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PRINTED BY CRAPELET, 9, RUE DE VAUGIRARD. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY, 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 TO WHICH IS ADDED 
 
 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 EDITED 
 
 By THEODORE HOOK, Esq. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JACK BRAG;" " MAXWELL;" "THE PARSONS 
 DAUGHTER;'' "BIRTHS, DEATHS, AND MARRIAGES," ETC. 
 
 PARIS, 
 
 BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, 
 
 3, QCAI MALAQUA1S, WEAK THE POST BES ARTS; 
 
 AND STASSIN ET XAY1ER, C), RUE DU COQ. 
 
 SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RLE DE LA PAIX ; TRLCHY, BOULEVARD DE3 ITALIEWSj 
 
 GIRARD FRERES, RLE RICHELIEU, LEOPOLD 3IICHELSEN, LEIPZIG ,• 
 
 AKD EY ALL THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS 0>" THE COKTIKHT. 
 
 1840. 
 

 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 r 
 
 Horace St. John was a gentleman commoner of Christ 
 Church, of good fortune, and the scion of an ancient family, 
 but neither was that fortune so large, nor that family so illus- 
 trious, as were those of many of his Oxford associates. 
 
 Yet Horace St. John was courted and deferred to, by the 
 most exclusive set of his exclusive college— why, they scarcely 
 knew or inquired, for they were not of a class or age mucn given 
 to investigation; but yet the " proudest tuff amongst them 
 gloried in receiving one of Horace's sparing invitations, and 
 seldom forgot to press him to his breakfast, or wine, or supper, 
 though he was seldom sufficiently fortunate to secure his pre- 
 sence. Wherever Horace appeared, every eye was eager to re- 
 cognise, every hand ready to extend itself, and every lip to greet 
 him with smiles, — was he then so very amiable, so very enter- 
 taining, or so very learned? 
 
 No; but he paid neither court nor homage to any man, and 
 in his air and manner there was a certain something which de- 
 noted perfect confidence in himself, not to speak of something 
 bordering upon a well-bred contempt for almost everybody else. 
 
 Truly was it said of yore, that we are generally taken by so- 
 ciety at our own valuation ; and so it was with Horace 5 and yet 
 he was not, in point of fact, unamiable,— to the poor and un- 
 happy his bearing was neither cold nor scornful 5 but he de- 
 lighted in humbling the spoiled child of fortune who had been 
 courted from his cradle; or in "taking down" some young 
 lordling, who had been almost deified during his course of read- 
 ing with his private tutor in some remote village ; or in ridi- 
 culing the boasting parvenu, or the ever-agreeing, always- 
 smiling toady; but, above all, in "pulling down" the empty- 
 intrusive freshman, who, full of mingled slang and dandyism, 
 and scarcely invested with the attributes and privileges of man- 
 hood, fancied it fine and flourishing to belong to a set dis- 
 tinguished only by rioting, disorder, and excess. In fact, there 
 were but few amonsr those, whom the world called his equals, 
 
 887 1 
 
I COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 whom he did not delight to humble, although the process was 
 performed in the quietest imaginable manner. 
 
 Although Horace was always pronounced by the ladies very 
 handsome, the style of his beauty was cold and ungenial, and 
 his finely curved mouth was but too often disfigured by some- 
 thing very like to a sneer. 
 
 His dress was scrupulously elegant, although plainness was 
 its striking characteristic. He seemed to disdain finery; indeed, 
 the very essence of his character appeared to be a perfect disre- 
 gard of others ; therefore was it that he was courted, courted by 
 the men, and to their shame be it spoken, even by the wo- 
 men, — who, if they value their influence in society, should 
 resolutely withhold their smiles from all who seem disposed to 
 exact homage, rather than offer it. Yet one of Horace St. John's 
 cold glances, or half supercilious speeches, was thought more of, 
 by the beauties of his acquaintance, married and unmarried, 
 than the most studied looks or tender protestations of more at- 
 tainable beaux. 
 
 Many a fair damsel has felt her heart flutter, with the vain 
 hope that Horace St. John was actually coming to ask her to 
 dance 5 and sunk dejected again, as she, — a new belle perhaps, 
 and the cynosure of neighbouring eyes, — beheld him pass her 
 by, with a half smile at her too evident hope ; and having looked 
 down for a few minutes, upon every body near him, and coldly 
 answered some eager nod of recognition, which he could not 
 entirely disregard without actual rudeness, unscathed encounter 
 all the glances which were directed towards him, and then move 
 down the crowded room with precisely the same haughty indif- 
 ference, as that with which he had walked up. 
 
 "How strange it is, none of you seem to make the least im- 
 pression on Horace St. John ! " said^ady Sackville, at a crowded 
 Cheltenham party, to an unlucky daughter, doomed, as no part- 
 ner fetched her away, to a sotto voce conversation with mama ; 
 "neither Clara's novelty, nor your experience, seem to have 
 the slightest chance with him ; he is alike indifferent to dawn 
 and sunset, spring and autumn." And the lady wreathed her 
 well vermilioned lip into a sweet smile as she bent towards her 
 tall, handsome, but artificial-looking daughter. 
 
 " 1 think," replied Miss Sackville as gaily as possible, although 
 inwardly smarting under considerable irritation, " since spring 
 and autumn have failed, winter had better try its power ; cer- 
 tainly whatever is cold and bitter seems best suited to Horace 
 St. John." 
 
 ''There lies your mistake, my love," said Lady Sackville, 
 "you are too repulsive, Clara is too condescending; the me- 
 dium, I think, might succeed. Now, were / a girl, he is the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 3 
 
 man I should set my heart on captivating j I would devote my- 
 self exclusively to awaken his sensibility." 
 
 "And that, my dear mother," said the young lady, -'no 
 woman would ever do, even were she to die for his sake.'' 
 
 " Perhaps not, my love," said mama ; " but who is that press- 
 ing forward, bouquet in hand ? do you know him? Perhaps this 
 is the conquest Clara told me she was sure you had made dur- 
 ing your week's visit at Brighton ; I am sure it is the man who 
 was driving up and down yesterday before your window." 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Sackville ; " yes, that is my old beau of last 
 week, Sir Croesus Hunter." 
 
 " Clara assured me he was a marrying man," said mama. 
 
 " I believe he is," said Miss Sackville. 
 
 " He is certainly bringing you that bouquet." 
 
 ''Probably," was the answer, somewhat unaffectedly given 
 by Gertrude. 
 
 •'Well! hold yourself up, and look pleased," said Lady 
 Sackville ; " I was only joking just now, dearest— if any' young 
 iady of my acquaintance can win a heart, I am sure my own 
 Gertrude can." 
 
 " What ! at my age ? " said Gertrude. 
 
 " Pooh ! who tallks of age in a ball room ? " said Lady Sack- 
 ville somewhat sharply; — "appearance is every thing; why 
 your sister Clara and your cousin Fslanche, young as they are", 
 never produce the sensation you do, my love; age, indeed ! do 
 you think men fall in love arithmetically, dearest? That age is 
 best, at which a woman is most attractive ; some cease to be so 
 as they outgrow their teens, while others acquire new powers of 
 fascination with each revolving year. Who thinks of age in good 
 society?" 
 
 " You did just now, mama," said Gertrude. 
 
 " Then, " replied her Ladyship, " mama did a very silly thing, 
 and is very sorry for it. Sir Croesus is elbowing his way through 
 the crowd;— my love ! I congratulate you on your conquest— he 
 is really a fine-looking man; as to his being rather short, and 
 very stout, that is nothing; a stumpy husband sets off a wife's 
 figure, if she happen to be tall and graceful, as you are." 
 
 " Yes-, and his crimson face affords an effective contrast to 
 her cheeks pale with misery," muttered Gertrude. 
 
 Sir Croesus, whose figure had been likened, by some of the 
 wags of Cheltenham, to a pumpkin propped up upon two sticks, 
 quite bald, and rosy enough to be mistaken for the scarlet lever 
 that goes about, was standing at that moment by the Antinous- 
 like Horace St. John, who looked down upon the little man 
 with an air of dignified contempt, as he dipped the ends of his 
 
A COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 plump, pudsey, ring-covered fingers into a magnificent diamond 
 snuff-box. 
 
 Gertrude shuddered at the contrast— tears rose in her eyes- 
 she felt a choking sensation in her throat— she felt herself grow 
 pale. 
 
 " Arc you mad?" said Lady Sackville, who saw what was 
 passing in her daughter's mind; " recollect yourself : you have 
 two younger sisters-, you have, no fortune of your own, and, 
 moreover, are entirely dependent on me." 
 
 Gertrude made an effort— controied her emotion, and, holding 
 out her hand to Sir Croesus as he approached, forced a smile 
 upon her countenance while she presented him to her mother, 
 and made room for him to sit beside her. 
 
 Sir Croesus, with all his wonted, or rather wanted grace, 
 presented his splendid bouquet to Gertrude, gently hinting that 
 it was the produce of his celebrated conservatory at Bumpsford. 
 Lady Sackville, in her softest and most winning manner, 
 thanked him for the great kindness he had shown her dear girl 
 at Brighton; and leaving him to the full enjoyment of his tete-d- 
 tete with Gertrude, went off in search of " that little romp" Clara. 
 Sir Croesus took advantage of the well-timed retreat, and 
 drew nearer to the young lady. " I should like, Miss Sackville," 
 said he, " to show you my place at Bumpsford-, I am ashamed 
 to say what it has cost me in alterations and new arrangements : 
 the lake and the waterfall, however, repay me, although Gil- 
 low's bill for my furniture, is, I must say, rather of the longest." 
 " Oh !" said Gertrude, " I should delight in seeing them; if 
 you have displayed as much taste in your house, as you have 
 in the carriages which I admired so much at Brighton, it must 
 be exquisite." 
 
 " You {latter me, Miss Sackville," said Sir Croesus; " I never 
 felt vain of my turn-out till you graced it : it is a neat thing, to 
 be sure ; the horses cost me — I am ashamed to say what." 
 
 " And then you drive so well," said Gertrude; "lam gene- 
 rally exceedingly timid, but when you drove, I felt perfectly 
 safe. Ah! I see you are looking at my fast-fading bouquet; it is 
 not quite dead yet, you perceive. I have kept it in water for 
 three days. You remember giving it to me, " added she; " I 
 was almost afraid to touch it, for 1 am sure it was a present from 
 some beauty." 
 
 Sir Croesus turned purple with gratified vanity. 
 " Is it possible," said he, " that that can be the same bou- 
 quet." 
 
 Gertrude smiled assent; she was fashionable enough to see 
 no crime in an implied falsehood, although she shrank from 
 giving utterance to a direct one. She returned the little bouquet 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 5 
 
 to her bosom, anil added, glancing her eye over his dress, as if 
 wishing to change the conversation, " What a beautiful waist- 
 coat that is — and a hair chain! _Yoo\ Sir Croesus. I know you 
 are in love! how provoking! just as I was taking a fancy to you 
 my sell." 
 
 •■ You. Miss!..." said the astonished Pumpkin. 
 
 " Yes," replied Gertrude, k ' me: and you must know that I 
 am rather fastidious: but. come! even if the hope is blighted. 
 we may at any rate be friends. I shall make yon my confidant, 
 but then I must be yours; Til tell you the names of all my sigh- 
 ing swains, if you'll tell me the names of all the nymphs who 
 die fur you." 
 
 •• Sweet animated creature." said Sir Croesus. * ; I'll bet my 
 best diamond ring you do not name all the men who are in love 
 with you " 
 
 " Done," said Gertrude, affecting excessive gaiety: " there's 
 Lord Fitz Albert. Colonel Fitz Ogle, Sir Jasper Aimwell, Cap- 
 tain Lovell. Horace St. Juhn..." 
 
 " What! that infernal proud fellow?" whispered Sir Croesus, 
 with a ludicrous expression of awe. 
 
 " Yes:" replied Gertrude : " I really believe, that, next to 
 himself, he admires me." 
 
 " Ah, Miss !"" said, or rather sighed, Sir Croesus, " you have 
 not named all who presume to raise their eyes to the shrine 
 of love and beauty." 
 
 '•Stop! I must take courage! holding down her head, hesi- 
 tating, hiding her face in her bouquet, then suddenly glancing 
 sidelong at him through her long black ringlets. — " you!... 
 oh. can it be! yes, youl " 
 
 " You have fairly won your wager: my establishment is not 
 yet complete, it wants one ornament which no wealth, can 
 purchase. ;Poor Sir Croesus ! ) Co not drive me to the dark 
 shades of despair! Oh. bid me live! one cheering smile— one 
 favouring glance.'' Sir Croesus, having exhausted the little 
 poetry he had learnt by heart, and which formed part of a va- 
 lentine he had sent, when a boy. to his schoolmaster's daughter, 
 went on more intelligibly: — "Let me wait on Lady SackviHe 
 
 -... n w — m 
 
 "Yes, 1 rude; " now 1 m at ease: I really was 
 
 Jly je.lous of the lady of tl n— but see. Sir 
 
 Cpesus, mama is beckoning me." 
 
 " Let me take you to suj 5, and suiting 
 
 the word to the action, he drew her arm within his. and as he 
 did so, slipped on her finger the diamond ring, which erst had 
 glittered on his o ou shall have a who! 
 
 rem cost wh 
 
6 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 The taper, thorough-bred fingers of Gertrude returned the 
 pressure of Sir Croesus-, and thus at his ddbut into fashionable 
 society, a debut made bye-the-bye, at the interesting age of 
 fifty-five, the wealthy Sir Croesus was caught by arts, which a 
 school-boy, who had read a few novels, been at a few London 
 parties, and had one mama, and a few sisters, would have seen 
 through. 
 
 But Sir Croesus had plodded away his life in the city 5 an 
 immensely rich, recently baronetted uncle, who had never ap- 
 peared to notice him much, but who had nevertheless remarked, 
 that he was the only money-getting, pains-taking of his nephews 
 (sons he had none), dying suddenly after a city feast, bequeathed 
 his whole magnificent fortune to his namesake, Croesus, who 
 of course succeeded to the title, which had been granted in 
 remainder to the nephews of the deceased, of which relations 
 he, fortunately for his dignity, happened to be the eldest. 
 Another season or two might, perhaps, have rendered our 
 worthy friend less obnoxious to the arts of such an accom- 
 plished syren as Gertrude : as it was, she caught him just as he 
 fell the absolute necessity of having a guide and protector in the 
 novel scenes that were opened to his view ; and thus it was that 
 poor Sir Croesus, the richest prize in the matrimonial market 
 of the season, was suddenly disposed of by private contract, 
 
 without the least notice or preparation. 
 The agitated pair met Lady Sackville on the staircase — she 
 
 smiled graciously; Gertrude looked down, while Horace St. 
 
 John, who was standing in the doorway, fixed his eyes upon 
 
 her and her little pursy beau. 
 "I see Clara gallopping with young Bullion," said Lady 
 
 Sackville ; " but I cannot find your cousin Blanche." 
 
 "I am here, dear aunt," said some one in a sweet melodious 
 
 voice from the staircase immediately above, and a beautiful girl 
 
 tripped lightly down the stairs; "little Willy would make me 
 
 go to the nursery to see his new rocking-horse, and I have 
 
 stayed up there playing with him— it is so dull for him-, poor 
 
 fellows nobody takes any notice of him." 
 
 " Yes, you do, dear Blanche," said the little spoilt boy himself, 
 
 clinging to her; "and I don't care for them —no — not one of 
 
 them; come and galope with me; you said you would— come." 
 The little, fellow threw his arms round the young girl's taper 
 
 waist, who good-naturedly gallopped off with him, as he so 
 
 earnestly desired. 
 
 Horace St. John had looked round when Blanche spoke from 
 
 the n answer to her aunt. The voice was so sweet, that 
 
 n he might well be curious to see whence it came ; his usually 
 
 cold had rested with an expression very uncommon with 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 him, on her beautiful face, as she looked fondly down on little 
 Willy, her long golden ringlets shading a fair face of girlish 
 beauty, whose chief charm lay in the long dark lashes, that 
 fringed her deep blue eyes, and the transparent though colourless 
 complexion, so strikingly contrasted with the bright red of the 
 smiling lips, over which her honied words had flow T ed. 
 
 - k Who is she? " thought St. John 5 he had never seen her be- 
 fore - " could it be Miss Sackville's cousin ? " 
 
 As this doubt was passing through his mind, Blanche chanced 
 to drop her glove. Horace, in spite of all his habitual coldness 
 and indifference, actually sprang forward to pick it up, and was 
 in the act of presenting it to her, when little Willy, like a spoiled 
 hoy, snatched it from him, and gave it to his favourite partner. 
 Blanche bowed coldly to Mr. St. John, and smiled fondly and 
 playfully on Willy. There was not another woman in the room, 
 nay, perhaps in all Cheltenham, who would have bowed thus 
 carelessly and indifferently to Horace St. John-, he was piqued— 
 his eyes followed her as she glided through the galope with 
 little Willy. The galope ended— the lady of the house, at his 
 particular request, led Horace St. John to her; he begged to 
 have the honour of dancing with her. 
 
 " Thank you," said Blanche, " I am tired, and shall not dance 
 the next set." 
 
 "The next, perhaps? " said Horace, in a tone which he fan- 
 cied, and, indeed, had often found irresistible. 
 
 Blanche appeared to think for a moment, and then 'said, 
 " No 5 I am much obliged to you, but I shall not dance again 
 to-night." 
 
 The lady of the house looked astounded: Horace St. John, 
 coldly and gracefully inclining his body towards her, withdrew. 
 Lady Saekvilie, her daughters, and Blanche, stood in the 
 cloak-room, waiting for their carriage 5 the little Sir Croesus 
 raised himself on tiptoe to throw a shawl over the stately 
 Gei-trade-, Horace actually offered his aid to Lady Sackviile. 
 
 '•it is, 1 conclude," said Lady Sackviile to Horace, embol- 
 dened by his attention, "useless to ask you to join a pic nic, 
 which sir Croesus is making up for to-morrow?— you always say 
 no." 
 
 • i or once, then, let me say yes," said Horace, gazing on 
 Blanche, who looked very lovely, her dark hood contrasting with 
 her bright hair and fair face : "and, moreover, \ may be of use 
 — 1 have a seat for a lady in my phaeton." 
 
 "Perhaps you will give it to my niece," said Lady Sackviile, 
 turning towards Blanche. 
 
 U I should prefer going with you, aunt," whispered Blanche. 
 Well, we can settle thai ( i-morrow" muttered Ladv Sack- 
 
8 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 ville ; " at any rate we shall explore the ruins together, whatever 
 may he our order of march. We shall expect vou at two o'clock,. 
 Mr. St. John." 
 
 4 * Rely on my punctuality/' said Mr. St. John, smiling gra- 
 ciously as he handed Lady Sackville to her carriage -he would 
 have handed Blanche in too, but she preferred the aid of Sir 
 Croesus. 
 
 " Well ! " said Lady Sackville, the moment they were fairly 
 seated in the family coach, " this has been a triumphant even- 
 ing 5 at all events, I am sure Sir Croesus either has proposed, or 
 will very speedily propose, to you, Gertrude ; as for Mr. Bullion, 
 he never left Clara's side; and my belief is, incredible as it may 
 seem, that Blanche has caught the hitherto unconquerable Ho- 
 race. How could you be so scornful to him, Blanche? so unlike 
 yourself? why, his notice is the greatest honour a girl can re- 
 ceive." 
 
 " That I discovered," said Blanche, " to be his own opinion ; 
 therefore I shall let him see it is not mine." 
 
 "What is that sparkling on your finger?" said Lady 
 Sackville ; " a ring ! — affianced to Sir Croesus ? " 
 
 " Even so ! " said Gertrude faintly , as she leant back in the 
 carriage, while the tears chased each other down her cheeks. 
 
 " Let me congratulate you, love," said Lady Sackville. 
 
 " No, no,*' said Gertrude, sobbing; " say nothing to me now 
 — to-morrow, to-morrow we will talk of it." 
 
 Nor did she utter another word, although, till their arrival at 
 home, which, (the distance being short,) was easily achieved, 
 her " lady mother" continued, by signs and tokens to her com- 
 panions, to express her infinite satisfaction at the evident result 
 of the evening's excursion. 
 
 When they reached the door, Gertrude first bounded from the 
 carriage, as if to hide her grief and agitation, and, hurrying to 
 her room, bolted herself in, to secure herself from interruption. 
 
 Important as recent events might be to her. one of equal con- 
 sequence to Blanche was about to occur, for which she was 
 equally unprepared; in the drawing-room, awaiting her arrival, 
 she found a letter from " home," requesting her immediate 
 return. The servant who had been despatched with it, was to 
 wait to accompany her; from her, who indeed had been her 
 nurse, she learned that her mother was exceedingly unwell; 
 that her illness, as the woman believed, arose from some 
 unpleasant intelligence which she had received, but that, all 
 she was certain of was, her earnest anxiety to see her daughter. 
 
 The appeal was a command : and before the clock had struck 
 six in the morning , Blanche, with her companion , were on the 
 road hoi in the carriage which had been sent for her 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 conveyance. At two, when Mr. Horace St. John arrived in his 
 phaeton, he found the beautiful bird flown, and himself en- 
 tangled in a dull stupid party, which had no charm for him; the 
 consequence of which was, that he never was colder, haughtier, 
 or more supercilious than upon that particular occasion. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The poets and novelists are all marvellously fond of the moon-, 
 they call her fair, and pure, and chaste, and holy, but, after 
 all, the moon has her dark side, on which she is cold; she un- 
 sympathizingly looks down upon scenes of varied misery, with 
 the same fixed eternal smile : parted lovers, weeping widows, 
 watching wives, pale-cheeked scholars, ruined gamesters, love- 
 lorn maidens, jilted swains,— all of them keep gazing at her 
 through their tears, and on all their misfortunes, still she smiles, 
 exactly as she smiles upon happy lovers, feasting monarchs , or 
 sleeping sages. And when she looks so clearly and placidly down 
 upon the streets of a great metropolis, on the gilded fane of 
 vanity, or the narrow coop of toil, of sorrow, or of crime, her 
 very clearness and brightness seem a mockery. 
 
 Excepting always astronomers, the inhabitants of large cities 
 are not very much in the habit of gazing meditatively or philo- 
 sophically on the moon; and if they were, in England their 
 opportunities would be extremely limited; but yet there are 
 some people who bring their natural feelings with them into 
 town, and indulge the habit of soft contemplation in the silent 
 hour of the night, — One of those it is our business here to 
 notice. 
 
 The reader is to fancy a lady standing at a half-opened 
 window of a villa in the suburbs of London; the air damp and 
 chilly, but she buried in thought, heeding it not. 
 
 It was not the moon, bright as it beamed and clear as it shone, 
 that she watched- — she lingered and listened for the sound of a 
 footstep on the gravel walk beneath her window ; and thus had 
 she lingered and listened vainly for hours. She was a fond 
 admiring wife, trembling for a husband's safety. What to her, 
 then, was the chilly wind? what to her, the drifting mist? — the 
 opening gate, the longed-for footstep, would be heard the sooner 
 were her window open -. — she thought not of herself : she 
 pressed her burning forehead against the cold glass, and shud- 
 dered as the clock struck three, and her anxiety deepened into 
 terror. 
 
10 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Three already!" murmured she to herself. " Let moralists 
 say what they will, time never flies so swiftly as for the anxious 
 watcher. For those who dread to meet the morning, how soon 
 does dawn appear! Bear witness all who have, like me, kept 
 watch for the wanderer, how soon the monotonous night is 
 passed." 
 
 She who thus soliloquized was the beau ideal of an English 
 wife; still beautiful, but without vanity: gentle and dignified, 
 without pride; she considered it the noblest aim of beauty, to 
 render her home attractive to her husband; her duty directed her 
 to devote her talents to his amusement, and to the instruction of 
 their children-, and that her innate gaiety and good humour 
 were to be exercised, not to fascinate the world abroad, but to 
 render home delightful, and ensure the happiness of those whom 
 she truly loved. With such views, she certainly deserved the 
 character of a sensible woman— yet she had made what the 
 world calls a foolish match. 
 
 Of a good and well connected family, acknowledged beauty, 
 and with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 had married her husband upon the old fashioned principle .of 
 loving him — loving him with ail the ardour and devotion felt by 
 a girl of nineteen, for the first and only object of her affection. 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn was an orphan, without any friends to whom 
 she considered herself responsible. Captain St. Aubyn was the 
 brother of her favourite school-fellow : he was frank, generous, 
 and handsome, but, speculative, wild, and reckless, had esta- 
 blished in her mind that he was heir to a title and large estates, 
 upon a mere traditionary and scarcely credited report in his 
 family. His great object was the attainment of funds to prove 
 his claim— in order to secure this desideratum as speedily as 
 possible, he gambled-, and, as not unfrequently happens in 
 similar cases, was all but ruined. 
 
 Edith Forrester (now Mrs. St. Aubyn,) witnessing her lover's 
 
 despair, and his sister's grief, acknowledged a preference which 
 
 till then she had concealed. While his prospects were bright, she 
 
 had cheeked all his attempts at a serious declaration of his feelings 
 
 with -playful frowns; but when she found him embarrassed and in 
 
 difficulties, she herself approached him with tearful smiles. He 
 
 .. is generous and candid; he pointed out to her the ruinous 
 
 quences of a marriage with him; Edith taxed him with 
 
 indifference— a reproach which he could not endure. Time 
 
 pressed— of the consent of her guardian there was no chance. 
 
 St. Aubyn adored the charming, noble-minded Edith, the 
 
 thought of separation was unbearable. He resolved upon instant 
 
 .mation. on play altogether, audio make her hap- 
 
 : iness of his life; andso, without settlement, 
 
C0LS1X GEOFFREY. 11 
 
 young, devoted, and thoughtless, the moment she was of age 
 and her own mistress, they married. 
 
 St. Aubyn, at the time, thought twenty thousand pounds an 
 inexhaustible resource : consequently, he and his fond wife lived 
 far beyond their income. ?>Irs. St. Aubyn could not bear to re- 
 monstrate with him on his extravagance, as the fortune was hers 
 — she economized : but what avail the small savings of the wife 
 at home, if the husband be a spendthrift abroad ? St. Aubyn had 
 that most unlucky of organs — Hope, fully developed. "Some- 
 thing would certainly turn up," was his constant exclamation ; 
 and several things did turn up in the way of legacies, but these 
 were soon swallowed with the rest. 
 
 He would investigate, pursue his claim to the title, and when- 
 ever he was in any difficulty he resolved on this ; but the tem- 
 porary embarrassment over, and money raised no matter at 
 what ultimate loss;, he again sank into supineness- It was so 
 dull and tedious to pore over registers, and parchments, and 
 pedigrees, and so exceedingly agreeable to take his beautiful 
 wife on some foreign tour, or to some fashionable watering-place. 
 'Who does not foresee the end of such a career? The future 
 was always sacrificed to the present, The St. Aubyns were liv- 
 ing on their capital. .Mrs. St. Aubyn, her worldly prudence quick- 
 i by her maternal anxiety for she was now the mother of 
 three children, fast growing op), interfered when too late. St. 
 Aubyn's organ of hope seemed to expand in proportion as his 
 circumstances narrowed : and now that he had no funds for 
 expansive researches, he bent his whole mind towards establish- 
 ing his claims. It was true, he wanted money to effect this, but 
 something would certainly happen ere long. Something did 
 happen ere long. An agent whom he had ever thought his best 
 friend, but who had long been his most insidious enemy, always 
 supplying ins present wants, by becoming the purchaser, at a 
 shamefully low rale, of his valuable property, suddenly died. 
 
 St. Aubyn was thunderstruck when an immense bill was sent 
 
 in by the executors — law charges, which this man pretended to 
 
 have incurred in the transaction of St. Aubyn's business — his 
 
 ni jns, etc, etc. 
 
 How long had I q a dupe! And this was the man. he had 
 
 trusted ! The executors certainly sent in the bill, but this villain 
 
 had set down the items. St. Aubyn was all but ruined. He had 
 
 little left beside two policies on his own iife, which, in a lucid 
 
 int : career, he had insured : they were all that 
 
 rould accru at his deaf were able still to 
 
 keep them up. For the present he must depend on his half-pay, 
 
 and the un< irely 
 
 int. In his - lent 
 
12 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 him a sum of money to enable him to leave England 5 but St. 
 Aubyn having accompanied him to a gambling-house, whither 
 he went merely, as he said, to see that a friend had fair play, 
 staked the sum he had received, and doubled it ! 
 
 Fired with success, all his old propensities returning with this 
 good luck, he now saw in prospectu the reparation of his for- 
 tune, and even more than the recognition of his claim — its esta- 
 blishment. 
 
 It was in vain that Cousin Geoffrey advised his abstinence 
 from his ruinous pursuits ; St. Aubyn returned to the scene of 
 his triumph on the succeeding night, and, as might be antici- 
 pated, lost the greater part, not only of his winnings, but of the 
 original stake. The remainder of that again was staked, and 
 lost. The next day he decided on selling the old houses, of 
 which the rents had always been uncertain and low, and which, 
 being moreover out of repair, and hastily disposed of, went for 
 a sum which he madly hazarded on one chance, which shared 
 the fate of its predecessors. The policies now alone remained. 
 He did not hesitate ; success was certain, if he had the funds 
 they would supply. How much a gambler, unless he be a villain, 
 resembles a madman ! 
 
 During a sleepless night a plan had occurred to him ; an infal- 
 lible calculation, one of those vain hopes inspired by the author 
 of evil to lure on the gambler to ruin. He rose, panting for the 
 time when he could stake his all. He found a purchaser for the 
 policies, and realised by the sale two thousand pounds. His heart 
 beat high as he hurried again to the gaming-table. It was the 
 very night on which we have introduced Mrs. St. Aubyn watching 
 for her husband. 
 
 She half suspected what he had not entirely confided to her 
 — who then can marvel at the anguish of her mind ? What fears 
 are too wild, what visions too dreadful, for a gambler's wife ! 
 
 We have said that three o'clock found her still watching — her 
 husband still absent. Her self-possession was fast forsaking her 5 
 she was groaning in the agony of spirit 5 now walking hastily up 
 and down her room, now suddenly darting to her window, and 
 gazing wildly from it, now kneeling for a few moments in hur- 
 ried and frantic prayer, then starting to her feet, and wringing 
 her hands. She had just snatched her cloak, seized with a sud- 
 den impulse to rush into the road to seek the object of her love 
 and fears, when the door of her room was gently opened. 
 
 A beautiful girl approached Mrs. St. Aubyn, and asked, in a 
 tone of alarm, whether she were ill. Mrs. St. Aubyn burst into 
 an agony of tears, and could only utter the words, " Juliet, your 
 father — your dear father ! " 
 
 "Whatofhim, dearest mother ? " cried Juliet, the rich colour 
 

 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 13 
 
 flying from her cheeks, and herself almost sinking from dread of 
 she knew not what. 
 
 Juliet's alarm recalled her mother to reason. She rushed to 
 her, caught her to her bosom, told her she had no reason to 
 believe that any thing distressing had occurred to her father ; and 
 in soothing her child's fears, in some measure subdued her own. 
 
 In a few words she confided to Juliet her suspicions about 
 the visits of her father to the gaming-house, her dread that he 
 had lost all, and would return no more. 
 
 As she did so, Juliet, who had been weeping on her bosom, 
 raised her head, shook off her tears, like a flower re-opening 
 when the storm is past, and smiled a bright smile of hope. 
 
 " Is that all, mama ?"' she exclaimed, half reproachfully. " Be 
 sure, by his staying so late, he is winning— winning a large 
 fortune, perhaps. Why not? Papa is very clever ; I dare say he 
 plays better than any body else. Dear papa ! while we are 
 fretting here, I doubt not he is thinking how delighted we 
 shall all be. Oh ! I am sure he will come, and then he will be 
 able to prove his right to the title and estate. You will have your 
 carriage and servants again. We again shall give balls and fetes, 
 and quite eclipse proud Aunt Sackville and Cousin Gertrude, 
 who are always pitying us so. How pleased dear Blanche will be 
 —what would I give that she were come home!" 
 
 In the midstofhermisery, Mrs. St. Aubyn could not help smi- 
 ling to see how completely Juliet inherited the sanguine temper 
 of her father 5 that smile, however, faded from her lips as she 
 replied, " I have sent for Blanche, my love ; but, Hear, to share 
 in poverty and exile, not in pomp and triumph. Your fortitude 
 will be severely tried, my Juliet. You will have, to encounter 
 slights far more bitter than your aunt's neglect, and taunts even 
 more cutting than Gertrude's sarcasms. Yet, if your father be 
 but spared — " 
 
 " Oh! he will return quite safe ; and if he has not won— even 
 if he has lost— we shall yet be happy. We can live in France 
 on almost nothing. Blanche and I can make all your clothes. I 
 am sure, if we tried, we could make papa*s." 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn smiled again. 
 
 " Then, I dare say, we could sell our paintings. You know 
 all our visitors say, that if we were not ladies we might make 
 a fortune as artists." 
 
 " You have yet to learn the value of a visitor's praise, Juliet," 
 said her mother. 
 
 11 Then Cousin Geoffrey," said Juliet, " has pronounced my 
 verses better than any of those in the annuals ; and told me 
 I might grow rich by writing." 
 
14 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I believe/' said Mrs. St. Aubyn, "Cousin Geoffrey is in 
 love with you, my dear Juliet." 
 
 " Poor fellow!" said Juliet, "then he is worse off than we 
 are, mama ; for with ail our troubles, there is not one of us in 
 love, and that is a comfort. Besides, Blanche is so pretty, she 
 is sure to be married to some dear, delightful, handsome, rich 
 Duke, or Marquess, or Earl , and even I" - and she turned to 
 the glass. 
 
 The glass completed the speech for her; it reflected the bright 
 black eyes and snow-white teeth of the prettiest brunette, per- 
 haps, in the world — a gay creature of seventeen, a rainbow of 
 hope, smiling through the d.ark clouds which were gathering 
 around her. She had heard her mother's agitated step and 
 stifled moans while sitting up (against all orders) to read a no- 
 vel, which she could not bear to lay aside till she had seen the 
 hero and heroine made happy at last. Her profuse black hair, 
 w r as untwisted, and fell around her beaming countenance like a 
 veil : her cheek was yet flushed with the intense interest her 
 enthusiastic fresh young heart had taken in the novel 5 and the 
 tears she had just shed still glistened in her long black lashes. 
 
 " Even I," she repeated, still gazing at the mirror. 
 
 " Even you, Juliet," said her mother, mournfully, " have 
 beauty enough to excite envy, to attract the attention of the 
 wicked and the vain, and to make the wandering life we must 
 lead a life of danger and dependence 5 should it ever be your 
 fate—" 
 
 " — It never will, dearest mother," interrupted Juliet; "I 
 may be vain and thoughtless, but I am proud and industrious. 
 If I cannot make a fortune by my talents, why should I not 
 marry some kind, rich, clever man? — not a Lord, perhaps, 
 though Blanche may, — but one whom I may love, and—" 
 
 " Hush, hush !" said Mrs. St. Aubyn, tremblingly, while a 
 flush of joy passed over her pale face, " that is your father's 
 step. Go, go to your bed, Juliet, as I will to mine. Nothing 
 would excite his harassed feelings more than the idea that we 
 had been alarmed or disturbed by his absence." 
 
 " I said all was well, mama," said Juliet smiling-, " I am sure 
 papa has been winning. I shall hear to-morrow, and dream to- 
 night of balls, our dear home, and a new carriage," saying which, 
 she fondly kissed her mother, and tripped lightly to her room. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY 15 
 
 CHAPTEPv III. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn hastened to bed with a heart full of grati- 
 tude that her husband had returned home in safety. She lay 
 for some time, revolving in her mind schemes for their future 
 life, in case they should indeed be on the brink of ruin. This 
 she almost feared was the case, as she could hear her husband 
 pacing the room beneath her own, with agitated steps. Pre- 
 sently he entered the dressing-room adjoining her chamber. 
 
 He went down stairs again — all was quiet, but Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 could not rest ; her mind was haunted with terrific visions and 
 frightful presentiments, perhaps the result of her long, uneasy 
 watch. Impelled by a feeling which she could not define, she 
 rose, seized a lamp, and entered the dressing-room. She saw 
 papers strewed about the room, and on the table a letter direct- 
 ed to herself. She tore it open. All she could command herself 
 to read was, ''Farewell! I leave you, dearest, eternally, be- 
 cause I feel your friends will be more likely to assist you when 
 the unworthy cause of your distress is removed." 
 
 She could proceed no farther. What might that farewell 
 mean? Horrid visions, sickening fears, distracting thoughts, 
 crowded into her mind. Fancy conjured up images before which 
 reason reeled ; but she mastered her terrors ; she felt there was 
 no time to be lost. He, of course, had not anticipated her receiv- 
 ing that letter till the morning. Perhaps he was gone — per- 
 haps she should never see him more ! Perhaps — Oh maddening 
 thought !— despair had driven— Oh no, no ! too dreadful !— that 
 thought were death ! — but as it recurred again and again in the 
 few moments in which all this passed, the blood mounted to 
 her temples; she trembled, but her presence of mind did not 
 forsake her ; she set down her lamp, and glided noiselessly down 
 stairs. 
 
 The door of her husband's study was half open, and the night 
 wind blew coldly on her thinly clad form. She entered; that 
 part of the room was wrapped in deepest shadow. She strove to 
 speak ; she could not; her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth 5 
 her heart ceased to beat— her husband was there. He was ap- 
 parently going out,— he was wrapped in a cloak, and his hat 
 and gloves were beside him. Mrs. St. Aubyn could not see his 
 face, but he was sitting, his head bowed, his hands clasped, his 
 frame convulsed with emotion , and stifled groans of anguish 
 were bursting from his closely compressed lips. Presently he 
 
16 COUSIiN GEOFFREY. 
 
 rose, threw the window more widely open, flung his cloak around 
 him, and was evidently about to depart. He had even crossed 
 the threshold, and his wife, his agonized wife, attempted to 
 speak. — Her agitation deprived her of the power of utterance 
 — she watched him in silent agony. 
 
 He turns, throws himself on his knees at the threshold of that 
 home he is so cruelly deserting, and remains for some moments, 
 his eyes raised to Heaven, and his hands clasped. 
 
 " Oh Merciful One," at length he murmured, " protect my 
 beloved wife, and be a father to my helpless children ! Farewell, 
 ye dear ones — farewell for ever ! " 
 
 At this moment tears happily came to the relief of Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn's bursting heart ; she rushed forward, threw her arms 
 around her still kneeling husband, and clasped him to her bosom 
 with the passionate joy of one who has recovered a lost treasure. 
 
 St. Aubyn, amazed at the appearance of his wife, started to 
 his feet-, gazed on her with surprise, but spake not 5 she drew 
 him back into the study, her tears still falling down her cold 
 pale cheeks. 
 
 " My love," she sobbed, " my husband, my life, my all ! have 
 I deserved this? Kill me at once 5 for indeed— indeed it would 
 be more merciful than to doom me to the lingering death of des- 
 pair. My beloved one," added she, tenderly, " my own dear, 
 gentle, kind — " here her voice grew 7 faint ; she sank into his 
 arms, and fell senseless at his feet. 
 
 How much like death was that appalling and protracted swoon ! 
 St. Aubyn raised her, and carried her to a sofa 5 his tears fell 
 warm and fast on the ghastly face of the devoted woman. As 
 he gazed on her in the moonlight, and felt no pulse beat in the 
 faithful heart, so fond, so true to him — no responsive pressure 
 from that gen tie hand, which was his alone— no word, no breath 
 from those sweet lips, which never yet had murmured a reproach 
 to the reckless destroyer of her earthly hopes, the trifler with 
 his children's fate— a feeling of wild terror lest she was dead — 
 dead of a broken heart— an awful struggle between fear and love 
 arose in his mind. He called for help, but the servants slept, 
 and still— still the adored— adoring Edith gave no signs of life. 
 Oh ! in these burning moments of alarm for her safety, for her 
 existence, how did he despise the losses and the cares which had 
 driven him to despair ! What were the sneers, the taunts, the 
 privations that he could not face ? One smile from Edith now 
 would gild a dungeon's gloom. If she were restored, he would 
 be strong for every trial. 
 
 " Edith ! dear, blessed Edith!" cried he, as he pressed her 
 yet lifeless form to his bosom. — And what was his rapture, what 
 his joy, when he beheld her, as if responding to his impassioned 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 17 
 
 call, slowly open her soft blue eyes, and half unconsciously 
 mutter his name, and relieve her breaking heart by weeping 
 afresh on his anxious, agitated bosom. 
 
 Still kneeling by her side, he admitted the justice of all her 
 worst suspicions, and even felt a melancholy consolation in find- 
 ing that the shock of a surprise w T as spared her. 
 
 44 Oh! " said St. Aubyn, " that I had confided in you, my 
 loved Edith. Your strong sense would have guided and warned 
 me. You have never reproached me. I need no reproaches more 
 bitter than those of my own wounded spirit. Believe me, the 
 secret I have so long withheld from you has been one of burning 
 misery. In the last few weeks I have lived an age of anguish. I 
 have risen from dreams of wretchedness, to hasten to realities 
 of despair. My very hopes have been the feverish hopes of the ma- 
 niac. My despair— I need not tell you what it has been. Frantic 
 with disappointment, my Edith— bewildered and blinded, I for- 
 got even that you would mourn your worthless husband. I re- 
 membered only that your relations would befriend you more 
 warmly if I were gone. How can I look upon the ruin I have 
 caused you— how can I see my Edith's misery and live !" 
 
 " That you will never see, while you are spared to her," said 
 Edith. " And can you not feel for that far deeper anguish, on 
 which you never could have looked, which no kind smiles of 
 yours would have consoled ? I will not ask you what wild scheme 
 you had formed, or whither you were going. Alas ! I fear to 
 ask even myself." 
 
 " Dearest," said St. Aubyn, with a shudder, " despair has no 
 plan. Beggary— death were good enough for me. I thought only 
 that friends would crowd round you when I was gone. I had 
 left you a letter for Geoffrey 5 1 knew he would be a guardian, a 
 protector to you all. I had asked him to assist you for my sake 5 
 it was of you I thought, dearest. I hated myself-, I thought you 
 must hate me too, forgetting that you still might love me." 
 
 " Ah ! you will never forget that again," she said. " Life's 
 worst portion were welcome with you. Oh ! my love," added 
 she, folding him to her bosom, "we shall yet be happy. My heart 
 is full of hopes of peace, and plans for comfort. We will remove 
 to France-, there we may live humbly and frugally, but we shall 
 be still together. Will you not be happy yet, love?" 
 
 " And our children?" 
 
 "Heaven will bless them," said Edith. "J have sent for 
 Blanche. During our trial, she will be all gentleness ; Juliet, all 
 hope; and Lionel— we must think of him to-morrow. Some 
 friend may assist him to complete his Oxford career." 
 
 "And then," said the now sanguine father, ;t perhaps we 
 shall be able to investigate our claims — prove them— and I shall 
 
 
18 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 see my Edith rewarded yet. Heaven bless you. dearest! You 
 have indeed been to me an angel of mercy, of comfort, and of 
 love." 
 
 The ruined St. Aubyn slept that night the calm sleep he had 
 not known for many months, and woke a wiser and a better- 
 man. 
 
 Of all sad hours, the saddest to the afflicted, is the waking 
 hour. At night, the prospect of the temporary oblivion of com- 
 ing repose, consoles the sinking heart, and soothes the troubled 
 spirit ; but to wake from happy dreams to sad realities— a long 
 day of toil, of sorrow, of mortification, before us; to feel that rest 
 has only given us new strength to suffer, new energy to strug- 
 gle, new powers for wearying pursuits— does it not make the 
 bright dawn harsh and glaring? Is not Aurora's smile dimmed 
 by the tears cf thousands? 
 
 It was with a deep sigh Mrs. St. Aubyn awoke. She thought 
 of the past, and wept— of the future, and trembled ; but she rose 
 at once, for she felt that the "present" had peremptory claims 
 upon her strength and exertions, and that tears and apprehen- 
 sions would not help her through her trials. 
 
 She anticipated an eventful day. The term for which they had 
 taken the small furnished villa in which they were living expired 
 that very evening. The woman of the house, a sycophantic yet 
 insolent creature, finding they were in distress, had refused them 
 the accommodation of an additional day or two, unless they paid 
 a month's additional rent. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn had sent Juliet into the great lady's little par- 
 lour to make, this request. She was startled at the refusal, which 
 Juliet on her return repeated, with flashing eyes and a height- 
 ened colour. 
 
 "I fear, my love, you did not ask it as a favour, "said Mrs. 
 St. Aubyn. 
 
 "Indeed I did, mama," replied Juliet, "much against my 
 will: and was told by her, in reply, that she could not bemean 
 herself to let her wilier by days: none of the ladies in that neigh- 
 bourhood ever done it." 
 
 "In that case," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, "we must remove to- 
 day. It is true, I believe, she is legally right: but after paying 
 so high a rent for so poor a place during six months—" 
 
 "I mentioned that." said Juliet: "to which she replied, 'that 
 of course, aving always paid igh and ansome, we could not think 
 of leaving Ope Wilier, what all the ladies in the neighbourhood 
 would call in a tiff. We ad not mentioned we was going, and 
 she would certainly require and hexpect some remuneration for 
 her feelings, which was urt.' " 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 19 
 
 "Alas! Juliet," said her mother, "since you have failed, T 
 must make up my mind to go and ask the favour myself." 
 
 In pursuance of this determination, Mrs. St. Aubyn knocked 
 gently at the door of the little gaudy room in which the landlady 
 was ensconced. Instead of the wonted eager attendance, bumble 
 4 ' opes" and low curtsies, she heard a harsh " come in," and the 
 next moment stood before Mrs. Cribber, who was presiding at 
 a table upon which a slipshod maid-servant, with a dirty cap and 
 dirtier face, had collected all the crockery which had been used 
 by the St. Aubyns, and all that had been broken during their 
 stay, and, most probably, during that of all the former lodgers 
 it" Ope Wilier." 
 
 They formed a curious contrast— the tall, graceful Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn, in her morning dress of coloured muslin, her dark hair 
 braided beneath the simplest net cap, her cheek pale, and her 
 looks dejected, and the little vulgar Mrs. Cribber, who, although 
 it was early morning, had donned a black and yellow gauze tur- 
 ban, a coral necklace, and a very greasy, old blue silk gown. 
 She was on the shady side of fifty, and had been a beauty (of the 
 vulgarest caste). She tried to preserve her charms, not by neat- 
 ness and cleanliness, but by pencilled eyebrows, ill-made false 
 teeth, and a ferocious-looking front. After the death of her last 
 mistress, with whom she had lived as lady's maid, she engaged 
 herself as housekeeper to a superannuated, silly, retired pickle- 
 seller, named Cribber, who in time was persuaded to marry her. 
 She was now a widow, and again on the look-out. 
 
 Hitherto the St. Aubyns, having regularly paid all her exor- 
 bitant demands, and having shown themselves what she consi- 
 dered "rale gentlefolks," by suffering themselves to be imposed 
 upon, cheated, and talked over, they had been to her objects of 
 great reverence. In fact, she had been a source of much an- 
 noyance to Mrs. St. Aubyn, from her excessive attention, and 
 her professed respectful regard for her and the whole family. 
 
 To Blanche and Juliet she had been at first amusing 5 but the 
 novelty of her absurdity worn off, they found her, as the really 
 vulgar must ever be found, boring in the extreme. She had as- 
 sailed them with the most fulsome flattery, and Juliet, who was 
 quite an espiegle, had amused herself with leading Mrs. Crib- 
 ber, from her lavish encomiums on Blanche and herself, to boast 
 of her own charms, conquests, and adventures. 
 
 Blanche was the first to grow tired of her compliments and 
 praises; but then Blanche was neither so arch nor so vain as her 
 sister. Juliet liked to hear herself called a " hangel," a diwinity," 
 and "a Wenus," even by Mrs. Cribber, and could feel some- 
 thing like gratification in listening to her prophecies, that "such 
 hies must break all arts." 
 
20 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 But Mrs. Cribber had grown less canting, less fulsome of late. 
 She was no longer always on the watch to curtsey and cringe. 
 She no longer offered flowers to Blanche, or waylaid Juliet to 
 tell her long stories of the times when she herself was young and 
 ansome. Mrs. Cribber began to suspect that her lodgers were 
 in difficulties. Long, folded letters, fastened with wafers, began 
 to pour in upon them— rude men to insist on admittance— Mrs. 
 St. Aubyn to grow pale at single knocks, and even Juliet to trip 
 less lightly about the house. 
 
 Then did Mrs. Cribber begin to hate and despise her lodgers ; 
 then did she, who owed, as she said, " nothing to nobody," 
 determine no longer to bemean herself. If they were poor, she 
 would make them poorer 5 if others insulted them, she would 
 not be behindhand-, they had given themselves hairs enough— it 
 was her turn now. 
 
 " Go on sorting that ere crockery, gal," said Mrs. Cribber to 
 her attendant, who, with an instinct of respect for Mrs. St. Au- 
 byn, was leaving the room: then, without rising, she added, 
 "I'm most petikelar engaged, as I told your daughter, who 
 come here making a most unkimmin request— one I can't not 
 by no means attend to." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, seating herself, as her ill- 
 bred hostess did not offer her a chair, " perhaps my daughter 
 did not explain to you that all I wish is to be permitted to remain 
 here for a few days, paying a fair sum for the accommodation." 
 
 " Not only I 'ont consent to that," answered the landlady, 
 " but as you have not give me notice, you pay a month's rent 
 if you stay one individial hour over your time." 
 
 Mrs. St Aubyn turned pale, and said, " I am not aware of any 
 such arrangement ; I am sure it is very unusual." 
 
 " It was Mr. St. Aubyn took this ere wilier," said Mrs. Crib- 
 ber-, " I drew out an agreement, and he signed it-," saying 
 which, she produced a greasy pocket-book, and .Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 saw, with dismay, that her careless husband had signed what 
 most probably he had never read. 
 
 " 1 see," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, in a faltering voice, " you can 
 enforce your claim. Mr. St. Aubyn is quite inexperienced in 
 these matters, and trusted to your honour. It mattered little to 
 him what he paid you when he took this place, but circum- 
 stances are altered now 5 and I ask you as a favour not to enforce 
 so unjust a claim, but to deal as you would be dealt by, on this 
 occasion." 
 
 " A fine thing, truly,"' screamed Mrs. Cribber ; Ct and that's 
 the way to ask a favour, is it? No, ma'am, one hour extra in my 
 ous, and you pay a month's rent. The advantages you have 
 enjoyed have b.°en uneard of — the ole willei* at your service. \ y, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 21 
 
 I even give you up my own kitchen, as was contagious to my 
 parlour. I paid you every attention, for you come in a carriage, 
 and I thought you was carriage people, else it's little enough 
 you'd aye seen of me. VThat with your hairs, and Miss Blanche's 
 hairs, and the hairs of all of you, servants and all, I'm quite 
 tired out. It's all well enough when there's money to back it, 
 but pride and poverty I does despise ; I've never been used to it. 
 Honour, indeed ! Why, if you were as rich as Methuselah, I 
 should charge you no more : and if that a"nt honour, I don't 
 know what is." 
 
 "You mean, then," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, " to insist on a 
 month's rent, unless we leave your house to-night?" 
 
 " As sure as my name's Cribber! " answered the lady. 
 
 " Then all I can do, is to remove to-day," said Mrs. St. 
 x\ubyn. 
 
 " Oh ! if you can, I ha'nt no objection," shrieked the grasp- 
 ing Mrs. Cribber, fired with rage at the idea, " and now, ma'am, 
 please to look at this ere crockery." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that we have broken all those things?" 
 
 '• Yes, and that you shall make them good too, ma'am," said 
 Mrs. Cribber. 
 
 * k But several of them seem scarcely injured, and some not at 
 all," replied -Mrs. St. Aubyn. 
 
 •' Is'nt that injured, ma'am?" exclaimed the landlady, show- 
 ing the slightest possible crack in a tea-cup, and several similar 
 flaws in other articles. 
 
 " I do not consider them injured, and certainly not by us—" 
 
 "Prove that!" 
 
 " But these," taking up others, " what ails these? They have 
 no crack." 
 
 " These," tapping them, " have inward cracks, madam." 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn could not forbear a smile. 
 
 " Let them laugh as wins," said Mrs. Cribber. " In this ous 
 you don't stay after to-night, unless you pay another month's 
 rent \ and not one of your things leaves the wilier till every one 
 of these," pointing to the crockery, " is paid for." 
 
 ' k We shall leave your house to-night," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, 
 calmly, though despair was at her heart. " Of that china, I 
 suppose we must replace whatever you have the conscience to 
 declare we have injured: but I shall consider it a duty to warn 
 my friends against a person who is alike a stranger to honesty 
 of purpose and civility of conduct." 
 
 " Your friends, ma'am!" cried the landlady, " ha! ha! ha! I 
 want none of them— it a'ant by such as them, I keeps up the 
 wilier. Friends, indeed!— the best friends are these ere," and 
 she shook her purse. 
 
22 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 During her last speech Mrs. St. Aubyn had left the room ; but 
 when she reached her own apartment, the sense of degradation, 
 the sickening novelty of insult — the fears of trials so bitterly 
 begun, overpowered her, and, leaning on Juliet's bosom, she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Juliet's sympathy and spirited exertions soon recalled her 
 mother's habitual serenity. It would have been destruction to 
 have sunk apathetically under her calamity. Busy occupation is 
 the best cure for grief ; and fortunately Mrs. St. Aubyn had no 
 time for quiet. She hastily dried her tears, and set about the 
 necessary arrangements for their departure. 
 
 Her husband still slept $ she could not bear to awake him to 
 discomfort and difficulty. Aided by Juliet, who w T as very active, 
 and assisted by a little Irish maid, Aileen, (the daughter of a 
 former tenant,) whom they meant to take with them, all their 
 most important proceedings were completed before St. Aubyn 
 came down to breakfast. In the cheerful and warmly affectio- 
 nate greeting of Mrs. St. Aubyn, who would have recognised a 
 wife ruined by a husband's unjustifiable extravagance? — her 
 fortune squandered, herself and her children beggared, and 
 about to be expatriated, in want and sorrow? Who would have 
 suspected that the tears she had so recently shed, were tears for 
 the sufferings and insults which his thoughtlesness and reckless- 
 ness had brought upon her? Mrs. St. Aubyn possessed none of 
 the ambition, so common to women, of appearing suffering mar- 
 tyrs and injured victims— appearances which never endear them 
 to the implied injurer, who, of course, is thus tacitly accused of 
 barbarity towards an angel. She pictured the insolence of Mrs. 
 Cribber in the least disagreeable colours, and tried to make her 
 husband laugh at her vulgarity, even while she pointed out the 
 necessity for their departing that day. and smilingly told him, 
 with a playful kiss, in future to leave all bargains with women to 
 her. No reproach escaped her lips 5 and all the scolding taunts of 
 all the termagant wives that quiet men are generally blessed 
 with, would not have so sunk into St. Aubyn's heart as did the 
 cheerful forbearance, and the recent ill-concealed tears of his 
 gentle, excellent Edith. 
 
 St. Aubyn was pale and restless, and there was evidently 
 some great cause of immediate annoyance preying upon his 
 mind. Mrs. St. Aubyn, urged by affection, not curiosity, endea- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 23 
 
 voured to induce him to confide his present ill, whatever it might 
 be, to her. He hesitated, and continued to evade her inquiries ; 
 at last he said, "The truth is this, love—I have not the means 
 of paving this woman to-day.'' 
 
 " You forget, dear," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, you have set apart 
 a sufficient sum for that very purpose." 
 
 " I have been fool enough," answered St. Aubyn, " to employ 
 it otherwise." 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn was startled at this admission, but, after a 
 moment, said, "Never mind, St. Aubyn, we must contrive it 
 somehow— all I implore is, do not look so unhappy— I can bear 
 any thing but that, My watch, the girls' watches, if sold, will 
 make up the sum." 
 
 " No, no, dearest," said the agitaled husband, " that must not 
 be. Hush ! by heavens, here comes Cousin Geoffrey. This seems 
 providential. J will take courage, and ask him to assist me. I, 
 Who have caused all this sorrow, must not shrink from my share 
 of the trials which it brings." 
 
 Cousin Geoffrey, of whom he spoke, it must be understood, 
 was a very prepossessing, elegant-looking man, tall, and some- 
 what stoutish. The scantiness of his hair on the top of his head 
 displayed to view bumps, which the wiseacres who are known 
 as phrenologists would call large organs of benevolence and ve- 
 neration ; his forehead was high ; his features were good ; the 
 expression of his countenance was mild and affectionate ; al- 
 though firm and decided, his voice was harmoniously soft and 
 gentle— in fact, his appearance and manners were altogether 
 exceedinglv in his favour. 
 
 He had one little foible, and that was, a wish to be thought 
 the age he looked, not that which he was, and which he had 
 thought proper to fix at thirty-nine; but his oldest friends said 
 he had been thirty-nine for the last ten years. 
 
 It was in making his genealogical researches, some years pre- 
 vious to the events which we have already recorded, that St. 
 Aubyn met Geoffrey, of whose existence he had been before un- 
 aware, and who was likewise engaged in tracing his descent to 
 the same noble source. 
 
 In the kindest manner, Geoffrey upon that occasion offered 
 his assistance: and though it appeared that the unexpected dis- 
 covery of a nearer claimant in St. Aubyn disappointed the hopes 
 which he had formed that he should prove himself heir to the 
 estate and title in question, he offered to do all in his power to 
 assist his rival relative to assert his claims, stating that, as his 
 fortune was sufficient, he should be perfectly satisfied with esta- 
 blishing his consanguinity to the actual possessor. A friendly in- 
 tercourse, and a mutual interchange of papers and records were 
 
24 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 the results, and important discoveries on both sides were made. 
 
 Cousin Geoffrey became consequently very intimate with St. 
 Aubyn, while Blanche and Juliet were yet almost children : even 
 then he took delight in their lively and artless conversation ; 
 their unstudied elegance and remarkable beauty charmed him ; 
 and in their society the accomplished man of the world found 
 the ease and tranquillity which are vainly sought in busier 
 scenes. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn, who led the most retired of lives, was glad 
 to welcome to her house one who brought into her little menage 
 the elegance and polish, without the moral contamination of the 
 gayer circles. He had lived much on the Continent ; he im- 
 proved the French accent of his young friends, and won them 
 to patience by bringing them the prettiest and newest French 
 ornaments and fashions, while with the best Italian music and 
 most elegant Italian books he induced them to read that sweet 
 language with him. All their prettiest toys, when children, and 
 costliest trinkets, at a later period, were bestowed by him. His 
 long acknowledged eousinship had hitherto sanctioned these 
 generous attentions ; but Juliet, just at the time to which we now 
 refer, was beginning to feel an undefined awkwardness about 
 receiving them. He had long been in the habit of calling her his 
 little wife, his nut-brown maid, his own pretty brunette, and she 
 was wont to laugh at the titles, and playfully acknowledge them. 
 Of late he had used them less often, and only when alone with 
 her, and she began to feel a dread of the appellations, and a sort 
 of instinct which almost compelled her to check them, while a 
 fear of being laughed at for prudery or presumption, withheld 
 her from doing so. 
 
 It was apparent to Mrs. St. Aubyn, and much more so to Ju- 
 liet, that since she had passed from the awkward condition of an 
 old child to the endearing one of a young woman, Cousin Geof- 
 frey had regarded her with feelings of a very different character 
 from those which he manifested towards Blanche. There was so 
 much of the spirit of coquetry in the lively, unthinking Juliet, 
 that she could not forbear showing a certain triumphant pleasure 
 in the open and exclusive devotion of a man so elegant and so 
 accomplished as Cousin Geoffrey— a vain unthinking girl of se- 
 venteen could not but be proud to see one to whom all around 
 her looked up, confessedly ruled by a word, and swayed by a 
 glance other's. 
 
 Her beauty and wit rose in her own opinion when she found 
 them almost worshipped by one who was welcomed in scenes 
 where all that is loveliest and most brilliant abounds. She loved 
 Cousin Geoffrey as the friend of her childhood ; she liked him as 
 the flatterer of her youth ; she admired him for his taste in all 
 
COUSIII GEOFFREY. 25 
 
 things, especially that which he evinced in his devotion to her ; 
 but the idea of loving him as a lover, or accepting him as a hus- 
 band, would make her laugh or weep, frown or shudder, just as 
 the fancy of the moment might prompt— but never did she con- 
 template it for an instant as possible that she should give him 
 the slightest real encouragement to propose to her. Guessing, 
 with a woman's instinct, the deep interest he took in her, and , 
 through/?* 9 .^ in all the other members of her family, she trembled 
 when her father decided on applying to him for assistance. She 
 flew to her room when she heard Geoffrey's firm, yet gentle, 
 step on the stairs. " He will do what my father wishes," she 
 thought. " but he will do it for my sake." She felt mortified and 
 degraded, and tears gushed from her eyes ; but the next moment 
 the thought of her dear, kind parent, perhaps dragged to a pri- 
 son — her beloved, enduring mother reduced to want— her lively, 
 fond, and joyous brother degraded and condemned to toil — her 
 elegant sister Blanche doomed to earn her own subsistence— as 
 all these pictures crossed her mind in rapid succession, she 
 dashed away her tears. " Can I." said she, " put my fastidious 
 feelings in the opposite scale to the comforts and respectability 
 of these dear ones ? Heaven grant that Cousin Geoffrey may be 
 able to assist them ! He is too generous to make my comfort the 
 price of his assistance ; but to my regard, .my gratitude, he is 
 entitled. Oh ! if he save them, I could gladly serve him as a 
 slave— do anything— but love him as a husband — and. after all, 
 how do I know that he even wishes for such love? Perhaps my 
 vanity has misled me." She ran to her glass, as though to reas- 
 sure herself. 
 
 " Juliet, dearest ! come down : we want to consult you," said 
 the voice of Cousin Geoffrey, calling from the foot of the staircase, 
 "do not waste the little time we have: it will be, indeed, long 
 before we shall meet again." 
 
 There was a despondency in the tone of this simple appeal, 
 which confirmed all Juliet's worst fears of Cousin Geoffrey's 
 love : yet — strange inconsistency of woman's heart — she would 
 not present herself before the man whose hopes she wished to 
 discourage, till she had arranged her long black ringlets, turned 
 every curl to its best account, and settled her dress in the most 
 becoming manner. 
 
 When Juliet reached the sitting-room, she found her mother 
 alone, and in tears. 
 
 '•What new cause of distress has arisen, dearest mother?"' 
 exclaimed she. '"Why do you weep?" 
 
 "Mine are not tears of sorrow, love, but of gratitude and joy.'' 
 said Mrs. St. Aubyn. — "Cousin Geoffrey — dear, kind, generous 
 Cousin Geoffrev! — he has done more, far more than your father 
 
- 6 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 either could have hoped or wished. He did not wait to be re- 
 quested ; he voluntarily proffered his assistance. He has already- 
 advanced the money necessary for our removal ; he will follow 
 up your father's researches for him ; he will supply Lionels 
 wants at Oxford for the present, and use his interest to get him 
 a scholarship, and that he insists on doing without wounding 
 the dear boy by a knowledge of the obligation. 
 
 Juliets eyes filled with tears as she murmured, ' ; May Heaven 
 reward and bless him !" 
 
 " Ah! Juliet," said her mother, " from what I have seen to- 
 day I am convinced Cousin Geoffrey is indeed fervently, sin- 
 cerely attached to you. Hitherto the great disparity in your 
 years, the great dissimilarity in your dispositions, have made 
 me unwilling to admit this conviction ; but now, when difficulty 
 and danger encompass us on every side— when we can expect 
 nothing but the portion of the unfortunate, coldness and scorn, 
 I cannot but appreciate the earnest devotion, the boundless 
 generosity, the respectful tenderness of Geoffrey's heart. I be- 
 lieve that heart is yours, Juliet. I am sure that a little more 
 decided encouragement would secure it eternally." 
 
 "More decided, mama!" exclaimed Juliet. "What do you 
 mean? Surely you cannot think I have ever given him any en- 
 couragement." 
 
 "Nay, my dear," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, "you have seemed 
 pleased with his attentions: you have corresponded with him 
 when absent; you have always welcomed him joyously when 
 present. Either you have been strangely blind to his partiality, 
 or you have been aware of it, and have not discouraged it. I am 
 sure my Juliet would not trifle with the feelings of any one, least 
 of all, of one so kind. Should he propose, my love, and should 
 you feel that you can be happy with him, you will have my sin- 
 cerest approbation, and your father's delighted acquiescence." 
 
 Juliet burst into a flood of tears. She could not bear to hear 
 the possibility of such an union calmly discussed — discussed as 
 an advantageous match, which her parents would sanction — not 
 an awful sacrifice, which, under the circumstances, they would 
 endeavour to endure. She felt that, for their sakes, perhaps it 
 were possible to immolate herself; but for her own, for mere 
 worldly advantages, to give up all romantic hopes— all portion 
 in the fairy land in which each young heart has its own imagi- 
 nary freehold— herself to demolish ail her bright and air-built 
 castles, to live a calm, every-day life, in common-place houses, 
 with a middle-aged man — a feeling approaching to anger swelled 
 her heart as these thoughts arose, which again melted into gra- 
 titude as Mrs. St. Aubyn recapitulated all that Cousin Geoffrey 
 had done. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 2, 
 
 Juliet could no longer resist the impulse of her feelings; she 
 rushed to her mother's side, fell on her knees, buried her face in 
 her hands, and sobbed, in half uttered words, "Do not — do not, 
 dearest mother, urge me to such a union, unless you wish to 
 break my heart. I have been vain and trifling ; I have been 
 pleased with his attentions-, I have courted his admiration-, but 
 I have never intended to deceive him. I would rather earn my 
 bread by the labour of my hands in exile with you, than live in 
 opulence at home as the wife of one I must always honour and 
 esteem, but whom I could never love. Help me then, dearest 
 mother, to escape such a trial as the refusing Cousin Geoffrey 
 would be." 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn embraced and comforted her agitated child, 
 and at the moment Cousin Geoffrey returned to announce that 
 Mrs. Cribber, thinking a gentleman with a pheaton and pair 
 had a right to an opinion of his own, had allowed herself to be so 
 far influenced by it, as to consent to their staying till the next 
 day, without replacing more than double the crockery they had 
 broken. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 La Brlyere says, "II est doux derencontrer les yeux de ce- 
 lui auquel on vient de donner." Poor Juliet felt it w T as far from 
 delightful to meet the gaze of one from whom we have just re- 
 ceived important favours. Hitherto the obligations between her 
 and Cousin Geoffrey had been in some degree mutual. Cousin 
 Geoffrey had lavished elegant trinkets, pretty books, and kind 
 attentions upon the sisters; but then Juliet and Blanche had 
 been constantly engaged in working watch-guards and chains, 
 and purses, and all kinds of nick-nacks, and doing all that 
 girlish ingenuity and innocent friendship could suggest, in re- 
 turn for his offerings of taste and affluence. Their prettiest 
 drawings were made for him\ their choicest flowers were reared 
 for him 5 he had had the refusal of a large, sleek pet cat, a rab- 
 bit, a squirrel, and a matchless canary bird — strange gifts, per- 
 haps, to offer to a man of fashion, living in London, but which 
 were far stronger proofs of the affection of the offerers than more 
 splendid presents which the great confer, rather as evidences of 
 their own affluence, than pledges of their regard for others. But 
 Juliet now, for the first time, felt the full sense of an obligation 
 which she had no hope, no chance of repaying. She hastily rose 
 
28 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 as Cousin Geoffrey entered the room, and ran towards him, then 
 suddenly paused, trembled, and stood with downcast eyes and 
 quivering lips. 
 
 Her agitation, her recent tears, surprised Geoffrey, who had 
 rarely seen her but as a brilliant, playful creature. He knew not 
 to what her emotion was attributable. Perhaps, as vanity is ever 
 ready at the door of man's heart, it glided in with the sugges- 
 tion, that the sorrow of parting from him, had wrought the 
 change he witnessed. At all events, his manner was so affection- 
 ately earnest, his voice and looks were so lover-like, that Juliet 
 felt her heart thrill, and her manner change, and hating herself 
 for her ingratitude, it was almost with a shriek of joy she recog- 
 nised at the gate the post-chaise containing Blanche, and hailed, 
 in the return of her sister, a momentary change of subject and 
 situation, and an excusable occupation for herself in the recep- 
 tion and welcome of the new arruee — nor was it long after the 
 interchange of their affectionate salutations, that she found an 
 opportunity of withdrawing with Blanche from the sitting-room. 
 
 The moment they reached their own apartment, she hastened 
 to confide to her all her cares and fears, and felt almost asham- 
 ed, after a prelude which led Blanche to imagine that some 
 dire and dreadful disaster had either befallen or still threatened 
 the family, to find she had nothing to reveal but her apprehen- 
 sion of a most advantageous declaration from the amiable 
 Cousin Geoffrey. 
 
 Blanche, who was much more demure and matter-of-fact 
 than her sister, and who had remarked none of the tokens of 
 devotion upon which Juliet, with girlish pertinacity, insisted, 
 was rather disposed to laugh at her sister's vanity than pity her 
 distress. 
 
 " And is this all, you silly girl?" said she, embracing her, 
 " has he never said, never written a word to lead you to believe 
 that he means to propose to you." 
 
 " Never," said Juliet, " but then his looks, his manner!" 
 
 " Ha! ha! forgive my laughing, love!" said Blanche, " but 
 at this rate a few fashionable balls would certainly break your 
 heart 5 in the gay world every man looks and speaks as though 
 he were actually dying for you; but just when you begin in the 
 tenderness of your nature to repent having made him miserable 
 for life, you see him acting precisely the same part in another 
 corner of the room, gazing with the same die-away devotion 
 on his next partner, and not impossibly turning you into the 
 most elegant ridicule possible for her special amusement. Oh ! 
 it would do you a great deal of good to see a little of life, Juliet," 
 added Blanche, with an important air, justified, as she probably 
 imagined, by her having, as we already know, been to a few 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 29 
 
 London parties with Lady Sackville, having moreover dissipated 
 a month with her, at a popular watering-place. 
 
 " Well, Blanche," said Juliet, " you have relieved my mind 
 from an intolerable burden. I had half decided on speaking 
 to Cousin Geoffrey himself; I thought it would be more ge- 
 nerous to tell him the state of my feelings rather than to let 
 him propose." 
 
 " My dear Juliet," cried Blanche, " if you had done any 
 such thing, you would have made yourself positively ridiculous. 
 Do bear in mind the old maxim, never to say no, till you're 
 asked. How would you have looked if, after you had so con- 
 siderately opened your mind to him, he had appeared not to 
 comprehend you, and, perhaps, have asked you with a smile 
 of incredulous surprise what you could possibly mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, heaven knows, dearest Blanche," said Juliet, hiding 
 her blushing face on her sister's shoulder, " I should have looked 
 very, very foolish; and even as it is, I am ashamed of myself 
 for having thought of such a thing— however, I have been as 
 cold and constrained in my manner to him as I could." 
 
 " Cold and constrained to Cousin Geoffrey! " said Blanche, 
 " cold and constrained to one who, as you tell me, has saved 
 our father — who will not only supply dear Lionel's wants at 
 college, but even spare him the humiliation of knowing that he 
 does so—for shame, for shame, my darling Juliet, your all- 
 absorbing vanity has led you farther than I anticipated. Come 
 down stairs at once, and make the best atonement you can : 
 fear nothing. Men now-a-days are not so ready to propose, as 
 aunt Sackville says — very few do propose — people get married 
 in their turn by accident, or ladies themselves come forward — 
 but a good regular formal proposal is what she declares she 
 never saw happen but once in her life, and that was addressed 
 to herself. By the bye, Gertrude is to marry Sir Croesus." 
 
 "Sir Croesus!" exclaimed Juliet: "what the proud, the 
 beautiful Gertrude?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Blanche, " she thinks that his wealth will 
 feed her pride and adorn her beauty, and Clara teils me, that 
 upon that occasion the offer was more on Gertrude's side 
 than on his." 
 
 " Oh Blanche!" said Juliet incredulously. 
 " As I told you, you know nothing of the world," said 
 Blanche, with all the superiority of eighteen over seventeen, 
 " so now come down to your imaginary lover, and allow me 
 to judge of the state of the affair for myself." 
 
 " Well, Blanche," said Juliet, " if we do go down, you must 
 not. leave me alone with him." 
 
 " Oh, never fear," said Blanche, archly, " you may trust me.'' 
 
30 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Rut you will not?" said Juliet. 
 
 " No, no," answered the sister-, " but rely upon it you have 
 nothing to apprehend, even if I do." 
 
 " Ah! you will see, Blanche," said Juliet " notice his voice, 
 fiis manner." 
 
 " Come, Miss Juliet," said Blanche, affecting to scold, " if 
 you do not wish him to admire you, why are you so constantly 
 looking at yourself in your glass? I am sure I shall see nothing 
 but the result of your vanity — there, there, those curls will do 
 mighty well, particularly as your object is to drive a gentle 
 swain away." 
 
 Saying which, Blanche playfully forced her sister from the 
 mirror, and with her arm around her neck, accompaniec 1 her 
 down stairs. 
 
 Upon their arrival in the drawing-room, Juliet perceived 
 with delight that her father no longer looked wretched, nor 
 did her mother appear dejected ; they were arranging various 
 plans for the future, with Cousin Geoffrey, who was describing 
 his interview with Mrs. Cribber with great humour and viva- 
 city — in the middle of which narrative, Blanche whispered to 
 Juliet, " that, in spite all she had said, she did not think that 
 he looked very love-sick." 
 
 Juliet coloured ; a peculiar change of expression in Geoffrey's 
 countenance made her almost suspect that he had over-heard 
 the remark— his senses were very acute— but then the distance 
 was great — and even had he heard, he 'could scarcely have 
 understood the point of the allusion. 
 
 She felt reassured at the thought; but after a little while, 
 she began to feel angry at finding him entirely engrossed by a 
 conversation in which she was taking no part, even apparently 
 unconscious of her presence : this was the more tormenting, 
 as Juliet could not fail to perceive a little quiet smile playing 
 on Blanche's lip, and an arch and comic expression beaming 
 in her eyes every time their looks met, conveying a notice of 
 her conviction that she was right in her surmises as to the 
 Cousin's indifference. Could it be that she really had mistaken 
 his sentiments — he was discussing their departure as calmly as 
 if it were not to separate him from all that made life dear to 
 him — he drew near Blanche, kindly, almost fondly, took her 
 hand, and thanked her for the delight her society had caused 
 him. 
 
 "To you, dearest Blanche, and to your lively little sister," 
 said he, "I owe all the happiest hours of my life; you must do 
 me the kindness to accept these as a proof of my sincerity-." 
 saying which he presented her with two cases of pearl orna- 
 ments, adding in a genllc tone. lt when vou wear these trifles. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 31 
 
 let your thoughts wander for a moment from the gay circles 
 which you are destined to enchant, to dwell on him who would 
 have sought those pearls beneath the deepest seas to convince 
 you and your sweet little sister how dearly he loves you both : 
 as senior, dearest Blanche, you have the right of choice — my 
 heart acknowledges no preference." 
 
 "Sweet little sister" — "no preference," thought Juliet, 
 " what ! am I then really become a secondary consideration?" 
 and as the idea flashed into her mind; bright tears glistened in 
 her eyes, and a flush of wounded vanity crossed her cheek. Her 
 embarrassment was really painful, while Blanche opened the 
 cases submitted to her choice, expressed her rapturous admira- 
 tion and gratitude, and asked Geoffrey's opinion as to which Fer- 
 roniere was best suited to her brow. 
 
 Ashamed of the new feelings which fluttered at her heart, she 
 drew near to assist Blanche in fastening the ornament, and said, 
 "how shall we thank you, dear cousin, for this and all other 
 tokens of regard? Oh, do believe that go where we may, we 
 can never meet a friend we shall value so much." 
 
 1 ' Perhaps, dear Juliet," said Cousin Geoffrey, ' ' he would have 
 made himself more valuable had his heart permitted him to be 
 less officious in his devotion to his pretty cousins ?" 
 
 Juliet looked up with surprise — there was a melancholy dig- 
 nity in his face and manner as he spoke which became him 
 well. — When she had considered him as a lover to be avoided, 
 he had seemed to her unromantic, ungraceful, and certainly ill 
 suited to her ; but the moment the mystification was cleared 
 up, and he became unattainable, he forthwith appeared at once 
 dignified, handsome, intellectual, and even graceful. 
 
 "And was I vain enough to believe that I had brought my 
 proud cousin to my feet?" said Juliet : " have I troubled myself 
 to crush his hopes, when after all, he has entertained none, 
 while, from what he has said, it is clear he has suspected my 
 folly, and despises me for it— at least I must win him back to 
 the former kindness of his manner, for the change is more than 
 I can bear." 
 
 "Come! let me see how these pearls become that pretty 
 forehead of yours, Juliet !" said Cousin Geoffrey. " Blanche looks 
 lovely in hers." Juliet took the pearls with a smile of gratitude; 
 and turned to the glass. 
 
 " Ah! it will not do after Blanche," said she, turning back 
 again with an air of mute despair; " will it, dear cousin?" — 
 seeing, however, at the moment, that with her coal black hair, 
 her sparkling eyes, and clear brown skin , the tiara gave her the 
 air of an Eastern Queen— "my gipsey-face is better suited to a 
 scarlet hood— now vou see the real advantage of a fair com- 
 
32 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 plexion— it loses nothing by coming in contact even with pearls." 
 Juliet had frequently heard Geoffrey say how much he pre- 
 ferred the warm da Vinci glow of the clear brunette, so cha- 
 racteristic of the impassioned daughters of the south, to the 
 marble tone of colouring — the unsunned snow, meet mantle for 
 the heart of ice. She was therefore unprepared to hear him say 
 — "abstractedly, Juliet, I do not prefer a fair complexion, at 
 least not much ; but generally speaking ^for here at least it can- 
 not apply) there is less of selfishness and vanity in the blonde 
 than in the brunette : I think that a fair complexion often be- 
 speaks a gentle feminine nature, and that a fond blue eye seems 
 sometimes to have borrowed from heaven not merely its hue but 
 its expression." 
 
 Saying which^ he turned to the table and took up Juliet's 
 guitar, and sang sotto voce the well-known French air — 
 
 " Les yeux noirs et les yeux bleus." 
 and as he ended with— 
 
 " Les yeux noirs annoneent la finesse , 
 Les yeux bleus la bonte." 
 
 He took a hand of either of them and said, "however, a 
 middle-aged troubadour requires all the bonte of the one, and 
 may excite all the finesse of the other : I see your father and 
 mother in the garden, let us join them."' 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Blanche, " while I go and give Aileen 
 some directions about packing." 
 
 " Dear little Juliet will do that," said Geoffrey ; " I am impa- 
 tient, Blanche, for your opinion on my new grays." 
 
 Juliet hastened up stairs. "Vain simpleton that I have been !" 
 said she to herself, " manoeuvring to avoid a tete-d-tete to which 
 he attaches no importance, and for which it is but too clear he 
 has no desire." 
 
 She looked from the window on the stair-case as she passed 
 and saw Blanche leaning on Geoffrey's arm — he stopped to gather 
 a flower for her, and presented it to her with, what Juliet at the 
 moment fancied a kingly grace — "how handsome, how dig- 
 nified he looks!" thought the little coquette; "I cannot help 
 admiring him, though I do not love him. It would be a triumph 
 to win such a man, and I thought that triumph mine, and then 
 regretted it. 1 trust he will never know of my folly, and I hope 
 that Blanche will not indulge her malice by laughing at me. 
 Strange, too, that my mother should have been so much mis- 
 taken — but mothers often overrate a daughter's attractions. Is 
 he ?oing, really going without saying good bye to me " burst 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 33 
 
 from her lips though she was alone, and a flush of surprise and 
 mortification suffused her cheek as she saw Geoffrey and her 
 father step into the phaeton, and drive off from the gate. 
 
 As soon as they were gone she felt particularly anxious — 
 she scarcely knew why— that her mother and sister should not 
 be left to a tete-d-tete discussion of the family affairs, and accor- 
 dingly hastening to join them, found that her father and cousin 
 were gone into town on business— to make purchases, to obtain 
 passports, and to complete all other necessary arrangements for 
 their departure, which was fixed for the next day, and were to 
 return to dinner. 
 
 "You must make all your preparations directly, dearest girls,*' 
 said Mrs. St. Aubyn, "we start early in the morning : and little 
 or nothing can be done this evening, as Geoffrey dines here, and 
 I shall be occupied till dinner in writing to dear Lionel. Poor 
 Lionel— how much happier should I be if I could but see hirn 
 before we went! yet I am sure," continued Mrs. St. Aubyn, "I 
 ought to feel my happiness at the present moment unalloyed — 
 Cousin Geoffrey has offered to be our banker : even gaiety and 
 indulgences are within our reach, if we choose to purchase 
 them by incurring obligation, and sacrificing independence. Our 
 choice lies between strict, and often painful economy — or the 
 borrowing sums, 'which as we know we cannot repay them, we 
 must feel to be positive gifts. Your father's half-pay — the rents 
 of some houses— and the sale of our plate and my jewels— will se- 
 cure us about five hundred a year. Abroad, that will ensure us at 
 least moderate comfort— but nowhere will it admit of any 
 approach to luxury without producing an extravagance which 
 must eventually be fatal." 
 
 "And Lionel, mama?" said Blanche. 
 
 " It is, indeed, about Lionel I am most anxious, love," an- 
 swered her mother. "Lionel would, I think, shrink from a 
 sense of dependency as much as we do. I trust that interest may 
 be made to get him a scholarship— and then, do you not fancy, 
 my dear, dear girls, that by giving up for a time all outward 
 show— avoiding all parties, and the expenses they entail- 
 spurning, in short, all the finery of life if it must be purchased 
 at the price of moral dignity. . . do you not think that living 
 thus, we might, till Lionel takes his degree, appropriate <me 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year, even of so slender an income 
 as ours will be, to his service? that, with a scholarship, and ri- 
 gid economy on his part (if he has the spirit to sacrifice paltry 
 vanity to proper pride), will enable him to complete his educa- 
 tional career unshackled by debt, and undegraded by obligation." 
 " Yes ! yes ! dearest mother," exclaimed both sisters at once, 
 for they both felt assured of a mutuality of readiness and anx iety 
 
 3 
 
34 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 to control and curtail their expenditure in matters which, after 
 all, were not strictly essential to their comfort. 
 
 "We might give him two hundred a year," exclaimed the 
 sanguine Juliet. 
 
 " We will be firm in saving one hundred and fifty," said the 
 more moderate Blanche. 
 
 " But," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, "in the midst of these hastily 
 formed resolutions, do not forget Cousin Geoffrey's kindness — 
 do not fail to return thanks to Providence, that should our plans 
 he defeated, our foresight assist us little, or accident overturn 
 our well-laid schemes, we can yet avail ourselves of our dear 
 Cousin's assistance, which it would be very disgraceful to claim, 
 merely to gratify our vanity or selfishness." 
 
 After indulging in the sort of conversation in which experi- 
 mentalists in new sciences love to maintain, the family trio se- 
 parated, to meet again at dinner, graced and enlivened, as it 
 was to be, by the presence of the head of the house, and Cousin 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 The party assembled — dinner was served, and passed off 
 cheerfully. Cousin Geoffrey was in high spirits, the sanguine 
 St. Aubyn again full of hope, and Mrs. St. Aubyn, who saw before 
 her a calm, safe life of retirement for the future, felt gratefully 
 and tranquilly happy. Juliet alone, when she gazed on Geoffrey's 
 animated countenance, and listened to his exceedingly agreeable 
 conversation, felt a sort of humiliating consciousness of her late 
 presumption, and a pang of mortified vanity. This feeling im- 
 parted an unusual and unconscious softness to her voice and 
 manner. The blush of doubt, of regret, of hope, and of some- 
 thing not altogether unallied to shame, kept her cheek in an in- 
 termittent glow, which gave an unusual brilliancy to her beauty. 
 
 Blanche, who had been much more earnest and useful in su- 
 perintending the packing than her volatile sister, had arrayed 
 herself hastily for dinner ; but Juliet had made a very careful 
 and becoming toilet— the contrast gave an unwonted advantage 
 to the pretty brunette ; and Cousin Geoffery gazed at her with a 
 half reluctant admiration. Her manner towards him was mild, 
 gentle, and grateful. He had procured for their voyage every 
 species of travelling comfort, all the portable cases and pocket 
 companions which make English travellers so inconveniently 
 unportable. He had ordered a relay of his own horses to be on 
 the road to Brighton, where they were to embark for Dieppe, 
 and insisted on their travelling in his carriage, attended by his 
 servants. He had been so kind, so prdvoyant, so generous, 
 and so careful, that Mrs. St. Aubyn and her daughters thanked 
 him with tearful eyes, and both the girls felt that they almost 
 ed him. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 35 
 
 When the ladies left the table, Mrs. St. Aubyn hastened to 
 her room to complete her letter to her son . 
 
 Juliet and Blanche betook themselves to one of the drawing- 
 room windows, which was a few feet from the ground, and li- 
 terally curtained with roses. Blanche had just begun rallying 
 Juliet upon her expressed anxiety, that she should protect her 
 against the serious advances of Cousin Geoffrey, the evidence of 
 which appeared in fact to be absent, when they both started, 
 and Juliet almost shrieked— a well known voice was heard 
 crying, 
 
 " Mrs. Cribber ! Mrs. Cribber ! pay that Jarvie three bobs 
 and a tizzy for me, will you? I know 7 you've no end of tin, 
 old un." 
 
 " It seems, Sir, you've no end of brass," retorted Mrs. Cribber. 
 
 "And I'd thank you," added the slang gentleman, " to see 
 that nobody walks into my cloakbag, Mrs. Cribber." 
 
 "I'd thank you to walk out of my flower-garden, Sir," said 
 Mrs. Cribber, shutting her window in the face of the speaker, 
 who, having tlung the cabman who had conveyed him thither 
 a crown, without waiting for change or thanks, vaulted into the 
 drawing-room through the cockney casement at which Blanche 
 and Juliet were standing. 
 
 "Lionel — dearest Lionel ! " exclaimed Juliet, as the stranger 
 thus made his very unexpected appearance, "is it you? How 
 did you come? " 
 
 "Come! " said Lionel, "Oh! sub rosd, on the sly, as you 
 see, if you know what that is," at the same time shaking off the 
 rose leaves which his sudden leap had scattered over him. 
 " Come," added he, giving both the girls what might be called 
 a hearty smack, and catching them both in his arms, and run- 
 ning with them to the door, "come, I'm not going to let you 
 go until you've both promised that I shall not be pestered or 
 bored with lectures or lamentations." 
 
 "Dearest Lionel, Cousin Geoffrey will becoming in," said 
 Juliet-, k ' think how very absurd we shall all look!" and they 
 struggled to get away from his embrace. 
 
 " Well ! do you promise ? " said Lionel. 
 
 " I think I hear Cousin Geoffrey," said Juliet. 
 
 "Well, then, by jingo, if you do not promise directly," said 
 Lionel, " I'll just take ye both up in my arms and march you 
 right into the dining-room." 
 
 " I promise, for one," said Juliet, in an absolute fright. 
 
 " So do 1," said Blanche. 
 
 " Well now, then," said Lionel, as he let them go, " don't 
 look so like two frightened hares, but tell me some news. 
 
36 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Where's the governor? Did he get my letter ? Is he up to my 
 wanting some more tin ? " 
 
 " Do speak intelligibly, dearest Lionel," said Blanche. 
 
 " Oh! I am so glad you are come," said Juliet ; " mama is 
 now writing you a long letter." 
 
 " Full of golden precepts," said Blanche, archly. 
 
 "Precepts be— eh! " said Lionel, "if it isn't full of tin, it will 
 do me no good. But, I say, July, tell us how do you all get on?" 
 
 "What do you mean, Lionel ? " said Blanche. " What is tin? " 
 
 " Tin! " said Lionel, " Heaven bless your sweet simplicity ! 
 tin is the best thing in the world, and the next best to tin is 
 tick." 
 
 Without the least idea as to what he meant, the girls laughed, 
 and were quite delighted in looking at the tall young freshman, 
 with a due degree of sisterly pride, although he was dressed in 
 the extreme of bad taste— with studs, and chains, and a bunch 
 of curls sticking out from under his hat. 
 
 " I should hardly have known you, Lionel, anywhere else," 
 said Blanche. " How different you look, to what you did when 
 we last saw you ! What do you call that odd-looking coat?" 
 
 "This," said Lionel, " Lord bless your innocent heart !— this 
 is my Cut away." 
 
 " And how," said Blanche, "how, dear Lionel, did you get all 
 these things?" 
 
 " Tick, love, tick," said Lionel, "the only substitute for tin, 
 as I have before taken the liberty of remarking." 
 
 "Do tell me what tick means," said Juliet, "for except a 
 dreadful disorder which grandm'a once had in her left eye—" 
 
 "Grandmama!" said Lionel, " bless your heart ! all my eye- 
 she never had it. Tick means trust— credit." 
 
 "Credit!" said Blanche, in horror 5 while Juliet, still more 
 terrified, clasped her hands, and turned her eyes towards heaven. 
 
 "Credit," said Juliet, " I suppose is ready money." 
 
 "Not a bad shot, by Jove ! " said Lionel. "Come, you're not 
 such a slow coach, after all." 
 
 " Oh ! Lionel, what will our dear mother say ? " said Blanche. 
 "Lionel, when you incurred all these expenses you did not know 
 that we were on the brink of ruin — you did not know that we 
 were about to leave England, in order to save you, out of our 
 income, a hundred and fifty pounds a year— all, I fear, you can 
 have." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" said Lionel, making an extraordinary gri- 
 mace. " A hundred and fifty pounds a year !— Blanche, my dar- 
 ling, it would not keep me in pinks and top-boots for half the 
 time. Why, what could you expect? You must have known I 
 should live in respectable style." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 37 
 
 " Respectable, dearest Lionel," said Juliet ;" and is it respect- 
 able to run in debt?" 
 
 "To be sure it is," said Lionel. "Why you are no go in 
 Oxford unless you have plenty of tick. The snobs themselves 
 won't send in their bills. I have half a dozen tailors calling in a 
 morning, with books of patterns as long as High-street— I've 
 often been forced to order some toggery to get rid of them 5 and 
 when the chaps find out a thousand beauties in a man's figure— 
 what can he do?" 
 
 " Let them see that you are not a fool," said Blanche. 
 
 "Perhaps that would be letting him see more than I can see 
 myself," said Lionel. 
 
 " Why not say you cannot afford it?" said Juliet. 
 
 "I did try that," said Lionel, " and the scoundrel offered to 
 be my banker— he only wanted my custom, not my money ; and 
 after he had been so civil, of course I gave it to him \— but come, 
 no grumbling— you know the penalty. Where are they all ? I 
 want my wine, girls— I'm in very bad spirits, dull and down- 
 cast — 
 
 ' Champagne alone can cure 
 The anguish I endure,' 
 
 as •Molly Jones says," saying which he sank into a kind of re- 
 verie. 
 
 " Come," said Blanche, " come— let us go to papa— come." 
 
 Lionel started, and, as if suddenly awakening to a conscious- 
 ness of something of which he had spoken, said, in a hurried 
 and whispered tone, " I wish, girls, I had a thousand pounds." 
 
 "A thousand pounds!" said Blanche 5 " why, what do you 
 want with a thousand pounds ?— what could you do with it?" 
 
 "Do with it ! "said Lionel; " you little simpleton !— buy a team , 
 to be sure 5 or, at any rate, a couple of hunters for the season, 
 and a neat turn-out in the way of drag, of some kind." 
 
 " My dearest Lionel, I cannot bear to hear you talk so," said 
 Juliet, " when you know that we are all but ruined, and are 
 going abroad to-morrow, to exist, rather than live in exile.." 
 
 " Blanche," exclaimed Lionel, " upon your life and soul now, 
 isthattrue? Are you in earnest? Why, what the deuce has hap- 
 pened? Tell me, my darling!" saying which he caught her in 
 his arms— tears started to his eyes, and his cheeks grew pale. 
 "Ruined," said he, "how ruined? My dear father! my poor 
 mother!" and he was so much agitated that Blanche felt almost 
 alarmed at the sudden change which the unexpected intelligence 
 had produced in his manner and appearance. 
 
 "Do not give way, dearest Lionel," said she, kindly 5 "all, 
 1 hope, will yet be well. I do not know all the particulars •/' 
 
38 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 (Blanche shrank from implicating her father ;) "but this I do 
 know, that the strictest economy is now necessary, both for you 
 and for us." 
 
 Lionel fell into another reverie ; and this time the result was, 
 an expressed wish that he had a hundred pounds. 
 
 " Well, with your talents you may soon earn that," said 
 Blanche. 
 
 " How?" said the mad-brained youngster, looking perfectly 
 helpless. 
 
 Blanche was not quite prepared to point out the mode. After 
 a little thought, she smiled, and said, " Why, you know you 
 were captain of Eton once ; and you must be a better scholar 
 now — 
 
 " And when house and lands are gone, and spent, 
 Then learning is most excellent." 
 
 " At any rate, I hope you have been reading hard — " 
 
 " Why, I have had no time for reading," said Lionel. " The 
 joys of life keep one up so late, that, except when the hounds 
 meet, I shirk chapel, and never turn out of my snooze till eleven 
 — then a set of jolly dogs keep one at breakfast half the day, 
 belting about this and that— so that I've hardly time to get a 
 canter before dinner. Then dining with some deuced good fellow 
 keeps one engaged till it is time to go, and " wine" with another 
 good fellow ; and after that, sup with a third ; and being, as I 
 said before, of a fast college, and of a fast set in it, I go to bed 
 late, and get up late, and can't cram." 
 
 "Oh! Lionel, unless you would break mama's heart," said 
 Blanche, " you must give up so odious, so vicious a life." 
 
 " I will," said Lionel, " I will give up anything — everything 
 — if I can but get some tin — some stumpy — eh!— and I think 
 I shall; for I want to pay two or three cads— shady birds — a 
 stupid bet or two, which I know I shall lose; and then, as I 
 don't think they are the best set, I shall shirk them. I w r as 
 deucedly vexed the other day. I was walking with a set of them 
 — to be sure they were making a slightish row — when I met my 
 old Eton friend, Horace St. John, just come out of the schools, 
 having got a fourth, a slap-up affair for him, as he was not much 
 given to reading, and only went in for a pass — and the varmint 
 cut me dead as a stick." 
 
 " Horace St. John ! " said Blanche, " of Everton ? " 
 
 " That's the ticket," said Lionel 5 " but what do you know of 
 him?" 
 
 " Oh! I met him," said Blanche, " when I was staying at 
 AuntSackville's." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Lionel, " just the sort of nob she'd try to nab. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFRE1 . 30 
 
 Horace is all the go at Oxford. ] can't think how he has 
 managed it— but he tops the best set in Christ Church." 
 
 " And he cut you?" said Blanche. 
 
 " Regular cut, dead and dry, and no mistake," said Lionel ; 
 ,; a cool thing to be done by one Eton chap to another. He 
 might have made some allowance for a freshman, if he had 
 fallen in with a few cads. He forgets that there was a time 
 when I'd have gone through fire and w r ater for him — aye, and 
 thatl have done it before now"— and Lionel's eyes glistened. 
 " The worst of it is, a set of his toadies, some of them tufls too, 
 are his regular tail, and show front to cut me too-, but if any one of 
 them tries that on," said Lionel, clenching his fist, " that's all — 
 I love Horace as I should a brother, and do what he will, I am 
 ready to make allowances— but as for his toadies, if they only put 
 me up to it, I'll thrash them all, like so many curs — but, I say, 
 girls, come — let us go to the governor and my mother. I guessed 
 from your letter, Juliet, that you would soon be on the wing 
 somewhere, and so I made a start, without leave or licence, to see 
 the last of you, and must be off, on my way back, in an hour. 
 DomUook so cut up, Blanche," said he; " I have plenty of fel- 
 lows ready to stand by me, and with me— so banish care, my 
 lily — and now for the governor." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The young Freshman, spite of his linery, extravagance, and 
 slang, was brave, generous, and warm-hearted, and loved by 
 his parents and sisters, especially Blanche, who reflected with 
 anger and mortification upon the admitted fact, that Horace 
 St. John had, as Lionel himself phrased it, "cut" him: she 
 became indignant after hearing of it, that he should have pre- 
 sumed to admire her — and felt an honest pride in the recollection, 
 that she had returned his homage with coldness and indifference. 
 
 After an affecting interview with his parents, and a satisfac- 
 tory " talk-over" with Cousin Geoffrey, from whom he contrived 
 moreover to borrow the two hundred pounds which he thought 
 he happened at the moment to want, and received some 
 excellent accompanying advice on the subject of his manners 
 and style of conversation, Lionel, with an emotion he vainly 
 sought to conceal, tore himself away from his family, whispering 
 as they parted to Juliet, 
 
 " Be kind to Cousin Geoffrey, cherish him ; he's a trump— no 
 cad of a fellow— he has stumped me lots of tin to put all straight 
 
40 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Now I'll turn over a new leaf, and Horace shall see that— though 
 I may be a freshman, I'm no cad." 
 
 He was gone : Mr. St. Aubyn had set out to walk with him 
 to the coach-office whence he was to start, and Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 having asked Cousin Geoffrey (whose carriage still waited) to drive 
 her and Blanche to a neighbouring shop, they retired to prepare 
 for the excursion. 
 
 Juliet and Cousin Geoffrey were left alone— she thought of his 
 kindness to Lionel, and longed to thank him — and then she 
 reflected with a feeling of wounded vanity, that thanks from 
 her, had no value for him. 
 
 He was at the table looking over some engravings of female 
 heads — he did not even seem aware of her presence (a sad trial 
 to a coquette), so she went to the piano-forte — she played a 
 valtz— still unsuccessful : — next she hummed a popular air — 
 still he took no notice. At last she crossed the room to the place 
 where he was standing, leant over the book at which he was 
 gazing, and looking up into his face, said — 
 
 " Ah ! that is one of the fair and gentle school of beauties 
 which you prefer — nothing of the vain and selfish brunette style." 
 
 " Nothing," said he, as he playfully drew back the long black 
 curls which fell upon the picture. 
 
 " That is a face," added he pointing to the engraving, " which 
 could not look coldly when parting with one to whom its smile 
 had long been dear — I can fancy that a tear might tremble 
 in that blue eye — and that that cheek might grow pale for the 
 woes of another." 
 
 " I really do not see," said Juliet, " why you should confine 
 to blue eyes and fair cheeks the power you describe. I know 
 that a feeling, grateful heart may equally belong to the dark 
 and the fair." 
 
 Cousin Geoffrey looked at her — her eyes were full of tears, 
 and her cheek was pale. 
 
 " You had better sport at the mouth of the crater— you had 
 better dally with the cubs of the lioness when the mother is at 
 hand, than trifle with the passions of a heart like mine," sud- 
 denly exclaimed her cousin : " you look at this moment as if you 
 felt deeply— if you do not, you are that worst of hypocrites 
 — a coquette— but I will not believe it— falsehood could never 
 look so fair as that ! " 
 
 " Indeed, Cousin Geoffrey," said, or rather faltered Juliet, 
 " the friendship I feel for you..." 
 
 " Talk not to me of friendship, Juliet," said her companion ; 
 " you know that I adore you ; why talk of friendship to the 
 man who worships you? — Juliet!" added he in a hurried man- 
 ner, taking her trembling hand, " these are the last words which 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 41 
 
 for many months we shall exchange alone. Will you endeavour 
 to repay the devotion of a heart in which love and your young 
 bright image are enshrined? will you shun all other eyes? will 
 you think of, live for, care alone for..." 
 
 At this moment Mrs. St. Auhyn's step was heard — Cousin 
 Geoffrey let fall the hand of his fair companion, and Juliet hastily 
 left the room. 
 
 When she reached her own chamber, she burst into tears ; 
 the thought that but for a mere accidental interruption her 
 inexcusable coquetry would have led her either to bind herself 
 to a man she did not love, or wound the feelings of one who 
 loved her— perhaps to alienate the only friend of her unhappy- 
 family — of her brother— overwhelmed her with grief and shame. 
 
 Upon such accumulated feelings it would be vain to argue— 
 the effect produced by the conduct she had thought proper 
 to pursue will be best seen and understood in the sequel. 
 
 In the morning the St. Aubyns were up early, ready for 
 their start. Cousin Geoffrey was punctual in his appearance — 
 it was but too evident to Juliet that he wished to renew the dia- 
 logue of the preceding day — equally resolved was she to avoid 
 it ; and as those who know woman best, tell us 5 when a lady 
 makes up her mind, she can always manage to carry her point. 
 
 As he soon saw there was no chance of being left alone with 
 her, he took up a card which was lying on one of the tables, 
 and said, " Juliet, let me write you a riddle :" he proceeded to 
 suit the word to the action, and in a few moments handed 
 her the card. She took it to the window, for at the first glance 
 she felt her colour come and go. All, except Geoffrey, were too 
 much engrossed in the preparations for the journey to take 
 notice of her proceedings. She read the following words : — 
 
 " Ponder well on what I have said 5 it would ill suit a man at 
 my time of life to address myself to your parents, unless he 
 were certain of your concurrence — the character of a despairing 
 lover is graceful only in extreme youth. — Let what has passed 
 be a secret between us — remember, I deny myself the luxury 
 of your presence 5 that I endure absence from all I love 5 for 
 your sake I remain behind, to provide for Lionel— to devote 
 myself to the investigation of your father's claim— and to se- 
 cure, as I hope, a comfortable competence for you all. All I ask 
 is, when I rejoin you, let me be welcome." 
 
 Juliet trembled at the implied hope these lines implied, that 
 her hand was to be the price of Cousin Geoffrey's services to her 
 family. Her first impulse was to let him understand that the sa- 
 crifice was impossible : but then Lionel — her parents— all, all, 
 were involved in the decision. She turned to write a few words, 
 sufficient to prevent his belief in the consent which silence 
 
42 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 might appear to give. The ordinary establishment of pens, ink, 
 and paper had been removed, and she was unable to fulfil her 
 intentions. Geoffrey approached her, and took the card from her 
 trembling hand, and unnoticed dropped it into the fire. She rai- 
 sed her eyes, on which a leaden weight seemed pressing. She 
 hoped by some sign to remove what appeared to be his impres- 
 sion as to the effect produced by his appeal ; but he appeared 
 suddenly to avoid her look. The carriage was at the door, and 
 he was occupied in assisting to envelop Mrs. St. Aubyn, Blanche, 
 and Juliet herself, in their cloaks, boas, shawls, and other cold- 
 repelling pieces of extraneous drapery. 
 
 " God bless you, my best friend," said St. Aubyn, with tear- 
 ful eyes, wringing Geoffrey's hand 5 " bless him, my wife— bless 
 him, my children. Come to us, dearest cousin, come to us in 
 our exile at the earliest possible opportunity." 
 
 " Shall I be welcome to all?" said Geoffrey. 
 
 At such a moment — a moment on which his happiness for life 
 seemed to depend, Juliet, labouring under an agitation she could 
 ill conceal, involuntarily exclaimed, " O yes! " 
 
 "Heaven bless you, Juliet," said Geoffrey, taking her hand and 
 pressing it to his lips. 
 
 She felt in an instant how he had interpreted what she in the 
 warmth of other feelings had said, and whispered to him in a 
 hurried and confused manner, " for heaven's sake let me speak 
 to you." 
 
 He did not seem to hear her : he had turned to talk to the 
 weeping mother, of her favourite Lionel — her effort to make 
 him hear or understand her failed, and, in a few minutes more, 
 they were all driven in Geoffrey's comfortable carriage from 
 the gate of the villa, at which he remained waving his last adieus 
 with his hand, and watching the receding party till they were 
 lost in the distance. 
 
 The declaration of Cousin Geoffrey, and the interpretation he 
 would certainly put upon her last exclamation, oppressed and 
 agitated Juliet in a very eminent degree : every comfort which 
 her now avowed lover had secured them weighed upon her 
 heart. Mrs. St. Aubyn was sad, for she left her only son behind ; 
 and even her husband looked unhappy, as he remembered that 
 his own extravagance had occasioned all their ills and embar- 
 rassments. Blanche alone seemed to bear up against the change, 
 and endeavoured by her own example to cheer the spirits of her 
 companions. 
 
 Airs. St. Aubyn, enlivened by the cheerfulness of her daugh- 
 ter, took her husband's hand in hers, and tried to raise his spi- 
 rits with whispered words of comfort, and the expression of her 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 43 
 
 hopes that all would yet be well. After the first agitation had 
 subsided, Juliet's thoughts rested upon the long interval which 
 must elapse before she could again behold Cousin Geoffrey, but 
 as the distance between them increased, her feelings gradually 
 resumed their original tone, and his influence as gradually dimi- 
 nished : had she loved him, the effect had been directly con- 
 trary, and at every stage she would have wept the more bitterly 
 for their separation; but his vehement and unexpected declaration 
 had rather alarmed than interested her : as she had never loved, 
 there was no sympathy in her own heart by which she could 
 estimate the probable anguish of his. The love of another 
 scarcely ever appears real to us unless we reciprocate it; and so 
 Juliet tried to drive Cousin Geoffrey from her mind as a lover, 
 resolved to prove to him that she was no coquette by frankly 
 confessing the state of her heart when he again addressed her— 
 an easy task to set herself, now he was absent : and having so 
 resolved, she gave up her mind, with a wild sense of recovered 
 freedom, to all the bright visions of seventeen. 
 
 In process of time— which will fly, let what else stand still 
 that may— the journey of the exiled family terminated, and in 
 pursuance of all their previous arrangements, they embarked in 
 the packet which was to convey them to the continent. 
 
 The bustle on the chain-pier— the novelty of their circum- 
 stances, the gazes and remarks of the fanienti loungers of a 
 watering-place, and the admiration which they were conscious 
 they caused, filled the young hearts of Juliet and Blanche with 
 feelings, which if not of a higher order, were sufficiently excit- 
 ing to displace for the time, those with which they had before 
 been occupied. 
 
 The signal given, away steamed the packet, and even before 
 dark the white cliffs and London-like parades and crescents of 
 Brighton had vanished from their sights. With the early sun 
 they were again on deck. To youthful spirits like theirs, there 
 was joy in the fresh morning air, while the curled sapphire 
 waves, silver-crested, seemed to gather round the bows of the 
 vessel in playful gaiety. Mrs. St. Aubyn, to whom the world 
 was not the untried region that it was to her daughters, and 
 whose youthful buoyancy of heart was past, remained below ; 
 and Mr. St. Aubyn, having found amongst the valuable library 
 of the packet an old peerage, was poring over it in the faith- 
 deluded man— of its correctness, while Blanche and Juliet stood 
 apart making their young-lady-like remarks upon the different 
 passengers. 
 
 There was one tall, florid, haughty-looking gentleman, who 
 remained with his four daughters on deck during the whole 
 night's passage, the reason for which became subsequently ap- 
 
44 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 parent, and which, in due time, shall be communicated to the 
 reader. His name, written in large letters on his luggage, ap- 
 peared to be ''Whitehead." 
 
 The four daughters already named were tall, stout, handsome, 
 Rubens-like looking women, who, it appeared, had three sisters 
 and a mama at Dieppe, where they had been many years resident, 
 the young ladies varying in age from eighteen to five-and-thirty. 
 
 No Englishman ever had a large family of daughters without 
 having some beauties among them ; and the Misses Whitehead 
 had, for the most part, bright eyes, fine hair, brilliant com- 
 plexions, good teeth, and tall, straight figures. They were 
 showy, and somewhat stately-looking women, and, in one res- 
 pect, all exactly alike— they were all alike deficient in delicacy, 
 the most winning charm of woman. 
 
 Sir Caesar, who was in the army, had been knighted by some 
 lord-lieutenant of Ireland, had married a reputed heiress, who 
 proved penniless— and having himself been reduced, by the 
 blessings of peace, to half-pay— contrived to live at Dieppe with 
 his wife and these seven daughters, and not only to live, quoad 
 existing, but to live gaily, give soirees, and be called "mi lor" 
 by the French, upon two hundred a year, with an additional 
 fifty per annum, the rent of a house of Lady Whitehead's. 
 
 They were a strange family, and did tilings in a strange way 
 —but still they did them. The girls were all clever, and, what 
 is more, dauntless; they made shoes, stockings, bonnets, and 
 dresses for their mother and themselves, with incredible rapi- 
 dity, of the cheapest and coarsest materials, but all in the newest 
 and most showy fashion. Even— but that is a profound secret 
 — their father, Sir Caesar, himself had no other tailor than his 
 amiable daughters; and if his clothes wanted that peculiar neat- 
 ness of fit and finish which betrays the practised hand of a Stultz 
 or a Weston, none were so profusely braided — none boasted so 
 much (cotton) velvet, or so much fur (of rabbit or catskin) as 
 every thing he wore of their fabrique. It is w r hispered that they 
 even curled the paternal hair, and exercised their ingenuity in 
 making paper collars look like linen ones — but, to their credit 
 be it spoken, the result was, that he always appeared clean, and, 
 at a little distance, almost elegant. 
 
 Of the rigid economy they practised, no description can give 
 an accurate idea. They had secured a large, old house, at a 
 very small rent^ before the people at Dieppe had been rendered 
 exorbitant by the influx of English. This venerable residence 
 the Misses Whitehead themselves painted, japanned, and gilded. 
 The plainest deal tables became, under their deceptions, showy 
 pieces of furniture ; and at night you might have been deluded 
 into pronouncing, at the first glance, their house elegant; but 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 45 
 
 every bed and cushion was stuffed with straw — every floor 
 boasted merely painted imitations of carpets. A handsome case 
 of well-gilt books allured the eye— it was a delusion. A worth- 
 less (because workless) clock forever pointed to the same hour — 
 trumpery, covered with yellow muslin, passed for valuables — 
 green baize curtains, hanging over wretched daubs, beguiled 
 the uninitiated with dreams of rare and piquant pictures— every 
 thing was sacrificed for dress furniture — their housekeeping was 
 equally showy and unreal, from Sir Caesar's paper collars to the 
 Misses Whitehead's dried herbs, which acted for tea, and roasted 
 corn, which did duty for coffee — the milk for the former bever- 
 age being skilfully thickened with flour, to play the part of excel- 
 lent cream. 
 
 Juliet and Blanche were much stricken with the appearance 
 of the equivocally young ladies, as they stood at some distance, 
 grouped round their stately father; but, on a nearer approach, 
 the materials of their smartness betrayed themselves. Their pe- 
 lisses were made of muslin, scarcely fine enough for window 
 curtains, and were lined with pink calico — their bonnets were of 
 card-board, stamped in imitation oipaille de riz, with flowers 
 of their own making, and sprigs of real evergreen. But when 
 the wind blew, these bonnets were carefully consigned to a box, 
 and replaced by caps of catskin, and cloaks of drugget, trimmed 
 with corresponding fur. 
 
 Quiet, home-made things, betraying a spirit of economy 
 without pretension, excite a feeling almost of respect, for they 
 announce at once industry and frugality; but in the mock ele- 
 gance of the Whiteheads, there was something almost ludicrous. 
 
 There was an air of hauteur, too, in the whole party, which 
 amused Juliet, and she continued to watch them till her atten- 
 tion was arrested by the appearance on deck of a tall, dignified 
 young Englishman, who, apparently struck with either Blanche 
 or herself, continued to walk up and down near the spot where 
 they stood. 
 
 This personage was of aristocratic bearing : his hair waved 
 in graceful curls over a high brow 7 ; his eyes were blue, but with 
 an arch expression, enlivening a countenance which else was 
 pensive. There w r as something of the antique in his cast of fea- 
 tures. His fair hair and delicate complexion might very natu- 
 rally have subjected him to the charge of effeminacy, but for the 
 dignity and decision of his countenance, his tall figure, his 
 manly manner, and an air of command peculiar to himself. 
 
 The stranger had an equally handsome companion— in its 
 way— in a fine large Newfoundland dog-, and as he caressed 
 it, Juliet— the coquetting Juliet— was already busy in wonder- 
 ing who the man was, and whether he was in love. 
 
46 COUSIJf GEOFFREY. 
 
 But it was not Juliet alone who was struck with the stranger. 
 Sir Caesar and his daughters eyed him through their mosaic-gold- 
 mounted eye-glasses— consulted awhile,— and then, Sir Caesar, 
 having borrowed a newspaper from a poor fellow who was obli- 
 ged immediately after to go below, went up to the young Eng- 
 lishman, and with a flourishing bow, offered it to him. 
 
 Juliet watched the acting of this little scene with some interest. 
 The stranger accepted the paper graciously ; ran his eye over it, 
 and crossed over to Sir Caesar to return it. The Misses White- 
 head were in raptures with the dog. " Down, Caesar, down," 
 said his master, as, encouraged by sundry pats, the large shaggy 
 creature put both his paws on Miss Whitehead's lap, and stood 
 erect. 
 
 "Caesar! come, that's good," said the old gentleman-, "I 
 really must shake my namesake's paw. 1 too am a Caesar— Sir 
 Caesar Whitehead, at your service, Sir," and he bowed some- 
 what magnificently. 
 The stranger returned the salutation of course. 
 " I will do myself the honour of introducing you to my daugh- 
 ters," said the K. L. L. ; ' ; but you must tell me by what name 
 I may present you." 
 
 " I shall be most happy," said the stranger, coldly. " W 7 ynd- 
 ham is 77?y name." 
 
 " Mr. Wyndham, the Misses Whitehead ;" but the Mr. was 
 pronounced in a tone of disappointment : Sir Caesar evidently ex- 
 pected that some title belonged to so aristocratic-looking a man 
 — if he wasn't a lord, he ought to have been one. 
 
 After the exploded ceremonial of introduction had been gone 
 through, the Misses Whitehead made room for Mr. Wyndham 
 beside them ; and Caesar, the dog, was patted and coaxed 5 and 
 Juliet felt vexed and uncomfortable, she scarcely knew why. She 
 tried not to look at the party, but yet she saw nothing else, and, 
 ashamed of the interest she felt in the proceedings of a stranger, 
 she took Blanche's arm, and, after inquiring how their mother 
 felt, they went below, and joined their father in the cabin. 
 
 They found him still engrossed by the old dirty peerage, and 
 Blanche tranquilly seated herself by his side, but Juliet took 
 up a book, laid it down again— took off her bonnet, put it on 
 again — glanced at the looking-glass, which, lor the benefit of sea- 
 sick ladies, was nailed up against the bulk-head, and then gave a 
 new touch to her glossy ringlets , the crispness of which had been 
 somewhat marred by the sea air— but she could settle to nothing. 
 At this period of the voyage the sky became overcast ; clouds 
 rose on the horizon, and a chilly breeze announced the ap- 
 proach of rain — nor was the warning false — the shower came, 
 and pelted and pattered so furiously as to clpar the deck. Mr, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 47 
 
 Wyndham— and his dog, aquatic as were its propensities— fled 
 for shelter to the cabin with the rest of the passengers 5 but Sir 
 Caesar and his daughters, protesting against the heat below, 
 maintained their positions ; with a steadiness and resolution 
 which would have done honour to a veteran tar. 
 
 This " break-up 1 ' of the Whitehead confederacy was exceed- 
 ingly disagreeable to the young ladies, whose feelings may be 
 easily conceived, when, looking down the companion, as they 
 paced the deserted planks above, they saw their recent compa- 
 nion, Mr. Wyndham, engaged in conversation with St. Aubyn 
 and his daughters in the cabin. That sight embittered the egg- 
 sandwiches which they took from a tarnished gilded case, and 
 turned to gall a mixture of exceedingly blue milk and water, 
 which they had dignilied into orgeat. 
 
 Although Blanche and Juliet were, of course, confined to the 
 unsatisfactory process of looking and thinking with regard to the 
 interesting stranger, while they were on deck, the case was quite 
 altered when Mr. Wyndham came into the cabin, where they 
 were with their father. 
 
 There is a certain sort of freemasonry in the world, the secret 
 of which, unlike that of freemasonry itself, it would be difficult 
 precisely to reveal, but which brings in contact, immediately and 
 almost unconsciously, persons accustomed to society of a certain 
 caste. The moment Mr. Wyndham and his dog made their ap- 
 pearance, Mr. St. Aubyn, looking up from his heraldic dictio- 
 nary, felt as if the stranger had been an acquaintance. The chances 
 were that he had seen him — met him — however, that he did not 
 remember 5 but his air and manner seemed to invite a salutation, 
 and the rain and the dog afforded admirable topics for a shy Eng- 
 lishman to begin upon. 
 
 Mr. St. Aubyn accordingly having struck the first blow with 
 the purely English truism of " A heavy shower this," was met 
 by another national observation on Wyndham's part, that " he 
 thought it would not last." Then they came to the dog— its 
 noble character, its qualities, its attributes— glancing to Edwin 
 Landseer, whose splendid talents are identified with the recollec- 
 tion of the almost rational creatures to which his magic pencil 
 has given a place in the pictorial annals of our country— thence 
 they glanced to other topics, until, just as the conversation began 
 to warm, breakfast made its appearance. 
 
 As the least sociable meal of the three proceeded; the conver- 
 sation improved, and the new T acquaintance grew in favour with 
 the head of the family. He talked well, and eloquently, and 
 there was a vein of quiet humour in his observations, which was 
 exceedingly agreeable 5 but whenever anything connected with 
 himself came under discussion, he spoke with a hesitation and 
 
48 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 reserve, which his companions (at least the two younger ones; 
 could not fail to observe. Of his past life or its events he never 
 spoke — he alluded to the future, but it appeared as if for him 
 there had been no past. 
 
 Juliet was rather disappointed. Se wanted to hear the confir- 
 mation of her conviction, that he was some very distinguished 
 person— but all in vain. He mentioned no dukes, no duchesses, 
 no lords, no ladies, no lions, no lionesses — and while in his short 
 conversation with the Whiteheads, they had contrived to intro- 
 duce two peers, three honourables, and an Irish bishop, he, in 
 the course of the whole morning, had not gilded his discourse 
 with one title, or any well-known name. 
 
 " He is a very elegant person," said Blanche to Juliet ; " and 
 has the greater merit for being so,' since he must owe every 
 thing to himself, for evidently he is not well connected. You see 
 he seems to know nobody who is anybody." 
 
 " Dear Blanche, that cannot be," said Juliet ; " high birth and 
 high breeding develope themselves in every thing he says and 
 does. I w r ili convince you of that. He looks so dignified, he must 
 be conscious — " 
 
 "Of the valour and virtuous deeds of his ancestors," said 
 Blanche. "Why not of his own?" 
 
 " Ah! well, we shall see," said Juliet, as they joined St. Aubyn 
 and Wyndham, after a visit to their mother. Juliet took up the 
 Peerage which her father had laid down, and turned over its 
 leaves, as if accidentally, and turning to her new friend, said, 
 carelessly, 
 
 " Are you related to these Wyndhams?" pointing at the same 
 time to the noble name. 
 
 " No," said the stranger, "I am happy to say I am not." 
 
 " Why happy?" said Juliet; "are they not an ancient and a 
 noble family? — and have not some of them distinguished them- 
 selves by every attribute of excellence?" 
 
 "I believe they are," said this Wyndham-, "but I think strange- 
 ly upon these points. I should hate to be esteemed and courted, 
 merely because I was the descendant of some great man. I would 
 rather owe whatever interest I might excite, entirely to myself. 
 It is something to make a name eminent — there is but little in 
 bearing one already made so. I should like the future to recur 
 to me, but I care not for the past." 
 
 "But," said Juliet, "the future never would recur to you, if 
 all shared your feelings." 
 
 " If all shared my feelings," said Wyndham, "each man would 
 glory in being himself good and great. I could gladly resign the 
 vain and groundless hope I alluded to, could I believe that the 
 pride of virtue or intellect would ever supersede that of ancestry. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 49 
 
 Bill," added he, in a subdued tone, " this expression of my feel- 
 ings will seem to the St. Aubyns, who perhaps date from before 
 the deluge, as of the same school with the disregard of the fox 
 for the grapes — (as if foxes ever did eat grapes) — for, alas ! as far 
 as I am personally concerned, I am but a son of Adam and of 
 Eve." 
 
 A half scornful smile played on Wyndham's lip as he spoke, 
 and, crossing the deck, which they had all regained upon the 
 reappearance of the sun, he joined the Whiteheads, and sat him- 
 self down among them." 
 
 "I told you so, Juliet," said Blanche, "and you have evidently 
 hurt his feelings." 
 
 A tear rose to Juliet's eyes as she muttered to herself, "Strange! 
 — and yet how noble he looks!" 
 
 "And is" said Blanche, who overheard her. 
 
 "Ah! but if he is low-born," said Juliet, "one's feelings and 
 prejudices naturally rise in array against him." 
 
 Spite, however, of this array of feelings and prejudices, Juliet 
 felt a thousand new and strange emotions. The afternoon was 
 soft, the air mild, the autumnal sun was already going down in 
 glory — the gilded waves seemed to gather near him, and, like 
 friends round a dying Christian's bed, to reflect his parting 
 smiles. Was it the novel beauty of the scene— the new world 
 that opened before her — the blended loveliness of sky and sea — 
 were these the causes of the wild, enraptured fulness of Juliet's 
 heart? Ah no! for in the very hope, the rapture of her spirit, 
 there was a new, an inexplicable feeling mingled ; one that as 
 yet had been a stranger to her heart — who is this stranger? — 
 Juliet, can it be "first love?" 
 
 The night closed in, and yet no appearance of the French 
 coast. Great discontent prevailed when it appeared that the ves- 
 sel, which was a very old one, had lost a paddle— something in 
 steam navigation equal to moulting a wing feather in ornithology 
 — and the captain, as the master was called, was obliged to own, 
 that, not having calculated on so long a voyage, his stock of 
 coals was exhausted. 
 
 Sir Cassar Whitehead, who , like the steamer, had been provi- 
 sioned only for a few hours, and was already half famished, swore 
 furiously at the captain, who, in retorting, let out the fact, that 
 the Whiteheads, whose determined stay on deck had attracted 
 every one's attention, only paid fore-cabin price, and were there- 
 fore debarred from the use of what, in cockney "nauticals," is 
 called a saloon. Their rage at this discovery defies description, 
 and long was the list of ministers, postmasters, and lords of the 
 admiralty, to whom Sir Caesar threatened to report the offend- 
 ing schipper. Wyndham generously redoubled his attentions to 
 
 A 
 
50 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 the Whiteheads, in order to console them for the mortification 
 of their expose 1 ; and, having made a private arrangement with 
 the captain to that effect, persuaded the half-perished mus- 
 lineers to go below; which, partly because they were com- 
 pelled, and partly to spite the schipper, they determined to 
 do, attributing his quiet acquiescence in the proceeding to his 
 awe of the denunciation of their paper collared papa. 
 
 " This is too bad, " said Sir Caesar ; " I shouldn't like to in- 
 jure any man in his calling— but. upon my life, it would serve 
 him right to report him at head-quarters. As for the cabin, Mr. 
 Wyndham, " continued he, " it is generally full of people with 
 whom I cannot bear the Miss Whiteheads to mix. You under- 
 stand — Lady Whitehead is very particular — very particular in- 
 deed — naturally so, as being the cousin of Lord Grandish and 
 the Bishop of Leicester. The poor man is piqued because I never 
 let the Miss Whiteheads go below, and therefore when I spoke 
 sharply, he spoke sharply too — eh — you understand." 
 
 Wyndham did understand, but he could commiserate with po- 
 verty, even when blended with vanity and assumption. He had 
 procured some tea, and, that the Whiteheads mightnot imagine 
 themselves responsible for any expense, playfully invited them 
 to a bachelor's party, and jocosely presided himself. To cover 
 this amiable ruse, he begged the St. Aubyns to join his circle, 
 introduced the families, and all went on cheerfully enough. 
 
 Sir Csesar soon found that St. Aubyn really knew many of the 
 boasted grandees with whom he was very slightly acquainted ; 
 he therefore became very friendly with him. As he had seen a 
 good deal of the world, he could be very amusing — told boast- 
 ing anecdotes, of which he was generally the hero, with some 
 spirit, and, finally, offered that Lady Whitehead should call on 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn upon her arrival at Dieppe, acquaint her what 
 people were visitable, and, in short, as an old resident, do the 
 honours of their Anglicised watering-place. 
 
 ' : Pray, Mr. Hodnot^ am I to sit here, moping alone, while 
 the other passengers are so exceedingly sociably employed? " 
 said a sharp, angular woman, to a small, pale, peeking man. 
 " To think that 1 should ever be left to the care of such a 
 
 poor " 
 
 " Hush, dearest love," said the husband of this precious wife; 
 " you'll over-excite yourself — you will make yourself ill. What 
 can be done ? What can I do? " 
 
 " What can you do! " said the lady, " what, indeed ?— fetter 
 my energies — sink my virtues, my talents— doom me to neglect ? 
 Go and tell the party who I am. Do you hear! The Honourable 
 Mrs. Hodnot isn't to be neglected." 
 " Yes, my love,"' said Mr. Hodnot, " I do hear, but " 
 
COL SIX GEOFFREY. ;*>1 
 
 " But what?" said the lady. 
 
 "Sir Caesar, my dear," said the husband, " knows well enough 
 who you are." 
 
 " Sir Caesar! what of that?" exclaimed the Hon. Mrs. Hod- 
 not. " I know who he is 5 and that has not prevented his mak- 
 ing acquaintance with those elegant people. You should have 
 been beforehand with him. You might have got them into our 
 house, and now they will be set against us. Go, I tell you, and 
 say the Hon. Mrs. Hodnot begs to join the party — say so to that 
 tall, fine-looking young man. Be quiet," continued the lady, 
 giving a violent slap to a child of her own, who began to cry. 
 "Go, Sir, and doas I tell you," at the same time pushing her 
 husband forward : " but no — stay — I'll go myself."' 
 
 " Ah ! do, my dear," said Hodnot. 
 
 " Mean wretch ! " whispered the lady, as she rose to approach 
 Wyndham 5 but at this moment the rickety steamer gave an ugly 
 lurch, and the Hon. Mrs. Hodnot reeled sideways, and bumped 
 against her diminutive husband, who, the moment she had left 
 her seat, had jumped up to assist her. 
 
 "Always in my way, Mr. Hodnot," exclaimed the lady, re- 
 pelling him with a violence which carried him to leeward against 
 the side of the cabin. She rallied from the shock, but a sudden 
 pitch taking the boat's bows under, she became so suddenly and 
 powerfully affected, that it was absolutely necessary to convey 
 her aft into the lady's cabin, while her unfortunate husband, 
 with a wild sense of sudden freedom, ordered some refresh- 
 ments for himself and her children, and, amidst the roar of winds 
 and waves, snatched one halcyon hour of cheerfulness and peace. 
 
 Meanwhile the Whiteheads did ample justice to Wyndham's 
 repast, while he, by his cheerful and varied powers of conver- 
 sation, made the whole party forget that the wind had risen, 
 that the vessel pitched and tossed, that they were in a close 
 cabin, and that, many hours before, they ought to have reached 
 Dieppe. 
 
 As for Juliet, there was to her so sweet a fascination in the 
 conversation, the mirth, and the original mind and manners of 
 Wyndham, that she looked forward with something like dread 
 to the termination of their trajet, which would deprive her of 
 his society. She appreciated his delicate kindness to the White- 
 heads—but a pang shot through her heart, when, for a moment, 
 she fancied that he took particular notice of Miss Antonia, the 
 handsomest of the set, and that perhaps his amiable attention to 
 the whole family might originate in a sudden liking for some 
 one individual member of it. The consciousness of this feeling 
 brought the blood into her cheeks, although she alone was con- 
 scious of its existence. 
 
52 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 ''And am I," thought she, "so mean as to feel such an in- 
 terest in one who, in all probability, will never care for me? 
 Why do I watch him? Why cannot I meet his glance without 
 this flutter at my heart? It is not four-and-twenty hours since I 
 first saw him. It is folly, madness— he is nothing, he can be no- 
 thing to me. What, if he could read my thoughts ! O shame! 
 And yet I fancy that when he looks or speaks to me, the expres- 
 sion of his countenance, the tone of his voice, are different from 
 what they are when he speaks to these people, or even to 
 Blanche. Oh ! if he felt as / do— but perhaps he is not free. He 
 may love— he may be, must be loved by many, by all. If not, / 
 am free." And then she began to congratulate herself, some- 
 what groundlessly, as it should seem, upon having emancipated 
 herself from any thing like an engagement with Cousin Geoffrey. 
 " Thank Heaven," said she, " I am spared that anguish ! This 
 stranger shall never, never know, none shall ever know T the deep 
 mysterious sentiment with which he has unconsciously inspired 
 me. Deep in my heart, in secrecy and silence, will I hide this 
 new-found treasure, and no living being shall dream that it is 
 there." 
 
 " Of course," said Sir Caesar in a whisper to Mr. Wyndham, 
 helping himself to a sixth slice of ham and a second wing of a 
 chicken, "of course you will take no notice of those Hodnots. 
 A little more of the fowl, dear ? " 
 
 "I'll take a leg, if you please, papa," said Miss Antonia. 
 " Geraldine-," said the attentive father, "what shall I give 
 you ? " 
 
 "Some cold beef, if you please, papa," said Geraldine, adding 
 in a subdued tone, " and not very thin." 
 
 " As I was saying," continued the R. L. L., "I suppose, Mr. 
 Wyndham, you will not visit the Hodnots?" 
 
 " I cannot pledge myself," said Mr. Wyndham. "Who and 
 what are they ? " 
 
 "She is that snappish, sharp shrew," said Sir Caesar, with 
 his mouth full of ' provender,' " who went into the after-cabin 
 just now 5 and he is that little hen-pecked hop-o'-my-thumb, 
 who is as pleased as Punch because she has taken herself off." 
 "I thought," said Wyndham, "I saw you talking to him 
 just now." 
 
 "I! Oh! yes," said Sir Caesar, "I do notice them a little, 
 but very little. They called on Lady Whitehead, and, you 
 understand, connected as she is, she uniformly declines or- 
 dinary common-place society — so I wrote to the Bishop of Lei- 
 cester to know who they were. The Hon. Mrs. Hodnot, I 
 thought he must know, if they really were anything, because 
 l hey come from his part of the country. However, I got an 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 53 
 
 answer from his lordship, saying that he had never heard of 
 them— never, by any chance." 
 
 " And have they turned out very bad?" asked Wyndham, 
 calmly. 
 
 " Why, no," said Sir Caesar, "I cannot say that exactly. It 
 seems the lady was nursery governess in the family of Lord 
 M'Saveall— a Scotch peer, you know— well, in the absence of 
 the rest of the family, she got herself married to a half-witted 
 boy of nineteen, second son of her noble pupil's noble papa, the 
 Hon. Alexander Scantylands. My lord, on his return, being na- 
 turally incensed, proceeded, sans ceremonie, to turn the loving 
 bride and bridegroom out of doors. The Hon. Alexander Scanty- 
 lands caught a cold, from which he never recovered, leaving 
 the Hon. Mrs. Scantylands a blooming widow. To console her- 
 self—poor thing !— during her widowhood, she went to a Brigh- 
 ton boarding-house, gave herself out as a rich catch, and, by 
 dint of her assiduities, and the fragment of nobility which served 
 as a handle to her name, induced Mr. Hodnot to marry her, he 
 passing himself off as a wealthy bachelor, well to do. The knot 
 was tied — the farce was kept up during the honey-moon, at the 
 end of which period out came the truth— they had but three 
 hundred a year between them — so they either begged or bor- 
 rowed enough for immediate use. and started off direct for 
 Dieppe, where they have themselves set up a kind of amateur 
 boarding-house. She continues her honourable distinction, 
 although she has given up all right to it by marrying her plebeian 
 husband, because she thinks, rightly enough, it acts as a lure to 
 some of our travelling Cockneys. On the strength of this dis- 
 tinction, she has persuaded the French shopkeepers that she is 
 a veritable mi ladi; and, I am told, assures them and all her 
 inmates, that she is the most distinguished English person at 
 Dieppe. Her house is generally full, but sad stories are told of 
 the goings-on in it — things out of number, belonging to her visit- 
 ors, disappear, nobody knows how. My lady certainly was 
 tricked into visiting her, before we heard from the Bishop that 
 he knew nothing about them ; and, somehow or other, she has 
 talked over Lady Whitehead — who is the kindest creature in 
 the w T orld, you understand — into going to a weekly soiree which 
 she gives on the Wednesdays." 
 
 " And are these soirees worth attending? " asked Wyndham. 
 who began to anticipate some curious scenes and ludicrous de- 
 velopments of character in an acquaintance with the Hodnots. 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Sir Caesar. " Soire'es? no— abominable : bad 
 music — Ecarte. Between ourselves," whispered the knight, 
 shutting his eyes and shaking his head significantly, " you un- 
 derstand. ... a sad mixture ! French and English— and th« 
 
54 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 petit s jeux — forfeits, and that sort of thing. Lady Whitehead 
 and myself cannot bear the Miss Whiteheads to join ; but they 
 are so young and merry — ( you understand ?) — so, to give a sort 
 of sanction to the thing, we are obliged to play ourselves in our 
 own house ; but we never touch a card there " — with an em- 
 phasis on the word " there" which sounded particular. 
 
 " And do they give suppers on these occasions?" asked 
 Wyndham, who thought he guessed the secret of Lady White- 
 head's condescending patronage of the family. 
 
 " Why. yes," said Sir Caesar, " they give what they call 
 suppers, but in the most plebeian style : great hot joints, English 
 plum puddings, punch, all quite a la Hodnot, you understand \ 
 — it is rather too much for my Lady." 
 
 " Of course," said W r yndham, " it must be a great trial of 
 nerves ; but surely all this must be somewhat expensive to these 
 Whatnots, or Hodnots, or whatever the name is?" 
 
 " No," said Sir Caesar, shrugging up his shoulders ; " they 
 find it answer. People come to Dieppe knowing nobody — 
 Dieppe is very dull — Mr. Hodnot calls and invites them to a 
 soiree, at the Honourable Mrs. Hodnot's, as she stiil calls herself; 
 — they go; and, as sure as they do go, they become boarders 
 there. She contrives always to have two or three pretty-looking, 
 flirting girls staying with her, — they attract the men — and a sort 
 of staff of smart French officers, or young English cockneys, 
 who please the women. The scandal invented and circulated from 
 that house defies description. 1 say nothing — only be on your 
 guard, Mr. W r yndham, or they will catch you-, — I know them. 
 The honourable lady was making her way up to us, when, luckily 
 — unluckily, I mean — she was taken ill." 
 
 " Why, to be sincere," said Mr. W T yndham, " as I know 
 nobody at Dieppe, and am not fond of solitude, and, moreover, 
 delight exceedingly in the ridiculous, I am half inclined to 
 enlist at once. Scandal will scarcely interfere with one so humble 
 as I am," added he, with a glance at Juliet \ " nor do I think 
 Mrs. Hodnot will be able to suit herself out of my wardrobe." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that," said Sir Caesar •, " she manages 
 to suit herself out of her husband's wardrobe, /can tell you, and 
 wear the articles too." 
 
 " Well, but come then," said Wyndham, " one must always 
 pavfor amusement. I shall certainly become an inmateof Hodnot 
 House." 
 
 Juliet had listened with great anxiety to this seemingly trivial 
 conversation. To her it was important, for she could not bear 
 the idea that her new and charming acquaintance should be 
 doomed to a residence with such horrors as she had heard 
 these Hodnots described to be. A vision of the agreeable, pretty 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. QO 
 
 flirting girls passed before her mind, and she sighed at the 
 thought — but why? " What concern is it of mine?" she asked 
 herself : " he is talking— thinking of nothing but gaiety and 
 pleasure"— and she felt a jealous misery at her heart, because 
 the mind of the stranger seemed devoted to pursuits in which 
 she could never share. Towards the close of his speech, when 
 he announced his determination of taking up his residence with 
 the Hodnots, her bosom heaved, there was a choking sensation 
 in her throat, her eyes filled with tears, and she felt as indignant 
 as if she had a right to influence him in his choice of companions 
 and a residence, and that he was acting in opposition to her 
 expressed wishes. 
 
 " I will think of him no more," again said she to herself, or, 
 as the novel-writers say, " mentally ejaculated." " His must, 
 after all, be a plebeian taste, else he would never wish to live 
 with such people as those." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Wyndham," said Sir Caesar, after a short 
 pause, during which his daughter Antonia had hastily whispered 
 something in his ear, " I have been considering your position, 
 coming as a stranger to Dieppe ; and really, with all the little 
 drawbacks I have mentioned, I think you cannot do better than 
 fix your quarters at the Hodnots' ; and as I know them, if you 
 like* it, I will introduce you. One thing is quite certain, there is 
 always something going on there 5 and I must say, from all I 
 have heard, they keep an excellent table \ and, moreover, Hod- 
 not himself is a very quiet, good sort of man." 
 
 " But my wardrobe?*' said Wyndham. 
 
 " Oh," said Sir Caesar, in a sort of crowing tone^ " the ward- 
 robe —just a mere joke of mine." 
 
 " And the Ecarte?" said Wyndham. 
 
 " Remember," said Sir Caesar, elevating his crest, " I said 
 nothing on that point. In a succession of boarders ina.house like 
 theirs, a scamp now and then must inevitably turn up-, but the 
 Hodnots themselves are not responsible for that." 
 
 " But the scandal," said Wyndham. 
 
 " As for scandal," said Sir Caesar, " Dieppe teems with it. It 
 is worse in that respect than an English country town, for 
 there the men, at least, are employed : here, at Dieppe, all are 
 idle; and, having nothing else to do, they do nothing but 
 mischief. But I never heard poor Hodnot say a word, good or 
 bad, of any one human being." 
 
 " In that case, I think I shall go there," said Wyndham. 
 
 " Here comes Mr. Hodnot," said Sir Caesar^ " let me intro- 
 duce you." Saying which, and suiting the action to the word , 
 without even waiting for his consent, he grandly and gracefully 
 presented Mr. Wyndham, saying, " My dear Mr. Hodnot, I 
 
56 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 have succeeded in convincing my young friend here, that he 
 cannot be so comfortable any where at Dieppe as in your most 
 excellent house." 
 
 Mr. Hodnot bowed delightedly, and invited Sir Caesar, Lady, 
 and the Misses Whitehead to meet his new inmate at dinner 
 the next day. ... u At least," added he, recollecting himself-, 
 " if Mrs. Hodnot should be well enough to confirm the invita- 
 tion She cannot be angry at that, surely," said he to 
 
 himself; " but I wish I had spoken to her about it first. Now to 
 think that she always declares Sir Caesar her enemy, and here, 
 the first thing he does is to recommend a boarder — and such a 
 boarder! I'll go and tell her— eh? No, I won't. I'm uncommon 
 comfortable where I am." And thereupon he called for some 
 more brandy and water. " If she should be but a little ill to- 
 morrow, and will but keep her bed, I'll have them all, and she 
 none the wiser." 
 
 " As I saw he was resolved to go there," whispered Sir Caesar 
 to his favourite and counsellor, Antonia, " I followed your 
 advice. The Hodnots cannot well abuse us to a person we our- 
 selves have recommended : besides it will give us the privilege 
 of calling when we please. Our young friend seems to have 
 plenty of money, though I cannot find out that he is of any 
 good family, although his name sounds well. I wish he would 
 fall in love with Geraldine." 
 
 Antonia wished no such thing : she had long desired to get 
 married herself— had long thought that money and reality would 
 be much more agreeable than poverty and make-believe, as the 
 children call it ; that silk was better than cotton- velvet, sable 
 than cat-skin, warmth and idleness than cold and work — that 
 home-made bonnets, cloaks and dresses were not very be- 
 coming, and that a home-made shoe generally pinched some- 
 where; and, therefore, whether Wyndham were of a good fa- 
 mily or not, if he had any money she did not wish him to fall 
 in love with Geraldine. Sir Caesar did, because, of all his 
 daughters, Geraldine being the least active, clever, or useful, 
 he thought, with all his paternal fondness, he could spare her 
 the best. 
 
 Sir Caesar was by no means a husband-hunting father. He 
 felt the full value of his educated, lady-like, domestic daughters. 
 What were his house, his parties, his dress, his appearance in 
 public without his children. The stately, be-furred, and be- 
 braided old Sir Caesar, supporting his pale, and somewhat aris- 
 tocratic-looking wife, and surrounded by his seven tall, hand- 
 some " young ladies," was (no matter how poor, how boasting, 
 or how unreal,) an object of interest and deference. If two or 
 three of them could marry well, and assist him, tant mieux — 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 57 
 
 if not, they could all do something useful at home: and this 
 total selfishness in the father, saved the daughters some of the 
 degrading misery of being hawked about, puffed off, and, in 
 short, driven out lover-catching. 
 
 Of all the seven sweet ones, Sir Caesar could spare Antonia 
 the least— she was the beauty, the wit, the manager, the cutter- 
 out and contriver of all their domestic arrangements. Her mar- 
 riage would have been as great a misfortune to him as it would 
 be to other fathers, if their portionless daughters did not con- 
 trive to get themselves established ; but Antonia had long felt 
 that all her cleverness, contrivings, and industry, ought to 
 secure her something better than a comfortless home, frequent 
 scoldings, and endless toil. 
 
 Wyndham, having completed his arrangements with Mr. Hod- 
 not, returned to his party. Juliet, sick at heart, and causelessly 
 angry, was gone with Blanche to sit with their mother. Mr. St. 
 Aubyn had returned to his book, and the Whiteheads, left to 
 themselves, had deposited in their bags and pockets sundry 
 sandwiches, biscuits, and slices of meat, in case of a still pro- 
 tracted voyage. 
 
 The wind was rising, howling, and whistling fearfully through 
 the sails, which, from the failure of fuel, it had become neces- 
 sary to set — the night was intensely dark — a storm was coming 
 on. The sailors were hurrying to and fro, and answering the 
 questions of the passengers in a hurried and perturbed manner. 
 
 St. Aubyn hastened to the captain: he was pale, evidently 
 agitated, and acknowledged there was danger. He feared his 
 vessel, " The Sea-Gull," would scarcely weather the coming 
 gale. A heavy sea struck the ricketty steamer, and a following 
 wave — a regular Cockney-astonisher — s^ept over her waist. 
 Ladies and gentlemen, some half-dressed, and others not quite 
 so much, rushed upon deck, and made " night hideous" with 
 their screams. Some swore, some prayed, some drank— but 
 all seemed to give themselves up for lost. St. Aubyn, in at- 
 tempting to help to trim a sail, had received a stunning blow 
 from the sudden fall of a block, and had been conveyed in a 
 state of insensibility into the ladies' cabin. Blanche and her 
 mother, forgetting their own danger, were bathing the wound, 
 and endeavouring to revive him. The spirited Mrs. Hodnot had 
 thrown herself on the floor, and shrieked and howled in the 
 anguish of her terror. The Whiteheads, who had too long 
 weathered the storms of fortune, and, stemmed the under- 
 current of poverty, to be easily dismayed, were securing the 
 most valuable of their cheap purchases — and in the confusion 
 evidently mistook a few shawls, tippets, and cloaks, for their, 
 own — which, as Sir Caesar said, they might as well save if they 
 
58 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 could, since they would be of more use to them than to the 
 fishes. They seemed to belong to no one — they could return 
 them if they found the owners. Who but the Whiteheads 
 thought of shawls or cloaks at such a moment? Nevertheless, 
 each of them, armed with a large bundle, scrambled upon deck, 
 ready for a spring into the first boat, in case it should be neces- 
 sary to leave the steamer. 
 
 The truth was, that the Sea-Gull was one of those much to 
 be reprobated boats, which, having plied between the Tower 
 and Margate till it was too well known to be trusted, by the aid 
 of a little new paint, and a few other trickeries, dared to betake 
 itself to ports where it w r as not to be recognised. It had never 
 been a very strong vessel, and was now as smart-looking, but 
 crazy an old craft as any that take you to France and back, 
 almost for what it would cost you to go from the West-end of 
 the town to the City. Hitherto, during its trips to Dieppe, the 
 season had been favourable, and the weather calm. This was 
 the first stiff breeze it had braved. The master had calculated 
 on being at Dieppe in eight or ten hours— the ioss of a paddle 
 made that a vain hope. Coals had not been provided for a longer 
 period, so that, as we have just said, it was necessary to convert 
 it into a sailing-vessel, ill-found in sails — beaten about by a heavy 
 sea, able to make very little way, driven considerably out of 
 its course. The master, or captain, as he was called, and the 
 sailors, sons of the Thames, not the Ocean, were indeed " taken 
 aback," and the least timid could not but foresee that the 
 wretched bark, thus severely tried, would, in all probability, 
 founder. 
 
 While these various scenes were being enacted below, 
 W T yndham, calm, resolute, though somewhat pale, appeared 
 on deck. " Shame on ye, sailors!" he cried, in a loud, stern 
 voice ; " are ye men, are ye Englishmen? Do you hear the 
 voices of women crying for help? Will ye blaspheme at such 
 an hour as this, when the oath on your lips may be your last 
 word here? Drunkards, arouse yourselves! If we are doomed 
 to die, how will it tell that English sailors forsook their posts 
 in the hour of danger — that Englishmen saw women about to 
 perish, and did not do all they could to save them! Let every 
 man return to his post — and now, if one brave spirit will second 
 mine, the boat may yet be saved! " 
 
 " I will assist and second you," said a soft but resolute voice. 
 
 Wyndham turned round— the bright light of a lamp streamed 
 on the pale but determined features of Juliet. 
 
 In the energy of her haste she had rushed on deck without 
 
 jcloak or bonnet : her hair, which, when the alarm arose, she had 
 
 been engaged in arranging hung loosely over her bosom— the 
 
COUSIX GEOFFREY. 59 
 
 wind waved the long black tresses, and fluttered her white gar- 
 ments — her cheek was pale, but it was not the pallor of fear — 
 all the fire of her noble nature seemed concentrated in her black 
 and flashing eyes. Her tall, slight figure was erect ; her step 
 iirm. The fanciful, as she stood on deck amid the winds and. 
 waves, might have deemed that Britannia herself had descended 
 to second the bravest of her sons. " I will do your bidding," 
 she said ; " my arm is weak, but my heart is strong." 
 
 " Alas! what can you do in a storm like this?" exclaimed 
 Wyndham. 
 
 " Anything, everything — only direct me." 
 
 " First, then," said Wyndham, " endeavour to persuade the 
 women below, not to bewilder by their screams, those en whose 
 presence of mind their safety depends — but to pray to Heaven, 
 and confide in us." 
 
 Juliet hastened to obey, her persuasive and energetic manner, 
 the hopes she breathed, and, above all, her own dauntless cou- 
 rage, soon had their effect. The women ceased to scream and 
 tear their hair — many fell on their knees to pray — some wept, 
 but all were calm— the men hastened on deck. 
 
 In the ladies' cabin Juliet found her father recovering to 
 a sense of what was going on. Mrs. St. Aubyn, her thoughts 
 with the son whom perhaps she might meet no more on earth, 
 was on her knees, her tears falling fast. Eileen was bending 
 over Blanche, who had fainted— for Blanche, who, in the daily 
 trials and occurences of life, had ten times Juliet's prudence and 
 endurance, did not display in this awful hour the heroic spirit 
 and self-possession of her younger sister. Was it that the thought 
 of Wynd ham's danger, when she saw him rush on deck, had 
 effaced in Juliet's mind all sense of her own? That first, fond 
 love, which had sprung up in her heart a " giant at its birth" — 
 did that uphold her ? It might be so, for this gentle April crea- 
 ture of smiles and blushes, hitherto fearful, trembling, clinging 
 — whose ready tears fell fast if danger threatened even a favou- 
 rite bird, stood calm and resolute on the threshold of eternity— 
 the terror of others, of men, strong men, had no infection for 
 her — she looked death in the face, but her heart did not quail, and 
 from the despair of her own family she imbibed new energy to act. 
 
 "There is hope, dearest mother," she said, throwing her 
 arms around her. "There is hope, my father," she wispered, 
 staunching the wound from which the blood was flowing. 
 " Blanche is recovering— her colour comes. Lay her on that 
 couch Eileen, and come to my father — he grows faint. Mother, 
 I will be back directly." 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubin tried to rise, but .the effort was a vain one. 
 She sunk on the deck of the cabin. 
 
60 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 In a moment Juliet was by Wyndham's side. He bad caused 
 lights to be hoisted — every possible signal of distress to be given. 
 Now he was cheering the men, now encouraging the captain, 
 as he was called, who seemed to be indeed but a fresh-water 
 sailor, and little fitted to cope with astorm. 
 
 " The men, thanks to you," he said, almost with tenderness, 
 to Juliet, " are again at their posts. I trust some vessel will 
 come to our rescue before any thing fatal occurs. This is the 
 time of the Dieppe herring-fishery, and many boats must be 
 out." 
 
 Wyndham was active beyond belief, assisting the men at the 
 wolly inefficient pump. The captain had fallen down insensi- 
 ble, from terror or drink, and Wyndham was at the helm. Poor 
 little Mr. Hodnot, who showed some courage and self-posses- 
 sion, was by Juliet's side, aiding her to the utmost, while his 
 spirited wife still lay on the deck, screaming in impotent terror. 
 
 It was an awful moment. The wind and waves seemed bent 
 on the destruction of the frail old vessel. Juliet commended 
 herself to Heaven, for it seemed as if there was no aid in man. 
 Silently Wyndham did the same, yet still they breathed hope, 
 and sought to save. The Whiteheads, even at such a moment 
 mindful of their bundles, were trying to get a boat launched, 
 and Sir Csesar had wrapped himself in Wyndham's cloak, lined 
 with sable. The St. Aubyns were on their knees, the mother 
 now calling for Juliet, that they might die together, now pray- 
 ing for Lionel. While above the roar of winds and waves, and 
 the stifled groans and shrieks of the passengers, arose the wild 
 hymn of the little Irish maid Eileen, who, being a Papist, was 
 on her knees on deck, her hands raised, and clasping a crucifix, 
 was calling on the Holy Virgin to succour and save. 
 
 Luckily by the dawn of day the gale moderated, and with the 
 early light they found themselves close in with two herring- 
 boats. No time was lost by the passengers in quitting a vessel 
 so ill calculated to stand a stiff breeze as the Sea-Gull ; and 
 without much further ceremony, and without waiting for more 
 baggage or luggage than they could carry with or about them, 
 they sprang into the boats. Juliet, upheld till this moment — 
 overcome by the sudden reaction, when she sees all she loves 
 safe — is no sooner seated in the boat with Wyndham and her 
 family, than she sinks fainting in the arms which the former 
 extends to support her. 
 
 And as he gazed on this delicate yet heroic creature, to whose 
 
 energetic aid all perhaps owed their lives, — as he gazed upon 
 
 this drooping girl, her white garments and her long black hair 
 
 ! drenched by the storm— her cheek, her hand, cold as though 
 
 life were extinct, — was it surprising that he felt a deep, a fer- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 61 
 
 vent interest, in his heart— that there was something more than 
 humanity, than courtesy, in his efforts to restore her— that 
 almost unwittingly he pressed her, cold, drenched, and insensi- 
 ble as she was, to his heart, and that when she awoke to con- 
 sciousness, something more than returning life kindled the hlush 
 of the cheek she hastily raised from his bosom ? 
 
 Another boat contained the Whiteheads and the Hodnots. 
 Sir Csesar, when they landed, gallantly restored the cloak ; but 
 the bundles never gave up their spoils. The grateful passengers, 
 after amply rewarding their rescuers, repaired to the nearest inn. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The mid-day sun was shining through the ill-shrouded win- 
 dows of Juliet's bed-room, before she awoke from all the de- 
 lightful dreams which we are told haunt the slumbers of a young 
 girl, when first she yields her heart to a new and delicious thral- 
 dom ; while the dawn of love is confined to the heaven of fancy, 
 ere it has struggled to bring into bright relief any of the harsh 
 realities of life— ere earth and earthy things are mingled with 
 its lustre— before pale fear, and trembling doubt, and chilling 
 suspense, claim kindred there, and have their claim allowed— 
 ere cold-hearted prudence has commenced her endless calcula- 
 tions, and wise parents have weighed love in the balance with 
 pounds, shillings, and pence, and found him wanting— when 
 we first understand that there are tears of bliss — when two hearts 
 have spoken what no lips have sought to weaken by interpreta- 
 tion, and love springs to birth in either breast, his bright wings 
 unsullied by one breath of suspicion •,— then is he indeed the 
 angel of life — then can we understand what Eden might have 
 been— then does the soul seem to glory in its immortality, and 
 wander with the chosen kindred spirit through all future time ; 
 a flood of gratitude pours from the young heart, and it blesses 
 him who gave it such capability of bliss. 
 
 Feelings something like these awaited (a happy and welcome 
 lever) on Juliets waking hour ; and what a prospect cheered her 
 as she looked from her window ! The angry sea of the previous 
 night lay calm and smiling before her, like a lover seeking to be 
 forgiven by the mistress whom his jealous wrath had offended ; 
 the sun glittered on the bright waves \ the fishwomen and pea- 
 sants of Normandy were moving gaily about, in their towering 
 caps and jaunty costume, full of the business of life, but without 
 that solemn, care-worn air, which attends the traffic of the Eng- 
 
62 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 lish. Piles of purple grapes were selling at the rate of an Eng- 
 lish penny the pound , and the French urchins were, even at that 
 rate, cheapening them at the stalls. So intent was Juliet on the 
 gay and moving scene, that she did not remark that her hare feet 
 were all the while in contact with the brick floor, which, except 
 in the inns frequented by the English, is common throughout the 
 bed-rooms in France. 
 
 "How imprudent you are, Juliet! " said Blanche, running in 
 and fondly greeting her. " Come — breakfast has long been rea- 
 dy. I have made some tea, such as it is ; but the coffee is divin, 
 as the landlady assures me. Papa and mama will be down in a 
 few minutes. Mr. Wyndham" — and she smiled significantly— 
 " is gune to hear tidings of the steamer and our luggage, but I 
 told him to return as soon as possible. Come, make haste and 
 dress." 
 
 " Alas ! I have nothing to dress in : even if my gown is dried, 
 I cannot appear in it before — " 
 
 u — Mr. Wyndham!" said Blanche. "Ah, where are all the 
 feelings and prejudices? Nay, never blush, love: if ever hero 
 met heroine, Wyndham met one in Juliet last night. I am fit 
 henceforth to be nothing but a handmaid— the Kitty or Betty of 
 a distressed Lady Adeline of Ildefonso. So, suspecting that my 
 lady would not like to appear in a stained and rough-dried dress 
 before her chosen knight, Eileen and I have been effecting a me- 
 tamorphosis." 
 
 She ran to the door and called Eileen, who appeared, bring- 
 ing all Juliet's paraphernalia completely washed, dried, and, we 
 presume, ironed. 
 
 " There !" said Blanche \ " during the last four hours, during 
 which you have been doubtlessly dreaming of storms at sea, of 
 drowning maids and rescuing knights, Eileen and I have been 
 fitting you to complete the conquest so valiantly begun." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Blanche : thank you, Eileen." 
 
 "'Deed, Miss, no thanks, at all at all," said Eileen. "Sure, 
 Miss, if it hadn't been for you and the gentleman, we'd have been 
 right good friends with the fishes by this time, seeing they'd have- 
 had us for dinner. And as to the gentleman, he's a noble gentle- 
 man, Miss, and you're another, sure! " 
 
 " In that case you must not make so free, Eileen." 
 
 "And, sure, here is the gentleman," said Eileen, peeping 
 from the window \ " and he looks as if he'd be all the better of a 
 bit and a sup." 
 
 " Do sit still, Juliet," said Blanche. " How am I to plait your 
 hair, if you fidget about so? There, be quiet. J think you look 
 all the better for the fright of last night. Now, Eileen, her dress ! 
 There— I hear mama going down. How pretty she looks ?"said 
 
COUSIX GEOFFREY. 63 
 
 Blanche, fondly kissing her sister as soon as the toilet was com- 
 pleted. 
 
 " x\nd you have done nothing to your own dress," said Juliet 
 "Dear, kind girl!" 
 
 "Oh, mine was only tumbled ; and I have no particular wish 
 to look my best. Come now, no more gazing- in the glass." And 
 she playfully turned its face to the window. 
 
 "Sure, now," said the Irish girl, " Miss Juliet can't see the 
 purty face of her, at all at all ; only the gentleman can see it, 
 looking out of the window, sure." 
 
 " What, from the looking-glass, Eileen?" 
 
 " Yes, sure, Miss ; haven't you turned it to him?" 
 
 The girls laughed, and hastened down stairs. There Blanche's 
 care was visible. The inn, the nearest at hand when they landed, 
 and therefore the most desirable, was by no means first-rate : 
 still it overlooked the quay, with all its bustle, and had a view 
 of the sea. 
 
 Although it was a fine autumnal day, the bright wood fire 
 Blanche had caused to be lighted was very acceptable. The 
 best of coffee and the worst of tea were prepared ; and Blanche 
 and Eileen had ransacked the larder of the inn, to furnish the 
 table with every possible dainty. Fish, the freshest eggs, fruit 
 and honey-comb abounded ; and the St. Aubyns, whose career 
 abroad had commenced so inauspiciously, grateful for their 
 rescue, excited by the novelty of the scene, and already under 
 the invigorating intluence of a purer climate, sate merrily 
 down, and did ample justice to Blanche's excellent breakfast. 
 
 Juliet felt all the awkwardness of meeting, in an every-day 
 scene and in an almost ceremonious manner, one with whom 
 sudden danger had occasioned as sudden an intimacy. She 
 blushed and trembled ; tried to speak, and failed. Even Wynd- 
 ham, generally self-possessed, was somewhat embarrassed. He 
 could not forget that the hand, so timidly extended and so 
 gently touched, was the hand of her whom he had found him- 
 self a few hours since pressing almost unconsciously to his heart : 
 nor could Juliet forget that when she awoke to consciousness, 
 her cheek was resting on that proud breast ; that that now calm 
 and self-possessed voice was breathing impassioned prayers 
 for her, and that she had half-un wittingly returned the fond 
 and thrilling pressure of that now steady, gentle hand. 
 
 To both there was disappointment in their present meeting : 
 to Juliet, as the least experienced, and therefore the most san- 
 guine, it was perhaps the deepest. "He might address me in 
 a warmer manner, surely," she thought: "perhaps he only 
 cared for me while I was in danger ; perhaps— oh, Heaven 
 forbid!— he thought me forward. He shall never think so 
 
64 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 more ;" and her manner grew constrained, almost repulsive • 
 and Wyndbam, thinking that perhaps she repented the pre- 
 ference she had shown an unknown and undistinguished wan- 
 derer, turned coldly from her, addressed himself to Blanche ; 
 complimented her on the forethought and domestic skill which 
 her breakfast announced ; and, while doing so, was uncon- 
 sciously, with every word and smile, wounding the heart that 
 beat but for him. Alas! poor Juliet! already is the bright dawn 
 of love clouded by doubt and darkened by suspicion. 
 
 Before breakfast was removed, Sir Caesar, Lady Whitehead, 
 and two new Misses Whitehead, with Miss Antonia and Geral- 
 dine, were announced. Sir Caesar and the " girls" had already 
 called once ; but the family not being down, he had returned 
 home to fetch Lady Whitehead. The Misses Whitehead pre- 
 sented Mrs. St. Aubyn with a basket of grapes— of, as they 
 said, an uncommonly fine quality. Perhaps they would not 
 have been so pompously offered, had they been aware that 
 when Eileen went with the French Bonne of the inn to see 
 the market-place, she had herself seen them bargaining for 
 two pounds of the self-same grapes for three halfpence. Blanche, 
 as a mere matter of form, asked Lady Whitehead, who com- 
 plained of her nerves, whether she would take a cup of coffee 5 
 when the whole party, appearing to consider themselves invited, 
 took their seats at the table, and commenced a most active 
 attack on all that remained of the dejeuner. Antonia boldly 
 pushed herself between Wyndham and Juliet, and began a 
 string of voluble encomiums on his bravery and presence of 
 mind of the preceding evening. 
 
 " For my part," she said, bending towards him, and lower- 
 ing her voice, " I shall always consider that I owe my life 
 to your valour; and if," she added, with assumed tenderness, 
 " it should ever be in my power to repay in aught so boundless 
 an obligation — if you should ever find yourself in want of the 
 
 friendship .... the regard .... the of a young 
 
 and grateful heart, remember her who .... " — 
 
 Here she suddenly stopped, and applied to her eyes a hand- 
 kerchief, whose delicate cambric and Valenciennes lace were 
 strangely out of keeping with her cheap but showy toilet. We 
 have our own suspicions how she became possessed of it \ 
 but as a large "Antonia Whitehead, No. 24," figured in the 
 corner, we have no right to impart them to the charitable 
 reader. 
 
 Wyndham was too well-bred to appear insensible to this 
 display of feeling, even though he doubted its sincerity. He 
 opened a window ; offered the young lady some water, and 
 proposed to her — whose omotion had been unnoticed except 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY, 65 
 
 by Juliet and Geraldine— lo walkout upon the balcony. He 
 gave her his arm; still apparently overcome, she leant r on it. 
 Poor Juliet! her eyes followed them, almost unconsciously. 
 She had been more alive to Wynd ham's attentions than to 
 Antonia's advances. To her those attentions seemed exclusive, 
 uncalled for : her cheek first grew pate with misery, then crim- 
 son with anger \ her eyes flashed fire from her heart, and then 
 dropped to hide the large tears that tilled them. Now she 
 wished that Antonia, Wyndham, herself, the whole human 
 race, were consumed by lightning from heaven 5 now, that all 
 save herself were calmly blest, and that she were lying cold 
 and forgotten, under the blue waters on which Wyndham was 
 gazing. Quite unable to suppress the passionate anguish of her 
 heart, she stole unnoticed from the room, and hastened to 
 the chamber where she had awakened from such enchanting 
 dreams, where her heart had throbbed with such new and 
 bewildering feelings. 
 
 is this pale, spiritless, and tearful girl, the buoyant, radiant 
 creature, who gazed so joyously upon that mirror two short 
 hours ago? As the glass gave back her tear-stained cheeks, her 
 pale and care-worn face, she turned impatiently from it, and 
 walked hastily up and down the room — the sound of merry 
 laughter came through her open window,— she ran to it : she 
 saw Wyndham— one arm engrossed by Antonia, the other by 
 Geraldine— setting gaily out, followed by Sir Caesar, Blanche, 
 and Mr. St. Aubyn. 
 
 " He has added positive insult to chilling coldness," she 
 murmured, "never to ask whether I would make one of the 
 party. Ah, not only he does not love — alas ! I fear he hates me. 
 Oh for one feeling of female pride, of female dignity, to support 
 me now ! Why does this fear drive me half-frantic? I was piqued 
 —annoyed— when I thought my Cousin Geoffrey slighted me : 
 how paltry, how trivial were my feelings then ! A girlish vanity 
 annoyed! Alas! how different to a woman's heart— outraged, 
 wounded thus! In a few hours I seem to have lived for years. 
 Oh that I could die ! Henceforth this world is a desert, life 
 a wretched burthen." 
 
 Sobs interrupted her utterance : she sank on her knees by the 
 bed-side, buried her face in the pillow, and gave up her heart 
 to the unutterable anguish of jealousy. The complete self- 
 abandonment of her grief was more like that of a youthful 
 mourner robbed of all earthly friends, all long-cherished hopes, 
 than of a hitherto gay, unthinking girl, vexed at the apparent 
 indifference or fickleness of one whom she had known but a few 
 hours — of whose character and position in society she could 
 form no idea — and who had never distinguished her, but in one 
 
66 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 perilous hour, when the danger that threatened, and the heroism 
 she had displayed, might have invested her with a momentary 
 interest. / 
 
 Silly Juliet ! — she would not have wept so bitterly, had she 
 known that the forward Antonia was fast becoming odious to 
 Wyndham ; that the tete-a-tete on the balcony had been 
 promptly disturbed by Geraldine, who, with some beauty, but 
 neither tact nor talent, had been fixed upon by Sir Caesar as 
 the proper wife for Wyndham. This he had not failed to point 
 out to her, as also that Antonia would do her best to supplant 
 her. There was not generally a particularly good understand- 
 ing between any of the sisters — there seldom is, when there 
 are few things, and all are striving for them— whether the ar- 
 ticles in request be beaux or bonnets. 
 
 Geraldine, though borne'e, was covetous — comfort, which, 
 in truth, she scarcely knew but by name, was the idol of her 
 fancy — good and becoming clothes, good food, and an abun- 
 dance of it, good fires, and to be able to sit by them all day! 
 She thought of these things as a Mahometan thinks of the ban- 
 quets and the luxurious abodes of his sensual paradise. She felt 
 that they would never be hers at home, and therefore she re- 
 solved to get married to some one, no matter whom, French or 
 English, if he had but the means of settling her in a comfortable 
 home. 
 
 In Antonia's calculations, Wyndham's elegance, his personal 
 advantages, the figure he would make in Paris, went for some 
 thing 5 but there was a sort of ambition mixed up with her 
 plans for securing him : she felt she should be proud to appear 
 in public with him ; that she could love him as much as she 
 could love anything, and that was not much, for she had had 
 innumerable flirtations and affaires du cceur with the diffe- 
 rent French beaux who had, in a manner, educated the Misses 
 Whitehead. 
 
 Almost all Frenchmen are accomplished, good draftsmen, 
 good musicians, good dancers, and often good linguists, the 
 officers particularly. Now Sir Caesar, although he could not* 
 afford masters for his daughters, felt the full importance or 
 giving them showy accomplishments-, and the French infantry 
 officers quartered at Dieppe, but not generally received in the 
 best French families, except on ball and gala nights, felt on the 
 other hand all the advantages of being able to wile away the 
 long winter evenings among a set of fine, showy, spirited girls, 
 of (as they believed,) une naissance distingude. They were no 
 sooner admitted, than their acquirements underwent a close 
 investigation— they being quite in ignorance as to the cause of 
 the eagerness with which they wore requested to sin£ or play. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 67 
 
 to exhibit their drawings, or to display any other accomplish- 
 ment. The Misses Whitehead would ihen winningly ask them 
 l ' just to put them in the way of this or that." Then the young 
 officer, dying of ennui, and generally good-natured, would 
 send his own guitar, bass, flute, or violin— one indeed had lent 
 them his piano-forte, which had been there so long, that they 
 considered it their own ; and he, though growing very fidgety 
 about it, was almost afraid to claim it. Piles of music, easels, 
 drawing materials, and foreign books, thus came into the pos- 
 session of the Misses Whitehead. 
 
 Sir Caesar well knew that these beaux, with their fift} or sixty 
 pounds a year, were too poor to rob him of his daughters; and 
 he took care to explain to them, that, according to the cruel 
 English, laws, all his fortune, at his decease, would pass from 
 -his family to his heir-at-law. 
 
 " Cest in fame I" was the usual reply, with a true French 
 shrug. "Mais que voulez-vous, si les lois anglaises sont 
 comme cela ? " 
 
 The girls, all as covetous of learning as of every thing else, 
 soon availed themselves of the opportunities thus afforded them. 
 The songs they sang, and the music they played, were some- 
 what noisy, band-like, and military. The literature they studied 
 •was rather free for English maidens — and there was a strong 
 dash of the French Liberalism of the present day, and its un- 
 investigating Deism, mixed up in their minds with their father's 
 right principles. Sir Caesar knew but little French, therefore the 
 direction of their reading was quite at the mercy of the young 
 Frenchmen, some of whom gloried in making liberates and 
 esprits forts of these strange girls. The amour-propre of the 
 master was soon enlisted on his pupil's side ; and every evening, 
 although no refreshments were offered, nor at last expected, 
 each Miss Whitehead might be seen diligently studying some 
 accomplishment or other, under' the zealous and vivacious 
 superintendence of an Adolphe, an Eugene, an Auguste, lieu- 
 tenant du bataillon d'Infanterie en garnison a Dieppe. 
 <i Miss Whitehead, a tall, bony, masculine woman, had learned 
 to play the bass with some skill— to draw immense chalk gla- 
 diators, and so forth— and was a vehement disciple of Voltaire, 
 Rousseau, and several other French deists. 
 
 More feminine accomplishments had fallen to the share of 
 some of the Misses Whitehead : they had read a lighter sort of 
 literature— studied under the successive battalions quartered at 
 Dieppe, the guitar, the piano-forte, and different styles of paint- 
 ing-, and acquired a tolerable Italian, German, and Spanish ac- 
 cent, by occasionally securing among their evening visitors an 
 Italian, a German, or a Spaniard. 
 
OS COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 But it was not Lo be expected that Apollo could have the field 
 quite to himself — Cupid occasionally rented a heart of him. 'The 
 Whiteheads were not susceptible, but they found no teachers 
 so indefatigable, so accommodating, as those under his in- 
 fluence ; and they smiled, and sighed, and deplored " la dispo- 
 sition du bien de leurpere j " and the lover beat his brow, his 
 breast -called himself " le jouet du destin, la victime de Va- 
 mour,'' and in a little while was equally in love with another of 
 the sisters, who was equally bent on making him teach her all 
 he decently could, while the wish to please made him indefa- 
 tigable. 
 
 Poor Lady Whitehead had no head for learning-, she never 
 acquired a word of French : she was not energetic enough to 
 make any contrivances, but readily availed herself of those made 
 for her. Her life was one long regret of the time when she was 
 single, and had plenty of everything. She was always making 
 mournful allusions to the past, and comparing French and Eng- 
 lish goods and living, certainly with more asperity than justice, 
 as she would glance at their meagre repast or her own strangely 
 contrived toilet, and say, " Well, things are managed oddly in 
 France, to be sure." She forgot, or affected to forget, that for 
 the same sum they could not be managed at all in England. Her 
 great solace was to sit in the sun in summer, or, with a chauf- 
 frette under her feet and a warm cloak around her, to cower 
 over the scanty fire in winter} for ever knitting, lamenting Eng- 
 land, and abusing France, either to herself or any listener 
 chance threw in her way. 
 
 Sir Caesar tyrannised a good deal over her, and she was afraid 
 of him : in a menage, the indolent and comfort loving are gene- 
 rally afraid of the active and hardy, and old Sir Cfesar was quite 
 independent of ease and warmth. Still they agreed tolerably on 
 the whole : she, like him, was given a good deal to boasting ; 
 but all her boasts were confined to the past. True, she talked a 
 great deal of the " Priory," as she chose to call a place in the 
 north of England which she had inherited, and which, being let 
 for fifty pounds a year, made their income up to two hundred 
 and fifty. This place was called the "Priory," not because the 
 monks of old had ever levelled and caroused there : it was no 
 gothic building, hallowed by time, or rendered awful from the 
 records of cruelty and superstition connected with it. It was, in 
 fact, a modern red brick house, with a small square garden, and 
 called the "Priory" simply because Lady Whitehead's maiden 
 name was Prior. 
 
 It was a marvel in its immediate neighbourhood that it was let 
 at all : for it was lonely without being romantic, formal without 
 neatness, and ugly without dignity 5 but it served as an excel- 
 
COUSIK GEOFFREY. 69 
 
 lent boasting-piece for Lady Whitehead. "The Priory! the dear 
 English Priory! The way tilings were done at the Priory ! Ah. 
 if you could but see my sweet place, the Priory!'' And as it 
 was so insignificant lhat no one had ever actually seen, or was 
 likely to see it, the bit of brag did remarkably well. 
 
 The Whitehead girls, with all their covetousness, squabblings, 
 jealousies, and boastings, were meritoriously united in doing 
 all they could for their mother : whatever their contrivances, 
 the best and least inconvenient were always for her. If they 
 went without her to a party, each generally contrived adroitly 
 to pocket or slip into the large reticules with one of which they 
 all were severally and separately armed, some bon-bons, cakes, 
 or sweetmeats, for " her ladyship/' She was indolently kind to 
 all of them ; she never scolded, urged, reproached, reviled, as 
 Sir Cccsar did 5 and, in fact, there was a repose in her manner, 
 to which they flew when abused for failures in impracticable at- 
 tempts : and there was not one of the* seven dashing foragers who 
 would not have run any risk to see a gleam of sunshine light up 
 the weak eyes and steal over the pale, depressed features of their 
 poor mother, who, when availing herself of such lawless advan- 
 tages, solaced her conscience with saying, " Well, these are 
 French fashions : ' When we are in Rome, we must do as they 
 do in Roma' I little dreamt when 1 was single, and in England, 
 of the way things were managed in France.— Thank you, 
 dears." And then she would steal away to her own warm corner, 
 and enjoy the few casual sweets life had left. 
 
 While Juliet was weeping in her lonely chamber those first 
 bitter tears, the memory of which no " tide of time" can ever 
 quite wash away, and while AVyndham and the rest of the party 
 were rambling about Dieppe, Lady Whitehead remained with 
 .Mrs. St. Aubyn fa little to her annoyance), describing the 
 '•' Priory ;" her conversation a curious mixture of boast and la- 
 mentation, and the breakfast-equipage still on the table, in com- 
 pliance with her ever-recurring wish " to take a little more." 
 
 There was one article of her dress strangely out of keeping 
 with the rest, and that was a rich Genoa velvet mantle, of the 
 same bright emerald green with that Blanche had lost in the 
 wreck, only that the capes were rounded instead of being point- 
 ed, and in lieu of a broad and handsome black lace, it was 
 trimmed with the commonest fur. She herself pointed it out to 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn as a proof of the strange taste of French milli- 
 ners ; and that lady, far less suspicious than we own to being, 
 never indulged in the notions about that mantle which we cer- 
 tainly did entertain, but which we mean to keep to ourselves. 
 
 Lady Whitehead stayed till the return of the pedestrian party. 
 and then it appeared that Montague Wyndhara, with something 
 
70 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 very like a lover's anxious care and quick foresight, had pro- 
 moted the walk, in order to choose a bonnet for Juliet. Even an 
 incipient lover never forgets anything connected with the object 
 of his fancy, and he had not forgotten that Juliet's pretty bonnet 
 had perished in the wreck : he remembered too that she could 
 not go out without one. He had been a long time balancing 
 between the merits of a great many " chapeaux dun gout 
 par fait " as the lively little milliner assured him they all were-, 
 and at last he was fain to bring two shop-girls, armed with 
 cartons, for Juliet herself to decide. 
 
 This she was, indeed, in no state to do. Blanche, on her re- 
 turn, found her on her bed, exhausted, ill from the misery of 
 her heart, her cheeks pale, her eyes swollen. At first she scarce- 
 ly heeded Blanche's entrance, or could bring herself to listen to 
 her playful account of their excursion 5 but by degrees her heart 
 opened' to the dear consciousness, that Montague Wyndham 
 had been thinking of her, and even caring for her. 
 
 " How could he give any thought but to Miss Antonia White- 
 head ?" said Juliet, with mournful bitterness. 
 
 With a woman's tact, Blanche understood her sister's anguish , 
 and replied quickly, " Oh ! the forward creature ! he cannot 
 endure her. She actually seized his arm (he was going to offer it 
 to me)— she tried on all the bonnets, as I suppose to make them 
 look particularly becoming, though I saw he hated her to touch 
 those he had selected as likely to suit you. But come— he is 
 waiting so anxiously to see you in one of these— he insists on 
 presenting it, as he makes out, with more of plausibility than 
 truth, that it was through him yours was lost-,— and papa has 
 consented." 
 
 The cause of grief was gone, but the tears remained-, and if 
 the jealous could think, they would do well to remember, that 
 red eyes and pale cheeks outlast the weak and silly fancies which 
 have made them such. 
 
 "Choose one for me, Blanche,' 1 said Juliet, mournfully. 
 " Thank him, oh ! thank him as I would. Say I am not well- 
 that I cannot come down till evening 5 and that I may be able to 
 do that, darken the room, dear, and let me try to sleep. Say I 
 wish not to be disturbed. Stay, dear Blanche— are those odious 
 Whiteheads gone?" 
 
 "There they go," said Blanche, looking from the window. 
 A smile played on her lip, but she concealed it, lest Juliet's fears 
 should be re-awakened— it arose from the sight of Antonia trip- 
 ping off with a blue satin hat and feathers, one which Wyndham 
 had rejected at once, as unlikely to suit Juliet's quiet taste, but 
 which Antonia had tried on repeatedly, and insisted on the mil- 
 liner's sending. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 71 
 
 " She has manoeuvred him out of that, I doubt not," thought 
 she to herself; and then said to Juliet, "Well, they are off at 
 last!" 
 
 "And— andMr. Wyndham with them!" 
 "No," said Blanche-, "nor should we be rid of them, only 
 that they dine at the HodnotsV 
 " And does he?" 
 
 " >~o," said Blanche; " we were all asked— but he said, with- 
 out a moment's hesitation, turning to mama, 'Oh! let us 
 dine together to-day. I have looked forward to making one of 
 your party here.' Mama, much pleased, agreed. Miss Antonia 
 tossed her head, and Miss Geraldine. in sport, threw a flower at 
 him, and ran away. Sir Caesar, in his peculiar style of good- 
 natured pomposity, said, 'If I can slip away from the Hodnots, 
 T will look in upon you this evening.' " 
 
 " I hope he will not bring Antonia," muttered Juliet. 
 " If he does, Geraldine will follow/' said her sister: " for I see 
 some one— Sir Caesar perhaps — has suggested a conquest to her-, 
 and once impressed with the idea, she follows it up, without 
 either tact or delicacy. Fear nothing, love," said Blanche, 
 archly. " Then you like this bonnet ?"' and putting it on her own 
 pretty head, she ran down stairs with it. 
 
 There she heard a ludicrous account of the manner in which 
 Antonia had secured the hat, under which she had seen her sail, 
 or sally out of the house. She put it on, ran to the glass, ad- 
 mired U— turned to Wyndham, asked him if it was not abijou, 
 a perfect bijou. Mrs. St. Aubyn said she certainly did look very 
 handsome in it : it gave her quite a different style, and showed 
 the wonderful power of a skilful modiste. 
 
 "But," said Blanche to her mother, "how did she obtain it 
 at last?" 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, "she kept it on, saying she 
 hardlv knew how to part with it-, it was so rare a thing to meet 
 a perfectly becoming hat. She then asked Mr. Wyndham whe- 
 ther he could not borrow it of the milliner, that she might take 
 the pattern. Upon this, the little arch shop-girl said, 'Monsieur 
 est trop galant pour ne pas en faire cadeau a Mademoi- 
 selle. Voyez un peu, Monsieur: Mademoiselle est coiffee 
 comme un ange, avec 9 — and so Mr. Wyndham paid sixty 
 francs for it. Antonia went off in raptures; and Geraldine. who 
 had been at lunch in the inner room, when she heard of Anto- 
 nia's good luck, actually began to cry." 
 
 While all this history was in course of narration below, Juliet, 
 almost with a sob of joy, turned to her pillow— dwelt on every 
 dear proof of preference of her, and indifference to Antonia. till 
 her sanguine heart had quite decided that Montague Wyndham 
 
72 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 loved her. liow wildly fluttered her bosom at the thought! — 
 'now bright a region seemed the late dreary world! She lulled 
 herself to sleep, with a thousand radiant visions, and awoke 
 towards evening, with few traces of her late unbearable an- 
 guish, save that soft pallor, never quite unwelcome to a lovers 
 eve. 
 
 CHAPTER Mil. 
 
 It was a curious assemblage at the Hon. Mrs. Hodnot's; but 
 as we believe most of our readers would rather go to a party 
 than stay quietly at home, we feel bound to pilot them thither ' . 
 
 It was a sort of motley melange, to which people came as 
 they could, dressed as they could, ate as much as they couid, 
 came as early as they could, and stayed as long as they could. 
 We allude to the evening party, which crowded in even before 
 dinner was quite over. 
 
 The dinner party consisted of the host and hostess, the re- 
 gular " remunerative visitors," as the Hon. Mrs. Hodnot called 
 her boarders — Sir Ceesar, Lady Whitehead, and four of their 
 daughters — the three others coming in the evening party. 
 
 Of the remunerative visitors we have not much to say, as a 
 whole 5 they were an old, incongruous set, perpetually squab- 
 bling among themselves, but bound by the common tie, of back- 
 biting, abusing, and ridiculing all who were only occasional 
 visitors, and not regular members of the establishment. 
 
 Among the latter w r asa Mrs. Barton — a tall, large, bold-look- 
 ing woman, of forty-eight, with daring, defying, black eyes, 
 highly-rouged cheeks, wzW-made figure, and showy style of 
 dress. She had once been a leader of a roturier set' in London. 
 but her husband, a merchant, having failed, she took refuge in 
 Dieppe, bearing with her. strange to say, two foolish, weak, but 
 somewhat good-looking officers, who had been her attendants 
 in her days of splendour. It was whispered, that it was her 
 wealth which enabled them to live in good London style, and 
 that, when that failed, they were obliged to lly. Be that as it 
 may, they did follow her, and became inmates of Mrs. Hodnot's, 
 where they lived on their half-pay, necessary to the existence of 
 Mrs. Barton, but intensely hated by Louisa Barton, her daughter 
 — a coquettish, cunning girl, of two-and-twenty, with some na- 
 
 1 As to the fair authoress's belief that most of her readers would rather go lo a parh 
 lhan stay ai home. I tni!<». as%ar a< T am p&sonalh concerned register mj unqualified 
 negative. -En. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY, / 3 
 
 tural charms, aided by all that art could do ; & piquant, Chough 
 somewhat soubrette, style of lace, a well-trained, neat iigure, 
 and a foot and ankle which even envy owned to be faultless. 
 
 Intensely artificial at heart, her manner was a cunning mixture 
 of apparent innocence and naive coquetry. She looked on Cap- 
 tains Snaffle and Grigsby (Captains they were called, though 
 only Lieutenants on half-pay ) with the bitterest hatred. The 
 world, of course, gave them to her as lovers ; it had been con- 
 stantly reported that she was engaged to one or the other, dur- 
 ing her three London seasons. She had made many advances, 
 but no conquests \ and this she traced—burning with revenge- 
 ful fury the while, but perhaps not without some justice — to the 
 two odious detrimentals always in public with her mother, and 
 therefore with her. However, she was dependent on Mrs. 
 Barton — it was on her jointure they lived; and therefore she 
 was obliged to treat the Captains with a kind of constrained ci- 
 vility in her mother's presence, but her heart was always full of 
 plots for getting them dismissed : she not only hated, but des- 
 pised them. Captain Snaffle, when first she came from school, 
 a lively, rather pretty girl of fifteen, had amused himself with 
 making love to her. Fashionable, good-looking, sentimental, 
 and an officer — the first man, too, who had made her feel herself 
 of any importance — she rewarded his clandestine attentions by 
 the first preference of her heart, — that first real preference, of 
 which it is so cruel, though unpunishable a felony, to cheat a 
 trusting girl. 
 
 ?vlrs. Barton, very jealous of the exclusive attention of all her 
 beaux, suspected and detected Captain Snaffle's flirtation : in- 
 deed, she had some reason-, for she had three married daughters, 
 and he had been the ardent first, admirer of each. As he was 
 about twenty years younger than Mrs. Barton, her tender friend- 
 ship was mixed with a sort of authoritativeness : she scolded, 
 cried, fainted, recovered, went into hysterics ; made him give up 
 Louisa's love-tokens and little girlish billets-doux — enclose them 
 to her at school, where the mother took care to have her con- 
 veyed — and that, with a mean, contrile letter, prompted by 
 Mrs. Barton, repenting his clandestine conduct, and urging her 
 immediate return to the path of filial duty. 
 
 Poor Louisa ! if her heart became stone, the tears which that 
 letter cost her were the waters that petrified it; and when she 
 retorned home, and found the once ardent lover cold, and su- 
 percilious, studiously slighting to her, and meanly cringing to 
 her mother, her contempt for him made her almost loathe her- 
 self for having been blindenough ever to have been so trifled with. 
 
 Mrs. Barton had some intellect, some talent 5 she was a fine 
 musician, and had r^ad and thought — to liWe purpose indeed, 
 
/4 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 it would seem, since boundless vanity was the master-passion of 
 her heart; the attentions, the devotion, the adulation of men 
 were absolutely necessary to her 5 for this she risked even her 
 reputation. Yet it was only in outward conduct that she erred : 
 she had no affections, no heart, to lead her into weakness : she 
 knew that when woman sacrifices her dignity, she sinks from 
 the idol into the slave. She was calumniated, if indeed her sys- 
 tematic coquetry was not a sort of guilt; and then she made a 
 merit with her beaux of the injustice she suffered for their sake. 
 She had a husband, a henpecked one, who, with too little spirit 
 to resent, yet too much sense of right to approve her proceedings, 
 betook himself on his failure to an uncle in the north, and lived 
 a misanthropic, miserable life. Her married daughters, despe- 
 rate coquettes, shunned and slighted her; and, while they imi- 
 tated her conduct, dreaded her as a rival. She had two sons in 
 India, and one younger child, a little girl of twelve, who looked 
 and was called eight, Justine — a bright-eyed, precocious, yet 
 diminutive creature, with the gentleness of a lamb, the cunning 
 of a fox, and the mother's head and heart in miniature. 
 
 This child was her idol : she was with her at Dieppe. It looked 
 graceful to fondle her; and if she really loved anything, it was 
 Justine. She acted as a spy on the Captains, on Louisa, and on 
 every one. Mrs. Barton easily persuaded Louisa to call herself 
 eighteen, and then she announced to everybody that she actually 
 did not know whether she was thirty-nine, forty-one, or forty- 
 three. 
 
 Even Captains Snaffle and Grigsby, having no heads for arith- 
 metic, bowed to the playful assertion ; nor do we think it once 
 struck them that Mrs. Barton was twelve years older than the 
 oldest epoch she named. 
 
 Though a fury at heart, and an amazon in form, she was gentle 
 to excess in tone and manner — clinging, confiding, at times al- 
 most imploring. " Her poor Louisa! her own little Justine! 
 her dear, kind, indulgent friends! so good! oh, so good! She 
 was so happy , so calmly, sweetly happy, with her own dear 
 Mrs. Hodnot!" 
 
 The Captains were shallow, vain, empty, good-looking, well- 
 dressed military men. Both wore moustachios and imperials. 
 Snaffle had red hair, which he dyed black ; and Grigsby being 
 rather bald, had a splendid wig. Grigsby was fifteen years older 
 than Snaffle ; but, such is the equalising nature of fashionable 
 dress, life, and manners, that there was no apparent difference, 
 and both remained stationary at eight-and-twenty— Snaffle thus 
 taking off about five, and Grigsby about fifteen years. Grigsby, 
 although the elder, was if possible the weaker, and a great imi- 
 tator of Snaffle : ht^would never have dreamt of following Mrs, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 75 
 
 Barton to Dieppe, had not his model set the example. They 
 were both in their hearts great admirers of Louisa, whom, 
 however, they professed and appeared to dislike : her youth and 
 good looks could not but be contrasted to advantage by the ar- 
 tificiality and comparative age of the mother-, her scorn, implied 
 rather than expressed, made them look up to her ; her spirit 
 awed, and her grace fascinated them. 
 
 Tiny, as Justine was called in fondness, they professed to 
 idolise, and were obliged constantly to fondle, yet in their hearts 
 they execrated her. What strange and galling fetters men forge 
 for themselves? Talk of the abolition of slavery ! the veriest >"e- 
 gro that ever smarted under the visionary lash of the alleged 
 tyrant, is not half so bound, so enthralled, so degraded, as many 
 men, otherwise independent, voluntarily are, by married women, 
 both in England and abroad. In folly or in idleness, they form 
 friendships which end in entire thraldom : if they would eman- 
 cipate themselves, and form unions which promise respectability 
 and happiness, every art is used — tears, threats of suicide, reca- 
 pitulations of all the unjust suspicions and cruel wrongs endured 
 for the ingrate; every possible blemish, imagined or invented, 
 in every other woman ; every possible beauty, talent, merit, and 
 virtue, ascribed to herself: till the poor, weak, irresolute, en- 
 thralled one (the sort of man who always takes a woman's own 
 opinion of herself), wonders he could have been for a moment 
 blind to his own astounding good fortune in being the chosen 
 slave of such a divinity, hugs his chains, and smiles while they 
 are riveted anew. Such is the life and fate of that wretched slave, 
 a married lady's favoured beau. 
 
 Guiltless, perhaps, of anything worse than vanity and impru- 
 dence, husband, wife, beaux, even children, become objects of 
 ridicule, calumny, and scorn. Oh ! that husbands would be firm, 
 and above the petty pride of seeing a wife followed and admired ! 
 What is all the homage ever paid to beauty worth, if in receiving 
 it a breath of calumny soil her name ? your name— your children's 
 name ! What, O misguided wife ! is the pride of seeing adorers 
 enslaved at your feet, compared to that of knowing that your 
 husband always sees you surrounded by moral, virtuous women, 
 who emulate your virtues, reciprocate your feelings, and imitate 
 your example ; that he grows daily prouder of a name to which 
 your virtues give a new lustre ; that when he flies from the toil- 
 ing world to your bosom, he can rest there, confident in its pu- 
 rity and affection. 
 
 From this digression, let us hasten back to Mrs. Hodnot's. — 
 W 7 e have described the Barton family, including the Captains: 
 — the next remunerative visitor we shall notice was Monsieur 
 Dubois — a little, boasting, egotistical Frenchman, who played 
 
76 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 the guitar, sang, danced, fluted. He was about forty-five- but 
 usually, when the subject of age was broached, asserted, with 
 the air of a hero, " Moi,je dis tout bonnement mon age. Je 
 sais hi- 11 ({uon ne le diraitpas, metis fai trente-cinq cms , 
 moi — trente-cinq am bien sonnes, entendez-vous ? ' He had 
 been un militaire, and he was now "dans le commerce. ,"' As 
 usual with all French who are not affluent, " la Revolution" 
 had ruined his family : however, he had some income from 
 something, for he paid regularly and dressed well. He went to 
 Mrs. Hodnot's in the hope of getting a rich English wife, a 
 chimera in which all single Frenchmen are apt to indulge. Then 
 there was .Mr. Wheezer — a venerable, nice looking, asthmatic 
 old man, dressed in formal but neat style-- very gentle and who 
 excited a great interest, until you found that he was the very 
 essence of selfishness ; that, with all his gentleness, he always 
 secured the best place, helped himself to the best of everything, 
 and made his sufferings a kind of coaxing excuse for petting 
 himself and inconveniencing every body else. 
 
 >exteame Miss Primrose — a regular sharp-nosed, turbaned, 
 knitting, knotting, netting, calumniating old maid, such as you 
 see in caricatures : she, in Mrs. Hodnot's absence, took charge 
 of her house. And there were a pair of widows— Mrs. Dashwood, 
 who called herself forty, and was forty-five — a gay, volatile, 
 husband-hunting widow, dressed in the height of fashion 5 and 
 Mrs. Faithful, in ultra weeds, which she had worn four years 
 — who was fifty, and who also called herself forty— who cast her 
 eyes upwards and downwards, shook her head, and wondered 
 at Mrs. Dashwood — a widow ! a bereaved creature! whose heart 
 ought to be in her husband's grave— -her dress, a perpetual me- 
 morial of her own latter end ! 
 
 Mrs. Dashwood, in her turn, wondered what Mrs. Faithful 
 did, or wanted to do, at Dieppe, and above all, at Mrs. Hodnot's ; 
 why, if her heart was in her husband's grave, she herself 
 wandered so far from it 5 and why her very weeds were of the 
 richest, choicest materials; while the femme-de-chambre (com- 
 mon, as it should seem, to all those fine ladies) had been heard 
 to declare, that it took longer to adjust Mrs. Faithful's widow's 
 cap than to pile up Mrs. Dashwood's head with flowers and 
 ribbons of every hue. Mrs. Faithful kept her plans, her 
 means, her past life very much to herself : while Mrs. Dashwood 
 was very communicative — whether of truths or fibs none could 
 tell 5 but one thing seemed certain — that they were both un- 
 encumbered widows, with plenty of money. 
 
 Such was the actual party of" remunerative visiters" assem- 
 bled at Mrs. Hodnot's, most of them intending to winter at 
 Dieppe, hut subject to occasional increase, whenever the packets 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 77 
 
 from Brighton came in, or decrease, whenever caprice, temper, 
 or internal commotions, caused a defalcation. 
 
 Mrs. Hodnot was in high ill-humour at not seeing Mr. Wynd- 
 ham at table : the idea that he was quite secured had made her 
 tolerably merciful with her husband's delinquency in inviting the 
 "Whiteheads, whose enormous appetites she had had many op- 
 portunities of estimating. Poor little Mr. Hodnot, although he 
 knew Wyndbam was not coming, pretended to expect him all 
 through the first course — a cowardly manoeuvre, which, how- 
 ever, availed him nothing, for very soon Mrs. Hodnot de- 
 tected it; and saying angrily to the servant, "Tell Master Hodnot 
 he may dine at table to-day. —We will speak about Mr. Wyhd- 
 ham by and by, Mr. Hodnot," — she commenced carving with 
 an air and expression which made Mr. Hodnot's heart quail in 
 anticipation of what would most probably happen to him In 
 and by. 
 
 The conversation naturally fell on the St Aubynsand Wynd- 
 nam : since as yet Ihey had excited neither admiration nor envy 
 in the generality of those present, the universal feeling was, that 
 they would be a great acquisition in the deserted state of Dieppe. 
 "I shall be so glad for my poor Louisa to meet with some 
 companions of her own class— some really modest, lady-like, 
 educated girls," whispered Mrs. Barton to her Captains, between 
 whom she was seated ; for she had long had a nervous dread of 
 the Whiteheads. "It is so shocking that my poor girl should be 
 doomed to associate with those barbarians. Do look how Geral- 
 dineis devouring that huge thing ! What is it? Actually the \e£. 
 of a goose ! Oh, horrible ! she has taken it in her fingers ! Dain- 
 ty fingers must they not be, Osmond?" Such was Captain 
 Snaffle's name.) 
 
 "But Antonia itfa not thuch Sigourmande, nor tho inelegant, 
 replied Osmond, who lisped. 
 
 " Then Miss Whitehead," said Mrs. Barton, "her poor un- 
 happy remnant of hair covered by that miserable remnant of a 
 turban— both dirty! " 
 " Ah Mith Whitehead is a bore — a thad bore ! " 
 "Then Prudence AVhitehead," continued the lady, " look al 
 her hands — no cook-maid's could surpass them. I declare I have 
 turned away a kitchen-maid in England for less atrocious hands. 
 To be sure, she does brew and bake, and mend and make. One 
 day when I called, and, by some mistake, let in, Prudence was 
 actually sweeping the room, while poor Lucy was dusting the 
 furniture. They are chief drudges, you know." 
 
 " Oh! too horrible — thweeping, duthting — what did you do ? 
 Did'nt it thend ^ou into hythterics? 1 am thure it would me," 
 said Snaffle. 
 
78 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " It would indeed have been a mercy if it had,' replied 
 the lady, " for, quite unabashed, though evidently flushed with 
 rage, sweeper and duster came forth, surrounded with clouds 
 of dust, boldly shook hands with me, kissed Louisa, really, I 
 believe, out of spite, and actually caught Tiny in their arms 
 — there were the marks of their black fingers on poor Tiny's 
 dear little cambric frock." 
 
 " Thweet little angel ! how the must have been thocked ! " 
 said Osmond. " But why did you never tell me that before ! " 
 
 " Oh ! poor things, they are to be pitied for it," said Mrs. 
 Barton, in a tone of sweetness ; " I mentioned it now quite inad- 
 vertently. I am sure I never look at poor dear old Miss White- 
 head's little turban without a feeling of commiseration. There 
 is nothing I pity so much as dirt. I, who bathe every day with 
 my own little Tiny — I, who always insisted on my girls spending 
 three hours every morning in their ablutions, and those little 
 toilet duties, without which no one is really nice, or can look 
 so — think how I must pity the family nastiness of the poor dear 
 Whiteheads." f 
 
 " You mutht indeed!" sighed Captain Snaffle; "and, ath 
 you thay, no one can be really nice without giving up a little 
 time to it. That is why I never thake hands with a profe- 
 thional man." 
 
 " Well, mind you never do with the Whiteheads," replied 
 the lady. " I cannot think why Antonia dines in her bonnet — 
 nor indeed where she got it — for that was never made by the 
 poor dear .dirty Whiteheads, I declare it is the very bonnet my 
 poor Louisa had set her heart on, and which I could not afford. 
 I must set Miss Primrose to find out how she got it." 
 
 And Miss Primrose, nothing loth, undertook the task, and 
 fished out the whole story from Madame Le Mercier's shop-girl 
 — but we anticipate. 
 
 " Je me presenter ai demain chez ces Anglais qui vien- 
 nent d'arriver" said the pompous little Monsieur Dubois. "Ah ! 
 pour la polilessel Je m'y connais mot Je suis pose — je 
 suis severe pour tout ce qui regarde les affaires $ mais pour 
 les devoirs de societe on n' est pas plus aimable que moi." 
 
 " Oh comme cela est tres-vrai I " said Mrs. Dashwood, who, 
 to spite Mrs. Faithful, who did not understand a word of 
 French, brushed up all her own reminiscences of her ' French 
 of Bow.' 
 
 " How awful it is," whispered Mrs. Faithful to Mr. Wheezer, 
 " to see that vain, lost worldling, Mrs. Dashwood— look at her 
 dress— it puts me quite out of countenance," and she readjust- 
 ed her own crape tippet — " see how she stares and looks about 
 her! Actually taking wine again with Mr. Dubois ! Poor lost 
 
COUSIJX GEOFFREY. 79 
 
 man ! if he falls into the snares of the syren— really it would be 
 almost a charity to wish that she could be suddenly cut off, be- 
 fore she corrupts that dear innocent man ! Where does she 
 expect to go to when she dies?" 
 
 " Hush, my dearest Mrs. Faithful," said Mr. Wheezer, who 
 had a nervous horror of any allusions to death, " do not forget 
 my poor nerves— the liver-wing if you please, ma'am. Could 
 you reach me those stewed mushrooms, that seem going so fast,'" 
 and he almost cried. "Thank you, dear Mrs. Faithful. Ah ! she 
 is, as you say, a lost creature," saying which he emptied the 
 dish of mushrooms on his own plate. 
 
 " It is so evident that that lost Mrs. Dashwood is trying to 
 get herself married again— as if the vow made at the altar 
 were not binding even unto the dead, ' for better, for worse.' 
 When him she has loved is cold in his grave— when the worms 
 feed on him— when his flesh has perished, then should a wife 
 prove true to her vow, for worse he is...." 
 
 " Oh ! dearest Mrs. Faithful," said Wheezer, with his mouth 
 full of mushrooms, " you do conjure up such horrid images — 
 a bit of the breast, if you please." 
 
 " Let me give you a little more ham," said the mourning 
 dame. "I want you to see Mrs. Dashwood's conduct in its true 
 light." 
 
 " Pray, may I trouble you to repeat what you are saying 
 about me, Mrs. Faithful?" exclaimed the showy widow, who 
 had partly overheard the denunciation, and who had no wish 
 to be prejudiced in the opinion of Mr. Wheezer. 
 
 " Nothing, dear madam," said Mr. Wheezer, who hated the 
 discomfort of a " scene," and who knew he might another day- 
 be dependent at dinner on the exertions of Mrs. Dashwood ; 
 " nothing that could offend you." 
 
 " Let me know what, Mrs. Faithful," persevered the rival 
 widow. 
 
 11 Well, then, ma'am," said Mrs. Faithful, " I was express- 
 ing my opinion that a wife, who takes a husband for ' better 
 for worse,' has no right to forsake him because he is dead. 
 She should be faithful to his memory, ma'am." 
 
 " Oh! is that all?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "Now, really, 
 Mrs. Faithful. I think the highest compliment she can pay to 
 the first, is to get a second as fast as she can.' r 
 
 "And I think," retorted Mrs. Faithful, "that if she had 
 really loved the first, no other could replace him. Mortal hands 
 may be dissevered, ma'am ; but what can disunite immortal 
 souls ? Oh ! vanity— vanity ! " 
 
 " Come, ladies," said Dubois, who not having yet ascertained 
 which was the richer widow of the two, had not vet sworn 
 
80 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 entire allegiance to either; " both have reason, because both 
 are pretty— all de pretty ladies have reason — is true what Mrs. 
 Faithful say, de soul is immortal, and never die • but den I tink 
 he never marry either— it is de heart do marry. Ah , je suis 
 fort pour la philosophies moil" he added, turning to Mrs. 
 Dash wood, "je suis un second Aristote, savez-vous P" 
 
 "I am quite of dear Mrs. Faithful's way of thinking," said 
 Mrs. Barton 5 " a husband's place should never be supplied." 
 
 " Certainly not, while he is yet living," said Mrs. Dashwood, 
 glancing at Snaffle and Grigsby. 
 
 "I should like to know the opinion of Lady Whitehead's 
 cousin, the Bishop of Leicester, on second marriages," said Sir 
 Ceesar Whitehead. 
 
 ''If you do write, my love," said Lady Whitehead, " do not 
 forget to ask his Lordship, if possible to drive down to the 
 Priory, to see how it is kept up. The dear Priory! How I wish 
 you could see the Priory, Mrs. Barton ! " 
 
 "Dear, kind Lady Whitehead ! " said Mrs. Barton; "who 
 can tell but that I may one day claim your hospitality, when you 
 are settled there, should fortune smile on us all. You perhaps 
 will return to that dear, sweet spot ; and I, my poor Louisa, my 
 little Tiny, and these kind friends," turning to the two cap- 
 tains, " may call on you to do the honours of the Priory." 
 
 "Nothing thould ever get me there," whispered Captain 
 Snaffle. 
 
 "I suppose my going would," retorted Mrs. Barton 5 " my 
 going with my poor girls ? " 
 
 " Oh, yeth 5 if you and Tiny went," said the gentle Osmond. 
 
 "Well, you need not fear," said the lady-, "I have many- 
 doubts whether there actually is any such place." 
 
 " Oh, for thame ! you are thuch a thocking quith." 
 
 "Mr. Hodnot!" shrieked Mrs. Hodriot, who had been for 
 some time boiling with rage, " do you choose to act as a man, 
 or will you be pointed at as a cowardly ruffian, who hears his 
 wife insulted at her own table, and sits tamely silent the while ?" 
 
 " My love — my darling love ! " exclaimed Mr. Hodnot, " who 
 has offended you? What can you mean? " 
 
 "Ladies," exclaimed Mrs. Hodnot, "I have heard the dis- 
 cussion about second marriages, and it seems to me a little out 
 of place. Is it forgotten that I have formed a second tie? Am / 
 so unknown, so undistinguished a person? Let it be remem- 
 bered, I beg, at this table, that in the present Honourable Mrs. 
 Hodnot is seen the former Honourable Mrs. Alexander Scanty- 
 lands, daughter-in-law of Lord M'Saveall?" 
 
 •' My dearest love! no one alluded to it," said poor Hodnot. 
 
 Mrs. Hodnot deigned not to notice Use trembling remark of 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 81 
 
 her husband : she seemed engaged in panting a little ; and, sup- 
 pressing her emotion, drew up her head till her very turban 
 seemed to quiver with wrath ; and then, bowing proudly to the 
 ladies, led the way out of the room. 
 
 Mrs. Hodnot was certainly in a violent and long-suppressed 
 rage : we do not mean to hint that it was quite ungovernable, 
 for we have generally remarked that there is "a method" in 
 these "madnesses," and that the most passionate and violent 
 people can control themselves, when vanity and interest eagerly 
 prompt. The arrival of a patron, or an admirer, will often con- 
 vert a furious tigress into an injured lamb; but, with regard to 
 Mrs. Hodnot, she had many tempers to cope with. She had 
 some shrewdness, and had perceived that the generality of peo- 
 ple w T ere awed by her self-assertion and apparent disregard of 
 consequences : she had remarked that to toady a " remunera- 
 tive visitor" was generally to invite her insolence and tyranny; 
 while to attend to her comforts, and apparently disregard her 
 opinions and humours, generally secured her anxiety to slay. It 
 was therefore at no risk to herself that she frequently asserted 
 her own importance. 
 
 In the drawing-room a fit of hysterics ensued. The widows 
 eagerly drew near, to assure her that nothing was meant perso- 
 nally towards her. Mrs. Barton entreated her to believe that 
 her opinion was quite inadvertently expressed. " Her dearest 
 Mrs. Hodnot ! her poor friend ! She had shown such a sweet, 
 noble spirit ! How could it be expected that one so charming, 
 so young, so early bereaved, could resist all importunities to 
 form a second tie?— Come, dear, kind friend," she added, 
 " how she has agitated herself ! Poor, dear little heart, how it 
 beats! " 
 
 " Water ! water ! " sobbed Mrs. Hodnot. 
 
 Tiny ran for a glass of water, which, whether for mischief 
 or through inadvertency none can tell, she spilled over Mrs. 
 Hodnot. 
 
 " Take that, you little, wicked, spoilt, artful hussey!"said 
 Mrs. Hodnot, suddenly recovering, darting at Tiny, and giving 
 her a violent box on the ear. Tiny set up a lion's roar— her 
 mother caught her to her bosom. 
 
 Mrs. Hodnot again sank back, but Mrs. Barton no longer 
 sympathised. 
 
 " How dare you strike my poor little child ? " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Barton, pushing the sinking lady, so that she fell. 
 
 " Support me, Miss Primrose ! " moaned the vanquished Mrs. 
 Hodnot. "Oh, ladies ! if you knew what it is to have given one's 
 hand, heart, and fortune, to a coward,"— and she sobbed— 
 "you would not marvel that I am sometimes driven to the 
 
82 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 verge of insanity ! Forgive me, Mrs. Barton — forgive me, 
 Tiny. ; ' 
 
 Mrs. Dash wood, who was really good-natured, came for- 
 ward, and acted so successfully as a peace-maker, that the whole 
 affair was made up ; and as the servant entered to announce 
 that the evening party had been for some time assembled in the 
 dancing-room, Mrs. Hodnot retired to re-adjust her dress ; 
 and the other ladies hastened to join the French officers, the 
 remaining Whiteheads, and all the new arrivals, who had been 
 tlocking in for some time. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Poor Mr. Hodnot was very penitent ; but Mrs. Hodnot'? 
 manner only changed from furious rage to the coldest and 
 haughtiest sulkiness. Whatever he ordered, she forthwith 
 counter-ordered. If he ordered a piece of wood on the fire, she 
 ordered it off-, if he placed a table or chair anywhere, she 
 removed it ; if he proposed cards, she immediately requested 
 the Whiteheads to oblige her with some music. She paid no at- 
 tention to any remark he made to her, and twice turned her 
 back on him. Perceiving that all his efforts at conciliation were 
 vain, and fearing he might offend the more, and be the more 
 degraded, he slunk away — hastened upstairs— passed his ac- 
 customed dormitory, which he dared not enter, with a shudder 
 and a sigh — and stole on tiptoe to a room at the top of the 
 house, in which there was a spare bed ; he bolted the door, and 
 in a few minutes he was undressed, and fast asleep, dreaming 
 of that peace of mind which never yet was the waking portion 
 of a weak and timid man, if linked to a termagant wife. 
 
 All went on merrily downstairs. Mrs. Hodnot, to atone for 
 her attack on Tiny, was full of mirth-promoting smiles : the 
 Whiteheads, accompanied by some of the French officers, thun- 
 dered through a military overture on evei y variety of instru- 
 ment. Miss Whitehead and her chosen beau and instructor, an 
 old, grey-headed, snuff-taking Major, were armed with a vio- 
 loncello each, and, if not very harmonious, the performance 
 was very loud— the Major and Miss Whitehead made the most 
 extravagant contortions, exerted every nerve, and finished in a 
 violent perspiration. Geraldine thumped away on the piano — 
 Antonia tugged at a harp— Lucy was provided with a tambou- 
 rine — and Prudence was no mean performer on the guitar : 
 while Phoebe, the youngest, the romp— and who, though eigh- 
 teen, was called "the child," and wore a white calico frock, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 83 
 
 ^-clattered a pair of castanets, which Miss Whitehead herself 
 had made, assisted by the old Major. 
 
 After this concert, which was loudly applauded, in order that 
 the performers might be satisfied with praise, their quantum, and 
 not aim at any more, Monsieur Dubois came forward to 
 propose some "petitsjeux dc socidte" He was warmly se- 
 conded by Mrs. Dashwood, who liked the forfeits which ensued : 
 Mrs. Faithful cast up her eyes, and began a discourse to 
 Mr. Wbeezer on the demoralizing effect of such trilling pursuits ; 
 but as he considered moderate excitement essential to his health, 
 he determined to join the party, and, after a little persuasion, she 
 did the same. They were in the height of the sport, when Sir 
 Ca?sar made a sign to Geraldine. As she was very slow, she did 
 not heed it till it was repeated : the repetition caught the ea^le 
 eye of Antonia. She suffered Geraldine and her father to glide off 
 as if unperceived ; but they were no sooner gone, than she slipped 
 out of the room, followed them unnoticed at a little distance, 
 came up with them as they reached the hotel, and was not per- 
 ceived till Sir Caesar found her on the stairs beside him, as the 
 waiter was ushering him into the St. Aubyns' apartment. He save 
 her an indignant push which would have upset a fine lady : it 
 had, however, no other effect upon her, but to light up her eyes 
 with triumph as she entered the room. 
 
 " Well," said Sir Caesar, with all the confidence of a bold and 
 ill-bred man, seating himself in the arm-chair which St. Aubyn 
 had quitted to welcome him — putting a fresh log from the wood- 
 basket on the fire, and placing a huge foot, in a home-made boot 
 which made it huger still, on one of the chenets — " Well, and 
 how do you all find yourselves now ? ", 
 
 "Pretty well, I thank you," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, calmly. 
 
 " Ha! ha! 'pretty,' and 'well'— you need not have told me 
 that," answered Sir Caesar: " the Whiteheads, my good lady, 
 were always famous connoisseurs in beauty, I could tell you an 
 excellent anecdote of a great-uncle of mine, and the celebrated 
 beauty, Lady Cranford. They were great friends, rather too 
 great friends — at least, so scandal said." .... 
 
 " Will you let me offer you some tea?" said Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 coldly, who was not anxious to hear Sir Caesar's boast of the vi- 
 cious though aristocratic liaisons of some depraved great-uncle, 
 who, by the by, was most likely an imaginary person after all. 
 
 "Tea? no, not tea, thank you ; but Til trouble that little 
 blue-eyed maid, # turning to Blanche, " for some of the same 
 sort of excellent coffee she gave me this morning." 
 
 " Order some coffee, my love," said Mrs. St. Aubyn. 
 
 " Oh, haveyou none there? > ever mind 5 they'll get it ready 
 in five minutes, Til be bound." Whereupon he himself rang the 
 
84 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 bell. " Coffee ! Cafe, garcoonl " he cried, as the waiter entered. 
 " You'll excuse my taking the liberty, but all these fellows know 
 me, and know too that I am not to be trifled with."— (They 
 did know him, as the most prying, sponging old fellow in 
 Dieppe.) — " Any honey there, my pretty maid?" (to Blanche.) 
 
 " No, shall I order some?" said Blanche, good-naturedly. 
 
 " Oh, never mind-, let me save you the trouble.— Antonia, 
 what's honey in French?" he asked, as if the St. Aubyns could 
 not be expected to know. 
 
 " Miel, papa." 
 
 " Well, then, bring the miel, gargoonV said Sir Caesar. — 
 "Now, don't stand upon ceremony : anything you don'tknow how 
 to ask for, apply to my girls, and they'll tell you. When you're 
 settled, Geraldine shall come and spend a week or two with you, 
 if you like, just to put you in the way, and give you a few hints.' 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn, her husband, and Wyndham, exchanged 
 looks of mingled anger, surprise, and disgust. 
 
 The truth was, Sir Caesar, who, without being exactly ele- 
 vated, had drank a little wine, and eaten an excellent dinner, 
 was in high good-humour with himself, and w T as beginning to 
 show himself in his true light, namely, that of the most forward, 
 pushing, boasting, swaggering old knight of his day. Hunger 
 and cold had rather depressed him when we first met him on 
 board theSea-Gull — and suffering of any kind has a subduing, 
 almost genllemanising effect on many people— but now, he was 
 no longer the hungry, cold, fore-cabin passenger-, he was— at 
 least in the opinion of the French— Milor Whitehead! He was 
 the husband of Miladi ! he was the father of the seven demoi- 
 selles Whitehead! He was the self-dubbed head of the English 
 colony at Dieppe-, and he was strong in a confidence which no 
 coldness could check— a forwardness which no distance could 
 awe — and a perseverance which no rebuffs could weary. 
 
 The well-bred gentleness and polite endurance of the St. Au- 
 byns, he, now that he was quite reinstated in his own opinion 
 of himself, comfortably warm, and his appetite satisfied, attri- 
 buted to deference for him, and an acknowledgment of infe- 
 riority -, which nevertheless he knew not to exist, on any one 
 point, but which, he hoped to make them imagine, did. He 
 talked, laughed, boasted, and attempted to flirt with Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn, lor he had been handsome, and did not forget it — 
 helped himself, drank half a dozen cups of coffee, stood with 
 his back to the fire, and, while he thought he was charming 
 the whole party by his condescension, and making them proud 
 of his intimacy, was leading them all to the silent conviction , 
 that he was an ill-bred, boasting bore, only confirming their 
 determination to see as little as possible of him for the future. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 85 
 
 It was a quiet and happy scene on which these Whiteheads 
 had intruded. Mr. St. Aubyn was asleep in his arm-chair. 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn was writing to Lionel. Blanche, with unequalled 
 good-nature, pretending to preside at theteatable, though none 
 but Wyndham appeared to wish for any more tea — but that was 
 a sisterly manoeuvre, to indulge the still pale, but then happy 
 Juliet, with a conversation with Montague Wyndham, which, 
 apart as they were from the rest of the circle, had almost the 
 charm, without the intimidating effect, of an actual tete-d-tete. 
 
 There was something in Juliet's subdued and half melancholy 
 manner, in the paleness of her cheek, and downcast eyes, which 
 spoke more forcibly to Montague's heart than would the most 
 brilliant vivacity, or the most glowing and radiant charms. They 
 spoke in an under-tone, and their conversation fell, as that of 
 incipient lovers sometimes does, on poetry, that sweet inter- 
 preter of passion. 
 
 Juliet timidly quoted some passages, to show the peculiar 
 grace or strength of different poets : strange to say, all were 
 of love, and delivered as though they had been the language 
 of her own heart. 
 
 Something like a tear glistened in Wyndham's eyes. " You 
 recite so feelingly," said he, " that I am sure you are yourself 
 a poetess." 
 
 Juliet blushed. 
 
 " Oh! let me hear something you have written," exclaimed 
 Montague, with animation, and all the anxiety, the curiosity 
 of a lover, anxious, as it were, to sound the depths of a wo- 
 man's heart, before he exchanges his own for it. 
 
 ;i Oh!" said Juliet, " I have never written anything that 
 could interest you— nothing heroic, nothing amusing." 
 
 " Anything you have written would interest me," said 
 Wyndham, with more of the manner of a lover than he intended 
 to betrav. 
 
 " First, then, tell me," said Juliet, " do you think that, 
 to write eloquently, it is necessary to have felt deeply?" 
 
 " To write eloquently of nature, of external objects," said 
 Montague, " I think it is necessary to feel their beauty; but 
 if you allude to descriptions of the passions— love, for instance 
 — i do not think it is necessary to have felt it deeply. The 
 power of feeling, although only yet confined to the imagination, 
 will give eloquence to the poet's descriptions of love. And now 
 that I have improvised an essay, you must not cheat me of 
 the half-promised poem." 
 
 " Since you do think," said Juliet, hesitating and blushing, 
 " that one can write of love... without having felt it, I will 
 repeat you a mournful ditty, which, Blanche says, seems like 
 
86 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 the effusion of a real lover. You cannot imagine it applies to 
 myself, for it is a gentleman who is supposed to speak — and 
 not only I am no gentleman, but as I never was in love, I 
 was never... broken-hearted," and she tried to smile. 
 
 " And is it," asked Wyndham, " a broken-hearted lover 
 whose lament you have imagined?" 
 
 " Xot one who goes about telling the world that he is so," 
 replied the fair authoress, " but one who has lost her he loved, 
 and who owns in his solitude, and to his own heart, that it 
 w T ould be bliss to die." 
 
 " She is as impassioned as she is beautiful," thought Mon- 
 tague, "And now the verses. I cannot tell you how T much I 
 long to hear them." 
 
 " They are not worth asking for twice— so you shall have 
 them:"' and, with a trembling voice and fluttering heart, Ju- 
 liet began. 
 
 A LONELY TOMB, A CYPRESS TREE ! 
 
 " That is what they are called — so 'if you have tears, prepare 
 to shed them now.'" 
 
 The crowded and the lighted hall, 
 Where Beauty holds her festival, 
 And rose-crown'd maidens gliding by, 
 And love's soft smile, and softer sigh, 
 And mirth-inspiring music's strain, 
 Can they unlock dark mem'ry's chain ? 
 Oh ! what is all this world to me, 
 Save one lone tomb, one cypress tree !... 
 
 Time rushes by, on dazzling wings, 
 
 And youth drinks deep at pleasure's springs 
 
 And high-born Beauty's jewelled brow 
 
 Is bent in condescension now : 
 
 She smiles— and has she smiled in vain? 
 
 Those lips are curled in cold disdain ! 
 
 Proud fair, that thou should'st rivall'd be 
 
 By a lone tomb, a cypress tree ! 
 
 Oh! ever in a scene like this, 
 
 W r hen time floats down the stream of bliss. 
 
 And, wild and jocund, music springs 
 
 To drown the rushing of his wings, 
 
 The viewless chord, that to the past 
 
 Links this sad heart, is bound more fast. 
 
 At every sense, sad mem'ry keeps 
 
 Her mournful watch, and watching weeps.—, 
 
 A scent, a strain, a flower, recal 
 
 The past, dear heritage, my all ! 
 
 Dull life what hast thou left for me 
 
 A lonely tomb, a cypress tr?e' 
 
COUShX GEOFFREV. 87 
 
 The wine cup sparkles, all is bright, 
 And mirth and music, smiles and light — 
 And am I here, while, cold and lone, 
 Slumbers my unforgotten one ? 
 The evening breeze the only sigh 
 Paid to her deathless memory— 
 The evening dew the only tears 
 The little urn beside thee bears, 
 And the cold stars, watching alone, 
 O'er thee, my bosom's worshipp'd one ! 
 All silently I glide away ; 
 What are the beautiful, the gay' 
 Oh ! what is all the world to me , 
 Save one lone tomb, one cypress tree ! 
 
 And soon be this sad vigil o'er, 
 This garish scene disturb no more ! 
 One little spot holds all I love, 
 To one lone spot my footsteps rove. 
 There have I trained sad flowers to bloom, 
 There is the weary pilgrim's home : 
 There will I slumber, love ! with thee, 
 'Neath that lone tomb, that cypress tree! 
 
 Juliet had just finished her strain, which, to Wyndham's ear,, 
 was a kind of intellectual music ; he had thanked her with 
 much feeling, and was beginning to think more seriously than 
 he had done before, whether it would be in his power to win 
 her affections — whether he deserved the treasure she might 
 prove— to wonder, with a kind of vague, yet painful jealousy, 
 whether any actual preference for any one, whom he already 
 hated, even as he conjured him up, had already gained her 
 heart. Already fear, twin-born with hope, had sprung to life 
 in his bosom — already bright visions and dark forebodings 
 chased each other through his brain. He was indulging in 
 " love's young dream," when the Whiteheads were heard on 
 the stairs— the door was flung open, and Sir Caesar entered 
 in the manner we have described. 
 
 The reader is acquainted with the line of conduct he pursued, 
 but we have not told him that Antonia, her eyes beaming with 
 trie triumph of having outwitted Sir Caesar and Geraldine— her 
 cheeks flushed, and looking strikingly handsome in the very 
 becoming and elegant hat before-mentioned, gaily approached 
 the sofa, and seated herself between Juliet and Wyndham. 
 
 Geraldine immediately drew a chair near the sofa, and sat 
 herself down as closely to him as possible on the other side. 
 
 " You were repeating some poetry, I think, when we came 
 in," said she, half resentfully, to Juliet. " Pray go on. I doat 
 on poetry," and she gazed tenderly at Wyndham, " Whos i 
 were the verses? " 
 
88 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Miss Juliet St. Aubyn's," replied Wyndham. 
 
 "la!" said Geraldine, " are you an authoress?" 
 
 " If writing a few rhymes entitles me to the appellation," 
 replied Juliet. 
 
 "Why, there is nothing surprising in that," said Antonia. 
 " You know, Geraldine, I myself..." and she simpered ; but 
 Geraldine did not come forward with any acquiescence. 
 
 " Oh! do you write?" said Wyndham, anticipating some- 
 thing amusing. 
 
 " As Miss St. Aubyn says, I rhyme occasionally." 
 
 " Do oblige us," said Wyndham, " by repeating something 
 of your writing." 
 
 " I have a sad memory," answered Antonia, " particularly 
 for any thing of my own." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Juliet, " but if you could remember a few lines 
 only, you would so much oblige us." 
 
 " To oblige you, I will indeed attempt-, and she began— 
 
 "0 love! what is it in this world of ours 
 
 Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah ! why 
 With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, 
 
 And made thy best interpreters a sigh? 
 As those who doat on odours, pluck the flowers, 
 
 And place upon their breast, but place to die, 
 So the frail beings we would fondly cherish, 
 
 Are laid within our bosoms but to perish ! " 
 
 These lines Antonia recited with great emphasis, and in a 
 sonorous voice. 
 
 " Are those verses yours?" exclaimed Juliet, to whom they 
 were new 5 for, though well read in Byron, the poem whence 
 they were pilfered was a stranger to her. Their beauty rather 
 startled her; and she said to herself, " If she can write thus, 
 I have little chance of Wyndham's heart."— Still she could not 
 quite believe they were Antonia's, and she said again, " Are 
 they really yours?" 
 
 " I am not in the habit of appropriating that to which I have 
 no right," said Antonia, with more spirit than truth. 
 
 " Oh, do not suppose," said Juliet, " that I meant to imply 
 you would seriously claim them, unless they were your own." 
 
 " Of course not," retorted the lady : " the truth is, / think 
 nothing of them; indeed, they are almost impromptu" 
 
 Now the truth really was, that a poetry-loving beau of An- 
 tonia's had written them in her album 5 and, in the silly style 
 adopted in such recueils of folly and plagiarism, had signed 
 his own cockney name as the inserter, and withheld that of 
 the author. Antonia, no judge of poetry, little acquainted with 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 89 
 
 English literature, and seldom even meeting with an English 
 work, believed them to be an original production of Mr. Tho- 
 mas Green (her English beau), and therefore unscrupulously 
 claimed them for herself. 
 
 Juliet fell into a painful reverie. Oh, what a rival would An- 
 tonia prove ! She looked at her, really handsome as she was — 
 the soft blue satin hat setting off the bright red and white of her 
 complexion and the rich brown of her hair ; her handsome 
 mouth was curved with smiles, and her bright hazel eyes as- 
 sumed an unwonted softness, as she deliberately fixed them on 
 Wyndham, who was half convulsed with suppressed laughter 
 at this daring plagiarism, this boldest theft of all ! After gazing at 
 Antonia, Juliet glanced at an opposite mirror; she saw her own 
 pale cheeks, her drooping figure— her carelessly-arranged hair, 
 almost uncurled— and she inwardly exclaimed, " I cannot blame 
 him : I am indeed nothing, when compared with this brilliant 
 creature!" 
 
 How strange it is, that even the cleverest women seldom judge 
 rightly of what is likely to win or interest the heart of the man 
 they love ! At this very moment, each modest and real beauty 
 of Juliet's mind and person was contrasting itself most advan- 
 tageously in Wyndham's heart, with theboldand showy charms 
 of the daring plagiarist. Antonia seemed to him a fine and cun- 
 ning animal— but Juliet! oh, there was no epithet which con- 
 veyed at once the winning grace, the thrilling loveliness, the 
 bright intelligence, the gentle tenderness, of that drooping girl. 
 Henceforth there was a being enshrined in his fancy — in his 
 heart; a sweet incarnation of the muse, the saint, the grace, the 
 houri— and its name was Juliet ! 
 
 But while triumph sate on Antonia's brow — while the feelings 
 we have described darted through the hearts of Wyndham and 
 Juliet — an imitative plot was developing itself in the envious head 
 of the blundering Geraldine.— Wyndham had loudly applauded 
 Antonia's recitation— had asked for a copy of the exquisite lines 
 — had been promised one ; and all this time Geraldine sat ready 
 to cry. She knew the lines were not Antonia's : if she had got so 
 much credit for them, why should not she succeed as well in a 
 similar manoeuvre? The only piece of English poetry which she 
 knew, was " Alonzo the brave and the fair Imogen." She 
 had learnt it from her mother, and had never seen it in print : 
 she did not know that it was the most hackneyed though one 
 of the prettiest of baliads : because it had been new to her, 
 she thought most likely it was new to them. She was sure 
 Antonia, knowing herself guilty, would not dare to betray 
 her-, so, pushing her chair still closer to Wyndham, she said. 
 " I suppose you don't care for lively poetry?" 
 
90 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Indeed I do : I think it the most difficult to succeed in." 
 
 " I have written what / think a tolerable poem," said Geral- 
 dine. 
 
 Antonia frowned — shook her head : she foresaw an expose, 
 but Geraldine was only urged on, by her sister's wrath. 
 
 " Do, pray, let us have it," said Wyndham. 
 
 "Oh, do," said Juliet. 
 
 She good-naturedly complied; but had scarcely begun, with 
 great pomposity, the well-known lines — 
 
 " A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, 
 Conversed as they sate on the green—" 
 
 when, spite of all their efforts, Juliet, Blanche, and Wyndham, 
 burst into such an irrepressible fit of laughter, that the recitation 
 was put a stop to. Very indignant, Geraldine tried to go on — 
 
 " They gazed on each other with tender delight, 
 Alonzo the brave was the name of the knight, 
 And the maid was the fair " 
 
 " Imogen," whispered Blanche, playfully. 
 
 Geraldine paused, confounded — struck dumb : Antonia came, 
 as she thought, to her rescue. 
 
 " Geraldine was only joking," said the humane sister-, " she 
 did not mean those lines were hers— Geraldine delights in a 
 joke." 
 
 " They are quite as much mine as the others are yours/' re- 
 torted the envious and obtuse Geraldine. 
 
 " Very good, indeed!" said Antonia, biting her lip. " Why, 
 I wrote them this morning," glancing at Wyndham ; " I com- 
 posed them last night, before I fell asleep".... 
 
 The dispute would not have ended here, had not some cake 
 and wine been handed to Geraldine. As she could not talk 
 and eat — at least, not at her ease — at the same time, — she 
 seized on the refreshments, and gave up the argument; nor did 
 she once cease her operations upon the " food," or vouchsafe 
 another word, till Sir Caesar w r as heard exclaiming from his 
 arm-chair, "Come, girls! I'm sorry to leave such good com- 
 pany 5 but you know the only condition on which Mrs. Hodnot 
 would excuse us, was that we would return to supper. It is 
 now a quarter to eleven, and they sup at eleven. — By the by, 
 do you take suppers, St. Aubyn?" 
 
 " Never," said Mr. St. Aubyn. 
 
 "Well then, girls— come ! we must be off. Such trouble 
 as we had to get away ! All the room in an uproar ! But I 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 91 
 
 had promised I would look in on you all, and so I was deter- 
 mined." — Now, as the reader knows, no one had noticed the 
 departure of the Whiteheads, or would have attempted to detain 
 them if they had ; and Mrs. Hodnot, when she found they were 
 gone, suspecting they would be back to supper, had ordered it 
 an hour earlier than usual. 
 
 " Come, Antonia." 
 
 " Oh, papa," said Antonia, " I do not want any supper : I 
 had much rather stay where I am." 
 
 " Well, if Geraldine likes to stay too," said Sir Caesar, " I can 
 call for you as I come back — that is," recollecting himself, as 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn said nothing upon the subject, "if quite agree- 
 able. I forgot that, for it is a perpetual battle here who shall 
 have the girls." 
 
 But Geraldine, who had been so rudely overthrown from her 
 borrowed Pegasus, was sulky, angry with every one, determined 
 to disoblige Antonia, and very anxious to console herself with 
 a hot supper. She therefore insisted on following her papa, and 
 Antonia was obliged to accompany them. 
 
 Juliet, although too amiable and gentle to animadvert on the 
 behaviour of the Whiteheads, was still a mortal— a woman — a 
 loving, jealous woman ; and therefore she listened, with a delight 
 which her generous heart gently censured, to Wyndham's ludi- 
 crous version of the plagiarism story, with which, after the 
 retreat of the pretenders, he amused Mrs. St. Aubyn, whose 
 attention had been engrossed by Sir Caesar's boastings, and 
 who had therefore lost the enjoyment of the exhibition itself. 
 After this description of the exposure was over, Mrs. St. Au- 
 byn, noticing how pale Juliet looked, insisted on her going 
 to bed. Juliet, of course, obeyed, but with an unwilling step, 
 although her heart was light. Long after she had left the 
 room, Wyndham's soft "Good night! " sounded on her ear, 
 and his last parting look was printed on her heart. And when 
 Sir Caesar and the girls, finding supper over at the Hodnots, 
 through the hostess's stingy manoeuvre, hastened indignantly 
 back, thinking to induce the St. Aubyns to order something hot, 
 Juliet was calmly sleeping. The whole family had retired for 
 the night, and even Sir Caesar had not the face to wake them 
 up to give him a " feed." 
 
02 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Some days passed happily on, the St. Aubyns and Montague 
 Wyndham enjoying all the delightful and irresponsible intimacy 
 of inhabitants of the same hotel. All were now thoroughly re- 
 cruited 5 and on the very morning the St. Aubyns had fixed 
 upon for seeking lodgings, they were awakened by the agreeable 
 intelligence that several of their trunks had been got out of the 
 stranded steam-boat, which they had given up for lost. The St. 
 Aubyns were in high spirits at the recovery of their wardrobes : 
 it is only during the temporay loss of the conveniences of life, 
 that we feel their importance to our comfort. They are indeed 
 of the " trifles " which go far towards making " the sum of hu- 
 man things. " Even to the self-possessed Wyndham, the reco- 
 very of his dressing-case was as the return of a valued friend ; and, 
 handsome as heroes and heroines always are, and as we wish it 
 to be understood ours were incomparably, the appearance of 
 the whole party, after the recovery of the luggage, proved the 
 truth of the Frenchman's exclamation, " La toilette est une 
 belle invention I " 
 
 The St. Aubyns had agreed after breakfast to set out in search 
 of lodgings. Mrs. St. Aubyn, Wyndham, and Juliet, went in one 
 direction ; Blanche and her father in another : all were very- 
 eager to be gone before any of the Whiteheads came to force 
 themselves among them. 
 
 We have no great predilection for the company of confirmed 
 lovers 5 but we think there is something of rare beauty in the 
 bud, when it is bursting into bloom — in the sun, when he is 
 dawning in the heavens — in love, when he is a humble and 
 conciliating stranger, knocking timidly at the door of a maiden's 
 heart, gliding in almost unperceived, and with all the caution of 
 a lodger, who, if his identity were suspected, might be hastily 
 expelled, taking a furtive and hurried glance out of those half- 
 veiled windows, her downcast eyes. In this stage of a love-affair, 
 we rather like to be among the spectators ; and therefore we 
 will leave Blanche to listen to her father's involved genealogies, 
 and glide along in company with the lovers and Mrs. St. Aubyn. 
 
 Lodging-hunting is a fatiguing, worrying occupation ; but to 
 lovers, nothing which brings them together ever appears so. 
 While Mrs. St. Aubyn was inquiring, inspecting, bargaining, 
 Juliet and Wyndham, with all the uselessness and indolence na- 
 tural to their tribe, sank on a couch, stood in the recess of a 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 93 
 
 window, strolled in a garden, gazed at a print or picture where 
 some love-scene was glowingly described ; and had no more idea 
 than if they had not visited them at all, whether Madame Le 
 Noir's, or Madame Le Grand's, or Madame Petil's apartments 
 were most likely to suit the St. Aubyn family. 
 
 Poor Mrs- St. Aubyn ! the whole weight thus fell on her-, and 
 heavy enough it was, as all who have been lodging-hunters, in 
 an English colony in France can tell : the boundless extortion, 
 the coaxing of the proprietors, and the inconveniences and defi- 
 ciencies ( according to the English ideas of comfort, at least, ) of 
 the abodes, we have neither space nor inclination to depict. Two 
 or three rather ludicrous specimens of French policy, however, 
 we must give. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn had set oat with stating what apartments 
 she required; amongst others, a good kitchen was not for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Madame Le Grand displayed all her different pieces with 
 boundless eulogies, and Mrs. St. Aubyn was her " belle petite 
 darnel" her M chere petite darnel" and here she was to be 
 fourree comme line petite reine dans cebon lit-la; " and " on 
 ne pouvait pas etre mieux que dans ce salon superbe; " and 
 all was displayed over and over again, and the kitchen repeatedly 
 inquired for, and still no kitchen appeared. 
 
 " VoiW," said the fat old proprietaire, throwing open a 
 cupboard, "vofld wire cafetiere: vous voulez prendre une 
 tassede cafe le matin— ehbienl vousappelez votrebonne-. voild 
 la cafetiere, les tasses, tout ce qu'il vous faut. Vous voulez 
 une tasse de the—bienlvoild votre theiere. Foyez-vous cela?" 
 And she eyed the contents of the closet with almost maternal 
 pride. " Voyez-vous, ma belle petite dame, que vous serez 
 bien ici? Quatre mille francs de rente— pour toutes les pie- 
 ces. Ce n' est pas trop, n'est-ce pas? " 
 
 " Oui,c'est trop: etje ne vols pas de cuisine. " 
 
 " Dites-donc, ma belle petite dame, cela vaut bien quelque 
 chose, n'est-ce pas ? " 
 
 " Montr ez-moi la cuisine. " 
 
 i( Mais, ma bonne petite darnel la noblesse anglaise ne 
 dine pas chez soi : on n'apas besoin de cuisine— on s'abonne 
 chez le restaurateur — on. . . . 
 
 But Mrs. St. Aubyn had turned to depart— after all, no kit- 
 chen ! Madame Le Grand crying after her, that she should have 
 i( toutes les pieces" for " trois mille francs"— deux mille 
 francs'— "mille francs"— and ending, <c Sacrel V abomina- 
 ble Anglaise I ellc est partie I Sacre .'.... est-clle vilaine ! 
 est-elle betel est-ellc avarc I " 
 
94 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 In another place there was no water ; and here Mrs. St. Au- 
 byn was told that " une dame aussi distinguee " had no need 
 of water : first, she could never dream of drinking water ; then , 
 of course, as to washing at home, " c'est bonpour la bourgeoi- 
 sie; mais pour Madame — c'e'tait toute autre chose; cela ne 
 se pouvait pas I " And when Mrs. St. Aubyn replied, that water 
 was necessary at least for ablutions, the woman appeared horror- 
 stricken— ''Mais, mon Dieul Madame ne va pas s'abimer 
 la figure avec de Veau de fontaine I Mais voyez un peu, " 
 said the yellow, dirty horror — "jesuis bien, n'est-ce pas? fai 
 le teint frais, moi I Ah,je le crois bien I Je me frotte la figure 
 tous les matins avec un essui-main propre : voild tout ce qu'il 
 faut. Dans les belles maisons on n'apas besoin de fontainel" 
 — Here, as at Madame Le Grand's, the very deficiencies became 
 subjects of eulogy. 
 
 The last specimen we shall give was of one who, having no- 
 thing but brick floors in her house, had assured Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 that she should have " des tapis dans toutes les chambres" 
 After much procrastination in explaining how this was to be 
 effected — for no carpets were to be seen — she brought in a 
 little, ragged, old rug-looking thing, on which she gazed with 
 almost a lover's rapture, calling it " un tapis superbel un tapis 
 Anglais I" She then explained, that when Madame went from 
 her" salle-d-manger" to her "salon" shejust took her "tapis' 7 
 with her; if she went into her bed-room, "encore vous prenez 
 voire tapis avec vous "—every where the "tapis" might ac- 
 company her. . . 
 
 "In short," said Sir Caesar, who stalked in at this moment, 
 " my dear madam, you will be always on the ' tapis.' " 
 
 " Cela fait, madame, que vous aurez des tapis dans toutes 
 les chambres " said the hostess, as if it was a feasible thing for 
 an English lady to carry a bit of dirty old French carpet with 
 her from room to room. 
 
 Sir Caesar insisted on piloting Mrs. St. Aubyn until she found 
 some suitable lodgings. After numberless disappointments, she 
 saw some which, at her outset, she would certainly have re- 
 jected with scorn, but which she was now most anxious to 
 secure. Here she met Blanche and Mr. St. Aubyn, whose adven- 
 tures had been a counterpart of her own. 
 
 As Mr. St. Aubyn approved, the lodgings were agreed upon; 
 and finding there was more room than he needed for his own 
 family, he, acting as he always did on the impulse of the mo- 
 ment, proposed to Wyndham to engage two of the rooms for 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn started as she heard this inconsiderate pro- 
 posal. She was strongly prejudiced in Montague's favour; but 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 05 
 
 she was a mother— an anxious, prudent English mother— and 
 the idea of domesticating a young, unknown, handsome man, 
 with her youthful, ardent, and affectionate girls, seemed to her 
 an imprudence passing any that had ever originated in the 
 thoughtless head of her husband. She at once resolved, in case 
 Montague accepted the proposal, to point out to him distinctly, 
 but of course privately, to himself, her objections to the arrange- 
 ment; for she was not one of those women who wish to show 
 off their prudence or forethought at a husband's expense. 
 
 Juliet's heart beat quickly at the suggestion : she felt that it 
 was a sort of advance towards Wyndham, and one which, as he 
 was unacquainted with her father's careless, inconsiderate tem- 
 per, he might misconstrue. But she figured to herself the joy of 
 seeing him daily, hourly : her heart was divided between hope 
 and shame, but hope had the larger share. Soon indignation 
 completely annihilated both, when she heard him coldly decline 
 the offer, saying, that he had "arranged with Mrs. Hodnot to 
 reside at her house." 
 
 "How I despise myself?" thought she, at the moment she 
 heard the words uttered, " how I hate him! Now will I tear 
 this contemptible predilection from my heart! Calmly, coldly to 
 decline! and with such an excuse! Every thing about him an- 
 nounces that he is at least in easy circumstances. His 'arrange- 
 ment with Mrs- Hodnot!' He puts a few pounds in the scale 
 against my — I mean, our society. / might feel that it was not 
 very delicate in papa to propose it 5 but it ought not to have been 
 Mr.° Montague Wyndham's part to impress that on my mind ?" 
 
 " Well," said Mr. St. Aubyn, "I regret that you have made 
 that arrangement-, we should have been a very comfortable party 
 together 5 and you and I could have devoted the mornings to 
 those genealogies I spoke to you of." 
 
 "Papa," said Juliet, " you are so forgetful! Even if we did 
 not require all the rooms here for ourselves, which indeed we 
 do (for I assure you, Blanche and I do not mean to be rnoped to 
 death, and leave our harp and piano in their cases) — but even 
 if we did not want these rooms for visitors, we shall require 
 them when Cousin Geoffrey comes. He will, no doubt, be here 
 soon; and think how hurt he would be if you did not invite him 
 to stay with us! To find a stranger, too,"— and she smiled,— 
 ;t tracing the genealogies he so delights to help you with !" 
 
 "Ah! true, my dear,*' said St. Aubyn, "I forgot that. When 
 is he coming?" 
 
 "Shortly, I hope : I am sure we want him, in this dull and 
 dreary place.— Mr. Wyndham, you do not know Cousin Geof- 
 frey : he is the most intellectual, elegant, fascinating person, you 
 can conceive—and so very amiable." 
 
96 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Indeed!" said Wyndham, rather startled by the animated 
 appeal, " he must be well worth knowing. Is he young?" 
 
 " He is young enough," said Juliet, "to be very interesting, 
 and old enough to have acquired great tact and knowledge of the 
 world, together with a fund of information on every subject." 
 
 "And is he handsome?" asked Wyndham, with a smile; for 
 though she evidently wished to imply that he was not of an age 
 to be such a paragon of tact and so forth, he was quite old 
 enough to see her drift. 
 
 "Yes, remarkably handsome : so dignified a style of beauty, 
 too— aquiline features," (Wyndham's were Grecian)— " large 
 black eyes, dark hair," (she did not say, slightly bald)—" a very 
 fine figure," (she sunk his tendency to rotundity) — "in short, 
 lam sure you would be delighted with him." 
 
 Montague smiled assent; but already felt, in spite of himself, 
 far from being even pleased with him.—" Will he be here 
 soon?" 
 
 " I think," said Juliet, "when I tell him how dull we are 
 here, he will hasten to enliven us." 
 
 "She corresponds with him, then," thought he: and the 
 thought rendered him, he scarcely knew why, a little uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 "Dearest papa," said Juliet gaily, "we must go home di- 
 rectly : I have just remembered that I have given Eileen no 
 orders about my dress for this evening." 
 
 " This evening! my dear girl," said St. Aubyn why, what 
 do you want to do this evening? what engagement i'ave we?" 
 
 "A concert at the Whiteheads'," was the reply. 
 
 "I thought," said papa, "you declared you would not go, 
 my love?" 
 
 "Oh! but then," answered the excited Juliet, " I did not 
 know it was to be a large party, and to end with dancing. I 
 would not miss going on any account." 
 
 " Well, as you will," said the indulgent parent, " only I had 
 a pedigree to make out." 
 
 "Are you invited, Mr. Wyndham?" said Juliet. 
 
 " Yes," said Montague; " but I am not sure 1 shall go. I begin 
 to feel with you that this is a very dull place ; and I cannot 
 believe even the Whiteheads can muster any very entertaining 
 party." 
 
 " ' Dull!' " thought Juliet. " Here was positive insult added 
 to an intended slight. Dull where she was!"— She forgot that 
 the expression originated with herself. 
 
 Wyndham walked with the St. Aubyns to their own door. 
 Juliet did not ask him in; and St. Aubyn, being at that moment 
 extremely puzzled to recollect whether a twentieth cousin of a 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 97 
 
 hundred years before had died sine prole, he forgot even to 
 wish him good bye. 
 
 Juliet shook hands with him — looked at him with a smile, as 
 much like her wonted one as an artificial is like a natural rose, 
 and with that forced gaiety, as nearly allied to tears as the rain- 
 storm to the lightning. She ran to her room, to order Eileen to 
 prepare the white dress in which she meant to dazzle and de- 
 spise him. 
 
 She was flurried— agitated : she talked— laughed — sang. But, 
 oh ! how unlike happiness was the feeling that prompted this 
 feverish, restless vivacity ! She had some difficulty in persuading 
 her mother and Blanche to go to the Whiteheads' : they did not 
 think it was a party — a mere general invitation. Sir Caesar had 
 called since and had not renewed it ; but Juliet was resolved, and 
 they went. 
 
 They were right— there was no party. A few French offi- 
 cers were practising with the Misses Whitehead, by the light 
 of two tallow candles. 
 
 There was that unpleasant air of surprise in the manner of 
 the Whiteheads, which strikes a chill to your heart when 
 you expect a cordial welcome. As they entered the room 
 (shown in by Pierrot, a woman clown, dressed up like a tiger 
 by the Misses Whitehead,; they caught a distant view of Sir 
 Caesar, en robede chambre, and his hair en papillotes, gliding 
 out at another door. Lady Whitehead awoke from a nap, and 
 seemed at first not to know them. Antonia, fancying that 
 Mr. Wyndham might be in the rear, glided away to adorn 
 herself: and Geraldine shortly afterwards imitated her example. 
 
 Miss Whitehead tried to atone for the delects of her toilette 
 by a display of the treasures of her mind, and began a discus- 
 sion on the different French schools, the classique and the 
 romanesque. Phoebe, the romp, having no clean frock , slunk 
 off to bed ; and Prudence C1 supposed they had taken tea," and 
 heard, with great joy, that they would rather not have any. 
 
 All this time, Juliet, who had expected a party, and was 
 dressed for conquest, felt very uncomfortable. " Yet he will 
 come," she thought: "he knows we shall be here. He may 
 not love me, but he does like our society." Every time the 
 door opened, her heart beat: she felt her cheek burn, and at 
 last, to her great annoyance, tears which she would rather have 
 died than shed, would lili her eyes. She felt enraged with 
 every one who came in — first it was Pierrot for the keys — then 
 Sir Csesar, properly frizzed : then Pierrot again, with two more 
 candles : then Antonia, in an improved toilette : then Geral- 
 dine, and so on— but no Montague. 
 
 The evening was wretchedly dull. Sir Ca?sar had the tooth- 
 
98 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 ache, and couid only sigh occasionally for an admirable specific 
 of his old friend, the Bishop of Leicester ; and Lady White- 
 head, if she were but at the Priory, knew of a plant in the 
 grounds that cured rheumatism, and tooth-ache, she added, 
 was often nothing else. 
 
 The Misses Whitehead and their French beaux played a 
 concerto ; and there was a handsome young officer, Adonis de 
 Belletete, who admired Juliet very much, and tried to amuse 
 her. Had Montague Wyndham been there, perhaps she would 
 have tried to appear interested in him, but as it was— why 
 "weep behind a mask?" Why listen to the compliments of 
 any other man than Montague ? Poor Juliet ! when it was too 
 late to admit a chance of Montague's coming, she herself ad- 
 vised their return home. The Whiteheads faintly offered some 
 refreshments which were declined. Mr. St. Aubyn was removed 
 from a discussion with Sir Caesar about the Bishop of Leicester's 
 arms and pedigree; and Mrs. St. Aubyn from an account of 
 the old wash-house at the Priory, which Lady Whitehead, 
 in the true family spirit, called the "extensive and elegant 
 laundry." 
 
 Juliet was resolved not to weep, and she did not. When she 
 got home, all were weary, and would go to rest ; nor could her 
 attempts at amusing them with a ludicrous sketch of the even- 
 ing they had spent, prevent their feeling, that through her 
 pertinacity they had been where they were neither expected 
 nor welcomed, and where they had been sadly bored. They 
 retired at once, and she found herself alone. 
 
 It is a dangerous thing for one determined to be calm, to 
 be alone with the memory of a beloved being with whom she 
 is at variance. No matter on whose side the wrong, (generally 
 on both) her heart accuses her; and Juliet had said bitter 
 things in pique — but it was plain he did not love her — he would 
 not feel them. "Arranged with Mrs. Hodnot!" Oh! he was 
 nothing to her, nor she to him — be meant her to see that — 
 and she walked hastily up and down her room. She opened 
 the window : the moon was very bright : but the moon so 
 mixes up her light with the dawn of love in the heart, Juliet 
 could not look at her— so to divert her thoughts, and get rid 
 of a choking sensation in her throat, she took up " The Par- 
 son's Daughter." The intense interest poor Emma excited, 
 won her (no small triumph that of the arch-enchanter,) from 
 the contemplation of her own wrongs, her own misery '. 
 
 1 It may seem, that my modesty, as writer of the work from which Juliet St. Auhwi 
 received so much pleasure and consolation, should have induced me either to suppress 
 the name of the book, or substitute that of one better deserving of so much praise. How- 
 ever, the v a 1 1 i I > of being commended by the fair Authoress of " Cousin Geoffrey," got 
 Ibe belter of m\ prudence, ami I have left her eulogy as I found it.— Ed. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 99 
 
 She read till she had finished the volume, and, soothed by 
 the poetical and inspiring loveliness, and the contrast of her 
 own imaginary woes, (at which her spirit chafed so impatiently) 
 with the real anguish of Emma, she wiped away a tear from 
 no selfish source, and hastened to bed. 
 
 The next day Montague called on the St. Aubyns. Juliet 
 had meant to conciliate, and to try to learn, if possible, why 
 he had so coldly and decisively refused to take rooms in the 
 same house with them ; but her intention changed the moment 
 she saw him. He had just heard from one of the officers who 
 was at the Whiteheads the night before, of the very uncom- 
 fortable evening the St. Aubyns had spent. He had not been 
 there himself, because he thought Juliet had not behaved quite 
 as she should have done ; and although in his heart he did not 
 dislike the pique which betrayed her preference, he wanted 
 to make her regret the exhibition of her temper. 
 
 "Ah! how are you, Miss Juliet, after the fatigues of last 
 night?" he said, while his blue eyes seemed to laugh in spite of 
 himself and his assumed gravity. 
 
 ''Very well, I thank you,"' replied Juliet, colouring with 
 surprise, for she had expected to see him sad and repentant. 
 
 "Are you fatigued?" said he. "Did you not dance?"' 
 
 " No— w r ere you not there?" said Juliet. "Oh! no — I re- 
 member, now . . . ." 
 
 "In so large a party," said Montague, "certainly it must 
 be difficult to recollect whether I was there or not — in a crowd 
 a stranger is easily overlooked." 
 
 "Ah ! but there w T as no crowd," said Juliet 5 "a little, quiet, 
 sociable party — music, conversation." 
 
 " In short," said Montague, " you were as much amused 
 as vou expected to be." 
 
 "Oh! quite." 
 
 "Then the gay dress and Eileen's skill were not thrown 
 away?" continued Wyndham. 
 
 " By no means," she replied, gaily. " We had the Major, Miss 
 Whitehead's beau — several other officers and that very handsome 
 and clever young garde du corps, Monsieur Adonis de Belletete." 
 
 "Beady to throw mille livres de rente and Adonis himself at 
 your feet," said Montague. " Be not deceived— French livres 
 are only francs. Is he very clever ?" 
 
 "If by clever you mean sarcastic," said Juliet, "no — but 
 good-humoured and amusing, yes." 
 
 " Now I thought him rather sarcastic," replied the gentleman. 
 
 "Do you know him then?" asked Juliet, rather alarmed. 
 
 "Oh !" answered Wyndham, " he has just been making us 
 all laugh with an account of Sir Caesar in the tooth-ache and en 
 
100 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 papillotes. When you arrived last, night, it seems that Sir 
 Caesar, by way of excuse, had told Adonis, that it was the fa- 
 shion for English gentlemen to sit at home en papillotes — but 
 that yet he fled at your approach. It must have been very absurd. 
 I almost wish I had been there." 
 
 Juliet felt too angry to reply. How provoking that he should 
 have heard what a stupid affair it had been ! What a mistake 
 she had made ! 
 
 The Bartons, and Captains Grigsby and Snaffle came to call 
 at that moment. Juliet took her seat amongst them, addressed 
 no further remark to Montague, but left him entirely to Blanche. 
 He made his retreat almost immediately. 
 
 He did not offer her his hand — if he had done so, perhaps she 
 would have taken it coldly— yet nothing but pride and anger 
 could have prevented her shedding tears. 
 
 " I wish I knew who that poor young man really is," said 
 Mrs. Barton to Juliet, as he quitted the room. " My poor Mrs. 
 Hodnot is not half as particular as she should be. I have great 
 misgivings about him, my dear Miss Juliet — quite entre nous — 
 but with my poor innocent Louisa, and my little, quick, sharp- 
 witted Tiny, it is so very important to me to be quite sure with 
 whom I associate." 
 
 " I'm thure," said Captain Snaffle, " Tiny and Mith Louitha 
 oughtn't to athothiate with any one not formally introduthed." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Captain Grigsby. "I think the poor 
 young man is an actor belonging to some of the minor theatres." 
 
 " What his your reason for thinking that?" said Juliet, calmly, 
 though her eyes flashed. 
 
 " Why, my dear Miss Juliet," said the Captain, " he's so 
 w T ell acquainted with Shakspeare, I'm sure he must have learnt 
 all the parts 5 and as I know I never saw him at Covent Garden 
 or DruryLane, I think he is from the minor theatres. Indeed, 
 I think I half remember the name at the Olympic. Oh ! yes — 
 that knowledge of Shakspeare betrays it." 
 
 " It ith very athtonithing," said Snaffle ; " otherwithe what 
 could he want with Thakethpeare?" 
 
 " But what quite overturns your theory," said Juliet, " is, 
 that Shakspeare's plays are not performed at the minor the- 
 atres." 
 
 " Well, at all events," said Grigsby, " I am sure the young 
 man is something very low, poor fellow !" 
 
 " Thuppothe," suggested Snaffle, " thuppothe he thould be a 
 hair-drether?" 
 
 4s Nol very likely," said Juliet ; " he has no betraying odour 
 of huile antique or pommade a la ftetir d? orange—they are 
 peculiar to hair-dressers, I believe." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 101 
 
 " You thoek me by thaying tho," said Snaffle; " for I am 
 thorry to thay I uthe them both." 
 
 " Do you, indeed?'' said Juliet, who was well aware of the 
 fact. " And did no one ever imagine (merely from that circum- 
 stance, of course, that you might have been an artiste in that 
 line?" 
 
 " Mith Juliet," exclaimed Snaffle, "you thock, but you cannot 
 mean to inthult me !" 
 
 "I am sure," said Juliet, "I did not mean to do so. I could 
 not suppose you would object to have it imagined you might 
 belong to the profession you ascribed to Mr. YVyndham — he is 
 so distinguished in mind, appearance, and manner, that, be it 
 what it might, he would dignify it." 
 
 " You are tho thevere," said the Captain ; " but then I can 
 take a joke tho well, you thee." 
 
 11 ki any rate," said Mrs. X&rton, " as I was remarking be- 
 fore, if my poor girls are to be thrown in his way, I should like 
 to know exactly who and what he is. I feel sure he is not what 
 he seems — I have reasons for thinking so." 
 
 "If he should not be," said Juliet, with flashing eyes, "you 
 can only have reason, in common with all who know him, to 
 think that he is something more exalted, and more important, 
 than that which he appears : there is about him the unacquirable 
 air of one accustomed to grant, rather than to entreat—the ease 
 of conscious superiority — the..." 
 
 " My poor, dear Miss Juliet !" interrupted Mrs. Barton, " you 
 will give rise to all sorts of foolish little fancies." 
 
 " Indeed,'" answered Juliet, " I do not wish to do that; they 
 seem to abound already. I only wish to be just, and I am quoting 
 mama's opinion ; who, having mixed a good deal in the best so- 
 ciety, is a fair judge of what are, and what are not, the manners 
 and conversation of a gentleman.'" 
 
 " Well, I hope it may be so," said Mrs. Barton. " My poor 
 Louisa, my little Tiny, are such a dear, but anxious charge ; it 
 would shock me so, if they made any improper acquaintance.'' 
 
 "Oh ! it would be thocking indeed," chimed in Snaffle ; " dear, 
 thweet little Tiny — " and so they departed ; leaving Juliet, who 
 had been herself so angry with Montague, with her cheeks 
 flushed with the vehemence she had exhibited in his cause when 
 another had dared to disparage his pretensions. She was no 
 longer the accuser, but the passionate defender.— And such is 
 woman's love ! 
 
 The unexplained estrangement between Juliet and Montague, 
 continued for some weeks : neither attended to it — both affected 
 indifference— both were very lively when together 5 and Juliet, 
 at least, was very miserable when alone. Her heart for some time 
 
102 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 had been feeding on " poisons, and they were to her a kind of 
 nutriment /'jealousy, doubt, anger, self-contempt. 
 
 In the same spirit with that of the Spartan boy, who was calm 
 while a fox preyed upon his vitals, was the vain and useless he- 
 roism of this young girl ; smiling while these vultures fed upon 
 her heart. 
 
 Yes, she did smile, and so successfully, that Montague began 
 to doubt, whether she had ever felt for him anything beyond a 
 momentary preference. He saw her gay, laughing, courted, 
 followed ; she no longer talked of poetry, she was never at home 
 alone ; never walked, except either with her father, or mother, 
 and sometimes one gentleman, sometimes another by her side : 
 often it was x\donis de Be!iet&te. And though her manner was 
 abstracted, and her mind wandered till Montague appeared, yet, 
 at his approach she became animated, joyous, interested : so 
 that Adonis decided, that although " (Tune beaute parfaite" 
 she was, " comme toutes les Anglaises, d'un caractere bi- 
 zarre, capricieux, fort inegal I " 
 
 But Montague saw her only when her lively sallies brought 
 smiles to the lips of all around, and then he joined in the sportive 
 conversation. He joked her about her many admirers — her fa- 
 vourite Cousin Geoffrey, asked when he was coming ; and an- 
 swered her attacks with jests and repartees. 
 
 Who could have guessed how it fared with these young 
 lovers ? 
 
 There was a dignity and self-respect in Juliet's heart, particu- 
 larly now that it was, as it were, the shrine of a real, though 
 unhappy passion, which prevented her actually flirting with any 
 of the admirers whom her beauty and vivacity drew around her : 
 but she had indirect ways of trying to make Montague see, that 
 he would have run no risk of being ensnared by her, even had 
 they resided under the same roof. When Montague one day 
 asked her to sing, she said, "Do you like Monsieur Adonis de 
 Bellet&te's favourite, or Captain Grigsby's?" 
 
 "lam quite sure," said Wyndham, " I should never like any 
 favourite of those coxcombs." 
 "Nay," said Juliet, " they have very good taste." 
 " I doubt not you think so," answered Wyndham. 
 "Not the cynical, fault-finding English taste," said Juliet, 
 blushing, yet assuming an arch smile. " But it is quite refresh- 
 ing, after one has been accustomed to the fastidious, hypercriti- 
 cal English, to find yourself among people who do not suspect 
 a latent evil motive in all you do or say. I like the French ; they 
 come up to Sterne's beau ide'al: 'Pleased, they know not why, 
 and care not wherefore.'" 
 
 " Exactly," said Montague \ " and yet, do you know, I cannot 
 
cousin Geoffrey. 103 
 
 help thinking that those who do know why, and who do care 
 wherefore, are better worth pleasing after all." 
 
 "I know," said Juliet, "that these self-elected judges are 
 seldom pleased with anything but themselves. From the throne 
 of their conceit and self-sufficiency, they look down on all around 
 them : their judgment is like an opera-glass 5 they use one end 
 to magnify the faults of others, and the other to diminish their 
 own. But come, don't let us moralize ; I will sing you Monsieur 
 Adonis's favourite song ;" and, taking up her guitar, she warbled 
 with a rich clear voice through Beranger's " Ange, auxyeux 
 bleus" 
 " Do vou like it ? " said she. 
 
 "You sing it well," said Montague, " and with skill, taste, 
 and feeling ; but I do not like French airs." 
 
 "And you praise graciously," said Juliet, sportively adopting 
 a little of his manner, " with discernment , tact, and knowledge ; 
 but I do not like English airs." 
 
 Montague smiled. " Farewell, Miss Juliet," he said, offering 
 his hand, " I am going to be very busy, so that for some time 
 I shall be compelled to make myself agreeably scarce." 
 
 " In which case," said Juliet, as she shook hands with him, 
 " you will be scarcely agreeable." 
 
 " She never cared for me," thought Montague, as he hurried 
 along the sea-coast, and bit his lip, and seemed to be hastening 
 from his own thoughts. 
 
 " He never loved me," said Juliet to herself, as she repaired to 
 her room, and burst into tears. 
 
 For some time, the meetings and conversations of Juliet and 
 Montague TVyndbam were all carried on in this spirit. He flirted 
 with Miss Barton and the Whiteheads, disliked them in his heart, 
 and praised them to Juliet : she talked and sang to Monsieur 
 Adonis— to Captains Snaffle and Grigsby— and to several French 
 officers ; hated them in her heart, yet seemed pleased with them 
 when Montague was by.— She was beginning to assure herself 
 that he was heartless, and that she was indifferent to him : — he 
 was trying to persuade himself, that she was a coquette, and 
 that he despised her. 
 
 One day, Juliet and Blanche had been walking for some time 
 near the public baths. At a little distance was a fisherman's cabin 
 —this fisherman had a beautiful child ; a little girl— whose black 
 hair, blue eyes, and pretty manners, had frequently attracted the 
 notice of Montague, Juliet, and Blanche. At one time, he, at 
 their request, had been in the habit of taking her cakes and bon- 
 bons. For some days, she had not been out playing on the 
 shingles as usual : Montague had told Blanche, that he meant 
 that afternoon to go to the cabin, and inquire after his little fa- 
 
104 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 vourite Ninette ; as he feared she must be ill. This, Blanche had 
 casually mentioned to Juliet : — "Oh !" said the latter hastily, 
 "let us return home as quickly as possible 5 he will think we 
 want to meet him/' 
 
 At this moment, Francois, Ninette's brother, a sturdy little 
 fisherman of twelve years old, passed by, on his way into the 
 town. — Juliet and Blanche stopped to question him about his 
 sister's illness, and to give him some money for her. As he de- 
 scribed her symptoms Juliet grew very pale.— a It is the typhus 
 fever, I know it is, Blanche," said she, with the quick forethought 
 of affection. " We will not go home at present 5 it is our duty to 
 stay here, and warn any body from going into the cabin. Mr. 
 Wyndham ! he is nothing to me 5 but still, as an acquaintance, 
 we should not let him run any risk." 
 
 Blanche, who in her heart believed that Montague was, indeed, 
 everything to Juliet, had too much tact to appear aware of the 
 character or extent of her anxiety, and kindly consented to walk 
 up and down wilh her before the house. A few questions asked 
 of a neighbour confirmed Juliet's suspicion ; — it was the typhus 
 fever -and poor little Ninette was not expected to live. 
 
 While Blanche was inquiring into the case of their little favou- 
 rite, and Juliet was listening with real interest, the latter suddenly 
 turned as pale as death — uttered a faint shriek— and rushed 
 towards the cabin. Blanche looked round, and saw Montague 
 at the little garden gate : Juliet tried to call out to him, but her's 
 w r as that intense terror which robs the voice of its power. She 
 ran with the fleetness of a roe, and Blanche followed her. She 
 reached the cabin just as Montague entered it 5 and to Blanche's 
 dismay and astonishment, she saw Juliet dart after him into the 
 infected place. In a moment she re-appeared, dragging him with 
 her, pale as death \ and, with a wild terror in her eyes, she was 
 saying— 
 
 "Montague, O Montague! the spot is infected — it is the 
 typhus fever — a moment there might be death to you— oh ! per- 
 haps, even now I may have been too late ! " — and she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " What is it," exclaimed Montague, " dearest Ju . . ! I mean 
 Miss St. Aubyn.— Blanche, what does all this mean?" as Juliet, 
 having dragged him to a safe distance, sank down on a bank. 
 
 "Poor Ninette has the typhus fever," said Blanche ; "and I 
 suppose Juliet feared you should catch it." 
 
 "And risked the danger herself to shelter me!" cried he. 
 " Juliet, dearest Juliet! look at me — speak to me." 
 
 Blanche saw a shell at a little distance, and ran to pick 
 it up. 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Wyndham;' said Juliet, "what I have done 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 105 
 
 must seem strange and forward to you ; but, had 1 seen any 
 other acquaintance in danger , . . — " and again she wept; and 
 the extreme agitation of her manner belied her guarded words. 
 
 "Miss St. Aubyn," said he, as he resigned the hand she en- 
 deavoured to withdraw ; " forgive the presumption which made 
 me hope, that your late heroic kindness betrayed a friendly in- 
 terest which would induce you to listen to me, while I begged 
 you at least to restore me to the place I once held in your fa- 
 vour." There was a mournful tenderness in his manner which 
 made Juliet tremble. 
 
 "You remember the day," continued he; "a bright day in 
 my calendar, Juliet, for you smiled kindly on me then — no mat- 
 ter the day, when your father proposed that I should take rooms 
 in the same house with you." 
 
 " And what of that, Sir?" said Juliet, apparently angry. " It 
 was only papa's thoughtless proposal; — no one seconded it!" 
 
 "Juliet ! " said AVyndham, " since that time you have been 
 very angry with me : — you were so then, yet without cause." 
 
 "Angry! " said Juliet, all her offended dignity showing itself 
 in her countenance, "oh, no! what a very strange remark! 
 What reason could I have for anger towards a gentleman who 
 had been so very civil to all of us? — A stranger, too ! " 
 
 ">~o, not a stranger! " said Montague. "It is true I have 
 known you but a few weeks ; but the heart, like the butterfly, 
 can live a whole life in one short day. You know that that heart 
 is beginning to love— that ere long it will adore you. I do not 
 venture yet to ask you what return its passion may expect : if 
 you are, as I believe you to be. the very soul of truth, it will not 
 be long before the sweet hopes I now entertain are wrecked 
 for ever, or exchanged for enchanting certainties. But having 
 noticed, of course, that your society was very dear to me, you 
 have a woman's right to be angry at the apparent inconsistency 
 of my declining to inhabit the same house with you."... 
 
 The earnestness of Wyndham's manner prevented Juliet's 
 reply. A few minutes before, her pride would have taken fire at 
 his last words : now she merely bowed. 
 
 ... "In truth, it was a sacrifice, the extent of which my 
 heart, a few days before, could not even have comprehended. — 
 Do not smile thus : a smile of incredulity is maddening from 
 the lips we love, while we speak from the very heart.— Of 
 course, you remember that I pleaded my engagement with Mrs. 
 Hodnot?" 
 
 "A very sufficient excuse," said Juliet. 
 
 "No, Miss St. Aubyn," said he, "not a sufficient excuse, 
 for resigning the greatest happiness this earth could give — that 
 of seeing you daily, hourly— of hearing your voice— of knowing 
 
106 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 that you were ever near. Of course you felt that a few pounds 
 would amply compensate for my defection to Mrs. Hodnot; 
 but, Juliet, we are both young — the world is severe upon youth- 
 ful indiscretion. I could not have dwelt under the same roof 
 with you, without betraying the preference of my heart — slan- 
 der would have been busy with your name 5 and if I could never 
 have won your affections, I should have brought sorrow and 
 annoyance to your heart, and have had no power to atone ! " — 
 (There was a mournful pride in his manner as he spoke.)— 
 " Juliet," he added, " it might be fastidious— but what man of 
 feeling does not tremble at the thought of drawing the world's 
 remarks on her he... reveres? I have borne your contempt as I 
 best might ; partly because I deserved it not, and partly because 
 I began to think you hated me. But hope is obstinate, and 
 your generous interest for my safety... In short, Juliet, let us 
 be friends." 
 
 Juliet looked at him — he was very pale, and his eyes glistened. 
 He extended his hand, almost unconsciously — almost uncon- 
 sciously, she yielded hers 5 and the large tears filled her eyes, and 
 stole down her pale cheeks. 
 
 Wyndham felt a wild, an almost ungovernable impulse, to 
 clasp her to his heart— but he refrained. The St. Aubyns had 
 joined Blanche, and were heard calling for Juliet and Wynd- 
 ham ; and, hastily drying her tears, she dropped her veil, ac- 
 cepted the arm he offered, and hastened home. She thought 
 that he gently pressed her arm to his side— she thought she felt 
 the flutter of his noble heart. — " He loves me ! " was the inward 
 and rapturous ejaculation of her own ; " and, oh ! how I adore 
 — how 1 revere him ! " 
 
 Both Juliet and Montague fortunately escaped the infection ; 
 and the latter sent medical aid to the poor little sufferer, who, 
 supplied by the St. Aubyns and himself with everything that 
 could conduce to her comfort, ultimately recovered. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 La Rochefoucault has said, that coquetry is cured by love 5 
 and, there is no doubt, that a woman, fervently attached to one 
 man, loses all desire to attract the attention of others. This was 
 rapidly becoming the case with Juliet— her character was un- 
 dergoing an entire change. If she had ever indulged in the sal- 
 lies and coquettish airs which were once as natural to her as 
 her vivacity and grace, it was not to win others, but that Mon- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 107 
 
 ague might see that others thought her worth winning. No 
 )rude ever shrank in reality from the admiring glance of man, as 
 lid Juliet, in her heart, from any eyes but those of Montague 5 
 but this exclusive preference was not at all incompatible with a 
 :oquetry of conduct towards the object of her choice. Thegreat- 
 ?r her inward conviction of entire dependence on the love and 
 approbation of the chosen one, the greater will often be a 
 soman's aim and effort at an outward show of freedom. She 
 ilays the tyrant, that her lover, that the world, may not guess 
 that she is m truth and at heart the slave. Then, too, there is a 
 'ear, which Nature has implanted in the breast of every gifted 
 and sensitive woman, that of seeming too easily won, too de- 
 moted—of owing her lover's heart to a sort of gratitude for 
 that devotion, rather than to his own involuntary admiration, 
 passion, adoration. These fears were ever busy at the heart of 
 [he conscious Juliet— they gave a wild caprice and strange un- 
 certainty to her manner, and sent many a chilling doubt to 
 Montague's mind. 
 
 ^Ve are bound, too. in candour to own, that Juliet had been 
 a little spoilt : the constant and obsequious devotion of her ele- 
 gant Cousin Geoffrey— unvaried except on one occasion ( the 
 memorable eve of her departure; — had accustomed her to be 
 looked up to, yielded to, agreed with, on ail points, and indis- 
 criminately praised for all she said or did. 
 
 Now Montague was, as we have said, all truth and frankness. 
 He maintained his own opinions, even when he differed with 
 Juliet : if consulted, he dared even to disapprove a plan, a no- 
 tion, an action of hers. Sometimes he made objections to things 
 which she had asked him to do— once he had gently but posi- 
 tively refused ; once had disliked a ribbon which she had twisted 
 in her hair: and once he had disapproved of a showy dress, in 
 which Cousin Geoffrey had declared that, were she to appear 
 in London, she would win the prize of the season ; the young, 
 rich, and handsome Earl of Castleton. 
 
 Juliet did not easily accustom herself to these things. Had 
 Montague been all devotion, she ;for she was generous) would 
 have been all tenderness ; but opposition roused a spirit which 
 had been fostered by Cousin Geoffrey's injudicious homage. She 
 could not understand how one who affected to love her devo- 
 tedly, could presume to contradict her — how to a lover's eye 
 she could be any thing short of perfection — how passion could 
 reason, discriminate, argue — how, in fact, a lover could be 
 anything but a blind, unreasoning slave. 
 
 When these doubts arose, she strove to check the betraying 
 tenderness with which her eyes hastened to meet his— to still 
 the flutter of her bosom at his approach— by artificial smiles to 
 
108 COUSIIV GEOFFREY. 
 
 conceal that her lip quivered, and in assumed gaiety to hide the 
 jealous anguish of her heart. 
 
 The St. Aubyns had now made the acquaintance of all the 
 visitable people in Dieppe, and there were, as we have seen, 
 some amongst them to whom Juliet could at least appear to 
 listen with pleasure — some with whom she could talk, laugh, 
 dance — and wish them the while 
 
 '* In the blue distance, many a mile away." 
 
 Montague did not quite understand the causes of Juliet's sud- 
 den changes of manner ; he did not see that she had been taught 
 to expect that her lover was to be her slave. 
 
 Had he understood her quite, he loved her honestly and nobly 
 enough to have risked her momentary displeasure by a full 
 explanation of an independence which, even as a lover, he felt 
 he could not resign. But as Juliet when most piqued, took the 
 greatest pains to conceal the cause of offence, he seldom even 
 suspected it 5 and she often ran the risk of seeming to the gene- 
 rous Wyndham, whom in her heart she worshipped, a vain, 
 capricious, and heartless coquette. 
 
 Often when Montague had half decided, either that she had 
 no heart to lose, or that he had not the power to win it, a sud- 
 den tear, a gentle tone, a struggling sigh, a biushing cheek, or 
 some sweet sentiment or gentle proof of care or thought for him, 
 came with irresistible and welcome influence to dissipate his 
 doubts, to condemn the hated and unjust suspicion, and to 
 bring him — in thought, at least — to the feet of his injured, ido- 
 lized Juliet ! 
 
 Two months had passed 5 and though the lovers had thought 
 much, endured much, and loved much, they were still almost 
 as far from a mutual understanding as on the first morning of 
 their arrival at Dieppe. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn, with all the anxious watchfulness of a de- 
 voted mother, had noticed that there was an unwonted some- 
 thing in Juliet's manner — a fitfulness, an anxiety, at times almost 
 an irritability about her. She had perceived that she was ever 
 on the watch when Wyndham was absent, that an unexpected 
 sound made her start, that at his approach she blushed, that she 
 was constantly at the window when he did not come, and that 
 no attraction lured her to it when he was by her side. All this 
 the mother had noticed ; and she trembled, even while she hoped 
 and prayed. With maternal tact and a woman's quickness, she 
 discovered that Wyndham loved her child : she appreciated the 
 generous frankness of his nature— she liked, she almost loved 
 him. She saw that some mystery hung around him; but, judg- 
 ing him as she did, she believed that, were it of a painful or 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 109 
 
 disgraceful nature, he was too good, too generous, too noble, 
 to risk the future happiness of Juliet by his attentions. 
 
 She wished that her child would confide in her — she wished 
 that Montague would come forward without disguise ; but she 
 knew that in such affairs interference is always injurious, that 
 to attempt to accelerate, generally delays, and that opposition 
 is certain to irritate. She resolved, therefore, to wait patiently 
 till Christmas, the time when Montague had said he must re- 
 turn to England— to pray more fervently than ever for the hap- 
 piness of her Juliet, and to watch, more vigilantly than ever, 
 3ver that beloved child. 
 
 The St. Aubyns had been for some time in the lodgings we 
 iccompanied them to select, and Wyndham had been for some 
 ime domiciled with the Hodnots ; the Whiteheads, therefore, 
 lad directed their chief attention to that quarter ; and indeed 
 ivery cap in the boarding-house was set at the handsome 
 
 tranger. 
 
 Still, though when present all tried to please and win him — 
 vhen absent, every tongue was active in slandering him. The 
 nost improbable stories were invented and circulated — the most 
 nonstrous fabrics raised on the unsoundest foundations. Some- 
 imes Juliet was assured he was a married man, with a large 
 amiiy starving at home, while he Philandered abroad — he, at 
 wenty-four! Sometimes he had two wives in England, and was 
 tiding himself from the fear of a trial for bigamy. Sometimes 
 le was an officer who had deserted, sometimes a clerk who had 
 mbezzled. Once he was an Irish monk, and once a notorious 
 muggier. Each charge was supported by mysterious hints, 
 ious, and incontrovertible, though never to be divulged proofs ; 
 nd the more bitter the calumny against him, the more sweetly 
 id Juliet smile upon him; the greater the doubts of others, the 
 lore entire her faith. Still there certainly did seem to be some 
 ivstery ; and with all. save the St. Aubyns themselves, mystery 
 eemed synonymous with guilt. Yet all courted him. 
 
 Mrs. Barton rouged more highly, and was more gentle, com- 
 liserating, and imploring than ever. Louisa, perceiving that 
 e was kind and generous, slily tried to work upon his feelings 
 y delicate and private hints at her miserable state of domestic 
 iscomfort — unloved, unnoticed, unappreciated. Tiny was in 
 onstant requisition. Mrs. Dash wood was more gay, and Mrs. 
 aithful more solemn than ever. Miss Primrose purchased a 
 ew pair of spectacles, that she might the better see all that was 
 oing on : and the Whiteheads contrived, by some means or 
 [her, to spend part of every day at Mrs. Hodnot's. 
 One evening had been fixed for a larger party than usual. 
 anting, music, petits jeux . were planned. The St. Aubyns 
 
110 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 had been invited j and Juliet, who had been a whole day with- 
 out quarrelling, even in her heart, with Wyndham, looked for- 
 ward to this soiree with a wild anticipation of delight. 
 
 Montague Wyndham had offered to call at three o'clock, to 
 escort Blanche and Juliet in a long country walk they wished 
 to take. Juliet's last words had been, " Be punctual, if you 
 expect any favour from us at your evening party." She smiled 
 as she spoke, for she deemed the warning needless, and she 
 hastened to her own room, to dwell on the delightful prospect 
 of being with Montague the whole afternoon, and of meeting 
 him again in the evening. He had never seemed so dear, so 
 very dear to her ; he had never looked so handsome, so devoted, 
 as when he took his leave. Juliet almost felt that the next day 
 would decide her fate. Montague had never been at all explicit 
 since the day when she rushed into Ninette's cottage to save 
 him ; but then she had often checked any approach at an ex- 
 planation. She determined in her heart she would do so no 
 more— she would listen, she would consider, she would... Oh! 
 what would she do? What would she not do? She could not 
 even picture to herself what her conduct would be, and hurried 
 to bed, to get over the long night, and fill up the dreary interval 
 with dreams of Montague. 
 
 The night passed — the longest night passes away at last. 
 The morning dawned less brightly than Juliet. She got up ; 
 she tried to occupy herself-, she sat down to the piano-forte, 
 struck a few chords, and ran to the window. She tried to draw; 
 the quiet occupation lulled her into a reverie. She took up a 
 purse, and entangled the silk 5 it cost Blanche half an hour of 
 close employment to set it to rights. Now she stole to the glass; 
 then she stepped out on the balcony, and looked into the 
 street. At last she took up a book, placed herself in the win- 
 dow-seat, and did not even know the name of the work she 
 held in her hand. 
 
 Blanche came in dressed for their excursion. 
 
 "Is it nearly three?" asked Juliet, eagerly. 
 
 " No, but it is past two ; and Mr. Wyndham is more likely 
 to be before than after his lime." 
 
 "Only two!" and Juliet sank back disappointed. She did 
 not like to dress ; the time would seem so much longer if she 
 were dressed too soon. At last, she started up : "Oh! I shall 
 be late ! " she cried ; and she ran up stairs. She had plenty of 
 time, and yet she was flurried with haste ; her hand shook so 
 terribly, that she could scarcely adjust her dress, or arrange 
 her hair. The white roses that decked the inside of her bonnet 
 which Wyndham had given her, were not paler than her 
 cheek \ but, even as she wished she looked a little more bloom- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. Ill 
 
 ing— the thought of Wyndham brought a flush upon her 
 countenance; and she hastened down stairs with the sweet 
 conviction, that she had never looked (as all novelists say) to 
 greater advantage. 
 The clock struck three as she joined Blanche. 
 
 1 Three! and Mr. Wyndham not here!" she said, with 
 something of angry surprise. 
 
 " Oh! " said Blanche, " he will be here directly, dear-, our 
 clock is fast." 
 
 " Faster than a lover," thought Juliet; and she sat discon- 
 tentedly down. — Some time went by. 
 
 " Is that half-past three?" asked Juliet : Blanche unwillingly 
 owned that it was. 
 
 " I shall take off my things," said Juliet angrily, the tears 
 in her eyes : and she prepared to leave the room. 
 
 " Do not be so irritable — so unkind— so unlike yourself, 
 Juliet," said Blanche, detaining her. " You, who used to make 
 excuses for every one, are now tetchy and severe even with 
 those you like best. Something has detained Montague :— 
 perhaps he is not well. To oblige me, wait patiently half an 
 hour longer." 
 
 Juliet sank in her chair : she could wait to oblige Blanche, 
 but to oblige the whole world she could not wait patiently. 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. St. Aubyn came in. 
 
 " My dearest girls." he said, " why are you not out this very 
 fine day? Mrs. Barton has a phaeton at the door, I am driving 
 her, and she has a vacant seat : she bids me ask whether one 
 of you will join us." 
 
 " I will," exciaimed Juliet, whose half-hour had passed without 
 bringing Montague ; and to whom any change was a relief : 
 particularly one which might punish him, when he came and 
 iound she was gone-, " I am ready! Oh! by the bye!" recol- 
 lecting Blanche's hint about the chance of his being ill, " have 
 you seen Mr. Wyndham to-day, papa?" 
 
 " Mrs. Barton tells me," said Mr. St. Aubyn, " the White- 
 heads took him to their house somewhat early." 
 
 "Good-bye, dear Blanche," said Juliet, with a sweet smiie 
 on her lip, but bitter anguish at her heart: " you do not bid 
 me stay now, I hope! If he comes," she whispered, " say I 
 shall not be in till dinner time ; and that I shall dance the first 
 quadrille with... no matter whom — only say I am engaged — as 
 I will be to any one." She ran hastily dow r n stairs, and sprang 
 into the phaeton. 
 
 Blanche had not sought again to detain her : it was now past 
 four, and she herself began to feel piqued for Juliet, in whom 
 she took a real pride, and whom she loved with all a sister's love. 
 
112 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 While Juliet was hiding the anxiety of her heart under a 
 forced and excessive gaiety of manner, we must for the sake of 
 Montague's character with our readers) hasten to account for 
 his apparent want of love-like anxiety, or even proper honest 
 punctuality. 
 
 It was at three in the afternoon, that he was to walk with 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn and her daughters : he had felt that there 
 was a peculiar tenderness in Juliet's farewell; he had planned 
 requesting Blanche to give him, by taking her mother's arm, 
 an opportunity of conversing lete-d-Ute with Juliet. He had 
 resolved to hazard his all, his hopes of her acceptance. To him, 
 too, the time seemedvery long — the interval interminable! He 
 knew not how to get rid of all the hours which divided him 
 from Juliet. He was just escaping the boring attention of all 
 the ladies at Mrs. Hodnot's, and had resolved to wander till the 
 appointed time by the w T aves, whose boiling and dashing would 
 be in some unison with his troubled heart, when he was ac- 
 costed by Sir Csesar, and three of the Whitehead girls ; — An- 
 tonia, Geraldine, and the home-spun Prudence. 
 
 They immediately accosted him— it was then about one 
 o'clock. " We are come to fetch you to lunch with us," said 
 Prudence. 
 
 " You cannot refuse us!" exclaimed Antonia with a tender 
 glance, seizing one arm, while Geraldine, with an imitative one, 
 and a similar ejaculation, caught the other. 
 
 " Indeed," said Wyndham, " I cannot have the pleasure of 
 visiting you to-day." 
 
 " Oh! why not? — why not?" exclaimed all; " you are not 
 engaged!" 
 
 " I am engaged at three," said Montague. — Even to get rid 
 of the Whiteheads he could not imply a falsehood. 
 
 " Three ! oh, there are hours to three ! " they cried in unison, 
 and urged him on. 
 
 " 1," said Sir Caesar, " am engaged to lunch with the Hod- 
 nots;' 1 — (he had engaged himself) — " therefore I will trouble 
 you at any rate, as you are out, to see the Misses Whitehead 
 home : young ladies of their rank should not go about unes- 
 corted. Do, my dear fellow; you'll oblige me." 
 
 He strutted off, and Wyndham could not in common civility 
 decline his request 
 
 When he reached the Whiteheads' large, odd house, sundry 
 other Whiteheads came to assist in urging him in ; and poor 
 old Lady Whitehead, for whom he had a sort of pity, herself 
 came out to beg him to take some refreshment. 
 
 Montague looked at his watch— it was yet early ; so, premising 
 that he must soon be gone, he followed the eager Whiteheads 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 113 
 
 upstairs. The room had much the air of a painter's study : easels 
 were set out, pallets prepared, a strong smell of oil and tur- 
 pentine prevailed, and canvas stood ready stretched on the 
 easels. 
 
 " Come and sit here, my dear," said old Lady Whitehead, 
 " and Prudence will give you something nice." 
 
 "Ah, but first look at this— and this— and this ! " exclaimed 
 successive Misses Whitehead, showing, one a gaudy portrait, 
 another a bunch of tlowers, a third a green and blue landscape, 
 and a fourth a head of Sir Caesar, more like a sign of the Turk's 
 Head, or any other head sign-wise pendant. 
 
 Wyndham could not admire, but he could wonder; and as 
 the words were once synonymous, so the Whiteheads seemed 
 to think his feelings were, and they were much delighted. 
 
 Poor old Lady Whitehead could not draw — at least, she had 
 no talent, and she had never learnt — but she was very fond of 
 doing feeble, slanting, infantine-looking sketches of the Priory : 
 she had enough of the Whitehead spirit, though, to add a stoVy 
 and two miserable wings. She now insisted on doing a little 
 sketch of the " dear Priory" for Mr. Wyndham. All the displays 
 had taken some time, and Montague was in a nervous fidget to 
 be gone. 
 
 " Now," said Antonia, " listen to me. I see you want to be 
 gone. You need not go till a quarter to three .... Do not 
 interrupt me ! We have locked you in, and (he key is in mama's 
 pocket. If you will be quiet, and do what we wish you, you 
 shall go at a quarter to three ; if not, you shall not go till four." 
 
 " No, that you sha'n't," said Geraldine. 
 
 Wyndham felt inexpressibly provoked, but he could not help 
 laughing : his laughter annuled the effect of his anger. Antonia, 
 aided by Geraldine, soon made him sit down in an arm-chair, and 
 then revealed that she was resolved, that very minute, to begin 
 his likeness in oil, full-size! Resistance was vain ; for the more 
 he was vexed, the more provokingly irrepressible became his 
 laughter. At last he said, " Well, I submit, on condition that you 
 do not attempt to detain me after a quarter to three." He took 
 out his watch — they agreed, promised — and x\ntonia, with a 
 huge brush, began an immense head ; but she was scarcely set 
 off, before Wyndham discovered that, at another easel, Geraldine 
 was taking another gigantic view of his highly-honoured features. 
 
 Of all stupefying operations, that of having one's likeness 
 taken is the most so, and particularly if you have no object in 
 sitting, no interest in the success of the artist, no ambition to be 
 made a Venus or Apollo. 
 
 There was something very monotonous in Lady Whitehead's 
 yoice, and in her long reminiscences of the " Priory : " Wynd- 
 
 S 
 
114 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 ham began to feel an unaccountable stupor steal over his spirit. 
 He looked every live minutes at his watch, and each interval 
 seemed an hour. The Whiteheads' rapturous applause of the 
 wonderful likenesses they were getting, and the attendant 
 sisters' cordial reiteration of the rival artists' own plaudits, failed 
 at last to excite a smile : he was beginning to grow angry with 
 himself for having been so overreached — he had never been 
 in so ill a humour — when Phoebe insisted on putting a watch- 
 paper, she had just cut for him into his watch, and Prudence 
 came forth with some wine of her own making. Angry as he was, 
 he was no savage : he could not refuse Phoebe's apparently kind 
 request, nor Prudence's entreaty that he would at least taste her 
 wine. Sandwiches, apparently cut out of a scarlet horse, accom- 
 panied it 5 but those he did evade, and was glad to see them soon 
 eagerly devoured by the Whiteheads themselves. 
 
 While Phoebe engrossed his watch, his attention, no longer 
 kept alive by any outward object, wandered into a delightful 
 reverie, a lover's day-dream. His thoughts began to clothe 
 themselves in verse : he half-closed his eyes, and gave himself 
 up to the delights of describing his own passion and Juliet's 
 beauty, in a rapturous ode : the large eager Whiteheads became 
 to his wrapt senses indistinct visions— Lady Whitehead's 
 mournful boastings grew about as intelligible as the hum of 
 b ees — the windows, shrouded so as to admit only a painter's 
 light, assisted to soothe his spirit. He had made Phoebe promise 
 to let him know when it was a quarter to three by his watch. At 
 first he had questioned her repeatedly, and she, being in the plot 
 had constantly deceived him ; but he was now too entirely 
 engrossed to think of the hour, or of anything except his ode. 
 
 The artist Whiteheads were delighted : as they never aimed 
 at expression, the perfect stillness of their sitter enchanted 
 them. We have said that his eyes were half-closed, but that 
 was nothing to them : they could paint " the other features, 
 and put in the eyes afterwards." Silently but vehemently they 
 brandished their brushes : the sisters stole about on tiptoe, and 
 spoke in a whisper. Antonia, who suspected his appointment was 
 with the St. x\ubyns, was full of triumphant spite ; Phoebe took 
 care to keep back the watch, and say nothing about the hour 5 
 and it was nearly four before the Whiteheads, fearing if Mon- 
 tague missed his dinner-hour at the Hodnots', they would be 
 obliged to ask him to stay and share their repast, aroused him 
 with a sudden shout of rapturous admiration at the success of 
 the two portrait-painters, 
 
 A sentinel awaking from his sleep, and certain that death 
 would be the price of the involuntary delinquency, might have 
 felt something like that which Montague felt, when he recovered 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 115 
 
 from his poetical reverie to the consciousness that the hour of 
 his appointment was past; that the November evening, which 
 begins at four, was setting in — that he had disappointed Juliet — 
 and that the excuse he had to give was almost an insult to himself 
 and a mockery to her. He had fallen into a reverie ! the lover, 
 watching the appointed hour for meeting his mistress, had 
 fallen into a reverie! Why?-— how? — when? he could not tell 5 
 but that he had been entirely absorbed, and that during that 
 absorption the hour was past, Montague knew full well, directly 
 he had snatched up his watch. 
 
 He started up— no plaudits of the Whiteheads could detain 
 him. He begged a thousand pardons— he would call again ; he 
 could not wait for the sketch of the " Priory" — it was being 
 done up in a piece of paper — he could not stop to take another 
 glass of wine : he caught one glimpse of a huge creature, with 
 red eyes, yellow hair, and an immense blue bag, meant for a 
 coat 5 and another of a profile like a white horse, with a sandy 
 mane. 
 
 " Are you not struck with the likeness?" exclaimed both 
 artists. 
 
 " I will call again," said Wyndham : " excuse me— I cannot 
 examine them now." 
 
 "Oh, but do look! look at the nose!" 
 
 ' ' Look at the hair ! " said Geraldine. 
 
 Wyndham had snatched up his hat, and bowing hastily to all, 
 escaped through the now unlocked door, and hurried to the St. 
 Aubyns. Blanche was dressing, and Juliet had not returned : he 
 felt that resentment had urged her to go out, and he could not 
 blame her. He left his apologies, and said he would explain his 
 apparent want of punctuality ; and then, sick at heart, hastened 
 to the Hodnots. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was somewhat late before the St. Aubyns arrived 5 Mon- 
 tague had felt very wretched, very anxious, and then had been 
 angry with himself for suffering an accident, which a few words 
 ought fully to explain to any reasonable woman, to make a brave 
 man's heart sink and his cheek grow pale. 
 
 In addition to the wonted remunerative visitors, there were 
 several French officers, and all the visitable English at Dieppe ; 
 all those large, unhappy families (unhappy at least in prospects, 
 however contented for the time), who, living on a fathers pen- 
 
116 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 sion, annuity, or half-pay, full of proud notions, and unskilled 
 in anything useful, accumulate, in such fearful numbers, in the 
 English colonies in France, one or two being added to every fa- 
 mily annually 5 the burden little felt while they are infants, their 
 fathers living, and their expenses trifling, but awful to ponder 
 on when they must be driven out into the world, unfitted to cope 
 with it, sensitive, proud, retiring, and with all their high aspir- 
 ings, shrinking and acute sensibilities, hurried into the perpetual 
 twilight and endless toil of a city counting-house, an usher's desk, 
 or a tutor's dark and ignominious retreat, in the power of, and 
 receiving a wretched stipend from, those on whom they have 
 been in the habit of looking down-, while worse still, the delicate 
 and graceful sister drudges away her time in some vulgar school, 
 or mopes with a set of ingenious tormentors, in some back room, 
 shut out even from the cheering sun, hated by the grown-up fe- 
 males of the family for her grace and beauty, and despised by 
 her little tyrants for her delicate health, her weak spirits, and 
 her ill repressed tears. Poor creatures ! A good trade would 
 be a blessing to you all, even though the blood of the Plantage- 
 nets flowed in your veins ! 
 
 Of fair flowers growing up to be nipped by the blights of 
 poverty, unkindness, and the world's scorn, there were many 
 at Mrs. Hodnot's, and there was one who had already encoun- 
 tered the fate which awaited all. Eustace Murray was the name 
 of this early victim, a gentleman by birth, an artist by profession. 
 His father, a half-pay officer, had died in distress — his mother 
 was left with this one boy ; she struggled, she endured, as a 
 mother only can struggle and endure 5 and as Eustace showed 
 that marked predilection for drawing, and that facility in acquir- 
 ing the art, which the world calls having a turn for a thing, she 
 contrived to give him masters, often at the expense of her own 
 actual wants 5 but her dry bread became sweet as she pondered 
 on all the splendours that surround successful genius — as she 
 fancied her fair, proud, delicate boy courted by the wealthy, 
 admired by all 5 perhaps wedded to one who in herself might 
 possess every advantage of birth, station, riches, beauty, and 
 virtue ! The young Eustace was indefatigable in the pursuit he 
 had chosen, he felt his mother's frequent and bitter sacrifices, and 
 in his heart registered a holy vow to repay them well! AlPhis 
 life he had had no other friend — no fond aunts, uncles,'"or cou- 
 sins, to rock the cradle of indigent beauty, or praise the first 
 feeble efforts of the promising but unfriended boy. Andyet his 
 mind was of the highest order — creative, poetical. He was scarce- 
 ly twelve years old before he contrived to add something to 
 his mother's miserable pension, by drawing in albums what va- 
 nity appropriated as its own. Several shopkeepers tasked for the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. tl? 
 
 smallest (rifle, the inspired fancy, and masterly hand of the little 
 artist ; and this, for many years, was a source of profit 5 but, as 
 he bent over the minute and often insignificant subject, ennobled 
 by his taste, how his heart panted for better things, — how, his 
 tedious and miserable labour achieved, he toiled often through 
 the night at his own favourite study, nature and the antique, to 
 counteract the cramping effect of the paltry, niggling style which 
 want had compelled him to adopt. The hardships of his early 
 career, it were useless torture to contemplate. The chances of 
 life brought him a patron, he was dragged from his retirement, 
 his works were exhibited, visions of wealth, of fame, of that 
 dearest boon to genius, just appreciation, dawned on his mind. 
 Poor Eustace ! Envy followed close on the steps of admiration : 
 devoted entirely to poetry and painting, he became the victim 
 of mean cabals which he neither suspected nor understood ; he 
 could not flatter, and flattery is the coin in which patrons ex- 
 pect to be paid ; — with some it must be a delicate flattery, - with 
 others the quantity atones for the quality. Eustace had none to 
 offer; he had gratitude, but gratitude is simple, and plain-spoken. 
 Among the rising artists whom the patron employed and 
 praised, none could paint like Eustace, but all could flatter 
 better. It was in vain, that, to deserve this patron's favour, he 
 toiled day and night; the sensitive young man felt that faults 
 were found where at first merits had been recognised 5 that self- 
 sufficiency was hinted at; that the warm and friendly shake of the 
 hand whas exchanged for a cold, condescending touch, the dear 
 familiarity (dear because it seemed to acknowledge an equal in 
 the gently-born, but needy, artist), was no more 5 servants grew 
 insolent — toadies taunting ; — in a little while the last picture of a 
 series was completed, and no new order came— Eustace called 
 at the hour, when the wealthy Virtuoso was always at home, he 
 was denied — the poor fellow returned to his anxious, eager mo- 
 ther ; he tried to conceal the anguish of his heart, he endeavoured 
 to force back the tears of mortification, of blighted hope, and of 
 the miserable sense of wrong and injustice, which were ever 
 swelling at his heart— the effort cost him a severe illness. With 
 the money which he had received from his once generous patron, 
 his mother procured him advice, and the comforts which his si- 
 tuation required ; she paid the few debts that they had incurred ; 
 and, by the advice of her medical attendant, prepared to leave 
 Paris, where they had hitherto dwelt, and to pass the summer 
 with him at Dieppe. 
 
 Here Eustace recovered his bodily health, — here the coast 
 scenery, every where dear to a painter's eye, delighted and 
 revived him — here during the season, Vanity brought some 
 sitters to his atelier. And here, as many geniuses have been 
 
118 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 obliged to do before him, he was forced to withdraw much of 
 his time from historical subjects, to devote it to the snub fea- 
 tures and squat figures of those ? who preferred an exact counter- 
 part of their cockney selves, to all the Venuses, Psyches, Ariad- 
 nes, or Apollos, to which talent ever gave the Promethean touch. 
 
 Eustace Murray, just two and twenty years of age, had been 
 three years resident at Dieppe, at the time we now meet him 
 at Mrs. Hodnot's. He was, at this period, a promising, nay 
 more, he was a good artist. A poetical imagination shed its 
 golden light over the creations of his pencil— future fame, the 
 ignis fatuus which leads so many into the mire of despair, 
 served only to guide him along the quiet track — he could not 
 risk in experiments of greater things, the small competency his 
 connexion at Dieppe ensured for his mother 5 as it was, she 
 was calmly happy, her very moderate wants were supplied by 
 his hand, and fear for the future, that wolf of the heart, was 
 driven from its door. 
 
 Eustace toiled at the coarse heads, to which he contrived to 
 impart a radiance and grace-, and there silently panting for 
 fame, for justice, and for the time when he could leave his 
 mother at ease for a while, and try his fortunes in liberal, noble 
 England, he gave the hours all others would have bestowed 
 on pleasure, or at least to repose, to the earnest study of the 
 highest branches of his art. 
 
 Oh, to have no patrons ! no privileged intruders ! for now all 
 Dieppe was privileged to blame, to praise, to interfere, to break 
 in upon him,— the Whiteheads, of whose money, no fraction 
 had ever found its way into Eustace's pocket, were among the 
 most pompous and boasting of his proneurs. A new artist had 
 arrived, one with industry and high finish, who had astounded 
 all Dieppe, by his exact representation of a lace collar and 
 a turquoise pin, in a portrait of Mrs. Dashwood, — Dieppe was 
 divided, Eustace's gains diminished. Le Gros, the new artist, 
 took pupils, his pupils formed a connexion for him ; to keep 
 his ground, Eustace was obliged to take pupils too. 
 
 Alas! poor Eustace! how often hast thou loathed the tedious 
 task. The Whiteheads enlisted themselves as his pupils, but 
 never paid him 5 but had they disbursed exorbitantly, they 
 could not have assumed more. Eustace felt this, not for him- 
 self—he could entrench himself in a sort of proud humility; 
 but his mother ! anxious to please ! fearful to offend ! she was 
 more yielding ; and it was the seeing her looked down upon 
 by the poor refugees of Dieppe, who took their tone from the 
 Whiteheads, the feeling that, despicable as he knew them to 
 be, she was not even permitted to be upon a footing with them ! 
 her frequent blush, her humble demeanour, her gentle apolo- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 119 
 
 gies ; these were watch-words to the spirit within ! These sent 
 the young artist from a long day of toil, to a sleepless couch — 
 these prompted the inward vow, to rise above his fate, or perish 
 in the effort. 
 
 Eustace Murray and his mother were among the guests at 
 Mrs. Hodnot's, rather suffered than courted (the mother parti- 
 cularly), for genius always has its weight, and commands some 
 unwilling deference, even from the vulgar : but Mrs. Murray 
 was a quiet old woman, depressed by long misfortune, humble, 
 and therefore trampled upon : not trampled on though, when 
 Eustace was by her side; a slight, a cold look, a sneering word, 
 to her, sent the blood to his cheek, the menacing fire to his 
 eye — no, none dared to insult her in her son's presence. 
 
 And he, regardless of the attractions of the young, the ad- 
 vances of the middle aged, he, when he could not, without 
 offence, avoid going out (for sometimes his patrons made a 
 point of his appearing at their soirees, sometimes, in the 
 exuberance of their condescension, urged him to bring his 
 mother), he was ever by the side of that poor parent, who 
 rather disliked being left alone in her comfortless home, and 
 enjoyed the change of scene, and the opportunity of convers- 
 ing with some of her own countrymen, and who, having no 
 pride except in Eustace, was seldom awake to any neglect of 
 herself. 
 
 Yes, he remained by her side as though to shelter, to protect 
 her; as though to atone, by his deference, for the scorn of 
 others ; as though, by the affectionate officiousness of his own 
 attentions, to conceal from her that she received few from any 
 other quarter. 
 
 He was standing behind her chair, was answering her 
 questions, and endeavouring to make her forget that she was 
 in an ill-bred and crowded solitude, when Montague, deeply 
 interested in the mother and son, asked Mrs. Hodnot to intro- 
 duce him. A conversation on art ensued, and Montague begged 
 to be presented to Mrs. Murray. At this moment the St. Au- 
 byns entered the room. Eustace had seen them at church, at 
 the promenades, and for a few minutes, at different houses 
 during a morning call, but had never been introduced to them, 
 had never spent an evening with them; he had never seen them 
 unencumbered with cloaks and bonnets; and, with all the quick 
 perception of the beautiful, without which no artist can excel, 
 he gazed alternately at the two sisters, almost with surprise at 
 their exceeding loveliness, and, after apparently wavering for 
 some time between the claims of each, his eye finally rested on 
 Blanche. The sisters certainly looked charmingly, they had 
 never before been seen at Dieppe in anything approaching full 
 
120 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 dress, and to a really graceful person the display of the neck 
 and arms is an incalculable advantage. 
 
 The light drapery of their white crape dresses suited their 
 aerial forms ; they wore the pearls which Cousin Geoffrey had 
 offered as a parting gift ; a circlet was on each fair brow, the 
 necklace and the bracelets were in the newest taste, the simi- 
 larity of their costume added to the striking contrast of their 
 different styles of beauty. A whisper of admiration hurried 
 round the room. Miss Barton, who was a good Frenchified 
 dresser, and till then had been surrounded by admirers, found 
 herself suddenly deserted. All the beaux, French and English, 
 had flocked round the new comers. Poor Miss Barton! She 
 bit her lip, and felt that there is " a grace beyond the reach of 
 art." She turned to a pier-glass •. a good Parisian milliner had 
 done her best, Miss Barton herself and her femme-de-chambre, 
 Cecile, had done their best*, but nature had done her best 
 for the St. Aubyns. 
 
 Hitherto Louisa Barton had looked upon them as girls with 
 a fund of beauty, which they knew not how to display, a point 
 upon which she did not mean to enlighten them. Was it a mere 
 chance, or did they really understand the grand secret of dress? 
 As for the poor "Whiteheads, even they were now out of conceit 
 with the showy finery with which they had encumbered them- 
 selves; they felt that the modest elegance of the St. Aubyns, 
 mother and daughters, put them to shame, so they chatted, 
 laughed, and seized their different instruments, resolved, for one 
 night, to yield the palm of beauty, and carry off that of talent 
 and amiability. 
 
 Montague was seated at the further end of the room when the 
 St. Aubyns entered-, he had just, with ready benevolence of 
 heart, ordered a picture of the young artist; he had charmed 
 him by requesting to be presented to his mother, and he had paid 
 her all those little deferential attentions which are so winning 
 from a young and handsome man, when paid to an old and some- 
 what desolate woman. 
 
 He rose, with a pale cheek and beating heart, to approach the 
 St. Aubyns. He had not yet met Juliet's eye, he felt that it was 
 purposely averted — there was agony in the thought ! "She does 
 not trust me ! Will she confide the happiness of her life to one 
 whom she thinks capable of trifling with her feelings? of slight- 
 ing, wounding, disappointing her? Ah, she will never love me 
 as this vain heart sighs to be loved ! She will not even see me! 
 She cares not to know why I came too late ! Can she wish to 
 prolong this painful suspense? She has given her hand to that 
 coxcomb, Grigsby, and I cannot approach her til! the dance is 
 over — I thought she could not be so cruel." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 121 
 
 He was unjust ; he had forgotten how strange, how incon- 
 sistent his conduct must seem to Juliet ; but this is man's nature 
 —he thinks of his own wrongs first. 
 
 Blanche had bowed to him with her wonted good humour; 
 but Blanche, too, was about to dance. He hastened to a sofa, 
 where Mrs. St. Aubyn sate, scarcely less beautiful, and even 
 more handsome than her daughters. She was as cordial as ever; 
 it seemed that she knew nothing of his misunderstanding with 
 Juliet— he wished to tell her all his sorrows, to ask her advice 
 —her sympathy. Alas! Sir Caesar, splendidly frizzed, was as- 
 sailing her with unwelcome flattery and pompous boasting on 
 the one side : on the other, Monsieur Dubois was trying to con- 
 vince her that she was "Heine de la Beaute" et des Amours ; 
 her daughters, les jolis boutons j herself, la charmante rose ;" 
 while leaning over the couch at her back, Captain Snaffle having, 
 for a moment, escaped the vigilance of Mrs. Barton and Tiny, 
 was assuring her that ' ; the wath much more like the thithter 
 than the mother of the Mith St. Aubyns, upon hith word the 
 wath." During the whole of which period the said mother was 
 thinking only how she might rid herself of her tormenting ad- 
 mirers, and be enabled to devote her whole care and attention 
 to those two dear girls, who, while she could not bear to de- 
 prive them of the pleasures so dear to the young, she yet hated 
 to see surrounded by strange, and to her mind sometimes very 
 objectionable persons. 
 
 Piqued at the determined avoidance of Juliet, Wyndham re- 
 solved to wait till the quadrille, then forming, was over, when 
 if she were still inaccessible, he determined to confide the whole 
 truth to Blanche, who, he felt sure, would listen with patience, 
 and to induce her to set the complicated affair in its true light 
 before Juliet: for he feared that when he came to account for 
 his neglect, by saying that he had fallen into a reverie at the 
 Whiteheads, there would be a smile on Juliet's lip, which, mark- 
 ed with scorn and incredulity, would so painfully excite and agi- 
 tate him, that hecouldnotforgive.it; and the explanation would, 
 as explanations often do, end in a more confirmed hostility. 
 
 Montague seated himself on a sofa to await the termination 
 of the quadrille, looking as miserable as lover could look, or 
 angry lady desire. The quadrille was about to begin. Juliet had 
 never appeared to him so exquisite 5 he never felt so passionate 
 a wish to secure her love, so wild a dread of losing the uncer- 
 tain treasure. The fever of her spirit had Hushed her cheek, 
 and given new lustre to her large black eyes. The wish not to 
 appear miserable, made her exert herself to talk gaily, to smile, 
 to seem amused-, but ever and anon those eyes wandered almost 
 involuntarily to Montague, when she felt that his were averted, 
 
122 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 He looked pale, lonely, desolate — her heart began to relent- 
 to wish to forgive. At the moment the music struck up, Anto- 
 nia, who had no partner, and had lingered near Montague, 
 whispering said, "Some one told me you considered that I had 
 promised to dance with you, so I kept myself disengaged. Come, 
 quick— see, a couple is wanting;" and eagerly seizing his arm, 
 she led him to the quadrille, where the chances of war or love 
 decreed that the pair unprovided with a vis a vis, should be, 
 Juliet and Captain Grigsby. 
 
 If Juliet felt nothing but love and woman's relenting weak- 
 ness, when she saw Montague pale and lonely on the sofa, she 
 was sensible of nothing but resentment and scorn, when she 
 beheld him hurrying along with Antonia : and as she could not 
 doubt in defiance, in mockery, placing himself immediately 
 opposite. 
 
 She pretended, after bowing slightly, to be quite engrossed 
 by the weak vanities of Captain Snaffle's imitator. There was 
 something in her manner which prevented Wyndhain's attempt- 
 ing a word of explanation, while Grigsby's affected solo, in the 
 Pastorale, gave him the opportunity, their hands coldly met, 
 while their eyes were as coldly averted-, and while pride urged 
 both to appear gay, both would gladly have flown to some dark so- 
 litude to shed the tears that seemed to burden their very hearts. 
 
 The dance was at length over. Antonia induced \\ yndham 
 to walk once round the room, and then he made so violent an 
 effort at escape, that even she could not detain him, nor Geral- 
 dine put into effect a plan for dancing with him in the next qua- 
 drille, which was an exact counterpart of Antonia's upon the 
 former occasion. He hastened to Blanche ; she was in the tea- 
 room with her partner. He begged so earnestly for a few mi- 
 nutes conversation with her, that the young Capitaine Adolphe 
 de La Fleuret suspected a love affair, and withdrew. With all 
 the energy of real feeling , Montague told his strange history. 
 
 She saw that Montague was miserable, and she hastened to do 
 his bidding. She tore Juliet from her surrounding beaux, led 
 her into an adjoining room, and insisted on her listening to 
 Montague's exculpation ; but the story, which was easily credit- 
 ed by the unbiassed Blanche, appeared absurd to the jealous, 
 prejudiced mind of Juliet. 
 
 " Tell him," she said, " that I quite excuse any slight to me j 
 a gentleman who could be so completely absorbed by his fancy in 
 the presence of Miss Antonia Whitehead, could notbe expected 
 even to remember that I was in existence." 
 
 " But, Juliet!" said Blanche, " he looks so unhappy." 
 
 " Ah," replied Juliet, " that has nothing to do with me! or 
 my displeasure. Poor Cousin Geoffrey !" said she, glancing at 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 123 
 
 her bracelet as she raised her hand to hide the tears she was 
 ashamed to shed ; " dear Cousin Geoffrey ! I slighted your love ! 
 your devotion ! your truth ! you are well avenged ! Ha, who's 
 there?" 
 
 " Pray do you want any thing here? " said Miss Primrose, to 
 the two sisters, peeping from behind a curtain, where she was 
 pretending to arrange a blind. Blanche had led her sister into 
 the nearest dressing room, and Juliet had espied a bit of her 
 old red silk gown peeping out; she was, therefore, obliged to 
 come forth, having only heard hall' a secret. 
 
 " Nothing, I thank you," said Blanche, gaily adjusting her 
 sister's hair, and then leading her sportively away. ic Let me tell 
 him you forgive him," she said, as they passed along the corri- 
 dor; " do, dearest Juliet." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Juliet, dashing away her tears as she entered 
 the room—" 1 forgive, and I forget, him." Blanche, like a be- 
 nignant spirit, glided back to Montague. She could not tell him 
 that Juliet was pacified; but, with a woman's tact, she pointed 
 out that did she not feel deeply, she would have forgiven more 
 readily. " Her anger will not last much longer," added she, 
 kindly, " and in the mean time you shall dance with me." 
 
 However, when they reached the dancing room, they found 
 that the Whiteheads, Mrs. Dashwood, and Mr. Dubois, had 
 got up a petit jeu, which was to end in forfeits. Now the St. 
 Aubyns had played at forfeits on two or three occasions, when 
 they had paid an evening visit at Mrs. Hodnot's; and to suit their 
 taste, averse from the odious un-English familiarity engendered 
 by the penalties imposed, it had been agreed that any lady called 
 upon to redeem a pledge might, if she chose, appoint a gentle- 
 man to perform the penance for her. On former occasions Juliet 
 had always had recourse to Wyndham ; there was no one else 
 with whom she was on terms of intimacy ; it would have been 
 painful to him to see her apply to another, but still more so to 
 behold her subjected to the indignity — the contamination of a 
 touch from any man in the room. 
 
 While the game was forming, Wyndham stood apart, convers- 
 ing with Blanche. He told her what he had heard of the young 
 artist and his old mother. He spoke so feelingly, so eloquently, 
 that the ready tears rose to Blanche's beautiful blue eyes. She 
 turned them suddenly on Eustace Murray, and as suddenly 
 withdrew them, for she met his, fixed on her with a melancholy 
 intensity of admiration she could not mistake. 
 
 " He is much struck with you, Blanche," said Wyndham ; 
 " he tells me your hair is the pure gold, about which the ancients 
 rave, and which we never see among the moderns. That you 
 are his ideal of Psyche, and 1 know not what beside. Let me 
 
124 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 introduce him. His is a sad fate— a thorny career— and beauty 
 should strew a few flowers along the path of genius. His chief 
 passion is affection for his mother -.—show her a little attention, 
 and he will be for ever indebted. May I present him, as it' to con- 
 sult about the picture which he is to paint for me?" Blanche 
 assented. In a few minutes she was talking with graceful ani- 
 mation to the young artist and his mother, while Wyndham, 
 with all the restlessness of misery, glided away to a spot where 
 he could command a view of Juliet. 
 
 She was engaged in the game, a sort of hunt-the-slipper inven- 
 tion, played with a string and a ring, the former the players held 
 in a circle, and shifted the ring the while along it from hand to 
 hand, singing a lively chorus. The name of the game is 4 le 
 Furet' and there is one to hunt the ring, while the person in 
 whose hand it is found, pays a forfeit, to be subsequently re- 
 deemed, and becomes the hunter in turn. 
 
 Blanche kindly induced Eustace and his mother to join in the 
 sport, herself made way for the latter, instructed her in the 
 mysteries of the game, and gaily hurried the ring through her 
 feeble hands. Juliet, too, was playing with apparent spirit. 
 
 The whole party dancing round and round, singing in chorus, 
 and shifting the ring from hand to hand, formed a lively scene. 
 Mr. Wheezer had been forfeited twice, for he was slow and 
 feeble, and could not help it. Mrs. Dashwood was strong and 
 hale, and could help it, but she liked to be forfeited. The ring 
 was often found too on Mrs. Barton, and not unfrequently on 
 Mrs. Faithful. Mrs. Barton, too, chose to forfeit every time 
 instead of Tiny, and that was often enough. Louisa now and 
 then was detected , and the Whiteheads frequently. As yet 
 Juliet had escaped, but to Wyndham's regret through Tiny's 
 mischievous detention, and her suddenly hurrying it to Juliet, it 
 was twice found on her, and once on Blanche. 
 
 The game was over, and the forfeits called. They were va- 
 rious. Poor old Mr. Wheezer had to kiss a widow's hand. To 
 escape making an enemy, he kissed the hands of both the 
 widows. 
 
 Now Mr. Wheezer was considered very condescending and 
 urbane for joining in these youthful sports ; but the truth was, 
 that he had found the gentle exercise, and moderate excite- 
 ment, of service to his health. When first this new game was 
 proposed, Mrs Faithful, (who had hoped that while the gay 
 and romping Mrs. Dashwood joined in it, Mr. Wheezer would 
 be left tete-a-tete on the sofa with her, ) had cast up her hands 
 and eyes, and said to him, "Sit down, my dear Sir, let us turn 
 our backs on such abominations ; they are the devices of the 
 evil One! He is in that back-slidiug party, in search of prey. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 125 
 
 Oh. for a voice to remind them of the doom that awaits them." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Faithful/' said Mr. YVheezer with a shudder, 
 and gently taking her hand, "the interest you take in them 
 does you honour, and I would advise you to warn them by all 
 means: but there are seasons for all things, dear Madam. The 
 remarks which would be salutary to them, are injurious to me. 
 I am no vain worldling, heaven knows : the enjoyments of a 
 poor invalid like myself are very few :— might I trouble you to 
 reach me one of those jellies, my hoarseness is so troublesome ? 
 — Thank you— what should I do but for your kindness ! " 
 
 ''Come. Mr. YVheezer," said Mrs. Dash wood, gaily approach- 
 ing him with a glass of negus, " this is quite hot, and" made after 
 your own recipe. Now, are you eating that cold jelly? For 
 shame!— Who could have given you that?" 
 
 "I did, Madam!" said the indignant Mrs. Faithful! "I 
 consider every thing cooling, best suited to Mr. Wheezer's 
 state of health." 
 
 ; " I doubt not," said Mrs. Dashwood. " that you have con- 
 sidered his case, Madam, and, certainly, no one can better un- 
 derstand the administering of all that is cooling, only I hope 
 that all this cooling may not end in an entire chill." 
 
 " Even that. Madam, would not injure him so much as any- 
 thing heating, which all discussions must be in his excitable 
 state," retorted Mrs. Faithful, who, perceiving that Mrs. Dash- 
 wood was more than her match, and that Mr. Wheezer, de- 
 lighted with the negus, was glancing at her with grateful admi- 
 ration, wished to put a stop to the argument before she was 
 completely defeated. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Dashwood, my dear Mrs. Faithful," he ex- 
 claimed, putting his knees together to support his glass of jelly, 
 while he sipped his negus. " Both remedies are excellent, and 
 both my fair friends so kind, it is a grief to me that two persons 
 so amiable should ever have a difference, least of all about a 
 poor weak sufferer, so dependent on the kindness of both." 
 (Each widow tossed her head. ) " There now," he said, empty- 
 ing the glass of jelly into the negus, and tasting it with epicu- 
 rean rapture, "see how smoothly your remedies blend. Oh, 
 that my two fair physicians would do the same."' and he tried 
 to join their hands. 
 
 Airs. Dashwood gave hers with ready good humour : Mrs. 
 Faithful very stiffly, and with a remark on the duty of forgiveness. 
 
 " Come," said Mrs. Dashwood, 4i you must join in the game, 
 Mr. Wheezer; it will do you good: I will go and get you a 
 comfortable place." 
 
 " You will not join that set of idle castaways,'" said Mrs. 
 Faithful. 
 
t'26 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Why." replied Mr. Wheezer, strengthened by his double 
 remedy, " to us all things are pure : if we join in the sport, it is 
 for moderate recreation and innocent promotion of health and 
 spirits. If you knew what sleepless nights I pass, how I suffer 
 from cold feet, you would be the first to promote any thing that 
 made me take a little exercise." 
 
 "You are quite right," answered Mrs. Faithful. "In the 
 light in which you put it. it becomes a duty ; take my arm.— I 
 will play too I" 
 
 To return to the forfeits. Mrs. Dashwood had to adjourn with 
 Mr. Dubois, to compose a bouquet of three different people : 
 and then make a lady say what she would do with each sepa- 
 rate flower. This was done as follows: — She fixed on Juliet, 
 and said, " I have made a bouquet of the rose, the jonquil, and 
 the violet — they represent three people, whose names you will 
 subsequently know. First, what will you do with the rose?" 
 
 " I will give it to you" said Juliet. 
 
 "The rose is Mr. Wheezer," said the widow, triumphantly 
 glancing at Mrs. Faithful. 
 
 " What will you do with the jonquil ?" 
 
 " I will put it in Mrs. Faithful's turban," said Juliet, thinking 
 io atone. 
 
 " The jonquil is Miss Primrose." 
 
 - What will you do with the violet ? " 
 
 " I will keep it for myself," said Juliet. 
 
 "It is Mr. Montague Wyndham," said Mrs. Dasbwood. 
 
 Juliet had not dreamt of this— she blushed deeply, then turned 
 pale : the whole room tittered, while the gay widow said. " I do 
 not doubt you willl n and then the forfeits proceeded. Mrs. 
 Barton had to whisper a secret to Captain Long, through the 
 bars of a chair,— a forfeit called ' secret a la religieuse.' An- 
 tonia had to dance a pas de deux with any gentleman she chose, 
 and she forced out the reluctant "Wyndham. Geraldine had to 
 pay a compliment to a beau, and she too selected Wyndham. 
 "Miss Primrose had to hop round the room three times, with 
 Captains Snaffle. Grigsby, and Tiny. Mrs. Dashwood was to 
 represent the Town Clock ! that was. any one might ask her 
 the hour •. if she said, " one." she received one kiss, and so on, 
 up to twelve. The gay widow pretended always to forget the 
 penalty, and constantly answered " minuit," which of course 
 secured her twelve kisses. 
 
 This forfeit greatly annoyed Airs. St. Aubyn, who, without 
 one grain of prudery, had all a well-born and well-bred English- 
 woman's horror of the slightest infringement of propriety. 
 
 She knew that she had not to fear any odious Frenchified fa- 
 miliarity for her own girls, whose dignity and delicacy of mind 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 127 
 
 none would dare to offend ; but she disliked that they should be 
 spectators of such a scene of levity, and inwardly resolved that 
 she would never again accept an invitation lor them to Mrs. 
 Hodnot's. She looked round for Mr. St. Aubyn, but he was en- 
 tirely engrossed by a game of whist, and she had only to wait 
 patiently ( the grand secret of life) ! The forfeits had been much 
 modified in honour of the St. Aubyns, but the whole tone of 
 the society annoyed the mother's anxious heart and refined 
 taste. 
 
 It was now Juliet's turn, she was to be the statue ; that is to 
 say, she was to stand on a footstool, and to be placed in an at- 
 titude by people appointed. Wyndham turned away, he could 
 not bear to see the hand he could not touch without emotion, 
 held, perhaps, by some forward Frenchman— the form he ido- 
 lized gazed upon by unhallowed eyes! Juliet was very angry 
 with Wyndham, but she was above a paltry revenge. She had 
 heard him say, how it would annoy him to see a sister of his, 
 far more her whom he loved, in such a situation. She thought 
 of him, and shrank from it. 
 
 Blanche perceiving her emotion, and without a thought of 
 herself, offered to supply her place. Blanche was the more po- 
 pular, and by many esteemed the prettier of the two ; the ex- 
 change was not objected to. She looked very graceful in every 
 posture she assumed, and her perfect good nature delighted all, 
 save the Bartons, Mrs. Faithful, and Miss Primrose. 
 
 First she was Tragedy, with a dagger ; then Comedy, with a 
 mask ; anon she w r as a slave kneeling for freedom. Her long, 
 rich, golden hair gave a charm to every attitude. At last Mrs. 
 Barton proposed a character in which it must be bound up, a 
 Nun ! but even as a Nun, she had charms enough to win the 
 Pope and all the Cardinals. Mrs. Barton drew back and sneezed. 
 At last Blanche, who hitherto had stipulated that none but ladies 
 should direct her attitudes, was induced to adopt one suggested 
 by the young artist, 
 
 In removing the band and veil with which Mrs. Barton had 
 bound her hair, her combs dropped, and the long tresses fell in 
 glossy luxuriance around her. Eustace grouped and placed 
 bgside her an urn, a withered wreath, an unstrung lyre, a pallet 
 and brushes (part of the accessories, the Hodnot's always intro- 
 duced to help out these tableaux). She was to lean, as if in gentle 
 sorrow, over the urn — "Pity weeping over the grave of Ge- 
 nius," said Eustace ; and all felt the conception fine— the execu- 
 tion perfect. That picture passed away from the eyes of all 
 around, but it dwelt for ever in Eustace's heart, even after Blanche 
 had playfully sprung from her pedestal, and twisted up the 
 rich gold of her long locks. 
 
128 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 At the last tableau, a buzz of admiration had filled the room. 
 Wyndham turned, and prepared himself as if to gaze on some- 
 thing which he felt compelled to see, yet hated to look upon. 
 His eyes fell on the beautiful form of Blanche ; but beautiful as 
 it was, they did not dwell there for a moment. Juliet was sitting 
 apart, her cheek pale, her eyes downcast. He appreciated the 
 delicate kindness of her conduct, even in her anger, her (just?) 
 resentment. She had felt for him. She had respected his preju- 
 dices. She had consulted his taste! A coarser mind would have 
 triumphed in a paltry revenge! He longed to be at her feet. And 
 such should ever be woman's triumph. 
 
 Another forfeit was proposed for her,— one to which, had she 
 yielded, she must have waltzed with Dubois. Blanche could not 
 supply her place there, for Blanche never waltzed. She looked 
 towards Wyndham. Their eyes met, no sign escaped her, no 
 word passed her lips. Yet was she understood. He felt she loved, 
 — she forgave him, — that he was her chosen substitute. 
 
 He darted forward, seized the little Frenchman, whirled him 
 round the room, and then, almost throwing the monkey-like 
 beau down, hastened to the sofa where Juliet was sitting, and 
 without one word of further explanation the lovers were recon- 
 ciled. 
 
 There remained now but a few forfeits to be cried. Sir Caesar, 
 who had been talking apart with Antonia, who had just been 
 speaking to Miss Whitehead, in whose lap the different objects 
 were deposited, came forth. He was not much pleased, for 
 neither himself nor his daughters had attracted much attention. 
 He had not found in Mrs. St. Aubyn, who was painfully anxious 
 about her daughters, a very patient listener to his boasting anec- 
 dotes-, and he did not see that Geraldine was making any pro- 
 gress in the capture of Montague. Having ascertained that Mrs. 
 Hodnot was not in the room, he said, " I think we have had 
 enough of these forfeits ; they seem to me rather objectionable 
 for young ladies of rank. I am glad Lady Whitehead is not here. 
 I doubt whether she would like to see her daughters join in them. 
 I shall certainly write to her Ladyship's cousin, the Bishop of 
 Leicester, to ask his Lordship his opinion of this kind of pastime. 
 Antonia, mind I do not forget to write to my Lord Bishop to- 
 morrow. And if he disapproves, or says he should not like to 
 see your cousins join, you play no more." 
 
 His cheeks were puffed out with his vast importance, and he 
 shook his head awfully. In this speech he had the double ad- 
 vantage of venting his ill-humour, and of playing off an extra 
 degree of fastidiousness before Mrs. St. Aubyn, whose taste he 
 had penetration enough to see had been offended by some of the 
 proceedings of the evening. " Of course, Sir" said Antonia, " we 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 129 
 
 shall be guided entirely by you and my Lord Bishop, but there 
 are still some forfeits uncried. What is to be done with them?" 
 
 " I will cry two of them myself," said Sir Caesar, " and both 
 at once, that the game may be at an end, at least if such an 
 arrangement is agreeable to all." 
 
 He drew near Miss Whitehead. 
 
 " What is to be done by the owner to redeem these?" she 
 asked in a sharp voice. 
 
 " For thefirst," said the respectablepaternity, " he, or she, is to 
 sit on a throne, and every one present to pay tribute — some little 
 gift, a glove, a ribbon, a few bon-bons, a handkerchief, a pencil, 
 or a small coin for the poor. I believe," he said, in an audible 
 whisper to Mrs. St. Aubyn, " it is your sweet daughter, Blanche, 
 who will receive these tributes." 
 
 "And the second?" 
 
 "If a lady, she is to sing a song 5 if a gentleman, he is to fix 
 on three ladies, and to pledge each in a bumper of Champagne." 
 He started with assumed surprise, as he recognised his own or- 
 molu eye-glass, and brass linger ring 5 and then he stalked to 
 an arm-chair to receive his tributes, and gaily pledged Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn and her daughters in a bumper each. By this well-managed 
 ruse he came into possession of a scarlet breast-knot from Mrs. 
 Dashwood 5 a black crape capstring from Mrs. Faithful 5 a smell- 
 ing bottle from Juliet ; and a pencil-case from Blanche ; while 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn, who, less confiding, had seen through the trick, 
 only contributed a sprig of evergreen. Mr. Wheezer gave a box 
 of lozenges, which he had found disagree with himself. Miss 
 Primrose rummaged out an old needle-book. Montague gave a 
 five-franc piece. Dubois, with a flourishing air, offered a " prise 
 de tabac ; " and several strangers gave half-a-franc each for the 
 poor. " And whoso poor as myself?" inwardly exclaimed Sir 
 Caesar, as he pompously handed about eight francs to Antonia, 
 and loudly desired her to add it to her funds for soup and warm 
 clothing for the indigent. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 There was an ecstatic delight in the hearts of Juliet and 
 Montague, when they were again seated side by side, which 
 amply repaid them for the anguish they bad endured. Juliet 
 raised her eyes with confiding tenderness ; there was no inter- 
 rogation in their glance, yet Montague wished to speak 5 his 
 
130 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 heart was too full for words. Oh! to have been alone with her, 
 to have knelt to her, to have thanked her,— to have given utter- 
 ance to all the hoarded tenderness of his heart, — to have pleaded 
 as passion only can plead ! to have won her to say she loved 
 him, to promise to be his! Why had society such odious laws? 
 Why he could as justly have expected the ladye moon herself 
 to step down to him, nay sooner (since ihere is precedent for 
 that, vide Endymion ), as for Juliet to walk with him into the 
 adjoining deserted room, to listen to those w T ords, on the power 
 of which hung more than life. 
 
 After some minutes of passionate and eloquent silence, Mon- 
 tague spoke : " You have forgiven me, Juliet, I feel you have ; 
 but let me prove I deserve that forgiveness— let me tell you the 
 strange events to which I owe my late misery, my present rap- 
 ture." 
 
 " No, Montague, no ! " ( She had never called him Montague 
 before, though he had often urged it, and though Blanche con- 
 stantly did. Oh, how it thrilled through his heart!) "No; I 
 ought to have known that nothing but an unavoidable accident 
 could make you disappoint me, but where we feel acutely we 
 seldom reason justly. " 
 
 Acutely ! and Juliet owned she felt acutely the disappointment 
 of not seeing him. 
 
 " Will you listen to my story ? " said Montague, " it will make 
 you smile. Do, dearest Juliet! " 
 
 " Not now, " said she tremblingly, " I am too happy to smile. 
 Do not bring the Whiteheads and their coarse manoeuvres to 
 my mind at this moment : it is an Oasis in the waste of time. 
 Let me enjoy it in silence. Another day I shall be glad to smile-, 
 now it were bliss to weep ! " 
 
 Montague saw that Juliet had some difficulty in repressing 
 her tears, — that she looked pale. They were sitting apart, a 
 waltz had been struck up, and almost all were dancing. They 
 were near a window, which, placed in a deep recess, was partly 
 open, to admit the air, for the room was very full. Montague 
 offered his arm, and pushing aside the curtains, which veiled 
 the recess and the evergreens which filled it, he brought Juliet 
 where the fresh evening breeze could play upon her cheek, and 
 revive her heart. 
 
 She did not resign his arm. He felt that it was an instinct of 
 affection which induced her to cling to him 5 still his heart beat 
 quick. Now there, even there, gay forms flitting by, merry- 
 music and worldly converse in their ears;— even there would he 
 pour out his heart to Juliet, and the purity of his love should 
 sanctify the spot. 
 
 It was a fine night, and the moon was sinning with that spi- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 131 
 
 ritual light which makes her seem the bright soul of this dark 
 earth. The lovers gazed on her, and then upon each other. 
 Juliet felt a gentle pressure of her arm, and Montague perceived 
 that she trembled as she did so. 
 
 What an enchantress is that moon ! There is no scene which 
 can taint the mind, the heart, with so much of earth, but that 
 when we turn from it. and suddenly meet the fair moon, face 
 to face, a heavenly influence falls upon us. 
 
 " I never look upon the moon," said Montague, " without 
 wishing that with one fair spirit for my minister, I could fly to 
 the fair scenes, the silvery groves, the diamond waters, with 
 which, clinging to the legends of childhood, my heart loves to 
 associate her."' 
 
 '•And yet,"' said Juliet, with a gentle smile, " there is a cold- 
 ness in her very beauty. I can fancy the moon a fit abode for 
 friendship: but this earth, with its bright sunshine and dark 
 shades, its arid deserts and its flowery plains, its steep rocks and 
 blue waters, is a fitter home for love ! " 
 
 "Ah, Juliet! " said Montague, " why is it that rocks, deserts, 
 glowing forests, scenes of wild grandeur, always seem to wo- 
 man's fancy the fittest homes for love? " 
 
 " I know not," answered Juliet, playfully, " unless it is that 
 his devastating nature seems to fit him better to herd with the 
 tiger and the leopard, than to dwell in the quiet home scene 
 with which we associate the dove and the lamb." 
 
 " It is precisely in those quiet scenes, Juliet," said Montague, 
 " that Love should make his home. Believe me, dearest, he 
 delights to nestle under the thatched roof. The early violets of 
 a cottage garden are dearer to him than all the hot-house plants 
 which grandeur rejoices in. The small abode admits of no wan- 
 derings; it brings young hearts together. No lady can sulk grace- 
 fully, Juliet, but in an orthodox boudoir ; nor stalk with haughty 
 gloom, but through a spacious hall. In the home I love to dwell 
 upon, she cannot shed a tear unseen, and, therefore, none but 
 those Love's lip will haste to dry. The world is nothing to her. 
 No gaudy visitors distract her thoughts \ no splendors share 
 her gentle heart with love. She has but one thought, one care, 
 one duty, and one fond grateful worshipper. Ah, Juliet ! a cot- 
 tage is the home for love ! " 
 
 '•' Alas that poverty'-; evil eye 
 Should e'er come hither, such sweets to wither. 
 The flowers lay down their heads to die, 
 And hope grew pale as the witch drew nigh." 
 
 "You know the rest, Montague," said Juliet; " it is worldly, 
 but I fear it mav be too true." 
 
132 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Poverty is a relative term, Juliet," said Montague 5 " to the 
 grasping and ambitious, a moderate competency is disgraceful 
 poverty 5 but a cottage home in some wild beautiful country, 
 where varied flowers and rich fruits, reared by a hand you loved, 
 would be your choicest luxuries-, where, save the blended music 
 of his voice and yours, or perhaps some sweet wild lute, awa- 
 kened by yourself, the birds would be your only choristers; with 
 no attendants save those whom your wants required, for use, 
 but not for show ; where no gaudy equipage would wait your 
 order, but where you must ramble, leaning on the arm of him 
 who adored you, or at best be content that he should guide the 
 footsteps of some humble pony for you 5 sometimes, perhaps, 
 bearing you himself across a mountain stream, another Atlas ! 
 since he would bear his world, his little world of bliss and love, 
 in bearing you 5 a table in whose rustic dainties you would inte- 
 rest yourself to make them sweet to him 5 long evenings with 
 none but him to cheer, to hold converse with ; an humble fire- 
 side, but bright with the untiring love of a devoted heart; 
 watched as love only watches, worshipped as first love wor- 
 ships. Juliet, would this be poverty, would this 
 
 "Pray are you rehearsing a scene from Romeo and Juliet?" 
 said the spiteful voice of Miss Barton. " Perhaps you are not 
 aware that everybody is going down to supper;" and she 
 passed on. 
 
 "What have you been doing all the evening, this long dull 
 evening?" said Antonia. 
 
 " I have not found it dull," said Juliet. 
 
 " I have been moped to death," said Geraldine; but supper 
 was in question, and she too hurried on. 
 
 Next passed Mr. Wheezer, between his two widows 5 an ex- 
 pression of gentle satisfaction beamed on his countenance, for 
 the sport he had engaged in had given him an excellent appe- 
 tite, and with matchless tact he had secured the services of his 
 too active pioneers of the table. Mr. Dubois passed, and cried, 
 "Ah! Mr. Yeezer, justice est justice. You are a charmant 
 gargon, but you must not engross all de beauty in de room ;" 
 and he offered his arm to Mrs. Dash wood, who gaily tripped off 
 with him upon the first provocation. 
 
 "My dear girl," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, anxiously, as she passed 
 Juliet, "how pale, how cold you look — are you ill, dearest? I 
 have been so taken up watching your father's hand, that I forgot 
 to look for you ; I thought you were dancing." 
 
 "Madam," said Sir Caesar, on whose arm Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 unwillingly leant, " the supper waits— more patiently than I do." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 133 
 
 "Come then, Juliet," said the anxious mother. " Mr. Wynd- 
 ham, I depend on you to bring Juliet down stairs directly." 
 
 There was no appeal— a few moments and his fate would 
 have been decided! His heart was fevered with disappointment, 
 Juliet had listened with looks so full of love— he felt almost sure 
 that a sweet assent was hanging on her lips.— Oh! how he hated 
 all the gaudy train of which he now formed part, but Juliet still 
 hung upon his arm. Juliet looked up 5 her cheeks pale, but her 
 eyes full of gentle tenderness. To-morrow! to-morrow he 
 would renew the enchanting theme— Ah! would to-morrow 
 ever come ? 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn was very glad that the evening was drawing 
 to a close. Mr. St. Aubyn had been playing higher than she liked 
 to see him play, higher than he could afford to piay ; his eyes 
 sparkled, and his cheeks were flushed; he had won! And the 
 prudent wife would rather that he had lost; for who that knows 
 the sanguine madness of a gambler's heart, does not dread the 
 effect of a little success? 
 
 Then, too, Juliet's pale cheek and agitated manner— the some- 
 thing a mother's heart could never mistake— there was another 
 source of trembling anxiety— while, to fill up the cup of bitter- 
 ness, came an increased distaste for the people with whom she 
 was forced to mix ; and a vain but deep regret that her fair and 
 spotless blossoms should burst into bloom in what almost seemed 
 to her a moral malaria. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The next morning brought a long expected parcel from Eng- 
 land, containing presents from Cousin Geoffrey, and letters 
 from him and Lionel. Lionel s letter was to Juliet, and ran as 
 follows : — 
 
 "Dearest July! — Most welcome, now that we are fast 
 merging into December. I am sure you will all own that I am 
 grown an excellent fellow. I've cut all the cads, nearly left off 
 slang, and become comparatively very steady. Cousin Geoffrey 
 still continues to supply me with plenty of tin, so that I have 
 given up several of my ticks. However, I have sent you all a 
 Christmas box, which I trust you won't refuse, because I hadn't 
 ready money to pay for it-, three habits (as I hear you ride), 
 and three hats, for my tailor and hatter are first rate ; and as the 
 old saying has it, cut your coat according to your cloth, so Ox- 
 
134 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 ford men must make their presents according to their ticks. 
 St. John and Castleton have not been up this term, but Beau- 
 voir, a great friend of Castleton's, has called on me. He, like 
 Castleton, is one of that rare genus which excels in even* thing ; 
 a tuft too, a very Nimrod in the field, and yet sure of his ' first.' 
 Respected even by the Dons, and yet popular with the fastest 
 men in the College. How they manage it, I cannot think. I do 
 not know why he called on me, unless Castleton wrote to ask 
 him to do so: however, he not only gave me the best advice, 
 but introduced me into the best set. St. John, on his return, 
 will find me in it, and no thanks to him. Beauvoir has taken 
 great trouble to get me to lectures and chapel regularly, so that 
 now I stand pretty well with my college. Ah, July, what a pity 
 you are abroad for two years. "W hat splendid birds Castleton 
 and Beauvoir would be for you and Blanche to bringdown. 
 You'd have had a chance, for they're all for beauty and ' vartue; 
 and in no want of the stumpy. I used to think at Eton that 
 St. John was just the thing for Blanche, but that is at end now. 
 Mind you do not either of you throw yourselves away on a 
 half-starved French Marquess, or some runaway English ben- 
 cher f King's bencher:, aping the Milor. I hear France is full 
 of them. I am going to spend the Christmas vacation with Sir 
 Croesus and Lady Hunter, once Cousin Gerry. At Easter I hope to 
 run over to see you all. Good night: I must go to bed, for I have 
 won a mount of Beauvoir, and must be up with the sun. Love to 
 the governor and dear mamma, to Blanche and your little self. 
 "In haste, and half-asleep, 
 " Your fraternal 
 
 Lionel St. Aubyn." 
 
 "If Castleton is here next term, as Beauvoir tells me he must 
 be at Easter, I shall, perhaps, bring him over to look at you." 
 
 One letter served for all Lionel's light-hearted communica- 
 tions ; but Cousin Geoffrey had written separately to every 
 member of the family, and had forwarded, under the excuse of 
 Christmas, a handsome present to all: he had not forgotten a 
 warm cloak for Eileen. Mrs. St. Aubyn had a set of sable-, the 
 girls of chinchilla, and Mr. St. Aubyn a Turkish dressing gown, 
 warm as furs could make it. There was much knowledge of the 
 human heart in Cousin Geoffrey ! He knew that, on a cutting 
 day, when all is gloom without, the heart warms towards the 
 thoughtful donor of a cloak or pelisse which shuts the cold out 
 and the heat in, while others, less favoured, glide about blue and 
 shivering,— the heart of the receiver dwells on the kind fore- 
 thought that prompted the acceptable gift— furlined gloves. 
 slippers, comforters ! he had forgotten nothing, and all were 
 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 13j 
 
 so delicately offered ! He said, in return, that Juliet and Blanche 
 must work him a gay summer waistcoat, as they always insisted 
 on paying him in kind ! St. Auhyn had long details of Geoffrey's 
 genealogical researches ; a new link had been discovered bv his 
 persevering zeal; all looked brighter, and St. Aubytrs heart 
 beat high with hope. 
 
 There was for each member of the family, a pocket-book for 
 the new year. Juliet soon perceived that hers contained a letter 
 addressed to her, on which ;i private" was written. She shrank 
 from perusing it, but gazing on the superscription, she saw, 
 "Read it at once, it concerns your father."' — " G. St. A." 
 
 Juliet hesitated no longer. She stole to her room, bolted the 
 door, and with a hand so trembling that she could scarcely open 
 the intricate folds of the letter 5 sank into an arm-chair, and 
 tried to summon nerve for its perusal. 
 
 " I have much to say to you, Juliet, if my trembling hand will 
 guide my pen the while, and if my throbbing brain and beating 
 heart will permit me to form a sentence, or convey an idea. 
 Juliet, you know with what a wild, unearthly passion I adore 
 you. A passion which enables me to bear the loss of your so- 
 ciety, if this sickening and interminable absence can benefit even 
 those you love. And l do believe that the ancient records of 
 love's mad devotion have no instance of endurance which sur- 
 passes this. Others have died for her whom they adored. What 
 is that to the bitter agony of living apart from her— for her 
 dear sake— a prey to a vague, yet ever-haunting jealousy— a 
 jealousy of an uncertainty, impossibility? Yet why so cruelly 
 wrong my own Juliet? 1 have not forgotten that blessed evening, 
 when her pale cheek and tearful eyes told me she did not leave 
 me without a pang. Oh, how 1 have toiled for her, since— her 
 father! her brother! It is all for her. To see them in poverty, 
 disgrace, or sorrow, would break her warm, devoted heart, and 
 therefore do I toil. The lover, who might be basking in the sun- 
 shine of his idol's smile, spends the day among mouldering 
 tombstones , the night amidst worm-eaten parchments, to gra- 
 tify the darling ambition of him whose claim is, that he is Juliet's 
 father. And listen, Juliet. In these researches I have made, to 
 myself, a fearful discovery. I disclose it under the seal of a vow 
 of secrecy. If you have not fortitude silently to record that vow, 
 fling this paper into the flames ; but I warn you, that I believe 
 that, that which you ought to hear, involves your father's peace, 
 perhaps his life !'' * * * * * * * * * * 
 
 Juliet sate for a time pale and trembling, and then, seizing 
 the paper, which had dropped on the floor, and silently vowing 
 to keep the secret, she eagerly perused it. 
 
 " You know, Juliet," (Geoffrev continued.) " that I am a dis- 
 
136 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 tant cousin of yours. Strange to say, when first I met your 
 father, even I did not know in what degree. My parents died 
 abroad, as did your father's. I conceived myself descended from 
 a younger branch 5 and though I had hoped, before I knew of 
 your father's existence, that I might prove myself the heir to 
 the Templeton estate, yet, when I became acquainted with him, 
 it seemed clear that he had a prior claim 5 a claim, thesubtantiat- 
 ing of which has been the dream of his boyhood, the hope of 
 his youth, the stay and solace of his latter bitter and disappoint- 
 ed life. I believe that the certain overthrow of his hopes would 
 break his heart. And yet, Juliet, the result of my long and pa- 
 tient research for him is, that I am myself heir to the title and 
 estates of Templeton ! 
 
 " Will you bear w T ith me awhile, and I will explain this. Your 
 father's great-grandfather and mine were brothers. I had always 
 believed mine to be the youngest son of a brother of Lionel St. 
 Aubyn, Baron of Templeton. But alter searching the proper 
 records, it appears that Lionel St. Aubyn, your father's progeni- 
 tor, was younger still 5 as in the different peerages, Geoffrey, 
 the third nephew of the old Baron, is stated to have died un- 
 married. I can readily understand how the mistake originated, 
 which led your father to believe himself the next heir. There 
 were two elder nephews, and Lord Templeton had three sons ; 
 and your father's great-grandfather and mine, having, I suppose, 
 few hopes, and the narrow prospects common to younger sons, 
 joined the Pretender ; and, by so doing, so bitterly incensed 
 their uncle and their father, staunch loyalists and Protestants, 
 that the latter is said to have cursed them on his death-bed, and 
 the former never to have noticed them again. 
 
 " They went to the continent, and, in the ill-conducted 
 court of the Pretender, became attached to a lady, who, a 
 franche coquette, led each to believe his passion requited ; 
 she finally jilted Geoffrey for Lionel, and the result was an 
 eternal feud, and immediate separation between the brothers. 
 Geoffrey, my great-grandfather, fled to America, were records 
 say he died unmarried, but where I can prove he formed a 
 matrimonial connection, of which I am a lineal descendant. 
 
 " Incensed both against his father, his uncle, Lord Tem- 
 pleton, and his brother Lionel, he kept up no intercourse with 
 them. Besides the direct heirs, his two elder brothers were 
 married, and had each several sons. There seemed then no 
 chance that he or his should ever succeed to the title. Embittered 
 by disappointment, he embarked in commerce, affected to 
 despise all distinctions of birth, forbade all allusions to the 
 subject, refused to answer any questions as to his family, and 
 tried to bequeath ignorance, or at least indifference to his soil 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 13? 
 
 In this he partly succeeded 5 the main branch of the Templetons 
 still flourished, sons abounded, and the commercial utilitarian 
 saw no use in a pedigree, unless the proving it secured an in- 
 heritance; he married an American lady, grew rich, and died. 
 '• My father inherited the property, and in him the long 
 dormant pride of the St. Aubyns revived; he burned to prove 
 of what St. Aubyns he really was— but generations had passed 
 away, silence had brooded over the hearth-stones of his imme- 
 diate ancestors: a few seals, a few papers, were all he had 
 to guide him ; he intended to persevere in England till he made 
 all clear; but he died on the voyage, and I was left with my 
 mother. It was not till she too was dead, some years ago, that 
 I was able to leave >"ew York. My father's surmises had early 
 awakened a wild ambition in my heart: to the impetuous youth 
 possibility seemed certainty— it must be noble blood that flowed 
 in my veins, else why beat my heart so high at the mere thought. 
 My mother tried in vain to check what seemed, to a merchant's 
 wife, a wild, insane ambition. She would never consent to my 
 visiting England 5 and as she had a life-interest in the property, 
 till her death, I had not the means 5 when I had I came hither, 
 my object being rather to prove my descent, than to substan- 
 tiate any claim : in doing the one, I learn that I can do the 
 other. 
 
 " With regard to your father's progenitors, what I have learn- 
 ed is, that, cut off from all intercourse with the main branches 
 of their family and with Geoffrey, whom they believed to have 
 died unmarried, two generations lived in pride and poverty, 
 one in France, the next in England; indeed it is recorded on 
 a mouldering tombstone which I found in Stepney church-yard, 
 that Lionel, your father's grandfather, was fourth son of John 
 St. Aubyn, brother of the Lord Templeton. It seems that, 
 reviled, rejected, and unforgiven, fearing too to own that they 
 had sided with the conquered, unpopular, and exiled Stuarts, 
 they too kept their descent a secret -made interest to get some 
 government appointment, which their wants obliged them to 
 accept, and that it was not till your grandfather distinguished 
 himself in the late wars, that the long-hinted and whispered 
 records of his descent became a subject of curiosity; he, like 
 my father, had much to contend with, because those ancestors 
 who had known all, had also chosen to conceal all. He died 
 unsatisfied as to his actual descent, but bequeathed all his anxie- 
 ties to your father. All the direct descendants of the Baron 
 and of our great-grandfather's elder brothers, have died away, 
 save one infirm old man, almost an idiot, the present Lord; 
 his two sons were accidentally drowned, when bathing, a few 
 years ago, and the shock impaired the father's intellect— his 
 
138 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 days are numbered — the question, which was a mere genealo- 
 gical vanity, a few years ago, is now one of immense import- 
 ance; an ancient title, and a princely fortune are at stake ; your 
 father, but for me, would be the heir. I have toiled so in his 
 cause, that every record difficult to trace, because in some in- 
 stances his ancestors died in poverty and obscurity, through my 
 untiring zeal are forthcoming! Juliet, the records which prove 
 that there exists a descendant of an elder brother are known 
 only to me — why should your father ever learn what to him 
 would be a death-blow ? 
 
 " My wish is that he, in happy ignorance, should enjoy 
 during his life the long-coveted honours of his title;— they 
 scarcely seem a sacrifice, when offered at the shrine of Juliet's 
 father! Should we survive him, it shall rest with you to decide 
 whether we shall assert our claims ; that may depend on a cir- 
 cumstance I now dare not even glance at. I have no ambition, 
 Juliet, but to make you happy; no eager wish or prayer but for 
 your love! Think, dearest, of the rapture of your father! — think 
 what a golden sunset will atone for the clouded noon of his 
 life! — think of Lionel's joy, his triumph over his enemies! — 
 your mother's perfect bliss, and Blanche's sweet delight. 
 
 " Do not pause on my account. Oh, Juliet! you cannot even 
 dream how much I love you ! if you think that had I all the 
 crowns of Europe in actual possession, instead of one poor 
 northern coronet in mere reversion, I would not trample on 
 them all if they divided me from you, or deem that life could 
 have a want if you were mine! Well will Juliet's love repay all 
 I am doing for her father! If she is mine, I ask no other boon 
 of Heaven ! Lionel is my constant care 5 his wants, and Juliet 
 knows they are not few, are all supplied, and shall be for her 
 dear sake, while I have the power! And now, dearest, one 
 word of advice :-I learn that your family has formed an inti- 
 macy with one of prepossessing manners and showy exterior, 
 calling himself Montague Wyndham; he is an impostor, Juliet, 
 the name an alias, he is not what he seems ;— ask him a few ques- 
 tions, and mark his confusion! Speak to him of one Lady Marian 
 Marston, a person to whom he was once engaged, but who broke 
 with him, it is said, on learning who he was; if a guilty confusion 
 does not overspread his face, my assertions are idle, and all I 
 have learned concerning him, slander. Drop him gently, and 
 by degrees. I suppose he tries to address Blanche; I trust her 
 good sense will induce her to reject him with scorn ;— but this 
 too is a profound secret ; only if you see her in danger, give her 
 a hint. And now farewell, my own worshipped Juliet : burn 
 this letter— you cannot answer it, for I know not where I may 
 next wend my steps in your father's cause, but I hope in the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 139 
 
 spring to join you in Dieppe ; till then I live on Hope and .Me- 
 mory. 
 
 " Passionately and eternally your's, 
 
 " Geoffrey St. Aubyn." 
 
 By the time Juliet had completed this torturing letter, the 
 agony of her mind had nearly paralyzed her. The startling intel- 
 ligence, concerning the Templeton title and estate, Geoffrey's 
 apparent hope, nay, certainty of her acceptance — his devotion, 
 his self-sacrifice — his apparent confidence in assertions concern- 
 ing Montague, which terrified even while she struggled against 
 admitting them ; the overwhelming weight of obligation incurred 
 by Lionel, and which Geoffrey evidently considered her bound 
 to repay by her hand ; but, above all, the thought of this former 
 possessor of Wyndham's heart, this Lady Marian Marston. 
 
 "Gracious Providence ! " murmured the trembling girl, " any 
 one of the tidings conveyed in that letter would crush me to the 
 earth, but all pressing upon my heart at once— it must break/' 
 
 She turned to the letter again. Oh, how her heart recoiled 
 from words of love, addressed to her by any hand, save that of 
 him whom her heart had chosen, — him to whom she still clung, 
 in whom she believed with a love stronger than her existence. 
 The fatal vow, breathed in silence, but yet recorded in Heaven ! 
 But for that, she would fly to Blanche, to her mother 5 but as it 
 was, she must conceal the barbed arrow that was poisoning her 
 heart's blood ! 
 
 Blanche knocked at her door, to tell her that Montague was 
 below, to walk with herself and their mother, to see a Brighton 
 vessel come in. 
 
 "I hope you are quite ready," said Blanche, " for you know 
 it is at two we are to set out for the Ville d'Eu. Papa has 
 ordered a caleche ; Montague is to be of the party 5 we shall get 
 there to dinner, sleep there, see the castle in the morning, and 
 be back in the course of the day ; that is the last arrangement, 
 and it is now near twelve." 
 
 " Go with him and mamma to see the vessel, dear Blanche," 
 said Juliet 5 " I feel unwell, a head-ache, merely 5 but I wish to 
 lie down for an hour ; when you return, I will be quite ready for 
 our excursion." And then she added to herself, " I will ask him 
 firmly who this Lady Marian is, or was- it is but just to him— 
 I feel, I know it is all the vilest slander — he is, he must be, the 
 soul of honour, virtue, truth ! Bless and shield him, and guide 
 the wretched Juliet in her course ;" saying which, she sank upon 
 her knees and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 Suddenly, a frantic impatience seized her ; she would see him, 
 she would know all, at once— suspense would be death. She ran 
 
140 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 down stairs, the sitting rooms were vacant — all were gone to see 
 the English vessel come in. 
 
 Eileen looked into the room. "Come with me, Eileen, I must 
 go out." 
 
 " And is it without the hat of you, Miss -and the wind fit to 
 blow your head away, if your bonnet didn't tie it on, sure?" 
 
 "True," said Juliet \ "get my bonnet, my cloak, and come 
 with me." 
 
 " Is it sick ye are, Miss July?" said Eileen. 
 
 "Yes," replied Juliet— " no— the air will do me good— come-," 
 and she hastened on. 
 
 Eileen followed, really alarmed by the pale cheek and inco- 
 herent language of her young mistress. 
 
 Juliet hurried towards the quay — a crowd had assembled— the 
 passengers were landing— she pressed forward, for among the 
 foremost of the crowd, she descried her own party. 
 
 At this moment, a very handsome young English lady appeared 
 on deck, leaning on the arm of a fashionable, middle-aged, some- 
 what dissipated, looking man 5 the girl was of a style of beauty, 
 almost peculiar to the English aristocracy 5 with long fair hair, 
 the purest, but most colourless complexion, delicate aquiline 
 features, large blue eyes, and a tall, but very slight figure 5 an air 
 of conscious superiority, and almost of hauteur, distinguished 
 her. Her companion carefully assisted her to land, which she 
 had scarcely done, when, with a loud scream, she seemed to 
 recognise Wyndham ; exclaiming, "Montague! dearest Mon- 
 tague }" and, as she spoke, she fell insensible in his arms. 
 
 "Marian!" he exclaimed, in boundless surprise, supporting 
 her lifeless form. 
 
 " This is no scene for an explanation," whispered her com- 
 panion to Montague, " there is an inn close by, let us convey her 
 thither." 
 
 "Touch her not, Sir," said Montague, almost fiercely, "and 
 follow me.'' 
 
 The gentleman prepared to do so. Montague made his way 
 through the crowd, bearing the slight form of the beautiful 
 stranger— they reached the inn, and were of course lost to the 
 sight of the spectators. The St. Aubyns gazed on each other in 
 mute surprise. Blanche and Mrs. St. Aubyn, who both privately 
 suspected the state of Juliet's heart, were overcome with vague 
 misgivings : the crowd dispersed, and then only did they perceive 
 Juliet, who had sunk insensible on a bale of goods. Eileen, and 
 a tall man-\\kepoissarde, were trying to revive her 5 in the deadly 
 paleness of her cheek, her mother read a fatal record. Thepois- 
 sarde and Eileen contrived to engage some sort of carriage (no 
 easy matter in Dieppe); the good fishwoman lifted Juliet into it, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 14 1 
 
 as if she had been a child, and Blanche and her mother sprang 
 in after her. The motion of the carriage revived Juliet 5 she looked 
 up, recognised her mother, and, hiding her face in her bosom, 
 burst into tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "You have yet an hour, my beloved Juliet," said Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn, " before the carriage will be here, go to your room, try 
 to compose yourself. Never forget that you have a Father in 
 Heaven, fonder even than the mother who would now sacrifice 
 her life to secure your happiness, but withal omnipotent to suc- 
 cour. Go with us to-day, my darling, if you can 3 if the effort is 
 not too great. Mr. Wyndham, I suppose, will not be of the 
 party. Do not weep, my own dear Juliet ; if he be false, he is not 
 worthy of one pure tear of yours 5 and if, in spite of all we have 
 seen, he yet is true, you have no cause to shed one. Come, dear- 
 est ! let me persuade you to lie down for an hour. You have 
 told me nothing; but a mother's heart requires no details. It 
 reads but too much in those fast flowing tears, and that bowed 
 head. Say, you will try to go with your father-, the air, the 
 change, even the very effort, though painful, will be salutary. 
 Will she try?" said the fond mother, smiling through her own 
 tears. 
 
 " Dear, kind mamma! " said Juliet, u I will not only try, I 
 think I can promise I will go." — " For what," added her heart, 
 in its silent hopelessness, " w T hat now to me are time or place? " 
 With a heavy step she went to her own room, and taking off her 
 bonnet, threw herself, with all the self-abandonment of despair, 
 upon her bed. Her mother knelt beside her, kissed her cold 
 cheek, and implored her, for her sake, to try to force her heart 
 from the contemplation of the past. She then drewjher curtain, 
 bathed her child's brow with eau de Cologne, threw a warm 
 shawl over her, and, saying, " I will call you in time to be ready 
 for your father, my beloved girl," she left the room. 
 
 Poor Juliet! She had been scarcely conscious of her mother's 
 presence. She was hardly aware that solitude, the one sad luxury 
 of the afflicted heart, was now hers. Alas ! what are all the fond- 
 est endearments, even of maternal affection, if they appear to 
 be meant as consolation for that anguish for which nothing can 
 console — a compensation for that loss for which nothing can 
 compensate? 
 
142 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Juliet could not rest. Every sound made her start; every step 
 in the corridor made her tremble. Hope whispered that, before 
 they set out, Montague would he there — would explain all. Yet, 
 how could he explain ! no matter! love and faith are strong in 
 woman's breast, and for a time they upheld Juliet. But shortly 
 disappointment filled her heart with a vague resentment. 
 
 " Shall I," she cried, " lie here in grovelling misery, and die, 
 for one, who, if he has wronged me, thinks me unworthy even 
 of an expression of regret, a word of explanation, a tear of con- 
 trition ? he knows — he knows far better than recorded vows 
 could prove, or passionate language paint — he knows that I have 
 loved him, trusted, adored him ! He must feel that this is an hour 
 of unbearable anguish To my true, devoted heart, and he lets me 
 meet it as I may. Oh ! should I not gather strength from his de- 
 sertion ? I have clung to the sea-weed 5 a rude storm has waft- 
 ed me within reach of an anchor — shall I still grasp the frail de- 
 lusive support, which will faii me at last ! No ! " she exclaimed, 
 springing from her couch, dashing away her tears, and falling 
 on her knees. " Anchor of the miserable, let me cling to Thee? 
 When naught but summer breezes played around me, I heeded 
 Thee not! Life's bitterest storms beat heavily on me, I discern 
 Thee now? Oh ! Thou who in thine earthly sojourn hast seen 
 and felt what woman's misery may be — Thou who gavest back 
 the lost son to the desolate widow, — strengthen and support 
 one, whose anguish, boundless as it seems to her, Thine all- 
 seeing eye can measure ; enable me to struggle with this despair, 
 and to struggle will be to conquer." She remained for some 
 minutes still kneeling, her face buried in her hands. She rose 
 pale, but subdued; carefully endeavoured to hide the traces of 
 her late passionate anguish ; bathed her eyes, braided her beau- 
 tiful hair; and, when her mother returned, greeted her with a 
 smile, much like the sickly attempt of a white London December 
 sun to smile through the dense fogs, which make our streets 
 their home. 
 
 CHAPTER X\J. 
 
 All Dieppe was busy with the affairs of Montague Wyndham. 
 Before an hour had elapsed, accounts of the mysterious ren- 
 contre on the quay, had been conveyed, by a few stragglers 
 who were present, to every scandal lover in the town. The affair, 
 strange enough as it occurred, became, in its constant exag- 
 gerated repetitions, marvellous indeed. There were as many ver- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 143 
 
 sions of the tale, as there were people who told it. Some repeated 
 the old story, that Wyndham was a married man,— that his wife 
 .and her father had followed him to Dieppe, where the latter 
 insisted on his receiving her back, or fighting him on the spot, 
 — that Wyndham had chosen the former alternative — and 
 that the whole party were reconciled, and had set out on their 
 road to Paris. 
 
 This story gained credence with all the ladies who had vainly 
 endeavoured to captivate Montague. The Whiteheads found 
 out that they had been always rather shy of him ; there was a 
 certain something in his air which they had never seen in any 
 but a married man — a stiffness— a reserve. Sir Csesar swore 
 that " it was well for Mr. Wyndham that he had never been 
 very particular in his attentions to the Miss Whiteheads; if lie 
 had been so, he should not hesitate to chastise him : but as it 
 w T as, if he were really married, and Mrs. Wyndham was a pre- 
 sentable person, Lady Whitehead, he doubted not, would call 
 on her, if she returned to Dieppe. He owned, that in St. Aubyn's 
 place he should feel very indignant — he should not stand it." 
 
 " But what could he do, papa?" said Antonia. "Miss Juliet 
 St. Aubyn would make up to him, and no man, married or 
 single, is expected to repel the advances of any lady! " 
 
 " Particularly one so young and lovely," said Mrs. Barton, 
 who, though she hated Juliet much, hated Antonia more. 
 "Poor dear little Juliet, I hear she fell into a fit on the quay, 
 and is still in a state of insensibility." 
 
 "As for beauty!" exclaimed the rosy, full-blown Geraldine, 
 "I never saw any in her. x\s Miss Barton said, she might pass 
 for a Creole; and as for youth, she may be young for anything 
 I know, but I never saw a brunette yet, who looked young;" 
 and she glanced at her own unmeaning red and white face in an 
 opposite glass, and twirled her straw-coloured ringlets. 
 
 "Pride must have a fall," ejaculated Mrs. Faithful. "To see 
 that girl, you'd say the ground was too mean for her to tread 
 upon, and now, here she is, a poor silly moth ! She has flut- 
 tered, and fluttered till her wings are burnt. In her place I could 
 not survive the idea that I had flirted with a married man, whe- 
 ther wittingly or not." 
 
 "In that case," said the joyous Mrs. Dashsvood, "we may 
 al! make our wills 5 for there is no one here who did not set her 
 cap (I do not except a certain widow's cap even) at this hand- 
 some Philander!" 
 
 " Oh ! don't thay tho, you thock me," said Captain Snaffle. 
 
 "I cannot think so ill of the ladies' taste," said Captain 
 Grigsby. 
 
 "Well," screamed Miss Primrose, who was just come in, 
 
144 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I've been to the inn again, and even into the next room to 
 that where Mr. Wyndham and these mysterious strangers are, 
 and " 
 
 "And what?" asked all in a breath. 
 
 " x\nd I could not catch a word, nor a glimpse of any of them-, 
 but I thought I heard the lady cry, and I know post-horses are 
 ordered for Rouen." 
 
 " Ah ! den he is off, sure enough," said Mr. Dubois, " and I 
 do not tink Miss Juliet any de more estimable dat she have flirt 
 for tree monts wid a married man. I know someting," and he 
 nodded and winked ; " she need not hold her head so high !" 
 
 "No, indeed!" murmured a chorus of spiteful voices; — but 
 from a corner of his studio, — the place where this conversation 
 occurred, and where all these unwelcome visitors had crowded, 
 under pretence of looking at a picture, but in reality to discuss 
 this affair,— Eustace Murray's voice was heard exclaiming, 
 "Shame! Shame on you, Mr. Dubois, who would unjustly 
 calumniate one you feel to be innocent. Ladies, how can you 
 hear a young and virtuous girl traduced, and join in a slander 
 which your hearts must belie? V. ho here can assert, on his po- 
 sitive knowledge, that Mr. Wyndham is married? — None! Who 
 can assert that his intimacy with the St. Aubyns had any deeper 
 source than the mutual pleasure, the intellectual and refined 
 naturally take in each other's society? — None! Who then dares 
 make so free with the spotless name of this excellent family? — 
 Who accuses Miss Juliet St. Aubyn?— and of what?" 
 
 " I do not know?" said one lady. 
 
 " 1 have no idea what it all means," exclaimed another. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with it," said a third. 
 
 "I thaid nothing, I am thure," said Captain Snaffle. 
 
 " Nor I," replied Captain Grigsby. 
 
 "It seems then to rest with you, Monsieur Dubois," said 
 Eustace Murray, rising— with pale cheek, but a flashing eye. 
 "Perhaps," added he, in a voice so subdued, that few would 
 have detected how much feeling was lurking beneath the as- 
 sumed gentleness of his manners, "perhaps, you will tell me 
 with what Miss Juliet St. Aubyn is charged-, for 1 hold it to be 
 the duty of every man of feeling and honour, to defend an ab- 
 sent woman, however slightly known to him, if in his heart he 
 believes her to be innocent." 
 
 Eustace's colour varied as he spoke, his voice trembled, and 
 his cheek grew paler. 
 
 Monsieur Dubois, a boasting, bullying little Frenchman, mis- 
 took his agitation for cowardice, and bustling up to him said, 
 " What for you ask me? know dat I am a man of honour, and 
 never answer an impertinent question." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 145 
 
 " But 1 always question an impertinent answer," said Eustace 
 calmly. U I ask you again, with what you charge this youn^ 
 and admirable lady?" 
 
 "Charge !" cried the effervescent Gaul, " is for you to charge! 
 five francs for some poor miserable ting, and not like!— Take 
 my advice, confine yourself to de bout dupinceau, and don't 
 interfere wid de bout de Ve'pee. Go and try to give your last 
 picture a coup de maitre, and do not provoke me to give you 
 a coup de pied. I am a man of honour— 1 will say what I like 
 of deSt. Aubyns, Miss Juliet, MissBla " 
 
 "Hush, Sir! You shall traduce no English lady in my pre- 
 sence. You shall not pollute a name I respect, by letting it pass 
 your boasting lips. The ladies, frightened by our foolish quar- 
 rel, have hurried away. Now mark me, Sir, unless you this 
 moment recant all that you have said, derogatory to the St. Au- 
 byn family, I insist on your walking out of my room by that 
 door; and in case of your refusal, I will Uirn you gently into the 
 street, a warning to tale-bearers and traducers, Sir!" 
 
 Monsieur Dubois glanced at the pale cheek and somewhat 
 emaciated form of the young artist, and then at his own broad 
 thick-set figure. He turned to Captains Snaffle and Grigsby, 
 who were looking as unconcerned as men usually look when 
 the safety or honour of another is at stake. " He would be no- 
 thing in your hands," whispered Grigsby. 
 
 "You cannot retract now," said Snaffle. 
 
 " 1 do not care dat" said Dubois, firing up, and snapping his 
 fingers, "for you or the St. Aubyns. I tink St. Aubyn is an 
 old fool, and as to Miss Juliet and Blanche, I know more 
 dan " 
 
 His sentence ended in a sort of howl, for Eustace Murray 
 seized on the little beau, and, with a strength supplied by the 
 indignation of the moment, pushed him with the greatest" ease 
 out of the door on to the landing ; and as he seemed inclined to 
 struggle, sent him, with a kick, rolling down stairs. 
 
 " Bravo! I thay Bravo!" exclaimed Captain Snaffle. 
 
 " Bravo ! " echoed Captain Grigsby. " You will have to meet 
 him, Murray." 
 
 " Oh, certainly, if he wishes it ; but I think he will get out of 
 it somehow. A French coward is a rarity ; but when you do 
 meet with one, you must own that nothing can surpass his cool 
 and philosophical ingenuity." 
 
 " But besides his sudden expulsion," said Grigsby, '- you 
 gave him a kick 5 no Frenchman can get over that ; ten to one 
 he fights you." 
 
 " What is he doing?" asked Eustace. 
 
 " Ob, two or three bonnes from the kitchen are round him, 
 
 10 
 
146 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 to whom he seems to be explaining the affair 5 he is adjusting 
 his hair, brushing his coat ; he has taken out a pocket glass and 
 comb," said Grigsby, looking from the doorway, " and by Jove 
 he is coming in again ! " 
 
 In a moment Monsieur Dubois entered, bow r ing and smiling. 
 
 " A very good joke indeed, very good! " said he, rubbing his 
 hands. 
 
 " No, Sir, it was no joke," replied Eustace, " or at least it 
 was one very likely to be repeated, unless you apologise for, and 
 withdraw all your offensive expressions relative to the St. Aubyn 
 family." 
 
 " De truly noble mind is ever ready to apologise, when he 
 have hurt de feelings of a fellow creature," said Dubois, with his 
 hand on his heart. 
 
 "You apologise, then," said Eustace, "and recall your 
 offensive expressions? " 
 
 " lam proud," replied Mr. Dubois, " to withdraw any ting 
 dat offend 5 to offend alady is unworthy a man of honour." 
 
 " Then, Sir, our quarrel is ended," said Eustace, taking his 
 hat, and rising to leave the room. 
 
 " But he gave you a kick," whispered Captain Grigsby. " You 
 must go out with him." 
 
 " A kick is such a thocking inthult," said Captain Snaffle, 
 " you mutht fight, by Jove." 
 
 "You mistake, Gentlemen," said Dubois;" to a man of 
 honour a kick is noting, a blow is noting, de soul is de abode of 
 glory, honour, pride. You may kick my body, but you can 
 never kick my soul." 
 
 A loud laugh followed this philosophical deduction. Eustace 
 hastened away. Dubois invited Captains Snaffle and Grigsby to 
 share a bottle of wine with him 5 and, though they despised his 
 conduct, yet, being devoured by ennui, they consented, because 
 they had nothing better, or in fact any thing else to do. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 It was well for poor Juliet that her anxious and all-foreseeing 
 mother had persuaded her to accompany her father to Ville 
 d'Eu, for constant was the succession of prying visitors who 
 were dropping in during the whole afternoon to ascertain what 
 was passing at the St. Aubyns. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn received them with a gentle dignity, which 
 imposed even silence on the boldest— the Whiteheads alone 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 147 
 
 ventured on a direct question. Sir Csesar boldly asked how Miss 
 Juliet did, and where she was, and heard with no small surprise 
 that she was gone on a pleasure party to Ville d'Eu with her 
 father and Blanche. He soon hurried away, to convey this un- 
 expected piece of information to the scandal-loving coterie at 
 Mrs. Hodnot's. 
 
 Meanwhile a messenger from Montague had been at the St. 
 Aubyns with a letter, to be left only in case Miss Juliet St. 
 Aubyn was at home. The fond mother's heartbeat high with a 
 hope that the letter might contain a fall explanation of all that 
 concerned her daughter's peace to know : but the messenger 
 had peremptory orders not to leave it 5 and Mrs. St. Aubyn could 
 only explain whither her daughter was gone, and trust that the 
 Providence which loves to protect the innocent, would convey 
 to her dear child any tidings that could soothe the anguish of 
 her heart. 
 
 It was evening when the St. Aubyns reached Ville d'Eu. 
 Mr. St. Aubyn was so entirely engrossed by the new hopes awa- 
 kened by the letter which he had received from Cousin Geoffrey, 
 by genealogical reminiscences, and visions of future glory, that 
 he did not even notice Juliet's dejected air and abstracted man- 
 ner. Blanche was all tender and delicate attention to her unhappy 
 sister. Mr. St. Aubyn talked of titles and castles, wealth and 
 honours, themes to which maidens love to listen, but he was 
 little heeded. Juliet's mind, spite of her efforts to attend, would 
 wander away in search of the still-loved Montague; and when- 
 ever an involuntary shudder betrayed the anguish of her 
 reflections, Blanche's eyes would fill with tears— tears revealing 
 the perfect sympathy of a sister's heart. 
 
 The winter moon was rising when they arrived at Ville d'Eu. 
 It was a cold and frosty evening. After dinner, St. Aubyn began 
 a long letter to Cousin Geoffrey. Blanche, wearied with Jier 
 cold journey and a long day of anxiety, threw herself on a hard 
 French sofa ; and so few are the appliances the young and 
 light-hearted require that even on that rack of discomfort she 
 fell fast asleep. Juliet sat for some time by her side, watching 
 the rosy slumber of her sister. All was so still, that she could 
 hear the mournful beating of her own sad heart, and the eager 
 hurried movement of her sanguine father's pen over the paper 
 on which he was writing to Cousin Geoffrey. 
 
 Cousin Geoffrey i Ah ! there was a new subject for madden- 
 ing reflection. She rose, and looked from the window on the 
 gardens of the hotel. 
 
 Several tufts of evergreen trees, their leaves crisped by the 
 frost, sparkled in the moonlight-, the salient branches, relieved 
 by the intense depths of mysterious shadow which surrounded 
 
liS COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 them, as suddenly as do the dark shades of sorrow the bright 
 glimpses of love and joy. Several figures of whilish stone (the 
 favourite ornaments of a French garden) gleamed through the 
 laurel and cypress trees. A rudely-carved, but yet gracefully- 
 conceived figure of Flora caught Juliet's eye 5 the indistinctness 
 of the object permitted imagination to fill up the outline; and 
 Juliet gazed upon it till it seemed, to her excited fancy, almost 
 alive, in its calm and youthful beauty. 
 
 " There is a moral," she said to herself, while the tears rose 
 in her eyes, " in the joyous and tranquil happiness with which 
 sculptors, poets, and painters, invest the character of Flora ; 
 her young affections are centered in the flowers she tends— the 
 garlands she twines 5 — the serpent passion never wakes for her! 
 Oh, that it were mine again to love a flower, a bird, a song, as I 
 have loved them ! Alas, I feel as though a cool diadem of spring 
 flowers would now wither on this burning brow. Oh ! that this 
 heart would cease to throb in hopeless anguish, and that this 
 bosom could resolve itself into stone, as cold and senseless as 
 that on which the moonlight is smiling now! Montague, oh 
 that you should have taught my heart to wish that it could 
 cease to feel!" 
 
 Juliet looked round, Blanche still slept, and her father was 
 writing, if possible, with increased energy 5 — she felt an intense 
 desire to wander in the sweet moonlight which so forcibly re- 
 called the evening when Montague had described the cottage 
 home of wedded love. "A few minutes ! " she said to herself, 
 " would revive my heart, and my absence would not be per- 
 ceived." She took up her shawl, which was lying on a table 
 near her, and stole unperceived out of the room ; at the end of a 
 corridor she found a door which opened on a flight of steps, 
 descending into the garden. In a few minutes Juliet had crossed 
 the moon-lit lawn, had discovered that the envied Flora was, 
 like many other time-worn ladies, more charming at a distance 
 than on a nearer approach, and had plunged into the thickest 
 part of the evergreen shrubbery. 
 
 In solitude and moonlight the heart will soften towards an 
 absent lover, however reason and pride may conspire to con- 
 demn him 5 and Juliet was roused from a passionate prayer for 
 Montague's happiness, by the sound of an arrival in the court- 
 yard of the inn •, — the cracking whips of the postilions, and "the 
 blustering oaths with which they accompanied their orthodox 
 innovation on the surrounding stillness. Juliet wished herself 
 once more seated by the sleeping Blanche. She feared to return 
 to the house, lest, in the garden or corridor, she might meet 
 any one of the party just arrived. The cold, unfelt in her late 
 enthralling and passionate reverie, began to affect her. She rose, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 119 
 
 and pushing aside the evergreen branches that surrounded her, 
 looked out on the moon-lit lawn. A tall shadow caught her eye : 
 —was it that of a tree ?— of one of the images? With lips apart, 
 distended eyes, and brow to which all her heart's blood seemed 
 to rush, she* perceived that it moved— moved towards her. She 
 stood as it were transfixed, still holding aside the boughs, dread- 
 ing to see or be seen, and yet gazing intently on the approaching 
 figure. It passed her. She uttered a faint shriek, and sank almost 
 senseless on the garden seat. But even in that shriek, the ever 
 wakeful ear of love recognised the one dear voice. In a moment, 
 Montague Wyndham was by Juliets side. He raised her, — 
 rested her drooping head on his shoulder, and, almost uncon- 
 sciously to himself, poured out the long-hoarded tenderness of 
 his heart. "Listen to me, Juliet," he said 5 " listen to me, while 
 I tell you with what a holy and entire love my heart adores you 1 " 
 
 At these words Juliet seemed to awaken to her actual situa- 
 tion. She tore herself from his embrace,— the weakness of the 
 moment had passed away,— indignation lent her energy,— she 
 stood erect before him. 
 
 "Montague," she said, "why have you singled out as the 
 victim of your falsehood and treachery, one whose simple read- 
 iness to believe you, robs you of even the shadow of a triumph? 
 Why have you taught that heart to doubt you, to which such 
 doubt is worse than death ? Why, having poisoned the sources 
 of peace and joy, can you not let the bitter waters slowly work 
 their way? Why, with antidotes more baleful still, endeavour to 
 revive those feelings which must die, even if I die with them? 
 Who, and what are you?— Speak!— Who is this Lady Marian? 
 —Dare you not tell me? Oh, Montague," she added, while tears 
 hurried down her cheeks, "say you are poor, and poverty is 
 ennobled in my eyes ! Say, that, in the vain opinion of a misjudg- 
 ing w r orld, disgrace is your unmerited portion, and I will but 
 honour you the more devoutly. Say you are in sorrow ; and if 
 love can turn your tears to smiles, the love of Juliet shall gild 
 them all. But do not say you have indeed deceived me! — do not 
 say I have given my heart's first fond love to a cold trifler, — 
 that another has a prior claim to what seemed to me so noble 
 and so pure a shrine, that I could have knelt and prayed there. 
 Ah, no, no! it cannot be ! If you are false, there is no truth in 
 man! Tell me," she added, clasping her hands, "Tell me all! 
 explain all !" 
 
 " Juliet," he replied, in low and hurried accents, "I can explain 
 nothing. Do not leave me," he added, throwing himself on his 
 knees before her, and grasping her hand, — " T ask of you ;i faith, 
 passing the faith of woman. — a faith which must triumph ovef 
 all that now seems to condemn me. — and f ask you, <m the sim- 
 
150 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 pie word of one who owns that mystery surrounds him,— that 
 he is not what he seems, — not what he has seemed to you, — to 
 believe him sincere, — to believe that never was heart more true, 
 more devoted, than that which now pants to hear you say, ' I 
 believe, and I trust you.' The voices of men will be raised against 
 me 5 shall they be more powerful than that of him, whom your 
 heart had well nigh chosen as its guardian through life ? Who 
 Lady Marian is, I dare not tell, for dangers encompass her, and 
 1 have promised her not to reveal it at present ; but to you I may 
 say, solemnly and sacredly, as a man of truth and feeling, that 
 the interest I take in her is quite compatible with the pure devo- 
 tion of my love for you. I am here but for a few moments ; before 
 morning I must be in Paris. Will you, can you let me go, with 
 the blessed certainty that Juliet trusts, though all things con- 
 spire to condemn me? that though all things would prove me 
 false, Juliet believes me true? Speak, beloved of my soul ! " 
 
 Juliet turned towards him 5 he was still kneeling, his face 
 was raised; and on the pale cheeks, on which the moonlight 
 streamed, large tears were glistening. 
 
 " Montague," said Juliet, dreadfully agitated, after gazing 
 at him for a few moments. " Dearest Montague, I do believe 
 —I do trust you ; my heart glories in being capable of the faith 
 you require 5 let what will happen, I will never condemn, never 
 doubt you ! But rise, dear Montague ; why should you kneel 
 for that which is but justice? What mean these tears? Can any 
 words of mine recall your well loved smile?" 
 
 " Yes, dearest," said Montague, still at her feet. " I kneel 
 for more than justice, more than life, I kneel for your love. 
 Juliet, I adore you ! Can you, for the sake of love like mine, 
 forget that I am unknown? Can you promise, whatever my 
 destiny may be, that your love shall make it welcome? Can 
 you promise now, that of my future life you will be the guar- 
 dian angel? Can you promise, that when I return, to claim 
 you as my bride, whatever home I bear you to, you will be 
 content to bless me?" 
 
 In the energy of his feelings, he clasped her waist in almost 
 unconscious tenderness. Juliet pressed him to her heart. 
 
 "Am I so blest?" said Montague, "Will you be mine for 
 ever?" 
 
 "I will," murmured Juliet, forgetting, in that rapturous 
 hour, father, mother, relatives, all probable, and all possible 
 impediments — alive only to the fact, that her worshipped lover 
 knelt before her, and had asked her, with trembling voice, and 
 tearful eyes, to be for ever in this mortal world, the wife of 
 his bosom, the guardian of his life ! 
 
 " Heaven bless you, my own adored one," said Montague, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 151 
 
 wild with joy, and starting to his feet, " you have accepted me, 
 Juliet-, you have accepted the unknown Montague Wyndham, 
 and now " 
 
 At that moment, the postilions' whips were heard ; a man's 
 voice was calling, "Mr. Wyndham ; " and a gentle female tone, 
 ejaculated "Montague." 
 
 "That is the mysterious Lady Marian," said Juliet, with a 
 smile of truth and confidence, as she looked out upon the 
 lawn. "I see a tall female figure coming this way ; hasten 
 away, dearest ; we must not be seen here. I can return to the 
 house when you are gone." 
 
 "Heaven bless and reward you, my beloved one!" said Mon- 
 tague, clasping her to his heart. "I will write all 1 intended 
 to have said ; all mysteries shall be cleared up 5 and when kind 
 Heaven sends me to your side again, you shall own that your 
 trust has not been misplaced, nor the priceless jewel of your 
 love quite thrown away. In the meantime, let this interview 
 be a secret! Adieu, dearest! they are coming this way." 
 
 In a moment he was on the lawn. Juliet distinguished his 
 voice, in conversation with the Lady Marian. A few minutes 
 more, and she heard the carriage drive away, and, for the 
 first time sensible that it was a cold night, she folded her shawl 
 over her trusting and lightly beating heart, and returned to the 
 side of the still sleeping Blanche, and into the presence of her 
 abstracted and unconscious father, who little dreamt that the 
 quarter of an hour in which he had been vainly puzzling over 
 one doubtful link in his own pedigree, had been the most im- 
 portant era of his Juliet's life ; and that that brief interval must 
 colour, for her, all future time. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Montague and his mysterious fellow-travellers arrived at 
 Paris early on the morning following the scene we have de- 
 scribed at Ville d'Eu. It was after an agitating day, the events 
 of which we are not yet at liberty to convey to the reader, that 
 he walked into a celebrated Restaurateur's on the Boulevards, 
 and ordering a solitary repast, called for writing materials, 
 and proceeded to address a fond, explanatory letter to Juliet 
 St. Aubyn, and one to her father containing a formal request 
 for his daughter's hand. The room into which he had been 
 shewn, was the largest and most elegant in the house 5 for the 
 waiter at one glance had decided in his own mind that Mon- 
 
152 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 sieur was un grand milor, and already seemed to feel in his 
 palm the lavish donation with which Englishmen spoil the lank 
 garcons, who from grasping at sous become ungrateful for 
 francs ! It was a fete day in Paris, and pleasure parties were 
 carousing in all the other apartments. Montague was still en- 
 gaged in writing, when the master of the house came in, with 
 many bows and excuses, to say that an English milor, with 
 several of his friends, wished to dine there; that, having no 
 room unoccupied, he would be obliged to send away such pro- 
 fitable customers, unless Monsieur would kindly permit them 
 to dine at another table in his room. 
 
 Montague, who was always obliging, consented, although he 
 wished, as a lover wishes, to be alone with the image of his love, 
 The landlord, who vowed that his gratitude could only end with 
 his life, retired with sundry bows, and in a few minutes an 
 English gentleman with three French officers entered the room. 
 
 The Englishman, who announced himself as Mr. Merton, 
 approached Montague, and gracefully thanked him for the ac- 
 commodation he had afforded them. Montague replied with 
 politeness, and proceeded with his letters. Meanwhile, he could 
 not avoid gathering from the snatches of conversation, which 
 met his ear, that the milor and his friends were desperate 
 gamblers; that they were about to refresh themselves, after a 
 sitting of twelve hours ; and that they intended to spend the 
 night in the sickening feverish excitement of a gambling house. 
 
 It appeared that the Englishman had been a considerable win- 
 ner, and that the noisiest and apparently most merry of the 
 Frenchmen was a poor fellow who had been stripped of his 
 every sou. 
 
 When Montague had finished his letters, Mr. Merton made 
 an attempt at entering into conversation with him ; but the little 
 he had involuntarily learnt of his mode of life, made Montague 
 meet his advances with a repelling coldness, which otherwise 
 he would not have shewn towards one of a most elegant ex- 
 terior, and frank and winning address. Thus repulsed, Mr. 
 Merton felt that he could not, as he had intended to do, invite 
 Montague to join his dinner party, and the latter sat down to 
 his solitary and simple repast; while the jaded and famished 
 crew, from the feverish haunt of vice, partook of a dinner, the 
 luxurious costliness of which (provided at the expense of the 
 winner of the day) proved the truth of the old saying "soon 
 won, soon gone." 
 
 As the champagne circulated, the party grew noisy; Merton 
 alone, although he drank freely, preserved a calm and gentle- 
 manly self-possession. The Frenchmen, who were drinking 
 their monsseux out of tumblers, vied with each other in loud and 
 
COUSIN GEOrFREY. 153 
 
 boasting stories, which jarred strangely on the ear of Montague, 
 refined as it was, by the purifying influence of a first, and real 
 love. He resolved to hasten from a scene so disgusting to him, 
 and was on the point of ringing for his bill, when his attention 
 was arrested by the word " Dieppe," '•Dieppe.'' where dwelt 
 the idol of his heart. Ah. all who have loved, can well conceive 
 that that simple word, in the mouth even of a stranger, sent the 
 warm blood from his cheek to his heart ; it rushed quickly back- 
 again, as the conversation proceeded. 
 
 Mr. Merton asked of the officer who had spoken of Dieppe, 
 how he had been amused during his sojourn there. 
 
 " Oh ! a ravir" replied the little boasting fellow. " Dieppe 
 is full of English heiresses. Belles a miracle.'" He then ran 
 over a list, including "les Viteheacls Demoiselles, ele Milor 
 Vitehead , Miladi Barton et sa Demoiselle , deux jolies 
 veuves, immensement riches, line assez vieille femme, unpen 
 passe'e, mais tout de meme ayec de bonnes dispositions pour 
 le mortage, qui sans doute avail de la fortune et qui se 
 nommait Mademoiselle Primrose. And finally, des belles 
 les plus belles! Les petites de St. Aubyn" 
 
 Wyndham started at the mention, the irreverent mention, as 
 it seemed to him. of that sacred name. His impulse was to col- 
 lar the presumptuous little Frenchman ; and he had risen from 
 his seat: but a moment convinced him of the injustice of such a 
 proceeding, and the expose that must ensue. 
 
 At the name of St. Aubyn. a slight flush crossed the hand- 
 some polished brow of Mr. Merton : it was a brow on which 
 time had written no wrinkle, and yet you could not fancy it a 
 youthful brow. "Who are these St. Aubyns?" he asked, in a 
 voice of unconcern. 
 
 " Oh! " replied the officer, in French. " they are two pretty 
 little things , la brune, et la blonde ,— both." and he simpered, 
 "pour dire la eerite sont folks de moi :je suis V enfant gate 
 de cette maison-la .• enfin.yy suis fourre comme un roL n 
 
 A cold and incredulous sneer played on the lip of Mr. Mer- 
 ton. Wyndham. trembling and pale with indignation, suddenly 
 rose. "Have those beauties any lovers?" asked Mr. Merton. 
 
 "Lovers! oh! yes, tousands ! La petite Juliette, for in- 
 stance, now that I am weary of being too much petted have left 
 the field, has taken up with one Wyndham, Joft garcon, as I 
 hear ; grand, blond, but a mere aventurier, I do believe, foi dv 
 galant hommer 
 
 Wyndham looked at the little boasting wretch, and recognised 
 a man who had once vainly entreated Juliet to dance with him, 
 and had presumed to call several times at the St Aubyns without 
 being admitted. 
 
154 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Do you know this Wyndham ! " asked Mr. Merton. 
 
 "No, I saw him but once, and he made off at my approach. 
 I should not recollect him were I to see him. Gentlemen, fill 
 your glasses ; I must have you drink the health of mv little 
 belle, Juliette de St. Aubyn ! " 
 
 The glass he raised was never destined to reach his lip. Mon- 
 tague, no longer master of himself, darted forward, dashed it to 
 the other end of the room, exclaiming, " False and boast- 
 ing liar ! the house in which you pretend to have been so 
 well received, is one where you were never admitted ; — the 
 lady, with whom you dare to claim an intimacy, never spoke to 
 you in her life, except in refusing to dance with you ; and the 
 gentleman who now insists on your owning your falsehood, 
 and apologising for your insolence, is Mr. Wyndham. I demand 
 a full apology, in the presence of all who have listened to your 
 boasting inventions." 
 
 The little Frenchman, Adolphe De la Rue, was for a moment 
 taken off his guard, but soon recovering his self-possession, he 
 twirled his moustachios, and said, in pompous French, "You 
 forget, base and ill-bred Englishman, that to a Frenchman and 
 an officer, apology is impossible, and falsehood unknown. The 
 insult you have offered me must be washed out in blood ; one or 
 both must fall. And as a Frenchman is ever impatient to follow, 
 wherever honour leads, I propose that we meet at once ! " He 
 handed his card to Montague, and received his in return. And 
 the moral coward, who had been base enough to boast and to 
 falsify, behaved with perfect coolness on the eve of a duel, adding 
 thus another, to the many proofs on record, that it is the brute 
 courage of the animal, not the moral dignity of the man, which 
 frequently enables a boasting bully calmly to face an event which 
 may send him unprepared to his last account ; or make him the 
 wilful murderer of his fellow-man. 
 
 Monsieur De la Rue was vehement in his request for an im- 
 mediate meeting, in which he was supported by his second, 
 Monsieur Le Grand. Wyndham, his blood still boiling with the 
 insults offered to Juliet's name, coldly observed, that if he were 
 provided with a second, he saw no cause for a moment's delay. 
 
 All looked to Mr. Merton. Monsieur Le Grand suggested that 
 it would be an act of friendship to both parties to bring this 
 affair to a speedy termination : thus urged, he, with apparent 
 reluctance, offered his services to Montague — and, as Monsieur 
 Le Grand rejected as impossible any recantation or apology on the 
 part of his principal, they agreed to adjourn to the Bois de Bou- 
 logne, and to get the affair over before the daylight, which was 
 fast waning, had died away. 
 
 Thus hurried and excited, Montague had no time for the hor- 
 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 155 
 
 ror and regret with which an hour's reflection would have filled 
 his heart, at the thought of acting in a manner which his prin- 
 ciples condemned, and against which his feelings revolted. The 
 offensive expressions of the Frenchman rang in his ears ; and, 
 as he walked down stairs with Mr. Merton, he heard him fill a 
 gohlet of wine, and drink in malignant derision, in company 
 with his fellow officers, to " la petite Juliette de St. Aubyn" 
 humming directly after, the air of " Cest V amour, V amour, 
 V amour." Montague turned, trembling with anger, and re- 
 solved to await him, and hurl him down stairs \ but Mr. Mer- 
 ton, who read his thoughts in his flushed cheek and flashing 
 eyes, put his arm within his, and drew him away. " His object 
 is to enrage and insult you," he said ; " let him not discover that 
 he has succeeded." 
 
 When they reached the street, one fiacre only was to be seen, 
 and, as it was a fete day, there was no chance of another: into 
 this the two principals and the two seconds were obliged to en- 
 ter. It had been decided by the seconds that they should fight 
 with pistols : and they were to repair to Monsieur Le Grand's 
 lodgings, which were on their way to the Bois de Boulogne, 
 where he assured them they would find the weapons they re- 
 quired. It was a strange and awkward situation for Montague, 
 that of being shut up in the same carriage with the man he was 
 about to meet in a deadly conflict : but the insolent and provok- 
 ing manner of his adversary kept up the irritation of Montague's 
 heart, and prevented any softening feelings from harbouring 
 there. 
 
 The little Frenchman sat, his hat on one side, his arms fold- 
 ed, beating time with his foot, and whistling the offensive air, 
 " Cest V amour, V amour.'" This, connecting itself with his 
 base calumnies concerning Juliet, almost urged Montague to 
 fling him out of the carriage window. The time they waited at 
 Le Grand's seemed interminable. At length he appeared, to 
 Montague's surprise, carrying under his cloak two small swords: 
 " his pistols," he said, " he discovered with regret, had been 
 borrowed by a friend : he thought," he added, " that it could 
 not matter ; — when gentlemen really wished to meet, when 
 wounded honour called a noble spirit to arms, trifles could not 
 deter." 
 
 Mr. Merton made some objections, which Montague over- 
 ruled. It was not that he was a very practised swordsman — it 
 was not that he did not see through Le Grand's paltry ruse— for 
 it is much more common to a Frenchman to fence well than to 
 be a good shot,— but he thought of the fair fame of his affianced 
 Juliet traduced by so base a villain — he felt as if the justice of 
 his cause must aive him the victory— and he trusted he should 
 
156 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 be able to leach a boaster prudence, by a disabling, but not a 
 fatal wound. 
 
 Monsieur De la Rue, who was a practised swordsman, grew 
 even more insolent in manner, as he felt that the chances on his 
 side were far greater than they could have been in a duel with 
 pistols. 
 
 They reached the Bois de Boulogne, selected a secluded spot, 
 and after the customary salute, the parties commenced. Mon- 
 tague had taken Merton aside ; he had requested that, in case of 
 his being either killed, or severely wounded, Mr. Merton would 
 write an account of the whole affair to Mr. St. Aubyn, and en- 
 close the letters he would find in his pocket. In case of his 
 death, he mentioned some other parties, to whom he wished a 
 fair statement of what had occurred to be forwarded. Merton 
 pressed his hand with an averted face, and said, "Depend 
 on me. 1 ' 
 
 There was a great deal of flourish and parade, and a great 
 shew of coolness, about the fencing of Monsieur De la Rue 5 but 
 it soon became apparent that Montague had the quickest eye, 
 the steadiest hand, and the greatest command of himself. They 
 fought for some time equally enough, when De la Rue, having 
 received a slight wound in the arm, the pain it caused him, and 
 the sight of his own blood, roused him to malignant fury. Per- 
 ceiving that Montague cooled, when he saw his adversary's 
 blood flowing, and hesitated to follow up his advantage, he 
 cried, while he made a desperate lounge at him, "Allans 
 done , en as-tu assez ? il y va de Vhonneur de la petite Ju- 
 liette. Courage 1 ." 
 
 At this insulting taunt, Montague, for the moment unaware 
 that he had himself received a severe wound, aimed at his ad- 
 versary's sword-arm -,'his weapon slipped, passed under his ribs, 
 through his body ; and the next sight, that greeted the horrified 
 Montague, was Monsieur De la Rue stretched on the ground 5 
 blood fast welling from his side, his cheek of an ashy paleness, 
 death fast approaching apparently in every feature, and on every 
 limb. 
 
 " Gracious Heaven! I am a murderer! " was the involuntary 
 ejaculation of Montague, as he rushed to the side of his fallen 
 foe. Ah ! with what repentant anguish he now gazed on those 
 pale features— those glazed eyes ! 
 
 De la Rue slowly unclosed them , looked at him for a moment, 
 tried to offer his hand, and murmured, "Pardonnez, Made- 
 moiselle Juliette est bonne eomme elle est belle-" and turn- 
 ing to the spectators, said faintly, " e'est a moi la faute ,• " he 
 Mien closed his eyes with a groan of anguish. 
 
 Merton and Le Grand consulted apart. Montague, half frantic 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 157 
 
 with remorse and anguish, joined them. " Is there no surgeort?" 
 he exclaimed, "Oh! I would give thousands, my whole for- 
 tune, my life, to save him ! " 
 
 " I am surgeon of the regiment," said Le Grand: " we will 
 see what can be done." 
 
 "You, too, are wounded," exclaimed Merton, with great 
 concern, and Wyndham then became, for the first time, aware 
 of a severe wound in his shoulder, the blood from which was 
 fast trickling down. 
 
 " You are very pale, and look very faint," said Merton; " 1 
 fear you are more hurt than you at present imagine." 
 
 " Probably," said Wyndham, "but that is an after-consider- 
 ation : at present, all my care, all my anxiety, is for that unfor- 
 tunate man. Learn the surgeon's real opinion," he said, stag- 
 gering to a bank and sinking down upon it: " be quick, I will 
 await you here." 
 
 Merton hastened to the spot where Le Grand was tending 
 De la Rue. " His fate is uncertain, as yet," said Le Grand; 
 " help me with him into the fiacre, and let us get him to his 
 lodgings before the police come upon us, and the affair £ets 
 wind." 
 
 With the help of Merton and the driver. De la Rue was placed 
 in the fiacre. "You must take him home," said Merton ; "I 
 must attend to Wyndham, who is himself severely wounded." 
 
 "Come to me, at De la Rue's lodgings," said Le Grand, 
 " after you have taken Wyndham to your own. I foresee " 
 
 " Hush! " replied Merton, glancing at the driver. 
 
 The fiacre moved slowly away, and Merton returned to the 
 bank, where he had left Wyndham : the latter had fainted from 
 pain and loss of blood. Merton took from his pocket the letters 
 he had been commissioned to forward to St. -Aubyn, before he 
 attempted to revive him: he then hastened to a turning in the 
 road, and perceiving a carriage in the distance, he hallooed to 
 the driver, who soon came up. In a few minutes the still insen- 
 sible Montague was placed in it, and was driven to Mr. Merton's 
 lodgings, placed in a bed, and his wound dressed, before he re- 
 covered to a sense of what was going on. 
 
 When he did so, he found himself in an elegant room, with 
 no light but that from a bright wood fire : a neat and very pretty 
 little French bonne was sitting by his side, and all his attempts 
 at questioning her, she replied merely by shaking her head, and 
 putting her finger on her lips. 
 
 " Tell me one thing, at anv rate," said Montague. " Monsieur 
 DelaRue ?" 
 
 ■II va mieux" replied the damsel with a smile, 
 
158 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 "Then may heaven be praised. I ask no more," said Mon- 
 tague. 
 
 Ere long he experienced the raging thirst which is the natu- 
 ral consequence of fever and loss of blood. 
 
 Justine, his pretty nurse, anticipated his wants, and handed 
 him a large goblet, full of a cool and refreshing beverage*, he 
 eagerly drained it, and, sinking back on his pillow, fell into a 
 profound sleep. 
 
 The beverage of which he had drunk so freely, and into which 
 a strong narcotic had been infused, operated so powerfully, that 
 it was not till the mid-day sun forced itself through the crevices 
 in the shutters, that Montague awoke from a thousand strange 
 dreams and distorted visions. When he did so, he saw Mr. 
 Merton standing by his bedside, affectionately clasping his hand, 
 and gazing intently on his face. The past rushed like a torrent 
 on his mind, he started up in his bed, and eagerly asked " how 
 is De la Rue?" 
 
 " Still alive," said Merton, " and I trust likely to do well:, 
 your magnificent promises to Le Grand, who is really a clever 
 surgeon, have urged him to almost supernatural exertions." 
 
 •' Whether successful or not, I will redeem them," said Mon- 
 tague 5 " yet tell him, that if he spares my soul the eternal stain 
 of blood, I will present him with a blank draft, which he shall 
 fill up as he will." 
 
 " No ! no ! my dear young friend," said Merton; " that may 
 do with our noble minded and considerate faculty, but he might 
 fill it up one million of pounds sterling.'' 
 
 Montague smiled faintly. "Well, say all you can 5 promise all 
 that may urge him to vigilance 5 whatever you promise I will 
 redeem. I find," he added, " that I cannot raise my arm ; will 
 it be asking too much of you, to beg you to write a few lines, 
 which I will dictate, to my friends at Dieppe?" 
 
 " You are aware, I imagine," said Merton, " that, agreeably 
 to your request, I forwarded, by last night's post, the letters I 
 found in your coat pocket ? " 
 
 "No," said Montague, "I had forgotten the request. Good 
 heaven! what anxiety, what anguish I shall cause her! Per- 
 haps, impassioned, devoted creature as she is, she may hurry 
 to me here. Dear friend — so very kind although so lately 
 known — write, I implore you, a few lines in my name, to say 
 that all is well with me, — that I should be happy if I could hear 
 that all dear to me are so too. Give my address here, and say that 
 in a few days I hope to join them again— oh ! Heaven ! perhaps 
 to part no more ! " 
 
 The calm, middle-aged Mr. Merton smiled at the sanguine 
 vehemence of the young lover, and immediately set about writ- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 159 
 
 ing the letter he dictated. The excitement it occasioned brought 
 on an increase of fever— the surgeon, who the night before had 
 dressed Wyndharn's wound, arriving just as the letter was com- 
 pleted, looked grave, shook his head, spoke of tetanus, sympto- 
 matic fever, and a hundred other appalling probabilities. Mon- 
 tague, his heart full of life and hope, of love and Juliet, smiled at 
 the thought of danger and of death ; but for once the surgeon 
 had not exaggerated . In the night, the fever grew to an alarming 
 height 5 the next day every evil symptom had increased ; Mon- 
 tague's mind wandered — ere long he was quite light headed 5 in a 
 few days mortification was apprehended ; for about a week his 
 life was in imminent danger ; the most violent remedies were 
 resorted to ; but his excellent constitution triumphed, at length, 
 over all his medicines, and half a dozen French doctors; and 
 on the tenth day from that of the duel, Montague was pro- 
 nounced out of danger. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Montague Wyhdham's convalescence was very gradual in 
 its progress, and greatly retarded by the irritation and anxiety 
 of his mind. He had received no answer to any of the letters he 
 had written to the St. Aubyns, and surprise, disappointment, 
 and indignation, by turns filled his heart. 
 
 Mr. Merton's kindness and attention were unremitting; to 
 him Montague frequently expressed his astonishment at the ob- 
 stinate silence of his friends ; talked over all the probabilities and 
 possibilities that the letters had miscarried 5 and heard from him, 
 in return, that he had put them in the post with his own hand ; 
 and that if so rare an occurrence as the loss of one letter had 
 taken place, that of three, was an actual impossibility. This 
 Montague was compelled to acknowledge. "What could it 
 mean?" he asked himself; and getting no satisfactory answer, 
 he asked the same question of Mr. Merton. 
 
 Mr. Merton, who seemed to take a sincere interest in his un- 
 fortunate inmate, suggested now one thing, now another; some- 
 times he seemed to think that Juliet and her family, if they 
 were of very strict principles, might wish to break off ali inti- 
 macy with a man who had fought a duel ; sometimes he sug- 
 gested, as a man who knew the world and the female heart well, 
 that Juliet had found some new admirer to console her for his 
 absence ! 
 
 These suggestions Montague always vehemently repelled, and 
 
160 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 yet they sank into his heart, and prevented his writing again to 
 St. Aubyn, and imploring a few lines in reply. 
 
 One day that Montague, who was slowly recovering his 
 strength, was sitting in Mr. Merton's dressing room, the latter 
 entered and sat down beside him ; the conversation naturally 
 fell on the topic ever uppermost in Montague's mind — the 
 unaccountable silence of the St. Aubyns. 
 
 " I almost think," said Montague, "that they cannot be at 
 Dieppe." 
 
 Merton made no reply. 
 
 " Do you not think that is more likely," asked Wyndham, 
 " than that they should shew such utter indifference to the fate, 
 even of a mere acquaintance ? " 
 
 There was an expression of great concern in the face of Mr. 
 Merton, but he made no reply. 
 
 "My dear Sir," said Montague, "if you know any thing 
 about them, for Heaven's sake be candid-, indeed 1 cannot tell 
 you how miserable this suspense makes me, certainty of evil 
 were preferable." 
 
 " Alas ! my dear young friend, what I know is a mere no- 
 thing 5 and not, I fear, of a nature to give you comfort." 
 
 " Are they at Dieppe?" 
 
 "I hear they are." 
 
 "And well?" 
 
 " All quite well." 
 
 "Thank Heaven!" said Montague. — "Tell me now, I en- 
 treat you, all you know; I can bear it like a man." 
 
 " Well then, I met last night, in a party, a gentleman just 
 come from Dieppe 5 he was full of rapturous admiration of the 
 Miss St. Aubyns, whom it seems he had seen at a ball : Miss 
 Juliet, the brunette, appeared more especially to have capti- 
 vated him by her vivacity and archness 5 — it seemed he danced 
 with her, and decided that no sylph ever glided through a dance 
 with so lively a grace — but I pain you." 
 
 " No matter," said Montague, " pain is often salutary. What 
 more did you hear?" 
 
 With apparent reluctance Mr. Merton continued, "I heard 
 that she waltzed only with one man, to whom it was under- 
 stood she was engaged." 
 
 " Waltzed ! Engaged ! " said Wyndham, striving to master a 
 violent emotion. 
 
 "Yes, a certain cousin of her father's, Geoffrey St. Aubyn, 
 to whom it was said she had been long affianced, and was shortly 
 to be married ; a man in the prime, rather than the dawn of life, " 
 added Merton, " and, therefore, perhaps, the more likely to win 
 the heart of a young and ardent girl." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 161 
 
 " I have heard her speak of him," said Montague, rather to 
 himself than to his companion ; " I have heard her quote his 
 opinions, his tastes, — I have heard Blanche joke her about him. " 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Merton ; "what opinions, what 
 
 tastes?" 
 
 " Have I been a dupe after all," said Montague to himself, not 
 heeding Merton's question. " I vill see her once more,— 1 will 
 tax her with her falsehood ! — My dear Merton, I am well, I am 
 strong now. I must settle my affairs here, and be off to Dieppe 
 to-night." 
 
 " To-night," said Merton, " I will not hear of such a step : 
 you are not equal to it : it would cause a relapse. Compose 
 yourself: sleep upon it: and if, to-morrow, you are in the same 
 mind, I will not oppose your going : but do not forget how much 
 of this report may be false or exaggerated ; and, at any rate, it 
 it is true, you have had a narrow escape." 
 
 " A narrow escape!" said Montague. "I, who so loved, so 
 trusted her!" He hastened into the next room, to hide the 
 emotion he could not overcome. 
 
 The day and night dragged heavily on for Montague Wynd- 
 ham: and the next morning found him still resolved to repair 
 to Dieppe, to see Juliet once more, and then to quit her for 
 ever. 
 
 "I am quite well to-day," said Montague, with forced hila- 
 rity, when Merton greeted him the next morning. " I feel quite 
 equal to the journey, my dear, kind friend: and I wish to con- 
 sult with you, how I had best remunerate Le Grand, my own 
 doctor, and every one who has been put to trouble and expense 
 by my long stay here. I could wish, too, to take Monsieur De 
 la Rue by the hand, and, in some manner, which may forward 
 his interests, without wounding his pride, atone to him for the 
 sufferings he has endured through me." 
 
 "Since you feel yourself so strong, and so well," said Mr. 
 Merton, in slow and mournful accents, " it is my duty, no long- 
 er to disguise a truth, which I have hitherto concealed, because 
 I feared you could not bear the shock : I must tell you now. that 
 you can neither safely leave this house, nor be seen abroad. De 
 la Rue is dead, and the police in active search of you." 
 
 " De la Rue dead ! " exclaimed Montague, staggering, as un- 
 der a violent and stunning blow. " Dead ! and by my means ! 
 Oh, just and Heavenly Father! well have I deserved the loss of 
 all I loved : could I have asked Juliet to link her fate with that of 
 a murderer? Could I have pillowed that pure, soft cheek on a 
 breast where remorse shall dwell for ever 5 have doomed her to 
 watch the protracted agonies of a guilty conscience ? Never, ne- 
 ver! It is well she has rejected, forsaken me! else would her 
 
 11 
 
162 COUSIH GEOFFREY. 
 
 tears have burnt into my heart! else would the sight of her have 
 made me mad ! A murderer ! a murderer ! " he repeated to him- 
 self, as though trying to reconcile himself to the name — "one 
 who has sent another from this lair and beautiful world, where 
 God's visible mercies might have taught him repentance-, sent 
 him, perhaps, for a few idle words, to an eternity of misery. 
 Where is he? Let me see him ! Perhaps the sight may kill me ! 
 would to heaven it might!— Where is he?"' 
 
 " Be calm!" said Merton, " he is in his grave, and at peace 
 forever." 
 
 " In his grave? " exclaimed Wyndham, " that young, that 
 joyous, that life-enjoying man ; to whom life was a perpetual 
 banquet! the world, a wilderness of sweets. Is he conflned 
 within a narrow coffin, to feast the worms? Has he friends to 
 mourn him, and to curse me?" Overcome by the images he 
 had conjured up, be buried his face in his hands, and wept, 
 almost as woman weeps for her departed child. 
 
 Merton drew near to him, pressed his hand, tried to soothe 
 him, and said, " He has friends; a mother, who was dependant 
 on him; sisters, who had no other support." 
 
 " I will provide for them amply, handsomely," said Monta- 
 gue, starting up with almost an instinct of joy. " I have wealth,'' 
 he said, mournfully, after a moment's reflection. "Alas! all 
 the wealth of Peru could not purchase for me one hour of re- 
 freshing peace." 
 
 " You see this unfortunate affair in too serious, too romantic 
 a light/' expostulated Merton. " If you are so generous as to 
 provide for his unfortunate relatives, in my opinion, you more 
 than atone for the accidental death of one who was on the high 
 road to ruin, and would perhaps have disgraced himself and 
 them." 
 
 The argument Merton meant to be consolatory, added to the 
 anguish of Montague's heart. " Arrested by the hand of death — 
 on the high road to ruin! Oh, intolerable thought! Ah, should 
 he ever be able to banish from his mind the last glazed look of 
 the eyes of the dying man ! his last words, his feeble effort to 
 offer his hand! Never ! Never!" In the agony of his remorse, 
 he knelt, and fervently prayed for pardon and for death — death, 
 that he might lose the maddening sense of Juliet's desertion — 
 death, that he might lose the consciousness that his hands were 
 stained with blood ! that he might no longer see the glazed eyes of 
 the wounded De la Piue, nor hear hissing whispers in his ears, 
 proclaiming him a murderer ! 
 
 The only topic that seemed to interest him, was the arrange- 
 ments to be made for securing an ample competence to De la 
 Rue's relatives. He suffered himself to be entire!? guided bv 
 
COUSIxN GEOFFREY. 163 
 
 Mr. Merton, in the manner of doing this-, only adding largely 
 to the very considerable sum Merton proposed he should bestow 
 on them, and doubling the exorbitant demand Le Grand made 
 for his attendance on the ill-fated victim. 
 
 These points arranged, and all who had tended him in his 
 own illness amply remunerated, and a very handsome present 
 forced on Mr. Merton, he sunk into a settled and inactive 
 dejection, the result perhaps of the shock he had received, 
 acting on a frame debilitated by recent severe illness. He 
 suffered himself to be advised, led, and directed by Mr. Merton, 
 who, as he was himself on the point of leaving Paris, strongly 
 advised Montague, to whom all plans seemed alike indifferent, 
 to return to England till the affair was blown over. "The 
 police," he said, "are still on the look out for you ; I advise, 
 my dear young friend, that you should leave Paris by night, 
 get to Bourdeaux, and thence embark for England. I will see 
 you to Bourdeaux, where, I grieve to say, I must leave you, as 
 business calls me to the north of France. When you are again 
 in England, and safe from pursuit, you will see this affair in its 
 true light; a mere accident, for which you have been over 
 punished. No crime, in the eyes of God, who looks at the 
 intention-, and a mere trifle, even if known, in those of man, 
 who would applaud your spirit. 1 ' 
 
 Montague shuddered, but made no objection to Mr. Merton's 
 plan. All was arranged so promptly and successfully, that on 
 the night which followed this proposal they set out for Bour- 
 deaux, where they arrived in safety. Mr. Merton did not leave 
 Montague till he had seen him on board a vessel bound for 
 England. He took a most affectionate leave of him, and en- 
 treated him to give him tidings of his safe arrival, which, he 
 said, directed to his banker's, at Paris, would be forwarded 
 to him, wherever he might be. "I have but one parting 
 remark to make to you, my dear young friend,"' he said; " I 
 strongly advise you to try to banish from your mind all interest 
 in every object which could lure you back to France. The 
 police have a notion that you are wealthy, and will seize on 
 you whenever you re-appear here, in hopes of a handsome 
 bribe. I believe there is now no doubt that Miss Juliet St. Au- 
 byn will shortly be married to her Cousin Geoffrey ; I have 
 heard it from sources which cannot be questioned, and I feel 
 it to be my painful duty to impress it on your mind. Think of 
 her no more. England is the bright garden of beauty; select 
 there some fairer flower; and should we ever meet again, let 
 me see a fond wife hanging on your arm. But, above all, re- 
 member my advice, do not return to France." 
 
 "It is not very probable," said Montague, " that I shall 
 
164 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 seek a land where my peace has been poisoned, my trust be- 
 trayed, and my hand stained with blood. God bless you, dear 
 Merton, may you be rewarded as you deserve." 
 
 They parted 5 the vessel sailed gallantly away, and the mi- 
 serable, conscience-stricken Montague, wrapping himself in 
 his cloak, sate apart in the vessel, recalling to his mind, with 
 almost insane perseverance, every particular of Juliet's supposed 
 treachery, and every horrid detail of De la Rue's death. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 All who have faith in woman's constancy, devotion, and 
 truth, must feel sure that Juliet never received any tidings of 
 Montague Wyndham after he left her in the hotel gardens 
 at Ville d'Eu. And who, among our readers, are likely to be 
 wanting in this wholesome faith? Such doubters are to be 
 found only among men of pleasure, and disappointed lovers. 
 The former will only seize on our pages to light the twentieth 
 cigar, with which they have stupified themselves and poisoned 
 the air; and for the latter, we hope a happy change awaits 
 them at some sudden turning in the path of life; and in the 
 meantime, we should rejoice if we could even beguile them 
 of a smile. 
 
 But, alas! poor Juliet had trusted so entirely, that it was long 
 before she could admit a doubt into her heart. She, so san- 
 guine, so impatient, so jealous of any neglect, waited, and 
 watched, and excused Montague's silence to her heart, and 
 felt sure every new day would bring her the dear promised 
 letter, or perhaps his dearer self. Days, weeks wore away, she 
 heard no tidings of him, and then a maddening fear stole into 
 her mind ; sometimes that he had deceived her, but more often 
 that danger had assailed him. Perhaps, but, oh that thought 
 she could not dwell upon—death! oh no 5 death for the young, 
 the beloved, the worshipped— the thought were madness, it 
 were better far to believe herself forsaken ! 
 
 The secrecy she had promised Montague, she preserved 
 inviolate ; she could not bear to hear him spoken of with cen- 
 sure, perhaps with scorn; to arm her passionate father against 
 him ; to make him curse, in Montague, the destroyer of hi 
 daughter's peace. There is no sympathy which can soothe a 
 grief like hers, and she sought none. Her mother had marvelled 
 at the hope and joy which lighted her eyes on her return 
 from Ville d'Eu, but she knew not that the hand of love had 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 165 
 
 kindled their fires anew; she saw their brightness grow dim 
 — she saw large tears too often filling those bright orbs— she 
 saw the cheek grow pale— she heard the frequent sigh, she 
 marked the languid step. She questioned, but in vain. Juliet 
 owned that she was miserable, but she owned not why, and 
 the kind mother soon learnt to refrain from a subject which 
 agitated and discomposed, without benefitting, her child. 
 
 The long and dreary winter was passing away, and early 
 spring decked some sheltered nooks with her first flowers. 
 sweet as the humble virtues that rise up in the quiet seclusion 
 of cottage homes. 
 
 Juliet's only solace, her one solitary pleasure, seemed to be 
 in wandering by the sea-side, either with Blanche, or attended 
 only by Eileen. 
 
 Even to Blanche, she never revealed the disappointed hopes 
 which were blighting her heart, She could not bear to hear the 
 sister she so loved, condemn him whom she still adored. And 
 Blanche did not urge her to confidence ; it was enough for her, if 
 she could soothe her into momentary peace ; if she could bring 
 her temporary comfort, and win her thoughts at times to ponder 
 on things that were not of this earth, — on hopes that cannot be 
 blighted— faith that cannot be deceived — love that cannot be 
 thrown away. 
 
 It was about this time that Cousin Geoffrey arrived at Dieppe. 
 Juliet at first shrank from meeting him; but, ere long, the 
 delicate and affectionate sympathy of his manner won her to 
 listen to him with pleasure, and even somewhat to enjoy his 
 society, 
 
 He never appeared to suspect that any mental uneasiness 
 was the cause of the change which he noticed in the appearance 
 and manners of Juliet. He started, when first he gazed on the 
 pale and delicate girl whom he had quitted so radiant in bright- 
 est beauty. But Cousin Geoffrey was a man of refined taste, 
 and Juliet's almost colourless transparent cheek, the melan- 
 choly softness of her sorrowful eyes, the undisturbed sadness of 
 her perfect, and once ever-smiling mouth, her carelessly braid- 
 ed hair, and her subdued and softened manner, had a charm for 
 him, more powerful than the dazzling beauty and brilliant sallies 
 which had formerly captivated his fancy or his heart. 
 
 He professed to believe that bodily indisposition alone had 
 robbed her eye of its fire, and her cheek of its bloom \ and while 
 he forbore to allude to the past, or to the future, Juliet rejoiced 
 that he should think so. He devoted himself entirely to her, walk- 
 ed with her, read to her lavished on her every thing which could 
 for a moment arrest her attention, or win an evanescent smile. 
 And Juliei. forgetting in her own all-absorbing passion, that love 
 
166 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 was the real cause of all this devotion — these constant cares, 
 these unfailing, all-foreseeing attentions— began to feel the 
 gentle gratitude of a forsaken one, to look for Cousin Geoffrey's 
 early morning visit, and to smile faintly when her eye met his. 
 To Mrs. St. Aubyn he was ever welcome ; for her mind, 
 strong as it was in all other respects, was not proof against a 
 mother's vanity in a tall and handsome son. She knew he was 
 imprudent, reckless, idle; but those faults, dangerous as they 
 are, are not the faults which alienate a woman's, much less a 
 mother's heart. And Geoffrey, even while he owned they exist- 
 ed, softened down so gracefully, excused them so affectionately ! 
 He had so many stories to tell of Lionel's wit, Lionel's spirit, 
 Lionel's influence! And then the mother reflected that he had 
 been so true, so substantial a friend to Lionel ! and she blessed 
 him from a mother's fervent heart. 
 
 Blanche, too! Blanche, who so loved her brother! to her, 
 cousin Geoffrey was very dear, very welcome ! While to Mr. 
 St. Aubyn — to whom he brought new hopes, now almost cer- 
 tainties, to whom he listened by the hour, for whom he dis- 
 entangled intricate pedigrees, drew genealogical trees, supplied 
 links, and revived long fading hopes — to Mr. St. Aubyn he was 
 welcome as a guide in the wilderness, a spring of w T ater in a 
 desert, a rich simpleton to a blackleg, or a skilful handmaid 
 to a fading beauty. 
 
 The old Lord Templeton still dragged on his miserable and 
 uncertain life, and therefore at present nothing could be done ; 
 but Geoffrey assured Mr. St. Aubyn, that he hoped to put all 
 in such a state, that, at the death of the Earl, he would be 
 able to prove his right. He sought the eyes of Juliet as he 
 spoke, to remind her, by a gentle glance, of the sacrifice heshould 
 make to the father, and to recall her mind in some degree to 
 that he expected from the child ; but Juliet's thoughts were 
 busy with the parting words of her beloved Montague, with 
 torturing fears, with distracting doubts, and, finally, with a 
 maddening conviction, that nothing but illness or death could 
 keep him from his aflianced one ; for that there was no truth on 
 earth, if Montague were not true. 
 
 Some weeks had glided by, and the weather was become 
 milder and more settled. Geoffrey walked daily with Juliet, 
 sometimes accompanied by Blanche, sometimes by one or 
 other of her parents, and once or twice he had escorted her 
 alone. 
 
 He longed to broach the subject of his love, his hopes — to 
 remind her that the price of the sacrifice he designed to make to 
 her unconscious father, must be her hand — hut he experienced 
 all the difficulty of introducing a topic on which much depended. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 16? 
 
 and lu which nothing in Juliet's manner or conversation seemed 
 for a moment to lead — but from which her sorrowful abstrac- 
 tion would have deterred any one less determined and persever- 
 ing than himself. 
 
 Juliet felt an increased confidence in. and regard for. her 
 companion, now that the impassioned love he had once ex- 
 pressed for her, seemed with such generous delicacy to have 
 changed into a tender and anxious friendship which was so 
 welcome a solace to her wounded heart. In sincere gratitude 
 for his watchful care of one so deserted, so depressed, she 
 strove to do whatever he advised or requested. She objected 
 to no excursions which he planned — was silent while he read 
 to her, although her heart was far away — permitted the visits 
 of a physician whom he had selected — took the remedies ordered 
 for her — tried to interest herself in the flowers he brought her 
 — and occasionally, at his request, endeavoured to divert her 
 mind with the pencils which had once so charmed her solitude, 
 or the harp to which Montague had so loved to listen. Alas! 
 the spirit, the energy, the concentration of thought, which had 
 secured success, were wanting, and the faint effort frequently 
 ended in a burst of irrepressible tears. 
 
 Poor Juliet! she might have been somewhat archly wilful 
 and playfully perverse in happier hours : but she was very 
 docile and yielding in her altered state of mind. It was judged 
 expedient for her health, that she should be much in the open 
 air— that she should take a great deal of gentle exercise : and 
 though the one sad luxury of her life was to sit in her solitary 
 chamber, and muse upon the past, she never refused to walk, 
 to ride, or drive, whenever it was required of her. Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn's time was, of course, as a matron's naturally must be, 
 a good deal given to attention to her husband, and the direc- 
 tion of her household. Mr. St. Aubyn had his own idle, yet 
 engrossing pursuits. Blanche who had become a pupil of 
 Eustace Murray, and who had always had a fine taste and 
 elegant talents for his art, was following it up with all the 
 energy and enthusiasm of youthful genius; and Cousin Geoffrey 
 thus seemed to be the only entirely idle person, whose time was 
 always at the service of Juliet — who could walk with her, ride 
 with her, or drive her out, when others had a thousand excuses 
 to plead, and things of immense importance to do — always the 
 plea of an unwilling companion. 
 
 For some time. Eileen, however, constantly attended her 
 in her walks, and Cousin Geoffrey seemed to consider no other 
 escort necessary: and every one concerned tacitly coincided in 
 the same opinion. Mrs. 5t. Aubyn. whose tears fell frequently 
 m secret over her daughter's blighted happiness, who looked 
 
168 COL SIS GEOFFREY. 
 
 upon Cousin Geoffrey as the best of men, and who cherished 
 a fervent hope that his constant devotion might at last drive 
 from her daughter's heart the image of him who had, as she 
 believed, so cruelly trilled with her peace. Mrs. St. Aubyn 
 promoted the unceasing attentions he paid to Juliet, and was 
 satisfied that, attended only by Eileen when they walked or 
 drove, or by a groom when they rode, they should pass long 
 hours in the open air, and consider no chaperon necessary if 
 none could conveniently attend. 
 
 Of course all Dieppe was in an uproar at the devotion to 
 Juliet, of another cavalier, more to the tastes of many there 
 than even Montague Wyndham ; one known to be well off; cer- 
 tain to be of a good family ; no coxcombical trifling boy, as the 
 widows said ; a man that really might be a marrying man, as 
 Miss Barton thought ; one that Geraldine felt sure would keep a 
 good table, and live comfortably 5 and whom Antonia was con- 
 vinced would wish his wife to dress splendidly, to give the best 
 balls, and to loll in the most elegant of carriages — even ?\Iiss 
 Whitehead, whose base beau had actually been detected in a 
 flirtation with Mrs. Dashwood, after ten years' devotion to her 
 —yes. even that lady, coldly as she returned the indifference of 
 the generality of Englishmen, had half made up her mind to 
 set her poor dear little old turban (as Miss Barton called it), at 
 so sensible and noble-minded a man, so well suited to her, in 
 age, person, and indeed every earthly consideration. 
 
 Poor little Mr. Hodnot had not appeared for some days, and 
 it was whispered that his termagant wife had been seized with 
 such fury on discovering that owing, as she believed, to his 
 want of energy, Mr. Geoffrey St. Aubyn had hired rooms for a 
 month at the best hotel in the town ; that she had forgotten her- 
 self so far as to administer sundry scratches and cuffs, from the 
 effects of which he was still confined. 
 
 Mrs. Barton had sighed, and ogled, and whispered into Geof- 
 frey's ear an exaggerated account of " poor dear little Juliet's 
 unfortunate affair with a sad impostor, who proved to be a 
 married man, and who had left her broken-hearted ; " and Cap- 
 tain Snaffle, joining in the whispered communication, assured 
 Mr. Geoffrey St. Aubyn that " it was a thocking affair, upon his 
 thoul, and that had he been thaint Aubyn he would have 
 thought thatithfacthion." 
 
 "But, perhaps," said Cousin Geoffrey, "he did not know 
 where to find him." 
 
 "No-," lisped Snaffle, "no one knew what became of the 
 impothtor, tho' what you thay ith very jutht." 
 
 The affected coxcomb then caught Tiny in his arms and 
 overwhelmed her with a host of unwelcome kisses, to avenge 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 169 
 
 which she pulled off one of his sham mustachios, and compelled 
 him to make a sudden retreat. Meanwhile, Miss Barton and the 
 two widows turned on Geoffrey all the artillery of their charms. 
 Mrs. Dash wood persuaded him to give a ball at his hotel, and 
 Mrs. Faithful to subscribe to a list of charities, of which she 
 told him in private she was (and she cast her eyes upwards as 
 she spoke) " the unworthy treasurer." 
 
 Never did a truer sentence pass the thin lips of Mrs. Faithful. 
 
 Even Miss Primrose had her red silk gown turned, her tur- 
 ban re-made, her tufted hemp-like front brushed-, she screwed 
 in the false teeth which she had not latterly thought it worth 
 while to sport, and gently abstracted a little of Mrs. Barton's 
 rouge. Thus renewed, the ancient maiden entered the lists, ex- 
 changed the sententious bitterness which had been in such good 
 keeping with her former self, for a liveliness and good humour, 
 which became her as well as a pearl necklace would a hedge- 
 hog, and which made her very ridiculous in all eyes but her own; 
 those eyes were now doomed to see but little, for the spectacles, 
 as importing age, were put aside, and their sensitive owner 
 forced herself into the motley group of sharp-witted and quick- 
 eyed husband hunters, half-blind, and nearly deaf. 
 
 The sensation Montague had excited was nothing compared 
 with that caused by the arrival at Dieppe of Cousin Geoffrey. 
 So handsome a man — so evidently a marrying man — a man with 
 his own carriage, horses, servants — so affable that he smiled 
 upon all — was accessible to all. Indeed, for universal popularity, 
 w r e would back a rich, unencumbered, middle-aged bachelor, if 
 he be tolerably good looking, and with agreeable manners, 
 against the first and most eccentric lion of the day. 
 
 There is no epoch at which a woman has arrived, at which 
 she despairs of captivating a middle-aged man. The young girl, 
 well advised by judicious parents, associates him with a life of 
 boundless indulgence, luxuries, jewels, toys of every kind, and 
 spreads her little net, and has sometimes seen a large, experi- 
 enced, wily fish caught in its silken meshes. A lady of fifty, who 
 is always persuaded that the world, instead of setting her down, 
 as it is sure to do, at sixty, believes her to be thirty-nine, calcu- 
 lates that as her real age, and is struck with her perfect suit- 
 ableness in every respect; while ladies of all intermediate ages, 
 from fifteen to fifty-five, find some excellent reason for deciding 
 their own claims to be pre-eminent, whenever a rich, middle- 
 aged man appears in the market. 
 
 Oh, ye rich men of middle age, ye have much to answer for ! 
 How many frustrated plans ! How many disappointed hopes ! How 
 many sighs and tears .' What long bills at jewellers, milliners, 
 and coiffeurs? What long and weary sittings over purses, chains. 
 
170 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 worked slippers, drawings, waistcoats! What toiling at harp, 
 piano, or guitar, by the young! What rheumatisms acquired 
 by a display of shoulders, bared for you ! What sets of teeth ! 
 What rouge, what pearl powder, and what tortures have the 
 elderly endured ! We pity you not if disappointment now and 
 then be your own portion, for in truth ye are the spoiled children 
 of the marrying world. 
 
 Deep, then, was the resentment of every female heart at Mrs. 
 Hodnot's, when Geoffrey St. Aubyn, after a display of urbanity 
 at his first introduction, which excited the hopes of all, ended 
 by resisting all advances, declining all invitations, and devoting 
 himself completely, heart and soul, to his cousin Juliet. Popular 
 indignation was the more violent, inasmuch as it had but little 
 opportunity of wreaking itself on its object. The St. Aubyns 
 made Juliet's delicate health a plea for withdrawing themselves 
 almost entirely from society — and sneers, significant looks, shak- 
 en heads, and whispers at church, or satirical inuendoes when 
 met in her lonely walks, were almost the only means the Dieppe 
 ladies possessed of annoying, or revenging themselves on Juliet. 
 
 Sometimes the Whiteheads would boldly join her in her 
 strolls, and Antonia would possess herself of Cousin Geoffrey's 
 arm ; but so distant, cold, and even haughty did his manner be- 
 come after this annoyance had been twice repeated, that even 
 she resigned him as a vain speculation ; and Miss Whitehead, 
 who had composed for, and dedicated to him, a grand piece of 
 musical plagiarism, called " An Original Fantasia for the bass 
 viol ; " and who had inscribed to him an " Essai sur Yegalitf. 
 adresse aux esprits forts " which was a sort of resume of the 
 arguments of the now apostate snuff-taking old Major, having 
 received a polite refusal to an invitation she had sent Geoffrey 
 to come to tea. and hear the fantasia played, and the essay read 
 by her, tore them from their envelope, and enclosed them with 
 a contrite note to the Major, offering to receive him again into 
 her confidence. Alas ! alas ! they were returned with an in- 
 sulting billet, thanking her for the long and uninterrupted con- 
 stancy of her friendship \ and after some remarks on the gene- 
 rous ambition of all noble hearts, and the love of wealth, im- 
 planted by a wise Providence, to induce man to master diffi- 
 culties, climb the steeps of science, and brave death in acquiring 
 it, he announced that to be possessed of the means of furthering 
 the noblest views, and realising independence for life — he was 
 obliged to sacrifice a friendship which had so long been his chief 
 solace — love demanded the sacrifice, and it should be made 
 —in short he must, with all delicacy, announce his intended 
 marriage with La plus adorable des femmes, la jeune ct la 
 folic, veuve Madame Dashwood ! He ended, by requesting the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 171 
 
 immediate return of the vase which he had so long lent Miss 
 Whitehead, as approaching nuptial expenses made it an object 
 to him to dispose of it ! 
 
 Poor Miss Whitehead! She replied, "that the vase he had 
 presented her with she intended to keep as a dear memento of 
 a friendship, which even his inconstancy could not quite eradi- 
 cate from her heart.'' She then vented her indignation in a new 
 ; ' Essai sur Vinconstance et la bassesse des hommes" and 
 having read it to Monsieur Dubois, the only person who would 
 listen to it, she hesitated awhile between him and Mr. Wheezer, 
 and finally entered the lists with Mrs. Faithful for the heart of 
 the latter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 One morning, Cousin Geoffrey called to accompany Juliet in 
 a long ramble by the sea side ; upon his arrival he found that 
 her parents and Blanche were gone to see Eustace Murray, who, 
 always delicate, had been for some days confined with a severe 
 cough. Eileen was busily engaged in making some jelly for him 5 
 and Juliet readily yielded to Cousin Geoffrey's entreaty, that she 
 would not sacrifice a morning of such rare and balmy beauty to 
 a punctilio almost absurd between cousins, who had long been 
 such intimate friends. Juliet, acceding to his proposition, left 
 word with Eileen, that if her mother wished to see her, she 
 would find her walking on a particular part of the beach which 
 she named ; and then set out, attended only by her Cousin. 
 
 She had passed a miserable and restless night, and a feverish 
 flush still tinged her cheek, giving something of former bright- 
 ness to her large, and now melancholy black eyes: and reminding 
 Cousin Geoffrey, as he fondly gazed upon her, of the brilliant 
 beauty of former times. The day was one of those exquisite days 
 which sometimes enchant us in early spring, and, which seemed, 
 like every other blessing obtained in advance, to diminish the 
 capital of good to come, in more than a proportionate degree. 
 
 Juliet was silent, for her thoughts were with Montague-, and 
 Cousin Geoffrey was silent too, for his heart was fully occupied 
 by her. They roamed for some time along the shore, and then 
 he led the way up a winding path, which brought them on a 
 green and sloping bank, gently rising to the verge of the cliff: 
 here they stood for some time, inhaling the fresh and reviving 
 breezes, and gazing on the brightness of the sparkling sea. 
 
 " Do not stand so near the edge, Juliet," said Geoffrey, draw- 
 
172 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 ing her closer to him, and leading her away. " This breeze is far 
 too cool for you, sweet Cousin ; further on there is a sheltered 
 seat among the cliffs, whence you can look on the sea and the 
 sky, and where I can find you, a least, a few daisies, and the little 
 herald Celandine,— 
 
 ' Telling tales about the sun, 
 When there's little warmth, or none.'" 
 
 Juliet acquiesced with the languid smile which betrayed the 
 absent mind. It was a pretty romantic chasm in the cliffs, to 
 which Cousin Geoffrey led her ; the spirit of the storm had 
 scooped it out in rude sport, yet it was lined with turf-like vel- 
 vet ; the cliff rose abruptly behind it, and several fragments of 
 rock, overgrown with grass, formed pleasant seats : this strange 
 bower was not many yards from the verge of the cliff, which in 
 that part is of a dizzy height. It shut out all, except the sea, the 
 sky, and its own bright flowers. A few pieces of cliff on the 
 very edge of the cliff gave it an air of security 5 but a push would 
 have hurled them into the sea beneath ! 
 
 Juliet sat down, and Geoffrey took his place beside her. 
 
 "Ah ! what a lovely place is this world!" said she, rather to 
 herself than;to her companion. ' ' Why do dark passions and bit- 
 ter disappointments, cast their shadows over its loveliness? 
 Why do we long to leave so fair a scene?" 
 
 "Who pants to leave it? " asked Geoffrey St. Aubyn 5 " not 
 the young, the gifted, the beloved Juliet. Dear Cousin, the state 
 of your health affects your mind, but you are daily gaining 
 strength ; you will soon be well ; you will soon see all things 
 couleur de rose ; soon you will again delight us with your songs, 
 and cheer us with your sallies. Already there is a returning 
 bloom upon your cheek. Oh! yes, all will soon be well, sweet 
 Cousin." 
 
 "No, Cousin," said Juliet, "never!" and her eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 "Never! is a strong and strange word on lips of eighteen, 
 Juliet," said Geoffrey, taking her hand ; " so lovely, so beloved, 
 and with such prospects! Why, dearest, I doubt not that an- 
 other year will see your father, Earl of Templeton. The Lady 
 Juliet will then have wealth at will, will daw r n on the horizon of 
 fashion its brightest star, and lead the world in glittering chains. 
 Think of your father's delight— think of Lionel's triumph— 
 your dear mother's quiet bliss— Blanche's radiant joy 5 think too 
 of him, whose all engrossing and devoted love will make him 
 glory in the sacrifice of all worldly ambitions, scarce conscious of 
 aught on earth but love and Juliet." As he spoke, he clasped her 
 hand with a violent emotion, and raised it to his lips 
 
COUSLN GEOFFREY. 173 
 
 u Cousin," said Juliet, extremely agitated, and forcibly with- 
 drawing it. " Cousin, I have deceived myself; but I cannot de- 
 ceive you. I have clung to the comfort your society afforded 
 me, because I thought that friendship and compassion brought 
 you to my side. I dreamt not that you, that any one. could still 
 love so blighted a thing," and she glanced at the wan, almost 
 transparent hand which rested on the dark grass. " Dear Cou- 
 sin, is that a hand to join with the hand of man ? is this fevered 
 brow fit to wear a bridal coronet? >"o, Cousin, no. A bride- 
 groom awaits me , but that bridegroom is death ; and my 
 bridal garments will be a shroud. Oh! " cried she, passionately, 
 " you, whose kindness, whose gentle care are such a sw r eet so- 
 lace to my heart, do not embitter the few months, weeks per- 
 haps, that a breaking heart can last. Do not, in mercy do not, 
 talk of love to one to whom the word is a knell." 
 
 Geoffrey looked angry, annoyed, disturbed. " Dear Cousin," 
 said he, after a minute's pause, " you are very young, and very 
 romantic-, as I said before, bodily suffering affects your mind: 
 but your own physician assures me that your case is a simple 
 one, and certain to terminate in a perfect cure. We will not 
 then for a moment contemplate as possible an event fraught, 
 even in idea, with such unutterable anguish to my heart. Listen 
 to me, Juliet. I have loved you long and madly ; to you and 
 yours I have devoted, of late, every energy of mind, every hour 
 of my time. I have been a father to Lionel; I have saved him 
 more than once from disgrace and ruin ; I have inconvenienced 
 myself already ; I would beggar myself to serve Juliet's brother. 
 I am ready to resign a long coveted and honourable title and 
 estate to make your father happy, and to bless your family; to 
 resign it in silence, unbroken, save to you. All this, and much 
 more I rejoice to do — I glory in doing ; but I expect, I have long 
 expected, one rich, one ample reward. You know r , you feel, you 
 cannot doubt, that I have had but one bright recompense in view 
 — your love, your hand." 
 
 " Alas! Cousin," said Juliet, pale and weeping, " I have been 
 beguiled by a sweet dream that such hopes had passed away. 
 When first you spoke to me of love, I wished to tell you I could 
 only love you as a dear, dear friend. I had no opportunity of 
 doing so ; and if I could not love you then, ah ! how can I hope 
 to do so now. Listen," added she, in a low and solemn voice, 
 while a deep crimson blush suffused her face, "The love you 
 ask for, has been given to another! given, alas! in vain! The 
 heart you seek, is a disappointed heart; broken, despised, for- 
 saken — yet still devoted." 
 
 The cousins remained for some minutes silent. Strange emo- 
 tions might be traced in the workings of Cousin Geoffrey's pale 
 
174 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 features. At length he said, " Juliet, I know that you have loved 
 — that that love was trifled with — that you are forsaken, re- 
 jected." 
 
 " Do not say so. Dare not to say " said Juliet, starting 
 
 up, pale and with clasped hands. "You w r rong him, I know 
 you wrong him : I have wronged him. My bitter words Heaven 
 will forgive, for they were wrung from the anguish of a breaking 
 heart 5 but I will not hear the cold lips of a stranger revile and 
 accuse him." 
 
 "The cold lips of a stranger!" repeated Geoffrey, with a 
 bitter sneer. " Juliet-, have I deserved this at your hands?" 
 
 " No, no ! dear Cousin ! " cried the agitated, excited girl. "Do 
 not judge me harshly. Pity me, for I am well nigh mad. I meant 
 a stranger to him I No! not to us ; to us a guardian angel. Do 
 not hate me, Cousin! " 
 
 " Hate you!" he exclaimed, flinging his arm around her. "Oh! 
 that I could hate you ! " Juliet shrank from him. " Ah ! loathe 
 me," said he, " shrink from me, curse me in your heart, I yet 
 will save you 5 yes, Juliet ! and you shall yet be mine. On my 
 honour as a gentleman, I swear to you that this Montague Wynd- 
 ham was an impostor, and the name assumed. He has fled the 
 country, his hand stained with blood •, and if, in spite of this, 
 you will love him still, perhaps, when you hear that you are 
 cherishing a criminal passion for a married man, you will thank 
 me for saving your soul from so much sin and shame ! " 
 
 He handed her a copy of GalignanVs Messenger, Juliet 
 read the following words:—" It is well known that the English 
 gentleman, who recently fled from Paris by night, went by the 
 
 assumed name of M e W d m. On the morning of 
 
 the fatal broil, in which he engaged at the Cafe , he had 
 
 been united at the ambassador's chapel to the lovely Lady M 
 
 , so well known in the fashionable world. We hear the 
 
 bride and bridegroom are now in Germany." 
 
 Geoffrey intently watched Juliet's countenance as she read 5 
 his own was scarcely less pale : once the paper nearly fell from 
 her hand ; but with a strong effort she overcame the weakness, 
 and clasping it more firmly, she remained, her eyes fixed upon 
 the paragraph, much longer than Geoffrey thought necessary to 
 finish its perusal. At length she slowly raised her face. Geoffrey 
 had prepared himself for tears, for anger, for lamentation ; he 
 had expected that a flush of indignation would burn upon her 
 cheek ; but he had not prepared himself for the deep despair that 
 seemed settled in her eyes : for the deadly pallor of her cheeks 
 and lips— a suicide awaking on the judgment day, from her 
 self sought sleep, might wear a look like that. 
 
 " Cousin !" said she, after gazing for some time firmly and 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. IT,", 
 
 coldly upon him, "swear by the Heaven above us, that those 
 words are true. " 
 
 Geoffrey hesitated. 
 
 " Ah! you cannot swear they are. You cannot answer for a 
 newspaper report, Cousin ! You do not know it of your own 
 knowledge. You have heard it ; but the ear hears many false- 
 hoods for one truth. Say, you have not seen, you do not your- 
 self know any thing that can confirm this. Say so, dearest Cou- 
 sin ! and I will bless you ! Speak, I implore you-, " saying which, 
 she threw herself on her knees, and clasped his hands. One 
 gleam of the sunshine of hope had had power to dissipate the gloom 
 of despair, and melt its ice to tears. They poured down her 
 cheeks, and sobs interrupted her utterance, 
 
 " Speak, again! " said she. " 1 have been mad and miserable! 
 but faith in him has never quite deserted me ; and till it does, 
 there is no sorrow which can break my heart, or tear his image 
 thence. I can bear desertion, scorn, sorrow, sickness, misery, 
 the world's sneer; the bitter smile, the taunting look, the insi- 
 dious whisper of the many; I can bear to hear my own heart 
 beat through the silent night, and know its throbs are numbered; 
 I can bear the undivided affection of my parents and my sister 
 — I can endure your blessed heavenly kindness, dear Cousin! 
 but I cannot bear to think him base, false, inhuman, impious. 
 To think I shall never meet in Heaven him whom I have so 
 fondly " 
 
 Her agitation prevented the completion of her sentence; she 
 wiped away her tears, but continued kneeling. Geoffrey's avert- 
 ed face w T as buried in his handkerchief. " Say," she added, in 
 a calmer tone, ' ; say that you cannot vouch for the truth of this 
 report ! " 
 
 " Alas! Juliet," replied her cousin, " I must not deceive you. 
 I know that it is true. I know 7 it from a friend whom I can trust 
 as I would myself — my bosom friend, Merton ! who was with him 
 in Paris, was present at the affair, and assisted in their escape." 
 
 "Their escape! " 
 
 Juliet started to her feet : for a moment a wild glare, as of a 
 sudden impulse to insanity, flashed from her eyes. She stepped 
 quickly towards the edge of the cliff, her hands closed convul- 
 sively, but the next moment a softer feeling seemed to have 
 passed through her heart, her eye-lids dropped, her hands re- 
 laxed, — and, apparently forgetful of Geoffrey's presence, she 
 again sank on her knees in silent, fervent prayer. Some minutes 
 passed, while she was thus employed, her hands clasped upon a 
 piece of grass-covered rock, and her brow pressed against them. 
 When she rose, she said to her companion mildly and calmly. 
 " Cousin, let us go home." 
 
176 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " iNot yet," exclaimed he, " I have much to say, Juiiet," at 
 the same moment trampling on a group of sweet spring flowers, 
 which lay smiling at his feet ; " even thus have you trampled on 
 all that is soft, and fair, and gentle in my heart. Yet look," added 
 he, pointing to a flower, which, hy the same strange destiny 
 that often delights to save one of a perishing crew, of a doomed 
 party, of a destined race, was still rearing its fair uninjured 
 head from among its crushed kindred, — " look, dearest, even 
 from the wreck one flower survives, and in my trampled heart 
 one hope is blooming still— a hope that the pride of virtue will 
 compel you to drive from your inmost thoughts the husband of 
 another — and that that noble heart, once more free, will yield 
 itself to him whose faithful love so well deserves the prize." 
 
 "Cousin," said Juliet, " you deserve such loveas lean never 
 feel again." 
 
 " But," said Geoffrey, " I am satisfied if you will but say you 
 will be mine, and let my constant effort be to awaken all the 
 faith which slumbers, but which is not dead ; think of Lionel, — 
 think of your father." 
 
 " Your own kind heart," said Juliet, " will never let you de- 
 sert Lionel-, and for my father, I know not whether I have a 
 right to let him enjoy that which he only values because he be- 
 lieves it is his right." 
 
 " Ah, Juliet," said her cousin, " that is sophistry; under it I 
 resign my claim ; it is his — and I will, if — " 
 
 " Perhaps" said Juliet, rapidly. " my bewildered mind exag- 
 gerates the injustice which I think I do my father in keeping 
 your secret; but you have my promise, and it is sacred. How can 
 I see him glory in a title which I know r should be another's. 
 Even if this is overstrained, and if, indeed, the price must be the 
 peace of his child, it is one I am certain he would never consent 
 to pay." 
 
 " Her peace?" said Geoffrey, with solemnity. " It is that very 
 peace which 1 would die to secure. I do so love you, Juliet! I 
 have so loved you now for many years. I have thought of you 
 in the harsh defiling world, as the Mahometan thinks of the 
 houri of his paradise— the bird, prisoned in its cage, of the mate 
 that sits in the sweet greenwood, a silent widow with her or- 
 phan young. All that the desolate wretch most clings to, is faint, 
 compared with the anguish I have endured for you. And this 
 love is no evanescent feeling; coldness cannot chill it, indiffer- 
 ence cannot wither it, time cannot diminish it. Oh! Juliet, think 
 whal life must have been to me for the last few years. Ask your 
 own sad heart, and bid me hope." 
 
 " Alas! " said Juliet. Wk dear Cousin, my own hear! tells me, 
 lhat for the desolate there is no hope but in Heaven." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 177 
 
 " And you will give me no other, Juliet?" 
 "Alas ! I cannot." 
 
 "Then mark me, "cried he, rising, with frantic energy, "mark 
 me, Juliet! Hope, lurking hope, has upheld me hitherto; you 
 coldly crush that hope ; and even as you hurl it from its secret 
 throne, in my heart, even so will I fling this hated form into the 
 deep abyss before me— and When the waves bring back and dash 
 to pieces before your eyes the corpse of him who has so wor- 
 shipped, so adored you, then will your present vain regrets 
 seem but an idle dream, for your heart will know henceforth but 
 one despair— the tardy remorse of ingratitude." 
 
 He rushed towards the edge of the cliff— Juliet shrieked, and 
 clung to him. " Listen to me," she said. 
 
 " What can you say, to which lean listen now?" he replied 
 sternly, trying to unclasp her hand, which held his coat — " un- 
 less you speak to give me hope; one moment, and even your 
 love, for which alone I have lived and prayed, could not give me 
 back one hour of life— say that I may hope, say that some time 
 hence, when all the crime of loving the impostor Wyndham shall 
 have been made clear and evident, you will try to love me. You 
 hesitate, but I do not."He tore his coat from her hand — she 
 fell to the earth, but cried — 
 " No, no, I do not hesitate." 
 
 He turned, raised her, threw himself on his knees before her, 
 and said, in low and trembling accents, "Repeat those words, 
 my beloved one ! " 
 
 Juliet shrank, shuddered, but said, "You have given me 
 time." x\nd it was almost joy to her to think that in a shorter 
 period than that which she would require, he would be kneel- 
 ing by her early grave. " If then— in three months from this 
 time, he whom 1 have so dearly loved, and to whom I am af- 
 fianced, has not returned to exculpate himself, and claim my 
 hand, then, Cousin, unless that hand is cold, and this heart has 
 ceased to beat, the one shall be yielded to you, and the other—" 
 " The other, dearest Juliet," whispered he, "shall learn to 
 value the passionate devotion of mine." 
 
 "But," continued the unhappy girl, "till that time has 
 elapsed, this subject must never be renewed, or alluded to be- 
 tween us— promise me that, dear Cousin." 
 
 " It shall not," replied he. " Indeed I shall pass the long, yet 
 blessed interval, away from you, Juliet; but if prayers can bring 
 down blessings, you will be blessed; and 1 shall find the angel 
 of my life radiant as ever. Forgive me, that is the last unguarde 
 word I will speak." 
 
 The trembling Juliet leant upon his arm, and reached her 
 home, where, overcome by the agitation of the day, she excused 
 
 12 
 
1/8 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 herself with mournful gentleness to Cousin Geoffrey, and took 
 refuge in her own room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Cousin Geoffrey's departure was at hand, and added to the 
 gloom of the St. Aubyn's now sorrowful fire-side. According to 
 his promise, he refrained from alluding to the conditional engage- 
 ment he had forced Juliet to enter into. But the hope, the rap- 
 ture, with which he spoke of his return, perhaps in less than 
 three months, drove the colour from her cheek, and filled her 
 eyes with tears. 
 
 Another source of anguish had sprung up for Juliet and her 
 mother ; the latter had received from her sister, Lady Sackville, 
 a pressing invitation for Blanche ; and the advantages of giving 
 her a good introduction into eligible society, and the chances of 
 her forming an excellent establishment, were dwelt upon with so 
 much eloquence and worldly wisdom, that Mrs. St. Aubyn felt it 
 would be unjust to consider her own comfort , where her 
 daughter's future prosperity was at stake. 
 
 The letter concluded with the following lines :— 
 
 " I pique myself on no overstrained generosity, or disinterested- 
 ness, dear sister, in my wish to give my niece every advantage. 
 I am a mother, and I never lose sight of a mother's principal 
 duty— the establishment of her daughters. I candidly own, that 
 at one time I would not have exposed them, during a London 
 season, to a rivalship with Blanche, but Gertrude has made the 
 very best, and Clara the next best of matches 5 the latter being 
 just married to Mr. Bullion. Hebe is too young to introduce just 
 yet. And therefore I find myself settled in Hanover Square for 
 the season, my house newly done up, new carriage, new 
 liveries, and the use of Lady Hunter's opera-box; and actually 
 with no attraction to bring the beaux to my parties and my car- 
 riage windows ; — and nothing to display at the opera but my own 
 turban and well-known face, which begins to look somewhat 
 the worse for wear. 
 
 " This is a strange feeling for one who has not, for the last 
 twelve years, been without a daughter on her hands ; and long 
 enough some of mine did hang on hand, 1 own ; but that arose 
 from their own fastidious obstinacy, the cause of more than 
 half the old maids now extant. I trust Blanche will be more 
 docile ; but as she inherits something of your romantic spirit, do 
 not let her know that I mean to get her married — that is, if I can, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. |7g 
 
 Let her come as soon as convenient, that I may get her into 
 training before Almacks begins. I will arrange ail that regards 
 her wardrobe ; she can repay me when she has as manv Thou- 
 sands as I have hundreds a year. Give my best love to her, and 
 thank her for the beautiful miniature of yourself. Do you reallv 
 look so young as that? Well, there is a wisdom, after all, in 
 your retired lives. You look brighter than some of our belle's in 
 their fifth season: and if I were to introduce you as a new 
 beauty, 1 have no doubt 1 could get you off. The flower keeps 
 its freshness in the shade, and withers in the sun. Voila tout. 
 
 " Oh, by the bye, tell Blanche to give up drawing and paint- 
 ing just now. Impress upon her mind the grand maxim, that 
 3ne charm is worth a thousand talents. Drawing is the worst 
 thing in the world for the eyes, the complexion, and the figure. 
 Miniature painting must be destruction to all. What man cares 
 for the fine productions of a girl with a flushed face and red 
 eyes? Now, music improves the expression, and has no bad 
 effect-, besides, it shows: but drawing: any poor wretch will 
 draw for you, and let you have all the credit of his labours, for 
 a few shillings a day. 
 
 " I object very much to reading ; but I would have a protegee 
 of mine lie on a reclining board, for her figure, and be read "to : 
 she will have something to talk about; and, to talk well, ride 
 well, and dance well, are, after all, the only essentials of modern 
 education. 
 
 •' I shall send Leno, my own woman, lo Brighton, in the 
 chariot, to meet my niece, if you will let me know when she will 
 arrive; and, in the meantime, with love to her, and all. 
 "lam ever 
 
 " Your affectionate sister, 
 
 " Gertrude Sackville." 
 
 " Quite entre nous. I have a capital match in view for her, 
 —young, handsome, elegant, rich, and the very glass of 
 ■ashion : but do not give a hint to Blanche herself, or, such is 
 lie contradictory nature of woman's heart, she will hate him 
 orthwith." 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn acted in accordance with her sister's wishes, 
 uul revealed to Blanche nothing but Lady Sackville's kind in- 
 itution, and generous offer of providing her a suitable ward- 
 obe: this, Blanche would by no means consent to. '-What 
 vith her father's and Cousin Geoffrey's elegant presents, she 
 vas," she said, '"well fitted for a London campaign." Poor 
 ml! she little dreamt of the actual wear and tear of crowded 
 London parties, through a long and laborious season. 
 
ISO COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 She made many fervent heart-felt objections to leaving her 
 mother at such a time, and her beloved sister in such delicate 
 health ; but Mrs. St. Aubyn, gentle as she was, was firm withal, 
 and never yielded a point, where she believed that the interests 
 of those dear to her, required her to be firm. The misery which 
 had attended an unfortunate attachment in Juliet's case, made 
 her tremblingly alive to the possibility of exposing Blanche to a 
 similar peril. In the protracted lessons, the fervent interest, the 
 respectful zeal of the young Eustace during the lessons which 
 he had been giving to Blanche, the mother's anxious eye had 
 seen, as she feared, the dawn of a dangerous feeling, and who 
 could tell what might be the silent power of genius, devotion, 
 and sorrow, on her warm, young heart. As yet she was free 
 and joyous as a summer bird 5 if a tear dimmed her eye, it rose 
 as she gazed on Juliet's pale cheek, her mother's tender look, 
 or thought of the time when she should not be there, to soothe 
 the one and cheer the other. If Eustace Murray felt more than 
 a master's interest in his intelligent and beautiful pupil, as yet 
 the perilous knowledge had not dawned on Blanche's mind; and 
 the mother prayed that her daughter's heart might never be 
 exposed to so severe a trial. 
 
 With a mother's regardlessness of herself and her own 
 comfort, she hastened Blanche's departure, and we find the 
 St. Aubyns now arrived at the eve of that evert which, in 
 their little household, was one of such vast and painful im- 
 portance. 
 
 Eustace Murray had called to give his last lesson, to take his 
 leave of Blanche, and to assist her in carefully packing up some 
 of the exquisite works, both in miniature and oils, which she 
 had finished under his direction. 
 
 He looked pale and sorrowful, and Mrs. St. Aubyn noticed 
 that his eyes filled with tears whenever he gazed on Blanche, 
 and that his white hand trembled as he arranged the pictures in 
 their cases. Blanche, who believed that he was still suffering 
 from recent indisposition, spoke to him with almost sisterly in- 
 terest, insisted on his following this plan, on his taking that re- 
 medy, and ended by saying she should soon call on him, to see 
 if he had attended to all her directions. A faint smile, like that 
 of moonlight on a sepulchre (so little was there of warmth or 
 hope in its ray stole over the white cheek of Eustace Murray. 
 Blanche left the room. He was alone with her mother. With 
 many hesitations, blushes, and excuses, Mrs. St. Aubyn took 
 out her purse, and saying that it was impossible to repay such 
 exertions as his, -that the progress Blanche had made was 
 above all recompense, and that she felt almost ashamed to offer 
 one so paltry,— handed him a bank note. 
 
COnSUI GEOFFREY. 181 
 
 Eustace did not seem to understand her; he did not extend 
 his hand, hut his cheek grew paler, and his lips quivered. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn was much embarrassed ; she remained for a 
 moment or two" silent, then kindly drew near, and said, " Do 
 not think that I offer this paltry sum as payment. Do not 
 imagine I wish to wipe out the obligation I shall ever owe you ; 
 above all, do not fancy that were your circumstances, my dear 
 young friend, more prosperous, I should not glory in owing so 
 much to one so generous. You have given my daughter a talent 
 to which she may one day turn lor support." 
 
 " God forbid!" said Eustace in a low tone. 
 
 ki I would rather thank God," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, '• that, it 
 it be needful, she has it to turn to ; it is a noble resource ■ and the 
 proudest need not blush to make the mind supply the bodily 
 wants with which it has pleased Heaven to encumber them. 
 When fortune smiles, as smile it will, on genius like yours, I 
 may, perhaps, ask of you the assistance I now implore you to 
 
 accept." 
 
 " I cannot," said Eustace, labouring under violent agitation. 
 *' I can barter for base pelf the mechanical efforts of my hands 
 and eyes, but my very soul has presided over the lessons I have 
 given her. I cannot sell my soul. Do not force me to remember, 
 that the poor artist cannot be your friend. Do not urge it," he 
 added, as a flush crossed his cheek. " The fire purchased with 
 your money would chill,— the food would choke me.— the sense 
 of deep degradation would be ever in my mind. My blood is 
 gentle, my birth something more. Do not make me seem to 
 mvself so utterly sordid. Let there be one resting-place in my 
 heart. Let me, in the oppressive misery of a disappointed life, 
 remember, that the gentle smiles of one dear household has 
 greeted the poor artist as an equal! Let me think of the 
 happy hours I have spent here, without shame! You do not 
 know me,— vou cannot tell what it is to be reminded that you 
 have looked on me as a hireling, will think of me as a hireling, 
 and not a friend. It may seem mad, ungrateful, insolent, 
 misplaced— it must, if you cannot read my miserable heart. 
 Mrs. St. Aubvn, it is a heart without a hope from the future- 
 let it have one bright independent spot of refuge in the past. It 
 is not pride. I know you can compel me to be paid— yet do 
 
 Tears gushed from his eyes, and he fell on his Knees before 
 Mrs. St. Aubvn. 
 
 Her own eyes were moist, as she raised the strange child of 
 genius and sorrow, and returning the money to her purse, said. 
 " Be it as vou will. I am not ashamed to be obliged to you, my 
 dear vounc friend-nav. I will ask you to come sometimes, and 
 
182 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 see if you can waken in Juliet any of her sister's passion for your 
 art ; I shall thus increase the obligation which you fancy I shrink 
 from. Alas! such contemptible vanity would ill become the 
 mother of those who, without your genius, may yet be exposed 
 to your trials." 
 
 "Ah," said Eustace, somewhat composed, "I will pray that that 
 may never be. My mother is anxiously watching for her invalid. 
 I cannot wait to bid Miss Blanche adieu \ but you will, perhaps, 
 offer her, with my fervent wishes for her happiness, a picture, 
 which possibly will please her more than any which the gay- 
 world will present to her view." 
 
 He took out an exquisite miniature, in which were gracefully 
 grouped Mr. and Mrs. St. Aubyn, and Juliet 5 the likenesses, 
 taken by stealth, and finished in private, were perfect. The 
 parents were listening to a letter, signed " Blanche," read by 
 Juliet. Affection, interest, and smiling attention, enlivened every 
 countenance ; and the mother wept over this tribute of genius 
 and hopeless love, almost as if the young sufferer had been her 
 own beloved son. 
 
 She thought it due to Eustace, to let Blanche know that he 
 had perseveringly refused all remuneration, and to present his 
 exquisite remembrance ; but she confined herself to this, and 
 took care to say nothing which might waken in her daughter's 
 heart the interest she could not but feel busy at her own. 
 
 When Eustace Murray left Mrs. St. Aubyn, he sauntered for 
 some time in the evening twilight, along the sea-shore. The 
 fresh air cooled his brow, and turned the current of his thoughts. 
 He sat down, and watched the waves swell, and break against 
 the cliffs, till he almost wished that such might be his own fate. 
 He buried his face in his hands, and thought over the one long 
 agony existence had been to him. Love, the sweet light of all 
 other hearts, rising on his baleful and deadly, as the sun o'er the 
 destined city of the plague, lighting its withered flowers, and its 
 blighted hopes — poison in its smile — death in its radiance— Love 
 without Hope. Well may the philosopher ensconced in his own 
 snug study, who has loved a little, and been loved a little in 
 return, decide that such love has never been ! Who turns from 
 the ample banquet, to ponder on the starving beggar? — who 
 looks beyond his own narrowed and satisfied affections, to con- 
 template the unredeemable and boundless anguish of hopeless 
 love? 
 
 The young artist remained for some time on the cold sea 
 shore, till a few stars began faintly to shew themselves in the 
 deep blue sky, he rose from the shore, and hastened back to 
 Dieppe. As he passed through the principal street, he stopped 
 near a jeweller's shop, — shuddered. — then said to himself, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 183 
 
 " Why should 1 shrink? It has spared me so vile a misery — it 
 must be so ! We have no resources ; my poor mother's silent 
 tears revealed the truth." He entered the shop, and offered for 
 sale an antique signet ring,' — long a valued relic of former gran- 
 deur in the Murray family, and prized by Eustace himself, as the 
 imaginative prize an inanimate object, invested by fancy with a 
 thousand unspeakable associations, and unpalpable charms. It 
 had been handed down through many generations ; the crest of 
 the Murrays was on the seal ; and it was surrounded by brilliants. 
 The jeweller examined the brilliants, and with more civility than 
 would be shown in England to a stranger, evidently in want, 
 and ashamed of being so, offered five hundred francs. Eustace 
 asked for half the sum, with the privilege of redeeming the ring, 
 if in his power, within three months. The smile, as of one who 
 has made a good bargain, lighted the jeweller's face as he con- 
 sented. Eustace grasped the welcomed money, and hastened 
 home. He silently placed it in his mother's lap, and threw him- 
 self into the arm-chair which her tender care had wheeled to the 
 tire for him. A good fire had been made, she herself scarcely 
 knew how. But a mother will always find something to make a 
 fire for a darling son. 
 
 " Thank you, dearest mother," said he, as she placed the 
 excellent coffee she herself had prepared, with all the dainties 
 she could muster, beside him. 
 
 " But you take nothing," said the anxious parent; " is it not 
 good?" 
 
 " Excellent, dear mother," replied Eustace. 
 
 " Well, prove to me you think so 5 " and she forced on him the 
 buttered toast and sweetmeats, which mammas always seem to 
 think must act as balm to a wounded spirit, or a disappointed 
 heart. 
 
 Eustace was no churl, and he tried to please her; and she, 
 watching with delight every morsel he ate, as a source of joyful 
 retrospect, and animating hope, shared his repast with a grateful 
 and delighted heart. 
 
 " Do not paint to-night, my love," said she, "I am sure it 
 makes you ill." 
 
 " No, dearest mother," said Eustace, " it is my greatest 
 solace." And in a little while the son was entirely engrossed by 
 the creations of his pencil ! and his mother sat by his side, as she 
 had sat for so many years, silently plying her needle for him, till 
 the clock struck eleven ; and then, fondly kissing his pale brow, 
 she said, " Dearest, I am going to bed j do not sit up late. 1 will 
 put some lemonade in your room. God bless you, Eustace, do 
 not stay up long." 
 
 She folded up her work, and having seen that all that could 
 
184 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 contribute to the comfort of her son's room was attended to she 
 retired to her own often sleepless pillow. 
 
 As she bent to kiss Eustace's brow, her quick eye had caught 
 the subject of his pencil ; but with a woman's tact, and a 
 mother's instinct, she made no remark; she did not even seem 
 aware what the subject was that engrossed him ; but it recurred 
 to her mind in the silent night, and told a mournful tale to a 
 mothers heart. 
 
 At one furtive glance, she had recognised beneath Eustace's 
 hand the beautiful face and form of Blanche St. Aubvn, in the 
 attitude he had himself suggested at Mrs. Hodnot's party. The 
 angelic face, the long golden hair, the mournful tenderness of 
 the attitude— the urn — the withered wreaths— the unstrung lyre 
 —the pallet— all proclaimed the subject the same—" Pity weep- 
 ing over the tomb of Genius," and the mother's heart felt chill, 
 as she thought whose that genius might be. " And vet," she 
 whispered to herself, " if, indeed, he loves her, why should not 
 his love be a happy love? Jn what is she superior to my boy? 
 What must that woman be, who would not love mv beautiful, 
 generous, devoted son-with his fine features, his tall figure, his 
 magical genius, and the music of his voice?- superior— he has 
 not his equal in the world ! nor she nor anv other woman de- 
 serves such a treasure!" 
 
 So different are the same person, talents, and qualities in the 
 estimation of the fond mother, and in that of the shrinking, self- 
 contemning, enamoured son ! 
 
 Mrs. Murray lay many hours cold and wakeful, pondering 
 these things in her heart. At length, at about two, she heard 
 the languid step of Eustace on the stairs. He slept in a small 
 room over her head ; and for some time after he had closed his 
 door, she could distinguish him pacing— now slowly, now 
 rapidly, up and down his apartment. 
 
 ''Perhaps, after all, it is only a mother's silly fancy," she 
 said to herself. "Last week he Was as busy with the portraits 
 of the other members of the same family. He is still, now. If 
 it were not so very late, I would go to his room, to see if he 
 is warm and comfortable; but he would be so vexed, if I risked 
 taking cold." 
 
 She lay for some time, silently recalling every look of 
 Blanche's, and every word of her son's, until she had arrived 
 at the very comfortable maternal conviction that the affection 
 could not possibly preponderate on the side of Eustace 5 and 
 that if he was in love, the lady must be more so still. She had 
 just become warm, and was dropping off to sleep, when she 
 thought she heard a groan, or a sound between a shriek and 
 groan, from her son's room. She started up in her bed, and 
 
 a 2 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 185 
 
 listened attentively, her hands clasped, and her lips apart. Yes, 
 she distinctly heard a groan. In a moment she had darted 
 from her bed — cold, danger, were all forgotten. She flung a 
 cloak around her, and stole barefooted across the brick floor, 
 and up the stone staircase. She paused for a moment at the 
 door of Eustace's apartment,— her heart still, but a prayer on 
 her lips ; and then she gently raised the latch, and entered 
 noiselessly ; one glance sufficed to shew her that he was safe ; 
 he was in bed, and sleeping; but it was a troubled, fearful 
 slumber-, and doubtless, in its anguish, he had uttered the 
 sounds she had heard. Still he was there 5 her darling, her all 
 — her good, her beautiful, her kind one — and that was enough 
 to make the poor old mother kneel and raise her tearful eyes 
 in gratitude to Heaven. 
 
 They formed a touching picture, that devoted mother and 
 her gifted son. With all the regardlessness of bodily comfort 
 which bespeaks the despair of the heart, he had drawn the 
 curtains with which her care had shrouded the windows, — and 
 the full cold brilliancy of the moon of early spring poured upon 
 his neat yet narrow bed. It was an artist's room. And spite of 
 the mother's watchful care, every corner betrayed that it was 
 so. Here the moon lighted a half-finished Venus, whose features, 
 perhaps unconsciously to the artist himself, had more of Blanche 
 than of Her of Medicis; the high, full forehead — the expressive 
 lip, and a something which told that the spirit within had made 
 itself a titling shrine. Here a lay figure, ready draped, gave a 
 chill to one corner , while a skeleton undraped filled the other 
 with horror. Casts of limbs, and of ail the most approved 
 busts, were strewn on the table, among which gleamed, in the 
 moonlight, the flowers of some plants Eustace had reared for 
 Blanche, and a cage of goldfinches, which, with the most 
 persevering zeal, he had tamed and taught for her. Neither 
 had he summoned courage to offer her. 
 
 Shells, dried flowers, seaweed, plants of every kind, were 
 crowded together, with beautiful designs, some merely sketch- 
 ed : a guitar and a flute, and a song written out by Blanche, lay 
 among the chaos. 
 
 The young artist's rest seemed guarded by the spirits of the 
 past, At the foot of the bed writhed a Laocoon ; and from the 
 centre of the room, a proud young Apollo seemed aiming a 
 shaft at the slumberer. A Cupid lay on roses, smiling in his 
 sleep, as if pleased that he had not missed his aim. A kneeling 
 Saint, nearly buried her face in the curtains: and a young 
 Endymion basked, as of yore, in the moon's sweet smile, — 
 while, pale and lovely as the classical and marble features 
 around him, lay the young artist, the disappointed genius, the 
 
186 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 hopeless lover! The light fell full upon his face, and showed 
 the kneeling mother the tears that hung upon his long eye- 
 lashes ; — there was something almost death-like in the whiteness 
 of his lofty forehead, and somewhat sunken cheek, and his thin 
 hands, were clasped upon his bosom. 
 
 She gazed upon him till, in that mysterious light, it seemed 
 to her that his face looked like the face of the dead. It is an 
 awful moment, in which it first occurs to us that what we love 
 may die — die, and leave us alone and desolate, in the cold and 
 heartless world. 
 
 She drew nearer to him at the thought-, she bent over him, 
 her trembling lips touched the rich masses of his auburn 
 hair. Yes, there were tears on his eye-lids, and heavy sighs 
 heaved his bosom. Ah ! she has now no doubt. He fervently 
 clasps an embroidered handkerchief. It was Blanche's. Her 
 name is on his lips. " Blanche," he murmured, " Blanche ; she 
 scorns, she despises me ! Others woo her, she smiles on another ! 
 ay, lead her to the altar! And now drive your pawing steeds, 
 and blazoned chariots, over the body of the presumptuous 
 artist.— Ha! ha!" 
 
 He laughed a fierce laugh, awful in his mother's ear, and she 
 saw that the veins in his brow were swollen, and that there was 
 foam on his lip : presently he sighed heavily, and murmured, in 
 his altered mood, " Lay it in the grave with me, dear mother, — 
 I have kept it ever on my heart, it was her's. Mother! do not let 
 them take it from me !" He pressed the handkerchief more 
 closely to his heart, and then sank into a dreamless sleep. 
 
 His mother watched beside him long, and her tears flowed 
 almost unconsciously. At length she gently kissed his fevered 
 brow, drew the curtains around him, and murmured, " Be 
 merciful to him, Heaven." She found her way back to her own 
 bed, there after some time she fell asleep ; and woke in the 
 morning afflicted with an incipient cold, which eventually con- 
 fined her to her room for three weeks, from that miserable and 
 unforgotten night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI11. 
 
 Blanche was not one of those philosophical heroines, who 
 enter upon a scene of gaiety without one flutter of the heart ; 
 who anticipate no pleasure from conquests and finery, and con- 
 sider it dc rigueur to walk through a London season, cold and 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 187 
 
 haughty spectators of the miracles wrought by their irresistible 
 charms. 
 
 She had wept bitterly at parting with her family 5 the voyage 
 she was to perform under the chaperonage of Mrs. Faithful, 
 who was going over to England. Mr. Wheezer, too, who had 
 long wished to consult his London physician, but had shrunk 
 from the discomforts of the journey, thought this an excellent 
 opportunity for taking it. 
 
 He felt sure that Blanche's excellent heart, and Mrs. Faith- 
 ful's interested views, would make them do all in their power to 
 enliven the voyage, and to make it easy to him : and Mrs. Faith- 
 ful, who had been more gloomy and morose than ever in her 
 presentiments, since Mrs. Dashwood's intended marriage was 
 announced, saw a gleam of hope for herself, and became very 
 active in her arrangements for the journey, and her attentions to 
 Mr. Wheezer. 
 
 Blanche called at Mrs. Hodnot's, to take leave of all her ac- 
 quaintances there. Her cheerful and obliging temper had made 
 her popular, in spite of the envy she excited ; and she was more 
 than ever so, now that all had some favour to ask, a letter to be 
 taken, a contraband present to be smuggled over, to some " be- 
 loved friend-, " a lawyer, who would not write, to be made to do 
 so ; a tenant to be teazed into paying his arrears. 
 
 Mr. Wheezer had made his sad state of health an excuse for 
 declining any commissions*, and Mrs. Faithful thought it a sin 
 to smuggle, except for herself. So every one applied to Blanche, 
 who promised to do all she could for every one. 
 
 "I suppose, my dear Miss Blanche," said Sir Caesar, who 
 was calling at Mrs. Hodnot's, " you won't object to taking over 
 Antonia's picture of your humble servant, which I wish you to 
 have properly packed, at any picture dealer's you like, in Lon- 
 don, and sent down to my Lord Bishop of Leicester's palace. It 
 will give you very little trouble, and I shall esteem it a favour. I 
 am aware that his Lordship has long wished to have my picture 
 to place in his splendid gallery. Of course, it ought to be there ; 
 it is absurd that it is not there already 5 " and he looked at 
 Blanche, as if she were to blame for the omission. 
 
 " I consider it x\ntonia's chefd'ceuvre" added he pompously, 
 "lam sure, when you see it, you will be delighted to take 
 charge of it. By the bye, it ought to be framed, and there is no 
 time to get it done here. Will you, my dear Miss Blanche, your- 
 self fix on a frame in London ? a handsome one of course. The 
 bill you can send to me here, when you write to your mother 5 
 of course it ought to be framed— do you not think so?" 
 
 Blanche could not but own that it ought to be framed, al- 
 though in her heart she wished the treasure were not to be con- 
 
188 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 flded to her. Had her mother been there, she would have gently 
 refused for her daughter so disagreeable a commission ; but her 
 absent father understood nothing of what was passing. Then 
 Miss Whitehead had an immense fantasia, dedicated to the Bi- 
 shop, and she wanted Blanche to arrange with a music publisher 
 to get it printed, and to see that it was sent, and so forth. 
 
 Mrs. Dashwood had numberless letters, only just to be put 
 into the twopenny post, to announce her approaching nuptials \ 
 and Sir Caesar, when last in England, had left an old umbrella 
 in a hackney coach, which he thought might be recovered by 
 an inquiry at the office. 
 
 "It was not a very valuable umbrella, and the best of um- 
 brellas would scarcely," he said, "be worth troubling Miss 
 Blanche or himself about-, but there were circumstances, very 
 peculiar circumstances, connected with this umbrella; it had 
 sheltered a very illustrious personage in a tete-d-tete with which 
 he had been honoured 5 and if, through Miss Blanche's inqui- 
 ries, it could be recovered, she would save a relic dear to feel- 
 ings more important than those of so humble an individual as 
 Sir Caesar Whitehead." 
 
 " How am I to know it ? " asked Blanche. 
 
 "My name and crest are on it," said Sir Caesar Whitehead, 
 " worked by Antonia in red, and beautifully done too." 
 
 Tiny wanted a doll, and Mrs. Barton and the Captains wished 
 for some English soap, and other cosmetics. It would be so 
 easy to order them at Atkinson's, and to send them when she 
 heard of an opportunity. Some one would be sure to be going 
 over, if she would but get them. And poor Miss Primrose, 
 whose attack on Cousin Geoffrey's heart had ended in a dread- 
 ful lumbago, implored so feelingly for some English opodeldoc, 
 that Blanche inwardly vowed that if she could do nothing else, 
 that at least should be attended to. It was curious to see the 
 parting of the two widows, who, for so long a time, had never 
 met without a taunt or a sarcasm. 
 
 Mrs. Dashwood's triumph was not so complete as she had an- 
 ticipated, because Mrs. Faithful carried off Mr. Wheezer-, and 
 no one could tell what might be Mr. Wheezer's private reason 
 for going over to England in the same vessel with Mrs. Faith- 
 ful. Mrs. Faithful was not quite so crest-fallen as she had fear- 
 ed she would be, because she made her adieus leaning on Mr. 
 Wheezer's arm, while Mrs. Dashwood was only supported by 
 the Major. Now the Major had only a small income, was 
 rather dirty, took snuff, was a bad dresser, and never wore 
 gloves. 
 
 Mr. Wheezer, on the contrary, had a good income, took no 
 snuff, was scrupulously clean, a very neat dresser, and always 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 180 
 
 wore the nicest, newest light kids. The spectators thought the 
 nope of Mr. Wheezer, better than the reality of the Major. 
 
 " Good bye, Mrs. Dashwood," said Mrs. Faithful, as she was 
 about to embark. "I am sure if you are to marry, I hope you 
 may marry, and that all will be as you expect, ma'am." 
 
 " I think,*' replied Mrs. Dashwood, "that wish would suit 
 you better, ma'am. Of my marrying there is no doubt ; but I am 
 sure I should rejoice to congratulate you on a change of con- 
 
 " Don't talk to me in that way, ma'am," said Mrs. Faithful, 
 " remember I am a monogamist, ma'am. I wear these weeds as 
 a token to all mankind that I have given up the luxuries, and 
 vanities of this life." 
 
 "Then you consider a husband a luxury, ma'am?" asked 
 Mrs. Dashwood, pertly. 
 
 "Not every husband, ma'am, certainly," sneered Mrs. Faith- 
 ful, glancing at the Major, who began to twirl his moustachios, 
 and to look very fierce. 
 
 Mrs. Dashwood coloured. "Do you know, ma'am," said 
 she, "some people assert that you wear your weeds because 
 they become you ? " 
 
 "Become me?" said Mrs. Faithful. "These emblems of 
 
 mortality, oh, oh I " 
 
 "Yes/' replied Mrs. Dashwood, "they are to some faces. 
 ma'am, particularly at a certain age." 
 
 " A certain age," ma'am I " exclaimed the sanctimonious Mrs. 
 Faithful, " I should like to know what you call a certain age, 
 Mrs. Dashwood ; and as for that, ma'am, 1 have not arrived at a 
 more certain age than other people. What do you think of that. 
 Mr. Wheezer?" 
 
 " My dear fair friends," said Wheezer, " by a certain age, as 
 far as you are both concerned, I understand an age when you are- 
 certain to please. My dear Mrs. Dashwood, this lamb's-wool 
 comforter is, indeed, a bosom friend ! 1 know not how to thank 
 you. Dearest Mrs. Faithful, have you the camphor julep in your 
 basket? What a poor delicate creature I am. Heigh ho." 
 
 "I should like to know, ma'am," again said Mrs. Faithful, 
 " who has been making remarks on my dear unforsaken weeds, 
 and mv poor face ? " 
 
 "The Major for one, ma'am," said Dashwood. 
 "The Major, ma'am, should be too much taken up with 
 vour face to be passing his compliments on mine." 
 
 "Oh! I have sad reason to be jealous, n'est-ce pas?" said 
 Mrs. Dashwood, turning to her Major. "I wish. Bin. Faith- 
 ful, you could have staid to dance at my wedding." 
 
 "A widow dance at a widow's wedding," exclaimed the other. 
 
190 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Oh ! the vanities of this world ! Mrs. Dashwood, I hope you may 
 not live to repent your love of them in sackcloth and ashes." 
 
 "No, that I shall never do," answered Mrs. Dashwood 5 " re- 
 pent when I may, it shall be in a smart cap, and a becoming 
 gown. By the bye, Mrs. Faithful ( with an illiberal triumph in 
 her own success), take my advice, cast the weeds aside 5 a few 
 gay flowers and bright colours do ten times the execution, as J 
 am a proof." 
 
 "The time will come," answered the rival lady, but just at 
 the moment the packet bell began to ring. 
 
 "Good bye, dear Mrs. Dasfrwood," said Mr. Wheezer, who 
 always calculated possibilities, "I hope we may meet again." 
 
 " We shall meet again — we shall all meet again" said Mrs. 
 Faithful. 
 
 Mr. Wheezer, who did not want to hear where, hurried on 
 board to secure the best berth. Blanche, bathed in tears, tore 
 herself from the embraces of her weeping family, and remained 
 on deck till she could no longer distinguish them on the pier, 
 where they stood watching the vessel till it was lost to their 
 view. For some time Blanche's spirits were saddened by the 
 recollection of Juliet's pale cheek, and her mother's tearful 
 farewell. But there is a perennial spring of hope in a young 
 untried heart, and much is expected from that fairy region, the 
 future 5 besides, she should have so much to tell them,— she 
 would write so often, — so many important things must happen. 
 
 She was soon aroused from her now delightful reveries. She 
 had left Mrs. P'aithful in the " saloon " with Mr. Wheezer, and 
 had betaken herself to the deck, where she sat enjoying the 
 fresh air, and the bright waters. 
 
 Mrs. Faithful, looking rather pale, came to her, and, with 
 more gentleness than was her wont, asked her to come and 
 help her to amuse and console poor Mr. Wheezer, who seemed 
 to feel the voyage very much. She added, " that it was the duty 
 of the young to do all they could to soothe the sufferings of 
 those more advanced in life • and, after all, there was no know- 
 ing how soon they might themselves be in need of kindness and 
 care, for many were blighted in their first bloom by slow di- 
 sease ; and many were cut off in their flower, without having 
 done one good deed to bear witness for them. 
 
 Blanche's heart required no urging to an act of kindness 5 she 
 hastened to the saloon. There, propped up by pillows, covered 
 with cloaks, and a handkerchief of Mrs, Faithful's tied over his 
 bead, lay Mr. Wheezer. Tea, lemonade, brandy and water, 
 julep, and every approved specific were at hand. Me lay, 
 breathing apparently with great difficulty, and said faintly, when 
 Blanche approached, and kindly asked how he felt? "Very 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 191 
 
 poorly indeed, my dear young friend, very so so. My kind 
 Mrs. Faithful, would it be asking too much of you, to beg you 
 to bathe my forehead, and to rub my hands with a little eau de 
 Cologne? I feel very faint." 
 
 Mrs. Faithful looked rather prudish, but Blanche, who saw 
 in Mr. Wheezer nothing but a pale, suffering old man, volun- 
 teered her services, and then the widow declared that she would 
 bathe Mr. Wheezer's brow, if Blanche would rub his hands. 
 Blanche got tired long before Mr. Wheezer did ; but as he was 
 profuse of gentle thanks, and assurances that he was much re- 
 vived—getting quite another thing, she did not like to leave off. 
 Blanche, who had excellent sense, suspected that the weight 
 of cloaks with which he was covered oppressed him, and ven- 
 tured to advise the removal of some of them. Upon this Mrs. 
 Faithful, who was grown very giddy, and very cross, and who 
 wished for a good excuse for leaving off her troublesome duty, 
 exclaimed, "Well, upon my word, I do admire the presumption 
 of young people of these degenerate times. Oh^ remove them by 
 all means, Miss Blanche ; of course, my experience is nothing 
 to yours — of course, Mr. Wheezer must feel greater confidence 
 in your judgment than in mine." 
 
 In his heart, perhaps, Mr. Wheezer did ; and he certainly 
 preferred the gentle, yet persevering kindness with which 
 Blanche had rubbed his hands, to the somewhat rough, jerking 
 manner, and the occasional scratch of a crape weeper, with 
 which Mrs. Faithful, ill, and out of temper, had bathed his 
 forehead : but he was a little afraid of Mrs. Faithful ; and after 
 a cough, rather protracted, to get himself out of the scrape, 
 and which put a stop to the bathing with eau de Cologne, he 
 proposed going on deck. 
 
 " I think it might be of service to you,"' said Mrs. Faithful, 
 very anxious to get rid of him, without appearing to neglect 
 him. " And as I am very unwell (for 1 have been so anxious 
 about you, and was so frightened, though I said nothing about 
 it, when you turned so pale), I shall lie down a little, and Miss 
 Blanche can attend to you in the meantime. Surely it is not too 
 much to expect of a strong young person, and one whose feel- 
 ings'not being concerned, cannot require to be recruited. I am 
 sure if I lie down, it is that I may be able to help you when you 
 feel worse, which of course you will, when we get more out at 
 sea. Of selfishness, thank Heaven, I have not one particle; 
 others— others are always my care. I wish those some few years 
 younger could say the same." 
 
 Blanche, who was rejoiced to get away from Mrs. Faithful, 
 and out of the close cabin, only smiled at this covert attack, and 
 offered her arm to Mr. Wheezer. " Heaven bless you, mv dear 
 
192 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Mr. Wheezer," said Mrs. Faithful : "wrap yourself up well \ 1 
 shall be with you again, when I feel a little recovered from the 
 shock of your turning so pale 5 in the meantime I trust you to 
 the tender mercies of— the wicked," she growled to herself, 
 when Blanche was out of hearing. 
 
 " Did you see me turn so pale, my sweet young friend? " asked 
 Mr. Wheezer, tremblingly, for he very much dreaded any un- 
 usual symptom in himself. 
 
 "I cannot say I did,' 1 replied Blanche ; "indeed, considering 
 all things, I think you look very well.'" 
 
 "Thank you, my dear, cheering Miss Blanche," said Whee- 
 zer. " Ah, that sweet soul is so anxious, she sees things through a 
 false medium." 
 "Is she?" said Blanche, calmly. 
 
 " You are so very kind," said Wheezer, " and so very gentle, 
 that you make me almost forget I am a poor old invalid 5 how 
 shall I thank you, — you, a sweet, young, beautiful creature? 
 Ah ! what would many a handsome young gentleman give to be 
 in my place now?" 
 
 Blanche, who disliked flattery (of which she saw the object), 
 found out the warmest and most sheltered corner for Mr. Whee- 
 zer, and sat down by him. 
 
 " Do you feel warm enough?" 
 
 " I am very comfortable, my fair, young friend," said the in- 
 valid, " all but my throat; a little breeze is playing round my 
 ears 5 1 should have delighted in it when I was young ; in youth, 
 the more air the better; but my throat is very delicate now. 
 What a nice warm boa that is of yours, almost too warm for 
 you, I should think." 
 
 " I can do very well without it," said Blanche, " and she took 
 it off." 
 
 " I would not take it, my dear Miss Blanche," said Wheezer, 
 " if I did not think it too heating at your age; to surround the 
 throat with furs makes it susceptible 5 1 made mine so." (Forget- 
 ting that a few minutes before he had said he delighted in plenty 
 of air when he was young.) "Ah, that does very well. Now, is 
 not that an improvement to both ? " he said. Blanche did not feel 
 it to be one to her, but she was too kind to say so. And as Mr. 
 Wheezer's coaxing conversation did not please her much, she 
 began reading the newspaper. Her sweet voice, and lovely face, 
 pleased him so much, that he remained quiet while the weather 
 was fine ; but a sudden breeze springing up, he was seized with 
 such an awful sit of asthma, that Blanche was distracted with 
 terror. She called Mrs. Faithful, and the stewardess, and they 
 got him down stairs. 
 The only saloon passengers besides our party, were three 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 193 
 
 )ung ladies and their bonne, going home from a French 
 hool. The noise on deck sadly disturbed Mr. Wheezer, and 
 lere were no comfortable berths. 
 
 " Now if it wasn't for your being a gentleman," said the 
 ewardess, " there are snug beds in the ladies' berth, and there 
 n't half the noise." 
 
 ^ Oh, I wish I could go there," said Wheezer, " I shall die on 
 le passage. O my poor head, what is to be done? — do consult, 
 ly dear friends ; it will be my death to stay here." 
 
 Blanche whispered lo .Mrs. Faithful, " There are only those 
 oung ladies and ourselves. They seem to prefere the saloon, and 
 re are not ill." 
 
 " It will be a great sacrifice," said Mrs. Faithful aloud; " but 
 ?lf-denial is the essence of duty. I propose that we give up the 
 idies' cabin to you, for who can tell what may happen to you— 
 oor ephemeral creatures as we are." 
 
 Mr. Wheezer shuddered. " I must be moved," he said. 
 
 The stewardess called her husband, a jocose person, who 
 aught him in his arms, saying, " Well now, to think of you're 
 eing such an old man as to take to the ladies' berth." 
 
 u Hush, my good friend," said Mr. Wheezer, giving him a 
 hilling. 
 
 Waited upon only by the steward and stewardess, he per- 
 )rmed the remainder of the journey, — frequently sending the 
 indest and most coaxing messages to the ladies he had deprived 
 f their cabin, begging for this smelling bottle, that mixture, 
 ea, gruel, and, in short, keeping them constantly employed, — 
 loing things^for him. To the surprise of all, when he reached 
 Brighton, he was well enough to order post horses, and be off 
 j London ; — a sad disappointment to Mrs. Faithful, but a great 
 elief to Blanche. 
 
 He took leave with the most affectionate gratitude ; and when 
 le saw they were quite knocked up, and very anxious to go to 
 >ed, he entreated them to avail themselves of his post-chaise, a 
 ery little room would do for him— and they would be so wel- 
 :ome ! his dear, kind friends! Mrs. Faithful wished to accept 
 he offer, but fatigue and illness compelled her to refuse. He 
 hen begged for the address in London, of both Mrs. Faithful and 
 31anche ; if he was not confined to his room, he would contrive 
 o call and thank them! And then, with many blessings, bows, 
 ind a protracted squeeze of both their hands, he was driven off. 
 
 Blanche slept soundly, surrounded by all the newly recovered 
 comforts of an English hotel, after the wants and contrivances 
 ill people must make up their minds to in France, 
 
 She looked from the hotel windows on the rainbow coloured 
 sea, and bright spring morning, her light heart and sweet face, 
 
 13 
 
194 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 id happy unison with the scene before her. She gazed upon 
 every thing through the brightening glass of hope. She was sure 
 dear Juliet w r ould soon be well 5 — her mother would be happy 5 
 her father would be LordTempleton, with wealth at his com- 
 mand. Lionel would have no wants ungratified, Either Wyndham 
 would return, or Juliet would forget him, and reward Geoffrey's 
 well-tried love ; and as for herself, none could tell what awaited 
 her, but doubtless pleasure in every form. 
 
 Mrs. Leno had arrived the day before :— so after Blanche had 
 breakfasted, and crossed, and re-crossed a long letter to all the 
 dear ones at home, she had nothing to do, but to take her leave 
 of Mrs. Faithful, and set out for London with Leno, in her 
 aunt's travelling chariot. 
 
 Mrs. Faithful cast up her hands and eyes, as she alluded to 
 the snares Blanche would certainly fall into, in a city, in which 
 she asserted that vice flaunted about at mid-day. She gave her 
 a list of chapels and ministers, not of the intolerant high church 
 — not where false doctrine was clothed in flowers of rhetoric, 
 but wiiere all might plainly learn that they were the destined 
 children of perdition, — " and prepare themselves for that place 
 where would be weeping and gnashing of teeth." 
 
 " But I have no wish to prepare for such a place, Mrs. Faith- 
 ful," said Blanche, with a smile. 
 
 " Go your own ways," said Mrs. Faithful, "slide down the 
 slippery path, into a lake of fire. I have warned you, and my 
 duty is done. If you have change, just pay the chambermaid, 
 and the waiters, for me. You will be cut down like a flower — 
 that will not bow, and therefore must break. Oh, that you may 
 see the error of your ways. Look at those sons of the evil one," 
 she said, suddenly drawing the blind in the faces of a set of 
 young, lounging officers, who, attracted by a glimpse they had 
 caught of Blanche's beauty, were watching to see her enter the 
 carriage. " How dare they cast their bold glances at us?" 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Faithful," said Blanche, " I should advise you to 
 escape by a private door, else, when I am not here to chaperon 
 you, there is no knowing what impertinence they will be 
 guilty of." 
 
 " If they accost me, I will tell them whose they are," she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 And Blanche, fearing to be mixed up in a ridiculous scene, 
 wished her good bye, and, attended by Leno, drove gaily 
 away. 
 
 She was no sooner gone, than the officers sauntered off in 
 search of some other idle pastime, and Mrs. Faithful remained 
 unmolested, till the stage she was awaiting, set out. 
 
 Lady Sackville was in her dressing-room when Blanche ar- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 195 
 
 rived. She received her with affection, and made many com- 
 plimentary remarks on the improvement which had taken place 
 in her face, her figure, and her tournure* 
 
 "You must have a wonderful constitution, my dear; — not 
 the least fatigued, I declare ; but that, though an excellent thing 
 to have, is not one to boast of. I would not for the world that 
 any one should know you are such a little Hercules. All yester- 
 day on board an odious steam-packet — last night in some 
 miserable hotel— and a journey of fifty miles to-day. Oh, we 
 must hide you for a day or two from every vulgar eye, dearest. 
 Besides, curiosity will be on tip-toe, till you are visible." 
 
 " And then I shall be forgotten," said Blanche. 
 
 " Not if you have sufficient tact to keep interest alive," said 
 Lady Sackville 5 " but, in the meantime, Leno is at your service ; 
 she will help you to decide what style will best suit you, and 
 Carson has already sent cargoes of things for you to try on. They 
 will amuse you this evening and to-morrow; and on the third 
 day vorons, you shall make your debut at a ball at Lady Bet- 
 terton's." 
 
 "But am I to be a prisoner all that time?" asked the fair 
 novice. " What am I to do?" 
 
 " To do ! " exclaimed her aunt, " with Leno, Carson, and a 
 cheval-glass, you will find enough to do. Besides, now I look 
 at you more closely, your cheek is slightly flushed 5 and nothing 
 is so patrician as your white rose-leaf complexion and golden 
 hair, at least so Horace St. John says." 
 
 Blanche blushed at the name; her aunt observed it with in- 
 ward pleasure. " A blush and a smile," said she to herself, 
 " would betray a. penchant, but a blush with that serious brow, 
 reveals a serious passion 5 but she must not be too easily caught, 
 else Mr. Horace, I know you of old; a smile, a look, a bow, and 
 you are gone. It was her cold yet graceful indifference that won 
 him, and nothing else will keep him. Now, I had rather she 
 had Horace with five thousand a year, than any other man with 
 twenty. He has foiled me with each successive daughter, and 
 my anxiety is to see him caught at last, if only by my niece." 
 
 " Well then, Leno," said her ladyship aloud, " I am obliged 
 to dine with Lady Hunter, and go in her box to Covent Garden. 
 I shall be back at twelve, to dress for Lady Millington's ball; in 
 the meantime you will instal my niece in her own apartments. 
 She will order any thing she likes to take, and you can try her 
 hair in all the different styles about which we were talking." 
 
 " I shall be happy to render any service in my power to- 
 morrow, my Lady," said the Abigail; " but I must, observe my 
 nerves are not made of iron, I am entirely exhausted to-night, 
 my lady Your ladyship must remember I've been shook to 
 
190 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 pieces. Mademoiselle Lisette can wait on Miss St. Aubyn, and 
 sit up to dress your ladyship ; but I really must take a saline 
 febrifuge, and retire to my room." 
 
 " Oh, by all means," said Lady Sackville, who was very 
 much afraid of Mrs. Leno. " Send Lisette here, and take any 
 thing you think advisable, Leno. Of course you must be very 
 tired, poor thing." 
 
 " Of course I am, my lady," said Leno. 
 
 " Well, you can go to bed," said her Mistress. 
 
 " Such is my intention, my lady," replied Leno retiring, 
 highly indignant that her mistress had not herself suggested 
 such a step as necessary for her nerves, and rather disgusted 
 with Blanche, who, always considerate, but never familiar with 
 servants, had asked the inflated and indignant Mrs. Leno no 
 questions, and would have forgotten, but for her fidgetty 
 manoeuvres, her sighs and lamentations about the sun and the 
 dust, the air and the closeness, that such a troublesome person 
 was shut up in the carriage with her. Indeed, it seemed to her, 
 that it would have been much more in character if Mrs. Leno 
 had placed herself in the rumble ; but a long egotistical complaint, 
 about her extreme delicacy of constitution, and alarming suscep- 
 tibility of cold, convinced Blanche, that the hint she had in- 
 tended giving, would be quite thrown away. She therefore 
 resigned herself to all the lozenges, restoratives, vinaigrettes, 
 salts, and essences, with which the superfine soubrette, a hale 
 woman of forty, was playing the delicate defaillante of eigh- 
 teen. 
 
 Mademoiselle Lisette was a little bright-eyed, flattering, 
 coaxing Frenchwoman, with well-dyed black hair, arched eye- 
 brows, brightly tinted cheeks, pointed chin, a fantastical cap, a 
 small waist, and a very pretty foot. She had been maid to the 
 Miss Sackvilles-, and when Clara became Mrs. Bullion, Lady 
 Sackville kept her to assist Blanche in her approaching cam- 
 paign : for Lisette had been the confidante of very many disap- 
 pointments, which Clara had encountered while casting her 
 nets, before she finally caught Mr. Bullion, and therefore it was 
 not judged expedient by that lady to keep her about her own 
 person. 
 
 Lisette was at heart quite as selfish as Mrs. Leno, but she 
 was far more cunning, and therefore infinitely more agreeable 5 
 besides, she was naturally very active, and did not indulge in 
 the enormous suppers and quantities of porter which subjected 
 the sensitive delicate Leno, in common with so many other 
 English servants, to head-aches, spleen, and countless disorders. 
 
 As soon as Lady Sackville was gone, Lisette appeared : she 
 conducted Blanche to a very pretty bed-room and dressing- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 197 
 
 room, on the second-floor. Blanche was delighted to find a 
 good piano-forte, and Clara's forgotten guitar. Every thing was 
 neat and comfortable, and Mademoiselle Lisette curtsied, and 
 smiled, and expatiated, in true French style, on all she had 
 done. " La peine qiCelle s'etait donne'e , le temps qiVelle 
 avail sacrifiel pour rendre le boudoir de Mademoiselle 
 digne d'elle f All this was mixed up with shrugs and glances 
 at the sad want of taste visible in all the rest of the house and 
 its inhabitants, particularly " cette bonne femme , Madame 
 Lino, qui, pour dire vrai % e'tail bien brave femme, mais 
 sans education , bien Anglaise , et gauche a faire peur." 
 Lisette herself had been a figurante in town, and a teacher in the 
 country, before she decided that service was, after all, the nearest 
 approach to independence, for one whose "parents etaient 
 ruines par la revolution." And Blanche, with a certain feeling 
 of desolation at finding herself alone, in the centre of life and 
 gaiety, felt almost grateful for the apparent interest even of the 
 volatile Frenchwoman. The incessant, and to her, unwonted 
 sound of carriages, rolling rapidly by, and the distant hum of 
 people, with the brilliancy of the lamps, and the tumult which, 
 even in the season of rest, seems ever awake in the vast 
 metropolis, formed a curious and exciting contrast to the 
 gloomy stillness of Dieppe's grass-grown streets. 
 
 As she felt little inclination for a solitary dinner, Lisette made 
 her some excellent coffee, and — writing part of a letter to that 
 dear home for which her heart already began to yearn, for 
 already she felt desolate — she sat down to the piano-forte, and 
 amused herself till her little French clock struck eleven 5 and 
 just as the languid beauties of the ball-room were beginning 
 their toilette for the night, Blanche fell asleep, to dream of 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 The next day was so bright, soft, and balmy, and Blanche 
 made so many objections to being immured any longer, that 
 Lady Sackville, who thought she never had seen her niece look 
 so lovely, consented to order the carriage, and take her with 
 her to pay some visits. 
 
 A long consultation with Leno, Lisette, and Carson, preceded 
 their departure. At first, Blanche felt annoyed at being tricked 
 out, stared at, commended, disapproved, cried up, and con- 
 demned. Her beautiful ringlets now dragged one way, as de 
 
198 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 mauvais gout; next tossed another way j now Lisette suggest- 
 ing a soup c on de rouge j and then the modiste's better taste, 
 deciding qu'avec un teint pareil ce serait une abomination I 
 
 Blanche, who was growing very obstinate and indignant, 
 became, however, more reconciled, when she found that she 
 might keep her own curls and her own complexion ; and glan- 
 cing at the mirror, was struck with a pleasureable surprise, as 
 she marked the magic power of elegant and tasteful dress in 
 heightening every charm. 
 
 It was a bright and soft April morning, and the delicate tints 
 which Carson suited to Blanche's complexion, made her look 
 like a sweet personification of Spring. 
 
 Blanche was obliged to own that there was a science in dress, 
 of which she had never dreamt. Every thing had been studied, 
 each little spring flower in the soft blonde cap which so well 
 harmonized with her golden hair, and the faint blue of her 
 pretty bonnet, the plume which gave a dignity and grace, the 
 blonde pleureuse, a softness, the shape of the delicately worked 
 and richly trimmed white mantilla, cut to display the long fair 
 throat and well shaped shoulders, the beautiful muslin of the 
 dress, even the colour of her glove, her shoe, her little reticule, 
 had been considered, as a painter considers the effect of each 
 separate tone in a picture, and the result was success. 
 
 The modiste, with a patronising cela va, took her leave, 
 remarking she had let Lisette into the secret of Miss St. Au- 
 byn's style, and could not superintend again unless in case of 
 the presentation, or les nocesde Mademoiselle I 
 
 Every objection which Blanche made, when, after a moment's 
 consideration, the probable cost of this finery struck her, was 
 peremptorily overruled. Lady Sackville said, " that she had 
 no daughter to deck out, and her dear niece must oblige her by 
 considering herself her child." This speech, accompanied by a 
 fond embrace, admitted of no appeal — and the orthodox hour 
 for showing themselves having arrived, Blanche stepped into 
 her aunt's new carriage. 
 
 There is something very exhilarating in a bright sunny spring 
 day in London, in the fashionable season, — the brilliant equi- 
 pages, the varied beauties thronging the matrimonial market- 
 both beaux and belles ; the magnificent horses en passant, be 
 it said; — the greatest of beauties of all, the overflowing luxuries 
 of the shops, the grandeur of the streets, even the flower- 
 girls with their profuse bunches of daffodils ; the street-music, 
 and the very flagstones sparkling in the sun, — all ministered a 
 fresh and glowing delight to the unaccustomed eyes and mind 
 of Blanche. Added to this, was the universal admiration which 
 her appearance attracted, and which put Lady Sackville in the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 199 
 
 highest good humour, and confirmed, in her worldly mind, her 
 opinion of her niece's attractions. 
 
 She had proposed that before calling on Lady Hunter they 
 should drive up and down Regent Street, to look at the shops. 
 This beautiful street, seemed fairy land to Blanche; so great 
 was the throng of carriages, that, sometimes they could not 
 move at all : and sometimes only at the rate of a mile an hour : 
 but Lady Sackville did not complain, her protegee was the 
 better seen. She knew all the elite, and as she had confided to 
 no one her intention of introducing her niece, even the most 
 self-engrossed looked surprised, as they caught sight of the 
 elegant girl by her side. 
 
 "So like that spiteful old Lady Sackville," said a masculine 
 belle-, "now she has got off her own daughters, she does not care 
 whom she introduces ; just as the Earl was growing particular 
 in his attentions to me, to go and rummage out a girl quite in 
 the style that captivates him at first sight. Ah ! there he is 
 staring into her carriage •, after all the pains I've taken about 
 him ; but, I '11 be revenged ; I think I can prevent her getting 
 an introduction to Lady Hauteville's theatricals. Here comes 
 the Earl; after all, perhaps, she is not to his taste! " and Lady 
 Barbara's black eyes flashed with triumph, as a long-nosed, 
 long-eyed, long-backed, short-sighted, young man, with a silly 
 smile, and no head for calculating any thing but his own impor- 
 tance, rode up on an unrivalled steed, and, placing his pale 
 grey kid glove on the window of the chariot, which was now 
 at a stand still, looked in with a drawling " How T d'ye do — 
 have you got rid of your cold, or head-ache, or fever, or plague, 
 or what was it?" and the young nobleman laughed. 
 
 " Oh, fie," said Lady Barbara, delighted to be so much no- 
 ticed ; " that is all your original manner; you have not for- 
 gotten what a wretched migraine I got from the awful singing 
 last night 5 nor have I forgotten that you were bored to death — 
 so kind of you to take care of, and escort us ; however, here 
 is your reward — a white moss-rose in April ! I have reared 
 it with such trouble." 
 
 "Thank you! it's monstrous sweet," said the Earl— not 
 discovering that the lady had dropped some otto of roses into 
 its cup ; for he never detected any thing but his own perfections. 
 " Oh, by the bye," continued he, "you know every thing in 
 the world ; who is that pretty creature Ladv Sackville has got 
 with her?" 
 
 " Some parvenue, I imagine," said Lady Barbara. 
 
 "Oh !" said his Lordship, "Rea-a-lly,— well, they're vastly 
 amusing— those parvenues ; they talk very well, don't they? 
 I Ml go and see if I can find out her name. I wonder where she 
 
200 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 came from—there's not another soul worth looking at, is there 
 now? — au. revoir" And the young nobleman, after a good deal 
 of rearing and plunging, and well practised caracolling, and a 
 great many shrieks and screams, and pretty tokens of terror and 
 fondness on the part of Lady Barbara, succeeded in reaching 
 Lady Sackville's carriage, and exchanging a few niaiseries 
 with her, while he was, as he thought, captivating Blanche, 
 through the medium of his half-shut eyes, and perpetual simper. 
 
 Blanche, who saw in him nothing but a silly coxcomb, grew 
 very impatient of his protracted lingering, and could not un- 
 derstand her aunt's delighted laugh at his poor attempts at 
 wit, and the eager smiles and bows of all the prettiest women 
 who [passed him. 
 
 " Do go to the Opera to-night," said his Lordship, " do. 
 I hear Grisi is really tolerable in the new thing; what is it? 
 Do go." 
 
 " Why," said Lady Sackville, " I should rather like to go, but 
 I have lent my box to Lady Betterton." 
 
 " Mine is at your service," said the Earl ; " how uncommonly 
 fortunate. Lady Barbara has been boring me to death for it 5 
 wrote me a note this morning, and I never answered it, and 
 quite forgot it while I was talking to her just now. You will go 
 — now do." 
 
 "Well, then," said Lady Sackville, "with your leave I will 
 accept your offer 5 my niece has never been at the Opera , should 
 you not like to go, Blanche? " 
 
 Blanche, who delighted in music, readily acquiesced. 
 
 His lordship seemed to think the mention of her as Lady 
 Sackville's niece a sufficient introduction ; for he addressed him- 
 self to her, and said, "Rea-a-lly, never been at an Opera? How 
 delightfully new ! now I dare say you mean to listen to the 
 music?" 
 
 "Do you think," said Blanche, calmly, "there will be any 
 thing better worth listening to? " 
 
 " Come, now, don't be severe," smiled the dandy, who seem- 
 ed to think she had intended a compliment-, " don't." And he 
 honoured her with a protracted stare, which he meant to be 
 tender. "What do you call that?" he said, touching with his 
 gold-headed whip a bunch of daffodils, which Blanche had 
 bought out of charity to a piteous-looking child. " Isn't that a 
 dan de-lion, now?" 
 
 " If it were, I would present it to you," said Blanche. 
 
 After a little while a gleam of intelligence lighted his face. 
 "Ha! ha! ha! perhaps you think I don't take, but I do— by 
 .love, not bad— only, indeed, I'm no dandy; now, I'm not; 
 and as to a lion, why 1 never write except in ' The Keepsake ; ' 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 201 
 
 rea-a-lly, now, I don't. What makes you think I 'm a lion ? Lady 
 Sackville, your niece is quizzing me to death ; she is too hard 
 upon me now." 
 
 " Oh ! never fear, my dear Lord," said Lady Sackville, " you 
 can fight your own battles." 
 
 At this moment a very elegant cab stopped directly opposite 
 the carriage, and the crowd had increased so that neither could 
 advance nor retreat. Blanche was attracted by the splendour of 
 the horse : presently a little movement brought the driver almost 
 close to the side of the chariot. At first she was struck merely 
 by the extreme elegance of his appearance, and the beauty of 
 his profile ; but when he turned his face and met her eyes, she 
 instantly recognised Horace St. John. The usually imperturb- 
 able Horace actually started ; a faint tinge dawned on Blanche's 
 cheek and slowly deepened into the brightest carnation, then as 
 gradually receding, left her so pale, that even the Earl said, 
 " Dear, you don't feel ill, dear; do you? it is so confoundedly 
 hot, you 'd better drive round the Park. " A very sensible deci- 
 sion, considering that to move an inch was impossible. 
 
 Lady Sackville had noticed, with hidden delight, both Ho- 
 race's start, and her niece's change of colour. She saw too, with 
 pleasure, that, except this irrepressible token of feminine inte- 
 rest, Blanche betrayed no recollection of her former conquest. 
 There w r as no smile on her lip, — no look of recognition in her 
 eye. She had actually addressed some remark to the Earl on the 
 beauty of his horsewhip. 
 
 After Lady Sackville had given Horace a fair opportunity of 
 contemplating Blanche, one of which indeed he seemed inclined 
 to avail himself, she appeared to become aware of his propin- 
 quity, and entered into conversation with him. All this while, 
 Blanche talked earnestly to the Earl, who was so captivated, that 
 he presented her with the white moss-rose ; and the first sight 
 which caught Lady Barbara's eye, when the crowd of carriages 
 was again in motion, was the token of her affection for his Lord- 
 ship in the delicate hand of the new beauty. Horace St. John 
 had vainly endeavoured to catch Blanche's eye. She determi- 
 nately avoided a recognition. He would have felt piqued, but for 
 the recollection of the vivid blush with which she had first met 
 his glance. He, therefore, determined to ascertain whither they 
 were going, and if possible to join them, when she must acknow- 
 ledge him. 
 
 " I think, my love," said Lady Sackville, " we will call on 
 Lady Hunter, and then take a turn in Kensington Gardens. I 
 have asked the Earl to dine with us, and he can go to the Opera 
 with us." 
 
 " Was that very silly young gentleman an Earl?" said Blanche. 
 
202 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Yes ; and, silly as he is, could make you a Countess, ' an- 
 swered Lady Sackville. 
 
 " But he can never make himself any thing but a simpleton," 
 said the young lady. 
 
 " Well," said the aunt, " mind you do not make yourself one, 
 my love ; be as playful as you please, that is only piquante ; but 
 beware of wounding his amour propre. Good-humoured as he 
 is, he is very touchy. With the Earl and Horace in your train, 
 the one the greatest prize of the season in the world's opinion, 
 and the other in his own, you will be established the belle par 
 excellence, and your debut will be the most brilliant in the an- 
 nals of fashion. You will lind Gertrude grown very stately, ex- 
 tremely severe, and, perhaps, a little spiteful. She will hate you; 
 for the dearest wish of her heart was to captivate Horace : be on 
 your guard— say nothing she can repeat.— At home ? ' Yes, to 
 you, my Lady/" This was said as they stopped at the door of 
 one of the best houses in Grosvenor Square, which, in splendour 
 of decoration and elegance of appointment, Blanche considered 
 a little palace. 
 
 Half a dozen of those most independent of Englishmen, who 
 live rent-free in the finest mansions, pay no tax (themselves) 
 for powder, are borne about gratis by the best horses, and dress- 
 ed like the princes of yore, without one tailor's bill to pay, 
 lounged with hot-house bouquets in their button-holes, over an 
 immense fire, discussing the leading articles in the morning 
 newspapers. 
 
 Blanche felt almost uncomfortable as she placed her little foot 
 on the exquisite velvet carpets which these drones in the hive of 
 fashion trod with perfect unconcern : — exuberance of wealth 
 was displayed every where, in every corner of every room ; but 
 in the beautiful pictures, the graceful sculpture, and the rare 
 exotics, Blanche thought she could detect where the taste of 
 Gertrude had directed the lavish expenditure of Sir Croesus. 
 
 Lady Hunter was in her boudoir, — a fairy temple, where taste 
 and affluence seemed, for once, to have formed an alliance ; it 
 was remote from the other inhabited apartments, and placed at 
 the end of a statue gallery : a beautiful conservatory opening 
 into it. Every thing in the boudoir was distinguished by chas- 
 tened elegance. The light, as in a painter's studio, came from 
 above ; and if any thing can give a soft and unworldly hue to 
 the things of this earth, it is that. The object was to make the 
 boudoir dependent on itself alone ; there was no look out, no- 
 thing to remind one of the dreary, yet busy world beyond. And 
 here Gertrude had shewn her judgment; the only prospect she 
 could have obtained, would have been the acres of chimney tops 
 behind the house. She preferred the blue sky, the evening 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 203 
 
 shades, the fair moon, or the holy stars-, and to atone, she had 
 hung her walls with the grand dreams of Salvator,— the sunny 
 visions of Claude,— a world of waters hy Yandervelde : or fair 
 as all, and dearer than any. a quiet dell, a woodland haunt, a 
 cottage scene, by Calcott. The room was fragrant with the per- 
 fumed 1 many llowers : — and the furniture, the draperies, splen- 
 did, costly as they were, did not convey to the mind the painful 
 idea that all that is bright must fade. There was an air of dura- 
 bility even in the elegance of all around, — an appearance of oc- 
 cupation, which took from the room the listless wearing indo- 
 lence of a fine lady's bower. Musical instruments, books, an 
 easel, different kinds of work, seemed not merely scattered about 
 artfully, but in use. A splendid cat lay on the rug, in company 
 with a rare spaniel of King Charles's breed. A tame old parrot 
 was perched on the fender : and birds from the conservatory were 
 singing with a gaiety which made the heart ask, whether bon- 
 dage could be sweet. 
 
 Gertrude herself, dressed with simple elegance, and looking 
 much handsomer than Blanche had ever before seen her, was 
 engaged practising a difficult duet with one of the distinguished 
 singers of the Italian Opera, whose lessons nothing but immense 
 wealth could purchase, but whose notes could lull all cares to 
 sleep, and fill the heart with blissful dreams. The Cantatrice took 
 her leave, as Lady Sackville and Blanche entered ; and a cabinet 
 minister, one of Gertrude's intimates (for Gertrude had grown 
 ambitious), handed the Queen of Song to her carriage, and re- 
 turned to ascertain what sort of mind, or rather manner, be- 
 longed to the fair face he had glanced at as he left the room. 
 
 Blanche, at whose warm heart the recollection of auld lang 
 syne was busy, when she met her cousin's eye. rushed affectio- 
 nately forward to embrace her : — she was startled and chilled by 
 the calm and gentle manner in which Gertrude presented her 
 fair and unimpassioned cheek, and the polite unconcern with 
 which she asked after that dear Juliet, and that kind mother, of 
 whom Blanche could hardly speak without a rising tear. She 
 felt disappointed she scarcely knew why— formerly Gertrude 
 had been warm in manner, although occasionally satirical and 
 passionate. Blanche's gentle forbearance had won whatever 
 affection she had to bestow, and. considering all things, they 
 had been very great friends : but Gertrude's heart was now en- 
 crusted with the selfishness of success. Gertrude, to whose age, 
 when she was a poor husband-hunter, the world added several 
 years, and often denied the beauty which she really possessed ; 
 now, as the wealthiest bride of the season was rajeunie im- 
 mensely — pronounced a model of elegance and grace,— was the 
 rage, the ton, and in fact fast becoming a leader of the fashion- 
 
204 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 able world. And so much does woman actually rise or sink, pro- 
 gressively with general opinion, that she was in point of fact 
 handsomer, more elegant, and looked younger than Blanche had 
 ever remembered to have seen her. 
 
 Her manner bespoke a calm self-possession, a perfect con- 
 tentment, — there was no anxiety, no watchful calculation, no 
 eager attention 5 she had made her bargain — she had bartered a 
 heart still young, still capable of w T arm impulses, for age and 
 splendour-, her pride, her wisdom, her vanity, all taught her 
 outward contentment-, — and when she compared the situation 
 of the lonely, desolate, anxious, depreciated Miss Sackville, with 
 that of the courted, flattered, worshipped, admired Lady Hunter, 
 she did feel a sense of triumph warm her heart, and a calm satis- 
 faction lull her spirit. 
 
 Lord Rosedale had returned to the boudoir. He was rather 
 conceited, and he liked Lady Hunter's boudoir better than any 
 other place to lounge away his leisure ; because he felt that he 
 looked handsomer there than anywhere else. He was a youthful- 
 looking man of forty-three, and in several deliberate gazes, in 
 the flattering glasses with which the room abounded, he could 
 not distinguish one wrinkle — could not at all detect where his 
 beautiful toupet joined his own well-dyed hair, nor discover 
 where the hand of art had blended a roseate glow, with the 
 plaster of Paris hue nature had given to his complexion. His 
 teeth, as he smiled at himself, betrayed no management of 
 Cartwright's; and, altogether, a morning visitation at Lady 
 Hunter's put him into good humour with himself for the whole 
 day, and disposed him to aquiesce in any measure which pro- 
 mised peace and prolonged office to himself. 
 
 " What a divinity that is ! " said Lord Rosedale, as he en- 
 tered, sinking on an ottoman opposite his favourite pier-glass. 
 "What a voice! what a soul! what an ankle! Now don't you 
 think I could worship that woman? " he asked, turning the full 
 blaze of his beauty on Blanche. 
 
 " Yes 5 I should think you could," she replied, calmly. 
 
 " Actually, this morning she has held my very soul in bon- 
 dage — in roseate chains ; " for Lord Rosedale aimed as much at 
 being a poet as an entranced amateur. "There is a caste about 
 her very feet." 
 
 "Like Bramah's, of the lowest order," said Lady Hunter, with 
 a gentle sneer. " She is a fine singer, and a very well-meaning 
 woman, I doubt not, but thoroughly plebeian ; with a hand like a 
 plough-boy's, and a foot like an English house-maid's." And 
 Lady Hunter glanced at her own white hand, and thin, long foot. 
 
 " Hush, hush! you disenchant me. Well-meaning plebeian ! 
 Oh !" 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 205 
 
 "Is your soul released from its rosy bondage.' " said Ger- 
 trude. 
 
 ''Yes: to be caught in the glittering meshes of your wit." said 
 his Lordship. 
 
 At this moment a servant came to announce to Lady Hunter 
 that Sir Croesus wished to be permitted to speak to her for a few 
 minutes, regarding the new opera box she had expressed a wish 
 lor: that he was come from the city on purpose, and was much 
 pressed for time. 
 
 " Tell him I will come to him in the library," said Lady 
 Hunter. 
 
 "My dear Gertrude." said Lady Sackville. "why can you 
 not receive your husband here? Pray do: I want very much to 
 speak to him about getting Leno's niece into the Margate Infir- 
 mary : I believe he is a governor.'' 
 
 " I do not know whether he is or not," said Gertrude, coldly: 
 k< but Sir Croesus has not the entree of my boudoir." 
 
 Blanche felt uncomfortable. She looked at the Lord, stretched 
 on an ottoman, caressing Minette, the splendid cat. She glanced 
 at the elegance and splendour lavished around: and then she 
 thought of the kind, generous, indulgent husband, to whom all 
 this was owing, excluded, slighted, scorned, and refused admit- 
 tance, where a fop was welcomed. 
 
 "Heartless, ungrateful Gertrude," she inwardly exclaimed. 
 The door opened, and Horace St. John, and the Earl, who had 
 followed Lady Sackville's carriage, entered the boudoir. 
 
 A slight flush crossed Gertrude's cheek: for it was not often 
 that her favourite Horace availed himself of the privilege of enter- 
 ing her retreat. As for the Earl, with whom she was but slightly 
 acquainted, he had never been there before: he had followed 
 close in the wake of St. John, and he saw no reason why a room 
 accessible to a commoner should be closed against a peer. 
 
 He had never been taught to believe that he could be unwel- 
 come anywhere: but Gertrude was now no marrying miss. She 
 could gain nothing by his Lordship-, he was nothing to her. 
 She turned coldly to him. after a warm welcome of Horace, and 
 said, "It is, doubtless, Sir Crcesus you wish to see, my Lord! 
 None but relations, and very intimate friends, honour this poor 
 room with their presence." 
 
 ">~o! — YesI— Ah! — Indeed!" stammered the Earl, biting 
 the end of his whip. " I'm very sorry — I beg a thousand pardons 
 — quite a mistake," 
 
 '•Of course," said Gertrude. " Hartwell," (speaking to the 
 servant who had brought in some milk for Minette;, 'Is Sir 
 Croesus in the library ?— His Lordship wishes to see him. Shew 
 the wav." 
 
•206 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 The Earl, who had never seen Sir Croesus in his life, felt very 
 shy, and knew not what to say. He rose, however, determined 
 to give Hartwell the slip on the stairs 5 but at this moment, to 
 Gertrude's indignant surprise, in bustled little Sir Croesus him- 
 self, purple and punchy as ever, in a buff waistcoat, a green 
 swallow-tailed coat with basket buttons, and drab leather gai- 
 ters. He was very hot, and was wiping his face with a buff silk 
 handkerchief. 
 
 He went up to his wife, and raising himself on tiptoe, gave 
 her a very audible kiss. " Come now, Gerry," he said, " this is 
 too bad 5 I shall lose five thousand pounds by you're keeping 
 me waiting-, don't be angry at my intruding into your sanctum 
 sanctorum, especially on levee days. Good morning, my Lord ! 
 (to Lord Rosedale.) Gerry, introduce me," he said, turning to 
 the Earl. 
 
 The ceremony was performed. 
 
 " Proud to see you here, Sir. Ah, my Lord," bustling up to 
 Lord Ptosedale, giving him, to whom he had lent several large 
 sums, a playful poke in his slender and excruciated waist. " All 
 Lords now-a-days ! — I see how it is with Gerry. Nothing but a 
 patent of nobility gives one a right to the entree of this boudoir. 
 Well," in a confidential tone, " I hope I shall soon be entitled, 
 How do things get on in a certain quarter?'' 
 
 " Admirably," said the dandy, who had his own reasons for 
 conciliating Sir Croesus at that moment. " I believe there is no 
 doubt of the success of our negotiation. Are you going into the 
 city directly? " 
 
 " At once. Have you business there?'' 
 
 " I have I " he did not add that that business was to get a few 
 thousands more, out of Sir Croesus's pocket into his own. " Will 
 you let me drive you? We can discuss the affair which is so in- 
 teresting to us both, en route." 
 
 " I shall be proud to attend your Lordship ! " said Sir Croesus. 
 "Gerry I am going with my Lord ! Y\ hat do you say about the 
 opera-box?'" 
 
 While the affair of the box was in discussion, Horace St. 
 John, who had not yet been able to attract Blanche's attention, 
 approached her, and said, in that nervous tone which always 
 attracts the general notice it fain would shun, — " 1 think, Miss 
 St. Aubyn, that I once had the pleasure of meeting you before; 
 — I am anxious to remind you of a circumstance which, I fear. 
 you have forgotten. Do you not remember me at a ball at Chel- 
 tenham?" 
 
 "Really," said Blanche, with provoking unconcern, "all 
 balls seem to me so much alike, and J have made so many new 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 207 
 
 acquaintances of late, that I fear I cannot undertake to recall the 
 circumstance 5 but my aunt can tell me whether I have any right 
 to the honour of your acquaintance." 
 
 " So many acquaintances ! all balls so much alike ! " thought 
 the astounded Horace. " A simple country-girl, like Blanche, 
 presume to forget the first time she had seen him ! dare to imply 
 that he was so much like all the rest of the world— that he was 
 confounded in her memory with the common-place creatures 
 she had met in some remote region ! " An angry flush slowly- 
 crossed the marble features of the extra-exquisite Horace, and, 
 for the first time in his life, he looked silly 5 but, recovering 
 himself, he said, with a slight sneer, " I believe I ought to beg 
 your pardon : I thought I recognised in you a young lady to 
 whom I had been introduced, and with whom I should have 
 been proud to renew my acquaintance, but I perceive I was mis- 
 taken." 
 
 So saying, he joined the party discussing the opera-box, in 
 spite of the malicious smile which curled Gertrude's lip-, for 
 Horace's discomfiture had not been lost upon her watchful ear. 
 Lady Sackville, who felt very angry with her niece, invited 
 Horace to dine with her, and accompany them to the opera. 
 This he coldly declined, and took his leave. Lady Sackville and 
 Blanche, attended by the Earl, repaired to Kensington Gardens. 
 Blanche was enchanted with the band, the gay concourse, the 
 patriarchal trees, the rich dresses, the varied subjects of admi- 
 ration, amusement, and ridicule. But Lady Sackville, whose ela- 
 borate head-dress had been discomposed by a violent gust of 
 wind, and who saw Horace talking to Lady Barbara, and, worse 
 still, was doomed to see the imitative Earl veer off to the same 
 quarter, declared, in high ill humour, that there was not a crea- 
 ture there, and insisted on dragging her niece away. 
 
 Blanche implored her to take one turn among the gay people 
 listening to the band, and Lady Sackville, having unwillingly 
 agreed, was repaid by the open and animated admiration lavished 
 on the new beauty by her side. She was soon overwhelmed with 
 the attentions of young guardsmen, who had never before paid 
 her any but in eating her suppers, and waltzing with the pret- 
 tiest girls at her parties. Some distinguished foreigners, too, 
 twirled their moustachios, shot forth their bewitching, respectful 
 glances at Blanche, and being handed over to her by her aunt, 
 who wished to show off her niece's French , were soon emerveil- 
 les, enchants, ravis, to find a demoiselle qui reunissait la 
 beaute de VAnglaise, avec la grace et Venjouement de la 
 Francaise. 
 
 Blanche, who was too natural and playful a character not to 
 be pleased with the sensation she excited, and the attentions paid 
 
208 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 her, talked and smiled ; her blue eyes sparkled, and her manner 
 grew more animated. Lady Sackville had consented to avail her- 
 self of some chairs which the Baron de L. had procured for 
 them ; Horace St. John, who had long been watching the party, 
 almost unconsciously to himself, sauntered away from the forced 
 gaiety of Lady Barbara, and her wearying attempts at wit, which 
 ended in nothing but the most spiteful personalities, and found 
 himself, he scarce knew how, listening to a playful account 
 which Blanche was giving of some of the oddities she had seen 
 in France. 
 
 The desertion of Horace was a signal for that of the Earl. 
 Lady Sackville, a thorough worlding, who understood her part 
 too well to make her niece cheap at her debut, rose. Many 
 were the gentle entreaties to be permitted to escort her, but 
 Lady Sackville gave her arm to Blanche, and asked Horace to 
 see her to her carriage; the Earl sidled up to Blanche, but did 
 not presume to offer his arm. 
 
 " If you will let me change my mind, I will dine with you," 
 said Horace, to Lady Sackville, blushing in spite of himself. 
 " I want to hear the new opera, and " 
 
 "And we shall be delighted to be escorted by you." 
 
 " You must not forget I am your cavalier this evening," said 
 the Earl, who, during the temporary desertion of Blanche for 
 Barbara, had half planned an excuse for himself and his box. 
 
 "No, no; we depend on you; two beaux will not be too 
 much for us," she said, smiling at Blanche. " I think we have 
 proved we are a match for a dozen ; " and she glanced to the 
 seats where the party remained discussing the merits of the 
 new beauty. 
 
 Horace could have annihilated them all. Already he hated to 
 think that they were profaning Blanche's pure name, by letting 
 it pass their worldly lips. 
 
 "At six, be with us, then,"' said Lady Sackville, to the two 
 cavaliers, as they made their most graceful bows, "Blanche 
 will not like to miss the overture." 
 
 "Weil! I am glad I staid. Ah! there goes Lady Barbara 
 and her mother : actually no one with them but Old Quixotic 
 
 Sir B . I must bow to them. I hope they saw the Earl and 
 
 Horace. Dearest! you are quite a tactician, and the game is in 
 your own hands. Which shall it be— the Earl, with fifty thou- 
 sand a year, or Horace, with five?" 
 
 " Neither." 
 
 "Ah, you are right to let them think so for awhile. It is half- 
 past four, go to your room, lie down for an hour ; you will then 
 have half an hour to dress in." 
 
 " But I do not feel tired, and I want to write," said Blanche. 
 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. '209 
 
 "To write? Oh.' shocking. Never write, my love, when you 
 want to do any execution with your eyes/ 
 
 " But I do not. You say it is done !" 
 
 " Silly girl ! Beauty's web is much like Penelope's ; what is 
 woven at one time, may be unwoven at another. However, 
 Blanche, I cannot think you will disoblige me in this. I stayed 
 in the gardens, my front all awry, and hair-pins sticking into 
 my head, to please you, and I request you will lie down till 1 
 send Lisette to call you." 
 
 Blanche acquiesced ; and, wearied with the novel excitement 
 of the day, slept till the little French-woman bustled in, to 
 announce that there was not " un moment a perdre, for that 
 Monsieur le Marquis venait d'arriver." 
 
 No language can convey Blanche's entranced absorption 
 during the Grst opera she had ever listened to. She forgot 
 Horace, the Earl — all the fashionable throng— the discomforts 
 of the little crimson prison in which she was enclosed. She saw 
 not that she was a mark for every jewelled lorgnette. She sat 
 silent, the tears often rising in her eyes ; her head on her hand ; 
 her cheek now pale, now flushed : quite unconscious of the 
 Earl's attempts at wit — quite unaware of Horace's constant 
 gaze. A source of admiration to her aunt ; who thought she 
 was playing some part too deep lor her to fathom, and of 
 wonder to all the young ladies, who seem to think their most 
 common-place remarks better worth listening to, than Grisi's 
 sweetest notes •, and who never laugh so loud and talk so per- 
 severingly, as when the slightest sound is agony to the ear 
 of the entranced amateur. 
 
 It was some time even after the curtain dropped, before 
 Blanche could return to this common-place world. The ballet 
 shocked her pure taste, and, to avoid gazing at it, she turned to 
 talk to the Earl. Horace did not attempt to address a remark 
 to her; but he was very careful in piloting her through the 
 crush room, and actually entreated her to fold her cloak over 
 her chest, while stepping into the carriage. 
 
 Lady Sackville asked her two beaux to sup with her, and 
 they gladly consented. Blanche, whose feelings had been much 
 excited by the opera, hastened to her room, and sent Lisette 
 down with a message to her aunt, announcing that she was very 
 tired, and requested her permission not to re-appear. 
 
 Lady Sackville, who trusted this was some w T ell-considered 
 manoeuvre on the part of Blanche, whose skill in attracting 
 Horace and the Earl she considered inimitable, consented to 
 her wish. 
 
 Horace looked disappointed, and the Earl very blank} the 
 former consoled himself with a portfolio of Blanche's drawings ; 
 
 li 
 
•210 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 the latter with planning a splendid fete at his Twickenham villa, 
 the arrangements of which were to be superintended by Lady 
 Sackville and Blanche, and which was to astound the fashionable 
 world, and to dazzle the eyes and win the heart of the debu- 
 tante — her heart thus lightened of its painful load. 
 
 The season passed gaily on. Blanche had heard frequently 
 from home 5 and, even in the whirlpool of fashionable life, 
 which some folks say, and perhaps think, generally sweeps 
 away all duties, all recollections, all affections, she was constant 
 in her correspondence, unchanged in her earnest anxiety about 
 Juliet and her mother, and more affectionate than ever in the 
 solicitude of her attentions. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn, who was very anxious not to damp by 
 anxiety the delightful spirits Lady Sackville so vaunted, or to 
 embitter the few bright days that dawned so unexpectedly in 
 Blanche's clouded destiny, dwelt on nothing but her hopes, her 
 wishes, remarked on every little temporary amelioration in Ju- 
 liet's health, and contrived to fill Blanche's heart with a happy 
 confidence which was no constant inmate of her own. Blanche 
 was the rage — beyond all doubt, if not the greatest, the most 
 successful beauty of the season. The fashionable papers teemed 
 with her praises-, and in all accounts of the fashionable balls, it 
 was stated who had the honour of dancing with the beautiful 
 Miss St. Aubyn. Bonnets and trimmings were named after her; 
 she brought ringlets into vogue ; brunettes were at a discount : 
 blue eyes and golden hair were all the fashion ; and Lady Sack- 
 ville owned that even when she first threw off her weeds and 
 entered the marrying world a handsome widow of thirty-six, 
 with a good jointure, she had not been half so courted, half 
 so popular, as since she had introduced Blanche,— Blanche, 
 too, who w T as no brilliant, dazzling, faultless beauty— no mar- 
 vellous genius; who was known to have no fortune — who was 
 only of gentle, not of noble birth 5 in short, who was nothing 
 but a lovely graceful girl, with a gentle graceful voice, an arch 
 manner, a kind heart, a playful wit, and an independent spirit. 
 
 Tt was like magic. 
 
 She was so amiable and unassuming, so ready to admit and 
 even to assist in showing off the attractions of others : and so 
 indifferent to any spiteful machinations against herself, that she 
 was popular with all but the most malevolent of her own sex. 
 
 Without any great compass of voice or scientific execution, 
 she sang a variety of lively French songs in the sweetest 
 manner; played very well on the guitar, particularly such airs 
 as depend rather on taste than execution. These accomplish- 
 ments, which a town-bred belle would have jealously guarded 
 with all the monopolising spirit of fashionable selfishness, she. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 2M 
 
 readily imparted to any who were anxious to learn them :'— 
 and with equal good nature, delighted to put a longing, admir- 
 ing miss, whose soul never wandered from her work-box or 
 embroidery frame, in the way of some French improvement in 
 stitches or purse-making ; or to share with some narrow-minded 
 fashionable, the triumph of introducing a new manchette. 
 pelerine, or trimming, of which, perhaps, she had just received 
 the fashion from the Dieppe milliner, who was in daily cor- 
 respondence with Paris. 
 
 She had, of course, as all who are popular have, bitter 
 enemies, both secret and avowed— among the former, was 
 Gertrude: among the latter. Lady Barbara. 
 
 Horace St. John's attentions were constant, though never 
 pointed ; and the young Earl who had begun by following her, 
 because she was new — was the fashion, and admired by Ho- 
 race — ended by falling in love with her. It was his first real 
 passion : and the first real passion of any heart, however worldly, 
 weak, and selfish, has in it something of an elevating nature, 
 something that calls rather for sympathy than scorn. He began 
 to be a little doubtful of his own omnipotence— to blush, to 
 stammer, to be obsequious, to send exquisite flowers daily to 
 Lady Sackville's— to overwhelm her with his choicest hot-house 
 fruits— to linger wherever Blanche might be expected. He had 
 borrowed a key of the gardens of the square in which they 
 lived, where he had ascertained that she sometimes took a 
 morning stroll before her aunt was up; but having been seen by 
 Lisette from the window, and his presence triumphantly con- 
 veyed by her to Blanche, who was expected thereupon to make 
 the careful toilette which Gertrude or Clara would have made 
 under similar circumstances, she quietly relinquished her morn- 
 ing ramble, while Lisette's splendid visions of messages, billets- 
 doux, and their accompanying douceurs melted away, and she 
 had no consolation but in her shrugs and -muttered exclama- 
 tion, ;; que les Anglaises sont betes ! " 
 
 The fashion of admiring Blanche St. Aubyn, set by Horace 
 and the Earl, was of course, followed by imitative guardsmen, 
 and men of fortune, both old and young , in short, all the great 
 prizes in the marrying world were ready to follow the example 
 of those greatest prizes of ail. 
 
 Lady Sackville's heart was divided between her wish to see 
 her niece a Countess, and her desire to hail in Horace a Bene- 
 dick at last, and through her means. She was fully convinced that 
 Blanche meant, before the close oftheseason, to decide in favour 
 of one ; and she was rather amused to see both struggling in her 
 niece's nets. She felt proud too to be escorted wherever she went 
 by men. whom all the other chaperons so bitterly envied her. 
 
2 12 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 With regard to Blanche herself, she was perfectly uncon- 
 strained in her manner to the Earl— talked, laughed, rode with 
 him, and treated him as she could have done any other young 
 man who was thrown constantly into her society, and who did 
 all he could to make himself useful and pleasing. Of the looks, 
 tones, inuendoes, implied interest, and delicately-conveyed flat- 
 tery, which constitute what the world calls flirting, she had no 
 idea 5 — she was perfectly natural, gentle, and kindly ; but even 
 his Lordship, in planning the proposal he had resolved to make, 
 and calculating the chances for and against himself, could never 
 reckon up any of those glances and silent tokens of encourage- 
 ment which had been lavished on him by others, and was always 
 obliged to sum up his hopes — with his title, his position, his 
 rent-roll, his family diamonds, and the long ill-made figure, 
 and silly, now care-worn face, which so many dependents had 
 assured him, and admiring ladies had implied to him, were per- 
 fectly irresistible. 
 
 With Horace, Blanche's manner was colder and more re- 
 pelling, she was at times almost haughty in her indifference. She 
 avoided dancing with him when she could do so without rudeness 
 — never spoke to him except in reply to some remark of his, 
 and frequently took refuge in the simple Earl's attentions, from 
 the possibility of being left to his care. 
 
 This manner rather piqued the vanity than wounded the heart 
 of the exclusive ; he persuaded himself that it was assumed 
 to conceal a deeper feeling, and in this he was in some degree 
 borne out, for his calmly observant eye could not fail to detect 
 that, at his approach, Blanche's delicate cheek was suffused with 
 crimson ; that her bosom fluttered, and her manner grew con- 
 strained-, — to what motive but the interest he inspired could this 
 be traced 5 what, but a hidden preference for himself could make 
 her so indifferent, as Horace easily perceived she was, to the 
 rank, splendour, and precedence, which would be hers, as his 
 Countess 5 what else could shield her heart, all novice as it was, 
 against the attacks of all the fashionable ddgants in her train. 
 
 So convinced did he become, that in spite of her reserve, her 
 coldness, her avoidance, he was the preferred of her heart, that 
 he was fast making up his mind to hazard all by a decided 
 proposal. 
 
 It was at this time that his Lordship gave his long-talked-of 
 fete at Twickenham. Blanche, who wished to give no encourage- 
 ment she did not intend to confirm, had refused to offer an opi- 
 nion about the arrangements, or to interest herself in the affair; 
 but Lady Sackville had been indefatigable-, she had proposed, 
 planned, invented; she had undertaken to send out the invita- 
 tions, and had taken the opportunity of gratifying her prefer- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 21 3 
 
 ences, and her piques. Many who had been very attentive to 
 his Lordship, were excluded , because Lady Sackville had some 
 grudge against them ; and people he had never heard of were 
 invited, because they were patronized by her. 
 
 To exclude Lady Barbara had been one of the chief objects of 
 her ambition ever since she was first requested to assist the Earl 
 with her taste and judgment. In this she found more difficulty 
 than she had anticipated— for the Earl, whose soul was engross- 
 ed by the f6te almost as a school-boy's is with the ball given on 
 his birth-day, was rather anxious that Lady Barbara (who pro- 
 fessed to think bachelors could not excel in any thing, where 
 taste was required) should see how he had planned and ar- 
 ranged every thing ; for though he was a mere puppet in Lady 
 Sackville's hands, he took all the merit to himself; and she 
 wisely encouraged him to do so. 
 
 " I should like the Countess of Lemonville and Lady Barbara 
 to be invited." 
 
 " Of course, if you wish it," said Lady Sackville, "but they 
 are so spiteful, they will contrive to make the whole affair a 
 failure ! " 
 
 "I do not see how they can," said the Earl, "I have given 
 orders about every thing." 
 
 " Yes," argued my Lady, "it is because you have been at so 
 much pains, and exerted so much talent, I might say genius, to 
 make the whole go off well, that I should be really hurt if it did 
 not. I have been thinking that if the w 7 eather is fine, a petite 
 come'die on the lawn would vary the amusements." 
 
 "Oh, that will be delightful," said his Lordship, "will you 
 be so kind then as to have the Countess and Lady Barbara in- 
 vited ? " 
 
 "Certainly," said Lady Sackville, " if you will not be advised : 
 but you have suggested so many new and daring things, which 
 people will hardly know at first whether to praise or blame, that 
 an envious, sneering person may ruin the whole 5 now your ex- 
 cellent idea of having some droll farce acted is so original, that 
 perhaps the spiteful Lady Barbara may persuade people it is bad 
 taste." 
 
 " Yes," said the Earl, " Ah— hem— that would never do :— - 
 I think that it is one of my best ideas. Now, —isn't it ? " 
 
 " Quite," said the wary dowager 5 " but why should you wish 
 to have those odious people?" 
 
 " Why— you see," answered the pliant Earl, " I have always 
 been intimate there ; and when I was at Eton, I used to spend 
 my holidays with them, and they were very kind, and all that 
 sort of thing, and one feels a sort of obligation." 
 
 " I think," said Lady Sackville, " few young Earls feel much 
 
214 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 obliged by the attentions of old countesses anxious to get off a 
 coarse, forward, satirical daughter; you must have seen through 
 it, my lord." 
 
 " Ah," said he—" why,— yes,— of course ; " for his lordship 
 would not appear wanting in penetration 5 " but still " 
 
 " But still you wish them to be at this fete," continued Lady 
 Sackville. " Well, do not forget my advice, and if there should 
 be any spiteful remark made on your lordship's fete, — should 
 you be shewn up in any of the low scurrilous papers, — think of 
 this discussion, and do not blame me 5 be sure there is nothing 
 so powerful as a truly spiteful woman." 
 
 Lady Sackville, at this moment, afforded unconsciously a 
 proof of the truth of her assertion. 
 
 " I think, after all, we will leave out the Countess and Lady 
 Barbara," said the Earl, as if a new idea had just struck him, 
 " I really think, as I should not pay them much attention, they 
 might, as you say, turn savage, and try to make the feHe go off 
 tamely. They are very satirical ; and women of that kind can do 
 a good deal of harm 5 besides, I am sure I have nothing to thank 
 them for 5 as you say, of course, they consulted their own in- 
 terest in petting and courting me, but I always saw through it ; 
 of course, they must be more clever manceuverers than they are 
 to deceive yow." 
 
 "We will take a turn through the rooms and the grounds," 
 said Lady Sackville, " to see that all is right, and then you must 
 drive me back to town ; Blanche will think you have run off 
 with me." 
 
 " You know," said he, " that I expect you and Miss St. Au- 
 byn here early in the morning — and to stay a day or two." 
 
 " Oh !" answered the dowager, "you may depend upon us^ 
 be of good cheer 5 the taste and talent you have shown in this 
 fete will not be forgotten this season." 
 
 "Yes," said the Earl — " hem— I flatter myself the arrange- 
 ments at least are not common-place." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 While Lady Sackvillewas engaged at Twickenham, Blanche, 
 to her great surprise, was summoned from a long letter she was 
 writing to Juliet by Lisette's announcement that a gentleman 
 was below, anxious to pay his respects to her, and having been 
 told that Lady Sackville was out, he had asked particularly for 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 215 
 
 Miss Blanche St. Aubyn. All this Lisette had ascertained while 
 passing him on the stairs. 
 
 The first thought that suggests itself to a young lady's mind, 
 when she hears of a strange gentleman very anxious to see her, 
 is, that some unknown admirer, driven to despair, has burst all 
 conventional bonds, and comes to plead for life or death 5 but 
 thai is only a glance of the mind, born of natural vanity and ac- 
 quired romance ; the next moment suggests some one on busi- 
 ness ; the next, some well-dressed begger. 
 
 " Is he admitted, Lisette? " 
 
 The handmaid did not know ; she had hurried up to inform 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 1 ' What sort of person is he ? " 
 
 "Ah, c'est un Monsieur tres poli, tres comme il faut. Made- 
 moiselle va descendre, n'est-ce pas?" 
 
 Already this unknown had enlisted the little Frenchwoman 
 on his side. The likings and dlslikingsof the French are instan- 
 taneous, and spring entirely from self-love flattered or offended. 
 Mr. Wheezer ( for he was the visitor) was always courteous to 
 all the female race, a femme de chambre particularly ; he had 
 drawn aside as he stood talking to the butler for Lisette to pass 
 him, and had bowed as she did so-, from that moment Lisette 
 had decided he was " distingue"" and " comme il faut" 
 
 "Mademoiselle desire-t-eile que j'aille voir ce qui en est?" 
 asked Lisette. 
 
 Blanche assented. 
 
 On the stairs Lisette met the servant with Mr. Wheezer's 
 card. As Lisette had a great idea of the generosity of old Eng- 
 lishmen, and had seen them (on the stage) buying soubrettes 
 with purses of untold gold, she turned into the drawing-room. 
 An English servant would have been quite at a loss, but she 
 gaily tripped up to the fire, where Mr. Wheezer was standing, 
 and said, "A tousand pardon, Sare, but de mans here are so 
 bete, so stupid, dey don't understand noting 5 who did milor wish 
 to see ? miladi is out— is a great pity ! " 
 
 " Indeed, I think not, since I have the pleasure of seeing you, 
 Mademoiselle," said Mr. Wheezer, bowing. 
 
 " Is very aimable what you say, Sare 5 why you no sit down, 
 Sare?" and she wheeled "a very comfortable arm-chair to the 
 fire, and placed a footstool. " Miladi is out, but Meess St. Au- 
 byn is not." 
 
 " It is Miss St. Aubyn I wish to see," said Wheezer. 
 
 "I think I can contrive that," replied Lisette; "I am her 
 own maid." 
 
 "Well, if you will, I shall be much indebted to you," said 
 
2 Hi COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Mr. Wheezer, very kindly \ and he sat himself comfortably 
 down in the arm-chair, and was soon engaged in carefully warm- 
 ing his feet and hands. 
 
 Lisette had now quite settled in her own mind that he was 
 some rich old admirer of Blanche. " Indebted, indeed !" thought 
 she, and she glanced at his pocket in vain. Mr. Wheezer was 
 profuse of thanks, bows, and compliments, but he was very 
 careful of money ; so having vented her wrath by violently pok- 
 ing the fire as his " I'd be much obliged to you to tell Miss St. 
 Aubyn that I wish to see her on particular business," " very 
 much obliged," diedonherear, she muttered to herself , "What 
 a stupid old ting ; " and, tossing her head, took the card and the 
 message to Blanche. 
 
 Poor Blanche changed colour, and her heart beat painfully. 
 — " Particular business ! Oh! " she thought, " he has perhaps 
 heard from Dieppe — Juliet ! " Her nerveless hand had scarcely 
 strength to open her door ; she hurried down stairs unconscious 
 of her haste ; and Lisette, thinking with all Frenchwomen that 
 emotion can spring but from one source, looked after her, and 
 with a pitying shrug exclaimed, " Que les Anglaises sont betes ! 
 Mon Dieu ! je crois qu'elle aime ce vieux Moribond la ! " and 
 then she ran to the table to spell over the letter which Blanche 
 had left in her haste 5 and muttering to herself (for the lowest 
 orders in France appreciate simplicity and national grace, ) "Ce 
 n'est pas mal," she repaired to the glass to try on Blanche's 
 bonnet, and to decide, as in the former case, " qu'elle n'etait 
 pas mal. " 
 
 Meanwhile, Blanche had rushed into the drawing-room, her 
 cheeks pale, her lips apart. As the room was very large and full 
 of furniture, it was a moment or two before Mr. Wheezer per- 
 ceived her, and in that moment, as every trifling circumstance 
 presses itself into the service of the leading impression of the 
 mind, she had decided that Mr. W heezer's bowed head, and 
 mysterious looking back, announced something unusual. He 
 heard her dress rustle and he turned round ; he looked exactly 
 the same as ever, but she was sure there was a strange expres- 
 sion in his face 5 she stopped, clasped her hands, and said, "Mr. 
 Wheezer, you have heard from Dieppe ! " 
 
 For a moment Mr. W T heezer was startled ; he almost fancied 
 from Blanche's manner that something unpleasant to himself 
 might have happened at Dieppe 5 the next moment, recollecting 
 that it would not in the least affect him if Dieppe and all its inha- 
 bitants were burnt to ashes,— for he had not even left an old 
 coat within its walls— he said, " No, my dear Miss Blanche-, I 
 have not heard from Dieppe since I left you ; indeed, I am come 
 partly to ask you how all our dear, kind friends are." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 21 T 
 
 Blanche threw herself into a chair, and her heedless alarm 
 ended in a burst of tears. 
 
 Mr. "YYheezer thought some one she loved was dead. He 
 glanced at the door ; he hated to hear of a death, and the sight 
 of tears made him ill ; they engendered discomfort, not grief; he 
 had a great idea of the fitness of things, and he could not sit 
 down and warm and enjoy himself while a woman was sobbing 
 by his side 5 but retreat was impossible-, besides, he could not 
 presume to ring the bell himself, and who was to let him out ? 
 He could not take his chance, and perhaps stand in a draught \ 
 no, he must make the best of it. 
 
 So he took out his snow-white handkerchief to be ready, and 
 said, " Tell me, my dear young friend, tell me what has hap- 
 pened ; don't enter into particulars, they will only grieve you, 
 and pain me ; perhaps I intrude just now? I am in your way, my 
 sweet Miss Blanche? I can sacrifice my own feelings , my own 
 anxieties, to yours ; I will ring the bell. God bless you." At 
 this moment, to his great surprise, Blanche turned to him with 
 a bright smile breaking through her tears, for she had a faint 
 glimmer of his reason for hastening away. 
 
 She rose and extended her hand, — " Forgive me," she said; 
 " I see we are both mistaken. Lisette told me you must see me, 
 and that you had something important to say. I left my dear 
 sister in delicate health, and my fears conjured up the most fool- 
 ish fancies." 
 
 " Ah ! say no more about it ;" and Mr. Wheezer sank into his 
 chair. 
 
 " Then, too,T thought you looked wild, haggard, strange—'' 
 " 1— I ! Miss Blanche !" and he rose to confront the glass. 
 •• >~o, no!"' replied Blanche, smiling; " it was only my fancy ; 
 for, in truth, I never saw you look so well," 
 Mr. Wheezer, reassured, sat down again. 
 " Why, I hoped, my dear Miss St. Aubyn, that I had gained 
 a little flesh :" and he held out his white hand. "You who so very 
 kindly nursed me in the vessel, and rubbed these poor old hands, 
 — you can judge, my sweet friend." 
 
 " Certainly, you are fatter, and you have much more colour," 
 saidBl anche. 
 
 " Not much, I hope •," and he again turned to the glass, fears 
 of inflammation trembling at his heart. "lam a little heated, 
 that is all, and this red curtain," and he removed from its neigh- 
 bourhood. " There, now do you think so?" 
 
 " No," said Blanche-, " indeed I think you look really well: 
 neither too pale nor too red. I am sure you are quite well." 
 
 " My dear young friend," said Wheezer, " it does me good 
 to see you, and so blooming too !'* 
 
21 s COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Blanche smiled, for she knew her cheeks were still pallid with 
 her recent fears, and stained with her causeless weeping- but 
 she did not feel inclined for the trouble of discussing the sub- 
 ject, and therefore she only said, " What could make that stu- 
 pid Lisette say that you wanted particularly to see me. and on 
 business too! : ' 
 
 4i I did, my fair young friend," answered the gentleman. 
 " You may well be surprised that a poor old invalid should 
 wish to see you. Ah ! if I were some thirty years younger, you 
 would not wonder so much."' 
 
 " Oh, indeed, I did not mean that ! I only alluded to her mak- 
 ing it an affair of business." 
 
 " Ah! my sweet Miss Blanche," said Mr. Wheezer, " hope is 
 the business of the young, and memory of the old ; but the 
 chief business of my life is gratitude to those kind friends who 
 do so much to smoothe the path of such a poor sufferer as I am." 
 
 '• And you have not heard from Dieppe?" 
 
 " No : but I am verv anxious about all mv dear friends there. 
 All well, I hope?" 
 
 '• Yes, I thank you." 
 
 ;t And Mrs. Faithful ?— have you seen her?" And Blanche 
 smiled archly. 
 
 " Poor old soul ! Yes ; she has found me out. and tried to gQt 
 me to go to a chapel s'ne attends close to my lodgings ; but 
 though I am sure it is an excellent place, I cannot risk coming 
 out of a hot. crowded room into the cold air." 
 
 i; I am thinking," said Blanche, " what she would say if she 
 knew you called her a poor old soul !" 
 
 " But she never will," said Wheezer: " how should she? My 
 dear Miss Blanche, I spoke in strictest confidence, and in all 
 kindness. I could not mean anything, you know : for I believe 
 she is very well off: and as to being old, I am sure she might be 
 my daughter." 
 
 " She would rather be your wife, I fancy 1" 
 
 " Ah," said Wheezer, " you are so playful, it does me good 
 to hear you ! You must be quite the life of the gay circles you 
 are in. I read of you, my pretty friend. I see you figuring away 
 in the '' Morning Post' and the ' Court Journal' — ' La Pteine 
 Blanche/ as they call you. I often wish I could see you gliding 
 about, it would do me good." 
 
 " Do you never go to any fetes?" asked the young lady. 
 
 '• >o: hitherto I have been afraid ; but now I am stronger, 
 what do you think about it? I cannot forget that the ' Heine 
 Blanche' of the fashionable world is my kind, gentle nurse. 
 Should you advise me to enter into a little gaiety ' 
 
 • Fes, indeed I should," said Blanche, thinking only of what 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 'HJ 
 
 would really be of service to the poor old fellow. '-Some of 
 their morning fetes, and concerts, their dejetiD.es — I do not re- 
 commend evening parties." 
 
 " Are there any morning amusements going on now?" 
 
 " The best one of the season is given to-morrow— Lord 
 Townley's. My aunt presides. But that would be too fatiguing 
 to begin with. I wonder, as you read the ' Morning Post,' you 
 have not seen an account of it. All London is talking of the 
 rarities which have been sent for from all quarters of the globe 
 to grace the feast. I know a good deal about it , because I hear 
 it all discussed between my aunt and the Marquis. I am surprised 
 you have not read of it." 
 
 But Mr. Wheezer had read of it. He had read, too, that Lady 
 Sackville was the ostensible, and Blanche the actual, queen of 
 the sports. He had thought that some of the very digestible 
 dainties he had read of might agree with him ; that as the weather 
 promised to be very fine, the excitement might do him good , 
 and then he thought of Blanche — of her extreme kindness, and 
 so he called. 
 
 " Do you know, my sweet Miss Blanche." said the nervous 
 gentleman, " I have taken a sort of fancy into my old head, 
 while you have been speaking about it, that I should like to be 
 at this fete? My pleasures, Heaven knows, are few : but I have 
 a sort of wish to see these gay doings,— they will remind me of 
 former times. I should like, too, to see my fair friend eclipsing 
 them all. Could you get me an invitation, my dear young lady?" 
 
 Blanche looked at the feeble old invalid, — she thought to her- 
 self, " He has not long to enjoy anything. The Marquis begged 
 me to ask any friend of mine, — the poor old fellow shall go." 
 
 "I think I can," said Blanche: " I may invite one friend, 
 and that friend shall be you !" 
 
 She went to a desk, and gave him a written invitation. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear Miss Blanche/' said the beau, examin- 
 ing the billet. " >~ow how shall I go? Have you a. corner in 
 your carriage for a thin old invalid who takes up very little 
 room ?'" 
 
 Blanche wished they had; but then, recollecting their engage- 
 ment, to be there long before the fete began, she was obliged to 
 own that it could not be. 
 
 Mr. "Wheezer having gained his end, took his leave, with a 
 profusion of affectionate thanks: and after getting Blanche to 
 promise not to be ashamed, among all her gay friends of the 
 morrow, of the poor old invalid, who was more devoted to her 
 than the youngest and proudest among them, he departed. 
 
220 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 When Lady Sackville returned, she was rather shocked to 
 hear that Blanche, of her own unadvised self, had invited a 
 Mr. Wheezer, a person unknown to any one, and who, though 
 her niece earnestly maintained that he was a very quiet, gentle- 
 manly old man , Lady Sackville thought might betray the plebeian 
 to more practised eyes. She tried all her wits and wiles, her 
 manoeuvres and policy, to induce Blanche to write a note to 
 Mr. Wheezer, to say that when she gave the invitation, she was 
 not aware the given number of guests was filled up. But Lady 
 Sackville hinted and wheedled in vain ; art soon triumphs over 
 a weak head, but is foiled by the very simplicity of a kind, 
 straightforward heart. Blanche, who revered honesty in rags, 
 and despised meanness in an ermined robe, firmly declared that 
 she would not go to the fete at all, if she was to do so with the 
 load of self-contempt she should bear with her if she deceived 
 and disappointed a poor old man, who entirely depended on her 
 good nature and sincerity ; and as tears sparkled in her eyes at 
 the thought, and her aunt feared it might end in a burst of pas- 
 sion, which would make them sad for the morrow, she gave up 
 the point with the best grace she could, determining in her own 
 mind to make Mr. Wheezer out immensely wealthy, a sort of 
 distinction to which beauty, genius, and even pride of birth itself, 
 pays homage ! 
 
 Blanche felt very grateful to her aunt for complying without 
 anger, and all went on pretty well ; for Lady Sackville was in 
 high good humour at having so adroitly excluded Lady Barbara. 
 She had decided that, in order to secure blooming looks for the 
 morrow, they would spend a quiet evening alone, and retire 
 early ; and they were sitting tete-a-tele at tea, when a visitor, 
 who would not be repulsed, was heard upon the stairs. Lord 
 Townley suggested himself to Lady Sackville's mind 5 Horace 
 St. John, she scarcely knew why, to Blanche's. The door was 
 flung open, and Lionel rushed into the room. 
 
 Blanche was wild with joy at the sight of her brother ; and 
 Lady Sackville, who understood nothing of domestic affection, 
 but in her heart despised it, after courteously welcoming her 
 nephew, said, " I dare say you have a great deal to talk about, 
 and I am in the way; I will leave you, — only, Lionel, do not 
 you forget that Blanche is to dawn as a star of radiant beauty 
 to-morrow, therefore you must let her set early to-night. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 221 
 
 When Blanche was alone with her brother, she fancied his 
 features relaxed from a sort of exuberant gaiety which they had 
 worn, and that lie listened with a forced attention and occa- 
 sional abstraction to her animated details about home, and her 
 lively description of the gay scenes she had been moving in. 
 
 " I received your letter, dearest Blanche," he said ; " and as 
 you gave so fine an account of this fete, I thought I might as 
 well come up and go with you; but I cannot stay late there ; I 
 must be off by the mail to-morrow." 
 
 " Ah, Lionel ! " said the affectionate sister, " the fete will be 
 so delightful to me now! I shall enjoy it so much! Will it not 
 be charming?" 
 
 " I should think it so," replied Lionel, " if my heart were as 
 light as yours, Blanche." 
 
 " And is it not?" said Blanche. " Lionel, dearest, you terrify 
 me. You look pale, unhappy— what is it?" And the affectionate 
 girl threw her arms around him. 
 
 " Blanche/' he said, with a violent effort. " the truth is, I am 
 ruined. I have made this ete an excuse for coming up to con- 
 sult you ; but there is a fete of fiends in my heart at this moment. 
 Do not look so pale." 
 
 " AVhat have you done, dear Lionel?" asked Blanche. 
 "Done?" said her brother. "Nothing! Do you think I have 
 committed a murder? No. but worse. I have pledged myself to 
 pay five hundred pounds on Saturday next. If I do not, I am a 
 disgraced, branded, ruined man, Blanche. Geoffrey is gone, I 
 know not where. Castleton got his first, last term, and, for 
 aught I know, has entered himself at Bedlam, for no one seems 
 to know where he is ; and if ever a man was melancholy mad, 
 it is poor Castleton. I fancy he must have formed some mise- 
 rably unfortunate attachment, for he shrinks from the sight of 
 women. He is bowed as if by age ; however, he bore up in the 
 schools, got his first, and now, I suppose, he is lurking in dark 
 caverns by day, and baying the moon by night. I mention him, 
 because, though latterly a savage and recluse to every one else, 
 he has been very kind to me ; called on me, offered me all his 
 interest in the church or at the bar ; and in the most delicate 
 manner hinted that his purse was ever at my service." 
 " How noble!" said Blanche, her eyes full of tears. 
 " Of course," said Lionel; " even I, miserable wretch as I 
 am, could not take advantage of his generous offer ; indeed I did 
 not need it then ; but now, rather than disgrace myself and all of 
 you, if I knew where he is, I think—" 
 
 "What reason is therefor believing he is in love?" asked 
 Blanche; who felt the instantaneous and almost affectionate in- 
 
222 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 terest which springs up in a woman's heart for any man crossed 
 in love. 
 
 "Oh!" said Lionel, "I have heard many; but I judge by 
 what I saw myself. I wanted rather to interest him about you 
 or Juliet. As he is of so romantic a turn, I thought he might fall 
 in love with one of you, so I shewed him some verses which 
 Juliet wrote me on my birth-day, and then the miniatures 
 Richard did for me of you both. As he looked at them he grew 
 so pale I thought he would have fainted ; his hands trembled 
 so that they nearly fell ; in fact, I was only just in time to catch 
 them; I did not appear to heed him, but went into another 
 room to get my new fowling-piece to shew him and divert his 
 thoughts. When I returned, he was gone ; he wrote me a note 
 of excuse, saying, he had felt suddenly ill 5 and for nearly a week 
 he was not out of his rooms. I called, but he would see no one. 
 Well, I deduce from that that the pictures reminded him of 
 some one resembling one of you, and that a flood of recollections 
 overpowered him; but enough of that, his case is better than 
 mine. Broken hearts will heal, Blanche; but a broken word is a 
 wound to honour which can never be healed." 
 
 Blanche did not quite agree. She knew that were the five 
 hundred pounds obtained, her brother would smile gaily as ever; 
 but she was a woman, and she thought five millions could not 
 purchase peace for a disappointed heart. They remained silent 
 for some time, and then Lionel, having vainly asked himself, 
 demanded of Blanche what he should do? Lady Sackville was 
 suggested. Alas! Blanche had heard her bemoaning her un- 
 wonted poverty, and ordering Leno to deny her to a poor em- 
 broideress, to whom she owed five pounds. 
 
 Cousin Gertrude, Lionel had offended, as well as Sir Croesus. 
 The very rich are remarkably ready to take offence with the 
 poor, the patron with the protege, the grandee with the toady; 
 and Gertrude had soon found out that it was very easy to quar- 
 rel with Lionel, for Lionel never courted any one; he had more 
 frolic than tact in his composition ; he quizzed Sir Croesus for 
 his coarseness, and Gertrude for her finery, and lalked of old 
 acquaintances whom she was now too grand to recognise. A 
 person who has known her all her life can make himself very 
 disagreeable to so vain and ambitious a woman, and therefore if 
 was decided that if Blanche applied to Gertrude, she must con- 
 ceal that it was for Lionel the money was required. Then arose 
 a great difficulty. Blanche could not tell a falsehood, and how 
 was she to account for wanting so large a sum. Her heart 
 sickened at the thought of the degradation of borrowing ; Lionel 
 perceived it, and said, 
 
 • Never mind it, Blanche, I s^e you cannot do it. Come what 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 223 
 
 will to me, I deserve it ; but you, why should so severe a trial 
 fall upon you?' 1 
 
 " Ah, Lionel, "' said Blanche, "it would be a trial far more 
 severe to see you disgraced ; but will not your tradesmen give 
 you a little longer*, time would be everything ; Geoffrey will be 
 back." 
 
 " My tradesmen, dearest," answered her brother, " have no- 
 thing to do with this :, they might dun till doomsday, and I should 
 only laugh at them. Don't fancy they could ever cost me such 
 anguish as this, or make me endure the thought of your humbling 
 yourself for me. No, Blanche : it is a debt of honour. If I cannot 
 meet it at the appointed time, I can never hold up my head 
 again." 
 
 Blanche thought no debt so much a debt of honour as that to 
 the tradesman who has trusted one with his property. It did not 
 occur to her that it was nobler to hand over a large sum to an 
 incipient blackleg who has taken advantage of your rashness, 
 than to some poor fellow who has humbly supplied your wants. 
 But she kept these reflections to herself 5 and women would all 
 do well like her to remember, that it is no time to moralize when 
 those they love come to them with pallid cheeks and haggard 
 looks, conscious of error, to seek counsel and comfort. 
 
 " Lionel," said she, L< be of good cheer ; I will ask Gertrude. 
 Should she refuse, 1 will try elsewhere. Depend on me, dearest 
 brother. Ah, you know not what a persevering and determined 
 being a woman is ! Promise me you will not think of this again 
 till Thursday, it is now Monday. You say you must have the 
 money by Saturday. Go with us to the fete to-morrow, then 
 back to Oxford 5 and if you have it not by Thursday night, then 
 you must ask for a little longer time, for we then must await 
 Cousin Geoffrey." 
 
 "God bless you, Blanche," said Lionel 5 " I do not deserve. 
 such a sister." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Blanche 5 " now I will sing you a song, and 
 then imust go to bed. And so must you, or our looks to-morrow 
 will sadly disappoint my aunt." 
 
 The sanguine Lionel retired with a lightened heart, and 
 Blanche to bear the weight of his sorrows ; to plan, to devise, to 
 weep, to tremble 5 to shrink from the sacrifice she yet determined 
 to make. But that is woman's portion. And then she resolved to 
 drive the whole affair from her mind till the fele was over, and 
 sleep, prime minister of beauty, closed her tearful eyes. 
 
22 i COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Blanche, in spite of the weight which pressed upon her 
 heart, looked as fair and as charming as her anxious aunt could 
 wish . Lionel, who had no desire to be at the fete before the scene 
 was warmed into gaiety, resolved to go by himself some hours 
 later than they did 5 and Blanche and her aunt were obliged to 
 leave him to fulfil their promise of being with the noble host 
 before the fete began. Had Blanche felt the slightest interest in 
 him, it would have been very delightful to have rambled through 
 the beautiful grounds before they were vulgarized by gay dresses 
 and silly laughs \ to have breathed the first incense of the flowers, 
 and have aided with her taste the triumph of the hour of the day, 
 but to her he was less than nothing, for he was a bore — and a 
 bore in love with one. Sysiphus ! Tantalus ! Ixion ! your tor- 
 ments fade before those of a woman perseveringly beset by a de- 
 voted bore. Still, though in love with her, he was at that moment 
 very much enamoured of himself, his plate, his gorgeous festival, 
 and all the really clever arrangements which Lady Sackville had 
 suggested, and which he had unscrupulously adopted and appro- 
 priated to himself. Blanche longed to sit alone under the beau- 
 tiful willows by the water's banks. To her, as on either side they 
 drooped over the blue river, they seemed like lovers whom the 
 stream of fate divides, and who must always weep,— for they 
 may never meet. 
 
 Rut if she escaped for a moment, she was soon found out and 
 appropriated-, there is nothing so omnivorous as vanity. Lady 
 Sackville's enthusiastic plaudits did not suffice 5 his lordship must 
 hear Blanche's gentle commendation 5 he must force her praise, 
 if she did not volunteer it. Poor Blanche ! she grew very weary ; 
 for what is more fatiguing than to praise, unless from the fervent 
 impulse of the heart? 
 
 The noble host had prepared a dejeuner for his early guests ; 
 and that was quite his own idea, and one he was very proud of. 
 Blanche did express some surprise, and a pleasurable one too , 
 when he suddenly led them into the little pavilion wiiere it was 
 laid out — a cool retreat which overlooked the river, the windows 
 of which were festooned with creeping plants of uncommon 
 fragrance. She was pleased, because she was wearied with 
 roaming about-, like all other heroines, she had taken nothing 
 but a cup of coffee that day ; but unlike them, the result was, 
 that she was rather glad to see a repast prepared ,• when we add 
 to this, that the occupation of presiding kept their host employed, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 00 5 
 
 her satisfaction is better accounted for than such a feeling 
 usually is. 
 
 He had caused a band of fine performers to be kept in ambush 
 to amuse them with airs he knew to be favourites with Blanche 
 — this was a suggestion of Lady Sackville's. for the state dejeu- 
 ner : but the applying it in the present instance was his own. He 
 could nut be satiated with encomiums for this amiable petite 
 galanterie. as Lady Sackville called it. He continually awakened 
 thern by — "* Pretty, eh ; hem ! pretty— good idea, isn't it, Miss 
 St. Aubyn ? — isn't it, Lady Sackville ? " 
 
 ■•Avery good idea indeed," said Blanche, whose thoughts 
 were wrapped up in live hundred pound notes, and in Gertrude's 
 boudoir. 
 
 '•I think it exquisite," said Lady Sackville, emphatically, to 
 arouse her niece's slumbering attention: " I am sure no one 
 but yourself could have devised anything so charming as this 
 little surprise. Altogether, I think you must have a set of fairies 
 at your call.'" 
 
 41 La, now! do you really? I wonder what Lady Barbara 
 would have said :" and he sank into a reverie half-triumph, half- 
 regret. "I hope our excluding her won't make her spiteful 
 enough to cut it up without having seen it." 
 
 The it was the fete, at that time as constantly in his lordship's 
 thoughts as a first child in its fond mamma's. 
 
 '■It seems from this paper," said Lady Sackville, taking one 
 up, " that Lady Barbara and the Countess are at Brighton for a 
 week. I am much surprised ; I felt sure I saw them coming out 
 of Carson's yesterday.'' 
 
 " Oh ! I'm very glad, then." said his lordship. " They cannot 
 take it as a slight. I can pretend I knew they would be gone." 
 
 Lady Sackville was very sorry, for their absence from London 
 dimmed her triumph ; however, some hours had dragged them- 
 selves heavily enough over the velvet lawns of the villa : they had 
 to adjust their dresses, and scarcely time to do so, before the gay 
 throng arrived. 
 
 All fetes are very much alike, because you meet the same 
 people, or different copies of the same, everywhere. There was 
 o^e t! ing very fortunate, and which in a much-longed-for plea- 
 sure-party seldom occurs — the weather was enchanting. The 
 sun which gilds anil gladdens the humblest scene, and so often 
 withholds his radiance from a monarch's festival. — whose small- 
 est ray no wealth or power can bribe, — poured forth his fullest 
 radiance on the blue river, the emerald lawns, the bright flowers, 
 and many-coloured draperies of the gay people now dispersed 
 over the ^rounds. There were vounp beauties with their roses 
 
 ■e 
 
 and their ringlets, — there were old beauties with Iheir rouge and 
 
 15 
 
226 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 their wrinklets, — there were foreigners inwardly astounded at 
 the display of wealth, yet outwardly professing to despise and 
 sneer. Among them there were princes whose principalities 
 would not have nought the gold salvers they were served from 5 
 and a Count who actually did furtively pocket a spoon,— there 
 were lions, hut unhappily they all roared at once, — there were 
 wits very adroit in coming in at a moment's notice with a ready- 
 made bon-mot, some so strong that they could drag in Hercules 
 head and shoulders, or any other worthy who might serve their 
 turn, — there was the magnificent full-blown beauty of forty, 
 with a set of slight young coxcombs in her train 5 and the rose- 
 buds of fashion surrounded by superannuated butterflies. 
 
 There were lotteries where little useless elegancies were given 
 you for nothing, — there were the Bayaderes with their hideous 
 faces and more hideous gestures, — there were dark silent shades 
 for confirmed lovers, and merry crowds for dawning flirtations. 
 
 Blanche, who was looked upon as the idol of the day, was in 
 high request. The most spiteful mamma, and the most envious 
 daughter, saw the future mistress of the mansion in the kind and 
 smiling girl; and all were wise betimes. 
 
 Every pretty woman grows more beautiful in proportion as 
 the admiration she excites raises her in her own opinion. 
 Blanche surpassed even her aunt's sanguine hopes ; and the Earl, 
 seeing her an object of eager deference to all the exclusives, who, 
 in reality, led him at their will, and being, as we before said, 
 really in love, began to forget his fete in the anxieties of his pas 
 sion, and to resolve to seize the moment when his moral cou- 
 rage was fortified by the incense he had received, and his bodily 
 prowess by the champagne he had drunk, to make the proposal 
 which to a man, however superior in rank and riches, is always 
 a trial, if he is at all in love. 
 
 But with all the duties of a host to perform, and unaided by 
 any wish in Blanche for a tete-a-tete, he found some difficulty 
 in making an opportunity ; for we have seen that he was some- 
 what borne, and although he could adopt, he could not origi- 
 nate an idea. There was dancing on the lawn, and he had paid 
 Blanche the compliment of opening the ball with her; but he 
 was not adroit enough to insinuate anything during the qua- 
 drille, and when it was over, and he would fain have led her 
 through a quiet part of the grounds, Blanche, who had had quite 
 enough of his prosing in the morning, professed fatigue, and sat 
 down on a bench in the very centre of the gayest throng. It was 
 not till some arrangement which required, as he thought, his 
 superintendence, had called him away, that she left her seat and 
 sought a quiet walk where she might think over Lionel's cruel 
 embarrassment, and the hateful task she had to perform on the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 227 
 
 morrow, and which, in spite of all the attention and flatteries she 
 received, weighed upon her spirits with a force she could not 
 shake off. Her stroll terminated in one of the entrances to the 
 villa, not the principal one. As she stood concealed by the 
 flowering shrubs, she perceived something very like a fly • it 
 seemed stationed at the gate ; and curious to know who was 
 coming to so grand a scene in so humble an equipage, she 
 looked through the leaves and distinguished Mr. Wheezer and 
 Mrs. Faithful. 
 
 M Mr. Wheezer! " — his appearance was natural enough — she 
 expected him ; but she felt very unwilling to introduce Mrs. 
 Faithful with her harsh voice, her methodistical anathemas, and 
 her pushing asperities. A minute or two, however, set her at 
 rest on that score. Mrs. Faithful was only stretching her neck 
 to get a glimpse of the gaieties she condemned ; she was on her 
 way to a meeting, and as poor Mr. Wheezer had been in great 
 anxiety about a conveyance to Richmond, dreading all hired 
 carriages lest the horses should be restive, she had offered to 
 take him in her own one-horse chariot, which, in truth, was 
 nothing more than a fly hired by the hour. Mr. Wheezer's gra- 
 titude was touchingly expressed, and certainly as the proprie- 
 tress of even a one-horse chariot, Mrs. Faithful rose in his 
 esteem. A one-horse chariot was so safe ! and he could often 
 take a drive with his dear, kind friend. Mrs. Faithful professed 
 that she should stay three hours at the meeting, and then would 
 call to take Mr. Wheezer back. 
 
 " This here an't the principalest entrance," said the driver. 
 
 " Oh, this will do very well, my good friend ! " said the timid 
 Mr. Wheezer, who dreaded being entangled with other car- 
 riages. 
 
 " I think he had better drive round to the principal entrance," 
 said Mrs. Faithful, who was anxious to get a better view of the 
 scene, in which she longed to mingle, while she affected to 
 despise it. " It will be so long before you reach the company 
 here. Drive to the principal gate, Thompson." 
 
 " I wish, ma'am, you'd know your own mind," murmured 
 Thompson. "Time's precious to-day ; I may pick up a fare, and 
 the horse is restive." 
 
 ; - What does he say?" exclaimed the terrified Mr. Wheezer. 
 
 " Oh ! I have promised him a little indulgence while I am at 
 the meeting," said the fair saint. " Drive on, Thompson." 
 
 But Mr. Wheezer implored in so crying a voice to be set down 
 there, that Mrs. Faithful feared to disoblige him, and consented. 
 
 •' Will you not yet change your mind?" she said. " Will you 
 not go with me where you will hear what awaits ail those 
 
228 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 idlers?— how, instead of velvet lawns, they will tread the burn- 
 ing paths of — " 
 
 " Hush! hush! dearest Mrs. Faithful," said Mr. Wheezer, 
 getting out in some trepidation. " I have no doubt such a dis- 
 course may please a young and lovely woman, who has nothing 
 to fear, who can look forward to so many years-, but it would 
 be the death of a poor old invalid like myself. A thousand 
 thanks ! " and he pressed her hand most fervently. The gate 
 opened, and he entered. 
 
 " Stop! stop ! " cried Mrs. Faithful, putting a long foot in a 
 black stocking and prunella shoe out of the door of the fly ; 
 " stop! I am half inclined, — did you not say Blanche would 
 present you ? " 
 
 But you might as well expect a robber to stand when the cry 
 of stop thief is raised, as for Mr. Wheezer to facilitate Mrs. 
 Faithful's appearance at the f&te, and encumber himself with 
 her. He heard, but he did not heed. The gate closed while Mrs. 
 Faithful was speaking ; and Blanche, who with real good-nature 
 had lingered near the entrance to receive her poor old protege, 
 kindly came forth to welcome him, and to offer to present him 
 to her aunt and the noble host. 
 
 " Thank you, my sweet Miss Blanche," said Wheezer. 
 "Gently, if you please. There, let us first sit down, my fair 
 young friend, while you tell me a little of what's going on. You 
 are too kind to object to sit a little while with a poor old sufferer 5 
 even though all the young fellows are dying with impatience. 
 Ah ! my sweet Miss Blanche, it is a sad thing to be old and 
 feeble. Very pleasant here, indeed. 1 ' 
 
 And he did not seem at all inclined to move, or to remember 
 that he was keeping a young girl, the queen of the fete too, 
 from all the pleasures dear to the young, while joyous laughs 
 came to their ear borne upon the breeze, and the enchanting 
 music seemed to call upon her to join the dance. 
 
 " There now," he said, " it is more pleasant here, I doubt 
 not, than among that gay crowd. Tell me, my loveiy friend, 
 what is going on in that tent." And he pointed to one. 
 " That is the theatre." said Blanche. 
 
 " I hope it is to be some lively piece," said Wheezer. " Tra- 
 gedies, my sweet Miss Blanche, do very well for you young peo- 
 ple \ but we old ones have learnt that there are real sorrows 
 enough to weep for, without being distressed by imaginary 
 ones." 
 
 " It is to be a very lively piece indeed." 
 " I am glad of that," said the invalid. " Any difficulty about 
 places, my sweet friend, think you? Is the time approaching?'" 
 " No 5 not yet. J will take care vou have a good seat." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 2'20 
 
 " Thank you, my lovely friend ; all your influence will secure 
 one of the best seats, even for a poor old incumbrance like 
 myself. And what is that tent, my dear Miss Blanche ? " 
 
 " That is a refreshment room," replied Blanche. 
 
 " Indeed !" — and his eyes glistened. " What sort of refresh- 
 ments? — merely your ices and fruits, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh, no; every dainty you can imagine," said Blanche, who 
 began to hope he might be easily transferred to the refectory. 
 
 "I cannot say I have much appetite, my sweet friend," con- 
 tinued Wheezer; "but I dare say you would recommend some- 
 thing, after this unwonted exertion, for such a poor suf- 
 ferer." 
 
 "Certainly. Let me just introduce you to his lordship, and 
 then w T e will repair to the refreshments." 
 
 Lady Sackville, who saw Blanche approaching with her pro- 
 tege, had had time to spread her intended report of Mr. Whee- 
 zer's immense wealth. It had the influence she expected, and 
 every one around wore a complacent glance. Rich people are 
 welcome even to those who have no hope of profiting by their 
 wealth ; but many there conceived a lurking, undefined antici- 
 pation. One or two thought of liim as a husband ; and visions 
 of legacies flashed across several empty brains. 
 
 The Earl, who attributed Blanche's great attention to Wheezer 
 to an idea that she would be his heiress, calculated on her chance 
 as that of the future Countess, and therefore his own, and cor- 
 dially welcomed him. Ere long, he was comfortably installed at 
 table, and overwhelmed with all the attentions and choice mor- 
 sels the rich receive in addition to their other advantages. 
 AY hen Blanche had seen him amply provided for, she wished to 
 leave the hot and crowded tent, to sit down by her aunt, and 
 watch the new arrivais. She marvelled that Mr. Horace St. 
 John had not made his appearance; he, generally so anxious to 
 present himself wherever there was a chance of her being found. 
 And then she w r ondered what had become of Lionel. The link- 
 ing them thus suddenly together recalled to her mind Horace's 
 former slights to her brother. She roused herself from a reverie 
 into which she had fallen ; she drew herself up, and joined her 
 aunt. As she approached that lady, she perceived her colour 
 violently through her rouge, and then grow suddenly as pale as 
 her artificial bloom would permit. Blanche followed the direc- 
 tion of her eyes, and perceived gaily approaching, looking very 
 handsome and triumphant, and dressed in excellent style, Lady 
 
 Barbara, hanging on the arm of the old Countess of . The 
 
 Earl, at that moment, was leaning against a tree, gazing at 
 Blanche. He was nearer to the invaders than Lady Sackville 
 was. He turned pale, and looked round, as ii for help. Lady 
 
230 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Sackviile half rose 5 then recollecting nothing could be done, and 
 that a scene would make the whole fete the laugh of the town , 
 she pulled her bouquet to pieces to vent her wrath. 
 
 To the Earl's great relief, Lady Barbara looked smilingly, 
 both she and her mother held out their hands, which he shook 
 with obsequious cordiality. 
 
 " Now are you not grateful to us? " said Lady Barbara ; "we 
 are come up from Brighton on purpose for your fete ! We dress- 
 ed on the road, and have not even been home. Do you know, 
 our stupid people never forwarded the invitation which you, of 
 course, sent to our house in town, and we only knew of this 
 through the newspapers, else, indeed, mamma would have come 
 up to help you with her advice. You have managed really very 
 well,— but one can see you wanted a little female taste. Did you 
 not sigh and pine for us ?— did you not long for mamma? " 
 
 The poor Earl had not presence of mind to do anything but 
 agree 5 and then Lady Barbara took his arm to walk through the 
 grounds, and see, as she said, what men could do by themselves, 
 and designated all his lordship's favourite plans, on which he 
 had been so complimented, and had so prided himself, as really 
 very fair, not de nouveau gout, but really very tolerable \ while 
 some she positively quizzed 5 nay, abused — but those he soon 
 attributed to Lady Sackviile. 
 
 As for her ladyship, her pleasure and triumph were at an end 
 the moment she saw herself outwitted so completely and da- 
 ringly, and perceived Barbara boldly appropriate the hero of the 
 day. Her intense mortification gave her a violent headache-, she 
 was obliged to hasten up stairs to lie down for a time, and thus 
 left the field to her rivals. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Wheezer, having eaten as much as he could, 
 fastened again on poor Blanche, whose anxiety about Lionel 
 redoubled as the day wore on without any tidings of him. Could 
 he have met with Mr. St. John?— could they have quarrelled?— 
 could despair have driven him to any desperate act? — could any 
 creditor have seized upon him? And while all these anxieties 
 were busy at her heart, the gay crowd flitted by her, empty 
 compliments were addressed to her; and Mr. Wheezer, ten 
 times more prosy than ever, was doing his best to arouse her to 
 the necessity of enlivening a poor old sufferer, and securing him 
 one of the best seats for the play, which was about to begin. 
 
 She looked round in despair,— several beaux darted forward 
 to assist her, — she explained her wishes, and in a minute or 
 two found herself shut out from the fresh air, the dear sun, and 
 the bright flowers, and wedged between Mr. Wheezer and a 
 young guardsman in the front row of the seats arranged for the 
 spectators of a petite comcdic. The farce was excellent, — the 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 231 
 
 performers were first-rate in their line, — yet Blanche never felt 
 so entirely that "The jest must lie in the ear of him who hears 
 it." The heat oppressed her. Mr. Wheezer, who was slow, re- 
 quired to have everything explained to him, and whispered 
 with the low, teasing, half inaudible whisper of an old person 
 who will be answered. The guardsman was loquacious in his 
 way, but weak and witless. And when the curtain fell, amid 
 the applause of all present, Blanche thought if the performance 
 had lasted half an hour longer, she must have fainted. 
 
 When she emerged from the spot which had been a scene of 
 such enjoyment to many, and of so much torture to her, she 
 perceived that the Earl, looking very much flushed and annoyed, 
 had been dragged by Lady Barbara into the theatre, and had 
 been compelled by her to sit out the performance. He cast an 
 imploring glance at Blanche, as though for deliverance 5 but 
 Blanche, though very good-natured, had no wish to encounter 
 a tigress for the sake of rescuing a bore, and she could only 
 smile upon him with a gentle commiseration, which, contrasted 
 with the somewhat demoniacal triumph of Lady Barbara, made 
 him resolve to watch narrowly, and effect his escape by cunning, 
 since courage forsook him. 
 
 It was at this moment that all eyes were turned with some 
 curiosity to the centre avenue, and a very slight titter was au- 
 dible. Blanche's first feeling as she gazed was that of delight, for 
 she perceived Lionel-, her next was one of annoyance, for she 
 recognised, strutting along, and gaudily dressed, with the 
 greatest assumption of manner and pomposity of gait, Sir Cae- 
 sar Whitehead and his daughters, Antonia and Geraldine. It 
 was a relief to Blanche that her aunt was not at hand 5 for one 
 feels responsible for an intrusive or vulgar acquaintance, even 
 if one has not been immediately instrumental in his introduc- 
 tion. On many accounts, she did so in this instance : her brother 
 seemed to be their escort; no one else knew them. She had 
 already been the means of introducing one person on her own 
 responsibility, and of course the Earl would consider that she 
 had done the same in this case, while her delicate propriety of 
 feeling shrank from contemplating the inference that he might 
 draw from such presumption on her part. But she had little time 
 for reflection •, she was forthwith called upon to aet. Lionel, for 
 whose appearance the Earl was prepared, had to be introduced; 
 and then he said, while his waggish and thoughtless smile be- 
 trayed his sense of the absurdity of his proteges, "Blanche, Sir 
 Csesar and the Miss Whiteheads are here, because I told them 
 you had a carte-blanche to invite whom you pleased ; as in- 
 timate friends , I knew you would rejoice to see them 5 so now 
 introduce them to his lordship." 
 
232 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Poor Blanche, blushing deeply, yet with a grace scarcely to be 
 expected in such painful circumstances, came forth, and said in 
 an under tone to the Earl, who had escaped from Lady Barbara 
 to welcome Lionel— 
 
 " I did not presume on your indulgence so far as to ask any 
 one else, but these strangers are friends of mine ; will you be so 
 very kind as to welcome them? " 
 
 She led him up to the Whiteheads, who stood looking de- 
 fiance on all around,— Sir Caesar frizzed to perfection 5 his hat, 
 old and rather napless, placed on one side 5 his coat buttoned to 
 the chin, braided and trimmed with fur, though the weather 
 was- very warm. Strangely out of keeping with his winterly 
 garb were his daughters, in their card-board hats and yellow 
 muslin pelisses; each had a large ornament of coloured glass 
 and mosaic gold on her forehead, long ear-rings and brooch to 
 match, and a large cable-like ormolu chain round her throat. 
 This cheaply gaudy attire was in ridiculous contrast with the 
 rich, yet graceful simplicity of Blanche's dress, and indeed the 
 costly elegance of every lady present. 
 
 Yet no diamonds of the first water were ever worn with great- 
 er self-satisfaction than were these tawdry imitations. The 
 Whiteheads always lulled themselves into a sweet security by 
 the idea that no one but themselves could detect "sham." They 
 looked through their ormolu as if the bits of green glass set 
 round their rims had been the finest emeralds in the world, and 
 arranged the folds of their yellow muslins as they took their 
 seats, with the air of a queen in all the glory of her coronation 
 robes. 
 
 There is a magic influence in anything like supplication in 
 the voice we love. Blanche, who felt for those too bold and ill- 
 bred to feel for themselves, had almost unconsciously addressed 
 the Earl in the language of entreaty, — she who, meek as she 
 was, had always unintentionally made him feel that she consi- 
 dered herself anything but his inferior. Her almost whispered 
 request that he would welcome her friends; her upraised eyes 
 as she addressed him 5 the anxious flush upon her cheek, awoke 
 all the tenderest echoes of the young lord's heart. 
 
 "Of course," said he in reply, "any friends of yours must 
 be most welcome. Sir Ca3sar Whitehead, I am truly happy to 
 see you here. Allow me, Miss Whitehead, to find you a seat. 
 Miss " and he hesitated. 
 
 " Miss Geraldine AVhitehead," said Sir Caesar, proudly wav- 
 ing the old hat which since his introduction, forgetting its 
 soiled, worn, and (loured interior, he had held under his arm 
 while speaking to the Earl. Then he added, "Excuse my 'co- 
 vering myself,' as we say in France," replacing it carefully, not 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 233 
 
 to disturb the rows of curls on which Antonia had exhausted 
 her ingenuity. 
 
 The Earl bowed, and anxious at once to escape from Lady 
 Barbara, and to shew Blanche how eager he was to please her, 
 he proposed to Sir Caesar to escort him through th e grounds. 
 Never had our knight feit so inflated — so triumphant ; a real 
 earl, one of immense wealth too, actually proffering his atten- 
 tions ; he who had boasted of baronets he knew but by sight ; of 
 peers of whom he had only read in the newspapers; of the 
 Bishop of Leicester, who had never exchanged a word with him, 
 except upon one unpleasant occasion very long ago, and had 
 sent back Antonia's picture, thereby putting him to a consider- 
 able expense of carriage; — here was he, so proud of knowing 
 a few scapegrace lords and doubtful ladies, actually conversing 
 familiarly, the welcomed guest of a real earl, surrounded by the 
 elite, the very atmosphere aristocratic ! Henceforth, he almost 
 thought the priory and the Bishop of Leicester would be for- 
 gotten — stars that hide their heads abashed when the sun rises. 
 
 " I shall be most.happy to attend your lordship through these 
 beautiful grounds," he said ; " but as the Miss Whiteheads are 
 very young, and fond of dancing, they would, I am sure, like to 
 join the quadrille just forming; perhaps your lordship would 
 introduce partners." 
 
 " Oh, certainly," said the Earl, who did most assuredly think 
 that no such duty devolved rightfully upon him, and turning to 
 the young guardsman, who was eyeing Antonia through his 
 glass, and evidently quizzing her to the fullest extent of his abi- 
 lity, he said—" Captain Simperton, Miss Whitehead 5 Lord 
 Sneerwell, Miss Geraldine Whitehead." The two beaux bowed, 
 and did what it seemed to be implied they should do. 
 
 The Misses Whitehead thus forced on their unwilling part- 
 ners, the Earl looked round in search of Blanche's sweet approv- 
 ing glance 5 as he did so, he encountered that of Lady Barbara ; 
 whose mocking eye and sneering lip appalled him. She hastily 
 put up a pocket-book and pencil, to give the idea to the noble 
 host that she had been caricaturing the whole group. Well, she 
 had done her worst ; he was roused to defiance ; he offered his 
 arm to Sir Caesar, and seeing Blanche leaning on her brother's, 
 he went up to her, and begged her to join them in a stroll 
 through the grounds. 
 
 " How, Lionel," said Blanche, falling behind with her brother; 
 " how did you become acquainted with the Whiteheads ? What 
 could induce you to bring them here?" 
 
 "Why, to" please you," said Lionel. " you little ungrateful 
 puss!— they will make more fun than all your elite put together.' ' 
 
 " Yes, at our expense,'' said Blanche. 
 
234 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Expense, not a farthing ! except that I had to hire a carriage 
 to convey them here." 
 
 " How, and when, did you make their acquaintance?" 
 
 " This morning, and at my aunt's house; they arrived last 
 night from Dieppe, on purpose to bring you a letter." 
 
 " A letter! " said Blanche—" where is it?" 
 
 "Hush! I'll tell you presently," said Lionel; "I cannot 
 answer everything at once. These Whiteheads had read in a 
 newspaper on board this packet, that you were to be the queen 
 of this fete, and meant to ask you to take their eldest girl. I was 
 asleep in an arm-chair— a bad habit I have acquired at Oxford. 
 I generally fall asleep directly I am alone. — When I awoke, 
 I perceived them. I saw it all in a moment, foretold lots of fun 5 
 proposed to drive them down, and there they are." 
 
 " And my letter, Lionel?" said Blanche. 
 
 " I fully intended to bring it, but somehow I have left it 
 behind — it was only from Juliet,- — never mind, you will have it 
 when you get back. And now as you seem inclined to lecture 
 me, I shall be off-, the quadrille is almost over, and I shall ask 
 one of those scarecrows to dance the next set." 
 
 So saying, he hurried off; and leading Blanche suddenly to 
 the Earl, begged him to take care of her till his return. 
 
 Poor Blanche, she was now doomed to hear nothing but Sir 
 Caesar's boasts, and the Earl's silly laughs, and sillier remarks. 
 
 " That pavilion," said Sir Caesar, " is just like one I have at 
 the Priory. Do you know the Priory, my lord; my place in Glou- 
 cestershire ? I hope one day to welcome your lordship there, — 
 that pavilion is the counterpart of one I have lately built in an 
 uncommon romantic part of my home park." 
 
 " Indeed," said his lordship, who piqued himself on the unique 
 taste of his architect, " I was assured mine was the only one in 
 England in that particular style." 
 
 " Ah! now I am nearer to it," replied Sir Ceesar, fearful to 
 offend, " I see they are built on a different model; mine must 
 yield, my lord, — it is smaller, and oh, yes— quite a different 
 thing, but very pretty. The Bishop of Leicester, my near rela- 
 tion, who has a fine taste in these things, gave it the highest 
 praise. I remember his saying he knew but one superior, proba- 
 bly he meant this. Does your lordship know him?" (This was a 
 precautionary measure.) 
 
 " What! the jolly Dr. Tubbs!" said the Earl; kt oh, yes. I 
 thought he did not know a pavilion from a pigsty !" 
 
 " Perhaps he lays claim to a knowledge he does not possess. 
 Your Lordship will own that it is too common a practice," said 
 Sir Caesar, with unwonted truth. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 235 
 
 " I thought," said the Earl, " the worthy Bishop might have 
 ventured to come to me to-day." 
 
 From that moment Sir Caesar's courage sank ; this oft-boasted 
 connexion he had only seen once, many years before, when, as 
 a distant relative of Lady Whitehead's, Sir Caesar applied to 
 him for assistance, and met with a bitter refusal and sharp 
 rebuke for his presumption in making such a request. 
 
 If he should arrive, Blanche, Lionel, Mr. Wheezer, who had 
 all so often heard his boasts of his intimacy with the Bishop and 
 his family ! for them to be undeceived would be mortifying 
 enough; but the Earl! to be exposed before an earl! the first 
 real English earl he had ever spoken to ! not to know the Bishop 
 of Leicester even by sight ! and to be cut by him even if he learnt 
 who it was who accosted him. Oh vanity and falsehood ! no 
 practice can make one safe in using your weapons — even Sir 
 Caesar Whitehead grew sick at heart; at every turning he 
 dreaded an encounter ; and although it was the least probable 
 thing in the world that a bishop should be found at such an as- 
 sembly, still his fears conjured up a prelate at every corner. If 
 he could have recovered his daughters, he would have made his 
 escape ; but with Lionel and a sheepish young man, an Oxford 
 friend of Lionel's, whom he unexpectedly met with and intro- 
 duced , and who did not dare approach the dignified belles of 
 the fashionable world, they were enjoying all the pleasures of 
 the fete, filling their large reticules with prizes from the lottery, 
 in which manoeuvre Lionel mischievously assisted them, eating 
 and drinking abundantly of everything offered to them 5 now 
 playing at hide and seek in the shrubbery : now availing them- 
 selves of the offer from their beaux of a row T on the river. 
 
 Never had they enjoyed themselves so much; they were 
 really handsome, had a great deal to say, and no timidity to 
 prevent their saying it. They laughed, talked, flattered, boasted, 
 flirted. Lionel was much amused with Geraldine's blind and 
 coarse imitations of her more clever sister, and the Hon. Fre- 
 derick Scantylands (by-the-bye, a younger brother of the Ho- 
 nourable Mrs. Hodnot's first victim ) w r as fast falling really in 
 love with Antonia. Meanwhile, Sir Caesar, hungry, fearful, and 
 perhaps aware that his noble host would gladly avail himself of 
 an opportunity of a tete-a-tete with Blanche, expressed himself 
 fatigued, proposed resting awhile in a tent, where he had ascer- 
 tained some new refreshments were prepared, and the Earl 
 having given a joyful assent, with a lighter heart, and a dragon^ 
 like appetite, he sate himself down to a solitary repast. 
 
236 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The Earl and Blanche were alone ; she wished to return to 
 the more crowded scenes, — he proposed leading her first through 
 a part of the shrubhery which she had not seen. He had been 
 so obliging about the Whiteheads, that she felt she could not 
 refuse him, but she felt also an uncomfortable presentiment as 
 she accepted his arm. 
 
 She thanked him playfully for his attention to her request, 
 and assured him she could never have presumed on his kindness 
 so far as to have invited the Whiteheads. 
 
 "Presume! Miss Blanche, pray do not talk of presuming 
 where I hope you will one day feel quite at home." 
 
 Blanche felt his arm tremble 5 she stole a furtive glance at 
 him 5 he was blushing like a young girl listening to a first offer. 
 Blanche foresaw all, and anxious to spare him, said, "I must 
 go and find my aunt 5 she will be looking for me." 
 
 " She will be quite satisfied when she knows what has detained 
 you," said the Earl : " in short, — I, — Miss Blanche, — you— 1 ' 
 
 Blanche did not much like his certainty of her aunt's satisfac- 
 tion ; because it shewed that he felt he was conferring an honour. 
 Self-respect supplied the place of pity, — his next speech con- 
 firmed the feeling. 
 
 "In short, Miss St. Aubyn," said his lordship, " your friends, 
 whatever they may be, will always be welcome here, or at any 
 of my places. You must long have been aware how much I ad- 
 mire your charms and virtues, and I have made up my mind to 
 confer on you the rank and wealth which they deserve. The 
 next time 1 see you here, I hope it will be as my wife. You have 
 only to name the day. I will speak to Lady Sackville; but I am 
 sure of her joyful consent." 
 
 There was much in this speech to rouse even Blanche's gentle 
 spirit. " Your friends, whatever they may be!" "I have made 
 up my mind to confer." 
 
 Oh tact, angel of civilized life, what a mere blunderer is the 
 lover without thee ! No rank can ensure, no wealth can purchase 
 thee ! and yet without thee we are certain to offend where it is 
 most our interest to please 5 — then, too, no woman likes even 
 the man she loves to calculate on her acceptance as a certainty 5 
 but such presumption in one whom she is determined to refuse! 
 Even the least coquettish feels a little pride in the overthrow of 
 hopes based on self-conceit, in proving that she, svhom he has 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 237 
 
 dared to make so sure of can make him look very insignificant 
 even to himself. 
 
 Perceiving that, for a moment, Blanche hesitated how to con- 
 vey her refusal, he said — 
 
 " Speak, my dearest Blanche; be not overcome. Lady Sack- 
 ville knows my sentiments and my attention." 
 
 " Lady Sackville, my Lord," said Blanche, proudly, " has no- 
 thing to do in this affair. Had I been acquainted with your sen- 
 timents and intentions, I should not have been here to-day. I 
 am duly sensible of the honour you would confer upon me ; I 
 do justice to the generosity of your Lordship's views; but while 
 I do so, lam obliged to regret that I cannot avail myself of it." 
 
 "Miss St. Aubyn!" said the Earl, quite astounded, "you 
 cannot be in earnest!" 
 
 "Why not, my Lord?" said Blanche. 
 
 That calm and simple question quite took him by surprise, he 
 could not enumerate his advantages; even he had sense enough 
 to see the folly of that. He stood for some time twirling his ring, 
 and crushing a blade of grass with his foot, and then he said — 
 
 " Let me hope this is only a young lady's humble opinion of 
 herself. I cannot believe you mean what you say:" and then, in 
 rapid succession, he mentioned in a hurried and confused manner 
 the names of all his estates, and alluded to settlements, equipages, 
 and family jewels. " Miss St. Aubyn, take a little time to consi- 
 der; I have taken you by surprise— a young lady's modesty ! 
 Perhaps you dread some of my haughty relations ; but as my 
 wife they dare not slight you. After a severe struggle, I have re- 
 solved to please myself. Did you not see megive my arm to your 
 friend Sir Caesar Whitehead ? and did I not welcome Mr. 
 Wheezer? I make every allowance for surprised modesty ! " 
 
 fc * My Lord," said Blanche, " there is nothing in your offer to 
 shock my modesty. If I were proud, you might have wounded 
 my pride, by appearing to consider that you were conferring an 
 honour at a lime when every gentleman ought to feel that he is 
 imploring one ; but the manner of your proposal has nothing to 
 do with my decision ; had you made it in all humility, my answer 
 would have been precisely the same." 
 
 "Miss St. Aubyn,'' said the Earl, thinking he understood 
 her, and falling on his knees, "deign to give me some hope." 
 
 " My lord," said Blanche hastily, " rise ; I cannot permit this, 
 — my mind is made up ! " 
 
 "You are decided to decline ?— vou refuse rank, wealth, my- 
 self?"— 
 
 " I regret to offend you, but I must be sincere." 
 
 '"Then," said the Earl, rising in something very like anger, 
 " I must say I have been shamefully treated,— urged on by Lady 
 
238 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Sackville,— encouraged by yourself. After giving this fete in 
 your honour, it really is too bad." And he seemed about to cry. 
 
 " My Lord," said Blanche, " this is unjust. As for encourage- 
 ment from me, when you reflect, you will, I am sure, acquit me 
 of that ; and remember, I advised you not to give this f£te; and 
 that I resolutely abstained from taking any interest in it which 
 could encourage a belief that I considered it had any reference to 
 myself-, for my aunt I cannot answer." 
 
 " No 5 and she will spread this everywhere," said the Earl. " I 
 suppose, madam. I may depend on your not boasting — I mean, 
 mentioning what has passed." 
 
 A glance of contempt was Blanche's sole reply. 
 
 " Well, Lady Sackville shall promise the same," said he, sul- 
 kily, as he hastened away. " Refused by that penniless chit ! " 
 added he, to himself. "Thank Heaven, no one will believe it; 
 it's too absurd." 
 
 Blanche sank on a garden seat, and remained for some time in 
 a reverie, — she felt vexed, mortified, excited ; to many girls, the 
 offer of an Earl would have, under any circumstances, been a 
 triumph ; to her it would always have been painful to wound one 
 who loved her, and the manner in which the proposal had been 
 made left in her heart a sense of insult rather than of honour. 
 She rather dreaded to encounter her aunt, already embittered by 
 Lady Barbara's triumph. She longed to get home, to read Julia's 
 letter ; and then she wondered at Horace St. John's absence, not 
 that she cared about it ; he was nothing to her —nay, less than no- 
 thing 5 for he had slighted and wounded her brother — the bro- 
 ther who was in difficulties, under which he must sink unless 
 rescued by her\ then she thought of Gertrude, and the morrow. 
 And the beautiful queen of the fete, and the admired of all the 
 men, the envied of all the women, felt the large tears stealing 
 down her cheek, and she hurried into the deeper shades of the 
 shrubbery, till their traces should have disappeared. 
 
 While Blanche was indulging in these mournful reveries, the 
 amusements of the day were going merrily on ; but poor Lady 
 Sackville still remained extended on a bed, and thus escaped 
 the Earl's angry and distasteful announcement. Lady Barbara, 
 who half guessed what had passed when she saw him return 
 alone, flushed, angry, and downcast, seized upon him again, 
 and tried by gentle inuendos to lure him into her nets ; but his 
 Lordship had had enough of love and young ladies for some time 
 to come. Lady Hunter, too, who arrived late, because she had a 
 succession of manoeuvres to go through to escape poor Sir 
 Croesus, who had set his heart on going, was roaming through 
 the grounds with her minister beau in search of Blanche, who. 
 she felt sure, was enjoying a tdle-a-tete with Horace St. John. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 239 
 
 Horace's admiration of Blanche had led him to cultivate, in 
 some degree, an intimacy with Gertrude. Sometimes, for the 
 »ake of meeting her, he lounged away his time in Lady Hunter's 
 )oudoir; sometimes, for the pleasure so dear to a lover, of 
 alking of the object of his passion with one who had known 
 ler from childhood. Gertrude liked his society, though she 
 mite appreciated his reasons for visiting her, and she en- 
 couraged his confidence in the spiteful hope of preventing his 
 Droposing. She now eagerly sought him, but in vain. 
 
 Sir Caesar, meanwhile, having satisfied his appetite, was 
 *rown brave. He began to think it most likely that the Bishop 
 >vould not appear at all, and even if he did, he calculated on 
 hat impudence (he called it "presence of mind") which had 
 lever forsaken him in the hour of need ; he therefore rose from 
 lis lonely repast, carefully adjusted his fur collar and cotton- 
 velvet cravat, placed his hat jauntily on one side of his head, 
 ndulged in a protracted and most complacent gaze in a mirror, 
 rocketed a napkin much whiter and finer than his own handker- 
 chief, and, ashamed of his pusillanimity in a scene where he 
 night make acquaintances to boast of through life, sallied out 
 n search of his daughters. 
 
 He found the grounds almost deserted-, for the company were 
 assembled in the concert-room, to hear some excellent perform- 
 ers . Alter the concert there were to be some boat-races ; then 
 a splendid collation, during which the gardens were to be illu- 
 minated, fire-works displayed, and the whole was to end with 
 a dance on the lawn. 
 
 Mr. Wheezer had been overwhelmed with the attentions of a 
 poor but fashionable spinster, to whom his reputed wealth 
 rendered him an object of great attraction ; wearied' by her assi- 
 duities, he contrived to escape from her, and hiding himself in 
 a remote but snug arbour, he fell fast asleep. When he awoke, 
 the afternoon was far advanced 5 and consulting his large watch, 
 he perceived that the hour was long past when Mrs. Faithful 
 had promised to return for him 5 he suspected that the company 
 were enjoying some new sport, for he saw nobody about. He 
 fancied he recollected the geography of the place enough to 
 discover the gate, where doubtless his pious friend awaited him ; 
 and pleased with himself and his day, he resolved on a silent 
 retreat. He walked across the lawn, and entered a blooming 
 parterre. Suddenly he started,— did it rain? A gush of water 
 poured upon his superfine blue cloth coat. Rain ! the sky was 
 blue and calm as that of Italy. What was it? From another 
 quarter he received a deluge in his face; he ran— he who had 
 not run for so many years. Did the water-fiend pursue him ? 
 He was attacked from behind ; turn which way ho would. 
 
240 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 torrents poured down upon him. In his terror his tears mingled 
 with the mysterious streams, — in point of fact, he was wet to 
 the skin. 
 
 The truth was, that the Earl's gardens were watered on the 
 same principle as the Zoological are, only that trailing plants 
 artfully concealed the pipes. In order to refresh the scene, his 
 lordship had ordered that while the concert engrossed the com- 
 pany, these pipes should play over the grounds; none could 
 have foreseen the catastrophe that ensued, for none had dreamed 
 that such a person as Mr. Wheezer would be pottering about 
 the parterres at all, much less at a time when the Earl, osten- 
 sibly, but in reality his far more clever adviser, had so admirably 
 arrranged that every one should be listening to Grisi, Kubini, 
 Tamburini, and Lablache. 
 
 Poor Mr. Wheezer !— visions of rheumatism, of danger, of 
 death, crossed his eyes whenever he was not blinded by the 
 water 5 he stamped in impotent rage, and trampled down a bed 
 of rare exotics; the gentle Wheezer actually swore*, he had no 
 idea to what his persecution was owing, and he continued to 
 stamp and rush about till he was drenched to the skin. 
 
 Poor Mr. Wheezer ! for some time he gave way to a fit of 
 crying, then, numbed, chilled to the heart, he pursued his path, 
 dripping as he was, back into the sun ; he was now near the 
 entrance which he had at first wished to gain 5 the gate was ajar ; 
 he heard an intense female shriek, and saw Mrs. Faithful, who, 
 deserted by her fly, had arrived in a hackney coach. 
 
 ••Is it you!" exclaimed she, "is it Mr. Wheezer! — have you 
 been the sport of those sons of Belial, flushed with insolence 
 and wine! Ah! your end must be at hand-, and now you will 
 repent your blind indulgence in the vanities of this wicked 
 world. Oh! death !" 
 
 "Oh ten thousand imps of the old one!" said the usually 
 placid Mr. Wheezer. "I believe all the fiends inhabit that 
 accursed spot." Dripping as he was, he entered the hackney- 
 coach, spite of the objections and oaths of the coachman. 
 " Drive me to the nearest inn 5 I'll pay you double, treble, 
 if I only live to get there." 
 
 " Well, if you does," said the man, " as it wa'n't nothing but 
 clean water, what's the odds, so you makes it answer ? " 
 
 A few minutes' hard driving actually brought them to some 
 kind of inn. Mr. Wheezer was soon in a warm bed ; he sent 
 for a nurse and a doctor 5 and Mrs. Faithful, thinking that after 
 compromising her by bringing her to an hotel, he could not re- 
 fuse the satisfaction, without which she declared she could ne- 
 ver hold up her head again, ordered u late dinner for herself, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 24 1 
 
 and began to indulge in gentler visions, of bridal attire, and no 
 more bills to pay. 
 
 To return to higher spheres and brighter scenes, we ought to 
 observe that when Lady Barbara found that she could make no 
 impression on the Earl, revenge usurped the place of hope : and 
 having ascertained from his evasive and conscious replies as to 
 what had become of Blanche, that he had been refused, she in- 
 dustriously set about circulating the report. In a little while, 
 aided as she was by her garrulous and indignant mother, it was 
 known to half the company ; and when Lady Sackville, weary 
 of seclusion, appeared again amongst the guests, it was whis- 
 pered to her, as the greatest possible secret. 
 
 The concert and the boat races were over-, Blanche, in her 
 lonely ramble, had been joined by the Whiteheads, Lionel, and 
 the Honourable Frederic Scantylands, all riotously gay. Antonia 
 was flushed with triumph— her madcap thoughtless lover, [who; 
 by the-bye, was that very day of age,) desperately smitten, had 
 suddenly proposed, and been as suddenly accepted. He might 
 be poor, but what was poverty to him would be wealth to her. 
 She would be her own mistress — she would be the " Hon. Mrs."' 
 He must support her-, the marriage might be private, but it 
 would be binding. The object of her life was attained, and she 
 was triumphantly happy 
 
 Sir Caesar, who had vainly tried to fasten himself on some of 
 the exclusives, roaming about, joined this merry party • and 
 found in the enamoured Scantylands a ready listener to all his 
 boasts about the Priory and the Bishop. 
 
 Lady Sackville's anger against Blanche was not mitigated by 
 seeing her return to the house with so noisy and strange-look- 
 ing a party She angrily seized her arm, and proposed going 
 home. Blanche joyfully agreed : but the splendid collation being 
 at that moment served, and Lady Sackville being very hungry, 
 she adjourned her departure till it was over, and releasing 
 Blanche, took the arm of Lady Hunter; who turned pale with 
 vexation, for just at that moment, Sir Croesus, flushed with 
 haste, arrived, wiping his face, and exclaiming, " Well, Gerry, 
 dear, at any rate, I'm in pudding time." 
 
 u But what a figure you are ! how hot ! how dusty ! " 
 
 4t Figure, eh ? " said Sir Croesus. " Ah well, call me anything 
 you like, Gerry, anything but too late for dinner ! " and he of- 
 fered his short fin like arm to his tali and scornful wife. 
 
 The repast over, the evening was advanced, the company re- 
 paired to the grounds; a chorus of plaudits rung on the Earl's 
 ear : the illuminations gave the scene the effect of fairy land : 
 the band played, and dancing was proposed. 
 
2-12 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I shall ask his lordship to get you the best of partners," said 
 Sir Caesar. 
 
 "I am engaged," replied Anton ia, " to the Hon. Frederic 
 Scantylands." 
 
 " And you, Geraldine?" 
 
 "I am engaged to you, I believe," said Geraldine, turning, as 
 she thought, to Lionel, but a scornful stranger who stood by her 
 side answered her with a sneer and a stare and then turned on 
 his heel. 
 
 Lionel had escaped; he had only whispered to Blanche, "I 
 must be off, Blanche, or I shall miss the mail, and be expelled. 
 I have heard from many quarters that Horace St. John is despe- 
 rately in love with you-, if it is true, and he presumes to propose 
 to you, do not forget how he insulted the brother who so loves 
 you, who once so loved him." 
 
 "Fear not, dearest Lionel," said Blanche. "I never see him 
 without recollecting his heartless conduct to you. Try to be 
 happy till you hear from me." 
 
 He wrung her hand ; a tear glistened in his eyes, and he was 
 gone. 
 
 Lady Sackville's ill-humour increased every minute. She found 
 on inquiry that Horace St. John had not appeared at the fete at 
 all. She saw the Earl, enraged with Blanche and disgusted with 
 Lady Barbara, devoting himself entirely to a rouged and ex- 
 panded beauty of forty, who was married, affable, flattering, 
 and well-disposed to flirt with him. All the cavaliers looking 
 upon Blanche as the Earl's partner, feared to ask her to dance, 
 and the set was forming without her being invited to join it. 
 
 "As you have no partner," said her aunt, crossly, "for 
 Heaven's sake, let us go home." 
 
 At that moment a tall, fine-looking old man joined the throng, 
 and was warmly welcomed by the young Earl ; they conversed 
 apart for some time, and then were seen approaching the spot 
 where Sir Caesar, his daughters, Blanche, and Lady Sackvillc 
 stood. 
 
 " Who is that ? " asked Sir Caesar of the Hon. Frederic Scan- 
 tylands. 
 
 " That ? Why your own relation, the Bishop of Leicester. 
 Don't you know him?" 
 
 " Girls, come with me," said Sir Caesar ; " quick ! I must be 
 off. I do not wish his lordship to recognise me just now ; I have 
 not yet called on him ; he may take it amiss. Make haste!" 
 
 " Stop, Sir ! " said a very decided voice, and Sir Caesar, turn- 
 ing ghastly pale, recognised the Bishop leaning on the Earl's 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 543 
 
 arm. The latter, rejoiced to be revenged on Blanche through 
 the people who had been brought there under her protection, 
 was laughing a silly laugh. 
 
 "My Lord Bishop," said SirCa?sar, flourishing his hat, "I am 
 rejoiced to see you, and particularly in such excellent health. 
 Lady Whitehead will be overwhelmed with joy. The .Miss 
 Whiteheads, my daughters, my Lord !" 
 
 The Bishop was a gentleman ; he had meditated exposing the 
 impudent boaster, but his adroit manner of sheltering himself 
 behind his daughters saved him in some degree. The Bishop 
 could not but bow in return to the Miss Whiteheads' obsequious 
 curtsies; but he turned to Sir Caesar, and said — 
 
 " I wish to speak a word to you, Sir, in the presence of the 
 Earl. Walk this way with me, Sir."' 
 
 Sir Ca?sar bowed. 
 
 • ; .\ow, Sir,' 1 said the Bishop, 'Thave spared you an exposure, 
 because I would not publicly disgrace a father before his own 
 daughters; but, as I understand from my friend the Earl that 
 you call yourself a near relation of mine, use my name on all oc- 
 casions, and boast of a great intimacy with my family, I take this 
 opportunity of informing you, that unless you desist from your 
 false and boasting statements. 1 must in self-defence repudiate 
 your connexion with me publicly. It is true that a very distant 
 relation of mine did become your wife; and that although her 
 family abandoned her in consequence, I was for some time con- 
 stantly persecuted with begging letters, and a variety of an- 
 noyances. I never saw you but once before, Sir, and that was 
 upon the occasion of your asking me to make your wife an al- 
 lowance. You deceived her into marrying you by false state- 
 ments of your birth and income. That is now many years ago. 
 I gave you a lesson then which I did not think you would for- 
 get ; if I have to give you another, it will be one you shall re- 
 member." 
 
 " My Lord," said Sir Ca?sar, " you must not be surprised if 
 any one however remotely connected with your lordship, should 
 yet feel that talent so transcendent, and virtues so eminent, 
 shed some degree of lustre even upon him. It is true that I have 
 boasted of my wife's connexion with your lordship : it is true 
 that I have held you up as a pattern to my children of piety and 
 worth. My poor girls know your eloquent sermons by heart ; 
 they have shielded them in the midst of papists from all the 
 contaminations of catholicity ; every evening in a foreign land 
 I strengthen their minds with your precepts. To this alone do 
 I plead guilty. I can bear anything from one I revere, as I do 
 your lordship ; but shew me the man who accuses me of any- 
 thing beyond this, and you will see that neither my love for my 
 
-244 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 poor wife, nor my fears for my destitute girls, shall induce me 
 to shrink from meeting and chastising him." 
 
 Sir Caesar buried his face in his white napkin ; the Earl felt 
 uncomfortable : — the Bishop was moved. 
 
 " I am sure," said the Earl, " I cannot take upon myself to 
 say whether it was as his own or as Lady Whitehead's relative 
 Sir Caesar mentioned you. You will acquit me of any intention 
 of making mischief, my Lord." 
 
 The Earl was not very brave, and Sir Caesar had removed the 
 napkin to eye him with a most belligerent glance. 
 
 " Sir Caesar," said the Bishop, extending his hand, "there 
 has been a slight misunderstanding. I quite acquit the Earl; 
 the mistake was in some measure mine. Still it will be a lesson 
 which I hope you will not forget. 1 trust my distant kins- 
 woman is in good health. I am glad you have instructed your 
 daughters so judiciously. If you will call on me to-morrow, 
 you will find at your service a new set of sermons of mine for 
 their use." 
 
 " My Lord, I shall feel but too highly honoured," said Sir 
 Caesar. 
 
 For once, fearful to trespass, Sir Caesar withdrew, proclaimed 
 his invitation from my Lord Bishop, but suppressed the rest of 
 the conversation. However, he contrived to get Blanche to 
 coax Lady Sackville into taking them home 5 himself on the 
 box, and his daughters inside. And then they left the "gay 
 and festive scene." ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The morning after the fete, Lady Sackville awoke in a very- 
 bad humour, and sent down to beg Blanche would breakfast 
 without her, as she meant to keep her room, and could not be 
 disturbed. Blanche determined on calling on Gertrude, as soon 
 as she thought that very fine lady would be visible ; and then, 
 having soon finished her breakfast, she sat down to answer 
 Juliet's letter. 
 
 Poor Juliet ! It was an earnest entreaty to her sister to in- 
 quire, in the gay circles she frequented, who and what Montague 
 Wyndham really was 5 to ascertain all particulars relative to 
 
 1 The fair authoress certainly has placed her bishop in a scene where bishops are not 
 often to be found ; but the way in which the Earl mentioned him previously to Sir Caesar 
 seems to justify his transient appearance at his lordship's tele.— Ed. 
 
COISLN GfeOFFREY. 54j 
 
 Lady Marian; if possible, to see them, — and thus either crush 
 or revive the lurking hope of her heart, that the Montague 
 Wyndham married to a Lady Marian might not be him whom 
 she had so fondly loved. Juliet then, in a desponding strain, 
 announced Cousin Geoffrey's expected return, expressed a pas- 
 sionate desire to see her sister again, and complained of failing 
 strength and spirits. 
 
 She mentioned, too, that Eustace Murray, who had been a 
 very kind and devoted friend to tier since Blanche's departure. 
 had received a letter desiring that the picture which Montague 
 had ordered, and which in his haste he had forgotten when 
 leaving London, might be forwarded for him to Mivart's Hotel. 
 He had previously enclosed two hundred pounds for it, although 
 Eustace had not expected more than fifty. The young artist, 
 high in hope, had arranged everything for the comfort of his 
 poor mother, and had put in practice his long-cherished scheme 
 of trying his fortunes in London as an artist. " Mamma fears/' 
 added Juliet, " that with the sanguine temperament of genius 
 he hopes too much : and that he judges, as the poor always 
 do, that the sum he has. because larger than any he ever 
 before possessed, will prove inexhaustible. We all hope that 
 you will mention him to your influential friends, if. as I trust 
 he will, he calls and leaves his address." 
 
 There was much in this letter to distress Blanche. Juliet was 
 evidently very ill and very unhappy. She wanted her sister's 
 and Lionel's affairs arranged : and the inquiries about Montague 
 made Blanche resolve to return to her dear, though humble 
 home. 
 
 She was intent on a warmly affectionate reply to Juliet's 
 letter: so intent, indeed, that she had not heard the servant 
 open the drawing-room door, and announce a visitor,; when, 
 looking suddenly round lor her handkerchief, to wipe away the 
 tears which her reply to Juliet had brought to her eyes, she 
 beheld Horace St. John standing before her. 
 
 Her first impulse was to extend her hand ; but she recollected 
 Lionel's parting injunction, and merely bowed with a common- 
 place greeting, dictated by politeness. 
 
 " I am afraid something has distressed you," said he observ- 
 ing the tears in her eyes. 
 
 Blanche blushed deeply, but made no reply. 
 
 11 I fear I am intruding," added Horace, after a most uncom- 
 fortable pause. 
 
 u Oh no," said Blanche-, ''you wish to see my aunt, per- 
 haps? I fear she is too unwell to come down ; but I will go to 
 her and ascertain." 
 
 " No, Miss St. Aubyn," said St. John ; " my visit is to yoor- 
 
246 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 self. Oblige me by staying. What I have to say is of great 
 importance to my future happiness ; perhaps, in some degree, 
 to yours. Do oblige me by a few minutes' attention." 
 
 Blanche trembled and grew very pale, but she sank back 
 into her chair. The hasty glance which she had cast at Horace 
 St. John convinced her that he looked very much agitated. 
 The truth was, he had arrived full of a hope which her very 
 distant manner had in some degree blighted. 
 
 He had not been at the fete ; indeed, he had been absent from 
 town for a fortnight. His uncle, Sir Horace St. John, a man of 
 fifteen thousand a-year, was dead. Horace, though almost a 
 stranger to him, was his heir, and had been suddenly summoned 
 to town. He had arrived late, after attending his uncle's funeral, 
 on the night of the Earl's fete, and the first thing he heard 
 from some idlers fresh from the festive scene lounging at the 
 hotel to which he had been driven, was the news that Miss St. 
 Aubyn had refused the Earl. A reason for conduct so very 
 wonderful in the annals of fashion suggested itself to Horace— 
 now Sir Horace St. John : her frequent blush, her constrained 
 manner to him, a thousand confirming trifles, rushed to his 
 heart. Dear, angelic Blanche ! — he would throw himself and his 
 new honours at her feet without delay. Accordingly, somewhat 
 earlier than a strict attention to etiquette would have permitted, 
 he presented himself in Hanover Square. 
 
 "Miss St. Aubyn," said the usually self-possessed Horace, 
 "I do not know whether you are aware that, from the first 
 moment I beheld you, I felt for you the liveliest admiration 
 — a feeling which subsequent interviews have but tended to 
 confirm. I have long meditated offering myself to your ac- 
 ceptance. In a worldly point of view, I am now justified in 
 doing so : through the death of my uncle, I inherit his title and 
 estates. Perhaps it is not to you I should speak of these trifling 
 advantages; but I have not as yet the pleasure of knowing your 
 family." 
 
 "I feel," said Blanche, blushing and faltering in her speech, 
 " highly honoured by your preference of me : but I cannot 
 accept your generous offer. I hope one worthier — " 
 
 " Miss St. Aubyn," exclaimed he, " what can you mean? At 
 least, state your reasons for rejecting me so decidedly." 
 
 " Are you not aware that I am the sister of Lionel St. Au- 
 byn?" said Blanche. 
 
 "It is only lately,'* said he, " that I became aware of the 
 fact-, but what of that?" 
 
 "Did you not withdraw your acquaintance from him? — 
 was there not in him and his associates something you shrank 
 from?" 
 
COL SIX GEOFFREY. 247 
 
 "Oh, it that be all, dearest Miss St. Aubyn." exclaimed Ho- 
 race, quite misunderstanding her, " think no more of it,— he 
 seemed to be in a very bad set ; but he was then a mere fresh- 
 man; as your brother, it \vill be my pride to introduce him 
 into the most exclusive Oxford society. Blanche, how you have 
 relieved me; that is nothing, actually nothing!" And he would 
 have taken her hand. 
 
 " It may by nothing to you," said Blanche, withdrawing, 
 and proudly meeting his gaze, " that for the mere imprudence 
 of a freshman you heartlessly abandoned my brother and your 
 own early friend — a brother, whose faults springing from too 
 kind and yielding a nature, are virtues compared with the cold 
 and selfish worldliness which alone could enable any one to 
 neglect the companion of his childhood — his early friend, par- 
 ticularly at a moment when it was in his power to have rescued 
 him from wild and extravagant associates of whom he then 
 scarcely knew anything ; in short, to have done him a real 
 service. His boyish devotion to yourself should have made you 
 brave the sneers of your exclusive friends ; for that, you were 
 too worldly. You thus rendered it difficult for him to make good 
 his footing in the society which he soon discovered to be the 
 only one suited to him 5 for you have many imitators, and he 
 had few friends. You might have compelled him for ever to 
 herd with the riotous and the disreputable. You did your best 
 towards such a consummation ; and it is not owing to you that 
 he is now as much respected as yourself. Lionel is my brother ; 
 I feel for him as a sister should feel ; and I confess myself not a 
 little surprised that, having insulted him you should seek affec- 
 tion from me" 
 
 "Miss St. Aubyn," said Horace, quickly, "there is truth, 
 there is justice, in what you say; but I will atone, I will do all 
 in my power for Lionel ; 1 will bring you his forgiveness ; he 
 has a noble mind, and a forgiving heart." 
 
 "Stop,"' said Blanche; " that but increases your wrong to- 
 wards him; but, indeed, he would never accept a favour from 
 you now ; and if he could, I should blush for him ; but inde- 
 pendently of that, although I am not blind to your many advan- 
 tages and good qualities, your views and feelings differ so widely 
 from mine that nothing but misery could be the result of our 
 union. To you, this may seem an impertinent reply : but you are 
 too much feared in society to hear the truth often, and you have 
 so many good qualities, that it is a pity one great error should 
 overshadow them all." 
 
 "Miss St. Aubyn," said Horace, "make of me what you 
 will; I can Learn to be humble, if I may look to your love as 
 my reward. 
 
248 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 "No," said Blanche, but her voice trembled-, " I trust the 
 love of some one far worthier than I am will reward you; I 
 repeat thai I can never forget that I am the sister of Lionel St. 
 Aubyn." 
 
 Sir Horace St. John rose, bowed to Blanche, and left the room ; 
 and Blanche felt no triumph in this second offer ; on the con- 
 trary, she hid her face in her hands, and burst into an agony 
 of tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The carriage which Blanche had ordered to be in readiness 
 to convey her to Lady Hunter's drove to the door. She hastily 
 wiped away her tears, and hurried up stairs. As she did so, she 
 suddenly encountered Leno at the door-, she appeared to have 
 just risen from her knees 5 and Blanche had no doubt that she 
 had that moment removed her eye from the key-hole, and that 
 this faithful creature had made herself mistress of all that had 
 passed between her and Sir Horace St. John, and also of her 
 subsequent distress. 
 
 "La, Miss! how sudden you did come out, to be sure! I 
 thought you had visitors, and I was just waiting a minute to 
 see, before I came in to consult you about my lady. La ! to be 
 sure, what poor shattered nerves mine is \ I've got such a turn, 
 I declare." 
 
 " What did you wish to say about my aunt? " said Blanche. 
 " Why," replied the waiting-woman," that I fear, Miss, she's 
 caught a rheumatic fever, or some such contiguous disease." 
 "I will go to her." 
 
 " Excuse me, Miss, "replied Leno, " but my lady has expressly 
 forbidden any excursions into her solitude from any one but 
 myself." 
 
 "In that case, I can be of no use. " 
 
 " No Miss -, only the responsibility is too trying for my nerves-, 
 so I wished to ask you, Miss, whether I had not better send for 
 my lady's doctor." 
 
 " Certainly, Leno, — do it at once," said Blanche. 
 " Oh ! dear, Miss, 1 hope you'li be back soon, for it does put 
 me in such a way to see a doctor alone-, and if it is anything 
 contiguous, you know, Miss, I am peculiar delicate ; and being 
 about to change my condition, I cannot run any risk." 
 
 "I shall be back in about two hours," said Blanche; "the 
 physician will not be here before, depend upon it. Give me his 
 address, T will call and appoint him." 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 249 
 
 Blanche appointed the physician, and then drove to Lady 
 lunters. Lady Hunter was in her boudoir, but she was not 
 lone. Horace St. John, who had been beguiled by her specious 
 lanners and apparent interest into reposing some degree of 
 onfldence in her, had driven to her house to induce her to give 
 im a miniature she possessed of Blanche, with which he meant 
 ) retire from the fashionable world for a time, and endeavour 
 d make himself worthy of such a heart as he felt hers to be. 
 
 A variety of plans for secretly benefiting Lionel had presented 
 lemselves to his mind , and been in turn rejected : and at last 
 e determined to open his heart to the gentle and sympathizing 
 rertrude, and consult with her how he might yet win the love 
 f Blanche. 
 
 He had not been long with Gertrude, when a servant came to 
 >11 her that Miss St. Aubyn begged a few minutes' conversation 
 ith her. 
 
 " Did you say I was at home ? " 
 
 "Yes, my lady," said the man: "and she is now coming 
 p!" 
 
 "I cannot see her," said Horace: "and if I go out I shall meet 
 er." 
 
 "Step into the conservatory," said Gertrude, " she will not 
 e here two minutes : 1 know she is only come with some mes- 
 age from my mother about my box at the opera." 
 
 A light step was heard in the passage, and Horace hurried to 
 is hiding-place. 
 
 "Oh! Gertrude!" said Blanche, as she entered the room, 
 
 I am so glad you are alone." 
 
 "What is the matter, my dear cousin?" asked Gertrude, 
 auch more kindly than she would have done had not Horace 
 >een within hearing. " How is my dearest mother? " 
 
 "She is very unwell," replied Blanche. 
 
 "Good heavens! " said Gertrude, feelingly, " you alarm me. 
 Nothing serious, I trust?" 
 
 "No," said Blanche, "I believe not. I have not seen her. I 
 inly heard from Leno that the fears — " 
 
 "Oh! " replied Gertrude, "if she is your authority. I have no 
 ear-, but I will call on my beloved mother to-day. Still she was 
 veil enough last night; I dare say this is merely a cold." 
 
 "Probably," said Blanche: "and I have made an appoint- 
 nent for her with Dr. Dulemer." She paused 5 her heart beat 
 ruick. " It is a very fine day," she said. 
 
 " Indeed,'" said Gertrude, "it seems to me to be very wet." 
 
 "Wet!" faltered Blanche. "Oh! yes; very wet, I mean. 
 iVhat exquisite embroidery that is on your collar, Gertrude:"' 
 or though her heart was full of the sickening favour she had to 
 
250 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 implore, her eyes were fixed with apparent intensity on Ger- 
 trude's elegant dress. 
 
 "Yes," said Gertrude, "it is pretty, I believe; at least, so 
 Carson tells me." And then, eager to release Horace from his 
 prison, she said, " You must not think me rude, Blanche, but I 
 have to dress; and to call on my mother." 
 
 " Will you not come with me? The carriage is at the door," 
 faltered poor Blanche, thinking, she scarce knew why, that she 
 could ask the loan of Gertrude better anywhere than in her own 
 stately and magnificent boudoir. 
 
 "No, my love, " said Gertrude," it is impossible; but if you 
 are going home, I will meet you there." 
 
 "Gertrude," said Blanche, suddenly, blushing deeply, "can 
 you lend me five hundred pounds?" 
 
 "Five hundred pounds, child !" repeated Gertrude in her 
 surprise, forgetting that Horace was at hand. 
 
 "Yes," said Blanche, bursting into tears; "if you can do it, 
 you will save me from despair." 
 
 "My dearest girl," said Gertrude, (who now remembered 
 Horace, ) " what can you want such a sum for? I know that my 
 dear mother has provided you with everything. You have no 
 expenses, no bills to pay. Is it to send to Dieppe? Has your fa- 
 ther been again imprudent? " 
 
 "No, Gertrude, no!" said Blanche. "Do not ask me! — I 
 cannot say for what I need it. You know me, I am sure, well 
 enough to be satisfied that it is for no evil purpose. Gertrude ! 
 dear Gertrude ! if you can do it, oh ! in mercy do ! " 
 
 "Indeed, my dearest girl," said Gertrude, " I am grieved to 
 the heart to see you so distressed ; but, alas! I paid Carson to- 
 day, and I am penniless ; still, if this mysterious affair is so ur- 
 gent, I have no great objection to your trying Sir Croesus; — he 
 is at his banking-house in the city; -he is very odd, sometimes 
 a niggard of shillings, and sometimes a spendthrift of thousands. 
 You can drive to his house ; he is sure to be at home ! " 
 
 Blanche eagerly caught at the hope, thanked Gertrude for the 
 suggestion, and affectionately embracing her, hastened to put 
 her scheme in practice. 
 
 When Horace St. John returned to the boudoir, there was 
 nothing in his manner which implied that he had overheard one 
 word of the conversation, and Gertrude concluded he had not ; 
 he did not again allude to Blanche, but shortly took leave. 
 
 Poor Blanche ! her drive to the city was a very painful one- 
 it seemed interminably long; and yet she started at the sudden- 
 ness of their arrival in Lombard Street. Her knees trembled so 
 (hat she could scarcely walk ; yet she soon found herself in a 
 gloomy retreat, peopled only by clerks perched on high stools. 
 
COUSLX GEOFFREY. 251 
 
 Some of them, beaux in their way, were giggling and whispering 
 ibout her, and some trying deliberately by their glances to make 
 ler understand that they thought her a very pretty girl indeed. 
 \t length, one, the pink of city-coxcombs, alighted on a zephyr- 
 ike toe from his perch, shewed a set of radiant teeth, passed his 
 Ingers through his long hair, and stooping so as to look under 
 ler bonnet, asked her, in an affected drawl, what he could do 
 o serve her. 
 
 " I wish to speak to Sir Croesus Hunter," said Blanche, with 
 lignity. 
 
 "He is very particularly engaged,"' said the clerk, and then 
 [ently stroking his whiskers, added, " It will be all the same, if 
 'ou tell your business to me," and he pulled up his collar. 
 
 " Can I speak to Sir Croesus Hunter?" said Blanche, in a 
 nore audible tone, to a steady, respectable, elderly clerk, who 
 rossed the shop at that moment. 
 
 "Certainly, Miss. Sir Croesus," said he, going to the door of 
 he parlour which stood open, " a lady wishes to speak to you." 
 
 With an agility that must have been the result of immense 
 iractice, the pursy Sir Croesus sprang from a remarkably high 
 tool, and good-naturedly approached Blanche. 
 
 "Can I speak to you a moment in private, cousin?" said 
 Hanche, trembling. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said Sir Croesus ; " there, in that corner, we 
 hall be private enough." 
 
 "No," said Blanche ; " away from all these clerks. Do oblige 
 oe, cousin." 
 
 Sir Croesus liked to be called cousin in so sweet a voice, and 
 y such a pretty, elegant girl-, so he led her into a small dusty 
 oom, into which special visitors who came on private and con- 
 dential business were uniformly introduced, 
 
 "Now," said the veteran beau-banker, "what have you to 
 ay to me, my dear?" 
 
 "Oh," said Blanche, pale, panting, yet resolved, "I want 
 ou to lend me a very large sum ; and Gertrude thought that 
 erhaps you would." 
 
 " The deuce she did ! " said the banker. " Yes, I believe she 
 [links I am made of money. There, sit down, my dear; now, 
 ow much do you want? and what security can you give?" 
 
 " Security?" said Blanche in dismay. 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!' laughed the rubicund Sir Croesus. " That's 
 poser, is it? well, nevermind— then the fact is, you want me 
 ^give you this very large sum. Well, you're a nice, good little 
 irl, and you've always been civil enough to me, and if you've 
 ad it in view to make me pay for it. why you've only taken a 
 ■af out of Gertrude's hook that's all." 
 
252 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Oh ! indeed, indeed," said Blanche, clasping her hands, " I 
 am not so mean, so very mean ; I never dreamt of applying to 
 you till this morning, when Gertrude, not being able to assist 
 me herself, advised me to do so." 
 
 " Well, well," said Sir Croesus, " do not fret; how much do 
 you want? and what is it for?" 
 
 "1 want five hundred pounds," said Blanche, with sudden 
 desperation ; " and I am not at liberty to say for what." 
 
 44 Ah! some kickshaw, no doubt," said Sir Crcesus. "How- 
 ever, as I said before, you're a good little girl,— 'tis certainly a 
 sum— but I think I can try and manage it for you ." Blanche's 
 heart beat high with joy and gratitude at the prospect of his 
 compliance. 
 
 " But stop," said Sir Croesus ; "I hope you do not want this 
 money for that extravagant young dog, your brother,— he has 
 offended Lady Hunter bitterly, to say nothing of myself,— I made 
 a vow r never to lend him one penny again, and I never will \ so 
 you have only to say it is not lor him, and you shall have 
 the cash." 
 
 "Alas! " said Blanche, and tears stole dow T n her cheeks, " it 
 is to me you will lend it ; but—" 
 " But for that puppy's use — " 
 " I cannot deceive you," said Blanche, "still on — " 
 At this moment, a clerk came to tell Sir Croesus that a person 
 wished to speak to him immediately on important business, but 
 that he would not detain him two seconds, Sir Crcesus kindly 
 bade Blanche be seated ; and seeing that she looked very pale, 
 advised her to take off her bonnet, and desired the clerk to fetch 
 her a glass of water. 
 
 "I will be back in a minute," said he, as he left her. 
 But Blanche heeded him not ; the painful excitement of the 
 morning had been too great — the hope, the sudden despair. 
 When the old clerk returned with the water, he found that 
 the poor girl had fainted. 
 
 Mr. Stobbs was what is called a family-man-, nay, he piqued 
 himself on being a family-man 5 and all family-men, we are told, 
 understand fainting fits, hysterics, etc. A less experienced per- 
 son would have given an alarm 5 but he did not wish to enable a 
 set of idling young clerks to squander their time and crowd 
 round the poor young thing, who, he said to himself, was as 
 like his own Peggy as two peas •, so he said nothing else, but he 
 took off her bonnet, sprinkled her face with water, opened the 
 dingy window, and unclasped her cloak. 
 
 He was not frightened, at least, not very much ; although she 
 certainly did look much more marble-like than did Mrs Stobbs 
 when he refused to buy a pony-phaeton, and she fainted away 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 253 
 
 ir Peggy, when he would not take her to Margate for a month, 
 nd she fell into a swoon. For a moment or two, he began to 
 ear she was dead ; and he placed her gently on the floor, and 
 vas about to glide out by the back way, and bring in a surgeon ; 
 >ut the recumbent position revived her; he felt her hand move, 
 le saw her colour return, — he fanned her with a large banking- 
 100k, — he made her drink some of the water. She stared for a 
 noment in surprise 5 then understanding all that had happened, 
 he thanked him with a sweet smile, and declared herself quite 
 veil. 
 
 "Yes, Miss," said Stobbs, or as he was called by the young 
 •gentlemen" in the shop "Stobby," " you'll do now, I think: 
 •wing to my knowing something about it,— I'm a family-mau^ 
 Jiss. I've a wife and three daughters, Miss, all subject to fits ; 
 ind it isn't a trifle puts me out. Drink a little more water, Miss, 
 [here's your gloves, and there's your handkerchief, Miss. I'm 
 . family-man, Miss, and I understand these things." He had 
 olded up the gloves and the handkerchief. 
 
 "Want a pin, Miss? I always keep an assortment for Mrs. 
 itobbs and the girls. You'll do now, Miss." 
 
 At this moment Sir Croesus returned. 
 
 " Miss has been taken with a faint, Sir Croesus," said Stobbs; 
 'but ow T ing to my experience, being, as you know, a family- 
 nan, Sir Croesus, she has got over it." 
 
 "Very well; thank you, Stobbs," said Sir Croesus: "that 
 vill do." 
 
 " I am, indeed, very much obliged to you," said Blanche. 
 
 "Don't mention it, Miss," said Stobbs. " It's a good thing to 
 >e a married man ; a'ant it, Sir Croesus, a'ant it? " for he loved 
 i joke. 
 
 Sir Croesus made no answer; perhaps he began to have his 
 loubts. Stobbs left the room. 
 
 " And so you have been ill, my poor girl," said Sir Croesus, 
 [indly. "Well, alii can say, is, that your brother aint worth it." 
 
 k ' What has he done ? '* asked Blanche. 
 
 " It does not matter," replied Sir Croesus, " what he has done 
 
 me\ but he has offended Lady Hunter." Whereupon Sir 
 Zroesus took out of his pocket a very clever caricature. "There, 
 Hiss Blanche, that is meant for me ! and that is Lady Hunter! 
 rhose are my legs!" 
 
 Blanche saw to fatally that they were. Alas! Sir Croesus nri- 
 led himself on his legs. 
 
 "Oh!" said Blanche, smiling sweetly, "but you are too 
 loble to care for such boyish folly as that,— he means nothing." 
 
 " Means nothing by making me look like a turtle, and Gerry 
 
 1 maypole." exclaimed the angry banker. " Well, that's not the 
 
254 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 question now. When Gertrude shewed me this, I vowed that 1 
 would never lend the young scape grace another penny — nor will 
 I- but I am sorry for you, my dear; the more so, that you 
 would not tell a lie to gain your end, which is what I begin to 
 fear is the case with few women. Now, don't thank me; five 
 hundred pounds have been just placed in my hands this very 
 morning to lend to whom I please. Now, I please to lend them 
 to you j and if your silly little heart can't be at ease unless that 
 young dog has them, why there they are, and much good may 
 they do him. And now do you write a receipt on this for him, 
 and insist on his sending you one on a similar stamp." 
 ' Blanche, wholly unused to business, which, by the way, this 
 proceeding did not very much resemble, wrote the receipt with 
 a trembling hand, and thanked him with the wildest joy. 
 
 " Don't thank me," said he 5 ; ' the money is not mine 5 if it 
 were, he shouldn't have it— I hate him. Are those my legs, eh? 
 — answer me that, Miss Blanche — are they my legs? that's all. 
 —Good bye, my dear, he'll turn out ill, take my word for it."' 
 
 Sir Croesus handed Blanche to the carriage, and Mr. Stobbs 
 came forth to advise her to keep herself very quiet and go early to 
 rest, and particularly to take something nice and hot the last 
 thing before she got into bed. As a farnily-man, he knew that 
 was advisable — " Mrs Stobbs always did." 
 
 Blanche could scarcely believe her good fortune. She looked 
 at the notes, then put them in her purse,— then fancied they 
 would be safer in her pocket-book, — then in her glove. All she had 
 endured seemed nothing. Lionel's honour was saved. Her heart 
 swelled with gratitude to Providence 5 now, if she could but get 
 back to Dieppe, to her poor Juliet, and her dear mother, she 
 would be almost happy. Almost! why did she start, blush, and 
 sigh? A cab dashed hastily past her, she recognised the pale fea- 
 tures of Horace : — what was he to her? had she not refused him ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 When Blanche reached Hanover-square, she found Lady 
 Hunter there; the physician, too, had arrived-, he announced 
 Lady Sackville's disorder to be rheumatism, caught by too long 
 an exposure to the air by the river-side on the day before ; her 
 disoorder was much increased by the irritation of her mind, 
 brought on by Lady Barbara's successful counterplot , and 
 Blanche's (in her opinion) insane behaviour: for Jane had taken 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 255 
 
 care to annouce all she had learnt relative to Miss St. Aubyirs 
 rejection of Horace St. John. 
 
 So sulky and indignant did Lady Sackville feel, that she refused 
 lo admit her niece at all, but made known to her, through Ladv 
 Hunter, that as her doctor had ordered her to Brighton on the 
 following day, if she should be well enough to be removed, 
 Blanche had better be ready to go with her. as there would be no 
 lifficulty in finding some one there who would take charge of 
 ier to Dieppe. 
 
 This plan had been partly arranged by Lady Hunter, who, 
 )eing most exceedingly jealous of Blanche, was proportionally 
 :lad to remove her from the scene of her own triumphs. Blanche 
 vas delighted at the prospect of getting back to Juliet and her 
 nother, and yet her joy was not unmixed. The tears (she scarce 
 [new why] rose to her eyes ; but she turned away, lest Gertrude 
 ihould perceive them, and professed herself much obliged by the 
 irrangement which had been made for her. 
 
 Gertrude, then, who was anxious to sound Blanche relative 
 o her sentiments towards Horace St. John, and, perhaps, to 
 'licit something of which she might avail herself, to deter him 
 rom prosecuting his suit, proposed that as the weather had 
 ieared up, and Lady Sackville wished to be alone, they should 
 ;o to the exhibition of the Royal Academy, then held at Somer- 
 et House. Blanche, who as we know, thanks to the careful instruc- 
 ions of Eustace Murray, had acquired a highly cultivated taste 
 or painting, readily agreed. Lady Hunter's specious efforts 
 •roved abortive ; Blanche shrank from expressing any opinion of 
 Horace, and they reached Somerest House without Gertrude's 
 laving elicited anything she could in the slightest degree turn to 
 ccount for herunamiable purpose. 
 
 The rooms were very full. Blanche soon became interested in 
 aany of the pictures, and Gertrude was amused in quizzing 
 ome people, and recognising others. Blanche had taken a seat 
 opposite an exquisite picture by Edwin Landseer, and as all the 
 vorld admires Landseer, Gertrude, for fashion sake, gazed at it 
 oo. Suddenly, she was surprised to see Blanche start, her cheek 
 ssume the " orient blush of quick surprise," and gazing eagerly 
 t the catalogue, hear her say — 
 
 " Eustace Murray ! — is it possible ! — yet why not ? " 
 
 " To whom are you speaking, Blanche ?" said Gertrude, ironi- 
 ally ; ' : to some spirit of air I suppose, some invisible Apollo." 
 
 " Forgive me, Gertrude," said Blanche, blushing deeply } " I 
 elieve 1 was soliloquising." 
 
 " And who is Eustace Murray, fair cousin?" said Gertrude. 
 
 •• A young artist we know at Dieppe. I was surprised to see 
 is name among the exhibitors; yet 1 remember now, before I 
 
256 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 left France, he had finished a pair of exquisite pictures for this 
 exhibition." 
 
 " Did you know him well?" asked Gertrude with a rather par- 
 ticular manner. 
 
 " Oh! very well indeed," was the reply. 
 
 " Is he young and handsome," asked Gertrude even more 
 particularly, " as all votaries of the muses should be in these 
 days?' 7 
 
 " Yes," replied Blanche ; " he is young, and very handsome 
 or, perhaps, interesting and gentlemanly • for he is in delicate 
 health, and, although an artist and very poor, he is of a very 
 ancient family." 
 
 " This, then," thought Gertrude, "explains my sly cousin's 
 refusal of the Earl, and that which I would not believe when 
 mamma told me of it, her rejection of Horace St. John. Now 
 then, I think I can give him some information that will prevent 
 his incurring the peril of a second proposal, the peril of being 
 accepted, I should rather imagine-, for who upon earth could 
 refuse him twice? Yet why should / care; he will certainly 
 marry somebody?— ah! but the thought that Blanche should 
 obtain, without a single effort, the man 1 once so loved, — obtain 
 with every advantage of rank, wealth, and station, him I would 
 have gladly— proudly accepted had he been poor and unknown. 
 In what does she deserve of fate so much better than I do? I am 
 to the taste of some, more beautiful— I am as virtuous — i am as 
 amiable — at least — " Sophistry could go no further 5 it could not 
 persuade Lady Hunter she was as amiable. "At least, if not 
 weakly so, as this silly girl is, I perform my duties ; — then, why 
 should she, without a sacrifice, obtain what I bought with the 
 barter of every feeling, and taking into the miserable bargain, 
 vulgarity, hideousness, and age! So, no-, Horace shall not pro- 
 pose again, — at least, if I can help it. Still in my heart I envy 
 her the glorious pride of rejecting, almost as much as the enchant- 
 ing joy of accepting him." 
 
 Such were Lady Hunter's reflections, as with a calm brow and 
 a smiling lip she sat by Blanche's side, playing with an exqui- 
 site bouquet she held in her hand. 
 
 " Cousin," said Blanche, suddenly, " I want to find Eustace 
 Murray's pictures — they ought to be together, for they form a 
 pair, yet one is No. 6, and onelSo. 250; and, dear Cousin, you 
 who are so rich — so influential, you could do me a great favour, 
 it you would notice him. Order a picture of him— bring him 
 forward a little; do, Gertrude,— he deserves it well; and, as he 
 is a gentleman and rather proud, treat him as an equal,— at least, 
 in some degree, — will you Gertrude?" 
 
 "J will see what can be done for him," said Lady Hunter; 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 25? 
 
 y but first let me see what lie has done for himself. What are 
 the subjects?" 
 
 " They are from Byron : one is Conrad, when he finds Me- 
 dora dead; the other, Kaled supporting the wounded Lara." 
 
 "Very pathetic indeed!'" said Gertrude, sneeringly •, " pray 
 did you suggest them?" 
 
 " Yes,"' replied Blanche, unconsciously j" he has another, but 
 that is a small piece, only one figure —Moore's >~ourmahal. How 
 strange that I cannot find any of them. Oh! they cannot have 
 put it there— how unjust— how cruel; look, cousin !' and the 
 tears sparkled in her eyes. " Poor Eustace Murray ! they have 
 put his beautiful Medora behind the door, and so low one must 
 stoop to see it. How it will grieve him •,— look, Gertrude, is it 
 not lovely ?" 
 
 " I own," said Gertrude, " I am guided a great deal by the 
 opinions of the hanging committee-, in these things they are very 
 just I believe." 
 
 " Oh cousin!" said Blanche, " and can you be blind to the 
 poetry, the disposition, the drawing, the Titian-like colouring 
 of Eustace's Medora ; or can you see any merit in that atrocious 
 Sultana which occupies the best place in the room?" 
 
 " At any rate, I am not blind to your enthusiasm, nor to the 
 fact that the Medora is very like yourself." 
 
 " And there," said Blanche, pointing with dismay to a picture 
 placed too high, and in too bad a light to be seen, unless earn- 
 estly sought for,—" there is Kaled. Oh! those who placed it 
 there have neither eyes nor hearts!" 
 
 " Not like yours, certainly," said Gertrude. 
 
 " Now then for ZSourmahal," said Blanche. 
 
 >"ourmahal, asmall but exquisitely finished picture, wasfound, 
 after much seeking, in the window recess of the miniature room. 
 
 " Why that," said Gertrude, " affects no disguise, it is a mere 
 portrait of yourself 5 — rather absurd to be sure to give an eastern 
 maiden your blue eyes and yellow hair, Blanche— she looks more 
 like a Saxon, I think ; but it matters little, no one will see it." 
 
 " Ah ! that matters a great deal," said Blanche. " Poor Eus- 
 tace Murray, cousin. His address is here in the catalogue, — let 
 us drive there, and do, rich as you are, order a picture of him." 
 
 " Very well, come at once," said Gertrude, who felt particu- 
 larly anxious to see him. 
 
 " Stop," said Blanche, " I must look once more at his Me- 
 dora." 
 
 Gertrude unwillingly returned. A gentleman was gazing in- 
 tently at it. 
 
 " Well, some one shares my enthusiasm at any rate," said 
 Blanche. 
 
258 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Come then," answered Lady Hunter ; " you cannot go up 
 to it now." 
 
 At that moment the stranger turned round, he started, and 
 changed colour ; then suddenly exclaimed, " Miss St. Aubyn," 
 and half -offered his hand — then drew back a little, but Blanche 
 kindly proffered hers, and he could not decline it. 
 
 It was the young artist himself. Eustace Murray stood before 
 them 5 tears of bitter disappointment were in his eyes; he had 
 been ill ; this was the first time he had been able to visit the exhi- 
 bition, to ascertain the fate of the pictures which had cost him 
 so much toil, and from which he had hoped to reap a well- 
 deserved fame; he tried to conceal his bitter feelings-, he had 
 almost succeeded ; and almost smiled while he said— 
 
 "We provincial artists sadly overrate ourselves. See how 
 little they think of me here." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Blanche, warmly, " do not be cast-down by this 
 — do not, dear Mr. Murray, for your own, for your mother's 
 sake." 
 
 Eustace turned away, he was in the mood when the vo ice of 
 sympathy unlocks the flood-gates of sorrow— the sympathy of her 
 he loved could he bear it ! 
 
 " Ah, my mother! " murmured he, " had I forgotten thee ? " 
 He struggled for a moment,— the blood forsook his cheeks, 
 —his lips trembled, — he closed his hands convulsively — "But 
 then," said he, with a forced gaiety,— "'Kaled and Nourmahal 
 have fared no better,— but enough of them. Tell me what I shall 
 find here to make me forget their fate." 
 
 " Stop ! " whispered Blanche 5 " first let me present you to my 
 cousin, — she is rich, influential, and may—" 
 " Patronize me ! " said Eustace, with a melancholy smile. 
 " Cousin, this is Mr. Eustace Murray." 
 Gertrude bowed stiffly. She was the rich Lady Hunter ; he was 
 only a poor artist. She had expected a much more obsequious bow. 
 "I should like to purchase your Nourmahal," she said, 
 coldly. "What is its price?" 
 "It is not for sale, Madam," said Eustace. 
 " Could you not copy it for me? " asked the lady, 
 " I fear not," was the reply. 
 " Good morning," said Gertrude. 
 "Good morning, Madam," said the painter. 
 " Good bye, Mr. Murray," said Blanche, extending her hand, 
 in spite of the haughty bow with which Gertrude quittedjhim as 
 she swept away. " Why not have sold, or at least have copied 
 it? Her influence, her wealth, — nay, do not laugh,— her patro- 
 nage might be of use." 
 "I could never paint that face again," said Eustace, "nor 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 259 
 
 )art with the only copy the world will see of a morning dream 
 )f so much beauty. Wealth, influence, patronage, can avail me 
 lothing now, — they are of no use in the land to which I am 
 )Ound." 
 
 " And what land is that?" 
 
 " No matter. Farewell, Miss St. Aubyn." 
 
 " Blanche," said Gertrude, "/am waiting." 
 
 "Oh! give my love to your mother, Mr. Murray," said 
 Blanche. 
 
 " She is at Dieppe," replied Eustace. 
 
 "Then I shall tell her I have seen you," said Blanche. "I 
 Tturn to-morrow. May 1 say you are well? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Eustace; " tell her I am well, — very well, 
 —and very happy, and," and his eyes filled with tears. 
 
 At that moment the sun beamed brightly on his high pale brow. 
 Blanche started, — his eyes looked so sunken, so hollow — his 
 cheek so transparent. 
 
 " Oh ! you are not well," whispered Blanche. M Have you had 
 no advice?" 
 
 ••None; I require none indeed," answered he-, "but that 
 Lady calls you again! " 
 
 4i God Lless you," said Blanche, almost involuntarily, again 
 extending her hand. 
 
 " He will bless you" replied Eustace. 
 
 Blanche joined Gertrude, who had been talking to a lady and 
 gentleman of distinguished appearance. The lady was young, 
 tall, and very beautiful; the gentleman much older, but evi- 
 dently aristocratic. 
 
 "Who were those people?" said Blanche, eagerly ;" I am 
 sure I have seen their faces before." 
 
 " They are Mr. and Lady Marian YVyndham. Not married 
 a year, and already weary of each other. She ran away with 
 him, and now 1 believe would gladly run away from him; but 
 she is a strange creature ! "' 
 
 "Thank Heaven!" thought Blanche: "the Mr. Wyndham 
 she has married is not Montague." 
 
 When Blanche was out of sight, Eustace Murray was seized 
 with a passionate wish to see her once more. He rushed down 
 stairs, — he saw her enter the splendid carriage of Lady Hunter ; 
 the powdered footmen, with their gold-headed canes, sprang up 
 behind, dazzling as those of Cinderella,— the matchless steeds 
 bore the elegant chariot away,— Blanche saw him. smiled and 
 bowed : he felt sick at heart— he gazed on his worn attire— he 
 thought of the sudden and bitter disappointment of his bright 
 hopes of prompt success in London — his pictures would not be 
 seen, he had lost even his chance: obscurity, poverty, perhaps 
 
200 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 disgrace, would be his portion— the distance between Blanche 
 and himself had never seemed so great, so impassable. 
 
 The cup had long been full, but this was the overflowing 
 drop \ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The next day, Lady Sackville declared herself well enough 
 to go to Brighton in a close carriage. Poor Blanche ! It was a 
 hot summer day, and not one breath of air was to be admitted 5 
 the truth was, that Lady Sackville, although she had caught a 
 severe cold, was rather angry and cross than very ill. She hated 
 the dull confinement of her dressing-room, and shrank from 
 appearing in public after her treble disappointment 5 and so 
 she was glad to get out of the reach of sneers and questions. 
 
 Mrs. Leno had announced that the sea-air was very injurious 
 to her, and therefore she could not on any account trust herself 
 within reach of the sea, which to her mind was a huge monster, 
 always rolling and tossing about. Lisette, therefore, was ordered 
 to attend her mistress-, and Leno resolved, when they were 
 safe off, to celebrate her marriage with a fat neighbouring 
 butler at once, as she could have the repast at her mistress's 
 expense, do the thing in style, and wear any appropriate orna- ; 
 ment or dress that might be left behind. 
 
 Before they set off, Sir Caesar Whitehead called, attended by 
 Antonia and the Honourable Frederic Scantylands. Sir Caesar 
 was more magnificent than ever, and carried a large splendidly 
 bound volume under his arm. Antonia and Frederic paid little 
 attention except to each other, and Blanche had to entertain Sir 
 Ccesar. As she saw he expected to be asked what the work was, 
 which he so pompously displayed, she readily obliged him. 
 
 "Oh, that?" he said, carelessly, and as if surprised at the 
 question •, "do you mean that? It is merely a present I have 
 just received from the Bishop of Leicester-, his own Sermons; 
 my Lord's own excellent discourses. Curious hand his Lordship 
 writes-, does he not?" 
 
 1 With a strong feeling in favour of the honour, the merits, and the justice of the Royal 
 Academy, I have not ventured to vindicate that institution in the body of the work from 
 the imputations of Miss blanche St. Aubyn, who, as it appears to me, could only have 
 received her impressions of the iniquitous proceedings of the Hanging Committee from 
 Mr. Eustace Murray himself, who it should seem had never exhibited anything before. 
 But that which does require some explanation is the fact that Mr. Murray, who is broken- 
 hearted because his pictures are so unfavourably placed that they will not find pur- 
 chasers, should r fuse to sell one of them when a purchaser was found ; or why, if he did 
 not mean to sell the picture, he look the trouble to send it to the exhibition.— En. 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 561 
 
 And he turned to the fly-leaf, where in certainly a very curious 
 hand, and one the Bishop would not perhaps have recognised, 
 was inscribed — 
 
 "To his dear and valued kinsman, Sir Caesar Whitehead, and 
 to his lovely and excellent daughters, these Sermons are most 
 affectionately offered by their obliged and attached relative, 
 
 " Anthony Leicester." 
 
 Blanche read the inscription, admired the outside of the book, 
 doubted not that the inside corresponded, and then having 
 received several summonses from her aunt, was obliged to 
 apologise for leaving the Whiteheads, to prepare for her 
 journey. 
 
 " And so," said Sir Caesar, when he found Blanche was to 
 leave town that very day ; "You are really going? — sorry indeed ! 
 I came to invite you for Wednesday — an important day, on 
 which I am to have the melancholy pleasure of giving away my 
 pride, my glory, my comfort, in short, my Antonia! but I give 
 her to one in whose virtues and entire devotion to her, I have 
 perfect confidence," — (Sir Caesar had known the Honourable 
 Frederic two whole days ! yet, perhaps, for such perfect con- 
 fidence, that was more propitious than two whole years would 
 have been,) — "one who adorns the rank of which she has 
 always been considered no mean ornament ! In short, Miss St. 
 Aubyn, allow me to introduce as my future son-in-law the 
 Honourable Frederic Scantylands!" 
 
 Frederic looked very sheepish, and Sir Caesar having helped 
 himself largely to some wine and cake which stood on the 
 table, and Antonia having imitated him therein, and playfully 
 snatched a bouquet from a vase, they departed with many re- 
 grets from Sir Caesar, that Blanche could not be at. the wedding, 
 the more especially as, perhaps, he might have had the honour 
 and pleasure of presenting her to "My Lord Bishop of Leicester," 
 since he thought it more than probable that if his lordship 
 had not left town, he might offer to tie the indissoluble knot 
 himself. 
 
 Sir Caesar then caught up his treasured volume, and the whole 
 party disappeared. 
 
 Blanche had a wretched journey to Brighton. Lady Sackville 
 kvas very cross, and to her niece's great joy, on the day after 
 ler arrival, she met with Miss Primrose, who being now a 
 Partner in the boarding-house, and having given up husband- 
 mnting for a more promising speculation, with something of 
 the energetic spirit which had marked her attempt at Cousin 
 ^eofTrey, had come over to Brighton in search of remunerative 
 visitors for Mrs. Hodnol. Her enterprise had been more daring 
 
262 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 than successful ; and as she was about to return, having secured 
 the promise of a bachelor and a widow, she readily took charge 
 of Blanche. From her, Blanche heard that her own family 
 were well — all, except Juliet, who continued very delicate,— 
 that Cousin Geoffrey had not yet arrived, — that Mrs. Dash wood 
 had jilted the Major, and was married, at Paris, to Mr. Dubois, 
 —that the penitent Major had laid his willows at Miss White- 
 head's feet,— that by a merciful interposition of Providence, 
 Mr. Hodnot had become stone deaf,— and that if, as some 
 people hinted, it was owing to his lady's loud ravings at him, 
 she, poor dear thing! was punished; for now, bawl as she 
 might, he could not hear a word. 
 
 Lady Sackville parted with Blanche with more of ill-temper 
 than regret. A favourable wind sent her swiftly to Dieppe, 
 and her arrival at home was like a burst of sunshine on a dismal 
 landscape. 
 
 She was welcomed with unbounded joy; but the first trans- 
 port over, she soon saw that all was not well. Juliet looked 
 weaker, paler, thinner, than when she had left her. Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn seemed anxious and careworn — her husband cheerless 
 and dispirited, and even Eileen's cheerful Irish laugh was less 
 frequent than of yore. 
 
 The day after her arrival, Juliet received a long, devoted 
 letter from cousin Geoffrey, announcing his almost immediate 
 return. The three months of trial, he reminded her, were 
 more than past, and love and hope would wing his steps back 
 to her. 
 
 Blanche had as yet had no opportunity of speaking to Juliet 
 in private. As she saw her turn pale at the perusal of her letter, 
 she gently led her away, under pretence of taking a walk with 
 her, but in reality to spare her the somewhat feeble-minded 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn's untimely rejoicings in Geoffrey's return. 
 
 When Juliet reached her own room, she threw herself into 
 her sister's arms, and said — 
 
 " You know what I would ask. ' 
 
 Blanche hastened to tell her— 
 
 " I have seen both Mr. Wyndham and Lady Marian Wynd- 
 ham," she said; "she is the tall, fair, young creature I saw 
 here, and he is the stranger who attended her. Montague is 
 
 NOT HER HUSBAND."' 
 
 Blanche was not prepared for the wild burst of almost fren- 
 zied ecstasy her sister gave way to. 
 
 "Oh, Heaven be praised!" she exclaimed, while she fell on 
 her knees and hid her face, down which large tears were stream- 
 ing, in Blanche's lap. "Kind Providence! I have not prayed 
 night and day in vain ! Oh, Blanche, angel of hope and com- 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 160 
 
 fort I 1 may never see him more : but he is not guilty ; he is as 
 my heart, wiser than the judgment of men well knew; he is 
 
 noble, generous, wronged! I may die. Blanche: for lung has 
 been the struggle, and great the agony : but if I die, it will be in 
 the blessed hope of meeting him in heaven. Father, I thank 
 and bless thee !" 
 
 She sank on the floor, and for some time Blanche knelt by 
 her in silence, then, by gentle degrees, she restored her to 
 calmness: and leaning on her sister's arm, Juliet wandered with 
 her along the sea-shore. 
 
 Juliet then entrusted her sister with all her long-hoarded 
 misery : revealed her struggles, her conditional promise to 
 Geoffrey, now of course no longer binding ; she added — and 
 worse than all to Blanche's heart— her fears that her father had 
 been led to gamble again, and that actual want was staring 
 them in the face. 
 
 •• But Geoffrey will return — he will assist us.' s said Blanche. 
 ■• Rind and generous as he is. he will gladly hear that he was 
 deceived, — he will sacrifice his own happiness to yours,- he 
 always did." 
 
 Juliet shuddered : she remembered the scene on the cliff, and 
 she trembled for the trials that awaited them. She led Blanche 
 to the spot where that terrible interview with Geoffrey had 
 taken place. — the sea lay calm and blue before them, the air 
 was balmy, the sun shone, and flowers srew thickly at their 
 feet. 
 
 ''Here," said Juliet. ,; I have sat by the hour in your sad 
 absence. Dearest Blanche, I have vainly tried to accustom my- 
 self to the thought of Geoffrey: tried to forget — merciful Heaven! 
 who is that!'* she almost shrieked, as a tall figure was seen ap- 
 proaching : and pale. wan. altered, so that no eye less searching 
 than that of love could have recognised him. The doubt grew 
 into a certainty: she started up, exclaiming, "Montague!" — 
 then sank back, unable to move. 
 
 And Montague it was who knelt at her feet; but his tall 
 figure seemed bent: his once languishing eyes were dim; his 
 fair hair, long and neglected ; a settled sadness sat on his pale 
 features: his divs^. once so carefully attended to, hung loose 
 about his shrunk form, and was worn as if no thought had 
 attended its selection or adjustment. He looked the image of 
 the despair which had so long been brooding in his heart. 
 
 Blanche eagerly came forward to raise him : but Juliet at first 
 could only weep. At length she laid her warm hand upon his. 
 and said — 
 
 " Heaven bless you. Montague ! you are come at last : and it 
 you could not come with honour, you would not come at all" 
 
'264 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Touch me not. Juliet !" he murmured in the hollow voice of 
 despair, — lt there is blood upon my hand." 
 
 The girls started, and grew pale. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he added, wildly. " shrink from me — loathe me 
 — scorn me— I am a murderer ! You shall hear it from my lips. 
 Ere long that name will be publicly coupled with mine, and 
 every tongue will curse me. But you, Juliet. — you should only 
 weep for me : it was in defence of your spotless name I shed the 
 blood which has stained my soul, and driven me from you with 
 the brand of Cain upon my brow. A villain spoke lightly of you ; 
 my love was a madness — I killed him: nay. in fair encounter, 
 if there can be anything fair in the accursed custom which 
 sends man ready armed to kill his fellow-man. But I meant not to 
 kill him, Juliet: still he died by my hand, and I am his murderer! 
 Since then, I have lived Heaven only knows how— sometimes 
 in frenzy, sometimes in calm despair, sometimes scarce conscious 
 of either. I heard that another was blessed with that dear love 
 I once deemed mine, and for months I never dreamed of seeing 
 you again, till when in eternal misery I might raise my eyes 
 from a lake of fire to you, an angel in heaven ! It would sicken 
 your heart, Juliet, to hear what I have endured,— the last look of 
 my victim eternally before my eyes — on the open page — in the 
 blaze of day — in the depths of night— in the glare of noon ; and 
 then thy dear smiie, which might be mine no more, — that smile 
 another's " 
 
 "Stop, Montague!" said Juliet, " never has my heart given 
 one throb to another: every tongue blamed you, but this heart 
 adored you still. I have loved you. and you only. Oh ! can 
 you raise your eves to mine, and say you have been thus true 
 to me ? " 
 
 " Juliet," said "VYyndham, " I can : by Heaven I swear that no 
 voice save thine has gladdened my ear : I have shunned all other 
 eyes since I met thy last glance of love: I have worshipped no 
 earthly object save the memory of thee : and I would rather die 
 at thy feet than live adored by any on earth beside! And now I 
 must depart. I dreamt you called me to you: it was the first 
 time I had dreamt that you loved me still : but I must away 
 now, I ought not to be here." 
 
 "Pause, Montague," said Juliet. "Providence has laid a 
 heavy burden upon you. Let me share it, and I will make it 
 light. My tears shall wash away the stains, which have in them 
 no guilt. I will sit by you through the long nights : I will whisper 
 to you when thick-coming fancies make you start: I will drive 
 away the visions which dare not haunt the solitude made holy 
 by woman's deathless love; I will roam the world with you, ever 
 by vour side. If J loved you in your radiant joy. I worship yoa 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 265 
 
 in your hopeless anguish. I have impiously prayed for death ; 
 now I will weary heaven for life and health. Am I not not your 
 affianced one?" 
 
 "Angel!" murmured Montague, "angel of love and con- 
 stancy ! It may not be ! I will not link a creature so holy with 
 a murderer 5 1 will not embitter a life which may yet be lovely 
 by the moody anguish, the frenzied despair, of an outcast of 
 Heaven ! You know not what I am. I should see thee droop 
 and die, and then be doubly wretched. Never! no, never! 
 Hush, hush! they come, — I hear steps, voices, — I am not safe 
 here ! I have lurked for some time in these cliffs to see you. 
 But I now have learnt to dread the law — it can claim me! I 
 hear its agents are still looking out for me. Promise to see me 
 once more, — say this evening at ten — " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the sisters. " Flv, if there is danger in 
 delay." 
 
 Montague hastened down the cliffs, and was soon out of sight. 
 Juliet fell back in Blanche's arms, and for some time seemed 
 insensible; at length her tears gushed freely, and she rose to 
 retrace their path. They met Eileen, who came with the wel- 
 come news that Mr. Lionel had unexpectedly arrived. They 
 hurried home, and actually found him gladdening his father's 
 heart with the tidings that Lord Templeton was dead, and 
 that the best authorities had given their opinion that he was 
 the heir. 
 
 Lionel was inexpressibly shocked at the altered appearance 
 of Juliet. He looked at her with tears in his eyes ; then assum- 
 ing a new gaiety he said— 
 
 "A little good luck will set all to rights. The air of Templeton 
 will bring fresh roses to your cheeks. And I have not told you 
 all,— even if there is a delay there, here is something tangible." 
 
 He took out a letter— it contained a bank-note for a thou- 
 sand pounds. 
 
 " From an unknown friend, who offers this loan, to be paid 
 at your convenience, '" — such were the contents of the letter. 
 
 "Now," said he, "I will back my unknown friend against 
 all the known friends in the world. But what most delights me 
 is, that 1 can pay Cousin Geoffrey. Oh ! I did so hate the obli- 
 gation •, and he thought a good deal of it, I could see. But, thank 
 Heaven ! I only owe him three hundred pounds altogether, and 
 I will pay him the moment he comes ; and then, my dear mother, 
 as you say you have some debts here, you shall settle them with 
 the rest. Only think of paying Geoffrey all." 
 
 "Lionel," said Blanche, "be not ungrateful-, he had little 
 expectation of ever being paid when he lent you that money. 
 And whom do you suspect of this kindness?" 
 
266 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 "I don't know," said Lionel, " If Castleton had been aware 
 I was in want, I should have thought of him ; but he w r as not. 
 I know of no one else who had the will, and but one with in- 
 terest to serve me. Probably I made a conquest at your fine 
 dejeuner, Blanche, of some rich old maid ; I can think of no- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Juliet, you look very tired," said Mrs. St. Aubyn ; "go to 
 your room and lie down, my love." 
 
 Lionel caught her in his arms, and kissing her tenderly, 
 said — 
 
 "Go to sleep and dream of Templeton, July, and look at 
 that," —and he shewed her his bank note again and left her to 
 pursue her way to her own chamber. 
 
 "Blanche," said Juliet, "remember ten. I feel as if my life 
 depended upon his consenting to my sharing and soothing 
 his fate ! I feel, when I think of that, as if I could not die, 
 Blanche." 
 
 Blanche pressed her hand, closed the curtains, and said, 
 "Depend upon me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 While Juliet lay exhausted on her bed, revolving in her 
 mind how she should induce Montague to consent to her shar- 
 ing his wretched destiny, Cousin Geoffrey arrived, after more 
 than a three months' absence. He had been to America on im- 
 portant business, and he returned to claim Juliet. 
 
 The St. Aubyns were sitting down to dinner when he arrived. 
 He was disappointed that he could not see Juliet at once ; but 
 she had desired that she might not be disturbed, and Blanche 
 insisted that she should not. Cousin Geoffrey was bland and 
 gentle as ever, though a little annoyed at Lionel's insisting on 
 paying him : he made himself very delightful to Mr. St. Aubyn 
 by hailing him as Lord Templeton ; and by degrees, as the 
 dinner proceeded, he regained his influence over all present. 
 
 Meanwhile, the day wore on very heavily for Montague 
 Wyndham. Wrapped in a large cloak, he lay among the cliffs 
 —recalled every look and tone of Juliet's— wept, beat his breast, 
 and tore his hair; then fell on his knees, and prayed long and 
 fervently. A vender of fruits passing along the cliffs, he pur- 
 chased some, and having taken no other refreshment, he lay 
 down in a sheltered nook and slept. II was the first sw r eet and 
 balmy sleep he had tasted since he heard of De la Rue's death 
 
COUSLN GEOFFREY. 26? 
 
 He thought he knelt before the altar, with Juliet by his side ; 
 and that he bore her to the lovely cottage home he had once 
 described to her ; and all was joy without and peace within. 
 
 When he woke, the shades of evening were gathering around 
 him, but it wanted some time of ten o'clock ; — he felt a burn- 
 ing and irrepressible desire to see Juliet's home once more. 
 
 " It is dark," he thought ; "the moon is not yet up. No one 
 knows me here, or suspects my presence, — none would believe 
 I could be so rash as to tread the soil of France ; and the last 
 exorbitant sum De la Pole's relations have required of me has 
 been paid. I will look again on the home which her virtue and 
 truth have made as a temple." 
 
 And pulling his hat over his brows, and folding his ample cloak 
 around him, he turned towards the town. 
 
 It was getting dark, and the frequenters of the different ga- 
 ming-houses and saloons were repairing thither. The St. Au- 
 byns' house looked (in front) into the Grande Rue, and behind, 
 it opened on theplage, a sort of green sward, running parallel 
 with the sea,— Juliet's window was at the back of the house- 
 Montague perceived a light moving to and fro ; he thought she 
 was perhaps preparing for their last interview, — his heart beat 
 quickly, as he distinctly traced a slight shadow on the white wall; 
 he knelt on the green sward, and breathed one of those fervent 
 prayers which, borne on the wings of faith, generally finds its 
 way to the throne of Grace ; and then, fearing they might be at 
 the rendezvous before him, he rose and hastened on. 
 
 On his way back, he passed the Salon des Bains, (a well-known 
 house for play:) the windows looked upon the sea; and as he 
 passed close beneath them, he felt a strange impulse stirring 
 within him which induced him to look in. A shorter person 
 could not have effected this, but he was very tall, and did it with 
 ease. As he gazed, a sight met his view which curdled the blood 
 at his heart-, for a moment he was dizzy, he very nearly fell — 
 the next, he recovered and renewed his watch : two men were 
 playing dearth $ he could only see their profiles-, but there are 
 faces which the searing-irons of misery have burnt into the heart, 
 and such were these, — the game was completed, the loser rose, 
 in something like anger, - the winner swept up the stakes, threw 
 himself on a sofa, and called for refreshments. 
 
 The other stood for a moment irresolute, and leaving the room, 
 came out upon the shore. Montague softly stole from the window, 
 and followed him with noiseless step ; but a light breeze rustled 
 his cloak, and the gamester heard it; he looked round — " Good 
 heavens ! " Montague beheld his face distinctly, and as distinctly 
 he heheid Montague's. As if pursued by a demon, he made the 
 best of his way across the shore: he was light and active — 
 
•268 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Montague was feeble with misery and fasting, but a power up- 
 held him from which the wicked vainly flee. He followed — the 
 gamester is still some yards before him,— he rushes under the 
 cliffs,— depending on his agility,— he tries to climb them, and 
 lose himself amongst them. Montague gains upon him, — he has 
 caught his cloak, — the man unclasps it, and dashes on in vain; 
 a firm hand grasps him— Montague drags him into the full light 
 of the now risen moon 5 the man falls on his knees, urging, " I 
 will confess all ; " but Montague, laughing in the wildness of his 
 joy, while tears pour down his cheeks, exclaims — 
 
 "De la Rue! alive! Thanks, gracious Heaven! I am no 
 murderer ! Juliet, my soul is not stained eternally! No, no, no!" 
 
 And he laughed in frenzied joy, and embraced the cowardly 
 impostor, and called him " his dear, his blessed De la Rue ! " 
 
 Presently a calmer mood succeeded, and he understood it all. 
 De la Rue thinking to take advantage of his inexplicable ecstasy, 
 murmured something like an apology, and was glancing with a 
 watchful eye, that he might, if possible, effect his escape-, but 
 Montague, who had recovered from his frenzied joy, grasped 
 his collar again, and said— 
 
 " I know you for a villain and an impostor, yet do I meet 
 your face as I would that of an angel welcoming me to Paradise. 
 Oh! De la Rue, you have drawn from me many large sums by 
 your pretended death, -poor trickster! You knew not that I 
 would have gladly paid them a hundred fold to know that you 
 were alive! Come, now, she shall see thee! She shall know that 
 thou livest, and that I am not a murderer — and then, poor 
 coward, thou art free." 
 
 De la Rue could not escape, and he followed in mute astonish- 
 ment with a Frenchman's notions of the venial nature of such 
 a crime as that of honourably killing an antagonist in a fair en- 
 counter-, he could not understand the intense horror which the 
 imaginative and pious mind of the young Englishman attached to 
 the deed. Still he said he was in a melting mood. And he said to 
 him " Sacrel—je suis Franc moi" {Franc, the fellow who 
 had been, for many months, pretending he was dead, for a 
 swindling purpose, actually boasting that he was Franc I) " I 
 have been to blame, but I know how to own a fault, and that 
 comes next to concealing one. I am not the chief io this affair, — 
 I am a poor devil, ruined to-night by Le Grand whom you saw 
 with me. You have an enemy in the cousin and lover of Juliet St. 
 Aubyn, Geoffrey St. Aubyn, whom you know as .Merton. Assure 
 me enough money to try my fortune with Le Grand again, and I 
 will unmask Merton and save her and hers from his machina- 
 tions." 
 
 iC Beit so," said Montague 5 ^ name your price.'' 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 269 
 
 "Two hundred louis will be to me enough for one more 
 chance," said the incorrigible gamester. 
 
 " You shall have it," said Wyndham, " if you can prove to 
 me that you can really serve the St. Aubyns." 
 
 By this time they were approaching the spot of rendezvous. 
 The moonlight was clear and bright as day, and as they climbed 
 the cliffs Montague distinctly saw, that not merely Blanche and 
 Juliet, but several other persons were assembled there. The 
 truth was, that it was near eleven,— the sisters had been there 
 since ten,— they had been missed at home. Eileen, closely ques- 
 tioned, admitted that she had heard them planning a walk to the 
 bower in the cliffs, as this spot was called. Mr. and Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn, Lionel, and cousin Geoffrey, much alarmed, set out in 
 search of them, and took the inland road. They had just arrived 
 en masse when Montague appeared, dragging De la Rue by the 
 collar, — he hastened forward, heedless of the presence of any 
 one except Juliet, pushed every one else aside, and reaching 
 the spot where she sat, flung the Frenchman at her feet. 
 
 "Juliet! " he exclaimed, " I have found him! See, he lives! 
 Thy love, thy constancy, have won this boon from Heaven, — I 
 am not a murderer, — I may claim thee now! " 
 
 He caught her in his arms, and while he held her in a wild 
 and long embrace, her tears fell copiously, yet she was richly 
 blessed. 
 
 Lionel, who had been at a little distance behind the rest of the 
 party, hearing the noise, ran forward, and upon beholding 
 Wyndham clasping his sister to his bosom, he cried— 
 
 "The Earl of Castleton here! and thus!— what does it 
 mean?" 
 
 "It means," said he, still clasping Juliet, " that she is mine 
 for ever! I won her (weak and hateful disguise foreign to my 
 nature and fraught with danger ! ) as Montague Wyndham. She 
 loved me as an humble, vilified, unknown, and branded man. 
 She is mine now in peace, in wealth, in honour; there is no 
 stain upon my hand, and I can clasp hers forever. In a boyish 
 fancy to search for true love, which yet, thank Heaven, I have 
 found! I took my mother's name of Wyndham! Plotters came 
 between us, and they plotted well 5 they made me believe that 
 I had killed this man, De la B.ue, whom I had met in a duel ; they 
 did it to separate me from her, and to gain large sums for them- 
 selves. They availed themselves of my assumed name to make 
 it appear that I was married." 
 
 " And who," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, pale and weeping,—" who 
 was the lady with whom you left Dieppe? " 
 
 " My sister Marian, "—replied he, "a forward girl, who, un- 
 like your daughters, was unblessed in childhood with a mother 
 
270 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 to watch and guide her. She eloped with her cousin, the last 
 man on earth she should have chosen, yet the first she chose-, 
 she trembled at mv discovery of her rashness, and made me vow 
 to keep her secret; my duty as a brother compelled me to see 
 her united to him with whom she had eloped, and this was 
 wrested to the purpose of my foes, but it availed not; the visi- 
 ble hand of Providence has been upon us, and we have 
 triumphed. Sir, your blessing! Juliet, kneel with me to your 
 parents, they will not refuse you to me now ! " — 
 
 Fond and fervent was that blessing-, and when Montague 
 rose, he met the pale, distorted face of Cousin Geoffrey. 
 
 " Ah! Mr. Merton here?" said he, scornfully. 
 
 "Now will I redeem my pledge," said De la Rue, no longer 
 speaking a mixture of broken English and French, but talking 
 rapidly and well in perfect English. "Merton, alias Geoffrey 
 St. Aubyn, is at the bottom of all this 5 he has shared the spoils ; 
 he is your rival with Miss Juliet St. Aubyn— and yours, Sir," 
 he said, turning to Mr. St. Aubyn, "for the title and estate of 
 Templeton." 
 
 "No rival ! " said cousin Geoffrey, coldly ; " I am the lawful 
 heir, as this copy of a marriage register and extract of baptism 
 will prove. I promised to forego my claim to the title and estate 
 for Juliet's hand ; and during her father's life, I will not prove 
 that claim, even now, if she is bestowed upon me." 
 
 "You have reckoned ill," said the little Frenchman, with a 
 glare of triumph. " While I was in your pay, you struck me, 
 and called me dog 5 a Frenchman never forgives an injury, nor 
 forgets a benefit. You took me with you to New York, after 
 my pretended death, to assist in your schemes 5 you told me as 
 much as suited your convenience ; but I was resolved to know- 
 all that could suit mine. You carried with you a spy, whom you 
 considered only a tool-, you thought me ignorant of your lan- 
 guage and your laws ; but my mother was an Englishwoman, 
 and I know both well. I watched you narrowly; it matters not 
 by what agency I gained my knowledge, but if needed, it is 
 forthcoming. Mr. Merton, alias Mr. Geoffrey, je ne sais quoi, 
 you have no right upon earth to the name of St. Aubyn. The 
 Geoffrey St. Aubyn who settled in New- York was your ances- 
 tor 5 but, as you well know, he never married, and your branch 
 of the family is an illegitimate one. You forged those extracts 
 and the registers from which they are taken, and I can prove it." 
 " Liar! Villain ! " exclaimed Geoffrey, darting like a tiger on 
 his prey, at the smiling and composed De la Rue -, butCastleton 
 and Lionel interposed, and the agile Frenchman adroitly skipped 
 aside. 
 " No matter," said the baffled Geoffrey ; " you are not worth 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 271 
 
 my vengeance; you will live a few miserable years a gambler, 
 and die a felon,— why should I spare you that ignoble fate ! For 
 you, Lord Castleton, you have been so long my unresisting- 
 victim, that I rather scorn than curse you ; and oh ! St. Aubyn, 
 vain, weak father of a weaker son, 1 have loaded you with be- 
 nefits and you have paid me with the black coin of ingratitude. 
 May the curse of him whose bread you have eaten, whose cloth- 
 ing has warmed you, and whose purse has been open to you, sit 
 for ever on your heart. Boy ! —you have paid me back the 
 money— you can never pay back the obligation,— my curse be 
 on you all; and you, Juliet! loved with a love to which yon 
 feeble stripling's is as the morning star to the noon-day sun,— 
 you for whom I would have foregone, during your father's life, 
 the title and the wealth I could have claimed,— you who have 
 shared my heart with nothing but ambition, and even held the 
 larger share ! trebly, girl, will my curse fall upon you." 
 
 "Enough," said Mr. St. Aubyn; " There is no curse you can 
 bestow on us so heavy as that which the thought that you were 
 injuring those whom your benefits should have made sacred, 
 must bring to your own heart, and for this register" — 
 
 " Juliet ! " said Geoffrey, " my last words here are for you— 
 listen ! If I inserted the register that coward De la Rue spake 
 of 5 1 did it because I believed that such must have existed once; 
 for there is no truth in the instinct of nature, no reliance on her 
 promptings, if I am not nobly born. And I would not have de- 
 ceived you with, as I believed, the power to prove a claim, all 
 the dearer because I had perilled so much to make it seem valid; 
 yet for your love would I have forborne for you and your poor 
 father, towards whom I have felt a yearning, almost a ten- 
 derness, the sole weakness of my heart, and which in its de- 
 grading assimilation to his feeble nature, proves me indeed a 
 St. Aubyn !— but I do own that my forbearance would have 
 ceased at his death. I should have gloried in wresting the co- 
 ronet from one I have ever loathed, as we hate the weak impe- 
 diment which yet may frustrate our ends! I go for ever!— you 
 rejoice, but you will yet weep my departure, Juliet, — you will 
 yet in your turn, despised, forsaken, recalmy long and boundless 
 love. I leave to you and yours the bitter legacy of an eternal 
 remorse. You are sensitive, Juliet, and you love to wander 
 alone,— you will wander alone no more, for he whom you 
 have destroyed will be ever by your side. Farewell ! 1 am 
 avenged ! " 
 
 There was a solemn emphasis in this long address which held 
 all who heard it spell-bound. As he spoke the last words, he 
 waved his hand to Juliet, -turned as if to depart ,— walked 
 forwards with a steady step, — looked round with an air of 
 
272 COL SI IS GEOFFREY. 
 
 triumph, — and with one spring, dashed himself from the edge 
 of the cliff—into eternity. 
 
 None had even dreamed of his intention, — Juliet sank on the 
 ground, — Blanche and her mother uttered shriek upon shriek-, 
 their horror-striken companions succeeded in leading the ladies 
 home, and then hastened with lanthorns to the foot of the cliff 
 —but it was high water 5 the sea had washed away all record 
 of the suicide and his crime— but the day will cone when the sea 
 shall give up its dead ! 
 
 Geoffrey's prophecy was in some degree fulfilled ; his last 
 words long vibrated on Juliet's ear 5 long did his vision- haunt 
 her in solitude, and glide before her, even by the side of her 
 lover. Her enfeebled health rendered the shock a severe one, 
 but Montague watched her so tenderly, — he strove so anxiously 
 to divert her thoughts,— he whispered to her such sweet and 
 soothing words, and there is such a beguiling spell in the voice 
 we love! And by degrees she raised her drooping head, and 
 smiled upon him— 
 
 " A lily beaten by the storm, 
 Reviving in the sun." 
 
 The sanguine and now happy St. Aubyn was all anxiety to 
 leave Dieppe, and Juliet was soon well enough to endure the 
 journey. 
 
 The St. Aubyns had not been long in England before our 
 heroine's father was Earl of Templeton, and the Gothic halls 
 of her ancestors echoed with the now joyous notes of the happy 
 Lady Juliet. 
 
 Her parents had gladly consented to her union with Lord 
 Castleton, her mother stipulating only that before she gave up 
 the privilege of being ever by her side, the rose of perfect 
 health should bloom again upon her cheek ; and already it was 
 dawning there. We will leave her awhile in her noble and happy 
 home, With her delighted father, her fond mother, her gentle, 
 but now not joyous sister, her enraptured lover, and her dear 
 thoughtless Lionel, to inquire after another in whom we hope 
 our reader feels some slight interest. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Lord Castleton's was a curious character, and it had placed 
 him in curious circumstances. When first he had become 
 acquainted with Juliet, he was untried by any real sorrow ; he 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 2/3 
 
 was a singular mixture of truth and romance — of genius and 
 simplicity — of deep feeling and sportive gaiety. United to the 
 most fervent love of truth, and the most perfect sincerity, had 
 been the wildest romance of disposition, and the most impas- 
 sioned warmth of heart. 
 
 That some strange mystery enveloped himself, his fate, and 
 his present circumstances, was evident at once to Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn. It was clear there was something which he wished to 
 conceal. Any one else would have invented a plausible story 5 but 
 he had taken refuge in total silence •, silence as to his present 
 fortunes, his future hopes: and from the first this impressed 
 her favourably. If he were not honourable, what so easy as to 
 feign : and if too high minded to do so, it was not likely that the 
 mystery involved disgrace. It w T as thus she had argued with her- 
 self before even she had negatively sanctioned his intimacy with 
 her family. His romantic and impassioned nature had led him 
 into circumstances, and involved him in intricacies, in which 
 any other, in order to appear consistent, would, as we have just 
 said, have resorted to artifice. Montague had used none. 
 
 Montague till he met Juliet had never loved. He had fancied 
 that beloved — that he was loved. He had found himself deceived, 
 — deceived, he who so worshipped truth ! The ungrateful girl 
 who had so sworn she loved him, by an inadvertency in misdi- 
 recting to him a letter meant for another, had let him into the 
 fact, that while it suited her views to marry him. what she 
 chose to call her heart was given to a rival. The misdirected 
 letter addressed to this rival and beginning. "My own love," 
 was read twice, before the suspicion of the truth flashed on 
 AYyndham's mind 5 when it did, the cold blast of scorn nipped 
 every flower of love which had begun to bloom in his heart. For 
 his sole reply, he returned the letter, together with every other 
 one the treacherous girl had ever written to him. 
 
 En passant, we may here observe that Cousin Geoffrey, as 
 soon as the St. x\ubyns had mentioned in their letters their inti- 
 macy with Montague Wyudham, had established a system of 
 espionage, and by dint of persevering inquiries had ascertained 
 who Montague really was. The story of his former attachment 
 became known to him; by a mere coincidence, the name of his 
 treacherous deceiver had been ?\Iarian, the same as his sisters, 
 and thus accident seemed strangely to confirm the statements 
 Geoffrey had made in his letter to Juliet, warning her against 
 Montague. 
 
 As he had reason to believe his rank and fortune had induced 
 his false mistress to profess that she loved him, in the first blind 
 and uncalculating rage and bitterness of his heart, at the disco- 
 very of her treachery, he had bound himself by a solemn vow, 
 
 lb 
 
274 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 if ever he again (which he had then deemed unlikely) sought to 
 win a woman's love, he would make the effort unaided by one 
 extrinsic advantage. She should not know that he possessed 
 either wealth to surround her with luxuries, nor station to flatter 
 her vanity, nor prospects to delight her ambition. If enveloped 
 in mystery, (which is always by the charitable world interpreted 
 disadvantageous^,) if unknown, and living in apparent obscu- 
 rity, some fond and gentler being were to be found capable of 
 loving him for himself alone ! — but no; his first disappointment 
 recurred to his mind ; he despaired, he pondered. With reflec- 
 tion had come renewed confidence in his own power to please 
 and win, and a few 7 weeks after the fortunate discovery we have 
 recorded, Montague, Lord Castleton, taking his mother's name 
 of Wyndham, had set out on a sort of Burchell expedition in 
 search of true love. 
 
 The fair but false image of her who had deceived him 
 soon faded from his mind. Virtue alone wears those bright and 
 enduring colours which will retain their freshness through all 
 changes of time and place. Falsehood may charm the senses for 
 a time, but the searching telescope of memory reveals her as she 
 is. The axe had been laid to the root of that esteem which is the 
 only firm foundation on which love can be raised, and the 
 whole fabric fell, burying in its ruins some vanities, some follies, 
 but leaving uninjured all the real pillars of Montague's character 
 — truth, faith, proud respect for himself, and trustful confidence 
 in others. 
 
 Still the hasty vow of the moment, while it might have had its 
 advantages in enabling him to judge whether he was really 
 loved, had entailed many unforeseen annoyances: on one so 
 frank, so open, it had been a constant disguise, a perpetual re- 
 straint, on the confiding sincerity of his nature. 
 
 His vow, unheard by any mortal ear, had yet been to him 
 binding as if made before assembled multitudes, and compelled 
 him to wed no woman who had not loved him with that exclu- 
 sive, uncalculating, confiding fondness which would induce her 
 to accept him, unacquainted with his birth, ignorant of his con- 
 nexions, uncertain as to his resources. She must love him well 
 enough to be heedless of, to overlook all besides, and to pledge 
 herself in this unenlightened state to be his wife. 
 
 The disguise which he had imposed upon himself soon became 
 odious to him. How often had he panted to feel sure that Juliet 
 really loved him, — loved him with all the entire and exclusive 
 preference and devotion for which his heart sighed ; then resting 
 his claim on nothing but his love, without one gaudy, worldly 
 lure,— one glittering toy to captivate her fancy, — professing to 
 have nothing but himself to proffer I Himself— his passionate 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 275 
 
 and noble heart, and the promised devotion of all after -life. Then 
 would he have knelt to her 5 then would love have lent him elo- 
 quence ; then had he sometimes hoped that Juliet— -the gifted, ra- 
 diant, all -enchanting Juliet— would bid him be happy! Then 
 disguise would have been at an end, and Lord Castleton would 
 have frankly asked the fond parents to approve their Juliet's 
 choice. 
 
 Such had been Montague's occasional day-dreams during his 
 early intimacy with Juliet. Sometimes he had almost fancied 
 that an hour alone with her would decide his fate. A little while, 
 and the strange and fitful girl, by some sudden and unexplained 
 change of tone and manner, had forced him to doubt whether 
 he had actually made any progress in her favour, and to rejoice 
 that he had not run the risk of her rejection. 
 
 Such had been his feelings, such his doubts, during his early 
 intercourse with the St. Aubyns. Then came his sudden and 
 mysterious disappearance, and with a Lady Marian •, then his 
 duel in Paris— the pretended death of De la B.ue— and his flight. 
 The arch plotter, Geoffrey, had indeed coiled his folds around 
 him. As Mr. Merton he made him believe that Juliet was en- 
 gaged to her cousin Geoffrey— his most Jesuitical self. Then his 
 long despair — his intolerable remorse — and then that myste- 
 rious longing, and miraculous determination, almost like Provi- 
 dence interfering to reward the unspeakable faith and constancy 
 of Juliet, — tried as woman has been rarely tried, yet triumphant, 
 though persecuted almost unto death. 
 
 But it was over! Past anguish, past estrangement, made them 
 but the more grateful to Heaven — the more devoted to each 
 other 5 and unlike most wild schemes of early life, Lord Castle- 
 ton's had secured complete happiness. But there are few Mon- 
 tagues, and, we fear, fewer Juliets. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Lady Hunter took good care to communicate to Sir Horace 
 St. John her suspicions relative to Blanche's attachment for the 
 young artist. She described her anxiety, her tears, her blushes, 
 —she exaggerated all. Horace at first felt strangely uncomfort- 
 able j but a little reflection drove the feeling away. Spite of 
 Blanche's decided rejection, he felt certain that her heart was 
 not indifferent to him. Men often imagine themselves to be the 
 objects of passions which exist only in their own vain fancies; 
 but are very cautious in believing in an indifference which does 
 not betray itself in every word and action. No man is really 
 loved without very soon discovering it. And Horace St. John 
 
276 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 had been disappointed, but not discouraged. Well has a modern 
 writer exclaimed : — 
 
 " In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves 
 For a bright manhood, there is no such word as fail! " 
 
 and Horace St. John was not disposed to insert it there. 
 
 Gertrude's account excited a lively, but not a jealous, interest. 
 He was noble, too, and felt, or said to himself that he felt, capa- 
 ble of befriending Eustace Murray, even were he dear to 
 Blanche, (for her sweet sake 5 ) then, too, these pictures—so 
 like, as Gertrude said, "The sweet lace smiled upon her from 
 the canvass"— what joy to see, perhaps to possess them ! 
 
 He had some difficulties to contend with 5 for the poor artist, 
 who, with little knowledge of the world (the London world par- 
 ticularly), had deemed his small sum an exhauslless treasure, 
 had taken at first expensive lodgings, and had soon found that 
 he must exchange them for the meanest, and those, perhaps ere 
 long, for a prison. He had left his mother at Dieppe, with 
 enough to supply her with every comfort there 5 and took care 
 not to embitter her life by the tidings of his disappointment and 
 misery. He was ill, very ill-, and one of the bitterest of the 
 thoughts which haunted his sleepless nights was, what that poor- 
 mother would do when he could toil no more. 
 
 He was sitting in a miserable back room, to which Horace 
 with difficulty traced him, in a close part of the close city, where 
 the artist's eye, which so delighted in the loveliness of nature, 
 could see nothing but chimney-pots and black walls. In this 
 wretched retreat, at once his bed-room and his atelier, amid the 
 incarnations of the beautiful, which should have brought him all 
 this world can give, — on his bed, sate the young disappointed 
 artist. There was a strong unwholesome smell of oils and co- 
 lours, and a picture stood upon an easel : he had been trying to 
 paint, but his hand and his eyesight failed him. And when Ho- 
 race knocked at the door, he was sitting in mute despair, while 
 the tears he had controlled till that bitter hour forced themselves 
 from his very heart. He dried them 5 and then, expecting his 
 landlady to ask for the rent, which he had not in his possession, 
 he gently said, " Come in. 1 ' 
 
 The sensitive Eustace blushed that a stranger (one, too, of the 
 class to which he by birth belonged] should see him thus. But 
 Horace had both tact and kindness. " He came," he said, — 
 " for Mr. Murray's fame was beginning to be known in London, 
 — to request him to honour him with a visit, and to induce him 
 to let him become the purchaser of some of his works." 
 
 His fame known! Ah, how wildly beat the heart of the poor 
 artist at those words! And that miserable garret was as a tern- 
 
COIJSin GEOFFREY. "2/ 
 
 pie to Horace: for there was scarcely a picture which was not 
 radiant with some face that recalled Blanche's. 
 
 The Medora and ZSourmahal were still at the exhibition: and 
 Eustace himself was scarcely aware how much of Blanche there 
 was in those which, however, driven as he was, he yielded, with 
 a sigh, to his generous purchaser. Horace read his heart. He 
 saw that he loved - and loved in vain : and he felt as one feels 
 towards an afflicted brother. 
 
 Having written a cheque for the pictures, and secured a pro- 
 mise from Eustace that he would accompany him on the morrow 
 to Everton Park, Horace took his leave: and Eustace said to 
 himself — 
 
 "My mother will have a friend, and I am deeply grateful. 
 For me all earthly blessings are vain : I feel it here. And Blanche 
 would not love me were my fame on every lip in Europe: and 
 without her love, what were fame worth to me ? " 
 
 In Horace's elegant and stately hails, amid his ancient groves 
 and bright gardens, and in his delightful and hospitable society, 
 the young artist for a time felt his spirits revive. A few months 
 Ago, and this change might have saved him ; but it was too late. 
 Alas ! what words are so bitter as those ! Still, visions of fame, 
 the well-grounded hope of just appreciation, soothed his last 
 hours : the sun, which had been so dimmed at noon, seemed as 
 if it were destined to set in glory. And Horace made his works 
 known to artists of eminence, and they crowded to Everton to 
 applaud and to encourage, and the newspapers and magazines 
 teemed with his praise, and he lived to see a halo round his 
 name!— but it was too late ! 
 
 He was of the kindly disposition so often given to the highest 
 order of genius, and he soon loved Horace St, John, and that 
 luve was richly repaid. He told him his melancholy story, and 
 received in return Horace's entire confidence. 
 
 " I felt,"' said Eustace — and his colour paled as he spoke, — 
 11 1 felt she loved. When I saw her last, I felt that there was a 
 change in her eyes, on her cheek. My heart was a true 
 prophet ! " 
 
 " Alas! no," said Horace : " have I not told you she rejected 
 me at once?" 
 
 "And did you not deserve it?" asked Eustace; "yet she 
 loves you still. Love, love, cherish, adore her, as I would have 
 done : and may Heaven yet bless you with her ! " 
 
 After this conversation, Eustace Murray grew gradually paler 
 and weaker: at length he kept his bed, and entreated that his 
 mother might be sent for. 
 
 - 1 Do not alarm her." he said ; " a hint that I am suffering will 
 bring her to mv side." 
 
278 COUSIN GtOFFREY. 
 
 It was a warm, rich summer evening; all was beauty without, 
 and luxury within ; yet the young artist lay on the bed of death. 
 He had caused his couch to bespread near the open window, and 
 was gazing with a lover's parting gaze on the beautiful sunset ; 
 the physician had left them with that awful silence ominous of 
 the approaching doom 5 and Horace St. John held the hand of 
 this dear, though lately-found friend. 
 
 " When I am gone," said Eustace, placing a letter in Horace's 
 fiand, "cause this to be given to — her. Ah! my mother! my 
 dear, dear mother ! — she comes ! she comes ! — I see her! I know 
 her step ! " 
 
 The mother knelt by his side, and Eustace fainted in her 
 arms. 
 
 We will not dwell on a scene so painfully sacred as that of a 
 mother's anguish for an only, a loved, a deserving son. The 
 summons had found her ill 5 but what was illness to her? — at 
 that hour she felt it not ; she lived but in her son ; she rested not 
 till she had clasped him to her breaking heart : hope had upheld 
 her till then, but she saw death legibly tracing itself in those 
 idolized features ; she could not weep — there is a grief too deep 
 for tears — and that is the grief that kills. 
 
 Eustace begged to pass the night with no nurse except his 
 mother, and Horace withdrew from their mutual thanks and 
 blessings. Of the bitter anguish of that night there were no 
 spectators. 
 
 When Horace, who had sat up till morning, surprised by the 
 unwonted stillness, entered the room, a glance shewed him that 
 death had claimed his victim. The mother was kneeling by the 
 bedside, her head on the now cold bosom of him who had been 
 all the world to her. Horace feared to intrude upon her anguish, 
 and gently closed the door. In about an hour he came again ; 
 and in the same attitude she knelt there still. 
 
 Horace summoned assistance ; he thought that she had faint- 
 ed. They raised her — her face was rigid, her limbs cold and stif- 
 fened to the posture she had knelt in. One hand clasped a Bible, 
 and one was locked in the death grasp of her son. Heaven had 
 had pity on the widow : in that awful struggle which none had 
 witnessed, her poor fond heart had broken : — who will not own 
 that she was blessed ? 
 
 The crumbling ruin had been upheld by the interlacing ivy 
 which had grown, from a mere adornment, to a vital support ; 
 the ivy was rent away, and the ruin fell. 
 
 Eustace Murray and his mother were buried side by side at 
 Everton, in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful little 
 church-yard in England. It was a spot of gentle gloom and 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 2/9 
 
 holy stillness which the young artist had loved in life ; and there 
 the bones of the weary and disappointed victim now rest. Well, 
 — his poor mother ! She was laid by his side 5 and she would 
 rather have been laid by his side in death, than have sat without 
 him on the throne of the world. We will not weep for them ; — 
 weep rather, ye pitying spirits, for the many still enduring the 
 protracted struggle, of which this was the blessed result. Is it 
 not sweeter to lie resting under the sheltering evergreens, 
 gemmed morning and evening with nature's tears, — your dirge 
 the sweet, note of the nightingale,— watched by the holy stars,— 
 unsought by man, save when some kind and unforgetting friend 
 sheds the one tear that falls for " all who die ; " or when some 
 young lovers, whose passion has in it a touch of sadness, wan- 
 der to the early grave, and while they read there that youth, 
 and hope, and beauty are no guarantees below, cling the more 
 wildly to each other, and exchange the vows of that love whose 
 perfection on earth shall secure its immortality in heaven. Is it 
 not sweeter to sleep thus than to toil in cities, hoping even 
 against hope ; till your powers, unrecognised by others, are fast 
 becoming doubtful even to yourself? 
 
 The melancholy fate of the poor artist was a fine theme for 
 the fastidious drawing-room sentimentalists, who would have 
 despised in life him whom they so honoured in death. Young 
 ladies talked of Eustace Murray and disappointed genius between 
 each quadrille; and beaux, with long hair and short memories, 
 mistook recollections of Byron for inspirations of their own, and 
 wrote elegies on him in their partners' gilded albums. "Memo- 
 ries," " Reminiscences," " Recollections," " Last Words," etc., 
 were poured forth by those who had never seen him ; and a 
 noble writer, who w r ould as soon have asked his own valet to 
 dinner as poor Eustace actually published his "Table Talk." 
 
 Perhaps if anything would have angered his gentle shade, it 
 would have been these murderous attempts at immortalizing 
 him, compared to which, indeed, " the wretehed picture and 
 worse bust" were soothing tributes. But the sorrows of earth 
 could reach him no more 5 he had passed beyond them. He had 
 known the bitterest fate of genius, — the early consciousness of 
 power,— the anxious struggle with the poverty that would 
 check, and the disease that would paralyse, — the partial and 
 temporary success, making the subsequent failure more mad- 
 dening. The hope ever reviving, ever deferred— and that a hope 
 merely that the chances of life would permit him to enter the 
 arena, to strive for the laurel. At length it came : and no triumph 
 awaited him there, and then the bitterest sorrow was at hand ; 
 for he asked himself, was not his own genius a vain dream ? He 
 mistrusted the powers which others denied him : their recogni- 
 
280 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 tion came too late— the hand was feeble, and the spirit darkened 
 by coming death. The world flocked to exhibitions of his pic- 
 lures; those, the ill-fate of which at Somerset House had drawn 
 drops of agony from his eyes, now proudly displayed, drew 
 tears of admiration from all who gazed upon them. The print- 
 shops were hung with engravings from his most trilling concep- 
 tions. And with him, as too often with the poet, or the musi- 
 cian, neglected genius lay in its quiet grave, while its bright 
 creations hung the walls of the wealthy with visions of the beau- 
 tiful, stored their minds with images of glory, or filled their 
 haunts with harmony and song. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Blanche was strolling mournfully through the woods oi 
 Templeton when a letter was brought to her. It was yet early, 
 and the happier inmates of the household slept. It is sweet to 
 sleep when our dreams are of joys, which are realities when 
 you wake ; but Blanche was not happy. 
 
 She hastened to an arbour of cypress and other evergreens , 
 and placed this letter on a rustic table before her. She recog- 
 nised the hand,— her name was written in Eustace Murray's, 
 and the remainder of the direction in one far more dear; the 
 seal was black, and her heart grew faint. She read— 
 
 "When you open this, as I know you will, dear Miss St. 
 Aubyn, with a trembling anxiety for your poor friend, the hand 
 that traces it will be cold for ever. Perhaps, at this very mo- 
 ment, he who has loved you on earth may have won the'reward 
 of such unselfish and immortal love, and be now permitted to 
 watch over you in heaven. 
 
 "But it is not of myself I would speak now. Even in this 
 hour it is a source of joy to me to know that I never afflicted 
 your gentle heart: dearest Blanche, (forgive, my feeble hand 
 will not erase the holy words) with the knowledge of that love 
 which you could not repay, and which your pitying nature 
 would have wept to disappoint. It was a love unfed by hope , 
 self-existent, living upon its own flame, and consuming there- 
 with the heart which was its altar. It was an idolatry ; and 
 however fair and pure the idol, idolatry is guilt. Long, long did 
 it blind me to the duties of any other worship. But I saw you 
 again; on your heavenly face, in your mildly glorious eyes, in 
 your inexplicable smile, I read your heart. You blush— you 
 sigh— you are angry! Blanche, are you angry with the dead? 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 281 
 
 Ah, no! you weep, — weep on, sweet Blanche? The sunset of 
 my love gilds in fancy those angelic tears, and forms a rainbow 
 ofhope, in which my prophetic spirit sees the promise of your 
 future bliss. Yes, Blanche, you love ! You have often smiled at 
 the vague superstition of my childhood, handed down by my an- 
 cestors, which we Highlanders call second sight ; but at this 
 hour, I feel that it exists, and I see you, you the exclusively 
 adored of my heart, the happy bride of another! I told you, 
 Blanche, thatmy love had been an idolatry; and on my death- 
 bed, my atoning sacrifice is the hope, the endeavour, earnest as 
 a dying" spirit can make it, to reconcile you to that other. I know 
 that you rejected him ; I know that you were justly incensed 
 against him ; but I am on that bed where we feel that pride avails 
 us less than humility, and that it is nobler to forgive than to 
 resent. 
 
 " Horace St. John adores you, Blanche ! He is noble, generous, 
 true ! I have learnt— but he knows not that you will ever learn 
 it— that all he could do for your brother he has done since your 
 refusal of himself : while to me (and that, when you ponder on 
 my love and sorrows, will be no small plea) he has been as a 
 brother. You will forgive him, then, dear, dear Blanche, and 
 Heaven will bless you both ! To him and you I bequeath my 
 mother, and those children of my soul, my unfortunate pictures. 
 There is one I wish you to place wherever you are likely to be 
 most often,— one, a "dream when I first saw you— a reality now: 
 I have finished it with all the care and skill I can boast—' Pity 
 weeping over an early grave.' 
 
 "One word more. To many, the love of a poor artist might 
 seem presumption 5 but remember, I am nobly born ! Alas ! that 
 on the bed of death the vanities of life should cling to us thus ; 
 yet never did I feel more anxious to impress upon your mind 
 that I was not all unworthy of you! Your favourite poet has 
 said, 'There is something glorious in the heritage of command.' 
 That must indeed be true! when I, defrauded of that heritage 
 through life, claim it thus earnestly on the bed of death. Offer 
 to your dear mother, your sweet sister, and your kind father, 
 my last thanks for their unvarying goodness to me. And now 
 God bless you, angel of this dark world!— and that he will bless 
 you, the kindred angels that wait upon the dying soul are whis- 
 pering to me now. 
 
 "Eustace Murray." 
 
282 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 Some weeks have passed away since the death of Eustace 
 Murray , and the first keen sorrow of Blanche has mellowed 
 into a soft regret. Lionel was absent when she received Horace 
 St. John's letter, and Blanche could only communicate with him 
 through her brother. When he returned, Blanche, with an 
 averted face, placed Eustace Murray's letter in his hand 5 she left 
 him ; but she left him to the promptings of a noble heart-, and 
 when they met again, he was equipped for a journey. She asked 
 him no questions , but her blush betrayed that she "understood 
 his mission. The autumnal evening's sun sent its slanting rays 
 through the woods ofTempleton, and flickered with the red 
 glare of fire-light on the Gothic windows, while Blanche sate 
 alone in an old oratory, and as she raised her eyes to heaven , 
 prayed for peace of mind ; it was an humble prayer, and it was 
 heard. 
 
 Her parents, Juliet, and Lord Castleton were rowing on the 
 beautiful river which flowed past the grounds, and when 
 Blanche heard the watch-dog's bay, and distinctly caught the 
 trampling of horse's feet in the court-yard, her heart grew pro- 
 phetic and her cheek deadly pale. She took up her embroidery, 
 and tried to appear employed. She heard Lionel at the door 5 for 
 he knew that his sisters had chosen this old oratory for their sum- 
 mer boudoir. But there was another step, and it was echoed 
 through the long corridor. The tides of feeling brought the rose- 
 tints to Blanche's cheek, and bore them away again, as the waves 
 bring the crimson lotus to the shore, and anon snatch back the 
 bright blossom. 
 
 At length, the door opened ; and the graceful dignity which 
 never in the hour of need forsakes a woman of high feeling and 
 gentle birth, enabled Blanche to rise and welcome Lionel and 
 Horace St. John. 
 
 " Ah ! " said her brother, kindly embracing her; " you have 
 cheated me out of; the pleasure I had hoped for in introducing 
 you to Horace by slily making his acquaintance by yourself. Do 
 your best to welcome him, while I seek my mother and Juliet." 
 
 He opened a glass door that communicated with the gardens, 
 and the lovers were alone. 
 
 He is a truejpoet who says— 
 
 " There are 
 
 Two points in the adventure of the diver : 
 One when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge, 
 One when, a prince, he rises with his pearl." 
 
 AVhen Lionel leftjHorace, he was pale and anxious. He stood 
 at some distance from Blanche, and even the pride of manhood 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 283 
 
 could not still the beating of bis beart. When he returned, 
 Blanche sat by his side ; he held her hand 3 her cheek was stained 
 with tears. He had risen " with his pearl"— that priceless pearl, 
 the acknowledged love of a noble-minded woman ; and ever may 
 he who wins that pearl wear it proudly next his heart! 
 
 Then Blanche had to introduce her lover to her parents and 
 to Juliet, (Lord Castleton he already knew,) and then came 
 long discussions of affairs very interesting to the parties concern- 
 ed, and very wearisome to all beside. 
 
 Horace St. John remained at Templeton, and the weddings of 
 the two sisters were fixed for the same day 3 and while the bridal 
 finery is preparing, and the lawyers are busy, we must inquire 
 after a few acquaintances the reader has made in his mental 
 journey through these pages. 
 
 Antonia married the Hon. Frederic Scantylands; and it was 
 a proud yet comfortless day for Sir Caesar, when, previous to 
 her wedding, she dressed and frizzed his hair for the last time. 
 They had been lodging for some weeks at a confectioner's in 
 Oxford Street, and thence the parties were married. Sir Caesar 
 wished, he said, that the wedding should be strictly private, as 
 —but he trusted that that would not go further— he had not 
 written to ask the Bishop of Leicester to perform the ceremony ; 
 for Frederic could not brook the necessary delay, and his lord- 
 ship might take it ill. Sir Caesar had sent over to Dieppe for his 
 footman, a Normandy lout, whom the Miss Whiteheads had 
 dressed up in a gaudy livery of their own making ; and he came 
 over in a herring-boat, was soon ornamented with a black paper 
 cockade, and on this important day his bushy red hair had a 
 sprinkling of flour, while Sir Caesar actually presented him with 
 a pair of white cotton gloves, which cost him three-pence half- 
 penny ! 
 
 The wedding party consisted of the witless Captain Simperton , 
 who was bride's-man ; Lionel, who for fun had invited himself ; 
 and an old Scotch spinster, a Miss Grizzy Scantylands, from 
 Camberwell, a twentieth cousin of the bridegroom, who officiated 
 as bride's-maid, and came partly to oblige the Honourable Fre- 
 deric, and partly for the wedding breakfast, which was good 
 and abundant, a secret to be explained hereafter. Lionel had 
 kindly provided a very decent carriage, in which the bride elect, 
 with her bride's-maids, Geraldine and Miss Grizzy, went to 
 church 3 Captain Simperton and Frederic went in the travelling 
 carriage the latter had borrowed for his tour ; and old Sir Caesar 
 and Lionel in— a hacknev-coach. Yet sneer not, ye fashionable 
 scorners !:As the Whiteheads said, " No one could tell it was a 
 hackney-coach j" it was the best and most showy on the stand. 
 Sir Caesar threw his own large fur -lined cloak over the driver, 
 
284 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 who wore a voluminous white favour in his hat, and another in 
 his breast. The cockaded flour-headed Norman " Pierrot" 
 sprang up behind. Sir Caesar adroitly caused the numbers to turn 
 inside instead of out ; and pray who, as the Whiteheads, in the 
 pride of their hearts, observed, " who could tell it was a hackney- 
 coach?" 
 
 In the vestry they met another wedding party — Mr. Wheezer 
 and Mrs. Faithful. Long had been the conflict, yet triumphant 
 her victory 5 but when did woman, a strong, energetic, perse- 
 vering woman, like Mrs. Faithful , fail in a strife with an old, a 
 weak, and selfish man ? 
 
 With respect to her, a curious denouement took place just 
 after the ceremony. A man, a sort of banker's clerk, who was 
 gazing at the weddings, had followed her into the vestry. 
 
 " Well sister Jenny," he said, " don't you know me ? So, after 
 all, you were resolved not to die an old maid ? " 
 
 " What do you mean?" said Mrs. Wheezer, with a frown 5 
 "know you? of course I do, my dear brother. 1 am just mar- 
 ried! Allow me to introduce my husband, Mr. Wheezer?" 
 
 " Well, to think of your getting married at last, after being a 
 spinster, let me see " 
 
 " What can you mean?" faitered Mr. Wheezer ; "this lady a 
 spinster, Sir! why, the thought of a spinster of her age is enough 
 to destroy a poor old creature like me!" 
 
 In spite oi Mrs. Wheezer's frowns and signs the stranger 
 proceeded — 
 
 " Why a' an't that my sister, Jane Faithful?" said the unwel- 
 come stranger, "as good a spinster as any in London; and I 
 do hope she hasn't, at her time of life, thrown away herself 
 and her fifty pounds a-year on any one that can't keep her like 
 a lady." 
 
 An old maid! It was clear he had been deceived; he had 
 married an old maid. An old maid ! always the object of 
 his liveliest antipathy, and that, too, an old maid with fifty 
 pounds a year, instead of a widow with five hundred ! He 
 looked round — a gleam of hope shot across his face — he had 
 been deceived ! was the marriage valid ? — but the hope was short- 
 lived. All in the vestry were engaged with the Whiteheads. 
 Mrs. Wheezer had whispered to him something about "suicide," 
 and "haunting him night and day," and hastening before to 
 prepare an abode for him below ; and Mr. Faithful had plainly 
 informed him, " that if his sister, like other old maids, chose to 
 make a fool of herself, still she was his sister, and the man who 
 made a fool of his sister should not make a fool of him!" and 
 then he clenched a large and crimson hand. So Mrs. Wheezer 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 285 
 
 invited Mr. Faithful home to the wedding breakfast, and after 
 mutual congratulations with the Whiteheads, poor old Mr. 
 Wheezer was seized with a fit of coughing, and was driven 
 away in his hackney coach. 
 
 The truth was, Miss Faithful had been long a discontented 
 spinster. There is little chance for an old maid; there is every 
 chance for a middle-aged widow. She one day tried some weeds 
 on, by accident ; they became her. A friend left her fifty pounds 
 a-year ; she changed the Miss for Mrs., went into deep widow's 
 mourning, and repaired to France. She was some years un- 
 suited with a mate ; but she is wedded at last. Poor old Mr. 
 Wheezer ! if he could make up his mind to part with some of 
 his income, he might part with her too : but she insists on a 
 separate maintenance proportioned to his fortune, and he 
 cannot, as yet, endure to grant it; and so they plod on to- 
 gether. 
 
 We must now explain the secret of the Whiteheads' wedding- 
 breakfast ; for it was a really good breakfast, and the only good 
 repast at which Sir Caesar ever took the head of the table, and 
 stranger still, it was owing to Geraldine: the stupid, blundering 
 Geraldine had done on this grand day what the united wits of 
 Sir Caesar and Antonia would have failed to achieve. 
 
 We have said that the Whiteheads had been lodging for some 
 weeks at a celebrated confectioner's in Oxford Street, of the 
 name of Crisp. Now the Crisps were very wealthy, and some- 
 what ambitious. The family consisted of an old mother, a 
 young son, and plenty of servants. The son, too long fed on bon- 
 bons, was pale, sickly, romantic, with long black hair and inci- 
 pient moustachios : he wore a Greek cap and a tlowered damask 
 dressing-gown, embroidered slippers, and sported a dazzling 
 meerschaum. He despised trade 5 and when he contaminated 
 his jewelled fingers with the till, it was to take out, never to 
 put in, what he called " base pelf," "vile dross," and "filthy 
 lucre." He read new novels and old romances; his mother 
 thought him a genius, and his neighbours a fool. He had a guitar 
 and an album — the mother was right. 
 
 During Antonia's brief courtship, Geraldine was shamefully 
 neglected. Sir Caesar, glorying in his future son-in-law, went 
 with him everywhere, and Geraldine was left to her own de- 
 vices, sometimes dinnerless. We have seen that her powers 
 were rather imitative than original. Antonia had a lover. Anto- 
 nia was going to be married. She had met Mr. Richard Crisp 
 frequently on the stairs-, he had bowed, sighed; had spoken : 
 had invited her into the back parlour ; creams, ices, jellies, soups, 
 patties, tarts, were around, and at her command. He had assured 
 her they were "valueless in his eves, and only fit to be cast, 
 
•286 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 like Eastern tributes, at her fairy feet." She was hungry • she 
 raised them to her lips- A semi-gloom reigned in the back par- 
 lour-, she was fair, he was susceptible; she was sordid, he 
 ambitious 5 he despised the till, she idolized money : he loathed 
 with the loathing of satiety all the sweets around, she revelled 
 in them. He honoured the name of Whitehead — Sir Caesar — 
 Lady ! Oh ! Whitehead was to him a noble name ; and she was 
 weary of it. A few more meetings 5 a day spent at Richmond, 
 at Mr. Crisp's villa, chaperoned by Mrs. Crisp, while Sir Caesar 
 was at Brighton with the Honourable Frederic and Antonia, 
 and— the day before Sir Caesar gave his darling to Scantylands, 
 Geraldine gave herself to Mr. Crisp — a clandestine marriage ! 
 But Richard Crisp was romantic. 
 
 Geraldine was not so dull as not to be aware that though Sir 
 Caesar would of course outwardly despise this mesalliance, in 
 his heart, he would not be very sorry that one daughter should 
 be able to put her hand in Mr. Crisp's till, while the other found 
 nothing in the noble pocket of a Scantylands. To reconcile her 
 father, she caused a sumptuous repast to be prepared, in reality 
 in celebration of the double union ; but that was a secret. 
 
 Old Mrs. Crisp was fortunately laid up at Richmond ; but the 
 gentle Richard must be at his own wedding-breakfast. So as he 
 looked very like an Italian Count, and as he was unknown to 
 all the party but themselves, the ready-witted Antonia proposed 
 to her father and sister that he should be introduced as Count 
 Ricardo Crispiano. He gladly consented ; spoke little, and sighed 
 much ; and so strangely does accident sometimes sow the^seed 
 of future greatness, that from this hurried manoeuvre of Anto- 
 nia's sprang a real Count; for at his mother's death, finding 
 himself very wealthy, and never having been of any particular 
 religion, only, from romance reading, inclining to that of lovely 
 nuns and bleeding monks, he turned papist and purchased a 
 Countship of the Holy R.oman Empire. He thought he had the 
 best of the bargain, the Roman Empire thought otherwise; but 
 he was R Conte ; Geraldine, La Contessa. And " My son, the 
 Count!'' "My daughter, the Countess!'" are not the least fre- 
 quent of Sir Caesar's boasts. 
 
 But that was in after years. Alas, alas! that " lowliness" 
 should still be "young ambition's ladder." At first they were 
 only Mr. and Mrs. Crisp. Poor Sir Caesar! the source of smiles 
 and tears are side by side, and every rose has its thorn. When, 
 on the day after the marriage of Antonia, he tore open the still 
 damp newspapers, in which he had caused Antonia's marriage 
 to be blazoned, after feasting his eye on — 
 
 "On the I4h instant, at St. George's, Hanover Square, Ihe 
 Honourable Frederic Scantvlands, fourth son ofLordM'Saveall, 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 287 
 
 to the lovely and accomplished Antonia Prioria, third daughter 
 of Sir Ca?sar Whitehead, of the Priory, Gloucestershire, and 
 cousin of the Lord Bishop of Leicester. The bride looked inex- 
 pressibly lovely, in a dress of costly Brussels lace (cotton net; ; 
 and after the ceremony, having partaken of a splendid collation 
 supplied by Mr. Crisp, confectioner, of Oxford Street, the happy 
 pair set off for Dieppe, where Lady Whitehead, her lovely 
 daughters, and a distinguished party of fashionable friends, await 
 them in Sir Caesar Whitehead's magnificent mansion, situated 
 in that Gallic port."— 
 
 Yes, even after this announcement, the ambition of Mr. Ri- 
 chard Crisp, and the imitative blundering of Geraldine, had 
 caused to be inserted — 
 
 "On the 13th instant, at St. Giles's-in-the-Fields, Mr. Ri- 
 cardo Crisp, of Oxford Street, to Geraldine, fourth and loveliest 
 daughter of Sir Caesar Whitehead, Rnt., of the Priory, Glou- 
 cestershire, nearly related on the maternal side to the Lord 
 Bishop of Leicester. The bride looked eminently lovely, and 
 was most magnificently dressed. The happy pair set off for Mr. 
 
 Crisp's beautiful villa at Richmond " 
 
 Sir Caesar, for the first time in his life, burst into tears ; he 
 then got into an omnibus to go to Richmond, to reproach and 
 
 repudiate Geraldine and to stay dinner. 
 
 He says he tries to bear it like a man 5 and that while pride re- 
 minds him he is Sir Caesar Whitehead, he looks athischiid, and 
 remembers he is a father. That must be true, for both he and 
 Lady Whitehead are often at " Crisp Grove." 
 
 Sir Caesar now boasts of the Earl and his fete ,— of the Honour- 
 able Mr. and Mrs. Scantylands,— the Earl and Countess of 
 Castleton— Sir Horace and Lady St. John,— in short, the Bi- 
 shop of Leicester no longer gilds with solitary grandeur the old 
 knight's discourse. 
 
 Lady Whitehead (her intellect enfeebled by age) is fast over- 
 stepping " le pas du sublime au ridicule," she still does slanting 
 sketches of the Priory, but she now adds so many wings and 
 stories, that they look like ruined infirmaries, or tumble-down 
 lunatic asylums. 
 
 Miss Whitehead married the Major, and translated into 
 French the Bishop of Leicester's large volume of sermons, and 
 dedicated them thus : — 
 
 "To the Pope, the Cardinals, and all the benighted Roman 
 Catholics of Europe, these illustrious sermons, by that pillar of 
 orthodoxy, the Lord Bishop of Leicester, are dedicated by one 
 who has felt, that while no translation, however faithful, could 
 do justice to the splendid original, yet the bright truth which 
 
288 COUSIN GEOFFREY. 
 
 must convertthe mostobstinate, still illumines her pages. France 
 may glory that her language is destined to convey this monu- 
 ment of truth to the purblind eyes of Rome. — 
 
 "Anne Prior Whitehead." 
 
 This dedication was printed both in French and English. The 
 work succeeded — but not as works generally succeed-, we blush 
 for France while we own it was not very generally read. 
 
 The Bishop, more amused than flattered by her absurdity, 
 still admitting the distant connexion, and pitying her uncom- 
 fortable position, transmitted her a handsome present, and — 
 if it could be of use to her — another series of sermons to trans- 
 late. She is about to present the world — with her new trans- 
 lation ! 
 
 Sir Caesar throws out many hints about an invitation to the 
 Bishop's Palace ; they mean something of course, but, as yet, 
 we cannot exactly say what. 
 
 Miss Primrose still assists Mrs. Hodnot, and Mr. Hodnot is 
 still deaf. 
 
 Tiny married Captain Grigsby, and Louisa. Captain Snaffle. 
 
 Mrs. Barton, thus cruelly deserted, recalled her lawful thrall, 
 
 And, obliged to hack 
 Through after life with honest Jack, 
 Serenely mild, and strict in duty, 
 Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dubois get on rather better than Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wheezer, and that is all that can be said for them. 
 
 And now we must hasten away, for the wedding party has 
 been long assembled at Templeton. Lady Sackville has taken 
 Blanche back to what she calls " her heart," and has achieved 
 her triumph, for she has hailed a Benedick in Horace St. John. 
 Some are credulous enough to assert that he and his fair bride 
 are not less pleased than her ladyship. 
 
 Lionel, who, as he himself asserted, had no fault but his po- 
 verty, or rather no faults but such as wealth could gild, is now 
 quite as good as most heirs to a title and twenty thousand a year. 
 and is highly respected at Oxford. 
 
 Lady Marian Wyndham graced the wedding, and as, after 
 kissing her new sister's cheek, Juliet raised her eyes to those of 
 her husband, she read there, that gratitude and deathless love 
 which her perfect faith and sublime constancy had so well de- 
 served. , 
 
COUSIN GEOFFREY. 289 
 
 Lord Templeton fondly blessed the young brides — and Lady 
 Templeton, turning to their husbands, said — 
 
 "Oh, if they are to you in your prosperity the blessings which 
 they have been in adversity to me, you have, indeed, deep cause 
 for joy. Yet, watch your hearts, you dear ones! Wealth, and 
 this world's honours have their trials too. Let not those who 
 in sorrow found solace from Heaven, and strength from prayer, 
 gracelessly in their happiness forget the mercy v^hich soothed, 
 and the faith which upheld them. Heaven bless you! " 
 
 The brides are gone — they have tremblingly commenced their 
 new, yet glad career. Kind Public, will you welcome Ihem? will 
 you, who gave so cordial a reception to the unknown " Fitz- 
 herbert," sighed with the " Lovers," and hoped with " Fortune 
 Hunters," will you extend a gently eager hand, and strew with 
 flowers the path of Juliet and Blanche. 
 
 THE E.ND OF COUSIN GEOFFREY 
 
 19 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ: 
 
 A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On the evening preceding the anniversary of Easter-day, 
 which fell on the 6th of April, in the year 1562, the weather 
 was still rigorous 5 a northerly wind, sharp and piercing, rushed 
 through the streets of Senlis ; the curfew-bell had for some time 
 ceased, and the deserted pavements resounded only with the 
 heavy footsteps of the guardians of the night, or the unsteady 
 ones of an intoxicated inhabitant, seeking his home without torch 
 or the light of the moon. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, two females were to 
 be seen pursuing their ordinary occupations in a house situated 
 at the corner of the Place Notre Dame. The apartment, in which 
 they were, presented a scene so touching, so tranquil, and so 
 interesting, that an artist could have taken pleasure in repro- 
 ducing it upon canvass. A bright fire was burning on the hearth, 
 the lofty chimney-piece was curiously sculptured in relief, and 
 its capricious flashes seemed to wrestle for pre-eminence with 
 the wavering light of a lamp almost extinguished 5 the dark ta- 
 pestry covering its walls,— the high-backed chairs of polished 
 walnut-tree,— the ebony cupboards with their bright fastenings, 
 all appeared vaguely in the chiaro-oscuro, and the effect of the 
 light concentrated itself upon the group in the centre of the 
 apartment. A young female, with her back to the fire, was oc- 
 cupied in spinning 5 hardly were the pale rays of the lamp re- 
 flected to the distance at which she sat-, although the fingers 
 moved rapidly and indefatigably, it was, however, easy to per- 
 ceive that the mind did not act in concert with the body, but by 
 an intuitive application, as if the sad thoughts which filled her 
 bosom were lulled to rest by the monotonous sound of the wheel. 
 Her head dress of black cloth hid completely her profusion of 
 hair, and encircled her face ; a plaited ruff surrounded her neck, 
 and an ample and loose robe of grey, drawn in at her slender 
 waist, shewed the symmetry and grace of her form, which at 
 every movement seemed to bend like a reed agitated by a sum- 
 mer's breeze. The extraordinary beauty of this female was 
 rendered still more striking by the austerity of her costume ; 
 one might have fancied that it was the living portrait of the 
 
294 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 Madonna, and a beautiful child asleep on a pillow at her feet 
 finished the resemblance. 
 
 The other female was aged-, her dress of serge, and her 
 apron of coarse linen were of minute cleanliness. She was spin- 
 ning also, and from time to time her hands, parched as those of 
 the Parcae, arrested their movements ; at the least noise in the 
 street she listened attentively, and looked anxiously towards the 
 young female ; but as soon as it ceased, they each recommenced 
 their occupation. By the respectful countenance of the elder 
 female, by her homely dress, and by the agreeable expression 
 of her physiognomy, there was no difficulty in guessing her to be 
 one of those faithful servants of by-gone days who made, as one 
 might say, a part of the family of the honest citizen, — who 
 would say, " our house, our children," and who occupied a 
 place at the lower end of the board at which their masters were 
 seated. 
 
 A table laid in the middle of the apartment shewed that they 
 had not yet supped, and that they were waiting the arrival of 
 some one. Goblets of fine pewter, bright as mirrors, were placed 
 by the side of each plate, with the clean table napkin and the 
 ivory-handled knife. A bottle of wine, a piece of venison, and 
 a large plate of fine pears, were placed symmetrically in the 
 middle of the board -, but there was a guest as yet not forthcom- 
 ing, for the table was laid for four. 
 
 When the clock of Notre Dame struck ten, the younger fe- 
 male pushed aside her veil, and, taking up a book, endeavoured 
 to read ; but her thoughts wandered, and she only turned the 
 leaves mechanically. At this moment a troop of people passed 
 noisily by the door, and the young child started and awoke. 
 
 " Mother" said he, shaking back the rich curls which hung 
 in profusion over his fair brow, " mother, is not my father come 
 home yet?" 
 
 The book fell from the hands of the young female, and she 
 clasped her hands in fervent and mute prayer. 
 
 " Will not my father come home to-night?" continued the 
 child, with the perseverance natural to his age. ;t Tell me, mam- 
 ma!" 
 
 But when he saw that his mother wept instead of answering, 
 he climbed upon her knees, and endeavoured to console her, 
 saying, " You will see that he will be home to supper, for I am 
 very hungry Paris is then very far away?" 
 
 The servant rose from her seat, and, picking up the book, 
 beckoned the child to supper. 
 
 " Take your supper also, Veronique," said the young female, 
 sadly : " and then you can remove the cloth." 
 
 " And you, mistress?" said the servant. 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. '295 
 
 "lam not hungry," replied she. 
 
 " Nor I either," said Veronique, with a deep sigh, as she 
 placed the child at the table. 
 
 The clock of Notre Dame struck the half-hour ; a moment 
 after some one knocked loudly at the street door. The heart of 
 the young female bounded. 
 
 •'I will go— I will go !" cried she, hastily thrusting aside the 
 servant ; " it is Jehan !— it is he at last !" 
 
 She crossed without a light the passage which separated the 
 apartment from the entrance, and opened the door. A man 
 followed her into the room, whilst she repeated with an accent 
 of tender reproach—" Ah, Jehan I how anxiously I have been 
 expecting you!" 
 
 She turned herself saying these words, and remained as one 
 petrified at the sight of him whom she addressed. The servant 
 half screamed with surprise, and approached her mistress. 
 
 The cause of their alarm was a young man of middle stature 
 and of plain features •, bright auburn mustachios hid his upper 
 lip, and his thick hair fell like a mane around his pale counte- 
 nance. His physiognomy was severe and heartless, but cunning 
 and audacity were predominant in the expression of his light 
 blue eye. In spite of his youth, he imposed at first sight 5 one 
 recognised in him immediately a man energetic and implacable. 
 Without appearing to remark the stupefaction of the young 
 female, he took off his grey cap, and, throwing aside his cloak, 
 approached the fire, saying, " You did not expect to see me, 
 Catherine, and perhaps my visit is not an agreeable surprise." 
 
 " At so late an hour, and after such a lapse of time ! —no, I 
 did not expect to see you again," replied she, stammering. 
 
 "And I," replied the stranger, " had sworn never to set foot 
 into this house again 5 but I wished to speak to you on a subject so 
 important, and of such secrecy, than 1 am obliged to be my own 
 messenger. Order that woman to leave the room, for we must 
 be alone, Catherine." 
 
 " To-morrow, Claude Stocq — to-morrow," replied the young 
 female, trembling violently ; " but not at this hour of the night ; 
 I cannot listen to you any longer. Think, how my reputation 
 would suffer if you are seen leaving my house at a late hour." 
 " I must be as brief as possible: but it must be this night, 
 and not to-morrow, that I speak with you-, for to-morrow he 
 whom you expect will probably be here." 
 
 "God grant it ! " murmured Catherine. Then obeying the 
 will of the stranger, as if in spite of herself, she made a sign to 
 Veronique to quit the room with the child . 
 •'Is this your child?" said Claude Stocq. 
 The young female only answered by an affirmative gesture. 
 
296 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 Stretching out his hand, he drew towards him the child, who 
 had hid himself under Veronique's arm, and kissed his brow ; 
 whilst the mother, anxious and astonished, moved towards 
 them as if she doubted his kindness and caresses. 
 
 " How beautiful he is ! he resembles you," said Claude Stocq, 
 following with his eyes the child whom \ eronique was now lead- 
 ing out. "Nothing here is changed," continued he, throwing a 
 dark and melancholy look around the apartment. " Here, indeed, 
 is the same room in which I have passed the happiest moments 
 of my life,— the most cruel also. Everything is in the same place, 
 in the same order as formerly \ your father only is missing— the 
 child the only addition. You remain standing, Catherine? " 
 
 She sat herself down opposite to him, her voice faltering as she 
 said, " I am waiting to hear what you have to say to me." 
 
 " Catherine," replied he, with an accent of deep sadness, as 
 if overcome by remembrances which awakened bitter thoughts — 
 " Catherine, it is nearly seven years since I quitted this house 
 and this town, with a firm intention never to return. That day 
 was a sorrowful one for me. Whilst I was pursuing my way 
 towards Paris, your marriage was celebrating here with Jehan 
 Cornoailles-, and yet, Catherine, we had been be trothed to each 
 other with the consent of your father,— and it was I who ought 
 to have espoused you on that day." 
 
 " Why do you speak of what had better be forgotten, Claude 
 Stocq?" interrupted Catherine, turning away her head, — for 
 there was something which terrified her in the look and accent of 
 that man. Alone with him at the dead of night, she felt wounded 
 and revolted by his presence. 
 
 "The time of which you speak," continued she, " can have 
 nothing to do doubtless, with the subject of your visit." 
 
 "It is a necessary preamble," said Claude Stocq, coldly, 
 "that you may the better understand me, Catherine ; and I 
 am obliged to recall circumstances to your recollection which 
 I see are buried in oblivion. You have had time to forget what I 
 formerly was to you. Rut it is not so with me. Every day I think 
 of it, every thing becomes more present to my memory j— your 
 father's promise made to mine, — your consent, which I received 
 with so much joy. — those blessed evenings passed so tranquilly 
 in this very same apartment, our walks on the banks of the 
 Annette, — our hopes, which proved so deceitful, so soon 
 changed into despair ; your inconstancy^and the injury which I 
 received by being thrust from your home to make room for Jehan 
 Cornoailles. a stranger — a man fallen from the clouds, without 
 family, without a name, — for he only can say if the one he bears 
 at is his own." 
 
 " Jehan Cornoailles is my husband," interrupted Catherine. 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 297 
 
 but her trembling voice seemed to mock the firmness of her 
 words, "and I will not willingly suffer any one to speak dis- 
 respectfully of him in my presence." 
 
 "Cease to interrupt me till I say something which does not 
 bear the stamp of verity," replied Claude Stocq, coldly. " All that 
 I have yet said I can vouch for, and you know it as well as I 
 do ... . Catherine," continued he, more mildly, after a mo- 
 ment's silence, " now tell me the reason why you preferred this 
 man to me?" 
 
 She turned away her head, without daring to reply. 
 
 " Do you think that he loved you more devotedly than my- 
 self ? " continued Claude Stocq. " No, no, it was not possible. I 
 would have shed my last drop of blood. I would have parted with 
 life, to have gratifled your slightest wish.... Do you remember 
 the day when we were walking on the banks of the Annette, that 
 you expressed a desire to have some of those blue flowers which 
 were amongst the bullrushes? the water was deep, the current 
 rapid, and to obtain these flowers I was forced to swim to the 
 other bank ; — I procured them for you .... I would have 
 passed through flames of fire with the same unconcern, for it 
 appeared to me no more than you merited .... 
 
 " It is neither the rank nor the riches of this man which has 
 dazzled you, for he is not noble, and he possesses nothing ; while 
 I am of a good family, and rich beyond my wants. It is true that 
 I cannot boast of beauty ; but have you not told me a hundred 
 times, Catherine, that the beauty of a man consisted in his 
 loyalty and courage? Besides, he too is plain ; he is old also, if I 
 compare his years with the flower of your age. Catherine, tell me 
 then wherefore you have preferred him, for I cannot conjecture ; 
 I must have the answer from your own mouth." 
 
 She hesitated ; but he insisted, and she answered — 
 
 " Jehan Cornoailles is a man of principle, good and just ; that 
 is the reason why I love him." 
 
 At these words, pronounced with deep emotion, Claude burst 
 into a laugh, and, fixing his piercing eye upon her, he said— 
 
 " This is what I desired to hear from your lips. Well then, 
 Catherine, this man, so just, so good,— this man whom you 
 venerate as a saint, — is a malefactor, escaped by miracle from 
 the gallows ! " 
 
 A stifled cry escaped the lips of Catherine; she became ex- 
 cessively pale, and clasped her hands as if to implore the si- 
 lence and pity of Claude Stocq. 
 
 " Ah ! you know it already ? " said Claude, coldly. 
 
 These words restored her presence of mind. 
 
 " It is false ! " cried she. " Who has thus deceived v.u 
 
298 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 He made answer by raising his two fingers to a level with his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I do not believe you," replied she, breathing with difficulty 5 
 " no ! I do not believe you. Tell me the cause of these unjust 
 suspicions, and why you did not communicate them before." 
 
 "Suspicions I have none," said Claude, slowly. "It is not I 
 who would condemn your husband upon bare suspicion, and 
 come to you and say, ' He whom you have made the master of 
 your person and your property, he who is the father of your 
 child, is a criminal, cut down an hour too soon from the gallows 
 to which the law had sentenced him.' To tell you all this, it was 
 necessary for me to have the assurance and the proof." 
 
 "The proof!" replied Catherine. "Oh! Claude Stocq, you 
 will have pity on us 5 it is only to me that you would say this. 
 But speak, speak," continued she ; " I must hear what you have 
 to say, though I cannot believe you." 
 
 " I must begin some years back," said Claude Stocq. 
 
 "Go on j I am listening to you," replied Catherine, clasping 
 her hands, like one preparing to receive courageously a blow 
 which he expects will fell him to the earth. 
 
 "You remember, Catherine," replied Claude Stocq, "that 
 about eight years ago I was a medical student in the University 
 of Paris. Your father had requested that I should pass the year 
 preceding our marriage out of the town of Senlis, and I was 
 forced to obey. You know, Catherine, what was the fruit of my 
 obedience. The amusements of my companions in the Univer- 
 sity had no charms for me 5 I neither mixed in their parties, 
 their debaucheries, nor their duels ; and 1 loved you too sincere- 
 ly to seek the society of other women 5 so that, disgusted with 
 ail they called pleasure, I gave myself to science, soul and body. 
 So fair a beginning promised well for the future 5 and the pro- 
 fessors seeing in me the most assiduous of the students of our 
 college, Rue de la Bucherie, conceived a great friendship for 
 me. The mirror and paragon of our profession was a doctor of 
 the name of Ambroise Pare, who admitted me among the num- 
 ber of his disciples*, and often I remained whole nights in a se- 
 cret and retired part of his house, where passed many things 
 which were strictly forbidden by the law. 
 
 "One evening during the month of February " 
 
 At these words Catherine shuddered, and hid her face in her 
 hands 
 
 " My story is of ancient date," said Claude Stocq, " but these 
 details are indispensable." 
 
 "< lontinue," said she, articulating with difficulty. 
 
 " One evening in February I was expecting Master Ambroise 
 ParǤ, who was gone to the Louvre upon his professional duty 
 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 299 
 
 to Henry U. \ he bad desired me to remain within to receive a 
 body for dissection which he was expecting. I remained in the 
 dissecting room, and what was very unusual. 1 was there alone. 
 There was a good fire burning in the grate, a bottle of wine on 
 the table, some books, and here and there were scattered objects 
 which it makes one's hair stand an end to think of, — I do not 
 say of a woman's, but of any man who has common feelings. I 
 was not afraid, though I had cut and handled these dead bodies. 
 About eight o'clock some one knocked at the door, which I 
 opened, and admitted two men who had often served us in simi- 
 lar circumstances : they bore a burden on their shoulders which 
 they deposited upon the stone table in the middle of the apart- 
 ment, and then left the room. A few minutes after their depar- 
 ture. I unfastened, as usual, the sack, and found a dead man. 
 Do you begin to understand me now ? :? 
 
 ; - Proceed! ;r said Catherine, pressing her clasped hands upon 
 her forehead : " I am listening/' 
 
 " This man was young." continued 'daude Stocq : " his hands 
 were white and delicately formed, and his shirt was of the finest 
 linen. I saw at a glance that he was no plebeian," 
 
 •• \Yho do you think he was then ? n demanded Catherine, with 
 anguish, — her bosom heaving, terror and despair in her soul. 
 
 " It was the body of a barber living in La Rue Aux Ours, a 
 thief and assassin, who had been hanged that day in the Place 
 St. Antoine." 
 
 "An assassin and a thief!" exclaimed Catherine, and she 
 leant her head upon her clasped hands. There was a moment 
 of silence, "Proceed, Claude Stocq!" pursued she. with a 
 calm voice, the blood faintly tinging her cheeks, which a mo- 
 ment before had been deadly pale. 
 
 Claude Stocq. astonished, regarded her with anxiety, as if he 
 feared that her reason was forsaking her. 
 
 •• Do you perfectly understand me, Catherine ! " said he. 
 She made a sign in the affirmative. 
 
 "I disentangled his neck from the cord, which was yet around 
 it!*' continued Claude Stocq. ''I cleansed his face from the 
 dirt which covered it : and although Master Amhroise Pare had 
 not ordered me to do so. I thought I could be doing no harm by 
 commencing the ordinary work. At the first touch of the scalpel 
 the blood flowed freely from the left temple.— Have you never 
 remarked, Catherine, that your husband has a deep scar there? '* 
 She made a sign again in the affirmative. 
 " By seeing the blood flow I was persuaded that the man was 
 not dead," continued Claude Stocq. it moment, Master 
 
 Ambroise Pare entered. There had been, without doubt, seme 
 pmmise of resuscitation made to this man. whom all the world 
 
300 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 believed dead ; no doubt the hangman had been bribed ; the 
 rope around the neck of the patient had not been greatly com- 
 pressed ; for I feel certain that Master Ambroise had expected a 
 living body instead of a dead one. He was furious with me for 
 having touched him with my instrument ; but he preferred mak- 
 ing an accomplice of me, sooner than turning his back upon me 
 with what I knew. 
 
 " 'Come 5 bustle about, young fellow! ' said he; ' let us suc- 
 cour this man, or the spark will be extinguished, and then w r e 
 may blow in vain 5 hand me my lancet, that I may bleed him in 
 the neck. Warm his feet 5 and give me that cotton, that I may 
 set fire to the nape of his neck.' I obeyed as he commanded 5 he 
 bled the patient, and burnt him deeply in the poll, at the root 
 of the hair. Have you not observed, Catherine, that your hus- 
 band has a scar in that place also ? " 
 
 " Continue," said she, bowing her head affirmatively. 
 
 " The patient soon began to give signs of life 5 he sighed and 
 moaned, as one who feels his sufferings. ' There, he is resusci- 
 tated,' said Master Ambroise 5 ' now go your way, Claude ; I do 
 not wish him to see you 5 but swear, by all that is sacred, that 
 you will never mention the events of this evening.' 
 
 " I swore; and God knows I had then the firm intention to 
 keep my oath inviolate. I would have preserved my secret at the 
 peril of my life, if you were not one of the parties concerned in 
 this transaction, Catherine. As I left the apartment, Master Am- 
 broise said, ' If you do not keep your tongue silent, you will be 
 punished in the next world, and also in this ; this man is the 
 barber of the Rue Aux Ours, a noted housebreaker and assas- 
 sin ; he would murder you, I doubt not, if he knew that you had 
 been accessory to his resuscitation ' " 
 
 "'Doctor,' said I, 'you have not done a very wise action 
 then ! ' During the three months that I remained at Paris, not a 
 word on that subject passed between us. On the morrow I 
 heard continually crying in the streets, ' O yes ! O yes ! the last 
 dying speech and confession of several heretics and malefactors 
 hung yesterday in the Place Saint Jean de Greve, with the me- 
 morable confession of Landri, the barber, and his last words to 
 the Mayor 5 O yes ! O yes ! here is the full and particular ac- 
 count.' In twenty different places I heard the death of that man 
 proclaimed whom I had supported in my arms alive. It is the 
 same person, Catherine ; do not doubt it." 
 
 " I no longer doubt it," said she, forcing herself to speak 
 calmly. " Go on." 
 
 " About three months after," continued he, "your father 
 wrote to me to tell me that he could not receive me as his son- 
 in-lavv, because his daughter had thrown herself at his feet, de- 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 301 
 
 faring that she felt the greatest repugnance to this marriage. 
 Was that true Catherine ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is true,' 1 replied she, with firmness. 
 
 "Many people thought that the breaking off of our marriage 
 proceeded from my being too strict a Catholic. Whatever the 
 :ause, the end was gained. I quitted Paris on the receipt of this 
 letter for Senlis ; and here, in this same apartment, your father 
 repeated that I should never be your husband ; that he would 
 not constrain his only child in an affair of so serious a nature. I 
 retired from the house ; rage and despair filled my heart 5 I en- 
 deavoured to gain an interview with you, hoping to regain your 
 lost affections. On the morrow I learnt that that same day you 
 would espouse a stranger whom your father had received into 
 bis friendship during my absence. Catherine, the life of that 
 man hung on a slender thread that day ; would to God I had 
 followed the first impulse of my wounded feelings, and, sword 
 in hand, proposed a tete-a-tete with him, although it had been 
 at the foot of the altar! For then I should have recognised in 
 him a robber and an assassin, and have declared him such in 
 the face of every one assembled. 
 
 "My unfortunate destiny had decreed otherwise. I returned 
 to Paris immediately, and a few days after was on the road to 
 Lombardy. But you,' Catherine, can feel no interest in the recital 
 of my bitterness of soul, and my sufferings of mind and body, 
 during the six succeeding years which you passed so tranquilly 
 and happily. I ought to be more concise upon what regards only 
 myself. About a year since, I returned to Paris, almost decided 
 to renounce the world, and enter into some convent 5 but on 
 visiting my Godfather, the Lord High Constable of France, he 
 quickly changed my intentions. I remained in his service, some- 
 times inhabiting Paris, sometimes the castle of Chantilly. 
 Here I was almost at the gate of Senlis ; my poor mother urged 
 my return ; she wished before she died to see me a citizen and 
 mayor, as my father had been before me ; but my heart was yet 
 bleeding from the wound which it had received, and the thought 
 of meeting you was insupportable. How often, when journeying 
 from Paris to Chantilly, have I shuddered at the sight of the 
 belfry of Notre Dame, under the shadow of which this house is 
 situated. 
 
 "Sometimes I ventured to make inquiries respecting you of 
 the persons whom my mother sent to see me 5 from them I learnt 
 that your father was" dead, and that Jehan Cornoailles, like a 
 jailor, kept you a prisoner in your own house, never leaving 
 you, except to come to Paris twice during the year, lesterday 
 
 I was told that he had arrived at Paris on horseback, and that he 
 
 lodged opposite to me. in an hotel called the Plat d'Etain. Im- 
 
302 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 pelled by curiosity to see the man whom you had preferred to 
 me, I immediately crossed the street to the inn, determined to 
 wait until he should leave his hed-room. He did not sleep 
 there last night, hut this morning he returned to his hotel. We 
 met face to face, and I recognised him in an instant. I saw the 
 scar on the temple 5 and in the person of Landri, the robber and 
 the assasssin, I beheld the husband of her whom I have so de- 
 votedly loved I 
 
 " Ah, Catherine ! what a moment for me ! I found mysel! too 
 signally revenged for your treacherous conduct. Now do you 
 understand and believe me, Catherine?" 
 
 She passed her hand over her burning brow, as if to collect 
 her scattered senses, in order to reply to the terrible revelation 
 of Claude Stocq. She saw plainly that she could not deny the 
 force of his evidence. But, quickly taking her resolution , she 
 answered, with more firmness than might have been expected 
 from the mildness of her disposition, " Claude Stocq, what you 
 have just related is no secret to me ; I knew it already. How, and 
 in what manner, is of little consequence. You have greatly dis- 
 tressed me this evening by the renewal of the past ; but I forgive 
 you ; you have done it with a good intention, to prove the friend- 
 ship and esteem which you bear towards me. The moment is 
 now arrived when you can prove still more the kindness of your 
 feelings forme. Claude Stocq, you must swear, by all that is 
 sacred in this world, by the Heaven above us, and by the God 
 who now listens to us, that you will never renew the subject 
 of this evening's conversation to any living being." 
 
 Claude Stocq rose hastily from his seat. "Good Heavens! do 
 you, then, still love this man?'" cried he, clasping his hands. 
 
 " I love and venerate him from my soul," answered she, with 
 energy; " his life is my life, and you will have pity on me, if not 
 upon him !" 
 
 Saying these words, she threw herself on her knees at his feet, 
 repeating, " You will have pity upon me and my poor child. Do 
 you think that I could support existence if the father of Robert 
 were declared a robber and a murderer ? Claude Stocq, the 
 honour of my family is also dear to me 5 it has remained spotless 
 from the tenth generation, and my son would receive an herit- 
 age branded with ignominy. And is it you, Claude Stocq. who 
 will accuse his father of being a malefactor? Oh no! no! swear 
 to me that this secret shall remain undivulged!" 
 
 He raised her, ready to sink with the excess of her emotion. 
 At this moment, the clock of >otre Dame struck midnight. 
 "Swear, then," she repeated. "The night is advanced ; you 
 must quit this house without further delay: oh, swear, then, 1 
 entreal von. that all this shall die between us!" 
 
CLAUDE ^TOCQ. 303 
 
 " I swear it!" said Claude Stocq, reseating himself, -'and you 
 know. Catherine, that you may trust in my word. But why 
 think for a moment that I would dishonour the name you hear .' 
 —it was far from my intention ! ** 
 
 She looked at him with surprise. 
 
 " Lanclri. the harber, is dead." continued he ; " he is dead to 
 all, except to you and me : you are the wile of Jehan Cor- 
 noailles. and 1 will throw down my gauntlet to him who says 
 the contrary. You must remain spotless, Catherine, and your 
 honour is dear to me as my own. I am of good family, and could 
 therefore espouse the widow of Jehan Cornoailles, though 1 
 could not that of Landri the barber, hung in the Place de 
 Grevt\'" 
 
 "The widow!" exclaimed the heart-stricken and terrified 
 Catherine ; "the widow I then you have not told me ail ? My 
 husband! he is dead I" 
 
 A loud knock at the door interrupted the answer of Claude 
 Stocq. 
 
 Veronique, it appeared, was waiting anxiously there, for it 
 was instantly opened. Catherine precipitated herself to the door 
 of the apartment, crying, " It is he: it is Jehan!.... Ah I bless- 
 ed be God !...." Claude Stocq threw his cloak over his shoul- 
 ders, picked up the book which Catherine had let fall when he 
 arrived at her house, and hid it in his bosom : at the same time, 
 pointing to the table, murmured with a low voice one of the 
 commandments of the catholic church : "Thou shalt eat no 
 flesh either on Fridays or Saturdays." He rushed past Jehan 
 Cornoailles withoutsaying a word, who, entering the apartment, 
 found his wife stretched senseless upon the floor, within a few 
 steps of the doorway. 
 
 > CHAPTER II. 
 
 On the morrow, at an early hour, Claude Stocq pursued his 
 way towards Chantilly. At the time of which we speak, the 
 distance which separated this village from the small town of 
 Senlis was almost entirely a wood. The narrow road was full of 
 bogs, and wound capriciously among the trees , sometimes in- 
 terrupted by a running stream , or lost amidst the bushes and 
 wild herbs which grew in profusion on all sides. Claude Stocq. 
 vexed at the impediments which were continually arresting his 
 progress, pressed forward, thrusting his spurs into the sides of 
 his horse; for since break of dav he had wandered about, en- 
 
304 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 deavouring to gain the high road. The sun, already high above 
 the horizon, shewed him that the hour of noon was near at hand-, 
 and, as a strict Catholic, he feared that he should not arrive in 
 time to join in the celebration of mass on this solemn day of 
 thanksgiving. But in spite of his religious scruples, another idea 
 predominated in his mind 5 from time to time he pressed the book 
 hid in his breast, which he had brought away from the house 
 of Jehan Cornoailles on the preceding evening, and, while his 
 brow contracted, he murmured between his closed teeth — "Ah ! 
 this man prays in French ; there was also a piece of venison on 
 his table on the evening before the holy day of Easter. This is 
 trying the strength of the cord which has once broken; and this 
 time—" 
 
 He was interrupted in his reflections by several voices burst- 
 ing out into a chorus. He approached, guided by the sounds, 
 and heard a single voice, sonorous and clear, which was return- 
 ed by the echo of the forest. From under the shelter of the 
 wild ash tree, and the ancient oak, the holy name resounded ! 
 — the name of him, victorious over hell and death! 
 
 Claude Stocq leant on the neck of his horse-, he listened a 
 moment, scarcely daring to breathe; and then, overcome with 
 inexpressible joy, he threw himself from his steed and noiselessly 
 drew near. A spectacle of no common interest offered itself to 
 his view. In a circular space, encompassed by tall and thickly- 
 foiiaged trees, was to be seen a vast concourse of people kneel- 
 ing on the grass. There were more men than women, — more 
 of the lower than of the higher class. This multitude was praying 
 with feivency under the bright rays of an April sun. There was 
 neither image nor ornament of any kind 5 the resplendent hea- 
 vens formed the arched roof of this new temple ; the branches 
 of the lofty trees, thickly interwoven, the immense interior; and 
 the soft moss carpeted its holy courts. The trunk of a large and 
 prostrate tree, covered with a white cloth, served as an altar, 
 upon which was placed the bread and wine, already consecrated, 
 in preparation for the sacrament. These followers of the reform-* 
 ed church were without arms, but, by an instinctive feeling of 
 defence, they had placed the women and aged men in the centre 
 of the community. The younger men were kneeling on the 
 outside of the assembly, with their staves before them. Many, 
 without doubt, had come from far, for they wore, as the pilgrims 
 of old, a kind of scrip girt about their loins, and were shod in a 
 manner to defy the wear of a long journey. 
 
 It was Jehan Cornoailles who discharged the functions of 
 pastor; and before him, in the first row, knelt Catherine, ready 
 to receive the communion. Her attitude, the expression of her 
 features, raised to her husband's face, the unutterable look of 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 305 
 
 love and respect, shewed in a moment, to the most casual ob- 
 server, a devoted woman, willingly and joyfully submissive to 
 the wishes of him whom she adores. 
 
 Jehan Cornoailles looked down upon her with tenderness and 
 solicitude 5 but a religious feeling was more powerful in his heart 
 than in that of his wife's; resignation, and a courage proof 
 against ail attack, were strongly portrayed in his serious and 
 noble countenance. 
 
 Claude Stocq passed his hand over his eyes, and made the 
 sign of the cross, as if to assure himself that it was not a vision, 
 and then tremblingly regarded the multitude. This first move- 
 ment of surprise and affright was not of long duration-, he felt 
 that vengeance and the woman he loved were in his hands. 
 
 " Oh ! " murmured he, " if I have but time ! May all the saints 
 in Paradise assist me, for I am much in need of their aid at this 
 moment. " 
 
 He threw himself on the ground, and gained, upon his hands 
 and knees, the spot where he had left his horse. " Away! " cried 
 he, leaping into his saddle, and spurring his horse into the first 
 road which presented itself 5 by a fatal chance it was the right 
 one, and led immediately to Chantilly. 
 
 That castle was not then a royal residence, as it is at this pre- 
 sent day; its parks, its immense gardens, its cascades, and its 
 statues of marble, are all additions made long since the time of 
 which we speak. The castle, with its towers, surrounded by a 
 large moat, had more the look of a prison. This ancient habi- 
 tation of the Montmorency family was surrounded by a forest, 
 which threw its shadows as far as the ramparts, and the ancient 
 oak trees topped its buttresses. Anne de Montmorency was par- 
 ticularly attached to this residence : his power was there unli- 
 mited ; his authority almost as great as that of a monarch. He 
 had his pages, his guards, and officers attached to his person, 
 with their titles of chamberlain, master of the horse, etc., etc. It 
 was the court, not of the high constable, the marshal, the cour- 
 * tier of Diane of Poitiers, and of him who had been the willing 
 slave of the political Queen -Regent , but of the feudal and 
 powerful baron. 
 
 Often when harassed an-d perplexed by the intrigues of the 
 court, Anne de Montmorency quitted Paris for this his favourite 
 abode at Chantilly, and there remained, tranquilly enjoying his 
 power and freedom, until recalled to court by Catherine deMe- 
 dicis, when she was in want of some one whe would blindly do 
 her pleasure. He was, however, arrived at an age when a man 
 generally becomes wearied of mounting the precipice of ambi- 
 tion, and disgusted with the petty feelings and insincerity of all 
 appertaining to a court. But no experience had carried convic- 
 
 20 
 
306 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 tion to his coarse and ill-regulated mind 5 at seventy years of age 
 he possessed all the suseeptihle vanity of a young man, with the 
 hlind fanaticism of a Roman catholic and the brutal valour of a 
 borderer. Fierce, ignorant, and cruel, he felt, as if by instinct, 
 that he could be no favourite at the gallant and refined court of 
 Catherine de Medicis ; but he endeavoured by his devotion to 
 her interest to compensate for his want of knowledge and cour- 
 tesy. Claude Stocq held the office of private secretary to his 
 person. It was he who opened the dispatches, who read them, 
 and who was charged with the office of answering them. This 
 employment, of such high importance, brought together very 
 frequently Claude and the Lord High Constable, whose corres- 
 pondence was very considerable, although he neither knew how 
 to read nor write, but contented himself with putting his seal 
 only to the letters, as did the greater part of the nobles during 
 the reign of Charles le Sage. In his difficult and intimate rela- 
 tions with him, Claude Stocq was forced to bend his proud spirit 
 to the rough manners of his lord. He most cordially detested 
 him, but he obeyed him servilely, and exercised no small power 
 over him, by exciting his implacable passions. 
 
 About noon, on Easter day, the High Constable was walking 
 in the spacious domains of his castle. His attendants remained 
 respectfully at a distance, while the haughty old man continued 
 to pace an avenue, lost in reflection. Dark thoughts seemed to 
 absorb the faculties of his soul 5 at times he stopped suddenly, 
 passed his hand through his long greybeard, dropped his head 
 on his breast, and muttered words to himself. No one would 
 have dared to interrupt him at that moment; they would have 
 as soon thought of doing so while he was reciting his pater 
 nosters, which were so often mixed up with oaths and inex- 
 orable orders. 
 
 A few minutes past twelve, Claude Stocq galloped furiously 
 into the court-yard of the castle, leaped from his horse, and, 
 throwing the reins into the hands of a groom, rushed into the f 
 presence of the High Constable, who was petrified by his impe- 
 tuosity, and the want of respect in his bearing. 
 
 "What is your will?" cried Anne de Montmorency, step- 
 ping back with astonishment. "What means this unwonted 
 disrespect to my person, varlet? Holy Virgin ! you deserve to 
 be chastised for your insolence ! " 
 
 " My Lord, " replied Claude, no means moved by the wrath 
 of his patron, " to-morrow you may kill me, if such be your 
 good pleasure; but at this moment something of more import- 
 ance must occupy your time. About two leagues from hence 
 there is a convocation in the forest, where they preach and 
 administer the Sacrament according to the rites of the 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ- 307 
 
 Church. They are more than three hundred \ I myself have 
 seen them. " 
 
 Anne de Montmorency drew himself up to his greatest 
 height, his grey eyes emitting fire, and his scarred face illumi- 
 nated by a smile. 
 
 " Ah ! "' said he, " this is very apropos 5 1 had prayed God. . . 
 but tell me what you have seen." 
 
 Claude Stocq in a few words related the scene of the forest, 
 the High Constable listening to the recital making signs of Lhe 
 cross, and using many exclamations in which the name of the 
 Devil was often mingled with the holy one of the Deity. 
 
 "Hasten!" said he-, "order the horses, and direct my at- 
 tendants to carry their arms with them. We will have a shot at 
 these miscreants. A fine harvest for the Devil ! " 
 
 An hour after, every avenue of the forest was guarded ; the 
 High Constable, armed as if for a battle, commanded the expe- 
 dition in person. On arriving at the spot where the road was 
 lost amid the entangled wood he said to Claude Stocq, "Do 
 you know which path to take?" 
 
 "Look, my Lord," replied he, pointing to the marks of his 
 horses' feet upon the mossy ground. 
 
 " It is almost a miracle!" said the High Constable. " Forward, 
 and no noise. " 
 
 The horsemen penetrated into the thickest part of the wood. 
 
 " It was here," murmured Claude Stocq. 
 
 All was perfectly quiet. The guards pressed around him, 
 motionless as statues. In a few moments, a chorus of voices 
 broke forth : the words were distinctly to be heard : — 
 
 " Arise, O Lord, and defend our cause! Oh! deliver us from 
 the hand of the wicked and cruel man !" 
 
 "There they are!" cried Claude Stocq, with an indefinable 
 accent of voice. " There they are ! The Protestants are in our 
 power!" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On the evening of that same day, Anne de Montmorency had 
 retired to his library, after supper, accompanied by Claude Stocq. 
 The Secretary was seated before a table, prepared to write. His 
 master was standing near him, turning over the leaves of several 
 books which lay in a pile before him. 
 
 "All this rubbish, then, is in French verse?" said he, with 
 contempt. 
 
308 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 " Yes, my Lord, what they call psalms ; they have heen trans- 
 lated into French hy the poet, Clement Marot. The Queen of 
 .Navarre was not ashamed to add her voice in the general meet- 
 ings of these Protestants, who worship God in this manner." 
 
 46 It is an heretical and damnable custom. Send their library 
 to the Devil!'* cried the High Constable. "Burn them! burn 
 them ! or the Latin offices will finish by being forgotten,— there 
 are so many fools and asses in the world, who think it necessary 
 to understand the meaning of their prayers ! " 
 
 Saying these words, he assisted in throwing the books into 
 the fire, kicking the already lacerated volumes with his foot. 
 
 " Now," continued he, " you must write to court concerning 
 this affair, and take care how you word the dispatch. The Queen 
 Mother is very jealous of her prerogatives. I am always afraid 
 of doing too much or too little } she wili, perhaps, accuse me of 
 having acted too precipitately. Tell her that the edict of January 
 has tied my hands, that these miscreants have received no in- 
 jury, and that we have taken their leaders into custody. We 
 will deliver them up to the Parliament, that they may promptly 
 condemn them to their just sentence. When you have explained 
 all these things, present my most respectful homage to her 
 Majesty. Tell her that in this world and in the next 1 shall always 
 be obedient to her will — her faithful subject in life and death. 
 Now, let me hear about the prisoners. How many are there?" 
 
 "There are three, my Lord, — the preacher, and two others 
 who attempted their defence ; the rest fled before our pikes. We 
 did not pursue, according to your order." 
 
 " The priest and his acolytes shall pay for all. Who is 
 this man?" 
 
 " A citizen of Senlis, named Jehan Cornoailles. He is an imp 
 of heresy, and a most zealous apostle of the church of Geneva. 
 I have the proof here." 
 
 Saying these words, Claude Stocq drew from his bosom 
 the volume which he had purloined the evening before Easter 
 Day from the house of Jehan Cornoailles, and presented it to his 
 patron. 
 
 "What does that mean?" demanded he, pointing to a few 
 words written on the first page. 
 
 " Calvin to his friend and brother in the Lord, Jehan Corno- 
 ailles," read Claude Stocq. " The book is entitled The Christian 
 Institute," continued he. 
 
 " Oh ! the abominable and detestable empoisoner of souls ! " 
 cried Anne de Montmorency •, "he shall be burnt! " 
 
 "And then hung!" said Claude Stocq, resuming his pen. 
 
 A few moments after, the step and supplicating voice of a fe- 
 male where heard near the door. The pen dropped from I he 
 
6LAUDE STOCQ. 309 
 
 hand of the Secretary, who turned pale, as the High Constable 
 said, angrily — 
 " What is all that noise ahout? where are my knaves? " 
 The door was thrown rudely open ; two trembling domestics 
 were seen in the background, and Catherine advanced, and 
 threw herself at the feet of Anne de Montmorency. 
 
 " My Lord," said she, with a voice stifled with anguish, " my 
 husband, Jehan Cornoailles, is prisoner here, I come to suppli- 
 cate your " 
 
 Sobs choked her voice, the High Constable regarded her 
 with an unfeeling and surprised look. 
 
 " You are very bold, young woman," said he, " to have pe- 
 netrated into my privacy, without being ordered to do us " 
 
 "Pardon, oh ! pardon, my Lord," said she. "I am an un- 
 happy woman reduced to despair. Have pity upon me, I im- 
 plore you. My husband has been brought hither as a malefactor. 
 What' crime has he committed, or the unfortunate creatures 
 who share his fate? We were only celebrating the sacrament 
 according to the rites of our religion, without scandal to the 
 Catholics, since we were retired into the forest. The edict of 
 January has given us the freedom and consolation of praying 
 together. Your guards threw themselves amongst us, scattered 
 the flock, and seized the shepherd. They say, my Lord, that 
 you are going to send him to the Parliament, but it is not so— 
 no, no! they are deceived, you will be merciful, noble lord!— 
 you will give me back my beloved husband ! Speak, oh ! speak, 
 gracious prince ! " 
 
 The haughty noble shrugged his shoulders. The powerful 
 ascendency of a young and beautiful woman kneeling beseech- 
 ingly at his feet prevented him from rudely thrusting her from 
 ihe apartment} he answered therefore with some mildness, "1 
 cannot grant your request ; it is impossible for me to put myself 
 into the power of M. de Conde, my most inveterate foe. Leave 
 the room, my good woman ! " 
 
 "Oh, my Lord!" cried she, endeavouring to embrace his 
 knees, "it is justice which I require of you ; do not drive me 
 from your presence. Listen to me now, or perhaps at your last 
 hour remorse will sting your soul. My husband is a poor man ; 
 his life or his death can be of no importance to the state. Let 
 him return, then, to his wife and child. We will leave this part 
 of the world,— we will quit our native country,— we will hide 
 ourselves in some foreign clime. Ah, then, have compassion 
 upon us, my Lord?" 
 
 " Leave the room," repeated Anne de Montmorency, harshly; 
 "leave the room, or I will command my attendants to thrust 
 you out." 
 
,310 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 She rose from her knees, her eyes flashing with indignation, 
 "lama Calvinist," said she •, " I abhor your mummeries, and I 
 trample under foot the idols and images which you worship. I 
 ought to share my husband's prison, for we have but one belief, 
 and one soul." 
 
 "Silence, silence!" said Claude Stocq, who until this mo- 
 ment had remained a silent spectator of the scene. 
 
 Catherine uttered a cry of astonishment and horror : in her 
 agitation she had not perceived the Secretary seated behind his 
 lord. 
 
 "We are lost ! " said she, wildly. "Great God ! deliver us from 
 the wicked ! come to our aid ! for our only hope is in thee ! " 
 
 The High Constable took her by the arm , and pushed her 
 towards the door, saying, "Let this woman be put into a dun- 
 geon 5 she shall go to Paris with the other prisoners." 
 
 " My Lord, she is mad !" cried the affrighted Claude Stoeq. 
 " She is raving mad ! I knew her father-, he was a good Catholic. 
 His daughter has been seduced into heresy, but she may be 
 converted." 
 
 "No, no, Claude Stocq!" cried Catherine, whom the ser- 
 vants were dragging from the apartment, "my father was no 
 Catholic, neither am I mad 5 and I repeat that I am a Protest- 
 ant." 
 
 Claude Stocq w r as leaving the room to follow her. 
 
 " Where are you going, varlet? " said Anne de Montmorency, 
 seating himself, yet irritated with the scene. "Come, finish the 
 dispatch. That silly woman has confounded my ideas with her 
 cries. I do not know what I was saying." 
 
 "There only remained your signature to add, my Lord." 
 
 The High Constable regarded attentively, for the space of 
 several minutes, the parchment which Claude Stocq presented 
 to him, although the characters were perfectly unintelligible 
 to him. 
 
 "Add," said he, pointing with his finger to a blank space 5 
 "that I have also imprisoned a woman, a bigoted Calvinist, a 
 bitter enemy to the church of Borne. If the Parliament act 
 justly, they will order her to be publicly whipped." 
 
 " My Lord," replied the Secretary, in a tone of entreaty, "the 
 woman is mad." 
 
 "Write what I say, and be silent!" interrupted the High 
 Constable, fiercely. " You will one day pay dearly for the liber- 
 ties which you presume to take with me." 
 
 Claude finished tire dispatch in silence , and then read it aloud. 
 
 " Jt is well," replied Anne de Montmorency, with a suspicious 
 look-, "but 1 have a good memory, Claude, my god-son; and 
 if J should some day discover thai what vou have read to me is 
 
CL.VUDE STOGQ. 311 
 
 not written on that vellum, beware-, for as sure as my name is 
 Anne de Montmorency you shall hang for it." 
 
 An imperceptible smile of anger and disdain passed over the 
 mouth of the Secretary, he bowed sarcastically, as if in grati- 
 tude for the honour he promised him. Happily for him, the 
 High Constable was occupied in putting his seal to the dispatch, 
 and did not perceive the movement. 
 
 At midnight the Secretary quitted the High Constable, his 
 brain on fire, his soul tortured by unbridled jealousy, and by the 
 dangerous position of the woman whom he loved. He had at 
 least one consolation— Catherine was not in the same dungeon 
 with Jehan Cornoailles. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The clock struck the fourth hour after midnight as Claude 
 Stocq, with a torch in one hand and a key in the other, descend- 
 ed the rude staircase which led to the prison where they had 
 confined Catherine. Arrived at the door, he hesitated ; hisheart 
 beat violently; he felt a sort of terror at appearing before her 
 the chain of whose existence he had broken. Catherine-- his 
 adored Catherine — the only being in the world whom he had 
 ever loved, was there in a damp dungeon, by his means deli- 
 vered over to inexorable judges, perhaps to the hand of the 
 common executioner ! At that moment he would have given all 
 he possessed, he would have sacrificed his own hopes of happi- 
 ness, to have led her to her own home, to have placed her in the 
 hands of her faithful servant, and restored her to the caresses of 
 her infant son. But his feelings of tenderness and pity changed 
 into hatred and an implacable desire of vengeance when he 
 thought of her husband. He remained several moments at the 
 door, a prey to revenge and love, and then opened it with a 
 trembling hand. The dungeon was completely dark. Claude 
 Stocq raised his torch, and sought the captive in that vast and 
 dismal cavern. A terrified scream escaped from the lips of Ca- 
 therine. She was seated upon the ground, leaning against the 
 damp wall of her prison. She sprung from her posture and fled 
 towards the window, her feeble hands vainly endeavouring to 
 break its iron bars. 
 
 "Catherine," said Claude Stocq, supplicatingly, " do not look 
 upon me with horror ;" but seeing that she trembled violently, 
 he continued, " do not be alarmed ; 1 am not come hither with 
 any evil intention. Will vou listen to me? " 
 
312 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 She leant against the window, and turned away her head. 
 
 " Catherine, I would willingly have spared you the horror of 
 this night at the price of my blood. My heart is torn with an- 
 guish at the thought of your being in this place. But you have 
 acted most madly. This man is advancing towards his final 
 ruin, and you are following him. Fortunately, you have yet time 
 to separate yourself from him.' , 
 
 " His fate shall be my fate-, his death my death ! " interrupted 
 Catherine, with a sharp and hollow voice. 
 
 " Have you so soon forgotten our conversation on the even- 
 ing preceding Easter-day?" demanded Claude Stocq, coldly. 
 " Have you forgotten who this man is? It is the hand of God 
 which has brought all this to pass. The Calvinist will suffer on 
 the same gallows which saved the murderer. There is no dis- 
 honour in such a death 5 it was that of Anne Dubourg, and of 
 many others, who, though bad Catholics, were honourable men. 
 Your son's name will remain undefiled. Do you understand me, 
 Catherine?" 
 
 " I understand," said she, " that the moment you entered my 
 house, misfortune came upon me. A few days ago I was happy 
 and tranquil ; the days glided past imperceptibly and peacefully ; 
 and now I am in a dungeon, with death before me. Of what 
 moment to me is the tale which you have related ? It is as a sound 
 which attracts the attention, but which is forgotten as soon as 
 it has ceased. What Jehan Cornoailles was, I do not wish to 
 know. I only bear in mind one thing — it is this : that he is my 
 husband, and that in death as well as life his fate shall be mine." 
 
 Claude Stocq turned pale with rage and jealousy. 
 
 " I will save you in spite of yourself," said he ; " but this man 
 shall die." 
 
 "Oh! no, no!" cried she, with enthusiasm; "Heaven will 
 have pity upon me and my poor child ! " At the recollection of 
 her infant son, she covered her face with her hands, and wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 " But what have I done?" continued she, after a pause, " that 
 you come thus to thrust a dagger into my lacerated breast by 
 these words of friendship, which are more poignant than those 
 of hatred? Why persecute those who have never injured you? 
 for I see it is you who have delivered us into the hands of the 
 High Constable." 
 
 The noise of a drum in the grand court arrested her words. 
 It was the signal of the break of day. 
 
 "Listen! " said Claude Stocq. " I must be gone! Oh, take 
 pity upon yourself, Catherine,— retract your words of yesterday 
 evening •, or you will suffer the most degrading of punishments!" 
 
 " Leave me to my solitude, Claude Stocq! " interrupted Ca- 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 313 
 
 therine. " Leave me, and may Heaven pardon you for the evil 
 you have done to us." 
 
 " But you cannot understand me," said he, with despair. 
 " Your jailors will soon be here ; and if you persist in your re- 
 solution, you are lost ! " 
 
 She answered not : but seated herself on the straw, and cross- 
 ed her arms on her breast, as if to await tranquilly those who 
 were coming to fetch her. 
 
 Claude Stocq knelt down before her — " For the sake of your 
 son," said he, " let me save you. 1 shall not have the power, if 
 once you leave this castle. Say only, before the people who are 
 coming to seek you, that you retract your words." 
 
 There was a moment of silence; Claude Stocq, with clasped 
 hands, awaited the sentence which she had to pronounce upon 
 herself. 
 
 At this moment a noise was heard, and a voice cried — 
 " Bring up Jehan Cornoailles, and let his hands be tied behind 
 his back." 
 
 A minute after steps were heard on the staircase. 
 
 "There they are!" said Claude Stocq, rising. " Catherine, 
 affirm that you are a good Catholic j or, at least, do not contra- 
 dict what I say." 
 
 She moved past him, without answering, and cried, as the 
 door opened—" Here 1 am— I am ready ! " She was led from the 
 dungeon ; Claude Stocq followed her, and saw her kneel down 
 to kiss her husband's hands. 
 
 " My Catherine, my beloved wife ! " cried Jehan Cornoailles, 
 bending over her with a calm, yet profound look of sadness— 
 " be of good courage; put your trust in the all powerful Ruler of 
 the universe. He will stretch out his arm to support you. He 
 will give us a crown of glory as a recompense for our tribula- 
 tions here below. Let what will happen, his holy name be 
 praised ! " 
 
 She arose, and leant her head for a moment upon her hus- 
 band's breast, as if to hear his words more distinctly, and to 
 distinguish more clearly the expression of love and solicitude 
 which beamed from his eyes. There was a ray of consolation 
 for her in the midst of this overwhelming sorrow, and she mur- 
 mured softly—" My courage will not fail me as long as we are 
 together, and I shall bless the will of Heaven ; but if they sepa- 
 rate us, Jehan ! " 
 
 " Your son will remain to you," replied he, with an accent 
 of indescribable tenderness and resignation ; " you will live for 
 his sake, my beloved Catherine." 
 
 " To horse! to horse ! " cried the captain of the guards ; k ' the 
 
314 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 preacher will mount in croup with Renaud le Balafre, and his 
 wife with Bu l'Amoureux! " 
 
 As Jehan Cornoailles passed before Claude Stocq, he mur- 
 mured loud enough to meet his ear, "The barber Landri and 
 the pastor Jehan Cornoailles shall be hung at the same gibbet !" 
 
 The prisoners were conducted into the court where their 
 guard was waiting. The High Constable stood at the top of the 
 flight of steps leading into the court. His fierce eye was bent 
 upon the unfortunate creatures before him. "Which is the 
 preacher?" said he, to Claude Stocq, who was already standing 
 by his side. 
 
 " It is he, my Lord, with the black hair, and the grave counte- 
 nance." 
 
 "Strange ! he has the look of a warrior 5 the accursed Calvi- 
 nist! the hypocritical composer of sermons? I shall be glad to 
 see him preach in the Place de Grere! " 
 
 Catherine, who was near enough to the High Constable to 
 hear his words, ran to him, and threw herself on her knees be- 
 fore him, crying — 
 
 "Oh, my Lord, what have you said! — Jehan Cornoailles in 
 the Place de Greve! His death is already decided ! We are then 
 condemned ! " 
 
 " The foul fiend take the woman ! " said the High Constable, 
 stepping back. " If it were a soldier, I could get rid of his im- 
 portunities in a moment, by a well directed shot. Ho, there! 
 place this woman on horseback ! " 
 
 She struggled in the arms of the soldiers who were endea- 
 vouring to tear her away, crying—" May the blood of the inno- 
 cent fall upon thy head, Anne de Montmorency! God hath made 
 thee powerful in this world that thou mightest represent his jus- 
 tice-, he has commanded thee to be merciful, because thou art 
 great 5 and thou makest use of thy power to oppress the unfor- 
 tunate! This iniquity crowns the other crimes of thy life, — 
 traitor to thy country and king — persecutor of God's children — 
 thou shalt soon perish ignominiously by the sword ! " 
 
 All who heard these words shuddered, and every one trembled 
 at the expected wrath of Anne de Montmorency. The soldiers 
 let go their hold of Catherine, waiting the sentence which they 
 felt assured he would pronounce. 
 
 But it was not anger which made the lips of the High Consta- 
 ble tremble and turn to an ashy hue 5 it was fear — a sort of pre- 
 sentiment that the awful words of his prisoner would be fulfilled 
 —and tliis man, who had so often braved death without shrink- 
 ing, trembled at the menace of a woman. 
 
 " Take her away ! " said he, after a moment's silence : " the 
 
CLALDK -TOCQ. 3l5 
 
 Parliament will judge her. If there he any magic or sorcery in 
 her. they will deliver her over to the ecclesiastical tribunal." 
 
 "'She is mad. my Lord!— she knows not what she says.' 
 whispered Claude Stocq in the ear of the High Constable. " It 
 
 is to an hospital, and not to a prison, that they ought to take 
 her. It would he a pity to send her to the Parliament : she 
 would repeat before them the insolent folly which you have just 
 heard." 
 
 ■•Yes. she must he mad: she must he sent to an hospital, 
 interrupted the High Constable, hastily. --She would, perhaps. 
 say before the Parliament that I am a traitor to my king and 
 countrv. I have enemies enough there would believe her." 
 
 Saying these words he entered the castle, while Claude Stocq 
 descended into the grand court to give the latest order of the 
 High Constable. He hesitated a moment as to where he should 
 send Catherine, and waited until the whole cavalcade were on 
 horseback. 
 
 l - Well. Master Stocq," said the Captain, " what are the last 
 orders of my Lord ?'" 
 
 ••The preacher and the two others to the Castle of Chatelet," 
 replied the Secretary -. "and the female to the Hospital of les 
 Petites Maisons." 
 
 Jehan Cornoailles had remained silent during the scene which 
 we have just described, but when the cavalcade commenced 
 their march, he said sadly to wife as he passed her— 
 
 ;t My poor Catherine, there was matter of life and death in 
 the words which you had the boldness to utter. May Heaven 
 put compassion and mercy into the heart of our enemy! Oh. 
 how I suffer to see you treated thus?'' 
 
 Catherine, en croupe behind a soldier, her long hair, escaped 
 from her head-gear, fell in disorder over her shoulders, her face 
 of a deadly paleness, and her features contracted, raised her 
 fine dark eyes to heaven, answering. ••Jehan, the will of God 
 be done \" 
 
 The troops defiled over the drawbridge. In passing Claude 
 Stocq. who was standing on the steps of the guard-house, the 
 Captain saluted in all due form. Catherine turned away her 
 head that she might not see him ; but he. regarding her fixedly, 
 said—'^Ye shall soon meet again at Paris.— A pleasant journey, 
 Captain !" 
 
316 tLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 CHAPTER V f 
 
 Two months after , the fSte of Pentecost was celebrating at 
 Senlis, with more than the usual catholic pomp; the procession 
 of images, banners, tapers, and relics, excited the enthusiasm 
 and devotion of the multitude. One might almost have imagined 
 that these honest citizens, these priests, these novices, and these 
 bigoted females, were desirous of avenging the injury and con- 
 tempt which their religion had suffered from the Protestants. 
 Those things which were reproved by the new faith of the 
 proselytes were there publicly exposed to the veneration of the 
 Catholics. In the market-place, at every cross-road, altars were 
 built-, and images of saints, and relics of martyrs, reposedin the 
 midst of lighted tapers and flowers. In the evening, a bonfire 
 was lighted in the square where the dwelling of Jehan Cor- 
 noailles stood, and the people danced gaily around it, while the 
 bells of Notre Dame rung a merry peal. In the midst of this 
 general joy, the house of Jehan Cornoailles remained closed, as 
 if uninhabited. 
 
 In the same apartment in which Claude Stocq had found 
 Catherine on the evening before Easter-day, the old servant 
 was seated with the child near the almost extinguished fire. 
 
 Veronique sat, her hands clasped, and her head reposing on 
 her bosom as if in prayer. The child listened impatiently to the 
 noise without. 
 
 " I should like to see what they are doing there," said he 5 
 " why are we thus enclosed?"' 
 
 " Because your father and mother are not here," replied 
 Veronique. " Poor child !" added she, raising her eyes red with 
 weeping and want of rest, to heaven; "poor child! may the 
 Almighty support us in these tribulations!" 
 
 At these words, the child, who had approached the window, 
 to endeavour to see through the crevices of the closed window- 
 shutters what w r as passing without, came and sat down at the 
 feet of the old servant. 
 
 "Why are we alone?" said he-, "and my mother and my 
 father, where are they gone? They said that they would soon 
 come home; but it is a long, long wmile ago? Where are they? 
 tell me, Veronique." 
 
 The old servant took the child upon her knee. 
 
 "Robert," said she, " listen to me: to-morrow we shall go 
 to Paris." 
 
 "To see my mother?" 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 3 [7 
 
 "Alas! no, my poor child ! Heaven only knows where she 
 is ! but we shall go to see your father." 
 
 "Ah ! how pleased I am ! He will take me for long walks, and 
 we will seek my mother. He promised to take me to Paris when 
 I should be five years old ; and I am five years old now, am I 
 not, Yeronique ?" 
 
 "Not quite, but you soon will bo. You are already a little 
 man, Robert; you must learn to write, and to pray to God." 
 
 "My mother will teach me. Oh! how 1 should like to see 
 my mother ! I weep every evening because she is not here ; but 
 we will go and seek her. My father will carry me in his arms 
 when I am tired-, we will seek her, even if she should be as far 
 away as Paris." 
 
 At this moment cries and huzzas resounded in the street. At 
 first there was nothing alarming in these demonstrations of the 
 general jubilee, and bursts of laughter only were heard, in which 
 was mingled a licence of speech comporting little with the solem- 
 nity of the day. As soon as the mirth had somewhat subsided, 
 Yeronique distinguished these words : " Down on your knees 
 before the cross ! on your knees, Perine la Barbue ! An act of 
 faith also before Saint Rieul! Stop there ! don't pull her so! you 
 will tear the rags from her body ! " 
 
 Fresh bursts of laughter were heard, and a plaintive voice, 
 saying, " Let me go, I entreat, good Sirs. I am an honest 
 woman 5 1 gain my livelihood without harm to any one." 
 
 She who was the object of their ill-timed mirth was a poor, 
 ragged creature, horribly deformed, and of remarkably plain 
 features; her body, little more than three feet high, supported a 
 head of prodigious size 5 a sort of mustachios covered her upper 
 lip,— it was this which had procured her the surname of Perine 
 la Barbue. She turned round and round in the circle which her 
 persecutors formed, as if determined to make her way through 
 them. 
 
 " Bring holy water," cried one; " let us see if the old hag will 
 refuse to cross herself with it ! " 
 
 " Let us oblige her to do penance , with a taper in her hand," 
 exclaimed another. 
 
 "Do penance!" cried the woman, with indignation ; "do 
 you take me for a sorceress, or for a woman of bad character ? " 
 
 Here the shouts and laughter recommenced, and by degrees 
 the laugh and the jest were changed for oaths and threats. The 
 poor creature, accused of Calvinism, refused to kneel before the 
 images with obstinate perseverance. Maledictions and menaces 
 were of no avail ! Blows also were had recourse to, but as use- 
 lessly ! The unfortunate woman escaped as if by miracle from the 
 hands of her tormentors, and sought refuge under the shadow 
 
318 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 of the door of Jehan Cornoailles' house, on the other side of 
 which stood Yeronique, listening and trembling at the tumuli. 
 The night was dark ; the bonfire which had at first illuminated 
 the scene was now nearly extinguished. A few handfuls of 
 straw were thrown upon the dying embers, which casta flick- 
 ering light upon the old church ; and the crowd turned towards 
 the house near which she was supposed to have taken refuge. 
 But she had disappeared as if by magic. 
 
 " The old hag has taken refuge in her kennel," cried Guillau- 
 met 5 " she is in Jehan Cornoailles 1 house." 
 
 " There is no one there," cried another voice. 
 
 " That's what we'll soon see!" cried the multitude, and re- 
 doubled blows shook the door. Guillaumet applied an eye to 
 the window frame, and through the aperture of the shutters 
 perceived the light of a lamp. 
 
 " There is some one within," cried he, turning to seek some 
 stones. 
 
 Without, the tumult was frightful-, within, the two women, 
 pale and trembling, were supplicating Heaven, while the child, 
 weeping, hid his face under Veronique's apron. 
 
 "We are lost!" said Perine; "what a misfortune to have 
 met with these papists— these wild beasts, on my road ! But if I 
 had been forced to have fought my way amidst their levelled 
 pikes, I would have come hither to have told you what I heard 
 said in front of the Hotel du Cerf Couronne. Master Jehan Cor- 
 noailles will be judged to-morrow. The person who brought the 
 news arrived this evening from Paris." 
 
 " To-morrow he will receive his sentence !" cried Veronique, 
 forgetting her own danger; "Oh, my good Perine! I must 
 start for Paris this night !" 
 
 The tumult and the blows redoubled; but the door, which 
 was lined with iron and thickly studded with nails, yet withstood 
 the assault. There was no hope for them of forcing it with 
 blows or stones. The most eager proposed setting it on fire ; 
 but fortunately, the authorities of the town arrived at this mo- 
 ment, and addressing the mob, calmed them with the assurance 
 that they would make an example of Perine la Barbue. They 
 then knocked at the door ; demanding it to be opened in the 
 name of the king. 
 
 Perine extinguished the light- which had discovered them, 
 and saying to \ eronique with calmness — 
 
 "What is to be done now?— to deliver oneself to these 
 people is to sign one's death warrant ! " 
 
 An authoritative voice was aptin heard : " I command you 
 to open immediately, in the name of his Majesty and justice ! " 
 Furious blows again shook the door. 
 
CLAUDE STOCO. 3 10 
 
 Yeronique took the child in her arms; and, followed by 
 Ferine, they groped their way to the upper story, where there 
 was a window at the back of the house, looking into a street. 
 The two women opened it tremblingly, and looked oat—the 
 street was deserted. 
 
 " We must descend here,"' said Perine ; " we have yet time ; 
 the door will hold out another quarter of an hour, perhaps."' 
 
 They knotted together sheets, counterpanes, — whatever came 
 to hand : they then made one end fast to an iron bar, which 
 crossed the window. 
 
 At a distance of twenty feet in the square, cries of vengeance 
 were heard: a reddish light was reflected upon the opposite 
 houses, but the street below remained tranquil, every one being 
 occupied in the siege of the front of the house. 
 
 ; - Let us descend," said Yeronique, after a short and fervent 
 prayer. 
 
 She fastened Robert upon her shoulders, and climbed upon 
 the sill of the window. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Robert," said she, seizing hold of the 
 sheets, and beginning to descend. For a moment her head turn- 
 ed round, her sight was obscured, and it appeared to her that 
 an abyss was yawning under her feet. She implored Heaven to 
 protect her, with a mixture of fear and confidence, and reached 
 the ground in safety, although giddy and almost lifeless with 
 terror. Perine descended a minute after. 
 
 They gained the gate of the town of Compiegne, and were 
 suffered to pass without difficulty. When they had reached its 
 boundary on the other side, they hid themselves in a hedge to 
 take breath. The child had felt, as if by instinct, their common 
 danger — he spoke not a word, but pressed closely to Yeronique. 
 The two women threw themselves on their knees, and returned 
 thanks to that All Merciful Being who had delivered them from 
 their persecutors. 
 
 14 1 will never return to Senlis," said Perine. " I would not 
 again fall into the hands of those papists. I have a brother, a 
 butcher, who dwells in the forest of Compiegne: I will see him. 
 I shall be able to gain my bread by making fagots ; and even if 
 I am not so fortunate, it is better to live upon wild berries than 
 to bow down before their idols." 
 
 14 I must direct my footsteps towards Paris,'' said Yeronique. 
 •* that I may lead this child to his father." 
 
320 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The old servant and the child pursued their way to Paris ; 
 one infirm from old age, the other from childhood. At hreak of 
 day, they found themselves at only two leagues from Senlis. 
 Veronique sat down by the road side, and took Robert upon 
 her knees, who, exhausted by fatigue and want of rest, was 
 soon wrapped in a profound sleep, his eyes closing as he mur- 
 mured faintly, "It is indeed a long distance to Paris, good 
 Veronique !" 
 
 She covered him with her apron, and threw a despairing look 
 upon the dusty and deserted road which she had to travel \ 
 then raised her thoughts with faith to the Supreme Being, her 
 only hope in this hour of distress. Veronique was yet absorbed 
 in prayer, when she was interrupted by the noise of horsemen 
 approaching from the town of Senlis. Her first movement was 
 that of terror 5 she rose with the intention of hiding herself, 
 with the child, behind the hedge, when she perceived that this 
 troop escorted several large wagons heavily leaden. When they 
 were within a few yards of her, she awoke the child, and, taking 
 him by the hand, pursued her journey. These wagons were 
 transporting ammunition and government stores from Senlis to 
 Paris ; they proceeded slowly, escorted by about fifty horsemen ; 
 the old servant and the child followed them on foot for about an 
 hour. At first Robert was highly delighted with the train of ar- 
 tillery and all the panoply of their profession ; the neighing of 
 the horses, and the noise of the soldiers, enchanted him, he ran 
 before them, clapping his hands, and shouting with all the 
 strength of his infantine voice ; but his little feet soon failed 
 with extreme lassitude, and he hung upon Veronique's arm, 
 saying, " Oh ! how I should like to sit down." 
 
 " I will try to carry you," replied she, stooping that the child 
 might place himself upon her back. 
 
 " Oh ! no, no," said he : " you are already very tired, poor 
 Veronique! I can walk, I can walk all the way to Paris." 
 
 " There's a brave child ! his courage is greater than his legs," 
 said a soldier who had heard these last words. " Come here, 
 mother ; I will place him before me; my horse will not feel the 
 weight of such a tiny little fellow." 
 
 He who spoke possessed a set of features which corresponded 
 little with the helmet of a soldier ; they were mild and engaging, 
 with an expression of ingenuousness and compassion. Yero- 
 
CLVUDE STOCQ. 3*21 
 
 pique willingly confided Robert to his care. She fancied herself 
 lightened of her fatigue by this charitable action ; it appeared to 
 her that she was no longer weary ; but at the first halt she fell 
 exhausted by the road side. One of the drivers of the wagons 
 had pity upon her, made her get into his wagon, and gave her 
 some wine to drink out of his canteen. 
 
 During the remainder of the journey, the soldiers, charmed 
 with the beauty and gaiety of Robert, fed him most bountifully, 
 and overwhelmed him with caresses. Every one begged him of 
 the soldier, who was not a little amused by his unceasing prattle- 
 In spite of their kindness, and this unlooked-for assistance, Ve- 
 ronique endured the most cruel anguish during that day. These 
 soldiers were bigoted papists, attached to the retinue of M. de 
 Guise-, they sung political and heretical songs, such as "The 
 Jewish Calvinists" " The Church's Foes," etc. The hair of Ve- 
 ronique stood on end at these blasphemies : she stopped her 
 ears, and prayed silently, while the little Robert, much amused 
 with the gaiety of his companions, repeated after his protector, 
 " The mass and M. de Guise for ever!" 
 
 About ten in the evening they entered Paris, by St. Martin's 
 Gate, the cavalcade passing by the street Vert Bois to gain the 
 inclosures of the Temple. Here Veronique dismounted, curtsey- 
 ing by way of thanks to her conductor, and then took Robert 
 by the hand, saying, " Awake, my child ; we are now at Paris." 
 The child looked around at the dark streets of this deserted and 
 solitary part of the town. 
 
 " I don't see my father," said he, pressing affrightedly to the 
 side of Veronique. " Let us make haste away from this place." 
 
 " Who is the father of that cherub?" said the soldier who had 
 so charitably relieved her of her charge. 
 
 Veronique trembled at this simple question; she dared not 
 speak the truth, but replied, " He is an unhappy man ; I might 
 almost say that the child is an orphan." 
 
 ' ; I understand you," said the soldier, who had mistaken the 
 sense of Veronique's words. " By all the saints of paradise, if I 
 were the father of that child I should not be ashamed to acknow- 
 ledge him !" 
 
 The servant quitted (he soldier with the utmost speed, fear- 
 ing new interrogations. She was, however, terrified at finding 
 herself alone, almost without money, friendless, and at so late 
 an hour, in that immense city. Hardly knowing which way to 
 bend her steps in search of a night's lodging, she found herself 
 by a fortunate chance in St. Martin's Street. She then remem- 
 bered that it was here that Jehan Cornoailles lodged, in an 
 inn which bore the sign of Le Plat d'Etain, whenever he 
 made his journeys to Paris, and, raising her eyes, she saw 
 
 21 
 
322 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 over a large archway, a plate of the size of a shield, shining 
 between two lanterns. Veronique rapped timidly at the en- 
 trance; the door opened, and the host advanced hastily. 
 
 "Who is there? What is your pleasure, good woman?" 
 said he, glancing at the dusty shoes, and homely dress of Ve- 
 ronique. 
 
 She had entered with the intention of confiding the motive 
 of her journey to this man, but his insolent and harsh manner 
 of speaking made her change her resolution, and she replied, 
 " I am in want of a lodging for the night-, have you not a cham- 
 ber for me!" 
 
 ' ; 1 have two," answered the host, with an air of mockery 5 
 " one is next to the bedchamber of Monsieur Gui de Champdi- 
 vers, captain of the Scotch guard 5 you'll sleep like a princess 
 in it.' 1 
 
 This insolent irony had no other effect than that of exciting 
 the merriment of two waiters, who attended their master with 
 torches in their hands. Veronique was too much occupied with 
 the fate of Jehan Cornoailles for her feelings to be wounded by 
 her own humiliation. 
 
 " Sir," said she, humbly, " I am not come hither to demand 
 a bed of down with silken curtains, but 1 only require some 
 corner in which I may lay this poor child, who is almost dead 
 with lassitude and sleep." 
 
 Saying these words, she uncovered the beautiful and sleepy 
 features of the child who leant against her. 
 
 " Cursed Jew! pitiful wretch!" exclaimed a voice from a 
 window overlooking the court where Veronique was standing. 
 " Will you have the villany to send away that poor woman and 
 that lovely child, at such an hour? Where do you think they 
 are to go to V 
 
 " x\h! pardon, Captain!" cried the host 5 " it is very chari- 
 table of you to urge me to a good work. Go into the kitchen, 
 my good' woman." said he, addressing himself to Veronique, 
 " go in, since his honour, Gui de Champdivers, captain of the 
 Scottish guard, wishes it." The kitchen was contiguous to the 
 dining-room. The hour of supper being arrived, the inhabitants 
 of the inn were seen pouring in from all sides. The Captain de 
 Champdivers was amongst the first to make his appearance 5 and 
 seeing Veronique seated in the kitchen with Robert on her 
 knees, patiently awaiting the long-desired bed, he entered into 
 the kitchen. 
 
 He was young and handsome, his fine form setting off to ad- 
 vantage his Scottish uniform; his manner was frank and bold, 
 but kind and gentlemanly. It was easy to see that he had not 
 the ferocious habits of a soldier of that day. His gentle smile ex- 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 323 
 
 pressed what his lips were about to utter— " What a beautiful 
 boy you have there, my good woman," said he. "Holy Vir- 
 gin ! it is an angel ! " 
 
 "I owe you the obligation, Sir, of being received into this 
 house," said Veronique, remembering the voice ; "might I now 
 take the liberty of begging you to request some one to shew 
 me the room where I am to pass the night; I have already 
 asked it, but the words of the poor are seldom listened to." 
 
 " In a moment, in a moment ! " said the host, who had over- 
 heard her words-, "but before I let you go up stairs, I must 
 inscribe your name and where you are going to on my register. 
 The devil a bit do the inspectors joke upon this subject 5 they 
 force us to be very exact, and they are right 5 the roads are 
 swarming with Calvinists, and it is no matter to them where 
 they take up their quarters." 
 
 " What is your name?" 
 
 " Veronique Bardel." 
 
 " Where do you live ? " 
 
 "At Senlis," replied she, after a moment's hesitation, but 
 not unintentionally. She hoped that the host would, from the 
 name of the town, be led to speak of Jehan Cornoailles. She 
 judged rightly. 
 
 "There was a citizen of Senlis," said he, "who used occa- 
 sionally to lodge here ; you know him, perhaps ; he is called 
 Jehan Cornoailles." 
 
 "I know him," said she ; " a man about forty years of age, 
 with a kind but serious turn of countenance." 
 
 " The same ; but we must be upon our guard against these 
 amiable-looking people. Jehan Cornoailles is a Calvinist." 
 
 Here he crossed himself devoutly. 
 
 " Was not this known at Senlis ? " said he. 
 
 Veronique shook her head. 
 
 " Well, I knew it," continued the host, drawing himself up, 
 " and I have given evidence against him before the Parliament. 
 It is a terrible affair that ; he will be condemned." 
 
 "He has, then, been convicted?" interrupted Veronique, 
 with a fearful anxiety. 
 
 " It is not yet known ; his fate will be decided to-morrow." 
 
 "And his wife— for he had a wife? No one has seen her 
 at Senlis for these two months. Some say that she was arrested 
 with her husband." 
 
 " Then she must have died in prison, for her name was not 
 mentioned in the process. Ah ! he was married then? " 
 
 Veronique made no reply, or her sobs would have betrayed 
 her. Fortunately, the hostess at this moment called her hus- 
 
32-4 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 band, who quitted \ eronique, saying, " He is an accursed Cat- 
 vinist, that Jehan Cornoailles ! " 
 
 During this conversation, Captain de Champdivers had led 
 the child into the supper-room, where, lifting him to a level with 
 the sideboard, he desired him to fill his pockets with the deli- 
 cacies which it afforded. The acquaintance was soon made; 
 Robert, now wide awake, the happy possessor of such a store of 
 cakes and fruit, climbed upon the knee of his new friend, and 
 ate his supper with the best of appetites, exclaiming between 
 each mouthful, " How I love soldiers ! To-day we met with one 
 who made me ride on his great horse, but J was not afraid, not 
 I, — I would have gone to wars with him, butVeronique would 
 not let me. Oh ! how I should like to have a big gun and a sword." 
 
 The Captain was enchanted with the infantine grace of the 
 child ; he almost smothered him with caresses : and when Yero- 
 nique called him, thinking him to be the child of respectable but 
 poor parents, he put a piece of gold into Robert's hand. 
 
 "No, thank you; no, thank you, Sir," said Robert, with 
 some pride; "my mother would scold me if I took it. Ah ! fie 
 for shame ! : ' 
 
 "What is your mother's name, my little fellow?" said the 
 officer, smiling at this early-dawning sense of honour. 
 
 " She is called Catherine." 
 
 " Well, then, tell Mistress Catherine from me that she has the 
 most angelic little boy that I ever set eyes upon." 
 
 Veronique was at the door of the supper-room ; the child ran 
 to her ; but before he disappeared he turned and kissed his little 
 hand to the officer, who seated himself at the table, saying, "I 
 would marry to-morrow, if I thought that my wife would make 
 me the father of such a little angel ! " 
 
 Veronique passed the night in a small chamber which the 
 host had, with an air of compassion, appropriated to her use. 
 Whilst Robert slept profoundly, the faithful servant thought of 
 the morrow. Her master had found means to send a messenger 
 to Senlis, to tell her that he desired to see his son. She knew 
 that she could penetrate into the prison of the Grand Chatelet, 
 — that she should see her loved and unfortunate master, though 
 perhaps only for a few minutes. Her thoughts wandered not 
 from this interview. In spite of her ardent faith, and her resig- 
 nation to the will of Heaven, she trembled to think that Jehan 
 Cornoailles might have already received his sentence. The 
 words of the host were continually uppermost in her mind: she 
 was grieved to be forced to take shelter under the roof of one 
 who had borne witness against her master. 
 
 At an early hour she awoke Robert; and. taking him by the 
 hand descended to the kitchen. 
 
clude stocq. 325 
 
 " Here is for our night's lodging," said she to the host, who 
 Was chasing the servants, whip in hand, to see that they did 
 their duty. 
 
 " Ah, ah ! " said he, " you decamp already? Where are you 
 going now ?" 
 
 " That can be no business of yours," replied Veronique. ' k You 
 have your due, and I have nothing more to say to you now that 
 we are quits." 
 
 She turned her back upon him, and left the house, whilst the 
 host grumbled forth—" Ah ! go your way, old screech-owl ! go, 
 seek your nest elsewhere ; the Captain de Champdivers' pro- 
 tection was well placed. The further off those kind of people 
 are who travel without baggage the better; they are a disgrace 
 to a respectable house. Happily, I have escaped this time." 
 
 Veronique traversed Saint Martin's Street to gain the Grand 
 Chatelet ; her head turned in the midst of that incongruous mass 
 <jf people which swarmed in the streets of the ancient city of 
 Paris. The different cries of the streets, the warning bell of the 
 Catholic priesthood bearing the eucharist to the bedside of 
 some dying person, the plaintive voice of the houseless and the 
 starving, the sound of horses' feet, and the chimes of the church 
 bells announcing the seven o'clock mass, all combined to form 
 a concert dissonant and confused enough to overwhelm the 
 senses of a stronger-minded person than Veronique. Robert 
 walked by her side, astonished and bewildered : at every mo- 
 ment he stopped to admire a fine shop or something new. 
 
 "Oh! look, look, Veronique!" said he: "this is a pastry- 
 cook's 3 the cakes are as high as the steeple of Saint Rieul : and 
 those men's faces, strung on twine in that shop on the other 
 side of the way ! It is very funny ! they are some of them made 
 of black silk/ And those" gloves ! — those pretty caps?-those 
 shoes! Ah! how beautiful everything is! " 
 
 " Come, come, Robert," said Veronique, her heart oppressed 
 by his joyous admiration ; " we are going to see your father." 
 
 At these words the child ran skipping before her, crying : 
 "Ah ! how glad I am ! I will ask him to bring me to walk here 3 
 but first we will seek my mother." 
 
 They arrived at the Pout au Change. There was to be seen a 
 heavy building, the dark walls of which, tlanked by its towers, 
 overlooked the neighbouring houses: this was the prison called 
 the Grand ChateleL This ancient fortress had been built for the 
 defence of Paris, but its original destination had been altered 
 for some time ; it w T as now the seat of jurisprudence, and served 
 at the same time for a prison, tribunal, and residence of the 
 principal judge. 
 
 The old servant thought that she should only have to present 
 
326 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 herself at the gate to be immediately admitted into this redoubt- 
 able place, and to penetrate into Jehan Cornoailles' prison ; but 
 there was no trifling form required before this sad favour could 
 be granted. R_efused admittance by the sentinels and the jai- 
 lors, she sought the presence of the judge himself, and by 
 throwing herself at his feet, and by her entreaties, obtained at 
 last the order for opening the dungeon of Jehan Cornoailles. It 
 was then about noon. 
 
 Veronique returned to the lodge which separated the rest of 
 the building from the prisons. The door remained constantly 
 fastened, and those who presented themselves were first recon- 
 noitred through the grating. This lodge had in itself the appear- 
 ance of a prison ; enormous bars of iron protected its windows, 
 pistols and swords were hanging around its walls, a table was 
 placed in the middle of the apartment, on which the porter and 
 a turnkey w T ere playing at cards. 
 
 When the little Robert heard the ponderous door close behind 
 him, he shook with fear, and clinging to Veronique, cried, "I 
 will not stay here ; tell them to let us out again." 
 
 " We are going to see your father," replied she. 
 
 " Here ! " said the child, with great surprise, and then began 
 to sob : he understood nothing, but he guessed instinctively 
 that some great misfortune had occurred to his parent. 
 
 A jailor walked before Veronique, who followed, dragging 
 the little Robert after her, who shuddered and closed his eyes 
 with terror. They traversed a court, then a large vaulted passage, 
 and descended a staircase ; a profound silence reigned in every 
 part of the edifice 5 the noise without was echoed back to them 
 like the hoarse murmur of the sea. The torch which the jailor bore 
 in his hand reflected its pale rays upon the dark arched roof, 
 and only served to render the darkness of the place more visible. 
 
 "He'is here," said the jailor, opening a narrow dungeon, 
 damp and obscure as a tomb ; he entered the first, and raised 
 his torch. 
 
 Veronique distinguished a man seated upon some straw 5 a 
 heavy chain, one end of which was fastened to the wall, encir- 
 cled his neck ; his long beard hid the lower part of his features, 
 and he wore upon his head a black and dirty cap. The faithful 
 creature had not the courage to advance ; she leaned in tears 
 against the door for support, but Robert cried, "Oh! I am so 
 afraid : let us go and look for my father." 
 
 " My son! my son! " cried Jehan Cornoailles, and the rattling 
 of his chains mingled with this exclamation. The child immedi- 
 ately recognised the voice, and ran and threw himself upon his 
 father's neck, whilst Veronique, sobbing almost to suffocation, 
 dropped on her knees at her master's side. 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 327 
 
 For the space of a quarter of an hour no sound was heard hut 
 the sobs of Veroniqueand the sighs of the captive, intermingled 
 with the kisses which he gave to his son. The jailor had with- 
 drawn ; he remained outside the door, for, however accustomed 
 to the expressions of woe and despair, this scene had conside- 
 rably affected even him. 
 
 " Veronique! " at last said Jehan Cornoailles, " where is my 
 wife?" 
 
 " Alas ! 1 know not," replied she •, " no one can tell where she 
 is hidden. Since that unfortunate day of Easter I have been 
 twice to Chantilly in hopes of seeing Claude Stocq ; I would have 
 thrown myself at his feet, I would have supplicated him, and 
 with the help of Heaven I should have succeeded. The tyran- 
 nical papists drove me from the castle w T ith blows and abusive 
 words. A short time after, I learnt that Claude Stocq had left 
 Chanlilly with the High Constable. May God punish him for 
 the evil he has done us ! " 
 
 " Father," said the child, " come away, do not stay here, it is 
 so dark ! It is daylight out of doors ; we will go and walk in the 
 sunshine, and seek my mother, — come ! " He seated himself 
 upon his father's knees, and endeavoured to grasp his hand with 
 his tiny ones. 
 
 Jehan Cornoailles raised the chain, and said with a broken 
 voice to his son, " I am fastened, Robert: I shall never leave 
 this dungeon except to fulfil my doom; but you will quit it, my 
 fair boy, — you will, I trust, enjoy many years of uninterrupted 
 happiness. God will raise his people, and chastise their persecu- 
 tors 5 the idol of Rome will be trampled under foot, and the 
 gospel truths rise like a phoenix from among the ruins of the 
 temple of Baal ! Tf Heaven listens to my last prayer, you, my 
 beloved son, w T ill be one of the shepherds of that immense flock. 
 Robert, when you have found your mother, endeavour to console 
 her, and be a good son to her ; I bless her with all my soul. Ca- 
 therine! my devoted, my tender Catherine — oh, that I could but 
 see her yet again before I take my final leave of this world, were 
 it only to say farewell ! — But Heaven refuses me this consolation 
 in my last moments!" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Veronique, every limb shaking with 
 emotion ; " the sentence — " 
 
 " Is already pronounced, and I am condemned !" interrupted 
 Jehan Cornoailles. 
 
 A cry of despair escaped from Veronique. " Alas ! " exclaimed 
 she, smiting her bosom, " they told me that there was yet some 
 hope." 
 
 "I am condemned to death!" repeated Jehan Cornoailles, 
 and a holy resignation beamed in his noble and pale features. 
 
328 CLALDK STOCQ. 
 
 44 Heaven will have pity upon us," said Veronique, rising ; 
 " he will not suffer the just to fall ; he will rescue him from his 
 enemies ! The king will reprieve— I will take this child to him 
 —we will throw ourselves at his feet. " 
 
 Jehan Cornoailles shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " If I were a thief, or an assassin," said he, " the king would 
 reprieve me; but I am a Calvinist. May Heaven pardon those 
 who are about the shed my blood ! May it bless the infant king 
 whose wicked counsellors are determined on our ruin ! Vero- 
 nique, come nearer, and listen to what I have to say. The thread 
 of my existence is well nigh spun ; I must make the best use 
 of what remains to me. The presence of Robert was necessary 
 to make me think of my temporal affairs." He took the child in 
 his arms. " Can you listen to me ! " 
 
 "Yes, my master," replied the servant, standing by his side 
 in an attitude of the deepest sadness. 
 
 " This is my will," continued he, with a solemn voice ; " you 
 will have to answer before Heaven lor the execution of my last 
 wishes. Jehan Cornoailles is not my true name ; I have another; 
 it is the one which my child bears. This secret, Veronique, is 
 known only to my wife and to another person, to whom 1 owe 
 my life. If Heaven, in its infinite mercy, restores Catherine to 
 the arms of her son, she will one day tell him who his father 
 was-, but if she be dead approach nearer, Veronique." 
 
 She bent over him as he pronounced a few words in a low tone. 
 
 "Gracious heavens!" cried she, with an astonishment which 
 for a moment obliterated all other impressions. 
 
 "Yes," cried he, raising his eyes towards heaven, " twice a 
 martyr! Listen," said he, after a moment's pause. "You are 
 aware that there is a secret recess in our house, in the lower 
 sitting-room, behind the last panel near the window." 
 
 She made a sign that this was known to her. 
 
 "In this hiding-place, made by Catherine's father," continued 
 he, "you will find a coffer of iron ; it contains papers which 
 will prove the truth of what I have told you. You must hide 
 this box in the subterraneous cellar, that fire or the destruction 
 of the house may not destroy it ; and that the proofs of Robert's 
 birth may be preserved." 
 
 Here Veronique trembled, for she feared that the sacred de- 
 posit might now be in the hands o f the spoiler. 
 
 "And now, my child," continued he, drawing Robert towards 
 him, " let me once again clasp thee to my heart. Bless thee, my 
 loved boy. Ah, Heaven! be my strength and support in this 
 awful trial ! This is worse than death !" 
 
 The unfortunate father could no longer repress his sobs ; his 
 faith in that religion of which he had been a zealous apostle, 
 
CLAUDE STOCO. $29 
 
 and for which he was now about to endure martyrdom, failed to 
 console him in this moment of separation, and his love for his 
 youthful son triumphed for a moment over his constancy. The 
 combat was of short duration ; the higb-souled Calvinist made a 
 sign to Veronique to remove the child, and said, with a broken 
 voice, " We shall be reunited in the bosom of Omniscience." 
 
 The turnkey entered 5 he took the torch with one hand, and 
 with the other had the humanity to support the trembling 
 footsteps of the faithful servant-, the heavy door grated on its 
 rusty hinges behind them — it closed after them. 
 
 "You have deceived me!" said Veronique, wildly, "he is 
 condemned— condemned to die! You must now tell me when 
 the sentence will be executed, and where; for 1 have yet a 
 hope; the king may, perhaps, grant a reprieve-,— he can, can 
 he not?" 
 
 " It is possible," said the turnkey, " so be of good courage. 
 Now, you had better lead this poor child out of this gloomy 
 place -/do you not see that he is dying for want of air?" 
 
 "But the sentence, the sentence!" interrupted Veronique, 
 almost unable to pronounce the word which froze her heart's 
 blood, "where will it be executed?" 
 " AtSenlis." 
 
 "Great Heaven! and when?" 
 "In two days." 
 
 "Come, Robert, come!" said Veronique, suddenly animated 
 by confidence and hope, " we will go and solicit your father's 
 pardon of the king." 
 The turnkey shook his head with an air of compassion. 
 "How can you approach near enough to the king to speak to 
 him?" said he. 
 
 " I will wait at the door of the Louvre 5 I will remain there 
 all day and all night, until I see him leave his palace, and then 
 I wilf intercept his passage with my body ; Robert will implore 
 the pardon of his father— the Ring will have pity upon us— 
 will he not?" 
 
 "You must get a petition written," said the turnkey, " and 
 then we shall see. Be of good courage." 
 
 "Let us hasten, Robert!" cried she. When she was on the 
 outside of the prison lodge, she turned to the jailor, saying, 
 "Two days, we have yet two days? You do not deceive me 
 this time?" 
 
 "No, no!" replied the turnkey, fastening the iron gate. 
 " Who? Jehan Cornoailles, the Calvinist?" said the porter ; 
 " it is to-morrow, fool !" 
 
 " I know it, but I do not like to tell the truth in these matters, 
 because, don't you see. Master Guillaume. it is consoling Lo 
 
330 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 think the time yet distant ; when once passed, it is useless to 
 repine, and they endeavour to forget. I have often remarked, 
 that people lament more before than after trouble." 
 
 "It is very probable," said the porter, with a careless air, 
 laying out his cards upon the table. "Three aces and fifteen 
 with knave. I've won." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Veronique waited until the evening at the entrance of that 
 part of the Louvre looking towards Saint Germain 1'Auxerrois. 
 The palace on this side bore the appearance of a. fortress, the 
 entrance to it being narrow, low, and flanked by two round 
 towers ; the statues of King Charles and his Queen, Johanne de 
 Bourbon, peeping out with their stone faces from under the 
 lowering archway 5 the new buildings, erected during the reign 
 of Francis the First, were on the further side of a garden which, 
 planted with trees, separated them from the rest of the edifice. 
 Two sentinels stood facing each other at the archway, near 
 which was situated the guard-house of the king's archers. An 
 immense crowd stood around the entrance to the palace 5 satel- 
 lites of justice, lords of the court, females carefully veiled, 
 followed by troops of pages and lackeys, were to be seen coming 
 and going incessantly. It might then have been about five 
 o'clock in the evening. On a sudden, the drums beat to arms 5 
 the archers poured out from their guard-house, and ranged 
 themselves like a hedge ; the crowd pressed towards the gate of 
 Saint Germain 1'Auxerrois. Veronique's heart beat violently. 
 
 "Can you tell me who is coming this way?" said she to a 
 ragged female, who had perched herself upon a block of stone 
 to have a better view. 
 
 " It is the beautiful Queen Mary," said a young student, with 
 enthusiasm; "she whom the people call the White Queen, 
 because since her widowhood she is always dressed in white 
 instead of black, the usual custom of the queens of France. 
 
 " The Queen ! the Queen of France !" exclaimed Veronique. 
 She placed the petition in the hand of the little Robert, and, 
 dragging him after her by the other, succeeded in making 
 her way to the archers, and placed herself with the child between 
 two of them. The space of ground between the Palace of the 
 Louvre and Saint Germain 1'Auxerrois was in a few minutes 
 strewed with flowers and branches of trees. Two running 
 pages passed in advance 5 then followed slowly the Queen, 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 331 
 
 Mary Stuart, leaning upon Messire de Birague, her Master of 
 the Horse; four of the principal nobles of the court supported 
 a canopy over her head. She was followed by her maids of 
 honour, and several ladies and officers of her household. Mary 
 was dressed in a robe of white silk, the open sleeves of which 
 were drawn up and attached by strings of pearls ; her auburn 
 tresses were confined by a light network of silver, and her 
 redundant ringlets were parted on each side of the most beauti- 
 ful brow that ever graced a diadem. Her fine blue eyes wore an 
 expression of undeflnable melancholy ; even when she smiled 
 they remained pensive and sad. Such was Mary Queen of Scots 
 at the age of nineteen, before her faults and her misfortunes, 
 when, as widow of Francis the Second, she was about to quit 
 that loved country where she had reigned for so short a space of 
 time. The people, by whom she was almost idolized, pressed in 
 crowds to see her the moment she left the Louvre, and rent the 
 air with their acclamations. 
 
 " My Lord de Birague/' said she to her Master of the Horse, 
 " the love of the good people of France penetrates my heart. 
 Alas! must I quit this fine country, and these honest folks !" 
 She turned aside her head at these words, her long eyelashes 
 with difficulty restraining the tears which were ready to* fall. 
 
 At this moment, Veronique, by an unexpected and sudden 
 movement, pushed aside the archer who was standing before 
 her, darted forward, pulling the child with her, and threw 
 herself at the Queen's feet. There was a moment of surprise 
 and disorder. Mary Stuart stood still, and the Master of the 
 Horse cried to the archers — 
 
 " Varlets, take this woman away! she stops the progress of 
 her Majesty !" 
 
 "In the name of Heaven, Madam," said Veronique, " listen 
 to this child !— he implores his father's life !— Robert, give — 
 give the petition!" 
 
 The child instinctively offered the paper which he held in his 
 hand. Mary Stuart took it, and handed it to her Master of the 
 Horse, saying — 
 
 " Examine this, and you will speak to me about it to-morrow 
 after mass." 
 
 "To-morrow!" cried Veronique, " Ah !— gracious Queen ! 
 it will perhaps be too late !" 
 
 The Queen heard not : but looking sadly at Robert, said to 
 her Master of the Horse — 
 
 " How marvellously beautiful that child is: how happy his 
 mother must be! Ah! if I had a dauphin resembling him, I 
 should then remain Queen of France. Pray for me, my fair child !" 
 
 Saying these words, she entered into the Louvre. Veronique 
 
332 CHUDE STOCQ. 
 
 returned to the Grand Chatelet ; she endeavoured to penetrate 
 again into the prison of Jehan Cornoailles, but was brutally re- 
 pulsed. She remained at the gate until the evening, when the 
 turnkey who had advised her to present her petition came to her, 
 and said — 
 
 " Return to Senlis, my good woman 5 Jehan Cornoailles will 
 be conducted there to-morrow. If he be reprieved, you will 
 soon know it." 
 
 She believed him, and quitted Paris on the next morning, at 
 break of day. 
 
 Many were the fatigues and hardships endured by the feeble 
 old woman and the young child before they reached their 
 destination. Towards the close of the second day they entered 
 Senlis. "\ eronique had during her journey encountered many 
 horsemen — many travellers had left her behind them 5 but she 
 sought vainly Jehan Cornoailles and his escort. On arriving 
 at the gateway, she was obliged to stand aside, to allow two 
 horsemen to pass her, one of whom bore behind him a large 
 sack, and said, in passing over the drawbridge, "To-morrow 
 morning it is to be publicly shewn, as a warning and salutary 
 example. Such is the order of Parliament." 
 
 Yeronique shuddered. " Shew what?" said she to herself. 
 "Gracious heavens! — a salutary example!" She passed the 
 drawbridge without molestation, and traversed the town of 
 Senlis by a circuitous route. On entering the forsaken habita- 
 tion, she found the door forced, the windows smashed, and the 
 shutters in a thousand pieces. All was devastation. But the 
 treasured box was safe behind the panel. \ eronique took it, 
 and hid it in the cellar 5 then barricaded the house as well as 
 she was able, and walked weeping through the apartments in 
 which her happiest days had passed. The poor little Robert 
 ran wildly from one room to another-, he sought his bed, the 
 little chair appropriated to his use, and his mother's spinning 
 wheel; but he found only the remnants. The populace had 
 broken what they considered too heavy, or of too little value to 
 carry away. The poor child burst into tears, crying — " My mo- 
 ther ! my mother ! — we have not found her ; and my father is in 
 a dungeon with an iron chain about his neck! And here I can- 
 not lind my pretty white bed, nor anything that there used to 
 be ! Come, good \ eronique, let us go away again." 
 
 She endeavoured to console him 5 but he wept, continually 
 calling for his mother. The old servant dared not have recourse 
 to the charity of the neighbours. She brought some straw from 
 the stable, and lay down upon it by the side of Robert, after 
 having shared with him a morsel of bread, which she had hough 8 
 with her last penny before entering the town. 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 333 
 
 "Say your prayers, my child, before going to sleep," said 
 she, with resignation, "After so many evil days, Heaven will, 
 perhaps, send us better ones. Pray for your mother, for your 
 poor father!" 
 
 " I will pray to God to take me to himself," interrupted 
 Robert: " and "you also, dear Veronique. with my father and 
 mother. People are happy in heaven. Let us all die." 
 
 He fell asleep with this prayer 'on his lips, and Veronique, 
 overcome by fatigue, soon fell into a profound slumber. The 
 bright sun awoke her on the following morning. The sky was 
 c l ear — a n nature appeared joyful and animated, as if in mockery 
 of her woe. A tumult was heard in the Square. Veronique 
 arose -.—the thought occurred to her that they had brought 
 Jehan Cornoailles before his own house to suffer his sentence, 
 and a mortal anguish seized upon her. U the king had not 
 pardoned him, the hour of torture had arrived ! 
 
 "But, no, no!" thought Veronique, "they would not lead 
 him before the house of God to kill him !" 
 
 She rushed to the window, and looked below. An immense 
 concourse of people filled the Square, and pressed with cla- 
 mour round a gibbet erected in front of the principal entrance 
 to Xotre-Dame -. a head yet streaming with blood was fastened 
 to it, and underneath was a large placard. The old servant re- 
 mained for a moment mute with horror : — her knees sunk under 
 her; then, raising her hands to heaven, pale and frantic, her 
 senses wandering, she called down the vengeance of Heaven upon 
 the murderers. Her fearful cries awoke the child. 
 
 " Robert ! " she screamed rather than spoke ; "do you see that 
 head yonder?" 
 
 He threw a glance below, and stepped back affrighted. 
 
 "It is thy father's head ! " cried Veronique ; " and it is Claude 
 Stocq who placed it there. You will one day be a man, Robert ; 
 you will have strength to wield a sword ;- remember the Place 
 Sotre-Dame— remember this gibbet and Claude Stocq ! " 
 
 The child turned pale ; he put his hand to his head, and fell 
 senseless on the floor. While Veronique was endeavouring to 
 restore him to life, she heard cried under her window, "Oh, 
 yes! oh, yes! here is to be seen the sentence of the Parliament 
 upon Jehan Cornoailles, beheaded at the Halles of Paris : his 
 body to be burnt, and his head to be publicly exposed in the 
 town of Senlis, which he scandalized by his heresy, and all his 
 goods to be confiscated. Oh, yes! oh, yes! here is a full and 
 particular account! " 
 
 That same day Veronique and the child left the town to seek 
 an asylum in the forest of Compiegne, in the hut of the poor 
 butcher where Perine la Harbue had already taken refuge. 
 
334 CLAUDE STOCQ, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The High Constable, Anne de Montmorency, was at this 
 epoch recalled to Paris. Claude Stocq preceded him by a day. 
 He already knew the fate of Jehan Cornoailles ; his hatred and 
 vengeance were satisfied, and he quitted Chantilly with the in- 
 tention of seeking Catherine. He reckoned upon her pardon ; 
 thinking that as the widow of such a man she would joyfully ac- 
 cept his offer of marriage. He hoped to possess her — her love 
 also ; and it seemed to him that, reduced by so great and so hu- 
 miliating a misfortune, she would receive on her knees the hand 
 he was about to tender her. 
 
 On the further side of the Pre aux Clercs, and in a solitary 
 quarter, surrounded by inclosed gardens, was situated the Hos- 
 pital des Petites Maisons, appropriated to madness and incurable 
 maladies. Nowhere was to be seen a more striking proof of the 
 weakness and miseries of humanity than that which this Hospital 
 presented. Its high walls, its barred windows, through which a 
 ray of sunshine could not penetrate : its dark and narrow pas- 
 sages, and its dormitories, where the wild laugh, the shriek, or 
 the groan, of the mad or sick, filled the soul with dismay and 
 pity. 
 
 On entering this gloomy mansion, a feeling of remorse per- 
 vaded the stoical heart of Claude Stocq. 
 
 "Alas! " thought he, "it is here that she has dwelt during 
 two months, alone, a prey to sorrow. Poor Catherine ! " One of 
 that devoted and highly to be commended sisterhood called 
 "Sisters of Charity" approached him in the narrow vestibule , 
 the door of which was night and day kept locked and guarded. 
 
 " Sister ! " said Claude Stocq. " I am come to visit an insane 
 patient, who has been here about two months. Her name is 
 Catherine Durosne. How is the poor woman?" 
 
 "It is a desperate case," replied the nun. "She is perfectly 
 inoffensive ; but the poor creature grows weaker every day." 
 
 "Lead me to her, Sister," said Claude Stocq, impetuously, 
 wt I must see her immediately." 
 
 "Are you her husband, or any relation to her?" demanded the 
 nun, with some hesitation. 
 
 " I am the private secretary of my Lord the High Constable. 
 Anne de Montmorency." replied Claude Stocq, drawing himself 
 up proudly. 
 
 They traversed a long passage, and entered a court surround- 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 325 
 
 ed by small lodges. It was this part of the building which was 
 called Les Petites Maisons. In this court, which might have been 
 about fifty feet square, a great number of women were assem- 
 bled, — some singing, some weeping, some laughing, and others 
 disputing. Here and there were to be seen one or two gro- 
 tesquely ornamented with tattered lace and broken feathers-, 
 others, almost in a state of nudity, were running wildly from 
 one side to the other of that limited space 5 some were gay, some 
 melancholy, some serious 5 but all in a state of incessant agita- 
 tion. They had torn down or destroyed whatever was within 
 their reach or strength. A tree in the middle of the court, which 
 might have shaded them from the effects of the scorching sun, 
 had been stripped of its leaves and branches 5 its trunk, peeled 
 of its bark, had alone resisted their efl'orts. 
 
 Claude Stocq glanced rapidly around in search of Catherine. 
 He perceived her seated on the ground in a corner, leaning her 
 back against the wall ; her long hair fell over her crossed arms, 
 and covered her as a veil, through which her pale and meagre 
 countenance was to be seen. Claude Stocq ordered the nun to 
 wait for him at the door, and strode across to the place where 
 the patient sat. 
 
 " Catherine ! " said he, his heart beating violently, and terri- 
 fied at the impression which the sight of him might make upon 
 the unfortunate woman, the only one in her right senses amidst 
 ail the mad women. ' c Catherine! it is I ! I am come to bring you 
 away!" 
 
 She lifted up her head, and gazed at him with an air of va- 
 cancy, and without manifesting the slightest emotion. 
 
 " There is no occasion to feign madness any longer," conti- 
 nued Claude Stocq 5 4i no one is listening tu us. x\h, Catherine! 
 this pardonable deceit has saved you; blessed be He who has 
 inspired you with the will to persevere in it! But now I am here 
 to protect and defend you ! You shall leave this gloomy abode 
 directly. Do you hear what I say, Catherine? Holy Virgin! do 
 you not know me ? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders with a low laugh, and then, 
 turning her face to the wall, commenced singing. A horrible 
 thought obtruded into the mind of the hard-hearted Claude 
 Stocq ; he shuddered, and turned aside for a moment from Ca- 
 therine ; then, regaining courage, thinking that perhaps, through 
 hatred and resentment, she feigned not to recognise him — 
 
 "Alas!" said he; " you have indeed suffered, Catherine. I 
 would have given the half of my existence to have spared you 
 so much anguish of mind. But these evil days are passed. I seek 
 you, my heart overflowing with love and good will towards you. 
 Look at me, Catherine." 
 
336 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 She continued singing words without any definite meaning. 
 
 Claude then spoke of her son, but she did not appear to pay 
 the least attention to what he said. He named Jehan Cornoailles, 
 but she remained passive. Uncertain still, but struck with horror 
 and alarm, he thought of a last trial. He knelt at the feet of the 
 youthful and bereaved Catherine, took her emaciated hands in 
 his, and drawing her slowly towards him, imprinted a long and 
 burning kiss upon her lips. Catherine yielded without the slight- 
 est movement-, then passing her hand over her mouth, recom- 
 menced singing. 
 
 "Gracious Powers! she is mad !" exclaimed Claude Stocq, 
 in despair; " her senses are gone! Is it thus that 1 am doomed 
 to find thee? Blessed Virgin! aid me in healing my poor Ca- 
 therine." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 That same day Claude Stocq sought the habitation of the an- 
 cient professor, Master Ambroise Pare. This celebrated doctor 
 was strongly suspected of Calvinism; but his science in the art 
 of healing, and the necessity and utility of his learned advice, 
 was like a shield to his person, protecting him from persecution. 
 Ten years after, on Saint Bartholomew's day, he owed his life to 
 his title of the Ring's Medical Adviser. Claude Stocq found him 
 in his laboratory, occupied in the dissection of a cat, for it was 
 morally impossible to obtain anything of the satellites of Mont- 
 faucon since the last order of the Parliament, which denounced 
 the penalty of death on whomsoever should disinter a dead body, 
 were it even that of a Jew or a Calvinist. 
 
 " Oh, oh ! deserter of science! " cried Master Ambroise Pare, 
 recognising his former faithful disciple. " 1 find you again with a 
 sword by your side. Ah, well! it is perhaps a better trade than 
 the lancet now-a-days. Well, how's the health?" 
 
 -' Very well, Doctor \ it is not for myself that I come to consult 
 you." 
 
 " Always dry and bilious," continued Ambroise Pare, without 
 heeding Claude Stocq's answer; " always aguish, the heart cor- 
 roded with thick and dark blood, and the features pale and con- 
 tracted ; people die young with this temperament; but it is not 
 the natural tendency perhaps; it is occasioned by a discharged 
 pistol, some blow from a poignard, or perhaps acquired in some 
 conflict or duel. You are then turned soldier? " 
 
 "iNo, no!" answered Claude Stocq, impatiently. t; I wear 
 the sword and the uniform of the house of Montmorency. I am 
 private secretary to my Lord the High Constable/' 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 337 
 
 " Ah! the Captain Wildfire !" interrupted Ambroise Pare , 
 his countenance darkening as he spoke. " He is a bigoted Ca- 
 tholic Is it he who sent you to me? 
 
 " \o, Doctor 5 1 wish to have recourse to your science for a 
 poor woman who is sick and out of her senses. You will heal 
 her." 
 
 " That's according. . . Where is she? who is she? what were 
 the first symptoms? I must know all this first, Claude Stocq, be- 
 fore undertaking the cure, for " 
 
 Here the learned professor rose, saying, with a grave and dog- 
 matical tone, as if he had been giving a lecture, " Insanity arises 
 from various causes, which must be perfectly understood, and 
 treated accordingly: it is hereditary or accidental, proceeding 
 sometimes from a derangement of the organs of the medulla spi- 
 nalis, at others from a concussion or disturbance in the sensitive 
 or intellectual faculties. It is a disease which confounds science, 
 because it is seated in the spiritual and impalpable part, which 
 the scalpel cannot dissect. Hereditary madness is the most 
 common and the most incurable.'" 
 
 " Doctor," interrupted Claude Stocq, "neither the parents 
 nor any member of this woman's family have ever exhibited the 
 slightest symptom of madness. She has seen evil days— has gone 
 through many painful trials ; and about two months ago was 
 conducted to "the Hospital of the Petites Maisons under pretext 
 of madness ; but being, in reality, as sound of mind as you or I. 
 This morning I went to see her, and found her mad,— yes, mad 
 and insensible." 
 
 41 Mad by imitation; instances of this are to be seen. I have 
 had many similar cases during my practice," said the Doctor, 
 tranquilly $ ' ' and who is this woman ?".... 
 
 Claude Stocq hesitated a moment whether he should give Ca- 
 therine's right name ; he remembered the resuscitation of the 
 felon, and he knew not if Ambroise Pare was aware of Jehan 
 Cornoailles' subsequent name and mode of life. 
 
 " She is the daughter of a worthy citizen of Senlis-, she mar- 
 ried a Calvinist, who was lately beheaded at Paris.".... 
 
 "A Calvinist!" exclaimed Ambroise Pare, with great agita- 
 tion, "aCalvinist! acitizen of Senlis!.... Her husband's name?" 
 " Jehan Cornoailles." 
 
 Master Ambroise Pare rose hastily from his seat. " You knew 
 him, then?" he demanded. 
 
 "No, Doctor, I have never seen him," answered Claude 
 Stocq, calmly. 
 
 The man of science appeared to be quite tranquillized by 
 these words- 
 ;t Letus go immediately,'*' said he. "I would succour the 
 
 59 
 
338 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 widow and the orphan ... but in these days of calamity and 
 persecution it is impossible to trace these unfortunate people 
 who are without habitation, without a hearth, unless we have 
 some clue to guide us. . . . But you will pilot me, Claude Stocq^ 
 we will bring them home with us ; the wife and child of Jehan 
 Cornoailles in a madhouse! Gracious Heaven! who would have 
 thought of seeking them there ? " 
 
 " The wife only is there, Doctor; I do not know what is be- 
 come of the child! He is perhaps at Senlis." .... 
 
 "No, no! he has disappeared, the poor little innocent! with 
 his mother's old servant, and no one knows what is become of 
 him. Heaven will restore him to rne, I trust; he shall be my 
 adopted son, as his father hoped he w r ould be." 
 
 " Doctor," interrupted Claude Stocq, fixing a -searching and 
 penetrating look upon Ambroise Pare, " you were then a fried 
 of Jehan Cornoailles?" 
 
 " Yes, I was his friend," replied the intrepid Calvinist, " and 
 I would avow it before all men openly. I will never deny my 
 faith, nor my affection towards my brethren in the faith, even 
 were I tied to the stake." 
 
 "Jehan Cornoailles had a scar in the back of his neck, and 
 another on the temple," said Claude Stocq, slowly. 
 
 "Hold your tongue! hold your tongue!" interrupted the 
 Doctor, with dismay. "But did you not just tell me that you 
 had never seen him ? " 
 
 "To speak truly, Doctor," replied Claude Stocq, coldly, "I 
 have seen him, and recognised him immediately as the barber 
 Landri." 
 
 " Silence, barbarian! " cried the Doctor, impetuously. After 
 a moment's thought, he continued more tranquilly, " The barber 
 Landri and Jehan Cornoailles are both dead-, peace be to their 
 souls ! May Heaven receive them in its mercy ! Will you ac- 
 company me to the Hospital, Claude Stocq, to see what can be 
 done for this unfortunate lady?" 
 
 In spite of the unremitting attention of the celebrated Doctor, 
 and Claude Stocq's fervent prayers, which he unceasingly offered 
 to all the saints in Paradise, poor Catherine remained insensible 
 and mad. She sunk gradually, and died in a few months after, 
 without having had one lucid interval, without shedding one tear 
 for her husband's death or the disappearance of her child. 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 339 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 On a sultry morning during the month of August in that same 
 year, 1562, several travelling litters, escorted by a numerous 
 troop of horsemen, pursued their way through the forest of Com- 
 piegne. This gallant retinue was about to conduct to the fron- 
 tiers her who during a short space of time had been seated upon 
 the throne of France, the young Queen of Scotland, the beauti- 
 ful Mary Stuart. She journeyed on, her heart oppressed with 
 regret and sad presentiments, towards that fallen and wild 
 country to which the ambition of the Guises and the enmity and 
 jealousy of Catherine de Medicis had banished her. The dite 
 of the nobles of the land accompanied Mary 5 she was to separate 
 from her court at Calais, from those among whom she had 
 passed her youthful and her happiest days. 
 
 The young Queen had closed the curtains of her litter, and, 
 her head reclining upon a cushion of black velvet, endeavoured 
 to dissipate her melancholy by perusing a manuscript book of the 
 sonnets of Ronsard that she held in her hand. The poet had 
 transcribed some of his most beautiful verses for her, which 
 were splendidly bound into a magnificent volume, and Mary 
 Stuart's tears fell upon its pages as her thoughts recurred to her 
 widowed hopes, and the severed links of her happiness. She 
 closed the book, and, raising herself languidly, regarded from 
 between the curtains the elegant troop which caracoled around 
 her litter. Her eye rested upon the noblest lords of her court; 
 there was M. de Damville, the eldest son of the High Constable, 
 Anne de Montmorency, the passionate admirer of his royal mis- 
 tress 5 Chastelard, the nephew of Bayard, the rash young man 
 who on a future day paid with his head for the happiness of 
 passing an hour hid under the Queen's bed; there was also the 
 Duke de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine, those whose inex- 
 orable and political feelings drove Mary from the kingdom of 
 France, her adopted country. 
 
 Several litters followed that of the Queen 5 after them came 
 the archers of the Scottish guard •, the whole cavalcade being 
 closed by the attendants of the principal lords of the court. 
 
 Towards midday the wind began to whistle impetuously 
 amongst the branches of the trees ; and a hollow and distant 
 noise was heard to vibrate through the forest. Dark clouds 
 floated across the sky, which gradually closed, spread them- 
 selves out like a thick veil, and were incessantly rent asunder 
 by vivid flashes of lightning, while the thunder rolled at a 
 distance. 
 
340 CLA.UDE STOCQ. 
 
 " Holy Mother ! " cried the youthful Queen, crossing herself, 
 "what an awful storm! Saint Julien, patron of poor travellers,, 
 come to our aid ! " Saying these words, she threw herself hack 
 in her litter, and closed her eyes, that she might not see the 
 lightning; then, sad thoughts returning she said, with resigna- 
 tion, " Heaven's will be done! it is better to die than to accom- 
 plish this melancholy journey! — my bones would then moulder 
 on this beloved soil ! " 
 
 " Madam," said M. de Damville, stooping towards the litter, 
 the leathern curtains of which were carefully closed, " there is 
 a frightful storm at hand — a complete deluge; we will, with your 
 Majesty's permission, halt under the shelter of the trees." 
 
 " x\re we, then, so far from Compiegne that it would be im- 
 possible to arrive there before the rain descends?" 
 
 " We are yet two leagues from it — nearly half-way between 
 Senlis and Compiegne, How much I regret, Madam, that your 
 Majesty did not remain during this day also at my castle at 
 Chantiily ! " 
 
 The whole troop halted ; large drops of rain rustled amongst 
 the leaves of the trees ; the wind had suddenly ceased, and the 
 thunder pealed without intermission. There was a moment of 
 disorder and confusion amongst the numerous suite which 
 attended the Queen -, the horsemen spurred their steeds under 
 the trees, but it was not so easy to conduct the litters thither. 
 Vainly did the pages, seated as postillions on the mules, endea- 
 vour to guide their awkward equipages 5 the animals stubbornly 
 refused to advance, and the Queen's litter was nearly over- 
 thrown by the exertions of the drivers. In the midst of this con- 
 fusion, Chastelard galloped towards the group, reined up his 
 horse by the side of the litter, and, putting his hand to his hat, 
 the rich feather of which, soaked with rain, fell on his shoulder — 
 
 " Madam," said he, " I have discovered yonder a miserable 
 hut, the habitation of a butcher ; it is a filthy hole, but your 
 Majesty would at least be sheltered from the rain." 
 
 " With your Majesty's leave, we will advance the litter," said 
 M. de Damville, closing carefully the curtains of the carriage, 
 against which the rain beat violently. 
 
 The humble dwelling of the butcher was nothing more than 
 a rude hut, supported by an immense tree, situated in a bleak and 
 barren part of the forest. Its rustic roof was covered by an ivy 
 which grew tenaciously over it. x\t its only and dilapidated 
 window stood a child, who called out on seeing the royal tra- 
 veller — 
 
 "Oh! Mother Marceline, look here what a beautiful lady, 
 and what handsome lords, such as those are at Paris." 
 
 "Give place, good people!" said Chastelard, pushing the 
 
CL\UDE STOCQ. 31 t 
 
 door open 5 " throw some fuel on the fire, and then depart ; the 
 Queen of Scotland intends doing you the honour of taking 
 shelter beneath your roof until the storm be passed." 
 
 The poor family arose with astonishment, almost with affright, 
 as the Queen entered. Formerly she would have seated herself, 
 laughin 0, heartily, upon the low stool which M. de Damville 
 presented her with all courtly ceremony, whilst her ladies stood 
 respectfully around her ; but her heart was now too sad to be 
 amused by the contrast of grandeur and misery so oddly jostled 
 together. She sat herself down near the fire, saying with a me- 
 lancholy smile, " I do not wish to drive hence those honest 
 people/let them remain. 1 charge you, my Lord," said she, turn- 
 ing to M. de Chastelard, " to leave them a well-filled purse, 
 that they may remember having afforded an asylum to Mary 
 Stuart during one of the most awful storms that ever burst upon 
 an unfortunate traveller." 
 
 Whilst the Queen was speaking, the child left the window, and 
 ran joyfully amidst the gay company, which he saluted in a 
 manner at once familiar and graceful. Then advancing to where 
 Mary sat, he began to consider her with looks of childish 
 admiration. 
 
 " Is this fine little fellow your son, my good woman?" said 
 the Queen to the butcher's wife, who stood trembling, and 
 calling — 
 
 " Robert, come here, child! Robert! Alas! no, madam!" 
 answered she, "it is a poor forsaken child, without father or 
 mother." 
 
 "They are then dead?" 
 
 " Yes, gracious lady, dead and buried a long lime ago, may 
 their souls rest in peace!" said the woman, much embarrassed. 
 
 She did not like to own that the father of Robert was a heretic, 
 beheaded by sentence of Parliament, and that no one knew 
 what was become of his mother. 
 
 The child began to weep at these words, saying, "Dear 
 Veronique too is dead ! " 
 
 " Come awav, Robert," interrupted the woman ; " it is not 
 proper to weep^before gentlefolks, Forgive him, madam 5 he 
 does not know what respect is, the poor little creature." 
 
 " Never mind ! never mind ! " said the Queen. " Come here, 
 Robert, my fine fellow." 
 
 He approached, and looked smilingly on the fair face which 
 
 leant over him. ■ T 
 
 " It is strange," said Mary Stuart-, it appears to me that 1 
 
 have seen this child before ; and that recently, too. My lords, 
 
 is there no one amongst you who recognises him?" 
 
 The Captain of the Scottish guard, M. de Champdivcrs, re- 
 
342 CLAUDE STOCO. 
 
 membered the aged female and the child, who had lodged during 
 one night only at an inn called the Plat d'Etain \ he recited the 
 event, but without being able to give any information respecting 
 him, further than that he believed him at the time to belong to a 
 respectable family, and that his mother's name was Catherine. 
 
 " Holy \ irgin ! " exclaimed the woman, who had been again 
 questioned ; " Yes, they must have been wealthy, the unfortu- 
 nate parents ! for Robert, when he was first brought hither, 
 wore a dress of the finest green cloth, and the rest of his 
 clothing was quite new; but a poor woman, who gained the 
 bread she ate by making fagots, kept him from charity. She 
 never spoke of his parents, except to pray that they might be 
 received into Paradise. When she died, we still kepUhe child ; 
 we could not turn him out of doors, the innocent little creature ! 
 He has a good heart for work, although he is so young ; and 
 before he is ten years of age he will have no occasion for any 
 one's assistance." 
 
 The honest woman retired into a corner, ashamed of having 
 said so much before such a grand company; while Robert, lean- 
 ing familiarly upon the Queen's lap, looked into her face with 
 an expression of infantine joy. 
 
 "You must remain here," said he, softly, to her, caressing 
 her as he spoke. 
 
 "I cannot," replied the Queen; "I must soon leave this 
 place, to go far, very far away." 
 
 " Why so?" demanded Robert, raising his head. His intelli- 
 gent eyes then glanced around the circle of lords and ladies 
 standing about the Queen; and he saw, by their respectful 
 manners, that she was their superior, and must therefore, as 
 he thought, obey her. "If you wish to remain," continued he, 
 "no one will say, Let us go ! " 
 
 "Alas! my poor child,*' said the Queen, with a deep sigh, 
 "thou, so poor, so friendless, art not more to be pitied, or more 
 dependent upon the will of others, than myself." 
 
 This time Pvobert could not comprehend her meaning, but 
 contented himself with caressing her, and playing with the 
 fringe of her veil. He appeared to contemplate with a feeling 
 almost akin to love that fair and noble countenance, in which 
 shone the majesty of her exalted rank, and the sufferings of a 
 mind ill at ease. There was something of Mary Stuart's fatal 
 destiny already marked in the expression of her features; it was 
 easy to read in her dark blue eye the impetuosity of her pas- 
 sions, that unbending will, and that imprudent weakness which 
 rendered her life a iong series of follies and misfortunes, and 
 herself in the end the most terrible example of human vicissi- 
 tude. She listened inattentivelv to M. de Damville, who was 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 343 
 
 endeavouring to make her smile by representing the sorry 
 figure that M. de Guise and the others must make, who had 
 fled for shelter to the trees of the forest ; while she, passing 
 her slender fingers through Robert's clustering ringlets, mur- 
 mured to herself, "Ah! if Heaven had blessed me with a Dau- 
 phin like him, I should have remained Queen of France!" 
 While she was thus caressing him, the child raised his head, 
 and whispered softly " Mother !" At these words, Mary Stuart 
 burst into tears, and kissing the child's open forehead, she ex- 
 tended her arm over him, saying, "Yes, fair child, I will be a 
 mother to thee ; thou shalt follow me in my exile. Kings 
 should ever be the instruments of rendering others happy ; 
 let me at least hope that in passing a short time here 1 have 
 done some good. Thou wert destined to obscurity and mi- 
 sery, I will make thee wealthy, great, and perhaps happy. Ro- 
 bert, I am now going to recommence my journey, and thou 
 shalt accompany me. 
 
 He looked at her with astonishment and ingenuous delight, 
 then kissing her, he said, with an infantine gesture, "Very 
 well, let us go. " 
 
 "My good woman," said the Queen, addressing herself to 
 the butcher's wife, " I am going to take this child with me; it 
 is a better fortune than you could have expected for him ; you 
 are poor people, and he was a burden upon your generosity." 
 
 " Farewell, good mother Marceline, farewell ! " cried Ptobert, 
 clasping his arms around her neck ; " when I am a great man, I 
 will come back and see you." 
 
 "Adieu, Robert," said she, overcome by her feelings: " by 
 the time you are a great man, I shall be dead, perhaps ; but do 
 not forget my poor Pierrot, who has shared his scanty meals 
 with you. He is so good, my poor Pierrot, and so handsome 
 to boot." 
 
 In concluding these words, she hid herself behind the door, 
 that no one might witness her tears, and gave a gentle tap to 
 her son, Pierrot, saying, "Why did you not shew yourself, 
 also, obstinate booby ! you would, perhaps, have been as fortu- 
 nate as Robert, and our Lady Queen would have taken you also 
 into her service." 
 
 Noble lords and courtly dames immediately pressed around 
 the young child, whose destiny had been thus suddenly changed 
 by a word from the lips of Mary Stuart. M. de Damville took 
 him in his arms. "You are the property of the Queen, now," 
 said he 5 " you must kneel down and kiss her fair hand, to thank 
 her for her condescension. You shall be placed on horseback, 
 before one of my squires, my young fellow ! " 
 
 "No, he shall remain with me," said Mary Stuart: "his 
 
344 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 chattering will amuse me. Could he not be clothed a little bet- 
 ter," said she, glancing significantly at his dress of brown serge. 
 The butcher's wife, in a moment, drew from a trunk the new 
 suit of clothes which poor Veronique had placed there the day 
 that they had hidden themselves in the forest of Compiegne. 
 
 " Here," said she, " is the green cloth dress, and all the poor 
 child's possessions. I intended to have sold it next winter, to 
 have bought him a good thick coat, which would have been 
 more useful than these fine clothes, to run about in the fo- 
 rest in." 
 
 The rain had ceased ; the clouds were scattered here and 
 there by a fresh breeze which had sprung up. An hour after 
 the commencement of the storm, the Queen entered her litter ; 
 every one was already on horseback. Robert stretched out his 
 little hands towards the poor woman to bid her again farewell ; 
 who, with tears in her eyes, and her hands well filled with gold, 
 stood immovable at the entrance to the cabin, until the royal 
 cortege had altogether disappeared behind the trees. 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 Many years after the events which we have just related, a 
 cavalier, on a fine morning in the month of April, was to be 
 seen following the principal road which leads across the forest 
 of Compiegne. He was quite alone, and mounted upon a good 
 horse ; his equipments announced neither the soldier nor the 
 class of society to which he belonged. He wore a loose surtout 
 of black, girt about the waist with a leathern strap, according 
 to the fashion of the day, which served in some measure to shew 
 off his fine and well-proportioned form. He might have been 
 about thirty years of age; his features were regular, and rather 
 pale; his look sad, and his whole appearance noble and bold. 
 He managed his horse with inimitable grace, and had the air 
 of a courtier in spite of his humble dress. 
 
 As the cavalier advanced further into the forest, he checked 
 the speed of his horse, and looked around him with a singular 
 expression of tenderness, sadness, and curiosity. From time to 
 time he stopped, and seemed to be seeking the traces of paths 
 which time had altogether obliterated-, and then sighed deeply, 
 as if oppressed by the solitude of the place. Towards noon, a 
 bright ray of sunshine pierced the light clouds which floated 
 through the sky, and illuminated the tall and heavy branches, 
 hardly yet covered with leaves. The traveller glanced aflrn 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 345 
 
 lively about him, and murmured—" It must be here. I do not 
 
 remember it, though. M. de Champdivers always told me that 
 it was about a hundred feet from a stone cross on this side the 
 road. Yonder lies an overthrown cross, covered with weeds ; 
 and I must be at about three leagues from Compiegne, where 
 the Queen stopped that evening. Is it, then, from this spot that 
 she took me ? " 
 
 The stranger turned under the trees, and continued his way, 
 for some time appearing to have no direct aim, but still not 
 wandering far from the borders of the road. Sometimes his pro- 
 gress was impeded by impenetrable woods, sometimes by path- 
 ways which were soon interrupted by morasses, or lost amidst 
 overgrown weeds and bushes. Not a habitation was to be seen 
 in these dark and intricate retreats of the fox and the timid hare; 
 no human voice awoke its deep echoes, no sound, except that 
 of the wind gently rustling among the leaves of the trees, cr tke 
 plaintive voice of some wild songster of the wood perched upon 
 their branches. The traveller at length found himself in an 
 open space, partially covered with wild flowers and sweet-smell- 
 ing herbs. In the centre of this scanty vegetation there arose an 
 immense oak, around which several young trees, intermixed 
 with brambles, formed a thick arbour ; while amidst its robust 
 branches appeared the top of a fine apple tree in full bloom. On 
 seeing this, the stranger remained a moment thoughtful and 
 undecided, as if he sought to recall to his recollection things 
 present and things past; then advancing, with a palpitating 
 heart, he passed round the tree. The ruins of a hut were vet 
 visible, supported by its gigantic root ; wild herbs grew around 
 its shattered walls, and a large ivy tree crept over its deserted 
 roof. 
 
 The stranger threw himself hastily from his horse, and, enter- 
 ing the but, sat himself down on the ground. Every circumstance 
 of his life past in that cabin more than twenty years ago recurred 
 at once to his memory; the most remarkable event had been often 
 related to him, and now it came back to him as a dream of in- 
 fancy,— the day when the Queen, Mary Stuart, had taken shel- 
 ter in the butcher's poor hovel. Since that day, Robert had never 
 quitted her ; and now that she was no more he returned to his 
 native soil, and wandered amidst the scenes of his early vears 
 without meeting either parent or friend. The mindof the young 
 man was overcome by sadness, by his loneliness, and the vicis- 
 situdes of his life ; and sinking his head upon his clasped hands, 
 he murmured, " This, then, is all that remains to me after the 
 lapse of so many years !— ruins ! The poor family who once suc- 
 coured me have long, perhaps, disappeared from the earth ; or if 
 anyone of its members still exists, where can I seek him? Holy 
 
346 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 Virgin ! inspire me with what I ought to do, and what pathway 
 I must now follow in my pilgrimage here below! Holy martyred 
 queen ! my noble mistress! pray for me in Heaven ! " * 
 
 Raising a small cross of gold from his bosom, he kissed it de- 
 voutly ; and having taken one last look at the ruins which he had 
 travelled so far to see, he remounted his horse, and took the road 
 to Chantilly. 
 
 M. de Damville had for some years succeeded his father, the 
 High Constable, in his dignities and estates. The important cha- 
 racter which he played in that remarkable era is well known to 
 every one. Although a good Catholic, he was not a bigoted one; 
 and after the death of Henry the Third, he acknowledged the 
 Calvinist Henry of Navarre, as his lawful king. In those times 
 of trouble and civil war, he rarely inhabited his castle at Chan- 
 tilly, where his lady, Antoinette de la Mare, held a sort of secon- 
 dary court. This powerful house had, as in the time of Anne de 
 Montmorency, its same habits of luxury, etiquette, and regal 
 magnificence ; and many a princess of the blood-royal might 
 have envied the power and w r ealth of the Duchess de Montmo- 
 rency. Beyond all doubt, Queen Marguerite had not so brilliant 
 a suite in either of her castles of Nerac or d'Usson. In the year 
 1587, the present High Constable went to pass the feast of Easter 
 at Chantilly ; but it was his intention to return promptly to his 
 government of Languedoc, for the hatred of the Guises prevent- 
 ed him from remaining long so near the court. 
 
 On arriving at Chantilly, the traveller was introduced imme- 
 diately into the presence of the High Constable, whom he found 
 alone in his study; that same apartment into which, so many 
 years before, Catherine had entered and thrown herself at Anne 
 de Montmorency's feet. It would have been difficult to have re- 
 cognised the handsome Damville, Mary Stuart's gay chevalier, 
 in that man, yet young, whom the fatigues of war and the anxie- 
 ties and disappointments of power had rendered prematurely 
 old. When the traveller appeared before him, the High Cons- 
 table rose from hisseat, and saluting him with deep emotion, said: 
 
 " You are welcome, noble Sir; it was not necessary to an- 
 nounce yourself by a message ; your name would have been 
 quite sufficient ; the faithful servants of the Queen of Scots are 
 sure of being well received by me." 
 
 " It is to her, and to accomplish her last wishes, that my visit 
 may be ascribed, my Lord," said the stranger. "Before her 
 death, she commanded her followers to return to France, and 
 to bear to those who loved her the last proof of her remem- 
 brance, and of her affection to their persons." 
 
 " Chevalier Robert, 1 know with what devotion you served 
 our beloved Queen until the moment when her fatal destiny 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 347 
 
 was accomplished. We should have had no cause to weep her 
 lamentable death if she had only been surrounded by such as 
 yourself: but it was the treason of those about her that finished 
 her days. Who could have predicted such an end to that pro- 
 mising* day, the dawn of which was so brilliant! What joy, 
 what glory, what majesty, shone around that head which was 
 doomed to fall under the axe of the executioner ! " 
 
 The High Constable ceased, and, leaning his elbows on the 
 table, covered his face with his hands. For a moment he was 
 overcome by the remembrance of his early years ; his love, long 
 buried in the recesses of his heart, calmed by distance and time, 
 now seemed to reassume new life; he saw his adored mistress, 
 his youthful queen, as she was when her fatal destiny drove 
 her from the shores of France. 
 
 " You were with her to the last?" continued he, at length 
 raising his face and looking at Robert with an expression of the 
 deepest sorrow. " She died like a Queen -without fear, without 
 weakness?" 
 
 "She did," replied Robert ; "all those who were with her dur- 
 ing this terrible passage from life to death can bear testimony, as 
 well as myself, to the courage and resignation displayed in her 
 last moments. Her patience, her firmness, and her strength of 
 mind remain to us as an eternal example-, the last day of her 
 existence was the most glorious one of her life. Alas! how much 
 courage was necessary to support her long imprisonment ! How 
 did that beautiful flower wither and consume away in solitude 
 and sadness! How dark, how melancholy was the appearance 
 of the Castle of Fotheringham, and that vast chamber, without 
 air without a gleam of sunshine, in which the captiveQueen was 
 detained a prisoner ! There Mary Stuart awaited in vain her 
 deliverance. Where is the heart so cold as not to have been seized 
 with pity and admiration at the sight of her? Who can ever forget 
 her words, so full of kindness, grace, and majesty 5 or the beauty 
 of her pale countenance which never recovered its bloom after 
 she left her beloved France ! Oh ! I had hoped to see a different 
 and a happy close to these misfortunes ! " 
 
 " I think that you had been in the Queen's household since 
 your infancy ? " 
 
 "I have never quitted her since the day when her generous 
 hand was extended towards me,— when she received me poor, 
 friendless, and abandoned. That day, my Lord, is perhaps noted 
 in your memory. M. de Champdivers has often told me that 
 you accompanied the Queen in her journey, when she was about 
 to leave for ever, and with so much regret, the kingdom of 
 France. It was in the forest of Compiegne, during a storm, that 
 the Queen took refuge in a hut ; you were near her." 
 
348 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 "Oh yes, yes, I remember it!" interrupted the High Con- 
 stable. "The Queen soon loved you with a tenderness which 
 made many hearts jealous 5 she held you in her arms during 
 that long and melancholy night which followed her embarkation 
 at Calais. When seated on the deck of the ship, she strained her 
 eyes towards the receding shore, and cried, weeping, 'Adieu, 
 France! adieu! I shall never see thee again!' From the extent 
 of her love to you, one might have presaged high rank and ho- 
 nours; but you have met with exile and captivity. However, 
 I will accomplish the generous intentions of Mary Stuart-, tell me 
 your wishes, they shall be gratified if my power can do it. If you 
 are inclined for the profession of arms, I will give you a com- 
 mission as captain in the king's guards •, if you desire to live 
 tranquilly and unambitiously, you can have a magisterial office 
 in the states of Languedoc." 
 
 "A thousand thanks for your kindness, my Lord," replied 
 Robert. " I feel within me a heart which would flee no danger ; 
 but where should I have learnt to command in the rude profes- 
 sion of arms? My life has been passed in habits far different from 
 those of a soldier. I have learnt horsemanship as being the 
 queen's page, and it was under her immediate auspices that I bore 
 arms at the fatal battle of Dumbarton 5 but I was then a mere 
 boy, and since that time it was not with sword in hand that I 
 could have served my royal mistress. I have followed her from pri- 
 son to prison— even to the foot of the scaffold, without being able 
 to shed my blood in her cause, or to endeavour to save her ! Nei- 
 ther have I, during that long captivity, been enabled to study 
 jurisprudence and the knowledge necessary for the other im- 
 portant office which your lordship offers me. In truth, I am fit 
 for nothing 5 and my intention is to retire from the world, to 
 end my days in solitude. M. de Champdivers, the Captain of the 
 Scottish archers— rest his soul !— was my protector and father 
 by adoption. In dying, he willed me all his property, it is a 
 larger fortune than I should have coveted, even in my most 
 ambitious moments, and I intend to employ the greater part of 
 it in religious foundations." 
 
 "The deuce!— are you going to turn monk?" interrupted 
 the High Constable, who could not endure the cowl. 
 
 "No, my Lord, " replied Robert, tranquilly. " I have no vo- 
 cation for the convent 5 it is a prison ! " 
 
 " It is well said," answered the High Constable; " therefore, 
 while deliberating upon your future projects, you will remain 
 my guest, as long as my Castle of Chantilly can afford you any 
 amusement. Come, the hour of supper is arrived 5 and no doubt 
 they are only waiting for me to say the benedieile, I will now- 
 present you to the Duchess." 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 349 
 
 Robert bowed lowly, and answered, glancing at his blaek 
 habiliments — 
 
 " But, my Lord, I shall be a dark spot in the midst of such a 
 brilliant assembly, with this lugubrious clothing." 
 
 The High Constable arose, and, pointing to his own dress of 
 black velvet, replied— 4 ' All my household are in mourning for 
 the late Queen Mary Stuart." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The castle was hot then, as it is at this day, the scene of a 
 succession of visits-, though people of rank were prodigally- 
 hospitable, receiving, with a kind welcome whoever presented 
 themselves at their gates. The stranger installed himself with- 
 out the least ceremony, and during the time that it pleased 
 him to remain their visitor, he was considered , as one might 
 say, a member of the family. Besides, the arrival of a traveller 
 broke, in a manner, the monotony of the domestic circle-, all 
 were ever ready to listen to those who came from afar-, it was 
 by such means that they learnt what was passing in the world ; 
 for, at this epoch, there were no such things as journals, few 
 books, and news was transmitted by message from one mouth 
 to another. 
 
 The arrival of Robert at the Castle of Chantilly was then, as 
 may easily be imagined, an event of some consequence; the 
 death of the Queen of Scots was already known, and the greatest 
 interest was felt lor one who had so faithfully served her during 
 her captivity, and who had been with her in her last moments. 
 Her lofty misfortunes, which he had partaken, were reflected in 
 a measure upon himself; he was associated in their minds with 
 the fate, the admiration, and the pity, which the name of Mary 
 Stuart inspired. 
 
 After supper, the noble duchess did him the honour of offer- 
 ing him her hand to be escorted into the drawing-room, and to 
 interrogate him upon the terrible events of which he had been 
 an eye-witness. All her ladies made a circle around him, and 
 considered, with looks of emotion and curiosity, that noble and 
 handsome countenance, prematurely wrinkled by the twenty 
 years imprisonment which he had endured. 
 
 In presence of this noble assembly, R.obert related all the scenes 
 of that veritable tragedy of which he had been an agonised 
 spectator-, his voice, at first weak and trembling, took a more 
 solemn tone as he advanced in his lamentable recital; all wept 
 
350 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 and shuddered as they listened, and frequently the sobs of the 
 females and his own emotion prevented the utterance of his 
 words. That same night, many a prayer ascended to the throne 
 of Grace for the repose of the soul of the deceased Queen of 
 Scots. 
 
 The Duchess was an amiable and a pious woman ; virtuous, 
 though plunged by her station in to the vortex of the licentious court 
 of Henry the Third. She loved splendour, and supported her rank 
 in all its forms ; her household was as numerous as a princess's ; 
 she had her pages, her officers, her ladies of the bedchamber, 
 and her maids of honour ; these last w r ere, generally speaking , 
 young ladies of rank, either orphans, or fortuneless, through the 
 miseries of the civil war \ she protected them with a noble gene- 
 rosity, making them also submissive to those wise and pious 
 habits of which she gave the example. 
 
 There was within this courtly sphere a remarkable mixture of 
 luxury, devotion, grandeur, and patriarchal simplicity. The Du- 
 chess de Montmorency and her ladies passed their time in em- 
 broidering tapestry, in reciting their orisons, in reading romances 
 of chivalry, and in doing the honours of Chantilly to the strangers 
 who were drawn thither by the presence of the High Constable. 
 
 Robert had at first reckoned upon passing only a few days at 
 Chantilly •, but he yielded without reluctance to the wishes of 
 his noble host, who requested him to continue his visit until he 
 should have formed his plans for his future mode of life. His 
 new habits pleased him ; the expression of melancholy which 
 his long captivity had imprinted in his features gradually wore 
 away, and the energy and experience of manhood united them- 
 selves in his character with the candour and illusions of a young 
 mind, opening for the first time to the joys of life •, but want of 
 liberty had in a measure smothered the ardour of his youth 
 within the walls of a prison. 
 
 Things which from habit we are accustomed to look upon 
 with indifference, were to him sources of emotion and hap- 
 piness. He loved the woods, the vast plains, the open space 
 upon which he could give his wild courser the rein, and run 
 wildly, enjoying the pure breath of heaven. He loved youthful 
 sports, enjoyed the sallies of the young, and the conversation 
 of those who were grown old in the service of their king or in 
 the affairs of state. He was inexperienced in the passions, his 
 devotion to Mary Stuart being the only feeling which had filled 
 his bosom •, as he was accustomed to regard the females about 
 her either as too elevated or too far beneath him. 
 
 Amongst the Duchess de Montmorency's maids of honour 
 was a young lady of noble birth, but without fortune, Made- 
 moiselle de Rochemaure. She was distantly related to the 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 351 
 
 Montmorency family. She was their cousin ; but whether in the 
 fifth or sixth degree those only who were well versed in genealogy 
 could determine. The High Constable asserted that every one of 
 her features resembled those of Mary Stuart when he saw her 
 for Ihe last time in the flower of her age. There were the same 
 fair locks, the same soft and sad expression, the same delicacy of 
 complexion, rarely animated by a shade of the rose. Like Mary 
 Queen of Scots, Mademoiselle de Rochemaure had the presenti- 
 ment of a fatal end, and she lived like a victim resigned to his 
 fate. 
 
 Since the first day of his arrival at Chantilly , Robert had found 
 out the secret of the sadness of Mademoiselle de Rochemaure. 
 She was about to be married to a man upwards of fifty years of 
 age, with a very plain face, but a very large fortune. Her com- 
 panions already jokingly called her the Baroness de Sainte Rade- 
 gonde j but it was with the greatest reluctance that she suffered 
 them to give her a title which she was about to receive with a 
 feeling of despair. Her father, however, a stern old soldier, 
 whom she feared greatly, had spoken, and she was forced to 
 obey. The idea of resistance never entered into her mind ; and 
 she had not even demanded the support and assistance of the 
 Duchess de Montmorency to shield her from this hated marriage. 
 
 The Baron de Sainte Radegonde was not at that time at Chan- 
 tilly, and Robert knew him only from the remarks made upon 
 him by the companions of the fair Marguerite. Without being 
 able to analyse the nature of his feelings towards Mademoiselle 
 de Rochemaure, he felt, he knew not wherefore, a hatred 
 towards the man with whom she was about to unite her fate, 
 and would willingly have set the fair girl free by proposing to 
 stake his life in mortal duel with her affianced husband. 
 
 One mornings R.obert paced, alone and thoughtful, the grand 
 gallery of the castle, which ran along each side of the chapel. 
 The portraits of a goodly troop of warriors and ladies graced its 
 walls; all the race of Montmorency were revived in these old 
 paintings •, there they were, armed cap-a-pie, with their banners 
 and their escutcheons \ the proud dames also, portrayed from 
 head to foot, passing their rosaries (of fabulous tenuity through 
 their fingers. Robert paused often, and gazed upon this noble 
 company. He was interested by these portraits, the originals of 
 which reposed near him in the silence of the vaults underneath the 
 chapel. After the hour of mass, no one was in the habit of 
 passing through the gallery, more especially after dusk ; and 
 the young and noble attendants of the Duchess de Montmorency 
 crossed themselves as they traversed it in the middle of the day: 
 for the darkness and solemnity of the place inspired them with 
 terror. 
 
352 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 After having wandered for some time among the double row 
 of visages, which seemed to frown upon him from their exalted 
 stations, Robert placed himself at an open window. A bright 
 May sun darted its rays through the open casement upon the 
 humid pavement, and reflected its bright tints upon the dark 
 architecture : the wind waved the banners suspended from the 
 vaulted roof, which formed by their rustling a plaintive sound, 
 that seemed to proceed from the grim-looking warriors around 
 him. The deep silence of the spot, disturbed only by the sounds 
 already-mentioned— the images of glory and honour which the 
 scene served to awaken —the trophies won in battle — impressed 
 vividly upon the mind of Robert how proud and happy that 
 man must be who could trace his descent from such illustrious 
 progenitors: he murmured, his head sinking upon his bosom — 
 " Alas ! I cannot even claim a name ! " 
 
 He was interrupted in his meditations by a light step ap- 
 proaching. Robert withdrew into the embrasure of the window: 
 without having seen her, whom he knew by the step to be Ma- 
 demoiselle de Rochemaure : she entered the gallery by one of 
 the chapel doors, and was passing Robert without perceiving 
 him, so much was she absorbed in her own sad thoughts : when, 
 overcoming the first sensation of surprise, he stepped up to her 
 side, saying— 
 
 " What ! is Mademoiselle de Rochemaure courageous enough 
 to traverse this gallery alone at this hour of the day?" 
 
 She turned hastily towards the speaker : deep blushes imme- 
 diately suffused her countenance, w r hich a minute after resumed 
 its natural delicate hue. 
 
 "Why should I fear?" replied she, with a melancholy smile. 
 " Blessed Virgin ! I was not even thinking of the spot. Formerly, 
 it is true, I always ran through this gallery : it appeared to me 
 that all those forms used to quit the canvass and approach me, 
 but I have none of those fears at present." 
 
 She ceased speaking, and remained for a moment pensively lost 
 in thought, then raising her expressive eyes to Robert's face, 
 she continued, "You will remain here until Whitsuntide, Che- 
 valier Robert?" 
 
 " I have been so hospitably and kindly treated by my Lord 
 the High Constable, that J would willingly remain here all my 
 lifetime 5 but unfortunately the day will come, and that soon 
 perhaps, when I should wish to bid you adieu." 
 
 "You will at least remain until my wedding?" returned 
 Mademoiselle de Rochemaure, with perfect calmness, but with 
 a deep meaning in her voice. 
 
 Robert trembled and changed colour. 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 353 
 
 "Your wedding!" cried he; "are you then so soon to be 
 married ? " 
 
 " The Baron de Sainte Radegonde arrives to-day." 
 
 There was a moment of silence, when Robert, continued, in 
 a tone of deepest sadness, "I must depart to-morrow." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Rochemaure smiled faintly, and leant trem- 
 bling against the wall. Those few words had entered into the 
 inmost recesses of her heart, and were better understood there 
 than even by him who had pronounced them. 
 
 "You will remain." said she, slowly. " you will remain for 
 my marriage ; you will not have long to wait ; the delay will be 
 of short duration." 
 
 Her voice trembled, and she burst into tears. 
 
 " Marguerite," cried Robert, "you will not, you shall not 
 marry this Baron de Sainte R.adegonde." 
 
 "Alas! I cannot avoid my fate! This marriage will be con- 
 summated ; my father has it at heart ; he arrives also to-day. — 
 But I will die rather than obey him ! " 
 
 " Hold ! I can challenge your affianced husband ; I may slay 
 him ; I will slaw mm > Marguerite?" 
 
 " And if he slew you," interrupted she, " I should die by the 
 same blow ! " 
 
 Robert turned pale ; seizing the hands of the trembling 
 girl, he cried, "Marguerite, you have pronounced that man's 
 doom ! " 
 
 She disengaged herself from him, and said, with resolution, 
 "Robert, I forbid you from interfering in this affair-, I will not 
 save myself at such a risk from my unhappy fate ! The will of 
 Heaven be done ! Yes, leave this castle, Robert ; leave it im- 
 mediately,— or to-morrow; — farewell !" He detained her. 
 
 -'Marguerite!" cried he; " do not leave me thus. Our future 
 happiness depends upon what I am about to say. If you love 
 me!" 
 
 She raised her eyes swimming in tears for one moment, then 
 dropped them with a deep sigh. 
 
 " Listen to me," said Robert, taking the hands of the fair 
 girl again in his. 
 
 They sat down in the embrasure of the window. 
 
 "If we were surprised here alone!" murmured Marguerite, 
 looking fearfully around her. Then turning to Robert, she said, 
 with a faint smile, "Well, what would you say to me? I am 
 listening— Holy Virgin ! be quick, for I tremble." 
 
 " For this whole month, during which I have seen you every- 
 day, I have been the most happy and the most miserable of 
 men," said Robert ; " I love you ; you knew it. Marguerite !" 
 
 She nodded an assent. 
 
 23 
 
354 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 " Then," continued he-, " you must think 1 have a hase and 
 dastardly heart, as I attempted not to dispute your hand with 
 another. But I knew not if you would accept me Marguerite-, 
 for before proposing to you to become my wife, I must tell you 
 
 that" 
 
 "You never knew your parents," interrupted Marguerite; 
 11 and that Queen Mary of Scotland took you from a poor and 
 miserable family who w T ere living in the forest of Compiegne. 
 But have you not related this to every one? Who would be so 
 base as to reproach you on account of your origin?" 
 
 " No one with impunity. Rut it is a wretched thing to be 
 alone in the world. M. de Champdivers loved me as if I had 
 been his own son, and he has bestowed all his wealth upon me •, 
 but he could not give me his name. I have none to offer you, 
 Marguerite. Ah ! how often have I wished for that aristocratic 
 birth, that illustrious rank, which would make me your equal. 
 
 as in the case of the Baron de Sainte Radegonde." 
 
 '•He noble!" interrupted Marguerite, hastily; "yes, noble 
 since yesterday. He has purchased his title that he might 
 marry me." 
 
 ik What mean you?" said R.obert, astonished. 
 "Yes, he has bought his title; thanks to his riches. He was 
 but the godson of Anne de Montmorency, and is the Secretary 
 of the present Duke, my worthy cousin. But my father would 
 never have consented to bestow my hand upon him had he not 
 purchased the barony of Sainte Radegonde with his treasured 
 gold." 
 
 " I also have wealth enough to purchase a goodly fief," inter- 
 rupted Robert ; " I also can be a viscount or baron. Holy Mary! 
 is there such happiness in store for me?" 
 
 "Perhaps!" murmured Marguerite, softly. Then, turning 
 towards Robert, she continued with a smile. " This, then, is all 
 you had to say tome? 1 nearly knew before ail that you have 
 told me." 
 
 " But I have yet something to say," continued Robert, much 
 agitated \ " and before you leave me, 1 would tell you all. Mar- 
 guerite, since my infancy, 1 have guarded a horrible secret in 
 my inmost soul, which I never had the courage to reveal to any- 
 one, not even to him who was as a father to me." 
 
 He ceased speaking for an instant, as if to gather firmness for 
 the task which he had imposed upon himself, and then con- 
 tinued, faltering at each word - -" 1 must have been very young, 
 when an aged woman, called \ eronique, and myself, went to 
 dwell i t i a miserable hut in the forest of Compiegne. 1 had for- 
 gotten, or rather I never knew, the name of my native place, or 
 that of mv family: but (here is the remembrance of a scene hid 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 355 
 
 m my heart which time has not been able to efface, a picture 
 which has presented itself before my eyes every day of my life. 
 1 saw my father in a prison, chained and manacled. A few 
 nights after, Veronique led me into a house. The spot was not 
 unknown tome; I see it now. I do not know if we remained 
 there long: but I remember perfectly that one morning Vero- 
 nique awoke me by violent screams, and dragged me towards a 
 window. I iooked below. In the centre of the square beneath 
 a scaffolding was erected : upon it there was exposed a human 
 head, pale and bloody. I fancy I yet hear Veronique's words : 
 1 Seest thou that head, Robert? it is thy father's.' My senses 
 forsook me, and I fell." 
 
 ; ' Gracious Heaven! '' exclaimed Marguerite, turning deadly 
 pale ; "and what followed?" 
 
 " I know not — I remember no more." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Rochemanre remained silent, struck with 
 horror and pity. Robert gazed at her steadfastly, and hid his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 "Who can tell what my father was! a thief — an assassin, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " Of what consequence is it, since every one is ignorant of 
 his fate, and you are an honourable man?" said Marguerite, 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 Robert ventured to press her to his heart, and to imprint a 
 kiss upon the proud and open brow of the fair cousin of Mont- 
 morency, then said, " Marguerite, I will immediately seek the 
 High Constable." 
 
 " Yes, yes!" replied she, full of courage and hope; "do so; 
 and I will throw myself at the Duchess' feet ; she will protect 
 us. No, I will not marry Claude Stocq ! " 
 
 "Claude Stocq!" repeated Robert: "how that name seems 
 to strike upon my memory. Claude Stocq !— I have heard that 
 name before. Veronique! blessed Virgin! how confused my 
 ideas are ! In the name of Heaven. Marguerite, tell me who is 
 this man ? whence does he come ? what are the events of his 
 life?" 
 
 " I have already told you that he has always been attached to 
 the house of Montmorency ; he has passed the meridian of life, 
 but has never yet been married, and resided for many years in 
 a house at Senlis or at Chantilly. It is said that in his youth he 
 was passionately attached to a young girl, who forsook him to 
 marry a Calvinist, and that he has never been able to console 
 himself for her want of faith. He has protested a thousand times 
 that he would never marry : but, unfortunately, he has changed 
 his mind after having completed his fiftieth year, and lately de- 
 manded my hand of mv father. This is all I know of Claude 
 
356 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 Stocq, who, during these last few weeks, has assumed the title 
 of Baron de Sainte Radegonde." 
 
 " And the young female whom he formerly loved, what is be- 
 come of her?" demanded Robert. 
 
 "She perished miserably, as well as all her family, during 
 the time of the persecution against the Calvinists ; her hus- 
 band was beheaded," replied Marguerite-, then, struck with 
 a sudden thought, she continued, "It is an old, a very aged 
 woman, named Perine la Barbue, who related all this to me 5 it 
 is she whom you must interrogate would you know more. Let 
 us hasten to her immediately, Come, Robert, come ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Towards the close of that same day, Claude Stocq arrived 
 at Chantilly, his mind occupied with hopes and projects rather 
 at variance with the maturity of his years. He was still the same 
 choleric, ambitious man, implacable in his hatred and ardent in 
 his love. Years had not altered his features, nor would it have 
 been easy to trace the date of his existence upon his dry and 
 parchment-like countenance. His profusion of hair, always of 
 the same reddish hue, fell upon his shoulders, giving a more 
 youthful air to his appearance 5 and his figure, which was that of 
 a young man of thirty, served to add to the illusion. 
 
 As he dismounted from his horse, a page approached to in- 
 form him that the High Constable was awaiting him in his study. 
 Claude Stocq placed a box under his arm which he had care- 
 fully held before him during his journey, and replied to the 
 page with some asperity, as he entered the castle, "Ah, of 
 course 5 his lordship will not give me time to shake the dust 
 from my boots before he must send for me to write a dispatch, 
 or something of the kind ; and that before 1 have had the ho- 
 nour of presenting my respects to the Duchess, and to Made- 
 moiselle de Rochemaure. What is my Lord's pleasure?" 
 
 "The Marquis de Rochemaure is arrived." 
 
 " Ah!" interrupted Claude Stocq, with a satisfied air, "the 
 old gentleman has kept his word." 
 
 The High Constable was pacing his apartment, preparing the 
 discourse he intended addressing to Claude Stocq 5 but vainly 
 seeking for terms to soften the harshness of the information 
 which he was charged to communicate. 
 
 " Good day, my Lord," said he, seeing Claude Stocq enter ; 
 " I have been expecting you for some time. You arrived late." 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 3fi~ 
 
 "Too late, my Lord, without doubt. My impatience was 
 great to see Chantilly again ; but I stopped at Paris to purchase 
 some of those gewgaws which have the power of pleasing the 
 fair sex." 
 
 Saying this he produced an ebony box curiously inlaid with 
 silver. 
 
 " Ah, my poor Claude," replied the High Constable, hastily, 
 " I do not think that the tender which you wish to make of your 
 barony and your jewels will be accepted." 
 
 "What means this doubt, my Lord? The Marquis de 
 Rochemaure has pledged his word to give me his daughter in 
 marriage." 
 
 "He retracts it. You must console yourself, Claude, for this 
 disappointment, by retlecting that perhaps this marriage, far 
 from conducing to your happiness, would have served only to 
 embitter the remainder of your existence by the disproportion 
 of your ages. The youth of our fair cousin " 
 
 " My Lord," interrupted Claude Stocq, violently, " some one 
 has prejudiced Mademoiselle de Rochemaure and yourself 
 against me-, but I will be revenged! What has occurred, dur- 
 ing my absence? Who is it that would break off this engage- 
 ment? Which is it, the daughter or the father?" 
 
 " It is Mademoiselle de Rochemaure." 
 
 "Ah, only she! I had never greatly presumed upon her 
 affection for me ; but her father is determined upon the mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " He has changed his resolution. To-day his daughter im- 
 plored the protection of the Duchess, and threw herself at his 
 feet, declaring that she would sooner embrace a monastic life 
 than become the Baroness de Sainte Radegonde." 
 
 "She hates me, then!" said Claude Stocq, coldly, "for 1 
 have heard her say a thousand times that the cloister was no- 
 thing better than a sepulchre, in which people interred them- 
 selves alive." 
 
 "It is not her horror for you, but her love for another, which 
 has driven her to this extremity?" replied the High Con- 
 stable. 
 
 " Oh! then the case is different! " murmured Claude Stocq, 
 glancing around with a revengeful and furious look. "And who 
 is my rival, my Lord ?" 
 " A young man." 
 
 " Oh ! that of course: but his name— his name, my Lord?" 
 " He is called the Chevalier Robert; he was page to the de- 
 ceased Queen of Scots, and was her secretary at the time of her 
 death." 
 
 "A David Rizzio ! " cried Claude Stocq, with bitter irony. 
 
358 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 " So I am supplanted by a Queen's favourite— by a man whose 
 whole existence has been passed in the boudoir of Marv 
 Stuart ! " 
 
 " Claude Stocq ! " interrupted the High Constable, angrily, 
 "you forget of whom, and before whom, you are speaking : it 
 is your duty to respect whomsoever has had the honour of serv- 
 ing the Queen of Scots ! " 
 
 " My Lord," replied he, endeavouring to speak calmly, " it is 
 not in your presence, but sword in hand that 1 will give vent to 
 my just anger, and have satisfaction of this young man. The 
 Marquis de Rochemaure shall also render me an account for 
 this breach of faith. When I went to visit him in the broken- 
 down pigeon-house, which he calls his castle, to demand the 
 hand of his daughter, he promised her to me with a joyful con- 
 sent 5 whence comes it, then, that he retracts his word to day? 
 Has he found a richer husband for his daughter — one who will 
 undraw his purse strings with better grace than myself? My of- 
 fers were somewhat weighty, however, -it appears to me so, at 
 least ! My Lord, I have been played with, duped, and betrayed ; 
 but by all the saints in Paradise, I will be revenged ! " 
 
 The High Constable vainly endeavoured to moderate the an- 
 ger and resentment of his Secretary ; it was with some difficulty 
 that he prevented him from putting his threats into immediate 
 execution. Claude Stocq swore by heaven and earth, that while 
 he was living no man should become the husband of Mademoi- 
 selle de Rochemaure. Without further delay, he descended into 
 the grand court of the castle, threw himself into his saddle, and, 
 sinking his spurs into his horse's flanks, rode off in the direction 
 ofSenlis. 
 
 Whilst this scene was passing in the presence of the High 
 Constable, Robert was declaring his origin before the Duchess 
 and the Marquis de Rochemaure. He had just learnt the his- 
 tory of his early years from the mouth of Perine la Barbue. and 
 all the circumstances combined left no manner of doubt in his 
 mind as to whom he owed his origin. 
 
 In that time of religious persecution, the sentence which Jehan 
 Cornoailles had suffered was not considered as at all dishonour- 
 ing his name ; it was, as is the case in our days with respect to 
 persons who are condemned for political offences ; and the man 
 whose father had been beheaded for his change of faith need 
 never deny his name. 
 
 Pvobert, although himself a pious Catholic, felt honoured by 
 his origin, and loudly proclaimed it. A title might easily be added 
 lo so pure a name. 
 
 The old Marquis de Rochemaure had no objection to make, 
 he had held a post of some consequence about the person of the 
 
CLAUDE SfOCQ. 359 
 
 deceased Queen of Navarre 5 and although the old nobleman 
 was strict in his observance of the Catholic rites, he was strong- 
 ly suspected of leaning towards Calvinism. Besides, he preferred 
 Robert's birth and parentage to that of Claude Stocq , and 
 the son of Jehan Cornoailles, himself the private secretary of the 
 Queen Mary Stuart, appeared to him far more noble than the 
 secretary of the Duke de Montmorency, enriched (as said public 
 opinion) by crimes and servility. He resolutely and formally re- 
 tracted his promise, and pledged the hand of his daughter to 
 Robert, provided that he purchased a noble fief which would 
 carry with it a title. 
 
 All these conferences passed without the least mystery, and 
 the Duchess de Montmorency, who warmly espoused Robert's 
 cause, announced publicly that the ceremony of betrothment 
 would soon take place in the castle of Chantilly. 
 
 Claude Stocq had not re-appeared, nor realized his threats 
 since the explanation which had ensued between himself and 
 the High Constable 5 those who knew him well were astonished 
 at his apparent tranquillity, and warned Robert not to leave the 
 castle without being well armed 5 but day succeeded day without 
 any fatal disaster, and the ceremony of betrothment was con- 
 cluded on the day before Whitsuntide. That same evening the 
 Marquis de Rochemaure received a letter couched in the follow- 
 ing words : — 
 
 " My Lord Marquis,— Before consummating the ceremony 
 of your daughter's marriage, (the betrothment having, as I am 
 informed, been already celebrated,) it is but fit that you should 
 know from whom he who is chosen by yourself to become your 
 son-in-law derives his being. His father escaped from the gal- 
 lows, being restored to life by Master Ambroise Pare, and then 
 assumed the name of Jehan Cornoailles, but his real name was 
 Landri, who is well known to have been publicly hanged for 
 theft and murder I The declaration of this was made during his 
 life-time, and I committed it to paper-, it will be found among 
 the records of the castle of Chantilly, in register No. XII., 
 pag. 1 1 . My Lord the High Constable (rest his soul !) was aware 
 of this fact, as well as many others who are still living, and who 
 will vouch for the truth of my attestation. 
 
 " With every feeling of respect and esteem, I am, my Lord 
 Marquis, etc. etc." 
 
 This fatal writing did indeed exist 5 Claude Stocq, urged on 
 by his ferocious jealousy against the unfortunate man whose 
 death he had sought, that he might espouse the bereaved widow, 
 had, after his death, insulted his memory by declaring that the 
 martyr who so courageously submitted to his fate rather than 
 deny his religion was an infamous murderer, who had been cut 
 
360 CLA.UDE STOCQ. 
 
 down from the gallows before life was extinct, and restored by 
 the skill of an eminent physician. All these details were so well 
 supported, that the unfortunate Robert could not himself doubt 
 their veracity. When, therefore, in presence of the High Con- 
 stable, the document was read, which destroyed at once all his 
 hopes of the past and of the future, he remained for a few mi- 
 nutes immovable-, then, turning to the Marquis de Roche- 
 maure, who regarded him with consternation, he said, " 1 will 
 not wait for you to break this engagement; Mademoiselle de 
 Rochemaure is free. My Lord/' continued he, throwing him- 
 self at the feet of the High Constable, " your powerful protec- 
 tion, and the friendship with which you have deigned to honour 
 me, can do nothing towards averting the blow of destiny. Con- 
 descend, then, to compassionate my sufferings, and to give a 
 thought at times to one who will never forget your kindness, for 
 I must bid adieu to Chantilly and happiness!" 
 
 A secret of so much importance could not be long guarded. 
 One might indeed have imagined that invisible beings must 
 have aided in the work, so soon did the news spread. Margue- 
 rite was the last to learn it. The Duchess, on retiring to her 
 bed-room, desired her fair relation to accompany her, and there 
 declared the terrible truth to her. 
 
 " And Robert! where is Robert?" exclaimed the poor girL 
 " This, then, was the reason of his absence this evening. Oh, 
 Madam! and you have known it for some hours? But it is im- 
 possible ! No, no ! —where is he ?— where is Robert !" 
 
 " He is shut up in his apartment," replied the kind-hearted 
 lady; * ; the poor fellow is overwhelmed with grief. I feel greatly 
 for him. The will of Heaven must be done !" 
 
 " But, Madam, shall I not see him then ? No, you have just 
 said so. Yet we were betrothed to-day ! Ah ! Claude Stocq 
 awaited this day!" 
 
 " Hatred and revenge are deeply engrafted in that man's 
 heart. He will not go unpunished, you may be sure of it, not 
 only in this world, but in the next also, and Robert's disap- 
 pointment will not profit him." 
 
 " No, Madam, no; for I swear before Heaven and the Holy 
 Virgin, our mother, that if my father yet wishes me to marry 
 Claude Stocq, no force shall make me submit!" 
 
 " x\nd I will support you in your resolution, Marguerite, 
 May Heaven console you, my poor child !" 
 
 The amiable Duchess retained Marguerite for some hours by 
 her bedside, endeavouring to console her by reasonings and 
 promises. But the poor girl continued to weep and lament ; her 
 rank was totally forgotten ; she would willingly have espoused 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 361 
 
 the son of the barber, Landri, in spite of his father's ignomi- 
 nious end, and the infamy which attached to his birth. 
 
 " Madam." said she, resolutely, " 1 must see him yet once 
 more ; I must render him back the ring which he gave me to- 
 day. Alas! 1 thought to have guarded it during life. After bid- 
 ding him adieu, I will renounce the world. You will grant me 
 your permission to enter a convent, Madam?— but let me bid 
 him farewell!" 
 
 " To-morrow, in my presence, and before he leaves the 
 Castle, I have promised him that he shall see you," replied the 
 Duchess de Montmorency. "It is growing late," continued 
 she ; lie down, my child, at the foot of my bed, and endeavour 
 to sleep a little." 
 
 " No; thanks, gracious lady, I will pray," said Marguerite, 
 kneeling before the crucifix at the foot of the couch. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Robert was not in his chamber, as the Duchess had imagined, 
 A few minutes after quitting the High Constable, he had mounted 
 his horse, and, without warning any one of his intention, rode 
 off in the direction of Senlis. In spite of the lateness of the hour, 
 the gates of the town were yet open. The weather was fair 
 and serene; the moon tipped the tops of the houses with her 
 silvery light, while the deserted streets were but dimly illumi- 
 nated by the rising orb. Here and there was to be seen an 
 image, before which burned a taper, for it was a day dedicated 
 to the Holy Virgin. 
 
 On entering the town, Robert demanded Claude Stocq's 
 dwelling of a beggar who had taken up his abode for the night 
 in a shed by the road side. It was a house situated upon the 
 Place Notre Dame, facing that church. The door, lined with 
 iron and thickly studded with nails, opened upon a small plat- 
 form, accessible by a flight of steps, and covered by a balcony 
 of stone-work. To the hasty summons of Robert, the door was 
 opened by an alarmed domestic, who raised his huge taper of 
 wax to reconnoitre the impatient visitor, at the same time light- 
 ing a long and narrow hall, at the extremity of which an open 
 door was to be seen. 
 
 " Is the Baron de Sainte Radegonde within?" said Robert. 
 
 Claude Stocq advanced from the apartment to within a few 
 paces of where Robert stood, saying, while his voice trembled 
 with passion, " I expected you !— enter !" 
 
362 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 It was then that these two men surveyed each other with 
 looks of equal hatred, an equal desire of revenge animating 
 each 5 it was however, the senior which first broke the silence. 
 
 " I knew that you would come to seek me," said he, " and 1 
 held myself in readiness for your visit. Although this match is 
 not an equal one, I am willing to give you satisfaction, and to 
 maintain, sword in hand, what I have already said, and will 
 repeat. Robert, I tell you to your face that you are the son of 
 Landri, the barber of la Rue aux Ours, — of Landri, the robber. 
 — of Landri, the murderer. Are not these lofty titles to add to 
 the name of the fair Marguerite, the noble heiress of Roche- 
 maure?" 
 
 "Claude Stocq, you are a cowardly, a miserable villain!" 
 interrupted Robert, his eyes Hashing with indignation ; " you 
 insult me now, because you are here in your own house, and 
 you can do so with impunity ; but to-morrow, at the break of 
 day, I will be revenged." 
 
 "With all my heart! One only will remain to tell the tale. 
 And now, noble Chevalier," continued Claude Stocq, after a 
 moment's reflection, "where do you intend to take up your 
 night's lodging? Will it suit your pleasure to sleep in my house?" 
 
 Robert hesitated ; but an eager curiosity actuated him in 
 wishing to interrogate Claude Stocq as to the motive of his im- 
 placable rancour and animosity towards even the memory of 
 his unhappy father. 
 
 " I accept your offer," said he. 
 
 They each took a chair. A moment after a domestic brought 
 wine and a light collation, of which Robert did not partake, but, 
 with his elbow on the table and his head leaning on his hand, 
 remained plunged in sad and deep reflection. Claude Stocq 
 regarded him fixedly, there were his mother's features, — her 
 fine eyes, veiled by the long, dark eyelashes and the same soft 
 expression of physiognomy. 
 
 " You resemble your mother," said Claude Stocq, with an in- 
 definable tone of sadness and rage, 
 
 " My mother! you knew her then?" cried Robert. 
 
 Claude Stocq passed his hand over his broad forehead, and 
 murmured — 
 
 "She was a beautiful Madonna — an angel! We were betrothed; 
 your father was my rival, and my hopes were blasted, as they are 
 again to-day. You must agree with me that it is a fatal hazard 
 — twice betrayed^ first rivalled by the father, then by the son." 
 
 Claude Stocq now related the events of his youthful days, 
 and the fatal influence which he possessed over the destiny of 
 Catherine. 
 
 " I loved her," continued he, trembling with emotion ; " I 
 
CLAUDE STOCQ. 363 
 
 loved her as I now love Mademoiselle de Rochemaure, and it 
 was many years before I could console myself for her loss : the 
 remembrance of her was mingled with a feeling of remorse: 
 if I had loved her less, Catherine would still be living! But 
 I preferred knowing her a prey to the worms than in the 
 arms of that miserable wretch whom she had preferred to 
 me. Oh! I had a moment of revenge worth whole worlds; it 
 was when I declared to her the veritable name of her husband! 
 She knew it perhaps, and she loved him in spite of it. Thus it 
 is with the woman who loves ; she is blinded by her affections, 
 —pride, fear, horror, even honour itself, gives way under the 
 all-powerful influence of the heart. It is love which inspires 
 blind devotion, ferocious hatred, and implacable desire of ven- 
 geance-, and it is this which will arm us to-morrow. Man to 
 man, we shall contend until only one remains." 
 
 Robert could no longer support his situation ; the presence, 
 the words of the man who had been the executioner of his 
 parents, who now pursued with unrelenting fury their unhappy 
 child, and who had just snapped asunder the chain of his 
 existence, caused his heart to swell with rage and stifled impa- 
 tience ; his brow had contracted as Claude Stocq proceeded on 
 his relation, and he listened in silence, looking forward anxiously 
 to the morrow. 
 
 " Your name vaguely occupied my memory as belonging to 
 one whom I was bound to hate," said Robert, bitterly, and 
 rising from his seat. " I remembered it as soon as it was pro- 
 nounced before me. It is the hand of Heaven which has brought 
 these things to pass, for I still see a bloody head, and hear a 
 voice, saying, ' It is thy father's— it is Claude Stocq who placed 
 it there !* I was but an infant at that time, but I remember." 
 
 " It was Veronique who said that, without doubt," said 
 Claude Stocq, with great tranquillity 5 "andit was probably from 
 one of the windows'of this house that she shewed you the scaf- 
 folding upon which the head of Jehan Cornoailles was exposed." 
 " Here!" cried Robert, shuddering. He looked wildly around 
 the apartment, and the past burst in full force upon his imagi- 
 nation. He recognised the high chimney-piece, the dark tapes- 
 tried walls, and even the sculptured arm-chair, in which Cathe- 
 rine was generally seated. "Yes, "continued he, pale and 
 trembling : ; ' it is here that I was born : it was there where my 
 mother sat,*with me on her knees! It is our house— our home ! 
 One night I remember returning hither: all was broken and 
 destroyed. I wept ; Veronique took me by the hand. I remember 
 —yes, I remember we descended a staircase ; she hid something. 
 Claude Stocq, come with me !" 
 Saying these words, Robert snatched a taper from the table. 
 
364 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 Claude Stocq, seeing him so pale and agitated , thought that his 
 senses were forsaking him. 
 
 " Whither would you go?" said he, following Robert ; who, 
 without hesitation, had proceeded down the hall, and was opening 
 a door that led to the vaulted cellars beneath the house. " Hold, 
 there!— would you assassinate me? What want you below? ' 
 
 Robert drew his sword from the scabbard, which he threw 
 to the other end of the passage, and then descended the staircase. 
 Claude Stocq followed, wondering, and excited by curiosity. 
 When they had reached the foot of the staircase, RolDert, stand- 
 ing still, said — " It is here !— it is here !" 
 
 " A treasure?" cried Claude Stocq. 
 
 " Something ; I know not what ; but it is here, here, and I'll 
 find it !" replied Robert, throwing himself on his knees upon the 
 damp ground. He did not seek long in vain ; an iron box soon 
 rattled againsi the stones under his hands. 
 
 " Heaven be praised !" cried he, with enthusiasm, and eagerly 
 grasping the box. 
 
 Claude Stocq regarded him with contempt. "Go to!" mur- 
 mured he; " thou art the true son of thy father! The posses- 
 sion of a little gold, or of a few jewels, will console thee for 
 thy infamy!" 
 
 Piobert ascended the staircase, and, breathless with emotion, 
 deposited the box upon the table. 
 
 "This box," said he, pointing to the key attached to the 
 lid by a small iron chain, " shall be opened only at Chantilly, in 
 the presence of the High Constable and the Marquis de Roche- 
 maure." 
 
 " May I be admitted as a witness?" said Claude Stocq, 
 disdainfully. 
 
 "Most assuredly, Sir, if such is your good pleasure. We 
 will set out at break of day." 
 
 " xAt break of day! You forget that we have a business of 
 some importance to transact at that hour— the affair which you 
 came to arrange with me this evening." 
 
 " After this box has been opened before witnesses, I shall be 
 ready to attend you, Sir." 
 
 "So be it-, I am anxious to see the end of this promising 
 incident," said Claude Stocq, with ironical disdain. 
 
 They remained in the same apartment the rest of the night, 
 without exchanging a word. At last the dawn appeared. 
 
 "To horse!" said Claude Stocq, impatiently; "let us bear 
 thiSjitreasure to Chantilly, and after—" 
 
 " Yes , after ! — I am ready, Claude Stocq." 
 
 They arrived at Chantilly as the High Constable left his 
 apartment : every one was astonished at seeing them together. 
 
CLAUDE 5T0CQ. 365 
 
 Claude Stocq looked impatient and incredulous: while Robert 
 appeared like a man who is about to receive a sentence of life 
 or death. 
 
 kl My Lord," said he, bending his knee to the ground before 
 the High Constable, " I entreat of you to open with your own 
 hand this casket, which I found during the night in a cellar 
 where it was deposited twenty-five years ago, the same day on 
 which Jehan Cornoailles submitted to his fate." 
 
 Claude Stocq looked savagely at Robert, who had turned 
 towards him as if challenging him to contradict the truth of the 
 statement. 
 
 " I desire that the contents of that box be examined before 
 witnesses," continued Robert, remarking the movement of the 
 High Constable, who was about to order every one to quit the 
 room. "If I am not deceived by my childish remembrances, 
 and by a voice from on high, which seems to speak to me, there 
 is contained in this box that which will fully re-establish me in 
 my former position." 
 
 Claude Stocq shrugged his shoulders, smiling disdainfully. 
 
 The High Constable replied, hastily, "Heaven grant it. 
 Chevalier Robert. " 
 
 Saying these words , he opened the casket, and drew from 
 within a parcel of papers and parchments. 
 
 " Read, my Lord, I implore you !" said Robert, with a faint 
 voice. 
 
 Profound silence reigned in that apartment, in which were 
 now assembled more than twenty persons ; every eye was fixed 
 upon the High Constable, who was reading a parchment with 
 the greatest attention, and at the bottom of which might have 
 been seen the armorial bearings of a noble house of France ! 
 Claude Stocq affected a look of indifference-, but his features 
 writhed under the contending feelings of hope, fear, and hatred. 
 Robert awaited the result with a beating heart. 
 
 The High Constable read to the end of the parchment ; then 
 arose with a glad smile, and stretched out his hand to Robert, 
 saying — " Count de Louvre, I congratulate you! The titles of 
 your family are all recorded here, as well as those of your father, 
 who miraculously escaped from the gibbet, and assumed the 
 name of Jehan Cornoailles. Landri the barber, and the others 
 who suffered with him, died ; but the Count was saved by his 
 intimate friend, Ambroise Pare. These incidents are concisely, 
 but authentically explained in this paper, and sealed with the 
 arms of the house of Louvre." 
 
 ••Ah! my Lord," cried Robert, " deign to send for the Mar- 
 quis de Rochemaure." 
 
366 CLAUDE STOCQ. 
 
 " Sir," interrupted Claude Stocq, advancing, " I await you !" 
 
 " I am ready," replied Robert, in a low voice. 
 
 " Under the trees in the park. Take your second ; I will 
 attend you in a minute with mine." 
 
 These words, rapidly exchanged, were unheard by any one 
 present ; but as soon as Claude Stocq had quitted the apartment, 
 the High Constable said, with a gesture of confidence, "Go, 
 brave Count, J will await your return here, to conduct you to 
 the Duchess and Mademoiselle de Rochemaure." 
 
 The news of the strange and important events which had 
 taken place in the presence of the High Constable spread with 
 astonishing rapidity through the household of the Duchess. At 
 the moment that Robert quitted the castle to join Claude Stocq 
 in the park, every one ran to the windows 5 the whole household 
 was in commotion, each asking or answering questions. The 
 Duchess rose from her bed, and Marguerite, pale and speechless 
 with terror, her long hair flowing wildly over her shoulders, 
 was kneeling on a balcony facing the park. After a quarter of 
 an hour of cruel anxiety, some one appeared at the other extre- 
 mity of the avenue ; he approached. Marguerite uttered a scream 
 of joy, and raised her clasped hands in gratitude to Heaven : it 
 was Robert. Claude Stocq was no more! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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