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 THE 
 
 DISCIPLINE OF LIFE, 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us further than to-day. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle. 
 
 In the bivouac of life. 
 Be not like dumb driven cattle — 
 he a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1848.
 
 F. Sholerl, Jun., Piinter to H.R.H. riiiice Albsif, 51, Ruj.ert Street.
 
 5^ 
 
 i 
 
 ^^ 
 
 J 
 
 V.I 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 The object of the following book has 
 been, as the title imports, to show how cha- 
 racters may be tried and improved through 
 the common events of common life. 
 
 I beheve reality to be stranger than 
 fiction, life to be more romantic than any 
 romance ever yet wi'itten ; but the strange 
 events of life are, '4ike angels' visits, few 
 and far between." They come but at in- 
 . tervals, and come not to all. My wish was 
 rather to show the trials and temptations of 
 common life — such life as all may know ; no 
 exciting scenes, no startling incidents ; witli 
 but just so much of romance as at some time 
 or other tinges the life of almost all men. 
 
 I have, therefore, chosen the quietest and 
 simplest scenes of tlie world, and have en-
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 deavoured only to describe such characters 
 as are to be met with in the common inter- 
 course of every-day life. 
 
 I am well aware that the object I have 
 mentioned is not a poor one. The book of 
 human nature being at the same time the 
 most interesting and the most difficult of 
 studies, the attempt to describe it even in 
 its simplest forms is ambitious. It is not, 
 therefore, because the object is a low one 
 that I would ask indulgence, but rather in- 
 dulgence for the ambition that attempted 
 anything so high, and forgiveness for having 
 come so far short of it.
 
 ISABEL DENISON 
 
 'Tis an old tale, and often told- 
 
 Mann ion. 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 THE 
 
 DISCIPLINE OF LIFE. 
 
 ISABEL DENISOK 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man, 
 
 Still gentler sister woman ; 
 Though they may gang a kennin wrang, 
 
 To step aside is human. 
 
 Then, at the balance, let's be mute, 
 
 We never can adjust it; 
 What's done we partly may compute. 
 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Ill the close back room of a small orna- 
 mented cottage, on the outskirts of the village 
 of EUerton, in the arms of an old nurse, lay 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 an infant of a few hours old. It seemed 
 about to resign its short life ; to close for 
 ever the eyes which had only just opened on 
 the world. Two girls — one of about seven- 
 teen, the other twenty-three years of age — 
 stood beside the nurse, anxiously watching 
 the feeble struggles of the child. 
 
 ^'Must it die, nurse?" at last asked the 
 elder one. " Poor Amy !" 
 
 " I'm afeard it must. Miss Shepherd. I've 
 seen many babies very weak like, just at the 
 first, but never one so bad as this." 
 
 "I will go and tell Amy, then — she may 
 wish to give it one look while it is still alive." 
 
 Miss Shepherd walked slowly into the next 
 room, and softly undrew the curtains of the 
 bed. " Amy !" she murmured. 
 
 The invalid opened her large blue eyes, and 
 turned her pale face on her sister. 
 
 " Amy, dear Amy, I'm afraid your poor 
 child is very ill. Nurse thinks it cannot live 
 lono-. I thouo'ht it best to come and tell 
 you." 
 
 " It is well," whispered the young mother ;
 
 OF LIFE. 5 
 
 ** then my child is safe in heaven !" And 
 she languidly closed her eyes again, and turned 
 away her face. 
 
 Surprised, and somewhat anxious, Rachel 
 Shepherd returned to watch by the child. 
 An hour passed away, during which it seemed 
 to be struo^o^lino- with death. Then a chano^e 
 came ; — the livid hue disappeared, and at 
 length it slightly unclosed its eyes. 
 
 '*It will live," said the nurse, with a smile 
 of triumph, and she got up to lay it in the 
 cradle. 
 
 '* Let me take it to Amy," said Charlotte, 
 the younger girl ; "it will please her so much 
 to see it for one moment." And, taking the 
 tiny roll of flannel in her arms, she approached 
 'her sister. 
 
 " Amy, your child, will live — live to bless 
 you !" 
 
 Again the invalid opened her eyes, and 
 kissed the child, which Charlotte held to her 
 lips, while she murmured some words too 
 feebly to be heard. But no smile passed 
 over her face, and again she turned away,
 
 6 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 almost as if displeased at the interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 "Amy seems very weak, nurse," said 
 Charlotte, as she gave her back the child ; 
 " is it right to be so ?" 
 
 Mrs. Roberts walked quickly into the next 
 room, then in a moment flew past Charlotte 
 down the stairs of the cottage. In another 
 minute she returned with the village doctor, 
 and they went together into Amy's room. A 
 short time after, the latter came out with a 
 grave face, and asked for Miss Shepherd. 
 Rachel approached. 
 
 "I am sorry to tell you. Miss Shepherd, 
 thus abruptly, that your sister is dying. But 
 she is past my skill — I fear she has not many 
 hours to live." 
 
 "Poor Amy!" said Rachel, calmly, "I 
 feared it would be thus. Her short, sad life 
 is ended." This was spoken musingly, as if 
 to herself. Then, turning to the doctor, she 
 begged him to be so kind as to send Mr. 
 Price to them immediately. He kindly shook 
 her hand, and withdrew.
 
 OF LIFE. 7 
 
 Rachel again approached hei' sister's bed. 
 " How do you feel, Amy ?" she tenderly 
 asked. 
 
 " Better," said the poor girl ; and, for the 
 first time, she roused herself, and a smile 
 played on her lips. 
 
 '^ Do you realhj feel better. Amy ? 1 
 feared it was not so : Mr. Franklin . . . . " 
 
 " I -know what you would say, Rachel ; — 
 I am dying ! — I feel it, and I am happy 
 to die." 
 
 " Have you no fear?" asked Rachel, bend- 
 ing over her. 
 
 " Should I be afraid, Rachel ? I have 
 suffered so much, I have thought so much of 
 death .... perhaps it is because I am so weak 
 — but I feel happy to die." 
 
 " I have sent for Mr. Price, dear x\my, and 
 he will talk to you. Will you look at your 
 poor little child before he comes ?" She 
 fetched the infant, now sleeping, and laid it 
 by its mother's side. *' We shall call it 
 *Amy?'" she said, inquiringly. 
 
 " No, Rachel, don't let it be like its ])Oor
 
 8 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 mother. What is Ids mother's name ? — I am 
 so weak, I forget it." She was silent for a 
 moment. "Ah! I remember; — he told me 
 it was Isabel ; call her * Isabel ;' — his mother's 
 name may touch him more than his poor 
 wife's. Oh ! Rachel, be a mother to my 
 child; and, if ever you see George again, 
 tell him how I loved him and prayed for 
 him. I am very weak — let Mr. Price come 
 quickly." 
 
 A few hours later, Mrs. Denison calmly 
 breathed her last. 
 
 Mr. Shepherd had been for nearly fifty 
 years curate of Ellerton. The rectors had 
 changed many times, but he had always, not, 
 perhaps, without reason, been passed over. 
 After a time, he became indifferent about pre- 
 ferment, a small private fortune enabling him 
 to live in tolerable comfort ; and he wished 
 for nothing that would remove him from 
 Ellerton, to which he was much attached. He 
 was a good man, kind-hearted, and charitable
 
 OF LIFE. 9 
 
 — ^but of little intellect, of little knowledge, 
 beyond the commonest theological attain- 
 ments, and of little marked character of any 
 sort. He had married a woman far superior 
 to himself; but, though he tenderly loved 
 her, she was even till her death — soon after 
 the birth of her fourth child — unappreciated 
 by her husband. 
 
 Of his four children, the youngest — a son — 
 was a midshipman ; the three daughters grew 
 up in his house. Rachel and Charlotte Shep- 
 herd, the eldest and the youngest, although 
 they were both, in strength of character, 
 superior to him, were cast in the same 
 mould. But Amy, the second, was like her 
 mother, as well in her disposition as in her 
 exquisite beauty ; and, though there was 
 much affection, there was little sympathy 
 between the sisters. Amy was romantic, 
 dreamy, and melancholy — indulging in visions 
 of brightness and refinement, which it was 
 impossible should ever be realized. Her 
 sisters were busy, active, industrious ; devoting 
 themselves, heart and soul, to the good of the
 
 10 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 people of Ellerton — in turn assisting, preach- 
 ing to, and scolding men, women, and chil- 
 dren. And yet, Amy was more beloved than 
 they were — though, partly from timidity and 
 partly from indolence, she was unable to busy 
 herself after their fashion ; still, wherever 
 sorrow or sickness was to be found, there too 
 she might be seen, w^ith her soft voice and 
 earnest manner comforting and consoling. 
 A guiding hand, a small degree of sympathy, 
 and all might have been well with her ; but 
 these she found not. To her sisters — although 
 they fondly loved her; to the neighbours 
 — who could not understand her — she 
 was a foolish, sentimental girl, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 One of Amy's passions was scenery ; one 
 of her greatest pleasures to wander along the 
 river banks, or in the beautiful woods that 
 surrounded Ellerton. Thouoh ao^ain and aoain 
 
 CD CD O 
 
 repelled, she was always trying to make her 
 sisters partake in her pleasure ; but, though 
 they consented, now and then, to go with her 
 out of good-nature, even Rachel could not
 
 OF LIFE. 1 1 
 
 conceal from her tbat she thought it a very 
 useless way of spending her time; and, at 
 length, Amy grew to prefer solitude to un- 
 willing companions. Many and many a day, 
 therefore, she wandered alone ; till, one sum- 
 mer afternoon, as she slowly walked along 
 the path of a low copse wood belonging to a 
 deserted Manor House, with her eyes fixed 
 on the ground, she suddenly came upon a 
 young man of noble and rather foreign- 
 looking appearance. He was lying on the 
 grass, with a couple of dogs by his side. 
 Struck by her extreme beauty, as Amy paused, 
 blushed, and then walked on again, he rose, 
 and involuntarily took off his hat; then, call- 
 ing to his dogs to follow him, went off in 
 an opposite direction. She had not, however, 
 walked much further before she met the 
 young man again. As they drew near to each 
 other, he made a slight sign to one of his 
 dogs ; the animal flew at Amy, who stopped, 
 timid and terrified. The stranger came 
 hastily forward, called his dog, and begged 
 her pardon ; and so, without fault on Amy's
 
 12 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 side, began her acquaintance with Captain 
 Denison. 
 
 It is needless to trace the progress of that 
 acquaintance. Within three weeks from the 
 day of their first meeting, Amy was missing 
 from her father's house. To be loved with 
 intense devotion : to be a first object to some 
 human being ; to find sympathy, that most 
 entire sympathy of love — these were tempta- 
 tions greater than she could withstand ; and 
 she left all to be the wife of one almost a 
 stranger to her, but who, she felt, loved 
 her. 
 
 Three months passed, and Amy returned to 
 her home, with a broken heart. For a month 
 Captain Denison had thought but of her ; 
 during the next, he w^as kind and attentive, 
 but far less devoted ; the third month, he 
 spent principally in London, while Amy re- 
 mained at the small country town where he 
 had married her. At the end of the third 
 month, he returned one evening, after an ab- 
 sence of ten days. He dined with her, and 
 his manner had resumed all its original pas-
 
 OF LIFE. 13 
 
 sionate devotion. After dinner, he suddenly 
 got up, kissed her with fond affection, and 
 left the room. Two hours afterwards, a ser- 
 vant brought her a letter. It contained the 
 certificate of their marriage, a bank-bill for 
 a thousand pounds, and a few words from 
 himself. He told her that he had not dared 
 to confess his marriage to his father ; that he 
 
 could remain at no longer ; that he 
 
 sailed for India early on the following morn- 
 ing, and that it might be years before he 
 returned to England. With many expres- 
 sions of love, he bade her farewell, commend- 
 ing their secret to her keeping, but added 
 not one word as to the place of his destination 
 beyond that it was India. 
 
 After a few days of anguish, embittered by 
 remorse. Amy returned to her home. A 
 month afterwards her father died. She never 
 knew that sorrow on her account was the 
 principal cause of the illness which then bore 
 him down. Her sisters felt that it would add 
 an intolerable load to the grief and repentance 
 that seemed to weigh her to the dust, and
 
 14 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 they were silent. She had asked and ob- 
 tained his pardon ; and to her, with her 
 gentle voice and tender cares, it was given, 
 more than all others, to soothe and bless his 
 dying hours.
 
 OF LIFE. 1 5 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Javan, I know that all men hate my father : 
 Javan, I fear that all should hate my father : 
 And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love. 
 Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love. 
 Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart 
 The forfeited affections of his kind. 
 
 Fall of Jerusalem. 
 
 After the death of Amy and their father, 
 the widow of a younger brother of Mr. Shep- 
 herd came to live with her nieces, and, in 
 their worldly circumstances, they were more 
 comfortable than they had ever been. The 
 two girls continued their former way of life, 
 except that, with every succeeding year, the 
 child of her sister asked and received more 
 and more of the attention of Miss Shej)herd ; 
 and never was a favourite daughter brought 
 up more tenderly than the fatherless and 
 motherless Isabel Denison.
 
 16 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 In her first childhood, she gave her aunt 
 unmixed pleasure ; for she was a lovely, 
 gentle, affectionate child ; and, indifferent as 
 Rachel was to personal appearance in general, 
 even she could not but feel pleasure in the 
 surpassing beauty of her charge. Isabel had 
 the fair complexion and dark auburn hair 
 of her mother ; but her figure, her features, 
 and the expression of her countenance, ^vere 
 entirely different. Captain Denison's mother 
 was a Spaniard ; and her grandchild had the 
 dark, soft, brilliant Spanish eye, yet more 
 strikincr and brilliant contrasted with her fair 
 skin. Already, even in childhood, too, her 
 figure promised that undulating grace and 
 dignity common to the Spanish women. She 
 was indeed exquisitely beautiful ; and, as she 
 walked along by the side of her aunt, with 
 her noble, almost stately air, and her dark 
 curls waving on her shoulders, the cottagers 
 would come to their doors to gaze ; and many 
 a traveller paused upon his way, to admire 
 and to smile upon her. 
 
 By degrees, however, as the peculiarities
 
 OF LIFE. 17 
 
 of her character unfolded themselves, some of 
 the sorrows, as well as the joys, of education 
 appeared. There was, at times, a haughtiness 
 and reserve in the little girl which completely 
 puzzled her aunt ; and there were fancies, 
 whims, and refinements, dislikes and anti- 
 pathies, which Rachel could not understand, 
 and which she hardly knew whether to punish 
 as faults, or to pass over unnoticed. 
 
 " I cannot understand Isabel," she would 
 say to her sister ; " when I take her among 
 the poor people, she is so gentle, that I am 
 quite pleased with her ; but, if she goes with 
 me to visit our neighbours, she draws herself 
 up as if there was no one good enough for 
 her to speak to." 
 
 The fact was, that the little girl had an 
 instinctive dislike to every thing vulgar. 
 Many children show this dislike very early, 
 unconsciously shrinking from vulgarity and 
 noise, as if refinement of mind were a part of 
 the innocency of childhood. In Isabel, how- 
 ever, it was more than dislike — she seemed to 
 shudder at it.
 
 18 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 The fii*st event that broke the monotony 
 of her life was the marriage of Charlotte 
 Shepherd, of which marriage she expressed 
 the strongest disapprobation. A Mr. Jones, 
 who had been a clerk in a countino'-house in 
 London, miexpectedly came into possession 
 of a small property in the neighbourhood of 
 EUerton. Charlotte, though rather on a large 
 scale, was at six-and-twenty still very hand- 
 some, and, even at their first meeting, was 
 selected by Mr. Jones from the young ladies 
 of the place as the fortunate mistress of his 
 house. 
 
 One evening, Mrs. Shepherd, her nieces, 
 and Isabel, were sitting at tea, at the usual 
 hour of seven, when Mr. Jones appeared. It 
 was the third visit he had paid to their house 
 in the course of a week, and in Rachel's eyes 
 this looked very suspicious. 
 
 " Won't you take a dish of tea, Mr. Jones ?" 
 said old Mrs. Shepherd, as he appeared ; 
 *' you will find it very refreshing this Vv^arm 
 evening." 
 
 Mr, Jones gratefully accepted the otfei'.
 
 OF LIFE. 19 
 
 drew a chair to the tahle, and said, turning 
 to Isabel — " Good evening, little lady : Mhat, 
 are you sitting up to tea ? In my day, chil- 
 dren were snoring at this hour." 
 
 Isabel looked unutterable things, but made 
 no answer. " Not quite so strong, if you 
 please, Mrs. Shepherd ; and, if I might 
 suggest, the sugar, five lumps, before the 
 cream. I've lived a bachelor life so long, 
 that you must excuse my being a little par- 
 ticular." Here was a glance at Charlotte. 
 
 " But I hope you don't mean to be a 
 bachelor much longer, sir," said Mrs. Shep- 
 herd ; '*your new house must want a mis- 
 tress." 
 
 " Very true, ma'am ; and the master, too. 
 In London, I had only to look out of window, 
 and I bad plenty of company; but I have not 
 grown to think trees and flowers companions 
 yet. How should you like to live alone, my 
 little lady?" 
 
 " Very much, sir," replied Isabel, loftily. 
 
 " Should you, indeed ! Well, I am a social 
 animal myself, and I think one little quiet
 
 20 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 party like this worth whole days of solitude. 
 I never could understand what people found 
 to like in solitude. I hope you don't like it, 
 Miss Charlotte ?" 
 
 " No," she said, laughing ; '' I don't think 
 I do at all." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Shepherd, by the by, I wished 
 to speak to you about some money-matters. 
 As I am come to live amongst you, I think it 
 my duty to be of some use to the poor. At 
 present I know nobody — will you be my 
 almoner?" He laid a j6I0 note before her. 
 " Another time, I hope to have assistance 
 nearer home." And this time the glance at 
 Charlotte was so prolonged, that she blushed, 
 and he saw he was understood, which was all 
 he was anxious to know before he made his 
 proposal in due form. 
 
 Having finished five cups of tea, he asked 
 Charlotte if she would allow him to choose 
 the geraniums, of which she had promised the 
 cuttings. With a glance at her sister, she 
 acquiesced, and they left the room together. 
 
 The door was scarcely closed, when Isabel,
 
 OF LIFE. 21 
 
 looking earnestly up at Rachel, asked " if Mr. 
 Jones was going to marry Aunt Charlotte ?" 
 
 " Bless the child !" said Mrs. Shepherd, 
 *' what makes her say that ?" and, putting on 
 her spectacles, she looked at the closed door, 
 in hopes of gaining some information. Rachel 
 smiled a quiet smile, and turned to Isabel. 
 ** What makes you say that, dear ?" 
 
 *' Because I don't like Mr. Jones, and I 
 should be very sorry indeed to see him marry 
 Aunt Charlotte." 
 
 " Now, Isabel, there it is again. How 
 often must I tell you, that it is very wrong to 
 indulge these fancies about people. Mr. 
 Jones is very good and very kind, and it is 
 wrong of you to dislike him." 
 
 '' Then I am very wicked," said the little 
 girl passionately, " for I can't bear him." 
 
 " Why, my dear," asked Mrs. Shepherd, 
 " what can you see^to dislike in Mr. Jones?" 
 
 "Don't ask her, aunt," said Rachel; 
 *' Isabel is very naughty to talk so, and she 
 knows it." 
 
 Isabel said no more ; but the tears swelling
 
 22 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 in her large eyes, showed from how deep a 
 feeling she had spoken, and even Rachel was 
 sorry for her, when, on the return of Mr. 
 Jones, radiant with happiness, she saw her 
 shrink from the two loud kisses which he 
 imprinted on each cheek. 
 
 The time passed on after Charlotte's mar- 
 riage, and every day the difference of cha- 
 racter between the aunt and niece became 
 more apparent ; but it did not diminish 
 the affection existing on either side. Isabel 
 was a docile and obedient child ; and in all 
 Rachel's great principles — her rigid sense of 
 duty, her reverence for truth, lier self-denial, 
 and self-control, she more than acquiesced. 
 To her narrow-minded views of men and 
 things, her opinion of the frivolousness of 
 accomplishments, her utter blindness to all 
 that was beautiful, she submitted also in 
 silence ; but it was with a pain which those 
 only who possessed, like her, a craving after 
 the knowledge of all that was great and noble, 
 could comprehend. It was her disappointment
 
 OF LIFE. 23 
 
 in this respect which, more than everything else, 
 kept the memory of her unseen father in her 
 mind ; she hoped the time would come, when 
 he would remember her, and that with him 
 her brightest visions would be realized. 
 The only talent which Rachel had allowed 
 her to cultivate, was her natural taste for 
 music; and permission for this had been 
 obtained with difficulty, and only through 
 the intercession of Isabel's early enemy, Mr. 
 Jones, who w^as fond of it; but, the per- 
 mission, once given, she practised with the 
 energy of genius ; and, in after years, so many 
 a dull and lonely hour was brightened by the 
 beauty of her playing, that Rachel never re- 
 pented the indulgence she had granted. 
 
 The next event, and it was a great event in 
 Isabel Denison's quiet life, was the return of 
 her uncle. Captain Shepherd, after twenty 
 years' absence from Ellerton. He had tra- 
 velled all over the world ; had conversed with 
 every variety of person ; he sang, he sketched, 
 he spoke almost every language ; in short, he 
 seemed to his astonished niece to know every-
 
 24 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 thing, and to do everything in the world. In 
 addition, he had the frank, happy, joyous, 
 and yet refined manners of a sailor, and the 
 charm was complete. 
 
 At the time of his return, Isabel was a 
 beautiful girl of fifteen, fully able to appre- 
 ciate all he could teach, all he could tell ; and 
 he devoted himself, with great kindness and 
 much pleasure, to amuse, enlighten, and im- 
 prove her ardent and inquiring mind. To 
 her it was as a new life, as a bright dream ; 
 and too soon the flying visit was over, and 
 she must again awake to the common existence 
 of Ellerton. 
 
 The day before he left them, Captain Shep- 
 herd asked Isabel to walk with him to her 
 sister's; and, Rachel being occupied, they were 
 alone. They proceeded for some time in silence. 
 Captain Shepherd was in low spirits at part- 
 inof. Isabel was thinkino^. At last she broke 
 the silence. 
 
 " Do you think you shall be going to India, 
 Uncle James, in the course of your travels?" 
 
 " Yes, I think it very likely — most likely.
 
 OF LIFE. 95 
 
 indeed. Probably, before six months have 
 passed, I may be there. But why do you ask, 
 Isabel ? Have you any commissions ?" he 
 added, laughingly. 
 
 " Yes," she said in a lovr voice. *' Do you 
 think my father is still there?" 
 
 Captain Shepherd was surprised. Rachel 
 had told him that she never mentioned her 
 father. " He was there three years ago," he 
 answered. " I happened to see his name 
 in the newspapers ; but, even if he should 
 be there now, India is a large place, dear 
 Isabel, and I am not likely to see him — nor 
 to wish to see him," he added, with a frown, 
 " unless, indeed, you desire it." 
 
 Isabel sighed. — " It is quite natural, Uncle 
 ■James," she said, " that you should not think 
 of him, except — except almost to hate him ; 
 but I am his child, and I feel, in spite of all, 
 as if I loved him ; and I wish he could know 
 this. You don't think me wrong to love 
 him?" she asked, anxiously, seeing bis brows 
 still contracted. 
 
 " No, Isabel. I had not thought of it in 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 that light ; but I suppose it may be natural. 
 If I should chance to find him, for your sake, 
 I will do as you wish. But what would you 
 do, should he return and claim you ?" 
 f She looked up at him with some surprise. 
 " Go to him," she said simply. 
 
 " And leave us all ? Rachel, too, who has 
 been like a mother to you?" said he, with 
 some asperity. 
 
 Isabel fixed her dark, expressive eyes on his 
 face, as if they would speak all the feelings of 
 her heart ; and he seemed to understand her, 
 for he kindly pressed her hand, and they 
 walked on again in silence. It was again 
 Isabel that broke it. 
 
 " Do you remember my mother. Uncle 
 James ?" 
 
 " Remember her !" he said, hastily. The one 
 bitter feeling that brooded within him had been 
 aroused by her manner of speaking of her father, 
 and he was still somewhat under its influence. 
 *' Remember Amy, who was more to me than 
 all the w^orld besides ! No, Isabel," he con- 
 tinued, with some bitterness, " it was not I
 
 OF LIFE. 27 
 
 who forgot her ; it was one nearer to her than 
 even I am." 
 
 " You have not forgiven my father," she 
 said, sadly. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, after a pause, " I have 
 forgiven him. It has been a long, long struggle 
 — it has darkened my whole life ; but I have 
 forgiven him. There was a time when I 
 thought my hand should avenge her ; but it 
 is past.... yes, I have forgiven him ; yes, Isabel, 
 for your sake, I have forgiven him now." 
 
 In silence they went on, till suddenly he 
 took from his pocket a small case, and put it 
 into her hand. 
 
 " Perhaps you have never seen this ; it is, 
 I think, our only picture of Amy." 
 
 It was a hasty water-coloured sketch ; but 
 it gave an idea of great beauty. 
 
 Isabel gazed upon the soft, lovely, melan- 
 choly face till her eyes swam with tears ; it 
 was the first time she had seen the features of 
 either of her parents. 
 
 " You shall keep it for me till I come again, 
 dear Isabel. I see you will value it. Forgive 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 me, if I have seemed harsh. I dreaded that 
 you thought only of your father ; but I see it 
 is not so. Let this be the token of forgive- 
 ness; and if ever you are rich," he added, 
 with a kind smile, " you shall have it copied 
 for me. And now let us be quick, for it is 
 growing late."
 
 OF LIFE. 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Forgive me, if I cannot trust 
 Those eyes of heavenly blue; 
 
 For she was to my hopes unjust, 
 Who looked as sweetly true. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Three jears more passed quietly away. 
 Isabel sate, one bright May morning, working 
 with her aunt in their cheerful little drawing- 
 room, when Mrs. Shepherd came in with a 
 face full of importance. 
 
 '' Rachel, do you know that Mr. Price has 
 got a new curate?" 
 
 " I heard he was to have one very soon," 
 said Rachel, quietly. 
 
 " Oh, but he is actually come ! I Avent 
 this morning to call on Mrs. Chapman, and 
 she says that she saw him arrive yesterday. 
 And, do you know, he is going to live with 
 Mr. Price — quite a new thing !"
 
 ^0 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " Did Mrs. Chapman like bis looks?" in- 
 quired Rachel, more to satisfy her aunt by 
 some appearance of interest, than from caring 
 in the least what Mrs. Chapman thought. 
 
 " I was going to tell you. She says he 
 looks quite like what you read of in novels — 
 she reads a great many, I know — a kind of 
 hero — so tall and such black hair ! She could 
 not see his face; but, after that, I dare say 
 that he is very handsome indeed." 
 
 Rachel shook her head. " I am very sorry 
 to hear this ; it never does well in a place like 
 Ellerton. All the silly girls will be fancying 
 he is in love with them." 
 
 " Well, my dear Rachel, never mind, if he 
 does marry one of them : we have so many 
 young ladies at Ellerton, and so few chances 
 for them to settle, poor things." Rachel still 
 shook her head. " Perhaps, however, you 
 are right. I saw the Miss Chapmans at the 
 window of the dining-room, watching Mr. 
 Price's house, and I shook my stick at them. 
 However, I thought I would come and tell 
 you, and now I must go on with my visits."
 
 OF LIFE. 31 
 
 And the old woman hobbled away, not 
 without a secret desire to meet the new 
 curate herself. 
 
 She had not been gone many minutes before 
 the maid opened the door, and ushered into 
 the room Mr. Price and the very person of 
 whom they had been speaking. 
 
 " I am only come in for a moment, Miss 
 Shepherd," began Mr. Price. *' I beg your 
 pardon for troubling you so early ; but I am 
 going the rounds of my parish with my young 
 friend here, and I could not pass your door 
 without introducing him to one who has been 
 for so many years my best assistant. Mr. Grey, 
 this is Miss Shepherd, of whom I have just 
 been talking — and that is Miss Denison." 
 
 The young man bowed and slightly smiled, 
 a mere complimentary smile, but he said no- 
 thing. Mrs. Chapman was right, he ivas a 
 hero-looking man ; so tall and dark, and with a 
 countenance so grave and melancholy, almost 
 severe, that it was impossible to see him with- 
 out interest. 
 
 " No, thank you. Miss Shepherd, I won't
 
 32 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 stay. I only just looked in, as I said. Good 
 morning ; good bye, Isabel — why are you not 
 out walking this fine morning?" 
 
 Mr. Grey slightly bowed again — one look, 
 almost of surprise, he gave to Isabel, but he 
 did not speak, and the door closed. 
 
 Rachel once more shook her head. "It 
 will never do," she said ; " how could Mr. 
 Price get such a person ? The young ladies 
 of Ellerton will think of nothing else. He 
 appears to me to be only fit for a fine London 
 preacher, such as Mr. Jones tells us about." 
 
 " I don't think you need be in a fidget, 
 Aunt Rachel," said Isabel. " Mr. Grey does 
 not look as if he meant to be very familiar 
 with any of us. He is too grave for any of 
 the girls here; they will talk of him for a 
 week, but when they see that he does not 
 think of them, as I feel sure he will not, they 
 will soon grow tired of thinking of him." 
 
 Rachel and Isabel were both right. There 
 was a great excitement at first — a great deal 
 of gossip; but Mr. Grey devoted himself to 
 his duties, and kept entirely aloof from the
 
 OF LIFE. 33 
 
 society of the place, and the interest in him 
 soon passed away. 
 
 Herbert Grey (I must briefly give his history) 
 was the only son of General Grey, a distin- 
 guished officer, who also possessed a small 
 property of about ^1200 or £1300 a-year. 
 He wished his only son to become a lawyer, 
 both on account of the talents early shown by 
 the boy, and also that he might keep him in 
 England, and be able altogether to withdraw 
 him from his profession, if sickness or old age 
 should make him anxious for his society. 
 Herbert Grey, therefore, went to Oxford. At 
 one-and-twenty he formed a violent attach- 
 ment to a beautiful girl, the daughter of a 
 banker in the neighbourhood. She returned 
 his love ; there was no great objection to the 
 marriage, and, consent being given on all sides, 
 they were merely to wait till he had gone 
 through the first hard study necessary to his 
 profession. They were engaged — they ap- 
 peared to live but for each other, and they 
 parted only for six months, during which 
 time he was to begin his studies in London. 
 
 c 5
 
 34 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Before the six months had passed, the girl 
 had chosen another and a richer lover; and 
 the first that Herbert heard of her inconstancy 
 Avas the announcement of her marriage in the 
 newspapers. 
 
 His love had been intense ; his suffering was 
 agony. This blow deprived him of all trust 
 in human truth and goodness, and, above all, 
 of all trust in women. If she were false, whose 
 soul he thought he had read, and had found 
 there nothing but purity and brightness, where 
 could truth be sought? Yet the effect of this 
 bitter experience upon him was unusual. In 
 general, it is ruinous to the character of a 
 man ; for suspicion of evil in others is the de- 
 struction of good in ourselves ; but Herbert, 
 after the first agony had passed, though he 
 felt a kind of scorn of human nature, yet 
 seemed to look with something of the pity of 
 an angel on the race he despised. 
 
 His own dream of life was over; he sickened 
 at the thought of the law ; but there arose a 
 hope within him, as he said to his father, *' of 
 being able to comfort the poor and the
 
 OF LIFE. 35 
 
 wretched, now that he knew what suffering 
 was." With almost passionate arguments, he 
 entreated his permission to go into the church, 
 and at last it was given. Since that time, 
 three years had passed, and he now arrived at 
 EUerton as curate to Mr. Price, who was an 
 old friend of his father's. 
 
 Isabel was right. Herbert Grey quickly 
 showed that the young ladies of the place 
 occupied not the least portion of his thoughts. 
 He kept aloof from all society, devoting hini- 
 self to study, and to unceasing labour among 
 the poor. Even on Miss Shepherd he never 
 called again. Occasionally she and Isabel met 
 him in their walks ; but a bow, or, at most, a 
 few hurried words, was all that was exchanged 
 between them. Isabel was disappointed ; there 
 was something, not only in liis appearance, but 
 far more in his preaching, that interested Isabel 
 — a rigidness of duty — a severity of tone — too 
 great, to many only repelling and despairing 
 (the rankling evil of his one painful expe- 
 rience), but which to her, to whom great
 
 36 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 thoughts were as the food of life, was un- 
 speakably attracting. She often shrank from 
 his -words ; but at the same time they seemed 
 to fill her with new thoughts and feelings. 
 She was disappointed, and yet, even in her 
 disappointment, there was pleasure. She could 
 not have borne that he should go gossiping 
 from house to house, as Mr. Price, good and 
 kind as he was, was in the habit of doing. 
 
 It is possible they might have gone on for 
 months without any greater degree of acquaint- 
 ance, had it not happened that one hot Sunday 
 afternoon Isabel was alone with old Mrs. Shep- 
 herd at church. There was but a small con- 
 gregation, and, such as it was, it consisted 
 principally of old women and children. In 
 the middle of the prayers, Isabel suddenly 
 fainted. There was no one who could assist 
 her, and Herbert Grey, who sate below the 
 reading-desk, before the sermon, himself carried 
 her into the churchyard. Whether he was 
 struck by the extreme beauty and interest of 
 her appearance, as she lay so deadly pale, or 
 whether it was but an act of common courtesy.
 
 OF LIFE. 37 
 
 cannot now be known ; but he called the 
 next day with Mr. Price to inquire after her. 
 Rachel was not at home ; Mrs. Shepherd had 
 always a great deal to say to Mr. Price, and 
 Herbert was left to Isabel. She immediately 
 thanked him gratefully for his kindness. 
 
 " Don't speak of it," he said ; " how could 
 I do otherwise? I hope you are not subject 
 to these fainting fits?" 
 
 " I have had them before, but not this 
 year; and I had quite forgotten all about 
 them. Mr. Franklin has made me very angry 
 to-day, by forbidding me ever to kneel down ; 
 but I can't obey him, can I?" 
 
 " I should think," said Herbert, gently, 
 " that would be better than what happened 
 yesterday.^ Will he not forbid your going to 
 church at all, if you are wilful ?" 
 
 " I am not afraid of that. Aunt Rachel 
 would never think that could be a right thing 
 to do." 
 
 " How very good your aunt seems to be," 
 said Herbert, after a pause. " She is always 
 employed for others."
 
 38 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " She is, indeed," said Isabel, warmly ; 
 " she thinks only of doing good." 
 
 " And you. Miss Denison — ?" with a slight 
 inquiring smile. 
 
 Isabel shook her head. " I am not like my 
 aunt," she said ; " I cannot, I really cannot 
 despise every earthly thing as she does. There 
 seems to me so much that is good and beau- 
 tiful in the world, and must it all be dis- 
 regarded ? I hope you don't agree with my 
 aunt, Mr. Grey?" 
 
 " No, I don't think I do, — not, at least, if 
 we remember that the beauty of earth — by 
 which I suppose you mean arts, and what are 
 called accomplishments — are passing things, 
 not made to occupy our hearts." 
 
 " I am not satisfied," said Isabel ; " you 
 call them ' passing things,' — now it seems to 
 me that whatever is beautiful is far more — 
 that it must have an influence for ever." 
 
 " I am ready, if you are ready, Grey," 
 called Mr. Price, getting up. Herbert rose 
 immediately. 
 
 " Mr. Price has promised to drink tea with
 
 OF LIFE. 39 
 
 US to-morrow," said Mrs. Shepherd ; ** quite 
 a family party. Now, do, Mr. Grey, join us 
 for this once." 
 
 " I am afraid I must not break ray rule ; 
 though I thank yon very much for your invi- 
 tation." His eye glanced for an instant at 
 Isabel. " Perhaps you will allow me to call 
 in the evening, and walk home with Mr. Price?" 
 
 Isabel was singing, when Herbert came in 
 the following evening. Captain Shepherd's 
 parting gift had been an excellent pianoforte, 
 and Mr. Jones, in his flying visits to London, 
 amply provided her with songs and music. 
 
 " Come, Isabel, don't stop for Mr. Grey," 
 said Mr. Jones, as she paused ; " begin the 
 song again." 
 
 She complied. The air she sung was that 
 beautiful one of Moore's : 
 
 " Couldst thou look as dear as when first I sighed for 
 thee." 
 
 Her voice was a soft deep contralto, that voice 
 the most capable of expression ; and her sing-
 
 40 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 iiig, though it possessed none of the brilliancy 
 that masters teach, was touching and beauti- 
 ful. After the first few lines of the song, a 
 cloud passed over Herbert's face, and, shading 
 his eyes with his hands, he remained buried 
 in thought. 
 
 ** Capital, Isabel !" exclaimed Mr. Jones, 
 clapping his hands ; '^ you sing better and 
 better, every day. I like these sentimental 
 songs : they make me feel all no-how, and I 
 rather like the feeling. Now, what shall we 
 have next?" He tapped Herbert's shoulder. 
 ** What do you say, Mr. Grey? — shall it be 
 sentimental again, or shall we have something 
 to put us into spirits ?" 
 
 Herbert started from his reverie. " If it 
 were left to my choice, I should ask for the 
 same song again." 
 
 " Oh, no, I can't hear of "that ! It seems 
 to have given you the blue devils, already. 
 Come, Isabel, you must choose for us, — some- 
 thing to satisfy us all." 
 
 " Here is one," she said, turning to Mr. 
 Jones, " which I thuik you have not heard
 
 OF LIFE. 41 
 
 yet. It is pretty, and not so very melancholy 
 as the last." It was Knight's * Of what is the 
 old man thinking?' 
 
 When the song was finished, Herbert got 
 up, and came towards her. " You are right, 
 Miss Denison ; these things do not pass away : 
 some impression they will leave for ever !" 
 
 Isabel looked pleased, but made no answer. 
 
 *' Do you feel like an old man ?" he con- 
 tinued, taking up the song and smiling. " You 
 sing as if you did." 
 
 '* I rather think I do," she answered, laugh- 
 ing; " I never was a very merry child — was 
 I, Aunt Charlotte? I don't remember ever 
 being so noisy as your little things." 
 
 " No ; but then you were alone, Isabel, 
 and that makes such a difference. I have 
 six," she said, with both a smile and a sigh. 
 
 Isabel had looked at her aunt ; when she 
 turned her head again, she met Herbert's gaze 
 fixed upon her with an expression almost of 
 sternness. It was as if he sought to read her 
 soul. While she sang, some long-forgotten, 
 happy feeling stirred within him ; but, mingling
 
 42 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 with it, arose at the same moment the dark 
 and dreary thoughts of doubt and suspicion, 
 which for a time had seemed to sleep. 
 
 He turned away : Isabel played a few bars ; 
 then, hastily looking up, asked him if he never 
 sang. 
 
 " Never," he said, shortly, for there came 
 over him a remembrance of the place and 
 time, when and where he last had sung. A 
 silence followed, and Mr. Price, after saying, 
 as he usually did, that it was the pleasantest 
 evening he had ever spent, rose to leave.
 
 OF LIFE. 43 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 
 
 Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, 
 When, half awaking from fearful slumbers, 
 
 lie thinks the full choir of Heaven is near, — 
 Than came that voice, when, all forsaken, 
 
 This heart long had sleeping lain, 
 Nor thought its cold pulse could ever waken 
 
 To such benign blessed sounds again. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 From this time Herbert and Isabel met oc- 
 casionally. That it was occasionally was his 
 fault, but terror as well as love had taken 
 strong possession of his soul, and when one 
 feeling- drove him to seek her, the other, 
 with a strange power, withheld him. Still 
 they met occasionally ; most often by accident. 
 And when he was actually in her presence, 
 suspicion died away, only, however, to rise 
 more powerfully after each meeting, when
 
 44 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 left to the tormenting suggestions of his 
 memory. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, Rachel had been 
 detained in the churchyard by a poor woman ; 
 she and Isabel were still there when Mr. Price 
 came out. Offering to walk home with them, 
 he set off with Rachel ; Isabel and Herbert 
 followed. 
 
 " Shall you think me very impertinent," 
 she said, suddenly looking up, after they had 
 walked, as was often the case with them, a 
 great part of the way in silence ; " shall you 
 think me very impertinent, if I ask you some- 
 thing about your sermon ?" 
 
 " Not at all," he said, with the grave, in- 
 quiring smile he sometimes fixed on her face ; 
 " far from it." 
 
 " Ah ! but what I have to say is rather 
 impertinent, for it is, in fact, something like 
 finding fault. However, as you give me leave, 
 I will ask you whether you are not rather 
 severe in what you say to us ?" 
 
 *' Severe?" he asked, with surprise. ** How 
 do you mean ?"
 
 OF LIFE. 45 
 
 ** I mean, that you hold before us so very 
 high a standard of virtue, and yet you give us 
 so little hope, so little encouragement, towards 
 attaining it." 
 
 " Do you object to a high standard of 
 virtue ?" he said gravely, almost coldly. 
 
 '' Oh, how can you think that ? Higher 
 and higher still — to perfection, if I could have 
 ray wish." She spoke with such a glow on 
 her cheek, such an earnest tone in her voice, 
 that it thrilled through Herbert's heart. "But 
 then, after all, how very weak human nature is, 
 and I think what I mean is that you scarcely 
 seem to feel for it, to pity it, enough." 
 
 " I pity suffering and sorrow," he said, 
 rather gloomily ; " I have no pity left for 
 weakness and sin." 
 
 " Perhaps you will think it strange if I 
 say so," replied Isabel, gently ; " but I cannot 
 help feeling pity for both weakness and sin." 
 After a moment's pause, she added, " I have 
 reason to feel it." 
 
 They had almost reached the cottage. Her- 
 bert stopped, and said, " I will think of what
 
 46 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 you have said. Perhaps I am too severe, but 
 I will say, as you have done, I have reason to 
 he so." 
 
 Mr. Price and Rachel had far outstripped 
 them, and stood at the cottage gate. He 
 turned round as they drew near. " I was just 
 telling your aunt, Isabel, that my yearly great 
 dinner is to take place on Thursday. You 
 will all come, of course. It will be your first 
 appearance in the fashionable world, won't it, 
 my dear?" was his parting joke. " You were 
 ill, I think, last year?" 
 
 The Shepherds had never mixed much in 
 what little society there was in the place. 
 Rachel was too busy ever to wish for it ; old 
 Mrs. Shepherd preferred morning visiting ; 
 and the vapid, insipid gossip wearied Isabel 
 to death. They had never, therefore, gone 
 beyond the commonest terms of civility, and 
 it so happened that Isabel had never dined 
 out before. Occasional small tea-parties, 
 given by Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Chapman, had 
 been her utmost dissipation. A few months 
 back she would hardly have given the present
 
 OF LIFE. 47 
 
 invitation a thought, but now she did think 
 of it, and with pleasure. The chance of meet- 
 ing Herbert had given an unaccustomed in- 
 terest to her daily life. Was she then in love 
 with him ? No, it was but interest, — she 
 'liked to hear his opinions on all subjects, she 
 liked to watch his grave and melancholy 
 countenance when he was silent. Above all, 
 she liked to see that grave countenance change 
 in the sweet peculiar smile which occasionally 
 stole over it. No, it was not love. It was 
 strange, perhaps, that it was not so, but as 
 yet it was but interest. 
 
 " How nice you do look, Isabel !" said Mrs. 
 Shepherd, as she came down on the Thursday 
 evening. " I like to see you dressed, my 
 dear." 
 
 " Isabel always looks nice," said Rachel, 
 gazing at her with a pleased expression ; '' and 
 yet, I will say for her that she is not the least 
 extravagant in her dress." 
 
 At Mr. Price's they found a large party 
 assembled, — fourteen or fifteen people. His 
 annual dinner was thought a great deal of,
 
 48 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 because, as the joung ladies remarked, be 
 always managed to bave somebody wortb look- 
 ing at. The somebodies worth looking at on 
 this day were — not Isabel, in her surpassing 
 loveliness, but a Mr. Franklin, the son of the 
 village doctor who lived at some distance, — 
 an officer from a neioflibourinof town, — a 
 nephew of Mr. Price's, who had come from 
 London expressly for the occasion — and Her- 
 bert Grey, who, as he had not been seen in 
 society before, caused a little sensation. 
 
 As Isabel came in, Miss Bridges, the attor- 
 ney's daughter, nudged the second Miss Chap- 
 man. She was dressed quite simply, in white 
 muslin ; her only ornament a locket which 
 hung round her neck, and contained the hair 
 of both her parents. The Miss Chapmans 
 were dressed in yellow barege, with a perfect 
 garden of artificial flowers on their heads. 
 Miss Bridges might have sate for the picture 
 of the goddess Iris, attired in all the hues of 
 the rainbow. 
 
 " What do you think of Miss Denison V 
 inquired the latter young lady of Mr. Franklin,
 
 OF LIFE. 49 
 
 junior, who stood beside her. " She is a 
 handsome girl, certainly; but I can't say I 
 like such large eyes myself; it is not at all 
 like an English girl. I'm sure, if I were her, 
 I should be quite afraid of lifting them up ! 
 People might say such things." 
 
 " She need not be afraid," said young 
 Franklin ; " her eyes are more the eyes of an 
 angel than of a mortal." 
 
 " I am glad you think so," replied Miss 
 Bridges ; "I always like to hear my own sex 
 admired." 
 
 And Herbert, what were his thoughts, as 
 he stood leaning against the chimney-piece ? 
 Could they have found words, they might have 
 been such as these. " Was ever living creature 
 so fair, as she who sits before me in her un- 
 conscious loveliness? And can it be that 
 falsehood is shrouded in that angel-form? — 
 that the purity and brightness which reign 
 upon her brow are but as deceiving lights ?" 
 " No," he answered himself, '* I cannot think 
 it." The dark forms of suspicion and distrust 
 were cast away ; light had dawned for him 
 
 VOL. 1. D
 
 50 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 again on earth, for he loved again — he trusted 
 again. The cloud vanished from his brow; 
 and, as he moved towards Isabel, the very 
 expression of his countenance was changed. 
 She remarked the sudden animation and 
 brightness which lit up his face, but had no 
 idea of the cause of that chanoe. 
 
 Herbert placed her at the table, having 
 managed to secure her to himself. It was 
 really a fine dinner for Ellerton, and Isabel's 
 eye wandered down the long table in some 
 surprise and some pleasure. Herbert was 
 watching her. '' Mr. Price tells me this is 
 quite an unusual party. You have then, I 
 suppose, but little society at Ellerton." 
 
 " So little," Isabel answered, '' that I never 
 dined out till to-day. There are a good many 
 tea-parties ; but they are so tedious, that 
 neither Aunt Rachel nor I can often bear 
 them. We go, for civility, two or three 
 times a-year, otherwise we live quietly at 
 home." 
 
 " And you are satisfied with this quiet life," 
 said Herbert, with a smile of pleasure and
 
 OF LIFE. 61 
 
 admiration. " How few in your position 
 would say the same !" 
 
 '* / did not say so," said Isabel, laughing 
 and shaking her head. *' I am afraid it was 
 you w4io said so for me. I fear that I am very 
 far from being contented with it. I do long, 
 very much and very often, to see another 
 world than this." A cloud passed over Her- 
 bert's face. " I see you are dissatisfied with 
 me," continued she, turning towards him; 
 " but are you not rather hard upon me ? Is 
 it not natural that I should wish to see some 
 place besides Ellerton — some people besides 
 these?" and she looked round the table. 
 
 " Very natural," said Herbert ; but he 
 sighed. 
 
 " But these are not my chief reasons," she 
 continued, with hesitation. There was some- 
 thing in Herbert which seemed, almost against 
 her will, to force her to overcome her natural 
 reserve. '^ My father.... Do you know about 
 my father?" 
 
 *' Mr. Price has mentioned him to me." 
 
 " Yes, everybody knows how he has for- 
 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 > f .iiwr-noi-t-u rvr II i IKimC
 
 52 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 gotten me," said Isabel, sadly ; " but he will 
 come back — I know he will — and then".... 
 
 " Do you really expect him still ?" 
 
 *' Oh, yes ! every day — every day is a fresh 
 disappointment; but I do not despair — I know 
 he will remember me at last." 
 
 '' Your hope, then," said Herbert, with some 
 surprise, " is that he will claim you — that you 
 will live with liim ?" 
 
 " Yes, I do hope it. Surely, surely, that is 
 not wrong ?" 
 
 " You wish, then, to leave your aunt — your 
 present life, where you can do so much good — 
 and become, perhaps, a fine London lady ?" 
 He spoke with sadness, rather than harshness. 
 
 " I think you are rather severe, Mr. Grey," 
 she answered, with great gentleness. " No, 
 I have no wish to be a fine lady, though, 
 perhaps, dreams of a brighter kind of life will 
 sometimes float before my eyes. But.... Do 
 you remember the other day, when I said that 
 I must pity weakness and sin ? But, because 
 I pity, do you suppose I forget it ? Do you 
 think I ever forget what my father did, and
 
 OF LIFE. 53 
 
 can I hope that he will be forgiven till he 
 returns and remembers me ?" 
 
 She turned away her head, to hide the 
 tears which started in her eyes, and was im- 
 mediately seized upon by her other neigh- 
 bour, the young officer, who was very indig- 
 nant at having been left entirely to Mrs. 
 Chapman, while the beautiful Miss Denison 
 sate by his side. His unceasing rattle con- 
 tinued till dessert was put upon the table, when 
 Isabel took advantage of the intrusion of a 
 long arm between them, to turn a deaf ear to 
 the stream that was murmuring on the other 
 side of the barrier. 
 
 Herbert had never spoken : he had been 
 pondering on what she had said, but now im- 
 mediately resumed the conversation. " You 
 are right, always right," he began ; " but still, 
 you own you have dreams of a brighter life. 
 Could nothing. Miss Denison, ever induce 
 you willingly to pass your life in the country 
 — even in a place as dull as Ellerton T' The 
 tone, the look, startled her. For the first 
 time a thrill passed through her heart as she
 
 54 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 thought he loved her, a thrill at once of plea- 
 sure and alarm. 
 
 " I think you still mistake me," she an- 
 swered, with some hesitation. '' I don't fancy 
 that I could ever bear to live very long in a 
 town. It was of people, not of places, that I 
 spoke — or, at least, I think my curiosity about 
 places would very soon be satisfied." 
 
 " People, not places," he repeated. ^* If, 
 then, it were possible that you could love in 
 the country" — and he fixed his eyes on her as 
 he spoke — ** the country, even Ellerton, might 
 satisfy you ?" 
 
 His look embarrassed her — such a grave, 
 piercing, meaning look. She slightly blushed, 
 then laughed it off. 
 
 " You really have catechized me very se- 
 verely to-night, and I have been very good to 
 answer so many questions. You ought to be 
 afraid of my retaliating. Will you answer me 
 if I begin to question you ?" 
 
 " If you please," he said, rather sadly ; 
 ** but I am afraid that my examination will 
 not interest you."
 
 OF LIFE. 55 
 
 " Oh, yes, it will indeed. One thing will 
 interest me very much, if you will really 
 answer me." She paused a moment to consider 
 if her question was an indiscreet one ; then, 
 notwithstandino^ a secret warnino- that it was 
 so, boldly asked it. " Do you remember your 
 telling me, the other day, that you had reasons 
 for being severe on human nature ?" 
 
 " Yes, I remember it, and it is true," he 
 said, and his brow clouded over as he spoke. 
 '' I have reasons for thinking ill of human 
 nature, which it will take much to make me 
 forget." 
 
 Isabel looked up inquiringly, but was afraid 
 to speak. Herbert read her countenance. 
 " You wish to ask me what they are?" he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, I should like to hear them, if you 
 have no objection — if it is not painful to you 
 to tell me." 
 
 '' It is painful," he said ; " but I will tell 
 you some day, if you will listen to me. 
 Perhaps, however," he continued, sadly, *'you 
 will not wish to do so, when I say that the
 
 56 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 condition must be to hear another history at 
 the same time ?" 
 
 There was a silence. Isabel did not answer, 
 but involuntarily glanced at Mrs. Shepherd 
 an imploring glance to beg her to move. 
 Mrs. Shepherd took the hint, and led the way 
 into the drawing-room. Isabel followed as in 
 a dream ; and, unconscious of what she did, 
 walked to the window, and, looking out into 
 the dusky twilight, pondered on what had 
 passed. She was not very much in love, 
 perhaps, but that strange thrill of pleasure 
 had shot through her heart which is felt when 
 first a girl knows herself beloved. She was 
 aroused from her reverie by the voice of Miss 
 Laura Chapman. '* Do you admire Mr. Grey, 
 Miss Denison?" Isabel felt her incivility, 
 and hurriedly sate down with the young ladies, 
 who had clustered together, but forgot to 
 answer the question. It was repeated. 
 
 '* Do you admire Mr. Grey, Miss Denison ? 
 Matilda Bridges says she thinks nothing of 
 him." 
 
 ** I think hira very handsome, if you mean
 
 OF LIFE. 57 
 
 that. I should have thought that even those 
 who disliked him must allow it." 
 
 " What should make you think I dislike 
 Mr. Grey ?" said Miss Bridges, sharply. " I'm 
 sure I never said so. Has he been com- 
 plaining of me?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said Isabel, laughing, as she 
 thought how far from Miss Bridges had been 
 their conversation ; '' I did not mean you, 
 particularly ; I dare say you like him very 
 much," she added, rather maliciously. 
 
 " / like him ? I'm very sure I never trouble 
 my head about him." 
 
 Isabel made no further answer, but, anxious 
 to atone for her former incivility, turned to 
 the elder Miss Chapman. 
 
 " How very early you get up. Miss Chap- 
 man ; I saw you practising this morning as 
 we went by your window at eight o'clock." 
 
 '' Oh, it was quite a chance ! Papa was 
 going to a place a good way off, and wanted 
 to be back for this dinner, so he was up early, 
 and I got up to breakfast with him. How 
 came you to be out walking at that time ?" 
 
 d5
 
 58 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 *' My Aunt Charlotte's baby was christened 
 this morning, and we went to breakfast there 
 before the christening. I was a godmother for 
 the first time, and I feel very respectable in 
 consequence." 
 
 " Was your godchild called Isabel ?" 
 
 " No ; I was rather offended about it. Mr. 
 Jones said Isabel was too fine or too foreign 
 for his little girl. It was called Sarah-Jane — 
 not very pretty." 
 
 *' No, what a pity ! I do like pretty names, 
 and mine is so ugly. There, you are Isabel, 
 which is quite beautiful, and there is Laura, 
 and Miss Bridges has a very sweet name, Ma- 
 tilda, and I am only Elizabeth I" 
 
 " You should console yourself," said Isabel, 
 smiling, '* by thinking how much greater a 
 name you have. Remember Queen Eliza- 
 beth." 
 
 " Very true — I had forgotten that." 
 
 '* I believe, Matilda was a Queen, as well 
 as Elizabeth," remarked Miss Bridges, drily. 
 
 The time, a long and weary time, passed, 
 till the gentlemen came into the drawing-
 
 OF LIFE. 59 
 
 room. Miss Bridges then returned to good 
 humour till later in the evening, when Mr. 
 Price approached, and asked her to sing. 
 
 She gave a slight cough, and said, she was 
 very sorry, but she was so hoarse. 
 
 " Come, Miss Bridges," he persisted, " pray, 
 sing ; I never knew a young lady who, when 
 she was asked to sing, did not say she was 
 hoarse. Pray, favour us." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Price, I should be very happy 
 to sing, but you must hear how altered my 
 voice is." 
 
 He turned from her, much to her disgust, 
 as she had expected another and more pressing 
 entreaty, to which she had intended to yield. 
 He next applied to the Miss Chapmans : but 
 they could not sing without their book. 
 
 " Then you, my dear Isabel, must sing for 
 them all ; I'm sure you won't refuse me ?" 
 
 She smiled, and went at once to the piano- 
 forte. Miss Bridges winked to the Miss Chap- 
 mans, and whispered very audibly to young 
 Franklin — ** Very modest, to be sure !" 
 
 Isabel began with the "Battle of the Baltic,"
 
 60 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Mr. Price's especial favourite, for which he 
 beat time on the back of her chair, to Her- 
 bert's great irritation. Mr. Jones soon how- 
 ever begged for something more sentimental, 
 and she sang with much expression, "The 
 wreath of roses," which had been but lately 
 published. It was received, as usual, with 
 ** rapturous applause." 
 
 " Now, that is what I call singing," said 
 Mr. Franklin to Miss Bridges. " How much 
 better that is than the outlandish songs some 
 people sing ! I could listen to Miss Denison 
 for ever," 
 
 '' I can't say I agree with you ; I'm not 
 partial to English songs myself, and I believe 
 you, Mr. Franklin, are singular in your ad- 
 miration." 
 
 " Am I?" he said, looking round the room. 
 *' See how our partner's rapt" — (Mr. Franklin 
 was a quoter of Shakespeare) — pointing to 
 Herbert, who sate indeed buried in thought, 
 behind Isabel's chair. " He rather likes Eng- 
 lish singing, I imagine." Miss Bridges smiled 
 scornfully. " I see what you mean," he added,
 
 OF LIFE. 61 
 
 (for he was too good-natured ever to think of 
 bad passions,) — " you think there are other 
 feelings there besides love of music. I believe 
 you are right — it had struck me at dinner to- 
 day." 
 
 *' Indeed, Mr. Franklin, I'm quite in the 
 dark. What feelings do you allude to ? If 
 you suppose Mr. Grey to be in love with Miss 
 Denison, I can contradict such an idea with 
 authority." 
 
 " Indeed !" he said, with some surprise. 
 *' Well, I'm usually wrong when I take to 
 match-making." 
 
 Mrs. Shepherd remained the last of the 
 party. She never held much to the proverb, 
 that *' Enough is as good as a feast," but was 
 rather of opinion that you could not have too 
 much of a good thing. Mr. Price approached 
 Isabel, before they took leave, and warmly 
 thanked her for her singing. 
 
 ** You have given me a great deal of plea- 
 sure, my dear; I hope, therefore, that you 
 have enjoyed yourself as well ?" 
 
 " I have, indeed," she said ; " I cannot tell
 
 62 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 you how much." Her beautiful face certainly 
 expressed pleasure. Herbert saw it, and his 
 melancholy brow cleared at the sight. He 
 approached her. 
 
 " I have formed a new opinion," she said, 
 looking up at him with a smile, '' and that is, 
 that I think it would be a good thing if the 
 neighbourhood met more frequently in this 
 way. I think it might do a great deal towards 
 putting an end to little jealousies and foolish 
 gossip. What do you think ?" 
 
 He smiled, but shook his head. 
 
 Herbert and Isabel both required the lesson, 
 that the law of perfect charity does not extend 
 to the very poor alone.
 
 OF LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 I, 
 
 Beyond the limit of all else i' the world, 
 Do love, prize, honour you. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 
 On those that smile on us. The heart must 
 
 Leap kindly back to kindness. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 It was about three weeks after Mr. Price's 
 dinner, that Isabel was walking home one 
 afternoon with Mrs. Jones's eldest little girl, 
 who had been spending the day with her. 
 
 Amy was a bright little creature, and a 
 great favourite of her cousin's ; and now, as 
 they walked along the high road together, 
 Isabel, with her dark and stately beauty, and 
 the rosy little girl, with her blue eyes and 
 golden hair, they were really a pretty sight,
 
 C4 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 and attracted the pleased admiration of many 
 a passer-by. 
 
 They walked along, in animated conversa- 
 tion, till their attention was somewhat arrested 
 by the appearance of three young men on 
 horseback, strangers ; two of whom were 
 talking with great eagerness as they passed 
 Isabel. The third was a few yards behind 
 them, and was engaged in reading a letter. 
 As he too passed, he folded it up, and awk- 
 wardly dropped it on the ground, instead of 
 into his pocket. A gust of wind blew it to 
 Isabel's feet. He turned his horse round. 
 She picked up the letter, and returned a few 
 steps, holding the little girl's hand, to give it 
 to him. He jumped from his horse to receive 
 it, bowed and smiled as he thanked her — for 
 an instant, only an instant, fixed his eyes on 
 her beautiful face, and rode after his compa- 
 nions. He was not strikingly handsome, but 
 had one of those faces with a peculiar sweet- 
 ness of expression, half smiling, half thought- 
 ful, which are often more engaging than a 
 greater degree of beauty.
 
 OF LIFE. 65 
 
 Isabel felt pleased with the incident ; two 
 or three times during her visit to Mrs. Jones, 
 she found herself thinking of it; haunted, 
 almost unconsciously, by the stranger's bright, 
 expressive smile. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, she walked home 
 through the fields. The days were shortening, 
 and the evenings generally chilly, but this 
 was one of those soft autumn days which, 
 perhaps from her Spanish blood, she peculiarly 
 enjoyed. She wandered slowly on, and her 
 mind reverted to a subject wliich was now 
 often in her thoughts. It was one on which 
 she felt she must very soon come to a decided 
 opinion — whether or not she loved Herbert 
 Grey? She had asked herself this question 
 very often since Mr. Price's dinner, and the 
 answer she received varied from time to time. 
 She thought she did ; she was almost sure she 
 did ; but still, sometimes, a doubt came over 
 her; something within suggested, " Is this 
 such love as I have read of? Would it break 
 my heart if I thought he did not love me ?" In 
 his presence, indeed, every doubt died aw\ay.
 
 66 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Bat, when she was alone again, doubts would 
 return ; and, though her inward questionings 
 almost always ended satisfactorily, in thinking 
 that people were different, that all could not 
 feel alike, that she certainly did love him ; 
 yet, day after day, " that restless thing, 
 the human heart," would suggest that the 
 point was still open for discussion. The day 
 before this one, she had very much satisfied 
 herself by looking backwards and forwards, 
 seeing how changed her life was, how far 
 brighter than it had been the year before; 
 and, still more, by remarking how contentedly 
 she could now look on to a future at Ellerton ; 
 and yet, again, as she now walked along, she 
 was questioning and arguing with herself. 
 The discussion was, however, soon interrupted 
 by Herbert coming towards them. Her heart 
 beat, and her cheeks glowed, and, as usual, 
 doubts were forgotten. 
 
 " Are you going to Mr. Jones's ?" she in- 
 quired, as they met. 
 
 " No, Miss Denison ; I came to meet you." 
 He looked thoughtful, and she trembled for 
 what might be coming.
 
 OF LIFE. 67 
 
 " How did you know that I was here ?" she 
 asked, smilingly. 
 
 " I met Miss Shepherd, who told me so ; 
 and gave me leave to come and meet you ; 
 otherwise" .... he paused, and Isabel began 
 talking very fast about her visit, and the 
 children ; but, to all she said, his answers 
 were so short and distrait, that at last her 
 powers were exhausted, and they walked on 
 in silence. 
 
 At length he began. The tone of his voice 
 told her at once what was coming ; and why 
 did her heart sink, and her pulse almost stand 
 still within her ? Did she, or did she not, love 
 Herbert Grey ? 
 
 " It is now more than three weeks since I 
 promised that I would tell you ray sad history, 
 when you asked 'me for it. Has all interest 
 died away within you ? Shall you never think 
 about it again ?" 
 
 " If it is so painful," Isabel began, with 
 hesitation .... 
 
 " It is painful," he interrupted ; " painful 
 and sad; but is this the reason for your
 
 68 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 silence ? — is it not rather that you shrink from 
 the condition I affixed ?" 
 
 Isabel was silent. 
 
 " Isabel," he continued, " why don't you 
 answer me ? But it is too late now to wait 
 for an answer— you know, you must know well, 
 how wildly, how passionately I love you ; 
 and you must hear me speak, and then . . . . " 
 He paused, and looked in her face. It was 
 white as marble. " Forgive me, Miss Deni- 
 son ; I have been very wrong. I will tell 
 you all calmly, if you will hear me. Will 
 you hear me now, or shall it be for another 
 time?" 
 
 It was really an effort to her to speak, but 
 she did speak, and begged him to tell her all. 
 He began again, in a low but calm voice. 
 
 '* I have loved. Miss Denison, before now. 
 Do not start," he said, observing a movement 
 which sent a thrill of pleasure through his 
 heart, as he fancied it might be a pang of 
 jealousy. " I thought at that time that I loved 
 as few could love, but now I find that even I 
 knew it not."
 
 OF LIFE. 69 
 
 With breathless interest Isabel listened to 
 the tale he told — the tale of his love, of his 
 hope, of his agony when forsaken. Breath- 
 less, agitated, she listened still, when he 
 ended thus : — 
 
 " It was no light thing to suffer this, the 
 disappointment of every hope ; but the suffer- 
 ing itself was as nothing in comparison to the 
 blight it cast upon me; the doubt in the 
 truth of every human being under which 1 
 have now suffered for many years. Even 
 you, Miss Denison, in whose face truth and 
 purity are written — even you at first I 
 doubted. But it is passed — it is all passed. 
 In your presence, better feelings have come 
 back to me ; and never, even under disappoint- 
 ment, will they leave me again. And now 
 you know all, and all my happiness is in your 
 hands." He tried to speak calmly, and 
 paused as again he became agitated. 
 
 Isabel \\as silent still. If she could have 
 known what her silence cost him, she would 
 have spoken at once ; but she dreamed not 
 of the powerful emotions which were stirring
 
 70 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 in his breast. Her own heart beat, indeed, 
 but it was with doubt, with fear, with bash- 
 fuhiess, with excitement; she hung not on 
 his words as if happiness or misery, almost life 
 or death, were in the balance. 
 
 He still tried to be calm, but the words 
 burst from him, " Oh, Isabel ! speak to me. 
 Do not fear to tell me the truth. If you 
 cannot love me, if you cannot even hope to 
 love me, doubtless I shall find strength to bear 
 it ; only speak to me, but one wordf 
 
 " I did not speak," she said at last, in her 
 low, sweet tone, ^' because I could not. I did 
 not know if my love was worthy of yours. 
 I hardly know now. It is not like yours ; it 
 is not enough; but... .1 think...." The w^ords 
 died away, but she looked up at him and 
 smiled, and placed her hand in his. 
 
 They reached the cottage. " May I come 
 in ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 '' No, not to-night. To-morrow, as early 
 as you please." 
 
 Isabel walked into the drawing-room, where 
 Rachel sate alone. She put her arms round
 
 OF LIFE. 71 
 
 her aunt's neck, and kissed her. " Shall you 
 like me to leave you, aunt Rachel ?" 
 
 " Oh, Isabel ! Is it so, indeed ? Even I 
 did not know what you felt for Mr. Grey." 
 
 '* Nor did I know ; nor do I know now ; 
 only I think I am happy — very happy."
 
 72 THE DISCIPLIiNE 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the greensward. Nothing she does or seems 
 But smacks of something greater than herself, 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Winter's Tale. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock, on a cold gusty 
 evening, at the latter end of October, that a 
 stranger got off the London coach, which 
 stopped at the door of the Swan inn at 
 EUerton. 
 
 Being a coach traveller, and with little 
 luggage, he was shown into the commercial 
 room. 
 
 " Can I not have a room to myself, waiter ?" 
 he said, rather impatiently. 
 
 " Oh, certainly, sir ! This way, if you 
 please ; two steps, sir." He was shown into 
 a comfortable room, with a blazing fire. ** Do 
 you sleep here to-night, sir ?"
 
 OF LIFE. 73 
 
 ** Yes. And let me have a good fire in my 
 bed-room, for it is horribly cold." And he 
 thrust his stiffened fingers almost into the 
 grate. '* Be quick with some dinner. What 
 can I have." 
 
 ** Chops, sir?" 
 
 *' Yes. Have you any fish ?" 
 
 " A few herrings, sir," said the waiter, with 
 increasing respect. 
 
 " Well, let me have some fish, and some 
 sherry, or some good beer, if you have any, and 
 you may settle the rest as you please." 
 
 The waiter proceeded to the kitchen. " Do 
 your best, missus; this is a real gentleman, 
 who cares no more for a pound than nothink." 
 
 " Who've we got here, Dick ?" shouted the 
 landlady to her husband. '* Sam says he's a 
 real gentleman.". 
 
 " Has he got any luggage, Sam ?" 
 
 " Only a bag, sir, and he carried that 
 himself; but he's a real gentleman, that I can 
 see, and he cares no more for expense than ., 
 nothink." 
 
 " I'll go up with his dinner myself. I knows 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 a real gentleman, that I does. If he's a real 
 gentleman, he'll ask me to take a drop. Many's 
 the one has done it before now. Draw the 
 best beer, Sam, and take care the chops are 
 tender, Doll." 
 
 The landlord went into the room with the 
 dinner, and from a gentleman he was soon 
 raised to be a nobleman in his estimation ; 
 for immediately saying he hated to dine alone, 
 the stranger begged his host to bear him com- 
 pany. The landlord was nothing loth, and 
 sat down to a second dinner, as, had 'the offer 
 been made to him, he wonld have sate down 
 to a third, with an appetite undiminished and 
 undiminishable. 
 
 " Have you much business, landlord?" began 
 the stranger ; " this seemed a quiet place, as 
 well as I could see in the dark." 
 
 " Well, it is a quiet place, sir ; but we does 
 a good bit in the way of business — what with 
 travellers halways, and hunting in the winter, 
 and picnicing in the summer, we sees a good 
 many new faces, I had two lords here one 
 night last winter, sir. I thinks as how I
 
 OF LIFE. 75 
 
 have a third now? I drinks your lordship's 
 health." 
 
 ** No, my good friend, no lordship ; but I 
 drink your health, and success to the Swan 
 Inn, at EUerton. I suppose you have balls 
 here in the winter, when the country is 
 full?" 
 
 " No, sir, we haven't much of a hopping 
 gentry about here ; a good many young girls 
 and very few of the other sort, sir. It's a dull 
 place, Ellerton is ; and if it warn't for the fine 
 travellers, I often think I should be off, sir. 
 And it's a pity, too, for we have the beauti- 
 fullest young lady here, that hever your heyes 
 did see...." 
 
 " Indeed ! — who may she be ?" 
 
 " Why, she's an horphant, sir, or as good 
 as an horphant, for all she sees of her father ; 
 though some do say he's living yet. I've 
 been in the Ingies, sir, and I've been in 
 Amerikay, but never did I see — no, nor in 
 Lon'on neither — the likes of her." 
 
 ** What did you say was this country 
 beauty's name ?" 
 
 b2
 
 76 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " Such black hyes, sir — oh my ! I often 
 says to Dolly — Dolly's my wife, sir — * Dolly/ 
 says I, ' your hyes does for the likes of me, 
 but if I was a young gentleman, I wouldn't 
 be content, no, not I, without a pair of hyes 
 like those of Miss Isabel Denison." 
 
 There was a pause, and the landlord rose 
 to go. 
 
 " Well," said the stranger, laughing, " I 
 shouldn't mind having a wife myself. Where 
 can I see this beauty of yours ?" 
 
 " Why, at church, sir, to-morrow, as sure 
 as a gun. She's a kind of a saint or a hangel, 
 and she hasn't missed divine service since she 
 was a hinfant so high ; and it's not many of us 
 poor sinful creatures as can say the same. I 
 won't tell you no more, sir. You'd pick her 
 out of hall Lon'on. I'll send you some tea, 
 and much obliged, sir." 
 
 The stranger threw himself back in his 
 chair, put his legs on the fender, and remained 
 for some time in deep thought. 
 
 The church bells had scarcely begun to ring 
 for morning service on the following day, when
 
 OF LIFE. il 
 
 be left the inn, Mrs. Dolly remarking, as she 
 saw him set off, *' A real gentleman, Sam, and 
 religious, too ; see how he goes decent -like to 
 be first at church," 
 
 A few old women and the clerk were the 
 only people assembled when the stranger 
 entered, and he stood for some minutes in the 
 aisle. The clerk then offered him a seat, and 
 he watched, with an anxiety and impatience 
 not to be described, the gathering of the con- 
 gregation. Once or twice, an observer might 
 have seen him start as a gay bonnet appeared 
 in the doorway ; but the expression of interest 
 again and again faded away. Intent, how- 
 ever, as he seemed on the congregation, his 
 eye was for a moment diverted and arrested 
 by the figure of Herbert Grey, as, following 
 Mr. Price from the vestry, he entered and 
 knelt down within the altar. His noble and 
 striking appearance in that village church sur- 
 prised him. The one moment that his eye 
 was caught, three figures came in by a side 
 door, and took their seats near that of the 
 stranger. On one of these, his attention was
 
 78 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 immediately fixed. She was a tall, slight 
 girl, very simply dressed ; but, although he 
 could not see her face, there was an inde- 
 scribable grace in her gestures, which con- 
 vinced him that she was the object of his 
 search. His nervous excitement increased, 
 but she never once during the service moved 
 her head. 
 
 Wandering, however, as were his thoughts, 
 when Herbert went into the pulpit, and his 
 deep, earnest voice was heard, the stranger's 
 attention was caught, gradually was fixed, 
 and, as he owned to himself, almost for the 
 first time in his life he listened with interest 
 to a sermon. The text was from Deuteronomy, 
 " Oh ! that they were wise, that they under- 
 stood this, that they would consider their 
 latter end." 
 
 Often before had Herbert exhorted the 
 people to a consideration of their latter end ; 
 but, to a close observer, on this day the tone 
 of his preaching was changed. He seemed no 
 more the severe monitor, but the affectionate 
 father of his flock. A change might also have
 
 OF LIFE. 79 
 
 been remarked on his countenance, as if some 
 deep oppression, some dark cloud, had passed 
 away. If such change there were, it was, 
 however, unremarked save by one; but its 
 effect was felt. Never had Herbert's words 
 made so deep an impression as they did that 
 day. 
 
 The service was over; the stranger leaned 
 upon the pew, and his whole soul was in the 
 gaze he fixed on the figure before him. At 
 last she moved ; it was perhaps the force of 
 that earnest gaze which compelled her to look 
 round. She started — her colour changed — 
 once again she looked, then followed her com- 
 panions into the churchyard. 
 
 " How pale you look, my dear!" said 
 Mrs. Shepherd, as they walked home; "it 
 was close, though, and I thought there was 
 an unpleasant smell. I felt queer myself 
 once." 
 
 ** You do look pale," said Rachel; " what 
 is the matter, Isabel?" 
 
 ** Am I pale, Aunt Rachel ? I didn't know 
 it. I am quite well. I had a foolish fancy
 
 80 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 for a minute," she continued, in a low voice ; 
 " but it is nothing. Did you see a stranger 
 at church ?" 
 
 ** No ; at least, I observed no one in par- 
 ticular." 
 
 The stranger was still in Isabel's mind 
 when she went to church in the afternoon. 
 He was not there on first going in, and she 
 felt both relieved and disappointed; but again, 
 as she left the church, she encountered that 
 earnest, scutinizing gaze, and her cheek was 
 deadly pale, when her aunt again addressed 
 her — 
 
 " Now, my dear Isabel, what is the matter ? 
 what is this foolish fancy which is to make 
 you look like a ghost ?" 
 
 '* I know it is very foolish — I feel it is im- 
 possible — but I cannot help it ; I fancied it 
 might be.... my father !" 
 
 It was almost the first time she had ever 
 mentioned that name to Rachel. 
 
 " Dear Isabel, when so many strangers pass 
 through Ellerton, why should it be? You 
 must not be so fanciful, my dear child. You
 
 OF LIFE. 81 
 
 will have no peace in life, if you indulge your 
 imag'ination in this way." 
 
 Isabel made no answer, and they walked 
 home. They stood for a few minutes in the 
 cottage garden, and Mrs. Shepherd, leaning 
 on the wall, spoke to some of the passers-by. 
 Suddenly Isabel seized Rachel's arm. '' Look, 
 Aunt Rachel, there he is !" said she. The 
 stranger passed, earnestly fixed his gaze on 
 her face, and then, as if in atonement for his 
 incivility, took oif his hat. 
 
 *' My dear child, you are nineteen, and that 
 young man cannot be more than twenty-seven. 
 How can you be so foolish ?" 
 
 " But why, then, should he look at me so 
 earnestly." 
 
 Rachel smiled. *' Few girls beside you 
 would ask such a question, Isabel." It was 
 the nearest approach to a compliment that 
 Miss Shepherd had ever paid her charge. 
 
 Isabel, however, was not satisfied, and Iier 
 mind dwelt for some days upon tlie incident, 
 till her attention was diverted by her parting 
 with Herbert. His father was taken sud- 
 
 E 5
 
 82 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 denly ill, and he required the care of his 
 son. It was now that she first fully felt 
 his value — first found how wonderful was 
 the change in her feelings since his arrival at 
 Ellerton.
 
 OF LIFE. 8S 
 
 CHAPTER VII, 
 
 Although the day be never so long^ 
 At last it ringeth to even song. 
 
 Old Rhyme. 
 
 It was above nineteen years since he had 
 left England, when Captain, now Mr. Denison, 
 (for he had left the army,) again set his foot 
 upon his native soil. He came back an altered 
 man. He had left his country in the reckless, 
 thoughtless, selfishness of manhood ; — he re- 
 turned, grave, sober, stern, it may be, selfish 
 still, but selfish in a more subtle form. He 
 left it comparatively in poverty, he came back 
 a millionaire. He left it flying from a de- 
 spised, but loved and beautiful wife ; arid he 
 came back, bringing with hhn a wife young 
 and fair, honoured and loved, but not as he 
 had loved the wife of his youth. Few would
 
 84 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 have traced the gay young officer in the grave, 
 noble-looking, respected Mr. Denison, who 
 returned to take his place among his former 
 friends and contemporaries, in his native land. 
 
 When Captain Denison parted from his 
 wife, it was really with bitter sorrow, but he 
 reasoned with himself that he had acted fool- 
 ishly, and must suffer for it ; and soon, very 
 soon, reasoning was needed no more. He 
 consoled himself ; — to all intents and purposes, 
 though she occasionally crossed his path a 
 vision of beauty. Amy was forgotten. The 
 voyage, the arrival in India, his duties, his 
 amusements, his companions, filled his mind. 
 ** Men have all these resources," and Amy 
 was forgotten. 
 
 It was about a year after he had deserted 
 her, that he was sitting one day in a reading- 
 room at Calcutta, with several young men of 
 his acquaintance. He was bending over a table, 
 deeply engaged in writing, when a young man 
 approached him with a smiling face, and tapped 
 him on the shoulder. " I congratulate you, 
 George ; you've got a daughter !"
 
 OF LIFE. 85 
 
 Captain Denison started, then impatiently 
 pushed him away. — " What a fool you are, 
 Harris ! Why do you disturb me ?" 
 
 " Nay, but look," persisted the young man ; 
 " I am sure it is quite as great a surprise to 
 me as it seems to be to you, for I never even 
 heard a rumour of your marriage, but this is 
 plain enough : — ' The wife of Captain George 
 Denison, of a daughter, at EUerton, on the 
 10th instant.'" 
 
 Captain Denison affected to laugh, and took 
 the newspaper from the hands of his friend, 
 who, laughing also, sate down again. A few 
 moments afterwards he saw Denison rise and 
 dart from the room, and, catching a hasty 
 glance at his face, he saw that it was white 
 as ashes. 
 
 Harris was discreet, and fond of Denison. 
 He picked up the newspaper, which had fallen 
 to the ground, and, without saying a word, 
 looked on. Among the deaths recorded on 
 the same day, he saw the following: — '* At 
 Ellerton, on the 10th instant, Mrs. George 
 Denison, aged 19."
 
 86 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Captain Harris pondered for some time on 
 this strange occurrence; but he saw, what- 
 ever the history might be, that it was a secret 
 connection of his friend's, with which he had 
 no concern; and, putting up the newspaper 
 which had attracted his own attention, to 
 secure this one, at least, from the eyes and ob- 
 servations of others, he left the room, in hopes 
 of meeting with Denison again. He went to 
 his room that day, and the next, and the 
 next; but was steadily refused admittance. 
 The third day. Captain Denison reappeared, 
 pale indeed, as with recent suffering, and in 
 deep mourning, but in manner and spirits 
 much as usual. On their first meeting, 
 his eyes met those of Harris, and plainly 
 enough said, " Ask me no questions." For 
 the rest, it all passed unnoticed by his com- 
 panions, with the exception of a casual in- 
 quiry made of Harris, "who on earth Deni- 
 son was in such deep mourning for ?" 
 
 Years passed away, and Captain Denison 
 became a distinguished officer ; and, from cir- 
 cumstances needless to detail, but not un-
 
 OF LIFE. 87 
 
 common in India, riches flowed in upon him, 
 and still he claimed not, thought not, of his 
 child. In the first moments of agony, indeed, 
 when Amy, in all her grace, and beauty, and 
 affection, was recalled, he had determined 
 to seek at once the child she had left him; 
 and, had it been a boy, it is most probable 
 he would have done so. But when these first 
 moments of remorse were over, he reasoned 
 again, — " What can I do here with a girl ? 
 She is far safer and happier where she is." 
 And when this had been repeated once or 
 twice, the question w^as settled. A few letters 
 were begun to Miss Shepherd, commending 
 the child to her care, but these, too, on second 
 thought, were thrown aside — it was better to 
 leave the case as it was — he might only raise 
 expectation never to be realized. When he 
 returned to England, if he ever did, he would 
 claim her, and then his love should make 
 amends for all. 
 
 And years passed away, and Captain Deni- 
 8on married again, a beautiful girl whom he 
 met with in India, the daughter of a General
 
 88 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Courteney. Seven years after their marriage, 
 rich, respected, but childless, he returned 
 with her to Enoland and to his father's house. 
 How many had passed away from that home 
 since he had left it twenty years before in the 
 reckless thoughtlessness of youth ! 
 
 A few days after his return, he sate one 
 morning early in his dressing-room. He was en- 
 gaged in writing, and his look was graver even 
 than was usual. There was a knock at the door, 
 and a young man looked in. 
 
 " Good morning, George. I was just going 
 down to my chambers, and your man — what's- 
 his-name, Finch — told me that you wanted 
 particularly to speak to me. Can I do any- 
 thing for you, down my way ?" he continued, 
 swinging the door in his hand. 
 
 *' Oh, no, I wanted to speak to you. Pray 
 shut the door and come in. It is so cold here ;" 
 and he shivered. 
 
 " I suppose you feel the climate," said the 
 young man, coming slowly in. Charles Deni- 
 son had not been a week in his brother's com- 
 pany without learning to stand in awe of him.
 
 OF LIFE. 89 
 
 He now wished himself at Jericho, or any 
 other out-of-the-way place in the world, 
 rather than where he was. *' What can he 
 want me for?" he repeated over and over 
 again, as, after he had seated himself, a dead 
 silence followed. A brioht thouc^ht flashed 
 across his mind. " Perhaps he is going to 
 give me some money !" 
 
 Mr. Denison got up, and began walking 
 about the room. " I wanted to speak to you, 
 Charles — -pray sit down again, I'm so uncom- 
 monly cold this morning.... Have you break- 
 fasted ?" 
 
 " No. Have you?" 
 
 " My breakfast is just coming. Emmeline 
 is not well this morning. You shall have 
 some too." He rang the bell till it broke. — 
 " Finch, Mr. Charles Denison will breakfast 
 with me. What do you drink, Charles? Cho- 
 colate, I suppose, the family beverage?" 
 
 Charles nodded, the door closed, and Mr. 
 Denison resumed his walk. 
 
 " I wanted to speak to you, Charles, about 
 a matter of my own." The young man looked
 
 90 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 relieved. " What a bore the light is ! my eyes 
 can't bear it." He hurriedly drew down the 
 blinds, though it was a dull October day, and 
 the windows looked north, and again paced 
 up and down the room. 
 
 Suddenly he came and stood before his 
 brother, and began speaking very quickly. — 
 " I don't suppose you are aware, Charles, that 
 I was married before now ?" Charles opened 
 his eyes to their widest extent. " You need 
 not stare so, Charles," he said, impatiently ; 
 *' I say I was married many years ago, to a 
 curate's daughter, in the country." He paused. 
 
 " She isn't alive, George?" said the young 
 lawyer, looking aghast, as the visions of a trial 
 for bigamy flitted before his eyes. 
 
 *' Alive ? — Why, what do you take me for ? 
 Alive," he repeated, in a lower voice, as he 
 walked restlessly up and down, *' no ; — poor 
 Amy !" He passed his hand over his eyes, 
 and was silent for some minutes ; then began 
 again. 
 
 " Well, Charles, I married, as I said, many 
 years ago. I was a brute then, and I soon
 
 OF LIFE. 91 
 
 left my wife and went to India. Some months 
 afterwards, I found that I had a daughter, and 
 that she was dead." Again he paused. 
 
 ** Is your daughter alive ?" asked the young 
 man, timidly. 
 
 " I don't know. I never inquired, from 
 that day to this. I thought she would be 
 better taken care of, where she was. I tell 
 you, I was a brute then, but now I should like 
 to hear of her, and I Mish that you should 
 manage it for me. I will give you all direc- 
 tions : will you go and see her, under a 
 false name? See if she lives, and see what 
 she is like ? If she is an awkward, vulgar girl, 
 I will own her, that I have determined to do 
 at any rate, and I will give her a large fortune ; 
 but I will not have her to live with me. It 
 would be false kindness — it would be too late 
 for me to begin to love her, under such cir- 
 cumstances. If she is ladylike — I must use 
 a word I hate, I don't care about beauty — but 
 if she is ladylike, it is enough. You may then 
 go to her from me, or, perhaps not. Come 
 back to me, with your opinion. If she is
 
 92 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 worthy of it, I will go and humble my- 
 self to her family, for her sake. Do you 
 understand me, Charles ? Will you undertake 
 the journey, and perform it discreetly ? I will 
 trust it entirely to you." 
 
 " Willingly," answered the young man. 
 " I will go to-morrow. Sunday will be a good 
 day to see her, without being seen myself." 
 
 " Yes, a very good idea; and to-morrow 
 night make inquiries at the inn, about her 
 character. I leave it all to you. Good bye; 
 it was a bad business," and he sighed ; " but 
 don't hate me for it." The brothers shook 
 hands, and Charles took leave. 
 
 *' What a strange story !" thought he, as he 
 went down the steps. " I don't half like it. 
 Neglecting the child, too, all these years ! 
 Why, she must be twenty, I suppose. By the 
 bye, I never got any breakfast, after all !" 
 
 The result of Charles Denison's journey has 
 been related in the preceding chapter.
 
 OF LIFE. 93 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Mais, uon, je garde une esperance, 
 Car elle a dit " je reviendrai." 
 
 Romance. 
 
 The report of Charles Deiiison to his 
 brother made him determine to lose no time 
 in claiming his long-neglected child. But, 
 as the moment drew near, his promised per- 
 sonal humiliation to the Shepherds became 
 more and more obnoxious to him. He dreaded 
 it ; he dreaded the sight of EUerton, and all 
 the familiar scenes of his wanderings with 
 Amy ; — he dreaded, too, the excitement it 
 must cause to his own feelings ; and, though 
 he was far from being without good qualities, 
 his character had not that nobleness which 
 gladly endures pain, if, enduring, it can in any 
 way atone for error.
 
 94 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 He had a great deal to undergo in owning 
 his child — -in making known to his wife his 
 family, his friends, his early marriage ; and 
 he told the truth — he made no false story — 
 he was above that; but he was willing to 
 spare himself where it was possible ; and, 
 excusing himself under the plea of its being 
 necessary that he should remain with his wife, 
 who, never very strong, had, on arriving 
 in England, caught rather an alarming cold, 
 he determined that all the necessary com- 
 munications should be made in writing, and 
 that, having prepared them, Charles Denison 
 should return and bring his daughter to 
 London. 
 
 He wrote to Miss Shepherd, enclosing a 
 letter to Isabel. To the former he did not 
 spare himself; he did the fullest justice to 
 Amy, and professed to be willing to re- 
 ceive all the reproaches her sister could lavish 
 upon him. 
 
 They were sitting at breakfast in the cot- 
 tage about ten days after Charles Denison's 
 visit to EUerton. The letters were brought
 
 OF LIFE. 95 
 
 in, and Isabel was soon intent on one she 
 received from Herbert. One was given to 
 Miss Shepherd — she opened it, started, 
 scarcely restrained herself from an exclama- 
 tion — hastily glanced at Isabel, then refolded 
 it, and put it into her pocket. When Isabel 
 looked up, her face was calm and quiet as usual, 
 
 " What news of Herbert ?" she asked, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " General Grey is almost well again. It 
 was an attack of gout ; and Herbert says he 
 shall be here on Saturday, unless there should 
 be a relapse ; but I don't think that is likely, 
 is it, Mrs. Shepherd?" 
 
 " No, my dear, I don't think it is ; but I 
 never had much gout myself, nor Shepherd 
 either, so I don't understand much about it ; 
 but, when a thing is gone, my dear, why it 
 is gone, you know : and it does not seem 
 quite right to be expecting it back again. 
 So, upon the whole, I think Herbert will come. 
 And has he told his father the good news, 
 my dear?" 
 
 " No, aunt," said Rachel. " You know it
 
 96 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 is not to be mentioned to anybody for a 
 month or two." 
 
 *' Very true, my dear Rachel ; I remember 
 now. I'm glad I asked the question, for I had 
 almost forgotten that, and I was just think- 
 ing I should have a little talk with Mr. Price 
 about it : but I remember now, and so I'm 
 glad I happened to ask the question, for some- 
 times I do forget a little." 
 
 The moment breakfast was over, Rachel 
 shut herself up in her room, to read Mr. 
 Denison's letter ; and the calm, self-possessed 
 woman wept tears of agony, as the passionate 
 expressions of the repentant father and hus- 
 band recalled to her mind the sister of her 
 youth. Many and many had been the pangs 
 of self-reproach with which Rachel had been 
 visited regarding Amy. Many and many a 
 time had the thought presented itself, that, 
 but for her own disregard of her feelings, her 
 sister's fault would never have been com- 
 mitted ; for after-years of thought and ex- 
 perience had taught her that, however great 
 may be the duty of ministering to the wants
 
 OF LIFE. 97 
 
 of the poor and needy, that duty is seldom 
 well performed when performed at the ex- 
 pense of those ties which God himself has 
 made. 
 
 But feelings with Rachel were never long 
 indulged, and she went about her usual morn- 
 ing tasks, that there might be no ungovernable 
 emotion, no traces even of agitation when she 
 broke the news to Isabel. She felt in- 
 stinctively (although she had never yet seen 
 her niece under the influence of great excite- 
 ment, the course of her love having been 
 smooth indeed) that her own calmness would 
 be needed. 
 
 It was about one o'clock when she returned 
 home, for her important and somewhat diffi- 
 cult task. She stopped for a moment at the 
 window of the little drawing-room. Isabel 
 was bending over' the table, writing to Her- 
 bert; and Rachel stood and gazed upon her 
 beauty, and, for the first time, sometliing like 
 pride arose in her mind, as she dwelt on what 
 a father's feelings would be when such a 
 treasure was consigned to his arms ! And 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 this treasure, rich as Isabel might be in 
 natural grace, she could not but feel 
 that she had in some degree prepared for 
 him. 
 
 She walked slowly into the room, and sate 
 down opposite to her niece. Though per- 
 fectly calm, there was something unusually 
 thoughtful and tender in her expression, and 
 Isabel was struck by it. 
 
 '* What is the matter, aunt Rachel? — why 
 do you look so strangely at me?" 
 
 " I was thinking of you, Isabel — of parting 
 from you. I was fancying that time, when 
 our home will no longer be gladdened by your 
 presence." 
 
 *' But you know you are not to think of 
 that as yet. It will not be for a long, long 
 time ; and I, at least, will not think of the 
 evil day till it comes !" 
 
 " I was not thinking of your marriage, 
 Isabel," replied her aunt, gravely. " Is there 
 no other event which might separate us ?" 
 
 Isabel fixed her large eyes wonderingly 
 pn her aunt.
 
 OF LIFE. 99 
 
 ** If your father should claim you, my child, 
 must I not resign you to him ?" 
 
 " My father !" she said, starting from her 
 seat. " Aunt Rachel, you have heard from 
 
 him! You would not you could not " 
 
 she pressed her hand on her beating heart — 
 " I knew, I knew he would come !" and, turn- 
 ing away, she hid her face in her hands. 
 
 Miss Shepherd's answer was to present her 
 with Mr. Denison's letter. It contained 
 only the following lines, but no passionate 
 expressions of love or penitence could have 
 touched her heart so deeply as those simple 
 words. 
 
 " My Child, — After so many years of 
 neglect, can you love your father still ?" 
 
 '' George Denison." 
 
 The colour which had overspread her face 
 ebbed away ; her cheek deadly pale, her eye 
 fixed, almost stupefied — she stood gazing on 
 the words. That moment so longed for was 
 come at last ! 
 
 Miss Shepherd became alarmed at her ap- 
 pearance ; to rouse her, she got up, and 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 tenderly kissed her. " Did I not say truly, 
 my own child, Isabel, that we must part ?" 
 
 Her words, her voice, with its tone of un- 
 wonted emotion, turned the current of Isabel's 
 feelings : and, burying her face on the table, 
 she burst into a torrent of tears — the wildest 
 tears she ever had shed, in childhood or in 
 3'outh. 
 
 Miss Shepherd placed her own letter on 
 the table before her, and left the room. 
 
 After a time, Mrs. Shepherd burst open 
 the door, but her exclamations of astonish- 
 ment — '' Well, to be sure ! Well, I never 
 expected this ! Well, I always did think he 
 would come !" were stilled at Isabel's appear- 
 ance. She contented herself with kissing 
 her, and asking a few desultory questions, 
 and then walked away to finish her ex- 
 clamations to Rachel if she would hear them ; 
 or, if not, in solitude. But Isabel was roused, 
 and, seeing the letter which her aunt had left 
 for her, she seized it and hurried to her room. 
 
 It was more than two hours afterwards 
 that Rachel went to her, as the post-time 
 
 I
 
 OF LIFE. 101 
 
 drew near. She had written her own letter 
 to Mr. Denison — a kind, even affectionate 
 one; and, in answer to his inquiry as to when 
 she would be willing to let Isabel go to him, 
 she had named a week. It was but a little 
 while to prepare herself to part with her only 
 earthly treasure ; but she often dreamed that 
 there were depths in her niece's mind, depths 
 of feeling which she had no power to fathom ; 
 and she feared for her alike — a long parting 
 with Ellerton, or a long waiting for the sight 
 of her father. She thought a week would be 
 enough for the first, and sufficient to prevent 
 any restless agitation in the expectation of 
 the other. 
 
 She now opened the door of Isabel's room, 
 and found her like a lily after a storm — so 
 pale, so crushed — her long hair drenched with 
 her tears. " My dear Isabel, why this ?" 
 
 She smiled through her still falling tears, 
 and shook her head. 
 
 " This must not be," said her aunt, gently. 
 " I have always thought that you could con- 
 trol your feelings, as I have tried to teach
 
 102 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 you to do ; but perhaps it has been because, 
 as yet, you have never much been tried. You 
 must have more self-command ; — your future 
 life may be very different from the quiet past, 
 and you don't know how necessary it may be to 
 your happiness to have the control of your 
 feelings. I will not blame you now, my dear 
 child ; but will you remember, as my last 
 advice, that a woman, especially, can never 
 yield much to the indulgence of her own feel- 
 ings without falling into the worst kind of 
 selfishness." 
 
 Rachel spoke gravely. Self-command was 
 one of her highest virtues, nor was she very 
 far wrong in her estimate of its value. Her 
 quiet tone calmed Isabel. 
 
 " I have written to your father, and I came 
 to see if your letter was ready. I will put it 
 up for you ; and now, my dear Isabel, I must 
 desire that you will go out walking. I have 
 a message to send across the heath — you shall 
 take it for me. Put on your bonnet and 
 your warm cloak, for, though the sun is 
 shining, it is very cold."
 
 OF LIFE. 103 
 
 The emotions of that day completely ex- 
 hausted Isabel. She fell into a kind of 
 apathy which astonished and distressed her- 
 self. Neither the long-cherished hope of 
 seeing her father, nor the dread of parting 
 with her aunt — now far dearer than ever — 
 seemed to have any power to arouse her. Yet, 
 painful as such stupor must always be, it was 
 well in this case that it came upon her, for 
 the thoughts alike of the future and of the 
 past would have been too much for her deep 
 feeling and her excitable imagination. 
 
 On first hearing the news, Herbert would 
 have flown to spend with Isabel the last week 
 at Ellerton — the last week, something whis- 
 pered within his heart, of his own happiness ; 
 but a return of his father's illness made it im- 
 possible to leave him, and it w^as not till the 
 very day before Isabel's departure that they 
 met again. 
 
 He arrived at Ellerton about the middle 
 of the day ; and, after sitting a little while 
 in the cottage, he asked her to take a last 
 walk with him. They left the house together,
 
 104 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 and their mutual feelings led tliem to the path 
 along the fields where they had had their first 
 explanation. The air was bitterly cold, but 
 they scarcely felt it. *' The tempest in the 
 mind doth from the senses take all feeling 
 else, save what beats there." 
 
 They walked at first in silence. Herbert 
 delayed to speak what yet he had determined 
 should be said, and Isabel had no words. 
 Calm, but unutterable sadness, had this last 
 day taken possession of her soul. The mo- 
 ment so long thought of, so earnestly desired, 
 now stood with a kind of terror before her eyes. 
 
 ^' This is our last meeting as — as we now 
 are, Isabel," Herbert began at last, gravely 
 but calmly. " When next I see you, it must 
 be almost as strangers that we shall meet." 
 She looked up in his face, surprised and 
 doubting. " You could not think, dear 
 Isabel," he said, answering her look, " that 
 I should let you go bound to your father's 
 house ?" 
 
 "Bound?" she repeated. "I don't under- 
 stand you."
 
 OF LIFE. 105 
 
 " You are going into a new world, Isabel ; 
 I well know how new, how exciting to you. 
 You are going to begin a new life ; you must 
 not go bound by a tie which you have con- 
 tracted in comparative solitude." 
 
 " Still I don't understand," said Isabel, 
 simply. *' Are we not bound in word as well 
 as in affection ?" 
 
 *' We can release ourselves," he said, smiling 
 sadly, that rare and peculiar smile which, when 
 it passed over his face, had so deep a meaning. 
 *' I have suffered" — he paused, and closed his 
 eyes as if over the anguish within ; " but no 
 matter — I saw at once how it must be. It 
 is a duty, and, if a hard one, still not the less 
 a duty." 
 
 " You are deceiving yourself, Herbert. 
 How can it ever be a duty to break the vows 
 that have been exchanged ? I see how it is," 
 she continued, after a moment's pause ; and a 
 flush of wounded feeling passed over her face ; 
 " you doubt me ?" 
 
 " No, Isabel, I trust you as I trust myself; 
 but will you listen to me for a moment? 
 
 f5
 
 106 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 You are going into a life so new that you 
 cannot even conceive what it will be. You 
 are no longer at the disposal of your aunt. 
 Of me your father might not approve, as the 
 husband of his child — at any rate, not as the 
 choice of her youth and inexperience ; and 
 rightly, Isabel, for circumstances change us 
 more than you, in your quiet life, can tell. 
 Could I then let you begin your new life with 
 anything that might give your father pain ? 
 Does not this seem right in your eyes ? I 
 have thought much about it, and it appears 
 so to me. And besides this, dear Isabel, I 
 must think of you. It is with no doubt of 
 your truth or your love that I speak, but you 
 cannot yourself have an idea of what may be 
 the temptations of your future life. I must 
 think of this for you. You shall go into that 
 new world free — free to choose again, if you 
 should meet with one more worthy of your 
 love — I cannot say who would love you more 
 — that could not be." He paused, but Isabel 
 still waited. " If at the end of a year you 
 feel as you do now ; if, in all the bright world
 
 OF LIFE. 107 
 
 in which you will move, you find none to love 
 more than I feel you now love me ; then, 
 Isabel, dearest Isabel, with what joy would 
 I come to you, and we would together ask 
 your father's blessing on our love .'" 
 
 A momentary smile of gladness passed over 
 his face, but it faded aofain. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, Herbert," after a 
 long pause Isabel replied ; " I am scarcely myself 
 to-day, scarcely understand your words, but I 
 think that perhaps you are right; I will go fre(i 
 to my father; but oh, Herbert !" and she looked 
 up in his face with an expression that sunk into 
 the depths of his soul — " do you suppose it 
 possible that I can forget you ?" 
 
 "No, Isabel," he said, in a low voice; and 
 they walked on again in silence. 
 
 The short day began to close. Charles 
 Denison was to arrive at the inn late in the 
 evening, and very early the next morning 
 Isabel was to g:o with him to London. 
 Herbert had determined to part from lier now ; 
 the evening, he felt, was Miss Shepherd's 
 right ; and to sit and gaze upon her, and not
 
 108 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 have her all to himself, would be but increase 
 of agony. He stopped her as they drew near 
 the house. 
 
 " I will not come in, Isabel ; it is better so, 
 indeed," he said, as he saw she would have 
 remonstrated. " Your aunt has a first right 
 to you to-night, and I — " he paused ; then, 
 with his sad smile, added, " I must go and 
 accustom myself to Ellerton without you." 
 
 She stood still, without speaking. Large 
 tears had gathered in her eyes, but they did 
 not fall. Herbert drew a deep breath, to 
 command himself to the last. 
 
 " I will go now," he said, and took her 
 hand. " I thank you, Isabel, for your love, 
 even if.... Whatever comes, you know not Avhat 
 it has been to me. And now, Isabel, dearest 
 Isabel, God bless you, and keep you pure and 
 bright, as you are, amid the temptations of 
 the world to which you are going !" He 
 wrung the hand he held, waited not for the 
 words which he saw she tried, but tried in 
 vain, to speak — and they parted.
 
 OF LIFE. 109 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ? 
 Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The last evening is always too sad for 
 words. The change, whatever the change may 
 be, is too near to be spoken of. It cannot be 
 talked over lightly, sadly it must not be, for 
 the inward grief is too near the surface to be 
 restrained if once the fountain is unsealed ; 
 and so, almost in silence, Isabel passed her last 
 evening at Ellerton. 
 
 The morning came. She had kissed her 
 aunt and Mrs. Shepherd ; to please the latter 
 she had attempted to swallow some breakfast. 
 She had looked her farewell to the house, the 
 garden, and all the familiar scenes of her 
 childhood and her youth, and stood ready,
 
 110 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 waiting for Mr. Charles Denison, when he 
 arrived in the carriage her father had sent for 
 her. It was a pretty travelling chariot, with 
 four horses, a sight which had gladdened the 
 heart of the landlord of the Swan Inn, who, 
 with his wife and the waiter, gloried over their 
 own discernment, in having recognised a real 
 gentleman in the solitary traveller who came 
 to them. 
 
 " Are you ready, Miss Denison ?" he said, 
 as he jumped out, with much tact avoiding 
 any allusion to her peculiar situation on this 
 their first meeting. " There is no hurry ; pray 
 don't let me hurry you." 
 
 " I'm quite ready, thank you," she said, 
 calmly. Without turning her head again, she 
 once more held out her hand to her aunt, who 
 stood, calm as herself, to see her off, and 
 hastily stepped into the carriage. 
 
 It was a long and a dreary journey, and 
 Isabel's courage almost failed when she found 
 herself alone with a stranger, and on her way 
 to none but strangers. How differently had 
 she a thousand times pictured to herself the
 
 OF LIFE. Ill 
 
 meeting with her father ! There seemed some- 
 thing chilling, chilling as the wintry weather, 
 in this way of claiming his long-neglected 
 child. Charles Denison seemed to understand 
 what her feelings must be, for he turned from 
 her, and amused himself by watching a few 
 flakes of snow which were falling. He had 
 expected a burst of grief, always painful to 
 a man to witness ; and he looked, therefore, 
 with admiration on the self-command which 
 enabled her, with that pale sad countenance, 
 to sit so calmly by his side. 
 
 They arrived, at last, in Grosvenor Square. 
 The carriage stopped. Charles Denison handed 
 out the pale, trembling, dreaming daughter, 
 and, shaking hands with her kindly and affec- 
 tionately, left her to the servant. He knew 
 his brother too well to venture in. 
 
 The servant led her into a large, well-lighted, 
 richly-furnished drawing-room, but she saw 
 nothing; and her heart beat so wildly, that 
 she felt as if she could hear nothing but its 
 pulses. She was still standing where she had 
 been left, when the servant returned. She
 
 112 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 started as the door opened, but it was only to 
 beg her to follow again, and she was led to 
 Mr. Denison's dressing-room. It was empty, 
 and still she stood with her beating heart, and 
 felt as if life could not bear it much longer. 
 Her eye was on the door by which she had 
 entered ; but, after a suspense of about five 
 minutes, another door on the opposite side of 
 the room slowly opened, and a tall, grave 
 figure stood in the entrance. For a moment 
 the father and daughter gazed on each other 
 without speaking, without moving ; — then 
 Isabel rushed towards the door where Mr. 
 Denison stood, and fell almost lifeless in his 
 arms. 
 
 He tore off her bonnet, he placed her on a 
 sofa, he put back her long dark hair from her 
 face, — again and again he kissed her cold 
 forehead — and slowly she opened her large 
 eyes, and smiled. 
 
 " What is your name?" he murmured. It 
 had passed from his memory, — another name 
 only was before him and trembled upon his lips. 
 
 " Isabel."
 
 OF LIFE. 113 
 
 He rose, paced up and down the room, 
 pressed his hand on his throbbing brow, and 
 then returned to gaze upon her. 
 
 " You are beautiful, my chihi," he said, 
 " but you are not like your mother. Oh, 
 Isabel ! have you forgiven me, for her and for 
 yourself?" From his stern proud eyes the 
 tears fell fast upon her hand. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," she said, look- 
 ing up at him with the unutterable love that 
 was springing towards him in her heart. 
 " Does not this repay for all ?" 
 
 There was a low knock at the door. It 
 was Mrs. Denison, who feared this first meet- 
 ing for her husband. 
 
 " May I come in, George ?" she asked, 
 gently. 
 
 Mr. Denison led her up to Isabel, who rose 
 to receive her young stepmother. She was a 
 pale, fair woman, at six-and-twenty, as young- 
 looking as Isabel. Mrs. Denison kissed her 
 affectionately, and said a few kind words, 
 gently, but timidly. She then looked anxi- 
 ously at her husband, whose pale cheek and
 
 114 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 compressed lips bespoke deep inward suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 " Isabel looks tired," she said, turning 
 towards him. " You must let me take her 
 up to rest before dinner. Will you come?" 
 she continued, smiling kindly as Mr. Denison 
 nodded his acquiescence, and they left the 
 room together. She took her up to a pretty 
 room on the second floor, and there left her, 
 saying she would come back again. 
 
 Happy to be alone, Isabel sunk into a 
 reverie in her chair. It was over then — this 
 longed-for, this of late dreaded meeting was 
 over. She had seen her father — and what a 
 father ! — with her own eyes ; and, strange as 
 all seemed, she was in her own home. Before 
 long, her reflections were interrupted by the 
 entrance of her maid, a little country girl, in 
 whose simple mind Ellerton was the world, 
 and the beginning of Paradise the day on 
 which she became Isabel's maid. She came 
 in loaded with parcels, and stood breathless 
 before her mistress. 
 
 "Oh, dear miss ! how happy we shall be !"
 
 OF LIFE. 115 
 
 Happiness was not the feeling at that moment 
 uppermost in Isabel's agitated mind, and, 
 with some surprise, she asked why. 
 
 '^ Why, miss, it's a palace ! Such lamps, 
 such stairs, such carpets, I was almost afeard 
 to tread on them. What would Miss Shep- 
 herd say ? Oh ! Miss Isabel, how happy we 
 shall be !" 
 
 " Grandeur does not make happiness, 
 Annie," said Isabel, with a sigh. *' We were 
 very happy at Ellerton." 
 
 " Yes, miss, because we knew no better 
 there. Now...." and she looked round with 
 an air of importance which bespoke the sudden 
 acquisition of a whole world of knowledge. 
 ** There's the dressing-bell, miss ; a very civil 
 person told me as how it would soon ring. 
 Pray, miss, begin at once ; we must not fluster 
 to-night." 
 
 Isabel rose, as she desired ; it was not vanity 
 which made her anxious on this night to look 
 her best. 
 
 The dressing was over. With a scream of de- 
 light Annie saw a long looking-glass, and rather
 
 1 1 6 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 rudely pushed her young mistress towards it. 
 Isabel had never had so good a view of herself 
 before, and she contemplated her appearance 
 with some anxiety. She might have been 
 satisfied. Her dark, shining hair contrasted 
 with her fair skin and snow-white dress, while 
 the agitation of her mind gave a brilliancy 
 that was almost dazzling to her eyes and com- 
 plexion ; but she shook her head. 
 
 " I wonder if I am like other people," she 
 said, musingly. 
 
 *' No, miss, not the least like any one I 
 ever saw before," said Annie, promptly. As 
 she had never seen any one but Miss Bridges 
 and the Miss Chapmans, her assurance carried 
 neither comfort nor the contrary; and, with 
 a smile at her own anxiety, Isabel turned 
 away. 
 
 Mrs. Denison came at last. " Are you 
 ready, Isabel ?" she said ; and, laying her hand 
 kindly on her arm, she led her along the 
 passage. " Will you come in here for a 
 minute? I wish to speak to you;" and she 
 opened and closed again the door of her own
 
 OF LIFE. 1 1 7 
 
 dressing-room. " I should have come to jou 
 before, dear Isabel, but your father has been so 
 much agitated I could not leave him. I wished 
 to tell you that I loved you for his sake. 
 There was a time, a few months back, when I 
 first heard of your existence, that I thought 
 of your appearance only with pain, as perhaps 
 you may have thought of me ; but all such 
 feeling is over now with both of us — is it 
 not? And you will love me, not perhaps 
 as a mother," and she glanced, with a smile, 
 at her own youthful face reflected in the glass, 
 near which they stood, " but as your elder 
 sister, Isabel, and we will be very happy." 
 
 Isabel felt her stepmother's kindness. 
 Doubtless, there might be much to pain — 
 much to annoy — in this sudden coming of a 
 daughter to her home ; and with tearful eyes, 
 she gratefully and affectionately kissed her. 
 But her mind reverted to the one subject of 
 anxiety that filled all her thoughts, and which 
 the agitated meeting with her father had not 
 entirely satisfied. ^* And my father — will he 
 love me ?"
 
 1 1 8 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " Yes, Isabel — he loves you already ; and 
 he loved your mother," she continued, with 
 some emotion ; "he has always worn her 
 hair next to his heart. I knew not till now 
 whose memory it was he prized so fondly. 
 But he is cold sometimes, and grave, and 
 reserved. It may give you pain, but it is only 
 his manner, dear Isabel; and you must not 
 allow it to trouble you, or, at any rate, not to 
 make you doubt his love. But, now, come, 
 or we shall be late ; you must be punctual on 
 your first night." 
 
 They went down together to the drawing- 
 room. Charles Denison came forward, with 
 a smile of welcome. He was like an old 
 acquaintance, and Isabel felt a moment's 
 pleasure in seeing him ; but her father did not 
 come, and her heart began to beat, and in vain 
 she tried to talk and to laugb. A terror, 
 greater even than on their first meeting, was 
 stealing over her. 
 
 Mrs. Denison, too, after a time, began to 
 look uneasy. She looked at her watch, walked 
 to the door, then sate down again. Almost
 
 OF LIFE. 119 
 
 half an hour had passed, and still he did not 
 appear. At last, as with a sudden thought, 
 she turned to Isabel, and, in a quiet tone, 
 which was meant to convey that it was the 
 most natural thing in the world, she said, " I 
 wish you would call your father, Isabel ; tell 
 him that dinner is waiting, and that Charles 
 is come. You can't miss the door of his 
 room ; it is straight along the passage, exactly 
 opposite the door of this one." 
 
 Isabel raised her wondering eyes, but 
 obeyed. 
 
 " What do you think of her?" asked Charles 
 Denison, as she closed the door. " She is 
 beautiful, is she not?" 
 
 ** Beautiful indeed !" and Emmeline sighed 
 as she said it. " You don't know what an 
 effect her appearance has had on George. I 
 have been quite frightened about him. He 
 must have loved very deeply, Charles — more 
 than he does now," and the tears started into 
 her eyes. 
 
 Isabel reached her father's door. She 
 knocked once and twice, but so faintly and
 
 120 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 timidly that it was no wonder she was unheard. 
 She knocked a third time ; it was still faint 
 and low, but there came a harsh " Come in." 
 She opened the door, almost breathless with 
 agitation, but with a boldness that afterwards 
 astonished herself, and stood for a moment in 
 the entrance. There he was, seated on a sofa, 
 the proud, resolute Mr. Denison, with his face 
 buried in his hands, unable to face again his 
 child, the mere sight of whom had awakened 
 in his heart a remorse from which he shrunk 
 in terror. He scarcely raised his head as the 
 door opened — he fancied it was Emmeline. 
 Isabel stood for a moment in the doorway, 
 then closed it, and glided to his side. 
 
 " I came.... I was sent to fetch you," she 
 murmured. 
 
 He started — looked up, then hid his face 
 again. 
 
 She knelt beside him. " You are not angry 
 with me, papaT' she said, in that low, sweet 
 voice, which had something of the calming 
 power of music ; and, gently withdrawing his 
 hands, she looked up in his face with unutter-
 
 OF LIFE. l!^l 
 
 able tenderness. He gazed upon her for an 
 instant, sighed, stooped and kissed her brow, 
 and the dark fit passed away. 
 
 " The fears of fancy are most terrible.*' 
 He almost smiled to think how his beautiful 
 child had been standing before him since their 
 first meeting — not as she was — not as he now 
 felt she was, but in stern reproof — an inex- 
 orable judge. 
 
 " Not angry with you, dearest," he said, 
 tenderly; "only angry with myself; but it 
 is past now — let us go." He walked hur- 
 riedly to the door; then, as hurriedly, turned 
 back, and touched his daughter's arm. " Stay, 
 Isabel," he said ; " after this night, let the 
 past be forgotten ; we speak on this subject 
 no more ; but, while I can speak, I tell you, 
 my child, I loved your mother, even when I 
 forsook her. See," he said, rapidly drawing 
 a locket from his bosom, and as rapidly con- 
 cealing it again. " And now, my child, give me 
 one of your shining curls ; you shall be joined 
 together in my heart, at least. And you must 
 learn to love me, Isabel, as f>he loved me." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The sentinel 
 
 (That should ring 'larum to the heart) doth sleep. 
 
 Ben Jonson! 
 
 It is not but the tempest that doth show 
 The seaman's cunning, but the field that tries 
 The captain's courage. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Grosvenor Square, May 6, 
 
 Mj dearest Aunt Rachel, 
 
 You ask me if I am bappy. I am, 
 I am indeed, very happy; — but when I tell 
 you that I am bappy, you must never for a 
 moment suppose that I forget you or anybodij 
 at Ellerton. I liked being at Torquay, for it 
 was very beautiful, and now I like being in 
 London, for it is all very new and exciting ; 
 but it is none of these things that makes me 
 happy. It is papa. Oh, Aunt Rachel ! you
 
 OF LIFE. 123 
 
 cannot conceive what an interest it is to me 
 to try and please him ! I must be happy when 
 he looks kindly at me, as he often does, and 
 life can never be tedious while I try to avoid 
 his grave looks, which I dread more than any- 
 thin o^ in the world. This was what interested 
 me at Torquay, and this is what interests me 
 more than all besides in London. 
 
 I have been going out a good deal, and I 
 like it, but I don't think I like it very much 
 indeed. I know some agreeable people, but 
 there are none that I particularly care about. 
 At first, I thought almost everybody clever 
 and amusing ; people have a light, merry way 
 of speaking, which makes me laugh and 
 pleases me at the time, but it does not make 
 me care about seeinof them ao^ain ; I be^-in to 
 wish for something else. Will you tell Her- 
 bert what I say, that is, if you think it right. 
 The only person in London that he need be 
 jealous of is papa ; I think he may be a little 
 jealous of him. 
 
 I think, even you. Aunt Rachel, would not 
 call my present life very dissipated. We often 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 go out, but we never stay late, and we seldom 
 breakfast later than ten o'clock ; and after 
 breakfast I read with Mrs. Denison, and I 
 have masters, and I really don't waste a very 
 great deal of time. In short, I begin to think 
 that I am a very steady, sedate person, and 
 that you and Herbert were quite wrong in 
 your fears about me. I often think of El- 
 lerton, and I have wild visions of driving down 
 for one night (a good long drive), and once I 
 said something about it to papa, but he looked 
 grave, and so I must give it up for the present. 
 And now, I must end my long, and, I am 
 afraid, selfish letter ; but you ask me so many 
 questions that I am obliged to write about 
 myself. 
 
 Mr. Charles Denison is just come in, and 
 begs me to give his best love to you ; and also 
 begs that if you see Mr. Grey, you will tell 
 him that he is only just beginning to forget 
 his sermon. I dare say he only meant these 
 messages for impertinence, but I told him I 
 should give them to you. 
 
 God bless you, dear Aunt Rachel ! I am
 
 OF LIFE. 125 
 
 sure, judging by myself, that I need not say 
 do not forget me. 
 
 Your most affectionate, 
 
 Isabel Denison. 
 
 Miss Shepherd read this letter and smiled. 
 She watched for the days on which Isabel 
 usually wrote to her, with an anxiety which 
 she had never felt on any subject before, and 
 if by chance the expected letter did not 
 come, it w^as a disappointment which even her 
 well-regulated mind could not prevent from 
 throwing a shade over the day. They came 
 like gleams of sunshine over her heart. She 
 had read this letter and smiled. Thinking it 
 would please Herbert Grey, she gave it to 
 him on their next meeting : he read it, laid it 
 down, and sighed. 
 
 " Now, Herbert, why do you sigh ?" said 
 Miss Shepherd, with some dissatisfaction. 
 " Surely there is nothing in that letter but 
 what should give us pleasure ?" 
 
 " I hardly know why I sighed," said Her- 
 bert, and yet he sighed again. " So bright.
 
 126 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 SO confident, it makes me tremble — tremble 
 lest I should lose her," he added, in a low, 
 tremulous voice. " But you are right ; there 
 is nothing to sigh about. How happy she 
 seems, and how unspoilt !" and he took up the 
 letter again. 
 
 That Herbert should sigh was not unna- 
 tural. Her mention of him was not, i^erhaps, 
 quite such as would please or satisfy a lover's 
 anxious heart. Perhaps he felt this, although 
 Miss Shepherd could not. 
 
 Isabel spoke the truth as to her own feel- 
 ings. When Mr. and Mrs. Denison arrived in 
 London after Easter, having spent the winter 
 at Torquay for the benefit of Mrs. Denison's 
 health, she was presented, and, as the phrase 
 is, "• came out." So graceful, so beautiful, 
 and an heiress, it was impossible that she 
 should not make a sensation, and the admira- 
 tion and flattery lavished upon her were suffi- 
 cient to satisfy even Mr. Denison's exacting 
 pride and affection. And Isabel was excited : 
 there were moments when her heart beat at 
 the looks and words of admiration which
 
 OF LIFE. 127 
 
 seldom failed to greet her, but it was only 
 for the moment — tbeir memory faded from 
 her mind as quickly as the voices from her 
 ear, — and in a position calculated to dazzle 
 the strongest, she was not satisfied. The 
 seclusion of her life, a friend to deeper thought 
 than is common with young girls, her short 
 but interesting acquaintance with Herbert, 
 and the vein of romance which, uneventful as 
 her life had been, had tinged its early history, 
 made the frivolous gossip and often unmeaning 
 conversation of her London acquaintance in- 
 sipid, if not tiresome ; and though she liked 
 the excitement of her present life, she was not 
 carried away by it. She was dissatisfied. It 
 requires some object more than commonly in- 
 teresting, to make a London ball-room agree- 
 able night after night, except to the very 
 young, or the very heartless. The time was 
 approaching, however, which was to try her 
 more severely. 
 
 A few mornings after the date of her letter 
 to Miss Shepherd, Isabel ran hastily down to 
 breakfast, having been delayed to a later hour
 
 128 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 than usual. When she opened the door, she 
 saw a young man sitting with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Denison. He got up as she entered. 
 
 ** Why on earth are you so late, my dear 
 Isabel ?" said her father. " Clarence has been 
 waiting this half hour to see you. Lord Cla- 
 rence Broke, Isabel." 
 
 As she bowed, a thought just flashed through 
 her mind. " I must have seen that face 
 before ;" but after an instant's surprise, Lord 
 Clarence came towards her. 
 
 " We are old acquaintance, surely. Miss 
 Denison ?" and he held out his hand to her 
 with a smile that had once haunted her me- 
 mory. 
 
 " Old acquaintance !" said Mrs. Denison ; 
 " Why, where can you and Clarence have met, 
 Isabel ?" 
 
 She looked at him with a puzzled look; 
 then there came a blush and a smile ; and — 
 '* Ah ! I remember f but she did not explain. 
 Lord Clarence, in a few words, related their 
 meeting near Ellerton. 
 
 '* I little knew who you were. Miss Deni-
 
 OF LIFE. 159 
 
 son," he said, turning again towards her ; 
 *' and though I have often and often thought 
 of your kindness, I little thought we ever 
 should meet again." He had sate down for 
 a moment, but soon rose to go. 
 
 " Have you taken your seat, Clarence ?" 
 asked Mr. Denison. 
 
 " No ; I go down to the House to-day, and 
 I have to ride into the country first, to look 
 at a horse, which makes me rather in a hurry 
 this morning. Is there anything going on? 
 I have been talking and speechifying so much 
 lately myself, that I have not had time to 
 read or to hear anything." 
 
 " Yes, I believe there will be rather an 
 important division to-night." 
 
 " Ah ! well, I shall be down there. I heard 
 that I 7nust take my seat to-day. Do you go 
 out to-night, Emmeline ?" 
 
 " Yes, we are going to a ball at Lady Louisa 
 King's. Shall we see you there ?" 
 
 " If you had asked me that question ten 
 minutes ago, I should have said Certainly not ; 
 but now, I think, I shall avail myself of a 
 
 G 5
 
 130 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 polite invitation which I saw on my table ;" 
 and he smiled at Isabel as he spoke, — that 
 haunting smile. 
 
 Lord Clarence Broke was a first cousin of 
 Emmeline's, a year or two older than herself. 
 They had been much together in their child- 
 hood, and now, after many years, their early 
 friendship caused them to meet again almost as 
 brother and sister. Mr. Denison had been 
 returned for a northern borough in the winter, 
 and, having been assisted by Clarence in can- 
 vassing at the time of his election, the former 
 had taken a great fancy to him, and Isabel had 
 heard much of him, both from her father and 
 Emmeline. 
 
 He was the second son of the Duke of , 
 
 and a soldier ; but, having a tolerably good 
 fortune of his own, he followed his profession 
 for occupation and amusement, rather than 
 from necessity. He was at this time very 
 happy in having been returned for his native 
 county ; for his active, restless mind was always 
 in search of employment, no uncommon want 
 among the noble, and rich, and prosperous.
 
 OF LIFE. 131 
 
 He was what officers call a fine young man, 
 and politicians a promising one ; what young 
 men call a good fellow, and young ladies a 
 very nice person : all this he was, and a good 
 deal more ; but descriptions are tedious 
 things. 
 
 " Do you look forward to your ball to- 
 night ?" asked Mrs. Denison, as Isabel came 
 down, beautifully dressed, and looking sur- 
 passingly lovely. She remarked a peculiar 
 brilliancy in her eyes and complexion, which 
 had struck her before now, whenever Isabel 
 was pleased or excited. 
 
 " Yes, I think I do, though I hardly know 
 why ;" and Isabel blushed as she spoke, for 
 she had not been conscious of the fact till 
 that moment. 
 
 She had danced several times, and was 
 wondering why she had thought so much of a 
 ball, which now struck her as particularly 
 dull, before Lord Clarence appeared. She 
 had just gone back to Mrs. Denison when he 
 entered the room, and immediately came to- 
 wards them.
 
 132 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " I had given you up," said Mrs. Denison ; 
 " it is one o'clock, and we never stay beyond 
 two." 
 
 *' There was a division, and, of course, I 
 was obliged to stay for it. However, I must 
 not complain, for at one time I did not think 
 it would have been over till two or three 
 o'clock." 
 
 A young man approached, and asked Isabel 
 to dance. Not very well pleased, she was 
 forced to say yes. 
 
 " Now, Emmeline," said Lord Clarence, 
 "is not this hard? I did not like to treat 
 Miss Denison in the usual style, beginning at 
 once with, ' Are you engaged for the next 
 quadrille V and see how I am rewarded ! Now 
 it must be done. ' Are you engaged for the 
 next quadrille but one. Miss Denison ?" 
 
 At last they went to dance. As they stood 
 together before the music began, he turned to 
 her suddenly — 
 
 " I have been very much put out all to-day. 
 Do you know why, Miss Denison ? No, I dare 
 say you would not guess ! It was at seeing.
 
 OF LIFE. 13 3 
 
 when I remembered you so well, how little 
 you remembered me. Not that I could have 
 expected you to remember me, but sometimes 
 one is disappointed even when one does not 
 expect a thing." 
 
 " I remembered that I had seen you before, 
 only I could not recollect where." 
 
 *' Ah ! but if I had met you in any part of 
 the world — in India — I should have remem- 
 bered you. I have so often caught myself 
 thinking of you and your pretty little com- 
 panion. It was strange, our meeting, was it 
 not?" She slightly blushed — she could not 
 have told why. '' How changed your life 
 must be !" he said, looking at her, after a 
 pause. " I only passed through Ellerton once, 
 but it seemed a dull place." 
 
 " Quiet, perhaps, but not dull. I was very 
 sorry to leave it." 
 
 " I suppose, because you were fond of the 
 place. We all like our ' Childhood's Home,' 
 don't we? But you could not have had many 
 amusements there." 
 
 " Not amusements exactly, but interests."
 
 134 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 "What kind of interests?" 
 
 " Duties, and ".... Isabel hesitated, " other 
 things." 
 
 " I must not ask what other things," said 
 Lord Clarence, smiling ; " for I ought to be 
 ashamed of raj impertinence. But will you 
 forgive me, if I ask you about your duties ?" 
 He saw that she blushed and hesitated. " Don't 
 answer me now," he said : " I will ask you 
 again another day, when you know me better. 
 I am almost afraid that you think I should 
 laugh at duties ; but you are very much mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " Will you talk to me about your present 
 life?" he continued, after a moment. *' I am 
 afraid it will be a question again. Do you 
 like going out very much ?" 
 
 " Yes, I like it," she said, slowly, " very 
 much, but not madly. I mean, that I ex- 
 pected to like it much better than I really do. 
 Are you fond of this kind of society?" 
 
 " I once liked it not very much, but madly," 
 he said, smiling; " now, I am eight and twenty. 
 Miss Denison, and though I sometimes go out
 
 OF LIFE. 135 
 
 from habit, I don't like it ; it bores me. And 
 yet," after a pause, he added, " I feel to-night 
 as if I were going to have an attack of it 
 again." 
 
 " You speak as if it was an illness," said 
 Isabel, lauo^hino^. 
 
 ** It is an illness — a downright fever, when 
 the fit is on. I will show you all the symptoms 
 of the disease some day, when I know you 
 better." 
 
 " Do you see any bad symptoms in my 
 case?" said Isabel, trying to make herself feel 
 at ease with him, in which she could not 
 quite succeed. 
 
 He looked at her with a look of grave 
 scrutiny, then shook his head. " No, strange 
 to say, I think you have entirely escaped ! 
 There is a very bad case, Tra sure, though I 
 don't know her ;" and he pointed to a pretty 
 young girl, who stood at some distance, 
 eagerly talking to three or four people at 
 once. ** I laugh now, and moralize a great 
 deal about it," he continued, after a moment, 
 "and am very apt to forget that I once had
 
 136 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 the disease as badly as, if not worse than, my 
 neighbours." 
 
 The music stopped, and they returned to 
 Mrs. Denison.
 
 OF LIFE. 137 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 How happily the days of Thalaba went by ! 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 On the evening of that first day's acquaint- 
 ance with Clarence, when Isabel sate alone in 
 her room, there was a weight upon her con- 
 science — an undefined fear — that she had en- 
 joyed herself too much, and Herbert's eyes 
 seemed to rest reproachfully upon her. But 
 this was the first, and last, and only time that 
 she was visited by such a reproof; the inti- 
 mate and familiar terms on which, after this 
 day, she lived with Lord Clarence, while, in 
 fact, increasing tenfold her danger, destroyed 
 all fear of it in her mind. 
 
 Both Mr. and Mrs. Denison liked Lord Cla- 
 rence ; and being such near relations, and his 
 own family coming rarely to London, Mr.
 
 138 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Denison gave him a general invitation to his 
 house, and the young man, though he did not 
 presume upon this kindness, yet was not slow- 
 to avail himself of it when it was offered. At 
 dinner, especially, they often met. Sometimes 
 Mr. Denison brought him home with him from 
 the House of Commons ; sometimes he dined 
 with them before a crowded ball, that he 
 might be of use to Emmeline ; in short, a day 
 seldom passed that they did not somewhere 
 meet, and the very excess of her danger 
 utterly blinded Isabel's eyes. Many things 
 aided her delusion ; Clarence's manners were 
 frank and open, sometimes affectionate, but 
 rarely empresse. He never complimented ; 
 and, after their first meeting, never said any- 
 thing which gave the idea that he thought of 
 her, or marked her out with any particular 
 preference. They were very great friends ; 
 Isabel liked to think that he was what a 
 brother would have been to her. 
 
 The fact was that, although, from the very 
 first day, Clarence was conscious of a new 
 feeling in his own mind, he kept a strict watch
 
 OF LIFE. 139 
 
 upon himself. There was no hurry. He would 
 not lightly try to gain her affections ; he would 
 not lightly yield his own ; he would read the 
 very depths of her heart before he spoke. 
 And she, if he could be so happy as to gain 
 her love, she should not choose him in dark- 
 ness and in ignorance ; but her choice should 
 be made from the world and before the world. 
 
 This reasonable determination it was not 
 difficult to follow, as no rival appeared ; that 
 is to say, no favoured rival. Many there were 
 who hovered about the beautiful heiress day 
 after day, who would have given the world 
 for a sign of encouragement from her; but, 
 while her beauty attracted them, there was a 
 retenu and a dignity in her manners which 
 prevented the slightest approach to a flirta- 
 tion, and even a lover's wayward heart could 
 not have doubted that to Clarence, however 
 slight that preference might be, the preference 
 was given. 
 
 Everything conspired against poor Isabel's 
 heart. If Mr. and Mrs. Denison saw the 
 danger, they approved it. It might be in
 
 140 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 their hearts a bright day-dream that Isabel 
 should be Clarence's wife ; but neither by 
 word nor look did it ever appear that such 
 a thought had entered their imaginations. 
 Isabel's only safeguard was in their very rare 
 opportunities of private conversation ; they 
 were usually a '^ partie guarree ;" and yet, 
 perhaps, after all, this was not a safeguard, 
 but a danger, from the additional interest it 
 gave to their meetings. 
 
 About a fortnight after their first acquaint- 
 ance, at a larger dinner than usual in her 
 father's house, she sat next to Clarence. 
 After a good deal of conversation, in which 
 her other neighbour persisted in joining, there 
 came a pause, and Clarence reverted to the 
 subject of their first discussion. 
 
 *' I . have so few opportunities of really 
 talking to you, that, although I have often 
 thought of it, I have never asked you again 
 about Ellerton. Now that you know me 
 better — shall I say, know me well — Avill 
 you tell me what duties made you happy 
 there ?"
 
 OF LIFE. 141 
 
 " Cannot you guess what kind of duties 
 would be required of one in such a place ?" 
 
 " I suppose, you mean visiting the poor — 
 perhaps, reading to them ?" 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " And you say you liked your duties ?" 
 
 " Yes, very, very much. It is a great plea- 
 sure to me — I suppose it is to everybody — 
 to feel that I am doing some little good in the 
 world. You cannot think how I miss it in 
 London !" 
 
 *' You have duties of another kind here." 
 
 " Y^es, I suppose so," said Isabel, slowly ; 
 " but my duties here are so pleasant, and 
 make me so happy, that I sometimes doubt if 
 they can be called duties at all." 
 
 " I see, — I have remarked before now," 
 said Lord Clarence, looking at her for a mo- 
 ment, '' that you think very seriously of life. 
 I dare say you are right ; I dare say, if I felt 
 that I was useful to any human creature, I 
 should not have such wearisome, gloomy fits 
 as I often have now." 
 
 *' Gloomy, Lord Clarence?" and Isabel
 
 1 42 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 raised her eyes to his bright, expressive coun- 
 tenance, with a smile. 
 
 " Yes. Do you doubt what I say ? I am 
 pretty well this year, for I have not much 
 time to think about it, but sometimes I am 
 ready to hang myself. My life has no parti- 
 cular object, and, after very young days, a 
 life without an object must be tedious." 
 
 " Yes ; but I suppose that every life can 
 have an object?" said Isabel, gently. 
 
 ** What is the object of your life ?" asked 
 Lord Clarence, looking earnestly at her. 
 
 " Oh, I have plenty to think of ! I know 
 that few are so fortunate or can be so happy 
 as I am, but I suppose the most dreary, de- 
 solate life that one can conceive ought to have 
 an object?" 
 
 " You mean, I think, in a religious point 
 of view ; that to do our duty to God and to 
 man ought to be the object of every one's life. 
 Yes, that may be true, but what is one's 
 duty? Do not think," he continued, anxi- 
 ously, " that I doubt it ; but it seems to me 
 an easy thing to say, and a very difficult one
 
 OF LIFE. 143 
 
 to act upon. I can fancy many kinds of life, 
 very happy life, in which such duty would 
 come naturally ; but, in others, in my wander- 
 ing, desultory life, for instance, what is my 
 
 duty? I may avoid evil perhaps but 
 
 what good can I do ?" 
 
 " I know so little of life," said Isabel, 
 " that I am not able to answer you, but I am 
 sure that you could do some good. If you 
 ever go to Ellerton again, ask my aunt, or 
 Mr. Grey, and they will answer you to your 
 full satisfaction." 
 
 " And who is Mr. Grey ?" 
 
 Here Mrs. Denison carried off the ladies to 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 When the gentlemen came up, Charles 
 Denison sate down by Isabel. " What on 
 earth were you . talking to Clarence about at 
 dinner? I tried three several times to make 
 you look at Mr. Conway, eating, first, jelly, 
 then cheese, and then ice, with his knife — I 
 believe the very same knife, carefully pre- 
 served — but all in vain. If I may be per- 
 mitted to ask, what was the subject of that 
 interesting discourse ?"
 
 i44 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " It is no use for me to tell you, Uncle 
 Charles," said Isabel, smiling, " for you say 
 you never think." 
 
 " Oh ! it was moralizing and metaphysics, 
 was it ? — I thought as much. Do you like 
 Clarence, Isabel ?" he said, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 " Yes, very much indeed," she answered, 
 without a blush and with the most fearless 
 openness. 
 
 " Well, he is a very nice fellow, I must say. 
 Some people call him handsome, but I can't 
 understand that. That young preacher at El- 
 lerton was a handsome man, Isabel — that's 
 my style. Which do you think the best look- 
 ing of the two ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Grey, no doubt. I never saw 
 anybody like him. But I don't agree with 
 you, Uncle Charles," she continued, with the 
 same open manner ; ** I think Lord Clarence 
 very good-looking, too." 
 
 At her uncle's question, a feeling shot 
 through Isabel's mind, one of those strange, 
 vague, unpleasant sensations which we have
 
 OF LIFE. 145 
 
 scarcely time to lay hold of before they pass 
 and are gone. If, however, it was a momen- 
 tary effort of conscience to awake her from 
 her blindness, it was, as is too often the case, 
 fruitless, for her answer not only allayed any 
 suspicion which might have arisen, but excited 
 a feeling of complacency and self-approbation, 
 which of all things is the most effectual bar 
 to the oppositions of conscience. 
 
 It must not be supposed that any of these 
 thoughts or feelings passed consciously through 
 Isabel's mind ; it was one of those strange in- 
 ternal processes which occupy but an instant, 
 and which pass unnoticed at the time, but 
 which are often remembered afterwards, and, 
 if remembered, serve to remind us that we did 
 not fall into temptation without some warning, 
 however little heeded by ourselves. 
 
 Her open manner saved her from another 
 warning, which would probably have been 
 more effectual. Charles Denison had intended 
 to teaze his niece about Clarence, as a young 
 uncle might think himself privileged to do, 
 but the result of his short conversation made 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 him think it unnecessary. He was wrong, 
 however, in the inference he drew from her 
 ready confession of liking Clarence. He did 
 not consider that it must be conscious love 
 which would make a shiness about it. When 
 love comes in a more subtle form, the fearless 
 confidence, the undisguised preference, be- 
 comes at once the danger and the symptom of 
 the danger.
 
 OF LIFE. 147 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 True, gentle love is like the summer dew, 
 
 Which falls around when all is still and hush, 
 
 And falls unseen, until its bright drops strew 
 
 With odours, herb and flower, and bank and bush. 
 Allan Cunningham. 
 
 But what can love, even the highest love, say more ? 
 
 What it would say I know not, but I can guess what it 
 would feel. It is a quicker pulsation in the veins of friend- 
 ship; it is the higher life " 
 
 The Neighbours. 
 
 The London season was drawing to a close; 
 Isabel's intimacy with Lord Clarence had in- 
 creased every day; and with that intimacy 
 the blindness and delusion with respect to her 
 own feelings increased also. She still wrote 
 in unconscious innocence to Miss Shepherd. 
 She still thought of Herbert. He remained 
 shrined in her secret heart as a thing apart, 
 
 n 2
 
 148 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 and she did not remark how seldom that shrine 
 was visited where once all her thoughts had 
 delighted to dwell. She had little time to 
 remark it, little time to think ; it was not 
 that outwardly her dissipation had much in- 
 creased, but inwardly it had, — the excitement 
 of her mind never died aw^ay. And still Cla- 
 rence aided the delusion : through the whole 
 season, no lightest word of love had ever crossed 
 his lips. 
 
 One night he had dined with them, before 
 a ball. Isabel went up to dress immediately 
 after dinner, and came down, as she usually 
 did, to be ready to make her father's tea. She 
 found Clarence alone. 
 
 " Mr. Denison has just been called to speak 
 to somebody ; railway business, I think. He 
 begged you would make tea, and said he 
 should soon be back." 
 
 She made the tea, and then sate down at 
 the table where Clarence had been seated. 
 
 '' Why did you look so surprised at dinner 
 to-day, when I said that Miss Forester was 
 going to be married?" asked Lord Clarence.
 
 OF LIFE. 149 
 
 *' I wished so much to ask you the reason why, 
 but I waited.'* 
 
 " I was not surprised at her marrying — 
 only at her marrying Mr. Graves." 
 
 " But why ? Mr. Graves is a very good 
 sort of man, above the average, I should say, 
 a good deal." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it was not that, but it was only 
 about three weeks ago that she was quite 
 laughing at the idea ! She said there were 
 particular reasons why she and Mr. Graves 
 should be great friends, but that they were 
 nothing more." 
 
 ** I believe she spoke truly," said Clarence. 
 " He was a friend of her brother's, and was 
 with him when he died abroad. They have 
 only just thought of marriage. But that is 
 the commonest- of all delusions," he said, smi- 
 ling, " that of being only great friends." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that men an<l 
 women can't be friends ?" said Isabel, with a 
 look of surprise. 
 
 *' No, I don't mean to say that ; but I know 
 that I have sometimes remarked myself, and I
 
 150 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 have very often heard the remark made, that 
 great friendships usually end in love, on one 
 side, or on both. I can understand it," he 
 continued ; " such persons begin only with 
 friendship, but every day they grow to know 
 more and more of each other, probably to 
 know each other thoroughly ; their tastes and 
 pursuits, too, generally are the same ; for it 
 is necessary in friendship, though not in love : 
 and suddenly, some day, friendship ends and 
 love begins." 
 
 '' But not the highest kind of love," said 
 Isabel. 
 
 *^ No, not the highest, but, I believe, the 
 happiest; the course of such true love more 
 often runs smooth; and then the chances of 
 happiness in married life are greater; for 
 there must be such a thorough knowledge, 
 and dependence, and confidence, in each 
 other." 
 
 Isabel sate thoughtfully. Her fingers were 
 playing with some ornaments on the table, 
 and her eyes were fixed earnestly, and yet 
 vacantly, on the shapes and figures in which
 
 OF LIFE. 151 
 
 she placed them. She was thiiiking, not of 
 Clarence, but of Herbert. She was asking 
 herself, was not that the kind of love she felt 
 for him. " You seem to admire that kind of 
 love," she said, at last, without raising her 
 eyes. 
 
 For the first time it struck him that she 
 might be thinking of herself and of him. *' No, 
 I don't," he said ; " I only say it is happy. 
 I like a higher kind of love than that; but 
 then, the higher kind of love I can't but own 
 to be more dangerous also." 
 
 " Dangerous !" and Isabel lifted her eyes to 
 his face. 
 
 " Yes, dangerous. Is it not dangerous to 
 feel love growing to worship — to idolatry? 
 Is there not a danger," he said, with a smile, 
 but a grave one, " of forgetting the first great 
 commandment?" 
 
 Still Isabel sate thoughtful. How little 
 had it ever crossed her to fear that she loved 
 Herbert too much ! 
 
 ** Here is a description of something very 
 like worship or idolatry," continued Clarence,
 
 152 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 taking up a book from the table. *' I was 
 reading it when you came into the room. 
 Shall I read it to you?" and, with a low, 
 melodious voice, and expressive manner, he 
 read the following lines : — 
 
 Wouldst thou be mine, 
 I'd love thee with such love, thou canst not dream 
 How wide, how full, how deep — whose gracious beam 
 
 Should on thy pathway ever shine. 
 Wouldst thou be mine — I'd be 
 As father, mother, friend, to thee ; 
 Thou never shouldst, in thy new bliss, 
 Their old, their dear affection, miss ; 
 For I would love thee better still. 
 Soothe thee in sorrow, guard from ill. 
 Would cherish thee each passing hour, 
 As the sun cherishes the flower, 
 Whose ceaseless gladdening sunbeams play 
 Around it through the livelong day. 
 
 All this should be, wouldst thou 
 But be mine own, mine only love. 
 And every changing day should prove 
 
 How faithful my first vow. 
 
 Wert thou but mine — Oh ! could 
 My voice some tone persuasive take, 
 And in thy breast some answering passion wake, 
 Then it were well — were good — 
 All life were light — but now 
 My life is dark ; and thou, and thou —
 
 OF LIFE. 153 
 
 Is there no darkness in thy life ? 
 No loneliness, when pain and grief 
 Oppress thy tender, gentle heart ? 
 Couldst thou be mine, no sorrows' dart 
 Should deeply wound, for I'd be there. 
 And love the darkening clouds should clear, 
 Or make the very darkness shine 
 By love's dear power — wert thou but mine ! 
 
 The lines were only just finished when Mr. 
 and Mrs. Denison came into the room. Isabel 
 sate thoughtful still. What new and strange 
 sensations were those which thrilled through 
 her heart as he read ? Alas, she knew not ! 
 
 The cloud upon her brow made Clarence's 
 spirit bound with delight, and he said within 
 himself that the time of his probation should 
 be short. 
 
 h5
 
 154 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Thus gaze met gaze, 
 And heart saw heart translucid through the rays. 
 
 The New Tinion. 
 
 The last ball of the year was over. Isabel 
 stood, with Mrs. Denison, in the cloak-room, 
 while Clarence went for the carriage. A 
 young man approached her. 
 
 " Well, this is a sad night, Miss Denison ; 
 it's all over now. How sorry you must be !'* 
 
 " Yes, I am rather sorry; what I dislike 
 most is to say good-bye to so many people." 
 
 " It must be so much worse for women than 
 for men," continued the young man, compas- 
 sionately ; ** we have hunting and shooting to 
 look forward to, at any rate ; you have no- 
 thing till next year." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Isabel, smiling, " that
 
 OF LIFE. 155 
 
 you think so poorly of women as to suppose 
 they care for nothing but going out. I assure 
 you, I look forward, without much dread, to 
 the autumn." 
 
 " Are you going to visit, then ?" 
 
 " No, not that I know of; but really, Mr. 
 Erskine, I will not be thought so ill of. You 
 seem to think it is impossible that I can live 
 quietly at home." 
 
 " I dare say, then, you read a great deal, 
 or draw.... By the bye, did you tell Mrs. Deni- 
 son about the pictures ? My father says they 
 are very well worth seeing. Some pictures 
 for sale in London," he said, turning to Mrs. 
 Denison. " There is one picture so like Miss 
 Denison, you ought to go and see it. Do let 
 us go ; at any rate, it will be something to 
 do." 
 
 " Yes, do let us go," said Clarence, as he 
 joined them. *' Could you drive there at four 
 to-morrow, Emmeline ? Very well, I will 
 take you in my cab, if you like, Erskine." 
 
 It was a small collection of pictures ex- 
 hibited for a few days for sale — a good many
 
 156 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 of the few remaining people in London were 
 there. 
 
 Among other pictures by well-known ar- 
 tists, there was a Spanish Girl, by Murillo, 
 an mifinished sketch, which certainly, in the 
 eyes and smile, strongly resembled Isabel. 
 Several persons observed it, collected round, 
 and commented upon it. To escape from the 
 most unpleasant of all remarks — remarks on 
 one's eyes, and nose, and mouth, which seem 
 to turn every separate feature into a conscious 
 human being — Isabel retreated to a picture 
 at some distance, which had attracted her 
 attention on first going into the room. It 
 was a small head of the Virgin Mary by an 
 unknown, perhaps inferior artist ; but one of 
 the most beautiful ideals of perfect purity 
 that the mind could conceive. She stood for 
 some time before it. 
 
 ** Is it not beautiful?" she said at last, 
 turning to Clarence, who had joined her. '' It 
 does one good to look at it !" 
 
 She moved away a few steps, then returned 
 again. " I should like to have that always
 
 OF LIFE. 157 
 
 near me. I think, if I was restless, or ex- 
 cited, or unhappy, it would always have the 
 power to calm and comfort me." She sighed 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " Why do you sigh, Miss Denison ?" asked 
 Clarence, anxiously. " You are not unhappy, 
 surely ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! not unhappy ; but those eyes 
 made me feel sad. They seem to reprove me 
 for the dissipated life I have been leading of 
 late. Still I like to look at it, and am sorry 
 to leave it. Though it reproves, it is a re- 
 proof that pleases me." 
 
 That evening, Isabel dined out. When she 
 went up to bed, on her return home, the first 
 thing she saw, hanging in her room, was the 
 picture which had so much attracted her 
 attention. For an instant, an undefined fear 
 shot through her mind, but only for an in- 
 stant ; the next moment she quietly remarked 
 to herself, '' I am sure it must be Lord Clar- 
 ence — how very, very kind of him !" 
 
 Again she stood before the picture, and a 
 strange sadness stole over her mind as she
 
 158 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 gazed. There was something in the holy look 
 of the eyes and the brow, which reminded her 
 of Herbert, and, calm and pure as they were, 
 they seemed to fall upon her reproachfully. 
 " I cannot think what is the matter with me 
 to-day," she said, at last, turning from it, and 
 trying to rouse herself from her thoughtful 
 mood. '' I could almost believe that I felt a 
 presentiment of evil." 
 
 The following afternoon Isabel and Mrs. 
 Denison walked, as was often the case, in 
 Kensington Gardens. As they came out, they 
 were joined by Lord Clarence, and another 
 young man, who were riding, and who had dis- 
 mounted on seeing their carriage, and they 
 walked together to the place where the car- 
 riage stood. Clarence placed himself by Isabel. 
 She instantly began to thank him, in the most 
 earnest manner, for his kindness in sending 
 her the picture. 
 
 " Pray, don't thank me," he said ; " you 
 would not think it necessary, if you knew how 
 selfish a pleasure it had been to me." 
 
 Something in his voice and manner startled
 
 OF LIFE. 159 
 
 her ; what, she could not tell, but her heart beat 
 within her. Her eyes were beginning to open. 
 Strange power of a tone, a mere cadence, to 
 reveal long-hidden, undreamt-of secrets ! 
 
 " There was another picture there, which 
 I bought," he continued, after a moment, as 
 if he was carried on to speak — " for myself. 
 Miss Denison." 
 
 With a quick, involuntary movement Isabel 
 raised her eyes, and they met those of Lord 
 Clarence fixed upon her with an expression 
 that could not easily be misunderstood. Nor 
 did she fail to read it aright. She turned 
 away her head. 
 
 " Will you not ask me what my choice 
 could be, or do you know it too w^ell ?" — he 
 bent forward as he spoke. 
 
 She was silent : her heart beat violently, and 
 a deep blush rose to her cheek, but a smile 
 played round her lips, and Clarence saw it. 
 He loved her ; this was the only thought that 
 thrilled through her mind, and it was a thrill 
 of rapture. Clarence loved her — Herbert was 
 forgotten. They reached the carriage, and.
 
 160 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 without a word, she jumped in, and hastily 
 pulled down her veil. 
 
 " My dear Isabel, Lord Vernon has spoken 
 to you twice," said Mrs. Denison. 
 
 She leaned forward, with a murmured apo- 
 logy. 
 
 '* I only said I was afraid you were very 
 hot," said the unfortunate youth, thus com- 
 pelled to repeat his civility a third time. He 
 might well say so, her very brow was flushed 
 with emotion. 
 
 They drove home in silence. Mrs. Denison 
 was the kindest of women, the kindest of cha- 
 perons. She never intruded her advice, never 
 sought a confidence that was not willingly 
 given ; never spoke if silence was preferred, 
 but was always willing either to speak, or to 
 listen, or to advise. She did not, perhaps, 
 thoroughly understand Isabel's character, but 
 they had never had a moment's discomfort, 
 and this was no light praise, for there were 
 times when Mr. Denison's admiration for his 
 daughter, and apparent preference for her 
 society, gave her many a secret pang.
 
 OF LIFE. 161 
 
 They drove along in silence. Isabel was in 
 a trance. Not one thought, yet, of Herbert. 
 But when they reached the house, and she 
 had flown up to her room, the holy eyes of 
 Clarence's picture fell upon her, and at once 
 Herbert stood before her, with his sad, re- 
 proachful gaze. 
 
 Joy was passed — sorrow and remorse had 
 begun. 
 
 Oh ! how this spring of love resembleth 
 The uncertain glory of an April day, 
 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away !
 
 162 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 • The star of the unconquered will, 
 He rises in my breast, 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 And stern, and self-possessed. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 To describe the feelings of that hour were 
 impossible. From the revelation of her own 
 heart in sickening anguish Isabel turned away. 
 She, who had so admired all that was great 
 and noble ; she, who had so often and so 
 loudly condemned falsehood and inconstancy, 
 who had so remembered, so mourned over her 
 father's sin ; she it was who had prepared 
 this bitter cup for him who loved her so de- 
 votedly ! There was no mistake — all now 
 was as clear as day — she loved Clarence, and 
 Clarence only. 
 
 Every thought that could aggravate her
 
 OF LIFE. 163 
 
 guilt now presented itself to her awakened 
 conscience. She thought how it was in ab- 
 sence, when none was there to plead for him, 
 that her faithless memory had forgotten Her- 
 bert. She remembered how she had chosen 
 one bright, and rich, and gay, and noble, 
 while he was far away in his humble, but most 
 holy duties. She remembered how she was 
 poisoning anew the life which before now a 
 woman's falsehood had embittered — and then 
 she thought of his care for her, of his pro- 
 viding for her against this very temptation ! 
 Thought upon thought arose, till she seemed 
 to herself a creature dyed with the blackest 
 guilt, and in cold and silent despair she laid 
 her aching head upon the table. 
 
 In vain Annie endeavoured to arouse her 
 young mistress,, when the dressing-hour came. 
 She merely shook her head, and remained 
 immoveable. At last, the appearance of Mrs. 
 Denison, whom Annie, alarmed at Isabel's 
 pale cheek, had summoned, recalled her to the 
 necessity of self-command ; and, pleading a 
 violent headache — and her temples throbbed
 
 164 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 indeed almost to bursting — she begged to be 
 allowed to go to bed, instead of dining out. 
 
 In the quietness of the hours thus gained, 
 she revolved the whole of the last year of her 
 excited life. Every scene lived again ; almost 
 every word spoken by Herbert or Clarence 
 came again to her memory, and in shame and 
 anguish she found, that for many, many weeks, 
 Clarence had filled every thought and feeling 
 of her heart. 
 
 The hours of that long night passed at 
 length; the stern self-examination was con- 
 cluded ; and the morning found her pale, calm, 
 sad, and resolved. 
 
 She went down to breakfast, as usual. If 
 Mr. and Mrs. Denison suspected anything 
 from the agitation of the previous day, they 
 left it to its own course. They were too 
 anxious for an event which they thought must 
 ensure Isabel's perfect happiness, to disturb, 
 or, as is perhaps often the case, destroy it, by 
 any premature remark or inquiry. To her 
 answer of *' Much better — almost quite well," 
 Mrs. Denison replied by shaking her head.
 
 OF LIFE. 165 
 
 '^ I hope you are better, dear Isabel, for 
 you seemed to be in great pain last night, but 
 those pale cheeks don't look like quite well. 
 You must consent to stay at home to-day. I 
 am obliged to go to the Horticultural Gardens 
 about those plants for the Grove, but I will 
 get my cousin to go with me." 
 
 Isabel was too happy to acquiesce. 
 
 Mrs. Denison went out immediately after 
 luncheon. ** I shall leave word that Clarence 
 may come up, if he calls," she said, as she 
 left the room, bending over some china as she 
 spoke. " He dined at Colonel Wood's last 
 night, and said he should call early this after- 
 noon, and at the moment I forgot all about 
 the Gardens. Your father said he might dine 
 here, if he was disengaged ; will you ask him ? 
 I think he is suye to come." 
 
 To make quite sure, Isabel repeated the 
 order to the servant. She now only longed 
 to have their meeting over. Her sense of 
 wretchedness, however, prevented the tcaithiff 
 from being insupportable. She was cold and 
 calm in her despair; and, having given the
 
 166 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 order, she took some flowers into the inner 
 drawing-room, and proceeded to pass the time, 
 by arranging them in fanciful patterns in a 
 large flower-basket. 
 
 She was so occupied, when there came the 
 quick knock at the door, and the light rapid 
 step on the stairs, which she knew so well, 
 and Clarence was in the room. 
 
 He came hastily forward, and took her 
 hand. The blood mounted for an instant to 
 her temples, then died away again, and she 
 resumed her occupation. He came towards 
 the table where she stood, and placed himself 
 at her side. 
 
 " Isabel," he said at last. 
 
 Again her colour rose and died away, and 
 her fingers moved nervously among the flowers, 
 but she was silent. 
 
 " Isabel," he said again, in an earnest, im- 
 ploring tone, and attempted, but very gently, 
 to take her hand. It was hastily withdrawn. 
 
 " Are you offended with me?" he said, '* or 
 do you refuse to understand me, and must I 
 in plain terms say, ' I love you, Isabel?' "
 
 OF LIFE. 167 
 
 Her fingers ceased from their employment ; 
 she leant her two hands on the table ; but still 
 she was silent. 
 
 ** Why so silent, dearest Isabel ?" he said, 
 gently, for he thought it was agitation that 
 overpowered her ; *' one word, one look even, 
 is enough. Only tell me that I — that you 
 will be mine, if indeed I can be so blest." 
 
 Her utterance came at last. " No, Lord 
 Clarence — no, that cannot be !" She paused, 
 then went hurriedly on. '* I loved another, I 
 was engaged to another, long before I knew 
 you. Forgive me, for I am very miserable !" 
 and she clasped her hands together with a 
 look of despair. 
 
 There was a dead silence. Clarence moved 
 from her side ; and, with his arms folded, and 
 his brows knit, leant against the wall. He 
 had been so secure, even the doubts and fears 
 common to almost every lover's mind had 
 scarcely been his ; for he had read her love 
 again and again in her speaking eyes ; and the 
 prosperous course of his attachment had pre- 
 vented his feeling, in its fulness, until this
 
 168 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 moment, how every fibre of his heart was en- 
 twined round this idol of his affections. The 
 hours of anxiety and sorrow reveal what joy 
 could never tell. 
 
 There was a long silence. Clarence did 
 not speak — did not even look at her. With 
 her clasped, imploring hands, the agitated girl 
 approached him, stood before him; and, in a 
 hurried, excited manner, told him of her 
 engagement — of her freedom. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed," she concluded, " I never 
 thought you loved me — never, never, till 
 yesterday. We were such friends, I never 
 thought of more till then. Then I saw — then 
 I was guilty — then it was such joy, that I 
 forgot all but that you loved me, and I was 
 guilty to you — guilty to Herbert !" And she 
 covered her face with her hands. 
 
 " I don't understand you," said Clarence, 
 withdrawing almost roughly her hands from 
 her eyes. '* Who is it — which of us is it that 
 you love?" 
 
 " You, Lord Clarence, you !" she said, the 
 words bursting from her lips, before she was
 
 OF LIFE. 169 
 
 aware of what she did. Then, as the blood 
 which flushed her cheek died away, she con- 
 tinued, in a sad but calm and firm voice : 
 '' But it is past : I must not, cannot be your 
 wife." 
 
 Again there was a silence, and Isabel re- 
 turned to her place, and began again nervously 
 to play with the flowers. Suddenly Clarence 
 came towards her, and his manner was 
 changed. 
 
 " Are you not deceiving yourself as to your 
 duty, Isabel?" he said, and the tone of his 
 sadness was more melodious, more persuasive 
 than ever his voice had been in its joy. " God 
 knows I feel for Herbert Grey ; but, if you 
 love me, is not my right greater than his ?" 
 She shook her head. " Love is a sacred thing," 
 he continued, yet more earnestly, " and cannot 
 be commanded. Herbert Grey himself will 
 not be satisfied with half your heart. Shall 
 we not all then be wretched ? Oh, Isabel ! 
 why have you drawn me towards you, only to 
 cast me away again ? Why have you shown 
 me your nobleness, and your goodness, and 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 your purity, only to make my life more deso- 
 late?" 
 
 *' Nobleness, goodness!...." she repeated, in 
 a voice so full of shame and sorrow that the 
 tears started into Clarence's eyes. 
 
 " Yes, I said it, and I say so still — the best, 
 the brightest, the purest." Then, as self rose 
 again, he burst forth, ^* Oh, Isabel ! if you 
 love me, you cannot make me so wretched ! 
 You have said you loved me — will you break 
 my heart ?" 
 
 " I am resolved," she said, almost sternly; 
 for she feared that her strength was yielding 
 to his misery ; then, as her heart smote her 
 for the words, " Oh, Lord Clarence !" she ex- 
 claimed, " forgive me !" and she held out her 
 hand to him. 
 
 " You do not know what love is," he said, 
 rudely. For an instant he held the hand she 
 gave him, then hastily dropped it, and hurried 
 away. 
 
 She made no effort to recall him ; but, sit- 
 ting down where he had left her, laid her head 
 upon her hands.
 
 OF LIFE. 171 
 
 " Isabel," said a voice, low and sad, beside 
 her. She started up. " I am come again, 
 Isabel, because I would not part from you 
 thus. I cannot judge what you have done. 
 I may have been harsh ; but you must forgive 
 me, for I know not what I do ; only, Isabel, 
 we are parting, perhaps, for ever, and I would 
 not 0^0 in anfjer. Wherever I am — wherever 
 I go — I never, never can forget you, Isabel, 
 dearest Isabel !" 
 
 " Go !" she repeated, with ready alarm, 
 catching at his words ; " where are you going ? 
 what do you mean to do ?" 
 
 ** I cannot tell — I cannot think now. God 
 bless you, Isabel ! You shall hear from me, 
 unless .... unless I hear from you. Is there 
 no hope?" He fixed his eyes fondly, anxiously, 
 earnestly, on her face ; those clear blue eyes, so 
 bright in joy, so mournful now, as if to read 
 some sifjn of relentin^:. 
 
 But, slowly and resolutely closing her eyes, 
 to shut out that imploring gaze, she shook her 
 head. 
 
 He wrung her hand, and was gone. 
 
 I 2 .
 
 1 72 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Oh ! star of strength, I see thee stand, 
 
 And smile upon my pain ; 
 Thou heckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 
 And I am strong again. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 The slow days passed away. The weariness 
 and desolation of sorrow came over Isabel's 
 heart ; but she had motives for concealment, 
 and she tried, to the uttermost, to be as ^ay 
 as she had lately been. If she did not succeed, 
 it created no uneasiness. Mr. and Mrs. Deni- 
 son watched her anxiously, but not fearfully ; 
 they confidently expected that their wishes 
 for her were about to be fulfilled. 
 
 One evening, about five days after her inter- 
 view with Clarence, as she came home from a 
 dinner to which she had dragged her weary 
 body and wearier mind, a letter was put into
 
 OF LIFE. 173 
 
 her hands ; she hurried with it to her room — 
 at any rate, she should hear from Clarence 
 once more. She had begun to dread that he 
 would go without a word or sign. The letter 
 was as follows : — 
 
 Dover Street, Tuesday, 
 I said you should hear from me again,' 
 when my plans were arranged. They are 
 settled now. I am going far, far away. Do 
 not think me rash. I have thought much — I 
 have not done it hastily ; but so it must be. 
 I know what life was before I knew you, 
 Isabel — how wearisome, how insipid — I know 
 what it will be now, when I have known 
 and lost you — what — I dare not think. I 
 cannot bear it. Sir William Seymour has 
 offered to take me on his staff to India. We 
 sail on Saturday. Again, I say, do not think 
 me rash, or selfish. This is no new idea; 
 once or twice before now I have been on tlie 
 point of going there. God bless you, dearest 
 Isabel ! May I once more call you so ? For- 
 give me, if I was harsh or violent ; I did not
 
 174 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 — 1 do not blame you. I have been too pre- 
 sumptuous ; I had not a doubt — not a fear — 
 I thought our hearts were clear as day to each 
 other — it was a bright dream ; but it is passed 
 — I was unworthy of such happiness. 
 
 I try to think of you, happy with another; 
 but I cannot do it. Forgive me, Isabel .... 
 [Here followed some lines carefully scratched 
 out.] 
 
 I would not give you pain — I would con- 
 ceal from you how miserable I am ; but I am 
 selfish, and I must have you know, Isabel, how 
 I have loved you, and how my heart is broken 
 — unless .... sometimes I have wild visions 
 that you will relent — that you will recall me 
 — that we shall be happy — happier than ever! 
 If it were so — but no .... I scarcely know 
 what I say. God bless you, dearest Isabel ! 
 I shall not forget you in that far land to which 
 
 I am going. 
 
 Clarence Broke. 
 
 She pressed her hand to her eyes — to her 
 heart — after reading this letter; then sate 
 down to answer it.
 
 OF LIFE. 175 
 
 I must not stop — I must not think — I 
 hardly know now what is right, for I am very 
 weak ; but I feel I must not change — must 
 not even tell you how wretched I am, except 
 that wretchedness of knowing that you are 
 unhappy. I think I must have done right, 
 for I am very miserable. God bless you, 
 Clarence ! Take care of yourself — I may not 
 say for my sake — but take care of yourself; 
 and. ...I trust you may be happy. Forgive me, 
 
 Isabel Denison. 
 
 When Isabel went down to breakfast the 
 following morning, Mr. Denison was standing 
 in the window, with a letter in his hand, and 
 his brow was clouded as if in anger. After a 
 time, he sate down to breakfast, and again 
 read the letter • before he laid it beside him. 
 He glanced at Isabel. 
 
 *^ What is this sudden fancy of Clarence's 
 going to India?" he said, looking earnestly 
 at her. " Do you know anything of it, 
 Isabel?" 
 
 " He told me he was going," she murmured,
 
 176 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 with a quivering lip, and her pale cheek grew 
 scarlet. 
 
 The anger passed from her father's brow, 
 though the gravity remained. He saw that 
 his child was suffering — it was enough. They 
 finished breakfast almost in silence. When it 
 was over, Isabel wandered listlessly to the 
 w^indow, and stood there, in silent, painful 
 thought. Mr. Denison joined her. He looked 
 very grave. 
 
 *' What is this, Isabel? Clarence is going. 
 Why is it — is it your doing ?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " Answer me, Isabel — I desire it." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! in a few days I will tell you 
 everything, if you will but trust me for a few- 
 days. I believe — I am almost sure — I am 
 doing right. Will you trust me?" 
 
 " But then Clarence will be gone." She 
 was silent. " Answer me only this, Isabel. 
 Does Clarence love you, and do you love him, 
 my child?" 
 
 She attempted to answer, but the words 
 died away. " Oh, papa ! pray trust me," she
 
 OF LIFE. 177 
 
 said, imploringly, and the earnest look of her 
 beautiful eyes few could resist. Mr. Denison 
 could not. 
 
 " I suppose I must let you have your own 
 way," he said, reluctantly ; " but remember 
 this, my dear child, there is no remorse so 
 great as that of wounding the heart that loves 
 you." He spoke as if from his soul. 
 
 " I know it, papa," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 Mr. Denison looked anxiously at her down- 
 cast and troubled countenance, but it be- 
 trayed nothing more. He was at all times 
 a great enemy to interference; he hated it 
 from others in his own concerns, and on this 
 subject, at least, he acted on the rule — " Do 
 unto others as you would have them do to 
 you ;" and, though angry, mortified, and dis- 
 appointed, he thought it best to leave it for 
 the present. 
 
 " I have had a letter from Clarence this 
 morning; you may read it if you please;" and, 
 as he turned away, he placed it in her hands. 
 She took it to her own room. 
 
 In this letter lie merely told Mr. Denison 
 
 i5
 
 178 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 of his intention to go to India, saying it would 
 be disagreeable to him to remain in England. 
 " I am afraid," he concluded, '* that the re- 
 signation of my seat in Parliament will be a 
 disappointment to ray father. I leave it there- 
 fore in your hands, with a request that you 
 will tell him of it, and arrange about my re- 
 signation when I am gone. I suppose it cannot 
 be till Parliament meets. I leave an address 
 to my constituents with you, which I now en- 
 close. I have arranged with my Cousin Her- 
 vey Broke, to stand, unless my brother should 
 change his mind. My majority was so great 
 that I think there will be no contest ; but, if 
 there should be, I have plenty of money to 
 assist in it. Hervey is very glad to stand, and 
 he is very popular. All my intentions are 
 secret. I sail on Saturday, and go down to- 
 night to my father ; but I shall only tell 
 him that I am going abroad. I leave every- 
 thing in your hands." 
 
 Isabel laid down the letter with an oppres- 
 sion of heart such as she had not yet felt. It 
 seemed as if she was bringing sorrow and dis-
 
 OF LIFE. 179 
 
 appointment on all the world, and wild 
 thoughts of change, of relenting, recalling, 
 floated through her mind. There arose visions 
 of herself as Clarence's happy wife, and Her- 
 bert was forgotten. She raised her eyes, 
 bright and flashing, with the thought, and 
 again they rested on the pure and holy brow 
 of the picture, which hung opposite to the 
 place where she was sitting. With a feeling 
 of superstitious fear, she got up and stood 
 before it ; and with her gaze fixed on those 
 serious, but serene eyes, she returned to the 
 thought which but a moment before had 
 made her happy. But their power was fading. 
 Was it possible that she could thus forsake 
 Herbert, and become Clarence's bright and 
 happy wife ? Shuddering, she shrunk from 
 the thought. ' No, when Clarence was gone, 
 she would go to him, she would tell him all, 
 and then.... 
 
 " And thou," she said, mentally addressing 
 the picture as if it were a living being, " hast 
 thou known sorrow and care ? Was that 
 serene brow ever troubled with anguish? Were
 
 180 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 the depths of those pure eyes ever agitated 
 with earthly passions ? Didst thou ever feel 
 as we feel, and is it thy faith and thy love 
 that causes thee to triumph thus?..." As 
 she gazed, the unutterable calmness seemed to 
 sink into her own soul, and the temptation 
 passed away. 
 
 Nearly a week was gone, and Isabel had 
 heard no more. A calmer sorrow had suc- 
 ceeded to the agitation of her spirit, — a hope 
 which the young often feel had arisen, that 
 something, some unforeseen event, would oc- 
 cur, to make them all happy — that it was 
 unnatural to be so very miserable — that all 
 w^ould still turn out well. 
 
 In this mood of mind, wliich had been 
 growing up for some days, she went down one 
 morning to breakfast. Mrs. Denison was read- 
 ing a letter as she went into the room, and 
 her eyes were full of tears. After a moment 
 she gave it to Mr. Denison, who laid it by his 
 side. A cold chill struck on Isabel's heart, a 
 vague terror came over her mind, but she sate 
 down quietly as usual, and attempted to eat.
 
 OF LIFE. 181 
 
 Mr. Denisou spoke once or twice, but a 
 weight seemed to lie upon the hearts of all. 
 When breakfast was almost over, he got up, 
 and laid the letter open before Isabel ; it was 
 dated, 
 
 The Amazon, Portsmouth, Monday, 
 Half-past four. 
 
 We are just off, but I could not leave 
 England without thanking you and Emmeline 
 a thousand, thousand times, for all your kind- 
 ness to me. I have been very happy with you 
 all, and I shall not easily forget it. It was 
 more than I deserved, more than I am ever 
 likely to meet with again. God bless you all ! 
 
 Clarence Broke. 
 
 The letter lay there before her, but tears 
 so blinded her' eyes that she scarcely could 
 read a line. Clarence was gone — actually 
 irone, — that was all she saw. She bent her 
 head over the table to conceal her face, to 
 gain time to master the emotion of her break- 
 ing heart ; but the excitement of over-wrought 
 feeling would not this once be controlled, and,
 
 182 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 suddenly starting up, she hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
 Mr. Denison shook his head, and put his 
 hand over his eyes. " I cannot understand it," 
 he said, at last. " You must go to her, Em- 
 meline, and see if you can make it out. I am 
 afraid I was wrong to leave her to herself." 
 
 Mrs. Denison softly opened the door of Isa- 
 bel's room, then stopped, pained, and shocked, 
 at the sight of her excessive sorrow. She was 
 one of those who rarely, very rarely shed tears, 
 and when " the waters of her heart's lone 
 awful world " did rise, the violence of their 
 agitation, the agony of their falling, was very 
 different from the calming effect of tears on 
 those who shed them easily and naturally. 
 To her they were 
 
 " Storm of the heart, from troubled fountain gushing, 
 
 Wild burning tear ; 
 From inward passion to the surface rushing. 
 
 Convulsive there, 
 Expressing all the stormy spirit's woe. 
 
 Working below." 
 
 She was now half sitting, half lying, on her
 
 OF LIFE. 183 
 
 bed, weeping as passionately as a child. She 
 did not hear the door open, did not see Mrs. 
 Denison till Emmeline stood close beside her 
 and gently touched her arm ; but at the sight 
 she was calm at once, and, humbled and 
 ashamed, stood up before her. 
 
 '' Don't look at me, don't think of me," 
 she said, imploringly ; '' don't tell papa that 
 you found me so unhappy. I will come down 
 to him directly, and confess to him every- 
 thing; will you go and tell him so? Dear 
 Mrs. Denison, don't think very ill of me for 
 this !" 
 
 " Why should I think ill of you, dear 
 Isabel ?" she said, gently ; " I only wish that 
 you would confide in me, and that I could 
 help you. It is not right, it is not kind, to 
 keep all your sorrow to yourself. I will not 
 stay now, I am sure you had rather be alone. 
 I only came from your father. AVill you 
 remember, dearest, how anxious he is about 
 you, and try not to make him unhappy ?" 
 
 '* I will come directly ; I will remember, 
 indeed, I will. I am afraid I am very selfish.
 
 184 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Oh, Herbert, Herbert !" she said, as Mrs. 
 Denison closed the door, going despairingly 
 towards the picture which was so entirely 
 associated with him in her mind, " if you 
 knew how wretched I am, I am sure you 
 would pity and forgive me !" 
 
 About half an hour afterwards, having 
 washed her face and smoothed her hair, and, 
 as far as she could, banished the traces of her 
 sorrow, she went down to her father's room. 
 Mr. Denison was walking up and down the 
 room, awaiting her, in apparently great per- 
 turbation of spirit. As she came in, he sate 
 down. She went and stood by a table near 
 him. 
 
 " Well, Isabel," he said, after a silence, 
 *' what is all this ? why is Clarence gone ?" 
 
 " I am come to tell you, papa," and she 
 stopped. 
 
 '' Won't you sit down, my dear child," he 
 said, more tenderly, as he saw how her limbs 
 trembled. 
 
 " No, thank you, papa, I had rather stand ; 
 I will tell you all directly. Last year, before
 
 OF LIFE. 185 
 
 you came to England, I made acquaintance 
 with Mr. Herbert Grey. After a time we 
 were engaged to be married, for I loved him, 
 or I thought I did." 
 
 " Who is Mr. Herbert Grey ?" asked her 
 father, without any comment, or expression of 
 surprise. 
 
 " I don't know exactly ; he is the son of 
 some General Grey, but I knew him as curate 
 of Ellerton." She paused, but Mr. Denison 
 made no further remark, and she went on 
 again. "When you sent for me, papa, he 
 released me from my engagement ; for, in- 
 deed, he is very good. He said you might 
 not approve — that I might change — that we 
 must be free — and we were free." Here she 
 came to a dead stop. 
 
 "And you have changed, Isabel? Is that 
 what you would say ? This does not surprise 
 me. But why, on earth," he continued, 
 rather impatiently, " being thus free, and pre- 
 ferring, as I suppose, Clarence to this Mr. 
 Grey — why, on earth, have you let Clarence 
 go?"
 
 186 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 '' Oh ! papa, I was free in word ; but was I, 
 could I be free in honour ? I told him," she 
 added, in a voice of shame and misery, '' that 
 it was impossible I could forget him, and 
 now...." 
 
 " And now you have forgotten him. This 
 does not seem to me very surprising — it could 
 hardly have been othevwise." 
 
 " But it should have been otherwise," she 
 said, eagerly. ** Oh ! papa, you do not know 
 Herbert Grey, how good, how noble he is I 
 He will not blame me — he will release me, 
 I know. This is what makes me doubly 
 wretched. If he did not love me so much as 
 to forget himself, I think I could bear it 
 better." 
 
 Mr. Denison was touched by her tone of 
 sorrow and remorse. " You do not wish to 
 marry Mr. Grey, then, my child ? Tell me 
 what you wish." 
 
 *' Oh ! no, papa, I could not marry him 
 
 now — every vow would be false unless he 
 
 commanded it," she added, after a moment's 
 pause ; " but he will not do that. Xo, it is
 
 OF LIFE. 187 
 
 easy now. Since Clarence is gone, I can go 
 to him with my misery, and tell him all." 
 
 Mr. Denison was a man of deep, and occa- 
 sionally, violent feeling ; hut the sufferings of 
 one like Isabel he did not understand. He could 
 not even imagine her sense of degradation, as 
 she thought of her broken faith, or the bitter- 
 ness of her ano-uish in the remembrance of all 
 the sorrow she had caused. He was touched, 
 however, by her looks of hopeless wretched- 
 ness, and a strange likeness to his own early 
 history affected him more than he was willing 
 to show. Her sacrifice, also, though he called 
 it romantic, though he w^ould himself have 
 been incapable of it, perhaps for that reason 
 he admired the more. He got up and walked 
 to the window, and stood there in deep 
 thought. 
 
 After a few minutes, Isabel approached 
 him. " Have I grieved you, too, papa ? I 
 think I can bear everything but that ; but I 
 cannot bear to grieve, to disappoint you." 
 
 " No, my child," he said, in a tone of great 
 affection, " you have not grieved me, ex-
 
 188 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 cept so far as I ana grieved to see you 
 unhappy." 
 
 *' And do you blame me, papa, very, very 
 much ?" 
 
 " No, Isabel — you have acted ' not wisely,' 
 perhaps," and he smiled slightly, *' ' but too 
 well ;' I mean, as regards this last part of the 
 business. For the other, you know better 
 than I do what you have done." She made 
 a movement as if her former conduct were past 
 reproach, past judgment. " Go now, my 
 child, and lie down... If I blame you, which 
 I have scarcely a right to do, believe me, I 
 feel for you more than I blame." He kissed 
 her aifectionately ; and, with a mind in some 
 degree calmed and relieved by her father's 
 kindness and her father's love, she left the 
 room.
 
 OF LIFE. 189 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 I am not what I was — the time's gone by, 
 When, bright and cloudless as the summer's sky, 
 
 My day of life began ; 
 "\Vhen all was music to my raptured ear, 
 And, bounding onward without grief or fear, 
 Eager my course I ran. 
 
 I am not what I was — the sense of youth. 
 And hope, and joyous feeling, and the truth 
 
 Of earth hath passed away ; 
 The heart that once throbbed high with health and life 
 Beats faint and wearied with the ceaseless strife 
 
 Which there has held its sway. 
 
 G. B. 
 
 With some Little difficulty, Isabel obtained 
 Mr. Denison's leave to go do^vn to Ellerton. 
 He dreaded the agitation for her excited 
 mind, but she urged her request so vehe- 
 mently that at last he gave way. 
 
 To see Herbert, however painful it might 
 be, herself — to tell him all, not by letter, but
 
 190 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 bj word; — this she felt would make the 
 whole difference, at the present time and in 
 future, both to herself and to him. 
 
 It was at the latter end of August that she 
 set out, with a heavy heart, upon her journey. 
 
 " You have a finer day for your journey 
 than we had, when we travelled together a 
 few months ago," said Charles Denison, as he 
 put her into the carriage. " May it have as 
 prosperous an end !" and he kindly pressed 
 her hand. He had received some inkling 
 from Mrs. Denison as to the cause of this 
 sudden visit to Ellerton. 
 
 Annie, who accompanied her young mis- 
 tress, was in a state of most violent excite- 
 ment, partly at returning with her grandeur 
 and her knowledge of the world to her native 
 village, but still more with curiosity to know 
 what the exact cause of this return could be. 
 
 Clarence's departure and Isabel's pale 
 cheeks had given rise, as might be expected, 
 to much interest and speculation on the part 
 of the servants ; but they had been unable to 
 come to any satisfactory conclusion, till
 
 OF LIFE. 191 
 
 Annie's hints of " such a handsome young 
 man" in the country, and this sudden journey 
 to Ellerton, began to throw some light on the 
 question. Even now, however, it was wrapt 
 in great darkness, for Isabel's appearance was 
 not much like that of a girl's happy return to 
 a happy lover ; and Annie's mind was bursting 
 into the desire to obtain some information. 
 She was in consequence very much disposed 
 to be communicative ; and Isabel, who rarely 
 checked her, found it difficult to check her 
 now. At last, saying, and most truly, that 
 she had a bad headache, she asked Annie if 
 she would like to read, and, handing her the 
 " Quarterly Review," which she had provided 
 for herself as a defence against her com- 
 panions' conversational powers, she threw 
 herself back ift the carriage, for the indul- 
 gence of her own sad thoughts. It might as 
 well have been Greek as English, so f;ir as 
 Annie's understanding was concerned ; but 
 she thought it rather grand to read it, and 
 turned over the pages for some time with great 
 interest. As they drew near to Ellerton,
 
 192 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 however, her excitement could no longer be 
 controlled. It was just dusk. Isabel had 
 left London late, in order to be late at 
 Ellerton, to escape curious eyes, and, still 
 more, to escape for one night the dreaded 
 meeting with Herbert. She was rather 
 troubled at the bright twilight which fol- 
 lowed, in the country, the glorious sunny day. 
 For the last few miles, Annie passed her time 
 in exclamations, assurances that they were 
 just there, and impatience at every fresh dis- 
 appointment. At last, after many failures, 
 her prophetic powers were justified — they 
 were just there. As they swept round a 
 corner, they came in sight of the tower of 
 the old church. 
 
 "And there's the pond and the willows, 
 miss !" said Annie, with a scream : " I declare 
 I remember it all as if it was yesterday." 
 
 " It would be strange indeed if you had 
 forgotten it," said Isabel, smiling. 
 
 " I don't know that, miss — it isn't every- 
 body who sees the world and comes back 
 unaltered to their native air."
 
 OF LIFE. 193 
 
 Isabel felt a strange rebuke in the words, 
 and was silent. 
 
 Annie popped her head out of the window. 
 " There's Mr. Grey, I do declare !" 
 
 The blood rushed violently to Isabel's heart 
 and to her cheeks. She had never even con- 
 templated such a meeting as this. " Oh ! no," 
 continued Annie, perfectly unconscious of the 
 pain her remarks had given, " I'm sure, I beg 
 Mr. Grey's pardon — it was the long legs as 
 misled me ; it's only young Mr. Cox, the 
 brewer." 
 
 At last, they drew up at the cottage door. 
 Isabel had given no hint even of the likelihood 
 of her visit. Attracted by the unusual sound, 
 Mrs. and Miss Shepherd came to the window ; 
 the next moment she was in their arms. 
 Miss Shepherd was silent from surprise and 
 joy ; and even Mrs. Shepherd could only ex- 
 claim, once or twice, with great fervour, 
 ** Bless me ! bless my soul !" 
 
 " Let me be alone with you this night," 
 said Isabel, as she saw Mrs. Shepherd's eyes 
 straining down the hill, as if they could pene- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 trate into Mr. Price's house ; " shall it not 
 be so, Aunt Rachel ?" 
 
 "Very well, my dear, that is just what I 
 feel myself, and I am very glad you feel it, 
 too ; for I was just thinking what a many 
 friends there are in Ellerton would be glad to 
 come up and drink tea with you to-night; 
 and no wonder, my dear, considering how 
 long it is since we've seen you. But, bless 
 me ! what do we stand here for ?" and she 
 led the way into the house. 
 
 " Ellerton is very lovely. Aunt Rachel," 
 said Isabel, turning again, as she stood in the 
 doorway, to gaze. 
 
 " Do you still think so, my dear child ?" 
 said her aunt ; and a smile of unusual bright- 
 ness passed over her face. 
 
 An hour afterwards, they sate at tea in the 
 little drawing-room. The familiar appearance 
 of her childhood's home, the loving eyes that 
 rested upon her face, the fresh, soft, perfumed 
 air of the country, which blew in at the open 
 trelliced window — all assisted to calm Isabel's 
 mind ; and, with the strange elastic power of
 
 OF LIFE. 195 
 
 youth, she seemed for the time to throw off 
 the weight of her sorrow, and entered with 
 amusement, if not with interest, into the news 
 of the place, which Mrs. Shepherd detailed for 
 her advantage. 
 
 " Well, my dear Charlotte was safely con- 
 fined this morning. You had not heard the 
 news, I suppose ? — no, how should you ? And 
 so she's got twins this time." 
 
 " Twins !" repeated Isabel, in horror. 
 
 *' Well, my dear, I was surprised too, when 
 first I heard of it. Not quite a year since 
 Sarah Jane was born; but we can't always 
 settle these things just as we please, and I 
 dare say it's for the best, as I tell Charlotte. 
 I was surprised, though, when she first men- 
 tioned it to me. I don't mean the twins ; of 
 course she did not mention that." 
 
 " I hope, at any rate, that they are little 
 boys," inquired Isabel. 
 
 " So I hoped, my dear, and so I expected ; 
 and I told Charlotte that it would be so — that 
 is, I thought there would be one boy ; I never 
 thought of the twins — that was quite a sur- 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 prise : but I was wrong, as I am sometimes — 
 two little girls ! Charlotte is very much 
 disappointed indeed, but Mr. Jones laughs 
 about it. He says he shall call them Silly 
 and Cherubs. I didn't quite understand why, 
 but he likes his joke." 
 
 " Scylla andCharibdis," said Rachel, smiling 
 quietly. 
 
 " All the other little things are quite well. 
 Amy says, every day, ' When will Isabel 
 come back to me?' She misses you very 
 much, my dear ; so we all do ; but no matter 
 about that now. Let me see — I suppose 
 Rachel told you that Elizabeth Chapman is 
 going to be married to young Mr. Franklin ?" 
 
 *' No, she didn't. Aunt Rachel very seldom 
 tells me any news ; but I'm very glad to hear 
 this. What does Miss Bridges say to it ?" 
 
 " I don't much think she likes it," said 
 Mrs. Shepherd, confidentially. " She said 
 that she thought Mr. Franklin had made a 
 bad choice — that Laura was much the sw^eeter 
 girl of the two. Now, my dear Elizabeth is 
 worth six of Laura, we think."
 
 OF LIFE. 197 
 
 " So do I," said Isabel, smiling ; " Laura is 
 the cleverest, but Elizabeth is a good girl." 
 
 ** Yes, my dear, exactly. I know you 
 always think as we do. How happy it makes 
 me to see you here again, quite unchanged !" 
 Isabel's brow clouded at once. ** Just the 
 same ; a little paler, perhaps ; but that may 
 be the heat. I felt it hot myself, when I was 
 in the sun." 
 
 " Did you expect to find me changed?" 
 asked Isabel, sadly.- 
 
 " No, my dear, I never thought you would 
 change. Rachel, sometimes, and Mr. Grey 
 once, did say that we must not be surprised 
 if you w^ere not quite the same ; but they will 
 see I was right, won't they, my dear ?" 
 
 Mrs. Shepherd did not wait for an answer, 
 and her eyes did not see the deep blush which 
 was the silent reply to her question. 
 
 When they went up to bed, Rachel followed 
 Isabel to her room, and, setting down her 
 candle on the table, approached her, and 
 looked anxiously in her face. 
 
 " I am not deceived, Isabel — you are not
 
 198 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 happy, dearest — tell me what is the matter 
 with you." 
 
 Isabel withdrew from the light, and, sitting 
 down in the window-seat, looked out into the 
 night. " I was going to you presently, Aunt 
 Rachel, to talk to you." She paused. '' Did 
 you then expect to find me changed?" she 
 asked, after a moment, in a faltering voice. 
 
 Rachel looked earnestly at her niece, and 
 a fear shot through her mind, bat she answered, 
 with her usual calm voice, ** No, my dear 
 Isabel. I thought it possible, but I did not, 
 I do not, expect it." 
 
 " But it is so. Aunt Rachel ! I am changed, 
 utterly changed. Oh, do not despise me !" 
 and, turning her head away, in a rapid man- 
 ner, she told her sad history. 
 
 Miss Shepherd was surprised and shocked ; 
 but, for the first time, her love for Isabel 
 made her seek for excuses before she unflinch- 
 ingly condemned error. 
 
 '' I think you are needlessly unhappy, 
 dearest. The world is often exciting and 
 dazzling at first, but with you, Isabel, it can-
 
 OF LIFE. 199 
 
 not be so for long. All this will pass away, and 
 then Herbert will be more to you than ever." 
 
 " No, Aunt Rachel," she said, shaking her 
 head, mournfully ; " that will not be — that 
 which I feel cannot pass away. It is not the 
 world that blinds me ; it is, that another, that 
 love for another, has taken away all my heart 
 from him." 
 
 ** But think how you once loved Herbert. 
 Surely, Isabel, the past cannot all be for- 
 gotten." 
 
 *' Forgotten ! no. Would that it could !" 
 She paused, then got up, and laid her hand on 
 Miss Shepherd's arm. For an instant she 
 raised her large melancholy eyes to her face, 
 then fixed them on the ground. 
 
 *' Hear me, Aunt Rachel," she said, almost 
 solemnly. "Ilove Lord Clarence as I never 
 loved Herbert : so different is the feelinor, that 
 I sometimes doubt if I ever loved Herbert at 
 all. When Herbert was with me, my thoughts 
 often wandered from him ; when he was ab- 
 sent, they were not always following him. 
 Now, sleeping or waking, alone, or with
 
 200 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 others, my thoughts are always with Clarence. 
 I often wished that Herbert had been other 
 than he was : often and often, when he was 
 grave, I wished he would smile, and be more 
 gay. Now, though I know that Clarence is 
 not perfect, he is perfect to me. Whatever 
 he says, or looks, or does, I would not have 
 him otherwise than he is. If Herbert had 
 left me, and had loved another, I should have 
 been indignant, proud, angry ; I should have 
 had power to be so. Now, if Clarence ever 
 should love another..." she paused, and closed 
 her eyes, and the sentence was not finished. 
 '* I sometimes think," she continued, and she 
 raised her eyes, and a crimson blush covered 
 her whole face, ^* that it is not love, but 
 idolatry." 
 
 "But Isabel, my child..." Miss Shepherd 
 began. 
 
 " I know what you would say," she inter- 
 rupted, in the same unusual, excited manner ; 
 " I know how wrong it is to feel, to speak, as 
 I do — you cannot blame me more than I blame 
 myself. It is not to boast of it that I have
 
 OF LIFE. 201 
 
 told you this, but only that you may know 
 that it is in vain to plead, in vain to speak — 
 it is impossible that I can love Herbert again. 
 I know how wrong it is," and her manner 
 changed to one of deep sadness ; " and now 
 the time is come to overcome it, and to suffer 
 for it ;" and, as she spoke, a single tear fell 
 slowly down her cheek. 
 
 Rachel made no remark — no reproach — 
 offered no advice. She sighed deeply, such a 
 sigh as persons of a calm, strong nature, who 
 have no experience in, who perhaps are not 
 capable of, the more violent emotions, heave 
 for those whom they behold suffering under 
 the mysterious agitations of passions unknown 
 to themselves. 
 
 At length she took up her candle, and 
 kissed Isabel with unusual tenderness. "Sleep, 
 ray dearest child," she said ; " I will pray for 
 you." 
 
 K 5
 
 202 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 None can deem harshlier of me than I deem. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Si tu savais comme je t'aime, 
 Bien sur toi-meme tu m'aimerais. 
 
 Romance. 
 
 Better trust all and be deceived, 
 
 And weep that trust, and that deceiving, 
 
 Than doubt one heart that, if believed. 
 Had blessed one's life with that believing. 
 
 Mrs. Butler. 
 
 Early on the following morning, Isabel sent 
 to announce her arrival to Herbert Grey, and 
 begged that he would come to see her at 
 twelve o'clock. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that the news of 
 her coming had reached him then for the first 
 time. He had heard of it the night before, 
 with wonder and instinctive fear ; but he 
 waited — he would not, by seeking her un-
 
 OF LIFE- 203 
 
 summoned, seem to remind her of the rights 
 which he had renounced. 
 
 She closed the shutters of the little drawing- 
 room, and sate down on the sofa to await 
 him. As the clock struck twelve, he was in 
 the room ; and, after a separation of nine 
 months, they who had parted, free indeed, 
 and yet as plighted, promised lovers, met 
 again. 
 
 Isabel got up to receive him, as he advanced 
 to take her hand ; but she made no step for- 
 ward — the hand he took on that burning 
 summer-day was cold as ice — it seemed to 
 chill him to the heart. He dropped it, and 
 sate down in silence at the table opposite to 
 her. The silence continued : what words of 
 common intercourse, what events of common 
 life, could interest hearts occupied like these ? 
 
 But, though in silence, Herbert perused the 
 pale and suffering countenance of her he loved 
 so truly ; and while the feelings he read there 
 made his own heart beat with fear and anguish, 
 his thought was only of her. 
 
 He spoke at last. ** You have come back
 
 204 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 to Ellerton in sorrow, dearest Isabel. Will 
 you not speak to me ? You are unhappy — 
 will you not let me comfort you ?" 
 
 The gentle, earnest tones of his voice thrilled 
 through her soul, and she could not answer 
 him — she could not break his heart. 
 
 He saw her increasing agitation; and though 
 every moment added to the turmoil in his 
 own breast — though the voice of selfish fear 
 called upon him louder and louder, still his 
 thought, his anxiety, was for her. He got up, 
 and sate on the sofa beside her. 
 
 " What is it, dearest Isabel ? Will you not 
 speak to me?" He paused. '* Do not fear; 
 I am prepared for everything you can tell 
 me." 
 
 " Are you prepared, Herbert," she said, 
 looking suddenly up — " are you prepared to 
 know that I am false, false — that I have for- 
 gotten you — that I love another ?" 
 
 The confession was made — she had forced 
 herself to meet the eyes of him whom she had 
 forsaken; now, burying her face in her hands, 
 she laid her head upon the table, while a sigh
 
 OF LIFE. 205 
 
 of mingled shame, anguish, and relief, burst 
 as from the depths of her heart. 
 
 There was a long silence. She was startled 
 by the sound of the door closing. She looked 
 up — Herbert was gone. 
 
 Prepared as he had thought himself for 
 this — for all things — though he had schooled 
 himself to believe that it might — that it would 
 be so ; yet how large a portion of hope is 
 there in what we call hopelessness ! He could 
 not now hear from her own lips that he was 
 forgotten — he could not sit beside her, and 
 feel that she was lost to him for ever, with- 
 out an agony which threatened to overmaster 
 him. But still it was of her he thought. 
 She should not know what her faithlessness 
 cost him — his uncontrollable anguish she 
 should not see — in solitude it should have its 
 sway — in solitude it should be conquered — 
 and then he would return and comfort her. 
 
 And truly it was well ; for had she seen 
 Herbert in the loneliness of his own room — 
 Herbert, strong, self-possessed, and holy as he 
 was, it must have broken her heart. Evil
 
 206 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 spirits, which long since he thought had left 
 him, never to return, came to him in that 
 hour — spirits of burning jealousy, hatred, and 
 revenge — repinings at his own hard fate — 
 doomed, as he seemed, to love so passionately, 
 and never to be loved ! — dark, doubting, de- 
 spairing thoughts of rebellion and distrust — 
 the worst, the dreariest attendants of the hours 
 of trial. 
 
 In solitude these enemies were met — in 
 solitude they were conquered. The storm 
 and tempest of passion past, and hope and 
 confidence came again — that all things, even 
 this last, most bitter cup, were ordered for 
 his good. 
 
 Almost immediately on leaving the cottage, 
 he had sent a note to Miss Shepherd, to beg 
 that Isabel might not be distressed about him. 
 He would not conceal from her, he said, that 
 it cost him a pang to resign her, which was 
 best struggled with alone; but that, in the 
 evening, he should be quite himself, and he 
 hoped he might come to her again, and assist 
 her, if it was in his power.
 
 OF LIFE. 207 
 
 Isabel sate in the same place, in the bright 
 twilight of that evening, awaiting Herbert's 
 return. The hours had passed — how she knew 
 not; she was too wretched even to think. 
 And again he stood before her, and, as he 
 took her hand, he smiled upon her. Though 
 he tried, however, to the uttermost, he could 
 not efface the marks which the struo^orles of 
 the day had left upon his face, and she shud- 
 dered as she saw the deadly paleness of his 
 cheek. 
 
 " Oh, Herbert ! why do you smile — why 
 do you look so kindly at me ? I should not 
 be so miserable if you would but reproach 
 me. 
 
 " I have nothing to reproach you with, 
 dearest Isabel. You chose me in comparative 
 solitude, when you had seen none but me ; I 
 knew it would be thus when you met with 
 others more worthy of you. I would have 
 made you happy — I must have made you 
 happy, if...." he paused, for he feared to say 
 anything that might wound her...." if I had 
 been allowed to do so ; but my best, my only
 
 208 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 wish is for your happiness. Selfish thoughts 
 will intrude ; but, believe me, dearest Isabel, 
 if you are happy, I shall be happy, too." 
 
 " I cannot bear this," said Isabel, rising 
 hastily from the place where she sate, and 
 walking to the window. " You make me feel 
 so utterly — utterly selfish !" 
 
 As she stood there, thoughts of yielding — 
 of sacrificing herself — passed quickly through 
 her mind. What sorrow in the world could 
 be greater than that which she felt in that 
 moment ! She threw open the window wider, 
 and gazed on the rays of lingering sunshine 
 still streaking the sky, while the evening air 
 blew calmly and freshly upon her face ; and, 
 as she gazed, a sunshine on the sea, and a 
 breeze from the ocean, came into her mind, 
 and Clarence... .Clarence. . . . 
 
 She walked back to the sofa. '* Oh ! Her- 
 bert !" she said, as she sate down again, with 
 an expression of hopeless sorrow, *' you do not 
 know how miserable I am." 
 
 He had not moved — he almost started now. 
 " If it is about me, Isabel, be miserable no
 
 OF LIFE. 209 
 
 more. If it is about another — will you not 
 tell me all, clearest ? I would assist you, or 
 I would comfort you. Will you tell me who is 
 so happy ?" he asked, in a voice which trembled 
 in spite of himself. 
 
 " No matter who ; he is not happy — he is 
 gone far, far away." 
 
 ** Gone !" and a flash of hope, sharp and 
 agonizing as despair, so wild, so short, its 
 gleam, shot through his breast. 
 
 " You did not think I had forsaken you, 
 and was going to marry another, Herbert? 
 No, whatever I may be, not so false, not so 
 heartless as that. No," she continued, rising 
 again, and standing before him ; " I do not 
 acknowledge myself to be free — bound to 
 you, Herbert, by every tie of honour and of 
 gratitude ; and yet it is to you yourself that 
 I come to confess my love for another, and to 
 ask you to forgive and to release me. Hear 
 me, Herbert, hear me," she continued, " I 
 love him, even as I think you love me. I am 
 in your hands — I will do whatever you com- 
 mand me." As she spoke, as if by an impulse
 
 210 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 she could not resist, with her arms crossed 
 and her head sunk, she knelt at his feet. 
 
 For a moment, he did not attempt to answer 
 her — he did not raise her from the ground ; 
 for a moment he pressed his hand to his 
 throbbing brow to still the tumult of his 
 thoughts ; for, in that hour of her faithlessness, 
 and even with the confession of it upon her 
 lips, he felt that she was dearer, far dearer 
 than ever. Then, in the dead silence of the 
 room, sweet and clear his answer came, and, 
 as it rose above her head, it sounded to her 
 ears as the voice of an angel. 
 
 " I thank you, Isabel, I thank you for your 
 confidence, your openness, your truth; the 
 world can never be dark to me, while such as 
 you inhabit it. You are free, if indeed you 
 wait my words to release you, and may God 
 give you happiness ! You have my forgive- 
 ness, dearest, though you need it not, for I 
 have nothing to forgive ; and, while life en- 
 dures," he continued, in a voice still clear, 
 though it began to tremble, " you shall have 
 my prayers and my blessing. Take it," he
 
 OF LIFE. 2 1 1 
 
 said, and, rising and gently laying his hand 
 upon her bended head, he spoke the words of 
 peace and blessing, which, before now, have 
 stilled many a tried and broken heart. 
 
 As he concluded, he turned to go abruptly, 
 for he felt as if a parting he could not endure. 
 But Isabel stopped him in the doorway. 
 
 " I will not detain you, Herbert," she said, 
 gently and humbly, '' only I would tell you — 
 I must tell you — how I thank you and bless 
 you." As she spoke, she took his burning 
 hand in her cold grasp. He cast upon her 
 one last long look, and was gone. As the door 
 closed, and the excitement passed, Isabel fell 
 lifeless on the ground. 
 
 Mrs. Shepherd and Rachel sate in the small 
 back room. Rachel had taken this opportu- 
 nity to break the change to her aunt, with an 
 unconscious tone of kindness and excuse for 
 Isabel ; and the communication made, she sate 
 in this anxious hour, hearing, but not listen- 
 ing to, the questions, exclamations, and re- 
 marks, which fell from the old lady.
 
 212 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 '* Bless me ! you don't say so ? Poor thing- ! 
 and is this the cause of her pale cheeks, and 
 her eyes, which make me sad to look at ? Bless 
 me, what a change ! I always knew how it 
 would be ; I never liked this London business, 
 I never did. What business had a fine young 
 man to make mischief in this way ? What will 
 Herbert do now ? Bless my soul, I suppose 
 I must call him Mr. Grey again ! He'll want 
 a wife sadly, after thinking he'd got one for so 
 long. Well-a-day ! I never thought of this !" 
 
 Rachel sate in deep thought. The blow 
 she had received from her child, her pupil, 
 was great indeed — but love for Isabel con- 
 quered in the struggle with the condemnation 
 of her weakness. Her thoughts were of the 
 disappointments of life — of the dangers of 
 the world. 
 
 The door slowly opened, and Herbert stood 
 in the entrance — so changed his face, it cut 
 Rachel to the soul. 
 
 " You had better go to Isabel, Miss Shep- 
 herd," he said, in a very low voice : " I am sure 
 she is very tired."
 
 OF LIFE. 213 
 
 He half turned to go, then silently came 
 back, and shook the hand of each. 
 
 " Bless me, if Herbert don't look just like 
 a ghost !" exclaimed Mrs. Shepherd, with tears 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Isabel ! I cannot forgive you !" cried 
 Rachel, as she hurried to her niece.
 
 214 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The nymph must lose her female friend, 
 If more admired than she. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 It was the morning after the meeting and 
 the parting of Herbert Grey and Isabel. 
 
 The two Miss Chapmans sate in the little 
 room fronting the street. Laura, as usual, 
 was leaning against the window. Elizabeth, 
 who, since her attachment and consequent 
 engagement to Mr. Franklin, a sensible young 
 man, had become much more discreet, was 
 working at the other end of the room. 
 
 After two or three comments on what was 
 passing in the street, Laura called to her 
 sister — 
 
 '* Here comes Matilda Bridges. I'll bet any
 
 OF LIFE. 215 
 
 money she comes to see if she can find out 
 anything about Miss Denison !" 
 
 Miss Bridges came hastily into the room. 
 She had a peculiarly noisy, bustling way of 
 walking. " How d'ye do, Laura ? — Good 
 morning, Elizabeth. Well, is there anything 
 to see?" As she joined Laura at the window, 
 " Have you seen Miss Denison yet ?" 
 
 " I said you came about that," remarked 
 Laura : '^ I knew you would be curious." 
 
 " Curious ? — why, yes, it is a very curious 
 proceeding, indeed. Here she has been away 
 for nearly a year, and suddenly down she 
 comes, shuts herself up in the cottage — no- 
 body is allowed to set eyes on her, and, as I 
 hear, she goes again to-morrow ! It is very 
 curious — and I can't say I like it, or under- 
 stand it." 
 
 " I see nothing to understand," observed 
 Elizabeth. " She came down to see her aunt, 
 and very properly." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! very dutiful, indeed ; but people 
 don't come down in this way on duty, at the 
 risk of sending their relations into fits."
 
 216 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " That's all nonsense, Matilda," said Laura : 
 " you know very well Miss Shepherd would 
 not go into a fit if we all lay down, and died 
 in her presence, — but I'm quite of your opi- 
 nion. Miss Denison came down on some other 
 business. Do you know, I think you were 
 wrong, after all: I suspect very much that there 
 is something going on with Mr. Grey." 
 
 " No, you don't say so ?" said Miss Bridges, 
 fidgeting. '^ What have you seen? — have 
 you heard anything ? — I always did say, you 
 know, that she tried to get hold of him, the 
 way she put her eyes up was quite shocking 
 to see." 
 
 ** There never was any doubt that Mr. 
 Grey paid attentions to Miss Denison," again 
 observed Elizabeth, perhaps not without a 
 secret pleasure in tormenting Miss Bridges. 
 
 The latter took no notice of the remark, 
 but again eagerly appealed to Laura for her 
 information. 
 
 " Oh, I didn't see much, but I'm quite sure 
 of this — Mr. Grey had a note from the cottage 
 early yesterday morning, for I saw the boy
 
 OF LIFE. 2 1 7 
 
 come down the hill with it, and Mr. Grey's 
 boy took it in. Well, later in the day, 1 was 
 just looking out again, and I saw Mr. Grey, 
 my goodness ! so white, and walking so quick, 
 come down the hill, and go into the house, 
 and then he shut the window of his room, 
 quite with a jar. I heard it here." 
 
 " Good gracious ! Laura, what can it all 
 be about ? I wish you had sent for me yester- 
 day : I'm sure I should have made out some- 
 thing. Have you seen Mr. Grey, to-day ?" 
 
 " No, though I have been watching all the 
 morning. He never once has opened his 
 window, though it is so hot, and I don't think 
 he can have gone out without my seeing him." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," said Miss Bridges, 
 after some thought. " Miss Denison has found 
 somebody else to' flirt with, and Mr. Grey has 
 heard of it. What do you think? — I never 
 thought she would be satisfied with one per- 
 son, with those eyes of hers, if she could have 
 more." 
 
 "Oh, good gracious, Elizabeth! — come 
 here !" screamed Laura, ** here is Miss Deni- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 son, herself, walking down the street with Miss 
 Shepherd. Come, and look." 
 
 Elizabeth was interested enough to go to 
 the window for an instant. There was, per- 
 haps, a little affectation of superiority to very 
 natural curiosity, in the single glance she 
 gave, and the immediate return to her work. 
 
 " Well, I never saw anything equal to this," 
 said Miss Bridges, ^' parading the streets of 
 Ellerton, in such a dress ! I suppose she thinks 
 we shall be envious of her finery." 
 
 " I can't say I see anything very fine," 
 said Laura, goodnaturedly. ** Miss Denison 
 was always fond of white, and a black scarf 
 and a straw bonnet is not so very grand. 
 What pretty green ribbons !" 
 
 " I didn't say she was fine, but she thinks 
 she is, marching along with her six flounces, 
 I do believe. I wouldn't have her think I was 
 looking at her, for the whole world !" And, 
 with a pang of virtuous self-denial, Miss 
 Bridges tore herself from the window. 
 
 '* My goodness, Elizabeth, she's coming 
 in !" screamed Laura. " Here, make haste —
 
 OF LIFE. 219 
 
 just settle my gown." In her agitated escape 
 from the window, she overset one table and 
 two chairs, while Miss Bridges trod on the 
 little dog's tail. 
 
 In compliance with her aunt's earnest re- 
 quest, Isabel had so far consented to avoid the 
 imputation of l^ing a fine lady, as to agree 
 to call on Mrs. Chapman, the principal inha- 
 bitant of the place, and to allow Mr. Price to 
 be invited to tea ; but it was an effort to her 
 greater than her aunt could imagine or under- 
 stand. They staid in Mrs. Chapman's house 
 only a few minutes, Isabel saying she was 
 hurried, as her stay was so short. When 
 they got up, and were just going, she went 
 to Elizabeth Chapman, and said a few kind 
 words of congratulation on her approaching 
 marriage ; and," as she wished her good bye, 
 slipped a little trinket into her hand. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Bridges, after they had 
 a little recovered from the excitement of the 
 visit, " if that is what London does, I only 
 thank my goodness that I'm not forced to go 
 there." 
 
 L 5
 
 990 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " Miss Denison does look ill," said Eliza- 
 beth ; ** but I thought her prettier than ever ; 
 she looks so gentle to-day, but how sad ! and 
 there was quite a rim of black round her eyes.'* 
 
 " Oh, she looks a perfect fright !" said 
 Miss Bridges, in a tone of great satisfaction. 
 " I'm glad I happened to be Jhere to see her. 
 As to being sad, I take it she's disappointed 
 at not finding a husband at all those parties 
 and balls which she's at night and day, as I 
 see in the papers, but she won't find husbands 
 as thick as blackberries, I can tell her. I 
 wouldn't marry Miss Denison for the whole 
 world !" and she cast up her hands and eyes 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " You would, though, to have such a pretty 
 thing as this ;" and Elizabeth held the little 
 trinket before her eyes. It was a turquoise 
 bird, with diamond eyes, which Isabel had 
 selected from among her many little jewels. 
 
 Miss Bridges and Laura were up in a mo- 
 ment. " Good gracious, Elizabeth ! where did 
 you get that ? what a sweet little thing ! Did 
 Miss Denison give you that ?"
 
 OF LIFE. 221 
 
 *' I must say, Matilda," said Laura, as she 
 twisted it about in her fingers, *' that this is 
 very goodnatured of Miss Denison." 
 
 " Oh, yes, very goodnatured indeed ! Miss 
 Denison knows when to Ije goodnatured — she 
 doesn't quite want brains. Think how fine 
 she felt coming down in this condescending 
 way to give a wedding gift to Elizabeth, 
 knowing well enough all the place would hear 
 of it. I only thank my goodness that I'm not 
 going to be married — it would have made me 
 quite sick to take anything from her!" and 
 her eyes fell enviously on the little sparkling 
 ornament. 
 
 " She wouldn't have given you anything if 
 you had been going to be married," remarked 
 Laura, coolly. '^ I don't think she ever liked 
 you," 
 
 " No, I dare say she did not," said Miss 
 Bridges, with extreme sharpness. " 1 should 
 have been surprised if she had. Miss Denison 
 doesn't quite want brains — I never could stand 
 her airs and her nonsense, and I showed it 
 pretty plainly. I'm not one of those who are
 
 222 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 taken in by every polite speech that is made 
 to them by women ! No," with a glance at 
 Elizabeth, " nor by men either." 
 
 " I suppose that's because you so seldom 
 have them," said Laura, in a very civil tone. 
 " They surprise you too much to believe 
 them." 
 
 The conversation of the young ladies was 
 growing interesting. Miss Bridges, with a 
 very red face, was gathering herself up to say 
 something unspeakably bitter, when Laura, 
 who had merely followed the whim of the 
 moment, and had no wish to quarrel, hurriedly 
 called her back to the window. 
 
 " Come quick, Matilda, quick. Mr. Grey 
 must be going out riding ; his horse is at the 
 door, and he never keeps it waiting." 
 
 Miss Bridges again trod on the poor little 
 dog in her hasty rush to the window, to see 
 Mr. Grey, after the interesting suspicions 
 excited by Laura's information. She was just 
 in time to see what was to be seen, which, 
 however, was nothing very unusual. Herbert 
 came out of the house, stood by his horse for
 
 OF LIFE. 223 
 
 a moment, and patted it, to which the animal 
 replied, by an affectionate glance, as it seemed, 
 into his face. Then, looking neither to the 
 right nor to the left, he got up and rode 
 away. 
 
 " Good gracious ! Well, I'm glad I've seen 
 him ! I wonder where he is going ? he does 
 look very white, to be sure ! At any rate, he 
 is not going to the cottage. Poor Miss 
 Denison ! I suppose she came out to look for 
 hiin. Well, good bye, Laura: I shall come 
 again to-morrow. Good bye, Elizabeth : I 
 hope, when I marry, that I shan't have to sit 
 so close to my work as you do. No, thank 
 you, no marriage for me, if it is to turn me 
 into a lady's maid !" And, hoping she had 
 said something uncomfortable. Miss Bridges 
 departed in restored good humour.
 
 224 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Each in his hidden sphere of joy and woe 
 Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart ; 
 Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow, 
 Hues of their own, fresh gathered from the heart. 
 
 The Christian Year. 
 
 In the autumn of this year, Mr. Denison 
 took his wife and daughter to spend the 
 winter in Italy. The health of Mrs. Denison, 
 which had been injured alike by the heat of 
 India and the cold of England, improved so 
 rapidly during their stay abroad, that Mr. 
 Denison determined to give her the benefit of 
 a farther trial of the air of the " sweet south." 
 Leaving her and Isabel in Switzerland, he 
 came himself to London, for attendance in 
 Parliament, and rejoined them towards the 
 end of July; and, after touring for a few 
 months in France and Germany, returned 
 ao^ain to Rome for the winter.
 
 OF LIFE. 225 
 
 It was late in the spring of the year follow- 
 ing that they came to England for good. A 
 few days after their arrival, the following 
 correspondence passed between Isabel and 
 Miss Shepherd, 
 
 Grosvenor Square, 
 May 27. 
 
 My dearest Aunt Rachel, 
 We arrived in London on Saturday even- 
 ing, after a very long journey, and a very 
 rough passage. Mrs. Denison, however, does 
 not seem to be the least tired, and you know 
 that I never feel weary, or any thing of the 
 kind. You cannot think how much Mrs. 
 Denison's health is improved ; so our long 
 stay abroad has not been quite useless. I 
 suppose I ought' to think that we are improved 
 in many ways. We certainly are very clever 
 now, and Mrs. Denison and I talk Italian and 
 German in the most beautiful style. And 
 Annie, too — I think you would laugli to hear 
 her French conversation. She has managed 
 to pick up a good deal of something, though
 
 226 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 I am not quite sure if the French would own 
 it for their lano^uat^e. 
 
 London is looking just the same as it did 
 two years ago. I took a long walk with papa, 
 yesterday evening, and we met a great many 
 old friends. Everybody seems to be so full of 
 life and enjoyment. I do not know why it 
 struck me so much, but I could not help 
 wondering what was passing in the minds of 
 those who seemed so gay and careless. 
 
 I hope, dear Aunt Rachel, soon to go 
 down to Ellerton, but just at present papa 
 wants me to assist him in arrano^inof the books 
 and pictures, and numberless pretty things 
 which he has brought from Italy, so I shall 
 not propose my visit for a week or two. You 
 cannot think what papa's kindness to me has 
 been. I often wonder how it is that I have 
 such a happiness, when I deserve so very, 
 very little. 
 
 " And now, Aunt Rachel, I must ask you 
 to tell me something about Mr. Grey. You 
 have never mentioned him since he left 
 Ellerton, and then your letter made me very
 
 OF LIFE. 227 
 
 sad. I have been hoping, for a year or more, 
 that you would soon say something to cheer 
 me — but whether it would cheer me or not, 
 will you tell me exactly what you think, for 
 you must have seen him, or heard of him. 
 Pray do, for I am anxious and fanciful some- 
 times, and our fancies are always worse than 
 the truth, whatever that may be. 
 
 Give my very best love to Mrs. Shepherd. 
 I have some china ornaments for her glass 
 cupboard, which I hope are curious enough 
 even to suit her taste ; but I must wait till I 
 can go myself to arrange them for her. 
 
 God bless you, dear Aunt Rachel ! pray 
 write to me soon. 
 
 Your most affectionate, 
 
 Isabel Denison. 
 
 Ellerton, May the 29th, 
 
 My dearest Isabel, 
 
 It made me very happy to see the 
 date of your letter from London, again. I 
 have not much opportunity of seeing you when 
 you are in England, but still I felt that Italy
 
 228 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 was very far away. I hope you are not hold- 
 ing out a vain hope of soon being able to come 
 down to Ellerton. 
 
 I fancy that you too are glad to be in Eng- 
 land again. I hope you are well, dear Isabel, 
 but it strikes me that you write sadly. I was 
 looking at your letter of yesterday, compared 
 with one I had from you about this time two 
 years ago. They are very different ; and yet, 
 dear Isabel, I think you are too young to be 
 so much changed. I am not fond of the dis- 
 sipations of the world, and yet I could almost 
 be glad to hear that you were taking some 
 pleasure in them. You are too young to be 
 sad, my dear child : it is a bad thing to let 
 melancholy grow into a habit — it unfits us 
 for the daily duties of our life. Do think of 
 this, and try to enjoy your health and strength, 
 and many blessings. 
 
 You reproach me for being silent about 
 Herbert. The fact is, dear Isabel, I very 
 
 seldom hear of him. He has been at D 
 
 for above a year, and until now I have never 
 seen and rarely heard of him during all that
 
 OF LIFE. 229 
 
 time. Mr. Price says he is a very bad cor- 
 respondent. This last week, however, he has 
 been here for a few days, and I saw him both 
 yesterday and the day before. He sate with 
 us for about half an hour. You ask me so 
 earnestly to tell you whatever I know about 
 him, that I will tell you exactly what I think, 
 though perhaps it may give you pain. The 
 first day that he came to see us, he was rather 
 silent — I think he felt being in that room 
 ao'ain after so lonof an absence. He never 
 mentioned your name but once, and that was 
 to inquire where you now were, and even that 
 seemed to be an effort to him. When I said 
 that you we^e either come, or just coming to 
 England, he became more silent still, and very 
 soon went away. Yesterday he talked rather 
 more, and gave us some account of the state 
 of his parish. My aunt questioned him about 
 his house, and he said it was a nice one. 
 You know she is not always very discreet in 
 what she says, so she advised him to give a 
 mistress to his house, or made some remark 
 of that kind. He seemed quite to shudder,
 
 230 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 and a moment after he turned to me with 
 SQch a sad smile, and said, '* I am constantly 
 preaching submission and contentment, but I 
 find it hard to practise." I understood him, 
 dear Isabel, and I am afraid you must make 
 up your mind to let him love you still. You 
 know I never was romantic, but when I look 
 at Herbert Grey, I feel that it is impossible 
 that he should change, or even forget. You 
 cannot reproach me now, for I have told you 
 all that I know myself. I am afraid that it 
 may give you pain, but I hardly fancy that 
 you expected he would have forgotten you. 
 He went to-day to spend a week or two with 
 
 his father, and then goes bacl^ to D , 
 
 where he says he has a great deal to do. 
 
 I was very glad to hear such a good account 
 of Mrs. Denison's health. I can hardly fancy 
 Annie speaking French ; but she was always 
 a quick little girl when she was in the school 
 here. Her mother is longing to see her. My 
 aunt sends her usual long list of messages, 
 with an addition this time of gratitude for 
 your remembrance of her. She spent half an
 
 OF LIFE. 231 
 
 hour at the glass cupboard this morning, 
 planning a new arrangement of her china; 
 but she says it is quite useless, she knows, as 
 you will be sure not to like her taste. 
 God bless you, my dearest child ! 
 
 Your most affectionate aunt, 
 Rachel C. Shepherd. 
 
 Mr. Price begs me to give his love to you, 
 and is very angry, as I was obliged to own that 
 I had not told you much news. He desires 
 me to say that he has got a new curate at 
 last. Mr. Bennett is a very good young man, 
 I believe, but he is very different from Her- 
 bert. The young ladies are excited again, I 
 think, judging by Mrs. Chapman's window ; 
 but Mr. Bennett is not handsome, I am happy 
 to say. Mrs. Franklin has a son, and is doing 
 very well.
 
 232 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 In climes full of sunshine, though splendid their dyes, 
 
 Yet faint is the odour the flowers shed about ; 
 'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own weeping skies 
 
 That call the rich spirit of fragrancy out. 
 So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth. 
 
 But 'tis only in grief true affection appears. 
 And e'en though to smiles it may first owe its birth, 
 
 The full soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 We must follow Clarence Broke to India. 
 
 During the dreary monotony of the long sea 
 voyage he first fully realized all his loss, all the 
 intensity of his passion for Isabel. He had 
 known before how deeply he loved her — at 
 her first words of doubt, he had felt it; but, 
 in the excitement that preceded his departure 
 from England, he had more felt that he was 
 wretched than realized the actual loss he had
 
 OF LIFE. 233 
 
 sustained— the void in his heart — the void in 
 his future life. Now, in the calmer but drea- 
 rier sorrow of these long, unemployed days, 
 he went over in his mind the past, recalling it 
 in all its brightness, and tried to look into the 
 future, — but from the latter his spirit shrunk. 
 It was not now that he felt, for the first time, 
 the weariness of his aimless life, but it came 
 back upon him with redoubled force. He had 
 in the last few months found love, sympathy, 
 his very brightest ideal of purity and noble- 
 ness; and suddenly he was alone again, and he 
 recoiled from his loneliness. 
 
 For his love for Isabel had been love indeed : 
 not such as he had felt before — the passing 
 fancy of a boyish heart — but a love founded 
 less on her surpassing loveliness, and the charm 
 and grace of her manner and conversation, 
 than on the truth and beauty of her mind. It 
 was this that made the bitterest stinor of his 
 grief. It was not only that the fair idol he 
 had set up was shattered — it was not only 
 that the prize, which he thought he had but to 
 extend his hand to take, was wrenched from
 
 234 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 his grasp, but he seemed to be cast back upon 
 the waters of life, which never had satisfied 
 the thirst of his soul, to be tossed on them 
 again without an end, without an aim. 
 
 Even in his earliest youth, aspirations after 
 a higher and better life than that he led had 
 floated before him — and they had all been 
 realized in Isabel. She made him feel all the 
 beauty of virtue, and, of late, visions of a 
 career of duty and usefulness — which have an 
 especial charm when first presented to those 
 who, with an active mind, have led an idle, 
 objectless life — were continually present to 
 him; and their brightness who can doubt, 
 when it was her angel smile and angel voice 
 which were to guide him along the way ? And 
 now, all w^as over. 
 
 These were the thoughts — this was the 
 concluding reflection — which, day by day, oc- 
 cupied and saddened his mind, as he stood, 
 in the heat of noon and in the silence of night, 
 alone upon the deck, his eyes resting, with a 
 kind of dull satisfaction, on the unbroken ex- 
 panse of water around him.
 
 OF LIFE. 235 
 
 It was not now that a hope, however faint 
 and distant, awoke in his mind, bnt there were 
 times, even now, when he said within himself 
 that he would become more worthy of Isabel. 
 There were times when he remembered her 
 words — that the dreariest life has the power to 
 live for a better object than its own passing 
 pleasure ; and though he still would ask him- 
 self, " How, in my wandering, desultory life, 
 is duty to be found ?" the thoughts were not 
 altogether profitless. They gave, at least, 
 the hope of some day bearing a better fruit, 
 and winning a more lasting home in his heart. 
 
 There were those among his young compa- 
 nions on board, who wondered at the lonely 
 habits and joyless brow of the once radiant 
 Clarence ; and almost scornfully inquired why, 
 in a lot apparently so bright and so cloudless, 
 he could not be as light-hearted as them- 
 selves. But his melancholy was no 
 
 " Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes." 
 
 When we have set our heart on any object, 
 whatever that object may be, we make it a
 
 2.16 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 portion of ourselves, and it requires a painful 
 wrench to separate from it ; and this pain is 
 tenfold increased when the judgment approves 
 what the affections have made their own. No- 
 thing is so easy as to marvel at the sorrows of 
 others; nothing so difficult as to submit to 
 them when they touch ourselves. 
 
 On Clarence's arrival in India, his intense 
 desire for active service was gratified. His 
 energy, his quickness, his restless and disin- 
 terested wish for employment, for its own 
 sake, soon brought him into notice, and he 
 was entrusted with missions of more than or- 
 dinary importance. 
 
 He was gratified more than onoe by being 
 appointed to head detachments, sent far up 
 into the wildest parts of the country ; and, on 
 these occasions, in the hard and often danger- 
 ous life he led, compelled to think, to be ever 
 watchful, to depend on the strength of his 
 own mind and the readiness of his observa- 
 tion, for the preservation of tlie many lives 
 entrusted to him, his character deepened, 
 strengthened, and was purified. x^Lud day by
 
 OF LIFE. 587 
 
 day did he become more worthy of the hap- 
 piness he had lost, when he lost his hope of 
 Isabel. 
 
 From her his thoughts never wandered. 
 As time passed on, and no tidings reached 
 him of her marriage, a faint hope dawned 
 again, and coloured with a hue of its own 
 brightness the severity of the life he led. 
 
 Two years passed away, and he never heard 
 of her — never even saw her name mentioned. 
 He was often, for weeks together, without 
 either letters or newspapers ; but when, from 
 his active duty, he returned again to the habi- 
 tations of men — he would devour the records 
 of fashionable life in London, spell over whole 
 columns of uninteresting names, in the hope 
 of one mention of her, but always in vain. 
 Mr. Denison wrote to him twice on business, 
 gave Emmeline's love, but was silent as to his 
 daughter. 
 
 The cause of Clarence's absence was un- 
 known to his numerous acquaintance; and, if 
 they had any guesses on the subject, they did 
 but make them avoid more scrupulously any
 
 238 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 mention of Isabel's name in their occasional 
 communications with him ; and Clarence, too, 
 was silent. He had not confided his attach- 
 ment to any one when in England — he made 
 no inquiries now. 
 
 But hope dawned again. This hope was 
 founded partly on the simple fact that her 
 marriage had never, to his knowledge, been 
 announced ; partly upon a confidence that Her- 
 bert Grey's character was too noble to take her 
 hand without her heart; partly on the one 
 confession of love which burst from Isabel's 
 lips. At times, this hope seemed a strong 
 foundation to build upon ; at times, weak as 
 water. But still, strong or weak, it was a 
 hope ; and, during the latter part of his stay 
 in India, a hope continually present to his 
 mind. 
 
 '* And, oh, Isabel !" he would sometimes 
 say, " I am not altogether unworthy of you ! 
 Never, in thought even, have I been unfaith- 
 ful to your memory." 
 
 ^' Perhaps," once his heart suggested, " it 
 is because my constancy has not been tried ;"
 
 OF LIFE. 239 
 
 and immediately his restless spirit longed that 
 a temptation might come to him in his present 
 life. 
 
 These details have doubtless been tedious, 
 but they are necessary. 
 
 In the winter of the third year of his stay 
 in India, his desire to know his fate became 
 suddenly too intense to bear ; and, to the 
 great regret of all, high and low, he resigned 
 his appointment, and engaged a cabin in the 
 vessel that sailed for England early in Feb- 
 ruary. His going was, however, delayed for 
 a few weeks by an incident which affected 
 hira deeply at the time, and was not without 
 its effect afterwards. 
 
 A few days before he sailed for England, 
 he was riding with a young man to whom he 
 was much attached, in a lonely, mountainous 
 path. Suddenly, the horse of his friend 
 stumbled, and he was thrown with violence to 
 the ground. When Clarence raised him, he 
 was insensible. With much fatigue, he carried 
 him to a herdsman's hut, at some distance, and
 
 240 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 there, after a few hours of pain, and before 
 help could be obtained, the young man ex- 
 pired. In an interval of consciousness, before 
 his death, he told Clarence of his engagement 
 to a young girl at Calcutta, to whom he was 
 to have been married the following month, 
 and with her to have returned to England. 
 He implored Clarence to go to her himself, 
 and break the news of his death ; and, pro- 
 vided she and her mother were willing to go 
 with him, he entrusted them to his charge, to 
 convey to England and to London. 
 
 To Mrs. Hervey, the mother of the girl, 
 Clarence went on first reaching Calcutta. 
 She was the widow of an oflBcer who had died 
 in India; and, as the engagement of her 
 child was her only tie to that country, she 
 willingly consented to proceed, under Cla- 
 rence's charge, to England. To the daughter, 
 EUinor Hervey, Clarence, with the utmost 
 kindness and feeling, broke the news of her 
 lover's sad and sudden death. The sorrow of 
 the poor girl was painful to see ; it was, as 
 some French writer says, ^' Taut de larmes
 
 OF LIFE. 241 
 
 que 7ne7'veille ;" and, unaccustomed to a cha- 
 racter as soft and tender as Ellinor's, Clarence 
 was deeply touched by the multitude of her 
 tears, and her utter self-abandonment to 
 sorrow. 
 
 Day after day he returned to console her ; 
 and, even before their departure for England, 
 his efforts were, in some degree, crowned with 
 success. 
 
 VOL. r. M
 
 242 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 I must not call her case a broken heart ; 
 Nor dare I take upon me to maintain 
 That hearts once broken never heal again. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 It was the middle of March before they 
 embarked for England. The hurry of starting 
 was of great use to Ellinor ; it cured the ner- 
 vous part of her sorrow ; and, before many 
 days, she was able to bear, with tolerable 
 cheerfulness, a part in the common events and 
 common conversation which vary the monotony 
 of a long sea-voyage. She and Clarence were 
 necessarily much together. He considered her 
 as his own peculiar and sacred charge ; and, 
 however engaged in his own occupations, or 
 more interesting meditations, he never could 
 see a pensive look on her brow without flying 
 to her side, and remaining there till his efforts 
 had chased the cloud away.
 
 OF LIFE. 243 
 
 He was much assisted in diverting her mind 
 by an old man on board, who took a great 
 fancy to her pretty face and soft, gentle 
 manners. Mr. Rushbrook was an English 
 Indian merchant, with a rosy face and a good- 
 humoured smile ; and, if the term might be 
 applied rather to warmth and expansiveness 
 than depth, he might have merited Mrs. Skew- 
 ton's favourite eulogium of being ** all heart." 
 His first passion in life was to make acquaint- 
 ances ; and, when he had made them, to love 
 them and serve them to the utmost of his power. 
 His next passion was to make his many ac- 
 quaintances acquainted with each other, and 
 to try and persuade them also to love with the 
 warmth and unselfishness of his own nature. 
 As may be supposed, in this latter passion, he 
 met with frequent disappointments. The 
 sunshine of his open-hearted manners, how- 
 ever, diffused a great warmth over the society 
 on board the Victoria. 
 
 Clarence and Ellinor, Mr. Rushbrook de- 
 lighted in seeing together; not, as might be 
 imagined, with any views of love and marriage 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 (he had other projects for Ellinor in his head), 
 but simply because " it was such a pleasure 
 for young people to be friends." Every evening 
 at sunset, he would retire to a distant part of 
 the deck with Ellinor, and, calling Clarence 
 to follow, would insist on his reading to them 
 volume after volume of sentimental poetry, 
 drawn from a pocket capacious as his heart. 
 And Clarence, seeing that Ellinor's soft blue 
 eyes brightened at the very mention of their 
 evening's employment, invariably complied 
 without a murmur. 
 
 Ellinor Hervey's was no uncommon cha- 
 racter. The whole occupation of her life was 
 to love ; her whole pleasure, to be loved. The 
 latter was only a pleasure — the former was a 
 necessity of her nature. She could not stand 
 alone— she was forced to cling to another. 
 Aofain and ao^ain the rocks on which she 
 leaned might be torn from her, and her heart 
 mio'ht be scarred with the wounds of continual 
 disappointment; but still, while she lived, she 
 would find it necessary to her very existence 
 to love. When such a disposition is joined to
 
 OF LIFE. !^4o 
 
 Strong principle, and, in any degree, strength 
 of mind, it is not, perhaps, a faultless, but a 
 very pleasing character; but, when it stands 
 alone, the reigning and governing influence, 
 it is, to say the least, dangerous ; and such was 
 Ellinor's case. 
 
 Dangerous, however, as such a character 
 may be, it is not without its peculiar charm 
 and attraction — especially to the old, or to 
 those who, having passed in disappointment 
 the first flush of their youth, are old in mind. 
 The ready sympathy, the instant yielding to 
 the lightest word of kindness — these are 
 charms which those who have suffered from 
 the hardness of the world are ever ready to 
 appreciate. There was also, at this time, 
 from the late influence of sorrow, a hiirher 
 tone than was .usual to her in Ellinor's mind ; 
 and she was, in consequence, a more interest- 
 ing companion than in other scenes she might 
 have been. 
 
 The time went by quick from its very mo- 
 notony, and they drew near to England. 
 One night, Clarence had stood, for up-
 
 246 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 wards of an hour, with his arms crossed, 
 gazing on the starry sky, and the reflection of 
 the stars in the sea. It was a moonlight 
 night ; and the air, calm, and fresh, and beau- 
 tiful, had tempted many of the passengers 
 upon deck. Clarence was roused from his 
 reverie by the soft voice of EUinor Hervey. 
 
 " Are you fond of looking at the stars, Lord 
 Clarence ?" 
 
 " Very fond indeed," he answered, without 
 in the least knowing what she said, for his 
 thoughts were far away. 
 
 *' And do you understand them ? I mean, 
 do you know one star from another ?" 
 
 " Oh ! the stars ! — No, I don't know much 
 about them ; but I like to watch them. They 
 are very superstitious about the stars in India, 
 and I have caught the feeling, in some de- 
 gree. I often wonder which is the star of my 
 destiny." 
 
 " I have heard," said Ellinor, " it is thought 
 that every one has a peculiar star." 
 
 *' Yes, and one of their ideas is, that, if 
 a person is doomed to die, the star of his
 
 OF LIFE. 247 
 
 destiny is visible to every eye except his own. 
 I heard a pretty story on that subject in 
 India; — shall I tell it you ?" 
 
 " 0, yes !" said Ellinor, eagerly. 
 
 " Two brothers, the one come to manhood, 
 the other a boy many years younger, were 
 walking together in the garden of their own 
 home, on the eve of the day on which the 
 elder brother was to sail for India. 
 
 *' Though their ages were so different, 
 there had always been a peculiarly strong 
 attachment between the two. 
 
 " As they walked along, the elder brother 
 pointed to a bright star, and said — 
 
 " ' That is my favourite star ; when I am 
 gone, when we are in far different coun- 
 tries, let us watch that star ; our eyes may, 
 perhaps, rest upon it at the same moment.' 
 The boy promised, and they parted. 
 
 " Many years afterwards, the younger bro- 
 ther joined the elder in India. It was a time 
 of war; and, a few days after their meeting, 
 the regiment to which the two brothers be- 
 longed was ordered to the attack of some
 
 248 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 dangerous place. On the eve of the engage- 
 ment, thej walked again together in the 
 bright moonlight. 
 
 " * There is your star,' said the younger 
 one ; * I never forgot my promise, whenever 
 it was visible.' 
 
 "The elder brother looked up into the 
 heavens. * Yes,' he said, ^ it was my favou- 
 rite star ; but there is a brighter one here, 
 that I have often watched;' and he pointed 
 to a brilliant star shining above their heads ; 
 but the boy could not see it. 
 
 " ' See there,' said the elder brother, with 
 excited eagerness — for the superstition flashed 
 upon his memory — ' it is straight above your 
 head — the brightest star in all the heavens.' 
 
 " But the boy looked in vain. 
 
 *' The next night, he was numbered 
 amongst the dead." 
 
 *' How very, very pretty !" said Ellinor, 
 gently, *' but how sad ! I think that in 
 future I shall always be afraid of pointing to 
 a beautiful star." 
 
 " Don't be afraid with me," said Clarence,
 
 OF LIFE. 249 
 
 smiling. In a more melancholy tone, he 
 added, "If you would choose me a bright 
 star for the star of my destiny, I should be 
 very grateful ; but, remember, it must be a 
 bright one." 
 
 " Your destiny is sure to be a bright one. 
 Lord Clarence." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " It seems to me," continued Ellinor, " that 
 everybody is unhappy when they are young ; 
 and they think, for a time, that happiness 
 never can come again ; but it does come." 
 
 " Do you think it will come ?" he said, turn- 
 ing eagerly towards her. Then, ashamed of 
 the folly of his question, h^ changed its ap- 
 plication from his own case to hers. ** You 
 think," he asked, gently, and with a kind 
 interest, " that' you can be happy again ?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, slowly ; " you, Lord 
 Clarence, have taught me that it is possible." 
 
 He thought she alluded to the advice he 
 many times had given her ; advice whicli, 
 the preacher felt, he had not practised in his 
 own case ; and, kindly saying he was glad 
 
 m5
 
 250 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 to have been of use to her, he left her. But 
 afterwards the words recurred to his mind 
 with another meaning ; and, though he re- 
 jected the thought as impossible, still the 
 fear returned again and again, that, while he 
 had been thinking only of comforting her, he 
 had suffered himself to gain her affections. 
 
 The following day, as they sate on deck 
 for their evening reading, Clarence looked 
 through the volume handed to him by Mr. 
 Rushbrook, and selected a trifling, common- 
 place poem, called " Eternal Constancy." 
 The tone and feeling, however, with which he 
 read, gave, as was usually the case, some 
 beauty to the verses. It ended thus : — 
 
 The night of sorrow darkly closed 
 
 Upon his summer's radiant beam, 
 And there, through life, the cloud reposed — 
 
 He had no further dream. 
 
 In vain was beauty's dazzling light, 
 The charm of gentler smiles in vain ; 
 
 Her form stood ever in his sight — 
 He never loved again. 
 
 EUinor was silent as he concluded. 
 
 " Now, that is all very fine," said Mr.
 
 OF LIFE. 251 
 
 Rushbrook, " very beautiful poetry, but only 
 poetry. * Never loved again !' why, what a 
 life the man must have led ! What does 
 Lord Byron say ? ' Man was not formed to 
 live alone ;' and a higher authority says, ' It 
 is not good for man to be alone.' We must 
 love, we must cling to something." 
 
 *' True," said Clarence, and he too was silent. 
 
 " Can you find some verses that take Mr. 
 Rushbrook's view?" said Ellinor, gently, and 
 without raising her eyes from the ground. 
 
 The volume was composed of a selection 
 from many authors ; and Clarence, after some 
 moments' search, read the following lines : — 
 « • « « 
 
 She had come forth, saddened, but calm again, 
 To mingle with her kind — the time was past 
 
 When earth's illusions could o'ercloud her brain, 
 Dizzy with its attractions. The wild blast. 
 
 That rent the fabric of her early dream. 
 
 Had left its shadows on earth's brightest gleam. 
 
 • • « • • 
 
 She had not dreamed of love — she deemed 'twas past, 
 
 Her day of love ; — ^yet, as a sudden blast 
 
 Will sweep the silent barpstrings till they wake. 
 
 So was her spirit touched, and, ere she knew, it spake.
 
 952 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 His eye was bright, and hers was dark and sad ; 
 
 Soft were her tones and slow — his voice was glad ; 
 
 Ardent in youth and health, and full of life 
 
 And hope was he. Her heart was crushed with grief: 
 
 And yet, 'twas strange, they loved. Deeper than eye 
 
 could see, 
 Their souls had some untold, undreamt-of sympathy. 
 
 She loved again — he had not told he loved. 
 
 Yet well she knew what thoughts they were that moved 
 
 His spirit when he watched her, and his eye 
 
 Fell on her face earnestly, speakingly. 
 
 She felt it with a mingled joy and pain — 
 
 Felt that she loved, and was beloved again. 
 
 As he finished, and his eye wandered 
 to Ellinor's face, she got up and joined 
 her mother, who sate at sonae little dis- 
 tance. 
 
 " Those are pretty lines," said Mr. Rush- 
 brook. " I never saw them. Where do they 
 come from ?" 
 
 " ' Second Love,' " said Clarence ; and he 
 handed the book to Mr. Rushbrook, while his 
 eyes anxiously followed EUinor. 
 
 *' You agree with me, Lord Clarence ; I'm 
 sure," said Mr. Rushbrook, who was a most
 
 OF LIFE. 253 
 
 determined talker. He gave a kind of nod 
 with his head towards EUinor, and continued 
 — *' It is very well to read of eternal con- 
 stancy, but it would not do in real life. We 
 should not like it." 
 
 " I am not able to judge," said Clarence, 
 more to himself than answering Mr. Rush- 
 brook. '' It is easier to write of constancy, 
 I fancy, than to practise it. Most natures 
 require something to love, and perhaps there 
 are few who can be satisfied without a present 
 love to lean upon." 
 
 ** Exactly," said Mr. Rushbrook ; " that is 
 exactly what I think — the more love the 
 better ; in every sense of the word, better." 
 
 " It seems to me," continued Clarence, in 
 the same musing tone, " that, if we could find 
 something superior to what we loved before, 
 it would be easy to love again : but, if we 
 have fixed our affections on one raised above 
 the common world, and the world's common 
 inhabitants, it is hard, hard to change." And, 
 as he spoke, he too walked away, not to join 
 Ellinor, but to a distant part of the deck.
 
 254 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 where, among the common sailors, he found — 
 what he rarely found on board the Victoria — 
 solitude. 
 
 " She loves me," he repeated once or twice, 
 as he sate there alone; then, suddenly, as a 
 thrill of joy ran through his soul, " Oh, Isabel, 
 I have been tried, and neither in word nor 
 thought have I been unfaithful to you !" and, 
 though he sate alone, his eye flashed with the 
 thought. 
 
 It faded again as, with something of re- 
 morse and tender interest, his mind reverted 
 to Ellinor. " She must know it," he con- 
 tinued. '' 1 must tell her that I love another." 
 
 Had she loved any one but himself, after 
 so late and crushing a grief, he would pro- 
 bably have condemned her as heartless : but 
 we are often apt to make exceptions in favour 
 of ourselves.
 
 OF LIFE. 255 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, 
 The night's long hours, still find me thinking 
 
 Of thee, thee, only thee. 
 Where friends are met, and goblets croAvned, 
 And smiles are near that once enchanted, 
 Unreached by all that sunshine round. 
 My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted 
 By thee, thee, only thee. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 It was not many days after the conversa- 
 tions related in the last chapter, that one 
 morning, while the passengers sate together 
 at breakfast, the captain came in with the 
 joyful intelligence, that, on the evening of the 
 next day, at latest, they would land in Eng- 
 land. A murmur, almost a cry of joy, broke 
 from every one present, except Clarence and 
 Ellinor. 
 
 To Ellinor the time passed pleasantly, for
 
 ^56 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 she loved Clarence ; and, while she lived in his 
 continual presence, she was happy. To her, 
 therefore, the announcement gave only pain. 
 
 And Clarence — was it any thought of 
 Ellinor that made him knit his brows, and 
 gave such an intense expression of thought 
 and anxiety to his features ? No ; Isabel — 
 only Isabel : he could not hear that, in a few 
 days, almost a few hours, his fate would be 
 decided with calmness or with joy. What in 
 the distance had been hope, changed, in that 
 moment, to unmingled fear. 
 
 "Why so silent. Miss Ellinor?" said Mr. 
 Rushbrook, gaily. *' Have you no happy 
 thoughts of old England ? ' My native land, 
 my native land,' " he repeated — " ' Breathes 
 there a man with soul so dead,' &c. — ' Eng- 
 land, with all thy faults, I love thee still.' I 
 can't exactly remember the poem I mean." 
 He was quite excited with his quotations. 
 
 " I very soon grow fond of a place," said 
 Ellinor, quietly. 
 
 " Not of the place, my dear Miss Hervey ; 
 you must not waste your heart on places. Of
 
 OF LIFE. 257 
 
 the company, I grant you ; and I can tell 
 you, Miss EUinor, the company don't mean to 
 lose sight of you. We are friends for life, 
 are we not? And I have many who will 
 soon be dying to make your acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 EUinor smiled at him with the soft, gentle 
 smile which had so early won his heart ; and 
 then, seeing that Clarence had left the break- 
 fast-table, she too slipped away, and ran upon 
 deck. 
 
 Clarence was standing with a long glass in 
 his hand, gazing in the direction of England. 
 EUinor took her work, and sate down near 
 him ; but it was long before he turned and 
 saw her. 
 
 " Are you as happy to be near England as 
 Mr. Rushbrook is ?" she asked, at last. 
 
 He laid down the glasses, and came and 
 stood by her. He hoped an opportunity 
 might arise to speak. 
 
 " No, not happy," he answered. " Fear 
 and anxiety do not consist with happiness, do 
 they ? I long to be there ; and yet, if I could
 
 258 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 delay it for a week, for a month even, I be- 
 lieve I would have it so." 
 
 " You have, then, in England," she said, in 
 a low voice, " some that you love very much ?" 
 
 " I have some that I love," he began, and 
 paused ; for even to speak of Isabel was pain- 
 ful to him ; but, for Ellinor's sake, it must be 
 done : " and one" — he fixed his eyes upon her 
 as he spoke—** one whom, I dare scarcely 
 own, even to myself, what it is I feel for Jier'' 
 
 A blush passed over Ellinor's face, and she 
 turned her head away for a moment; then 
 gently said, " She is very happy." 
 
 Clarence looked down tenderly on the 
 young girl ; her soft but humble nature 
 touched him deeply ; but he continued — " If 
 she is happy — I am — I know not what. What 
 will you think of me, when I tell you that I 
 have not heard of her for nearly three years, 
 and that when I left her she was engaged to 
 be married to another !" 
 
 Ellinor raised her large blue eyes in wonder. 
 
 " Is it not like the eternal constancy of 
 which you read ?"
 
 OF LIFE. 259 
 
 They were both silent for a few minutes ; 
 then EUinor looked up again. " And if she is 
 married ?" she asked. 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 She repeated her question. The depth of 
 that love, the anguish of that heart at the 
 idea she presented, she had no power to pene- 
 trate. To her second inquiry he made no 
 answer but by a look ; but words had never 
 spoken to her heart as that look now spoke. 
 She shrank from the agony it revealed. 
 
 The discovery of his attachment made no 
 difference in Ellinor's feelings for Clarence. 
 She had not loved him with any ultimate 
 view : she always supposed that she should 
 be married ; but marriage was not the object 
 of her heart. So long as she was near him, 
 so long as he spoke to her so gently, and 
 cared for her so tenderly, she was perfectly 
 happy. 
 
 In the afternoon of the following day, they 
 anchored in sight of Dover; but there was 
 some delay in disembarking. Many went
 
 260 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 ashore in boats, and so on immediately to 
 London ; but Clarence remained with Mrs. 
 Hervey and Ellinor. He might have given 
 them over to Mr. Rushbrook, who also re- 
 mained ; but his promise to his friend had 
 been to see them to London, and he wished to 
 fulfil it to the letter. Besides this, delay, 
 delay was now the one thought that possessed 
 his mind. Till now he had hoped — he had 
 not prepared himself to meet his fate : he 
 must begin now — he must strengthen himself. 
 He would wait ; he would make no inquiries. 
 
 It was towards evening when they landed. 
 Mr. Rushbrook dined with them at the inn. 
 
 After dinner, he took up the newspaper, 
 but first offered it to Clarence. Clarence 
 shuddered, and shook his head. He felt as if 
 it must contain his destiny. Opening the 
 window, he leaned far out, and looked on the 
 sea, to withdraw himself from the sound of 
 the news which Mr. Rushbrook detailed to 
 his companions. 
 
 " Bless me ! ' a marriage on the tapis be- 
 tween the daughter of a peer and the nephew
 
 OF LIFE. 261 
 
 of a o'entleman well known in the commercial 
 world.' That can't be Sam, Mrs. Hervey, 
 surely ? he never would do such a foolish thing 
 as that. ' Her Majesty has caused to be issued 
 cards for a State Ball, on the 18th instant; 
 it is said that above 1700 persons have re- 
 ceived invitations.' Ah, my dear Miss Ellinor! 
 I'm afraid we shan't go there ! But, bless me ! 
 what do I see? Mrs. Greathead — that's my 
 sister — has a concert on the 12th; that's 
 to-morrow. We are just in time — ' the very 
 best singers, and a numerous assemblage of 
 company.' How delightful, and how fortunate 
 we are ! Mrs. Hervey, Miss Ellinor, you must 
 come — I take no denial. I'm going to live 
 with my sister ; she will be charmed to make 
 your acquaintance. Promise me to come." 
 
 " Gracious me, Mr. Rushbrook I how can 
 we go alone?" said Mrs. Hervey, impatiently. 
 " I should like of all things to go, but I know 
 nobody in all England." 
 
 " Ah, that's true ! but I will fetch you my- 
 self; or, stay. Lord Clarence, that will do 
 much better. Lord Clarence !...."
 
 262 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Clarence was forced to attend, but was 
 going most resolutely to refuse the invitation, 
 when he met the sorrowful, imploring eyes of 
 Ellinor. He relented at once. 
 
 " After all," he said to himself, " it does 
 not much matter. I suppose I shall know 
 about as many people as if it were at Mexico."
 
 OF LIFE. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Sir, you have done enough, and have performed 
 A saint-like sorrow — no fault could you make, 
 Which you have not redeemed — indeed, paid down 
 More penitence than done trespass — at the last, 
 forgive yourself. 
 
 Winters Tale* 
 
 The five front windows of Mr. Denison's 
 house in Grosvenor Square were brilliant with 
 light. The Square was crowded with carriages ; 
 for beauty of arrangement and for selection of 
 the company, it was the ball of the season. 
 It was the celebration of a great event in 
 Mr. Denison's family. 
 
 Though it was late in the evening, people 
 were still arriving. Mr. Denison stood leaning 
 against the bannisters, and he smiled with un- 
 wonted brightness as many an old friend 
 passed him by, and shook him cordially by 
 the hand.
 
 264 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 At the door of the second drawing-rooin 
 Mrs. Denison was seated. She was paler than 
 she had been when last we met her, three 
 years before this time ; but, on her face also, 
 there was a look of unusual brightness — a 
 glow of unmingled joy and satisfaction. And 
 by her side stood a fair girl, and she, too, was 
 lovely as she had ever been ; and yet she was 
 changed. 
 
 She was on this night dressed with evident 
 ca'^e. The gown of fresh-looking white, and 
 the wreath of white roses in her hair, appeared 
 to be worn in honour of the day; and yet her 
 looks were not those of a day of festival. 
 
 She was changed, but it was difficult to say 
 how changed. Though she was pale, there 
 was no look of ill-health. Though calm, grave 
 perhaps, her forehead was not seamed with 
 the faintest frown ; still she was changed. 
 The flush of joy and excitement which once 
 had made her beauty dazzling to behold was 
 faded and gone. She smiled quietly on many 
 of the passers-by. With a grave and quiet 
 grace, again and again she joined in the dance,
 
 or LIFE. 965 
 
 but no glow of pleasure lighted her eyes or 
 flew to her cheek. She alone seemed to look 
 on the brilliant scene without dislike, and yet 
 with indifference. 
 
 Many were gazing at her, for she now was 
 rarely seen. Many were speculating on her 
 feelings this night. Many were recalling the 
 days of her first brilliant appearance. None 
 beheld her without interest, and there were 
 few that sighed over the past ; few who did 
 not own that she was lovelier now — few who 
 did not feel strangely attracted by the pure, 
 angel-like look of those calm, dark eyes. 
 
 " Have you not been dancing, my fair 
 Isabel?" said an old man, approaching her. 
 '' The queen of the night should not stand 
 alone." 
 
 " I have been dancing, thank you," she 
 answered. 
 
 ** You don't care for scenes like these," said 
 the old man, shaking his head at her (he was 
 an uncle of Mrs. Denison's). " Do you know, 
 Isabel, it almost makes me angry to see you 
 look so cold and indifferent." 
 
 VOL. L N
 
 ^66 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " I am not indifferent/' she said, smiling. 
 *' I am very glad to see it all go off so 
 well — very glad to see so many young faces 
 happy. This is quite pleasure enough for one 
 night." 
 
 " So many young faces happy. One would 
 think you were a wrinkled old thing of a 
 hundred and seventy ! I wish I could see you 
 blush and smile, as I hear you did, not many, 
 many years ago. Ah ! I have had a little 
 success already. If you are not going to 
 dance, will you come with me, and I will see 
 what I can do ?" 
 
 He held out his arm, and led her into a 
 conservatory, beyond which only a few people 
 were seated. 
 
 " We are as good as alone here," said Mr. 
 Courteney, smiling, as he noted the earnest 
 conversation of those who surrounded them ; 
 '' shall I tell you what people say of you — the 
 three reasons that are given for your indiffe- 
 rence to the world?" 
 
 " If you please," said Isabel, with some 
 curiosity.
 
 OF LIFE. 267 
 
 " Well, the first is, that you think going 
 out wrong — religious scruples. Only a few 
 say this." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " Another is, that you are angry or disap- 
 pointed, at your little brother's birth." 
 
 " What, little Ernest !" she said, with some 
 excitement. " Is it possible that any one can 
 think so ill of me as that ?" 
 
 " Not so very ill, dear Isabel. It would be 
 but a little natural that, having been an heiress 
 for so long, you should be sorry — just sorry — 
 to be supplanted." 
 
 " But why should I wish to be an heiress ? 
 Surely that is not so very enviable a position ; 
 and, even supposing that I could be so envious 
 for myself, would it not more than make up 
 for it to see papa so happy ? Don't you 
 think that even the expression of his face is 
 changed ?" 
 
 *' You are a dutiful little girl — that I see," 
 said Mr. Courteney, kindly pattinghershoulder. 
 " Well, and now for my third grand reason. 
 Are you curious?" 
 
 N 2
 
 268 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 ^' A little," and she blushed slightly ; for 
 she guessed what it must be. 
 
 " Here it is, then. Some say that you are in 
 love. Some give your heart to a young clergy- 
 man in the country, who is supposed to pre- 
 vent your going out into the world." A cloud 
 passed over Isabel's brow. " But others send 
 your heart far away, in a different direction ;" 
 and the old man looked smilingly in her face. 
 
 A deep blush rose to her cheek, and Mr. 
 Courteney clapped his hands. " Didn't I say 
 that I should make you blush ? See how well 
 I understand young ladies' hearts !" 
 
 His voice was slightly raised in the moment 
 of triumph, and Isabel looked anxiously round, 
 then put her hand in his arm. " Let us go 
 back," she said ; and he led her slowly to the 
 door of the ball-room ; but the interminable 
 Polka was still playing. 
 
 As they stood together, Mr. Courteney 
 looked at his companion, and he saw that her 
 cheek was paler, and her brow graver, than 
 tliey had been before. 
 
 " You are not angry with me, dear Isabel ?
 
 OF LIFE. S69 
 
 You know that, if I speak lightly to you, I am 
 discretion itself with other people." 
 
 " Ob, no ! very far from angry. You made 
 me happy for a moment," she continued, 
 speaking hurriedly, as when she spoke of her- 
 self she always did. " There are some things 
 which I am afraid to think of; and yet I do 
 think of them," and she smiled, but sadly. 
 
 " Why should you be afraid to think?" said 
 Mr. Courteney, kindly. 
 
 " Because.... tell me," she said, in the same 
 hurried manner, " do you think error can ever 
 be atoned for? I mean, after a sacrifice, a great 
 punishment, may one wish to be happy again?" 
 
 There was no apparent connection in the 
 conversation, and Mr. Courteney looked at 
 her with surprise. 
 
 " T hardly know why I ask you this to- 
 night. I felt as if I was forced to do it." 
 
 " My dear child, I hardly understand what 
 you mean ;" but, as he spoke, some old story 
 recurred to his mind. He began again, more 
 gravely : " I don't think you speak quite 
 rightly, my dear child — we, none of us, strictly
 
 270 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 speaking, deserve happiness ; but, if it comes 
 to us, surely we ought to accept it with gra- 
 titude/' 
 
 '' Even if we have done very, very wrong ?" 
 
 " Yes, my child ; even then, if we have re- 
 pented. But I must not have you speak in 
 this way, Isabel ; that fair brow of yours 
 belies you if you have ever done very wrong." 
 
 The music stopped, the crowd dispersed, 
 and Isabel withdrew her arm from Mr. Cour- 
 teney. 
 
 " If you see Mrs. Denison, would you say 
 that I shall soon be back? Thank you for 
 all you have said," and she disappeared in an 
 instant. 
 
 She threaded her way through the crowd, 
 to a balcony in one of the rooms, where, though 
 it was covered in, the air blew freshly. It was 
 empty, and she sate down to think. " Does 
 suffering wash out the past ? I have heard 
 to-day that Clarence is soon to be back. If 
 he should come — if he should love me still — 
 is it possible — might I be happy now ? — I 
 have suffered so much ! None, no one, can
 
 OF LIFE. 271 
 
 know what I have suffered — what I do suffer ; 
 and yet, I ahnost dread the thought of hap- 
 piness ! I feel that never, never, can I deserve 
 to be happy again." 
 
 Her reverie was interrupted by voices near 
 her, just inside the balcony. They were only 
 talking of elections, and she did not think it 
 necessary to move. Suddenly, her attention 
 was arrested by the following words : 
 
 " Oh ! Clarence Broke will stand again, I 
 dare say, and he's quite sure. I heard, at 
 Brooks's to-night, that he arrived to-day." 
 
 " Indeed ! From India, I suppose ?" 
 
 A smile, a radiant smile passed over Isabel's 
 face, and the next few sentences were lost in 
 the tumultuous beating of her heart. 
 
 " I used to think he was in love with Miss 
 Denison," said One of the speakers. 
 
 " So did I, but I suppose that's over now. 
 Three years is too much for constancy, I 
 fancy. Segrave says there never was such a 
 flirtation as was kept up on board ; and he 
 stays at Dover to-night, to come with the 
 young lady, to-morrow, to London."
 
 272 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " Can suffering atone for sin?" This was 
 the thought that passed through Isabel's mind, 
 as the visions of joy, which, but an instant 
 before, had danced before her eyes, faded into 
 the darkness of despair. " I deserve it all ! 
 Oh, Herbert ! I deserve it all !" 
 
 A servant came from Mr. Denison, to desire 
 that she would begin the country-dance. She 
 went at once, sad, pale, stupified as she was, 
 by the blow she had received. 
 
 " What is the matter, Isabel ?" said her 
 father, as he met her. " I am afraid you must 
 have got a headache. Don't dance : I will find 
 somebody else to begin." 
 
 " Oh ! no, thank you, papa, I had much 
 rather dance;" and she hastily gave her hand 
 to Lord Vernon, who placed her at the top 
 of the room. 
 
 There were many remarks on her appear- 
 ance as she went down the dance — many 
 speculations as to its cause. Her dress, and 
 her cheeks, white as her dress, and to which 
 neither the excitement nor the exercise added 
 a tinge of colour, gave an almost unnatural
 
 OF LIFE. 273 
 
 appearance to her dark eyes, and twice Lord 
 Vernon be^^ged her to sit down. But she per- 
 sisted ; a kind of morbid feeling of self- 
 punishment had long since taken possession 
 of her mind, and in these moments of intenser 
 suffering, she almost rejoiced. She felt as if 
 they were an acceptable offering to Herbert — 
 to Herbert, whose unceasing prayer was for 
 her happiness. 
 
 That suffering must, in some degree, follow 
 evil, is what we all believe ; but there was, 
 perhaps, something of pride and self-reliance 
 in Isabel's stern condemnation of herself, and 
 in her stoical endurance of the trials that met 
 her in her life. There is often more humility 
 in forgiving ourselves — in having patience 
 with ourselves— than in our severest judg- 
 ments. In Isabel, however, pride, if such there 
 were, was pride of which she was unconsci- 
 ous. It was her natural severe condemnation 
 of evil, visited on herself without mercy. 
 She condemned, while she pitied, error in 
 others : in herself, it was condemnation with- 
 out pity. 
 
 n5
 
 274 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 '' You looked so pale last night, Isabel," 
 said Mr. Denison, at breakfast, the next 
 morning, *' that I hardly like to ask you to go 
 out again to-night. But, if you think you 
 could go to Mr. Greathead's concert for a little 
 while, I wish it very much." 
 
 Isabel eagerly caught at the idea. She was 
 in that state of doubt and anxiety when quiet- 
 ness is the worst of evils. 
 
 " jMr. Greathead was very civil to me once 
 in India. Probably there will be no one there 
 you ever saw before, for he is an India mer- 
 chant, living in the Regent's Park, but your 
 going is an attention which I should much 
 like you to pay. Emmeline must not go, but 
 Mrs. Courteney will take you."
 
 OF LIFE. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 And once again we met, and a fair girl was near hini : 
 He smiled, and whispered low, as I once used to hear him ; 
 She leant upon his arm — once 'twas mine and mine only — 
 I wept, for I deserved to feel wretched and lonely. 
 
 The beautiful Miss Denison was seated in 
 the highest place at Mr. Greathead's concert, 
 for her going was a great honour. Disliking, 
 however, so prominent a situation, she pushed 
 back her chair into a little recess, shaded with 
 yellow damask curtains, from whence she 
 could more comfortably attend to the concert, 
 which promised, from the singers and the 
 selection of music, to be a beautiful one. 
 
 In spite of her anxiety, she was pleased ; 
 and, as Grisi finished a beautiful air from Se- 
 miramide, she leaned forward to express her 
 admiration to Mr. Greathead. As she did so.
 
 276 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 her attention was attracted by a figure that 
 stood in the doorway. The head was turned 
 away, but was it, could it be — Clarence ? 
 
 Involuntarily she threw herself back, but 
 from the recess, though she almost laughed at 
 her fancy, kept her eye on the doorway. 
 After a few minutes, several persons moved ; 
 and she saw that the figure which had so much 
 attracted her attention was bent down, in 
 earnest conversation with a young and lovely 
 girl who held his arm. Suddenly he raised 
 himself — he moved his head — and, once more, 
 Clarence was before her. 
 
 He gazed into the room, looked listlessly 
 around, shook his head, and spoke again to 
 the young girl beside him : smiled upon her, 
 his own sweet, thoughtful smile, and they dis- 
 appeared in the crowd. 
 
 A crimson flush — a flush of anger and pride 
 — for a moment rose on Isabel's pale cheek. 
 Then followed that utter sinking of despair, 
 when hope, every hope in life, seems blighted 
 in a moment of time. And then came a 
 strange kind of enjoyment in the agony she
 
 OF LIFE. 277 
 
 endured. *' It is well, it is well," she repeated ; 
 " my father forsook my mother; I forsook 
 him who so truly loved me, and it is well that 
 I, too, should be forgotten — forsaken !" Then, 
 all these moods of mind passed by, and doubt, 
 and fear, and hope, all rose again, with a rest- 
 less impatience to see more. 
 
 In vain the sweetest sounds that ever fell, 
 united from the lips of Grisi and Mario. She 
 heard nothing — she saw nothing — she smiled 
 mechanically in return for Mr. Greathead's 
 repeated thanks and compliments, but she 
 said nothing. Her eyes were on that place 
 from whence she had seen Clarence vanish : 
 there she expected to see him appear again. 
 
 The concert was over. Mrs. Courteney 
 moved, followed by Isabel, through the crowd, 
 but it was so great that they got on but 
 slowly. For a moment, there was an opening 
 in the crowd, and she gave a piercing glance 
 forward, and once more beheld Clarence. 
 
 He was standing at the top of the st-iir- 
 case, and the young girl was still beside him. 
 His head was bent towards her, and Isabel 
 fancied that still he smiled.
 
 J^78 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 " Let us go home," she said earnestly to 
 Mrs. Courteney ; " pray let us go home." 
 
 Mrs. Courteney consented, but it was with 
 a pang. She had heard that there was to be 
 a magnificent supper, and she had the usual 
 fancy of old ladies for seeing everything that 
 was to be seen. Perhaps, on this occasion, 
 seeing was not all that was in her raind. But 
 Isabel's wearied, jaded look prevailed ; and, 
 when they reached the bottom of the stair- 
 case, she gave orders for their carriage to be 
 called. 
 
 As they were some of the very few who re- 
 sisted Mr. Greathead's civil invitation to 
 come and have something warm and comfort- 
 able, the call was soon successful. A young 
 man came forward to take Isabel to the car- 
 riage. As she reached the doorway, Clarence 
 came in from the street, and they met, face 
 to face. She was hurried on, but her large 
 mournful eyes met his earnest, startled, anx- 
 ious gaze. 
 
 " Who is that ? tell me, who is that ? the 
 beautiful girl with the dark curls," said Cla- 
 rence, seizing an old man by the arm.
 
 OF LIFE. 279 
 
 " That ! why, don't you know ? it's Miss 
 Denison." 
 
 ** Miss Denison, did you say ?" 
 
 " Yes. Let me see, now I think of it, did 
 she marry? I once heard something — but, 
 no ; I am almost sure that she is Miss Denison 
 still." 
 
 Clarence had taken Mrs. Hervey and Ellinor 
 to their carriage. He now walked home, 
 without another word.
 
 280 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 When late I saw thy favourite child, 
 Methought my jealous heart would break. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Trifles light as air 
 Are to the jealous confirmations strong 
 As proofs of holy writ. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 It was about the middle of the day follow- 
 ing the concert. 
 
 Isabel sate in the front drawing-room, 
 nursing her little brother, a really pretty 
 babv, of about three months old. Her heart 
 was lighter than it had been for many and 
 many a day, for that one startled glance had 
 told her that Clarence loved her still. There 
 might be much to explain; there might be 
 something, still, to fear; but he loved her;
 
 OF LIFE. 281 
 
 and, at that moment, still to be loved, was all 
 in all to her. 
 
 The little boy lay in her lap, and she was 
 twisting the tassels of the blinds for his 
 amusement, while now and then she sung to 
 him snatches of her favourite songs. Half 
 occupied with him, half musing on what the 
 next few days would bring forth, she heard 
 nothing, till the drawing-room door suddenly 
 opened, and Lord Clarence Broke was an- 
 nounced. Seeing her alone, he came so 
 rapidly, so hastily to her side, that she had 
 not time to take the baby in her arms, and 
 rise to meet him. 
 
 He stood once more beside her. He was 
 about to take her hand in his, when his glance 
 fell on the little Ernest Denison ; and, as the 
 child opened his large dark eyes and smiled, 
 he looked the very image of Isabel. The 
 hand of Clarence dropped — he moved from 
 her side, and sate down on tlie chair opposite 
 to her. 
 
 Both were silent. Isabel bent her face, 
 crimson with agitation, over the child, and
 
 282 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 nervously moved her long curls from his 
 neck. She had not dared to raise her eyes, 
 when Clarence got up again, and, murmuring 
 a few unintelligible wor<ls, hastily left the 
 room. 
 
 It was but the work of two minutes ; and, 
 when Mrs. Denison, who, on bemg told of his 
 arrival, had instantly come down, opened the 
 door — he was gone. 
 
 ** They told me Clarence was here ; and I 
 came, as I thought you might like it best. 
 Do you know where he is ?" 
 
 " He is gone again," said Isabel, blushing 
 deeply ; and, as she put the baby into Mrs. 
 Denison's arms, she murmured a few smiling 
 words about his not having liked little Ernest. 
 
 Meanwhile, Clarence, pulling his hat over 
 his face, walked rapidly from the house, un- 
 conscious where he went. The sudden pang 
 of fear, and more than fear, had made him 
 mad. ** This is to hope in woman's love — to 
 trust to woman's constancy !" he repeated 
 over and over again ; and still, as he walked 
 rapidly along, the dark, smiling eyes of the
 
 OF LIFE. 283 
 
 child seemed to follow him. He thought not 
 of possibilities, nor yet of improbabilities ; 
 but he saw that lovely face bending tenderly 
 over her child, and he strode along the street, 
 like a maniac, till, suddenly, a vision of the 
 soft loving eyes of Ellinor Hervey floated be- 
 fore him ; and " she, at least, loves me," passed 
 through his mind. 
 
 A hand was laid upon his arm ; he looked 
 up — he was in Portland Place. 
 
 " How very fortunate I am !" said Mr. 
 Rushbrook ; "I had been to look for you, to 
 ask you to let me have the pleasure of intro- 
 ducing you to ray sister. She is dying to 
 make your acquaintance ; and, I believe, you 
 were already on your way there. Pray let 
 us go together." xVnd he put his hand 
 through that of Clarence. 
 
 Thrown off his guard by Mr. Rushbrook's 
 confidence, Clarence walked on a few steps, 
 revolving the possibility of escape — even at 
 the sacrifice of Mr. Rushbrook's neck, if it 
 should be required, when the latter spoke again. 
 
 " Miss Hervey has been with Selina all
 
 284 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 day. I took her there, this morning, to make 
 acquaintance with my nephew, and they get 
 on famously. Between ourselves, I wish that 
 to he a match ; and I spoke to my nephew, 
 yesterday evening. He is very much in love 
 already." 
 
 The vision of Ellinor had not yet faded 
 from Clarence's indignant, agitated breast ; 
 and he went quietly on to visit Mrs. Great- 
 head, smiling to himself at the uselessness of 
 poor Mr. Rushbrook's plans. 
 
 They went into the house, and Mr. Rush- 
 brook took him up stairs without announce- 
 ment. As the door of the drawinir-room 
 opened, he saw Ellinor, seated on a sofa, with 
 young Mr. Rushbrook, an exact counterpart 
 of the old one — an amiable youth, who was 
 falling in love very fast, at his uncle's re- 
 quest. Her head was bent towards him, and 
 she appeared to be entirely engrossed by his 
 conversation. 
 
 After a formal introduction to Mrs. Great- 
 head, Clarence turned towards Ellinor, and 
 she blushed and smiled, for he was not yet
 
 OF LIFE. 285 
 
 supplanted ; but the momentary enchantment 
 which had hung round the tenderness of her 
 love was faded, and, though he sate beside her, 
 it was in absence and in silence. 
 
 His thoughts were not of her; there was 
 not one pang of jealousy, one moment even of 
 wonder, as she turned again from her gloomy 
 neighbour to meet the smiles of Mr. Rush- 
 brook. His mind had wandered again to 
 Isabel, and, once more, not hope, but doubt, 
 gained an entrance to his mind. 
 
 Suddenly it struck him that Mrs. Great- 
 head would be able to tell him all he wished 
 to know, and yet dared not ask ; and, swift as 
 the thought, he rose from Ellinor's side, and 
 took possession of a chair left vacant by the 
 sofa on which that lady sate. 
 
 Mrs. Greathead was too much pleased at 
 having an opportunity of talking to a lord to 
 let it pass away unimproved ; and, in answer 
 to a compliment on the beauty of her concert, 
 she went off like a shower-bath. 
 
 '' Thank you, my lord, you are very kind 
 to say so. I did think it went off very well.
 
 286 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 I had wished to give a ball, to show oflP our 
 new house," — with a glance of pride round the 
 room — " but Mr. Greathead was determined 
 to have a concert. He is quite devoted to 
 music ; and, as you say, my lord, it went off 
 very well, though, I dare say, many young 
 people were longing to be skipping about all 
 the while. We were very much honoured at 
 your lordship's coming — after such a long 
 voyage, too. I was happy to hear that you 
 did not suffer much at sea. Samuel can talk 
 of nothing but you, and his pretty little friend. 
 Miss Hervey. Ah, yes, my lord ! quite a case 
 already, I assure you ! Samuel is quite bent 
 upon it, and my nephew has no objection, as 
 you see. Well, it will be a very nice thing, 
 provided the young people love each other; 
 otherwise, having made a love marriage my- 
 self, I...." 
 
 Here Mrs. Greathead was stopped by a 
 slight cough, and Clarence broke the thread 
 of her discourse. 
 
 " You had several beautiful girls here last 
 night," he began, with a beating heart. " Can
 
 OF LIFE. 287 
 
 you tell me the name of one \vith very dark 
 hair?" 
 
 " Oh ! it must have been Miss Cotton, or 
 Miss Letitia Vincent, perhaps. She has most 
 beautiful hair — or little Miss Primrose, who 
 came out last night. We...." 
 
 " No ; it was a girl with long curls and 
 very dark eyes. You must know which I 
 mean," he said, almost impatiently. 
 
 ** Oh, you mean Mr. Denison's daughter. 
 Yes, very beautiful, indeed — quite an honour 
 to our room. It was very kind of her to 
 come. Mr. Greathead was once of some use 
 to Mr. Denison in India, and he does not 
 forget it, as most people do. Yes, she is very 
 beautiful ; but they say she looks paler than 
 she used to do. Some say it is the disappoint- 
 ment about the' money." 
 
 " What money ?" asked Clarence, fearfully. 
 
 " Oh ! why, you know she was a great 
 heiress, and now there's a young gentleman 
 appeared unexpectedly ! I mean, Mrs. Deni- 
 son has had a little boy" — in answer to Cla- 
 rence's wonderin^y eves — " and so she loses the
 
 288 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 money. Not but what they say she will have 
 plenty ; but, when once a person has been an 
 heiress, they don't quite like giving it up 
 again. But how flushed you do look, my 
 lord ! Won't you take some wine and water 
 to cool you this very hot day ? Samuel, ring 
 the bell ; Lord Clarence will take some sherry 
 and water; the day is so very warm." 
 
 Clarence, however, declined the hospitality ; 
 shook Mrs. Greathead's hand with great 
 cordiality, in return for the information she 
 had given him ; the same with Messrs. Rush- 
 brook, senior and junior, and, lastly, with 
 Ellinor. 
 
 He is so largely happy, that it seems 
 
 Earth has no woes, and sorrows are but dreams. 
 
 When Mrs. Denison came home from driving, 
 she found the following note : — 
 
 Dover Street, Thursday. 
 
 Dear Emmeline, 
 
 A thousand, thousand times I wish 
 you joy of the happy event which I have only
 
 OF LIFE. 589 
 
 just heard of. May I come and tell you in 
 person how very happy it has made me ? Dear 
 Emmeline, will you be as kind to me now as 
 you were three years ago ? 
 
 Yours aftectionately, 
 
 C. B. 
 
 Emmeline smiled, gave the note to Isabel ; 
 and sate down to answer it. 
 
 My dear Clarence, 
 
 I have only just found your note. 
 Many, many thanks. Pray come this evening, 
 or whenever you like. If this evening, I am 
 afraid you will miss the sight of my little 
 Ernest ; but I hope you admired him this 
 morning. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. D. 
 
 They had just come up from dinner when 
 Clarence arrived. After the first meeting, 
 silence seemed to creep over all the party. 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 THE DISCIPLINE 
 
 Isabel placed herself on the sofa, by Mrs. 
 .Denison, far out of Clarence's reach. She 
 took up her work, and sate grave and em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 Clarence was absent and pre-occupied, and 
 Emmelme and Mr. Denison tried in vain to 
 support the conversation. 
 . Wearied at last, Mr. Denison saw he must 
 help them. "Go and sing, Isabel; sing ray 
 favourite song, ' No, not more welcome.' Do 
 you know it, Clarence ?" 
 
 Happy to be employed, Isabel hurried to 
 the pianoforte, and began at once. As she 
 ended — 
 
 " I'd live years of grief and pain 
 To have my long sleep of sorrow broken, 
 By that benign, blessed voice again," 
 
 Clarence, unable any longer to contain him- 
 self, rose, and went to the pianoforte. 
 
 " Now, Emmeline, read me this speech," 
 said Mr. Denison, giving her a newspaper. 
 
 The speech was finished, and Mr. Denison 
 glanced round. *' I think you must begin it 
 again," he said, with a smile, to his wife; but,
 
 OF LIFE. 291 
 
 as he spoke, Isabel came towards him, kissed 
 him, and glided away. 
 
 Over the brightness of that hour, there 
 hovered a shadow from the mournful eyes of 
 Herbert Grey. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 V. Shoberl, .liiD.. Printer to H.R.H. Prince Albert. Rupert St., Haymaiket.
 
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