow ; " I never saw her again ; 
 never, until eight months afterwards, she lay dressed for her 
 coffin, apparently the same colorless image from which I had 
 parted." 
 
 " Yet it was not all my fault," continued the earl, more 
 calmly ; " Mrs. Wentworth may have acted for the best ; I 
 have tried to believe that she did ; but she played a cruel part. 
 She found your poor mother stunned at what had passed, and 
 thought it" right not to run the risk of allowing her to see me ; 
 but, instead of telling me of her real state, and so awakening 
 my compassion, she sent me messages, which made me think 
 yo: i r mother cold and obstinate : and soon so exasperated me
 
 174 the earl's daughter. 
 
 that the next day I set off for London, and sent lier word tliat 1 
 was upon the point of leaving England. I think Mrs. Went- 
 worth saw her error at last; at least she must have been 
 convinced that she had miscalculated the amount of your poor 
 mother's strength of mind, for it was gone then ; the little that 
 had remained from the time when I first spoke of separation 
 fled, when she knew that I had actually left her. She became 
 — oli ! Blanche, you must not ask me to tell you what ; I would 
 not have you know or think of it." He rose from his seat and 
 paced tin' room, and Blanche closed her eyes and prayed. " It 
 is not hereditary, you see — it cannot be hereditary," continued 
 the earl, drawing near her again, and speaking rapidly ; "you 
 were then nearly a year old. Who gave you the notion that it 
 might be ? " 
 
 " Only Mrs. Wentworth in those few words," said Blanche, 
 trying to keep under every symptom of agitation. 
 
 " My evil fate ! " exclaimed the earl ; " it is she who has been 
 the destroyer of every hope. It must have been a letter 
 to her that you told me you had read ; yet I thought I had 
 burnt all." 
 
 " The letter did not exactly frighten me," said Blanche ; " it 
 only made me unhappy ; for it was very miserable." 
 
 " It must have been written towards the last," said the earl ; 
 " she was better then, but not happier. Would to God that I 
 could think so ! There again I did her grievous wrong ; yet 
 not entirely intentionally. The people about her sent me word 
 at first that she was ill, but they said little of the circumstances. 
 It was Mrs. Wentworth's great aim to keep all private. I do 
 her the justice to believe from good intention — a regard to pub- 
 lic opinion, and the feelings of the family, and a dread lest my 
 return might do harm instead of good. She devoted herself to 
 your mother, and scarcely any one else saw her : when at last 
 the unhappy fact became more certainly irremediable and more 
 generally suspected, Mrs. Wentworth wrote, still, however, 
 vaguely, advising me to return for the sake of my own peace 
 of mind ; but that was all. I did not understand her allusion, 
 and I desired a message from your mother, which she was in no 
 state to give. Yet, I will not excuse myself; I would not know 
 what I might have known. I did not learn because I would 
 not inquire. But the shock came at last. I was at Venice, just 
 returned from wandering in the Tyrol, and planning a further 
 t<>ur in the East. Letters were brought me from England, 
 and I opened them carelessly, for I expected nothing more
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 1 1c 
 
 than I had received for many weeks. She was dying : — hei 
 reason had returned, but she was dying. The one lunging wish 
 which haunted her, was to see me and forgive me. Blanche, 
 she may have forgiven me in Heaven ; but I was never permitted 
 to learn it from" her own lips on earth. Two hours before I 
 reached Rutherford she died." 
 
 There wa^ a silence of many moments. It was broken by- 
 Blanche. " Papa," she said, " you have made me happier ; will 
 you not lie happier yourself \ " 
 
 Lord Rutherford did not trust himself to look up ; le had 
 leant his head upon her pillow, and she felt the agitated beatiug 
 of his pulse as his hand rested upon hers. 
 
 "Papa," she said again, "may I tell you what I really 
 feel ? " 
 
 He did not answer, and she went on. 
 
 " I was frightened this morning, for I was selfish ; I had hor- 
 rible thoughts about myself, and I was afraid — it was very 
 wrong, but I thought there was something more dreadful about 
 — about you. I feel so sorry now, and I am not unhappy ; I 
 can trust, and I will try not to think of what may be." 
 
 " May be — may be," exclaimed the earl, passionately ; " I 
 will never have those words repeated again." 
 
 "Yes; may be, dear papa," said Blanche, firmly; "for it 
 may be the will of God, and then we would neither of us 
 murmur." - 
 
 Lord Rutherford rose impatiently ; but Blanche detained him 
 with a look of the most earnest entreaty for his assent, and 
 «xdded, " We could not think it hard if it was ordered ; could 
 we?" 
 
 " Not hard ! " and the earl smiled scornfully ; " not cruel, that 
 my innocent child should suffer ! " 
 
 Blanche sighed heavily; yet it was only a momentary feeling 
 of despair, and again gently and seriously she said, " I can trust 
 and hope, and try to be happy ; and if I wish it, will not you 
 do so likewise • You are so very kind always." 
 
 The earl's eyes glistened; "I would do all in ray power, my 
 child." he said, " for your sake, and for my own. Oh, Blanche, 
 you little know the weary life that has been my punishment 
 since those fearful days. If sackcloth and ashes could atone, as 
 in n fondly deem, for their offences, there should have been no 
 greater penitent on earth than him whom men have called th>' 
 proud Earl <>\' Rutherford. But I have atoned, ami 1 will 
 Uone, in the only way left. When kneeling by your mother's
 
 170 the earl's daughter. 
 
 coffin, I vowed to redeem the past by the sacrifice of every wish 
 of my heart to the happiness of her child; and that vow, in 
 the sight of God, I now repeat to you. Ask what you will, 
 Blanche — do what you will — it shall be granted and allowed ; 
 only let me feel that the curse which I have brought upon my- 
 self is revoked — that the visitation which has once been sent 
 upon my house will not return to it in judgment again." 
 
 Blanche caught her father's hand ; but he turned away, and 
 in a firmer and altered voice entreated her to rest for the 
 present, and, if possible, to exert herself so as to appeal at the 
 dinner table. " We may understand each other, but there is 
 no need for others to understand us," he said, as he left the 
 room; and Blanche, though longing for further conversation, 
 dared not ask him to remain. 
 
 CIIABTER XXIX. 
 
 A gay party was assembled on the lawn at Senilhurst. 
 Lady Charlton and a few elderly ladies and middle-aged 
 gentlemen, chaperoning an assemblage of younger ones. 
 Luncheon was just ended ; some guests were departing ; some, 
 who were staying in the house, were settling rides and drives 
 for the afternoon. Lady Charlton was making herself agree- 
 able, as she always did in her own house. There could not be 
 a more easy, unaffected, kind-hearted manager for every one, — 
 quite unequalled, apparently ; for she was good-humoured, 
 sympathizing, and considerate, with just enough strictness and 
 particularity to suit sober-minded people; and just sufficient 
 vivacity to enjoy and keep up the mirth of the more though t- 
 less. And Senilhurst was precisely the place in which Lady 
 Charlton could show herself to advantage. There were no deep 
 windows, suggesting retirement and reflection ; no antiquated 
 pieces of furniture, with traditional stories attached to them; 
 no haunted chambers or dark melancholy passages. It was a 
 bright, smiling, sunshiny house, large and handsome, built on 
 the side of a hill facing the south. There was a genial south- 
 ern aspect over everything about it. Greenhouse plants 
 flourished in the open air ; vines were trained over trellised 
 work, and formed green arches and shady walks ; the sloping 
 lawn was smooth and soft as velvet; the clear stream of water 
 reflected every leaf and branch of the large beech and ash ti «a
 
 THE 
 
 EARL'S DAUGI1TER. 177 
 
 which grew on its banks. At a season when almost every one 
 else was sighing at the thought that summer was over, Lady 
 Charlton was exhibiting her garden in full beauty. It was a 
 triumph she peculiarly enjoyed, for it involved no offensive 
 vanity, and Lady Charlton shrank from all personal display. 
 It was so pleasant to hear the different remarks made upon the 
 charming situation — the splendid colours — the beautiful out- 
 lines, couched with the suggestion that nature had done much, 
 but art had done still more ; and Lady Charlton felt herself so 
 unpretending and indifferent, in the midst of such delicate 
 homao-e to her taste, and was so courteous and modest ; in fact, 
 Bhe became quite young in her garden. 
 
 " You must be" entirely spoilt for other places," suggested 
 Colonel Lorton, a new acquaintance, and a man of large for- 
 tune, who was endeavouring to ingratiate himself with Lady 
 Charlton for the sake of a rather idle and wilful son. 
 
 " Every spot has its peculiar beauty," was the careless reply. 
 " Senilhurst is certainly pretty ; but, Colonel Lorton, you are 
 not going to leave us this afternoon. The riding party reckoned 
 upon your assisting them in exploring the Warham Woods." 
 
 Colonel Lorton bowed, but regretted that he was under a 
 special engagement. If he might be allowed — if it would not 
 be an intrusion to leave his son as his representative — he thought, 
 indeed he was quite sure, that he would be a most safe guide. 
 
 Lady Charlton felt it necessary to be slightly distant and 
 hesitating in her manner of conferring a favour which she had 
 determined upon beforehand. " Of course," she said, "every 
 one would be glad of such an escort. It was just possible that 
 her daughters might be obliged to give up their horses to some 
 friends, "but that would make no difference to Mr. Lorton — and 
 she would immediately inquire what was settled." And Lady 
 Charlton glided away to insist upon Adelaide's joining the 
 Warham expedition, at all events. 
 
 The party set off; — a pleasant, merry one. Lady Charlton 
 watched them as they rode through the park, and congratulated 
 herself on her good management. Mr. Lorton might be a little 
 silly, a little dissipated; but he had family and fortune in his 
 favour. The intimacy might or might not have results — that 
 was not the question ; but it would amuse for the moment, and 
 drive away all thought of Mr. Wentworth ; and though Lady 
 Charlton could not but own to herself that it was a balance of 
 evil, what was to be done? Adelaide was so giddy and head- 
 strong there was no possibility of keeping her out of mischief,
 
 178 the earl's daughter. 
 
 except by skilful management. Principles she did not anc 
 could not understand, and if it was not a very high-minded, 
 delicate species of domestic diplomacy, it was only the way of 
 the world ; and people who live in the world must follow the 
 maxims and customs of the world. 
 
 Lady Charlton congratulated herself upon her cleverness, and 
 went, with a lighter heart, to inquire into the movements of the 
 remainder of her visitors. Two riding-horses were still standing 
 at a side-entrance ; and she heard Lord Rutherford ask if any 
 one had seen Lady Blanche. 
 
 Lady Charlton went up to him : "You are not waiting for 
 Blanche, are you ? She is gone, I believe. I am nearly sure 
 she was one of the Warham party." 
 
 "She has changed her mind then very suddenly," replied 
 tbo earl ; " an hour since we settled to ride together." 
 
 " Oh ! but of course that was all nonsense. When the 
 Warham Woods were talked of, you could not expect her to 
 keep to a first engagement. And it would not be right — you 
 must not really be so exacting." 
 
 " I wish her only to do as she likes," replied the earl gravely ; 
 "she told me she preferred riding alone with me." 
 
 " But, my dear Rutherford, you don't surely take literally all 
 that the poor child says. She is so devoured by duty, that she 
 has not space left for any thought of pleasure ; and therefore 
 we must think for her. Just fancv what a very agreeable ride 
 she would have missed. Mr. Lorton, Sir Charles Trevanion, 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and her very nice daughters, and that first- 
 rate Lord Erlsmere ; it would have been cruel to make her leave 
 them." 
 
 " Dear papa, have I kept you waiting ? I am so sorry," said 
 the gentle voice which was sweeter than the most delicious 
 music to Lord Rutherford's ear. Blanche was standing on the 
 steps, dressed in her riding-habit ; her colour was brighter than 
 usual, her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, or perhaps some- 
 thing better than pleasure — peace — the peace of a mind at rest 
 in itself, and having nothing externally to disturb it. It was a 
 lovely picture which she made, leaning against a column of the 
 portico ; the peculiar and very exquisite beauty so lavishly be- 
 stowed upon her by nature, enhanced by the brilliant sunshine 
 and the colourinf of the flowers which rilled the entrance-hall : 
 and Lady Charlton whispered to the earl, that it was a perfect 
 6tudy for an artist. She thought to please him, but he did not 
 answer her ; his eye rested upon Blanche for a moment, a n d a
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGH1ER. 17? 
 
 sigh, audible only to Lady Charlton, followed, :.nd without 
 Baying another word he assisted Blanche to mount, and they 
 rode off. 
 
 And Blanche was then happy ! with the certainty of her 
 mother's trials and fatal malady, the want of congeniality in her 
 father, and the disappointment in her aunt, whose character she 
 was now beginning to understand, and whilst living amono-st 
 worldly people, and hearing worldly maxims, tempted by all 
 that earth holds most precious, she could still smile, with the 
 holy, innocent smile of her happy childhood, and rejoice in " the 
 peaee'that passeth understanding." It may be hard to imagine, 
 so tew there are who enter upon the scene of life's great delu- 
 sion with a sufficient safeguard against its snares. But if 
 Blanche had great temptations to battle with, she had also 
 pieat support, not only iu that inward strength which is nevei 
 denied to those who seek it, but also in the outward circum- 
 stances which were providentially provided for her. Senii- 
 hurst was, indeed, her first experience of the pomps and vani- 
 ties of the world ; she found there luxury, flattery, refined dis- 
 sipation, disguised selfishness; but her mind was pre-occupied, 
 and in consequence much that was evil passed by unnoticed. 
 
 Blanche had grown very old since that one conversation with 
 her father which had revealed her mother's history. The first 
 knowledge obtained in early youth of the great mistakes by 
 which the happiness of life may be destroyed, makes us 
 strangely thoughtful : it opens a new world, by drawing aside 
 the veil which, in childhood, hides from us the hearts of our 
 fellow-creatures, and induces us to believe all persons happy 
 who have not lessons to learn and teachers to obey. Blanche 
 saw that her mother had erred ; and, painful as the conviction 
 was in some respects, it was not without its accompanying com- 
 fort ; for if the countess had been reserved and exclusive her 
 husband might at least be excused for his want of sympathy. 
 There had been faults on both sides yet not such as to destroy 
 a child's respect. Blanche felt that, if her mother had been 
 spared, it might have been possible to bring about not only 
 reconciliation but harmony between her parents. Since that 
 blessing was denied her, it remained only to devote herself to 
 her father, and make it the object of her life to render religion 
 as winning to him now as formerly it had been distastctul. 
 The resolution was made calmly and solemnly, after lornr 
 thought and earnest prayer ; for Blanche knew that it was not 
 ivithout its dangers. In her desire to make duty agreeable she
 
 180 the earl's daughter. 
 
 was likely to be betrayed into a sacrifice of principle. It is lh<» 
 evil which we constantly see in persons who try to gain the 
 favour of the world, and yet to have a conscience clear of 
 offence before God. But Blanche's singleness of purpose saved 
 her ; she did not desire to please her father for the sake of 
 his affection, precious though it was ; she had one aim, one 
 motive, infinitely higher, by which to solve every question of 
 casuistry, and it was fortunate for her object that it was so. 
 
 Inconsistency is never winning. The most inveterate oppo- 
 nent of religion has no respect for the halter " between two 
 opinions." Talent, grace, beauty, sweetness of temper, unsel- 
 fishness, all are in the end powerless, as means of influence, 
 where there is a want of fixedness in principle ; for the world is 
 quick and keen in its perceptions, it is particularly gifted with 
 what is called common sense ; and however it may openly 
 flatter and fawn upon its double-minded friends it most surely 
 visits them with scorn in secret. Yet there was nothing in 
 Blanche's mode of life at Senilhurst likely to attract remark. 
 Lady Charlton saw that she was more cheerful, and attributed 
 the improvement to change of scene, and Adelaide found that 
 her cousin could enjoy many things which at Rutherford she 
 had fancied would have no interest for her. All went on natu- 
 rally. If Blanche contrived to occupy herself with Lady Charl- 
 ton's school, it was in such a way that it brought no thought of 
 peculiar goodness or self-denial. She said that she liked it, and 
 made no mystery of any thing she did there, and her visits 
 were taken as a matter of course ; and when she joined in the 
 afternoon's amusements and made herself often the life of the 
 party, it did not occur to any one to complain because she had 
 absented herself in the early part of the day. So again, when 
 she sjave up some scheme of enjoyment to ride or walk with her 
 father, it was impossible to think she had made a sacrifice. 
 There was not a shadow of disappointment upon her bright 
 face ; it was supposed that she followed her own inclinations, 
 and no sympathy was thrown away upon her. 
 
 And yet Blanche was learning to fashion her life, in this new 
 world of temptation, upon a strict and most self-denying rule. 
 Her hours of devotion were fixed ; her duties marked out day 
 by day ; and the one motive of her father's happiness influenced 
 her in the most trifling circumstances. 
 
 Lady Charlton was a strict observer of all the customary 
 forms of a religious household, and Blanche was never absent 
 from family prayers. Adelaide laughed, and said, " She was
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 181 
 
 dreadfully good;" but it was not such an extraordinary effort 
 as to create much wonder; and no one knew or thought of 
 inquiring how much time Blanche had redeemed from unne- 
 cessary sleep to prepare herself, in private, for the day's trials. 
 When so many were going and coming — talking, drawing, 
 singing — it was not seen that Blanche followed any order iii 
 her occupations ; yet the day was carefully divided, and seasons 
 for self-examination and retirement were as watchfully, if not 
 as methodically, kept as if she had been a member of an order 
 set apart from the world : whilst, amidst all, as a duty of reli- 
 gion as'well as of affection, Blanche was ever striving to make 
 her father read with her, talk to her, and interest himself in her 
 engagements. The first hour after breakfast was always spent 
 with him, looking over his letters and trying to gain some in- 
 sight into the business connected with his property. Blanche 
 had begun the practice playfully, and seemingly only from 
 curiosity ; but, in a very short time, she made herself really 
 useful ; and, even when questions were too complicated for her 
 opinion to be of consequence, Lord Rutherford found a satisfac- 
 tion in talking them over with her. So, in other ways, what- 
 ever engaged Ins attention occupied hers ; and though at first 
 it was difficult to believe that this interest ever could be reciprocal, 
 Blanche endeavoured to make it so, and in a great measure 
 succeeded. 
 
 She always took it for granted that her father cared to know 
 what she liked or what she did. She gave her opinions upon 
 people and things freely to him in private, and brought out, in 
 return, many of the lesser feelings and sympathies which form 
 the cement of family life, but which reserved people are apt to 
 bury in their own bosoms, and scarcely perhaps to remark even 
 in themselves. 
 
 It was scarcely possible for such an intercourse to continm 
 da}- after day without working some effects, visible even to 
 Blanche, and giving her hope that their principles might 
 eventually accord. 
 
 Lord Rutherford had begun by thinking her a child to be 
 loved and fondled, and treated her accordingly; but, as time 
 went on, his sentiments towards her insensibly changed. Re- 
 spect blended with his affection; respect for her judgment, 
 discrimination of character, and delicacy of feeling; and some- 
 thing approaching to awe at the high, unworldly views which 
 she did not hesitate to put forth, though so unobtrusively 
 as never to offend his taste, or to jar upon hi- Bense cf a
 
 152 the earl's daughter. 
 
 parent's position of superiority. And Lord Rutherford was now 
 at ease with Blanche. There was nothing more to reveal. 
 The worst, hoth for himself and fur her, had been told ; yet she 
 could love him still : and, what was equally essential to his 
 happiness, she could still smile without any apparent foreboding 
 of evil to come. 
 
 Lord Rutherford little knew the constant check upon the 
 thoughts by which this calmness was attained. He only saw 
 the result, and was satisfied, and he had reason to be so. 
 
 After the first shock of discovering her mother's insanit/ w&i 
 past, Blanche's fears had naturally reverted to herself ; not so 
 much with a definable dread, as with a vague horror of the 
 future, which was perhaps worse to bear. She was too young 
 and inexperienced to understand fully the government of her 
 own mind, and fancies and fears oppressed her, which might 
 have brought lasting consequences of evil, but for a warning 
 from the only friend to whom she ventured to reveal the extent 
 of her fears. 
 
 Mrs. Howard could feel for Blanche, the more deeply as 
 she had herself, up to that period, been kept in ignorance of the 
 nature of the countess's illness ; but her advice was given with 
 a calm decision, which in itself served to strengthen Blanche's 
 failing spirit. " It was not," she said, " a case for resignation 
 simply ; for that, under such circumstances, would imply sub- 
 mission to a certain evil ; and the first thing for Blanche to do, 
 was to realize to herself, as clearly as possible, that the evil was 
 not certain. And this must be done, not by taking the opinion 
 of others, but by using her own reason." 
 
 " Put the question aside as belonging to yourself, if possible, 
 my dear child," wrote Mrs. Howard ; " and try to look at it as 
 if it concerned another. Our trials are often exaggerated to at 
 least double their real magnitude, because we have not courage 
 to view them in their full extent. "Whatever the evil may be 
 which presents itself, face it ; see it as well as may be in its true 
 light, without any distortions of hope or fear ; then deter- 
 mine how it may be avoided or endured. If you do this, you 
 will see that when the circumstances are fairly considered, there 
 is little to justify uneasiness in those who love you best. If 
 there were, do }'ou think I could write as I am now doing ? 
 But you will say, and very naturally, that the dread still 
 remains ! I believe it must. I do not think it is in human 
 nature to escape it ; and it is in this that I feel for you most 
 deeply. Yet it may be converted into a blessing. If, when the
 
 the earl's daughter. 183 
 
 idea of a dreadful possibility presents itself, you can turn 
 away from it as a matter of duty, you will acquire a power of 
 self-control, which will be — I cannot say how useful to you in 
 other instances. I do most earnestly trust that you will try and 
 do this. Pray never read books upon the subject ; and 
 when you find yourself fancying what may be, and beginning 
 to torture yourself with picturing scenes of misery, remember 
 that for you that sort of reverie is as mischievous as real evil 
 might be to others. It will be most difficult at first, I know, to 
 keep this constant watch over yourself ; but it is not at all 
 impossible, and your happiness unquestionably depends upon it. 
 I should be much comforted if I thought that you were likely 
 to lead a very active, useful life. Constant employment— devo- 
 tion, in fact, to any object out of yourself — would be a great 
 help to you. And especially, my dear child, I must warn you 
 not to try and hide from yourself that there is something which 
 you dread. It would be a very vain attempt. Only, when 
 the fear comes, as it must and will no doubt, overwhelmingly, 
 at times, until you have learnt thoroughly to command yourself, 
 carry it where alone it can be soothed. Do not reason or talk, or 
 even endeavour to distract your thoughts ; — but pray. If y< >u 
 have not words at command, yet the very attitude of kneeling 
 will give you comfort. A child in its grief hides its face in its 
 mother's lap, and so may we hide our faces from the worst of 
 this world's sorrows under the shadow of God's love." 
 
 The quiet tone of this letter had a great influence upon 
 Blanche. She was a little disappointed in it at first, ami 
 thought it cold ; but, on reading it a second and third time, she 
 saw that it only appeared so because Mrs. Howard was not 
 really uneasy. Her naturally buoyant spirit revived as the impres- 
 sion deepened, and although miserable thoughts would often 
 rrsh upon her mind, and a continued check was required for 
 her wandering thoughts, yet she did by degrees succeed in 
 keeping down, though not entirely crushing, all sad forebodings. 
 
 In effecting this her life at Senilhurst was certainly as great 
 an assistance as even Lady Charlton could have desired ; for it 
 was a very new, interesting, amusing life ; witli frequent arrivals 
 and departures^ and never-ending schemes of pleasure, and merry 
 dancing and musical evenings ; the pervading gaiety being 
 varied by clever discussions upon books, sparkling wit, and 
 occasional arguments upon grave and important topics. There 
 was nothing in all this openly to shock Blanche's principles, t'<>r 
 Lady Charlton was fastidious in her choice of visitors, and liked
 
 184 the earl's daughter. 
 
 to have it considered a privilege to be admitted to Senilhurst 
 She contrived also very cleverly to mix up her parties, so as to 
 bring together persons who were likely to suit; and with Lord 
 Rutherford and Blanche as the guests, for whom she was most 
 interested, she had taken particular care to exclude all persona 
 who had not something of intellect, or refinement, or accom- 
 plishment, or, what she valued more than all, goodness, to 
 recommend them. 
 
 Yes, Lady Charlton liked goodness extremely — so only that 
 it, had a name. She could bear with a considerable amount of 
 oddity, or shyness, or even rough sincerity, if it was coupled 
 with a little respectable authorship, or well-known ze*J, or, what 
 perhaps was as useful as either, a certain amount of persecution. 
 Blanche met with several very excellent and thoroughly simple- 
 minded, unworldly persons at Senilhurst ; persons whom sha 
 could admire heartily, and long to imitate : and they were a 
 great safeguard to her, though in a way which her aunt never 
 intended when she brought them too-ether. 
 
 Lady Charlton was a managing, scheming person ; really 
 very unconsciously : management with her was an instinct. She 
 had managed her own marriage to escape from an unhappy 
 home, and the marriages of her sisters and of almost all hei 
 intimate friends. She intended to manage her daughters' also : 
 and, as a matter of simple duty and kindness, that of her niece. 
 
 True, Blanche was extremely young to think of such a thing, 
 quite a child in many of her tastes ; very ignorant of the way? 
 of the world, and not yet regularly introduced into society ; but 
 there was no harm in being on the watch. If it would not do 
 as yet to fix upon any person to encourage, it might be well to 
 take care that she should not be put in the way of any whom 
 it might be right to discourage ; and, following out her own 
 notions of what might not be wholly undesirable, Lady Charlton 
 collected at Senilhurst as many persons as she could, of suffi- 
 cient rank and fortune, and respectability of character, to make 
 the society pleasant without being dangerous. 
 
 Of one danger, indeed, she never thought — the danger of the 
 flattering homage which grace and beauty, when joined to high 
 t)irth and great wealth, can scarcely fail to receive. 
 
 That was no danger in Lady Charlton's eyes ; rather it was 
 the tempting prize, for which every effort must be risked 
 Blanche was exposed to it without a thought of caution ; with 
 no shield except the simplicity of her own heart and the devo- 
 tion of her time and thoughts to other objects.
 
 the earl's daughter. 18; 
 
 But with these she was safe. The pursuits which chiefly 
 interested her were such as brought her iu contact with persons 
 whose superior intellect and high tone of mind raised her 
 standard of what men might be; whilst their age and position 
 in life prevented all idea of romance or admiration. Blanche 
 felt keenly the difference between such men and the ordinary 
 worldly, though refined and accomplished, persons who visited 
 at Senilhurst.^She saw they could understand and sympathize 
 with her, although as she deemed far above her in mind and 
 excellence. And such intercourse saved her from the delusion, 
 which sometimes fatally misleads young persons, of believing, 
 that because the generality of persons are careless in their 
 conduct and lax in their principles, therefore no real purity and 
 goodness exist, except in cases of special retirement and abstrac- 
 tion from ordinary pursuits. 
 
 Blanche was beginning to learn, from her own experience, 
 that men can mingle in the common intercourse of society and 
 retain their simplicity and devotedness. She saw before her 
 true, single-minded, earnest goodness, and no discovery of its 
 counterfeit could henceforth shake her faith in it. 
 
 It might be that such a conviction rendered her fastidious 
 and indifferent. Some persons said she was so, and blamed 
 her. They could not comprehend the quiet, unexcited way in 
 which she received the attentions paid her by men whose admi- 
 ration was generally considered of great value. One or two 
 ladies, more harsh-judging than the rest, declared that she was 
 proud ; others, suspicious of evil, became conscious of it, and 
 yielding to it, stated their conviction that Blanche was, in her 
 heart, as vain and " flirty " as any other young lady of her age; 
 but the greater number — men as well as women — yielded to the 
 spell of her pure and gentle dignity, and treated her with the 
 cautious respect shown to the innocence of a child, which we 
 shrink from sullying even by a thoughtless word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 " Blanche," said the earl, as they passed through the park 
 gates, and caught sight of the riding-party ascending a bill at 
 some little distance. " I am afraid you have disappointed 
 yourself to keep your promise with me. You wanted to go << 
 Warham, I know : I wish you would have told me."
 
 186 the earl's daughter. 
 
 ] Handle laughed. " And made you uncomfortable aad 
 myself too, dear papa. I did want to go to Warbam, certainly ; 
 but one day is as good as another, as far as seeing tbe country 
 is concerned ; and I had two reasons for not desiring to be with 
 them to-day. One, that I liked tbe thought of a ride with you ; 
 and the other, that I did not much fancy the party." 
 
 " What, not Mrs. Cuthbert Grey ! and, as your aunt calls 
 him, that first-rate Lord Erlsmere?" 
 
 " I like Mrs. Cuthbert Grey very well ; not very much," said 
 Blanche, hesitating. " I wish one could go through the world 
 without judging people ; but I have never liked her very much 
 since — such a very little thing, I really am ashamed to men- 
 tion it." 
 
 " Well ! since what ? I can keep a secret," replied the earl, 
 Amiling. 
 
 " Since I heard her talk so strictly against operas to Arch- 
 deacon Fanshawe, and found out afterwards that she always 
 engages a box for the winter. It gave me a notion of her not 
 being true. I don't think I could ever like a person very much 
 who was not true. But 1 was not thinking of Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey wben I said I did not fancy the party." 
 
 " Of Lord Erlsmere, then, perhaps?" said the earl. 
 
 " No, nor of Lord Erlsmere. I don't care about him, except 
 that he is rather tiresome to talk to, and always asks me if I 
 don't look forward to my first London season. But, papa, I do 
 very much — I hope it is not wrong — I really dislike very much, 
 indeed, to go without you or my aunt, when Adelaide and such 
 a person as that Mr. Lorton are together. I cannot tell why it 
 is, but they make me feel so stiff and so cold ; I am quite 
 worried with myself. And it vexes me the more, because 
 Adelaide is particularly kind to me, and makes a point of 
 arranging that I shall be with her when she is going anywhere. 
 Can you understand ?" 
 
 " Your taste is offended," replied the earl ; " that flirting 
 manner of Adelaide's is unlady-like. I cannot imagine how 
 your aunt can endure it. I should lock her up if she was my 
 child." 
 
 " I wish she would," exclaimed Blanche, and then, laughing 
 at her own eagerness, she added, " I wish she would do 
 anything, I mean, to keep Adelaide quiet. And I wish," she 
 continued more gravely, " that my aunt could win Adelaide's 
 confidence, and persuade her to talk to her as she does to me." 
 
 " Is there confidence between you, then ?" exclaimed the
 
 the earl's daughter. 187 
 
 pari, in a tone of surprise, and slight displeasure. " I nevei 
 supposed your cousinly intimacy could go quite so far as that.*' 
 
 •* I don't know whether you would call it confidence," replied 
 Blanche ; " I suppose not, for it is not at all reciprocal ; but 
 Adelaide seems to like to say odd things to me, and now and 
 then she does say very odd ones ; startling, quite, if I could 
 believe them. But she rattles ou so fast, one never knows 
 whether she isJn earnest." 
 
 " She is a silly, vain girl, who never says a word worth listen- 
 ing to," exclaimed the earl, impatiently. " I hope, Blanche, you 
 don't trouble yourself about her." 
 
 " I cannot help myself," replied Blanche. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, my love, indeed you can. If you were not so 
 unnecessarily good-natured, you would by this time have found 
 out how to rid yourself of silly people." 
 
 Blanche put her horse into a canter, and they rode on. The 
 thread of the conversation was for the moment broken, but the 
 earl resumed it. " I hope you will remember that, my dear 
 child, when you go more into the world ; remember, I mean, to 
 keep clear of boring, absurd people. It is the only thing I am 
 really afraid of for you. Such a person as Adelaide may hang 
 about you like a dead weight, if you don't make an effort to 
 shake her off." 
 
 " Poor Adelaide !" exclaimed Blanche, " there are very few 
 persons to care for her ; I wish there were more, heartily. But, 
 papa, do you know there does not seem such a great difference 
 to me between her and a good many other persons I have seen 
 here, and whom my aunt calls superior. She only does openly 
 what they do quietly." 
 
 "So you have discovered that, my love, have you ?" said tin' 
 earl, smiling; "but you will learn by-and-bye, that it is a great 
 virtue in the world to conceal one's object dexterou-lv.*' 
 
 " I should be sorry to have any object to conceal," said 
 Blanche. 
 
 " Heaven forbid you ever should have, my darling ; but it 
 would be impossible : for you could never be on a par with the 
 managing, manoeuvring people one meets with everywhere; it 
 i- not in your nature. You will go on dreaming, Blanche, I 
 suspect, and leave it to your aunt and me to tall in love for 
 you." 
 
 Blanche laughed. "I suppose it is a sort of thing one might 
 be wry glad to do by proxy," she said, "as most people say they 
 we so wretched all the time. But, papa," she added, slightly
 
 188 the earl's daughter. 
 
 blushing, "J don't see that it is quite necessary to fall in love, ss 
 a great many of the young ladies I meet here seem to fancy." 
 
 " Not necessary," said the earl, unable to repress a smile ; 
 " only most natural and probable, as you will understand in duo 
 time." 
 
 "Then I would rather leave it to due time before I think 
 about it," said Blanche. " I should not like to believe that I 
 could not be quite happy without it ; without being married, I 
 mean," she added quickly ; for the recollection of the one iital 
 instance of a marriage without affection rose as a phantom of 
 evil before her. 
 
 " Yes, leave it, leave it !" exclaimed Lord Rutherford, quickly. 
 " R will come too soon for my happiness, whenever it does come : 
 but I would not be selfish." 
 
 "It will be sent," said Blanche gravely ; " I like to think that, 
 because then one feels so satisfied either way." 
 
 " What do you mean by sent ?" asked the earl, shortly. 
 
 " Ordered ; arranged for one, by Providence," answered 
 Blanche. " I remember, when I was quite a child, asking Mrs. 
 Howard, why every one was not married, and whether she 
 thought that I should ever be ; and she said to me, ' God knows, 
 and lie will tell us by-and-by ;' and so I thought it a duty to 
 wait till I was told, and I think so now; and, besides," she 
 added, her voice sinking into an under tone, "so many other 
 things may happen ; one may die." 
 
 They had just then reached an open common, upon which 
 stood a few scattered cottages and a school built by Sir Hugh. 
 It was a very inviting place for a quick canter over the soft turf, 
 and Blanche was gathering up the reins as a preparation, when 
 two women came slowly out of the school-house , carrying 
 b?tween them a little boy, about five or six years of age; he was 
 lying apparently senseless in their arms, his head drooping and 
 his face deadly pale. Blanche thought she recognised him as 
 the son of the lodge-keeper at Senilhurst, a sickly child who had 
 often attracted her notice and pity for his ill-health, and in whom 
 she was particularly interested, as being the nephew of the blind 
 girl at Rutherford. The women stopped to rest, leaning against 
 the gate of the school-ground, and water was brought to recover 
 the child ; and as Blanche and her father rode close up to them, 
 he revived a little ; Lord Rutherford asked a few questions, and 
 heard that "he was faint — that it was a common thing with 
 him, for he was very weakly — he would be better soon, nc 
 loubt, and then he would go home, they did not know how, it
 
 the earl's dauguter. ISO 
 
 was some distance ; but he would manage it, of course, for he 
 always did." 
 
 The earl looked at the boy, and said " Poor little fellow," and 
 would have gone on, but Blanche begged that they might delay, 
 just for a few minutes, till the boy was really better. 
 
 She should like to dismount, she said, if she might ; and as 
 the school could not well be left, she would stay and watch him 
 herself, and tjjen they might arrange to have hiin taken home, 
 for it must be bad for him to walk. 
 
 Alnapst as soon as the words were spoken, and before her 
 father could assist her, she had alighted. Lord Rutherford 
 acquiesced in the idea ; though, if the suggestion had been made 
 by any one but Blanche, he might have laughed at it as ultra- 
 benevolence — perhaps he thought it so then in his heart — yet 
 there was something that touched his better feelings, in this ready 
 sympathy with suffering; this weakness, it might be, which 
 could not " pass on the other side," and leave a sick child to the 
 chance of ordinary care. And it was like Blanche — it was con- 
 sistent ; and however far removed he might be from sharing his 
 daughter's principles, Lord Rutherford could still value them for 
 this one reason. That which never failed as a guide, which 
 directed the least as well as the most important actions of life, 
 and gave stability to a disposition so gentle and otherwise 
 yielding, was becoming, even in the eye of the man of the world, 
 an ingredient of value in the formation of character. 
 
 The schoolmistress and her companion went away, and soon 
 afterwards the boy was able to answer Blanche's questions him- 
 self; but his countenance belied his words, -when he said that 
 he was really well ; and as he tried to move hi staggered, and 
 put his hand to his head and complained of pain. It was evi- 
 dent that the attack was not a common one. 
 
 "They ought to send him home at once," said the earl, with 
 some impatience of manner : " it is folly to talk of his being able 
 to walk. There must bo a cart, or something, which will take 
 him ; but these people are wonderfully indifferent about such 
 matters. I shall tell them they must do something with him 
 directly." 
 
 He went into the school-house, and returned almost immedi- 
 ately, followed by the mistress, who was speaking eagerly. "1 es, 
 certainly, his lordship might depend upon her <b'inj; her best. 
 Carts were not so easy to be had; but she would try. No 
 doubt something would be managed. It was a great pity his 
 \urd.-diip and Lady Blanche should have been delayed; but
 
 J 90 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Lady ] Slanche was so very kind always. Johnnie Foster would 
 be quite sorry when he came to himself, to think of how much 
 trouble he had been giving." 
 
 Johnnie Foster seemed perfectly conscious of this fact already, 
 for he tried to raise his head, which was laid against Blanche's 
 shoulder, and a smile came over his little pale face, as ho 
 thanked her for being kind. 
 
 The earl regarded him with more interest than before. The 
 expression of the countenance was singularly sweet and intelli- 
 gent, as he fixed his blue eyes upon Blanche, with a mixture of 
 shyness, wonder, and pleasure, at the notice she was bestowing 
 J pon him. " We will look after him at Senilhu:st," he said, 
 addressing Blanche ; " but we must not wait now, cr you will 
 lose your ride completely." 
 
 Blanche had a request upon her lips ; for she thought the 
 ride a very secondary object to the child's comfort. Yet she 
 hesitated in making it, since it was against her desire of con- 
 sulting her father's wishes. 
 
 " You would rather stay," he said, reading her inclinations 
 quickly. 
 
 " No, not stay ; for I do not think I can be of much use, as 
 he is better ; but if there is any difficulty about sending him 
 home I should like to let his mother know, and she might come 
 perhaps in Sir Hugh's spring-cart to fetch him. And then we 
 might, if you did not care, go on the other way to Cobham, 
 and let the doctor know he is to come and see him. I should 
 like to be sure that he was taken care of," she added, " and to 
 feel one had done all one could." 
 
 The schoolmistress began to remonstrate against this very 
 unnecessary trouble, as she called it, repeating again and again 
 that Johnnie would do very well, and they should " manage 
 somehow ;" but Blanche was urgent, when she saw that her 
 father did not object to the idea, and, after seeing the child car- 
 ried into the house again and laid upon a little sofa in the 
 mistress's parlour, she again mounted her horse to return. 
 
 Cobham was the post town of Senilhurst, a small place, a few 
 miles from the railway station. The road was dull, and the 
 town dirty and uninteresting ; in general, Lord Butherford made 
 - t a point of duty to avoid it ; but this afternoon, although it 
 was growing late and chilly before he and Blanche reached it, 
 his usual complaints were silenced. Yet he was not amused by 
 sonversation ; little had been said by either, for nearly half an 
 hour, the time which had elapsed from their leaving the lodge-
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 gate at Senilhurst. Blanche had seen the mother of the sick 
 child there, and advised that he should be sent for immediately 
 and had undertaken to give notice to the doctor at Cobham and 
 then she seemed satisfied, and would have talked as usual to her 
 father upon other topics, but she found a difficulty in fixing 
 his attention, and presently gave up the endeavour. The medi- 
 cal man was not at home. Lord Rutherford wished to give a 
 verbal message?" but Blanche asked to write it. 
 
 " It was more certain," she said, " and she was afraid the 
 child was worse than his mother fancied ;" so a card was left, 
 with " Lady Blanche Evelyn's compliments," and once more 
 Blanche turned her horse's head towards Senilhurst. 
 
 " And your mind is at rest now, Blanche, is it?" said her 
 father, as they rode off. " Do you mean to go through the 
 world taking as much pains about everything ? You will have 
 hard work if you do." 
 
 " I should not care for that," replied Blanche ; " if I could 
 do it as it ought to be done. I should like to think that this 
 sort of thins: was work." 
 
 " It is troublesome and disagreeable enough, at all events," 
 replied the earl. - " Not that it has been disagreeable to me, 
 my child ; don't think that ; but I see in you so often, Blanche, 
 an over-tasking of your mind, an exhausting energy which will 
 wear you out if you don't take care ; and it makes me anxious 
 about you." 
 
 Blanche checked her horse, in her surprise, as she exclaimed : 
 "Anxious lest I should overwork myself! my dear papa! why 
 I have nothing to do all day but to consider my own pleasure." 
 
 "And your pleasure is to labour for others. I see it, my 
 love, when you don't imagine it. From morning till night 
 you give yourself no rest. There is always a thought of duty 
 before you." 
 
 Blanche waited fur a few seconds, and then said : "I wish 1 
 could believe it was so ; but even supposing it, one must live 
 for some purpose, with some aim, to be happy ; ami I should 
 certainly like to know that I was doing my utmost, if that were 
 ever so little. I can't imagine resting in anything short of the 
 utmost," 
 
 " It is a strange notion for such a child," Paid the earl, 
 regarding her with a look in which an intense affection was 
 mingled with wonder and respect; "but it will scarcely make 
 you happy, Blanche, as you suppose; because your notions of 
 the utmost are unattainable." 
 9
 
 192 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " But I would try ; I would strive," exclaimed Blanche, her 
 face flushing with eagerness ; " and my rest would be in striv- 
 ing. There is so much to be done and to be accountable for ; 
 and life may be short," she added quietly. 
 
 " Yes, it may be," replied the earl, " but it may also be long ; 
 and there can be no reason to shorten it by over exertion." 
 
 " I would not do that," said Blanche ; " and if I could see 
 any danger of over exertion, I would check myself as a matter 
 of duty. But when I look at other people and see how they 
 are circumstanced, how they are obliged to work, I feel that it 
 would be absurd in me to think over exertion possible. I am 
 forced to live such a comfortable life, that the only satisfaction I 
 can find in it is, when anything in the shape of a duty 
 comes in my way, doing it thoroughly." 
 
 Lord Rutherford repeated the word " thoroughly," in a tone 
 of much thoughtfulness ; it seemed to have aroused a new train 
 of ideas. 
 
 " I think sometimes," continued Blanche, " that people must 
 be better and happier who are born to work, or at least to be 
 useful in some definite way. It seems as if a great responsi- 
 bility, and a great difficulty must be taken from them." 
 
 " But why work, my dear child ? — why fret yourself about 
 such subjects ? — why not take the world as it is given you, and 
 amuse yourself as your age points out ?" 
 
 " Because — " Blanche began her sentence twice, and paused 
 with the effort to repress some rising feeling — " because one 
 should be so sorry if the time came that one were sot able ; that 
 is, one might die, or — or — ft might not — the power might not 
 be allowed one ; and if it were so, and then at the last, perhaps 
 just before one's death, one had to look back upon this time 
 wasted, it w r ould be so dreadful." Her voice grew quite composed 
 as the sentence concluded ; but the earl read the secret dread 
 which prompted the thought, and his face was in an instant con- 
 vulsed with an expression almost of agony. Putting spurs to 
 his horse, he galloped on, without venturing upon another word 
 till they reached Senilhurst. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 " Blanche, where are you going ? here are letters for you," 
 said Lady Charlton, the following morning, as Blanche came 
 into the library, dressed for walking.
 
 the earl's daughter. 193 
 
 Blanche received lier letters, and was going to take them 
 mvay, when her aunt again made the inquiry as to where she 
 was going. " It is too damp, my love, for you to he out. The 
 weather is quite changed — really wintry. I must have vou 
 careful of yourself." 
 
 Blanche was only going to the lodge to inquire for the little 
 bov, and had no intention, she said, of remaining out long. 
 
 " Oh ! but, my dear, we can send quite easily. Prav don't 
 give yourself the trouble of inquiring, and don't tire yourself, 
 especially to-day. "We shall have such a charming importation 
 of visitors at dinner ; people you will be sure to like, so don't 
 wear yourself out beforehand." 
 
 " Any one I know ?" asked Blanche. 
 
 " Oh ! yes — know by name quite well ;" and Lady Charlton 
 ran over a short list, consisting of a poet and a poet's wife ; an 
 historian, his sister, and a brother-in-law, all delightful people ; 
 and to crown the whole, Mr. Johnstone, of Oakefield ; " it is 
 the greatest favour in the world for him to come," she said, her 
 eyes lighted up with excitement. " He is so immensely busy, 
 and so entirely devoted to his parish, and the bishop makes so 
 much of him, and gives him such a quantity of work to do, I 
 quite despaired of him, though I longed for you to see him, 
 Blanche. But I tempted him with the petition that he would 
 give an opinion about the restoration of the chancel which you 
 heard Sir Hugh talk of. Those good men are so very hard to 
 get at, it is quite a triumph when one can seize upon them for 
 a day." 
 
 " And will Mrs. Johnstone come too ?" inquired Blanche. 
 " Eleanor Wentworth knows her, I think ; I remember hearing 
 her say one day that she was a particularly nice person." 
 
 " I believe she is very nice, — extremely quiet and domestic ; 
 2pod she must be to be his wife ; but I don't know much of 
 her ; she seldom leaves home." 
 
 " Then Mr. Johnstone will come alone," said Blanche. 
 
 " Mrs. Johnstone is to come, if it is not too wet, and to bring 
 a friend; but I must confess she is a very secondary considera- 
 tion. He is charming, however. I shall persuade him to stay 
 to-morrow, if I possibly can; but I am afraid he will be obsti- 
 nate. But that must be left; all I wanted to say to you, my 
 love, was to give you a warning not to over-fatigue yourself, as 
 I should give Ady warning before a ball. So much for 
 difference of taste! By the by, have you seen Ady this 
 uiorijin''- ?"
 
 ft 
 
 194 the earl's daughter 
 
 " No," replied Blanche; " she was not down stairs when I 
 left the break fast-room." 
 
 " Shockingly bad habits !" exclaimed Lady Charlton, shaking 
 her head. " I wish you could give her a little of your energy 
 and steadiness, Blanche ; or, more properly, a great deal." 
 Then assuming an air of confidence, she added, — " I need not 
 say to you, that Ady gives me a great deal of anxiety." 
 
 Blanche assented by a look of sympathy, for she did not 
 know what to answer. 
 
 " She is very giddy," continued Lady Charlton, " and wilful 
 too. I was in hopes that taking her from Rutherford might 
 have done some good, but I am half afraid. Pray have you 
 heard from Miss Wentworth lately ?" 
 
 Blanche held a letter from Eleanor in her hand, and Lady 
 Charlton beo-an to excuse herself for having kept her so lone 
 rom reading it ; looking, at the same time, as if she very 
 much wished that it should be opened in her presence. 
 
 " London !" exclaimed Blanche, in surprise, as she broke the 
 seal, and examined the date ; " that must be quite a sudden 
 plan." 
 
 Lady Charlton's countenance showed some uneasiness. 
 Blanche was too much occupied with her letter to notice it ; yet 
 she read out passages occasionally, from the consciousness that 
 Lady Charlton was standing by, listening and expecting, 
 Eleanor, it seemed, was in London, staying with a cousin who 
 was about to sail for India, and had insisted upon her paying a 
 short farewell visit. 
 
 " She does not write in good spirits," said Blanche, comment- 
 ing upon the letter as she went on ; " Rutherford is so dull, she 
 says, without me. I was afraid she would miss me ; she wants 
 so much to know what I am doing." Here followed an extract 
 from the letter, and rather an unfortunate one, for it brought 
 Blanche into the middle of a confidential sentence, before she 
 exactly knew where she was, and when it was equally impos- 
 sible either to go forwards or backwards, without explanation : 
 she stopped and coloured ; and then, laughing at her own awk- 
 wardness, exclaimed, " I don't know why I should be so shy 
 with you, Aunt Charlton ? I am sure you will understand. 
 Eleanor and I were talking one day at Rutherford, about being 
 separated all the winter ; and we said it would be so nice if she 
 could come here for a little time : but we both agreed it could 
 not be, because we knew you were uncomfortable about Mr. 
 Wentworth and Adelaide. Now, Eleanor says she cannot help
 
 the earl's daughter. 195 
 
 thinking about it, and longing for it, because London is so near 
 and the Jolmstones have asked her to go to them, which would 
 bring her into the neighbourhood. Her brother is not with her 
 so that there would be no real objection, if I could manage it. 
 But you must not think about it, please," continued Blanche, 
 affectionately. " I would not worry you on any account, and I 
 know the house is full, and it may be very inconvenient ; and 
 as to her visit ie Mrs. Johnstone, she does not say she is going, 
 only that she has been asked. I merely mentioned it that you 
 mie'ht se>e there was no mystery. I need not let Eleanor know- 
 that the idea was ever suggested to you." 
 
 It was a great effort to Lady Charlton to conceal that the 
 visit of any person of the name of Wentworth would be dis- 
 agreeable to her ; but she was really extremely fond of Blanche, 
 and anxious to make her happy, and if Mi-. Wentworth was out 
 of the way, there could be no actual objection to Eleanor her- 
 self. Still she hesitated ; it was opening the door, and no one 
 could foresee the consequences. 
 
 " If I were quite sure about Mr. Wentworth," she began. 
 
 Blanche interposed with an urgent entreaty that she would 
 not allow the subject to trouble her for an instant. She could 
 quite understand; so would Eleanor. And, after all, even if 
 the invitation was given, Mrs. Wentworth might not like 
 Eleanor to accept it ; and Lady Charlton acquiesced, but not as 
 if she was satisfied with the decision ; it seemed unkind, and all 
 Blanche's assurances to the contrary failed to restore her to 
 equanimity. 
 
 Poor Blanche heartily repented her imprudence in reading 
 the letter aloud too hastily. It was a lesson for the future, hm 
 the experience was bought dearly. Lady Charlton was, to use 
 the common expression, "put out;" and there is nothing which 
 effects this more surely with people who seek popularity, and 
 pique themselves upon good-nature, than being obliged to ap- 
 pear ill-natured. She endeavoured to change the subject and 
 spoke again of the guests who were expected in the evening; 
 but she showed plainly what was burdening her mind, by saj ing, 
 as she left the room, " You know, my dear, I could not bear to 
 be ungracious; but it would be a mere compliment to ask Miss 
 Wentworth here merely for two or three days, and next week 
 we shall really not have a bed to spare." 
 
 Blanche had nothing more to say, and oothing 1" do, but to 
 try and forget her disappointment as best she might. She left 
 the house, intending to go to the Lodge, but the B ky waJ
 
 [00 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 clouding over, and before she had gone any distance, large 
 drops of rain fell, and she was obliged to return. 
 
 Misfortunes, every one agrees, never come alone, and this 
 disturbance of her plans was a great increase to Blanche's 
 annoyance. She was lingering under the portico, trying to 
 lersuade herself that black clouds and faint glimmerings of 
 lglit, swiftly appearing and vanishing, meant fine weather, when 
 Adelaide Charlton came to the hall door, and seeing that Blanche 
 had been walking, asked what the weather was likely to be. 
 Blanche was a little startled by the question, for she had not 
 thought that any one was near, and turned rather quickly to 
 answer it. At the same moment Adelaide dropped a letter, 
 which she was reading. Blanche stooped to pick it up, but 
 Adelaide stepped forward in a great hurry to prevent her. 
 
 " Thank you ; don't trouble yourself," she said, hurriedly, — 
 crumpling the letter in her hand, and evidently much dis- 
 composed ; " have you had letters this morning ? — any from 
 airs. Howard — from Rutherford ? — but I forgot, there is no one 
 to write to you there ; that is I suppose, — I imagine — is Miss 
 Wentvvorth at home V 
 
 " No," replied Blanche, a little surprised at Adelaide's confused 
 manner ; " she has been on a visit to a cousin, in — " 
 
 Blanche did not say where, for a little dog, a pet of Mrs. 
 Cuthbert Grey's, just then came running up to her, and jumping 
 upon her dress, diverted, for the moment, the current of her 
 ideas. 
 
 " And Miss "Wentworth is ffoinsf to remain — how long did 
 you say, in London ?" inquired Adelaide, st 11 lingering, with the 
 pretence of watching the weather. 
 
 " I don't know, exactly," replied Blanche, not observing, in 
 her simplicity, the knowledge which Adelaide showed of Elea- 
 nor's movements. 
 
 " She will not have time to come here, I suppose," said 
 Adelaide, carelessly. 
 
 Blanche did perceive something unusual in this remark — in 
 the tone rather than the words. She looked at Adelaide more 
 attentively. There was anxiety in her face ; an anxiety which 
 she was trying to hide by a forced coolness. She bent down to 
 caress the dog, and again the letter fell from her hand. Blanche 
 did not offer a second time to pick it up ; but, as it lay for an 
 instant on the ground, she thought the handwriting was 
 Eleanor's. 
 
 " It won't do for excursions to-day," said Adelaide, advancing
 
 TIIE EARLS DAUGHTER. 1 "7 
 
 to the top of the steps ; " we must make up our minds to amuse 
 ourselves as well as we can within doors. It is a happy thing 
 we have not very stupid people to entertain: the Cuthbert 
 Greys are invaluable on a wet day." 
 
 " And there are *o many coming to dine and sleep," ob- 
 served Blanche : " with such a set of geniuses, we ought to be 
 very agreeable." 
 
 " Geniuses £,' exclaimed Adelaide; "of all things in a country 
 party, I hate geniuses ; people who force one to count the 
 letters in every word one utters, lest one should shock them by 
 one's ignorance : and who, after all, are generally the dullest 
 persons one ever meets." 
 
 " Then you must have goodness instead," said Blanche, laugh- 
 ing. " Mr. Johnstone is more famous, I believe, for his good- 
 ness even than for his talents." 
 
 Adelaide made no reply, but ran down the steps, regardless 
 of the rain, and declared that it was certainly going to be fine. 
 
 " You will be very wet ; do come iu, pray, Adelaide, do," re- 
 monstrated Blanche. But Adelaide's fancy, at that time, was 
 to be considered strong. On other occasions she sometimes 
 chose to be thought delicate. She staved just lono: enough to 
 prove that she would have her own way, and then ran back 
 into the house, leaving Blanche provoked by her absurdity, ami 
 rather mystified by her manner. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A wet day in a country house is undoubtedly a trial ; often 
 of the spirits, and always of the mental resources of the party 
 assembled. Senilhurst was as pleasant a house, under such 
 circumstances, as could well be imagined, for there were books 
 for those who chose to employ their minds ; music and draw- 
 ings for any who enjoyed and appreciated them ; and billiards 
 for idle gentlemen who had no other way of killing time. Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey sat near a window, ostensibly for the benefit 
 of the light upon her embroidery frame, — really, that she might 
 be able to see all that was going on. The Miss Greys wrote 
 •otters and worked, and tried to make Lord Erlsmere talk, and 
 to persuade Maude to sing. Adelaide was unusually quiet; it 
 was supposed because she was interested in a new nevd ; and
 
 I !)8 niE earl's daughter. 
 
 not even the entrance of an occasional refugee from the library 
 — tired of prosing with Sir Hugh, and hoping to rind relief in 
 the society of ladies — induced her to exert herself to be enter- 
 taining. Lady Charlton came into the room frequently ; 
 gossiped a little with Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, and admired the 
 Miss Greys' work, and wished earnestly that she could find 
 time to be as industrious ; and then turned to Lord Erlsmere, 
 with some question about the post-office, or the railroads, which 
 brought out his accurate information upon all matters of public 
 interest. " But there was no resting-place for her there," as she 
 said herself with a tragicomic shake of the head, which implied 
 that she was overpowered with business. "The poor little new 
 schoolmistress had come to make a complaint to Sir Hugh 
 about her chimney ; and Mrs. Foster, at the Lodge, wanted 
 advice about her boy ; and many other little matters, too 
 numerous to be mentioned, were all requiring her presence 
 elsewhere. She wished earnestly that she could have a day's 
 quiet — but home and quietness were not synonymous terms" — 
 and, with a resigned sigh, Lady Charlton flitted from the room, 
 leaving her guests in a very agreeable state of feeling — com- 
 pounded of pleasure at the delicate flattery administered to 
 themselves — and admiration of the energetic, self-denying, and 
 useful life of their hostess. 
 
 " Lady Blanche does not give us much of her society in 
 the morning," said Miss Caroline Grey to Maude, after they had 
 been silent for some minutes, and were, as she thought, in 
 danger of becoming victims to dulness in consequence. 
 
 " She spends a great deal of her time with her father, I 
 imagine," observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, in a soft voice. "One 
 cannot be surprised at it. Such a sweet young creature as she 
 is ! — he must take great delight in forming her character." 
 
 " Her character is formed, I should think," said Lord Erls- 
 mere, who, if not a first-rate person in point of interest, was 
 certainly so in his love of truth and simplicity. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbeit Grey sank from rapture into pity. 
 
 " Yes, Lady Blanche's character, she supposed, might be said 
 to be formed ; formed in a peculiar way for so young, — so very 
 young a person ; but that would scarcely prevent Lord Ruther- 
 ford from being anxious about her. Poor man ! he had great 
 cause for anxiety ;" and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey sighed, and again 
 repeated, " Poor man ;" and concluded with observing, " that it 
 must be a comfort to him, under the circumstances, to see his 
 daughter so cheerful, and with such even spirits." An observ-
 
 the earl's daughter. 199 
 
 ation which made Lord Erlsmere look up with a perception of 
 some secret meaning. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey worked very diligently after this, only 
 pausing every now and then to inquire how her eldest daunditei 
 was progressing in her studies ; for Miss Grey had, within the 
 last few minutes, laid down her pen, and commenced the 
 perusal of a political pamphlet which Lord Erlsmere had been 
 heard to recommend strongly. This brought on a discussion, 
 deferential on the part of Miss Grey, and animated on that of 
 Lord Erlsmere ; in the midst of which something very like a 
 groan was heard to escape from Maude — and throwing down 
 her book with an ejaculation at its stupidity, she left the room 
 apparently in a tit of impatience. 
 
 There was a gleam of hope in the prospect of the weather ; 
 a little blue sky in the west, and symptoms of dispersion 
 amongst the clouds overhead. Maude stood in the portico, as 
 Adelaide had done before — her own countenance very like a 
 thunder-cloud — and her voice, as she hummed the first few- 
 notes of a German song, not very unlike its distant rumbling. 
 Yet it was not the thunder-cloud of anger only — sadness and 
 weariness were- mingled with it; and when, a few minutes 
 afterwards, she went to put on a bonnet and shawl, intending 
 to take a solitary walk in the colonnade, it was with a listless- 
 ness which proved that the walk, in itself, was no object to her. 
 Many times she paced up and down — slowly and decidedly — 
 stopping every now and then as the sound of wheels caught 
 her ear ; but even in this there was the same indifference and 
 languor. A carriage at last entered the park, and was driving 
 up to the house ; Maude turned a corner to avoid being seen, 
 and then looked — she did not know why, visitors were not i >t' 
 any importance to her, and this was a hired carriage — a fly ; — 
 probably some people come to stay ; — the Johnstones possibly 
 — they were expected before luncheon. Yes, so it was; — Mr. 
 Johnstone, with a pleasant, clever, rather eager face; and Mrs. 
 Johnstone, with a face which none would remark. And there 
 was a friend too — a tall, elegant-looking girl, her features were 
 not seen at first, she lingered behind Mrs. Johnstone; but 
 Maude caught a full view of them, as some remark v*as made 
 which induced her to look towards the colonnade, and saw — 
 »he could not be mistaken — undoubtedly it must b< — Eleanor 
 Wentworth. Maud-'- impulse was a strange one ; -it was 
 surprise than irritation ; it made her rush down lie steps from 
 the colonnade, and hurry away into the thick shrubbery,
 
 200 the earl's daughter. 
 
 from thence into the park ; and away — she scarce Iy cared 
 where — so that she might be certain of solitude. 
 
 The clouds were now gathering together again, and a driving 
 mist was settling into rain ; but Maude was at no time as mind- 
 ful of weather as her health required, and though she was 
 tired with her walk, went on, until a pelting shower convinced 
 her how unwise she had been, and induced her to think 
 seriously of shelter. The lodge was near, and she hurried 
 towards it, and opened the door unceremoniously. The next 
 moment she repented of her haste, for she was an intruder. 
 She saw it directly, as Blanche rose from a seat by the side of 
 the sick boy's bed, and closing a book from which she had 
 been reading to him, said, " I will come and finish it to-morrow 
 if I can ; and you will try and think about it, Johnnie, and be 
 patient, wont you ?" 
 
 Her hand was laid upon the little fellow's burning cheek, 
 and she bent over him, and whispered, " God bless you !" and 
 as Maude came forward to speak to the child herself, she per- 
 ceived Lord Rutherford also, lie was standing behind a pro- 
 jecting wall, and gazing so earnestly upon Blanche, that he had 
 not noticed Maude. He came into the light as she spoke, and 
 laughed at their meeting, and said a few words in his usual 
 tone, but there was deeper thought beneath the outward indif- 
 ference, and the glance of his eye was softened as it rested upon 
 Blanche into the expression of a woman's tenderness. 
 
 " We can go now, I think, dear papa," said Blanche, draw- 
 ing near to him. 
 
 He was generally cold, even to her, in the presence of others ; 
 but now he put his arm around her and kissed her. They 
 stood together by the side of the child's bed. Maude watched 
 them with an indefinable feeling of repose. 
 
 " We will comt again to-morrow," said Blanche, appealing 
 to her father. 
 
 ' Yes, to-morrow, if we can. He will be better then, we 
 hope ; and we must remember what he wants. I will speak 
 about it myself." 
 
 " Thank you — thank you," said Blanche ; — " so very much :" 
 and the child tried to sit up, and thanked him also ; and Lord 
 Rutherford turned hastily away, for he would not for w>rlds it 
 should be seen that a tear glistened in his eye. 
 
 "This is not weather for you to be out in, Maude," said 
 Blanche, as, the shower being over, they left the cottage toge- 
 ther, the earl lingering behind. "I was half afraid of if vysell 
 and I am much stronger than you are."
 
 the earl's daughter. 201 
 
 " It is better at least than the weather within," replied Maude 
 shortly. " You seldom sit in the drawing-room in the moraine; 
 so you don't know what it is. But I wonder you ventured so 
 tar from home when you were expecting Eleanor Wentworth." 
 
 She said this bitterly ; and, when Blanche turned round in 
 extreme surprise, she saw that Maude's lip was curlinor witl 
 pride and anger. 
 
 " I don't want to blame you, Blanche," began Maude again ; 
 but Blanche"interrupted her with questions as to her meaning. 
 Could she be sure that it was Eleanor ? did she know whether 
 Lady^Charlton was annoyed ? and similar inquiries which wen 
 a very evident proof that Eleanor's visit was entirely unexpected. 
 Maude's irritated face was gradually soothed as the conviction 
 strengthened, yet her only reply was, "One can't doubt you, 
 Blanche; but don't hurry on in that way. Must you see Miss 
 Wentworth immediately ?" 
 
 " Yes ; no ; there is no absolute necessity. Why must I not 
 go?" inquired Blanche. 
 
 " Simply because I must speak to you first," answered Maud'. 
 " Can I not have a few moments of your precious time ?" she 
 added, as Blanche seemed inclined to wait for Lord Rutherford. 
 
 " Yes, of course, presently ; but I must not leave him to walk 
 home alone;" and Blanche turned back and put her arm within 
 her father's. They walked on silently. Blanche, was too much 
 perplexed and annoyed at Eleanor's unforeseen arrival even to 
 mention her name. 
 
 "I may come to you before dinner, papa ; may I not?" shi 
 said as they reached the house, and Lord Rutherford stood, 
 apparently expecting her to enter. 
 
 Maude touched her arm impatiently, "If you stay here, 
 Blanche, you will be seen. I must have you ; this way" — and 
 she would have drawn her into the colonnade. 
 
 Blanche resisted. "I may come and seal your letters, papa, 
 at five o'clock ' may I not ?" she inquired again. Lord Rutherford 
 smiled. Maude, eager as she was, could not help noticing the 
 fondness of his manner. 
 
 •• ( rood-by'e," said Blanche, lightly. "I am going with 
 Maude now." 
 
 She followed her cousin through the colonnade, and Lord 
 Rutherford stood at the door, and watched them till they had 
 turned the angle of the building; and even when they were 
 DUt of sight, he still lingered, a- if unwilling even for those few 
 minutes to lose sight of her.
 
 '202 the earl's da-u outer. 
 
 "And now, Blanche, answer me," exclaimed Maude, when 
 they were alone, " only once, tell me plainly, did you not expect 
 Eleanor to-day I" 
 
 " I have told you in all but the exact words — why do you ask 
 me again ?" 
 
 "because — the world is a strange world — more strange every 
 day — more irritating, aggravating, enraging." Maude walked 
 on so rapidly, that Blanche found it difficult to keep up with her. 
 
 "Adelaide, and the Cuthbert Greys, and that bore Lord Erls- 
 mere, and Eleanor Wentworth — they are all alike ; not one 
 better than the other," continued Maude. " If they were twenty 
 times your friends, Blanche, 1 must say it." 
 
 "But, my dear Maude, pray — if you would only be clear — 
 only tell me what you are thinking of. You really make me 
 impatient?" 
 
 " Then I make you what I am myself," answered Maude. " I 
 need not do that either," she added in a lower and graver tone ; 
 " but you are too good for them, Blanche ; and I cannot bear 
 to see you deluded. Why do vou put faith in Eleanor Went- 
 worth ?" 
 
 " Eleanor ! she is my friend ; we were brought up together : 
 whom can I put faith in besides ?" inquired Blanche, in rather 
 a frightened tone. 
 
 " In me," exclaimed Maude, sarcastically. " I should not 
 treat you as Eleanor Wentworth does." Then, seeing that 
 Blanche was silent from astonishment, she added, "You did not 
 know that she was expected to-day ; but Adelaide did." Blanche 
 remembered the handwriting she had seen, and could not doubt 
 the assertion. " I am not jealous," continued Maude. " I don't 
 want to win your affection, or any of that romantic nonsense ; 
 so you need not think I have any double meaning." 
 
 " Double ! oh, no ! impossible !" interrupted Blanche. 
 
 "Not so impossible as you may think. People don't tell 
 tales of one another, generally, without some meaning. Mine 
 is to put you on your guard, and make you see that Eleanor 
 Wentworth is too much a friend of Adelaide's to be a friend of 
 yours too." 
 
 " But indeed, Maude, you wrong me very much," exclaimed 
 Blanche. " I know that Eleanor is what some people would 
 call a friend of Adelaide's ; that is, they are glad to see each 
 other, and laugh and talk together ; but that sort of thing is 
 totally different from her feeling for me. I cannot imagine how 
 it should stand in her way."
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 2U3 
 
 "lias it not stood in the way?"' inquired Maude, coolly 
 " Why did not Miss Wentworth tell you she was coining here 
 
 to-day ?" 
 
 " Because — for a thousand reasons. I will go and ask her ;" 
 and she would have hurried away, if Maude had not detained 
 her. 
 
 " Blanche, how long will you be a child, trusting and deceived • 
 I tell you I know Eleanor Wentworth better than you do. She 
 is Adelaide's friend ; and like her — vain, frivolous, — worldly ; 
 that is the word you will understand." 
 
 "^fo; that she never was, and never will be," exclaimed 
 Blanche with energy. " I will not listen to you, Alaude ; it is 
 unfair to Eleanor. She was my first friend, and I will not hear 
 her spoken ill of without giving her the opportunity of defending 
 herself. I will ask her for an explanation." 
 
 " Ask, ask, if you will," answered Maude ; " and make her tell 
 you why she keeps up a constant correspondence with Adelaide ; 
 and why Adelaide's letters are never to be seen. Ask her 
 whether she is not encouraging her in that utter folly which 
 went on at Rutherford ; the very thought of it would make me 
 ill, if I did not know that Adelaide can carry on as many flirta- 
 tions as there are days in the year, so that there is no real 
 danger ; but Miss Wentworth should never have demeaned her- 
 self to bear any part in it ; she should " 
 
 Blanche broke in upon the sentence. "Maude," she said 
 earnestly, "you are making me very unhappy ; any focts would 
 be better than these vague hints." 
 
 Maude's tone of angry sarcasm changed into one of quiet 
 seriousness, when she saw that Blanche was really distressed. 
 " I have spoken in this way," she said, " because 1 have no 
 actual facts to bring forward ; only convictions of my own, from 
 observation. You know as well as I do how Adelaide behaved 
 at Rutherford, and how annoyed mamma was. I did not tell 
 you, Blanche, hall" how disgusting the whole affair was to me. I 
 don't know whether I am more fastidious than the rest of the 
 world, but when I see that sort of thing going on it makes me 
 hate myself for beinff one of the same race. Mamma thought 
 it would be all over when Adelaide came here, which was more 
 than I did ; at least, I was sure that if she did not flirt with Mr. 
 Wentworth, she would with some one else ; and so she has done, 
 >i^ you may have seen. Adelaide is one of those persons who 
 can't look or speak without flirting; but 1 did not know, till a 
 few days ago, that she has nut given up the old folly. I 3U5-
 
 201 the earl's daughter. 
 
 pected it from seeing letters come frequently in Miss Went/ 
 worth's handwriting, and I taxed Adelaide with it, and she tried 
 to turn off the subject, but she could not deceive me. And now 
 suddenly, without any invitation from my mother, they have 
 contrived that Miss Wentworth shall come here. What for, I 
 can't pretend to say ; but I should have supposed that pride 
 alone might have prevented her from intruding herself where 
 she must be aware she is not welcome." Maude paused ; but 
 Blanche, without venturing to reply, walked slowly and thought- 
 fully towards the entrance of the house. " You will not believe 
 me, now ?" said Maude, following her. 
 
 Blanche turned round quickly, " What would you say, if I 
 believed accusations against you, before I had given you the 
 opportunity of explanation ? " 
 
 " You would believe them instantly," exclaimed Maude ; " but 
 your affection deceives you in this case." 
 
 " And have I no affection for you, Maude ? " 
 
 There was a quivering movement about Maude's harsh, 
 decided mouth. She threw herself upon a bench, and when 
 Blanche stooped to kiss her, her cheek was wet with tears. 
 
 " Dear Maude," said Blanche kindly, and she sat down by 
 her. A proud struggle was visible on Maude's face. 
 
 " Not pity ! " she exclaimed. " Save me from pity. After 
 all, what does it signify to me, if the world is made up of 
 hypocrites! I don't mean you, Blanche," she added, laughing 
 in spite of herself at poor Blanche's expression of wonder and 
 horror ; " You don't belong to the world ; but it is so wearing 
 to live day after day with people one despises ; to see no beauty, 
 nc goodness anywhere, except — I see it in you ; but it is weak 
 goodness — superstition." 
 
 " Yet I am happy," said Blanche quickly, " and you are 
 iiot." 
 
 A crimson flush dyed Maude's sallow cheek, and then it 
 faded away to a deadly paleness, and she answered, " If I am 
 not happy, it is because I was not born to be deceived." 
 
 " Suspicion is deceit," said Blanche ; " because it makes us 
 believe evil to exist where it does not." 
 
 " But it does exist ; one sees it everywhere," exclaimed Maude ; 
 " only it puts on a mask. Look at that woman Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey, my mother's idol. Such a good churchwoman ! a perfect 
 example ! reads sermons by the hundreds, and buys good little 
 books by cartloads. I have heard her talk, until, if I had not 
 known her, I could have supposed she was St. Cuthbert, instead
 
 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 205 
 
 of Mrs. Cutlibert; but I sat in the drawing-room this morning, 
 and watched her toadying Lord Elsmere, in hopes of making 
 him fall in love with her eldest girl, until I could bear it no 
 longer. If I had had a scourge I verily believe I should have 
 used it." 
 
 " One might be tempted to do so, sometimes," said Blanche, 
 smiling, " if one might begin upon oneself." 
 
 " Oneself ! " and Maude's face became very sad ; " but I must 
 leave that, and I did not intend to talk of Mrs. Cutlibert Grey, 
 only the woman drives me wild. You may as well go 
 Blanche ; you won't be undeceived, so you must follow yout 
 own course." 
 
 Blanche did not like to go, Maude's face was so worn and 
 harassed that it grieved her to look at it. " I should like to 
 make you happier, Maude," she said, still lingering. 
 
 " Then close my eyes and stop my thoughts," replied Maude, 
 bitterly. "Thought!" and she put her hand to her forehead, 
 as if it ached terribly. " Oh ! if one could only cease from il 
 but for one day." 
 
 " Yet it is the great object of education, so people say, to 
 make one think," observed Blanche. 
 
 " Is it ? I don't know ; I never was educated. No, never," 
 she repeated, answering her cousin's look of surprise. " I was 
 left to bad governesses, and never went out of the school-room. 
 I learnt just what I chose — what I could teach myself; — history 
 and geography sometimes — thought always. I began thinking 
 when I was a child — when people supposed I was playing with 
 my doll : I thought about the doll, — why it did not speak — 
 why it had no mind — how it differed from me, and I have srone 
 on thinking ever since : yes, on, and on, and on, until — Blanche, 
 have you ever thought till you felt that the next step would be 
 insanity? — That is what I have done," she continued, without 
 waiting for an answer; "and I have found others who have 
 done the same — clever men, men I thought I could reverence. I 
 met with them abroad ; but they were all alike — all disappoint- 
 ing in practice and differing in theory. There was no rest ; 
 what one believed the others disbelieved." 
 
 " Can there ever be rest in the systems and theories of our 
 own forming?" said Blanche, gently. 
 
 Maude shook her head. " Ah ! Blanche, there is our differ- 
 ence. I cannot walk blindfold. I cannot bow my intellect to 
 fornix and superstitions." 
 
 "I hope I could not either," replied Blanche; "but I am
 
 206 the earl's daughter. 
 
 afraid we can scarcely understand each other ; we have been 
 brought up so differently. I was told what was true, as a child ; 
 1 was not left to find it out for myself. I was taught to obey, 
 too, before I knew the reason why. Now that I am beginning 
 to think for myself, I see that what I learnt agrees with tho 
 Bible, and if I try to follow it, it makes me happy ; I have no 
 room, therefore, for doubts." 
 
 This was said so simply and confidently, that Maude looked 
 up in astonishment. " We do differ, indeed," she said proudly. 
 " Like you, I am a Christian ; but I must put my own inter- 
 pretation upon the Bible. To yield my opinion to the judgment 
 of others, I must be a child again." 
 
 " Must you ? " and Blanche waited for a few moments in 
 thought, and then added, — " A grown-up person might pray to 
 be taught rightly, and might go to Church regularly, and read 
 the Bible, and try to be good as far as he knew, in spite of the 
 difficulties, and then, perhaps, they would go away." 
 
 " And that is what you would have me do," said Maude, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Yes, it would be better, I think — safer than argument — 
 because — " 
 
 " Go on — go on," said Maude, impetuously. 
 
 " Safer," continued Blanche, more firmly, " because we can- 
 not doubt for ever." 
 
 " No, there will be certainty before long for us all," said 
 Maude, gravely. 
 
 " And if it should be the certainty of all being true which 
 we doubted and thought difficult to understand," pursued 
 Blanche, " it would be very horrible." Maude's brow contracted 
 as with pain. 
 
 " Very horrible! would it not?" repeated Blanche. "If, I 
 mean, we had gone on following our own will, because we had 
 not all the certainty we wished for." 
 
 Her voice was very tremulous as she said this ; and Maude 
 saw that she turned pale. " You are ill," she observed. " I 
 have kept you standing too long." 
 
 " No, not ill ; only cold," replied Blanche ; and she wrapped 
 her shawl around her. 
 
 " And I have kept } r ou from Miss Wentworth," said Maude, 
 a little sarcastically. " That was wrong in me, too." 
 
 Blanche tried to smile, but it was not a subject for amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 " You really don't look at all well," continued Maude.
 
 the earl's daughter. 207 
 
 ' You ought not to have gone out this damp day, and 1 have 
 kept you standing- and walking till you are tired to death. Do 
 go in and rest before you see Miss Wentworth." 
 
 Blanche repeated that it was only the cold ; a fire would 
 make her quite well ; but Maude was not satisfied, and forget- 
 ting her own grievances, hurried her into the house, and 
 insisted, with the most persevering and even affectionate atten- 
 tion, on seeuig that she was resting comfortably in her own 
 room, before Eleanor Wentworth went to her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 No one who had seen the Senilhurst party that evening 
 would have discovered any signs of unusual annoyance or 
 uncongeniality, unless upon close inspection, and after intimate 
 knowledge of the characters of the persons collected together. 
 
 Blanche, indeed, sat in an easy chair, looking pale and talk- 
 ing little ; and Lord Rutherford hovered about her to ward off 
 alt that might. .disturb her. But Blanche smiled and seemed 
 contented, and her father had evidently no wish except to be 
 near her, and was quite satisfied when he found her pleased in 
 listening to Maude's exquisite singing, and in the intervals when 
 there was no music taking a part in a conversation he was 
 carrying on, with Lady Charlton and Mr. Johnstone, respecting 
 a living in his gift which was likely soon to be vacant. 
 
 So far all was well ; and what if Adelaide's manner was 
 absent and Maude's cross, if Eleanor Wentworth was shy and 
 Lady Charlton distant; these differences were not visible to the 
 common eye. There was the same polish of refinement and 
 courtesy over all, and the drawing-room at Senilhurst might 
 well have been supposed to contain as large an amount of 
 comfort and freedom from restraint and care as could be fuund 
 amongst any similar portion of English society. 
 
 Blanche could not suspect evil ; it was not in her nature. 
 She was, besides, far from well, and did not feel equal to 
 thought. Sherhad not seen Eleanor for nearly half an hour 
 after her conversation with Maude; but, when they did meet, 
 the' explanation of her sudden arrival was simple enough to put 
 to flight all the suspicions which Maude would have raised. 
 The visit to Mr. Johnstone had been, Eleanor said, quite unex- 
 pected. She had arrived only two days before ; Mr. Johns!-:..
 
 208 the earl's daughter. 
 
 had insisted upon bringing her to Senilhurst, as Lady Chailton 
 had given hi in a "carte blanche" to introduce any of his 
 friends ; and her name had not been mentioned merely to 
 cause an amusing surprise to Blanche. Certainly, she allowed 
 that the secret had been entrusted to Adelaide, but this was 
 because — she did not know why, exactly ; she had been execut- 
 ing commissions for Adelaide in London, and was writing tc 
 ner about them, and that put it into her head to name it She 
 rjuite supposed that Adelaide would have mentioned her being 
 in London; but it was just like her to forget. 
 
 Nothing could be more satisfactory, and Eleanor was so 
 pleased, and bright, and affectionate, so euchanted to see 
 Blanche again, so full of all the parish news of Rutherford, 
 that it would have been impossible to quarrel with her. 
 Blanche thought, as she watched her that evening, how superior 
 she was to every one else in the room; graceful, intellectual, 
 brilliant, amiable ; even Lady Charlton was obliged 10 acquiesce 
 in the praises that were lavished upon her, although the next 
 moment she relapsed into coldness, as unpleasant recollections 
 forced themselves upon her. 
 
 " Frances, my dear," said Sir Hugh, who sat opposite to 
 Blanche, in a gouty chair, trying to believe, and to make other 
 persons believe, that he was quite well ; " Frances, my dear — 
 my dear Lady Charlton — Franr-e- " Lady Cnariton was 
 bending her head low, to catch a passing observation of Mr. 
 Johnstone's ; music was going on at the time : did she not, or 
 would she not hear ? — " Frances — pshaw ! — Maude, tell your 
 mother I want to speak to her." 
 
 Lady Charlton did hear then ; she smiled sweetly upon Mr. 
 Johnstone, and promised to return in an instant. 
 
 " You wanted to say something to me, Sir Hugh. Shal' I 
 ring for Pearson ?" 
 
 " Pearson — folly ! what are you talking of?" 
 
 " Every one will excuse you," continued Lady Charlton,, 
 quite amiably; " I was saying to Mr. Johnstone, just now, that 
 you were much later to-night than usual." 
 
 Sir Hugh very nearly knocked away the pillows in his gouty 
 chair ; " 1 tell you, Frances, I am not going. All I wanted to 
 say was," — his voice sank confidentially, — " that now Miss 
 YVentworth is here, we may as well persuade her to stay. It 
 is rot worth while for her to go back with Mr. Johnstone." 
 
 " Very well — yes, w r e will see ; to-morrow will do." Lady 
 Clarlton was hurrying away as fast as possible.
 
 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 20P 
 
 " But listen, Frances, listen," and Sir Hugh laid a detaining 
 hand on her dress; " I shall ask her presently; I think it i? 
 right. L)r. Wentworth is an old family friend ; Mrs. Wentworth 
 too ; very good people, highly respectable." 
 
 Sir Huudi was gradually working himself into a fit of excite- 
 ment, and Lady Charlton was in an agony lest the brilliant 
 variations upon the piano should, suddenly cease. " Very well 
 — yes, we>*vill see," she repeated again. 
 
 " I like her," continued Sir Hugh ; " she is very handsome, 
 dresses well." Lady Charlton's fidget increased every moment ; 
 in another minute, Thalberg's variations would infallibly come 
 to an end ; " We will settle it at once and then I shall go to 
 bed." 
 
 " But, my dear Sir Hugh, hush — pray be quiet ; trust it 
 to me." 
 
 " It is the right thing to do," pursued Sir Hugh ; " it will 
 please Blanche — please Lord Rutherford ; it is the sort of thing 
 one is bound to do." 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course ; we will talk about it — only just — of 
 course you will have your own way. I will go and say a few 
 words to Mr.-Johnstone first." 
 
 Sir Hugh allowed her to depart; but she heard him mutter 
 to himself — "It's right, quite right; for ten days or a fort- 
 night we shall manage very well. Her brother can come and 
 fetch her." 
 
 Just then Eleanor left the piano, where she had been standing 
 to turn over the leaves of Miss Caroline Grey's music-book. 
 
 Lady Charlton kept Mr. Johnstone's few words for a better 
 opportunity ; and seizing upon Eleanor, carried her off to the 
 ante-room. 
 
 She must apologise, she said, for being a little unceremonious ; 
 but she really was anxious to obtain Miss Wentworth's co-opera- 
 tiun in a plan for detaining Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone a day or two 
 longer at Senilhurst. She was afraid it might be inconvenient 
 Blanche had told her that Miss Wentworth's stay in that part of 
 the country was to be very short ; and she could not, under tin 
 
 circumstances, say anvthintr. however Had she should have 1 n 
 
 to have had the pleasure of a long visit at Senilhurst. No 
 doubt Mr<. Wentworth must be very anxious for her daughter'!) 
 return, and they must look forward to a future cccasion — a more 
 fortunate one — when engagements on both sides would not bfl 
 so pressing. But there were a few days free now, before the 
 house would be full. Could not Miss Wentworth pf tru-u'e Mi
 
 210 the earl's daughter, 
 
 and Mrs. Johnstone to remain with her at Senilhurst, if it were 
 
 only till Saturday — from Wednesday till Saturday ? Surely a 
 clergyman might spare two days; and she would let them 
 return quite early on Saturday morning, if it were necessary. 
 If Miss Wentworth would join in the request, there could be no 
 doubt of its being granted ; and Blanche, and every one, would 
 be pleased. " Poor Blanche ! she is not at all well, I am afraid," 
 concluded Lady Charlton. " It was very imprudent in her to 
 go out to-day. I think, for her sake, you must consent." 
 
 Eleanor Wentworth was, in general, peculiarly self-possessed ; 
 but there was a mixture of pride and awkwardness in the cold 
 politeness of her manner, as she thanked Lady Charlton for the 
 imitation to herself, but feared it would be difficult to persuade 
 Mr. Johnstone to agree to the proposal, since she knew that his 
 time was just then particularly occupied. Lady Charlton in- 
 stantly grew eager to carry her point. It would be vexatious, 
 provoking, in every way disagreeable, to be refused. She must 
 have it settled at once : she could not rest till it was. Mio-ht she 
 only say that Miss Wentworth did not object ? And in answer 
 to the acquiescence which followed the question, Lady Charlton 
 was so grateful and cordial, that Eleanor found herself compelled 
 to reciprocate civilities, and be extremely obliged for an atten- 
 tion which was the very least she had a right to expect. 
 
 A short conversation of entreaty with Mr. Johnstone followed, 
 and Lady Charlton presently returned to Sir Hugh, pleased and 
 placid. She had gained the point he wished, Miss Wentworth 
 was going to stay ; how long she did not say, and Sir Hugh 
 happily did not ask ; but soothed by the apparent obedience to 
 his will, consented to retire for the night. 
 
 Blanche had observed part of the progress of this arrange- 
 ment, and understood it. She had little to do on that evening 
 except to observe, and there was considerable food for thought 
 in all she saw, even though much lay concealed from her usual 
 unsuspiciousness. Maude's face was one which particularly 
 engaged her attention. It was more than commonly sarcastic. 
 She spoke but little to Blanche ; and when she was not called 
 upon to sing, devoted herself principally to Lord Erlsmere, whom 
 she engaged in a disquisition upon universal suffrage, which kept 
 him engrossed for more than half the evening, much to the 
 annoyance of Mrs. Cuthbert Grev. Blanche could scarcely help 
 smiling at the cleverness with which Maude managed to defeat 
 all the mother's manoeuvres in her daughter's favor. Yet it left 
 «t very disagreeable impression upon her mind, unfavourable to
 
 THE EAEh's DAUGHTER. 211 
 
 all parties except Lord Erlsmere. Blanche did not feel obliged 
 to Maude for having withdrawn the veil, and given her an 
 insight into what Avas going on behind the scenes. It was low, 
 unlady-like, to say nothing more, and as she looked on, and found 
 herself attributing motives, and suspecting double meanings, 
 she felt ashamed of herself as if she also was, in a measure, a 
 party to the conduct which she disapproved. 
 
 " I think* you had better go to bed, my love," said the earl, 
 coming behind her chair, when the time-piece struck ten o'clock. 
 " Ygu can slip away without being noticed." 
 
 Blanche prepared to go, for she was very tired. 
 
 Maude, who was standing near the door, stopped her when 
 she was leaving the room. " Are you going, Blanche ? — gooc" 
 night." 
 
 " Good night," said Blanche, cheerfully ; " will you tell Eleanoi 
 to come to me presently ?" 
 
 u If you wish it — if I must." 
 
 " Why, is there any objection ?" asked Blanche ; " I shall nut 
 keep her long." 
 
 " Forewarned, forearmed," said Maude, coldly. 
 
 Blanche looked seriously annoyed, and answered, " You can- 
 not make me suspicious, Maude. After all you said this after- 
 noon there was nothing that could not be explained." 
 
 " Time will prove," said Maude, in the same provoking tone. 
 
 Blanche turned away angrily ; but she could not bear to part 
 in such a spirit, and the next instant she smiled, and offered her 
 hand to her cousin. 
 
 The hand was retained, and Maude, looking at her anxiously 
 and kindly, said, " You must be better to-morrow." 
 
 " Yes, I hope so ; I am nearly sure I shall be." 
 
 " And you will promise to sleep well." 
 
 " Yes, if I can ; the extent of this world's promises." 
 
 " Well, then, good night, once more," and Maude walked 
 away to the piano, and Blanche left the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 Blanche was not at all sorry that the evening was over. 
 When she sat down alone in her room, she looked and felt 
 wearied in mind and body, ami was quite startled at the hag- 
 gard expression of her own face, as she caught sight of hei
 
 212 the earl's laughter. 
 
 features in a glass. Illness might be one reason fcr her being 
 depressed ; there was nothing else particularly to cause it, but 
 she felt very solitary, all the more so, perhaps, because there were 
 so many about her. Yet she ought not to be solitary when 
 Eleanor was in the house ; a year before she would have said 
 that she needed no other companionship. And why should she 
 now ? What change had come over her ? Iler mind travelled 
 hack to the days that were past : long past they seemed, but 
 that was a delusion ; it was but a short time ; yet the grey, 
 weather-stained walls of the old manor-house, the green walks, 
 the trim holly hedge, the antique dial and all the associations 
 connected with them, were as the clear, yet faded visions of a 
 distant land ; and the voice of the friend who had loved her 
 from infancy, though sweet to her recollection, was very faint, as 
 the dying notes of music which we shall never hear again. It 
 is hard to realize the death of our own life ; we never do so 
 whilst our childish associations are unbroken. The thought of 
 it came to Blanche's mind with awe and sadness, as she tried to 
 recall the forms of those by-gone days from which the spirit 
 had departed to bear an undying record before God. Happy 
 they had been, very happy and blest — more blest than the pre- 
 sent — more innocent and guileless ; and they could never in 
 any way return ; years could never restore ignorance, they could 
 never make to her unknown what once was known ; they could 
 never bring back confidence where it had been disappointed. 
 Years — they stretched far, far out, interminably it seemed ; and 
 they must be met, endured, with all their possible trials, with 
 the risk, the possibility of — Blanche shuddered, her heart grew 
 faint ; it was a real, physical faintness, for the next instant a 
 sharp pain shot through her frame, and she leant back in her 
 chair, and gasped for breath. 
 
 Eleanor Wentworth knocked at the door. Blanche said, 
 "come in," as loudly as she could. The pain had been only 
 momentary, and she did not like to think of it. 
 
 " Not undressed, Blanche," said Eleanor, as she came up to 
 her : " that is very naughty." 
 
 " I sat by the fire, thinking," replied Blanche, " and expect- 
 ing you. Why did you not come before ?" 
 
 " I did not miss you at first when you went ; and your cousin 
 Maude only told me to come to you a few minutes ago," replied 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Maude is very strange," said Blanche, thoughtfully. " But 
 tell me, Eleanor ; I understood a great deal that went on
 
 the earl's daughter. 213 
 
 down stairs, though I only heard half. IIow long are you to 
 
 stay r 
 
 " Two days," answered Eleanor, shortly. 
 
 "Two days only ?" 
 
 " Lady Charlton has not given me the opportunity of staying 
 longer." 
 
 " It is vexatious," said Blanche, " very." 
 
 " Yes, an^ to find you not well, besides ; and to have seen so 
 little of you all the evening. However, one must bear it, and 
 be thankful, I suppose." 
 
 Blanche was chilled, for Eleanor's tone was petulant. " We 
 shall be able to talk to-morrow," she said, soothingly ; " and, 
 Eleanor, you must not be hard upon my aunt ; she has reasons, 
 you know, for not being quite as cordial as one could wish." 
 
 Eleanor's cheek flushed with deep crimson, and she exclaimed, 
 " Of course I know. She does not consider the son of a country 
 clenjvman a fit connection for her family. Yet I could tell her 
 thatfthe Wentworths are an older race than any other in the 
 county." 
 
 " It is not the question of family ; indeed you must not think 
 that," said Blanche, earnestly. " If your brother — ." She 
 stopped, for the observation might have been an awkward one. 
 
 "I understand what you would say," replied Eleanor, with an 
 air of great candour. " If my brother was a dashing man of 
 fashion, with his four or five thousand a year ; or even if he had 
 the promise of a good living, with a deanery or bishopric in 
 perspective, Lady Charlton would not let the question of family 
 interfere ; but being as he is, about to take orders, and live a 
 quiet, serious life, as a curate in a country village, she does not 
 deem it a suitable prospect. I do not blame her ; I do not 
 know that any one could ; only, Adelaide may go farther and 
 fare worse." 
 
 Blanche was more perplexed than before what to say. The 
 tone Eleanor was adopting was quite new to her. She seemed 
 to think the affair serious. 
 
 " You do Charles injustice yourself," continued Eleanor. 
 " When you .saw him flirting— for he did flirt, I grant, at 
 Rutherford — you put him down as a silly, vain young man : he 
 is very far from that : or, at least, if Ik- is vain, he lias great 
 counterbalancing qualities. All that frippery and fully will go 
 when he is ordained." 
 
 Blanche was silent. 
 
 " What are you thinking of?" asked Eleanor. Her voir.' was
 
 21 * THE EARL's DAUGHTER. 
 
 nervously eager, and she repeated again, — "What are you 
 thinking of? I must know." 
 
 " Should it not go before he is ordained ?" asked Blanche, 
 quietly. 
 
 Eleanor drew back for an instant ; then she answered, hur- 
 riedly, — " Yes, yes, certainly ; before — at the time when he is 
 ordained, lie will be quite a different person by-and-by, you 
 will see." 
 
 " But will by-and-by do ?" pursued Blanche. " Can it ever 
 be right to take such a responsibility without being very 
 devoted — very good, beforehand — a long time beforehand V she 
 added, becoming bolder. 
 
 Eleanor's face showed much more vexation than the occasion 
 seemed to warrant ; but she only replied, — " Well ! well ! we 
 won't talk of it now, Blanche. You are prejudiced, I am 
 afraid ; so is Lady Charlton. We won't spoil our few hours 
 together by discussion." 
 
 Blanche looked sorry, and observed, it was very foolish of her 
 to say such things ; it must seem unkind, when Eleanor was so 
 fond of her brother ; but it was hard to keep back her opinions, 
 where she had been accustomed to tell them so openly. 
 
 _ Eleanor was standing near the fire. She bent down and 
 kissed Blanche, and fixed her eyes upon her intently, but without 
 speaking. 
 
 " I may tell you all, I think ; may I not ?" said Blanche, 
 answering the look. 
 
 There was another pause. Eleanor's eyes glistened ; she 
 seemed lost in thought. 
 
 " May I not ?" repeated Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, all ; undoubtedly. You are very tired ; shall I ring 
 for your maid ?" 
 
 <k In a minute ; only I am so afraid I have pained you." 
 
 Eleanor answered by another kiss — warm, affectionate as in 
 the years of their happy intercourse at St. Ebbe's. 
 
 The bell was rung, Eleanor departed, and Blanche was left 
 to think over what had been said, and to ponder upon the cause 
 of that sharp, warning, momentary agony ; — what did it mean ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 Eleanor's step, as she moved along the gallery from
 
 the earl's daughter. 215 
 
 Blanche's room, was stealthy and quick ; but she paused at the 
 top of the staircase to listen to what was going on below. AH 
 the guests not staying in the house had taken their leave ; and 
 now there were parting good-nights and cheerful last words said 
 as the rest of the party broke up. She heard Mr. Johnstone 
 and Lady Charlton speaking of the plans for the next day. 
 That was a satisfaction, as it showed that he had not changed 
 his mind aboot remaining at Senilhurst. Eleanor had a half 
 inclination to go down again and inquire of Mrs. Johnstone, to 
 be quiie sure of the fact; but the sight of Maude coming up 
 the stairs had a sudden effect upon her intentions, and with the 
 same quick and quiet step as before, she went on, reached the 
 further end of the gallery, and, opening a door which led to 
 the apartments in the east wing, found her way amidst passages 
 and turnings, to a small sitting-room, out of which two doors 
 opened. A hasty double knock at one of these was answered 
 by Adelaide Chailton, who exclaimed, "Come at last, 
 Eleanor !" 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" and Eleanor put her finger to her lips. 
 " Maude will be here in one instant ; let me in." 
 
 Adelaide threw open the door, which Eleanor took care to 
 bolt again, and then Adelaide, motioning to Eleanor to sit 
 down by the tire, said, " Well, what success ? what does Blanche 
 think ?" 
 
 " My dear Adelaide ! how wild you are. Blanche, of course, 
 thinks nothing, and knows nothing." 
 
 " What, have you not asked her ?" 
 
 " No, not this evening. I only sounded her a little." 
 
 " Sound !" repeated Adelaide, in a tone of vexation. " But, 
 what is there to hinder you from speaking out at once ? Why 
 can't you say, Your father will have a living in his gift soon, and 
 I wish he w 7 ould promise it to my brother V 
 
 "Oh! Adelaide! can't you understand? — to ask a favour! 
 — to put oneself under an obligation ! — there is nothing more 
 difficult." 
 
 " But not between friends — persons like you and Blanche, 
 who were brought up together." 
 
 Adelaide threw herself back in an easy chair, and angrily 
 pushing aside a footstool, continued, "I see how it is; we are 
 resting upon a broken reed. I told Charles it would be so 
 long ago." 
 
 " You may say what you will, Adelaide," replied Eleanor, 
 with some dignity of manner. " If you will not trust me, you 
 10
 
 216 the earl's daughter. 
 
 must take your own way ; but one thing I am quite sure of 
 that mine is the only right and wise one." 
 
 " I don't see why he is to be tied down to that odious pro- 
 fession," observed Adelaide, petulantly. 
 
 " Merely because his whole education has been a preparation 
 for it," said Eleanor ; " and that it would break my mother's 
 heart if he were to give it up." 
 
 " But he does not like it ; he is not fit for it," said Adelaide. 
 
 " Yes, begging your pardon, he does like it, and he is fit for 
 it, when you do not influence him against it." 
 
 " A thousand pities he ever knew me then," said Adelaide, 
 sharply. 
 
 Eleanor did not contradict her. She only answered, " It is 
 too late to think of that now, when you are engaged." 
 
 " Who brought on the en^ao-ement ?" asked Adelaide, 
 satirically. 
 
 " Do you repent it ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Repent ! oh dear, no ! not in the least ! What a strange 
 notion ! do you ?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent. 
 
 " Do you 3" again repeated Adelaide ; and Eleanor was 
 compelled to answer. 
 
 " I should not, if you would be what you have promised." 
 
 " What I have promised to be when I am married," re- 
 peated Adelaide. " It will be time enough to think of that 
 by-and-by." 
 
 " It would be better to begin at once." 
 
 " We wont sermonise," exclaimed Adelaide, impatiently. 
 " You know I have an insurmountable objection to sermons. 
 If any harm comes of our engagement, Eleanor, you will have 
 no one to thank for it but yourself. When Charles and I were 
 at Rutherford, we had no more idea of anything serious, than 
 we have now of travelling to the moon. It was entirely 
 through correspondence, and messages avid that sort of thing, 
 that the affair came to a point. I declare I should have 
 forgotten him by this time, if you had not so constantly reminded 
 me of him." 
 
 " I was obliged to repeat what he said," replied Eleanor ; 
 conscience reproaching her for untruth as she uttered the 
 words. 
 
 " Well ! obliged or not obliged, you managed to make me 
 think of him, and this is the consequence; and, having led us 
 into the scrape, all you can possibly do now is to help us out
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 vt \t. The idea of going to mamma with the news that I am 
 engaged to a man, without any prospect but a country curacy, 
 r- an absurdity ; I wont do it." 
 
 "But if you must? 1 * 
 
 " There is no must ; I don't acknowledge any." 
 
 " And the alternative will be — what ?" 
 
 Adelaide laughed heartily. " I am not going to let you into 
 all our secrets, Eleanor ; you know too much already. Trust 
 us, if you will not manage matters for us, we shall manage them 
 somehow for ourselves ; and soon too. I have no notion of 
 hanging on from week to week, in this way. It destroys all 
 the pleasure of one's present life, without giving one a prospect 
 of anything better." 
 
 " Charles is obliged to you," said Eleanor, gravely. " I 
 should have thought that, being certain of his affection, you 
 might have been well contented to wait till he can come for- 
 ward openlv." 
 
 " His affection ! yes, of course, I am certain of that, and 
 satisfied. But it is a little, — however, I won't frighten vour 
 propriety ; only perhaps you can understand that now and 
 then it is just" a wee bit uncomfortable to go about the 
 world with one's hands and feet tied ; and not to be able 
 to mention it. One moves awkwardly." 
 
 " There may be something in that," said Eleanor, thought- 
 fully. " But what is still more important, I am sure it 
 is not quite right. Your mother and my mother ought 
 to know it. I, for one, should be miserable at the conceal- 
 ment, if there were not such good reasons fur it at present, 
 and if—" 
 
 " Well — what \ What salve have you found for that very 
 fidgety conscience of yours ?" 
 
 "Very sufficient salve," replied Eleanor. " You and Charles 
 settled your affairs yourselves. I was no party to the actual 
 engagement." 
 
 "That is," exclaimed Adelaide, her eyes sparkling with irrita- 
 tion, "you showed us the road, and led us to the point, and 
 gave us a little, push, and then hurried away, that you might 
 be able to say you did not see. Oh ! Eleanor." 
 
 Eleanor blushed; yet she could not rest without a further 
 effort at self-vindication. 
 
 "You are exaggerating," she said. "I did not know what 
 was going to happen. I scarcely ever suspected it. When 
 Chail.-s told me you were engaged, I was utterly amazed.
 
 218 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Then what did you think we were about ?" inquired Ade- 
 laide. " What pretty game were we playing V 
 
 Eleanor was too much ashamed to reply. How could she 
 owr> that she had calculated upon Mr. Wentworth's unsteadi- 
 ness of disposition, and Adelaide's habit of flirting, and suffered 
 herself to encourage them in folly, whilst deluding herself b\ 
 thinking it would come to nothing? And all this partly from 
 a weak wish to please her brother ; partly from finding a sill \ 
 pleasure in watching an affair of the kind fur the first time, and 
 feeling herself a person of importance ; and partly from the 
 secret desire to keep up an acquaintance which promised a 
 good deal of amusement, and possibly an .ntroduction, by-and- 
 by, to gayer society than she could meet with at Rutherford. 
 
 It was very unlike the conduct to be expected from Mrs. 
 Howard's pupil ; but, perhaps, the person whom it would least 
 have surprised, was Mrs. Howard herself. Eleanor was not so 
 very different now from what she had been in former days. 
 Circumstances had brought out the weak points of her charac- 
 ter, and rendered their consequences more important ; but the 
 original faults were the same ; — vanity and love of excitement — 
 known and acknowledged, but never thoroughly struggled 
 against. 
 
 " I don't like this new mood of yours," said Adelaide, after 
 a pause, finding that Eleanor sat abstractedly gazing on the 
 fire. " I had looked forward to your coming as the end of all 
 my difficulties. I thought you would go at once to Blanche, 
 — entreat her compassion ; and then, when we had engaged 
 Lord Rutherford's interest, that the thing would have been 
 kno^n and settled." 
 
 Eleanor could not help smiling in spite of herself. "Ade- 
 laide i when will you learn common sense ? How can you 
 imagine it possible to settle a business like this in a minute? 
 Even supposing I could bring Blanche over to your side, and 
 supposing Lord Rutherford were to promise Charles twenty 
 thousand a year, instead of a living worth twelve hundred, — 
 how can you suppose that Lady Charlton would be brought 
 round in such a moment ?" 
 
 " Oh ! there are two strings to that bow," replied Adelaide. 
 " If mamma will not consent, papa will ; that I am quite sure 
 of. Pearson told my maid, the other day, that he was wonder- 
 fully fond of Charles, and meant to have him asked here. I 
 d >i\\ want that, though, just yet." 
 
 " No, indeed ;" and Eleanor inwardly trembled at the storms 
 which might arise from so imprudent a step.
 
 the earl's daughter. 21S 
 
 " I don't see why you should say, No, indeed ! in that tone,'' 
 exclaimed Adelaide. "I don't want it to be just yet; but I 
 don't know why you should be so afraid. We are not quite 
 such babies as not to understand keeping our own counsel." 
 " There are eyes about you," said Eleanor. 
 "Mamma ! 3'es, she is a regular Argus." 
 " And your sister." 
 
 " That is to* be considered, certainly ; I am awfully afraid of 
 Maude." 
 
 " So* am I," replied Eleanor. 
 
 " She is a person to be afraid of; tough, leathery," said Ade- 
 laide. " She never did a foolish thing from the time she was 
 born. And she can look through one when she chooses it. 1 
 declare, if it was not for her German metaphysics, I could not 
 live in the house with her. Happily, they make her so puzzle- 
 headed that she only sees one-half of what is going on." 
 
 There was a loud angry knock at the door. Adelaide 
 started, and exclaimed, " that is her knock." 
 
 Eleanor turned pale. " Are you sure she does not see more 
 than one-half already ?" she asked in a whisper. 
 
 Adelaide made no answer. Eleanor took up her candle to 
 go. " Adelaide and I have been gossiping," she said, as an 
 explanation to Maude, when the door was opened. " It is very 
 foolish, I own." 
 
 Maude took no notice. " You have some books of mine, 
 which I want, Adelaide," she said. 
 
 Eleanor felt herself growing nervous; and, to hide her 
 confusion, would have pretended to search for the volumes 
 wanted ; but Maude prevented her. There was no occasion for 
 Miss Wentworth to trouble herself, she said. Adelaide knew 
 quite w y ell where the books were ; and, as she spoke, she placed 
 herself near the doorway, in such a position that Eleanor was 
 compelled to confront her. Her glance was proud and search- 
 ing ; and Eleanor shrank from it. 
 
 " Good night ! Adelaide," she said, in as light a tone as s ha 
 could assume. She would have given her hand to Maude, bnt 
 it was not taken. 
 
 " Good night, Miss Wentworth," was repeated, haughtily ; 
 and Eleanor went to her room, humbled and unhappy.
 
 220 the karl's daughter, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 It was abort a week from that time, — the weather was cold 
 and bleak, even for the autumn, and as the rough blasts howled 
 round the old parsonage at Rutherford, and the rain pelted 
 against the latticed windows, Dr. Wentworth drew his chair 
 near to the fire, and congratulated himself that his work for 
 the day was over — that there was no case of illness in the 
 parish requiring his attention, and that it was not a night for 
 the evening school, or for any other duty which would expose 
 himself or his parishioners to such inclement weather. 
 
 " I wish Charles was equally safe from it," said Mrs. Went- 
 worth, who sat at work opposite to her husband. She was 
 cutting out baby clothes, and from the full attention which she 
 bestowed upon the occupation, it might have been supposed 
 that she esteemed it the most important duty of her life. 
 
 Dr. AVentworth looked up in answer to the remark, and said, 
 in an apologetic tone, that he had not forgotten Charles, but 
 that young men thought nothing of weather when there was a 
 dinner party in question. 
 
 "And I should hope not when many other things are in 
 question," replied Mrs. Wentworth ; " but that does not pre- 
 vent one, I am afraid, from thinking of it for them. However, 
 Charles must accustom himself to" brave a great many worse 
 trials than weather ; so it may be as well for him to be<rin at 
 once." 
 
 _ She relapsed again into silence, and Dr. Wentworth read to 
 himself. Nearly half-an-hour went by in this way ; Mrs. Went- 
 worth worked unremittingly. There was something almost 
 painful in the energy with" which she cut, and folded, and 
 squared; placing piece after piece in a basket that stood on the 
 table by her side. To look at her face, with its expression of 
 intellect and resolution, one might have said that it was a waste 
 of power to throw so much vigour into a mere mechanical 
 employment. 
 
 " A quarter to ten," observed Dr. Wentworth, looking at his 
 watch; — " time for the servants to be called in, my dear." 
 
 " Yes, if you please ; will you ring the bell ?" and with the 
 same quiet determination of manner, Mrs. Wentworth moved 
 away her work to another part of the room — placed a Bible on 
 the table — arranged the chairs for the servants, and prepared to 
 join in the nightly family service. It was very simple and
 
 the earl's daughter. 221 
 
 short ; n, few verses from the New Testament, with a few word? 
 of comment, and prayer. Yet there was something very touch- 
 ing and impressive in the earnest exhortation which besought 
 all who were present to cast their care upon One who cared for 
 them — whether it were care for others or themselves — for the 
 needs of the body, or the claims of the imperishable soul. Mrs. 
 Wentworth sat with her hands placed one upon the other, and 
 her eyes belft upon the floor; not a muscle of her features 
 moved, and her voice, as she joined in the supplications which 
 followed, was clear and firm, until the petition for the absent and 
 the loved. Then, for a moment it sank ; but no one noticed the 
 change, for none saw the secrets of the mother's heart, save He 
 who had formed it. 
 
 "Do you mean to sit up for Charles, my dear?" said Di. 
 Wentworth when the service was concluded. 
 
 " I had thought of doing so ; he promised to be home 
 early ?" 
 
 " But you will do him no good, and will only tire yourself; 
 you had much better not. 1 ' 
 
 " I have some work to finish," replied Mrs. Wentworth, pre- 
 paring to resume her former employment. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth saw it was useless to remonstrate. He said, 
 half playfully and half in a tone of vexation, " Well! you must 
 have your own way ; — wilful women always do. Only don't 
 ask me to sit up with you." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth smiled, and disowned all intention of inflict- 
 ing such a penance upon him, and Dr. Wentworth went away. 
 
 The room looked dreary then. It is strange how much there 
 is in association ; — how different a solitary hour is before a 
 household has been broken up for the night and afterwards. 
 Though the fire may blaze just as cheerfully, and the lamp give 
 the same bright light, a sense of loneliness, almost of awe, insen- 
 sibly creeps over one. Mrs. Wentworth might have experienced 
 something of the kind, for she soon gave up her work and tried 
 to read, and after a time, putting aside the book, walked about 
 the room, and listened for the trampling of a horse, — though 
 she knew her son was not likely to return for the next hour. 
 
 That hour and another passed, and he did not come. Mrs. 
 Wentworth was not at all anxious ; she was not a nervous per- 
 son, and she did not think that any accident had happened; but 
 she did think that Charles had been induced to stay longer than 
 he had purposed. It was a slight fault, if it could be called one; 
 but she was not in a mood to be lenient to Blight faults. Sh<
 
 222 the earl's daughter. 
 
 grow more and more restless — more and more visibly annoyed ; 
 and when, at length, the bell rang, and her son appeared, she 
 greeted him with, " You are an hour and a halt' beyond the 
 time you mentioned, Charles ? Has anything happened ?" 
 
 "Nothing — nothing at all," — was the answer. "Am T so 
 lale? — I did not know it." He took out his watch — "Not 
 much more than an hour — I really could not help it." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth did not directly reply, but as she lighted her 
 candle to go to bed, she said : — " It is a great pity, Charles, that 
 you cannot learn to be exact. If you had to'd me you should 
 not be home till twelve, I should have known what to expect." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth looked provoked. " My dear mother, I really 
 beg your pardon, but — you must excuse me, — I did not ask you 
 to sit up." lie had no sooner said the words than he was vexed 
 with himself for it. He saw that she was offended. 
 
 " Good night, Charles. I will take care not to give myself 
 unnecessary trouble again." 
 
 " My dear mother !" and he went up to her and kissed her. 
 " I cannot bear this. It was very silly ; very wrong, only — " 
 
 " Only !" and Mrs. Wentworth gave way for an instant to her 
 hitherto repressed feelings — " Only, Charles, you were tempted, 
 and you yielded." 
 
 " It is not such a very great offence," replied Charles, relaps- 
 ing again into his former tone of indifference. " It was impos- 
 sible to get away sooner ; as it was, I was one of the first to go ; 
 and really it was no case of temptation. The party was im- 
 mensely stupid ; not a single person there whom I cared to 
 meet, except young Johnstone." 
 
 " Was he there ?" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth eagerly. " Did 
 he say anything about Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he told me what I knew— that she had been staying 
 
 with his father and mother ; and that she was with ; she 
 
 was at Senilhurst now." There was a hesitation in Mr. Went- 
 worth's manner, which however did not occasion any remark. 
 
 " I was in hopes Eleanor might have left Senilhurst by this 
 time," said Mrs. Wen;worth. "It is vexatious her being there 
 at all ; but I suppose she could not help it ; and now the stay- 
 ing for this party is not what I like." 
 
 " Eleanor is to go back again to the Johnstones," said Mr. 
 Wentworth ; " and it struck me — I must go to London before 
 long — I might just as well bring her home." 
 
 " London ! my dear Charles ! you must go to London before 
 /our ordination ! What are you thinking of?"
 
 the earl's daughter. 225 
 
 Whatever Mr. Wentworth's thoughts were, that was not a 
 moment for confiding them to his mother ; yet it might have 
 been a relief to him, and he evidently felt so, for his counte- 
 nance assumed for an instant an expression of openness and con- 
 fidence ; but Mrs. Wentworth's tone, as she repeated to herself, 
 " London ! what a strange notion !'' threw him back upon him- 
 self, and he replied shortly, " I have business there." 
 
 His mother did not press the inquiry beyond the observation, 
 that it was a very sudden and incomprehensible idea, and took 
 no notice of the suggestion respecting Eleanor, till it was made a 
 second time. " She could not tell ; she could not decide ;" was 
 all she would say upon the subject. ' Eleanor would probably 
 return almost immediately." 
 
 " But I am thinking of going immediately," persisted Charles ; 
 " our plans will just suit." 
 
 " We must first know what Eleanor's are," continued his 
 mother. " She says that she has been induced to remain at 
 Seuilhurst to keep Lady Blanche's birthday. She hopes I shall 
 not be angry. Poor child ! she need not be afraid of that ; 
 vexed I might be, but not angry. In this case there seems to 
 have been a train of events almost forcing her to do as she has 
 done. Her visit to Senilhurst at the very first was unforeseen." 
 
 " I should be thankful, my dear mother, if you would make 
 the same excuses for your son that you do for your daughter," 
 said Charles, in a tone of pique. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth softened instantly in manner, though she 
 sighed as she replied, " if I could see the same reasons for 
 excuse, my dear Charles, you would not be more thankful for it 
 than I should be." 
 
 " And are there not the same reasons ?" exclaimed Mr. Went- 
 worth impetuously. " Is Eleanor to go where she likes, even 
 to the very place which you profess to dread for her, and must 
 I not even remain for an hour at a dinner party beyond the 
 time fixed ?" 
 
 The case was too glaring not to strike Mrs. Wentworth's 
 a< use of justice, and she said instantly, in a tone of apology, 
 "I was vexed then without cause — at least without sufficient 
 cause. I am sorry for it; but if you knew, oh, Charles !" and 
 t.-ars started to her eyes ; "those little things — they indicate so 
 much to my mind. If you cannot keep to engagements and 
 rules in your daily life, how will you ever submit to them in 
 -i ; ous matters? How can you be fitted for the self-denial 
 required of a clergyman ?"
 
 224 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Perhaps I am not fitted for it," began Mr. Wentworth, out 
 his mother's distressed look stopped him, and in a milder tone 
 he added, " When I am talking to you, I always four that I am 
 not/' 
 
 " Fear would be your safety," said Mrs. Wentworth. 
 
 "Then I am safe beyond the possibility of danger," exclaimed 
 Charles eagerly. The same expression of openness passed over 
 his features as once before, but again his mother spoke, and the 
 momentary courage vanished. This time, however, she was 
 not chilling. 
 
 " You are safe, I hope and trust," she replied very earnestly, 
 "because you know your faults, and have striven against them ; 
 but for that your father and I could never consent to your 
 ordination. And if I am hard upon you, Charles, it is only 
 from my love ; my longing to see you what a clergyman ought 
 to be, what your father is." 
 
 "Yes; I know it, my dear mother. I am quite aware of it. 
 I wish you would not apologize." 
 
 " I always own when I am wrong," said Mrs. Wentworth. 
 lie drew near to wish her a good night, and she looked at him 
 with a mother's proud fondness. " A few weeks more and you 
 will be a clergyman. Then the greatest wish of my heart will 
 be granted." 
 
 " Always supposing the fitness," said Charles, almost moodily. 
 He sighed very heavily ; his mother thought for an instant 
 that something was weiidiiner upon his mind, that he had a 
 secret which he wished to tell ; yet he only recurred to the 
 often-repeated question, " How would she feel if he were to 
 give up the idea ?" Mrs. Wentworth's heart was too full to 
 answer, bur, her silence was sufficient. She was a person of few 
 interests, few wishes ; but those she had were intense. Tt 
 would break her heart if he were to disappoint her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 There are some fortunate individuals — fortunate in the eyes 
 of the world — whose success in all they undertake is proverbial. 
 Lady Charlton was one of these. Whether it was from tact 
 and cleverness, or real unselfishness and kindness, she almost 
 universally carried her point. Such persons insensibly become 
 despotic. Their irritation when thwarted is naturally in
 
 the earl's DAUGHTER. 2'25 
 
 accordance with their certainty of victory. But, happily fur 
 Eleanor Wentworth's comfort, there were two considerations 
 which neutralized in a degree, in Lady Charlton's mind, the 
 feelings excited by Sir Hugh's announcement that he had 
 insisted upon Miss "Wentworth's remaining to keep Ladv 
 Blanche's birthday. One was the increase of gaiety '■» tha 
 society at Senilhurst which her presence caused ; and the othei 
 was the hope of inducing Mr. Johnstone in consequence to come 
 to Senilhurst again, and be the lion of a grave dinner party 
 which was shortly in contemplation. It was a peculiar faculty 
 in Lady Charlton, that of seizing upon the advantageous points 
 of every incident, however apparently untoward. The loss of 
 half her fortune, or the illness of her dearest friend, might have 
 affected her to despair for the moment ; but she would infallibly 
 have extracted satisfaction from them the next minute. Either 
 she would be an object of universal sympathy ; or her friend, if 
 she died, would leave her a valuable legacy ; or — no matter 
 what — there was always something to be gained. Not that 
 this "something" mollified the first burst of resentment or 
 annoyance. Lady Charlton was thoroughly cross with Eleanor 
 for half a day, and with Sir Hugh for several days ; but the 
 considerations before-mentioned had the effect of supporting 
 her in the endeavour to hide what was displeasing to her from 
 her guests, and in making her to all appearance the same 
 kind-hearted, bright, charming person, which she was generally 
 allowed to he. 
 
 As for what took place behind the scenes, in more private 
 domestic intercourse, or in that still greater privacy — the sanc- 
 tuary of the heart — it was not the business of any of the visitors 
 at Senilhurst to inquire. 
 
 And so the world went on — cheerfully in the morning, busily 
 in the afternoon, and merrily at night; and Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey worked worsted-work, and moved gracefully, and spoke 
 softly ; and Miss Grey finished the "getting up" of the political 
 pamphlet, and was rewarded by hearing that Lord Erlsmero 
 thought her a very sensible person; and Miss Caroline Grey 
 laughed at nothing, and exercised her fingers violently on the 
 piano; and Man. le, and Adelaide, and Eleanor, did just what 
 every one else was doing, and Blanche — 
 
 "'Why is not Blanche at breakfast?" asked Lady Charlton 
 of Maude, when they met one morning about ten days alter 
 Eleanor's first arrival. Eleanor wis sitting next to Maude : she
 
 22G the earl's daughter. 
 
 had an impulse to answer, but she would not, because Lad} 
 Charlton had not chosen to address herself to her. 
 
 " Blanche's throat is uncomfortable this morning, I think,'' 
 replied Maude. "Her maid told me that was the reason she 
 was not getting up : she had a bad night." 
 
 " Her throat !" repeated Lady Charlton. " I never heard of 
 it. What is the matter ?" 
 
 "Somers will see her to-day," said Lord Rutherford. " I have 
 sent to him." 
 
 Lady Charlton looked from one to the other in displeased 
 surprise. 
 
 " Lady Blanche has not seemed quite well for the last week," 
 observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 " A cold ; only a cold," said Lord Rutherford, quickly. 
 " Yon know she has often a sore throat," he added, turning to 
 Lady Charlton. 
 
 Lady Charlton did not know it; she was not aware that any- 
 thing was amiss ; it made her extremely uncomfortable ; in fact, 
 if she might be excused, it would make her happier to go at 
 once and see how Blanche really was — and she left the room. 
 
 "Colds are awkward things," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to Lord 
 Erlsmere, who was sitting next her ; " and Lady Blanche looks so 
 delicate." 
 
 She did not intend Lord Rutherford to hear, but he did hear, 
 and remarked, in answer, in a tone of — what for him was — ■ 
 great irritation, that people who looked delicate were very often 
 not at all so. He was happy to say that Blanche had never 
 known a day's serious illness since her birth. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiled with polite incredulity, and hoped 
 it might be very long before the spell of such good health was 
 broken. 
 
 Lord Rutherford did not thank her; he only rang the bell 
 hastily, to inquire whether the man was gone to Cobham with 
 the note for Mr. Somers. 
 
 Maude had been sitting silent for some time, seemingly with- 
 out paying any attention to what was passing ; but, upon 
 hearing that Mr. Somers' note was not gone — only going, when 
 some John, or Joseph, or Stephen was ready, she turned round 
 quickly, and said, " Let them take my pony and set off 
 directly ;— directly," she repeated, as the servant hesitated, in 
 Burprise, apparently, at an unusual order. "I shall not ride 
 to-day." 
 
 " Thank you," said Lord Rutherford, from the opposite side
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 22" 
 
 of the table. He pushed aside his plate, leaving liis breakfast 
 half untouched, and went to the window ; and, after a few 
 minutes' consideration, said, laying his hand upon the bell a 
 second time, " I shall go myself — these people are so stupid. 
 If Mr. Somers is not at home, the note will be lost." 
 
 Tl:e words were spoken to Maude ; she did not try to dissuade 
 him ; only she observed that it might be as well to wait and 
 hear what her mother thought about Blanche. 
 
 Lord Rutherford sat down again, and conversation continued 
 around him, but there was no life in it. Eleanor asked Maude 
 a few questions about Blanche ; but Maude would not say a 
 word more than was necessary, and even then answered in a 
 short, disagreeable way, which was no incentive to pursue the 
 subject. 
 
 Lady Charlton returned, after rather a long absence. L< >i\i 
 .Rutherford did not enquire how Blanche was, but she said of 
 her own accord, that there was not much the matter — a cold, 
 caught from imprudence : all young people's colds originated in 
 the same way. There was no inducing them to guard against 
 the weather. Blanche had got wet about ten days or a fort- 
 night before, and had not taken proper care of herself. 
 
 " It was the day we met at the lodare," said Maude : " and 
 she was not well, if you remember, that evening." 
 
 "And she has not been looking well since," again repeated 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, in a pleasant, cheerful voice, as if sh was 
 making thejnost agreeable remark possible. 
 
 Lord Rutherford said he did not see why people should trou- 
 ble themselves about the orio-in of colds. Blanche had one — 
 that was sufficient ; she must get rid of it. Were there any 
 commands for Cobham ? he was going there immediately. 
 
 " For Mr. Somers ?" inquired Lady Charlton. 
 
 " Yes, partly ; that is, I shall call just to see if he is at homo. 
 It is satisfactory to put things into a medical man's hands at once, 
 if only one's finger aches. It saves one from responsibility." 
 
 " And if anything does go seriously amiss afterwards," 
 remarked Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, " one is freed from self-reproach." 
 
 Lord Rutherford rose, and saying, he should see Blanche 
 before he se,t oft', left the breakfast-table. 
 
 " So strange it is !" observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to Lord 
 Erlsmere, lingering for a tote-a-tute, when every one else was 
 gone: " so curious ! almost amusing ! to watch people trying 
 to deceive themselves ! Lord Rutherford thinks he is noi 
 imxious ; poor man !"
 
 228 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Lord Erlsmere said, " Poor man !" also ; but with a very 
 different feeling from Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 Blanche appeared at the luncheon-table, looking so like her 
 usual self, so bright and simple and happy, that even Mrs. 
 Cuthbert Grey did not see any cause for pity. Lord Rutherford 
 took real pains to announce Mr. Somers' opinion. Lady Blanche 
 was not well, certainly, she was delicate, and required care ; she 
 had been rather imprudent, and must make up her mind not 
 to be out late, and not to sit up at night ; she must take 
 strengthening things ; "in short, she is to be treated as an 
 invalid for the present, to keep her quiet," he added with a 
 smile, and with this dictum all were satisfied, and all went their 
 own way. 
 
 Blanche went hers ; it was to her own room : she did not 
 feel as others thought she felt ; yet it was not easy to complain, 
 when there was little definite to complain of, beyond a sore 
 throat, which any person might have, and a sense of languor 
 and weakness which might be more indolence than anything 
 else. She was almost vexed at becoming more comfortable, as 
 she sat writing to Mrs. Howard, and began to think herself 
 fanciful. The quietness and solitude were very pleasant, and 
 she wrote and read and worked, till it grew dark, and then, 
 tired with exertion, sat by the cheerful fire thinking till she fell 
 asleep. How long she slept she did not know, but she was 
 awakened suddenly by pain — that sharp indescribable pang 
 which had once before so startled her ; the involuntary cry 
 which she uttered was answered by a kiss from her father. He 
 was bending over her with a face of the fondest anxiety. 
 
 " My dearest child, you frightened me," he said ; " but you 
 are sitting uneasily : that is the matter, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, I hope so ; 1 suppose it may be," said Blanche ; but 
 -he was very pale, for the pain continued, though not so 
 intensely. Lord Rutherford laid her on the sofa, and placed the 
 jillows for her to rest ; she smiled cheerfully then, and told him 
 -he was better. It was only pain for the moment, which she 
 nad felt before, and, no doubt, it would soon be gone. He was 
 not satisfied, but scarcely choosing to acknowledge his uneasiness 
 to himself, he said, with an endeavour to divert his thoughts, 
 " I was coming to tell you about my afternoon's business. I 
 have been to the lodge, and inquired after your little friend ; 
 and there I met Lord Erlsmere, returning from a short ride 
 with one of the Miss Greys ; so I persuaded them to join me 
 end go as far as Cobham, where I made Miss Grey choose some
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 2'20 
 
 books and toys, which are to be sent home for you to see ; and 
 to-morrow we will go and give them." 
 
 Blanche held out her hand to him, and said, " Thank you," 
 very earnestly ; but her voice was faint. 
 
 "Your hand is so hot, my child — quite feverish," said the 
 earl. " I wish Somers had sent the medicine he talked of." 
 
 lie was going to ring and inquire, but Blanche would nol 
 allow him. Jt, was pleasant, she said, to have him for half an 
 hour to herself, and she could inquire about the medicine after- 
 wards^ for, if he thought it would not look fanciful, she woulJ 
 rather not so down stairs that evening. 
 
 Lord Rutherford acquiesced ; he sat down by the sofa again, 
 and went on talking to her about the little boy. He seemed to 
 know every thing about him — how he had slept, and what he 
 had eaten — and as Blanche, from time to time, smiled, and was 
 pleased and interested, he became quite eager, almost impatient 
 in his wish to show her what he had bought. " I shall come 
 to you again, after dinner," he said, when the dressing-bell 
 rung ; " that is, if 3-ou are not gone to-bed ; but you must not 
 sit up late. If you do not nurse your cold now, you will not 
 be fit for your gay birthday." 
 
 Blanche had no doubt that she should be quite well the next 
 day — her colds were never of much consequence ; and Lord 
 Rutherford agreed with her, and went away happy, as he tried 
 to believe ; but the world was not quite so sunshiny as it had 
 lately been.- Rerhaps it was that he missed Blanche in the 
 drawing-room and at the dinner-table. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 " So w r e are not to have the pleasure of seeing Blanche this 
 evening," said Sir Hugh to Lord Rutherford, when, alter a good 
 deal of exertion and endurance on the part of Pearson, he had" 
 been moved from the drawing-room and settled at the dinner- 
 table. " A great loss, that ! We shall all feel it. But we must 
 hope; if she will take care of herself now, we may anticipate 
 the gratification of welcoming her in full beauty on her 
 birthday." 
 
 " That will be, when ?" asked Lord Erlsmere. A laugh went 
 round the table. Lord Erlsmere must certainly have been 
 living in the clouds; or, as Maude whispered to her nex!
 
 2.30 THE EAKl's DAUGHTER. 
 
 neighbour, in that which is the nearest approach to them — the 
 Huuse of Commons — not to have learnt that the next Tuesday 
 was to be a gala day. 
 
 " Oh !" Lord Erlsmere was guilty of a slight blush — for he 
 undoubtedly had not been paying that full attention to the 
 affairs of this lower earth, or, at least, to the affairs of Senil- 
 hurst, which might have been expected from a person supposed, 
 of course, to be either destined for Lady Blanche or desperately 
 in love with Miss Grey. " Wednesday is the day — the day par 
 excellence," said Sir Hugh, graciously. " Lord Rutherford has 
 done us great honour in allowing us to keep it here ; and the 
 fact reminds me — " 
 
 " Sir Hugh," said Lady Charlton, in a tone which was quite 
 melodious from its gentleness ; " you are overlooking your 
 neighbour. Miss Caroline Grey has eaten nothing." Sir Hugh 
 was all attention in an instant. 
 
 " Wednesday, is it ?" said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to Lady 
 Charlton, with an air of surprise and disappointment. "I have 
 made a great mistake, I thought you said Tuesday." 
 
 " No ; Wednesday, the 20th. I am right, am I not Maude ? 
 Wednesday, the 29th, the grand day," exclaimed Sir Hugh, 
 returning to the subject with renewed vigour; "and I was 
 about to observe — I was about to remind Lord Rutherford — " 
 The earl was seized with a sudden interest in an observation 
 made by Eleanor Wentworth, who was sitting by him. Sir 
 Hugh looked from one to the other, but the tide of conver- 
 sation had received an impulse which it was not easy to avert. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's next remark was made in an under 
 tone to Lady Charlton. She was really vexed, she said, to find 
 that Wednesday was the day, for she was very much afraid 
 that some plans which she had formed would be incompatible 
 with what would otherwise have been a great wish. She had 
 set her heart upon Adelaide's returning with her, and as she 
 must go on the Wednesday, she was afraid this notion of the 
 birthday would interfere. 
 
 " But AVednesday is the very day : you are not going then ; 
 we could not let you go," exclaimed Lady Charlton. " I could 
 not entertain the idea for an instant." 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey professed herself as vexed and disap- 
 pointed as Lady Charlton could possibly have desired ; but 
 again repeated that her plans were so fixed they could not 
 under any circumstances be altered. It was business, indeed, 
 which required her presence at home on the Thursday, and
 
 the earl's daughter. 2'U 
 
 business wliicli could not be set aside. " But you will perhaps 
 spare Adelaide to us after the party," she added. " The 
 distance is not very great ; and possibly, if Mr. Johnstone is 
 comin"* here again, he might bring her back part of the way ; 
 for you know they, are near neighbours of ours — only at two 
 miles' distance." 
 
 Lady Charlton was not inclined to make any such arrange- 
 ment. She-^vas too much provoked at losing the guest whom 
 she especially prized on the precise day of her intended party. 
 Her <*nly comfort arose from perceiving that Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey was as much annoyed as herself. There was perfect 
 sincerity in the regret she expressed at the unfortunate mistake. 
 " Mamma may break her heart ; but it is more than I shall 
 do," said Maude, in a low voice to Eleanor. But Eleanor did 
 not answer ; she was looking across the table at Adelaide, who 
 was bending forward and listening with a strange eagerness of 
 manner to her mother's decision. 
 
 " I hope I shall have inclination to plead for me, as far as 
 you are concerned, Adelaide," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiling 
 - at the interest so unconsciously shown. Adelaide started, and 
 coloured crimson, and answered, laughingly, that she had set 
 her heart upon it : but there was no sign of anxiety given after 
 this, for, during the remainder of the dinner, she kept up a 
 nighty conversation with Miss Caroline Grey, which had the 
 effect of chilling into gravity nearly every other person at the 
 table. 
 
 The dinner was ended, and Eleanor and Maude went to 
 Blanche's room together. Each wished the other absent. 
 They had but one feeling in common — that which centred in 
 Blanche. Maude took up a book, as was her wont, and Eleanor 
 rallied her for being unsociable ; but still she read, or pretended 
 to do so ; whilst Eleanor sat by, amusing Blanche with little 
 incidents of the day. She was very quick and clever in descrip- 
 tion ; and Maude was attracted by her against her will, and 
 whilst holding a volume of travels in her hand, could not avoid 
 adding an occasional remark or an explanation. 
 
 "Come, Maude, resign yourself, and be agreeable,"^ said 
 Blanche, playfully, as Maude turned towards the light, seemingly 
 determined upon being studious ; "3011 really cannot help 
 yourself." 
 
 "No one is agreeable who is told to be so," replied Maude, 
 shortly. "Besides you don't want anything when Miss Went- 
 worth is with you."
 
 232 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Yes, I do ; I want you for my own pleasure, and to scold 
 Eleanor for saying a good many things she ought not." 
 
 " What things ?" asked Eleanor ; and Maude put down he» 
 book, and gazed steadily on the fire. 
 
 " Lectures are for a tete-a-tete," answered Blanche ; " and, 
 moreover, they are not in my way." 
 
 " Thank you, for supposing them in mine," observed Maude ; 
 " but I am used to it: it has been my character from a child to 
 be fond of giving them — and I think I am. Miss Wentwortb 
 thinks so — she cannot deny it." 
 
 Eleanor did not attempt to do so; she only sa,d that&ne had 
 never had the honour of receiving one. 
 
 " That may be because she considers you incorrigible," 
 observed Blanche. " I always deem it rather a favour to be 
 lectured by people I care for ; it shows that they have not quite 
 given one up." 
 
 " Miss Wentworth is not likely to profit by any lectures of 
 mine," said Maude. 
 
 Eleanor tried to laugh at what might be supposed the double 
 meaning of this speech ; but it was an awkward attempt, for 
 she felt much the coldness, the rudeness indeed, of Maude's 
 manner. 
 
 Blanche looked at her cousin reproachfully. She could 
 make allowance for Maude's defect of temper, and the faults of 
 a neglected education ; but this want of courtesy towards her 
 friend, and Lady Charlton's guest, was almost more than even 
 her gentleness could bear. 
 
 " You have no cause to be angry with me, Blanche," said 
 Maude, replying to the look. " I only say what I mean ; I am 
 not the person to lecture Miss Wentworth, if she deserves a 
 lecture : " the marked emphasis upon the if was evidently 
 intended to show that, in Maude's opinion, the lecture was 
 deserved. 
 
 Blanche was quite afraid to reply. Eleanor sat very still, and 
 very stiff, and Maude returned to her book, having thoroughly 
 succeeded in stopping the conversation, if that was her ob- 
 ject. 
 
 A knock at the door, at this instant, was a seasonable relief. 
 " It must be papa," said Blanche, " he promised he would come 
 to sit with me after dinner." But the knock was repeated, and 
 Adelaide put her head in at the door and called Eleanor away. 
 There was nervousness and conscious secrecy in Eleanor's man- 
 ner as she answered, " Coming, in one moment ; go to your
 
 the earl's daughter. 2.33 
 
 room, and I will follow you." Adelaide still stood at the doo: 
 without entering ; and, after hoping that Blanche was better, 
 said aloud, to Maude. " The Cuthbert (Treys' plans are settled, 
 Maude ; they go back to Oakfield on "Wednesday night, after 
 the party : hard work it will be, but it is quite settled." 
 
 " Is it ? " said Maude, without raising her eyes ; and, before 
 Blarche could ask the meaning of the information, Adelaide 
 beckoned again to Eleanor, and both left the room. 
 
 Then Maude threw aside her book, and standing before 
 Blanche, whilst her eyes flashed with indignation, exclaimed, 
 " Why did you stop me from saying what I would have said ? 
 Is it good for Miss Wentworth, that no one should have the 
 courage to tell her the truth, and make her ashamed of the part 
 she is playing ? " Blanche was lying on the sofa, very tired 
 and worried ; she had not strength or inclination to enter upon 
 the subject, and Maude's vehemence chilled her, it seemed so 
 misplaced. " I thought you had more in you, Blanche," con- 
 tinued Maude ; " more courage and energy." 
 
 Tears were in Blanche's eyes as much from fatigue as vexa- 
 tion. " I don't know what you are talking about, Maude," she 
 answered; " K is all such a mystery. Perhaps you will leave 
 it till another time, for I don't feel very well to-night." 
 
 Maude became more gentle, but she did not seem willing to 
 defer what she had to say, and continued, " It may be very 
 cruel, Blanche, to put you up to the ways of the world. You 
 are walking through it blindfold, happily for you ; happily for 
 all who can do so. But remember you have been warned ; and 
 if you will still allow yourself to be infatuated by Miss Went- 
 worth, the fault is not mine. Yet I should have thought," she 
 added, " that anything like manoeuvring would have been 
 foreign to your nature." 
 
 Blanche was completely roused for the moment. " Manoeuv- 
 ring!" she exclaimed. "Maude, this is only a repetition of 
 the charge you made against Eleanor before. I thought I had 
 told you that I would not bear to hear it brought forward with- 
 out proof." 
 
 " And you .have not seen any proof, then, during the fortnight 
 you have been together," said Maude sarcastically. " Well; I 
 suppose it is possible — wilful blindness is greater than any 
 other. But, if you have not, I can assure you that I have 
 Every look and word of Miss Went worth's convinces me that 
 she has a double-meaning in her visil ; that she i- manoeuvring 
 for her brother and Adelaide : and what is more that shq
 
 231 the earl's daughter. 
 
 wishes to draw you into her schemes. I could not tell you all 
 the facts from which I draw my conclusions. Some things I 
 see, some I hear. It may be all folly now, but it may be seri- 
 ous by-and-by ; and you, Blanche, true and simple though you 
 are — so true and so simple, that I would give all I am worth to 
 resemble you — may be led to join with them : they will reckon 
 upon your good nature." 
 
 " If they do," began Blanche indignantly — but she stopped, 
 and added, " no, I will not, I cannot believe it." 
 
 " Do believe, do think," said Maude, persuasively. "Believe 
 whatever may save you from being like them, from being any- 
 thing but what you are." 
 
 " You make rne very unhappy," replied Blanche ; " I wish I 
 knew your object. Why, if you suspect anything amiss, do 
 you not go to your mother, instead of speaking mysteriously 
 to me ?" 
 
 " And have you, then, really lived so long with us without 
 understanding us ?" exclaimed Maude. " Can you be childish 
 enough to suppose that I should go and make vague complaints, 
 and aggravate my mother's temper, in the hope of inducing 
 Adelaide to behave as a woman of sense, instead of an idiot ? 
 My dear Blanche, there is not in the house, at this moment, a 
 single individual — I say it calmly and advisedly ; — no, there is 
 not one, yourself excepted, whom I would trust to act with com- 
 mon prudence as far as Adelaide h concerned. They are all — " 
 
 " I do not wish to hear what they are," said Blanche firmly ; 
 " and I would rather that you should not make me the excep- 
 tion. It is quite impossible that any one of my age, and with 
 my ignorance of the world — which you know, Maude, you are 
 always reminding me of — should know how to act or advise in 
 such a case." 
 
 "No," said Maude, more quietly; "it is not impossible. 
 You have influence over Miss Wentworth ; and you have also 
 the one qualification — the basis of all good judgment — you are 
 true and consistent." 
 
 " I would try to be so," was Blanche's reply. 
 
 Maude stood in silence for a few instants, her large cold grey 
 eyes riveted upon the lovely features of her young cousin, 
 which now bore the expression of pain, both of body and mind. 
 
 " To-morrow," said Blanche, " we will talk more of this." 
 Maude did not notice the words ; a cloud of thought seemed 
 passing over her. "To-morrow," repeated Blanche; and 
 Maude started, like one awakened from a dream.
 
 tiie earl's daughter 235 
 
 " To-morrow did you say ? Yes, if you will ; but, oh 
 Blanche ! in pity do not let me be deceived in you.'''' Tin- 
 tone in which she spoke was strangely different from the chilling 
 bitterness of her former voice. 
 
 Blanche raised her eyes to Ler, and asked, " Why are you 
 afraid for me ?" 
 
 Maude did not answer the question. She knelt down beside 
 her, and said", " I have talked too long. Can I help you in any 
 way before you go to bed ?" 
 
 " 1<hauk you, no ; I shall not go to bed yet. I could not 
 sleep." 
 
 " You will lie here and think ; that will be very bad for 
 you," said Maude. 
 
 " How can I help it ? to be suspicious and distrustful ! to 
 doubt Eleanor ! Maude, you should not put such thoughts 
 into my head." 
 
 " It was necessary," replied Maude. " But drive them from 
 you, at least to-night. Let me read, and make you think of 
 other things." She took from the table the same volume of 
 travels which she had been looking at before the conversation 
 began. 
 
 Blanche smiled, and thanked her ; but added, " I had better 
 read to myself." 
 
 " Because you are afraid of troubling me ; but I should like 
 it. Shall it be this ?" and she held out the book. Blanche 
 hesitated. " You would prefer something else, only tell me 
 what." 
 
 "I am too tired and too vexed for common reading," replied 
 Blanche. " You had better say good night, and ask papa to 
 come to me." 
 
 Maude turned round almost sharply, and said, " If I were 
 any one else you would like me to read the Bible." 
 
 " I should like you to read it, very much, I cannot say how 
 much, if I thought you would like it," said Blanche. 
 
 Maude only replied by putting a Bible into her cousin's 
 hands. Blanche opened it, and pointed to one of the conclud- 
 ing chapters of St. John's Gospel. It was read without hesita- 
 tion, and ended without comment, and Maude went away.
 
 !3<> t 5i 13 earl's daughter 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Blanche could not sleep, as she had feared would be the 
 case. Even the words of unspeakable comfort, of unutterable 
 love, that had soothed her when read by Maude, failed to chase 
 the wearying thoughts, which partly from feverishness, and 
 partly from the evening's conversation, harassed her mind. If 
 she fell asleep, it was only to mingle in confused scenes of dis- 
 tress with Adelaide and Eleanor and her aunt ; or to imagine 
 herself guilty of some unknown offence, or involved with others 
 in seme great punishment. She awoke continually, and still 
 the distant sound of voices in the drawing-room below, 01 the 
 notes of the piano or the harp, reminded her that she was the 
 only person who had as yet retired to rest. There came at last 
 a pause, as the party was breaking up, and Blanche in that 
 interval fell asleep again, and when she again unclosed her 
 eyes, it seemed as if she had slept a long time. She sat up to 
 look at her watch. It was just eleven. She had not then slept 
 so very long, and on listening she could still hear a few move- 
 ments in the house, and murmuring voices near ; yes, very 
 near, in the gallery by her dressing-room, the door into which 
 was partly open. They were very low, and Blanche could not 
 at first distinguish them ; but after the lapse of a few minutes, 
 a push, it seemed an angry one, was given to the dressing-room 
 door, and Adelaide and Eleanor, both speaking together, 
 entered. Blanche was startled for an instant, and then, sup- 
 posing they were wishing to see if she was asleep, laid her head 
 again on her pillow, expecting them to come into the bed-room ; 
 but there was a delay. 
 
 " Remember, Adelaide," she heard Eleanor say eagerly, " you 
 may carry your amusement a little too far. Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey will never countenance any folly." 
 
 Adelaide laughed lightly, and replied, " We shall not do her 
 the honour of asking for her countenance ; besides, if you are 
 afraid, you know the alternative." Silence followed for some 
 seconds, when it was again broken by Adelaide, " You need not 
 trouble yourself to-night," she said. " Talk to her to-morrow 
 quietly, and bring her round ; and I have given my word of 
 nonour, so has Charles. Your difficulty will be at an end." 
 
 " Will it ?" asked Eleanor, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Yes ; do you doubt us ?" 
 
 " Charles is so rash ; so fearfully rash," said Eleanor. " He 
 vill not hear of delay."
 
 the earl's daughter. 237 
 
 By this time Blanche had hecome aware that what was said 
 was not intended for her ears. She coughed to give the idea 
 that she was awake, and repeated Eleanor's name ; but, in the 
 eagerness of conversation, she was not heard, and she could 
 not help catching Adelaide's reply, " We are both sick of 
 delay ; and if you will not do any thing for us, you must ex- 
 pect us to do something for ourselves." 
 
 There wrfs" a movement as if Adelaide was going. It seemed 
 that Eleanor detained her, for in a voice of anxious entreaty she 
 said,-'" Adelaide, have you no pity for my mother ? If you 
 encourage him to any rash step, it will kill her ; it will be sad 
 enough as it is," she added, in a lower tone. 
 
 Adelaide only burst from her, closed the dressing-room door 
 hastily, and Eleanor was left alone. 
 
 All was very still then : Blanche could hear the beating of 
 her own heart as she waited for Eleanor's coming. She could 
 have thought that nearly a quarter of an hour had gone bv 
 before there was the very gentle tap and the stealthy footstep, as 
 of one who was afraid of intruding ; — so many thoughts and 
 such painful misgivings were crowded into a few moments. 
 What could be the meaning of all she had heard ? Why did 
 Eleanor come to her at all ? Was it only kindness, or had she 
 some secret, something to ask or to tell ? and could it really be 
 wrong, could there really be a foundation for Maude's warnings ? 
 could Eleanor, — but she had no more time for such question- 
 ings, Eleanor stood by her bedside, shading the candle which 
 she held in her hand, so that the light scarcely fell upon her 
 features, whilst she asked hurriedly, whether Blanche had been 
 asleep, and if she was feeling at all better. The inquiries were 
 riade as a matter of course, and Blanche answered them in the 
 same indifferent manner. She could think of nothing but 
 of what might be still to come. 
 
 " Then I can do nothing for you, dear," said Eleanor, stoop- 
 ing down to kiss Blanche. The light fell upon her face as she 
 raised herself: Blanche had never seen her look so wretched. She 
 kept her hand, longing to speak, but not knowing how to begin. 
 
 " Good night," said Eleanor, trying to withdraw herself. 
 
 " Good night," repeated Blanche. A pang of conscience 
 followed the words, as if she was deceiving Eleanor, and she 
 added, " Must you go ?" 
 
 " I think I must. Do you know how late it is V 
 
 " After eleven ; but can't you stay a few minutes ?" Eleanoi 
 tat down.
 
 238 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " It seems selfish, too," continued Blanche, affectionately. 
 " You look very fagged. Had you a pleasant evening ?" 
 
 " Yes, very ;" but Eleanor could not bring herself to givo 
 any particulars of it. 
 
 " Is Adelaide going to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's ?" begun 
 Blanche, hoping to bring round the conversation by degrees ; 
 but contrivance was so opposite to her character, that in the 
 pause which preceded the reply, she exclaimed, "Eleanor, I 
 must tell you one thing ; I could not sleep or be happy if I did 
 not. I heard what you and Adelaide said ; I could not help 
 it." She expected a burst of indignation ; but the stillness of 
 the hour was broken only by a stifled sob, as Eleanor leant her 
 head upon Blanche's pillow, and cried bitterly. 
 
 " I did not understand it ; and I do not wish to know any 
 thing, dearest," said Blanche, fondly. " Only forgive me. 
 I know it could not be wrong — -just say that it is nothing 
 wrong," she added, in her simplicity betraying the doubt which 
 pained her. Eleanor put aside the arm which was thrown 
 round her, and apparently ashamed of her weakness and 
 wishing to hide it, said as she sat upright, " What did 
 you hear, Blanche ? — and how did you hear it ?" 
 
 Blanche repeated, as well as she could recollect, the sub- 
 stance of what had passed, saying again, as she concluded, 
 " Don't explain ; I would rather you should not." 
 
 Eleanor's lips became white with agitation. She looked 
 steadily at Blanche for an instant, and then answered, " Blanche, 
 you will trust me, I am sure. I have trusted you from child- 
 hood. Grant me what I ask." 
 
 " If I can, — tell me only what I am to do," said Blanche, 
 frightened by her manner. 
 
 " But, before I tell — now — promise me." 
 
 Blanche drew back. " Before ! it is impossible." 
 
 " Not to me, in whom you have so much confidence !" 
 exclaimed Eleanor, reproachfully. 
 
 Blanche could scarcely bear to realize her own doubt, and she 
 continued, " It is wrong to })romise anything in ignorance ; 
 therefore I cannot." 
 
 " But ignorance may be your good," said Eleanor ; " it may 
 save you from pain." 
 
 Blanche looked at her with sadness and surprise ; then she 
 answered almost coldly, " A year ago, you would not have 
 asked this. You know I cannot consent." It was a tone and 
 manner which it was impossible to mistake, for it spoke a fixed
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 239 
 
 decision ; and Eleanor had long since learnt that Blanche, 
 gentle and yielding though she appeared, possessed much of the 
 resolute spirit of her family. 
 
 "Then, if you will not," she exclaimed, " we will leave the 
 subject for to-night. You can hear more another time, if you 
 wish it." 
 
 " No," saidJBlanche, eagerly, yet very seriously, " we will not 
 wait ; you have led me so far, that you are hound to l>e. 
 candid." 
 
 "It is a small request," answered Eleanor, in a musing tone. 
 " It will not injure you or inconvenience you ; and you will 
 do more good by it than you know or think." 
 
 " Only let me know it," repeated Blanche. " If there is 
 nothing wrong, there can be no cause for hesitation." 
 
 " You are suspicious," exclaimed Eleanor. " Blauche, I would 
 r.ot suspect you." 
 
 Blanche was silent. 
 
 "Maude Charlton has made you so," continued Eleanor; 
 " she hates me. If it had not been for you, Blanche, I would 
 not have borne her behaviour ; and now to find that even you 
 have turned against me !" 
 
 Blanche could not attempt to vindicate herself — she only 
 said in a faint voice, " I should like to know what I am to do." 
 
 " I would not ask a favor for myself," began Eleanor, 
 proudly ; " but it is for Charles and for my mother. Oh ! 
 Blanche!" and her angry tone changed into one of the most 
 earnest entreaty, " forgive me for being so hasty ; I am very 
 wretched." 
 
 Blanche drew her affectionately towards her, and said "What 
 am I to grant ? — all I have is yours." 
 
 " ic is but to ask for — to persuade Lord Rutherford ; he has 
 in his gift — " she paused, hoping that Blanche would conclude 
 the sentence ; but no help was given her, and at length, slowly 
 and with shame, came the words — " the living of Whitfield is 
 vacant; if it might be for Charles — promised him, kept for him, 
 I mean" — she added. "Such things are done." Blanche did 
 not speak. " Itf is a very little thing," repeated Eleanor : " I 
 wonder I was so shy of asking," and she laughed that cold 
 empty laugh which betrays an aching heart. 
 
 Blanche was strangely silent and still. 
 
 Eleanor was frightened. " It is but a trifle after all," she ro- 
 peated again : "so you will say, Yes, dearest; and 1 will go." 
 
 But Blanche caught her divss as she was about to take up 
 11
 
 240 the earl's daughter. 
 
 her candle, and said in a very quiet, low voice, " Don't ask it 
 again." 
 
 Eleanor did not catch the full meaning of the words, and 
 replied, " Yes, you are right ; we can't talk of it now ; it is so late. 
 I would not have told you, if you had not insisted upon it." 
 
 " But, Eleanor, Eleanor, listen ;" and Blanche kept her hand, 
 and grasped it tightly, " I cannot ; — that was what I meant ; 
 — I cannot." 
 
 Eleanor put down the candle and sat down on a chair, with 
 a face of blank dismay. 
 
 " I can scarcely ask you to understand," said Blanche, her 
 courage returning with the effort she had made ; " but it is such 
 great, great pain to refuse." 
 
 Eleanor covered her face with her hands, and seemed buried 
 in thought. When she looked up she was very pale and agi- 
 tated, but not as Blanche had feared ; there was no anger. 
 
 " I think, perhaps, you will know why I cannot," said 
 Blanche, gently, " when you consider more. I do not know 
 your brother well ; he has not been tried ; he may not be fitted 
 tor it ; and the responsibility would be so great, if I were to do 
 as you desire. Is there nothing else I can do ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; but to forget the request was ever made." 
 
 The tone in which this was said was despairing, and a sudden 
 perception of the truth crossed Blanche's mind. " Eleanor," 
 she exclaimed, "you are asking this for Adelaide Charlton." 
 
 "I am asking it for myself," replied Eleanor, in the same cold 
 tone of wretchedness, " and for my mother, and my father — foi 
 all our happiness ; and you refuse it. Good night." 
 
 " Oh ! Eleanor ! how cruel ! " exclaimed Blanche ; " but you 
 do not mean it." 
 
 " I mean that my happiness and my mother's are in your 
 hands," said Eleanor. " Good night." 
 
 Blanche could bear this no longer. " In pity, Eleanor !" she 
 said, " do not keep me in mystery. Why are you so miserable ? 
 How is it that so much is involved in this one request?" 
 
 " Will you know ?" asked Eleanor, her eyes lighted up with a 
 gleam of hope. 
 
 "Know? yes, anything; if I can only comfort and help 
 you." 
 
 Eleanor paused. 
 
 Blanche waited, tremblingly, for her reply. She did not see — 
 for it was not a time of reasoning — that her refus,^ was founded 
 upon grounds which nothing ought to shake.
 
 THE EAKLS DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 " "We may trust you," continued Eleanor, speaking more tc 
 herself than to Blanche ; " you could not betray us. Yes, I am 
 sure we may trust you." She paused again, and then added 
 "Should you be very much surprised — would it seem very 
 strange if — if you were to hear that Adelaide and Charles were 
 engaged ?" 
 
 " Engaged ! — actually engaged ?" was all that Blanche could 
 say ; and thefe was more surprise, and even displeasure, in her 
 tone than Eleanor was prepared fur. 
 
 " Ydu shall hear about it," said Eleanor. "I was afraid you 
 would be vexed ; yet I could not tell you before." 
 
 " I am not thinking of myself," replied Blanche, quickly ; 
 " but quite engaged ! who allows it ?" 
 
 "They allow it themselves," answered Eleanor, with a faint 
 effort at a smile. " But, Blanche, dearest, I will tell you as 
 shortly as I can, and then, — " she did not dare to utter her 
 hopes, but Blanche understood them — " it was soon after you 
 left Piutherford they wrote to each other," began Eleanor; 
 " that is — not themselves at first" — she waited for a moment, 
 and then continued, passionately, " I must say it all out plainly : 
 it is my doing — my folly ! Oh! how bitterly I have repented 
 it. I let them send messages in my letters ; I don't know why ; 
 it was mere idle nonsense. I never thought for an instant that 
 anything serious would follow ; and Charles did not give me 
 the least notion of what he was going to do ; but he proposed 
 quite suddenly : a sort of impulse, he told me afterwards, seized 
 him. lie proposed, and she accepted him, and they were 
 engaged." 
 
 Blanche looked at her quietly and simply, and asked, " And 
 what did your mother say '" 
 
 " My dear, dear Blanche ! what are you thinking of ? Of all 
 persons on the face of the earth, Charles dreads my mother, 
 lie would have borne torture rather than acknowledge the fact 
 to her." 
 
 "But she muso know it," said Blanche. 
 
 " Yes, in time ; when she is prepared. But you can scarcely 
 understand what her character is like — so strung, so stern, and 
 devoted ; so rigidly bent upon duty, and yet so excitable, anil 
 her one object in life her children — Charles especially; that is 
 ber object of anxiety ; she has less fear for me," and Eleanor 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 " She would not like the marriage, I can believe," said 
 Blanche.
 
 242 THE earl's daughter. 
 
 "No; she is very much prejudiced: she has a dislike to 
 Adelaide ; and, independently of that, she has a horror of any- 
 thing which would interfere with Charles's duties ; which would 
 make him less earnest just as he is going to be ordained ; and 
 she would feel — it would half kill her, I believe, if he were to 
 do anything rash, now." 
 
 " Yes," said Blanche, thoughtfully ; " a marriage with a per- 
 son like Adelaide at such a moment would be very sad." 
 
 " Quite dreadful, in mamma's eyes," exclaimed Eleanor ; " and 
 that is what I am bent upon preventing." 
 
 Blanche looked at her for a further explanation. 
 
 " You will scarcely see what I am aiming at, at first," pur- 
 sued Eleanor ; " but there is one hope, and only one. Both 
 Adelaide and Charles are wild, I believe : they think they can 
 live upon nothing. Charles might, by the interest of an uncle, 
 get into the army ; but neither he nor Adelaide will now let 
 me fully into their plans. Adelaide dreads the tiling beino- 
 known, and says her mother will never hear of her marrving a 
 country curate, and she encourages Charles in the notion "of the 
 army." 
 
 " It is very strange to me," said Blanche, " that a person like 
 Adelaide should ever have engaged herself to a country curate." 
 
 " She is so thoughtless," replied Eleanor ; " I really suspect ■ 
 she scarcely knows what a country curate means ; only that it is 
 something Lady Charlton would not like ; and then, to do her 
 justice, she is not mercenary, and, I believe, cares for Charles as 
 much — as much as she can care for any one. You will under- 
 stand, Blanche, what a very awkward state of affairs this is." 
 
 "Very," replied Blanche; in her heart thinking it so awk- 
 ward that she heartily repented having been made acquainted 
 with it. 
 
 " Now," continued Eleanor, " I know Charles well enough 
 to be quite sure he will not go on in this way long. He might 
 persuade Adelaide to a private marriage, even : I would not 
 trust him." 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed Blanche ; " you must be unjust to him. 
 It would be such a bitter grief to his mother." 
 
 " If would be worse than that," said Eleanor very gravely ; 
 "it would nearly kill her just now, on the very eve of his ordi- 
 nation : she, who has such strict notions on all these subjects, 
 to be so disappointed in him. Blanche, it would be very, 
 very dreadful for her to bear." There was a silence for several 
 moments, and at last Eleanor raised her eyes timidly to
 
 the earl's daughter. 243 
 
 Blanche's face, and said, "You can prevent it." There was no 
 need for Blanche to seek for an explanation ; Eleanor had 
 reached the point she had been aiming at, and in a hurried voice 
 added, " If Charles had any prospects in the Church ; if he 
 had the promise of such a living as Whitfield, for instance ; his 
 circumstances would be so altered that he would not be ashamed 
 to come forward openly, and Adelaide would not be afraid, not 
 so much afraul at least, to acknowledge their ■engagement. Sir 
 Hugh would take her part, if Lady Charlton did not." 
 
 " And your mother and Dr. Wentworth ?" asked Blanche. 
 
 " They would be very grieved ; they would think it infatua- 
 tion ; but, if there was nothing clandestine or underhand, they 
 would be more inclined to excuse it." 
 
 "But at such a time, just before his ordination," persisted 
 Blanche. 
 
 "They would not know it was thought of now," replied 
 Eleanor. " If Charles had any certainty before him, he would 
 wait. Christmas is near; he would delay mentioning the sub- 
 ject until he was ordained, and then he would prepare them for 
 it by degrees. It is only this lingering uncertainty which frets 
 him and drives him to desperation. And one thing, Blanche — 
 if things go on as they are, I am convinced that he will never take 
 orders. Adelaide's influence will lead him in a contrary direc- 
 tion ; and, if the engagement were to be known, both my father 
 and mother would dissu ide him from it, at least for the present 
 — they would say his mind was not in a fit state, and he might 
 go into the army ; into a merchant's office — into — I don't know 
 what he would do ; but mamma would be miserable for life." 
 
 "But Eleanor, Eleanor," exclaimed Blanche, and she sat up 
 and looked at her friend as if distrusting the evidence of her rea- 
 son as to the meaning of what she had heard ; " surely, if your 
 father and mother would not consider him fit, he is not so ; he 
 cannot be so in the eye of God ; and to induce him to take such 
 awful vows ! — to encourage him in any way to such self-decep- 
 tion ! — indeed, you do not see what you are doing." 
 
 "I was prepared for this," said Eleanor, calmly ; " remember 
 von ire iudunnjj Charles without knowing him. You say hecan- 
 not be St for holy orders now, because his heart is set upon this 
 unhappy engagement. But I know him a great deal better 
 than you do. Let him once feel himself bound, and I venture 
 to say there is not a clergyman in England who will do his duty 
 more conscientiously. And consider, after all, there is no great 
 9in in what he is about. He is in love ; you and I think it very
 
 244 the earl's D AUGHT Ell. 
 
 strange he should be ; but then, you know, we cannot under- 
 stand half the marriages that take place— we wonder at them 
 constantly. I do not think we, either of us, are able to make 
 excuses for him, such as persons would do who were more used 
 to such nonsense." 
 
 " But Eleanor," said Blanche, earnestly, "I don't think beinrr 
 in love, as it is called, is nonsense. It involves all the happi- 
 ness of a person's life ; and if people do not act rightly when 
 they are in love, I cannot see how they are to expect a blessing 
 when they are married." 
 
 " There is no harm in being in love, that is all I am contend- 
 ing for," said Eleanor. "It does not follow that Charles is not 
 to make a very good clergyman, because, unfortunately, he has 
 lost his heart to Adelaide Charlton." 
 
 " Oh ! Eleanor," exclaimed Blanche, reproachfully, " y6u are 
 trying to argue with me as you used to do at St. Ebbe's. You 
 are keeping to the letter of my words, and missing the spirit." 
 She turned away her head, as if to put an end to the subject; 
 but Eleanor would not be thus silenced. 
 
 " Listen to me once more, dearest Blanche," she said in an 
 altered voice, "I will not argue in the way you dislike. I will 
 grant all you say, if you wish it ; but my mother was your 
 mother's best friend — the only friend who helped her in her 
 hour of need. For the sake of my mother, and in remembrance 
 of your mother, grant what I have asked." Blanche looked 
 round with an expression of such intense suffering in her coun- 
 tenance, that Eleanor could almost have wished the allusion 
 withheld. Yet she pursued her advantage selfishly, merci- 
 lessly ; she thought that she was seeking the happiness of 
 others. *' It is no exaggeration," she said, " mamma is no com- 
 mon person ; she has for years dwelt upon the hope of seeing 
 Charles a clergyman, and she has had no other o-reat interests 
 to distract her from it. Her anxiety for hiin, during the last 
 two years, has weakened her health, and I would not answer for 
 the consequences of a disappointment. If you persist in your 
 refusal, I have no expectation whatever that Charles will ever 
 take orders ; he will be driven to some desperate step which will 
 bring misery upon us all ; on the other hand, give him a .ertain 
 hope, and he will be patient and good, and bend his thoughts 
 to his duties ; and after he is ordained, and quietly settled down 
 as a clergyman, he will break the matter to papa and mamma ; 
 and though there might be a good deal of fuss and difficulty at 
 first, all will be well in the end. Oh, Blanche ! surely you can-
 
 the earl's daughter. 145 
 
 not refuse now ?" Blanche was silent. " You shall think of it." 
 persisted Eleanor. "I have kept you awake a great deal too 
 long to-night ; but to-morrow morning you shall tell me that 
 you will agree. It is the first great favour, the first real favour, 
 I ever asked of you." Blanche returned the kiss, which accom- 
 panied these words, warmly; but her face was burning with 
 fever and agitation, and her cheeks were wet with tears. For 
 the moment' Eleanor reproached herself; yet even then her 
 eagerness got the better of her real affection, and as she wished 
 Blandie good night, she added, " Remember, my mother's hai 
 piness rests upon your decision." 
 
 ^ i ♦•* » 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 " Axd now, my dear Lady Charlton, you really will let me per- 
 suade you," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, the next morning, a6 she 
 sat at the writing table, sealing letters for the post, and profess- 
 ing that her necessary correspondence was the very torment of 
 her life ; "you really will let me carry off Adelaide. I quite see 
 all your objections ; the awkward time, just after your party, 
 and the long night drive, and the discomforts ; but you know 
 I will take uncommon care of her, just the same as I would of 
 my own child." 
 
 " There was no doubt of that," Lady Charlton said, though 
 not very cordially. 
 
 " Then what are the obstacles ? if I could only know them 
 and obviate them, I should be so glad." 
 
 " I am not sure that I could say why I object," replied Lady 
 Charlton, assuming an air of frankness ; " it is a question of 
 feeling more than of principle. Adelaide is so unfortunately 
 thoughtless." 
 
 " Yes — young, girlish — you could not be afraid of her 
 with me." 
 
 "Of course not; you must not think so; but I am always 
 more happy when Adelaide is under my own eye. A mother's 
 anxiety you know !" and Lady Charlton sighed. 
 
 "Certainly; no one can enter into that more than I do," 
 replied Mrs. Cuthbert Grey; " left with two dear girls — not a 
 person to look to — no Sir Hugh to manage for one; at times 
 the burthen is indescribable. Agnes, love," and she turned to 
 her eldest daughter, uho was working at the other end of the
 
 'J46 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 room, " I think you had better be dressed for your ride before 
 luncheon. The days close in so fast now, you will have no time 
 if you don't set oft' directly afterwards." 
 
 Miss Grey expressed a doubt whether some change had not 
 taken place in the general plans since breakfast. Lord Ruther- 
 ford, she thought, was to have gone with them, but Maude had 
 told her he had changed his mind, so perhaps there would be 
 no riding that day. 
 
 " Oil, yes, my love, put on your habit ; I won't hear of you 
 staying at home, if there is a possibility of going out. So deli- 
 cate as she is," continued Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, addressing Lady 
 Charlton, "it would be quite wrong to miss such a day as this ; 
 and some one will be certain to take pity on her. But why was 
 the party broken up, my dear ; do you know ?" 
 
 Miss Grey did not know, but she believed it was Lord Ruther- 
 ford's doing. lie had come into the room about an hour before, 
 looking very uncomfortable ; and, after that, she had heard from 
 Maude that he was not going. 
 
 " He is anxious," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, carelessly. 
 
 " Lady Blanche ought to be better this morning," observed 
 Miss Grey ; " she is down stairs, and has been sitting with Lord 
 Rutherford." 
 
 " Yes, for nearly an hour," observed Lady Charlton, in a par 
 tieularly grave voice. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey instantly changed her tone, and inquired 
 whether Lady Charlton thought there was any cause for anxiety. 
 
 " Not exactly," was the reply. Mr. Somers had assured them 
 there was not anything seriously amiss, only care was required. 
 And naturally enough with an only child, even a slight indis- 
 position was a subject of uneasiness. 
 
 " Lady Blanche is going out, I rather think," said Miss Grey, 
 " and Lord Rutherford is to drive her." 
 
 " Going out ! — impossible !" exclaimed Lady Charlton. " My 
 dear Miss Grey, why did you not tell me before? I must 
 instantly prevent it." She hurried from the room as Miss Grey 
 said, in an under tone, " Prevent it, if possible ; but that is not 
 quite the order of the day." 
 
 " Then what is it ? — What is the matter, Agnes, my love ? 
 Is Lady Blanche seriously worse ?" inquired Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey, with some curiosity. 
 
 " Not that I know of," replied Miss Grey ; " at least Maude 
 told me she was not ; but I caught a glimpse of her for a moment, 
 ~.nd she looks ten degrees at least worse than yesterday."
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 247 
 
 " And they are uneasy, then," continued her mother. " Well, 
 that is not to be wondered at; though really, if 1 were Lord 
 Rutherford, I could be happier to see her dying of consumption, 
 tban to know that she was to live to be what her mother was.' 
 
 " Lady Rutherford ! there was nothing- the matter with her, 
 mamma, more than ordinary illness, was there?" inquired Miss 
 Grey, quickly. 
 
 "Only that she was out of her mind," replied Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey; " and that there is every probability that this poor child, 
 if shelves, will be the same." 
 
 Miss Grey looked very much shocked. She had never heard 
 the fact before. 
 
 " It is not generally known," continued Mrs. Cuthbert Giey ; 
 " the family tried to keep it as quiet as possible : but things will 
 get abroad through se/vants, and there is no doubt poor Lady 
 Rutherford was quite insane; a kind of melancholy madness, 
 which took a religious turn." 
 
 " Lady Blanche is very religious," observed Miss Grey. 
 
 " Yes ; and it is that which would make me so uneasy. Lord 
 Rutherford is not satisfied himself, I am sure ; he watches her 
 unceasingly ; t have observed him particularly the last few 
 days. 
 
 " Lady Blanche looked melancholy enough this morning," 
 observed Miss Grey ; " she was coming down the stairs, wrapt up 
 in a shawl ; ^and I thought her the picture of misery ; and just 
 at that moment Miss Wentworth met her, and she seemed so 
 hurried and fluttered, I really pitied her." 
 
 " I should not like it," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, shaking her 
 head. "Those peculiar notions of hers are just the things to 
 turn her brain. I don't mean that there is any likelihood of 
 such a calamity, at the present time, poor child ! It would be 
 dreadful if there were ; but if she were to fall into ill health, and 
 these morbid fancies were to increase, I should not be in the 
 least surprised: it was precisely the case with her mother. 
 People said Lord Rutherford did not treat her well ; but he had 
 a great deal to bear, I suspect, I hope it won't be the same 
 thing over again now." 
 
 •• Every on.- is out of sorts this morning," observed Miss Grey; 
 " Maude Charlton is shorter and sharper than ever. Really, if 
 it were not for her splendid voice, no one would bear with her: 
 and Adelaide is in such a strange mood, I can't in the leasl make 
 hor out One minute she laughs and talks as if she was in the 
 highest spirits, and then she seems quite abstracted."
 
 218 THE EARL'S DAIGHTER. 
 
 " Whimsical, my dear, whimsical," said Mrs. Cuthbert Giey 
 oracularly. " Adelaide likes being odd ; but we will carry hei 
 away with us, and we shall soon bring back her spirits." 
 
 " If she will go," observed Miss Grey. " She seemed doubt- 
 ful at first, when I spoke about it this morning ; but there will 
 be an attraction for her in the neighbourhood. Miss Went- 
 ■vorth and her brother will be at Mr. Johnstone's." 
 
 " Her brother !" repeated Mrs. Cuthbert Grey : " I never 
 heard of him." 
 
 " Oh, mamma !" and Miss Grey laughed. " I thought every 
 one knew about Adelaide's flirtation with Mr. Wentworth." 
 
 " I think I have heard something," was the reply ; " but ycxi 
 know, my dear Agnes, if one is to be always au fait upon the 
 subject of Adelaide's follies, one must make it the labour of life. 
 A great pity it is such a nice girl as she is, in many ways, should 
 have been so carelessly brought up. I must not keep you, how- 
 ever, my love. Put on your riding habit, and you will be sure 
 to find some one to accompany you. And remember, dear, if it 
 should chance to be Lord Erlsmere, and you should be talking 
 of Lady Blanche, you must not speak quite as plainly as I did 
 just now about the unfortunate malady. It does not do to give 
 more than a hint upon such topics ; especially where it is possi- 
 ble the subject may be a tender one ; though, for his own sake, 
 one could wish that he knew the facts well. Now go and dress 
 as quickly as you can." 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 Mtss Grey's observation, that every one was out of sorts that 
 morning, was quite correct. A much stronger expression indeed 
 might have been used to describe what seemed the prevailing 
 spirit of indefinable gloom and uneasiness. With one, the most 
 innocent and guileless of all, it was a melancholy which could 
 not be concealed or cast ofi' ; and there were t those about her, 
 who, from different causes, were so influenced by her as to feel 
 their own spirits rise or fall with hers. Lord Rutherford did not 
 believe, with Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, that his child's religious 
 notions were in themselves likely to injure her mind. He had 
 already seen too much of their soothing and strengthening 
 effect to indulge such fears. Perhaps, if he had been asked, he 
 u tight even have allowed that they were the ballast to a dispo
 
 the earl's daughter. 2 tC 
 
 sition naturally too excitable ; but the one dread which — though 
 he shrank from owning it to himself—was never entirely absent 
 from his thoughts, made him look with suspicious anxiety upon 
 every indication of depression or inequality of spirits, as beiiiLj 
 the possible precursor of that morbid sadness which had caused 
 so much of the misery of her mother's life. Of physical illness 
 he thought far less. Blanche was delicate ; but not, he 
 imagined, rnore so than many who seemed likely to live to old 
 }«ge. lie had never permitted himself to deem it possible that 
 she could be taken from him ; it was an idta so dreadful, that 
 if, for a moment, it crossed his mind, he discarded it as weak, 
 self tormenting. Blanche was his one treasure — that for which 
 alone life could be endured — and it could not be — so he had at 
 times said to himself — it could not be, that she should be 
 removed, and he be left desolate. Why it could not be he 
 never inquired — why he was to be saved from a „.ial to which 
 thousands before him had been subjected, or what he had done 
 to deserve such an exemption. Suffering had for years been 
 present to him only in remembrance ; and he could not yet 
 believe, that, except under one form, it might again be inflicted 
 in the mercy or the wrath of God. 
 
 Yet something did come before him that morning, as he sat 
 alone with Blanche in the study within the library, where his 
 mornings were usually spent — a shadow, though faint and dis- 
 tant, of coming evil. 
 
 Blanche "had dressed earlier than he expected ; and he 
 thought, when he saw her in her room, she must be better — at 
 least she did not complain ; and when he begged her to come 
 down stairs, and stay with him quietly instead of remaining by 
 herself, she had consented readily, there seemed less to cause 
 uneasiness than even on the preceding day, as regarded her 
 health ; but there was a change in her manner which he could 
 not help noticing. She was so very quiet, so wrapt up in her 
 own thoughts ; and any attention to what he said was evident ly 
 such an effort, lie hinted several times his fear that she was 
 fretted, anxious, uncomfortable ; but there was always the same 
 sweet smile and bright glance of gratitude and love in answer, 
 and for the moment he was satisfied that it was mere fancy ; yet 
 a little more observation brought back suspicion. Something 
 was weighing upon her mind causing melancholy and reserve ; 
 and the supposition which would have crossed the mind of 
 another, as a natural annoyance, gave a pang sharp as a dag- 
 ger's thrust to thesensitive spirit of Lord Rutherford.
 
 -TO the earl's daughter. 
 
 And it was no fancy : Blanche was unhappy — more unhappj 
 than she had been before from any but external causes. 
 Eleanor's last words — "My mother's happiness rests upon your 
 decision" — were the first which occurred to her remembrance 
 when she awoke after a restless and un refreshing sleep. The 
 thoughts that accompanied them — harassing and confusing — 
 made her long to lay her head again upon her pillow, and 
 forget. Tain and disappointment came, with the recollection of 
 Eleanor's conduct — shame, at the consciousness of having been 
 made privy to a secret in which there was so much to disap- 
 prove ; and, above all, a distracting doubt when the question 
 arose as to her own determination. For there was much to be 
 said — she could not help acknowledging it when she tried to 
 think upon the subject dispassionately — there was much to be 
 alleged, at least, in excuse for Eleanor's wishes. To prevent a 
 great evil — to save her brother from a rash step, which he might 
 regret for life— and to spare Mrs. Wentworth a trial, the effects 
 of which no one could foresee — were reasons quite sufficient to 
 account for the earnestness with which Eleanor pursued a 
 request that, under other circumstances, she would herself have 
 been one of the first to condemn. No one had in general 
 higher views than Eleanor, of the awfulness and importance of 
 a clergyman's duty ; or of the lasting evil which arises from any 
 carelessness in the bestowal of Church Patronage. Blanche 
 had heard her speak almost uncharitably of an instance of indif- 
 ference upon this point which had come under their own notice. 
 She had herself taken in a degree the part of the accused, and 
 suggested extenuations which Eleanor could not be induced to 
 accept. 
 
 It might, therefore, naturally be supposed that, in the present 
 instance, Eleanor saw reasons sufficient to satisfy her that she 
 was not doing wrong in supporting her brother's wishes. 
 Blanche, indeed, did not comprehend them. Mr. Wentworth 
 to her appeared vevy unfitted to take orders. lie gave her the 
 idea of a vain, unsteady, though clever and agreeable, person. 
 But Eleanor said he was much better than he" appeared ; and 
 who could be so good a judge as a sister ? Then, again, t,he 
 was not called upon to decide the question of fitness. Dr. 
 Wentworth — a very excellent, sensible person — did not object 
 to his son's being a clergyman. Mrs. Wentworth, of whose 
 goodness there could be no possible doubt, encouraged the 
 notion. Why was Blanche to put her judgment against theirs, 
 and refuse to do a kindness, because the individual who asked
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 'J5\ 
 
 it had, unfortunately, fallen in love, and engaged himself to a 
 person not likely to make a good clergyman's wife. It seemed 
 — really it seemed upon consideration — that she might, at least, 
 please Eleanor by asking the favour of her father ; and that the 
 responsibility of the decision might be left in his hands. If the 
 petition were granted, the gift would be Lord Rutherford's, nut 
 hers ; if it were denied, no blame of unkindness could attach 
 to her ; and", whatever consequences might arise from the impa- 
 tience and imprudence of Mr. Wentworth and Adehide, she 
 would have done all that lay in her power to prevent them. So 
 Blanche reasoned with herself at one moment ; so she almost 
 persuaded herself to remove the weight upon her mind, by 
 speaking to her father on the first opportunity. But she was 
 standing by her dressing-table, putting round her neck the 
 chain and locket which Mrs. Howard had given her. Her eye 
 fell upon the date inscribed upon the locket — the date of her 
 confirmation. How many, many thoughts were suggested by 
 it ! — thoughts of holiness and purity, and that single eye to the 
 glory of God which can alone assist us to a right determination. 
 Again, Blanche knelt in thought at the Cathedral altar, and 
 renewed the vow of her baptism ; again, she seemed to listen to 
 the warning against even the " appearance of evil ;" and to 
 recall the intensity of purpose with which she had sealed the 
 public profession of her devotion, by the secret vow which, in that 
 glorious temple and that awful Presence, appeared doubly sacred 
 and binding. She had been told, then, that no action could be 
 safe that appeared doubtful when she thought of the Judgment : 
 her present difficulty could be tried by that test. When the 
 account of all things done in the flesh should be rendered 
 before God, how would she feel if she yielded to the present 
 temptation ? Before that dread Tribunal would meet the rich 
 and the poor — the learned and the ignorant — the giver and the 
 receiver ; there, the true consequences of every action would be 
 fully seen ; and there, the curse of the hundreds who might 
 be ruined by the evil example of an indifferent or negligent 
 clergyman would fall, also, upon her head. No kindness or 
 affection for individuals would, in that day, plead her excuse. 
 If she wilfully and knowingly aided in confiding such a solemn 
 trust to a person whom she had reason to believe unfitted for it, 
 she could not be held guiltless of the result. 
 
 Thoughts like these were easily encouraged and treasured up 
 in solitude, and, when Blanche left her room, her determination 
 was so fixed that, she was comparatively at peace. She wish id
 
 252 the earl's DAUGHTER. 
 
 that Eleanor had come to her earlier, so as to be assured thai 
 any further hopes were vain ; but Eleanor delayed, and Blanche 
 dreaded seeing her, and when they met accidentally, as Miss 
 Grey had noticed, Eleanor's countenance and manner gave her 
 a pang which she could scarcely bear ; and, in an instant, all 
 the former suggestions and doubts returned. 
 
 To a person in perfect health this state of indecision would 
 have been very trying ; but, to Blanche, never very strong, and 
 at that time suffering from serious indisposition, it was crushing. 
 She sat in her father's room, with a book resting upon her 
 knees, scarcely able to appear to read, and finding it difficult 
 even to reply to common questions ; whilst pondering over and 
 over the arguments for and against her decision ; and even, 
 whilst feeling herself right, not able to rest satisfied without 
 reviewing her reasons, repeating all that could be said on the 
 opposite side of the question, and tormenting herself with 
 imagining all the possible consequences of her refusal, and the 
 responsibility it seemed she was incurring. 
 
 Lord Rutherford tried in many ways to engage her attention. 
 He showed her his letters, consulted her upon some improve- 
 ments which were to be made at Rutherford, and, at length, 
 finding every attempt fail, sank back in his chair with a 
 heavy sigh and a face which showed uneasiness of no ordinary 
 nature. 
 
 " You are going out this afternoon, are you not, papa ?" said 
 Blanche, aroused, at length, to a consciousness that his change 
 of manner was caused by her. 
 
 " Yes, I thought I should ; but I don't know now. I can't 
 go with all that party." 
 
 " You will not stay in for me," said Blanche, affectionately. 
 " I should be quite vexed if you were to do so." 
 
 " There is no pleasure in going out without you ;" and Lord 
 Rutherford left his seat, and walked slowly up and down the 
 room. Blanche cast her eyes again upon her book ; for she 
 felt perplexed, as if she did not know what to say even to him, 
 and in a moment the current of her thoughts had returned to 
 its former channel. When she looked up again, after several 
 minutes, her father was standing by the fire, resting one arm 
 upon the mantelpiece, and watching her narrowly. She could 
 not bear this, and tried again to enter into conversation. 
 
 " You will go out to please me," she said, with an effort tc 
 epeak lightly. 
 
 He did not smile or make any answer in return for a fe^r
 
 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 253 
 
 moments, but then he exclaimed suddenly, " Your aunt was 
 wrong in urging me to bring you here. Rutherford was youi 
 best home." 
 
 " It was my happiest home," said Blanche, quietly. " I was 
 more lseful there." 
 
 The earl started, as if a new idea had been suggested to 
 him. " Yes, occupation : of course, occupation," he murmured 
 to himself; then again, recurring to the former subject, he 
 repeated, " Rutherford was your best home ; we will go back 
 there?' 
 
 " May we ? shall we ?" replied Blanche. Her eyes bright- 
 ened with pleasure, for in leaving Senilhurst she thought she 
 should leave temptation and trial. 
 
 " Do you wish it ?" said the earl, eagerly, almost hastily. 
 " You should have told me before." 
 
 " It is not a fixed wish ; only at times," said Blanche ; " but 
 I should like to feel that I could be doing something. There 
 is nothing but amusement here, except, just now, the little 
 boy at the lodge ; that is the only thing I seem to have par- 
 ticularly to attend to. I should like to see the toys that were 
 bought for him." 
 
 " How could I have forgotten !" exclaimed the earl, ringing 
 the bell violently. That one slight allusion to a wish was a 
 command. He threw all his energy, in an instant, into the 
 subject, ordered the parcel to be brought, and drawing Blanche's 
 chair to the table, knelt on one knee beside her, with his arm 
 round her waist, and spread the little toys before her and 
 discussed which it would be best to give, with an earnestness 
 must touching, yet most sad, for it was the earnestness of 
 idolatry. 
 
 Blanche's thoughts were a little diverted for the moment. 
 She was particularly fond of children, and the little fellow in 
 whom she now interested herself was singularly engaging. 
 She had seen him several times since the first day of his serious 
 illness; as often, indeed, as the weather and her own health 
 would permit : — for the lodge was within a short walking 
 distance, and - she could often go there when she was not able 
 to attempt anything beyond. She thought him very ill her- 
 self; though the parents would not allow it, and even the 
 medical man spoke sanguinely of his ultimate recovery: and 
 with this idea, she exerted herself for him in., re than perhaps 
 was always prudent 
 
 In a place where there was so little opportunity for per-
 
 254 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Bona) exertion, this one case seemed to have a peculiar claim 
 upon her. 
 
 But Lord Rutherford was not inclined, on that day, to think 
 of prudence. As soon as he saw that Blanche could smile and 
 take pleasure in consulting for the child's amusement, his 
 whole heart was bent upon gratifying- her fancy to the utmost ; 
 and, notwithstanding Lady Charlton's entreaties, he persisted 
 in the idea of driving her to the lodge, after luncheon, instead 
 of riding, as he had intended. 
 
 This gleam of sunshine, however, was but transitory. When 
 the question of the toys was settled, Blanche returned to her 
 book and her restless thoughts, and Lord Rutherford to his 
 watchfulness and foreboding. The luncheon-bell rano;, and 
 Blanche proposed to join the rest of the party. "It was 
 making less fuss," she said, " and she need not stay long." 
 
 The earl was relieved at the suggestion : anything was better 
 for her than sitting alone ; anything was preferable for himself than 
 to witness even the faintest possible shadow of that melancholy 
 love of solitude which had been her mother's characteristic. 
 
 The dining-room was filled when they went in. Miss Grey, 
 dressed in her riding-habit, was acting extreme surprise and 
 disappointment at the breaking up of the afternoon's engage- 
 ment, and looking wistfully at Lord Erlsmere for sympathy, 
 which he did not appear inclined to give, his attention being 
 engaged by a chance visitor, who was believed to have consider- 
 able parliamentary influence. 
 
 Blanche, however, had neither care nor thought for any one 
 except Eleanor. She did not see her at first, for they were on 
 the same side of the table and far apart ; and, after a little time, 
 she began to feel faint and nervous, and repented having come 
 into a crowded room. The talking and laughing that were 
 going on around her made her head dizzy ; and it was an effort 
 to her to try and catch Eleanor's voice, and judge if she was 
 really as wretched as she had looked in the morning. 
 
 However, something was said, at length, which effectually 
 aroused her from the dreamy state into which she was sinking 
 It was a speech addressed to Lord Rutherford by Sir Hugh. 
 
 " My dear Rutherford, you will excuse me : I hope it is not 
 intruding — not trespassing too much upon the rights of private 
 patronage ; but, pray, what have you settled as to that great 
 living of yours, Whitfield ?" 
 
 The knife which Blanche held in her hand dropped from it, 
 as she sat, motionless, to hear the answer.
 
 the earl's daughter. 255 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 Sir Hugh was a little daunted by its shortness ; especially as 
 Lady Charlton, at the same instant, sent a lightning-glance of 
 caution across the table ; and, nearly as quick, a message, by a 
 servant, to beg that Sir Hugh would tell Pearson where to rind 
 a curious collection of parliamentary tracts, for Lord Erlsmere 
 and his friends to look at after luncheon. But Sir Hugh 
 returned to "die charge. " It was a famous piece of patronage, 
 — that living; one of the best in England. Some people con- 
 sidered it the high-road to a bishopric, since two bishops had, 
 within a few years, held it. Not that he was of that opinion ; 
 he had made many observations upon the subject ; more, he 
 suspected, than most people. He had kept lists of all the 
 bishops made within his recollection, and traced out the causes 
 of their election. It was not every one who could do so ; but, 
 with his extensive acquaintance — his connection with the late 
 premier — his — " Sir Hugh had quite lost himself; but he 
 nodded his head, oracularly, and ended with — " depend upon 
 it, there is a good deal of mystery in the appointment of 
 bishops." 
 
 Lord Erlsmere caught the last words, and turning to Sir 
 
 Hugh, asked if he had heard that Dr. was certainly to 
 
 have the next vacant seat on the Bench. 
 
 Sir Hugh supposed and inferred, and thought it most 
 probable, from his own private means of information ; and he had 
 a great many, a very great many, as Lord Erlsmere must be 
 aware ; but he was not then thinking about bishops, he was 
 merely giving his opinion about the living of Whitfield, one 
 of the largest livings in England. 
 
 " Oh yes, by-the-bye ;" and Lord Erlsmere innocently 
 appealed to Lord Rutherford for information, not being aware 
 that the decision was still uncertain, and that the earl disliked 
 all curiosity upon what he deemed his private affairs. 
 
 The answer was as unsatisfactory as before ; but it had not 
 the effect of setting aside the subject, which was now fairly 
 established. The value of the living, its claims, and its respon- 
 sibilities, were all discussed ; not earnestly by anyone but Lord 
 Erlsmere ; yet the facts brought forward, of spiritual destitu- 
 tion, ignorance, and crime, were very startling and dreadful to 
 Blanche. She had never heard of such details before ; and. as 
 she listened to them, it seemed that even Eleanor, with all her 
 fondness for her brother, could scarcely put his interest in com- 
 petition with the welfare of thousands, rnconseiou-ly a sigh
 
 25G the earl's daughter 
 
 escaped her ; it reached the quick eye of her father, and in an 
 under-tone he asked if she was tired ; but she scarcely heard 
 him, so intent was she upon a story, a horrible story, of suffer- 
 ing and misery, which Lord Erlsmere was telling Lady 
 Charlton. It was suffering from a clergyman's neglect. In her 
 eagerness Blanche leant forward, her eye caught Eleanor's, and 
 the next moment Eleanor pushed back her chair, and excusing 
 herself to Lady Charlton, by saying that she did not feel well, 
 left the room by herself. 
 
 " You shall not go with her," said Maude Charlton, going 
 behind Blanche's chair ; as, with a face of anxiety, she was 
 about to rise and follow. She laid her hand firmly upon 
 Blanche's shoulder and continued in a low voice, "Trust me, she 
 is not really ill." 
 
 Blanche tried to free herself, but Maude still kept behind her, 
 and addressing Lord Rutherford, begged him to carry Blanche 
 away to his study. " I shall take care of Miss Wentworth 
 myself,'' she added. 
 
 Blanche looked up with a feeling of irritation, and answered, 
 almost haughtily, that it was her wish to go to Eleanor ; she 
 did not mean to exert herself, but she must go. And Maude 
 drew back coldly, and suffered her to pass from the room 
 without another word. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 Eleanor was kneeling by her bed, her face bent down upon 
 the coverlid ; an open letter lay on the ground ; and Blanche 
 saw that it was from Mrs. Wentworth. 
 
 " Eleanor, dearest," said Blanche, and she stooped down and 
 kissed her ; and Eleanor rose, and pointing to the letter, 
 answered with a bitter calmness, " Judge what you are doing." 
 
 Blanche took up the letter ; her limbs trembled, and she sat 
 down to read it, whilst Eleanor stood by, watching the changes 
 that passed over h ^r face. 
 
 The bold legible handwriting was the transcript of Mrs. 
 Wentworth's mind : yet lines of weakness and suffering might 
 be traced in it ; for it was the outpouring of a mother's uneasi- 
 ness. The letter had been written upon the day on which 
 Charles had left the rectcry for the avowed purpose of transact- 
 iny.- business in London. What business no one knew, or coukl
 
 THE EARJ.'S DAUGHTER. 25*< 
 
 understand ; no one at least at Rutherford. But it was possible 
 that Eleanor was better informed, and her mother wrote to 
 request, even to entreat, that if she could throw any light upon 
 her brother's movements, she would, in pity both to L>r. Went- 
 worth and herself, do so without fail. 
 
 " It is not a mere wish to seek out all that Charles does and 
 thinks," wrote Mrs. Went worth, " which makes me ask. At 
 his age there may be subjects upon which he may not wish to 
 be open ; though, strictly speaking, there ought to be none 
 which a son should fear to confide to his mother ; but I would 
 not strain the point. Only, at such a time, to have mysteries 
 and concealments ! — it makes my heart sink. I fear lest we are 
 mistaking him ; lest, after all his outward professions and his 
 real improvement, there should not be that stability of character 
 which is essential to the right performance of a clergyman's 
 duties. Feeling, I am quite sure he has — the very strongest ; 
 but feeling will not carry him safely through the dangers of the 
 world ; neither is it a sufficient guarantee for the performance 
 of his ordination vows. I am very unhappy, perhaps cause- 
 I«>slv. Your father does not view things in the same light. 
 lie savs, we ought to be satisfied with Charles' conduct of late ; 
 for that he has done all that could possibly be required to 
 prepare himself for a clergyman's life ; and that he is certain of 
 his conscientiousness. I would give worlds to feel the same ; 
 but I recollect all that went on in the summer — that folly with 
 Adelaide Charlton ; and I fancy that perhaps something of the 
 same kind is in his thoughts now. God grant my fears mav be 
 groundless ! I scarcely know why I have them so strongly ; 
 perhaps it is from the very fact of the misery the reality would 
 cause me. It would be the destruction of the one day-dream 
 which has cheered me amidst all the trials of my life. I have 
 lived upon the hope of seeing Charles a clergyman, in heart as 
 will as in profession. If this is not to be — if he is to be luke- 
 warm or worldly — let him go; let him choose the army, the 
 law, a merchant's office — anything, I shall never live to see the 
 error of his ways, for my heart will break." 
 
 Blanche was about to refold the letter, but Eleanor turned to the 
 otherside, and pointed to the postscript, written by 1 >r. Wentworth. 
 
 "Your mother is not well; which, I think, is one cause of 
 her worrying herself so much about Charles. She had a slight 
 attack, yesterday, of one of those fits which she was BUbject to 
 years ago, at the time of poor Lady Rutherford's death. I have 
 had a long conversation with Mr. Dawson about her today
 
 2f>8 the earl's daughter. 
 
 and he assures me there is nothing to alarm us, but that she 
 must be kept quiet. I only mention this in order that you 
 may write cheerfully about Charles. As to his London busi- 
 ness, no young man likes to be asked the reason of everything 
 he does. I did not like it myself when I was his age, and I 
 begged your mother to let it pass ; but she would question 
 him, and then made herself wretched because he was annoyed 
 and did not like to answer. We shall expect you both home 
 together, the earliest day you can manage to come ; only give 
 us notice beforehand. You will hear from Charles immediately, 
 I imagine." 
 
 When Blanche had finished, and given the letter back again 
 into Eleanor's hands, there was a silence of some moments. 
 Each dreaded to say what was uppermost in her thoughts. 
 
 " You see," said Eleanor, at length, with a forced quietness of 
 manner ; " I did not exasperate." 
 
 " There seems no cause for immediate alarm," replied 
 Blanche, feeling, as she spoke, that her words were cold. 
 
 Eleanor remarked the tone directly, and exclaimed — "Oh, 
 Blanche, can you be so changed ? is my mother's health — her 
 life — of no value to you ? Do you not know that it was sor- 
 row for your mother, and anxiety and fatigue in nursing her, 
 which first undermined her strength ?" 
 
 Tears gathered in the eyes of Blanche, but she tried to check 
 them, as she answered, " I know you do not mean to be unkind, 
 Eleanor. You would not willingly make me wretched. Try 
 me in any other way ; tell me anything else that I can do." 
 
 " Anything except the one thing ; the one only favour which 
 will save my mother's life," exclaimed Eleanor. " Yes," she 
 continued, as Blanche shuddered and drew back, startled at the 
 expression ; " what I said last night is nothing to what I must 
 say to-day. It is all hastening forward so rapidly : in another 
 week it will be too late to interpose. I have heard from 
 Charles myself; he is in London ; he does not venture to let 
 me know his plans ; but he writes in desperation. He will not 
 see that mamma is unequal to bear any shock ; he believes that 
 it is my fancy. His present life, he says, is wretchedness, and 
 he knows but one way of extricating himself; that means," and 
 Eleanor's voice shook, " that he will marry Adelaide privately, 
 and break my mother's heart." 
 
 Blanche's cheek became very pale, and she looked faint and 
 exhausted; but she said, firmly, "Any sacrifice but that of 
 conscience. Eleanor, you cannot ask that."
 
 the earl's daughter. 259 
 
 " I know it ; I feel how hard it is," exclaimed Eleanor, 
 changing her tone. " When we were listening to what was 
 said at luncheon, I felt certain of the effect upon your mind. 
 But, Blanche, when Charles has done an act of which he will 
 repent for his whole life; and when my father's happiness is 
 ruined, and my mother is — I dare not say wdiat she may be — 
 it is paralysis, with which she is threatened : when all this has 
 come, will it never cross your mind with regret, that one word 
 of yours might have prevented it ? I speak my deliberate 
 opinion," she added. "The last words of Charles' letter are: 
 ' Give me but the hope of being able to come forward honoura- 
 bly and openly, before another three months have passed over 
 n.y head, and I will be contented to wait ; if not, delay is 
 useless.' " 
 
 Blanche leant her head upon her hand to hide her tears. 
 
 " My answer must go by to-day's post," said Eleanor. " I 
 have left my letter open, waiting for your final determination." 
 
 "It will not help you," replied Blanche, in an accent of 
 great suffering. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, indeed, it will," exclaimed Eleanor. "Pray 
 do not think that ; it will, at the least, be delay, and a thou- 
 sand things may happen in three months ; the engagement 
 may be broken off. If it is not, still Charles will have taken 
 orders, and my mother will be spared the shock I dread for 
 her. Oh! .Blanche, what fearful evil you have it in your 
 power to prevent !" 
 
 A message from Lord Rutherford interrupted them. He 
 had ordered the pony-chaise, and hoped that Lady Blanche 
 w T ould be ready to go with him in ten minutes' time. Eleanor 
 received the message, closed the door again, and bolted it ; and 
 going up to Blanche, said, as she grasped her hand in the 
 agony of entreaty, "Think only once more. If I do not write 
 to-day, he will come down ; not here, but to the neighbour- 
 hood, lie will see Adelaide, and it will be all over, for them 
 and for me. Not for my mother, but for myself I ask it. 
 
 Blanche, it has been my own doing, and the consequences ," 
 
 her voice sank 'into a deep whisper, and Blanche caught only 
 the words, "Save me; save me from them." 
 
 For a moment Blanche wavered. Eleanor pursued her ad- 
 vantage ; but it was one step too far. "Indi ed you may trust 
 me," she said ; " all that I have told you is truth. < >nly grant 
 my request, and everything will be right. If nothing should 
 break off the engagement, < I will be quite open, and Sii
 
 200 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Hugh will support him. We know it ; we are quite certain oi 
 it," she added eagerly. " Pearson has told Adelaide's maid, 
 who is obliged to be a little in the secret, that Sir Hugh is de- 
 voted to Charles." 
 
 Blanche started from her seat. It seemed as if a veil had 
 been suddenly withdrawn from her eyes. " I will leave the 
 affair in their hands," she said, with a cold quiet dignity. 
 " Thank you for letting me know who are your counsellors." 
 She walked to the door ; but her gentle nature was not proof 
 against Eleanor's look of despair, and once more returning to 
 her, she said, "Eleanor, you have tempted me very far; almost 
 to act against my conscience. I trust there is no one else who 
 would have led me in the same way ; but let me tell you my 
 true opinion of this business. You say that Adelaide's maid is 
 obliged to be in your secret. Pearson, of course, must suspect 
 it. A gossiping girl and a fawning man-servant ! And you 
 are forced to entrust to their discretion facts which would make 
 your mother miserable, and my aunt indignant. A few months 
 ago the very thought of such a thing would have disgusted you. 
 I am sure it must disgust you now. I do not wish to hear how 
 much or how little they know ; but, for myself, I would rather 
 give up rank and wealth, and friends, and beg my bread in the 
 streets, than suffer my name to be mixed up with a clandestine 
 engagement, and my character for sincerity and delicacy, and 
 all that one holds most dear, to be at the mercy of my ser- 
 vants." 
 
 "And if it is too late to retract?" said Eleanor. 
 
 Blanche paused. " It cannot be too late to amend," she said, 
 after a moment's consideration. " I do not see how, now, and 
 I have not time to think ; but something must be possible." 
 
 Eleanor shook her head. " One way there is : grant my 
 request, and you may impose your own conditions." 
 
 She was not answered. Blanche turned away as from a 
 temptation which she dared not encounter again. 
 
 ->♦•- -♦-•*- 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 If Lord Rutherford had seen cause for anxiety in the morn- 
 ing, when Blanche sat alone with him in his study, he could 
 scarcely be more satisfied when she came to him prepared for 
 her drive. Th« change even in that short time was painful:
 
 THE EAIU'S DAUGHTER. 2G1 
 
 she looked quite haggard ; her eyes bore the traces of tears, 
 and her whole manner was that of a person bowed down by a 
 weight of care. The earl could not delude himself any longer 
 by thinking that she was merely languid and uncomfortable 
 from not being well ; a much deeper cause there must be, he 
 was certain, for such strange depression. Or was there no cause ? 
 — nothing but indefinable wretchedness — the precursor of more 
 lasting misery ? — and swiftly, in a moment, his thoughts travel- 
 led back through the long lapse of years, whilst striving to 
 remeinber the first indication which had struck him of his wife's 
 morbid temperament. His thoughts made him silent during 
 the short drive ; and Blanche was only too willing not to be 
 obliged to exert herself. She was sorry when they stopped at 
 the lodge, for the fresh air was reviving ; but the afternoons 
 closed in quickly, and she had but a short time allowed her. 
 Lord Rutherford followed her into the cottage. It was strange:y 
 natural to him now to be there ; he who had once never entered 
 the house, even of one of his own labourers, except when busi- 
 ness made it necessary, was now a recognised and welcome 
 guest in the sanded kitchen, where, stretched upon a low pallet, 
 lay the sick child, his pale face flushed with pleasure, and his little 
 thin hand stretched out to welcome the lady whom he had not 
 seen for many days. The earl seated himself by the fire ; when 
 Blanche was present he had no wish except to w r atch her, and 
 listen to he/, ana yield himself to an influence so different from 
 all which for years had governed him, that it seemed to present 
 to him a new phase of existence. Yet it was not very much 
 that Blanche said. She was shy before her father, and the dis- 
 quietude of her mind gave her a tone of unusual reserve. But 
 the child was not aware of any difference of manner ; he only 
 knew that some one was near him who was kind to him, and 
 had brought him toys to play with, and pictures; and, with the 
 simplicity and openness of his age, he made his remarks, and 
 called for her attention, until insensibly Blanche's interest was 
 absorbed, and she forgot that there was any other care or duty 
 to be thought of. Then she talked freely and cheerfully, and 
 the boy grew more and more happy to have her with him ; and 
 discovering, by a natural instinct, where his wondering and 
 childish, yet reverent, thoughts would meet with sympathy, 
 *sked questions which if, at times, they were hard to answer, 
 yet betokened a mind strangely beyond his years. The pictures, 
 he told her, he liked so much — the Scripture ones — those which 
 vere about people being made well; ami, raising his eyes to
 
 2G2 ihb earl's daughter. 
 
 Blanche, with an expression of great awe, he said, as lie laid hih 
 finger upon a figure representing our Lord, " It must have been 
 so pleasant to be with Him ; lie looks so kind." Blanche tried 
 1o give him a personal feeling of gratitude by speaking of the 
 blessings which had been granted to himself. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " there were a great many. His mother was 
 good to him, and his sister; and they made his bed comfortable 
 when he was tired : but he knew it was our Saviour who taught 
 them to do it. And he makes you come and see me," he 
 added. " Do you like to come ?" 
 
 Blanche could scarcely repress a smile at the eagerness with 
 which the question was put ; as if a sudden doubt had ciossed 
 his mind. 
 
 " I like it, and the gentleman likes it too," she said, looking 
 towards her father. "It was he who went to (Jobham to buy 
 the toys for you." 
 
 The child iixed his eyes upon Lord Paitherford, with a half- 
 timid gratitude which he dared not speak; and the look drew 
 the earl from his seat by the fire, and he went to the bed-side. 
 
 " Thank you !" said the child, fancying that he had come to 
 he thanked. " Sissy and I shall play with them by-and-by ; 
 and I must say, ' Thank you,' to our Saviour too ; mustn't I ?" 
 he added, appealing to Blanche, " because lie told him to do 
 it ; like your coming to see me." Then taking up one of the 
 prints, he held it before the earl, asking whether he would not 
 like to see it — it was so pretty. " That is a little boy saying 
 his prayers," he continued. " I say my prayers too, when I 
 can ; when I am very tired, Sissy says them for me. Do you 
 think you could say them for me ?" 
 
 " I dare say the gentleman could, if he knew what to say," 
 interrupted Blanche quickly : "or I nrght, if you liked it. But, 
 I suppose, Sissy says your prayers for you at night before you 
 go to bed ?" 
 
 " But I should like to have them said now. I should like to 
 have you to say them ;" and the wish having once suggested 
 itself, the child grew quite excited, his cheek flushed, and his 
 breathing became quick. " You would say them better than 
 Sissy ; and sometimes she looks about ; I don't like her to look 
 about." 
 
 "People should be quite still and keep their eyes shut, or 
 else look down upon their books, when they say their prayers," 
 said Blanche. "I dare say Sissy will when she grows older. 
 Does she ever read to you ?"
 
 the earl's daughter. 203 
 
 " Yes, sometimes ; but mother reads at night, about the 
 beautiful city. That's where the clergyman says I'm going. 
 Should you like to hear about it, if the lady reads it ?" he added, 
 turning to Lord Rutherford. 
 
 " The lady is tired," answered the earl ; " don't you see how 
 white she is ?" 
 
 The little boy gazed at Blanche steadily, and after a few 
 moments of thought said, with .1 very earnest voice, "She 
 looks like me when mother puts the glass before me. Is she 
 going'lo the beautiful city, too ?" 
 
 Lord Rutherford's countenance changed. He caught up 
 Blanche's cloak from a chair, and wrapping it round her 
 observed that they must go. 
 
 " Then you can't say my prayers for me to-day V asked the 
 child with a disappointed air. 
 
 Blanche looked at her father entreatingly. " If he wishes it 
 so much," she said, " might I not stay five minutes ? His little 
 ]. raver can scarcely take so long. What is it you say, 
 Johnnie?" 
 
 " ' Our father !' and ' I pray God to bless mother and Sissy ;' 
 and the clergyman taught me another," answered the child. 
 
 " And if I were to say ' Our Father !' for you, should you 
 like it ?" 
 
 The little pale face brightened with pleasure, and Blanche, 
 after one glance at the earl, who was standing passively waiting 
 her will, knelt down. There was a moment's pause ; and the 
 child, touching Blanche's arm, asked, " Doesn't the gentleman 
 say his prayers too ?" 
 
 Blanche made no answer, she repeated the prayer. The little 
 boy joining in it with his hands clasped and his eyes closed. 
 When it was ended, and she rose up, Lord Rutherford was 
 kneeling by her side, his head still bowed in the attitude of 
 devotion. 
 
 " And now, good b'ye," said Blanche, gathering her cloak 
 around her and preparing to go. 
 
 The child kept her hand, "Thank you for saying the prayer, 
 and next time yDu will read about the beautiful city, where I'm 
 going ; wont you?" 
 
 Blanche kissed his forehead, and as a smile passed over his 
 features, he whispered, "I hope you will come soon, fur I know 
 you will be happier." They were his parting words. Lord 
 Rutherford hurried Blanche into the pony-carriage, and seizing 
 tin' reins drove rapidly homewards. 
 12
 
 204 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Maude met them at the hall-door, fretted apparently, and full 
 of business. Scarcely noticing Blanche, she said to the earl, 
 "Mr. Johnstone has been here, waiting for the last quarter of an 
 hour ; he says he must see you before the post goes out, if 
 possible." 
 
 The earl looked anxiously at Blanche. " Take care of her," 
 he said to Maude. " I have been very foolish — mad, I believe, 
 — keeping her out so late, till she is half-dead. Mr. Johnstone 
 wants me, did you say ? Oh ! yes, I remember, about the 
 Whitfield living." 
 
 He was going, but Blanche's voice stopped him. "Papa, 
 may I ask ? what did you say ?" and in an instant the colour 
 had mounted to her cheeks, though only again to leave them of 
 a more deadly hue. 
 
 " The living of Whitfield, my child ; that is all : nothing to 
 disturb you. Mr. Johnstone has made application for a friend." 
 
 " A friend ! what friend — a good one ?" said Blanche, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " A good one, of course. Mr. Johnstone, every one says, is 
 to be depended on. But, my dear love, you are quite excited : 
 do you want the living for yourself ?" 
 
 Blanche laughed faintly: her knees trembled very much, and 
 she sat down on one of the hall-chairs. Maude scarcely assisted 
 ber. A sudden gravity had gathered upon her face, and she 
 folded her hands, awaiting what was next to be done. 
 
 " We must have your maid, my love," said the earl. " She 
 must take care of you, and you must lie down and rest. I will 
 ring for her ; and then I must go to Mr. Johnstone." 
 
 Blanche still detained him. Would he let her know — if it 
 was not wrong — if she might be told — would it all be settled 
 to-day about the living ? 
 
 A strong warning grasp was laid upon her arm, as Maude, 
 stooping down under pretence of picking up her glove, said, 
 in an under voice, " So miserably weak ! — oh ! Blanche !" 
 
 Blanche started ; her eye caught her father's full of strange 
 sadness. She felt quite bewildered. What did he mean ? and 
 what did Maude mean? Was she doing anything wrong? 
 AVere they vexed with her ? Did they know her secret ? She 
 was so tired, so ill, so worn, that all her natural strength of 
 mind gave way, and she burst into tears. 
 
 Maude's manner softened a little ; but the earl spoke sternly ; 
 so it might have been called, but for an involuntary quivering of 
 his lip. He wished her to go to his study, he said ; it was quite
 
 the earl's daughter. 2G5 
 
 close, and it would be the best place for her, and Maude might 
 beg Mr. Johnstone to wait. There was time ; if there was not, 
 he could not come to him ; he must wait. 
 
 Maude lingered for a moment, apparently seeking for one 
 more word with Blanche ; but Lord Rutherford gave her no 
 opportunity for it, and, opening the study door, led Blanche 
 into the room, and said, with the quietness of great self-control, 
 ''Blanche, my child, we are alone; now, you will be open with 
 me. There is something amiss. If it is a wish ungratified, 
 you have only to speak." 
 
 Blanche could not answer him. 
 
 Eleanor's despairing tones of entreaty were again sounding in 
 her ears ; and weak though it was to waver, it was agony to 
 resist. 
 
 The earl waited in silence for a few seconds, his countenance 
 showing more and more plainly the distress of his mind. " You 
 cannot fear I shall refuse," he said at length, almost reproach- 
 fully. " Is it iu my power now ? Will it be so hereafter ? Can 
 money purchase it, or time, or influence, or exertion ? Only, in 
 pity, tell me !"- 
 
 Blanche shook her head ; she tried to find words for an 
 answer — anything to satisfy him ; but it seemed impossible. 
 
 The earl withdrew himself from her, and stood moodily by the 
 fire. 
 
 " I do not doubt, indeed, papa, that you would give me 
 everything," said Blanche, forcing herself at last to speak. 
 
 " Then why may I not be told V he exclaimed, quickly. " If 
 it is a request — " 
 
 " But it is not ; I have nothing to ask ; only, if I knew what 
 was right ; if I could be quite — quite sure." 
 
 Lord Rutherford's impetuous manner was subdued ; but 
 there was far greater sadness in his tone than before, as seating 
 himself on the sofa beside her, and drawing her towards him, 
 he said, " My poor, poor child ; is there no peace on earth, then, 
 even for you ?" 
 
 "If I could be quite sure — quite certain," repeated Blanche. 
 
 "And is that all? Is it nothing definite T asked the ea:l. 
 He waited breathlessly for the answer, and at that moment t<> 
 have been told that Blanche was suffering under the burthen of 
 some overpowering calamity would have been a relief from the 
 foreboding which made his heart sicken with dread. But again 
 there was no rest for his fears; for a fewmomentsof recollection 
 had brought to Blanch'' the remembrance that Bhe had no right
 
 266 the earl's daughter. 
 
 to awaken suspicions which might eventually betray the secrets 
 of others, and she was silent. 
 
 Lady Charlton's knock was just then heard at the door. 
 " Mr. Johnstone," she said, " was becoming uneasy," and she 
 begged Lord Rutherford not to delay seeing him. 
 
 As she spoke she glanced at Blanche in surprise and some 
 curiosity ; but the earl scarcely heeded her. His whole thought 
 was centred in Blanche; and, as soon as the door was again 
 closed, he said, "Then there is something — a wish — a want un- 
 fulfilled; or is it disappointment? You spoke of it once; you 
 said that the world was dreary. Oh ! Blanche, is it through 
 me that it is so ? — through my fault ? God knows it may be 
 my penalty." 
 
 "Papa ! papa !" exclaimed Blanche ; " pray do not speak so 
 or think so ; it is not through you ; I could not be so ungrateful." 
 
 " But you may be afraid ; your wish may seem a difficult one 
 to grant," continued the earl, "yet solemnly and sincerely, I 
 would repeat what before you may have thought to be mere 
 words. As the one only atonement which I can make for the 
 misery of your unhappy mother, ask what you will, and if it is 
 in the power of human effort to obtain it, it shall be yours." 
 
 Blanche threw her arm around his neck, and answered, "I 
 want nothing." 
 
 Again they were interrupted. The door was hastily opened 
 by Eleanor Wentworth. Agitation and excitement were visible 
 in her countenance, but she apologized calmly. She had 
 understood Blanche was by herself, and she was wishing to 
 speak with her. 
 
 Lord Rutherford was leaving the room, but he returned to 
 give a parting kiss to Blanche, and whisper, " Remember you 
 have only to ask." 
 
 He was gone, and Eleanor and Blanche were alone. 
 Eleanor's errand was quickly told. This was her last effort — 
 liei last moment of hope. Blanche listened again to her 
 brmer arguments, her reiterated miserable entreaties. They 
 U'ere more plausible, more urgent than ever. " Ten minutes 
 more — only ten," she said, pointing to the timepiece, " and it 
 will be useless to ask. Mr. Johnstone is certain to carry his 
 point; he is to write by this day's post. Lady Charlton sup- 
 ports him. Lord Rutherford is already inclined to listen to 
 him. In remembrance of all our happiness, and our love which 
 was to last for ever, Blanche, have pity on me." 
 
 Blanche was lying on the sofa, without the power 01 argu-
 
 the earl's daughter. 2Gl 
 
 merit, but she had strength to say, ''Leave me and return in 
 rive minutes ;" and Eleanor, seeing a ray of hope in this 
 apparent yielding, left her. 
 
 They were live minutes of intense wretchedness; Blanche 
 was not able to compose her mind sufficiently for thought, the 
 cousequences of her decision crowded upon her. Misery fur 
 Eleanor — despair for Mrs. Wentworth — recklessness and folly 
 t' »r Adelaide and Charles. Even the ticking of the clock was 
 distracting, and in the greatness of her distress, she threw 
 herself upon her knees and prayed for certainty. God answers 
 our prayers, but not as we expect. 
 
 Eleanor re-opened the door, and Blanche started up; but, 
 before a question could be asked, Lord Rutherford returned, 
 accompanied by Mr. Johnstone. A number of letters were 
 in his hand, which he threw upon the table, with an exclama- 
 tion of fear, lest they should not be sealed in time for the post. 
 
 Eleanor stopped as she was hurrying away, and asked if she 
 could be of any assistance ? Certainly, if she would be kind 
 enough, it would be a great help; and Lord Rutherford 
 lighted the taper, put his seal into her hand, and then, relieved 
 from a tiresome task, turned to Blanche and said, " I could 
 scarcely prevail upon Mr. Johnstone to come and see you, he 
 was afraid of tiring you ; but I insisted upon it. You kno 
 his business ; he is a very able advocate, and I think I cannot 
 do better than follow his opinion : still I have a fancy, — it has 
 haunted me whilst we have been talking, — that you have some 
 wish of your own in this affair. I have told him that if it is so, 
 the decision must rest with you." 
 
 " Is this letter to be sealed ?" asked Eleanor ; the direction 
 was in Mr. Johnstone's handwriting. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone smiled. " It is for Lady Blanche to 
 determine," he said," the letter is to my friend; it contains the 
 promise of the living. I could not have asked it for him 
 if I had not known him to be fitted for it. Earnest, energetic, 
 humble-minded, accustomed to the necessities of a large manu- 
 facturing population. But there may be others as fitted, and I 
 cannot "believe' that Lady Blanche would wish to incur the 
 responsibility of entrusting such a charge to one who was not." 
 
 A pause followed ; Eleanor stooped down, and pushed a foot- 
 stool towards Blanche, and whispered "My mother." 
 
 " Speak, my child," said Lord Rutherford. "Tell us if you 
 have any wish, or feeling even upon this matter. Is there any 
 one whom you have ever desired to benefit .'"'
 
 2G8 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Blanche's heart boat so quickly that her breath was almost 
 crone. Lord Rutherford looked alarmed, he rang the bell for 
 some water. The servant was already at the door, he was 
 come for ths letters for the post ; Lord Rutherford put them 
 into his hand, all but the one unsealed. Again he referred to 
 Blanche, "Shall I seal it? Are you quite sure?" 
 
 Blanche waited for one moment only to gather strength for 
 the effort, and then, with a firm voice, said, " Yes, quite sure ; 
 thank you for asking, but I have no wish to have a voice in the 
 matter." 
 
 The letter was sealed and sent. Blanche talked quietly 
 with Mr. Johnstone for a few minutes upon indifferent subjects, 
 and then went to her room ; but no one, not even her father, 
 saw her a<2"ain that evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 It was a brilliant spectacle, when the long suite of rooms 
 and the great hall at Senilhurst were lighted up in celebration 
 of the seventeenth birthday of the Lady Blanche Evelyn. Many 
 who saw it kept the remembrance of it as a scene to be described 
 to their children, and their children's children after them ; and 
 some few, who knew the circumstances of that evening, and the 
 events which followed, recurred to it with melancholy interest, 
 to marvel at the mockery of human happiness and the 
 strange contrariety that so often exists between the outward and 
 the inward phases of this mortal life. 
 
 Yes, it was a brilliant spectacle — with the dazzling lights 
 shining amidst evergreen leaves, and the choicest flowers that 
 art could force from nature, wreathing the glasses which reflected 
 on all sides forms of elegance and beauty ; and exquisitely 
 sweet were the strains of music that echoed through the lofty 
 apartments, furnished by wealth and taste, with all that could 
 minister to the enjoyment of the senses. 
 
 The seventeenth birthday of Blanche Evelyn! they who 
 looked upon her said that it could scarcely be. So childlike and 
 simple she seemed, so unconscious of her own position, sc 
 easy and unreserved in manner, and not even shrinking from 
 notice because she was unaware of attracting it. And thev 
 said also that she was happy ; that her laugh was the laugh of 
 a light heart, that the flush upon her cheek was caused by gay
 
 the earl's daughter. 2G9 
 
 excitement, and that her occasional restlessness and eagerness 
 were the natural impulses of a child upon her first introduction 
 into society. And so she was watched and criticised, and 
 mothers coveted her grace, and daughters envied her beauty 
 and a few turned to mark an eye which was following her with 
 proud delight, and shook their heads and sighed, that a father's 
 hopes should, be centred in one whose very loveliness and purity 
 were marked with the tokens of an early grave. 
 
 Shall we look upon the truth ? There is a lesson to be learnt 
 in the most delusive scenes of the world's joyousness, as strik- 
 ing, it may be, as in the closet or the church. 
 
 The evening's entertainment was just beginning. A few 
 early guests had arrived, and, together with one or two of the 
 visitors in the house, were assembled with Lady Charlton in the 
 drawing-room. Conversation was rather dull ; it usually is so 
 at the first opening. Lady Charlton found it difficult to avoid 
 pauses, and heartily wished for further arrivals ; and the 
 appearance of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and her two daughters was 
 hailed as a great acquisition. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey looked particularly young in her evening 
 dress ; it was not easy to believe that she could be the mother 
 of two tall girls, and the consciousness of this gave her a 
 certain vivacity of manner which was just then particularly 
 needed. 
 
 " It is quite pleasant to see you here," began Lady Charlton, 
 addressing her ; " I thought this afternoon that we should lose 
 you after all." 
 
 " Not willingly," was the reply ; " you know where my incli- 
 nations have led me from the first. Nothing but absolute 
 necessity would have taken me home ; besides it would have 
 been unkind to Adelaide. You are aware we have really deter- 
 mined to carry her off with us to-night." Lady Charlton did 
 not dissent, in words at least ; and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey went 
 on : "It is a perfect charity to spare her, for Agnes and I are 
 engaged to dine and sleep at Weston on Thursday ; and Caro- 
 line would be left quite alone." 
 
 Lady Charlton seemed a little startled at this announcement ; 
 but, before she had time to speak, Miss Caroline Grey inter- 
 posed : " You know, mamma, it is not absolutely certain I shall 
 be alone ; those cousins of ours, from Wales, arc coming almost 
 immediately. They may come to-morrow, there is only a pos- 
 libility of my being alone." 
 
 '•Still it is a possibility one should be glad to escape, my
 
 270 the earl's daughter. 
 
 dear; and Lady Charlton is very kind in sparing Adelaide 
 Indeed, I cannot say how obliged I am." 
 
 Miss Caroline Grey paid but little attention to her mother's 
 remark; She was seized with a sudden interest in Lady 
 Blanche, and a desire to learn who had seen her lately, and if 
 it was quite certain that she would be well enough to appeal 
 that evening. The mention of Blanche's name caused a general 
 interest, and Lady Charlton was only too pleased to be called 
 upon to answer the many inquiries as to what had been the mat- 
 ter ; whether she was strong, whether the air of Senilhurst agreed 
 with her, and if she was likely to remain during the winter. 
 
 Her niece had been ill, she said. She had indeed made them 
 all a little anxious ; but she had improved very much since the 
 preceding day, and had insisted upon joining the party that 
 evening. " She is not to dance much, or exert herself," added 
 Lady Charlton, turning to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. " Her doctor 
 gave special orders upon that point ; in fact I suspect if he had 
 had his will, she would have kept to her room, but she had set 
 her heart upon being present. Boor child ! very natural at her 
 age ; her first ball and in her own honour ! and she would not 
 hear of its being postponed." 
 
 Lord Erlsmere here joined the party, and remarked that he 
 had just met Lady Blanche going to her father's study. He was 
 quite struck with her, he said, she had such an unusual colour, 
 and looked so much better than when he last saw her. 
 
 Lady Charlton was engaged with some more guests, and Mrs. 
 Cuthbert Grey whispered to Lord Erlsmere, "Ah yes! poor 
 thing! excitement, all excitement ; the earl sees it quite plainly. 
 He has been wretched about her the last two days. You know 
 how she has shut herself up, and now she comes out quite well, 
 as it seems ; just like her mother. She had all those fancies. 
 You never could depend upon her spirits from one hour to 
 another." 
 
 Lord Erlsmere looked very grave ; it was so sad a prospect, 
 he said, for such a lovely young creature ; and when he was 
 with her he could never believe it possible. Her mind seemed 
 so peculiarly well-disciplined, her temper so equable. 
 
 ' % Oh ! but they are not symptoms to be depended on," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. "I could tell you things: Agnes, 
 my love, what was it you were saying to me about poor Lady 
 Blanche, just now ?" 
 
 " Oh ! nothing, mamma, nothing ; really I did not mean to 
 mention it to any one, except yourself ; but it was strange."
 
 the earl's daughter. 2 71 
 
 Lord Erlsmere could not avoid a little curiosity. 
 
 "It was what her maid said," began Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, yes, mamma," interrupted Miss Grey, hastily. 
 " But it is not fair to repeat such things to Lord Erlsmere ; only 
 her maid is a great gossip, and told our maid that Lady Blanche 
 had cried incessantly for the last two days, and that she 
 thought there was some fuss between her and Miss Wentworth ; 
 fur that Miss" Wentworth had not been near her ! Poor thin"! 
 I dare say she is a little wayward." 
 
 " And to-night you see she has shaken it all off, and comes 
 forward as if nothing was amiss," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 
 " Well ! one can only feel for her ; but I am glad I am not 
 Lord Rutherford." 
 
 Miss Grey touched her mother's arm. 
 
 Lord Rutherford had just come into the room, and was asking 
 if any one had seen Blanche. His entrance attracted notice, 
 but he was not aware of it. To one or two persons he bowed 
 distantly and mechanically, but his eye wandered anxiously 
 around ; and a moment afterwards he was gone — to his study 
 — there Blanche was waiting for him. 
 
 A father's love is blind ; yet Lord Rutherford might well 
 have been pardoned if, as he looked upon Blanche dressed for 
 that evening's entertainment, he deemed her faultless. In her 
 simple white dress, almost without ornament, she might have 
 moved amongst the loveliest and the most splendidly attired 
 of her rank and age ; and in her exquisite grace, her perfect 
 unconsciousness of beauty, have outshone them all. The earl 
 could not praise ; he could not even say that he was satisfied. 
 Admiration was not the idea which presented itself in looking 
 upon Blanche. But he imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, 
 and blessed her ; and the blessing brought a thrill of untold 
 delight to Blanche's heart. 
 
 u I' is so good of you, my child," he said, "to wait for me. 
 I thought I should have tired you, and that you would go to 
 the drawing-room without me; but I was kept. Sir Hugh 
 took a fancy, an hour ago, about some of the arrangements, and 
 would interfere ; and your aunt was quite fretted with him. 
 So, in pity to her, I carried him off to the library to discuss an 
 old quotation. So immensely absurd he i< ! But you are not 
 doing too much, I trust ; you look better to-nig it — a great deal 
 better, I think." 
 
 Blanche said she did feel more equal to the effort than she
 
 272 the earl's daughter. 
 
 had clone all day ; and her father did not remark that she 
 avoided saying she was better. 
 
 " There are a good many arrivals," continued the earl. " I 
 looked into the drawing-room a few minutes ago — your aunt 
 seemed quite in her element. I don't know any person who 
 manages a thing of this kind better than she does. But they 
 are all expecting you, Blanche." 
 
 " Must we go just this minute ?" she asked. " It is very 
 quiet and comfortable here." 
 
 He regarded her with a slight uneasiness. "You are tired, 
 my love, already. It is too much for you, I believe, after all." 
 
 "No, no," and Blanche roused herself from the languor 
 which was stealing over her. " I shall do quite well, indeed ; 
 but I thought there was no hurry, and I wanted to stay just for 
 a few moments ; I was hoping to hear — " 
 
 " What ?— anything I can ask for you? — anything I can 
 inquire ? — let me go." 
 
 " Oh ! no," said Blanche, with a half smile ; " but I sent 
 just now a message to the lodge. Little Johnnie is taken 
 worse, and I had a great wish to know" — tears started to her 
 eyes, but she added cheerfully, " one can't help being interested 
 about him." 
 
 Lord Rutherford made no reply; but he drew an arm-chair 
 towards her, and Blanche sat down by the fire, and fixed her 
 eyes upon the bright flames, and the strange caverns, and 
 hollows, and precipices of the glowing coals. There was silence 
 for several minutes. Once or twice Blanche looked round, 
 thinking the door was opened ; but no one came. 
 
 " I hear music," said the earl, at length ; " they are impa- 
 tient to dance. Are you sure your message was taken to the 
 
 Judge ?» 
 
 "Barnes promised me she would send some one directly," 
 replied Blanche ; " but it does not signify; I can go ;" and sh& 
 was about to rise. 
 
 " We can wait," said the earl ; " only" — he took out his 
 watch — " I think we really must go ; it will look so strange." 
 
 Some one came to the door and tapped gently. 
 
 Lord Rutherford uttered an impatient "Come in;" but it 
 was not a servant that answered him — it was Maude ; very 
 grave — very stiff and cold ; and dressed in a manner but little 
 in accordance with the gaiety of the evening. 
 
 " They are wondering what is become of you, Blanche," shy
 
 the earl's daughter. 273 
 
 said. " Mamma sent me to find yon. She bad a fancy that 
 you were not well. But you are well — very well, I declare, 
 after all. Quite a colour there is in your cheeks ; or is it onlv 
 that you have been burning yourself over the fire ?" 
 
 There was a colour in Blanche's cheek, for it was crimsoned 
 with the conflicting feelings excited by Maude's acctnt of 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " We were just saying that it would not do to stay here any 
 longer," said Lord Rutherford ; " but Blanche had a ancy to 
 wair/till she could hear about a message which she sent to the 
 lodge to inquire after the little boy." 
 
 " They can bring it to her in the drawing-room," said Maude; 
 " there is no use in waiting here, and the dancing cannot begin 
 without Blanche." 
 
 " No, no ; thank you," exclaimed Blanche, and she rose 
 immediately. " I would much rather not have it brought ; it 
 does not signify ; at least I would rather not hear. Indeed, I 
 would rather not," she repeated, as Lord Paitherford was going 
 to ring the bell. 
 
 Maude stood by coldly, merely saying, that every one was 
 expecting Blanche ; it was her own evening. 
 
 " Yes ; I ought to have been in the room. It was wrong of 
 me to wait," said Blanche. " Papa, I am quite ready." 
 
 She trembled as she stood up ; and he observed it, and laving 
 nis hand upon her's, said fondly, " You are nervous, my child ; 
 but you will not care after the first moment." 
 
 Blanche smiled, and opened the door. A full burst of music 
 sounded from the great hall ; a murmur of many voices — 
 laughter and conversation. 
 
 " Stop ! here is your messenger, after all," said the earl. 
 
 A servant was coming hastily along the passage. 
 
 " May we go back to hear it ?" asked Blanche. She seemed 
 really agitated now ; it was not mere nervousness. 
 
 " You have been to the lodge. Tell us quickly," said the 
 earl. " Lady Blanche is anxious. How is the child V 
 
 A little girl of about twelve years of age stepped foiward 
 from behind the servant, and came close up to Blanche. " I 
 was to tell myself," she said. "Johnnie said I was. He sent 
 his love to my lady, and he's gone — he's gone to the_ beautiful 
 city, and he begs her to come soon." And bursting into tears, 
 she sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 "Come," said Maude, drawing Blanche forwards. "Pool 
 child! we cannol help her." Blanche si 1 still for an instant-
 
 274 the earl's daughter. 
 
 the light of a lamp fell full upon her features ; they were of ? 
 deadly paleness. " Come," again repeated Maude, authori- 
 tatively. 
 
 Blanche started, and turned to look for her father, lie was 
 leaning against the wall, at a little distance, with his arms 
 folded. Blanche went up to him, and said gently, "Papa, I 
 am ready now ;" but he did not answer, only he caught her 
 hand, and holding it for an instant, looked wildly in her face; 
 and then dropping it suddenly, walked back to the study, and 
 rinsed the door. Blanche made no remark ; she stooped to 
 caress the poor little girl, who had thrown herself upon the 
 floor in an agony of grief, and in a tone of quiet sympathy, 
 spoke a few words of comfort, and gave an order that the ser- 
 vant should take her back to the lou"^, and said she hoped to 
 see her mother the following day. Toen addressing Maude, 
 she added with perfect composure, "We had better not wait for 
 papa," and putting her arm within her cousin's, went with her 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Again there was a crimson flush upon Blanche's cheek ; 
 again her eyes shone brightly, and the silvery tones of her 
 voice fell with cheerfulness upon the ear. The evening was 
 wearing on. She had talked and danced, even laughed and 
 sang. It was beautiful to watch her ; beautiful and inspiriting, 
 except when occasionally a passing word seemed to jar upon 
 some inward chord, and then for a moment a look of anguish 
 flitted across her lovely face, and a mist seemed to gather over 
 her eyes, and whether it were in the dance, or in conversation, 
 a sudden vagueness and abstraction would come upon her, and 
 she would pause, as if unknowing where she was, or what she 
 was saying, till recalled by a gay reproof, or a glance at her 
 father's countenance. For Lord Rutherford was " himself again ;" 
 whatever might have been the rush of foreboding excited by 
 that untimely message from the bed of death, it was gone now ; 
 charmed away by the spell of his child's apparent enjoyment, and 
 the proud happiness of beholding the admiration she inspired. 
 
 " Lord Rutherford must be satisfied now," said Lord Erls- 
 mere to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. He had been watching Blanche 
 for some time ; longer than Mrs. Cuthbert Grey approved. 
 
 " Yes ; satisfied for to-night at least. But it is not real ; all 
 that cheerfulness, I mean, which poor Lady Blanche puts on. 
 She will suffer for it to-morrow." 
 
 " So do many people suffer for a night's excitement. There 
 v/ill be nothing to wonder at in that."
 
 t ii i earl's DAUGHTER. 27,") 
 
 "Yes; but even now it is forced — evidently forced. I have 
 lived longer thau you ; and I have seen more — of yo\m<* ladies 
 at least. Look, now ; see what a change there is." 
 
 There was a change, certainly : a remarkable one. Blanche 
 had been standing at the lower end of the room, talking to her 
 partner. Now he had left her, and there were several people 
 near her, but no one especially addressing her. Her lace was 
 turned away*J but Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and Lord Erlsmere caught 
 a side view. She had laid her hand upon some one, who was 
 standing in front of her, and was speaking with an eager hag- 
 gird look of entreaty, which seemed to have changed even the 
 outline of her features. 
 
 " She is talking to Miss Went worth," said Lord Erlsmere. 
 " I fancied they had quarrelled." 
 
 " Yes ; quarrelled I suspect they have ; she is conscious of 
 it probably, and trying to make it up. Those apparently very 
 sweet tempers are not much to be depended on." 
 
 " If Lady Blanche Evelyn's temper is not sweet, I must dis- 
 trust the evidence of my senses for the rest of my life," said 
 Lord Erlsmere, earnestly. 
 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiled expressively. 
 
 " The quarrel is made up at any rate," said Lord Erlsmere, 
 as he saw Blanche rise and walk with Eleanor across the room. 
 
 "Or reserved for a more private explanation," observed Mrs. 
 Cuthbert Grey. " Miss Wentworth is not, I suspect, to be won 
 over so easily/' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere did not pay much attention to this remark — 
 his interest was attracted by Eleanor and Blanche, and to Mrs. 
 Cuthbert Grey's discomfiture, he made some excuse for going 
 away, and followed them through the door by which they had 
 departed. It led into the hall. A fewpeople were walking u;: 
 and down, taking refreshments. Adelaide Charlton and Miss 
 Carolina Grey amongst them. Eleanor and Blanche were j 
 ing them just as Lord Erlsmere came into the hall. Adelaide 
 tried to stop Blanche, and said something ludicrous, and 
 Blanche's face for a moment wore an expression of great annoy- 
 ance; but she went on, and Adelaide and her companion 
 laughed only the more heartily. Lord Erlsmere could nol 
 more. A dance had just ended, and persons were crowding 
 into the hall — some to refresh themselves, some to find part- 
 ners, and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to collect her party and prepare 
 for an early departure. She laid siege to Lord Erlsmere again. 
 
 It was growing very late, she- said ; and thev had a !
 
 276 tiik earl's daughter. 
 
 drive before them, and arrangements to make — packages, and 
 boxes, and numberless things to collect ; it was such an unna 
 tural undertaking to leave a place where you had been staying, 
 in the middle of the night. Would Lord Erlsmere try aud find 
 her daughter, Agnes ? 
 
 Lord Erlsmere could not but be most happy; yet he delayed 
 for a moment, with a lingering curiosity, to watch what had 
 become of Eleanor and Blanche. 
 
 " You lost sight of your two friends in this crowd, I imagine," 
 said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, cleverly reading his thoughts. " Peo- 
 ple come and go like meteors. Stay — there are Adelaioe and 
 Caroline ; do bring them to me." 
 
 Lord Erlsmere crossed the hall, and delivered his summons. 
 Adelaide was talking lightly with one of her partners as he 
 came up. 
 
 "I have orders from Mrs. Cuthbeit Grev," betran Lord 
 Erlsmere. 
 
 " Orders ? oh ! yes, to go, I suppose — Caroline," and she 
 looked round for her friend. 
 
 " Can I be of any service ? can I give any message, or find 
 anything for you?" asked Lord Erlsmere. 
 
 " No, thank you, nothing ; nothing at all. "We must go ; 
 the sooner the better," she added, with an accent of peculiar 
 melancholy— almost regret — which Lord Erlsmere, unobservant 
 though he usually was, could not help remarking. 
 
 " You are to be absent for some time," he said. " I 
 shall scarcely have the pleasure of seeing you again, I am 
 afraid." 
 
 " Thank you, no ; I think — T believe I am going for some 
 time. Caroline, — where is she ?" 
 
 Lord Erlsmere offered her his arm to lead her to Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 " But mamma and papa ; I must see them ; I must say good 
 b'ye to them," said Adelaide. 
 
 " There will be sufficient time," replied Lord Erlsmere, trying 
 to check Adelaide's haste by his own steady pace. " The car- 
 riage is not ordered yet ; you will scarcely get away for the 
 next three-quarters of an hour." 
 
 Adelaide sighed, and the next moment burst into a fit of 
 laughter, declaring that she was so fearfully tired, she had 
 nearly lost her senses. 
 
 " You are not the only tired person, I imagine," said Lord 
 Erlsmere. " Your cousin, Lady Blanche, for instance."
 
 the earl's daughtee. 277 
 
 Adelaide coloured crimson. "Blanche!" she exclaimed; 
 
 " oh ! yes, Blanche is very tired, I believe." 
 
 " She looked so just now, when I saw her," continued Lord 
 Erlsmere. " But I will tell her, if you wish to see her before 
 you go ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, thank you ;" and Adelaide's manner became 
 even more impetuous. " I would not trouble her for the world. 
 Besides, she is with Miss Wentworth. It is better she should 
 be with her ; she will only be flurried." 
 
 " And you do not wish to see her ; to say good b've ?" said 
 Lord Erlsmere, with a Little curiosity to know why Blanche was 
 so little of a favourite. 
 
 " Thank you, I don't care ; it does not signify. They are 
 talking together there, I believe," and she pointed to a little 
 room which had been occupied by some of the attendants dur- 
 ing the evening ; " but I would not disturb her. Please let 
 me go to mamma," and, hurrying from the hall, she threaded 
 her way amidst the maze of guests, and through various rooms 
 and passages, till they reached the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 The little waiting-room, to which Eleanor and Blanche had 
 made their way, was quite deserted. It had been used merely 
 as a temporary convenience, whilst the refreshments were handed 
 about, and there was no fear of interruption in it. But, even 
 if there had been, Blanche was not in a state of mind to have 
 much thought except for the moment. "When the door was 
 seen to be open, and the room empty, she entered it as a place 
 of refuge and relief; and, regardless of Eleanor's warning that 
 the room was cold, and that it was not fitting for her to remain, 
 exclaimed, " Now, Eleanor, let me hear." 
 
 " It is too late," said Eleanor, moodily. " Yours is but a 
 mockery of sympathy." 
 
 " Pity — ha've pity," said Blanche, and she looked pleadingly 
 in Eleanor's face. 
 
 " I have nothing to tell," continued Eleanor ; " at least, 
 nothing but what you may well guess. All thing- are a- thej 
 were ; only, hastening to their end." 
 
 "And is there no hope ?" asked Blanche. "Has nothing
 
 278 the earl's daughter. 
 
 happened these two long, long days that you have kept away 
 from me ¥' 
 
 " You are unjust in your reproaches," said Eleanor. " What 
 comfort could my visit have been ? You have cast off sympa- 
 thy, and have destroyed the happiness of those as dear to me as 
 my own life." 
 
 " Yes, it may be, it may be," said Blanche, in an accent of 
 utter wretchedness. " I know you have a right to be angry ; 
 but I thought you would not go on being so." 
 
 " It will make but little difference to you, I imagine, whether 
 I do or not, " said Eleanor : " no one watching you this 
 evening " 
 
 " And are you too deceived V interrupted Blanche. " Then 
 indeed I can «ct well." 
 
 " There is no cause for acting," said Eleanor, bitterly. " Lady 
 Blanche Evelyn, beautiful, prosperous, wealthy, without a single 
 care, — nay do not stop me ; I am only repeating what I have 
 heard said by fifty persons this night." 
 
 " But you shall hear me for myself," exclaimed Blanche. 
 " Before you think me so cold, so heartless, you shall judge me 
 from my own lips." 
 
 " My own eyes will be the better judges," replied Eleanor. 
 " Laughter and talking and dancing; are sufficient indications of 
 the state of a person's mind." 
 
 " And it must be laughter and talking and dancing to the 
 end," said Blanche ; " the end," she repeated again, thought- 
 fully, " which may soon be here." Eleanor looked at her won- 
 deringly, and a feeling of returning love and tenderness stole 
 over her as she saw the sunken eye, and the pale cheek, now no 
 longer bright, and flushed with excitement ; but marked by the 
 undeniable sio-ns of « - reat mental suffering. " Do you think I could 
 be here to-night ?" said Blanche, "if I followed but my own will. 
 With so great a weight upon my mind, could it be my wish to 
 join in such a scene, even though it is in my own honour? But 
 you have thought for youi mother, Eleanor ; and I have 
 thought for my father. He is very unhappy — \ery anxious ; 
 God knows whether there is cause," she added ; her voice 
 becoming almost sepulchral ; " but I have felt to-night that 
 there might be." 
 
 " He is anxious for your health, I know," said Eleanor. 
 
 "Not for my health of body," replied Blanche ; " but there 
 is another fear. He thinks I am like — my mother." She 
 paused for a moment, and continued hurriedly : " He tries k
 
 the earl's daughter. 279 
 
 aide it ; but I have seen it. I saw it the other day — that da\ ." 
 and she gasped for breath, "when we were together. His very 
 eagerness to please me — I understand it, I know what it means; 
 and he shall please me ; I will be happy. If I am not" — her 
 voice grew faint — " he shall never have the misery of knowinw 
 it." 
 
 " Blanche," said Eleanor, in a tone of alarm, " you must not 
 let yourself be excited in this way ; it will do you a great deal 
 of harm. After all you may be fanciful." 
 
 " ^o, no," exclaimed Blanche, shuddering; and coming up 
 close to Eleanor, she added, in a tone of quiet despondency 
 which made Eleanor forget for the moment that they had ever 
 had a word of difference, "he told me so himself, yesterday. 
 He came to my room, and I was crying, and we talked toge- 
 ther, and I made him own it. Oh, Eleanor, he was so wretched 
 and so kind — so very, very kind." 
 
 Eleanor kissed her and whispered, " Dearest," and Blanche, 
 with the tone and manner of a weary child, laid her head upon 
 her shoulder, and said : " Let me be miserable with you ; with 
 him I must always seem happy." Several persons at that 
 moment passed the door, and some one was heard to inquire for 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's carriage. Blanche started up. " We 
 must not stay here," she said. " Only tell me that you forgive, 
 that you understand me." 
 
 " Yes, I will forgive ; that is, I will try to think you meant 
 rightly," said Eleanor, her own trial returning again to her 
 recollection. "But you cannot go on in this way, Blanche. 
 No mind could bear the constant effort." 
 
 Blanche smiled sweetly ; but very sadly. She stood for a 
 moment thinking silentlv, and then her thoughts were uttered 
 aloud, and she said abruptly, "Johnnie Foster is dead; did 
 they tell you of it ?" Eleanor looked at her with astonishment. 
 " Yes, he is dead," repeated Blanche, in the same dreamy tone, 
 "lie sent me a message ; we will go and see his mother 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Any one here?" inquired a servant, opening I lie door. He 
 drew back and apologized. lie was looking for Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey's maid. She was wanted particularly. "Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey is going then," said Eleanor. 
 
 "Yes, immediately," was the reply: "the carriage had 
 been ordered a lung time;" and the servant went away. 
 Eleanor sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. 
 Blanche walked up and down the room in great agitation.
 
 280 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Fool that I was !" exclaimed Eleanor. " T might have seen 
 the result from the bemnninjj." 
 
 "There is no result yet," said Blanche, in a voice quite 
 different from her usual tone. 
 
 Eleanor looked up sarcastically. " When a vessel is driven 
 against a rock, there can be but one end." 
 
 " How can you be sure ?" asked Blanche. 
 
 " IIow can I doubt, rather?" exclaimed Eleanor, with some- 
 thing 4 of indignation in her manner. " When Adelaide Chari- 
 ton takes Caroline Grey into her secrets, and hides them from 
 me ; and when Charles has come into the neighbourhood, 
 desperate and full of wild schemes ; it is mockery to ask 
 if I am sure. My poor, poor mother !" 
 
 " It must all be stopped, it must be prevented," exclaimed 
 Blanche. 
 
 And Eleanor answered, bitterly : " It could have been." 
 
 '• Lady Charlton ought to know, at least she ought to be put 
 on her guard," said Blanche. 
 
 " There is nothing to tell," replied Eleanor, coolly ; " except 
 the engagement. There we are both bound in honour to be 
 silent." 
 
 A pause ensued. Eleanor rose to go. " Stop," said Blanche, 
 detaining her. " I cannot see why you should be so miserable 
 to-night." 
 
 " Because I am sure there is mischief plotting, and I cannot 
 discover it. But it must come ; it is not my doing ; no, what- 
 ever happens, it is not mine. They never told me. Charles 
 never asked my advice. They have taken their own way, and 
 they must answer for it. Oh ! if they had never, never met ! — 
 if I had never sent a message, never encouraged them ! But I 
 did not think. I did not suppose what it could come to. My 
 poor mother !" 
 
 Blanche dared not speak. Every word which Eleanor 
 utterec 1 added to her own distress. " You will come and wish 
 them good b'ye, of course," continued Eleanor. The softness 
 of manner which had stolen over her whilst attempting to com- 
 fort Blanche's grief was now quite gone. 
 
 " I will wish papa good night and go to bed," said Blanche ; 
 " no one will miss me." 
 
 She looked extremely ill, and Eleanor offered to go with her. 
 " No, you will be wanted ; you had better find out Adelaide 
 — or Maude ; can't Maude help you ? she knows something." 
 
 " She knows they are idiots, and she thinks us hypocrites,"
 
 the earl's daughter. 281 
 
 said Eleanor ; " that is all. For your comfort she believes you 
 the worst of all." 
 
 "Me! — a hypocrite!" and Blanche was for the instant 
 roused from unhappiness to indignation. 
 
 " She has heard some servants' gossip, and thinks you are in 
 league with me to support Charles, and make him propose to 
 Adelaide," _>aid Eleanor ; " but you may bear that share of 
 blame, Blanche. It is little enough, and your conscience will 
 tell jou, you have not helped us." 
 
 This last sarcasm was the overflowing drop in poor Blanche's 
 cup of trial. She sat quite motionless, in a kind of stupor. 
 The sound of carriage wheels had been heard frequently during 
 the conversation. Music was still going on, but many of the 
 guests were departing. Lord Rutherford came along the 
 passage, and Eleanor heard him ask whether Lady Blanche's 
 maid was with her. " He thinks you are gone to your room," 
 said Eleanor ; " it is the best place for you." 
 
 Blanche did not answer. 
 
 " Perhaps you had better stay here for a few minutes," 
 pursued Eleanor, " and I will send your maid to you." 
 
 Still Blanche remained with her eyes fixed on vacancy, lean- 
 ing back in her chair, and her hands resting helplessly in her 
 lap. 
 
 Eleanor was a little frightened. She thought of what it 
 would be» best to do, and supposing Blanche was over- 
 fatigued, said, " I will go and find Barnes, and wish Adelaide 
 good b'ye, and then I will come back." 
 
 Blanche half smiled in acquiescence, and Eleanor was satisfied 
 and left her. 
 
 Several minutes went by, and Blanche continued in the same 
 confused state of wretchedness and exhaustion. She heard 
 people hurrying to and fro, and voices sounding now at a dis- 
 tance, and now quite near, and she was conscious of being 
 alone, where no one would think of finding her; where it 
 would be considered strange that she should be; yet she had 
 no inclination to move. At length the medley of sounds rather 
 died away, the music in the dancing-rooms ceased, and from the 
 frequent repetition of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's name, it was evident 
 that at length she was really going. Blanche had an impulse 
 to say good b'ye to her and to Adelaide; it seemed as if it 
 would be kind and civil ; and she had a thought — it could not 
 be called a hope, it was so vague — that she might do or say 
 come thing, or discover something which might help to comfort
 
 282 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Eleanor. But it was all dreamy and misty, and when she 
 stood up, her head swam, and her eyes were dim, and it was 
 an effort to her to make up her mind what she was to do. She 
 remained at the door debating with herself whether it would 
 not be better after all to go to bed. She had never felt so 
 ill and strange before, but there were persons talking in the 
 passage, and she had a dread of meeting any one, so she stood 
 still till they should be gone. They did not, however, seem in- 
 clined to go; they were talking rather eagerly, but in an under- 
 tone. They might be Adelaide and Miss Caroline Grey, for 
 Blanche caught a few words about a cloak, and mamma, and 
 looking in a little room, and then something else was said about 
 forgetfulness, and one of them — the voice was very like Ade- 
 laide's — observed, " It wont do to be forgetful now ; if one is 
 careless for the rest of one's life." " No," and there was a 
 laugh. " We must both have our presence of mind about us 
 certainly, to-day and to-morrow, and then," — "Yes, then," — 
 a sigh followed. 
 
 " Nay, you must not begin to sigh yet," was the rejoinder. 
 "There will be time enough fcr that when the mischief is done; 
 but really, I don't think there is the least cause for sighing." 
 
 Blanche went back into the waiting-room, for she felt that she 
 had better not hear more. Immediately afterwards Adelaide 
 and Caroline looked into the room, glanced round, without 
 seeing Blanche, who was behind the door, and seeing no trace 
 of the missing cloak were going away. 
 
 " Miss Adelaide Charlton's cloak to-night," said Caroline 
 Grey, in a half whisper. " Mrs. Charles Wentworth's on 
 Thursday. Fancy how absurd, and for mamma and Agnes to 
 be so very amiable, — to leave us just at the very moment we 
 wish to be left." 
 
 Blanche started, almost exclaimed, and stepped forward to 
 show herself ; but the rustling of her dress alarmed the two 
 friends, and they rushed away laughing nervously. Blanche 
 stood motionless ; disgust and fear struggling in her breast. 
 The next impulse was to follow Adelaide, and implore her to 
 give up her schemes. Excitement caused a momentary energy 
 both of body and mind, and she hurried through the passage 
 and entered the hall, which was empty. There she paused to 
 consider what was next to be done, for she heard Adelaide's 
 voice in an adjoining room, where several people were talking. 
 She sat down on a bench. 
 
 Eleanor came into the hall, and Blanche beckoned to her tc
 
 THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 283 
 
 >jme near, and said, " I think I know it all now. They have a 
 plan for to-morrow, or the day after, when Mrs. Cuthbert Grey 
 and Agnes will be out. Can that be possible ?" 
 
 Eleanor turned quite white. " How did you know it ? So 
 soon ' Yes, it may be. Oh ! Blanche ! Blanche !" 
 
 " I will stop it," said Blanche, in a hollow voice. 
 
 " How Z, 
 
 " I will see Adelaide." 
 
 " But she is gone." 
 
 " No, not gone : only going. — Hark !" 
 
 " Yes, she is there ; but there is not time ; and she is wilful 
 1 m yon d imagination." 
 
 " Then my aunt — " 
 
 '• Xo, no, we cannot ; indeed, we cannot betray them." 
 
 "Good b'ye," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, approaching the 
 hall. "The carriage is at the side entrance below, 1 think you 
 said." 
 
 " Yes," replied Lady Charlton, who was following behind 
 her : " it was more convenient for the luo-2:a^e. You will not 
 mind our passage'., I hope ; they are all well wanned." 
 
 They moved on, accompanied by Agnes and Caroline Grey, 
 and Adelaide. Two or three gentlemen were with them, but 
 not Lord Erlsmere. 
 
 " I must go with them," said Eleanor. " Will you come 
 too ?" 
 
 Blanche made a faint effort to move. 
 
 " No ; you had better remain," continued Eleanor, watching 
 her. 
 
 But Blanche stood up, and said, " I will speak to Adelaide." 
 
 " Xow ? Impossible." 
 
 " But I must — I must," repeated Blanche, vehemently. " If 
 she knows that I know, it must frighten her." 
 
 " Probably it might, if there had been time ; but it is too 
 late," and without waiting for Blanche's reply, Eleanor hastened 
 to follow Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 Blanche delayed for an instant to consider ; but the instant 
 seemed a year.' The voices and footsteps grew fainter along the 
 passages, and as they died away she became desperate, and 
 resolved to warn Adelaide at all hazards, rushed from the hall, 
 as fast as her failing strength would allow, towards the side 
 entrance. 
 
 She was met by Lord Erlsmere at the top of the stair. 
 which kd t,j the lower part of the house. " Lady Blanche I—
 
 281 THE EARL'S DAUUHTEK. 
 
 here alone ! I thought you were ill. I thought you had 
 retired long since," he exclaimed. 
 
 Blanche only shook her head, and, without an answer, would 
 have hurried on. The light of a lamp fell upon her features ; 
 their expression was wild and ghastly, and Lord Erlsmere, 
 putting himself before her, said, " Excuse me ; something very 
 much is the matter : you are ill." 
 
 "111? yes, very," and Blanche tried to pass him, saying, 
 eagerly, " They will be gone ; I must see them : will no one 
 til them to stop?" 
 
 " Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's party, you mean," said Lord Erlsmere, 
 looking at her steadilv. 
 
 " Yes, Adelaide ; I must see her ; I must go to her." 
 
 " But not by yourself, in the cold. Pray, wrap a shawl round 
 you, or let me take a message." 
 
 "No; I must go myself— no one but myself," exclaimed 
 1 '.lanche, more agitated than before. " There is not a moment 
 to lose." 
 
 She was growing very faint, and Lord Erlsmere saw that 
 her steps tottered. " You must take my ai m," he said, and 
 Blanche did as she was told, for she could scarcely stand 
 alone. 
 
 "Come, come," she said, and she tried to draw him forward; 
 and, as she spoke, Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's warning flashed upon 
 his mind with horror. They reached the foot of the stairs ; 
 a cold draught rushed along the passage from the side 
 entrance. 
 
 "This is death to you," exclaimed Lord Erlsmere ; but 
 Blanche laughed faintly, and said in a strange voice, 
 
 " Did you hear them ? they are there ; they are not gone." 
 
 Lord Erlsmere stopped at an open door. " This way," he 
 said ; " this is the best way," and Blanche mechanically fol- 
 lowed him, and entered a small room. 
 
 " You must wait here," said Lord Erlsmere, assuming a tone 
 of authority. " I will not take you into the night air." 
 
 Blanche sank upon a chair, and clasping her hands, exclaimed 
 — " Fetch her ; fetch Adelaide. Beg her to come. God grant 
 she may listen." 
 
 Lord Erlsmere paused, irresolutely. " If you would be calm," 
 he began, gravely ; " and could tell me your message." 
 
 " Bring her to me, — only let me speak to her ; only bring 
 her. Have you no mercy ?" 
 
 Lord Erlsmere moved slowly to the door ; opened it and
 
 the earl's daughter. 285 
 
 listened. There was a confused sound of voices ; then a 
 momentary lull, and then the quick rattle of carnage wheels. 
 " They are gone," said Lord Erlsmere, quietly, and in a tone 
 
 of relief. 
 
 A fearful change passed over Blanche's face, and as blood 
 gushed from her mouth, she sank down apparently lifeless. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Two days after the ball ! It was growing dusk ; the bell 
 had been rung for candles in the drawing-room. Lady Charlton 
 ranf, not for herself, but for Sir Hugh. She was with him 
 alone. All the visitors were gone. Maude was sitting in 
 Blanche's room, whilst Lord Rutherford was trying to sleep. 
 Oik mi«"ht have heard every footstep in the house, as the ser- 
 vants moved cautiously through the long passages ; their slow 
 tread in the distance, the one only sound disturbing the general 
 stillness. It was very oppressive — very deathlike; and when 
 the footman brought a small lamp, only just sufficient for Sir 
 Hugh at his table, no fault was found. The dim light at the 
 extremity of the large drawing-room seemed all that could be 
 needed that evening. 
 
 " Dr. Lawson gone ?" inquired Sir Hugh, looking up. 
 
 " Yes ; a quarter of an hour ago. She has been asleep since." 
 
 " Asleep, has she ? she will do very well then. She will get 
 over it. I always thought so. These sudden attacks are just 
 like what I used to have when I was a boy. Much more dan- 
 gerous indeed mine were. I used to lie for hours " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I remember," began Lady Charlton. 
 
 " No, my dear, begging your pardon, you can't remember, 
 for you did not know me. I was going to tell you about them." 
 
 "You had better not move to your own room before dinner, Sir 
 Hugh," interrupted Lady Charlton. "Let Pearson settle you here, 
 though, certainly, this room is dreadfully cold. I shall go up 
 stairs, and see'how things are going on there. You wanted to 
 read this, didn't you ?" she added, opening a book with uncut 
 leaves. 
 
 Sir Hugh s.i/.rd it eagerly : " The very thing ! Whore did 
 it come from V 
 
 "Mr. Johnstone sent it yesterday by the fly which took Miss 
 Wentworth away."
 
 280 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, to be sure. Johnstone and I were to ha\e bad a 
 discussion upon it ; and Rutherford too. Poor fellow ! Well, 
 1 suppose we must wait ; but she will get over it ; there is no 
 question about it. She is not half as ill as I was ; and I don't 
 see myself why every one should have left us in such a hurry, 
 Miss Wentworth especially. A very fine girl she is ; she looked 
 beautiful the other night." 
 
 " Miss Wentworth went of her own accord," said Lady 
 Charlton ; muttering in an undertone, as she walked away, 
 " the only symptom of good taste I have seen in her." 
 
 Sir Hugh finding himself without a listener, betook himself 
 to his book, and soon afterwards, being persuaded by the dis- 
 creet Pearson that the library was the best place for him en 
 such a cold evening, retired, and left the drawing-room fire for 
 his wife whenever she chose to return to it. 
 
 Lady Charlton walked up-stairs quietly, moved quickly along 
 the gallery, opened the door of Blanche's room noiselessly, but 
 still with energy ; and looking around her as she entered, saw 
 at one glance all that had been done, or was wanting to be done. 
 It was little enough, but it was sufficient to occupy her for 
 several minutes in giving whispered orders to the maid, and 
 mute suggestions to Maude : and then she went and stood by 
 the bedside, and looked upon Blanche's pallid face, now calmed 
 by the half-repose of exhaustion. She was not a person in 
 general to show much feeling ; sometimes, it was said that she 
 had none ; but this was an injustice. Perhaps the most unself- 
 ish of all her affections was that which centred in her niece, 
 and no one could have seen Blanche then, and thought of the 
 intensity of happiness or misery that depended upon her life, 
 without deep emotion. 
 
 Whilst Lady Charlton was still in the room, Lord Rutherford 
 came in, and stood by her. Tears had stolen down her cheek, 
 almost unconsciously, before ; but now she took her handker- 
 chief and turned her face to the light, and whispered with a 
 look of sympathy, "Poor child ! we must be thankful she can 
 sleep Maude tells me she has been very quiet for the last 
 hour." 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Rutherford, shortly ; and he moved away 
 without even going to look at Blanche, and sat down in an arm 
 chair by the fire. 
 
 Maude left her seat, and pointed to her mother to occupy it ; 
 but Lady Charlton could not sit and watch, except at night, 
 when she was exerting herself to do what no one else was equal
 
 THE EARL 8 DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 to. Her tears were gone now, and she was, as before, full 
 of business, obliged to go and see about a hundred things ; and 
 after another compassionate glance at Blanche, she whispered to 
 Maude to let the maid take her place when she came down 
 to dinner, and departed. 
 
 Lord Rutherford and Maude were fit company for each other. 
 They had .jao wish for sympathy. It might be that each 
 felt there were depths of suffering which no comfort, no comfort 
 at le^st which they knew, coulu reach. Into the causes of a 
 father's grief there is no need to search. They who have loved 
 as Lord Rutherford loved — who have staked their last hope of 
 happiness upon an earthly idol, and feel that they may t>e about 
 to lose it, can alone tell the anguish of that awful suspense 
 between life and death which language may not venture to 
 describe. 
 
 But Maude had no life-long interests at stake. "Whether 
 Blanche lived or died, she had yet home, youth, talents, friends, 
 and many of the allurements of the world, to brighten her 
 prospect of the future. Yet there were feelings, selfish, perhaps, 
 in some respects, but bitter and uncontrollable, which made the 
 weary hours of that evening so desolate, that Maude would 
 almost have been contented to exchange them for the earl's keen 
 sorrow. 
 
 There is excitement in some griefs ; we struggle with them 
 manfully ; -the world's sympathy is with us ; and we either 
 conquer or die. There is hopeless monotony in others, and we 
 bear them day after day, beneath a calm exterior ; and years of 
 endurance go by, and they are buried with us in our graves, and 
 none guess the secret of their existence. 
 
 Maude had never experienced a bitter grief; her natural 
 temperament was not open to it. She had never loved deeply, 
 for she was slow to excite, and cautious, and criticising even 
 when excited. There was within her a capacity of strong affec- 
 tion, but it had never been called forth. She did not think 
 now that Blanche was going to die, but if she had thought so. 
 it would scarcely have made her more desolate, for hers was the 
 desolation of the mind as well as of the heart; the feverish, 
 parched dryness and barrenness of a spirit, which is for ever 
 longing to rest upon some oasis of beauty and truth in the 
 desert of life, and when it thinks that it has found the object of 
 its desires, discovers that it has trusted to delusion, Maud.' had 
 often been disappointed before she knew Blanche. She had 
 often imagined perfection, and found imperfection ; imagined 
 13
 
 288 the earl's daughter. 
 
 truth, and discovered falsehood : and she had said to herself 
 that she would never trust again, yet she had trusted — uncon- 
 sciously ; she had watched the light of Blanche's example, until 
 something of clearness had spread itself over the darkness of 
 her own mind ; and the path of duty, and the way of truth, 
 had opened themselves, though indistinctly, before her. But it 
 was all dim now, all gloomy and doubtful as before. The light 
 had been extinguished, for the thought of Blanche was mixed 
 up with schemes and deceptions, irresolution and inconsistency ; 
 and Maude could better have borne a great offence, than a 
 weakness which diminished her reverence. 
 
 What Eleanor, and Adelaide, and Mr. Wentworth might be 
 doing or planning, she scarcely considered except as she believed 
 them to be associated with Blanche. It was for her that she 
 had been anxious and suspicious, and it was for her that she 
 now grieved, as over one who had consented to take part in con- 
 duct unworthy of her education and her principles. The occur- 
 rences of the last few days, Blanche's wretchedness and disquie- 
 tude, her uneasiness respecting the disposal of the living, and 
 the reserve she had strictly maintained as to the cause of her 
 distress afterwards ; had convinced Maude that, in some way — 
 how she did not know, and could not inquire — Blanche had, 
 notwithstanding the warning given her, fallen into the snare pre- 
 pared for her, and was pledged to exert her influence in Mr. 
 Wentworth's favour. More than this she did not guess, but it 
 was sufficient to make her feel that her trust in Blanche's stabi- 
 lity of character was at an end ; and to throw her back upon 
 her own desponding doubts, whether any real firmness and 
 goodness were to be found on earth : and now she. sat by the 
 fire, in the dusky twilight, thinking of Blanche, and knowing that 
 she was very ill, and that even if she recovered this present 
 attack, its consequences might eventually be fatal, yet not able 
 to rouse herself to any feeling but that of gloomy depression at 
 her own dreariness of heart. 
 
 It was a time when a person of a different character might 
 have been roused to exertion, in the hope of putting a stop to 
 nnything amiss as regarded Adelaide ; but Maude was a 
 theorist. From the height of her philosophy she looked down 
 upon Adelaide and Eleanor with contempt ; and, if occasion 
 required, she could have discoursed eloquently upon the indulged 
 faults which led to the conduct she condemned; but it was not 
 in her way to interfere with what she called other people's 
 affairs, unless, as in the case of Blanche, urged by some peculiar
 
 the earl's daughter. 289 
 
 personal interest. Silly persons would be silly, she knew, in spite 
 of all she could say or do, and it was one of her favourite, com- 
 forting sayings, that the world must go its own way, and she 
 must go hers; and in this spirit of iudifferentism, she abstained 
 from inquiring minutely into what was passing about her; con- 
 tented with knowing that it was folly, and therefore beneath her 
 notice. Bu> we cannot thus cut ourselves off from our fellow- 
 creatures ; the members of one family especialhy, cannot do so. 
 By th^e inevitable decree of Providence, the sin of one will be felt 
 in its punishment by the others ; and woe be to us, if, whilst evil 
 is working around us, we passively fold our hands and close our 
 eyes, and say, it does not concern us. 
 
 There w T as one fact, however, which gave Maude groat relief — 
 Eleanor Wentworth was gone. She had left Senilhurst to 
 return to Mr. Johnstone's, the previous day, upon the pretext of 
 fearing to be in the way when every one was so anxious about 
 Blanche. Maude smiled to herself at the apparent coldness of 
 heart which could allow her to go at such a moment ; but she 
 was only too well pleased to be saved from the annoyance of her 
 presence ; and -poor Eleanor departed with a weight upon her 
 heart, which Maude, proud and unsympathizing though she was, 
 could scarcely have forborne to pity, if she had known it. 
 
 Lord Rutherford and Maude sat together for nearly half an 
 hour without speaking or moving. Then Blanche roused herself 
 and seemed-a little refreshed ; but it was an effort to her to say 
 anvthing. Maude took out her watch and pointed to the hour- 
 hand, and observed to Lord Rutherford that it was dinner-time. 
 
 " Is it ?" was the answer. 
 
 " Yes ; I will send Barnes to take our place." She waited for 
 him to assent, but he did not seem to hear her, and she could 
 not speak to him again. There was something in hi- face which 
 repelled her. Maude looked round to see that everything was 
 comfortable; she was a good nurse; continued ill health had 
 taught her what illness requires; but perhaps she was a little. 
 fidgety; at least Lord Rutherford seemed to think so, for his eye 
 followed her impatiently, as she went about the room. 
 
 "Then Barries will come," she ventured to say, as slt6 was 
 going away. 
 
 "I will send for her when I want her," was his reply; he 
 followed her to the door, closed it behind her, and returned to 
 stand by Blanche's bed. Their eyes met, but his wen- turned 
 away in an instant; she was lying uncomfortably, and he raised 
 her, and placed her pillow ind smoothed the coverlid,
 
 290 the earl's daughter. 
 
 and moved the lamp ; and afterwards poured out her medicine 
 slowly, lingering over the action, and doing everything with a 
 curious precision. When it was all finished, he brought his 
 chair near to sit down, but that was a great effort, and he could 
 not bear it ; and leaning his head against the side of the bed, 
 he cried. 
 
 Barnes looked into the room to know if he was coming down 
 to dinner. 
 
 " No," he answered, at first ; but Blanche made a little move- 
 ment with her hand, as if begging him to go. He stooped 
 down and kissed her, and said he would rather not, he was better 
 with her. 
 
 But she whispered, " Please," and her soft eyes were fixed on 
 him entreatingly ; and submissively, without another word, he 
 went down-stairs. 
 
 They were but a small gloomy party in the large dining- 
 room ; Sir Hugh prosed, and Lady Charlton found fault ; and 
 Maude wrapped a shawl round her, and complained bitterly of 
 the cold ; and the solemn men-servants moved round and round 
 the table, offering dishes which scarcely any one, but Sir Hugh, 
 tasted. Lord Rutherford ate nothing, though he took care to 
 place enough on his plate to avoid the notice of Sir Hugh, who 
 not only made a point of eating a good dinner himself, but con- 
 sidered it incumbent on his guests, as a matter of civility, to do 
 the same. 
 
 " I am glad to hear your patient is improving," he said to 
 Lord Rutherford, as the interval between the first and second 
 courses allowed him to turn his attention to something besides 
 fish and soup. " I have no doubt myself that it will all come 
 right, and I have had a good deal of experience in such matters. 
 The fact is, young people will be imprudent. We ought to 
 have shut her up the night of the party." 
 
 " I uiged it," said Lady Charlton, with some bitterness, " but 
 no one would listen to me. Some people are destined to be 
 Cassandra*." 
 
 " Blanche came down stairs because she was told she might," 
 said Lord Rutherford. The tone made even Sir Hugh feel that 
 the subject had better be dropped. He turned to another part 
 of the same topic — to introduce a new one was not easy. 
 
 He had been trying, he said, to reckon the numbers of the 
 party exactly; but he was puzzled. Lady Charlton had for- 
 gotten to give him the answers to the invitations. Would Lord 
 Rutherford help him to recollect?
 
 the earl's daughter. 291 
 
 The earl groaned audibly ; and Maude came to his relief ana 
 mud, " They might make a list after dinner." 
 
 "We were one gentleman short," said Sir Hugh; "it was 
 very provoking. I meant to have had a secret — a surprise ; 
 nothing so pleasant, on these occasions, as a surprise." 
 
 Lady Charlton drew herself up, and her eyes sparkled ; hut 
 she managed to say very gently, that she was not fond of 
 secrets in general, and she supposed this could not be a very 
 important one. 
 
 " Why not ? — my dear ? — why not ? — why am I not to have 
 important secrets ; or rather, who has ever had so many as 
 myself? When the late premier — he was my great friend — 
 you remember," added Sir Hugh, appealing to Lord Ruther- 
 ford ; " when the late premier came" — a dish was placed before 
 Sir Hugh — and the late premier was deferred for the moment 
 
 " We shall hear from Adelaide to-morrow, I suppose," said 
 Lady Charlton, hoping to get the conversation, if such it could 
 be called, into her own hands. " I shall be glad to hear what 
 she is doing at Oakfield. A first visit is always rather a trial.' 1 
 
 " They must make up a very pleasant society at Oakfield," 
 observed Sir Hugh. "I don't know anywhere a nx ire agree- 
 able, sensible woman, than Mrs. Cuthbert Grey ; and very fine 
 girls her daughters are. They, and their neighbours the John- 
 stones, and Mr. Wentworth" — he paused and looked round him 
 significantly. 
 
 " Miss Wentworth, you mean," said Maude. 
 
 " No, my dear, excuse me ; I know my own words — Mr. 
 Wentworth. Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, 
 and Miss and Mr. Wentworth will form a very agreeable 
 society." 
 
 Maude involuntarily glanced at her mother. Lady Charl- 
 ton's lips turned very white. She poured out a glass of water, 
 and drank it quickly. No one spoke for some moments. 
 
 Then Lady Charlton said slowly, " You did not think it 
 necessary to tell me that Mr. Wentworth was to be in the 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 " No, my dear ; no certainly, Frances, my love," began Sir 
 Hugh, in a frightened tone, and his eyes glanced up and down 
 quickly from his plate to his wife's face. "A little secret — 
 nothing but a little secret — every one likes a little secret. 
 Johnstone told me the other day, that young Wentworth was 
 coming, before very long, to fetch his sister home; and I gave, 
 l'iUi — that is, I said if ho happened — if he should just chance
 
 292 the earl's daughter. 
 
 to arrive before the 29th, he was to send him over. A )oung 
 man is always an acquisition— always welcome on such occa- 
 sions. In fact," and growing bolder as he went on, his tone 
 became rather that of defiance, "in fact, it was my wish — I 
 thought it a compliment due ; old friends you know, and his 
 sister here, and in fact — in fact ; but he did not come, my dear, 
 So there is no harm done." 
 
 " It is not a matter of much consequence, I suppose," said 
 Lord Rutherford, drily, and not raising his eyes to see the 
 expression of the different faces. In that he was very unlike 
 Lady Charlton. She could see in all directions, one might 
 almost say, at once. Now, she saw opposite to her the twink- 
 ling intelligent eyes of one of the servants ; the effect was that 
 she replied, with an air of nonchalance, " Of course not. The 
 coming or going of a young man like Mr. Went worth can be of 
 no consequence to any one." 
 
 It was provoking and humiliating to see the footman bite his 
 lips to suppress a smile. Lady Charlton could have found it in 
 her heart to order him out of the room. 
 
 " Hark ! there is a ring at the bell," said Lord Rutherford. 
 " It must be Dr. Lawson come again." He pushed aside his 
 plate, and, without the thought of an apology, hurried away. 
 
 " It is not Dr. Lawson," observed Maude. " He said he 
 should not be here till to-morrow." 
 
 '' Some parcel or message from Cobham, I suppose," remarked 
 Lady Charlton. " I wonder people can't find their way to the 
 side entrance." 
 
 " I 'ntend to make a fuss about it, my dear," said Sir Hugh. 
 " I* :s a great deal too bad— an infringement upon private 
 lights. I shad take some steps the very first opportunity. 
 You may depend upon it, my dear, it shall be prevented. Let 
 the Cobham people know," he added, speaking to the servant, 
 " that if they continue to come to the hall door, I will — I will — - 
 I vow I will see what can be done to prevent them." 
 
 " It was not from Cobham, Sir Hugh," said the footman, 
 respectfully, yet with a very meaning curl of the lip. " I heard 
 the horse come up the other road." 
 
 Lord Rutherford returned, hurried and disappointed. There 
 was no Dr. Lawson, but some message ; he did not know what. 
 He sat doAvn again at the table. A silence of expectation 
 followed. 
 
 "They aie a long time bringing the message," said Lady 
 Charlton. " Foster, go and see what is the reason."
 
 the earl's daugiitek. 203 
 
 Foster went to the door, and as he opened it received a not", 
 just come, brought from Oakfield. 
 
 " From Oaktield V said Lady Charlton, a little anxiously. 
 " So late ! Nothing amiss, I hope." 
 
 The note was taken to Maude. It was strange — generally 
 self-possessed as she was — her hand quite trembled when she 
 took it up^, 
 
 " To ask how Blanche is, I suppose," said Lady Charlton. 
 " I dare say they were anxious, and did not like to wait till 
 to-morrow." 
 
 The seal was broken. Lady Charlton looked at the envelope. 
 The feelings of a mother, usually so dormant within her, were 
 awakened by a vague foreboding. " That idle child ; how 
 badly she writes ! What does she say of herself, Maude !" 
 
 Maude looked up wildly. 
 
 " What does she say of herself, Maude ? What is it ?" 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 Lady Charlton caught the note from her daughter's hand. 
 
 Maude started. " Mamma, pray wait one moment." 
 
 It was too. late. Lady Charlton's eye had fallen upon the 
 signature — Adelaide Wentworth, and she sank back almost 
 unconscious. 
 
 Maude tossed the note to Sir Hugh, motioned the servants 
 from the room, and turning to Lord Rutherford, said, as she 
 went to her mother's assistance, " She is married ! She is 
 Adelaide Wentworth ! God forgive her !" 
 
 Sir Hugh held the note in his hand, vainly trying to read it. 
 "Adelaide what, my dear? Adelaide who? What is the 
 matter ? What has happened ?" 
 
 " Let me go to him," said Maude to Lord Rutherford, giving 
 a glass of water into his hand. " Mamma will be better in a 
 minute. It is a note from Adelaide, sir," she said, speaking to 
 Sir Hugh ; " she has been doing extremely wrong. She ought 
 to be ashamed of herself." 
 
 "But what has she been doing? What does she mean I 
 Why does she call herself Adelaide Wentworth ? Read the 
 note : let me* hear it." 
 
 " It is very short, and I can't make it all out," replied Maude, 
 muttering to herself. " She thinks I shall help her. [ntense, 
 jnutterable folly! The note is not worth reading," she said 
 aloud ; " but she is married, sir— that is what it is ; married to 
 Mr. Wentworth. She is Mrs. Wentworth." 
 
 Sir Iluo-h cau'dit up the note again, raised himself with dilh
 
 29 4 the earl's daughter. 
 
 culty from his chair, drew the lamp towards him, and begar, 
 stumbling through it : — 
 
 o o 
 
 " My dear Maude, — I write in immense haste. You will be 
 shocked of course ; but there was nothing else to be done, and 
 no good in delay. You will break it to mamma. Papa, I hope 
 and believe, will feel with me. You must try and understand 
 this, for we trust to you to help us. We were married this 
 morning, and are just starting for London. Make mamma for 
 give me, or I shall be miserable. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 " Adelaide Wentworth." 
 
 Sii Hugh threw the note from him, with a fearful exclama 
 tion of anger. " Feel with them ! I feel with them ! Runa- 
 ways ! outcasts ! Young Wentworth ! Scoundrel ! They shall 
 never darken these doors — never ! They shall never have a 
 farthing from me. Write to them, Maude, and tell them. I 
 feel with them, indeed ! I vow your mother was right. Impu- 
 dent scamp ! my son-in-law ! marry my daughter ! marry into 
 our family ! and that woman ! that Mrs. Cuthbert Grey !" 
 
 Maude had returned to her mother, who was slowly recover- 
 ing ; but as she heard the last words, she picked up the note 
 from the floor, and showing the postscript, said, " Mrs. Cuthbert 
 Grey is not to blame ; that is her writing. ' I cannot attempt 
 to comfort or excuse now : only believe that it was entirely with- 
 out my knowledge. — A. G.' I believe that," continued Maude, 
 speaking to Lord Rutherford. "For example's sake she would 
 have beer, ashamed ; but some one must have known it." 
 
 ' The pleasant details will come to-morrow," replied the earl. 
 " It is a perfect mystery to me ; I can't believe it !" 
 
 " Poor mamma can't believe it either," said Maude, as Lady 
 Charlton opened her eyes, and looked round her inquiringly. 
 
 Sir liugh managed to hobble to the other side of the table. 
 "Take her to bed," he said, almost tenderly. "There is no 
 place like bed ; let her go to sleep. Poor thing ! poor thing ! 
 It is a horrid blow — most unexpected. Ring for some one, 
 Maude, to help her up-stairs ;" adding, as he bent down and 
 actually kissed her, "we will talk of it to-morrow, my dear; but 
 you had better go to bed. I shall write to them, and tell them 
 they need not expect anything from me." 
 
 " Yes ; my own room. Let me go, Maude," said Lady 
 Charlton, faintly ; and, whilst the bitterness of returning recol-
 
 the earl's daughter. 205 
 
 lection rushed upon her as a flood, yet striving to keep up a 
 proud composure. " Only let me never hear her name again ; 
 she has disgraced it." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 A sad and trying week went by at Senilhurst. Every one 
 knows that the first moment of a great shock is not the worst ; 
 and the blow inflicted by Adelaide Charlton's marriage was no 
 exception to the rule. It was not indeed one of those events 
 which could be justly called a misfortune, by persons who 
 regarded it in a worldly point of view. Mr. W.entworth was a 
 gentleman by birth and education, and if he had no money 
 himself, Sir Hugh was quite rich enough to assist him. He 
 was also a person of unstained reputation, and, except in this 
 one act of his marriage, of supposed high principle. Adelaide 
 mifht undoubtedly have done worse. After all her levity and 
 flirting she might consider herself fortunate in not having been 
 led into a much more undesirable engagement. This was what 
 the world said ; and, in consequence, it gave Lady Charlton but 
 a small portion of commiseration. But Lady Charlton herself 
 did not view the subject in the same light. Her pride was 
 wounded ; .and not in one point only. Family and fortune were 
 inestimable advantages in the eyes of the world, and for them 
 she would have sacrificed her daughter's happiness, and thought 
 she was but consulting her best interests. But character, pro- 
 priety — that indescribable delicacy and dignity which act as a 
 shield from public remark — were scarcely less precious because 
 they were valued by those whose good opinion she was always 
 seeking — the wise and good. It was their censure which Lady 
 Charlton had dreaded when Adelaide flirted, and it was their 
 censure which she feared now. A daughter's fault must in a 
 measure recoil upon the mother who has had the charge of her 
 education ; and bitterly now did she repent the carelessness 
 and blindness' which had induced her to bring Adelaide wry 
 early into society, and give her almost unchecked freedom of 
 thought and action. But it was for herself that Lady Charlton 
 repented, not for her daughter. It was for the loss of her own 
 position — her character as an excellent adviser, and a sensible 
 guardian and friend. No one would henceforth appeal to her 
 as a person whose cleverness, and judgment, and experience
 
 290 THE EARL'S DAJGH1ER. 
 
 gave value to her opinion upon education. One who had 
 evidently made some great mistake in the training of her own 
 child could not be competent to counsel others. Lady Charlton 
 felt lowered. That is a feeling hard to bear — insupportable, 
 except when we can carry it in humility to our Maker, and own 
 it as our just meed and punishment. Lady Charlton could not 
 do this. She struggled against it, and resolved to conquer it. 
 No one should say that deception and imprudence, and the 
 absence of womanly dignity, were sanctioned by Lady Charlton. 
 As Adelaide's conduct was the subject of general remark, so 
 also should be her mother's displeasure. Mr. and Mrs. Charles 
 Wentworth might go their own way, and follow their own 
 course ; but they should not be admitted at Senilhurst. And 
 Lady Charlton, as she made the determination, smiled scornfully, 
 in the conscious stateliness of virtuous indignation. 
 
 The worst was over then ; since, for once, almost the first 
 time since their marriage, Sir Hugh and herself were agreed. 
 
 Both Adelaide and Charles had made a great mistake in 
 supposing that Sir Hugh would support their cause against all 
 opposition, if once thev were married. Sir Hugh was a vain 
 man ; vain persons will do anything to assist those who choose 
 to consult and flatter them, but they will almost infallibly turn 
 against those who choose to act without them. Sir Hugh's 
 vanity was as much piqued by Mr. Wentworth's neglect as Lady 
 Charlton's pride was by Adelaide's imprudence, and the morti- 
 fication found its solace in the same revenge. 
 
 A short note was sent to Adelaide, telling her that since she 
 had chosen a companion for life, for herself, she must, for the 
 future, look to him, and to him alone ; as her parents did not 
 feel it consistent with their sense of right to sanction her con- 
 duct by receiving her at Senilhurst; and then, Sir Hugh and 
 Lady Charlton felt themselves at liberty to announce their sen- 
 timents publicly, and hold themselves up to admiration, as 
 martyrs to the cause of filial obedience and propriety. 
 
 All this appeared very inconsistent to Maude ; and was of 
 very little consequence to Lord Rutherford. In the eyes of 
 Maude, Adelaide's foolish marriage was but the natural end of 
 her previous foolish conduct. After the first moment, she 
 almost wondered at herself for being startled at it. It was 
 extremely wrong ; disobedient and selfish ; but, to her own know- 
 ledge, Adelaide had never been taught to be anything else. 
 Her principles were the principles of the world ; and Maud A, 
 keen-sighted and cool-judging, had long since discovered thai •
 
 THE earl's daughter. 297 
 
 was in these they had both been nurtured from infancy. Lady 
 Charlton might talk, and seemingly act religiously ; she might 
 praise daily services, give money to build churches, teach in 
 parish schools, cultivate the acquaintance of men distinguished 
 tor learning and piety ; but the stamp of the world was 
 upon all. 
 
 Lady Charlton liked popularity ; Adelaide liked admiration. 
 Lady Charlton talked gravely, and believed she should be 
 thought serious-minded ; and Adelaide laughed and chattered, 
 ancf supposed she should be considered clever. Lady Charlton 
 put a cross upon her prayer-book, because it was the fashion ; 
 Adelaide put an ornament upon her dress from the same mo- 
 tive. Lady Charlton went to church ; Adelaide went to balls. 
 Lady Charlton liked the occupation, and the attendant excite- 
 ments, and the food for conversation, and the consciousness of 
 being noticed ; Adelaide liked the same. 
 
 AYhere was the difference between them ? Maude could not 
 see it. She thought her mother harsh, and she said so ; and, 
 in return, received a lecture upon female decorum, which, to a 
 person whose offences were entirely on the side of stiffness, 
 coldness, and fastidious reserve, became almost an absurdity. 
 
 A gulf, wider than ever, was opened between Maude and her 
 parents ; and, unhappily, the subject of difference could not be 
 avoided. It was brought forward daily, by letters, visits, and 
 suggestions, and all that marvellous want of taste which neigh- 
 bours and acquaintances so often show in their strained efforts 
 to be sympathetic. 
 
 "The pleasant details of the marriage," as Lord Rutherford 
 had termed them, came in due time ; certainly exculpating 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey from any share in the plan, but throwing 
 great blame upon one of her daughters. It was Miss Caroline 
 Grey, who had entered into the scheme aud furthered it; and 
 had actually been present at the marriage. Of course her mo- 
 ther was duly shocked and distressed; but no regret could undo 
 the past. The intimacy oetween the two families must inevitably 
 be stopped for the future ; and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's excuses and 
 I'vologies were received and dismissed coldly, and with an 
 >penly avowed satisfaction on the part of Lady I Jharlton, as sin; 
 spoke to Maude of the obstacle; which would, in consequence, 
 be interposed to the designs upon Lord Erlsmere, with whom 
 Mrs. Cuthbert Grey had no acquaintance except through their 
 meetings at Senilhurst 
 
 .Maude could not enter into such feelings ; they were, to her,
 
 298 the earl's daughter. 
 
 petty and unbecoming. She did not look at them deeply, as ?. 
 person of high religious principle would have done ; but she 
 was disgusted. She longed to bury the subject for ever in obli- 
 vion. She heard that it was proposed for Mr. Wentworth, if 
 possible, to enter the army, and she hoped he might be ordered 
 abroad. That was what, in her heart, she most desired. Any- 
 thing to remove them from her mother's thoughts ; to prevent 
 the constant, exasperating recurrence to the same unhappy 
 topic. As regarded Adelaide, they had never been sisters in 
 more than name ; and Maude could not feign a regret at her 
 loss, which she had no reason to feel. 
 
 Yet Senilhurst was very changed. Something was gone 
 from it ; not money, not rank, not any external advantage : but 
 the life, the spring and motive of excitement, were absent. 
 Adelaide had been an excuse for visits, parties, amusements ; 
 and though Maude professed not to like these things, she had 
 been so long accustomed to them that she did not know how to 
 do without them. She looked hopelessly round for some object, 
 something to do or to care for, or at least to think of. Accom- 
 plishments and study were left her, and Maude had once 
 boasted that with these she could never find existence weari- 
 some. But they were not sufficient now. There was nothing 
 soothing and satisfying in them. She rniodit read, but to what 
 purpose ? — she might study, but where was the benefit, if read- 
 ing and thought did but send her forth on a journey of intri- 
 cate speculations, and distracting difficulties ? Maude leaned 
 upon her own mind, and it failed her. 
 
 That was the state of the outward world at Senilhurst, sharp, 
 irritated, and gloomy. There was another, an interior world, 
 which none saw, save those who watched in the sick room, 
 where day by day, and hour by hour, the changes and flicker- 
 ings of disease brought hope or despair to the heart of the Earl 
 of Rutherford. There is, perhaps, no self-deception so universal 
 as that which is discovered in our anxiety for those we love. 
 If Lord Rutherford's case had been another's he would have 
 been the first to discover all that he had to fear. But he was a 
 father, watching over his only child, and who shall blame l.im, 
 if as he saw Blanche partially regaining her strength, able 10 
 eat, able to be moved, able occasionally to converse, he flattered 
 himself with the belief, that the illness was like many other ill- 
 nesses, dangerous for the time, and requiring care ; but giving 
 no definite reason to doubt that she would, when the wintol 
 was over, regain her former health.
 
 the earl's daughter. 209 
 
 " Your cough is better, my love, to-day," he said, as he came 
 to see Blanche when she was dressed, and sitting up for a few 
 hours in her own room. "Barnes tells me that it has not been 
 half as frequent as it was." 
 
 " I have scarcely coughed at all this morning," replied 
 Blanche ; " and I was only really disturbed by it once in the 
 night ; and then I think it was because the wind changed." 
 
 " But you have not eaten anything," said the earl, observing 
 her untasted dinner placed on a tray near her. 
 
 '"1 have no fancy for anything just now. This being kept to 
 one room takes away one's appetite ; but I shall be better when 
 I go out." 
 
 " Yes, of course. "We must get you out the very first day 
 ive can, and then you will improve rapidly." 
 
 " Were there any letters to-day ?" inquired Blanche, wishing 
 to change the subject. 
 
 " One or two from Rutherford upon business." 
 
 " But any for me ?" 
 
 Lord Rutherford hesitated a little. " Yes — no — there may 
 have been. But, my love, if there should be, you know we 
 agreed that you were not to trouble yourself about them." 
 
 " But I should like it, if I might. It would be an amuse- 
 ment to me," she was going to say, but she stopped ; — the 
 dread of something unpleasant which the post might bring cam.; 
 over her. She had been so ill, — utterly weak and helpless, 
 that she had scarcely remembered anything until within the 
 last few days; and even now, when she could try to recollect, 
 it was difficult to bring her anxieties into a definite form. The 
 last hour of excitement on the ball-night had left only indistinct 
 memories of ligl ts, and music, and crowds of people, and of an 
 under-current of great physical and mental suffering to herself, 
 and there was no one whom she could ask to make it clearer 
 for her. Eleanor, she knew, was gone, and there had been no 
 Idler from her; only inquiries for herself through the John- 
 stones. And there was also a rumour that Eleanor had 
 returned to Rutherford, but how, or when, or why, no one 
 Mould say. She was always entreated not to talk, and warned 
 ihat her ultimate recovery depended upon her being kept per- 
 fectly quiet, but they who said this little thought how much 
 worry of mind they were causing. " I am realty much better 
 to-day, dear papa," she continued, looking up at him with a 
 smile", which it was almost impossible to resisl ; "and I should
 
 300 the earl's daughter. 
 
 very much like to have my letters, if there are any. Did yot 
 say there were ?" 
 
 " I think and I believe there may be. But, my love, 1 
 should be pleased if you would wait. I am sure it would be 
 better, unless you were anxious — there is nothing you care par 
 ticularly to hear of, is there ?" 
 
 " I have been wishing very much to hear from Eleanor. If 
 there was a letter from her I should be glad to have it." Iler 
 cheek flushed a little as she spoke ; and the earl looked at her 
 uneasily, and remarked that even the thought of the letters had 
 done her harm, and he was sure she was much better without 
 them. Blanche tried very hard to acquiesce willingly. She 
 said if he wished it, she would not ask ; she would wait till the 
 next day ; but a tear glistened in her eye, though she was 
 ashamed of being so childishly weak. Lord Rutherford offered 
 to read. He had not read the Psalms for the day to her ; and 
 he did so regularly now. It came quite as part of his duty as 
 her nurse ; and he was beginning to look forward to it as 
 something quieting and refreshing. Blanche thanked him, and 
 said she should like it very much, and he went to another table 
 to fetch the Prayer-book, which had been moved away when 
 the dinner was brought. Blanche wiped away her tears 
 hastily, that he might not see it ; but he turned round at the 
 instant, and that peculiar look of sorrowful eagerness came over 
 his face, which was always to be seen when Blanche was 
 disappointed. He put down the Prayer-book, and came up 
 to her instantly, and said, had she really any wish or fancy 
 about the letters ? he would fetch them for her directly if she 
 had. 
 
 " Only for Eleanor's !" repeated Blanche. " I was very 
 anxious to hear from her." 
 
 Lord Rutherford thought for a moment, and then he replied, 
 " There is a letter from her, but I am afraid it might be worse 
 for you than any others, because it would be so likely to excite 
 you." 
 
 " I am more likely to be excited without it," said Blanche, 
 " because I lie here and think so." 
 
 Again Lord Rutherford pondered for a moment, and Blanche 
 watched his face, and read it ; and laying her hand upon his 
 arm, said, " Papa, you have something to tell me." 
 
 " Not about Miss Wentworth exactly — only about her bro 
 ther and — ■" 
 
 " Adelaide," said Blanche hurriedly, and at the moment a
 
 the earl's daughter. 301 
 
 veil seemed to be taken from the past, and it stood out clearly 
 to view. 
 
 " You guess then," continued the earl, and a smile involun 
 tarily began to play upon his lips; but it changed as he saw 
 the expression of Blanche's face ; it was that of extreme distress : 
 and closing her eyes as if to shut out some painful vision, she 
 sank back upon her pillow, and exclaimed, "Then it is over! 
 Shall I ever be forgiven !" 
 
 A sudden thought, startling, unendurable, crossed the earl's 
 mirfd ; he repelled it, and sitting down by Blanche, said, " Will 
 they be forgiven, you mean. I hope it may all turn out better 
 than we expect ; but it is a sad business." Blanche still kept 
 her eyes closed ; she was repeating something to herself; the 
 anguish of her countenance was inexplicable; could it be that 
 she was involved in such a secret? With her delicacy, sim- 
 plicity, and refinement, was it possible that she could have been 
 a party to the intended marriage ? The earl shrank from the 
 suggestion as if a serpent had stung him ; but in a moment a 
 flood of corroborative circumstances rushed upon him. At 
 another time he would have been the first to consider pru- 
 dence ; but this suspicion, this possible taint upon the object 
 of his idolizing affection, goaded him beyond endurance, and he 
 exclaimed, " You did not know it ? Blanche, my child, you 
 could not have had anything to do with it ?" For the first time 
 since they had been together his tone was severe. 
 
 It fell with a painful shock upon poor Blanche, uprooting her 
 unconscious trust in her own power over him. " I did not 
 mean to do wrong. I acted for the best," she said, meekly. 
 " riease do not be angry with me ;" and at the mention of 
 anger Lord Rutherford started, as if he had been accused of 
 some grievous crime, and the love which even when it lay 
 dormant in his breast was the moving spring of his daily life, 
 came back with a torrent of bitterness to reproach him. II e 
 told her that she was his hope, his treasure; the one only joy 
 of his life; that it would be a sin to doubt her ; and Blanche 
 listened in fear, and prayed that the love which was fixed upon 
 her, might in mercy find a surer resting-place, and then hum- 
 bly asked if she might tell him all that she had done. 
 
 It was a tale soon repeated, soon understood, and Blanche 
 was happy when she heard her father's whispered blessings; 
 but Bhe did not discover how much cause he had for thankful- 
 ness himself. She did not remember the load which rausl !><■ 
 taken from his heart by the knowledge "I' the cause of her
 
 302 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 depression ; and she did not perceive the reverence which hei 
 firmness and consistency of character inspired. Lord Ruther- 
 ford thought little of religion himself, but he could now appre- 
 ciate it as a principle in others ; and with Blanche he would 
 have shrunk from the careless bestowal of his patronage, as 
 from an injustice against a charge entrusted to him. 
 
 Silence followed : the peaceful silence of hearts which are one 
 in affection and confidence. "Blanche," said the earl at length, 
 " it was excitement which made you so ill. Your aunt sviys 
 you ought not to have come down stairs the night of the ball." 
 
 Blanche looked up at him and smiled. " Ought I not ? but 
 you like to see me cheerful." 
 
 She meant nothing particular ; but he repeated the last word 
 quickly. " Cheerful ? who told you I thought about it ?" 
 
 " Your voice, your manner." She hesitated ; they were 
 .reading upon dangerous ground. 
 
 " When ? the day that I gave away the living ?" 
 
 " Every day, and always," and involuntarily there was an 
 accent of sadness in Blanche's tone. Another pause came, not 
 happy and peaceful as the former. 
 
 " Blanche," said the earl, again, gravely, " you must not try- 
 to read my thoughts." 
 
 Blanche tried to smile as she kissed him, and answered, half 
 reproachfully, " How can I help it, when you have given me the 
 key to interpret them ?'.' 
 
 Alas ! for the transitory nature of earthly peace. Those few 
 sentences had re-awakened the bitterness of the earl's remorse 
 and anxiety. It was he then who had caused her illness, he 
 who by the very intensity of his solicitude for her happiness, had 
 compelled her to an exertion which might be fatal. 
 
 The curse he had so long dreaded had fallen upon him, 
 though in another form, at last. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYIII. 
 
 It was the bright spring time at Rutherford Parsonage. The 
 smooth, neatly trimmed lawn, the flower-bed gay with anemones, 
 auriculas, and polyanthuses — the first fresh green buds upon the 
 trees, were all telling of the genial inspiriting influence of a morn- 
 ing in May. In a light hand-carriage, which had been drawn 
 into one of the most sunny walks, reclined a lady, whose grey
 
 the earl's daughter. 003 
 
 hair, sunken, worn cheeks, dim eyes, and wrinkled brow, would 
 at a distance have given the idea of much greater age than could 
 be traced on a nearer approach. Her features were good — once 
 they might have been handsome, for their outline was very strik- 
 ing ; but there was a strange, stony, impassive look in the eyes, 
 which gave in general a cold, even vacant look to the counte- 
 nance. Only, at times, a flash, as of some returning brightness, 
 some gleam from past memories, flitted over it; and then, for 
 an instant, it was beautiful with intellect; but the gleam gone, 
 and the set features returned to their former listless gravity, and 
 the helpless hands, and the querulous voice, seemed but the lit 
 accompaniments of an age of disease and dreariness. 
 
 "It is pleasant to-day, dear mamma," said Eleanor Went- 
 worth, bending over her mother's chair : " don't you see how for- 
 ward the flowers are J" 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth looked round for a moment, and said, " Go 
 on, into the shade." 
 
 " But this is the warmest spot, mamma," continued Eleanor ; 
 " and you know we are expecting Blanche, and she must not go 
 into the shade. You will like her to come and see you ; wont 
 you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth looked up quickly and said, " Yes, we must 
 make her happy, for he doesn't treat her at all well. It is very 
 sad. Tell your father I want to see him." 
 
 " Papa will come presently," said Eleanor, her lip quivering ; 
 " but we will go on, dear mamma, if you like it, into the 
 shade ?" 
 
 " Yes, that will be best ; go on ;" and they went on. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth was standing at his study window. He per- 
 ceived them and came to them. " It is pleasant to see you out 
 to-day, my love," he said, addressing his wife. " You are all 
 the better for it, I am sure." Unconsciously his tone was that 
 of a father speaking to a child; and there was something of 
 \ child's simple trusting love in Mrs. Wentworth's way of put- 
 ting her hand into his, and telling him to keep close to her, and 
 not to let them go too fast. 
 
 Eleanor left her mother's side, and came round to her father. 
 " Are the letters come ?" she asked in a very low voice ; but, low- 
 though it was, it reached Mrs. Wentworth's ear. 
 
 " Letters !" she repeated ; " give them to me ; we must answei 
 them. We have a great deal to do. We had better go in and 
 answer them. Tell Jones to stop." 
 
 "Yes, presently, dear mamma; presently, my lore," said
 
 304 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Eleanor and Dr. Wentworth, in one breath. " We will go in 
 presently." 
 
 " But," continued Dr. Wentworth, slipping a packet of let- 
 ters into Eleanor's hand, " I should like you just to be drawn 
 round the orchard once ; and Eleanor can go and fetch my hat." 
 Mrs. Wentworth sank back again in her chair, and Eleanor, care- 
 fully concealing the letters,' went into the house. Nearly ten 
 minutes elapsed before she returned, and then her eyes were red 
 with crying; but she kept her face steadily averted from her 
 father, until her mother's attention was occupied by what she 
 thought was a new shrub. Then, as they stopped to examine 
 it, Eleanor walked on a few paces with Dr. Wentworth, and 
 said : "He must not see her; I am afraid. It would do her 
 great harm !" 
 
 Dr. Wentworth tore off a twig from a tree, and casting it from 
 
 O 7 O 
 
 him, replied, "Let him go. I had only one wish in his seeing 
 her." 
 
 " It would break his heart," said Eleanor. 
 
 " It might sober him for life," replied her father. 
 
 "He will not come without Adelaide," said Eleanor, taking 
 advantage of a narrow part of the walk still to walk a little 
 before the carriage, and side by side with her father. 
 
 " Then he will not come at all," was the bitter reply. " Your 
 poor mother shall never, with my consent, be harassed by the 
 sia;Iit of her." 
 
 " Eleanor," called out Mrs. Wentworth, in a shrill plaintive 
 voice, " I wish you would inquire about the letters. There 
 wont b« any time to answer them, and you know I must go up 
 to the castle this afternoon. She is not so well, you said. 1 pro- 
 mised I would go." 
 
 " Lady Blanche is coming here, dear mamma," said Eleanor, 
 with a particular stress upon the name. " You know she has 
 had a bad cough, and is very ill ; and she is coming to wish 
 you good b'ye before Lord liutherford takes her to the sea-side 
 fur change of air." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, I forgot," and Mrs. Wentworth looked at her 
 husband wonderingly. " I don't know how it is I forget so. I 
 know they told me she had been ill. She has been so a long 
 time, has not she ?" 
 
 " All the winter," answered Dr. Wentworth. " She broke a 
 blood-vessel when she was at — " a rapid, cautionary glance 
 from Eleanor stopped him, and he finished the sentence, " when 
 she was away."
 
 the earl's DAUGHTER. 3()o 
 
 " And they did not think she would live then," continued 
 Eleanor, not allowing a moment's time for a question ; " but she 
 was better after a time, and they brought her to the castle : 
 now she is going away for a change again." 
 
 " A long change," said Dr. Wentworth, gravely. " It is a 
 cruel thing in those doctors. Poor child ! why not let her die 
 at home ?" 
 
 Eleanor' was silent, but she drew back from her mother's 
 chair, and walked for some paces alone. 
 
 ""One more turn, my dear, round the orchard," said Dr. 
 Wentworth, arranging his wife's cushions, and giving a sign to 
 the gardener to go on. Then he- rejoined Eleanor. " I shall 
 write to Charles by to-day's post: you may write too, if you 
 will. I don't want him to feel himself cut off; but he must 
 not come here." 
 
 " It seems very hard." said Eleanor. 
 
 "Hard!" and Dr. Wentworth paused impatiently, in his 
 walk. " Look at her ; — look at your poor mother ; and then 
 say who has been treated hardly .-"' 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor, speaking in a low, crushed voice ; " but 
 she would be the first to forgive, if she could." 
 
 " And I forgive, too," said Dr. Wentworth, solemnly. "God 
 forbid that I should not ; even as I hope to be forgiven myself. 
 It is not from anger that I say he must not come. If he were 
 alone I might risk it ; but if he insists upon bringing that — " 
 
 "Papa, dear papa," said Eleanor, entreatingly. 
 
 " You are right ; you are right," replied Dr. Wentworth ; 
 " we must be charitable. If she were sorrowful — if she could 
 feel what she has done — I could be so easily. But she is 
 a flirt ; a cold, heartless flirt ;" he repeated. " She was so 
 before she married; she is so still." 
 
 " Yes, that is the worst of all," said Eleanor, with a heavy 
 sigh ; " and one cannot help pitying Charles all the more." 
 
 "A soldier in a foreign land," continued Dr. Wentworth, 
 " with a wife whom he must despise ; feeling himself scorned by 
 her family, and having utterly shipwrecked the happiness of his 
 own ; he may well be wretched." 
 
 " lie is wretched — very miserable," said Eleanor. 
 
 " But what could he expect better ?" pursued I >r. Wentworth. 
 '• What has any man a right to expert when he trusts his hap- 
 piness to a woman who could behave like Adelaide Charlton :" 
 
 "People may do worse thing- than Adelaide ha- done," said 
 Eleanor, sorrowfully, "and not be blamed half as much."
 
 300 the earl's daughter. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth looked at Eleanor kindly, for he understood 
 her. " My poor child !" he said, and as he put up his hand to 
 wipe away a tear, he added, "I can take infinite blame to my- 
 self. I was too secure, too certain that all was right. I 
 allowed him to have his own way, and I shut my eyes to his 
 faults. Your poor mother was the only person who saw him 
 truly. But one thing I can be thankful for — that he was 
 saved from entering holy orders. To have induced him to 
 be a clergyman, and then to have discovered his unfitness, 
 would have been a misery to me for life." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth's voice was just then heard, in a querulous 
 accent. She was wondering Avhere they were gone ; why they 
 did not come and walk by her side ; and, as they hastened to 
 her, she burst into tears, and said it was a miserable day ; 
 every one neglected her. 
 
 Eleanor pinned her shawl comfortably, and settled her 
 cushion again, and as the sound of carriage -wheels, and of 
 a bell, was heard at the entrance, exclaimed, " Hark ! there is 
 Blanche. Bear mamma, you will like to see her for one 
 minute." 
 
 " I don't know — I don't want to see any one. Why do 
 they bring her down here ? Isn't she very ill V said Mrs. 
 Wentworth, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side ; and 
 then, in a startled voice, she added, " Does he come with her ?" 
 
 " Blanche will come alone, if you like it," said Eleanor ; and 
 going round to her father, who was walking a little behind, she 
 whispered, " You must keep Lord Rutherford. Blanche will only 
 stay a very few minutes, dear mamma ;" she added, returning 
 to her mother, and trying to occupy her attention whilst Dr. 
 Wentworth went to receive the earl. " You know she is 
 scarcely allowed to stand still at all out of doors ; and she is so 
 very soon tired." 
 
 " Yes, — yes, I know," replied Mrs. Wentworth, and murmur- 
 ing to he^elf, she added, " she is going ; it is all best ; there is 
 no care there." 
 
 The garden gate opened, and closed again. Eleanor looked 
 round. 
 
 " Are they coming ?" said Mrs. Wentworth, growing excited. 
 " Make me look neat, Eleanor ; you didn't dress me properly. 
 The earl always makes remarks." 
 
 Eleanor bent down her head, and busied herself with her 
 mother. It might have been that she could not bear to watch 
 the feeble footsteps with which Blanche, supported by her
 
 the earl's daughter. 307 
 
 father, moved slowly along the walk. Dr. Wentwoith ami 
 Maude Charlton were behind her; but as they drew near 
 to Mrs. Wentworth, the earl stopped and gave up his place to 
 Maude. 
 
 " Blanche, Blanche !" repeated Mrs. Wentworth, with an 
 effort at thought. " Is she like her mother ?" 
 
 Eleanorxnade no answer ; for Blanche was standing by her. 
 One silent kiss she imprinted on her forehead, and then leading 
 her, round to the front of Mrs. Wentworth's chair, she said, 
 " Mamma, it is Lady Blanche Evelyn, come to wish you good 
 b'ye." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth looked up with an unmeaning start of sur- 
 prise, and as her eye caught the pale brow, and dark, glittering, 
 sunken eye, and the hollow cheek — which were all that could 
 be seen of Blanche's sweet face — a smile of pleasure lit up her 
 own features, and she said hurriedly, " I was coming to you 
 to-day. AVill he be out, and shall we have an hour to our 
 selves ?" Dimness gathered over Blanche's eyes, and her voice 
 was choked. 
 
 " It will net do," said Eleanor ; " but I thought when she 
 saw vou it might be different." 
 
 " Will you not know me ? — will you not wish me a safe 
 journey ? Dear Mrs. Wentworth, I am Blanche Evelyn ;" and 
 Blanche bent down that her face might be more clearly recog- 
 nised. Mrs. Wentworth caught her hand, and looked at her 
 sternly and fixedly. 
 
 M Yes," she said ; " yes, I know you. You are going." 
 
 " Going where we shall meet again, I trust," said Blanche, 
 calmly. 
 
 A gleam of intelligence brightened the vacant face. Mis. 
 Wentworth smiled, and raising the hand of which she still 
 retained the use, to Blanche's head, she gently stroked her fore- 
 head, as a mother might that of a petted child; and said, 
 " God bless and keep you, my dear, and bring you bach better. 
 And Eleanor," she added, firmly, "give her her mother's pic- 
 ture — she will like it." 
 
 It was the utmost effort of remaining intellect. Mrs. 
 Wentworth's hand dropped, and her head sank hack ; and 
 when Blanche gave one parting kiss, a wondering stare was all 
 that met her gaze.
 
 308 the earl's daughter, 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Gloriously beautiful was the splendour of the setting sun, 
 as it slowly sank to rest that evening behind the steep hills 
 which closed the ravine at the foot of Rutherford castle. Far 
 over hill and valley streamed the flood of its golden rays ; and 
 the rugged mountains in the distance were wrapped in a veil of 
 glittering mist, whilst their peaks caught and transmitted from 
 point to point, the light which they gathered from the glowing 
 skies. And nearer, where the radiant colouring of the highei 
 hills, had melted into the purple shadow of rock and wood, 
 there still gleamed a faint path of light upon the deep-flowing 
 stream, winding its way ever and onwards, without pause or 
 rest, like the course of that awful river of Time which, lit by 
 the reflection of Heaven, is carrying us all to eternity. 
 
 The Earl of Rutherford walked alone on the terrace of the 
 castle. Alone ! that word suffices to tell the tale of his misery. 
 What matter to him, that the gorgeous sun-set illuminated a 
 princely domain which owned him for its lord ? What matter 
 that, as far as the eye could reach in hamlets, and villages, and 
 towns, and the remote recesses of the distant hills, wherever 
 his name was heard, men bent before it with respect, and 
 envied him his greatness and his power 1 — he was alone ; and 
 Blanche was dying. 
 
 It is long before we allow the meaning of that word to force 
 itself upon our minds. It had been long before Lord Ruther- 
 ford would own to himself the realization of the fear which 
 haunted him from the first moment of his child's illness. But 
 it was all clear now — all true and vivid. There was death 
 written in the hectic colour of her hollow cheek — in the glassy 
 brightness of her dark eye — in the burning touch of her long 
 fingers ; and the quick, short coagh which came but for a 
 moment to leave behind it the echo of a funeral knell. 
 
 Blanche was dying. She might linger — she had lingered — 
 from day to day, from week to week — no great change marking 
 the progress of disease ; sometimes apparently better, able to 
 work and read — sometimes exhausted and feverish ; no one day 
 exactly like, or widely differing from, the other. But the end 
 was certain. It was in vain that physicians gave flattering 
 hopes, and friends related wonderful recoveries. There was one 
 fact to which no one who watched Blanche constantly could be 
 blind — she did not improve. Every week something was taken
 
 THE EARL'S DAICHTER. 309 
 
 from her strength ; every week something was given up which 
 6he had before been able to enjoy. The incipient disease, which 
 might have been warded off at first by care, had received a 
 fatal impulse on the night of the Senilhurst ball; and the 
 changes, though imperceptible at the moment, were nevertheless 
 very rapid. 
 
 For a time Lord Rutherford had flattered himself that the 
 weather was in fault. "When snow lay upon the ground, in 
 the month of January, he looked forward to the spring for her 
 recovery ; and when the spring came, and the east winds blew 
 keenly, he said that they could expect no real amendment till 
 the summer. A warm summer in England and a winter 
 abroad would quite set her up. But summer approached, and 
 the vreather was unusually favourable ; and still, though Blanche 
 might rally for a few days, there was no real progress : and 
 then the earl looked more careworn, and said less ; only he 
 thought she would be better at Rutherford, and to Rutherford 
 they prepared to go. 
 
 That at least was a satisfaction to Blanche. She pined for 
 home, with an indefinable, eager longing. She did not say to 
 herself that she should be well there ; perhaps she did not in 
 her heart think so: but in her sad moments — the hour of 
 weakness, both of body and mind — which are the greatest trial 
 of such diseases, she fancied that it might at least bring her a 
 respite. - 
 
 The air of Rutherford, the lovely views, the peculiar comforts 
 of her own rooms, the interests which were to be found in the 
 village, and, above all, the hope of seeing Eleanor, and return- 
 ing 'to the friendship, which, though interrupted, had never 
 been lost — all gave a charm to the prospect of return. If she 
 could be af Rutherford again, she felt that she might live ; and 
 the thought sent a bounding thrill through her veins. For life 
 is very pleasant to the young, and Blanche had just tasted of 
 its enjoyments. 
 
 Then came the departure from Senilhurst— the hurry of 
 preparation — the unavoidable excitement — the last thoughts, 
 and last taiv.wlls. Blanche could not escape them. She was 
 sorrowful and depressed, without apparently sufficient cause; 
 and they told her it was weakness— that she would be a differ- 
 ent person at Rutherford, and would return again to Senilhurst 
 quite well; and she smiled and said, she would not '.ill n a 
 real good b'ye,— she did hope to come again very soon ; and 
 she had left a box and some books to be kept for her. She
 
 310 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 begged her aunt would write to her, and say how she managed 
 without Maude. It was so very, very kind to spare Maude. It 
 would be such a comfort till she was better ; but she would not 
 keep her a day longer than was necessary. 
 
 And Lady Charlton struggled against her rising tears, and 
 kissed her tenderly ; and Sir Hugh waved his hand, as she was 
 assisted down the steps — and she was gone. 
 
 It was two days' journey from Senilhurst to Rutherford ; 
 when they had travelled before it was but one. Then Blanche 
 was able to enjoy the novelty of the road, and to look forward 
 with expectation, and hopes of pleasure : now she was laid on 
 cushions, too tired to speak or think. When they had left 
 Rutherford, she had bounded down the staircase, eager to be 
 useful and kind to every one : now she was lifted in her father's 
 arms, and carried to her own apartments fainting. 
 
 That night, the night of their arrival at home, the earl first 
 felt that she would die. And that night, also, as Blanche laid 
 her head upon her pillow, she prayed that she might be taught 
 to die. Nearly a month had passed since, and another change 
 had been proposed. The air of Rutherford was thought too 
 keen ; and a removal to the sea-coast was considered desirable. 
 It was the advice of a first-rate London physician ; the earl and 
 Blanche acquiesced without a word of objection ; but when the 
 physician was gone, they looked at each other and said, " He 
 may be right : it is of little consequence so that we are 
 together." That was their one thought — that they might be 
 together — that the earl might sit by her, and raise her when 
 she wished for change of posture, and bathe her forehead when 
 she was exhausted, and read to her when she was able to listen, 
 and mark the hours for her daily drives— her food — her medi- 
 cine ; and that Blanche might thank him in whispers, and 
 smoothe his hair, and press his hand, and lift her eyes to his, 
 with a smile on her pale lips, and a prayer of unutterable thank- 
 fulness in her inmost heart, for the mercy which in leading her 
 to death, was leading her father to heaven. 
 
 Lord Rutherford was said to be determined in his opinions, 
 rigid in his self-formed principles, proud of his influence, and 
 exacting in his demands upon the submission even of his equals. 
 He might have been, he was all this and much more : haughty, 
 indifferent, unsympathising, selfish ; as that man must be who 
 has reached the middle of life without contradiction or self- 
 examination : but he was honest-minded. Whatever were the 
 errors of his practice or his belief, he was no self-deceiver : and
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 311 
 
 from the fatal moment when he stood by the inanimate body of 
 his wife, and felt the conviction that he had been the murderer 
 of her peace, if not of her life, he had carried with him a 
 goading thought of self-reproach to shield him, as by a secret 
 spell, from the intoxication of earthly splendour. He had lived 
 with Blanche now for months only; to him they seemed jears, 
 — since he .eould not realize what life had been without her ; 
 and in that time, secretly, and without word, or argument, or 
 entreaty, new principles and motives of conduct had been 
 gradually stealing into his heart. He scarcely knew it himself; 
 he did not understand the power which influenced him ; and, 
 when he thought of it at all, he supposed that it was a father's 
 natural affection for a child like Blanche ; and so at first it 
 was. When Lord Rutherford began to read to Blanche and 
 talk about tilings which interested her, and take trouble for the 
 poor, he did it merely because it was her fancy, and it gave 
 him pleasure to listen to her remarks, and hear her thanks ; he 
 did not care for the subjects in themselves ; and satisfaction like 
 this was very unreal, and to a person less true might have been 
 very deceptive. But Lord Rutherford was too clear-sighted to 
 believe that he resembled Blanche, or was actuated by her 
 motives, because he was beginning to approve what she 
 approved. He would even have been annoyed if such a 
 thought had been suggested : for he was proud and self-confi- 
 dent, and Blanche was to him only " as a very lovely song of 
 one that hath a pleasant voice," exquisite to the senses, but not 
 reaching the heart. 
 
 Bu they were to part. The decree had gone forth, to all 
 human knowledge absolute and irreversible. She was to be 
 taken from him ; it might be in a few weeks, it might be in a 
 few months, it could scarcely be — in a year. And whither was 
 she going? Lord Rutherford had no doubt in his reply. 
 When the thought first came, as he looked at his angel-child, 
 when she had fallen asleep whilst he was reading to her, her 
 fingers clasped in the earnestness of the prayer with which she 
 had followed his words, and the brightness of heaven's peace 
 resting upon her fair young face, he knew that she was safe. 
 The voice of a messenger from above could scarcely have 
 increased his confidence. And he said to himself then, and 
 many times afterwards, that she was too good for this world. 
 He said it to Dr. Wentworth when he came to see her; he 
 wrote it to Ladv Charlton, and he fancied that it gave him 
 comfort. But did it do so ? 
 H
 
 312 the earl's daughter. 
 
 In the anguish of the long nights?, as he lay awake listening 
 for every sound, conjuring up visions of dread, and knowing 
 that the very worst which might be sent to startle him could 
 only be the anticipation of an inevitable certainty — his past life 
 rose jp before him. The carelessness of his boyhood — the open 
 irreligion of his manhood — the cold hardness and insensibility 
 of his advancing age ; all marked by certain positive offences, 
 and mingled into one huge mass of sin, by the misty memories 
 of his half-forgotten offences. If the God whom he professed to 
 worship was a God of mercy ; if in calling Blanche from an evil 
 world, He was but calling her to early happiness ; was He not 
 also a God of judgment? and could the innocent and the guilty, 
 the holy and the unholy, hope to meet again in the same 
 heaven ? 
 
 It was a question which, when once suggested, could not be 
 put aside. It followed him by day as well as night; it intruded 
 into his transient intervals of peace, when Blanche seemed more 
 at ease, and he was able to interest and amuse her ; it pursued 
 him, as a spectre, in his solitary moments, and he could not 
 speak of it, or rind relief in human sympathy ; for he had lived 
 to himself, until the very thought of unreserve was abhorrent to 
 him. Yet misery did not make him cold and harsh ; that 
 could not be when he was watching over Blanche. The very 
 tone of her voice was soothing and softening to him, and some- 
 times a strange, momentary hopefulness crossed his mind, when 
 she in any way alluded to the future, as if even for him there 
 might also be pardon and rest. But it could not stay, for was 
 he not under punishment at that very hour? Had not the 
 curse of his early sins followed him through long years of 
 dreariness ; and had it not fallen now, chiefly by his means, 
 upon the only being whom he had left on earth to love ? 
 
 And with these thoughts Lord Rutherford walked alone upon 
 the terrace of his castle. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Blanche watched the sunset also from her sofa, which had 
 been drawn near the window that she might enjoy it. Maude 
 was with her ; she was her constant nurse in Lord Rutherford's 
 absence, and Blanche had no longer reason to dread her cou- 
 sin's moodiness and sharpness. Soon after the announcement
 
 the earl's daughter. 313 
 
 of Adelaide's marriage, Maude's manner had quite changed, 
 Blanche thought it must be from pity : but Maude's sympathies 
 were not easily called forth, even by illness; and many times before, 
 when Blanche had needed it, she had withheld" it. Neither 
 was pity the proper term for Maude's devoted attention. It 
 was too silent and thoughtful, as if offered to a superior ; and 
 Blanche, in Jier humility, would not have supposed it possible 
 that Maude could look upon her in such a light. The firmness 
 of character she had shown, and which was made known to 
 Maude by conversation with Lord Rutherford, had produced an 
 effect which Blanche would never have imagined ; for Maude 
 could not be brought to confess that she had suspected unjustly ; 
 and if, from that time, she pondered more deeply upon the 
 principles by which Blanche was actuated, and oftener asked 
 herself whether they might not, after all, contain the truths for 
 which she was herself seeking, no one was allowed to jmess the* 
 thoughts that were working in her breast, except by her actions. 
 
 They were reconciled without explanation ; but Blanche 
 many times wished herself strong enough to bear a recurrence 
 to those painful scenes ; and Maude's conscience, when it 
 reproached her for false shame, urged her at least to make repa- 
 ration in deed, by insisting upon accompanying Blanche to 
 Rutherford, and nursing her during her illness. This was no act 
 of self-denial ; for self-denial, except when it involved some 
 tangible good to others, was not part of Maude's creed of duty. 
 But she knew that she might be of use, and thought it probable 
 that she might be a comfort ; and, for herself, the fascination 
 which had drawn her towards Blanche in health, acted with 
 tenfold intensity in illness. 
 
 To be with her was to Mud rest, at least for the hour — rst 
 from tin- despairing search after truth by the light of her own 
 intellect, in the calm, abiding faith, of one who had received and 
 followed it from infancy. 
 
 Yet they were mournful days for Maude ; this one especially 
 had been trying. The farewell visit to Mrs. Wentworth had 
 been a greater effort than Blanche was equal to, and she had 
 suffered much in consequence. In itself it must, at all events, 
 have been very painful, and the pain was increased by the recol- 
 lections which it excited, and which Blanche could not entirely 
 overcome ; although she had been assured again and again, by 
 I >r. Wentworth himself, that gratitude rath -r than reproach was 
 due to her. Blanche tried to believe that she had acted rightly ; 
 t-lie did believe it in her heart ; yet the sight of Mrs. Went-
 
 314 the earl's daughter. 
 
 worth's vacant countenance, the wreck of all that had once been 
 so noble, was a fearful shock. The question would arise, in 
 spite of herself — Had she not in some way been instrumental 
 in causing it? And it was not till after a visit from Dr. 
 Wentworth, who came to her in the course of the afternoon, 
 that she could in any degree recover her former composure. 
 
 Still she did not regret the exertion she had made. It had 
 been her own wish to pay the last respect that might be in her 
 power to her mother's early friend ; and Eleanor had entered 
 into the idea, with the faint hope that the excitement jnight pro- 
 duce a favourable effect upon Mrs. Wentworth. 
 
 Maude had urged delay. She said that Blanche was leaving 
 Rutherford for a time only, and might return better able jo bear 
 the interview. But Blanche would not allow herself to trust to 
 this hope. Hope, indeed, it could scarcely be called. She knew 
 her own symptoms too well, and could read the countenances 
 of those about her too truly to admit of hope. Her daily 
 prayer, her daily lesson, now, was not to desire it. 
 
 We may believe that there is always one last trial to be 
 endured, one last grace to be acquired by those whom God 
 visits with lingering illness. They to whom life is fraught with 
 care, and the thought of the grave full of the rest for which 
 they sigh, can little know the awfulness of that moment which 
 first brings the young and the hopeful in sight of death. 
 Blanche's short life had been burdened with many disappoint- 
 ments, many anxieties ; and, in the time of health, she had 
 often thought of the blessedness of an early removal from 
 temptation, and believed that she could welcome it. The bless- 
 ing was sent, and she trembled at it. It was not strange. She 
 did not know till then how dear life was to her ; she did not 
 know now she valued the familiar faces of those even who she 
 supposed did not suit her ; she did not understand how much 
 she clung to sights, and sounds, and associations, and memo- 
 ries, which came and went almost without notice, but which 
 constituted the amusement of existence. She did not know how 
 precious her father's love was, how she rested upon it and trusted 
 to it for protection. The prospect of death at a distance, and 
 the actual waiting for its approach, were very different. 
 
 She gazed upon the sunset now, with Maude sitting beside 
 her, and supporting her that she. might be better able to watch 
 it ; but they were both silent. Blanche's memory had travelled 
 back to the evening when she first saw that glorious view ; 
 when her father welcomed her to her home : and Maude's
 
 the earl's daughter. 315 
 
 thoughts had wandered onwards into the dark future of earth 
 and the dim awfulness of eternity. 
 
 Maude was the first to break the silence. " One should like 
 to follow it," she said ; "to know where it goes. One cannot 
 imagine it still lighting up this world." 
 
 " I should be sorry to realize that it did," answered Blanche. 
 " Sunset has always been my most vivid idea of Heaven." 
 
 " It is too sad for Heaven," said Maude. " Even as a child, 
 onejfelt its sadness." 
 
 The eyes of Blanche filled with tears. "It ought not to be 
 sad," she replied ; "so beautiful it is in itself, and with hope to 
 make it more so. If one did not regret this world, it would be 
 joyful." 
 
 " Yet there is little enough here to tempt one to regret," said 
 Maude. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" asked Blanche, earnestly, and with a 
 touching, child-like simplicity, as if really wishing to hear 
 Maude's answer. 
 
 It was not given directly. Maude's eyes dwelt upon the 
 crimson light, which, although the sun had sunk behind the. 
 hills, still flooded the western horizon, spreading itself far and 
 wide, till it melted imperceptibly into a faint ethereal blue. " It 
 is o-lorious, most glorious," she exclaimed ; " but it is too much 
 — one cannot grasp it." 
 
 "And one can grasp earth," said Blanche, with a sigh. 
 
 "Grasp it, and find it ashes," replied Maude, bitterly; "some 
 do, at least ; not you, Blanche." 
 
 " I have had a very happy life," said Blanche ; " every one 
 has been very kind to me. I should like to thank them." 
 
 Maude turned round quickly ; " Now do you mean ? Because 
 you are going away V 
 
 "Not to-ni«;ht: lam so tired : but I should like every one 
 t<> know that I have thought about them. If you come back 
 again, Maude, will you teli them so?" 
 
 " You must tell them yourself, then, dear child," said Maude, 
 kissing her. 
 
 Blanche looked earnestly in her face, and answered, "I 
 should like to say things out plainly to you ; but I cannot ; if 
 you do not understand." 
 
 "I do— I do understand," replied Maude, her voice soundiug 
 hollow with the effort to appear calm, 
 
 "I shall not come back," said Blanche. "Even papa does 
 Dot really think so; and I should like to tell you now what to
 
 316 the earl's daughter. 
 
 do with some of my things — my books, and pictures, and orna 
 ments. I think about them a good deal, and I don't wish to 
 do so ; and if I might say to you what I should like to have 
 done with them, it would be off my mind." 
 
 " But not to-night, dearest," said Maude. 
 
 " No ; perhaps not to-night : but to-morrow ; the first thing. 
 I should wish it. You see, Maude, I may not have very much 
 time before me, though papa and Dr. Granville say the sea-air 
 will do me good; and if I could settle about it all, and say 
 good b'ye to every one, and thank them, I should nothavesuch 
 wandering thoughts ; at least I hope not." 
 
 Maude bent her head upon the sofa ; her tears were uncon- 
 trollable. Blanche put her arm round her, as she had some- 
 times been wont to do in her days of health, and speaking quite 
 calmly said, " You must not fret about me, Maude, and fancy I 
 am worse because I speak so ; I only do it because of something 
 Dr. Wentworth said yesterday. When he has come to see me 
 lately he has been very kind, and I have been able to talk to 
 him ; and he understands — he knows what I feel." 
 
 " About being ill ?" asked Maude." 
 
 " About death !" said Blanche. She waited for a moment, 
 and closed her eyes as if praying mentally ; then she said, 
 " if I were very good, I should not be afraid ; but I cannot 
 quite help it." 
 
 " No one can help it, I should think," replied Maude. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, some persons can : but Dr. AVentworth says 
 they are generally persons who are older and have suffered 
 more ; and you know, Maude, I have always had some one to 
 depend upon, and take care of me ; and— but that is wicked — 
 because I have no faith," she added. 
 
 " If I were like you," began Maude, quickly ; " and had lived 
 the life you have — " 
 
 Blanche interrupted her ; " Maude, dear, you will not say 
 things which vex me, now we have so little time to be together. 
 But I don't think the fear I have is so much about all I have 
 done wrong; there is such great, great hope of forgiveness. 
 But, even then, it is so awful, so lonely ; if some one could go 
 with me — papa, or Mrs. Howard, or you. I have never been 
 alone all my life. I wonder what it will be like. Oh, Maude, 
 can you think ?" she covered her face with her hands, as if 
 shrinking from the thought ; when she looked up again, all 
 was peaceful. " It is over now," she said, heaving a sigh of 
 relief ; " it comes and goes — the dark hour, as Dr. \Ventworth
 
 the earl's daughter. 31 7 
 
 calls it. But he says I shall feel it less, if I pray ; and, Maude, 
 you will do to-morrow what I asked ? because I am to put 
 away my cares for this world, even the very little ones, and 
 then there will be nothing to come between me and m) 
 Saviour." 
 
 " There can be very little now," said Maude, tenderly. 
 
 Blanche- shook her head. " Ah ! Maude, you don't know 
 I did not know till lately ; but you will hear all I have to sav 
 and, promise to do it all ; will you not ? and now, please. If 
 papa will come and read to me, I should like to go to bed." 
 
 Maude went to call the earl ; and, whilst the last gleam of 
 sunlight was fading away, they knelt together and joined in the 
 few short prayers, which were all that Blanche could bear after 
 that day of excitement. Then Maude kissed her, and said. 
 " Good night," and the earl lifted her in his arms and carried 
 her to her room. 
 
 CHAPTER LL 
 
 Maude remained by herself, thinking. At other times she 
 could philosophize upon general principles, abstract theories, 
 the ultimate destinies of mankind ; but there was only one 
 question now for her consideration— the question which must 
 sooner or later be brought before us all — what was to be the 
 ultimate destiny of each individual soul — of Blanche, of herself? 
 
 How she longed then for Blanche's simple faith ; the vivid- 
 ness with which she must realize all that belonged to the unseen 
 world, to be able to say so quietly and confidently, "There will 
 be nothing then to come between me and my Saviour." 
 
 It was true, actual, as if she had spoken of an earthly friend. 
 And even her fears were natural, neither exaggerated nor 
 excited, only the awe which one so young, and tender, and 
 helpless, could scarcely fail to experience in the first near pros- 
 pect of entering upon a new existence. 
 
 It was very strange to Maude, a problem she could not solve, 
 for it was not merely the result of education, the having been 
 taught to believe. She had been taught also ; hut what to her 
 was an idt-a, solemn and important, yet still only an idea, was to 
 Blanche an all-absorbing reality. Some real difference there must 
 be between them ; and that not a difference which might safety 
 be borne with, like any other diversity of taste or sentiment —
 
 318 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 death was a fact which admitted of no "halting between twe 
 opinions." If, in order to support the prospect of it, calmly, a 
 life like that of Blanche was necessary, then Maude's dreamy, 
 philosophical speculations and indolent practice, must be dan- 
 gerous. Maude's inherent energy of mind was aroused by the 
 thought. Hitherto, it had been spent in the study of abstruse 
 questions ; now, it was directed to practice. And she had full 
 leisure for consideration — for the twilight sank into darkness, 
 and the darkness was exchanged for the brilliancy of moonlight, 
 and still she was alone with her own thoughts and the awfulness 
 of the silent night. Lord Rutherford came to her once, but it 
 was only to say that she must not mind being left by herself, 
 for Blanche wanted him ; and Maude knew well what that 
 meant. It was the case every evening. He professed to be 
 with her when Blanche was gone to bed, but he never remained 
 for more than a few minutes. If Blanche was wakeful, he sat 
 in her room fancying she would want him ; and if she was 
 asleep, he lingered in the outer apartment, listening for any 
 sound or movement. Since they came to Rutherford he had 
 chosen to sleep in a room close to hers ; but this did not satisfy 
 him, and again and again, in the course of the night, he would 
 steal into her chamber to look at her, as if fearful that during 
 those short hours of absence, death would remove from him 
 without warning the treasure in which his heart delighted. 
 
 The next day was to be the last but one of their stay at 
 Rutherford. Afterwards they were to move by easy stages to 
 the sea-side, as Blanche could bear the journey ; and, if she 
 found herself sufficiently strengthened to endure a further change, 
 it was proposed to take her for about a fortnight to St. Ebbe's, 
 that she might pay a parting visit to Mrs. Howard before leav- 
 ing England. So they planned — the earl, Dr. Granville, and 
 Maude — when she was called in to the consultation, neither 
 choosing to allow what was in all their thoughts, and satisfying 
 themselves by the expectation that sea-air would bring a respite 
 of the evil day, though it could never work a restoration to 
 health. Blanche gave no voice on the question ; she had but 
 one wish — to do what was considered best. Submission was 
 her last trial of duty, and the little energy which remained to 
 her was exercised in disciplining herself into quiet acquiescence 
 with whatever might be deemed beneficial. And there was one 
 part of the projected plan which, as the earl had anticipated 
 when it was formed, reconciled her to it in the whole. Even 
 her love for Rutherford was scarcely equal to the depth of inte-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 3 1 {; 
 
 rest and gratitude with which she thought of St. Ebbe's. When 
 life is failing, and the future in this world becoming blank, 
 memory returns with affection, tenfold increased, to the scenes 
 and the events of the past : and where could Blanche find any 
 recollections so calm, and holy, and bright, as those which were 
 associated with St. Ebbe's ? Once more to see it ; once more to 
 see her earliest and truest friend ; once more to thank her for 
 her loving care, her prayers, her counsel ; to tell her, if time 
 should be Granted, the short historv of those few month- — few 
 in number but infinite in importance — which had constituted 
 the actual trial of her young life, and then to die ; — where, when, 
 how — as God in His wisdom should appoint; that was her last 
 eager wish, the last earthly craving of her heart. 
 
 They were together again, Maude and Blanche, the following 
 morning. Business which the earl could not postpone had 
 called him for an hour away, and Blanche, feeling stronger after 
 her night's rest, was sitting nearly upright on the sofa, with her 
 jewel-case on a little stand by her ; whilst Maude, with a pencil 
 and paper in her hand, was writing down her wishes respecting 
 her ornaments. They were both very quiet and composed ; no 
 one coming into the room would have supposed that they were 
 engaged in anything more painful than usual, except at occa- 
 sional moments, when a torrent of recollections rushed upon 
 Blanche as she looked at some present from her father, and 
 ] Hitting it aside would say perhaps that she could not give 
 that away ; she would rather he should keep it as part of 
 herself. 
 
 " You shall let him have the paper, dear Maude," she said, 
 when the task was nearly completed. " He will like to see that 
 it is all done himself, by-and-by ; though I cannot talk to him 
 about it now. And if there is anything left that I have for- 
 gotten, and he does not know quite what to do with it, will you 
 and Eleanor help him ? for you will be friends with poor Eleanor 
 fir my sake, wont you ?" 
 
 Maude's reply was inarticulate, though she tried to speak. 
 
 " And one thing more may I say t.> you, dear Maude ?" con- 
 tinued Blanche, earnestly. ' : I long to have it all oil' my mind 
 this morning, that 1 may tell Dr. Wentworth I have done what 
 he wished when he comes this afternoon." 
 
 "If you talk much you will not be able to see him," said 
 Maude, kindly. "You are quite overworked as it is." 
 
 •• It will take but a few minutes," replied Blanche, "and to- 
 morrow I should like t<> have quite free, because — "
 
 320 the earl's daughter. 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Maude, quickly ; " I know. Go on, if you 
 wish it." 
 
 Blanche waited for an instant. A thought of bitterness was 
 to be struggled with and conquered ; that her father, changed 
 though he was in many ways, shrunk from the idea of being 
 with her when she received the Iloly Communion. Presently, 
 she said to Maude, " That was a sad time at SenilLurst. I don't 
 like thinking about it ; but I am afraid sometimes that I must 
 have seemed wrong in what I did, and I know I was cross with 
 you. Wont you give me a kiss, now, and tell me you forgive 
 me ?" 
 
 It was all Maude could do to answer ; but she did say, " It 
 was I who was wrong and cross, and want to be forgiven ;" and 
 then she gave the kiss that was asked, and both were happier. 
 
 " There is a bracelet for Adelaide in my dressing-case," said 
 Blanche, after a short pause. " It is too gay for your taste, 
 Maude ; she will value it, at least I hope she will, by-and-by, 
 because my aunt gave it me." 
 
 " A long by-and-by that will be," observed Maude, speaking 
 her thoughts aloud. 
 
 " Not so long, I hope, as you fancy," replied Blanche, cheer- 
 fully ; adding, in a graver tone, whilst she locked steadily at 
 Maude to see whether she understood her, " I could almost 
 blame myself sometimes, when I think of the break-up of all 
 your family happiness." 
 
 " There never was happiness with us," replied Maude, with 
 emphasis; "never, as far back as I can remember. When I 
 was a child of seven years old, I felt the hollowness and unreality 
 of all about me. Nothing that you could have done or said, 
 Blanche, would have made things better than they are." 
 
 "I hope not," replied Blanche ; "yet even if I could " 
 
 Maude finished her sentence ; " you would not have been 
 right in yielding ; no, indeed, I feel that : you must be quite 
 assured I do;" and Maude smiled brightly, and almost sweetly, 
 for even this slight acknowledgment was a weight removed from 
 her mind. 
 
 " If I had given way, I should have been very sorry after- 
 wards," said Blanche. " That is one thing for which I have so 
 much cause to thank Mrs. Howard, that she taught me in diffi- 
 culties to look at actions as I should look upon them when — 
 when I was as lam now — dying." 
 
 Maude's face showed, though unconsciously to herself, thfe 
 pain which any allusion to Blanche's state gave her.
 
 the earl's daughter. 321 
 
 " I did not moan to grieve you, dear Maude," said Blanche, 
 taking her hand affectionately ; " but it is always in my own 
 thoughts, and so I forget that it may not always be in others 
 And it makes all things so different ; so wry, very different. 1 
 can't exactly tell you what it is like ; but, in a way, it is as if 
 one had been amusing oneself with what seemed to be a doll, a 
 plaything^and suddenly, -whilst one held it in one's hand, it 
 had started into life, and become a living being. All the past 
 is so awfully real. I feel," she added, her chtek becoming 
 flushed with excitement ; " I feel that it cannot die with me — 
 that it must live on here — working for ffood or for evil. That 
 one action, especially, would have been very dreadful, Maude, 
 to think of now ; would it not ? To have been the means of 
 bringing harm upon hundreds ; and to know that, when I was 
 resting in my grave, it would still be spreading. Oh ! Maude, 
 sometimes I think that even Ileaven itself could not be Heaven 
 with such a thought." 
 
 Maude was saved the pain of reply, for Lord Rutherford 
 came into the room. Blanche hastily closed her jewel case, and 
 welcoming him with a smile, told him she had been better all 
 the morning, and was better then : only she had tired herself 
 with giving some directions. 
 
 " You were unwise to trouble yourself, my darling," was the 
 earl's reply ; "trust to Maude and Barnes ; I am sure they will 
 do everything you wish." 
 
 Blanche was silent. Lord Rutherford's eye accidentally fell 
 upon the paper which Maude had been writing ; it was merely 
 t. list of different articles, with names attached to them ; but 
 love has a piercing sight ; he understood it in an instant. 
 
 " I will take it," he said, holding out his hand as Maude 
 folded the paper, and was going to put it hurriedly aside. 
 Maude gave it him and left the room. 
 
 Blanche raised her eyes to meet her father's; he was very 
 pale, but his voice scarcer) trembled as he said, "It shall all be 
 done;" and placing the paper carefully in his pocket-book, he 
 walked to the window. 
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 
 And now it was all arranged, all settled, and ordered ; and 
 Blanche had gone through the trying service for which she hail
 
 322 the earl's daughter. 
 
 been preparing, and said her last words of gratitude to Hr. 
 Went worth, ami told biin lie bad comforted her and helped her, 
 and begged him to write to her -when she was away ; and 
 Maude had received every minute direction as to her cousin's 
 wishes, in case she should never return to Rutherford ; and the 
 earl had pleased himself — for the moment it was really a plea- 
 sure, though a melancholy one — in contriving everything for the 
 journey, so as to save Blanche, as far as lay in the power of 
 human ingenuity, from the otherwise unavoidable fatigues of a 
 journey. His spirits rather rallied under the pressure of occu- 
 pation ; and a flickering hope began again to burn feebly in his 
 In-east. The physician had spoken so confidently of the benefit 
 of sea-air, he thought it might work an improvement, or it 
 might at least delay the progress of disease ; and Blanche had, 
 undoubtedly, appeared stronger the last few days ; she had 
 borne the preparation for removal much better than any one 
 anticipated. It was a natural delusion, and neither Blanche 
 nor Maude were unwilling to foster it. Both felt that even a 
 deceitful hope was better, at that moment, than the despairing 
 certainty which would have rendered exertion almost impossible. 
 TVi.e, they might under such circumstances have remained at 
 Rutherford ; but Blanche herself was beginning not to wish for 
 this. She thought it likely that the sea-air might invigorate 
 her, and enable her to visit St. Ebbe's with something of enjoy- 
 ment ; and she looked forward to the possibility with that 
 last lingering of earthly satisfaction, which even the near pros- 
 pect of Eternity cannot quench in the bosom of the young. 
 And there was another reason for her wish, very different and 
 wholly unselfish. If she left Rutherford now, there was, she 
 was well aware, no probability of her return. "When and where 
 her last moments would be spent, God only knew ; but at 
 least her father would be spared the pain of associating them 
 with his home, lie would not watch over her, day by day, and 
 accustom himself to see her in the same room, the same posi- 
 tion, and then suddenly miss her from her place. Dreary as 
 Rutherford would, under any circumstances, be without her, the 
 shock of the separation would be broken by their present 
 removal ; and her father would not so probably be tempted, as 
 she had sometimes feared he might be, to rush from it in 
 despair ; and again, leaving the sphere of his Juties, find refuge 
 in solitary misery abroad. Yet the last evening in that her only 
 real home was a grievous trial, for it was the first step towards 
 the final breaking-up of earthly ties which she knew was before
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 3^.1 
 
 her. As she lay upon the sofa by herself, whilst Maude was 
 engaged with her maid in the bed-room, and Lord Rutherford 
 was talking to the steward in his study, she had leisure fur 
 thought, if she had been sufficiently strong. But she was not 
 she could only suffer fancies to pass before her ; she coult 
 not control them : they were almost all of one kind — of 
 her father, and her mother — her unhappy, but dearly cherished 
 mother — the thought of whom seemed to give a resting- 
 place to her human affections, when she fancied to herself 
 ihe entrance upon another world. Leaving Rutherford seemed 
 almost like deserting the countess's memory. It was the 
 only place in which Blanche had learnt to know her. She 
 wished she could go again into her room, to say farewell, as it 
 were, to that which mostly had belonged to her. It was a 
 strange mixture of feeling ; the vision of her mother, at rest as 
 she believed her to be, and waiting to receive her, was less vivid 
 than the earthly image conjured up by her books and pic- 
 tures, in the dreary desolate chamber, which told so truly the 
 history of her life. Sight triumphed over faith, and tears of 
 pity rose to Blanche's eves ; and all other feelings were forgotten 
 in the intensity of longing, that she had been permitted to know 
 her, to live with her and comfort her. That would have changed 
 the whole current of her life ; it might have made her a differ- 
 ent person. Yet it must have been, in a measure, a barrier 
 between her and her father, and Blanche turned away from such 
 a thought ; for how dearly she loved him she was just begin- 
 ning to feel. Oh ! if they could but have been as one ! If 
 now, when about to leave her father alone, she could at least 
 restore to him the peace of mind of which the remembrance of 
 her mother had robbed him! Then, it seemed, she could die 
 happy, for she would leave him at rest ; and something whis- 
 pered to her that, if the bitterness of remorse was soothed, his 
 mind would be more open to the principles and hopes of religion. 
 Blanche was thinking upon these things when she \\as 
 aroused by a gentle tap at the door, almost immediately fol- 
 lowed by the entrance of Eleanor Wentworth. This was the 
 first day for nearly a week that they had met ; and before, tiny- 
 Had search- been together for more than a quarter of an hour 
 at a time. Mis. Wentworth's claims upon Eleanor's attention 
 were incessant. No one else suited her; and her disposition, 
 which perhaps in its original nature was exacting, as regarded 
 those she loved, was now become so jealous and excitable, that 
 it was painful to thwart her. It might have been from this
 
 324 i ii k earl's daughter. 
 
 cause that Eleanor was altered. Constant watchfulness and 
 anxiety will work sad changes in a very short space of time, and 
 Eleanor's face told a tale of great trial in her daily life. Or 
 there might have been a deeper cause for the alteration — regret 
 and self-reproach for the past, and forebodings of evil to come. 
 The experience of one )'ear, had brought memories which mus* 
 last for life ; and they had robbed her voice of its joyous tone, 
 and had quenched the sparkle of her eye, and subdued the elas- 
 ticity of her step : and when friends pitied her, and her father 
 caressed her, Eleanor would often turn away in apparent cold- 
 ness, but real wretchedness, because she knew that the griefs 
 which excited their compassion were the consequences of her 
 own misconduct. 
 
 It was only with Blanche that she was quite free. Blancho 
 knew everything ; all her resolutions and her failings, her temp- 
 tations and her weakness. She could go back with her to their 
 simple life at St. Ebbe's, and recal the serious devotedness of 
 purpose with which they had knelt together at their confirma- 
 tion ; the earnestness and awe with which they had afterwards 
 received their first Communion, and the energy with which they 
 had entered upon the duties of life — armed by the same coun- 
 sel, and animated by affection for the same friend, llow widely 
 since that time their paths had diverged Eleanor dreaded to 
 think. Blanche, purified and strengthened by illness, was so 
 far removed from herself that she seemed scarcely like a crea- 
 ture of the same sphere. Yet still she understood ; still, even 
 before Eleanor could venture to enter upon the subject of her 
 wanderings from the right path, Blanche seemed, by an intui- 
 tive perception, to comprehend them : and the few hours which 
 they occasionally spent together, were seasons of salutary, 
 though mournful, rest to poor Eleanor's wounded spirit ; and 
 were treasured in her recollection to be prized, she could not 
 yet tell how dearly, when death should have parted them, and 
 there should be no one left to whom she could say, " So we 
 acted," or " so we thought and spoke, when we were children." 
 
 For it was not yet that she could fully understand the dan- 
 ger of Blanche's state. She came into the room that evening 
 looking almost happy, merely because Lord Rutherford had 
 told her that Blanche was much better than they could have 
 expected, considering all she had gone through during the 
 day. She had never been accustomed to the fluctuations of 
 consumption ; and she had heard of persons recovering who 
 were much worse than she imagined Blanche to be ; and, san-
 
 the earl's daughter. 32t 
 
 guiue by nature, she could not divest herself of hope. Hei 
 spirits also had tor the hour rallied as regarded her home-trials, 
 Her mother seemed tolerably comfortable ; and a penitent, 
 affectionate — though melancholy — letter had been received 
 from Charles, which had softened her father's feelings and melted 
 his indignation into pity. It was this subject which first suggested 
 itself wb.eu.she found that Blanche was able to listen to her. 
 
 " I would have brought you the letter, dear Blanche," she 
 said, as she took off her bonnet and sat down by the sola ; 
 " but I was afraid you would be too busy and tired to attend to 
 it. I don't know exactly why one should be pleaded at what is 
 evidently written very much out of spirits ; but it is the tone 
 which papa and I like. There is so much feeling for us, and so 
 much thought for poor mamma." 
 
 "And Adelaide! Does she write too?" asked Blanche, 
 always ready, even when weakened by illness, to throw herself 
 into the interests of others. 
 
 "She sends her love in a postscript ; but I am afraid that is 
 only a matter of form. It is about her that Charles is worrying 
 himself. She is just beginning to feel what the privations of a 
 soldier's wife are, where there is no money ; and I am afraid 
 she reproaches him. She need not do that, though," added 
 Eleanor, with some bitterness. " He has sacrificed as much for 
 her as she has for him." 
 
 "They -will be happier when they are abroad, I hope," said 
 Blanche. "There will not be the same looking-back and 
 longing for luxuries ; and I think, after a time, my aunt and 
 Sir Hugh will forgive them." 
 
 "It is not forgiveness which will make them happy," said 
 Eleanor, with a heavy sigh. "Two people utterly uusuited 
 must be miserable, if they had the wealth of Peru at command. 
 That is the real wretchedness, and that is what I reproach my- 
 self for. I knew so well, from the very beginning, that they 
 were no more fitted for each other than I am to be the Queen of 
 England. I believe, in fact, it was that which deluded me. I 
 fancied that Charles never could be so blind as really to fall in 
 love. But, Blanche, I want to talk of other things now, other 
 people rather." 
 
 "Mrs. Howard and St. Ebbe's ?" said Blanche, with a smile 
 of interest. 
 
 Eleanor could not smile. She answered, sadly, " Yes, 1 want 
 to talk of her, and to send a message ; but I don't exactly know 
 what. You must tell her — "
 
 32G THE earl's daughter. 
 
 " Everything I can think of about you," said Blanche. " She 
 will want to know everything." 
 
 " I could almost make up my mind to write to her by you,' 
 continued Eleanor ; " but there is so much that I dread saying. 
 She knows all the facts about me, those I have been forced to 
 mention ; but there are other things. Oh, Blanche ! what 
 would I not give to be you ; to go back to her unchanged !" 
 
 Blanche stretched out her wasted hand, and said, " Not quite 
 anchansfed." 
 
 "No, not unchanged ; you are right : but altered, advanced, 
 beyond, far beyond whatever she would have imagined possible. 
 Do you know, Blanche, there are times when it seems actually 
 impossible that we could ever have been brought up together; 
 and that my advantages were as great, even greater than yours. 
 I cannot understand it, till I retrace it all step by step, and see 
 how I have gone back." 
 
 " You are always reproaching yourself, dearest," said Blanche ; 
 "I wish I could feel you were to have 'happier thoughts, now 
 that I am going away." 
 
 " Happier when you are away !" exclaimed Eleanor, and 
 tears filled her eyes : "that would be impossible ; and then my 
 mother — but we must not talk about her. I am obliged not 
 to think more than I can help ; for you know, Blanche, I cannot 
 deceive myself; it has been in a great measure my doing : and 
 that was what I wanted to say to Mrs. Howard. I should like 
 her to know the worst ; for she will feel for me, however she 
 may blame me." 
 
 " And have you not written to her at all, lately ?" asked 
 Blanche, with some surprise. 
 
 " Yes, in a certain way ; I have written facts — not the sort 
 of letters she would wish to have, I know. But I could not 
 bring myself to do it. You must tell her, Blanche. You 
 must talk to her for me." 
 
 Blanche hesitated. " If I am able," she said ; " but I am 
 not going there directly ; and I cannot tell how I may be when 
 I get to St Ebbe's." 
 
 Eleanor read what was in her mind, though for the moment 
 the thought of her own griefs had absorbed her. " Blanche," 
 she said, as she bent down and kissed her, "wherever you are, 
 and however you may be, you will be happy." She waited 
 eagerly for the answer, as if it would satisfy some rising doubt 
 in her own mind.
 
 the earl's daughter. 327 
 
 A smile of inexpressible sweetness passed over Blanche's 
 face, " Yes, quite happy — quite. I had some fears — the dread 
 of loneliness — of what, perhaps, I am to suffer at the last; bul 
 they are going. I do not wish to live." 
 
 " Papa does not think you worse," said Eleat. or ; " and Lord 
 Rutherford says you are better." 
 
 Blanche. smiled. " Yes, dearest ; and I am not worse: per- 
 haps even I am better. I may linger — I may return ; but it 
 is npt probable — scarcely possible." 
 
 " And to part from you now, for ever ; to live without you !" 
 exclaimed Eleanor, bursting into a passionate flood of tears. 
 ' You are so young : they said you were so strong : there is no 
 jonsumption in your family." 
 
 " I. would rather see the truth," replied Blanche, quietly. 
 ' It is much better for me, for then I can prepare myself; and 
 you must let me say to-night what I would, if I were quite sure 
 of our never meeting again on earth." 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed Eleanor ; " I cannot bear it ; I cannot 
 listen to it ; and we shall meet again." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, in heaven. God grant it," said Blanche, so- 
 lemnly, and Eleanoi buried her face in her hands. Blanche 
 waited for her to speak, but there was neither voice nor sound, 
 save the ticking of the clock, which marked the minutes that 
 were speeding towards Eternity. Then Blanche raised herself 
 on the softi, and said, as she joined her hands together and a 
 flush tinged her ashy cheek, " AYe have often talked of this 
 hour ; we have thought what it would be to die. Eleanor, 
 dearest, it is very awful — very real ; more real far than any- 
 thing in life, except prayer and communion with God." 
 
 " And that I have neglected," said Eleanor, without raising 
 her head. 
 
 "Yes," continued Blanche, in the same earnest tone, "you 
 have told me so ; and I have thought about it when I have been 
 lying here alone ; and I hoped I might ask you — I might beg 
 you — the wishes of the dying are sacred," she added, her voice 
 changing into a touching gentleness of entreaty. 
 
 Eleanor rose from her seat, and, kneeling beside her, said, 
 " .\-k me what volt will, if only I may be like you." 
 
 "I can see — I think lean," continued Blanche, "what has been 
 mv own safety, in a measure, as far as I have been safe : — or 
 rather," she added, correcting herself, "what has been permitted 
 Co help me. It was my rule — my order for every day; order 
 in my prayers, I mean ; not leaving them to chance or feeling,
 
 328 the earl's daughter. 
 
 but being forced to go at fixed times. It was Mrs. Howanrs 
 wish that first made me feel that I was forced, and then it 
 became necessary." 
 
 " Mrs. Howard gave me the rule too," said Eleanor humbly, 
 " but I did not keep it." 
 
 " But now, now, for my sake — in memory of me, when I am 
 gone, Eleanor, it is my last wish, because I feel that in your case 
 it involves all other duties. Only promise me that once in the 
 day, not merely in the morning and at night, you will pray." 
 
 And Eleanor kissed her, and answered, " I will promise ; but 
 I shall never be like you." 
 
 Blanche sank back, with a smile, as if a weight had been taken 
 from her mind, and after a moment's silence continued, " And 
 one thing more I would say whilst time is granted me to 
 speak. I would say it rather than write it, because I can speak 
 it more earnestly, more truly, as it should bespoken. I told you 
 I was happy. Eleanor, that does not express what I feel ; it is 
 all so strange and overpowering. But there is something 
 beyond happiness — rest, peace, love." Her dark eyes were 
 lighted up with the sparkling flash of intense feeling, as she 
 added, " Love which is perfect, satisfying ; the dream of my 
 childhood, which now I have found." She became very 
 exhausted, and Eleanor, seeing that her presence was exciting, 
 felt that she must go. But as she stood up to depart it seemed 
 impossible. Blanche motioned to her to sit down again; 
 Eleanor paused. She went to the table and took up a large 
 morocco case, which she had laid upon it on her first entrance.' 
 
 " Stay a few minutes longer," said Blanche ; " I will not 
 talk." 
 
 Eleanor approached her ; the case was in her hand. " Hark !" 
 she said, " it is six o'clock. My mother will be wanting me." 
 
 Blanche looked up with the impulse to send a message, but a 
 blank, miserable recollection, checked her. 
 
 " She sent her love to you to-day," continued Eleanor, unable 
 to restrain her tears, " and — " she held out the case. 
 
 Blanche stretched out her hand, but it was quite powerless ; 
 and she could only say in a feeble tone, " Open it." 
 
 " I will leave it with you," said Eleanor, " it is — " 
 
 " Yes, I know ; open it — let me see it." 
 
 And Eleanor touched the spring, and revealed the bright, 
 lovely features of the young Countess of Rutherford. The 
 mother and the child ; — how like ! and yet how different ! As 
 Blanche motioned to Eleanor to place the picture near her, and
 
 the earl's daughter. 32& 
 
 Eleanor's eye wandered from one to the other, she could almos* 
 have supposed that the tale of each sweet face had been 
 reversed ; that the radiant beauty displayed by the artist was the 
 image of Blanche just entering upon the world's enjoyments ; 
 and that the worn, sunk features of the gentle girl, were the 
 signs of the life of sorrow about to find repose in death. 
 
 Blanche gazed at the picture long and silently, " Thank her," 
 she said at length to Eleanor, in a trembling voice, " very much. 
 Teil her — you know how I value it." 
 
 " It should have been yours before, dearest," said Eleanor. 
 
 " No no ; it is in time. It will do its work ;" and turning 
 away her head, she murmured, " he has made me happy, and 
 she will forgive." 
 
 Eleanor drew near to sav, good bVe. 
 
 " God bless you, Eleanor, my own precious Eleanor ; and keep 
 you safe. Think of me when you pray — in Church — always ;'•' 
 and Eleanor could only answer by sobs, and the half-uttered 
 delusive hope, that they might meet again. 
 
 CHATTER LIII. 
 
 Why should we linger so fondly over the last hours of the 
 dying J—swhy should we delight to dwell upon the form, and 
 lineaments, and expression of that which is now so loved 
 and valued, but which soon must be hidden from our sight ? — 
 why should we treasure up each word and tone to be recalled 
 in the hour of desolation, and pierce with a deeper anguish the 
 heart that already is crushed to the dust ? We are but adding 
 to our grief; vet we would rather cherish it than part from it; 
 for it is dearer than happiness, more precious than joy, since it 
 is instinct with the hopes of immortality. It is a grief, however 
 which needs no description. We have but to ask our own 
 hearts ; and, even if the dread experience has as yet been 
 spared us, we can tell all the outward forms which it must 
 assume. The last departure from Rutherford, who cannot pic 
 ture it ? That momentary excitement — the struggle of contlict- 
 ing feelings — of dying hope, and ever-present fear — the petty 
 cares, and ordinary trials of a journey, and the never-ceasing 
 anxiety and dread felt through all, lest the change should have 
 been made too late. 
 
 The earl hoped, even then; though he thought he did no!
 
 330 the earl's daughter. 
 
 If he had not hoped, lie never would have taken Blanche away, 
 for he saw at last how much it cost her. The pain of fatigue 
 she could not hide, though the pain of regret she could. There 
 is something in the very name of home inexpressibly dear to us 
 when we are very ill ; and Blanche's home, notwithstanding all 
 her disappointments, had been a very happy one. But she left it 
 without a word of complaint, or expression of sorrow; only with 
 a few silent tears, as she looked for the last time on the window 
 of her mother's chamber, and raised herself to smile a farewell 
 to Eleanor, who, unable to leave Mrs. Wentworth as she had 
 anticipated, was standing at the rectory gate to see her pass. 
 
 But that parting was over and the journey was borne with 
 tolerable ease ; and Blanche reached the place of her destina- 
 tion, and felt the freshness of the sea-breeze, and saw the spark- 
 ling of the bright waters beneath a brilliant noon-day sun ; and, 
 strengthened for a few days, seemed to enjoy her daily drive 
 and the novelty of the view, and thought — yes, still she thought, 
 and knew — that she was dying. 
 
 Yet days went by as before. Habits and customs, and old 
 familiar w r ays and interests, crowd around us, even to the last ; 
 and in the spacious mansion, where provided with every luxury of 
 refinement, guarded from every blast, shaded from every intrud- 
 ing glare, Blanche was learning to prepare herself for Heaven, 
 there was a common life of vexing thoughts and worldly occupa- 
 tions pressing forward, eager, hopeful, save when it approached 
 the sick chamber of her upon whose young brow was written 
 the doom of all earthly beauty, " passing away."* 
 
 There all was stilled as in the presence of an angel visitant. 
 For it grew, day by day, even hour by hour, the pure ethereal 
 beauty of that heaven-born spirit which is the portion of God's 
 elect. When Blanche had put a^ide her few earthly cares, she 
 was able to fix her thoughts steadily upon eternity. The world 
 to which she was hastening became her home, and though her 
 perceptions were dim, and her anticipations vague, she could 
 still dwell upon some certainties, before which all earthly joys 
 faded into nothingness. 
 
 * 
 
 From the stars of heaven and the flowers of earth, 
 From the pageant of power and the voice of mirth, 
 From the mists of mom on the mountain's brow, 
 From childhood's song and affection's vow — 
 From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway, 
 Dreathes but one record — passing away. 
 
 Mas. Hf.kae*.
 
 the earl's daughter. 331 
 
 She would be sinless there and at rest ; — at rest in trw 
 presence of her Saviour; and the blessedness of that hope nona 
 can tell but they to whom every earthly affection is secondary. 
 It was no dream to Blanche, that the love of God alone can 
 satisfy the human heart; it was a fact, taught by each day's 
 experience. The Being to whom she could turn in every trial, 
 however slight ; the Friend whose presence she always felt ; the 
 love which could never change, even with the changes of hei 
 own weak, unstable heart; were realities, beneath which her 
 sinking spirit reposed as beneath " the shadow of a great rock 
 in a weary land." When the terror of death overwhelmed her, 
 she turned to them with an unutterable sense of safety and 
 relief; whilst every trifling comfort and every moment of ease 
 were regarded as the sure pledges of that untiring watchfulness 
 which, if it guarded her so carefully in life, could never leave 
 her lonely in death. 
 
 4nd it was not trust merely that Blanche felt. Trust is oui 
 faith in a Power; lo*e is our devotion to a Person. She had 
 trusted all her life, and she had loved too more than she knew. 
 Now she was beginning to comprehend her own heart, to under- 
 stand its yearnings after perfection, its cravings for a fulness ol 
 affection which she had been told could be found on earth, but 
 which she had often feared might, if it satisfied her. border 
 upon idolatry. She could not envy others, even with the purest 
 prospects -of this world's happiness. She had found " the- pearl 
 of great price," and the wealth of the universe would have been 
 worthless in its exchange. 
 
 Lord Rutherford saw that she was happy, and even in the 
 midst of his anguish he could not be insensible to the comfort ; 
 yet the siulit of "the peace which passeth understanding" was 
 often goading to his self-reproach, since it seemed to widen the 
 gulf that separated him and his child. 
 
 He was alone with Blanche, one evening, about a fortnight 
 after their removal from Rutherford, and she was speaking to 
 him of St. Ebbe's, and of her wish to go there soon, and saying 
 that she was becoming anxious about it, for the distance was 
 not very gri at ; — she thought they might return if— she \ ause I, 
 and tkenfinished her sentence firmly — if she should live. 
 
 He did not shrink from her 'word-; but, as he fondlj 
 smoothed her hair, replied, that he did not see she was w 
 but he was afraid she must be. 
 
 "Yes," She said, she knew that she was worse, for she was 
 
 weaker; and she had spoken to I »r. Granville, and asked what
 
 332 the earl's daughter. 
 
 he thought about her going to St. Ebbe's, and he had lold her 
 that if she really wished it so very much he could not say no, 
 but he would not advise it. " I will not urge it if you don't 
 like it, dear papa," she added ; " but Mrs. Howard could only 
 come to me for one night, without great difficulty, and " 
 
 The earl interrupted her, " Wish it, my child ! my wishes 
 against yours !" 
 
 " They ought to be against mine," said Blanche, " if you like 
 it ; but you have always been so kind ; you have spoiled me, 
 and now I am bent upon my own way." She spoke lightly 
 and playfully, as she might have done months before. It was 
 the voice more than the words which touched the weak chord 
 of the earl's heart, and made the tears gather in his eyes. 
 
 u You have quite spoiled me," continued Blanche, in the 
 same tone ; but it changed the next moment, for her father was 
 leaning his head against her pillow in silent wretchedness. 
 " You must let me thank you," she said. " By-and-by, you 
 will like to think of me as happy always — happy in my life with 
 you, and very — very happy in my rest." 
 
 He raised his head and kissed her, and sank back into the 
 same posture. 
 
 Blanche considered for a few moments, and then she con- 
 tinued. " Being ill has been a comfort to me in many ways ; 
 because we have been so much together, and we have been able 
 to read the same books, and have liked the same things ; and 
 you will always like them now, dear papa ; wont you for my 
 sake ?" 
 
 Lord Rutherford could only press her hand ; he had not 
 words to answer. 
 
 " I have enjoyed so very much your reading to me every 
 day," continued Blanche ; " and it seems strange now, that I 
 should ever have been afraid of asking you ; but I know that, 
 when I first came home, I should have felt quite frightened if I 
 had been told to do it. Things have changed very much since 
 then." 
 
 " Yes ;" replied the earl, in a hollow voice ; " they have 
 indeed." 
 
 "And changed io make us happier too," said Blanche, with 
 a little hesitation. " It would have been much worse to part 
 then, than it is now." 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed the earl. " If I had never known you, 
 Blanche — if you were only a child whom I had scarcely seen — " 
 
 " We might have loved each other less," said Blanche ;
 
 the earl's daughter. 333 
 
 " but we could never have thought of parting with the same 
 peace." 
 
 u Peace !" repeated the earl bitterly. " Peace for me !" and 
 then, as he again buried his face in his hands, he murmured, 
 " There is no peace but for the innocent." 
 
 " Papa, my own dear papa," said Blanche, in a tone of gentlo 
 reproach, £S she forced him to move his head, and look at her. 
 
 " I am right," he answered moodily. " Peace is for you, my 
 child ; and for you I can accept it, and be thankful." 
 
 ^ It would not be my peace," said Blanche, " if it was not 
 yours too." 
 
 " Then it can belong to neither of us," exclaimed the earl : 
 " unless a new power is given to mortals to blot out the past." 
 
 " It must be blotted out for us all," replied Blanche, " before 
 we can find peace." 
 
 " I know what you would say," replied the earl. " I have 
 heard all that divines can preach ; and have read their 
 books, and thought about them, too. But, Blanche, my 
 child, let it be even as they say ; let forgiveness be granted 
 from heaven, let there be no reckoning of our offences before 
 God ; — still, still there is memory. Memory," he repeated to 
 himself, " that mocking fiend ! Blanche, when you are gone 
 from me, who will give me peace ?" 
 
 Blanche paused — presently she said, " Papa, if I could come 
 back to -you and tell you I was happy, would you not be 
 so?" 
 
 The earl looked at her with a faint smile. 
 
 "If you could see me," continued Blanche, "and knew that 
 I had no wish to return to earth, and that my home was 
 brighter than even you could desire to make it ; and that I was 
 with mamma; and that she loved you dearly, and was longing 
 for you to come to her ; and if there was a place ready for you 
 — f place in Paradise — in rest; would it not be peace then ?" 
 Lord Rutherford averted his head. "It is there," continued 
 Blanche, her feeble tones becoming more earnest; "I see it in 
 my dreams, when I am by myself alone in the twilight. It is 
 a home for us all, and you will come to me ; and mamma — " 
 
 He turned quickly, ami caught her hand; and, in a voict 
 convulsed with emotion, said, "Tell her I have repented; ak 
 her to forgive me." 
 
 Blanche made no immediate reply; hut drew towards her 
 the case containing her mother's picture, which was laid on tin; 
 sofa bv her side, and touching fche Bpring, showed the sunny
 
 334 the earl's daughter. 
 
 smile, the beauty of youth, and joy, and hope, on which the 
 shadow of harshness or reproach seemed as if it could not for 
 a moment rest. 
 
 " Look ! papa," she said, as she threw her arms around him. 
 " You have made her child happy, and does not she forgive ?" 
 
 Lord Rutherford took the picture from her. Blanche 
 watched him anxiously. She saw the furrowed brow bent in 
 anguish, and the mouth quiver and the dark eye become dim ; 
 ai.d then, large scalding drops fell slowly down the earl's 
 cheeks, and pressing tne picture to his lips, he exclaimed 
 passionately, " God bless and keep you both for eve ;" and left 
 the room. 
 
 Blanche missed the picture from that evening, and nevei 
 asked for it again. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Once more it was towards the close of a summer's day i\ 
 the quaint garden of the manor house of St. Ebbe's ; and long 
 shadows fell upon the lawn, and marked the hours on the dial- 
 plate as they fleeted by; and the heavy tones of the great 
 cathedral clock resounded solemnly from afar, and mingled with 
 and subdued the cheerful voices of children at their play. 
 
 Once more ! oh, many and many a time afterwards might 
 the gladness of the day melt gently into the stillness of night; 
 and the loveliness of nature's repose give rest to the weary 
 heart; and the lightness of childish glee echo merrily amidst 
 the old grey walls ; but never again would Blanche Evelyn 
 rejoice in the rush of early memories which thronged around her, 
 as she looked from the window of her own chamber on the 
 first evening of her arrival at St. Ebbe's. 
 
 She could indeed rejoice — most happy amongst the happy — 
 most blessed amongst the blest. With her father to watch 
 over her, and smile mournfully, yet with the sweetness of a 
 hope better than that of life ; and Mrs. Howard to sit by her, 
 and talk to her ; and Maude to busy herself in the arrange- 
 ments which now were so necessary to her comfort ; that first 
 evening was one of quiet, full contentment to herself — what it 
 was to others we need n/>t raise the veil which hides the bitter- 
 ness of mortal grief to describe. 
 
 The first meeting had been a great shock to Mrs. Howard,
 
 the earl's DAUGHTER. 335 
 
 much greater than she dared express. She was not at all pre- 
 pared for Blanche's extreme weakness; for letters seldom really 
 describe in detail, and it is only by details that those well 
 practised in the sad scenes of illness, can tell the real state. 
 Lord Rutherford had said she seemed rather better ; Maude 
 had written to make preparation, as if she would be able to sit 
 up a great deal, and even to drive out ; and Blanche, herself, 
 had expressed the utmost delight at the prospect of her visit, 
 though she said plainly that she" felt it must be her last. 
 
 They were all then deluding themselves ; looking forward to 
 months ! Mrs. Howard, when she saw her, could not hope for 
 weeks. Yet she met Blanche calmly and cheerfully ; congratu- 
 lated Lord Rutherford on her having borne the journey so well ; 
 and suffered her to talk as long as she could about all" that had 
 passed ; and then, when Blanche at length went to bed, quite 
 worn out, Mrs. Howard retired to her own room, to find com- 
 fort in solitude for that heavy aching of the heart, which could 
 not even obtain relief from tears. 
 
 This state of things continued for a few days ; at least Lord 
 Rutherford fancied that it did. He did "not know every 
 symptom of the complaint ; and he had been so accustomed 
 lately to its changes, that he was almost beginning to think 
 little of them. Blanche was more feverish, he thought — but 
 that he attributed to excitement — and he urged Mrs. Howard 
 to keep her more quiet ; and Mrs. Howard, complying with his 
 request, would take her work and sit in the room, and intend 
 not to talk. But the intention could not be easily kept — there 
 was so much to say and to hear ; and Blanche felt so inexpres- 
 sibly relieved when she could unburthen herself to the accumu- 
 lated weight of anxieties which had grown up since they parted, 
 and be assured that she had acted under them well and wisely. 
 It was such a comfort, too, to speak of her father, and point out 
 the indications of his change of mind, on which she so fondly 
 dwelt ; and to find that Mrs. Howard viewed them as she did 
 herself. She tried to be quiet and unexcited, and for hours 
 she would lie perfectly still from weakness ; but some thought 
 or recollection would strike her, and conversation began, almost 
 unawares, again. This was injurious to her; but it mattered 
 little. Perfect repose, both of bxly and mind, could scarcely 
 have retarded the progress of a disease, which, by trifling varia- 
 tions and imperceptible changes in its symptoms, too surely 
 bore the mandate of approaching death. 
 
 No one saw it but Mrs. Howard. How she endured the 
 
 15
 
 330 the earl's daughter. 
 
 certainty, without distressing others by her own convictions, she 
 could never comprehend, except by referring her calmness to 
 the support which is always sent when it is needed. Her love 
 for Blanche was no common feeling; : it had in it the strength 
 of her long attachment to the Countess of Rutherford, and of 
 the entire devotion of a mother to Blanche during her child- 
 hood ; and the year which had parted them, though it had been 
 full of incident and change to herself, had never separated them 
 in thought. Still it had been her proud desire to see Blanche 
 in her own home, shedding far around the light and charm of 
 her goodness, and her beauty ; and even when she said to her- 
 self that all was better as it was — that Blanche might have sunk 
 under the great temptations to which she was exposed ; or even 
 if she had conquered them, might, eventually, have fallen a prey 
 to the morbid depression of spirits which had so often shown 
 itself in her mother's family — yet it was hard, really, to feel the 
 truth of her own words. She knew it was best that Blanche 
 should go — it was the appointment of Infinite Love ; and it 
 could not be other than merciful. Yet how was the parting to 
 be endured ? 
 
 They had been together about a week, and during that time 
 Blanche had taken two drives, which seemed however to fatigue 
 her ; and Lord Rutherford therefore said, she had better wait 
 till the weather was a little cooler. So she remained in the 
 house, and tried to read a little, but her eyes were weak, and it 
 was a trouble to her to hold a book in her hand. Lord Ruther- 
 ford read to her occasionally, but she could not listen long ; 
 and for the last two days she had found it as much as she could 
 bear to attend during the daily visits of the clergyman — the 
 rector who had prepared her for confirmation. Ker father was 
 generally with her at these times, for she was not able to be left 
 alone ; and she liked him to kneel by her side, holding her 
 hand in his, and repeating the prayers with her. He scarcely 
 ever spoke more than was quite necessary, but he never seemed 
 impatient or wearied ; and Blanche could perceive a marked 
 change in the tone in which he said the Confession. It was 
 earnest and humble, as if it was a relief to him to join in it. 
 
 Blanche was quite sure that his feelings about religion were 
 very different from what they had been ; but she did not dare 
 talk to him about them ; and she could not ask him why he 
 had altered so much since the day of their short conversation, 
 when she had shown him the countess's picture. She fancied 
 that perhaps he really felt now that her mother had forgiven
 
 THE EARL 8 DAUGHTER. 337 
 
 bim ; and with that load of remorse and despair taken from 
 his mind, she hoped he might shrink less from the thought of 
 receiving Holy Communion with her. She could scarcely realise 
 the comfort that would be to them both ; but she did not know 
 how to approach the subject. It was difficult to tell whether 
 she might or ought. He had neglected it she feared for so 
 many yerffs ; though she knew that, as a very young man, he 
 had been accustomed to receive it regularly ; and ouce he had 
 al laded to it and sighed, as if those were better and happier 
 times than he could ever expect to return. She said something 
 to Mrs. Howard about it, and hoped that through her it might 
 be named to the rector ; and that he would suggest what she 
 might do. But one or two days slipped by, and there were 
 some reasons for delay ; and when the rector called again, 
 Blanche was not able to see him. She was much later that 
 morning than usual in waking, for she had scarcely slept at all 
 during the early part of the night Mrs. Howard thought she 
 had better not leave her bed, but she was anxious to be dressed, 
 for she thought she should be more comfortable ; and they 
 brought her into the sitting-room, in the afternoon, and laid her 
 on the sofa, which was drawn in front of the window. Lord 
 Kutherford was to have gone into the town in the afternoon ; 
 but she looked so ill, that he did not like to leave her, even for 
 half an hour, and he sat in the room with her, writing ; for she 
 could not" listen to readiug. The house was kept very quiet, 
 and Mrs. Howard and Maude were by themselves a great part 
 of the time, for they were afraid to disturb her by having too 
 many in the room. They did not go to her till it was growing 
 late ; and, when they opened the door, Lord Rutherford was 
 reading one of the prayers from the Visitation Service ; and 
 they closed it again very softly and went away. Blanche had 
 borne that so well that the earl thought he might venture to 
 talk to her, and he kissed her, and said, it had been a bad day, 
 but he hoped they should have a better one to-morrow. 
 
 Blanche smiled doubtfully. " Yes," she replied ; it had been 
 a bad day in many ways, but it had been very quiet, and she 
 had not been suffering pain, except a little occasionally, and she 
 was very glad to be able to be dressed andcoine into the sitting- 
 room once more. " I don't think 1 shall come in to-morrow," 
 she added. 
 
 The earl turned pale ; "I am glad to see. the sun set again," 
 continued Blanche, " because I was always so fond of it — thy
 
 338 the earl's dauuhter. 
 
 eunset here especially. Papa, it was just at this very time in 
 the evening last year, that you came ; do you recollect it ?" 
 
 Poor Lord Rutherford ! what would he not have given to 
 have been able to forget ! 
 
 " You will remember that sunset was my favourite time, 
 wont you ?" said Blanche ; " and that it always seemed to me, 
 when I was a child — and even sometimes it does now — as if it 
 was part of Heaven, and as if all the forms of the clouds were 
 real things, mountains and lakes. It is very bright and beauti- 
 ful this evening," she added, gazing on it intently. 
 
 " We may hope to have many like it, at this time of the 
 year," said the earl, in a tone which was fearfully calm. 
 
 "Yes, I hope you will have a great many," continued 
 Blanche ; " and you must not let them make you sad, dear 
 papa ; but you must think they are the pictures of my home — 
 our home," she added, correcting herself. 
 
 The earl compressed his lips firmly together, and Blanche felt 
 his hand tremble. 
 
 " You will take me back to Rutherford, I know," she said, 
 after a pause, seeing that he could not trust himself to speak ; 
 " and, perhaps, by-and-by, you will be pleased to think that I 
 am lying near you, when you are in church, as I used to think 
 of mamma. And one thing, may I say it ? — I cannot bear to 
 pain you," and she kissed his forehead, and waited till he said, 
 " Go on." 
 
 " One thing I have a fancy about. I should not like 
 anything grand to be put upon my coffin, only my name and 
 the date, and a cross." She waited to take breath, for the 
 exertion of much speaking was very trying. 
 
 " Anything else ? tell me all," said the earl. He was 
 summoning every effort to remain calm, for he knew now what 
 these last wishes foreboded. 
 
 " I should be glad to feel that you would not go away from 
 Rutherford," said Blanche; even then shrinking from that 
 which might appear dictating to him. " I like to fancy that 
 you will be near where I am resting ; and I should feel that all 
 the poor people whom I care about would be thought of; and 
 that Dr. Wentworth would have some one to help him in 
 what he wants to do in the parish. Perhaps by-and-by you 
 would try and remember me to some of the old persons I used 
 to visit, and to poor Susannah Byer. I wrote their names 
 down one day to give to you. Maude has the paper." 
 
 " Is that all ?" said the earl.
 
 the earl's daughter. 339 
 
 " Yes, all ; except the directions I gave before I left home, 
 and " — she pointed to her Bible, from which the earl had been 
 accustomed to read to her. " It was given to me by Mrs. 
 Howard, on the day of my confirmation," she said ; " will you 
 keep it and love it I and " 
 
 " Read it ?" said the earl, earnestly ; " Yes ; that indeed I 
 may promise." 
 
 " It is marked," continued Blanche. " I think you will 
 understand the marks. I have put the date to some of the 
 lessons which you have read to me ; and there is my Prayer 
 Book also ; the Psalms I like best for prayers aivi marked in 
 that." She feebly turned the pages, till the book was opened 
 at the office for the Holy Communion. It was headed by a 
 date of the preceding year. " The day of my first Commu- 
 nion," she said, pointing to it ; and as the earl bent down to 
 look nearer, or, possibly, to hide the feelings which were visible 
 in his face, she added, " Will you mark it with the date of the 
 last ? to-morrow if it may be." 
 
 " To-morrow ! Blanche, my precious, precious child ; I 
 cannot part with you. God forgive me ! Oh grant that I may 
 bear it!" 
 
 Blanche would not let him give way. She said, he must 
 not ; it would be wrong now when they had such infinite 
 comfort ; when they were one — one whatever might happen. 
 The next Communion might not be the last ; but she thought 
 it would ; and she was going to ask him to write to the rector, 
 and fix it decidedly. It had been left a little uncertain on the 
 preceding day. The earl seized some note-paper, and began to 
 write. Blanche put out her hand to stop him. Her look was 
 so anxious, so pleading, that he threw aside his pen, and knelt 
 beside her. " Together," said Blanche, and in her agitation, 
 she gasped for breath ; " for the first and last time together." 
 And as the earl bent his head upon her hand his answer was. 
 " Pray for me, that I may not be rejected." 
 
 Blanche was taken early to her bed that evening, for she was 
 very much weakened, and in some pain ; and her breathing 
 was very short. Lord Rutherford sat up with her, and Mr-. 
 Howard. Till this sudden change it had been sufficient to have 
 a servant sleeping in her room. The earl looked ill and worn, 
 but no one thought of advising him to ero to rest. 
 
 Blanche was very restless all the night, and they could not 
 juiet her in any wav ; though sometimes Mrs. 1 Inward said a 
 verse of a Psalm to her, and she appeared to like it. She
 
 3^0 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 scarcely spoke, except to ask for a little tea; but she was quite 
 sensible, and smiled at her father when he came up to her, and 
 followed him with her eye when he turned away ; and, at last, 
 after he had been trying to settle her more comfortably, she laid 
 her head on the pillow, resting on his arm, and fell asleep with 
 her hand clasped in his. 
 
 She slept in this way for about an hour and a half, and 
 woke as if startled. Lord Rutherford was in the room with her 
 alone. There was a change ; he saw that directly, and rano- 
 the bell. 
 
 Blanche looked up eagerly, and tried to say something, and 
 the earl bent down to catch the words : " Will he come ? Wnl 
 there be time, do you think ?" she asked. 
 
 The earl hesitated for an instant. Then he answered with 
 perfect composure : " We can send, and he will come at any 
 moment;" and Blanche joined her thin hands, and said, 
 " Thank God," and sank quietly back on the pillow. 
 
 It was but half an hour from that time, and the Service for 
 the Communion of the Sick was celebrated in Blanche's djing 
 chamber. Mrs. Howard, Maude, and Lord Rutherford kneeling 
 by her bed. 
 
 And it was over— and Lord Rutherford knelt still; and 
 Blanche's eyes closed, and her lips moved in prayer. A few 
 minutes passed of peace unutterable ; and then Blanche faintly 
 smiled upon Mrs. Howard and Maude ; and tried to press her 
 father's hand, and whispered : " Papa, good b'ye." The earl 
 raised his head, but she never spoke again. 
 
 Long, long, he remained listening to the faint, scarcely 
 perceptible breathing, until at length there was a gentle sigh, — 
 and the stillness of death rested upon the features of his darling 
 child. 
 
 They laid her to rest by her mother's side, in the vault 
 beneath the chapel of the Evelyns, in the old church of Ruther- 
 ford. There, not many years afterwards, reposed the mortal 
 remains of one who, if a deep repentance can avail to obtain 
 mercy, most surely carried with him to his grave, the pardon of 
 God, as well as the blessing of man. 
 
 Lord Rutherford never left his home for more than a few 
 months, when he returned to it after Blanche's death. If 
 ambition, or indolence, or the love of pleasure had charms for 
 him, they were sacrificed in the service of the Master to whom, 
 though late, he had devoted himself.
 
 the earl's daughter. 341 
 
 Ilis memory is still cherished amongst his people. They 
 talk of his truth and uprightness, his though tfulness and 
 liberality, his piety and consistency; and if they say that he was 
 cold in manner, and solitary in his habits, they know that 
 he lived in spirit with the dead, and they marvel not that he 
 had few affections left to devote to the living. Even now, when 
 his castle-Is the possession of another, they point out the terrace 
 where he used to walk, — sometimes with Maude, the only 
 pereon who was ever known to visit him in his retirement, but 
 oftener alone — watching the golden sunset intently, as if it was 
 a reality of heaven rather than a dream of earth ; and when 
 they point to the escutcheon of his earthly glory, and sigh over 
 the honours of a race extinct, there are many to pray that, like 
 the last Earl of Rutherford, they may one day rest in the " sure 
 and certain hope " of " those who sleep in Jesus." 
 
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